P. Elrod - The Hanged Man

The house had a redbrick front and was vast, seven floors at least, plus the cellars. Gaslight showed through four well-spaced windows on either side of the impressive entry, indicating two to three large rooms in the front. Their foray might take more than the hour Lord Richard had allowed.

No decorative stone head over the door-perhaps the absent Duchess of Denver was not a member of the Ætherics after all.

Alex and Brook merged with the crowd from the other coaches. A doorman large enough to be a prizefighter blocked the way, allowing guests to pass two at a time.

“What is the word?” he rumbled, his face as grim as an overdue bill. He’d demanded the same of those ahead of her, but she’d not heard their whispered replies.

She leaned forward and muttered, “Masters impart.”

He nodded once and let them pass.

No servants stood by to take their outer clothes; she and Brook followed the others.

The entry hall held to simple lines but was sumptuous in décor. The duchess had fourteen generations of English ancestry to define and refine her taste. Crystal chandeliers sparkled, the woodwork shone, the air was made light by the pleasant scent of hothouse roses-even Aunt Honoria would have approved.

The guests, however, were another matter. Alex instantly picked up on the atmosphere, which had the crackling heaviness that presages a lightning strike. They were looking forward to something, but there was a taint to it. She instantly thought of naughty children bent on mischief despite dire consequences should they be caught.

Being adults, they had no fear of a nanny spoiling the fun, though.

Just myself and Mr. Brook .

A music room seemed to be a gathering point. Chairs were set in close rows and someone in command of a podium lectured with much intensity about metaphysical matters. The audience appeared to be a motley of social stations. Psychical talent was no respecter of class and neither were those who preyed upon the curious. A shopgirl’s halfpenny donation was just as welcome as a guinea from a noble, not that any crass collection bowl was in sight.

No one in that room was masked. Alex and Brook withdrew to the main entry and were accosted by another large specimen who, from his battered ears, broken nose, and scarring around his eyes, practiced the pugilist’s art like his comrade at the door. He glared at them.

“That way,” he said, pointing at masked and veiled people milling toward the back of the house.

“This gathering began long before the stated time,” murmured Brook. “There’s more than a hundred people here with more coming in.”

“The Ætheric meeting is the cover for something deeper. Did you recognize anyone of import back there? Neither did I. All the interesting ones will be incognito.”

The crowd around them kept their voices low as they continued slowly along a hall. The cause for the congestion was a stoppage at a staircase, which was a narrow one intended for servants. In ones and twos, people descended.

Ears sharp, eyes open, Alex focused on as many as possible. While a mask obscured the face, there were other ways to identify people. Beards, baubles, modes of dress, carelessly displayed monograms, unconscious mannerisms … she fixed them in her memory and looked for the familiar. While it was unlikely she knew anyone, there was a chance of it. Someone had recognized her father and taken action. She’d destroyed the executioner; this foray might make it possible to remove whoever had given the order.

She held the reticule with her Webley a little closer.

Brook took the lead going down the stairs. Not gentlemanly, but the correct action for a protector. She had to mind her skirts, one-handed, making sure no one behind tread on them. Why couldn’t Andrina have gone in for trousers? All the Paris designers were making formal styles now. Many of the less avant-garde ladies of fashion were wearing them, even to the opera.

At the bottom landing she heard (and felt) the deep measured beating of a large drum. They were in a long hall with a tall ceiling, unusual for an area below street level. Through a door, and then down another set of stairs, the drumming sound resonated through her body, quickening her heart and step. The crowd responded to it, growing restive, eager to press forward. If she and Brook had to make a hasty exit, it would be impossible.

Lest they become separated, she seized his left arm. Her internal armor was solidly in place, so whatever feelings he had did not touch her, but she couldn’t help but pick up on the rising excitement that flowed around them.

The next landing opened to a large dim chamber, lighted by candles and lanterns. The great weight of the house above was supported by dozens of squat pillars, and low benches had been built or placed around each. Cushions provided protection from the wood and brick, but those occupying the seating seemed too busy to notice.

Poor Mr. Brook stopped in his tracks, mouth open with shock.

Couples, trios, foursomes, and more were engaged in the sort of activities better confined to the privacy of a bedroom-or a Roman bacchanal, as enough spirits and wine were being consumed for the latter.

The old Hellfire Club had returned with a whoop, whistle and hey, nonny-nonny to a fresh generation.

“It’s just an orgy,” she said, though she blushed at having to use such a word. She’d read a lot. She’d also seen one firsthand in India when she and a group of friends sneaked away to look in on the activities of a local temple they’d been forbidden to tour. The revelries in that temple were nothing to what was going on under the Denver roof, though in comparison, these crude proceedings, though energetic, lacked imagination and grace. “Let’s keep moving.”

He bent toward her ear. “I’m getting you out of here.”

“I’m perfectly fine. Ignore them and think of England.”

“Oh, God.”

A woman braced against a pillar with one man’s head and shoulders concealed under her skirts and another ardently kissing her throat echoed Brook’s words, but with more feeling. Alex tugged his arm, pulling him to one side.

She’d spied people leaving the main room via a door in a near corner. They appeared uninterested in the antics of others. No women were in the group, and their masks covered the whole of their faces. While they could be attending an exclusive party for men who preferred the company of other men, Alex thought otherwise. She perceived enough about their clothes to know they patronized the best tailors and shoemakers and employed the most careful of valets to keep things in order. Their carriage and swagger spoke of confidence married to an equal measure of contempt for lesser beings. She recognized the genus: men of power who were in power.

But more importantly, shuffling along with them were a dozen other men in distinctive hooded cloaks.

“After that lot,” she said in Brook’s ear.

No need to tell him twice. He was all for removing them from the fleshy inferno. The doorway took them to a brick-lined hall, its arched ceiling blackened by the soot of decades. Many openings led off from it, and drunken celebrants tottered from one to the other at random, hooting and singing.

Another rough-looking guardian blocked the way to a sizable candlelit room where the hooded men were gathering. Again, she used the password and they continued through, being almost the last ones in. The door closed and the booming of the drum diminished. With that row going on there would be no eavesdropping from outside.

They filed toward a long table with more than a dozen chairs, some of which were occupied. The men did not interact with one another, holding themselves still and alert like faceless judges. It gave Alex a chill akin to the grave. Any of them could have ordered her father’s death, perhaps all if they voted on it. With masks to hide human expression, there was no need to bother with human responsibility. One could make decisions for good or ill with the ease of a machine, free of conscience and morality.