CHAPTER SIX THE FEAST OF HERMES
By half past eleven, Gabriel had imagined six different ways Eleanor Finch might be murdered before midnight.
He stood inside the shadow of an unused carriage entrance opposite the Mercury Club and watched rain turn the street into black glass.
Water struck the brim of his hat, slid beneath the collar of his coat and gathered coldly at the back of his neck, but he scarcely noticed it.
The house across from him appeared respectable. That was its first deception.
Three narrow buildings had been joined behind identical stone fa?ades, their interior walls removed to create chambers no passer-by would have suspected existed.
Tall windows glowed behind dark curtains.
Carriages approached one at a time, pausing beneath a covered entrance where masked servants admitted gentlemen wearing cloaks over evening clothes and women whose names would not appear in any respectable hostess’s guest book.
The winged staff of Mercury had been carved so discreetly above the door that an ordinary observer might mistake it for decorative foliage.
Gabriel had entered the club dozens of times.
Tonight, the sight of it filled him with something too sharp to be called caution.
He checked his watch again. Eleanor was late by three minutes.
Three minutes should not have mattered. Eleanor had been delayed while searching her father’s study the previous night and still escaped without discovery.
The handle turning had belonged to a sleepy footman sent to replenish the coal scuttle.
She had hidden behind the study curtain until he departed, returned every paper to its original position and left the room without waking the household.
She had then spent the remaining hours before dawn copying the false handwriting and translating the message concealed upon the programme.
Gabriel knew all of that because Sophia had brought him a note shortly after breakfast. He also knew Eleanor had found two Mercury coins, correspondence concerning private editions and evidence that Dr. Finch had knowingly accepted alterations to his published work.
What he did not know was why she had insisted upon attending the Feast that same night. He had argued.
She had listened. Then she had informed him that postponement would allow her father or his associates time to discover the disturbed lock.
Gabriel had argued again. Eleanor had asked whether he possessed any evidence that waiting would make the club safer.
He did not. So he had agreed, though agreement had felt remarkably similar to assisting someone toward a precipice while politely discussing the view.
A hired carriage turned into the street. Gabriel straightened.
The vehicle bore no crest. It stopped beneath the covered entrance on the opposite side of the road, and a footman jumped down to open the door.
A woman emerged. For one suspended instant, Gabriel did not recognise her.
She wore a cloak of dark velvet with the hood raised, but beneath it appeared the gleam of blue-black silk and the silver edge of a mask.
One gloved hand rested upon the footman’s arm as she descended, while the other held a small fan decorated with stars.
Nothing in her movement suggested Miss Eleanor Finch.
She did not hurry. She did not glance around to determine whether she was observed.
She stepped into the rain as though the entire street had been waiting for her arrival and she had not yet decided whether it deserved acknowledgment.
Gabriel crossed the road. The footman bowed and withdrew toward the carriage.
Eleanor turned. Her mask covered the upper half of her face, its silver surface shaped delicately around her eyes and finished with narrow wings at each temple.
Dark curls had been pinned high beneath the hood, while a few loose strands touched her cheeks. Gabriel stopped before her.
“Mrs. Grey,” he said.
Her mouth curved.
“Lord Ashcombe.”
The voice was Eleanor’s, but altered. Softer, lower and touched by an amusement she rarely permitted herself in public.
Gabriel offered his arm. She placed her hand upon it.
Only then did he see the gown fully. The silk appeared black beneath the rain, but each movement drew out shades of midnight blue.
The bodice fitted closely, its neckline exposing the elegant line of her shoulders without revealing as much as the red gown had.
Silver embroidery traced the edges like moonlight upon water.
A narrow chain circled her throat, suspending a small charm shaped like a key.
She looked secretive, expensive and entirely capable of ruining a man’s judgement.
Gabriel’s own judgement had already suffered substantial damage.
“You are staring,” she murmured.
“I am assessing the disguise.”
“From that distance?”
“You objected when I assessed the red gown more closely.”
“I did not object.”
The memory of Sabine’s library entered between them. Gabriel felt it immediately: Eleanor’s breast beneath his hand, her fingers moving over him and the question she had asked when he stopped. Do you always stop when you begin to feel something? He looked toward the club entrance.
