“Another bottle already? Aquinas is a gem, Julia. Whatever you are paying him, double it instantly.”
I rose. “It is not Aquinas. There would have been footsteps.” I opened the door cautiously. No one. I stepped back and there was an odd ruffly sound from the floor.
“Ah, thought you would invite yourself to the party, did you?”
The raven made a whirring noise in his throat and toddled past me, grave as a judge in his little black robe.
Portia gave a little cry. “What the devil is that?”
I closed the door and resumed my seat. “A raven, and not just any raven, my dear. This gentleman happens to be one of Her Majesty’s own.”
Portia’s eyes were enormous. She reached for Puggy protectively “You don’t mean it! Not a Tower raven…what on earth is he doing here? How?”
The bird was pecking comfortably at the lace-edged hem of her gown. I distracted him with a tart, waving it in front of his bright black eyes. “Val. He won him off of Reddy Phillips on a lucky hand at cards.”
Portia, clutching Puggy to her bosom, leaned over and watched the raven, tearing daintily at the tart.
“He’s rather handsome, but something of a macabre sort of pet, don’t you think? Especially with a dying man in the house?”
“Don’t be ghoulish,” I said sharply. “Simon has not seen him, nor will he. It might upset him in his present circumstances.”
Portia agreed, then tossed another tart to the bird.
“That’s for me,” he said pleasantly.
Portia’s eyes rounded even more. “He speaks?”
I nodded. “Apparently Reddy took him for a jape, substituting another bird in its place. No one at the Tower seems to have noticed, which I find ridiculous. I mean, one would think that if one’s job is the care and well-being of these creatures, one could have the diligence to tell them apart.”
“One would,” she agreed. “Do you mean to keep him, then?”
“I mean to give him back, only I don’t quite know how. Reddy plagued us for a while, but I did not want to turn the bird over to him.”
“Why ever not?” Portia’s voice rose in exasperation, the perquisite of an older sister. “You want to be rid of him, who better to take him off your hands than the little half-wit who stole him in the first place?”
“I cannot explain it, except to say that I do not like Reddy Phillips. I did not wish to make it so easy for him.”
Portia regarded the raven a moment longer. He had finished his little treat and was sitting, looking from one of us to the other, as if he understood each word perfectly.
“You know, I am not surprised Reddy has business with ravens,” she said thoughtfully. “His elder brother was quite obsessed with them.”
“Was he?” I was keeping a wary eye on the bird. He was eyeing Puggy a little too intently for my liking.
“Yes, you must remember Roland. I was obliged to dance with him sometimes during my Season thanks to Auntie.”
We grimaced at each other. Aunt Hermia’s rule that one must dance with any gentleman who asked was ironclad. She made exceptions only for the most outrageous cads. She had some notion that it would give us an opportunity to widen our acquaintance, but as we always tried and failed to make her understand, there was a reason we were not acquainted with such people in the first place.
“I remember him vaguely. Whatever became of him?”
“Dead. Married some thin, weedy girl from the Duke of Porthchester’s family. She was only sixteen, if memory serves. Piles of money on his side, a lineage to the Norman Conquest on hers. Unhappy marriage, by all accounts.” As always, I was deeply impressed with Portia’s ability to remember the minutest details of other families’ misfortunes. She was a walking catalog of gossip, and although I deplored it, secretly I was rather glad. It saved me the trouble of talking to people. “Roland was quite apparently indiscreet with his affairs. He was actually on his way to an assignation when there was an accident. Train, boat, carriage, I can’t recall. Something to do with transportation. Anyway, I don’t think the child-bride mourned him very long. She married some Continental, a count or some such creature, the next year. Not a farthing between them except for her jointure from Roland, but they seem quite happy.”
I sipped at my champagne, wondering how differently my life might have turned out if Edward had left me a widow years earlier. Might I have found a Continental count to ease my widowhood? Portia was still talking, reminiscing about the Phillipses.
“He was a member of that awful club, do you remember? They formed it the year you made your debut. Fashioned themselves after Cousin Francis’ Hellfire Club.”
I preferred not to remember. Sir Francis Dashwood, a cousin on our father’s side, had been the founder of the infamous Medmenham Club, often referred to by its more descriptive—and accurate—sobriquet, the Hellfire Club. The members had been notorious for their exploits, both in the bedchamber and in the chapels of the occult. In the years since its dissolution, a number of other reprobate youths had attempted to revive it, with varying success.
Portia was musing aloud. “What did they call themselves? Something very like it…Brimstone! Yes, that was it. The Brimstone Club. They had all of these nasty little rituals, deflowering virgins together, that sort of thing. And all of that superstitious nonsense! They used to drink out of virgins’ skulls to cure diseases and things. You must remember—it was all the talk for the entire Season. Such speculation about who might belong. They were so secretive about their membership, no one ever knew for certain. Except for Roland Phillips—he went on and on about it. Of course, that family has never been one for discretion. Roland talked about how they always had ravens when they met, for effect, I suppose. His father bought that estate the other side of Basingstoke. They used the old folly there as a meeting place for the club, almost a ruin, I think it was. Very atmospheric and eerie. Tried to conjure the dead, I think.”
