A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(6)
Tonight’s discussion of Christmas Eve had brought her the sudden realization that if ever such a spirit was to strike, it would be then. She had not wanted to spoil Nan’s evening, in no small part because there was nothing whatsoever Nan could actually do against such a creature, so she had kept her misgivings to herself. But as soon as Nan had gone to bed, she plunged back into the pages of the book, looking for answers.
Unfortunately, she found none, and closed the book wearing a frown of discontent. Finally, she stared into the dying fire, and sighed. I’ll just have to see if John and Mary know something, or if they fail me, Lord Alderscroft.
But Nan was right about one thing. There really was nothing she could do about it, if there happened to be such a creature waiting for its moment to emerge from the spirit realm. She didn’t know where it could manifest, nor what form it would take. She and the Watsons had already put every protection they could think of on their flat, the Watsons’, and Holmes’. And Lord Alderscroft, of course, had so much magic layered on his various homes that to the inner eye they looked like impregnable fortresses. There was nothing more she could do, so she might as well stop fretting and enjoy the season.
Easier said than done, she sighed, as she put the book away on a shelf. No harm in rereading it later, after all. She might spot something she had missed if she came at it with fresh eyes.
She went to bed, grateful that Mrs. Horace had stowed a hot brick wrapped in flannel in it, and even more grateful for the featherbed and down comforter. She was sure she would have nightmares anyway, but instead, she found herself dreaming of Aladdin, who looked just like Puck, producing a series of amusing spirits out of a lamp.
2
ALEXANDRE Harcourt despised the Christmas season.
It was not merely that everyone around him—even occultists, artists and writers who should have been immune to such childish nonsense—became positively giddy in the presence of decorations, carols, and Christmas sweets. It was not just that everyone around him suddenly became mawkishly and sentimentally attached to their families, even when during the rest of the year they could barely stand to be in the same building.
It was that the season occasioned not just idiotic merriment, but upsets in everything. Christmas balls had an air of . . . desperation. Anxious mamas and equally anxious daughters were eying the deadline of New Year’s Eve, still with no engagements announced, and were lowering their expectations and upping the pressure on any young man they considered a remotely acceptable catch. Parties were inclined to include children, at least for part of the festivities, and Alexandre loathed children.
But worst of all, the entertainments he could usually count on were supplanted by . . . other things.
Today, for instance. He had intended to spend the afternoon at his favorite music hall, one where the women danced the French Can-Can in the truly French manner, that is to say, sans culottes. He had been looking forward to a pleasant, dissipated afternoon, after which he would think about his dinner and his evening. But he arrived there only to discover the music hall was closed.
That is, he arrived at the hall to find there was a slouching fellow in an oversized coat and a soft hat standing outside the doors, turning people away. Alexandre ignored him and attempted to push his way in, but the fellow actually put an arm out, preventing him.
“’All’s closed, guv,” he said, pulling on the brim of his hat deferentially. Alexandre stared at him, stunned. He’d never heard of such a thing—a closed music hall is a music hall that isn’t making any money, after all. The fellow nodded to confirm his statement and elaborated. “’Ole ’all’s ’ired out till midnight,” he stated. “Brother’ood uv ’Aulers an’ Carters Christmas Ball.”
Alexandre swallowed down rage, but enraged he surely was. How dared some dirty lot close this place for a whole day so they could swill cheap beer and cavort until midnight! “But surely—” he said, “The entertainers—”
“Part uv th’ ’ire, guv,” the man said, with a hint of sympathy. “Oi cain’t letcher in, an yew wouldn’ loik it, anyways. Gulls is dressed down t’their toesies an’ up t’their necks, an’ the singin’s all carols an’ senteemental ballads an’ suchlike. No dancin’, the jokes is all fer kiddies, an’ nothin’ sportin’. Come on back arter midnight, we got a midnight show. Or come back tomorrer.”
No hope for it. He turned away, and just to complete his dissatisfaction, it began to snow. It was chancy enough to find a cab in this wretched part of town, but inclement weather made it nearly impossible. He had to trudge for blocks before he managed to catch one just as the driver was letting off his fare, before the man could whip up the horse and speed away to a more lucrative part of the city.
He gave the man the first address that popped into his head, which, on reflection, was the very last place he wanted to go to: Pandora’s Tea Room in Chelsea, frequented by the artistic, poetic, and esoteric sets. Not that he didn’t frequent Pandora’s—just not at this hour, when the . . . less adventurous made it their haunt. But it would at least be warm and dry there, and assuming that the snow would keep most of the people he didn’t want to see away, he could get something to eat while he decided on another destination.
Alas. The snow had only made the place more crowded than usual. It seemed that every single member of the airy-fairy-type artistic circles had decided to descend, and eat tea cakes, and blather about Truth and Beauty.