Chapter Two – Laying a Trap
Sweeping forward into the ballroom, Lord Rutherford and his party made their way towards Lucy and Ken. The crowd fell silent and parted before them, drawing back like the tide.
"Lady Fairchild, I was delighted to find your invitation waiting for me on my return to Mother England," Rutherford said, reaching for the hand Lucy slowly extended. He lifted it to his lips, kissing the air above it. As soon as was politely possible, she pulled it back, making a conscious effort not to rub it against the side of her dress.
"I was not sure if you would return in time, Lord Rutherford," she murmured, mentally damning the rules of polite society that had demanded she issue the invitation.
"For one of your soirees, Lady Fairchild, I would return from the depths of Hell itself. As it was, I had only to return from the upper ring of Hell." Rutherford paused to allow his hangers-on to twitter over his witticism.
"Is that so?" Lucy replied shortly.
"The Orientals have absolutely no comprehension of civilized entertaining. I vow, I have never spent time in a more barbaric place than Japan." Ostensibly answering Lucy's question, Rutherford could not resist aiming a barb in Ken's direction. "No wonder you were so eager to leave it behind, Hidaka."
"I sincerely doubt that you would understand my reasons for leaving, Rutherford." Ken's voice, while utterly polite and composed, contained a thread of menace. The hunter was closer to the surface than before. Though the guests did not understand what they were hearing, they nevertheless responded to it, shifting nervously and pressing closer to each other.
"I wonder that you bother traveling at all, Lord Rutherford, if you find everything so dull," Lucy said. "If you wish for everything to be familiar, stay in England."
Rutherford smirked. "If you wish me to remain close, Lady Fairchild, I shall endeavour to do so."
"Aren't you going to introduce your guests?" she asked, pointedly.
"Guests?" he said. "I was under the impression that you knew everyone in my party."
"I was referring to your foreign guests, not the English ones."
"Them?" he said, amusement and amazement both apparent in his face. "I didn't bring those two to England as my guests. I brought them as my servants. Surely you don't expect me to introduce my servants to you?"
"While they are in my house, Lord Rutherford, they are my guests, and, as such, I expect you to introduce them." Her voice was polite but firm, steel under silk.
"Very well," he replied. "The woman is called Takaoka, and the man is Fujimiya." He gestured to the woman and she moved forward. "I purchased them from a politician named Takatori. Fujimiya is a warrior, and will be serving as my personal bodyguard." He ran a hand over the woman's cheek. "And Takaoka will be serving me in…a number of capacities."
There was no visible change in the woman's expression, but Ken could feel waves of revulsion emanating from her.
"Purchased them?" Lucy asked, surprised. "They're human beings, Rutherford, not livestock."
"My dear Lady Fairchild," Rutherford drawled, "they're barely human…practically animals. Their entire country is full of savages. I think that the two of them will have a much better life in service here than they would have as 'freemen' over there." The silence that followed his declaration was tense.
Lucy broke it by stepping closer to the woman Takaoka, and bowing. "I am Lucy Fairchild. You are very welcome in my home, Takaoka-san," she said quietly in Japanese. "If there is anything that you require, please come to me directly."
Takaoka's eyes widened slightly, and she bowed in return. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Fairchild-sama. If this humble one can be of any service to you, she will endeavour to serve you to the best of her ability."
Throughout the exchange, Ken had kept his attention on the samurai Fujimiya. When Lucy had spoken in Japanese, his eyes had also widened, and he had turned his gaze upon her. She issued him the same greeting she had given Takaoka, and he responded by inclining his head deeply towards her. He said nothing.
The majordomo took that moment to announce that a late supper was being served in a room adjacent to the ballroom. Conversation picked up among the other guests as they began drifting away from the small group, intent on sampling the variety of exotic dishes Lucy stocked for her parties. As hostess, it was Lucy's duty to attend to her guests, but she lingered for a moment.
"Purchasing a bodyguard, Rutherford?" Ken sneered. "Are you so fearful for your safety in dear, civilized Mother England?"
"Perhaps England is not as free from savagery as most people would like to believe," Rutherford archly replied, his own sneer in full force. "The mysterious death of an acquaintance before I left for my travels weighed heavily on my mind while I was gone."
"An acquaintance?" Ken asked, certain that he already knew of whom Rutherford spoke.
"Jeremiah Weaver," Rutherford said. "Rumour has it he was torn to shreds by a pack of wild dogs near his country estate." Ken raised an eyebrow.
"So, you purchased a samurai to protect you from roaming packs of dogs? How demeaning for him. Most dogs I know have little practice with swords. But then, he may not be much of a warrior. Perhaps dogs are all he can fight." Ken watched Fujimiya from the corner of his eye. The man's face remained impassive, but Ken had caught the flicker of anger in his eyes at the slur on his skills.
