Sensation Read online

  while the meal was served. So different than the way he remem­bered; so different from where he'd thought he and Lujan would ever be at this point in their lives—Lujan settled and managing things, and himself the itinerant libertine and idle seeker.

  Seeking mysteries, seeking surcease, seeking the kind of love he might have had with Jancie had she not fallen irrevocably in love with the rakehell that Lujan used to be.

  And now Lujan was him, the upright, four square country squire, and he had become the voluptuary. The irony was rather jaw-dropping, especially when he thought about himself at Bullhead Manor with the chocolate virgin. Just the kind of thing Lujan had used to indulge in. Virgins for sport, for prestige, for the sheer pleasure of the corruption of innocence.

  Jancie had been an innocent. .,

  Forget that. Lujan had grown up, and Kyger should be, he was, grateful to his brother for sending him on this all-consuming quest. The veneration of Venable's memory was a cancer, a slow-growing, full-body poison that could destroy the country's soul.

  But he wasn't five minutes closer to finding out what had made Venable tick, and what it would take to excise his poison, than he was the day he'd returned from his travels.

  That was the point, not the past, not what could have been.

  "So what have you found out?" Lujan asked finally, casually, after a half hour desultory conversation over the mutton, and as they were settling back to wait for dessert.

  Kyger tipped his wine, listening, as he had since he'd entered the house, for Jancie's footstep, and envisioning instead the chocolate virgin waltzing into the dining room in his mind. He didn't like it, not a bit, that the volatile and unknown Angilee could so easily supplant Jancie in his thoughts, in his family home, in his desires.

  Where the hell had she gotten to anyway?

  "What have I found out? Not much. Nothing that makes sense." He swirled the wine for want of something to do. "His life on the surface is spotless. I visited the flat. The reverence is as­tounding. There was nothing there except hundreds of devout be­lievers lined up willingly for hours just for the chance to inhale what was left of him. Everything was sanitized, scrubbed, picture perfect. You'd never guess he was murdered there."

  "No. They are good at that."

  "Not a scrap of paper ..." No—wait—there was that pad, with the curious little check mark on it that could have been an upside-down seven—but what could that mean to Lujan, really, when he was the one haunted by sevens everywhere . .. "They wanted to open the drawers, the cuboards, the icebox. It was ex­traordinary."

  "He was like that," Lujan said.

  "Did you know him?"

  Lujan hesitated a fraction of a second. "In passing. He was very magnetic. They are not exaggerating his power to attract in person."

  "Or in death," Kyger said dryly. "And then this damnable fog. It's gone on forever. It's like a blanket smothering everything, everyone."

  "Exactly. Much nicer in the country. But you know that al­ready."

  Dessert was served, a nice selection of tarts, cheese, fruit, pound cake, tea and coffee.

  They ate in silence for a few moments, Kyger choosing the cheese and fruit, and Lujan, a tart.

  "And how has the mission gone otherwise?"

  Kyger cut into the fruit and popped a piece into his mouth. "I find it surpassingly grim that I'm reduced to decadent nights of debauchery at the Bullhead, frankly."

  Lujan grinned. "I knew we'd get you there eventually, baby brother. Nothing like it, until a man is ready to settle and spawn. Not your style, though. I can hardly imagine it. Are you searching for something?"

  "There was a woman," Kyger admitted. But how much to admit? How much had Wyland confided in him? Enough so that he himself was now involved. But—the secrets of the Bullhead? He didn't quite know what they were—yet.

  And just why had he obliquely brought up his deflowered vir­gin?

  "Ha!" Lujan clapped him on the shoulder. "I knew it. I knew once you got the hang of things you'd dive right in. A woman. Excellent—"

  "What woman?" Jancie's voice from the hallway.

  "Ah, just someone he's become acquainted with," Lujan said smoothly as she glided into the room, followed by Emily. "How's the tot doing?"

  "Sleeping, finally. And I'm exhausted." She stopped at Kyger's chair to touch his shoulder. "How are you?"

