lifetime, in death that baron had with a most unfatherly lack of feeling left Archibald no title and no property, and a mere thousand pounds a year. It was left to Archibald himself to correct the accident of his birth by any means available to him.
London, with its endless supply of beggars and thieves, had shown him the first way; the second he had discovered on his own.
This October evening, the slap of the Morning Chronicle hitting his chair and then dropping folded open into his lap caused him to jostle the glass at his lips and spill a faint drop of wine in the artful folds of his cravat.
“I assume you have a plan, March.” The voice coming from above his chair spoke in the glacial privileged accents of an ancient title.
Since he’d first heard it, Archibald had studied to understand why the icy voice both thrilled and terrified him. By birth, by wealth, by power, the possessor of that voice should never speak to Archibald March, stepson of a mere baron. That he, Archibald, had so fashioned his own position of power, which brought this man to his side—that was the thrill. Archibald had done His Exaltedness a favor, put His Exaltedness in Archibald’s debt.
However, it was a voice fundamentally indifferent to Archibald March, willing to destroy him if he proved inconvenient. That was the hazard in doing favors for the very powerful. Archibald was careful. He protected his escape routes thoroughly. He simply did not relish testing whether the voice could find him if he chose to disappear.
He put down his glass and picked up the paper. He had seen the announcement of his niece’s marriage to the one man in London who would overlook her tainted reputation, the one man in London who would use her money in a most inconvenient way for the powerful man at Archibald’s side. Now with the unfortunate event proclaimed to world, he tried not to let the oh-so-polite voice unsettle him.
Long habit prompted him to offer reassurance. “Of course I have a plan. The marriage is an obvious fraud. My niece has been practiced on by an unscrupulous man of low birth, thinking to rob her of her fortune. I have engaged Lushington to bring action in the London Consistory Court.”
Nothing changed. No response. The quiet hum of club life continued around a cone of silence that held March and the man at his side in place. Waiters busied themselves as the room filled with more members, but no one caught Archibald’s eye. An annoying prickle made him conscious of heat pooling under his arms. Really, his niece was proving more inconvenient than anticipated.
“Shall we say a fortnight, then,” the voice resumed, “to resolve this matter?”
“A month would be better.” If his niece became any more troublesome, an accident would have to be arranged.
“No, March, a sennight would be better.”
It was some time before Archibald felt steady enough to again lift his glass. He thought it best to make a complete change of linen before his evening engagements.
I hope Bluebeard doesn’t murder you directly.” Charlie had his face pressed to the glass of Sir Alexander Jones’s elegant hired chaise as they rumbled up Park Lane in the October dusk, passing a long row of grand bow-fronted houses. Cleo remembered dining and dancing in several.
“You’d like some time to see the sights before you’re forced to flee town again?”
Charlie drew back from the window. “I’ve never been to the Menagerie.”
“I’ll put it at the top of our list, dearest, but I do think Jones will want to be sure of my fortune before he does away with me.”
Charlie frowned and fidgeted with his jacket. Cleo suspected that his banter about Bluebeard was a thin cover for genuine uneasiness, and the truth was she didn’t know what to make of her husband’s character or motives. He said he wanted a gasworks, but Cleo had had a long week to think about that. No man just wanted a gasworks. Still he had sent for them, and she
London, with its endless supply of beggars and thieves, had shown him the first way; the second he had discovered on his own.
This October evening, the slap of the Morning Chronicle hitting his chair and then dropping folded open into his lap caused him to jostle the glass at his lips and spill a faint drop of wine in the artful folds of his cravat.
“I assume you have a plan, March.” The voice coming from above his chair spoke in the glacial privileged accents of an ancient title.
Since he’d first heard it, Archibald had studied to understand why the icy voice both thrilled and terrified him. By birth, by wealth, by power, the possessor of that voice should never speak to Archibald March, stepson of a mere baron. That he, Archibald, had so fashioned his own position of power, which brought this man to his side—that was the thrill. Archibald had done His Exaltedness a favor, put His Exaltedness in Archibald’s debt.
However, it was a voice fundamentally indifferent to Archibald March, willing to destroy him if he proved inconvenient. That was the hazard in doing favors for the very powerful. Archibald was careful. He protected his escape routes thoroughly. He simply did not relish testing whether the voice could find him if he chose to disappear.
He put down his glass and picked up the paper. He had seen the announcement of his niece’s marriage to the one man in London who would overlook her tainted reputation, the one man in London who would use her money in a most inconvenient way for the powerful man at Archibald’s side. Now with the unfortunate event proclaimed to world, he tried not to let the oh-so-polite voice unsettle him.
Long habit prompted him to offer reassurance. “Of course I have a plan. The marriage is an obvious fraud. My niece has been practiced on by an unscrupulous man of low birth, thinking to rob her of her fortune. I have engaged Lushington to bring action in the London Consistory Court.”
Nothing changed. No response. The quiet hum of club life continued around a cone of silence that held March and the man at his side in place. Waiters busied themselves as the room filled with more members, but no one caught Archibald’s eye. An annoying prickle made him conscious of heat pooling under his arms. Really, his niece was proving more inconvenient than anticipated.
“Shall we say a fortnight, then,” the voice resumed, “to resolve this matter?”
“A month would be better.” If his niece became any more troublesome, an accident would have to be arranged.
“No, March, a sennight would be better.”
It was some time before Archibald felt steady enough to again lift his glass. He thought it best to make a complete change of linen before his evening engagements.
I hope Bluebeard doesn’t murder you directly.” Charlie had his face pressed to the glass of Sir Alexander Jones’s elegant hired chaise as they rumbled up Park Lane in the October dusk, passing a long row of grand bow-fronted houses. Cleo remembered dining and dancing in several.
“You’d like some time to see the sights before you’re forced to flee town again?”
Charlie drew back from the window. “I’ve never been to the Menagerie.”
“I’ll put it at the top of our list, dearest, but I do think Jones will want to be sure of my fortune before he does away with me.”
Charlie frowned and fidgeted with his jacket. Cleo suspected that his banter about Bluebeard was a thin cover for genuine uneasiness, and the truth was she didn’t know what to make of her husband’s character or motives. He said he wanted a gasworks, but Cleo had had a long week to think about that. No man just wanted a gasworks. Still he had sent for them, and she
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