Chapter Eight
Eight
“Miss Hastings, a word?”
I gritted my teeth as Mr. Connors poked his head out of his office. It was two days after the Tower of London incident, and I’d just barely managed to reconcile myself to the notion that I would be partnering with the marquis on a clandestine assignment that might have monumental consequences.
Thankfully, the Devil’s wish for the day after the incident was to attend a cricket match, and nobody was hurt, save for a few cricket bats. I was grateful for the respite.
I smoothed my expression and nodded. “Of course, sir.”
I stepped into his office and took my usual seat in front of his desk.
Mr. Connors oversaw a few departments, not just mine, so he was frequently busy, and the surface of his desk reflected that—it was covered with paper and various drinking vessels, along with quite a few tea rings staining the desk’s wooden surface.
He sat, shoving papers aside so he could fold his arms on the top and lean forward. His expression was somber, which was unusual, and I felt a twinge of unease.
Whatever he had to say, I didn’t think I would like it.
“Miss Hastings,” he began, “Lord Hennawi and I spoke after the Queen’s dinner the other evening, and we have a new task for you.”
If it was something relating to cooking flavorful food for Her Majesty, I would have to decline. I could make tea and a passable meat pie, but that was it.
Sadly, I didn’t think that was going to be the task he had in mind.
“Yes, sir?” I replied, trying to look expectant and not as though I was filled with dread.
“Well, in light of the Queen’s concerns and what the marquis said about the occurrence at the bazaar, and given that the Devil is, well, the Devil, we’d like you to use your discretion and report any unusual activity while you are performing your duties.”
Report any unusual activity. In other words, act as a spy. While also working with the marquis to ferret out the people behind the assassination attempt and neutralize them before they were either successful or caused a national incident. In other words, to act as a spy for that side as well.
Not difficult at all, no indeed.
“Unusual activity, sir?” I asked. “This is the Devil, after all. I am not certain what constitutes usual or unusual activity.”
Yes, this was me hedging, but it was also me being truthful—prior to a week ago, I would never have imagined the Devil would want to do things more typical of a London society matron, but here we were, tea cozies and all.
Mr. Connors barked out a laugh, then looked abashed. “Yes, well, I suppose Lord Hennawi and I want to be certain that there is nothing untoward happening.”
“Something that would negatively impact the Queen or the country, I presume,” I clarified. Because that kiss was definitely untoward, but shouldn’t have any repercussions, at least not anywhere but my heart and other more intimate places. I would not be reporting that to anyone.
“Yes, you understand me entirely, Miss Hastings.” Mr. Connors looked relieved.
I’d noticed, in the course of working for him, that he often had difficulty giving clear direction and ended up making things sound much more complicated than they actually were.
Once I’d figured that out, it was relatively easy to decipher what he meant.
I did wish he were slightly more direct at times, but I usually appreciated his conscientiousness.
“Lord Hennawi asks that you report in person once a week, if things are proceeding normally, and of course get in contact if there is something pressing. The Duke of Astelwyth is very concerned about the Devil’s presence here, and we want to assuage His Grace’s concern.
” He cleared his throat. “He controls quite a lot of the budgets, given his Treasury oversight, and we want to be sure he is calm on this matter, or—”
Or perhaps there would be no species ombudsman at all. The pedantic duke from the dinner could remove my position with a tick on his ledger sheet.
I could see where his aristocratic feathers might be ruffled at the thought of the Devil in his city.
Then again, I imagined his aristocratic feathers were ruffled frequently in general, what with his being an aristocrat and all.
Things in England were changing, and the aristocracy, such as it was, was no longer the most powerful entity in the country.
That honor now belonged to Queen Victoria, who was not only the ruler of our country but could kill almost anyone within seconds, if she wanted.
What could a mere human duke do? Levy a few tariffs, raise his tenants’ rents? Perhaps sniff in disdain?
“Of course I will report anything untoward, sir,” I said, wishing I weren’t outright lying to my boss’s face.
But if I mentioned the assassination attempt now, it would only result in heightened scrutiny of the Devil’s movements.
The government wished to keep the general populace as calm as possible, and heightened scrutiny would result in higher awareness.
