Lord John and the Hand of Devils (25 page)

E
dgar had gone on about his own business, offering to send back a horse for Grey. He had refused this offer, not wishing to seem an invalid—and feeling that he might profit from the solitary walk back across the fields, having considerable new information to think about.

The news of the consortium of powder-mill owners put a different complexion on the matter altogether.

We make only the one grade of powder at
this
mill,
Hoskins had said. Grey had overlooked the slight emphasis at the time, but in retrospect, was sure it had been there.

The implication was plain; one or another of the consortium’s mills
did
make the higher grades of black powder required for grenades, muskets, and rifle cartridges. He thought of turning back to ask Hoskins which mill might provide the more explosive powder, but thought better of it. He could check that with Edgar.

He must also ask Edgar to invite the other mill owners to Blackthorn Hall. He should speak with them in any case, and it was likely best to do that
en masse,
so that none of them should feel personally accused, and thus wary. He might also be able to gain some information from seeing them together, watching to see what the relations among them were.

Could there possibly be truth behind Lord Marchmont’s insinuations of sabotage? If so—and he was still highly inclined to doubt it—then it became at least understandable why Marchmont should have mentioned Edgar by name.

No matter which mill had actually produced it, any suspicious powder would have been identified simply with the DeVane mark—a simplified version of Edgar’s family arms, showing two chevrons quartered with an odd heraldic bird, a small, footless thing called a martlet. Hoskins had shown him the half-loaded barge at anchor in the river, stacked with powder kegs, all branded with that mark.

The sun was still obscured, but faintly visible; a small, hazy disk directly overhead. Seeing it, and becoming aware from interior gurglings that it had been a long time since breakfast, he considered what to do next.

There was time to ride to Mudling Parva. The obvious first step in doing as he had promised Mr. Lister was to interview the Reverend Mr. Thackeray, for any indications he might be able to provide of his errant daughter’s whereabouts.

He could, though, reasonably leave that errand for the morrow, and return to Blackthorn Hall for luncheon. He must speak to Edgar about the consortium. And Maude had mentioned at breakfast that a friend or two from the county would be joining them.

“Hmm,” he said.

His relations with his elder half brothers had always been distant but cordial—save for the occasion when, aged ten, he had unwisely expressed the opinion that Edgar’s fiancée was an overbearing doggess, and been clouted halfway across the room in consequence. His opinion of his sister-in-law had not altered in subsequent years, but he
had
learned to keep his opinions to himself.

Perhaps he would leave a note for Edgar and find some sort of sustenance on his way to the village.

He walked on, enjoying the spongy give of the earth beneath his boots, and returned to his contemplation of black powder. Or tried to. Within a few moments, though, he became aware that he was not thinking so much of the consortium, or of his new knowledge of the process of powder-making…but of Bill Hoskins.

The realization unsettled him. He had not responded in that visceral way to a man’s physical presence since—well, since before Crefeld.

He hadn’t really supposed that that part of him was dead, but had been content to leave it dormant, preoccupied as he had been with other matters, such as survival. If anything, though, he had expected that it might return slowly, healing gradually, as the rest of his body did.

Nothing gradual about it. Sexual interest had sprung up, sudden and vivid as a steel-struck spark, ready to ignite anything flammable in the vicinity.

Not that anything
was.
There was not the slightest indication that Hoskins had any such proclivities—and even had Hoskins been giving him a blatantly rolling eyeball of invitation, Grey would in no case approach someone in his brother’s orbit, let alone his employ.

No, it was nothing but simple appreciation.

Still, when he came to the stile where he had been stricken on the way out, he did not climb it, but seized the rail of the fence and vaulted over, then walked on, whistling “Lilibulero.”

