Sensation Read online

  Owwww, Emily said.

  "Fifteen minutes, cat."

  Mrrrow. Great satisfaction that she'd made her point.

  But she didn't move; she just watched him with those all-knowing eyes as he splashed water everywhere and dove into a fresh shirt.

  He felt in a tearing hurry to leave—he almost believed he shouldn't have come; he should've gone to Wyland instead, even though his head felt clear for the first time since he'd undertaken this mission.

  He didn't quite know why. He had no answers, no explana­tion for the coincidence of the sevens. But he didn't need one now. This was the part that had come clear to him in his dreams: he had to keep on a straight course to find Tony Venable's Achilles' heel before his followers brought the country to heel.

  It was as simple as that, and he couldn't let anything else dis­tract him.

  Anything.

  He had to get back to London. Waybury felt unexpectedly strange to him, even though he'd been born and raised here and had managed it for years. He was beyond it now, deep into a purpose that was larger than anyone's life except Tony Ven­able's.

  It was the political future of the country.

  And it was nothing he wanted to explicate to Lujan as he came racing downstairs to breakfast, his bag in hand. He had, in fact, no explanation or excuse for why he was leaving this morn­ing.

  "Hold up, baby brother—" Lujan caught his arm. "What's this? I thought you were spending a few days."

  "Changed my mind. What's for breakfast?"

  "The usual. Unless you're in such a hurry you want to take a scone or two on the road."

  "That would be rude, old son. The least I can do is break bread with you this morning."

  They walked into the breakfast room together. Jancie was there, with their son Gaunt in a high chair beside her, and she was feeding him slowly and painstakingly while he played with a crust of bread.

  Oh, God, Gaunt. ., Kyger caught his breath. Gaunt... the tot, Lujan still called him, almost as if he couldn't bear to pro­nounce the name of his namesake, their doomed baby brother who had been murdered by their father to keep a fortune in dia­monds a secret.

  The past still haunted them, whether they admitted it or not. As much as Jancie had tried to expunge it, the family history still lived on in the person of Gaunt, bearing the dead child's name, and stigma of his little lost soul.

  Not to Jancie, though. As much a part of the story as she was, given her father had been their father's partner and bent on re­venge and murder, Jancie bore no such guilt for the things that had happened. If anything, she had brought life to the house, af­fection to his mother before she died, and her purity and inno­cence had cleansed the sins of their fathers.

  And she loved Lujan with a ferocity that made him sick with envy. She had changed Lujan, remade him, gave him a son, gave him a purpose, gave him a life.

  And in the greatest of ironies, he, Kyger, by dint of his mission, had usurped and taken over Lujan's rakehell life, as Lujan had taken over his staid and patriarchal role at Waybury. The fates had to be laughing.

  But these incongruities in no way diminished his mission. Tony Venable, in death, was perhaps more dangerous than in life, and the fact of his missing body was downright sinister, and he was wasting time lingering at Waybury when he should have re­ported to Wyland yesterday.

  Still, he took his time this morning, because he knew instinc­tively this would be his last morning at Waybury for a long time to come.

  Mrrrrrrww. Emily again, pacing into the dining room. I will take care of her.

  Kyger had no doubt: Emily had always been by Jancie's side,

  and not even her bearing a child could break the bond between Jancie and her calico.

  He touched Gaunt's head, fed him a sip of milk, talked on neutral topics, gazed his fill of Jancie, who was looking a little tired this morning, soaked in the atmosphere of the house where he had once lived a long time ago, and after an hour and a half, he said he had to leave.

  "Something's up," Lujan said. "You just weren't this galva­nized last night. Something happened."

  "No. Nothing happened. I need to report to Wyland, that's all."

  "Or that's all you want to tell me."

  "Could be," Kyger said noncommittally, "but actually, there really is nothing to tell."

  "As you say, baby brother. I have other sources anyway. I'll find out."

  Kyger went around the table to hug Jancie. Beautiful, sweet, loyal and true Jancie.

