Cold Stone and Ivy (23 page)

Albert Victor released her hand, and as he did, a ring brushed against her finger. It was small and brass and remarkably similar to Christien’s, but before she could think too much on it, the Prince of Wales turned to Rupert.

“And where is that damned nephew of yours? Our mother is not amused, you know. Not amused at all.”

Rupert inclined his head as if thinking. “Laury is . . . laid up at the moment. Hunting accident. He’s been bedridden for days now. Was he expecting you?”

“Hunting accident, you say? Blast it all, no one can sit a horse like Laury.”

“Took a fence badly and landed in a patch of thorns. But he’ll live, Bertie. Never fear.”

Ivy threw a glance at Christien. He patted her hand and said nothing.

“But can he walk, man? Can he walk? We’ve come to fetch him off to Balmoral for the week. Club business, old man. Club business.”

“He can walk.” Rupert smiled. “I shall fetch him presently. But Bertie, we were about to sit for lunch. Cookie’s prepared a ham. Would you and the Duke care to share our table? It would be honour upon Lasingstoke if you did.”

“Ham, you say? Can’t remember the last time I had a good ham. We shall accept your invitation, old man.” The Prince dropped a meaty hand on Christien’s shoulder. “And we can chat with the Club’s newest member over port, wot? It’s about time we got another de Lacey on the roll.”

Ivy’s heart thudded in her chest, and she noticed the flash of Rupert’s eyes.

“Club?” she asked, certain her voice was no more than a squeak. “What Club is that, sir?”

“Why, the Ghost Club of course! Now, I say, where is that ham?”

Of Clockwork Arms, Bloody Faces,
and a Dead Man on the Books

COOKIE HAD OUTDONE
herself with the ham, and they had even indulged in wine with lunch. After all, it wasn’t every day that the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Clarence came to call.

They sat now in a small drawing room, drinking port and smoking. There were Persian carpets, crushed velvet sofas, a large marble fireplace, and, in the centre of it all, a piano, the size of which she had never seen rivalled. But she could appreciate none of it, and she sat like a stone as once again, the Ghost Club cast its shadow over the Hall.

Edward had removed his town coat and the mechanical arm was visible for all to see. It was as remarkable as Frankow’s legs, she thought, a mass of intertwining cables and shafts, belts and pulleys. The hand was holding the cigarette and every time he moved, gears whirred softly. She marvelled at how a Czech psychiatrist had been able to duplicate the remarkable engineering of God.

Albert Victor, the Duke of Clarence, sat stiffly as if balancing his head on his rather long neck. He was absentmindedly fiddling with the ring on his little finger, and she wondered if it was significant to the Ghost Club. She had also noticed his eyes, for the most part dull and disinterested, would occasionally dart to the piano, and she wondered if he played.

He sat next to his father, poised and unmoving, while Edward held forth on the merits and perils of the House of Lords. Rupert sat opposite and had not taken his eyes off his nephew the entire afternoon. For his part, Christien had refused to look at him and had seemed preoccupied with the etchings in the port crystal. It had been, in Ivy’s estimation, a most uncomfortable meal.

“Williams has great plans for our Remy, he has!” boomed the Prince. “Both in the Club and in the Obstetrics Room, wot! That man’s a master player! Beats me fair regular at whist! Ah ha, ah ha!”

“Remy never mentioned he’d joined the Club,” said Rupert, and he took a long drag on his cigarette. “Why was that, Remy?”

“It was rather a spontaneous thing,” said Christien.

“Tosh!” said the Prince. “Williams has been after him for years. The Club is not the same without a de Lacey on the books!”

“If I remember correctly,” said Rupert. “You still have a de Lacey on the books.”

“Quite right, old man, quite right,” said the Prince. “A member is never removed. It would be bad form.”

“Which de Lacey, sir?” Ivy sat forward. “Sebastien has insisted that he is not a member. Is it you, Mr. St. John?”

