Lavender House was large, but in no way ostentatious. Only the marble tubs of fragrant lavender that stood on either side of its door distinguished it in any way from the houses to either side. The curtains were drawn, but shadows passed now and then beyond them, and the murmur of male conversation and occasional bursts of laughter seeped through the hanging velvet.
“It sounds like what goes on at those gentlemen’s clubs in Curzon Street,” Byrd said, sounding faintly puzzled. “I’ve heard ’em.”
“It is a gentlemen’s club,” Grey replied, with a certain grimness. “For gentlemen of a particular sort.” He removed his hat, and, untying his hair, shook it free over his shoulders; the time for disguise was past.
“Now you must go home, Tom.” He pointed the way, across the park. “Do you see that light, at the end? Just beyond is an alley; it will take you to a main street. Here—take some money for a cab.”
Byrd accepted the coin, but shook his head.
“No, me lord. I’ll go to the door with you.”
He glanced at Byrd, surprised. There was sufficient light from the curtained windows to see both the dried tears on Byrd’s round face and the determined expression under them.
“I mean to be sure as these sodomitical sons of bitches shall be aware that somebody knows where you are. Just in case, me lord.”
The door opened promptly to his knock, revealing a liveried butler, who gave Grey’s clothes a disparaging glance. Then the man’s eyes rose to his face, and Grey saw the subtle change of expression. Grey was not one to trade on his looks, but he was aware of their effect in some quarters.
“Good evening,” he said, stepping across the threshold as though he owned the place. “I wish to speak to the current proprietor of this establishment.”
The butler gave way in astonishment, and Grey saw the man’s calculations undergo a rapid shift in the face of his accent and manner, so much at variance with his dress. Still, the man had been well-trained, and wasn’t to be so easily bamboozled.
“Indeed, sir,” the butler said, not quite bowing. “And your name?”
“George Everett,” Grey said.
The butler’s face went blank.
“Indeed, sir,” he said woodenly. He hesitated, plainly uncertain what to do. Grey didn’t recognize the man, but the man clearly had known George—or known of him.
“Give that name to your master, if you please,” Grey said pleasantly. “I will await him in the library.”
On a table by the door stood the clockwork figure Rab the chairman had noted—not an orrery, but a clockwork man, elaborately enameled and gilded, made to drop his breeches and bend over when the key was wound. Grey made as though to go to the left of this figure, toward where he knew the library to be. The butler put out a hand as though to stop him, but then halted, distracted by something outside.
“Who is that?” he said, thoroughly startled.
Grey turned to see Tom Byrd standing at the edge of the lightspill from the door, glowering fiercely, fists clenched and his jaw set in a way that brought his lower teeth up to fix in the flesh of his upper lip. Mud-spattered from his adventures, he looked like a gargoyle knocked from his perch.
“That, sir, is my valet,” Grey said politely, and, turning, strode down the hall.
There were a few men in the library, sprawled in chairs near the hearth, chatting over their newspapers and brandy. It might have been the library at the Beefsteak, save that conversation stopped abruptly with Grey’s entrance, and half a dozen pairs of eyes fixed upon him in open appraisal.
Fortunately, he recognized none of them, nor they him.
“Gentlemen,” he said, bowing. “Your servant.” He turned at once to the sideboard, where the decanters stood, and in defiance of convention and good manners, poured out a glass of some liquid, not taking the time to ascertain what it was. He turned back to find them all still staring at him, trying to reconcile the contradictions of his appearance, his manner, and his voice. He stared back.
One of the men recovered himself quickly, and rose from his seat.
“Welcome … sir.”
“And what’s your name, sweet boy?” another chimed in, smiling as he tossed down his paper.
“That is my own affair … sir.” Grey returned the smile, with a razor edge to it, and took a sip of his drink. It was porter, curse the luck.
The rest of them had risen now and came to circle round him, nosing in the manner of dogs smelling something freshly dead. Half curious, half wary, thoroughly intrigued. He felt a trickle of sweat roll down the nape of his neck, and a nervous clenching of the belly. All of them were dressed quite ordinarily, though that meant nothing. Lavender House had many rooms, and catered to an assortment of fancies.