"Perhaps I should arrange a demonstration for you, Hidaka," Rutherford replied. "I've no doubt that this savage could whip you with any weapon you choose." Ken struggled to keep satisfaction from showing in his face; Rutherford had walked neatly into his trap.
"Well, then, shall we say tomorrow? Four o'clock, at Pierre's?" They were both members at the exclusive fencing salon, though Ken was not seen there as often as Rutherford. Pierre, the owner, should be able to offer them a private space to spar.
"Four o'clock suits me. You might want to ensure that there is a physician nearby," Rutherford said as he turned to make his way into the dining room. The group of hangers-on followed him, as did Takaoka. Fujimiya gave Ken a piercing look and dropped his hand to his katana before he turned to follow his master.
"Ken, darling, do you know what you're doing?" Lucy asked in a worried tone. "Rutherford seemed more oily than usual tonight; I'm sure he has something planned."
He lifted her hand to his lips and dropped a gentle kiss on the back of it. "Everything will be fine, Lucy. I will send a message to you when it's over." He released her hand, and made a formal bow. "I must leave you now." He turned and strode swiftly out of the ballroom.
"Be careful," she whispered after his retreating form. "Be sure you are around to keep your promise."
Ken had his coachman drop him off at Verderan's. Verderan's was considered by the Fashionable World to be little more than a gentleman's club; a place where members met for drinks and light gambling. To an extent, that was true.
The lower level of the four-story building was available to all members and their guests. It contained the lounge and gaming tables, and was staffed with pretty maids and unobtrusive menservants. The second floor, the salon, was not available to guests; there, members could spar and practice fencing techniques. On occasion, duels had been fought there that had ended in death and exile. On occasion.
The fourth floor was accessible only by the owner of the establishment.
It was the third floor that Ken was interested in that evening. Only members of a certain standing had access to the third floor. It was accessible from the inside, up the staircase from the second floor. There was a second entrance, but few had the necessary ability to use it.
Ken walked quietly through the lounge, nodding to a few acquaintances, and swiftly made his way up the carpeted staircase. He passed the open doors of the salon, hearing the clang of metal upon metal and heavy breathing that accompanied the sparring matches. He sparred there on occasion, but only with other third floor members. It was only fair.
The guards at the entrance to the staircase nodded their acknowledgement of his presence, and he walked slowly up the stairs. The differences between this staircase and the first one he had climbed were subtle, but distinct. The stairs were lavishly carpeted in shades of black and crimson; the walls were hung with a thick velveted crimson paper. Candelabra were hung at various points along the staircase, expensive pieces covered with gold leaf and hanging crystals.
He pushed aside the black velvet drape at the top of the stairs, revealing a lounge similar to the one on the first floor. There were gaming tables surrounded by focused men, a long bar, and chairs set up close to each other for private conversation. One difference was that there were women at the tables: women who were not there as servants. Attired in lush silks and velvets, the women played as high at the tables as the men, drank as deeply, and fondled the help as outrageously. The atmosphere of the third floor lounge was one of decadence and luxury, and an excess of both.
The main difference was that none of the members on the third floor could be mistaken for human. The ethereal beauty of both the men and the women, their pale faces and hands, and the sense of barely contained strength and power emanating from them, would have given them away immediately had any mortal come upon them. Even the servants on this level were creatures of the night, and were as capable as those they served at taking human life.
There were many people on the third floor that Ken could call acquaintances, but few who he would call friends. The European vampire community was as closely knit as the aristocratic Upper Ten Thousand. Most were suspicious of each other, but were doubly mistrustful of him. If most were to be believed, he was the only Asian vampire they had ever come across. He didn't fit into the canon of their supposed creation: he was an enigma among mysteries. But, as with the humans who flocked around him at Lucy's, there were always those who were drawn to him because of his foreignness.
"Master Hidaka," purred a smooth tenor voice to his left. "A pleasure it is to have you here, truly." The man who seemed to melt out of the shadows was of average height and nondescript appearance. His uniform was black and crimson, like all the decoration in the room.
"Walter," he said. "It's been a while."
"So has it been, master. Were you this evening hoping for companionship or privacy?" The convoluted patterns of his speech were Walter's trademark. Host of the third floor, he had seen to the needs of members since Verderan's had been established during the regency of George IV, almost sixty years previously. Save for the owner of the club, no one knew where Walter had come from or how old he was, but he performed his duties impeccably and discreetly, and no one had ever found any reason to complain about him.
"Privacy, I think, Walter. Somewhere to brood."
