Five days later, having made no progress with his inquiries, Wycliff pushed aside the stack of his creditors’ invoices and then leaned back in his chair to run a hand through his hair. While he had finally managed to pay off the debts he’d inherited from his father along with the title, in doing so he had ignored his own. Creditors appeared weekly to thrust a new demand for payment into the hands of his elderly retainer.
He kept few staff, requiring only one older couple to see to his needs. The woman cooked and cleaned, the man did everything else. The house was rented, cheap, and in an area bordering on disreputable. He went without a fire in his room so he could save on coal, and simply wore his overcoat inside when the temperature dropped.
His ancestral home in Dorset sat empty, although he paid a local family to ensure no squatters moved in or removed what furnishings were left.
He was like the Knightleys, selling off everything not nailed down to make ends meet, but the unnatural appetite he had to appease was that of his deceased father. The man had bankrupted the estate to fuel his desires for women and gambling. When Wycliff inherited, society twittered that he would sell the estate, take what residual he could, and scurry away to a dark corner.
Certainly as a young man he had fled the old pile as soon as possible. Only after the war did it become uppermost in his mind. He wanted to put down roots, to belong somewhere, to have a haven that was permanent in a changing world. The estate embodied those things to him and so he fought to keep it. But it was a losing battle.
A manager oversaw the farming of the land and returned sufficient modest profit that after five long years, he had paid off his father’s debts. But every year saw the estate fall further into neglect. Essential repairs were deferred. The roof leaked, the windows were draughty, and the wallpaper peeled from the plaster in the front rooms. He wanted to buy new breeding stock of rams and bulls, but there wasn’t the money to do so, and no one would extend him credit.
Now he had his own long-neglected creditors to satisfy. While his debts weren’t of the magnitude his father’s had been, he still felt as though he were swimming through sand. He never made any progress and always fell fractionally behind. Soon he would be sucked under and disappear.
The only way forward was to lay off his staff and give up the small town house. If he took a room in a boarding house, he could slash his expenditures to a minimum and still keep the estate. As a peer, his work for the Ministry of Unnaturals might be sneered upon, but he desperately needed the steady income.
What he needed tonight was a distraction with the few coins he could spare for entertainment. He had heard whispers of a high-stakes bare-knuckle boxing match this evening at his gentleman’s club, The Harriers. Some matches attracted crowds of up to twenty thousand spectators, but his club held a private one for members only. He found watching the crowd as diverting as the bouts, as he considered which peers would succumb to blood lust from the safety of their ringside seats.
He was fortunate in that Sir Manly had paid for his annual membership to The Harriers and muttered something about a chap needing somewhere for informal meetings with contacts. The club was situated back from Tottenham Court Road and was frequented by those peers not wealthy enough, or entitled enough, to join the more sought-after clubs like White’s or Boodle’s. The Harriers was removed enough from the wealthier addresses for the members to think they were slumming it, but not so lower class they were at risk of being murdered or robbed.
He took a hired cab to the club, then stood on the footpath and stared up at the squat brick building. It seemed no different than its neighbours. Only the young men walking through its door gave away that it was more than a residence. Inside, one wall of the entrance hall had a large painting of a harrier in flight. Against the other wall ran the counter for the cloakroom. Wycliff passed over his top hat and overcoat to the cheerful-looking young man with auburn hair. He waited for the chit so he could reclaim the items at the end of the evening.
“The ticket?” he finally had to ask. It seemed his lot in life to be plagued by dim-witted people.
The man tapped the side of his head. “No need, sir. My aftermage gift is the ability to know who owns what. I only need to look at you and the right hat and coat will practically jump out at me.”
He grunted. The lad was a new addition to the staff. He could see the advantage to his ability; many of the members became drunk and lost their tickets, resulting in a pile of unclaimed clothing at the end of the night.
The imposing doorman opened one side of the double doors to the main hall, where a ring dominated the space. Four large posts sat in each corner of a square, and rope was threaded through each. A thin canvas mat covered the square, more to protect the floors from blood and sweat than to offer any protection to falling combatants.
Tables were set up around the edge of the ring. Those who preferred to be close to the action paid extra to be within spitting distance while they wined and dined as men pummelled each other. The crowd of men jostled each other for the best spots to watch. The blacklegs held court at the outer edges, by the walls. They scribbled in their notebooks and gave out odds as coins were placed on one person or another.