  "Escaping London for the moment." He felt her touch down to his bones. He heard a warning mrrrrr from Emily, ever protec­tive.

  "Escaping that woman, you mean," Jancie said lightly. "Or do you want to?" Now she had seated herself next to Lujan, directly opposite him.

  She looked tired, thinner. Still beautiful. Still made him feel like conquering universes, even though her world was Lujan and baby Gaunt. And Emily. He felt the cat rubbing against his leg, almost as if she were reading his thoughts, and pulling him back from regrets and regression.

  "I'm not sure yet. She's quite a handful." That was good. "American, by her accent—"

  "One of those—" Lujan said dismissively.

  "Don't discount the heiresses," Jancie said. "She could lead you quite a chase, Kyger, and I think you need it." She helped herself to the remnants of dessert—a piece of cheese, a corner of the pound cake. Lujan poured some coffee and pushed the pot to­ward Kyger.

  "Quite beautiful," Kyger added, feeling as if he were twisting the knife in Jancie as well as himself. "Very independent. Here with her father; I'm not certain if there is more family. That's all I know."

  "Well, hell," Lujan said. "Heiresses don't marry second sons, so my advice is, enjoy her while you can, and give her up grace­fully when she gives you the grand congee."

  "You'll explain, of course, just how one does that," Kyger said with just a touch of irritation. "The graceful part, I mean."

  Lujan shot him a look. "You'll know instinctively when the time comes, baby brother. You're a Galliard, after all, you'll do me proud."

  Jancie made a sound.

  "Exactly," Lujan said instantly. "I'm past all that now. I'll enjoy watching you instead. I won't even give advice. I've forgot-

  ten it all anyway." He rose from his chair. "Jancie looks all done in. Excuse us, will you?"

  He held out his hand for her, and Jancie took it, touched Kyger's shoulder again, and allowed Lujan to take her from the room. »

  Leaving him alone with shadows and memories.

  How many times had they dined alone here, while Lujan was off screwing whores at the Bullhead? How many times had he wished, had he offered, to marry her? They'd adored each other, just not enough; he didn't have the touch, the magnetism, or enough love to attract Jancie.

  Instead he had a rapacious, deflowered virgin offering to pay him to marry her. Hellfire. Close his eyes, and he could see her— her silky skin, her chocolate hair, her fierce response to his pos­session of her, her even more ferocious iron determination—

  So completely and fantastically his ... no one else's before him, no one else's—ever ...

  . .. yet—

  Shit... he jumped up from his chair, galvanized suddenly. He shouldn't have come here. He should not have just let her go like that. He should have searched for her no matter how long it took, and he should never have come home until the Venable thing had been solved.

  He was avoiding everything—reporting to Wyland, the prob­lem of Tony Venable, and the question of the edible virgin—be­cause he didn't know what the next thing was to do—about either of them.

  He took the steps two at a time. Jancie had given him his old bedroom, down the hall from hers and Lujan's, and far enough away from the past that memories would not intrude.

  They'd redecorated the house anyway. The walls were a soft caramel color with gilt-framed paintings hung above burnished walnut console tables on either side; the woodwork was white now, the ceilings seemed higher, and there was a long Persian run­ner on the hallway floor.

  So different. Even in his room: The walls were a warm color, there were diffe
rent curtains, new bedclothes, a new mirror, re-upholstered chairs. A bookcase that had not been there before with a brass carriage clock ticking off the urgent, passing time.

  The bed he had always slept in. His bag on a stand near the dress­ing room with its new fixtures and freshly papered walls.

  Jancie's touch, even in his room, never ever touching him.

  He felt the impulse to just grab his bag and head out for London right then. It was too hard to be there, too difficult to watch her with Lujan; the loss still was too keen.

  Even if it was cut by the thought of the chocolate virgin. But he felt only exasperation about her. And fear that she had gotten deeper in trouble with her indiscriminate offers of money for marriage.