"If me you would follow, master." Walter led Ken down a darkened hallway, past closed doors. Impassioned sounds drifted out from some of them; others were markedly silent. After a moment, they turned a corner and stopped at a partially opened door. Walter pushed the door open the rest of the way. "Here you are, master. Is it pleasing to you, the room?"
It was dark, but Ken could make out a chair and table before the fireplace, and the outlines of other chairs around the room. He nodded. "It's fine."
Walter entered and stoked the fire. "Anything else, will you be requiring, master?" he asked.
"No, thank you, Walter. Just quiet."
"Certainly, master." Walter exited, closing the door behind him.
Ken threw his jacket on the back of the chair and sat down. Nimble fingers made quick work of his cravat, and he tossed it onto the table beside him. He leaned back in the chair, kicking his feet up onto a footstool, and tented his fingers together. The flames in the fireplace danced and flickered; they were the only illumination in the room.
Rutherford.
Jeremiah Weaver had screamed out Edwin Rutherford's name as he was killed. Squealed it, like a pig. As he begged for mercy, he had laid the blame for his actions on Rutherford's door.
According to Weaver, Rutherford had reinstated the Society of the Dillettanti, a club started by Sir Francis Dashwood in 1740. The original Society had disintegrated shortly after its induction, to be replaced in later years by the nefarious Hellfire Club. The rumours surrounding the Club were extensive, if not completely accurate: tales of debauchery, drunken orgies, and black masses. What Rutherford had done was to take the darkest elements of the Hellfire Club legend and put them into practice. Satan worship, demon summoning, the rape and torture and slaying of maidens: anything that the human mind could conceivably attach to the Dark Arts, Rutherford was encouraging.
Weaver had taken Rachel to use as the blood sacrifice in a ritual, using the pain of her rape and torture to summon a demon. And he had, just not the type of demon he had expected.
By the time Ken returned to London, Rutherford, who had heard rumours of Weaver's abrupt and terrified flight to the country, had taken ship for Asia. Ken had been biding his time in England for five months, awaiting his return.
And when he returned, he brought a samurai with him. A samurai with crimson hair and violet eyes… And he brought a beautiful woman as well; graceful and docile and…
Clink.
Something hit a button on his waistcoat and landed in his lap. His reverie interrupted, he looked down to see a shiny penny.
"It's payment," a low voice husked from the shadows to the right of the fireplace. A woman stepped forward, light dancing on the two wineglasses and bottle in her hands. Her dress was black velvet, clinging to her torso like a second skin and flaring out at the hips. Thick coils of black hair wrapped around her head, accented by slender silver chains.
"Payment, Ver?" he asked, confused.
"For your thoughts, cher, for your thoughts." Madeleine Verderan, known by most as Ver, carried the bottle and glasses to the table beside Ken. He rose and carried a nearby chair over, setting it down on the other side of the table. He waited until she had seated herself before taking his seat again. She kicked her feet up, placing them on his footstool.
"I doubt that my thoughts this evening are of any interest to anyone," he said, uncorking the bottle. He didn't bother to ask how she had gotten in without him noticing. She had forgotten more about the building than he had ever known; she knew every secret passage and hidden doorway.
He lifted one of the goblets and poured a generous glass, then passed it to Ver. Their fingers brushed for a moment, cool and dry. He picked up the remaining glass and filled it for himself. She re-corked the bottle as he settled back in his chair.
"Your thoughts are always interesting, Ken. It's one of the fringe benefits of associating with you," she said, before sipping delicately. He smiled, and raised his glass. The twin scents of wine and blood, seductive and sweet. He held the liquid in his mouth for a moment before swallowing, savouring the contrast between aged wine and fresh blood.
"Charmain?" he asked.
"Mmm-hmm. 1775…my favourite vintage." Ver took perverse pleasure in her collection of Charmain reds. Production had stopped in 1775, after the mysterious deaths of the entire Charmain family. Ken didn't regard it as coincidence that Ver had been born to darkness the same year… Though younger than he was by nearly a century, Ver was far more vicious than he had ever been in his youth.
"And the other?" His voice trailed off slightly, asking but not demanding an answer.
"A rather boorish visitor to these shores who wanted to do something unpleasant to me," she replied, laughter threaded through her voice. "It would appear you are having something of an effect on me. Evil men do taste better."
He laughed. "And it's only taken you, what? Ninety five years to come to that conclusion?"
"All men taste good when they're
dying…Evil ones just taste better," she said.
"Combine Charmain and evil blood…and my cup runneth over." She frowned slightly. "You won't deflect my questions that easily,
o tricky one. What put you in such a
broody mood that you failed to notice me entering the room?"
He sorted through a variety of truths and half-truths he could use to throw her
off the scent, and settled for the second most accurate. "I was just thinking about something Lucy
said this evening."
