****
Damnation and Hellfire - Chapter Two
The white waistcoat was pressed and fitted to perfection, the gray stripe down the side of his trousers was perfectly aligned, and the black tailcoat showed not a spec of lint.
As if not entirely trusting the magnificence of the attire reflected in the mirror, Phileas frowned and turned to his valet. "This flower seems a bit weak." He touched the drooping white petals gently with the tip of his finger, but it would list to one side of his coat lapel.
He was proud of Passepartout at a moment like this. A lapel bloom was after all an insignificant issue, and his man had been on multiple trips up and down the staircase during the last fifteen minutes. Any other valet would have balked, but not Passepartout. He stepped forward smartly and examined the problem in question, showing no sign of weariness as he whisked away Phileas' hand and reached for the bloom. "Pfft, pfft, pfft!"
Phileas watched the petals roll back into place at a touch from Passepartout. "Well done. Not much choice from the hothouse, I assume?"
"No, master. Is being the early frost and having been taking too many chances, leaving the poor posses out late."
"Yes. Well, one must learn to make do. One doesn't have to like it," he dipped his head to check the scent of the flower and found it almost completely odorless, "but one does learn." He lifted his chin as Passepartout made a minute adjustment to the tie at his neck. "I wanted to commend you, Passepartout, on having suited your supper preparations to Verne's unanticipated arrival. I really must have a talk with him about giving us adequate warning."
The trap was baited and set. He watched his valet hesitate, then return to fixing the cravat. "It is not so much being his fault. Master Jules is so excitable about such things; they must be done right away before they become forgetfulnesses. Is part of him being a genius."
"Genius is no excuse for poor manners," said Phileas sternly. He took a step back even as Passepartout reached for the tie again. "No, thank you, Passepartout, I think that's done it. Perhaps I'll have a word with Verne on the way. I'm not at all happy about him putting you out in this manner. A cable would have been sufficient--"
"Is not being so easy to send cables when there is not money to be paying for them."
"True." Relenting at the very least for his valet's sake, Phileas nodded. "Though it would be an entirely different matter if we'd sent a cable to him. Which, of course, we didn't."
"No, master."
He kept his eyes on the mirror and saw Passepartout glance quickly away - so Verne had been sent a telegram asking him to come. Not by Passepartout, surely. Rebecca would be the obvious culprit.
It was gratifying to find that he had been so successful in his subterfuge. Perhaps too successful, though, if it meant they might interfere tonight. If Rebecca could be content to wait only one more evening . . . .
"Something is wrong, master?"
Phileas reconsidered the course of action he'd chosen. It was his own fault, after all; to drag them into it would be blatantly unfair, not to mention dangerous. They would try to stop him. For some reason they seemed to think they had his best interests at heart.
Touching the flower in his lapel again was sufficient cover for his hesitation in answering. "Can't be helped, not at this late hour," he said beneath his breath, and let Passepartout make of that what he would. He turned and headed for the door to the hall. "Perhaps another drink before I go? Do hail a cab for me, Passepartout."
"Yes, master."
There was nothing inelegant about the way Passepartout slipped around him and scurried down the stairs to accomplish the task he'd been set. Phileas half-suspected that when no one was about, Passepartout slid down the banisters just to save time - he hadn't been beyond that himself during his own boyhood at Shillingworth Magna. There had been merry hell to pay if father caught him or Erasmus in mid-flight. Not that Rebecca had been immune from the temptation - she'd turned the final dismount into a contest of acrobatic skill before she'd grown too old to do so gracefully. It was just that she'd never been unlucky enough to get caught at it.
He'd paused in reminiscence at the mid-stair landing and realized there was someone standing just inside the drawing room door. Phileas felt his heart stop for an instant, his breath catching in his throat.
"If it's not convenient, Uncle Phileas--?"
"Of course it's convenient. And I should think 'uncle' is superfluous, now that you've finished university." A quick flush of red in the young man's cheeks, not embarrassment at the honor but at something else, enough to cause him to ask, "What's wrong?"
"My father - I don't know how to tell him--"
One step, then two more down, still staring at the figure in the drawing room, the gas lamps having been turned low, leaving only the firelight to see who. . . .