All were well-dressed, but none of them wore wigs or paint, and a couple showed some disorder in their dress; stocks discarded, and shirts and waistcoats opened to allow liberties that wouldn’t be countenanced in the Beefsteak.
The golden-haired youth to his left was studying him with narrowed eyes and obvious appetite; the stocky brown-haired lad saw, and didn’t like it. Grey saw him move closer, deliberately jostling Goldie-Locks, to distract his attention. Goldie-Locks put a soothing hand on his playfellow’s leg, but didn’t take his eyes off Grey.
“Well, if you will not give your name, let me make you a present of mine.” A curly-haired young man with a sweet mouth and soft brown eyes stepped forward, smiling, and took his hand. “Percy Wainwright—at your service, ma’am.” He bent over Grey’s hand in the most graceful of gestures, and kissed the knuckles.
The feel of the boy’s warm breath on his skin made the hairs stand up on Grey’s forearm. He would have liked to grasp Percy’s hand and draw him in, but that wouldn’t do, not just now.
He let his own hand lie inert in Wainwright’s for a moment, to offer neither insult nor invitation, then drew it back.
“Your servant … madam.”
That made them laugh, though still with an edge of wariness. They were not sure yet if he was fish or fowl, and he meant to keep it that way as long as possible.
He was a good deal more cautious now than he had been when George Everett had first brought him here. Then he had not cared for anything in particular—save George, perhaps. Now, having come so close to losing his for good, he had some appreciation for the value of a reputation; not merely his, but those of his family and his regiment, as well.
“What brings you here, my dear?” Goldie-Locks stepped closer, blue eyes burning like twin candle flames.
“Looking for a lady,” Grey drawled, leaning back against the sideboard in assumed casualness. “In a green velvet gown.”
There was a sputter of laughter at this, and glances among them, but nothing that looked like dawning recognition.
“Green doesn’t suit me,” Goldie-Locks said, and licked a pointed tongue briefly across his upper lip. “But I’ve a charming blue satin with laced pinners that I’m sure you’d like.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” the brown-haired boy said, eyeing both Grey and Goldie-Locks with clear dislike. “You cunt, Neil.”
“Language, ladies, language.” Percy Wainwright edged Goldie-Locks back with a deft elbow, smiling at Grey. “This lady in green—have you a name for her?”
“Josephine, I believe,” Grey said, glancing from one face to another. “Josephine, from Cornwall.”
That provoked a chorus of mildly derisive “Oooh”s, and one man began to sing “My Little Black Ewe,” in an off-key voice. Then the door opened, and everyone turned to see who had come in.
It was Richard Caswell, the proprietor of Lavender House. Grey knew him at once—and he recalled Grey, it was plain. Still, Caswell didn’t greet him by name, but merely nodded pleasantly.
“Seppings said that you wished to speak with me. If you would care to join me?…” Caswell stood aside, indicating the door.
A low whistle of insinuating admiration followed Grey as he left, succeeded by whoops of laughter.
You cunt, Neil, he thought, and then dismissed all thought of anything save the matter at hand.
Chapter 10
The Affairs of Men
“I was not sure that you still owned this place, else I should have inquired for you by name.” Grey settled himself into the chair indicated by his host, and took the opportunity to discard the unwanted glass of porter onto a nearby table crowded with knickknacks.
“Surprised I’m still alive, I expect,” Caswell said dryly, taking his own seat across the hearth.
This was the truth, and Grey didn’t bother to deny it. The fire burned low and lent a deceptively ruddy hue to Caswell’s wasted features, but Grey had seen him by clear candlelight in the library. He looked worse than he had when last seen, years before—but not much worse.
“You don’t look a day over a thousand, Mother Caswell,” Grey said lightly. That was the truth, too; beneath his modish bag-wig and an extravagant suit of striped blue silk, the man might as well have been an Egyptian mummy. Bony brown wrists and hands like bundles of dry sticks protruded from the sleeves; while the suit had undoubtedly been made by an excellent tailor, it hung upon his shrunken form like a scarecrow’s burlap.