"Ah, your little human friend." Ver's voice was shaded with hint of disdain; she had no use for humans as anything other than food. "What did the 'delightful' Lady Fairchild have to say that put you in such a mood?"
He decided to be forthright. "She wants me to find a mate."
Ver arched a brow, surprised. "Truly? Were those her exact words?" He nodded. "Your human surprises me, cher. What about your 'tragic loss'?" Ver's opinion of Rachel Greenwood had been well known to Ken; the dislike between the two of them had been obvious the few times they had met.
"Please don't talk about her like that, Ver." It was a request, but could easily have been mistaken for a command. "Lucy said that she didn't think Rachel was the one for me. And, though it pains me to admit it, I would have to agree with her." He sighed. "I had hoped that she was, but…"
"But nothing. You don't need a mate, Ken." She leaned slightly towards him. "I'll tell you what you do need." He turned his head to meet her gaze. "You could use a good fuck." He rolled his eyes at her and turned his gaze back to the fire.
"That's your answer to everything," he muttered, flushing slightly. Ver had few inhibitions; she had survived for three years as a prostitute in Paris before she had been Changed. Her sudden outbursts of vulgarity never failed to bring a blush to his cheeks, no matter that he often used the same phrases. The contrast between her innocent face and the gutter argot she expressed herself with was too much for him.
"It's my answer to everything because it works," she said. "You'd know that if you'd let go of your ridiculous human morals. There are plenty of women here who would love to 'ease your pain'; men, too, if your taste swings that way." She winked at him. "No discrimination at Verderan's, cher."
He said nothing, and for a long moment they were quiet, staring into the fire. She lifted her glass to her lips again, and drank deeply. As she set the glass back down, she said, "The truth, Ken."
He should have known that she wouldn't be fooled with a half-truth. "Rutherford has returned to England."
"Ahh."
"And he has brought two of my countrymen with him."
She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Vampires?"
"No, they're both human," he said. "But their presence disturbs me. The man is a samurai, brought to be a bodyguard. And the woman…" He sipped at the wine, musing. "Whatever the reason he brought the woman here, he means her no good."
Her gaze was intense. "He brought a Japanese swordsman here?" At his nod, she shook her head back and forth. "He suspects you had a hand in Weaver's death?"
"Oh, I had more than a hand in it," he muttered. She laughed.
"If I know you, you had both hands and your fangs in it. But seriously, Ken, why else would he bring a foreign swordsman into the picture? You're known for your ability with a rapier and foils; no Englishman can beat you."
"And no one in this country has any knowledge of proper kenjutsu. I've no doubt that he suspects me, but he can no more bring me up before the law than I can bring him up. His crimes prevent him, as my crimes and nature prevent me." He sighed. "Whatever justice is taken on him, it will not be within the bounds of the law."
"Fuck the law," she spat. "Law and revenge are two different things. You don't want law," she said, her pale grey eyes catching his. "You want revenge."
"I always believed that revenge was best achieved through law," he said, his voice quiet and strangely sad.
"One thing I learned on the streets of Paris is that the best revenge is revenge." Her voice was low and deathly serious. "Civilized law is nothing compared to the screams of the guilty. It's nothing compared to the taste of your enemy's blood on your tongue, its heat on your skin. If we are monsters, I for one will revel in my monstrosity." She lifted the glass to her lips. "But you've already tasted revenge, haven't you?"
"You mean Weaver."
"His screams were sweet, weren't they?" He nodded. "But Weaver wasn't enough. You want Rutherford…his screams, his blood. You want Rutherford to beg you for mercy you will not show." Again, he nodded. She smiled, feral and cruel. "It's nice to see that you're one of us under that veneer of humanity you cling to."
He found a small part of him pitying the deceased Charmain family. If Ver had been smiling like that the night she took her vengeance…
He rose silently, and shrugged his jacket on. He looked down at her, at the way she coiled herself up in the oversized wingchair. For a moment he admired the play of firelight upon the folds of black velvet and taut alabaster skin. He rested his hand on her head, and she twisted her neck sinuously to look up at him.
"Is my daisho still here?" he asked quietly. She nodded. "Have it sent over to Pierre's before noon tomorrow."
"Expecting trouble, are we, cher?"
"Trouble?" he laughed. "Hardly that. But I am anticipating something…interesting."
"I see. I'll have it sent over." She turned her attention back to her glass. As she lifted it to her face, she inhaled deeply, savouring the scent. "Good hunting, Ken." The glass was tilted back, and she drank deep.
"Pleasant dreams, Ver," he murmured as he left the room. Her throaty laughter seemed to follow him as the door closed and he made his way back out into the night.