All is Fair (3 page)

He walked to the gate and had a moment of doubt. Should he have brought his armed footmen? Was this a good idea at all? He frowned at the thought of being so crass. He might be Duke of Londinium now but it didn’t mean he couldn’t take care of a personal matter alone and in the way he saw fit.

He’d spent days at Cathy’s bedside, racked with guilt about the stabbing and endlessly ruminating upon the scant information he’d been given after the attack, only to discover how much she’d been hiding from him. The man from the Agency had delivered the dossier on his wife’s secret life four days earlier. It detailed a flat she rented in the dark city of Manchester – the only city in England without a single Nether property, or so he’d been told. She’d even attended university there.

The dossier created more questions than it answered. It listed, amongst other items, the mobile phone that she’d used to call the man who saved her from the assassin. Quite how she’d struck up a relationship with a dull computer programmer from Bath wasn’t forthcoming, but he had to make sure that, however it had started, it was going to stop now. He pushed the gate open.

Two of the tiles on the doorstep were cracked and there were weeds poking their way through the path. Beer cans and fast food cartons were banked against the inside of the garden wall like a snow drift made of urban decay. He pushed the doorbell, expecting nothing to happen, but it actually worked.

He waited just long enough to wonder whether anyone was in before seeing a shape move on the other side of the dappled glass in the front door. It was opened by a very mundane man, dressed in black trousers and a white shirt. He was holding a black tie in his hand and the collar of his shirt was turned up as if he were about to put the tie on. Will noted his stubble, the dark shadows beneath his eyes, the brown hair that hadn’t felt a comb for a couple of days. His face was familiar but Will couldn’t place where he’d seen him.

“Hello?”

“Are you Sam? Samuel Westonville?”

The mundane scratched his chin. It sounded like he was sanding wood. “Maybe. Who are you?”

“I’m Catherine’s husband.”

The mundane’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, right. Yeah, I’m Sam. Come in. How is she?”

“Recovering,” Will said, relieved that the house wasn’t the hovel he expected on the inside, but the air smelt stale and there was a pile of unopened post to the side of the door. Some of the envelopes had footprints on them.

“I can offer you coffee but there’s no milk. No milk that’s safe to drink anyway.”

“No, thank you.”

Sam led him to a small living room filled with boxes. “Sorry about the mess.” He tossed the tie on the arm of a chair and lifted a box off the sofa. He gestured for Will to sit down, which Will ignored.

“I won’t keep you long. I wanted to know why you were in the park with my wife.”

Sam scratched the back of his head and looked uncomfortable. “She… Look, there isn’t anything going on between us, you do know that, don’t you?”

“But why were you there when she was attacked?”

“Well, I was just passing by.” He was a terrible liar.

“After she phoned you.”

“Um, yeah. Look, there’s nothing dodgy going on. Haven’t you asked her?”

“She’s barely been conscious since the attack, that’s why I’m asking you.”

“I met her when everyone was looking for her uncle, do you know about that? It was before she was… um, before you were married.”

“Yes, I know all about that. Go on.”

“She helped me get a memory back and that helped the… people looking for her uncle to find him.”

Will suddenly knew where he’d seen him before. It was in the ballroom at Horatio Gallica-Rosa’s failed housewarming. He was with the Sorcerer and the Arbiter. “You know the Sorcerer Guardian of Wessex?”

“Yeah, he was the one who introduced me to Cathy.”

“And…”

“And… that’s all,” Sam said, his hand sliding down the back of his head to rub the back of his neck. “You sure you don’t want a drink?”

Will wanted a glass of the best single malt at Black’s, not anything that might be tucked away in a mundane’s house. His jealousy about a possible affair was fading the more the mundane spoke; he was too mediocre to be a lover worthy of concern. However, the connection to the Sorcerer of Wessex was worrying. Why would Cathy maintain a friendship with this man if not to maintain a connection to the Sorcerer? And why else would she do that, other than if she was going to run away again? That was why she was in the park; that was why she still had her old flat, her bank account, her old life in Mundanus. She was still planning to go back to it. She was going to leave him.

“Why did she phone you?”

