I turned and staggered down the passageway and out into the hall where blistering sunlight poured through a line of windows I hadn’t noticed before. I knew how to find my way out and so I hurried through the halls to the backdoor and once again found myself standing in a stinking alleyway. I didn’t care about the smell, I needed to be outside. I leaned my back on the wall and rested my hands on my knees as I fought to catch my breath.
Moments later my companion was by my side.
“You okay old man? You’ve turned rather green!” I gave him a withering look.
“Say, let’s find a pub, or go to Lyon’s Tea House and get you something to drink?” He suggested. The thought of sitting in a public house with people repulsed me. I did not want to be anywhere near the hoi-polloi. My immediate reaction was to hide away until my affliction passed.
“I need to go home, and I’m going alone!” I righted myself and walked away from Sebastian. I hated that he had seen me so unmanned once again, so weak, and pathetic.
“Not bloody likely, dear heart. I shall accompany you!”
“No”, spat roughly and saw the wounded look in his eyes. I continued in a more measured voice.
“Look. If you want to be useful, find a way to gain access to the Cavendish Ball. I do believe I am a lamb to the slaughter.”
Cavendish Ball
After the debacle preceding the erotic ritual, I decided that should the evening at the Cavendish Ball take an unpleasant turn I did not want my servants to, once again, become spectators in my undoing. With this foresight, I informed my servants that I wanted the house to myself and so, they would be receiving two days off, fully paid. I suggested they take the time to visit their families. Mr. Troy had gone to Brighton to visit his sister. Mrs. Twigg prepared several pies and cold cuts for me and left them in the chiller cabinet to ensure I did not starve. She took the foundling housemaids Maud and Anne-Marie with her when she left to spend the time with her ailing mother in Kent. Mr. Wilkins assisted me to dress in my evening attire before he too left the house and I awaited my conveyance.
Reflected in the hall mirror, it felt peculiar to stand and stare at myself, my evening suit hugging my frame, with not a sound in the house apart from the numerous clocks. I wondered what life would be like without my servants. Even more lonesome than it had been, I presumed mournfully. The sound of horse’s hooves on the road drew me from my introspection. I opened the front door to find my carriage waited. My entanglement with Fratres Seminis was about to become even more complicated.
My carriage moved slowly down Piccadilly, waiting in line as other guests carriages pulled up to the door of Devonshire House and deposited the occupants to join the line of guests waiting for admittance.
It was ten-full-minutes until I could disembark at the front door of Devonshire House. I watched each second pass by on the dial of my exquisite Eugene Lecoultre eighteen-karat-gold keyless pocket watch, which was one of the jewels of my collection. Watching time pass helped my anxiety as I had still not replaced my silver cross. This evening was not within the remit of what I would call a relaxing soiree, but having been drawn unwillingly under the wing of the Brothers of the Seed, I had no choice but to attend.
After the announcement of my attendance, I entered the lobby to see that no expense had been spared and Mrs. Cavendish was aiming to throw the most outrageously lavish ball of the winter season. The scent of the woodland was pure and clean, this was because swathes of evergreens trailed on pillars and fronds of ivy, were woven around the balustrades of the staircase. The vast house was festooned with vases of hothouse floral arrangements in red and gold. Privately I mused that the flowers gilded the lily somewhat as Devonshire House was already a magnificent jewel, filled with priceless antique furniture and fine artwork. To my practiced eye, no further adornment was needed.
I could see that the drawing room held guests who sought conversation, the dining-room was laid with a sumptuous supper spread, and the ballroom was alive with music, laughter, and dancing. I strode to the hat-room and divested myself of my hat, cane, and greatcoat. The attendant issued a ticket that I eased into my waistcoat pocket.
I was feeling quite out of sorts. I did not enjoy socializing or the crush of crowds and this ball was brimming with the high and mighty of British society. If Sebastian and I were correct, our interference this night could prevent the ruination of a young nobleman foolishly led into a den of wolves. On my first perusal among the several hundred guests who moved between the rooms I did not see Blake or two of the six acolytes we had identified—Benjamin Cavendish, and Lord Spencer.
The string quartet in the ballroom struck up a jaunty seasonal tune as I strode in. Couples took to the dance floor. I stood at the side of the doorway and glanced around the room, my vision a swirl of floral arrangements, ladies in the season’s most colourful dresses, and their partners sporting the latest fashionable suits and exquisitely crafted boots.
Nerves made my guts all of a-judder. Among this esteemed company I had once felt at home,
