BRANWELL BRONT? WAS IN A PART OF VERDOPOLIS that Charlotte never wrote about, far from the Tower of All Nations and the Duke of Zamorna's mansion house. Here the shabby wooden houses were crammed together, and refuse lined the streets. He turned down a narrow alley where a rough-looking fellow with a clay pipe was slouched against a wooden door. The man tipped his hat to him, but there was something insolent in the gesture.
"In the secret meeting rooms of the Elysium Society," Branwell said under his breath, "Alexander Percy, Earl of Northangerland, also known as Alexander Rogue, was plotting his latest outrage."
He crossed to the wooden door, whispered a password to the man with the pipe, and entered.
In stark contrast to the outside of the building, the inside of the Elysium Club was splendid. The walls were covered with red velvet and gold. A fountain surrounded by ferns gurgled in one corner. There were no windows, and Branwell doubted any of the red-eyed men hunched over glasses of gin or sitting around the gambling tables knew if it was night or day outside. These were gentlemen of wealth—there were numerous silk cravats and gold-tipped canes in evidence—but many had a somewhat sinister air. To be a member of the Elysium Club, one needed to be worth at least five thousand a year—and to have slain a man.
Branwell handed his hat and coat to a servant and glanced around, the smoke thick enough to make his eyes sting.
"Lord Thornton," said the barman, sliding a glass of undiluted brandy toward him across a mirrored bar. Branwell gave a nod and drank it down. Here in Verdopolis he was no longer a poor parson's son; he was Lord Thornton Witkin Sneaky, rich young reprobate. Unlike Charlotte, though, Branwell didn't change his appearance when playing a character, and so Lord Thornton looked like himself—with a few slight differences.
"Have you seen … ?" he began. The barman jerked his head to the back of the room.
Alexander Rogue was draped lazily over a chair like a black lion, smoking a cheroot. He was long and lean and not particularly handsome—drink and evildoing had weathered his face, as had two years of piracy on the high seas—but he had a presence that commanded attention. As always he wore plain black, but the diamond earl's star at his breast marked his class—that and a certain haughtiness to his gaze.
"Thornton," Rogue called without getting up, "settle a bet. S'Death says I have orchestrated eleven kidnappings in my lifetime, but I aver it was an even dozen."
Branwell approached the table where Rogue sat with a fiendish-looking old gentleman. His name wasn't really S'Death. He was Mr. R. P. King, Rogue's right-hand man, but he gave off such an impression of wickedness that he was nicknamed for the blasphemy. He was very short and squat but rather spry for a man with such an ancient face. His twisted features were like something one would find in the bark of a tree or the grain of a wood panel, and yet his hair was flame red—obviously dyed. He was known to be one of the richest men in Verdopolis, though how he came by his wealth was a dark mystery. His accent proved he was not born to it, but no one dared ask.
"We count your wife in the tally, I suppose," Branwell said, as a servant brought him a chair.
"Zenobia? Of course. It's how we met."
Branwell sat down and rubbed his chin thoughtfully—one of the slight differences to his appearance was that in Verdopolis he had an excellent beard. "And do we reckon the Hawthorn sisters as one or two?"
"The twins!" Rogue said, and he brought his hand down on the table with a thump. "Ha! I do believe we forgot those harpies."
S'Death was jotting down names in his little black book. "Eight, nine, ten … damn and blast! It is thirteen. Neither wins."
There was a pile of banknotes on the table, which Rogue divvied up between them. The older man seemed to watch a little sadly as Rogue's portion disappeared back into his jacket pocket.
"Is it kidnapping then?" Branwell asked. "Or shall we attempt another bank robbery?"
He could have made this decision himself, of course, but unlike Charlotte, he liked to let his plots go where they may. He found that if he stood back a little, Rogue almost seemed to choose for himself.
His villain took a pull of his cheroot. "Ah, the youth of today are so energetic, S'Death."
He snapped his fingers, calling for spirits, and at once a waiter appeared with a bottle of brandy and three glasses. Rogue poured two glasses and took the bottle for himself. "What's the use of coming up with a magnificently wicked plan when it is sure to be foiled by that Casanova in silk?" Branwell knew he was talking about Charlotte's hero, the Duke of Zamorna. "You heard he thwarted my scheme to fix the Verdopolitan horse races?"
Branwell nodded. This had been the plot of one of Charlotte's stories. "Perhaps an overthrow of the government then?"
"Been done," said Rogue with a sigh, taking a draught. One of his character traits was that he drank almost constantly but never appeared to be drunk.
S'Death made a clicking sound with his tongue, shaking his head. "Such an excellent scheme it was, too, assassinating the entire Verdopolitan parliament at once." He put his hand to his breast. "It breaks my heart to think of them all downing glasses of punch at Zamorna's party tonight."
"Party?" Rogue and Branwell said at once.
"You hadn't heard? He's having a grand party at Wellesley House."
So Charlotte has finally managed to come up with an ending for her latest story, Branwell thought.
"Seems a bit of a snub that you and the countess weren't invited, Rogue," S'Death went on, "what with the hostess being your daughter and all."
"A snub indeed," Branwell said.
Mary Henrietta Wellesley was Rogue's child from a previous marriage, and many of Charlotte's recent stories had made great use of this. I love you, Zamorna, but it can never be, for you are the enemy of my wicked father. Oh sorrow! The couple seemed to be settling into the dullness of domestic bliss now. Branwell was tempted to enliven things by having Rogue break into the party uninvited, but Charlotte would be livid if her happy ending were spoiled. He needed a moment to think through the best course of action.
"A cry of 'I'm ruined' rang out in the smoky hall," Branwell said under his breath.
"I'm ruined!" someone cried.
A man at the other side of the room lurched up from one of the gaming tables, scattering a deck of playing cards to the floor. He pulled a gun from his jacket pocket. The barman ducked behind the bar, and all the gamblers hid under tables—all except Rogue and Branwell, who stayed where they were, and S'Death, who turned in his seat with interest. Great wealth was often won and lost at the tables of the Elysium Club, and the old blackguard liked to keep abreast of whose fortunes were high and whose had fallen.
Waving the gun before him, the man stumbled to the gentlemen's lounge in obvious distress. A moment later a shot rang out.
"Another suicide," S'Death said with a hint of repressed glee. He took out his black book, turned over a few pages, and shook his head. "Oh, but there's a pity. He owed me a thousand." He licked a stub of a pencil and carefully crossed out the man's name. "At least he didn't do it right in front of the bar like the last one. They were cleaning brains out of the chandeliers for days. Remember, Rogue?"
Rogue gave a bored shrug, then stubbed out his cheroot into a jade ashtray.
"You know," Branwell said, "the more I think of it, the more I agree with S'Death. Zamorna's snub must not go unanswered."
"I'm two steps ahead of you, boy," Rogue said.
"Ah," said S'Death, "I know that look. You intend to make another attempt on the parliament?"
"No," answered Rogue. "They're not the true enemy, are they?" He rose from his chair. "It's time we got to the root of the problem." A feral grin spread over his face. "I fear my poor daughter will have to buy herself some widow's weeds, for tonight we kill the duke himself."
Branwell struggled to keep the shock from his face. He did love to vex Charlotte, but he hadn't planned this. A nervous giggle escaped his lips. Rogue and S'Death were both staring at him, waiting for his opinion.
"All right," he said. "Let's do it."