A large blackboard listed the evening’s boxers. Sixteen men would start the night and through a series of matches, they would be whittled down to the final two, who would fight for the purse at stake. Wycliff headed for the rear of the room, where the floor was raised and a few tables were not yet occupied. When in attendance, he had a usual spot to one side by the wall, where he had a clear line of sight to the action. Then he waved the steward over.
From his corner, he surveyed the crowd. He recognised Lord Talbot at a table close to the ring, surrounded by a handful of his cronies. Wycliff understood the legalities that the Afflicted were dead and that on the cessation of his wife’s pulse, the man had become a widower and as such was free to remarry. Yet there was something distasteful about a man who showed such haste in setting aside the woman he had vowed to cherish and protect.
He recalled Miss Hannah Miles’s most impassioned defence of the Afflicted and her condemnation of the fickleness of men. She held her father up as a rare example of a man who loved beyond death. On a deep, instinctual level, her words rang true. A man should do anything, including battle death, for the woman who held his heart.
Contrary to what Miss Miles thought of him, he believed himself entirely capable of love. He just hadn’t found a female worth bestowing such devotion upon. That surely indicated a fault in the women of society, not in him.
The first bout got underway with a mismatched pair. One man was short of stature and weight and more closely resembled a jockey. The other was taller, heavier, and with a far greater reach. The first few blows broke the smaller man’s nose and had blood pouring down his face and chin. Another jab to his temple sent the smaller man reeling over backwards.
Wycliff wondered at the state of a boxer’s mind after taking such blows. Did the brain suffer from the walloping? He had seen men killed by blows to the head, or worse, rendered insensible for the rest of their miserable lives. If such a man were to become a donor, did the Afflicted dine on mashed potato rather than sliced cauliflower?
A woman’s laugh made him turn his head. An elegant blonde was shown to a table where she could be seen while she watched the matches. Lady Gabriella Ridlington. A living woman could not frequent a gentleman’s club, to do so risked instant ruin. The Afflicted were different, almost as though their reputations were cast in stone upon death and nothing could do any further damage.
Lady Gabriella would still require to be accompanied by a member of The Harriers. He wondered at her presence. The club didn’t seem posh enough for her.
A tall chap bent his head close to hers and from the description Miss Miles had given, he guessed the man to be Mr Jonathon Rowley. Now that he thought about it, he vaguely remembered the man being voted in recently, the fact he could supply the club with champagne at cost being the deciding factor in his favour. This was the perfect opportunity to interview him about the Loburn ball.
He pushed through the crowd to her table and stood at the lady’s elbow.
“Lady Gabriella. Any other woman would be ruined if seen here, you must find the lack of a pulse liberating. What brings you to The Harriers—are you a follower of boxing?” Perhaps she hoped someone would dash their brains out on a post so that she could smear them over her toasted bread.
Her eyes were hard behind the porcelain mask as she stared at him. “Lord Wycliff. This is my close friend, Mr Jonathon Rowley. He is disgustingly wealthy, you know, and The Harriers is most fortunate to gain his patronage. I think it such a shame that once great titles and estates should be held in the hands of bankrupt nobles, when men like Mr Rowley could restore them to their former glory.”
“If you want to sell that pernicious estate, my lord, I’d be happy to take the weight of responsibility off your threadbare shoulders.” Rowley took Lady Gabriella’s gloved hand in his and winked at the lady.
Wycliff narrowed his eyes at the other man. They were of equal height, but Rowley had the rounded face that would run to fat later in life. His eyes were shiny and his complexion flushed, as though he had either just run a long distance, or was already exceedingly drunk.
He inhaled and held the scent in his mouth. Something didn’t smell right about the man, but he couldn’t identify what. The blood of the men being beaten in the ring, the sweat of all the men crammed into the room, and the faint tang of death from Lady Gabriella all combined to make a sharp odour that would make anyone screw up his nose. “What were your movements the night of the Loburn ball? Can anyone account for you?”
Rowley draped an arm over the back of Lady Gabriella’s chair and toyed with one of her dangling curls. “I assure you that I was most devoted to the divine Lady G all night.”
“And when she danced with other men?” Wycliff picked at the Afflicted woman’s account of the evening, looking for a loose thread to unravel. Rowley couldn’t have watched her the entire evening.
“Then I watched with jealousy in my breast. With such exquisite beauty before you, how could you look elsewhere?” Rowley’s glazed eyes held nothing but devotion for the walking corpse at his side.