“To see if I was OK. Look, Cathy knew me and my wife were having problems–”

“You’re married?”

“Was. She died.”

“Oh. My condolences.”

“Yeah… she was still alive when Cathy was at the park. She wanted to know if I was OK and I wasn’t so she offered a friendly ear.”

“So you weren’t just passing by. You were at the park to meet her, in secret.”

“There was nothing dodgy about it, though.”

“Then why lie? Why say you were just passing?”

“Because I knew you’d think the worst, OK? Cathy wouldn’t do anything with me, it’s not like that between us, we’re friends.”

“My wife is the most important woman in Londinium.” Will kept his voice calm and low. “You are nothing more than a mundane with a talent for getting yourself tangled up in things you should not. Catherine is not your friend and you will not see her again.”

“Now just wait a minute.” Sam’s voice rose. “I saved her life! And it’s not up to you to decide who is her friend or not, it’s up to her.”

“Perhaps I’m not making myself clear enough for your limited capabilities. Stay away from my wife.”

“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, coming into my house and–”

Will felt for the scabbard of his rapier, glamoured to be invisible to mundane eyes, and drew the sword in one motion. The Charm was broken and Sam yelped at the sight of him drawing the weapon seemingly out of thin air. Will held the sword perfectly still and straight with its point pressed lightly against the mundane’s throat.

“I am the Duke of Londinium, a Reticulata-Iris and the man responsible for my wife’s honour. Now before you force me to be any more impolite I will leave you with a message you may better understand.” He leaned forwards and increased the pressure fractionally. “Don’t fuck with me or my family or I will kill you.”

Margritte lifted her heavy black taffeta skirts as she ascended the staircase to her son’s study. The Wesley room, made famous by one of the mundane alumnae, was one of her favourites in Lincoln College but today the memories of the times she and Bartholomew had spent there were not welcome. She had cried enough. Now it was time to do something about the crime committed against her family.

She knocked on the door and entered when called. Her eldest son was sitting on one of the leather armchairs in the centre of the room, reading. The walls were covered in dark wood panelling, exquisitely carved, the room lit by the sprites trapped in glass globes at intervals along the walls. She couldn’t stop herself looking at the stone fireplace and the small marble bust on it. She remembered Bartholomew showing it to her for the first time and how they had kissed in front of it.

“I’ll be with you in a moment, Mother,” Alexander said.

She forced herself to breathe again after looking over at him. From behind, he looked too much like his father: his hair just the same shade of dark brown, tied back with the same small black ribbon her husband favoured. She clutched at the locket hanging over her bodice, thought of the lock of her husband’s hair within and marvelled at how yet more tears were ready to come.

“I do apologise,” Alexander said, positioning his bookmark carefully before getting up to come to her. “Did you manage to sleep any better?”

“Not really,” she said and they kissed each other’s cheeks three times in the Dutch fashion. She doubted she would ever sleep well again. How could she lie in bed alone and drift off after spending over two hundred years of nights with the man she loved curled around her? She’d have to visit the Shopkeeper soon and buy a Charm to give her some rest.

“Are you happy with your room? It’s one of the best in the college. Or would you prefer another? I’m sure it can be arranged.” When she didn’t reply immediately he twisted one of his cufflinks. “Or do you plan to go back to Hampton Court? Father provided most generously for you in the will. You don’t need to worry about a thing. I’m more than happy for you to live at Hampton even though I own it now. For as long as you wish, I have no desire to–”

“Alexander.” She held up her hand and seated herself opposite him. “Darling, that’s not what I want to discuss. We need to talk about the Londinium throne.”

He leaned back in the chair, laced his fingers in front of him. “Is there anything to talk about?”

“Yes! We can’t just ignore what happened. Your father was accused, judged, murdered and now remembered for a crime he didn’t commit.”

He squirmed, looking away. “I know.”

“And it isn’t just the fact that the throne was taken from him in such an offensive way, it’s the fact that it was an Iris who took it. They destroyed our influence on the mundane royal line and then, when we finally achieve our rightful place in Society, they take power from us again.”

“Father always said we needed to put that behind us.”

“Your father didn’t know the depths the Irises would sink to.”