  He threw himself on the bed. What the hell was he going to do about her, if he ever even found her again?

  What an unholy mess. He knew exactly what was wrong— since he'd been avoiding examining that, too: the goddamned ex­perience at the park of the Seven Sisters had unnerved him. It was too supernatural: the fog, the fence with handholds in the shape of mirror-image sevens, the looming and intimidating faceless statues, the disappearing Samaritan, the ghostly coachman . ..

  He still didn't know what to make of it. What to make of any of it. What had it all to do with Tony Venable? On the surface, the mystery of Tony Venable was simple: who had killed a man who was popular, revered, idolized? On the surface, you could list a half dozen potential suspects: a jealous political rival, a woman, a family member, someone from his past, someone out for revenge, someone who just plain hated him.

  But that didn't explain the perfection of a life that could not be sullied by anything that was publicly known or the unholy and dangerous escalation of the movement to sanctify the memory and ideology of a man who, under the surface where it was foggy and murky and no one could clearly see, was really a demagogue. And it didn't nearly explain the missing corpse, the ghostly seance and the ungodly message of resurrection.

  It didn't explain the sevens.

  Sevens everywhere. Maybe that was important. Maybe he was missing something. How many sevens? The whore, tracing circles and lines on his chest, whispering seven. The Sacred Seven. Venable's address—Seven Park Lane; the number of letters in his name, and in Angilee's—seven; the Seven Cups Tavern; the park of the Seven Sisters . ..

  What else, what else? So many sevens, leading nowhere— somewhere—? Seven, seven, seven—

  The night of the seance—the hotel rooms, all with number seven in them...

  There was something else; it niggled at him, nipping at the edges of his memory—there were more sevens, more ...

  ... seven hooded men at the Bullhead ...

  ...seven,seven,seven—

  Precepts. At the memorial service ...

  ... Venable's seven precepts—what were they?... Wait, what were they? Something about them which, in his astonishment at seeing Angilee there, he had overlooked. There had been an order to them—a meaningful order? He thought so—because they had culminated in belief and—and ... he had it—acceptance. An as­cending order of importance to Venable.

  But—belief and acceptance—

  Belief in him?

  Acceptance of—what"?

  Faith was in there somewhere, too—faith in whom?

  Him?

  He was unexpectedly drifting off to sleep .,.

  A sound at the door which he'd left ajar—hoping, perhaps? He heard it clearly in his mind: mmmrrrrrow—no hope—

  He'd never stop hoping. Understand that, cat.

  A scratching sound, as if Emily didn't believe him. He should have expected Emily would come.

  Then, a silence. Voices following, crowding his mind ...

  Everybody knows, nobody tells...

  Right—but what did they know; what wouldn't they tell?

  Everyone knew he'd loved Jancie. Forget that.

  .. . Something else—damn the cat—why couldn't he remem­ber? He was fuddled by the sevens was what. Too many sevens, meant perhaps to confound and confuse ... except his eyes felt heavy...

  Nothing was too extreme to be considered.

  ... a number, a slash, a fishhook ...

  Wait—where had he heard those words ... ?

  . .. fishhook ...

  —mark that down—

  Mark?

  No, death mark— I live— Check.

  Right—check—upside down—seven . .. Where? Where? He grasped for the memory-No checks, only sevens. He was right at the edge, teetering with the certain knowledge that—

  The sevens were playing with him . .. And then he fell—deep asleep ...

  Chapter Ten

  She didn't like this. The rooms were small, the boardinghouse in an obscure but respectable part of the city. The landlady was cu­rious and suspicious, but impressed by her resources, even though all the money in the world couldn't buy the comforts she was used to in this place.

  But this place, of every hotel and boarding situation she had looked at, was the most genteel and best located of the lot.

  God, she hated it. But she could afford it, and by living here, she could afford everything else she needed to accomplish her plan.