  Rrrroww. Emily, emphatically. /'// watch over her.

  "Take care of yourself," Jancie whispered. "Come back soon."

  He wouldn't. "When I can."

  "We love you," Jancie murmured.

  "I love you, too," he whispered back.

  Lujan walked him to the stables. Everything, to his critical eye, looked up to snuff, well cared for, well managed.

  "Good work, big brother."

  "Well, a man can't trash his legacy," Lujan said. "Can he?"

  "I always said that," Kyger responded, as he helped the stable boy saddle up his horse, and he wondered if Lujan heard the slight edge in his voice.

  "And you were right," Lujan said easily. "Glad to have you, even for a night."

  "Thanks, old man." Kyger shook his hand.

  "Come back soon."

  Kyger mounted, sketched a salute rather than answer, and nudged the horse toward the stable door and into a trot as he passed through.

  Why did he think there was something so final about this visit? He twisted in the saddle to wave to Lujan, who was silhou­etted against the stable door.

  He saw Jancie, on the front steps of Waybury, holding Gaunt by his hand. It was like a painting, he thought, a picture he'd carry in his mind like a photograph forever; but he was past it now, his future lay elsewhere, and all the years he'd spent here seemed telescoped into an hour, and gone.

  Gone.

  He turned again to look back at Lujan, who had moved away from the stable door and had started walking back toward the house.

  He heard the crisp crunch of the oyster shells beneath his horse's hooves. He admired the swath of well-tended lawn as he cantered slowly down the drive toward the gate, one side of which was swung open, while the other was still in place.

  He had seen these gates his whole life, knew exactly what the pattern was; it was as familiar to him as the back of his hand, the wrought-iron chevrons in even rows top to bottom on either side of the gate.

  So it had to be that he was hallucinating, because as he came closer and closer to the gate, those chevrons looked to him like two rows of truncated sevens marching up and down, right at his own front door.

  "You understand, madam, it's terribly late to be looking to en­gage a chaperone. All of our best people ..."

  "Yes, I do. I understand." Angilee understood a lot more than that now, after several days of canvassing the papers and inter­viewing women who were not nearly the caliber of chaperone she was seeking. It galled her that she had been reduced to going to an agency, because they got final approval of her rather than the other way around.

  But there was no other way. She needed the right woman with the right connections, and she had made that very clear to this dour woman who was interviewing her.

  "But—I must have someone. My people are stranded in New York—they can't get passage until two weeks from now, and I just arrived here, I'm all alone, and until my father finishes his business in Paris and can return to London, I must have some­one. The best someone possible, because I will accept nothing less."

  Well, that was piling it on, she thought ruefully, but the best advice was to consult an agency rather than hire someone out of hand, and her foray into the advertisements had proved the truth of that. So she had dressed elegantly and expensively and come to the Streatham Agency on Saint George Street, and spun this spi­der web of a fairy tale to the disapproving woman behind the desk, who was looking at her through a lorgnette that made her seem that much more formidable a
barrier than Angilee's lack of credentials.

  "You can certainly make inquiries about my family," Angilee barreled on when Miss Burnham said nothing. "My father is a well-known investor in the States. He sent me ahead to engage rooms and set us up for the Season, and what has happened but my retinue was caught in the influx of the rush to come to London and had to give up their passage to accommodate those who could afford to... pay more for their tickets. Well, that leaves me in the lurch, without proper accommodations and without staff. At the minimum, I need someone very well con­nected who can direct me and see that I comport myself properly here. Now, do you have someone who can meet those require­ments?"

  Miss Burnham pursed her lips, and looked Angilee up and down once more, and consulted the application she had filled out, which included what she was willing to pay the right person. "I will need to look into the matter," she said finally.

  "Then I would be happy to return tomorrow in the hopes that you will have found the exact person I need, and we can proceed from there."

  And now what? Miss Burnham would make her inquiries and discover that Zabel was right in Town and Angilee had told her a ringing pack of lies.

