Phoenix Rising (28 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY
In Which Eliza Braun Is Introduced
to Britain's Upper Class
and Finds Herself Beyond Words

E
liza loved New Zealand, and she hoped after a few years of exile her past transgressions would be forgiven or forgotten so that she could return there. She loved the wild landscape and even wilder mix of people—yet there was one accomplishment that her beloved outpost of the Empire did lack—one thing it could not possibly do as well as Old Blighty.

The Britons for all their pretensions knew how to build fabulous country houses. As they drove up in the fine carriage hired especially for this weekend, Eliza tried not to crane her neck and stare too obviously at the Havelock estate. It was a hard building to ignore, spread across the low hill in all its baroque glory. Hundreds of windows gleamed in the late afternoon sun as they clattered up the tree-lined avenue. Domed towers crowned both the west and east wings, looming over the surrounding spread of topiary gardens. It was the kind of place she had read about as a child, never imagining that her life would allow her to actually see one; but while this was hardly her first palace, considering her travels, there was a classic splendour about the Havelock estate.

“Now Miss Braun,” Wellington intruded, somewhat thankfully, into her recollections. “We will have to tread carefully here.”

Eliza sighed and dropped back into the swaying carriage seat. “You certainly know how to destroy a moment, Welly.”
Thank you.

Sometimes he couldn't contain his wince at her nickname for him. It was why she persisted in using it. The twist of his lips actually gave his handsome face something of a different character; perhaps a man he might have been in other circumstances.

“We're intruding upon a secret society with possible overtones of hedonistic natures.”

Eliza smiled sweetly. “Sounds like fun.”

“Miss Braun,” he snipped, “what I mean to say is you will want to blunt your colonial edge, just a bit.” She crooked an eyebrow at him, earning her a nervous throat clearing. “If we are to appear as a well-to-do couple, you will have to adopt a more . . .” He swallowed. Eliza lifted both eyebrows now, her look one of patience and sincere curiousity. “ . . . subservient nature.”

“Welly,” she said, putting every bit of contempt behind the nickname, “I think I have a bit of experience in this sort of thing. Been around the block a few times.” A few more times than you.

His mouth opened, but then he immediately sat back in his own seat. It seemed he thought better of whatever reply he was going to make.

Eliza ran her critical eye over him. He was wearing a very fine Savile Row suit, but with the aristocracy it was all about the little details. She fished in her valise and pulled out a small box.

Wellington eyed it with obvious suspicion, but before he could complain, Eliza raised one hand. “You are indeed in possession of a Gieves and Company suit, Welly, but you are rather lacking in one respect.” She tugged her partner's wrist over onto his lap, and swiftly removed his rather pedestrian brass cuff links. She then produced from the box an exquisite silver and mother-of-pearl set which she proceeded to add to Wellington's ensemble.

“Who this time?” Wellington grumbled, though he did not tug back his arm. “A baron of a Germanic province? Or perhaps a member of the Czar's inner court?”

“A marquis, if you are curious,” she replied sweetly. “They look better on you, however.” Now on the other cuff, she crooked a single brow as she said, “As we are talking of maintaining appearances, what of the Ministry? I think I've spent far too much time around you, but I have my concerns about the Old Man being onto us.”

“That is precisely why I have our absence for the afternoon taken care of. Provided he does not spend more than three hours at a time in a surprise visit to the Archives, we should be fine.”

“Three hours, Welly?” She shook her head. “I don't know . . .”

“Miss Braun, it was all the time we could afford if we wished to arrive here at a fashionable time for the weekend.”

“Perhaps. Let's just hope Doctor Sound does not get an urge to research the House of Usher during the weekend. And there!” she said with a nod before settling back into her seat. “Yes, they look far better on you.”

Obviously disarmed by her compliment, Wellington said nothing more. As they followed the gravel path around a huge fountain with satyrs and nymphs cavorting in the spray, Eliza noticed that there was no modesty taken by their creator—interesting and possibly telling.

Wellington had not noted it—too busy glaring at her. When he finally broke the silence, his tone with her was different. He sounded colder. Angry perhaps? “We only have the barest clue what we are stepping into, and if these people discover that we are not initiates into their vile club, things could get . . .”

“Sticky?” She knew she was smirking.

“Uncomfortable.” Wellington adjusted his very stiff, very proper collar. “Remember, this is reconnaissance. Identify the perpetrators, discover their intentions, and find evidence we can present to Doctor Sound . . . without appearing as if we have broken the rules.”

Eliza bit her lip at that.
It is all about what the textbooks tell you, isn't it, Welly?
Perhaps that was an easy attitude to nurture down in the Archives.

While Wellington obviously deemed their Director as the be-all and end-all of Ministry wisdom, Eliza's time in the field made her of a far different opinion. Doctor Sound's obsession over the elusive House of Usher sometimes blinded him to other things, an irony that did not escape her when it concerned her previous partner. A good example of Sound's failure in objectivity, in seeing beyond his own personal agenda, sat in front of her: Wellington Books, Esquire. Both the Archivist and these unresolved cases were abandoned down in the basement. Skilled as she was, it was Books who enabled their escape from the Antarctica stronghold. It was also Books who made the connections to Harry's case and the Phoenix Society. What was this intelligent, intuitive man doing, wasting away in the Archives? This was the kind of detective reasoning that was needed—ye gods,
imperative
—in the field!

Then she recalled their flight from the Antarctic fortress and their incredible chase through Charing Cross. This irrational fear of guns was Books' one unavoidable weakness and this fear could prove problematic for her if their fortune turned this weekend. She tried to imagine herself descending into hostile situations with Agent Wellington Books, armed only with a combination-locked journal, covering her back. Even for her, that was—

A cloud passed before the sun, and Havelock Manor suddenly appeared far more imposing, if not menacing, the closer they drew.