Though how long the Devil’s presence would remain unnoticed was a very good question—it wasn’t as though the being himself were shy. The news had already leaked via the broadside I’d taken, but I had to guess that a limited number of people had seen the flier themselves.
“Excellent, Miss Hastings,” Mr. Connors said. “I knew we could count on you.”
His tone made it clear the meeting was over, so I rose, taking my cane from where I’d propped it against his desk. “No need to get up, sir,” I said when he went to rise as well. “I believe today the Devil wishes to view some arts.”
“Arts?” Mr. Connors said, his expression confused.
“Yes,” I replied. “The Royal Academy of,” I explained.
“I would not have expected that,” he said.
I spread my hands out. “Unexpected, but not untoward.”
He chuckled. “Yes, quite, Miss Hastings.”
I nodded, then excused myself, wishing my superior were just a little less kind and I were a little more comfortable with lying.
“That looks nothing like me.”
It was the afternoon, and the Devil, the marquis, some members of the Devil’s entourage, and I were at the Royal Academy.
The Devil stood in front of an enormous painting depicting a scene in Hell, according to the accompanying placard. It was titled The Devil Surveys His Domain.
A skeletally thin man dressed in black, his face gaunt, was in the middle staring eerily at the viewer.
He brandished a fearsome-looking spear in one hand, while the other rested on one of the heads of a three-headed dog, similar in appearance to the one I’d seen at the bazaar.
In front of him danced gruesome creatures with scabbed, scaly skin and enormous black holes where eyes should be, while the background was studded with ominous gray clouds and intermittent fires.
It was a compelling painting, to be sure, but the painted Devil looked nothing like the man resplendent in lavender satin fuming in front of him.
“I would be embarrassed to be seen in public in that clothing,” he said, pointing an accusatory cane to the canvas.
The snakes at the end of the cane hissed, and I jumped; I had guessed that they were alive but hadn’t truly comprehended just what that would mean in terms of actual snake behavior.
“That jacket is an abomination,” he continued, stepping so close his nose was nearly touching the painting.
“And I have never looked like that, not even when I was merely a demon, like my son.”
Interesting. I hadn’t realized the Devil hadn’t always been the Devil; did that mean the marquis would eventually take his father’s place?
In which case, where would his father go?
I didn’t think demons had regular lifespans, so perhaps they simply just stopped doing their devilish duties? Like a devil’s retirement?
The idea of the Devil sitting at home and drinking tea, criticizing his successor on how he was running Hell, made me snort, and I had to pretend to sneeze so as not to draw attention to myself.
“Hastings?”
I turned to regard the marquis; his amber gaze was sharp, his eyes narrowed as he seemed to be reading my thoughts. Since I knew he could not, I had to conclude he was just that observant.
“Nothing, just a little dust,” I said, retrieving my handkerchief.
He gave me a skeptical look but didn’t question me further.
“What do you think of this?” the Devil demanded of his son.
The marquis took a deep breath, then stepped forward to stand beside his father.
“It’s not you,” he said simply. “There’s no reason to get bothered by it.
In fact,” he continued, his voice getting deeper as he spoke, “aren’t you pleased that it seems that nobody knows just what you look like?
Or what Hell looks like?” He gestured to the painting.
“This rendition comes from the fears of the artist, and it is a frightening image. It’s just not the real thing. ”
I wondered, for a moment, what the real thing looked like, and then realized, no, I absolutely did not want to know, because then I would be aware of what Hell looked like, and that was not what I wanted at all.
The Devil’s expression turned sulky as he continued to stare at his portrayal in oil. “I suppose,” he said at last. “But I am thinking we might want to commission a portrait while we are here so that people know the truth.”
And because, I thought, you are so vain you need people to see what you actually look like. Vanity was a sin, after all, so it stood to reason the Devil would have it in spades.
“You’d have to sit for hours for a portrait,” I pointed out, fairly certain the Devil would not want to do anything of the sort.
“And it might be difficult to find an artist who would accept the commission, since—” I let the words hang in the air, hoping I wouldn’t have to finish my hastily uttered sentence.
Since you might consign an artist to Hell if you didn’t like the finished product.
“Good thinking,” the marquis murmured.
I felt a warmth creep over me at his praise. Drat. I should not be letting this man affect me so.