The Scourge of Lasingstoke raised a brow, blew a thin stream of smoke through his lips.

“We’ve tried, dash it all,” boomed the Prince. “But Sinjin won’t join! Far too stodgy for religion or politics! In fact, I can’t remember the last time he set foot in London or Cambridge! Ah ha, ah ha!”

Ivy glanced between them as Edward puffed happily on his cigarette.

“No, no. I was referring to Renaud, child. Renaud de Lacey, the sixth Lord of Lasingstoke.”

There was silence in the drawing room

“Forgive me, sir, but . . .” She glanced from face to face. “But isn’t he dead?”

“A mere inconvenience. No reason to be removed from the books, wot?” The Prince tapped his elbow and yet another cigarette slid out from the copper shaft. “It
is
the Ghost Club we’re talking about, after all.”

Rupert slid his eyes over to her, rolling the smoke around in his mouth before exhaling. She swallowed and looked away.

“You can’t blame ’em,” Edward continued. “It’s what Mummie wants. And when Mummie wants a de Lacey, Mummie gets a de Lacey. No one says no to Mummie! Isn’t that right, Eddy?”

Albert Victor smiled wanly. “That is what you keep saying, Father.”

The bear man leaned forward and slapped his son’s knee. “Such a card you are, my boy. Such a card! A regular ace of clubs!”

Ivy took a deep breath as she thought about “Mummie.” There were more rumours floating around about Victoria than all the other royals combined. It was said that, over the years, she’d had three mechanical hearts implanted and wore them out so quickly that she had already commissioned a fourth. That she kept her dead husband’s head in a bedroom wardrobe to speak with when she grew lonely. That she’d had her uterus surgically removed to prevent any more unwanted pregnancies and that she had donated it to Dr. Williams’s Obstetrics Foundation for preservation, complete with royal foetus if she ever felt the urge.

Suddenly, with all this talk of the Ghost Club, Ivy found the rumours a little easier to believe.

“And Mummie wants her de Lacey now,” said Edward, and he raised the cigarette with clicking fingers. “That’s why we’re here, to fetch that elusive Sebastien! Where the deuce is that boy? You sent that little ginger girl to fetch him hours ago!”

And suddenly, there were dogs everywhere, skittering and wagging and laughing in the way only dogs can laugh. The room had grown strangely cold, however, and she wasn’t surprised to see the Mad Lord standing in the doorway.

“Forgive my tardiness, Your Highness,” he said. “I was praying in the chapel and I heard someone call.”

She gasped and covered her mouth.

“By
God,
Laury,” boomed Edward, and he rose to grip Sebastien’s hand in his mechanical one. “That was some hell of a fall!”

Sebastien’s face, neck, and hands were—like Davis’s for two nights running—littered with cuts. Long ones, short ones, some shallow, some deep. They were beginning to close up and scab over but it was difficult to look at him without feeling the need to look away.

“I fear you make too much of my skills, Bertie. A man unhorsed has wounded his pride more than his body. Welcome to Lasingstoke.” He turned and bowed to the Duke of Clarence. “And hello to you too, Eddy.”

“Laury,” said Albert Victor, but did not move to rise.

Sebastien studied him until the duke looked away. With a quirk of his head, the seventh Lord of Lasingstoke glanced around the room and his eyes fell upon Ivy. They were blue now like a summer sky.

“It’s good to see you again, Miss Savage,” he said, and he smiled. “How is your brother?”

“He is well,” she breathed. She could not imagine what had happened to him, what he had done to earn those cuts. Whatever it was, she was so very grateful. “Very well, indeed. Thank you for asking.”

“Good. Good.” She could have sworn his cheeks had reddened. “Very good.”

Christien rose to his feet.

“Hello, Bastien.”

“Christien! Gads, you brought them all with you again.” And the Mad Lord turned away, a hand clapped over his eyes. “I can’t . . . I just can’t. I won’t.”