Oh, Verne . . . of course.
Not--
His heart started in his chest and Phileas exhaled loudly enough for Verne to hear the sound and turn toward him. "Fogg - I want to apologize. I--" He stopped, taking a breath himself. "Are you all right? You look like you've seen a ghost."
How hard it was to force the smile, particularly when faced with those words! But Phileas did so, remembering the part he'd chosen to play, letting the smile be a little too broad, allowed his stride to assume a bit more swagger than normal as he sped down the last few steps. "Sorry, Verne - no, just had a dreadful thought. Not certain I reminded Passepartout about replenishing the brandy stores aboard the Aurora."
He'd hoped to encounter Passepartout on his return from securing a cab - where the devil had the man gone, Brighton? At least the proper gloves and hat were waiting for him, along with his cane. His coat was probably here somewhere . . . .
"Fogg, about the club - it was rude of me to suggest--"
"Perish the thought," Phileas countered. He turned, looked - no coat, not even thrown over a chair. "If you plan on staying through tomorrow, it should be over by then. I'll be free to--"
"What will be over by then?"
Damn.
A dozen different answers, a dozen different evasions, a dozen different lies . . . and not a one of them would be enough to throw Verne off his trail, not after that slip.
He was getting too old for this. Or, rather, he was getting too close to them - far easier to lie to strangers. Yet he would never have made such a slip to Rebecca; he'd learned long ago to set his guard against her. With Passepartout, he could have thrown down the gauntlet of class distinction and nothing more would have been said of the matter. But Verne was another situation entirely - that friendship hadn't yet produced clear and well-defined boundaries, proper defenses and offenses hadn't fallen into place. He knew instantly that he needed a weapon to anger, one that would dissuade and hurt but not wound too deeply.
Phileas raised his arm to Verne's shoulder and straightened it, locking the elbow and pushing the younger man's back against the doorjamb. "Look, you insolent pup - I've nothing against you scratching at my door looking for a free meal now and again, but at the very least, could you attempt some manners while doing it?"
Startled, and perhaps a little frightened at the unexpected, physical force, Verne stared at him for a moment with wide eyes. A flash of anger in his gaze followed the humiliation, which had brought color to his face. He raised both hands to shift Phileas' grip from his shoulder, but Phileas merely pressed harder, pinning him to the woodwork like an insect on a mounting board.
"Let go--!"
"As I said, eat your supper, go to bed, and if you're very good, perhaps I'll take you to the Reform Club tomorrow night. Until then--" The moment Phileas dropped his hold, Verne moved to the right in an attempt to keep from getting pinned again. Good, he was learning. "--Content yourself with the toys in the nursery. If you stay out of the adults' way, you won't get hurt."
Half-suspecting that Verne might launch himself at him, Phileas turned his back warily on the writer and picked up his hat and gloves, then his stick. The front door opened and Passepartout stood in the center of the doorframe, breathing heavily as if he'd run several hundred yards or more in a few seconds' time. A blast of frigid air blew past him and into the house. "Your cab is awaiting, mast--"
Phileas wasn't about to give him a chance to assess the situation. Spotting his coat folded over Passepartout's arm, he snatched it up and brushed aside the valet, with a terse, "Thank you, Passepartout. No need to leave the lamps - I'll be quite late tonight, if I return at all."
Long legs were a blessing when it came to crossing distances quickly. Phileas was up the steps and into the cab before Passepartout had even given a thought to following. Still holding his accessories loosely in his hands, he kept his gaze straight ahead as he slammed the cab door and the horses started off. The clip-clop of the hooves would have drowned out any noise from behind him, although he didn't really expect any rousing complaint. Only when he was beyond sight of his townhouse did he take a breath, set his hat and cane upon the seat, and begin to struggle into his greatcoat before putting on his gloves. A destination for the driver could wait until he was properly attired and then there was the choice to make - a direct route, or something more indirect to discourage pursuit?
It was the absolutely perfect way to begin an evening that, in the best of circumstances, promised to be nothing short of a nightmare.
****
End of Part 2
****