  Forget about that. If she were meant to have a chaperone through this means, then everything would fall into place. Or perhaps the amount of money she was offering was enough to tempt Miss Burnham to provide the chaperone without checking her particulars, since her percentage of that fee would be rather hefty.

  Don't think about it; leave it to fate.

  Well, charging her clothes to Zabel had been a big leap into

  faith and fate, although she supposed he might refuse to honor the bills. It wasn't her problem now, though. The thing she needed most was entree into those social gatherings that would put her in contact with the kind of man who might consider mar­rying her for money and a month.

  Yes, a month would do. Enough to show Zabel the license, for him to question the minister, to assure himself the union was legal, and to get Wroth out of her life forever.

  So now what? She stepped out of the elegant mansion in which the Streatham Agency conducted business and into bustling Saint George Street, which was crowded with carriages, horseback rid­ers and strolling passersby.

  Any one of them could be a menace to her, she thought sud­denly, because somewhere in the deep heart of this city, her father and Wroth were lurking, making plans, searching for her. They could be passing by in a cab, they could be walking down the street, they could be spying on her at this very moment, or they could have hired someone to find and follow her ...

  Or ... she could be letting her imagination run away with her.

  Which was much more likely. They never could have guessed she'd gone to that... that brothel place, or wound up with a hired penis in a house of moving walls.

  So what was the likelihood they would think to look for her here?

  She was being cautious, that was all, just thinking of all the possibilities no matter how improbable.

  She started down the street at a brisk pace. Such a beautiful day today. So different from that foggy day, when the air was so thick, opaque and clogged that she couldn't see a foot in front of her and the bull couldn't see his way to marry her.

  Forget about that, too.

  Now she was taking steps, firm steps forward that had noth­ing to do with the hired bull, nothing to do with her father, every­thing self-directed, and in her own hands, and she could just pretend that misbegotten adventure with the bull at the brothel never happened and go on from there.

  She didn't expect the solution to her problem would actually present itself at the door of her rooms the next day. But mid-morning, there she was. Her name was Mrs. Geddes, and she

  was a tiny woman with a slippy gray topknot and a no-nonsense manner who barged into the sitting room and paced around Angilee as if she were a prize cow as she stood in the threshold.

  "So, you are Miss Rosslyn." She made it sound like an im­possible problem. "Close the door, won't you? Thank you. Now we can talk. Here are my bona fides. Let me immediately assure you that Miss Burnham conducted a thorough investigation of your background, and is sufficiently assured of your credentials, despite the Cheltenham tale you told her, to send me to you. So you must tell me exactly what is going on, Miss Rosslyn. I am very particular, and I don't hold with lies or obfuscation, and I will reject the position in the event you choose not to be candid with me."

  Well, that was clear, Angilee thought, although she was rather taken aback by this Mrs. Geddes' frontal assault, but not so much so that she forgot her manners. "Won't you have a seat, Mrs. Geddes? Shall I call for tea?"

  Mrs. Geddes sat. "That would be nice."

  Angilee wasn't quite certain the landlady would agree to make the tea, but she called down to her nonetheless. Mrs. Keck said she would, and Angilee gathered her wits, pulled a table up be­tween her and Mrs. Geddes, and settled in a chair opposite while they waited.

  "So," Mrs. Geddes said, looking around her with great cu­riosity. "This is what we know: There are no servants stranded in New York, Your father is not in Paris conducting business. Rather, he is right here in London, enjoying the rewards of all his con­nections. It is known his daughter is with him this visit, and he has not reported that she's gone missing, so we must assume there is some reason he'd wish to keep such a catastrophic thing quiet for the moment. So exactly what am I committing myself to, Miss Rosslyn?"

