Chapter 20 #3
“That I can believe,” I said, picking up my glass once more.
The wine was delicious, perfectly balanced between the first burst upon the tongue—a tart, crisp edge—and a delicate sweetness that lingered upon the palate.
At least he had not attempted to fob me off with cheap wine, I reflected.
That was a point in favour of his character.
He went on. “You and Mr. Templeton-Vane would understand this better than most, I believe.”
He watched me over the rim of his glass. His posture was casual, but his gaze was taut, assessing.
“Yes, we are unconventional ourselves, so we would never judge you upon that score,” I said pleasantly.
“Unconventional! How modest of you, Miss Speedwell.” A lightly mocking note had invaded his speech.
“But you are far more than that. To be unconventional is to be perhaps a trifle out of the ordinary, not even approaching the bounds of eccentricity, I would argue. But you and Mr. Templeton-Vane have transgressed far beyond such labels. Society would say you are living in sin. Debauched. Depraved.” With each word, he leaned a little closer, his gaze never leaving mine.
“They will never understand you, you know. They will never appreciate your true gifts, either of you, because they cannot see beyond the tiny prisons they have made for themselves.”
“ ‘They’?”
He spread a hand in a sweeping gesture. “They! The great and good of England, the Empire, the world! The folk who would judge you for your behaviour when they possess not a tenth of your talents.” His voice rang with emotion, but as he leant nearer still, he pitched it lower, confiding.
“My dear, I understand what it is to be a victim of their petty cruelties, assaulted by their tyrannies, they who cannot do what you do, who can never be what you are. Those people out there are bereft of imagination, of vitality, of everything it means to be truly alive. They walk through their lives like ones asleep—not dreamers, for dreamers have vision and poetry and mysticism. These poor sheep are sleepwalkers, their minds and senses dulled to every experience, to every truth. They would rather live in the dull and lukewarm middling of existence than to know despair or ecstasy. They breathe, they move, they speak, but they do not live.”
“You make a powerful argument, my lord,” I said evenly, but there was something appealing in his words. I had often felt the truth of his sentiments, that the majority of folk were too busy with the minutiae of merely existing to reach for the sublime.
“I make a powerful argument because I understand what it is to be stood outside, nose pressed against the glass, a cold and unkind wind tearing the flesh from one’s bones, when you would give all that you possess, your very heart’s blood, just for a little kindness.
And that is when deals with the devil are made,” he said, drawing out the syllables in a whisper.
“Have you made such a bargain?” I asked.
He smiled his mirthless smile. “Some things cannot be discussed.”
“You promised to tell me the truth,” I reminded him.
“And it is the truth that I cannot share everything with you just yet,” he replied smoothly.
“Sophistry, my lord! Were you educated by Jesuits?” I teased.
“Ha! No, my dear. I only know that I must protect myself and those who depend upon me.”
“Such as the members of the Harpocrates Society?”
“Precisely so.” He inclined his head. “Everyone you saw downstairs is a member—at least prospective. I am very proud of my little collection of souls, you know. I have gathered about me men of talent, of vision, men who have the ability to see beyond this world and its puny limitations. With them, everything is possible.”
“Men only?” I widened my eyes to show that I meant no offence in the challenge.
“Ah, my dear Miss Speedwell! How I lament that we live in a society which does not adequately value the talents of its women. It is our men who have been educated, raised with purpose, and given privilege over their sisters. Perhaps one day that will change, but for now—” He broke off with a shrug, then went on.
“Still, women find a place here. Not as members of the society, but as—”
“Handmaidens?” I suggested.
“Helpmeets,” he corrected. “I could not have achieved everything I have done without Asphodel’s assistance.”
“Assistance, but not partnership?”
He shrugged. “Asphodel’s talents are suited to supporting mine. She understands her role.”
I wondered if she did. In my experience, gentlemen often take such matters for granted. But I did not ask. Instead, I tried a different tack. “My lord, why did you want to see us? What do you want of us?”
He put his glass aside and reached for mine, setting it on the little table so that he could take my hands in his. His skin was warmer now, almost hot against mine. “I wanted you to come to me. And you have.”
“To what purpose?” My voice was a little lower than intended, a little breathier. The incense, I thought vaguely, filling my head and befuddling my senses.
“To take the measure of you. I felt instinctively that Mr. Templeton-Vane would be a worthy addition to the society. But you were the real surprise, Miss Speedwell.”
Earlier I had expressed doubts about the sincerity of his seduction, but the mood had decidedly changed.
His dark gaze was locked onto mine, his hands holding mine fast as his thumbs began to rub gently at the pulse in my wrist, slow, mesmerising circles of flesh upon flesh as he stared into my eyes.
“How could I have expected such a woman existed? And yet here you are. Alone in my rooms. With me. Your heartbeat is quickening—can you feel it? Can you feel the slow stirrings in your blood? I can smell it, you know. I can smell the blood as it leaves your heart, full and rich.” He lifted one of my wrists to his nose, his nostrils flaring as he sniffed deeply.
“Such delicate skin! But look at the blue rivers that flow just underneath, rivers that could give life to me. Do you understand, my dear?”
“Yes,” I said slowly. We both rose then, and with a single savage gesture he kicked the table from between us, the glasses shattering on the floor in a puddle of spilt wine and broken glass.
He moved to grasp me tightly against him, my hands cupped in one of his.
Then he took the other and stroked a finger down my cheek, ending with a sweep of the thumb just below my lip.
He moved his hand to my neck, turning my head gently as he dropped his mouth to touch his lips to where the pulse beat in my throat.
“Veronica,” he whispered against my skin. “Tell me what you want and I will give you everything.”
“I want—” I paused, breathless with the sensations of his kisses against my skin.
“You want,” he prompted. He nipped at my throat, lightly grazing his teeth over my flesh.
“I want to know precisely what Asphodel is doing to Stoker and why you are trying to distract me from it,” I said as I stepped back, setting the sharp point of a minuten to the tender skin of his inner wrist and jabbing hard. “Now.”