The Bride Wore Scarlet Page 3

  “Sounds like a job for you, old chap.” Ruthveyn looked at Bessett with what passed for a smile. “Bessett here is our resident architect, DuPont. Indeed, he has traveled all over Italy, France, and North Africa drawing pretty sketches—then actually building them.”

  Sutherland was rubbing his chin. “It does appear this assignment will fall to you, Geoff,” the Preost murmured. “Once we’ve read through all this, we’ll put it to vote.”

  “You’ve an initiation ceremony to prepare for,” Ruthveyn reminded him. “Here, pass it to me. I shall read it tonight.”

  With mixed emotions, Bessett shoved back his chair. Though he did not know Brussels well, he wondered if some time away from London mightn’t suit him. He had been plagued of late by a burning sense of restlessness—and more than occasionally, by a wistful longing for his old vocation. For his old life, really.

  There had been a time not so many years ago—before his brother’s death bollixed everything up—when Bessett had been obliged to earn his own living. Nowadays he did little real work, living instead off his land, and the oft-bitter fruit of other men’s labor. Though he had known of the Fraternitas since boyhood—had learned its purpose and its principles, quite literally, at his grandmother’s knee—he had not fully devoted himself to its noble goals until Alvin’s tragic passing.

  Perhaps he had become a rich, bored aristocrat?

  Dear God. That was too distasteful to contemplate.

  But whatever it was that nagged at him, Sutherland was offering a way to escape it for a time. This assignment in Brussels was, perhaps, a means of doing good for the Fraternitas—for society—while escaping the shackling role of Lord Bessett for a time. A chance to be, fleetingly, just plain old Geoff Archard again.

  Ruthveyn had extracted his gold watch. “I’m afraid, gentlemen, that I must leave you,” he said. “Lady Anisha is expecting me home for dinner.”

  “And we mustn’t keep your sister waiting.” Bessett set his hands flat to the table with an air of finality. “Very well, DuPont, we have your direction. Should we have any questions, we’ll send a man to Paris using the same pass phrase as tonight.”

  “Then I beg you will waste no time in doing it,” DuPont advised. “The Jolie Marie will lie at anchor in Ramsgate harbor for a sennight. I encourage you to make swift use of her.”

  “Indeed, indeed!” Sutherland managed a benevolent smile. “Well, gentlemen, I fear I must take my leave. We’ll be initiating a new acolyte soon, Monsieur DuPont. If you should like to remain a couple of days, I can give you the loan of a robe.”

  But the Frenchman shook his head, and rose to go. “Merci, but I go at once to St. Katherine’s to meet a friend, and thence to Le Havre.” Then he turned, and offered his huge paw to Bessett once again. “Bon voyage, Lord Bessett,” he added, “et bonne chance.”

  “Thank you,” said Geoff quietly. Then, on impulse, he set a hand between the man’s broad shoulder blades. “Come, DuPont. The streets hereabouts are not the safest. I’ll walk you up to the docks.”

  But the Frenchman merely flashed another of his grim, misshapen smiles. “Très bien, mon frère,” he said evenly, “if you think my looks are not enough to put your English footpads off?”

  Maria Vittorio rumbled into the Docklands well after dark in a monstrous old town coach so heavy half a battalion could have ridden atop it. Alas, she did not have half a battalion for her journey into London’s netherworld; merely a footman and a coachman, both nearly as ancient as she. But like old shoes, they had grown worn and comfortable together through the years, and Signora Vittorio was known to be deeply suspicious of change.

  Near the foot of Nightingale Lane, the coach rocked to a halt, harnesses jingling. A few shouts were exchanged in the street, then Putnam, the footman, clambered slowly down and threw open the signora’s door.

  “They say the Sarah Jane’s offloading on the Burr Street side, ma’am,” he said in his creaky voice. “We’ve got almost down to the King George, but the turn is choked with drays and whatnot.”

  Signora Vittorio hefted herself wearily off the banquette. “Circle back to the top of the lane, then, and wait. I’ll send a porter through with the baggage.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The footman tugged his forelock. “If you’re sure? ’Tis a chilly evening, and a fog coming in.”

