From The Ashes (The Ministry of Curiosities #6)(59)

"Shut up, Gilly," Marchbank growled with more vehemence than I'd ever heard from him. Usually the composed one, he looked tired and worried.

It was this that gave me pause, and had me glancing anxiously at Lincoln.

"We wanted her brought back, and now she is," Marchbank went on. "Stop harping."

"I didn't want her back," Gillingham protested. "I simply wanted to know where he'd sent her."

"As did I," Eastbrooke snapped. "As did most of us."

Four voices once again spoke over one another.

"She's back." Lincoln's voice cut through the noise. "She's back for good. That is the end of the matter."

Gillingham shot to his feet. "You do not tell us when the matter is ended!"

"Sit down," Lincoln growled.

He did not. He stepped toward us, but Lady Harcourt caught his arm.

"Please, Gilly," she said in a quiet, simpering voice that didn't sit well on her. "Let's keep this as civil as possible." She didn't look at me, but her brown eyes implored Lincoln.

Doyle wheeled in a drinks table. He poured brandies and handed them out. No one spoke until he left, shutting the door behind him.

"You may be wondering why we didn't come earlier," Lady Harcourt said.

"It crossed my mind," Lincoln said blandly.

"We needed to have a meeting to discuss the situation among ourselves first. It was…heated, and rather exhausting."

"That explains why your tempers are short and your eyes tired," I said, placing my glass on the mantel. I wanted a clear head.

Lady Harcourt's hand touched the corner of her eye as if she were checking for new wrinkles.

"You allowed yourself to get caught by the police," Eastbrooke said. "What were you thinking, man?"

"And what the bloody hell were you doing at Barts, anyway?" Gilly added. "What has the hospital got to do with anything?"

Lincoln shifted his stance. "I can't tell you yet."

"I beg your pardon!"

Eastbrooke stood. He was an imposing figure, but I wasn't afraid. Not with Lincoln beside me. "Careful, Lincoln. Be very careful of overstepping."

"You'll be told when I deem it necessary for you to know," Lincoln said. "No sooner. I am the leader of the ministry and this is my investigation."

Gillingham pointed the middle finger of the hand that held his glass at each of the committee members in turn. "We are the head of the organization."

"No, you are not."

"And we have the power to dismiss you."

I sucked in a breath.

Eastbrooke stood and held up his hands for calm. "Settle down, everyone. Let's not make any hasty decisions."

Decisions? Unease settled in my stomach, bitter and cold. I glanced at Lincoln but his stony face gave nothing away.

"Our decisions are never hasty," Marchbank said.

The general pointed a finger at his colleague. "You are not in charge here, March."

"Nor are you."

Eastbrooke's chest expanded and his chin thrust out. He sported the confident air of a man with an army under his command, whose word was never questioned and whose orders were always obeyed. "I am the most senior member of the committee. I have years of experience in strategy and planning, and dealing with men. Not to mention I am the closest thing to a father he has."

"No." The sharpness of Lincoln's voice had everyone turning to him. Lady Harcourt pressed her hand to her lips, and General Eastbrooke blinked. He hadn't expected Lincoln's disagreement. "You are not a father figure to me," Lincoln went on. "You are nothing like one, and never have been, so do not pretend otherwise."

"I raised you."

"You paid for a roof over my head, and tutors to teach me. That's not the same as raising."

"He's got you there," Gillingham said with a chuckle into his glass.

Eastbrooke tugged on his jacket hem. "Nevertheless, I am in charge here."

"You are not in charge," Marchbank shot back. "None of us are. That's why we have meetings and votes." Eastbrooke may have the bearing of a senior member of the armed forces, but Marchbank possessed what every nobleman did—a belief in his God-given right to be above everyone else. He also had the face of a battle-scarred warrior. It made him far more frightening and worthy of respect, in my opinion.

"Please, enough of this arguing," Lady Harcourt whispered. "My nerves are shattered enough."

"That's your own fault, Julia," Gillingham said, pointing his walking stick at her. "You can't blame any of us for your secret getting out. I, for one, didn't even know you were a dancer until I read about it in the papers. Tell me, do you know the cancan? Marvelously energetic dance. I wonder, would you give me a private show later?"

With a snarl and bearing of teeth, she flung herself at him. "How dare you!"

He put his hands up to shield his face, but not before her fingernails raked across his cheek and he spilled his brandy in his lap. It took both Eastbrooke and Marchbank to drag her off him and push her back down on the chair. Lincoln didn't step in to help.

Gillingham touched his bloodied cheek. "You bitch!"