The Wizard of London (24 page)

MUCH as he admired
and depended upon Lady Cordelia, there was some relief for David Alderscroft in
being in a place to which she could not go. Here in his club, surrounded by men
and the things of men, with not even a hint of women about (the few
maidservants kept themselves discreetly out of sight as best they could), there
was a sense that one could let down one’s guard and relax.

Not
that Cordelia was like most women, but still… here, one didn’t have
to be so terribly careful of manners and speech, and if one made a faux pas, a
man would simply wave it off, where a woman would stew about it for hours.
Women were grand ornaments to life, but even the best of them forgot that a man
needed to be a man among men on a regular basis.

Small
wonder that many men all but lived at their clubs even when they did not have
rooms there. Even working men knew the pressure of too-attentive female
companionship, and had their pubs and their coffeehouses. He never felt quite
so comfortable as when he was at the club, with women restricted to the
Visitors’ Parlor and Visitors’ Dining Room—and if there were
females in a resident member’s rooms, well, that was his business and had
nothing to do with the rest of the members. One could have sisters and a
mother, after all. And aunts. And if they were deuced attractive sisters and
aunts, who might or might not have careers on the stage, well, such things
happened. So long as they did not intrude on anyone else, it was none of his
business. Here, not only were the members incurious about who came in and out,
so long as it was discreet, they were incurious about what came in and out, and
a phenomenal number of them were Elemental Mages, occultists, or had had
brushes with the uncanny. Here, they knew how to keep secret and silent when
odd things happened. And here he had chosen to make the headquarters of his new
incarnation of a much older Elemental Masters’ Master’s Circle.

The
Master’s Circle, or White Lodge, was an ancient magical tradition,
created for the purpose of self-policing one’s own kind, as it were.
Originally intended to hunt down and destroy the enemies of the members, it had
evolved to the more civilized function of ensuring that no Elemental Master
within its jurisdiction attacked another, or attacked those not blessed with
magic.

It
had been at its most active during the Regency, when the notorious Hellfire
Club (which actually had very little in the way of true Magical power) and
those modeled after it (some of which did) had flourished. Since that time, it
had declined to little more than a social group that occasionally did some
investigative and disciplinary work. One of the most recent had been the
ill-fated, though ultimately successful, attempt to track down and bring to
heel a wayward Fire Master—the attempt that had cost David’s own
father so much. It had been David’s idea, not Cordelia’s, to
revitalize the lodge and make it more effective. In this, he flattered himself,
he had been quite successful—enough so that he heard that he was being
called the “Wizard of London” now.

Truth
to tell, Cordelia did not much like the Circle. He suspected that she resented
the fact that she was not permitted inside the club and had not been invited to
join, but really, a woman had no real place in a Master’s Circle—

Well,
most
women. There were a few, a very few, who like the few
neck-or-nothing riders in his Hunt Club, could keep up in terms of energy and
sheer instinct for the kill with the best of the men, but they were rare
indeed. He could not imagine Lady Cordelia in such a position, with her cool,
calm demeanor and immaculate manners. She would regard much of what the Circle
did with distaste, as “dirtying her hands.” For heaven’s
sake, he couldn’t even imagine her on the back of a horse in hunting
dress, much less traipsing across the countryside in search of a rogue magician!

So
he ignored her obvious disdain for the work of the Circle, as he ignored
nothing else she said or did, and went early to the meetings of the Circle so
he could enjoy the masculine ambience of the club before he picked up his
arcane duties.

This
particular Master’s Circle had been the one to which his father had
belonged, and it had been when his father had been unable to muster an adequate
hunting party and had been injured that had made David take notice. He had
decided then that the situation simply would not do, and began rectifying it.

Now
it was a matter of sending a few messages across the city to muster a
full-strength hunting party within the hour, and within three, a Circle of
Initiates could be assembled.

There
were, in fact, enough Mages and Masters in the group to gather a Circle Trine
if the need arose, and
that
had not been the case since the Circle had
first been formed. Possibly the fact that the Circle had been moved to London,
where most of the members at least had town homes, had made the difference.
Perhaps it was because in London there simply were so many people it was not at
all difficult to find enough Mages. Perhaps it was because it was in a
men’s club; it was easy to give the wife the excuse that one was going to
one’s club in order to slip out. Granted, Mages usually married Mages,
but women with the Talent were still women, and inclined to favor commitments
to dinner parties over commitments to the Master’s Circle—and were
equally inclined to be both far too curious and far too suspicious when a gentleman
had to be evasive about where he was going and what he was doing.

Nor
could they manage to keep the secrets secret.

But
a man could say, “I’m going to the club,” and a woman would
nod and think nothing more of it.

And
perhaps that was the main reason for the success of the Master’s Circle.
A man could come here, do the Work of the Circle, and return home late, and the
spouse would ask why so late a return, and a man could say “Oh, Lytton
went off on one of his shooting stories and we lost all track of time,”
or “A billiard game turned into a match, you know how it is,” and
if there were no signs of inebriation or the presence of floozies, there would
be no further questions.

Yes,
that might be the best reason for success of all.

Tonight
would be routine, a follow-up meeting of the key members of the Circle to find
out the disposition of a little problem Nigel Lytton had reported, a matter of
an Elemental Magician gone wrong in London itself. It was fairly trivial as
such things went, and a preliminary report had stated that the miscreant in
question had already passed the jurisdiction of mortal justice, but Alderscroft
liked to have things properly neatened up in the wake of the resolution of any
situation.

And
besides, it was as good an excuse as any to take supper here.

