Part III
Christened in Blood
Medmenham Abbey
West Wycombe
It was not until the third night at Medmenham that anything untoward occurred. To that point—despite Quarry’s loudly expressed doubts beforehand—it had been a house party much like any other in Lord John’s experience, though with more talk of politics and less of hunting than was customary.
In spite of the talk and entertainment, though, there was an odd air of secrecy about the house. Whether it was some attitude on the part of the servants, or something unseen but sensed among the guests, Grey could not tell, but it was real; it floated on the air of the Abbey like smoke on water.
The only other oddity was the lack of women. While females of good family from the countryside near West Wycombe were invited to dine, all of the houseguests were male. The thought occurred to Grey that from outward appearance, it might almost be one of those sodomitical societies so decried in the London broadsheets. In appearance only, though; there was no hint of such behavior. Even George Everett gave no hint of any sentiment save the amiability of renewed friendship.
No, it was not that kind of behavior that had given Sir Francis and his restored abbey the name of scandal. Exactly what did lie behind the whispers of notoriety was yet a mystery.
Grey knew one thing: Dashwood was not Gerald’s murderer, at least not directly. Discreet inquiry had established Sir Francis’s whereabouts, and shown him far from Forby Street at the time of the outrage. There was the possibility of hired assassination, though, and Robert Gerald had seen something in the moment of his death that caused him to utter that last silent accusation.
There was nothing so far to which Grey could point as evidence, either of guilt or depravity. Still, if evidence was to be found anywhere, it must be at Medmenham—the deconsecrated abbey which Sir Francis had restored from ruins and made a showplace for his political ambitions.
Among the talk and entertainments, though, Grey was conscious of a silent process of evaluation, plain in the eyes and manner of his companions. He was being watched, his fitness gauged—but for what?
“What is it that Sir Francis wants with me?” he had asked bluntly, walking in the gardens with Everett on the second afternoon. “I have nothing to appeal to such a man.”
George smiled. He wore his own hair, dark and shining, and the chilly breeze stroked strands of it across his cheeks.
“You underestimate your own merits, John—as always. Of course, nothing becomes manly virtue more than simple modesty.” He glanced sidelong, mouth quirking with appreciation.
“I scarce think my personal attributes are sufficient to intrigue a man of Dashwood’s character,” Grey answered dryly.
“More to the point,” Everett said, arching one brow, “what is it in Sir Francis that so intrigues you? You have not spoke of anything, save to question me about him.”
“You would be better suited to answer that than I,” Grey answered boldly. “I hear you are an intimate—the valet tells me you have been a guest at Medmenham many times this year past. What is it draws you to seek his company?”
George grunted in amusement, then flung back his head, breathing in the damp air with enjoyment. Lord John did likewise; autumn smells of leaf mold and chimney smoke, spiced with the tang of ripe muscats from the arbor nearby. Scents to stir the blood; cold air to sting cheeks and hands, exercise to stimulate and weary the limbs, making the glowing leisure of the fireside and the comforts of a dark, warm bed so appealing by contrast.
“Power,” George said at last. He lifted a hand toward the Abbey—an impressive pile of gray stone, at once stalwart in shape and delicate in design. “Dashwood aspires to great things; I would join him on that upward reach.” He cast a glance at Grey. “And you, John? It has been some time since I presumed to know you, and yet I should not have said that a thirst for social influence formed much part of your own desires.”
Grey wished no discussion of his desires; not at the moment.
“‘The desire of power in excess caused the angels to fall,’” he quoted.
“‘The desire of knowledge in excess caused man to fall.’” George completed the quote, and uttered a short laugh. “What is it that you seek to know then, John?” He turned his head toward Grey, dark eyes creased against the wind, and smiled as though he knew the answer.
“The truth of the death of Robert Gerald.”
He had mentioned Gerald to each of the house party in turn, choosing his moment, probing delicately. No delicacy here; he wished to shock, and did so. George’s face went comically blank, then hardened into disapproval.
“Why do you seek to entangle yourself in that sordid affair?” he demanded. “Such association cannot but harm your own reputation—such as it is.”
That stung, as it was meant to.
“My reputation is my own affair,” Grey said, “as are my reasons. Did you know Gerald?”
“No,” Everett answered shortly. By unspoken consent, they turned toward the Abbey, and walked back in silence.