The Shadow Revolution Read online

  “Excuse me,” Simon said.

  “Oh leave it be. It’s just a lover’s quarrel. We have other interests.”

  “I won’t have a woman fighting off a drunken bully alone when there are gentlemen about.”

  “As you please. I’m back to the tables. If you need me, Sir Galahad, do call.”

  Simon kept his scowl of disappointment from showing as he entered the library.

  Chapter Four

  “Remove your hand, Sir William!” came Kate Anstruther’s agitated but resolute voice.

  “Don’t be so shy, my dove.” Sir William Titchmarsh had the woman pressed against a large Grecian amphora partially hidden by a spray of fronds.

  “If you do not move your hand,” she said through gritted teeth, “I will be forced to do something very impolite.”

  “I do love a bit of fire.” Sir William laughed, becoming more aggressive, his fingers roving lower.

  Kate’s eyes narrowed to slits. She reached into her beaded bag and her hand emerged clutching a small bulb of stiff rubber with a narrow silver spout. She raised it to Sir William’s face and squeezed the bulb. An oddly sparkling dust shot out. He froze almost instantly and proceeded to launch into a series of violent sneezes that nearly toppled him to the floor. Kate slipped from the corner and left him to stumble against the wall.

  “Sir William, I do hope you’re not coming down with some horrible pestilence.” She knew very well he was only mildly indisposed since the dust was her own concoction.

  The man’s beady eyes were already red and he vigorously rubbed his hand under his nose, trying to catch his breath. He managed to regain a semblance of a lurid smile. “Merely momentarily assailed by your heady feminine fragrance.”

  “How odd. I am not wearing perfume. Perhaps you smell your own cologne water. It is reminiscent of the stench of puddles one would leap over in the street.”

  He grabbed her arm. She was about to put a knee to his unprotected privates when someone tall and dark seized Sir William’s shoulder and hauled him back with barely restrained fury.

  “That, sir, is enough!” The voice of the stranger rang loudly even over the distant music of the quartet and the hum of party chatter. The rondo missed a beat and faces appeared in the doorway.

  Kate straightened and stared in astonishment at the figure she recognized as the notorious Simon Archer. From the dark hair to the sharp cut of his jaw, he was the model of masculine strength and good looks. Kate’s cheeks actually colored.

  Sir William Titchmarsh spun around. “How dare you, sir!” His expression faltered when he saw who had laid callused hands on him. Then he brought his bluster to bear once more in the form of a flailing right fist.

  Simon easily dodged the blow and promptly riposted with a lightning-fast jab of his own. Sir William slammed into the amphora. Kate’s hand darted out quickly, righting the teetering vase but allowing Sir William to drop to the floor.

  Kate’s dark eyes flashed at Simon as the gaping silence of the rest of the room was noticeable. “What is wrong with you? I was in no danger, I assure you.”

  From his place on the floor, Sir William countered in a nasal drone, “The lady was thoroughly enjoying my repartee.”

  Kate let out her breath slowly and said to Simon, who leaned upon his walking stick as his gaze swept over her, “Sir, I appreciate the exhibition of your manly virtues; however, I am perfectly capable of deflecting his repartee. But by all means, continue with your pummeling if you feel the need.”

  Surprised, Simon’s jaw snapped shut. There was only a moment’s pause before he said, “I profusely apologize for coming to your rescue.”

  “I accept your apology, sir. And I thank you for making me the center of attention.”

  “Most women find that appealing.”

  “I’m not most women.”

  “Clearly.”

  Sir William reached up for help. Both Kate and Simon saw the hand but ignored it. The fallen man struggled to his feet. Thanks to her dusting, his crimson face was swollen as if stung by a hive of bees. His eyes were nearly crusted shut. Kate tried not to smile as he brushed his tailcoat with a huff.

  “Of course you must realize,” he mumbled, “that this rather endangers the remainder of our evening together.”

  “Oh!” Kate lifted a hand to her cheek. “I had hoped we would have several hours more of your amateurish groping to look forward to.”

  “You are an insufferable harridan, Miss Anstruther,” the man sputtered through puffy lips. “It is no wonder eligible men flee at your approach.”