Although
his cook—his chef, rather—was good, he was also French, and it was
a secondary relief to enjoy simple English fare once in a while as well. It had
occurred to David, and more than once, that perhaps he ought to sell or close
up his town home, take up residence here, and a great many aspects of his life
would be improved. There would be no more servants’ crises, for instance;
those details were taken care of invisibly by the club staff. Normally such
things were handled with equal invisibility by one’s wife or mother, but
David had neither, and had to deal with staff upheavals himself.

But
no, Cordelia would not be able to go past the Visitors’ Parlor room,
which would mean that to get further lessons from her, he would have to come to
her home, and something about that made him feel rebellious. Silly, perhaps,
but nevertheless such a feeling would be counterproductive to actually learning
anything.

He
took the steps of the club briskly and nodded to Stewart, the doorman, as that
worthy held the portal open for him. The familiar and comforting aroma of
tobacco and brandy, books, and newspaper struck him as he entered, and he
headed straight for the Members’ Dining Room without a pause. The savory
scent of good roast beef met his nose as he entered, which cemented what his
selection would be in his mind before he even sat down.

Scotch
broth, to begin, and oysters, then roast beef and potatoes, Yorkshire pudding,
new peas, and an apple tart… wonderful. He savored his brandy and a cigar
afterward, and wondered why his expensive chef could not understand that plain
food was just as good as, if not superior to, the fancy sauces of French
cooking. And it made him think, fleetingly, of their good old cook, back at the
manor, who had made it very clear that she would
not
be moving to
London.

But
no. The disadvantages of life there so far outweighed the advantages that there
was no comparison. He was not, and never had been, the sort to enjoy country
life. Nor was Cordelia, really. Now Isabelle—

With
a faint oath, he forced the thought of Isabelle from his mind. What was wrong
with him anyway? Time and time again, he found himself thinking of the silly
girl, someone he had given no thought to whatsoever for years!

It
was enough to put him right off enjoying his brandy and cigar, and with
irritation he extinguished the latter and left the table to go up to the top
floor of the club, where the rooms reserved for the Master’s Circle were
located.

The
top floor was called the Founder’s Suite, and had once been the residence
of the founder of the club who had himself been an Elemental Master. It had
been vacant for years; no one had the temerity to consider taking over the
space that had once housed so formidable a personality. But a good half the
space was taken up by a Meeting Room and a Working Room, and when David had
brought the Master’s Circle to his club, it had been with the idea in
mind of using these rooms.

That
Founding Member in question had been an Air Master, and the light blues and whites
with which the area was decorated had not fared well over the years. By the
time he got permission to use the rooms, the whites had yellowed and the blues
gone to muddy blue-gray. The net effect was of ingrained grime. At his own
expense, David had arranged for it all to be redone in Turkey red, ocher, and
other colors he found comfortable. No one seemed to object, though he suspected
one or two of the others found it amusing that the place was clearly a haven
for a Fire Master. But he consoled himself with the knowledge that the colors
were practical, unlike lighter tones that honestly would not survive a winter
of soot and pea soupers.

There
should be no work tonight, so he went straight to the Meeting Room.
Deliberately, with the vague idea that King Arthur’s Round Table was a
good idea to establish equality among peers, there was no “head” or
“foot” to the square table in the middle of the room, and no
difference in the quite comfortable chairs. As he had requested, the gaslights
had already been lit; he brought in a newspaper and settled down to read it
until the rest arrived.

It
would not be a full meeting tonight by any stretch of the imagination, so as
the others trickled in, they all clustered at the end of the table where he
was. When they were all assembled, he rang for the servant, who brought the
decanters of port and brandy and glasses, and left. As was their custom, they
served themselves; the brandy had been supplied by David from his
father’s private stock, the port by Atherton Crey. Both liquors were over
a hundred years old. The pouring of the drink signaled the start of business.

“So,
Nigel,” David said, cradling his snifter in his left hand to warm the
contents and release the aroma. “Give us the full report on that
anarchist incident.”

Nigel,
Lord Lytton, was an Earth Master, and as such acutely uncomfortable in London,
where so much of the soil was covered over, poisoned, or both. He always looked
half-choked whenever he came into town, and today was no exception. His long,
solemn face looked even longer than usual, and was certainly several shades
paler than it ought to be. “If you don’t mind, I’ll begin
this where I think it ought to start, and not with that rogue Talent, Connor
O’Brian,” he said, passing his hand over his thinning, nondescript
brown hair. “And that is with a little girl. Two of them actually, since
they seem to be inseparable, but the one that concerns us is already a powerful
medium, and she’s barely ten.”

David,
who knew some of this already, merely nodded, but the others looked variously
surprised or impressed, depending on their natures.

“There’s
a lady and her husband who have a school for the Gifted children of expatriates
mostly posted in India,” Nigel continued. “Not all the children are
Gifted, of course, but this is where they’re sent if their parents know
of the place. Harton School. Isabelle and Frederick Harton; she met him in
India, where they picked up some more Gifted servants from among the natives
there. My wife knows the woman; old school friend of hers that went off to
India once her school days were over.”

The
name “Isabelle” had struck David Alderscroft with the force of a
blow, and to hear that the woman was a school friend of Nigel’s wife only
made it worse. To sit there and listen to a description of a woman that he was
more convinced with every word was “his” Isabelle took all his
strength of will. It took a great deal of effort to wrench himself out of his
numb shock to listen, even with half an ear, as Nigel explained how the little
girls had been lured to the building in question and shut in, while an Earth
Wight specially conjured and bound to an existing spirit that already haunted
the place there was loosed on them. He wasn’t the least interested in two
little girls, no matter what their plight had been—

He
managed to get his attention back on the subject as Nigel described capturing
the creature, then interrogating it as to who had brought it there, then
banishing it. It was a strong Elemental; it had taken Nigel and three friends
to do the job.