  Once again, Angilee was startled by the breadth of Mrs. Geddes' information. "Miss Burnham is very thorough," she said after a moment, "and very quick with her sources. Everything you say is true. I did come to England with my father, and he came, as have many others, with the express purpose of finding a husband for me. However, what I did not know was that he had already contracted an alliance with a man I had never met, and

  fully expected I would adhere to his desire that I marry this man he had chosen, without consulting my wishes whatso­ever. "

  There was a knock on the door, and the landlady entered with a tray, which she set on the table. "I put out some cookies as well," she said.

  "Very considerate," Angilee said. "Thank you kindly, Mrs. Keck."

  Mrs. Keck gave her a meaningful glance that said there would be an extra charge for this as well, and withdrew from the room. Angilee turned to Mrs. Geddes. "Will you pour?" "Let me see how you pour," Mrs. Geddes said. Angilee poured carefully, cautiously, Mrs. Geddes nodded her. approval, and they sipped for a moment in the silence, and then Mrs. Geddes said, "Do go on, Miss Rosslyn."

  Angilee took a cookie just to take a moment to think how she would put the rest. It was inconceivable that she should tell Mrs. Geddes that she'd stolen an unconscionable amount of money from her father, deceived and betrayed him, and left her putative fiance days before the ceremony was to take place.

  She wondered how much more Mrs. Geddes really knew. This was a tight society. When you were absorbed into it, you became public property, and everyone knew everything about you— where you lived, who your ancestors were, how much money your father had, who was designing your wedding dress and who your attendants would be.

  What hour you would be walking down the aisle . .. Had Zabel even planned that far ahead? What could she reasonably tell Mrs. Geddes? "I don't want to marry this man," she said finally. "My father refuses to heed my wishes, so I saw nothing for it but to strike out on my own and find my own husband, and to do it as clandes­tinely as possible until I found the right man." Put like that, it sounded impossibly naive. Impossibly foolish.

  She went on resolutely: "I admit this is unorthodox beyond permission, but I was desperate. My chosen fiance did not please me in any way, shape or form. He is utterly repugnant to me. And so here I am, having rented my own rooms, seeking the next

  proper step to achieving my goal of finding a husband of my own choice."

  Mrs. Geddes made a sound that might have been acquies­cence, or just a noncommittal snort. There was silence for an­other minute
or two, and then Mrs. Geddes said, her tone conversationally mild, "And tell me truthfully, what have you left out of your story, Miss Rosslyn?"

  Angilee lifted her cup to her lips and met Mrs. Geddes' razor gaze over the rim. This woman was as sharp as a surgeon, knew just how to cut deep. No glossing over things with her. No hir­ing her either after she heard the rest. And she would have to tell her the rest. There was no getting out of it, she could see that clearly. This was not Mrs. Geddes' first turn around the block.

  Angilee sighed and put down her cup. "I ran away in the dead of night, Mrs. Geddes, and I took a fair amount of my father's— assets—with me."

  Mrs. Geddes' eyebrows rose. "A fair amount, Miss Rosslyn?"

  "He will not try to arrest me for stealing what will be mine eventually," Angilee answered tartly. "He wants this marriage—, badly."

  "I see," Mrs. Geddes murmured. ,„

  Angilee rose. "I'm so sorry to have wasted your time, Mrs. Geddes."

  "Oh, sit down, Miss Rosslyn. We're not yet done. You rather interest me, actually. You're no milk-and-water miss like the rest of them, and that's refreshing, to say the least. Your father hasn't yet sent the Yard after you—in fact, there has been not a whisper that things aren't as they should be—so we can assume he's not so much interested in getting the money back as he is having you walk down the aisle with the man he chose for you. A very inter­esting challenge, Miss Rosslyn, to provide you with proper chap-eronage and the introductions that will help you achieve your goal. Very interesting indeed—"

  She poured herself another cup of tea and sat back, sipping. "I know many people," she said after a while. More silence, and then, "It will take a little doing to gloss over why you are not sponsored by your father." More silence as Angilee sat with her hands in her lap, waiting for the final coup de grace.

  More silence. "We could change your name." She shook her head. "No. That would raise more questions than we want."