Chapter 8
Wednesday, 26 September, 1888
Lord Wescomb’s pacing proved exceedingly difficult in the cramped room that served as his study. He marched to the door, then to the east window, three wide strides to the mantel, and then to the far wall near the drinks cupboard. He was currently on his fifth circuit. Lady Sephora shifted her voluminous skirts out of the way to allow him a few more precious inches.
How dare they? he growled. As he marched by her once more, Sephora caught his hand. He glared, then softened his expression instantly.
Really, John, you must sit down, she said. We will find a solution together.
His anger dampened, Wescomb acquiesced. After crumpling into his chair and taking a large gulp of brandy, he swore, God’s blood. He gave his wife a chagrined look. Sorry, my dear.
She waved it away. I’ve heard worse.
You’ve said worse, Wescomb retorted. They shared a smile.
What has The Conclave done this time? She retrieved her glass of Amontillado from the walnut table by the chair.
They believe they’ve found Alastair’s Achilles Heel.
His clinic? she asked. Wescomb dipped his head in respect for her astute guess.
They will offer him monies to fund his work if he promises to leave town for the short term—at least until the murders cease.
If Alastair declines their offer?
Then they will pressure the clinic’s landlord to evict him.
Sephora’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. That is egregious, John. The clinic is his life. They’ll destroy him.
That’s what I told them. They won’t listen to reason.
They are the most ignorant of men, she grumbled, tapping a finger on the rim of her sherry glass.
I know that look, Sephora. The Conclave has ordered us not to interfere.
Her eyes flared. They dare to demand we stand aside while they ruin his life?
Yes, they dare.
Sephora fumed. They fear him that much?
They fear him and the volatility of the situation. The slightest mistake, and the world will know of our existence.
It is too preposterous to think that Alastair is this fiend. He devotes his life to the care of the sick and injured.
Wescomb shrugged. No matter his virtues, The Conclave wants him out of the city for the time being.
They want him a puppet, she said, a frown firmly in place.
That as well, Wescomb agreed. He finished his brandy with another gulp.
Sephora ran a fingertip around the rim of the sherry glass, generating a low-pitched hum. When do they intend to inform him of their socalled offer?
They are having Keats deliver a summons tonight.
Sephora placed the empty sherry glass on the table and smoothed her dress. At least we have Keats on our side, she said.
Wescomb nodded. The ultimate mouse in the wainscoting.
I had hoped they might bring him onto The Conclave to replace Abernathy.
No such luck. Livingston is the newest member.
He is an unusual man, Sephora said. Difficult to read.
Indeed. At present, we must bide our time, my dear.
She gave a deep sigh. I so pity Alastair.
Wescomb shook his head. There is more to that lad than they realize. His ability came from a Welsh Gypsy, did you know that?
Sephora’s eyes widened in wonder. No, I did not.
Keats told me. It is said they have capabilities beyond the rest of us. Wescomb rose to pour himself more brandy. He gestured toward the sherry. She nodded. If Alastair can hold his own, we’ll play those badgers for all they’re worth.