U
pon due consideration, Grey left Tom Byrd at the ordinary in Mudling Parva, with enough money to render half a dozen men indiscreet, if not outright insensible, and instructions to gather whatever tidbits of local gossip might be obtained under these circumstances. He himself proceeded, in his soberest clothes, to the home of the Reverend Mr. Thackeray, where he introduced himself by title, rather than rank, as a club acquaintance of Philip Lister’s, interested in the welfare of Anne Thackeray.

From Mr. Lister’s description of the minister, Grey had been expecting something tall and cadaverous, equipped with piercing eye and booming voice. The reality was something resembling a pug dog belonging to his friend Lucinda, Lady Joffrey: small, with a massively wrinkled face and slightly bulging eyes at the front, the impression of a wagging curly tail at the back.

The Reverend Mr. Thackeray’s air of effusive welcome diminished substantially, however, when informed of Lord John’s business.

“I am afraid I cannot tell you anything regarding my late daughter, sir,” he said, repressed, but still courteous. “I know nothing of her movements since her departure from my house.”

“Is your daughter…deceased?” Grey asked cautiously. “I was unaware…”

“She is dead to
us,
” the minister said, shaking his head dolefully. “And might better be dead in all truth, rather than to be living in a state of grievous sin. We can but hope.”

“Er…quite.” Grey sipped at the tea he had been offered, pausing to regroup, then essayed a different sally. “Should she be alive, though—perhaps with a child…”

The Reverend Mr. Thackeray’s eyes bulged further at the thought, and Grey coughed.

“I hesitate to voice the observation for fear of seeming crude, and I can but trust to your courtesy to overlook my presumption—but Lieutenant Lister actually
is
dead,” he pointed out. “Your daughter—and perhaps her offspring—is therefore presumably left without protection. Would you not wish to receive news of her, perhaps to offer aid, even if you feel unable to accept her home again?”

“No, sir.” Mr. Thackeray spoke with regret, but most decidedly. “She has chosen the path of ruin and damnation. There is no turning back.”

“You will pardon my ignorance, sir—but does your faith not preach the possibility of redemption for sinners?”

The minister’s amiably wrinkled countenance contracted, and Grey perceived the small, sharp teeth behind the upper lip.

“We pray for her soul,” he said. “Of course. And that she will perceive the error of her ways, repent, and thus perhaps be allowed at last to enter the kingdom of God.”

“But you have no desire that she should receive forgiveness while still alive?” Grey had intended to remain aloofly courteous throughout the interview, no matter what was said, but found himself becoming irritated—whether with the Reverend Mr. Thackeray’s sanctimony or his illogic, he was not sure.

“Certainly we should attempt to emulate Our Lord in forgiving,” the minister said, twitching the bands of his coat straight and drawing himself as upright as his diminutive stature would permit. “But we cannot be seen to suffer licentiousness and lewd behavior. What example would I be to my congregation, were I to accept into my home a young woman who had suffered such public and flagrant moral ruin, the fruit of her sin apparent for all to see?”

“So she
has
borne a child?” Grey asked, pouncing upon this last injudicious phrase.

All of the reverend’s wrinkles flushed dark red and he stood abruptly.

“I fear that I can spare you no more time, Lord John. I have a great many engagements this afternoon. If you will—”

He was interrupted by the parlor maid who had brought tea, who bobbed a curtsy from the doorway.

“Your pardon, sir; it’s Captain Fanshawe come.”

The choler left the Reverend’s face at once.

“Oh,” he said. He glanced quickly at Grey, then at the doorway. Grey could see the figure of a tall man, standing in the hallway just beyond the maid.

“Captain Fanshawe…would that be Captain Marcus Fanshawe, perhaps?” Grey asked politely. “I believe we are members of the same club.” He’d met the man briefly on that last, riotous visit to White’s, he thought.

The minister nodded like a clockwork doll, but looked back and forth between Grey and the doorway, exhibiting marked perplexity and what looked like embarrassment.

Grey was somewhat perplexed himself. He was also angry with himself for having allowed his personal opinions to intrude on the conversation. No help now but to retreat in good order, perhaps leaving enough goodwill to provide for another visit later. He rose and bowed.