  Kate sneered back at the blotchy prig. “I advise you to do the same, Sir William, while you still can.”

  She whirled away and stalked from the library, parting the amused and tittering watchers. As she emerged onto the ballroom floor and turned around, she nearly bumped into Simon Archer, who had followed her.

  “Miss Anstruther, I apologize again for my behavior.”

  She searched his face for a sign of sarcasm, but it wasn’t there. “No need, Mr. Archer.”

  “I’m most grateful.” Simon stepped back and regarded her with his piercing eyes. Perhaps this was the time-tested gaze of the playboy, no doubt guaranteed to bring the most hesitant London maiden to her knees.

  Kate steeled herself for his approach. It always happened. Whether skillful or blunt, like Sir William, she had suffered this same scene endless times in countless ballrooms.

  Simon bowed. “I bid you good evening.” And with that, he turned and strode away.

  Kate stared after him with a blank face. Extraordinary. Unlike every other man, Simon Archer did not press the battle when the field was clearly lost. She realized that much of her stern response toward him was her embarrassment at being careless enough to fall into such a ludicrous situation with a pathetic fop such as Sir William Titchmarsh. He was only reacting as a chivalrous gentleman was trained; he had no way of knowing she didn’t need rescuing. Kate watched Simon Archer’s tall form, and despite her best efforts to remain stern, the corners of her mouth quirked upward.

  She boldly watched him a few moments more when he was arrested by another man who spoke to him. Kate started. He seemed to be conversing with a rumpled figure who looked like a tramp off the street, but when she blinked, in fact, she saw that his companion was a popinjay dressed in overly colorful formal wear. How odd.

  Kate wanted nothing more than to be done with this London cattle yard and return to Hartley Hall in Surrey so she could settle back into her alchemical laboratory. She only wanted to work on formulas that promised results from mathematical precision and careful attendance to detail. However, that was impossible at the moment. Her sister was still traipsing about the premises with her escort for the evening.

  She scanned the room. Amazingly, her eyes fell again on Simon Archer. He was standing with a crowd near the string quartet, watching the violinists with great interest. His eyes flicked up to her, and she looked away. She felt an unwise urge to speak with him again and started toward him when suddenly the exquisite figure of Grace North slipped into Simon Archer’s circle.

  Kate exhaled and slouched back against a pillar as Simon reserved his considerable attention for Mrs. North. The prime minister’s wife laughed and laid a bold hand on his arm. It was surprising and annoying how disappointed Kate felt watching the scene. With relief, she spied her wayward sister and made her way over.

  “Good evening, Kate.” Imogen stood smugly pursing her lips. The younger Anstruther was attractive, if still a little girlish, with a desirable cherubic appearance versus Kate’s sharp, angular features. Imogen favored their mother, while Kate resembled their father. Imogen’s brunette hair was delicately curled and she was dressed to attract attention, with a very tight waist and very low bodice of golden silk taffeta. Even Kate’s eyes were unwittingly drawn to her sister’s surging chest, and she heard the disapproving mutterings of the surrounding women, including the notable use of the terms “inappropriate” and “bosom.”
/>
  Imogen fluttered her gilded fan. “That was quite a performance with Sir William.”

  “Are you ready to leave, Imogen?”

  “Leave? It’s still early. Although I can see how you might wish to depart. Ah, here’s Boylan.”

  A tall, sandy-haired man appeared before them. He had the slightly inelegant tread of someone trying to obscure heavy drinking. Colonel Boylan Hibbert, late of the Eleventh Bengal Lancers, had latched onto Imogen like a lamprey some months ago. He smiled drowsily and turned to Kate, bending at the waist. His glance slid too indolently along her body as it worked up to her eyes. He was handsome certainly, but in a peculiarly meaningless way. He was pale, without the usual burnt-in sun of a tropical officer, with a thin moustache and fading blond hair. There was a hard, disdainful air behind the smirk that he wore like a badge of superiority. “Miss Anstruther. How lovely you look.”

  “Colonel Hibbert,” Kate replied, overwhelmed by the impression of a precocious nasty boy playing at being a man.