“You shameless flatterer.” Caswell looked him over, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Can’t say the same for you, my dear. You look as fresh and innocent as the day I first saw you. How old were you then, eighteen?” Caswell’s eyes were just the same; small, black, and clever, perpetually bloodshot from smoke and late hours, sunk in pouches of deep violet.
“I lead a wholesome life. Keeps the skin clear.”
Caswell laughed, then began to cough. With a practiced economy of motion, he drew a crumpled handkerchief from his waistcoat and clapped it to his mouth. He lifted a sketchy brow at Grey, half-shrugging as though to apologize for the delay of their conversation, meanwhile suffering the racking spasms with the indifference of long custom.
The coughing done at last, he inspected the resultant blood spots on the handkerchief and, evidently finding them no worse than expected, tossed the cloth into the fire.
“I need a drink,” he said hoarsely, rising from his chair and heading toward the big mahogany desk, where a silver tray held a decanter and several glasses.
Unlike Magda’s sanctum, Caswell’s room held nothing at all that indicated the nature of Lavender House or of its members; it might have belonged to a director of the Bank of London, for all its soberness and elegance of furnishing.
“You’re not enjoying that swill, are you?” Caswell nodded toward the discarded glass of porter. He filled a pair of crystal wineglasses with a deep crimson liquid, and held one out. “Here, have some of this.”
Grey took the proffered glass with a sense of unreality; he had taken wine here, in this room, when George had first brought him to Lavender House—a prelude to their retiring to one of the chambers upstairs. The sense of mild disorientation was succeeded by a sharp shock when he took the first sip.
“That’s very good,” he said, holding the glass up to the fire as though to appraise the color. “What is it?”
“Don’t know the name,” Caswell said, sniffing at the wine with appreciation. “German stuff, not bad. Had it before?”
Grey closed his eyes and drank deeply, frowning and affecting to wash it about his tongue in an effort at placement. Not that he entertained the slightest doubt. He had a good nose for wine, and a better palate—and he had drunk enough of this particular vintage with Nessie to be more than sure of recognizing it again.
“Might have,” he said, opening his eyes and meeting Caswell’s penetrating gaze with an innocent blink. “Can’t recall. Decent stuff, though. Where’d you find it?”
“One of our members prefers it. He brings it by the cask, and we keep it in the cellar for him. Fond of it myself.” Caswell took another sip, then set down his glass. “Well … my lord. How might I have the pleasure of serving you?” The fleshless lips rose in a smile. “Do you mean to seek membership in the Lavender Club? I’m sure the committee would look upon your application with the most cordial favor.”
“Was that the committee I met in the library?” Grey asked dryly.
“Some of them.” Caswell uttered a short laugh, but choked it off, unwilling to start another coughing fit. “Mind you, they might require you to submit to a series of personal interviews, but I’m sure you would have no objection to that?”
The glass felt slippery in his hand. He’d once seen a young man bent over a leather ottoman in that library and subjected to a number of personal interviews, to the vast entertainment of all present. They still had the ottoman; he’d noticed.
“I am exceedingly flattered at the suggestion,” he said politely. “As it happens, though, what I require at the moment is information, rather than companionship, delightful as that prospect might be.”
Caswell coughed, sitting up a little straighter. The smile was still there, but the black eyes had grown brighter.
“Yes?” he said. Grey could almost hear the whisper of steel drawn from a scabbard. The pourparlers were done; let the duel begin.
“The Honorable Mr. Trevelyan,” he said, laying his own blade against Caswell’s. “He comes here regularly; I know that already. I wish to know whom he meets.”
Caswell actually blinked, not having expected such an immediate thrust, but recovered smoothly with a sidestep.
“Trevelyan? I know no one of that name.”
“Oh, you know him. Whether he uses that name here is of no account; you know everything of interest about everyone who comes here. Certainly you know their real surnames.”