  “Sì, sì, go,” she said, waving a gloved hand. “My knees are not as arthritic as yours.”

  Signora Vittorio climbed out on short, stout legs, Putnam supporting her at the elbow. As her carriage clattered away, the old woman stood to one side of the pavement, just a few yards from the King George, taking in all the bustle and shouting that spilled from the well-lit yard beyond.

  As she set off past the pub’s entrance, however, a small, wiry man in a tatty green coat burst from the door, almost bowling her over in the gloom. His gait hitching but an instant, he begged her pardon mockingly, his breath sour and reeking of gin.

  Signora Vittorio lifted her nose a notch higher, one hand going instinctively to the pearls at her throat as she moved past. But she could still feel his gaze burning into her.

  “Wot, yer fat, black-eyed bitch?” he shouted after her.

  Signora Vittorio did not look back.

  She made her way through the morass of humanity and horses into St. Katherine’s proper to see that the Sarah Jane was indeed moored in the east basin. And she carried an urgent cargo. Despite the evening hour, crates, sacks, and barrels were being offloaded at a prodigious rate and stacked hither and yon upon the docks, much of it being seized up again by chains and hooks, and hoisted directly into the modern warehouses above.

  Signora Vittorio turned up her nose even higher at the sight. She who had grown up in the lush beauty of Tuscany’s vineyards could never grow accustomed to these grim, teeming docks, or the taverns and warehouses and stevedores that went with them. Indeed, even the smell of the Thames made her stomach turn.

  Some days it seemed perverse to have married into a family destined to make its living by both land and water, for some of the crates—most of them, actually—were marked with the symbol of Castelli’s; a large, elaborate C burnt deep into the wood, and above it a crown of grape leaves. But one glance at the crates told Signora Vittorio this cargo was special.

  This was the latest shipment of Vino Nobile di Montepulciano, the wine on which the foundation of the Castelli empire had been built. And though the company had widely diversified these past forty years, this ancient vintage of which poets and gods had sung was still distributed to Castelli’s international warehouses directly from the docks at Livorno, and transported in special crates, and only in Castelli’s chartered vessels.

  Just then, her young cousin shouted at her through the bustle. “Maria! Maria, up here!”

  Anaïs was standing on the foredeck, waving madly.

  Signora Vittorio lifted her skirts and picked her way through the tumult, swishing gingerly around the crates, cranes, and grubby urchins awaiting an errand to run or a pocket to pick, for the Docklands were not known for their salubrious atmosphere.

  By the time she reached her young cousin, Anaïs was standing on the dock beside a growing pile of baggage, a leather folio tucked under one arm.

  “Maria!” she cried, throwing an arm about her neck.

  Signora Vittorio kissed both her cheeks. “Welcome home, cara!”

  “Thank you for coming down,” said Anaïs. “I didn’t want to hire a cab this time of night, and I have too much baggage to walk.”

  “Out of the question!” said Signora Vittorio. “And the Sarah Jane? Surely, cara, you did not come all this way by ship? You are not nearly green enough to have done so.”

  “No?” Anaïs laughed and kissed her again. “How green am I, then?”

  The signora drew back and studied her. “Merely a sort of gray-green, like that mold one sees on trees.”

  Anaïs laughed again. “It’s lichen, Maria,” she said, settling a hand over her belly. “And actually, I
came across France, the last bit by train. But I met Captain Clarke in Le Havre, for I swore to Trumbull I’d see this shipment offloaded. It is precious, you know—and already sold.”

  “And your brother Armand’s job to deal with,” added Signora Vittorio sourly. “Instead, he’s chasing a new mistress at some country house party.”

  Anaïs shrugged. “In any case, the river was not so bad, and one must cross the channel somehow,” she said, craning her head to look about. “Besides, I haven’t heaved up my innards since Gravesend.”

  “Don’t speak so bluntly, cara,” the signora gently chided. “What would your mother say? Catherine is an elegant lady. And what have you there under your arm?”

