Chapter 20 #2
“How very kind you are, my dear. Welcome, both of you, to the Danse Macabre, the spring celebration of the Harpocrates Society. Come, Miss Speedwell, you must give your host a dance,” he said, his grip tightening just a fraction as he turned, whirling me away from Stoker.
He gave Stoker a nod, as if to acknowledge a gentlemanly exchange of property, and I was not surprised to see Asphodel sidling up to Stoker as we moved away.
She was dressed in black, a little sombre for such an occasion, but the fabric was satin, the sheen brilliant under the lights, and the deep darkness of the colour set off the pale alabaster of her skin to stunning effect.
She had piled her hair high upon her head, baring her shoulders.
The neck of her gown was cut quite low, and upon her breast she wore a curious, magnificent jewel, an enormous, elaborate pendant of gold worked with enamelled figures and set with the largest gem I had ever seen—brilliantly green—and several smaller but no less superb stones.
Surely the centrepiece of the pendant could not be an emerald, I thought, twisting to get a better look, but Lord Ruthven swept me into his embrace.
I felt a thrill of some unidentifiable emotion as that cold hand moved from my arm to my waist. I rested one hand lightly on his shoulder; the other was clasped in his, his bare palm pressed to my glove, his fingers curled around my hand in a grasp that was a little tighter than necessity demanded.
“I hope you are enjoying yourself in my home,” he said, dipping his head near to mine.
“It is certainly a unique entertainment,” I replied. “Are all of the guests members of the society?”
“Yes.”
“And we the only outsiders! How privileged we are,” I murmured.
His smile was close-lipped and inscrutable. “We are a most exclusive group, Miss Speedwell. We do not often extend invitations to new members, but your Mr. Templeton-Vane is an intriguing gentleman. To say nothing of his companion,” he added with a deepening of the smile.
Suddenly, he gave a signal to the conductor, a deliberate inclination of the head, and the orchestra began to play—a slow, stately melody with the cellos very forward and, to my surprise, an organ.
I had not seen such an instrument, but the deep wail of the pipes was unmistakable.
The effect was otherworldly and majestic, like a dance in hell.
Slowed down, the steps of the waltz fitted the tune better than I might have expected, and we crossed the ballroom in long, lazy arcs of movement, tracing curves with our feet that mimicked the shapes we made together as he bent me backwards over his arm at the end of every measure.
Each time he raised me up, he drew me a little closer, until at the furthest end of the ballroom, he was holding me tightly against his chest. The tempo was not swift, but the constant turning meant I lost sight of Stoker and Asphodel.
I did not think they were dancing—indeed few people were, preferring to watch their host as he led me about the floor.
And then, so suddenly it seemed like a conjuring trick, we were entirely alone.
He had whisked me through one of the hanging panels of black fabric and into an alcove beyond.
“Come with me,” he murmured in a tone which was neither urgent nor commanding, but simply stated, as if he knew I would not resist him.
One has only to read any novel of manners to understand that leaving a ballroom with a stranger is one of the grossest violations of propriety for an unmarried lady.
But I was no lady, and if there was any opportunity to learn more about our host and his mysterious origins, I meant to take it. He kept my hand held fast in his, and I noticed his was warmer now. Had he drawn vitality from his nearness to me? I wondered.
He moved with his usual lazy grace through the little alcove and into a passageway beyond.
Here the music was muffled and the laughter and chatter of the guests almost undetectable.
He led me around the corner and to a small staircase.
At the top of this was a door, shrouded in shadows and with no doorknob.
He pressed the panel, and it opened slowly to his will.
Beyond there were more shadows, and it took me a moment to realise we were in what appeared to be a private suite.
The room we had emerged into was neither boudoir nor study, but some amalgamation of both.
There was no proper desk, only a slender writing table, and a long, low divan stood in place of the more expected reading chairs.
A small marble table next to the divan held a short stack of books and a curious statue of a wolf worked in pierced brass.
I saw with surprise that the statue was gently smoking, a thin ribbon of grey trailing from the beast’s open mouth.
Incense, I realised, and not the sort one smells in church.
This was heavier and headier, somehow carnal, bringing images of tumbled beds and unwashed sheets to mind.
