A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(23)

And as for the rest . . . well, the basement came with the ground floor flat. He and Alf had carefully sealed up all the windows so that you could light a thousand lamps down there and not a glimmer would show outside. And in the basement was a covered opening that led directly to the sewers—an opening large enough to drop almost anything down into it. And once something was down there, it wouldn’t be seen again until it ended up in the Thames.

“Penny fer yer thoughts, guv,” Alf said.

“I was just thinking that if this Book proves genuine . . . you and I could not be more perfectly situated to take advantage of it,” Alexandre replied. And smiled. Alf smiled back.

“Fancy a bit of a skirt?” he suggested.

“I’m torn, Alf. I’m torn. I’m itching to get back to The Book—”

“Don’t, not arter dark,” Alf advised, and held up a finger. “Ye don’t wanta make no mistakes, not if this book’s what ye think it is.” He held up a second. “An’ if it is what ye think it is . . . daylight’s some pertection ’gainst accidentally callin’ somethin’.”

“Those are both good points.” He pondered a moment. “Yes, I think I could do with a little bedsport.” He put down the brandy glass, went to the small safe in the wall behind a picture of a dead pheasant, and unlocked it, extracting a couple of banknotes.

“Here you are, Alf,” he said, handing the valet the money then locking the safe. “You know what I like.”

“’Deedy do, guv,” Alf said genially. Then his voice took on a tone of warning. “An . . . lissen. Don’t go back to that book t’night. Lookit one uv yer pitcher books t’get in the mood. Oi got a feelin’ ’bout that book. Oi got a feelin’ it’s the gen-u-wine article. But that jest makes it dangerous.”

Alexandre raised an eyebrow at the valet. He had never, in all the time he’d employed Alf, heard him speak this way.

But that was all the more reason to pay attention, now that he had.

“Very well, Alf. I will take your advice,” he promised. Alf got up, donned his jacket, and went in search of his coat.

When the flat door closed behind him, Alexandre suddenly felt it. The lure. The siren call. The Book wanted him to work on it.

But Alexandre was determined to prove that Alf was right. He was smart, and the fact that he felt this inexplicable pull to do what was quite difficult work, even after a full day of it, only proved that Alf knew what he was talking about.

“You might as well give up for tonight,” he called into the study, not feeling in the least foolish about talking to a book. “I’m taking Alf’s advice. I’m not working on you except during daylight hours. You’ll just have to wait.”

Was it his imagination, or did he feel a faint sense of . . . disappointment?

It was not his imagination that the tugging on him to go into the study lessened. It didn’t stop . . . but it did lessen.

Smiling a little, he turned to the preparations for more carnal pursuits. That had been a good idea, too. No man was capable of thinking of a Book, no matter how important, with a naked girl under him.





5





“I HAVE had many occasions to be grateful that Lord Alderscroft is our patron,” Sarah said to Nan, as they rolled through the suburbs of London on their way to the Harton School. “But I have to say that I am more grateful than usual today.” She snuggled in her cape and thick, warm lap robe, and felt the gentle warmth from the brick in the foot warmer permeating her boots.

On the bench seat across from her, Suki knelt, little nose pressed up against the window with interest. There was a great deal to see, and she drank in every bit of it. It was only two days to Christmas, and London was still covered in snow, but the snow had not put any damper on Christmas spirits. Shop windows had all been decorated to at least some extent for the holiday. There seemed to be carolers of various sorts at nearly every corner, from the Salvation Army brass bands to ordinary buskers turning their hands to festal music in hopes of pennies falling into their hats. Entire blocks had been decorated by the joint efforts of shopkeepers or residents, with wreaths on the lampposts, on the front doors, and on front gates.

They had been picked up at the door of their lodging by Lord A’s private carriage. There had been luxurious quilted lap robes waiting for them and hot bricks in cast-iron foot heaters on the floor. The top of the carriage was piled high with presents for the children of the school—not individual presents, but things they could share. If past gifts were anything to go by, there would probably be a flood of new recruits to the blue and red armies of tin soldiers, additions to the wardrobes of the school dolls, possibly a new rocking horse or two (since Dobbin and Blackie, the current horses, were getting a bit shabby, loose in the joints, and in need of an overhaul), but other than that, Nan and Sarah would be as surprised as the children would be. These presents, by Lord A’s decree, were to be opened today, after supper, at the Christmas Party. That way there would be new things to occupy the youngsters until Christmas Day and the opening of their own personal presents. The Christmas Party brought together such “old students” as still lived in London with the “current crop,” and was a good chance for the youngsters to meet with adults who shared their psychical talents.

“I wouldn’t miss the party for the world, but I was not looking forward to the journey we usually make to the school in this weather,” Nan agreed, glanced out the window at the snow, and shivered. “Agansing is the only one of all of us who is rejoicing at this cold.”