  Anaïs extracted the folio. “Paperwork for Trumbull from the Livorno office,” she said. “Letters, bills of lading, overdue accounts from some bankrupt vintner in Paris. Clarke just handed it to me.” She paused to look about. “Where is the carriage? Have you a key to the office? I want to leave this.”

  “I have a key, sì,” said Signora Vittorio hesitantly. “But Burr Street was blocked. I sent the carriage round back to load your baggage.”

  “Well, I’ll just walk down.” Anaïs snatched up a small leather portmanteau from the top of the luggage heap, and stuffed the folio inside.

  “Not alone,” said Signora Vittorio.

  “Silly goose,” said Anaïs, smiling. “Very well, then. Bear me company. Clarke will send the trunks on to Wellclose Square tomorrow. If Putnam could just manage the three smaller bags?”

  With a few swift orders, Signora Vittorio arranged to have them carried through the dockyards to their carriage beyond. Anaïs was still holding the portmanteau just as two large men pushed past them, conversing as they made their way toward the Sarah Jane.

  Anaïs turned, her gaze following. “My God, that is the ugliest Frenchman I ever saw,” she whispered.

  “Sì,” said the signora dryly, “but the other—the tall one—ah, che bell’uomo!”

  “Really?” Anaïs turned, but she could see nothing save their backs now. “I didn’t get a good look.”

  “And a pity for you,” said the signora in a low, appreciative voice. “For I saw him. And I am old, cara, but not dead.”

  Anaïs laughed. “Ah, but I have learnt my lesson, Maria, have I not? That lesson one so often learns about handsome, dashing men? I don’t bother to look anymore.”

  At that, Maria’s face fell, all humor fleeing her eyes.

  Anaïs laughed again. “Oh, Maria, don’t,” she pleaded. “Giovanni would be ashamed to see these long faces were he still alive. Come on, let’s hurry. I want to go home.”

  Maria’s smile returned. Arms linked, nattering like magpies, they set off together at a surprisingly brisk clip, weaving through the remaining crates and barrels, and going out the back of St. Katherine’s quagmire and into the streets of East London.

  This was familiar territory to them both, but rarely at night. Still, as the bustle of the docks fell away and darkness settled in, neither woman was especially concerned. The fog had not obscured all the moonlight, and Maria knew Anaïs never went into the East End unprepared—or the West End, come to that.

  They soon turned into the high, narrow lane that led to Castelli’s side entrance. But they had scarcely stepped off another dozen paces when running steps pounded after them from behind. In an instant, everything became a blur. On a loud oof! Maria went hurtling sideways, slammed against an adjacent doorway, hitting so hard the doorbell within jangled.

  “Take that, yer haughty bitch!” In a flash, a hand lashed out at the old woman.

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” Anaïs threw back the portmanteau and sent it slamming against the side of his head.

  Sent reeling, the assailant cursed, and set off running, turning down a pitch-dark passageway.

  “My pearls!” Maria’s hand clutched at her throat. “Sofia’s pearls!”

  But Anaïs was already off, hurtling the portmanteau aside as she went. “Stop, thief!” she shouted, moving so fast she was scarcely aware of the second set of footfalls in the distance behind.

  She caught the man in a dozen long strides, seizing him by the collar and slamming him against the front of a sailmaker’s shop. He fought hard, but she fought smart, putting her elbows and height to good use. In an instant, she had his face flat against the shop, one arm wrenched behind, a knee against his knackers, and a stiletto whipped from the sheath in her sleeve.

  “Drop the pearls,” she said grimly.

  “Bugger off, yer bleedin’ Amazon!” said the man, thrashing.

  Anaïs pressed the blade to his throat and felt him quiver. “Drop the pearls,” she said again. “Or I will cheerfully draw your blood.”

  In the gloom, she felt rather than saw his fist open. The necklace fell, two or three beads skittering away as it struck the pavement.

  “Your name, you cowardly dog,” she said, lips pressed to his ear.

  “None o’ yer bleedin’ business, that’s me name.”

  He jerked again, and she lifted her knee, slamming it up hard where it counted.

  The man cried out, and managed to twist slightly in her grip, turning his once-empty hand. She heard the soft snick! of a flick-knife, then caught the faint glint of moonlight as the blade thrust back.