  He glanced pointedly at her bosom before turning to Imogen’s much more ample one. “I will fetch punch, my sweet.”

  Imogen watched him stalk across the room, saying, “He is such an attentive lamb. He would move the ground under my feet to save my walking if he could.”

  “What a shame for you he lacks that power.”

  “He has other powers,” Imogen said in a loud stage whisper for the benefit of gawkers nearby. “He is a … magician.”

  “Is that some sort of metaphor? If so, I pray you do not go on.”

  Imogen laughed. “No. He is a true magician. He is a master of the dark arts of the East. He learned such things while serving in India.”

  Kate was unimpressed. “Would you keep your voice down, please? You’ve already made a spectacle of yourself in that gown.”

  Imogen squared her shoulders and raised the mounds of her bosom. “You’re jealous.”

  “Imogen, do you want to be branded a trollop?”

  “It’s preferable to being a hag.” Imogen smiled like the sweetest girl possible.

  Kate took several breaths, willing her shock to subside so she could maintain the façade of polite conversation. Her sister was not behaving rationally. She was a mockery of her true self, seeking only to antagonize her elder sister, at which she was doing a marvelous job. “You have no idea what a slip now will mean for your future. You will be shunned by the society you crave, and your marriage prospects will be severely curtailed.”

  “Thank you, mother, but I have no need of prospects. I will marry Colonel Hibbert, and we will live in London, and perhaps on his vast tea plantation near Calcutta.”

  “Colonel Hibbert is a cad of the worst caliber. He has no tea plantation near Calcutta or anywhere else. He has an interest in you only because you are an Anstruther.”

  “How can you be so cruel? Is it because you are alone and no one will ever love you the way Colonel Hibbert loves me?” Imogen turned aside, clapping her hands in delight as Colonel Hibbert returned, bearing a crystal cup of red punch. She fawned at her escort with an extravagant gesture, revealing several large gold rings, one with a huge ruby that their father had brought from India. Imogen liked to pretend that the stone had been pried from the forehead of a pagan idol. And it certainly could have been true, given their father. “Oh, thank you, Boylan. That is so kind of you. I’m parched.”

  Kate added with alarm, “Yes, thank God you arrived when you did. I feared she might collapse from thirst.”

  Imogen slurped the punch and giggled. “Oh, it tickles my nose!”

  Hibbert laughed uproariously, but his eyes lingered on Kate. She was considering various ways to gouge them out when he said, “Tell me, Miss Anstruther, do you share your father’s well-known interest in the mysterious and occult knowledge of the world?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Are you familiar with tantric practice?” Hibbert laid fingers on Imogen’s bare shoulder.

  Kate felt her face go scarlet and her eyes harden into ice. She knew to what he referred. To Westerners, tantric magic implied uninhibited sexual intercourse under the guise of spiritual exploration. She was unsurprised that this was the extent of Colonel Hibbert’s appreciation of the dark arts.

  Kate leaned into Hibbert with a social smile pasted on her face, her gaze sweeping the room as she spoke. “Sir, if I were a man, I would demand satisfaction for your crude behavior. As it is, this will be the last time I see you. I forbid you from again blighting my family with evidence of your existence.”

  “You can’t control me, Kate,” Imogen said, a bit loudly. “Boylan, I have a ghastly headache.”

  Hibbert looked confused. “You wish to leave?”

  “Finally,” Kate said. “Let’s go, Imogen.”

  “I prefer to be alone,” Imogen said with melodramatic exasperation. “I will take the carriage. You can find your way back, can’t you? Good. Thank you so much for ruining my evening.” She fled to the door.

  Hibbert watched his companion disappear, then growled at Kate, “If you think you can keep us apart, you are mistaken. She is of age.”

  Kate rounded on the man. “I don’t care if she is Madame Methuselah herself. If you trouble my sister again, I will bury you in a hole so deep, you will never be found. Am I clear, Colonel?”

  Hibbert sneered and pushed past Kate with the effrontery to actually jostle her. It was all Kate could do not to seize the man’s arm and wrench it behind his back. He was wiry enough that she had no doubt she could do him considerable damage before any of the shocked gentlemen could pull her off. Still, she restrained herself. She nodded openly to several gawkers, forcing them to turn back into their gossipy clutches with furtive glances back at the famed harpy. Another successful evening out for Kate Anstruther.

