The Hotspur Club was an establishment of long repute in St. James. They served an excellent dinner and had many fine rooms for hire suitable for small or large engagements. A lovely warm fire crackled in the baroque hearth, with white plaster ornamentation and a dark marble mantel. A large oval table was set with crystal and candles and a spray of festive winter foliage.
Simon parted the heavy brocade drapes for the twentieth time, searching for Kate’s carriage. The steepled skyline of London showed dark against the night sky. He could see no wisps of magic, no streams of aether wandering across the city as if searching for something. Even after more than a month of looking at it, the world looked different without aether, so ordinary. He contemplated murmuring one of his ancient words, but he knew there would be no response from his body. His runic tattoos were gone.
Even more, the entire mystical world of London seemed to have grown quiet as winter grew old. It was difficult to say if the clash between Albion and Ra had exhausted the combatants or shattered their plans. Ash could’ve been destroyed. Gaios may have altered his scheme, whatever it was. Or perhaps the whole terrifying dream of a coming battle between Ash and Gaios had been merely an exaggeration. Simon only knew the silence of the supernatural had become deafening. On the nonmagical street below, he finally saw the Anstruther four-horse chaise approaching the front.
“This is a mistake,” Malcolm said as he paced by the fire with a limp, hands clasped behind his back. He looked unusually dashing in white tie.
“Everything’s a mistake with you.” Simon turned from the window with a smile. He brushed lint from his black swallowtail coat, ignoring the tinge of pain from his healing collarbone. “Solving murders. Keeping werewolves. Is there anything you do like?”
“She’s not ready for this. Neither of them. It’s too dangerous.”
Simon walked past the table, pausing to straighten a fork with a white-gloved hand. “We’ll see.”
A rustle of heavy silk from the corner came as Penny sighed in exasperation. She wore a long gown of exquisite sky blue with pearls sewn along the bodice. Her hair, which was typically tied up or tied down, glistened in fashionable ringlets. Most of the cuts on her face were healed, but she would have a few minor scars. Penny retrieved a lit cigar from the tray next to her and flicked off the ash. She put the cigar in her mouth, took a long drag, and blew smoke into the air. “Is this what gentlemen do when they go off by themselves? Bicker and wait for women?”
“You spent time in male society at Cambridge,” Malcolm said to her. “You should know these things.”
“They were all engineers. I had hoped gentlemen were more sophisticated.” Penny lifted her feet onto a nearby chair and blew a perfect smoke ring into the air. “Oh well.”
Malcolm eyed the engineer as she watched the delicate hoop of white haze drift into nothingness. It wasn’t her enjoyment of a cigar that surprised him, but rather her comely nature in a gown. Before he could stop himself, Malcolm asked, “Do you enjoy poetry?”
She shrugged her bare shoulders. “Never thought much about it.”
He pulled the small yellow book from his coat and tossed it to her. “Read this. You’ll enjoy it.”
Penny caught the book cleanly out of the air and flipped it open. She scanned a few lines. She looked up at Malcolm, with a grateful nod for his sharing the poetry of poor Eleanor with her. “Thank you. By the way, when can I read your poetry?”
“When I’m dead,” the Scotsman droned.
“Something to look forward to.” Simon pushed the drapery aside yet again.
Penny laughed and held up her empty wineglass, tilting it back and forth.
Malcolm brought the sherry decanter to her. “Nice shoes.”
She crossed her leather boots. “Just pour.”
Simon released the curtains and headed for the door. “I’m going down to help Kate.”
Malcolm asked quickly, “Do you need help?”
“No, no. Relax. Smoke one of Penny’s cigars while you wait.”
Penny gave a crooked smile and drew a fresh cigar straight up out of her bodice. Malcolm stared at it with interest but waved a hand in polite refusal.
Simon swept down the stairs. They had rented the entire club for the evening. The reception hall held only the bare minimum of staff, whose discretion was paid for handsomely. These were the type who routinely kept the secrets of nobility.
A servant raced to attend Simon, calling for his cloak and hat. Simon waved him off and breezed into the frigid night in his dinner coat. His shoulder immediately began to throb. The Anstruther coach stood at the base of the portico, with footmen waiting. Hogarth saw Simon approaching and automatically opened the door so he could climb inside.
Charlotte grinned at Simon, gaping at his formal attire. “Mr. Simon! You look so handsome!”