A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(11)
An obsession that had quickly paid off, as he learned things that allowed him to manipulate his fellow students, and even, occasionally, the masters. All small things at first, but as his mastery grew, so did his power. By the time he was ready to enter Oxford . . . he was ready for much more.
But first, there was a little matter he needed to attend to.
No one could understand it when the ever-perfect, ever-earnest, over-achieving Victor Harcourt one night in midwinter rose from his bed, dressed carefully, and walked out of Magdalen College down into the Cherwell onto the ice. The ice broke under him, and despite the shallow water, he didn’t seem to have struggled or attempted to save himself at all, but simply died of cold, or drowned, the coroner was unsure which.
Alexandre’s parents were heartbroken, so much so that they paid no attention to Alexandre at all. His father put all of his business into a manager’s hands (the manager, being unswayed by trivial matters of the piety of the investment, made a better job of it than Harcourt Senior had) and spent all his time pouring over Victor’s papers, trying to find a reason why his beloved son should have done this. Within the year, his heart literally broke; he was found dead in his office, still with some of Victor’s essays in his hands, and the doctor opined he had died of sorrow. And Alexandre’s mother took to the comforting arms of some patent medicine that was half alcohol and half opium. Her maid managed her, the housekeeper managed the house, and the business manager managed the business and the household finances. Sometimes old friends attempted to draw her out of herself, but she was much happier in a half stupor in a sunlit window like a cat. Dreaming, perhaps, that her beloved son was still alive and would come home any day. Alexandre she barely acknowledged.
Which was exactly the way he wanted things.
He had cast that spell over his brother to send him out into the midwinter night. He’d intended for Victor to lie down to sleep in some remote place and freeze to death, but the fact that he went into the river was ever so much more convenient. It hadn’t taken much occult nudging at all to turn his father’s already-obsessive nature into an obsession with his dead son; late nights, poor sleep, and eating little had done for him without any other means necessary. And as for his mother, well, a mere suggestion that the tonic would “help,” and the constant replenishing of full bottles, took care of her. And as long as she was content to dream away her days in the hands of her maid and housekeeper, Alexandre had no inclination to meddle with her further.
This left him in control of a very nice income—the business manager was a sharp, clever, calculating man, honest to a fault, with an entire law firm behind him. Alexandre knew better than to try to meddle with him, and really, there was no need for any of that. He was comfortable, he was let to do what he wanted as long as he didn’t run through his allowance, and for the most part he was contented.
Except on nights like this one, where nothing had gone right. When he glanced out his window and saw people in expensive carriages making their way through the snow to the sort of parties and dances he would never be invited to. When he looked around his flat, he noted with discontent that while it was comfortable, and suited him very well, it was . . . slightly shabby, a bit shopworn. He would have no compunction in bringing people from the artistic set here, since most of them lived in far shabbier circumstances—but it was not the sort of place he’d have felt comfortable inviting anyone with a title to.
Not that he knew anyone with a title, except a few fellows from Oxford. And in all probability, if he brought himself to their attention (and he was wearing his school tie) they’d vaguely acknowledge him, issue an even vaguer invitation to “a drink sometime at my club” and fail to give him a card.
Not that he ever would know anyone with a title. Even the occult circles he moved in did not boast men with titles. He knew what circle did—the famed White Lodge of Elemental Magicians and Masters, led by the redoubtable Lord Alderscroft. This, of course, was scarcely common knowledge even among those involved in magic and the occult, but one of the things he had mastered was the ability to see things from afar by way of crystals and bowls of water, and he had overseen and overheard enough to put all the pieces together. He himself would have been counted as a Water Magician, he supposed. Scrying by water . . . sending his brother to his death by water . . . even the nostrum he’d gotten his mother addicted to was a form of water . . .
He had been able to see and command—or rather coerce—the Elementals of Water as a child, though they avoided him in order to avoid being ordered about. But he preferred other magic, things that worked on other people, and made them do what he wanted them to. He was not a Master, but then . . . given the things he had done, he really did not want the attention he would have gotten if he’d been a Master.
Better to avoid the Elemental Magic altogether.
He stared out the window at the snowy street. It looked as if it was finally thinning out, so the toffs would have easier going coming home from their parties. It looked as if Alf had decided to stay in for the evening, however, which was probably wise. If he’d decided to go get a bit of skirt, he’d have come round to see if his master wanted a bit of his own—because with Alexandre’s ready, he could go for a cut higher than he could on his own. With the snow this thick, girls would be trying to solicit from inside four walls, not out in the street, and Alf had probably taken refuge in sleep, gin, or both.