  Kate saw Colonel Hibbert across the room pausing in discussion with Lord Oakham. As mildly as she was impressed that he had any associates in high places, her opinion of Lord Oakham suddenly plummeted. Still she was curious. After they had parted, she decided to have a chat with Lord Oakham alone. She needed information about Hibbert if she was to put an end to his depredations.

  Chapter Five

  Lord Oakham weaved through the throngs, dressed impeccably with a high cravat and long waistcoat. Simon set down his champagne without taking his eyes off the man, an image of Beatrice’s torn body filling his vision. His mouth drew into a thin, hard line.

  Simon stepped behind the string quartet and asked a nearby servant for a pen and ink. Looking around, he could not spot Nick in the crowd. He hid his frustration at finding one man but losing the other. When the servant brought what he had asked, Simon penned a quick note and laid it on a passing serving tray. It wasn’t long before it was picked up. The note was addressed to Lord Oakham, and Simon watched as it was delivered. The man read it, excused himself from his present company, and departed the ballroom.

  Simon waited a moment, then followed. He wanted his lordship as far removed from the guests as possible for a few polite questions to determine if he was indeed their quarry. Sir Thomas emerged from the crowd to fall into step beside Simon.

  “Just in time,” Simon said to his friend.

  Sir Thomas grinned a broad, eager smile most unlike the flaccid ones typically offered by his namesake. “I wouldn’t miss our entertainment for the evening. It beats a tired game of cribbage any day. Where is he heading?”

  “He is meeting Sir Thomas Wolfolk in a private drawing room upstairs.” Simon’s attention remained riveted on the distant lord.

  “That was intelligent of me,” Sir Thomas said smugly.

  The number of people thinned out as they went upstairs. The sound of the party grew muted and distant. They approached the drawing room. The door was ajar. The large room had a crackling fireplace on the far wall, and in the dimly lit interior, they could see the figure of Lord Oakham standing by an ornate Chinese mirror, checking out his reflection. He was a sizeable man, florid-faced and thick. Simon stayed outside
the door, while Sir Thomas entered alone.

  Lord Oakham turned expectantly. “Good evening, Sir Thomas. I had thought you were in Jamaica.”

  “I returned home,” Sir Thomas replied politely. “It was ghastly hot. Had you any idea the tropics were so tropical?”

  As the two men conversed, Simon studied their quarry, searching for some proof that the man in front of them was the werewolf from the Rookery. Beatrice could have been wrong although he doubted it. Lycanthropy was fairly unmistakable. He ran the fight back through his mind, trying to determine where the beast had been struck. Oakham’s neck had been burned black where Nick had grabbed him by the throat. That wound should still be healing in spite of a werewolf’s fabled regenerative properties. Lord Oakham’s high cravat prevented an easy inspection. Simon’s eyes narrowed, trying to peer closer as Lord Oakham questioned Sir Thomas’s etiquette.

  “I hardly think this is the proper time to discuss Catholic emancipation.” Lord Oakham scowled. “Though I would never favor such a thing. Beastly papists.”

  Lord Oakham caught a glimpse of the man at the door, and Simon saw his nostrils flare slightly. Both Simon and Nick had been uncharacteristically liberal with their cologne to mask their scent, but they had no concept of a werewolf’s olfactory powers. The lord took a step back suddenly, his eyes widening in confusion, glancing quickly between the two men. The shifting of the man’s head revealed a hint of red scar tissue on his neck covered by the cravat. A glow began in Lord Oakham’s pupils.

  The flush of furious revenge swept through Simon. His jaw tightened, and his mouth went bone dry. He stepped out of the shadows. “Perhaps you would rather discuss the murder of Marie d’Angouleme.”

  Sir Thomas cursed unbecomingly at Simon’s hotheadedness as a low growl emanated from inside Lord Oakham’s chest. Incredibly, Oakham grabbed a towering life-size marble statue and thrust it at the two men. Simon and Sir Thomas threw themselves out of the way of the shattering chunks of marble.