  She thought she'd gone about it with some degree of intelli­gence. She'd gone right to Harrod's, and in the course of choosing some ready-to-wear clothes and personal items., she'd un­abashedly eavesdropped on random exchanges, struck up conver­sations with the matrons, patrons, and the salesgirls, and by dint of some clever questioning, she had discovered what she'd needed to know: the best, most respectable, most economical places to live; the exact room rent to pay; where to shop to buy fashionable but well-priced clothes; how to go about finding that all-important chaperone, a so-called social godmother, who was so germane to her plans.

  She could do nothing without help, and it galled her now how much she had depended on Zabel to direct everything and keep her comfortable. Now she was alone, she felt as if she were on a precipice and not one inch from falling off. But that was to think about later.

  After her most profitable sojourn through Harrod's, and hav­ing charged everything she bought to Zabel because otherwise she would have been distressingly short of money, she had de­parted with a trunk full of purchases, a cabman at her disposal, and a long list of possible residences to vet. And that had taken the rest of the afternoon with a lot of glib explanations that were only partly believed by the sundry concierges and boardinghouse landladies she had interviewed.

  She would have preferred to rent a house, but that, with the influx of the heiresses for the Season, was virtually impossible ex­cept in the worst parts of Town, and on top of that, Zabel might be easily able to find her.

  So at the end of a wearying day, she was left with three choices: a seedy but well-located hotel, which she immediately re­jected; a large bed/sitting room situation in a questionable part of Town; and the suite of small rooms that she had ultimately taken in Camberwell Mansions, an excellent address in the best part of Town.

  Two bedrooms, a sitting room with a gas fireplace, a shared hallway bathroom, nice fittings and furnishings, and rwo meals a day, breakfast and dinner, for an extra fee.

  It would do.

  The rooms were to the front of the house—that cost extra, too, but still within the amount she could afford—and she had taken the two bedrooms with the idea that her chaperone-to-be would live with her for however long it took to accomplish her goal.

  So here she was, in her cozy little flat, thanking the heavens that the salesgirl at Harrod's had been willing to send the bills to Claridge's. She wondered what Zabel would think when he got them. For one thing, he'd know she was still in London. Which was unavoidable, she supposed. But he'd never find her here.

  She was somewhat comforted by that.

  But now what? She didn't know quite what to do next. She

  was used to having someone to do for her. Only since they had come to England had she had to do things for herself. Though Zabel had taken advantage
of hotel services like having their clothes ironed and mended, there hadn't been a maid to draw a bath or lay out a dress.

  She hadn't even considered she might need to iron the new and neatly folded clothes that were now so tidily packed in her trunk.

  How did one iron a dress?

  All those mundane things.

  And having to find a temporary husband besides. And set aside enough money to tempt some stranger to marry her . .. and live more frugally than ever she had been accustomed to.

  How did people do that when there was ironing to be done and meals to be gotten—and a maid usually to take care of those things .. . ?

  She resolutely pushed the thought out of her mind. That was to think about later.

  For now, her first move was to unpack her clothes. And then read the advertisements in the paper. Though she had been ad­vised to go riding in the Park first thing the next day to see and be seen. To make contacts.

  She wasn't so sure she wanted to be seen yet. It seemed more prudent to get all her priorities taken care of before making any public appearances.

  Especially with Zabel and Wroth prowling around Town.

  No, the chaperone was the first order of business, and there needed to be money for that as well, so hiring a carriage for a morning foray with the feckless and fashionable was out of the question right now.

  Why hadn't anyone prepared her for all these little details that had to be taken care of?

  Don't even think about that. To cope with all these un­knowns, she decided, she needed only to focus on one detail at a time—look at what she had accomplished today by following that plan—and the rest could come later.

  She settled in a comfortable chair in the sitting room, pulled the adjacent table closer to her, opened the paper to the advertise­ments, and began to read.

  He dreamt of cats and coincidences, and when he awakened the next morning, there was Emily on the threshold, staring at him with her great golden eyes. It's time to leave.

  "You can't want me gone more than I want to go," he growled at her as he washed and made a quick change of clothes.