How did such a viper inspire such affection? He could only assume Rowley was one of those men who enjoyed being belittled and abused by a domineering woman. “I assume you mean the beauty of her mask? The workmanship is quite exquisite. Given the delicacy of the porcelain, I am amazed that it still manages to hide the rot beneath.”
“You are done here, my lord. Go away before you spoil our evening.” She waved a hand at him.
A large man pushed through the crowd toward them. The club employed a number of retired pugilists to control its patrons. Even Wycliff knew better than to bait one into a fight.
“This matter is not yet resolved,” he said, and then headed back to his table.
As he pushed through the assembled men who screamed at the fighters, a young woman caught his eye. She sat nervously among a group of bucks. The younger men seemed to be ignoring her as they stood and cheered, or jeered, as loudly as everyone else.
There, like a deer surrounded by hounds, was Miss Emma Knightley. What was she doing here? His first instinct was to shepherd the woman out and straight into a hansom cab. Then he remembered she had no pulse. Another Afflicted woman pushing beyond the boundaries that ensured the decency of their living counterparts.
She turned her head and, catching sight of him, quickly looked away.
Most curious. He decided to observe her and watch how events unfolded.
His review of the records of Unwin and Alder showed that Emma Knightley did indeed receive a monthly consignment, and her bill was always paid promptly. And no doubt would continue to be paid until the family ran out of furniture, paintings, and rugs to sell. Her presence with the bucks meant one had vouched for her, like Rowley had for Lady Gabriella. Perhaps she sought a patron to pay for her deliveries.
Lady Gabriella’s records showed a curious anomaly. She received not a single delivery, but two every month. What could that mean? Did she succumb to gluttony and consume twice what she needed to sustain her, simply because her wealth allowed it?
She could place a double order for entirely altruistic reasons and might donate the other to a needy Afflicted. But considering what he knew of her nature, that was less likely. Miss Miles’s voice in his memory reminded him that the Afflicted could heal damage to their bodies. Did Lady Gabriella conceal some wound in her dead flesh that the excess cauliflower could knit together?
The evening progressed and as boxers were knocked out, the crowd became louder and more raucous. He lost sight of both his quarry among shouting and leaping men. Rather than distracting his mind, the press of so many people made him dwell more on the quiet company of Miss Miles.
She was a woman comfortable with silence. A remarkable trait in a person. He needed to confer with her about what might happen if one of the Afflicted overindulged. Perhaps there was an undead version of gout?
He pulled forth his pocket watch and found it just after two o’clock in the morning. Events in the ring had progressed to the final two bouts, which would decide the men who boxed for the purse. Assuming either managed to stay upright, given their bloody appearances and the way they swayed on their feet.
Wycliff had seen enough. Since he couldn’t spot either lady in the crowd, he left the deafening screams in the main hall for the comparative calm of the entrance hall. The cloakroom counter was unattended and the door behind it closed.
He rapped on the desk with his knuckles. “Hello? I require my property.”
He couldn’t leave without his top hat and overcoat. Finances were far too tight to replace either. Perhaps the man had fallen asleep in the small room beyond. Or more likely, he had gone on a break, thinking no one would leave with the final match about to get under way.
He walked around the counter and tugged on the door handle, only to find it locked. He pulled open the door to the main room and tapped the doorman on the shoulder. He had moved inside to watch the matches.
“Can I help you, my lord?” The man turned his head to Wycliff, but his eyes travelled sideways to watch the bout.
“Yes. I require my hat and coat, but the cloakroom attendant is absent and the door is locked.”
A confused look descended over the behemoth’s face and, with a resigned sigh, he followed Wycliff back to the hall. At the cloakroom, he reached out and rattled the door handle. “It’s locked.”
“As I just said.” Management hired the men for their imposing bulk, not their mental acuity. “Go fetch a spare key. Then I can reclaim my property.”
“Yes, my lord.” He strode off with his knuckles practically dragging on the wooden floors.
Wycliff bent to peer at the lock. There was no key on the other side. The man hadn’t locked the door and curled up to sleep. He must have wandered away.
As he peered through the keyhole, a faint tang hit his nostrils. A sharp inhale brought more of the rich, metallic odour to his nose. A warning shiver raced over his body.
The muscle reappeared, brandishing a key. He fitted it into the lock and turned it. Wycliff would have bowled the man over to see what was beyond, if his bulk hadn’t so completely filled the doorframe.
“Bloody hell!” the man exclaimed, then stumbled backwards.
As he moved out of the way, Wycliff got a glimpse into the room. The cloakroom attendant was indeed taking a nap. A permanent one.