“We should go inside.”
“That was not an answer.”
“No.”
“Then I shall assume the disguise is effective.”
Gabriel placed his hand over hers where it rested upon his sleeve.
“Too effective.”
The admission slipped out before he could reshape it into charm. Eleanor’s expression softened for an instant. Then Mrs. Grey returned.
“Excellent,” she said. “I dislike wasted preparation.”
Together, they approached the entrance. A masked servant admitted Gabriel immediately. His membership was longstanding, his reputation useful and his presence expected. Eleanor offered no name until a club officer in a gold mask stepped forward to inspect her invitation.
“Your companion, Lord Ashcombe?”
“Mrs. Helena Grey.”
The officer looked at her hand upon Gabriel’s arm, then at the small key resting against her throat.
“Your mythological designation?”
Eleanor opened her fan.
“Persephone.”
Gabriel glanced at her. They had discussed several possible names. Helen would have been obvious, Athena too scholarly and Aphrodite an invitation to precisely the attention Gabriel intended to prevent. They had not discussed Persephone.
The officer inclined his head. “A bride stolen into darkness.”
Eleanor’s fan moved once.
“Only in the version told by men.”
The officer’s gaze sharpened behind the mask. Then he laughed.
“Welcome to the Feast.”
Gabriel guided her through the inner doors.
The Mercury Club had abandoned all pretence of respectability for the evening.
The entrance hall had been transformed into a temple of gilt columns, dark draperies and theatrical excess.
Hundreds of candles burned inside glass lamps tinted amber and blue.
Men wore gold or silver masks according to membership rank, while female guests received silk ribbons bearing mythological names.
Servants in winged helmets carried trays of wine, sealed message boxes and small bowls filled with commemorative coins.
Classical quotations appeared everywhere.
They had been painted above doors, embroidered upon table linens and printed along the edges of supper menus.
Some were accurate. Others had been altered so subtly that only a scholar familiar with the original text would recognise the deception.
Eleanor’s attention moved across them without becoming obvious.
Gabriel felt the tension leave part of her arm as curiosity replaced apprehension.
A bell sounded once somewhere above. Conversations quieted briefly, then resumed.
“The first warning,” Gabriel murmured.
“For what?”
“Private exchanges begin after the third bell. The upper gallery will be opened between the second and third.”
Eleanor nodded. A servant approached carrying a silver tray of wine. Gabriel took two glasses, watched the servant pour from the bottle and passed one to Eleanor. She accepted it without drinking.
“You remembered,” he said.
“You were extremely tiresome when explaining the rule.”
“That was intentional.”
“Your methods depend heavily upon irritation.”
“It improves retention.”
They entered the principal salon. Music drifted from an orchestra hidden behind a screen of painted laurel branches.
Gaming tables filled one side of the chamber.
On the other, masked guests gathered around glass cabinets containing manuscripts, ancient coins and objects whose ownership would not have survived serious legal inquiry.
Gabriel recognised half the men despite their masks.
Lord Carrow stood near the card room entrance wearing silver.
Vauclair spoke to a newspaper proprietor beside a statue of Hermes.
Professor Alderton had exchanged scholarly dignity for a gold mask shaped like the sun, though his escaping side-whiskers made anonymity impossible. Dr. Finch was not visible.
Gabriel could not decide whether his absence relieved or alarmed him. Eleanor noticed Carrow. The viscount noticed her. He began crossing the room. Gabriel’s hand moved to Eleanor’s waist. She looked up at him.
“Performance?” she murmured.
“Entirely.”
“Your fingers disagree.”
He loosened them by an amount too small to matter. Carrow bowed.
“Mrs. Grey. Ashcombe.”
“Carrow,” Gabriel said.
The viscount’s gaze travelled over Eleanor’s mask and gown. “Persephone. An excellent choice.”
“She made it herself,” Gabriel said.
Eleanor glanced at him. “The goddess?”
“The trouble.”
Carrow smiled. “I hoped you would attend.”
“I was curious,” Eleanor said.
“About the antiquities?”
“About everything men insist women should not see.”