Wellington fixed her with a stare. “I cannot believe I am about to do this,” he barked. “What have you gotten me into, woman?”

She inclined her head to one side.
What have
I
gotten
you
into?
She looked at the manor once again, and fought back the instinct to call out to the driver, ordering the carriage back to London. This was for Harry; but if she slipped in any way during the weekend, both of them could end up in Bedlam, or dead.

Instead of bursting the Archivist's bubble, she smoothed her skirt. They were far more sedately attired than their moment of glory at the opera, but still wearing fashions of the upper class. That was after all what Havelock and his guests were expecting. The grey tweed jacket and matching skirt was still worn over a corset cinched in tight, perhaps more than day fashion required. To go with it Eliza had chosen a more discreet display of wealth: a single ruby around her neck, to catch the eye of men and draw them to her curves.

They rolled up to the cascade of stairs, and footmen scurried out to open the door. Eliza took one of their offered hands and stepped down onto the white gravel.

“Try not to gawp,” Wellington blurted.

A swell of indignation began to build in her chest.
What the hell is he on about?
She had
not
been gawping—she'd been to palaces from India to France and had never “gawped” in any of them. What she was doing was assessing the lay of the land. Windows made her nervous—too many vantage points for snipers. However if they played their cards right, they wouldn't have to worry about it.

The only Joker in the deck right now: Wellington Books. Untrained in the field. Completely textbook. Hardly ready for covert work. She would have turned around to tell him so, had not the figure of a gentleman appeared at the stairs. Like a demure and obedient wife, Eliza took Wellington's arm, her eyes never leaving his face. Eliza hoped it appeared as that of a doting wife, perhaps a newlywed.

“You must be St. John.” The voice was immediately familiar: Bartholemew Devane, the one whom she had only glimpsed but whose odious manner was imprinted on her memory like an oil stain.

The man's dark eyes raked over Eliza, assessing her worth before passing on to her “husband.” Wellington shook the man's hand. “Yes, and you are . . . ?”

“Lord Bartholomew Devane.” Eliza's grip tightened even further, but Wellington made no reaction to it. Instead he handed across the letter of introduction that the boys had liberated from the real St. Johns' lodgings. The roll of beautiful vellum had been held in place by a wax seal embossed with a rampant phoenix. Christopher had outdone himself noticing such a tiny detail.

Eliza had been in such a hurry she'd not dared try to read the contents of the letter. The conversation from the opera house had assured them that Havelock and his cronies had never met the St. Johns—however there was always a danger that some little detail was contained in the letter that would reveal them. She wasn't holding her breath, but she suddenly became aware of the
pounamu
pistols pressing against the small of her back where they were once more hidden.

When he crumpled the paper in one fist and tucked into a pocket, she began to think that indeed they might just pull this off.

Devane took a few deep puffs of the cigarette hanging indolently from his fingertips. “Glad to find you're an honest Englishman. I was worried Havelock was thinking about letting in damn continental aristos or, even worse,
colonials
.”

Eliza's heart sank—just when she thought she'd got used to the bigotry, it slapped her in the face one more time. Hell's bells, this was about to get awkward.

Wellington laughed, harsh and sharp, an echo of Bartholomew. “I should hope not. The last thing I would expect would be having this weekend sullied with that manner of company.” Then he turned to her, “May I introduce my wife, Hyacinth St. John. I should warn you, if she does not speak to you, she is not being rude. She is completely mute.” Eliza's eyes widened, but Wellington took no notice. Over his shoulder he spoke to her in the same way a lord of the manor would speak to a faithful dog. “Hyacinth, show Lord Devane some respect, and do not embarrass me as you are prone to do.”

She felt a sudden desire to shock everyone—particularly Wellington—playing off this ill-thought improvisation as some bawdy jest, but instead she stepped forward, eyes cast downward. Eliza curtseyed deeply, making sure her best attributes were visible. Her eyes never left the ground, but still she felt Devane's gaze on her. She then took two steps back, placing herself by Wellington's side once more.

The gruesome belly laugh Bartholomew released caused her skin to crawl. “Oh my, I think you have found yourself the perfect woman there, St. John.” While she had prepared herself as an object to be admired, Eliza suddenly felt uncomfortable under Devane's inspection. If Wellington and she had really been married, she might have hoped her “husband” would challenge him to a duel, provided she didn't ram her new stiletto in the man's eyeball first.

“I think so,” Wellington patted her hand as she smiled and snuggled close to him. “Well bred, attentive to any want, need, or desire of mine, and quiet as a mouse.”

Eliza felt for the bundle of nerves near the elbow, a tactic from the Far East she had found fascinating as well as life saving. She applied a quick jolt of pressure there with her thumbnail. The wince from Wellington gave her quite a tingle of satisfaction.

Bartholomew, not noticing Wellington's sudden flinch, blew a long stream of smoke and his narrow lips twitched under his moustache. His leer was of epic proportions, the kind of suggestive inspection that the upper classes seemed to love indulging in, but would turn around and sneer at the lower classes for even daring to do so. Eliza now felt the Derringers strapped to her thighs. Instead of following what her primal instincts screamed to do, she continued playing her part.

A small dark-haired woman was standing at the steps waiting for them. Not a mark was visible on her, yet she had the demeanour of one that been beaten long and hard. Eliza was sure under that very modest grey dress there were bruises of all shapes and colors.

“My wife, Olivia,” Devane jerked his head as if indicating to a piece of furniture. “Unfortunately not mute.”