  In a split second, she tightened her grip and steeled herself to the strike. But the blade never found flesh. A long arm whipped out of the darkness, catching the man’s wrist and wrenching it until he screamed.

  Startled, Anaïs must have loosened her grip. The flick-knife clattered to the pavement. But the villain dropped, slipped from her grasp, and bolted into the gloom.

  “Maledizione!” she uttered, watching him go.

  “Are you unhurt, ma’am?” A deep, masculine voice came from her right.

  Anaïs whirled about, still clutching the stiletto, blade up. A tall, lean figure leapt back in the dark, a mere shadow as he threw up both hands. “Just trying to help,” he said.

  “Damn it!” she said, angry at herself and at him.

  The man let his hands fall. The night fell utterly silent. Anaïs felt the rush subside and her senses return to something near normal. “Thank you,” she added, “but I had him.”

  “What you had—almost—was a blade in your thigh,” he calmly corrected. She felt his gaze fall upon the glint of her knife. “On the other hand, you appear to have been well prepared for it.”

  “A blade to the thigh, a blade to the throat,” she said coolly. “Which of us do you think would have lived to tell the tale?”

  “Hmm,” he said. “Would you have cut him, then?”

  Anaïs drew in a deep breath. Though she couldn’t make out the man’s face, she could sense his movements, his presence—and the warm, rich scent of tobacco smoke and expensive cologne told her just who he was. A wealthy man, the sort rarely seen traversing these mean, meandering streets. And he was tall, far taller than she—and that was no small feat.

  “No, I wouldn’t have cut him,” she finally answered. “Not unless I had to.”

  “And now,” said the man quietly, “you don’t have to.”

  He was right, she realized. He had not saved her from danger. He had saved her from herself. She was running short of sleep, dead tired from days of travel, and still queasy from the crossing. Neither her judgment nor her intuition was at its best.

  “Thank you,” she said, a little humbled.

  In a flat high above, someone shoved a casement wide, and thrust out a lamp. Still, the feeble light scarcely reached them. But it was enough, apparently, to allow him to bend down, sweep up her great-grandmother’s pearls, and press them into her hand.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said again, the pearls warm and heavy in her palm. “You were very brave.”

  But the tall man said no more. Instead, still deep in shadow, he swept off his top hat, made an elegant bow, then strode off into the darkness.

  Chapter 2

  In battle, there are not more t
han two methods of attack: the direct and the indirect; yet these two in combination give rise to an endless series of maneuvers.

  Sun Tzu, The Art of War

  Attired in the austere vestments of the Fraternitas Aureae Crucis, the Earl of Bessett stood on the stone gallery that encircled the Society’s vaulted temple. Below, the chamber thronged with brown-robed men, and looked much as any small, private chapel might, save for the absence of pews and the almost monastic lack of adornment. Indeed, viewed by flickering sconces, the stone walls and floors appeared as grim and gray as the balustrade, with each level broken by alternating stone arches that served to cast shifting shadows over the assemblage.

  The austerity of the temple was heightened by the fact that it was built underground—far below the streets of London; lower, even, than the cellars of the elegant St. James Society, for the temple had been dug beneath them, and the rubble carried out under cover of darkness. Few men living knew of this subterranean chamber, or of the sect itself, for too often over the centuries, the Fraternitas had been all but destroyed by the vicissitudes of religion, power, and politics.

  But time and again, the Brotherhood had hung on. And though they lived now in an age of enlightenment, enlightenment was only as good as the men who stepped forth to defend it, and the Fraternitas had become defensively—and deeply—secretive.

  His hands braced wide on the balustrade, Lord Lazonby leaned over and looked down through his sardonic blue eyes at the milling crowd as Bessett watched him assessingly. “What did you do with that lad from the Chronicle the other night?” asked Bessett quietly.

  “Lured him up Petticoat Lane and lost him in the rookeries.”

  “Christ, that place may be the end of him,” said Bessett. “What can he be after anyway? The reading public cannot still be interested in you. You are out of prison, and exonerated of any crime.”