“I thank you for receiving me, sir. I can show myself out.”

The Reverend Mr. Thackeray and the maid both gave sharp gasps as he strode through the door, and the minister made a brief movement as though to prevent him, but Grey ignored it.

The man in the hall was dressed in ordinary riding clothes, his hat in his hand. He turned sharply at Grey’s appearance, surprised.

Grey nodded toward the newcomer, hoping that his face did not reveal the shock he felt at Fanshawe’s appearance. It was the sort of face that drew both men and women, dark and arresting in its beauty—or had been. One eye remained, sapphire-colored, dark-lashed, and framed by an arch of black brow, a perfect jewel.

The other was invisible, whether injured or destroyed, he had no idea. A black silk scarf was bound across Fanshawe’s brow, a bar sinister whose starkness cut across a mass of melted, lividly welted flesh. The nose was mostly gone; only the blunt darkness of the nostrils remained. He had the horrid fancy that they stared, inviting him—almost
compelling
him—to look through them into Fanshawe’s brain.

“Your servant, sir,” he heard himself say, bowing automatically.

“And yours.”

Had he ever heard Fanshawe’s voice before? It was colorless, correct, with the slightest tinge of Sussex. Fanshawe turned at a sound from the parlor door, and Grey felt suddenly faint. Part of the captain’s head had been caved in, leaving a shocking depression above the ear, nearly a quarter of the skull…gone. How had he lived?

Grey bowed again, murmuring something meaningless, and escaped, finding himself in the road without noticing how he had got there.

His heart was beating fast and he felt the taste of bile at the back of his throat. He tried to erase the vision of Fanshawe’s head from his mind, but it was no use. The ruined face was terrible to look upon, and filled him with a piercing regret for the loss of beauty—though he had seen such things before. But that sickening place, where the eye expected a solid curve of skull and found emptiness instead, was peculiarly shocking, even to a professional soldier.

He stood still, eyes closed, and breathed slowly, concentrating on the sharp autumnal odors round him: chimney smoke and the sweet scent of windfall apples, rotting in the grass; damp earth and dead leaves, the bitter smell of hawthorn fruits, cut straw, used to mulch the flower beds in Thackeray’s garden. Soap—

Soap?
His eyes flew open and he saw that the branches of the hedgerow beside him were heaving.

“Psst!” said the hedge.

“I beg your pardon?” he replied, leaning to look closer. Through the spiny branches of a hawthorn, he made out the anxious face of a young woman, perhaps eighteen or so, whose large, prominent eyes and upturned nose betrayed a close resemblance to the pug-like Mr. Thackeray.

“May I speak to you, sir?” she said, eyes imploring.

“I believe you are, madam, but if you wish to continue doing so, perhaps it would be easier were I to meet you yonder?” He nodded down the road, to a gap where there was a gate set into the hedge.

The clean-smelling young woman met him there, her face pink with cold air and flusterment.

“You will think me forward, sir, but I—Oh, and I
do
apologize, sir, but I couldn’t help overhearing, and when you spoke to Father about Annie…”

“I collect you are…Miss Thackeray?”

“Oh, I am sorry, sir.” She bobbed him an anxious curtsy, her ruffled cap clean and white, like a fresh mushroom. “I am Barbara Thackeray. My sister is Miss Thackeray—or—or was,” she corrected, blushing deeply.

“Is your sister deceased, then?” Grey inquired, as gently as possible. “Or married?”

“Oh, sir!” She gave him a wide-eyed look. “I do
hope
she is married, and not—not the other. She wrote to me, and said she and Philip meant to be married ever so soon as they might. She is a good girl, Annie; you must not pay attention to anyone who tells you otherwise, indeed you must not!” She looked quite fierce at this, like a small pug dog seizing the edge of a carpet in its teeth, and he nearly laughed, but stopped himself in time.