“I know, Bastien. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, Christien. It’s not you. It’s all those cadavers. They are simply too much for me. Ah damn, damn,
damn
them all to hell!”

He released a deep breath, then another.

“Someone called me . . . some
thing
called me . . .”

“Well,” said Edward. “We did send the little ginger girl.”

“Latin? Was it in Latin? Is she dead?”

There was a second awkward silence before the Mad Lord sighed and turned to Edward, deliberately keeping his back to his brother. “Never mind. I’m a trifle addled. I’m told we’re off to Balmoral?”

“Yes, Balmoral it is! In the
Carolina
, no less!” Edward boomed, glossing over the awkwardness of the Mad Lord’s behaviour.

Apparently the dynamics of the de Lacey household were not new to him.

“I’m afraid I’ve lost my spectacles,” said Sebastien. “Will I need to read?”

“Not at all, my boy! Unless you need ’em to shoot a stag or two! Mummie wishes to have a word with you about the little problem in London. If you’re up to it, that is?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m up to it. Please may we bring the dogs?”

They looked up at him adoringly, wagged.

“Don’t see why not? Can they behave in an airship? Would hate to lose one over the side, eh wot? A little spaniel splatter over Pitlochrie just won’t do. Say Eddy, do you think your grandmum would object to a few more dogs?”

Albert Victor shrugged. “As long as they refrain from urinating on every post and pillar of the airship, they should be fine. Urine does rust the frame so.”

“True, enough, Eddy. True enough. Right, then, off we go and all that. Sinjin, old man”—he turned and extended his mechanical hand—“don’t be a stranger. I know a Duchess or two who would be happy to make an honest man of you yet.”

“I’ve had quite enough of skirts, if you ask me, Bertie,” Rupert said, and smiled his lazy cat smile. “Give me a pipe and a paper and I’m a happy man.”

“You’d be happier with a ‘skirt’ of your own. And Remy”—a firm if noisy handshake—“you’ve got a fine little woman, there. Keep her happy or you’ll have hell to pay. The Welsh are like that.”

“Yes, sir. That is my aim.”

“Perhaps we’ll see you at the next meeting?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Miss Savage . . .” The Prince executed a most formal bow. “
Hen Wlad fy Nhadau
, and all that.”

She curtsied. Pronunciation still atrocious. “It has been an honour, Your Highness.”

“Eddy. Come!”

And with that, Edward of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, Prince of Wales, whirled and stormed out of the sitting room, Albert Victor a slim quiet shadow at his heels.

Sebastien looked back to the others, and Ivy could have sworn she saw his breath frost in the room.

“Christien, I’m so terribly sorry . . .”

“I know,” said his brother. “I understand.”

“Miss Savage, take care of your brother. We
will
see your mother at Lonsdale, I promise you.”

She smiled at him. “Sometime, I expect.”

“Sometime.” He smiled back at her.

And for a moment, all time seemed to stop in the room. Christien stared at the both of them. Finally, Sebastien turned to St. John. “Rupert . . .”

“Bugger off, Laury.”

“Right.” And he was gone, just like that, with six dogs happily trotting behind.

Very quickly, heat returned to the sitting room.

Christien sank to the sofa while Rupert lit another cigarette. He puffed a few good puffs, eyes flicking from nephew to fiancée and back again. He shook his head and left the room.

Ivy stood for a while longer, unsure of what had just happened but sure it was not all good.

THE COURTYARD WAS
quiet once again, and she was lost to her thoughts as he led her out under the stone arches toward the steamcar. But he caught her hand, turned her toward him, and she found she could look nowhere but the perfect blue of his eyes.

“Ivy, I must go back tonight.”

“What? But Christien, why? You only just got here.”

“I know. But the heat is on to find this Whitechapel villain and things have become rather complicated.”

“Complicated? How so?”

“Nothing. There is simply so much work.”

“Christien . . .” Her heart thudded in her chest. “Why didn’t you tell me that you’ve joined the Ghost Club?”

A furrow appeared between his perfect brows.