Kevin Anderson - The Mammoth Book of Nebula Awards SF

“Splendid,” said Mrs. Corvey.

“Oh, won’t the amber ones look lovely on my yellow satin?” cried Dora, popping out of the top of her costume as Lady Beatrice freed her hair from the catch. Mr. Felmouth coughed and averted his eyes.

“They would, dear, but they really ought to go to Miss Rendlesham. She would make the best use of them, after all,” said Mrs. Corvey. Dora pouted.

“Dear Mr. Felmouth, can’t you make up some more in different colors? Miss Rendlesham never wears yellow.” Dora leaned close and tickled Mr. Felmouth under his chin with her paw-gloved hand. “Please, Mr. Felmouth? Pussy will catch you a nice fish.”

“It, er, ought to be quite easy,” said Mr. Felmouth, breathing a little heavily. “Yes, I’m sure I should find nothing easier. Rely on me, ladies.”

“As ever, Mr. Felmouth,” said Mrs. Corvey.

Sir Richard H. was of advanced years, quite stout, and so he preferred to lie on his back and engage the angels of bliss, as he called them, astraddle. He lay now groaning with happiness as Lady Beatrice rode away, her gray gaze fixed on the brass rail of the bed, her red mouth curved in a professional smile in which there was something faintly mocking. Her mind was some distance off, wondering how The Luck of Barry Lyndon was going to turn out, for she had not yet seen a copy of the latest Fraser’s Magazine .

At some point her musings were interrupted by the realization that Sir Richard had stopped moving. Lady Beatrice’s mind consented to return to the vicinity of her flesh long enough to determine that Sir Richard was, in fact, still alive, if drenched with sweat and puffing like a railway engine. “Are you quite all right, my dear?” she inquired. Sir Richard nodded feebly. She swung herself off him and down, lithe as though he were a particularly well-upholstered vaulting horse, and checked his pulse nevertheless. Having determined that he was unlikely to expire in the immediate future, Lady Beatrice gave him a brief, brisk sponging off with eau de cologne. He was snoring by the time she drew the blanket up over him and went off to bathe in the adjacent chamber.

Lady Beatrice tended her own body with the same businesslike impartiality. During her bout with Sir Richard, her nether regions might have been made of cotton batting like a doll’s, for all the sensation she had derived from the act. Even now there was only a minor soreness from chafing. Applying lotion, she marveled once again at the absurd fuss everyone made, swooning over flesh, fearing it, dreading it, lusting after it, when none of it really mattered at all…

She knew there had been a time when the sight of Sir Richard’s naked body with its purple tool would have caused her to scream in maidenly dismay; now the poor old thing seemed no more lewd or horrid than a broken-down cart horse. And what had her handsome suitors been but so many splendid racing animals, until they lay blue and stiff in a mountain gorge, when they were even less? They might have had shining souls that ascended to Heaven; it was certainly comforting to imagine so. Bodies in general, however, being so impermanent, were scarcely worth distressing oneself.

Lady Beatrice got dressed and returned to the boudoir, where she settled into an armchair and retrieved a copy of Oliver Twist from its depths. She read quietly until Sir Richard woke with a start, in the midst of a snore. Sitting up, he asked foggily where his trousers were. Lady Beatrice set her book aside and helped him dress himself, after which she took his arm and escorted him out to the reception area, where he toddled off into the ascending room without so much as a backward glance at her.

“He might have said ‘thank you,’ ” observed Mrs. Corvey, from her chair by the tea-table.

“A little befuddled this evening, I think,” said Lady Beatrice, leaning down to adjust her stocking. “Have I anyone else scheduled tonight?”

“No, dear. Mrs. Otley is entertaining his lordship until midnight; then we may all go home to our beds.”

“Oh, good. May I ask a favor? Will you remind me to look for the latest number of Fraser’s tomorrow? The last installment—” Lady Beatrice broke off, and Mrs. Corvey turned her head, for both had heard the distinct chime that indicated the ascending room was coming back down with a passenger.

“How curious,” said Mrs. Corvey. “Generally the dining area closes at ten o’clock.”

“I’ll take him,” said Lady Beatrice, assuming her professional smile and seating herself on the divan.

“Would you, dear? Miss Rendlesham had such a lot of cleaning up to do, after the duke left, that I gave her the rest of the evening off. You’re very kind.”

“It is no trouble,” Lady Beatrice assured her. The panel slid open and a gentleman emerged. He was bespectacled and balding, with the look of a senior bank clerk, and in fact carried a file case under his arm. He swept his gaze past Lady Beatrice, with no more than a perfunctory nod, focusing his attention on Mrs. Corvey.

“Ma’am,” he said.

“Mr. Greene?” Mrs. Corvey rose to her feet. “What an unexpected pleasure, Sir. And what, may one ask, is your pleasure?”

“Not here on my own account,” said Mr. Greene, going a little red. “Though, er, of course I should like to have the leisure to visit soon. Informally. You know. Hem. In any case, Ma’am, may we withdraw to your office? There is a matter I wish to discuss.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Corvey.

“I don’t mind sitting up. Shall I watch for any late guests?” Lady Beatrice inquired of Mrs. Corvey. Mr. Greene turned and looked at her again, more closely now.

“Ah. The new member. I knew your father, my dear. Please, join us. I think perhaps you ought to hear what I have to say as well.”

Mr. Green, having accepted a cup of cocoa in the inner office, drank, set it aside, and cleared his throat.

“I don’t suppose either of you has ever met Lord Basmond?”

“No indeed,” said Mrs. Corvey.

“Nor have I,” said Lady Beatrice.

“Quite an old family. Estate in Hertfordshire. Present Lord, Arthur Rawdon, is twenty-six. Last of the line. Unmarried, did nothing much at Cambridge, lived in town until two years ago, when he returned to the family home and proceeded to borrow immense sums of money. Hasn’t gambled; hasn’t been spending it on a mistress; hasn’t invested it. Has given out that he’s making improvements on Basmond Hall, though why such inordinate amounts of rare earths should be required in home repair, to say nothing of such bulk quantities of some rather peculiar chemicals, is a mystery.

“There were workmen on the property, housed there, and they won’t talk and they can’t be bribed to. The old gardener does visit the local public house, and was overheard to make disgruntled remarks about his lordship destroying the yew maze, but on being approached, declined to speak further on the subject.”

“What does it signify, Mr. Greene?” said Mrs. Corvey.

“What indeed? The whole business came to our attention when he purchased the rare earths and chemicals; for, you know, we have men who watch the traffic in certain sorts of goods. When an individual exceeds a certain amount in purchases, we want to know the reason why. Makes us uneasy.

“We set a man on it, of course. His reports indicate that Lord Basmond, despite his poor showing at university, nevertheless seems to have turned inventor. Seems to have made some sort of extraordinary discovery. Seems to have decided to keep it relatively secret. And most certainly has sent invitations to four millionaires, three of them foreign nationals I might add, inviting them to a private auction at Basmond Park.”