Bookshelves lined one wall, the volumes dotted here and there with framed pieces of art—mostly landscapes of mist-shrouded mountains and the occasional stormy seascape.
Against one wall stood a dressing table with various grooming implements, including an expensive set of brushes and telltale bottles capped with golden lids.
Through the open door I caught sight of a bed, old-fashioned with four posts and heavy draperies of dark green.
The bed itself was fantastically carved with mythical beasts, things with horns and leering eyes, and I turned my gaze primly away from the horrid faces.
Lord Ruthven did not seem to notice my distaste.
He waved me to a seat upon the divan. “Be comfortable, my dear,” he urged.
The settee was deep and piled with plush cushions, the fringe six inches deep.
I perched upon one corner, careful to place a pillow between myself and the rest of the divan.
His mouth twitched, and I fancied he was resisting the urge to smile.
“Are you afraid, my dear? Do you think that I bite?” With that he opened his mouth, snapping his jaws sharply before giving a hearty laugh.
“Not at all,” I assured him.
He did not sit, but stood, a little too close so that he loomed over me. “I must ask you to take wine with me. Something very special from Hungary. Wait here.”
I watched as he moved into his bedroom, his back to me as he rummaged in a cabinet of bottles.
I occupied myself by glancing at the dressing table, studying the various bottles and jars arranged there.
When I had taken the measure of them, I turned to the little marble table next to the divan.
At the top of the stack of books was a slender volume bound in green cloth—an old and indifferent translation of The Iliad.
I flicked it open idly and saw that it was stamped with the name of a school.
little saints, sry. I closed it swiftly, just as he reappeared.
He collected glasses and opened the bottle of wine, pouring us each a small measure.
“Slowly, now,” he cautioned. “It is potent stuff.”
I hesitated and he smiled his close-mouthed smile. “You do not trust me after what happened the last time.”
“I believe that if one puts one’s hand into the fire a second time, one deserves to get burnt.”
He laughed then, a surprisingly normal sound. He took a sip from his glass and handed it to me, taking mine instead and sipping from it as well. When he had done so, he held them both out.
“There, now I have drunk from both. You may choose which glass you wish for your own.”
I did so and drank, letting the wine roll over my tongue. “If it is Hungarian, I presume it is a Tokay, but it is not as sweet as I would have expected.”
“Ah, you see why it is so special!” he exclaimed in pleasure.
“Everyone knows that the wine of Tokay is sweet, even cloying. But to find a variety that is dry, that arouses the palate, that is true enchantment. It is the unexpected which is always most bewitching, do you not think?” He looked meaningfully at me over the rim of his glass.
I sighed. “Why have you brought me here?”
He spread his hands, the gold ring glinting in the light. “You are a most arresting woman, Miss Speedwell. Why wouldn’t any man wish to get you alone?”
I set down my glass and gave him my most severe look.
“Lord Ruthven, this will not do. You are putting on a pretense of seduction, but you have no intention of trying your luck with me. I have been the subject of so many attempts, I am perfectly acquainted with what it feels like when a man has succumbed to my charms. You, my lord, have not. Now, let us dispense with the theatrics, and you will pay me the compliment of rational conversation. Why have you really brought me here?”
To my surprise, he let out a sharp bark of laughter, perhaps the first real display of emotion I had seen from him. “Forgive me, my dear. But that was so delightfully frank.”
“You prefer to play games, but I did not come to fence, my lord. I am afraid I have left my foil in my other gown.”
He lifted his glass in a toast to me. “Very well. I do not say you are correct, but you may ask what you like. I promise to answer honestly.”
It occurred to me then that I was likely never to get so good an opportunity as this to question him closely, perhaps to learn the truth about him and his enigmatic Asphodel. It was dangerous—reckless, even. But I was determined to try.
“What is your relationship with Asphodel?”
He seemed surprised at the subject I chose, for his face opened a little, the heavy brows lifting and the eyes widening as he considered his reply.
“She has been my companion, my sustenance. We are two intelligent and—if I may be so appreciative of my own charms—attractive people. We understand one another, Asphodel and I. We are not like other folk.”