“But he did know what it did to my grandfather,” Alexander replied, now looking at her. “He said feuds between families did nothing but tear people apart as well as Society. He knew that better than anyone.”

Margritte sighed, remembering the last time she’d seen her father-in-law. He was a broken man, drunk and mostly mad, hidden away by the family before he drank himself to death. Once the Earl of Oxford, one of Queen Anne’s most important politicians, destroyed along with her and her reign by the Iris curse. “Your father was a sensitive, noble and patient man. He waited over a hundred years for his time to come and then it was stolen from him in moments. Can you rest knowing your father was murdered by an Iris – nothing more than an arrogant child with his patron pulling the strings?”

Alexander took a breath to say something, reconsidered and instead reached across to pull the cord next to the fire twice. “I remember when I used to get upset about things, Father always used to remind me to look at the bigger picture.”

Margritte controlled a flash of rage. “I’m not a child, Alexander.”

“But there
is
a bigger picture to consider. You’re speaking as though you want to take revenge–”

“Not revenge, I want to take back the throne that was stolen from your father.”

“Regardless,” Alexander said, “that’s tantamount to war. Is that what you want?”

“I didn’t march into the Court accusing a decent man of terrible things! I didn’t murder him and steal his Dukedom! I didn’t ask for this war but if that’s what it takes to restore to us what is rightfully ours – and has been for hundreds of years – then so be it!”

Alexander paled. “Mother, you’re grieving, you’re not–”

“You are avoiding facing up to your responsibility.”

“Which is?”

“To help me clear your father’s name and take back the Dukedom.”

“You want me to be Duke?”

“It’s your birthright.”

There was a knock at the door and Alexander called in the butler, who had tea, sandwiches and cakes ready to serve. Margritte seethed as the tea was poured. Her son had been left in his ivory tower too long.

Once the butler had left and he’d taken a rather audible gulp of tea, Alexander said, “Mother, I’m no Duke, I’m a professor and the Vice-Chancellor of Oxenford! I can’t just abandon my responsibilities here. And I’m sorry, but I can’t share your opinion on the way to proceed. Starting a war with the Irises would be… foolish.”

“You think I’m a grief-stricken fool?”

“I think you’re making decisions whilst traumatised. I couldn’t possibly sanction a war with the Irises; there are many who live in Oxenford. They hold three colleges here, and, after the terrible disruption to the university caused by the fall of the Roses, I couldn’t possibly see how a war would be supported by my peers or the Chancellor.”

“Damn the Chancellor! He isn’t one of us!”

“Mother–” Alexander made no effort to hide how appalled he was “–I cannot risk the stability of Oxenford just because you cannot manage your grief.”

She stood up so quickly she knocked the tea cup onto the floor. “How dare you dismiss my loyalty to our family as a weak woman’s grief. I suggest you think very carefully about where your loyalties lie.”

“Where are you going?” he asked as she turned her back on him and stepped over the broken porcelain.

“To speak to the Patroon. I’m curious to see whether he thinks our family’s honour is less important than the comfort of a Sorcerer and his pet academics.”

3

Sam looked at the people filling the crematorium’s chapel. He didn’t recognise most of them. Some of the women were crying, all dressed in the same kind of corporate gear Leanne used to wear, only black. Their grieving made him aware of his own hollow detachment. He felt nothing except the sharp awareness of the man who’d killed her sitting three rows behind him. Bastard.

“I would like to speak at the funeral,” Neugent had said in a letter redirected from his house in Bath to Lord Iron’s vast estate in Lancashire. “I worked very closely with Leanne for several years and had the utmost respect and admiration for her.”

Sam had burnt the letter and stood at the window, looking out over landscaped gardens, wondering what the fuck was happening to his life. Lord Iron had dined with him the night he arrived; they’d talked about Leanne mostly, then he’d been called away on business. “Stay, relax, grieve,” Iron said as he shook his hand. “Treat this as your own house. The staff will provide everything you need. I’ll be back for the funeral.”

He’d watched the limousine crawl down the drive, listened to the crackle of the gravel beneath its tyres and thought of the last time he saw his wife. It was all he seemed capable of thinking about.