Lavinia raised her eyes to give Donald one last glare and then stalked away. The ice-cutter voice spoke:
“Follow me, both of you.”
Donald let Marcia down to the floor, stroking her hair and he drew Cynthia to him and kissed her on the nose, so that she giggled.
“Now you two go with your mother.”
“But—”
“Hurry. I’ll be along later. I won’t miss you play, I promise.”
They scurried away out of sight past Marcus-John. He was still in a state of bemusement.
“You’re a strange case, Aldingford,” he said. “But I’m grateful you proved me right and my brother wrong. For that, I can only thank you.”
He strolled away up the garden, whistling and swiping at the bushes with his riding crop.
“I’ll have to go,” Donald said. The thought of the coming evening was sickening. Marcia and Cynthia could not be prevented, nor blamed, from blurting news of the strange factory girl with their father. Lavinia could not be prevented, nor blamed, from taking the only possible action—divorce. It was the end of the life he had known. Strangely—stupidly—he did not really care.
“I’ll set you up in the Annex. You won’t have to face the dreaded Mr Campbell.” He slipped his arms around her waist and pressed her close, laying his cheek against the top of her head.
*
Okeke and Donald made a strange journey south from Bloomsbury to Mayfair. The streets were abnormally crowded with what appeared to be off-duty servants, generally heading west. The limousine eased into the Marble Arch gates at the frontier of Mayfair district to find them abandoned. There was not a glory trooper in sight. As the district containing most of the sovereigns’ town palaces, Mayfair (along with Westminster) bore the highest security rating in the Central Enclave.
Donald slid the Colt inside his evening jacket and got out. The air was so cold and still that his breath hung sparkling in the arc lights. The steady buzz of the lights was the only sound. The guard house was deserted. Registers of entries and exits, stamps, even blank visas, lay about on the counters. The last record stated four-thirty the previous afternoon—interestingly, about the same time as the attack on Bloomsbury College. It would appear the gates had been open for more than twenty-four hours and the glory trusts had done nothing about it.
They continued down Park Lane to Hyde Park Corner. This stretch was deserted. They found Piccadilly empty all the way through to Pall Mall, the only lights being from oil lanterns hung over the arched gates of the sovereign mansions. Normally this stretch would be a jam of limousines on Advent Night.
“I do get the impression,” Donald said, “the rest of town knows something we do not.”
At the gates of Wilson House they were stopped by a wall of Krossington marines, who yelled to dowse the headlights. Okeke did so and held his palms up in view. An officer with a scarlet band on his cap rapped on Donald’s window.
“What is your business, sir?”
“I am here for the Advent Dinner.”
“It was cancelled this afternoon, sir. Please return home.”
Donald hesitated. It was an immense relief. No hours of painful social charade.
“Is my wife here? Her Decency Lavinia of Laxbury.”
“No sir.”
Donald pondered. He had no reason to see TK now. If anything, it might be dangerous to get into discussion about the massacre of the National Party. There was always the risk of blurting out something he could only have known from having been there.
“Please inform His Decency that I called. There is no need for me to take up his time. By the way, I assume you’re aware the gates into Bloomsbury are wide open and unguarded?”
“We are well aware of that, sir. The situation is rather precarious. I strongly advise you to stay at home all day tomorrow.”
“Thank you. Good night.”
Okeke clunked the limousine into reverse and swung the long vehicle around to return home.
*
A few minutes later, a footman hastened up through Wilson House with a message for His Decency, who was ensconced with some cronies in his study at the top of the West Tower. The door was answered by a man the footman loathed, for he was scared by the sight of him. It was Wingfield, TK’s bodyguard.
“What?”
“Message for His Decency, Mr Wingfield.”
“Thanks. Be gone.”
Wingfield took the silver platter and shut the door.
“What is it?” TK said in a gruff voice. Wingfield proffered the tray and TK tore open the envelope. What he read caused his face to crease up with disbelief.
“Donald Aldingford just called. He was unaware the Advent Dinner was cancelled.” TK was completely at a loss. “How could he not know? Can you check whether his butler received the message?”
“I’ll shake ‘em up, Your Decency,” Wingfield said, parodying a quick march out the door.
TK continued his conference with the butler and the marine captain of the Wilson House garrison. They were updating their master on progress to evacuate Wilson House. A convoy of armoured cars was still being loaded with artworks and bullion. It would be ready to depart south for the Lands of Krossington in about forty minutes.
Wingfield returned with the news Donald’s butler had certainly been informed. The head of messengers had the message receipt signed by Butler Campbell.
“So, Butler Campbell has ceased communication with his own master?” TK said. He eyed Wingfield.
“Donald’s household has probably fled to the asylums.”
“No doubt so. Who wants to be torn to bits by a raging mob?”
In the crisis of evacuating his kin and household staff, and the manorial families and their staff, the irksome matter of Donald Aldingford had dropped off TK’s task list. Almost four hundred refugees had been packed aboard the clan yacht Neptune at Krossington quay and were now safely at sea—Her Decency Lavinia of Laxbury and daughters Marcia and Cynthia included. Another thousand servants had been escorted home to their asylums outside the Grande Enceinte.
