Chapter Five #2
The Queen sat at the far end of the room in a chair that was clearly meant to evoke a throne, with its ornate carvings, high arched back, and rich upholstery.
It seemed as though she, like Hannah, had something underneath her, since she sat above most of the other people at the table, and I knew she was rather short.
Prince Albert sat at her right, his attention entirely focused on his wife, while the Devil was on her left.
“I don’t—” I began, but the marquis cut me off.
“We won’t be sitting near them,” he said, as though he had read my mind. At least now I was positive he could not read my mind, since in the last few minutes I’d had some very choice words for him.
Words like arrogant bastard, reckless nincompoop, and annoying annoyance.
That last one was not my best. To be fair, I was operating under stressful conditions.
“Ah,” I said, relieved. Even though I was still furious.
He guided me to a seat far from where the Queen sat, near where Lord Hennawi and Mr. Connors were sitting. I offered them both friendly smiles, then took my chair as a footman poured a dark red liquid into my glass.
I stretched out my hand to take a sip, then froze as the thought occurred to me—what if it wasn’t wine? What if the Queen liked to serve her guests the beverage she most liked to drink?
But then I saw Mr. Connors take a sip, and I realized I was being ridiculous. The Queen wouldn’t waste her sole source of sustenance on a dinner party this large, and there would be no point to it anyway.
The wine was delicious, as a matter of fact, and I was startled at how quickly I finished the glass.
The footman topped me off again, and I resolved to slow down, or I might get foxed enough to actually say my thoughts out loud so the marquis wouldn’t have to read my mind to know them—and that would only be good if one wanted to be slowly roasted over a spit in Hell.
Which I did not.
“My lord,” I began, determined not to let my anger show too much, “do you often accompany your father to these types of excursions?”
“You mean to Earth?” he asked before taking a sip from his own glass. He looked surprised after he drank, as though remarking on the quality of the wine. “I am the oldest of his children, so it is up to me to accompany him. As his heir.”
“Your father has many children?” I asked. “I am an only child—it must be lovely to have had company growing up.”
He snorted. “Our childhoods were likely very different, Hastings. Hell isn’t a place for games and laughter.
Though we did learn many of your nursery rhymes—cutting off mouse tails, bridges collapsing, and dying of the plague are more in our realm.
I actually don’t know all my siblings, and the ones I do know are likely scheming to oust me as our father’s heir. ”
“That sounds like our own monarchy,” I observed, before realizing what I’d said and where I’d said it.
“You are quite insightful, Hastings,” he replied, a wry smile playing on his lips.
The footmen began to move about the table, ladling a steaming soup into our bowls. It was the same color of the bowl it was being poured into, a bone white, so it looked like an enormous expanse of hot blandness.
I drank more wine instead. I knew it was foolhardy, but the thought of spooning that paleness into my mouth made me queasy.
“Miss Hastings, I believe you accompanied our guests to a church bazaar today,” Lord Hennawi said, looking as befuddled at what he’d said as I was when I first heard the idea.
“Yes.” I gestured to the marquis. “This is the Devil’s son, the Marquis of Hell.
My lord, this is Lord Hennawi.” The two men nodded to each other.
“The marquis mentioned his father is quite interested in things like church bazaars and visiting the British Museum and seeing some of our national sites.”
As I was speaking, Mr. Connors’s eyes had been getting bigger and bigger, until they looked like saucers. Lord Hennawi, on the other hand, seemed to be growing more uncomfortable, shifting in his seat as if he were sitting on a chair of thumbtacks.
I was grateful neither one of them had been tasked with my duties. I didn’t think they would be able to stomach telling the Prince of Darkness that, no, roller-skating was not the best idea, and gently persuading him into another activity instead.
Never mind having to escort him to a shop where he could obtain a treacle tart.
“Miss Hastings was also quite responsive when we had a bit of a ruckus at the church,” the marquis said in a smooth tone, as if he weren’t responsible for said ruckus.
I bit my lip before I said anything I would regret.
“That is good to hear,” Mr. Connors said, his tone obviously relieved. “Miss Hastings is an excellent ombudsman, and we—that is, Lord Hennawi and I—knew she would excel in her task of squiring you about London.”
“Indeed,” the marquis replied.
The footmen were now removing the soup bowls, thank goodness, and I noticed that the marquis hadn’t touched his soup either. Because he wasn’t hungry? Or because he didn’t eat our food?
Or because, like me, he found the thought of soup that looked like hot milk incredibly unappetizing?
I did not want to know. I did not want to know anything more about this person, no matter what he looked like.
Plus even if I had asked, there was no guaranteeing he wouldn’t just lie to me, as he had earlier that day.
I was going to have to remind myself of that—I was, in general, a trusting person who didn’t lie myself, so I often struggled determining when others were lying.
But here I had to keep it uppermost in my thoughts because it could mean the difference between life and death.
Now we were being served some sort of poultry that seemed to have been boiled within an inch of its life, along with what appeared to be limp green beans that were the color of late-autumn grass.
Either the Queen’s cooking staff were not so good or I was being extremely picky. Since I wasn’t very picky at all in general—I had been known to enjoy pickled whelks on occasion—I had to surmise that the Queen just didn’t care all that much about the food she served to her guests.
“What does the Devil wish to do tomorrow?” Mr. Connors asked. He was eating his food with gusto at least.
The marquis took a sip of wine before answering, then gave me an amused sidelong glance, which immediately made me nervous. Just what was he about to say?
“Tomorrow I believe he wishes to go to Savile Row to commission some suits.”
Well, that sounded reasonable. And not anything I had to do much about.
“And he wishes to attend the circus.”
My expression froze. Damn my own sharp tongue. It wasn’t quite as bad as a church bazaar, but there would be loads of children there, as well as regular citizens from all walks of life, not all of whom were aware that the Devil was in London.
It wouldn’t be appropriate—or prudent—to ask him to disguise his general devilish appearance, but I wasn’t looking forward to what could happen if someone panicked at seeing him.
“The circus?” Lord Hennawi said, in some surprise. “I would have thought— Well, never mind. The circus sounds delightful. Miss Hastings, have you ever been?”
“Yes, Miss Hastings, have you ever been?” The marquis spoke before I could answer Lord Hennawi’s question.
I gathered myself—not as difficult as before, what with the wine bolstering my courage—and replied, “No, I have not.”
“Then this will be a treat for you as well,” he said, lips curling into a dangerous smile.
Not a smile that indicated a delightful time would be had by all, let alone me; a smile that made me uneasy in a way I’d never experienced. But before I could think too much about it, the Queen addressed our end of the table, making all other thoughts fly out of my head.
“Lord Hennawi, I wish you and your cohorts to come with me as I speak to our honored guest and his son after dinner,” she said, in a voice that brooked no refusal.