More than a Masquerade by Adele Clee

Chapter 7

The Sanctum was a crypt,an underground chamber with a vaulted ceiling and more than enough space for Rachel to breathe. Bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes lined the walls between the arched limestone pillars. Burning braziers and standing candelabra gave the room light, as did the candles in the wrought-iron chandelier. All the men of the Council, bar Mr Hunter, stood behind red velvet chairs positioned around a circular oak table.

“They cannot sit until the master takes her seat.” Mr Hunter spoke loud enough for the men to hear. He turned to them. “We must welcome Miss Gambit into the fold. Treat her as we would Lucius Daventry. We must teach her our traditions while she holds this temporary position.”

Mr Truscott took to grumbling again until Mr Swanson shot him a warning glare. Still, he couldn’t keep his moaning mouth shut. “You say you have Daventry’s ring and a letter of recommendation, yet you fail to present both.”

“Mr Daventry does not recommend me for the position,” Miss Gambit countered. “He demands I stand in his stead. As for proof, you will have it once we’re seated.”

Mr Hunter stepped forward and drew out the porter chair. “This is your seat, Miss Gambit.”

He kept an impassive expression, but his eyes told a different story. Like inviting blue pools in the height of summer, they swam with compassion, perhaps admiration, too. It was a look that warmed her insides. A tender look she’d witnessed when he’d cupped her cheek and assured her she could place her faith in his character.

“Thank you, Mr Hunter.”

The men waited for her to sit and then followed suit.

“You ask for proof of Mr Daventry’s intention—”

Mr Hunter coughed into his fist to stall her. “Forgive me. But we must perform the pledge before we begin.”

“Pledge?” Rachel frowned. Was it an initiation? Was she expected to draw a blade across her palm and share her brethren’s blood? “There was no mention of it in the constitution.”

Mr Young spoke up. “It was introduced in the seventeenth century. It’s a simple practice of sharing wine before we delve into serious matters. A means to cement the bonds of brotherhood.”

Was this why Mr Hunter needed a woman who could think while slightly sotted? Surely she need only sip the wine.

“As I sit in Mr Daventry’s stead, you must consider me a brother.”

Mr Truscott was like a snake rising from a basket, ready to lunge at its prey. “You can’t take the oath.”

“If she’s taking Daventry’s seat, she must repeat the pledge.” Mr Young stared through compassionate eyes. The man’s face held a childlike innocence so opposed to his muscular frame.

“I agree,” Mr Cantrell said, though it was clear he thought it an opportunity to prove her weak. “If she sits in the master’s seat, she must follow tradition.”

Mr Hunter jumped to her defence. “Gentlemen, Miss Gambit is here because she has the skills to assist us, not because she knows how to take her wine. She has my full support. Daventry would expect those loyal to the cause to respect his decision.”

Mr Hunter’s earnest plea brought a lump to Rachel’s throat. It left her wondering about the woman who had hurt him. A woman who placed no value on a man so loyal and steadfast. Whoever she was, she had no sense of his worth.

“I shall take the wine and repeat the pledge,” she insisted. “Afterwards, I shall hear no more about my suitability for the position.”

Mr Crocker entered and took a silver tray laden with six silver goblets from a stone bench near the door. He circled the table, placing a goblet at each setting. His expression changed when he reached Mr Swanson. Indifference became a shadow of mistrust. He left the room, returned with a crystal decanter full of wine, and proceeded to pour.

“It’s customary for the master to recite the oath.” With his brows knitted in a permanent frown, Mr Swanson appeared constantly annoyed. “But as we’ve already broken with tradition, I suppose I can perform the task.”

“The pledge is a Bible quote from Amos. Also introduced in the seventeenth century.” Mr Hunter met her gaze and gave a covert quirk of his brow. “A quote about justice and human decency.”

Rachel smiled. There was no man she’d rather have as her ally. “Then I believe I know the pledge. Do we raise our glasses?”

“You repeat the pledge, then we drain our wine goblets.”

Rachel gripped the stem and pulled the goblet closer, hoping to note just a mouthful of wine, not see it swimming close to the rim.

All the men stood, prompting Rachel to follow. She raised her goblet and recited what she hoped was the right verse. “Let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream.”

Mr Truscott gritted his teeth in displeasure, then downed his wine as if plagued by an uncontrollable thirst. The other men followed suit, then waited for Rachel to comply.

She drained the goblet. Heat coated her throat and windpipe, the fruity aroma doing little to temper its potency.

“There we have it, gentlemen.” She pasted a confident smile. “The pledge is made, and so let us move promptly to the reason I’m here.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Someone at this table broke into this room and stole the sacred seal.”

Tension thrummed in the air like the prelude to a storm.

Beneath the table, Mr Hunter tapped her foot and drew her attention to the ornate wooden plaque on the far wall. The centrepiece was missing.

Rachel told the men to sit. She walked over to the plaque and pointed to the empty space. “The seal stands for all those men who’ve gone before you. Men who sacrificed their lives for the welfare of this country. The theft is tantamount to treason. Treason against your brethren. Treason against Themis.”

Distrustful gazes crept towards Mr Swanson.

The man raised his hands in mock surrender. “My ancestors have served Themis for two hundred years. The villain drugged my wine, I tell you! He entered my bedchamber and stole my key. Not a pouch of coins nor my silver card case, but a useless key, useless to anyone other than the men here today.” He thumped his fist on the table. “For the love of God, I’m innocent.”

Rachel thought he protested too much. “There are two possibilities.” There were likely more than two, but they were her focus until they uncovered more information. “One of you stole the seal, or two of you stole it. Either way, the guilty person is currently looking me in the eye.”

“And what do you propose to do about it?” Mr Truscott snapped.

“Rest assured, Mr Truscott. I believe Mr Swanson’s story. Someone entered his bedchamber.” It was a complete fabrication, but she wished to unsettle them further. “A witness came forward to confirm his claim.”

Mr Swanson raised a brow in surprise. “They did? Thank the Lord.”

“You’re not off the hook, Mr Swanson. You may have planned it that way. Currently, all members of the Council are suspects.”

Mr Hunter drew his brows together. “Including Lucius Daventry?”

“Indeed. We cannot rule out the possibility that Mr Daventry is involved.” She ignored the incredulous gasps emanating from those seated around the table. Mr Daventry expected her to solve the case and would understand why she’d named him. “Perhaps he appointed me as temporary master because he knew you’d be unhelpful. I don’t believe it, but if I’m to determine the truth, I must remain impartial.”

A heavy silence descended.

It was then the effects of the wine took hold. Her head felt a little fuzzy, and the room swayed back and forth like a sapling in the breeze. Rachel returned to her seat, hoping the sensations would pass.

She reached for her satchel. “Here’s the proof you requested, confirmation of my appointment.” She handed the letter to Mr Hunter. Concern lingered in his vibrant eyes as he scanned her face. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I need privacy if I’m to retrieve the ring.”

Rachel gripped the gilt arm of the chair and stood. The room whirled, but she gathered her composure and reluctantly retreated to the stifling tunnel.

Mr Crocker stood statue-like outside the door.

“Might you turn your back, Mr Crocker? Just for a moment.”

The man instantly obeyed.

Eager to escape the tunnel, she slipped her hand down into the bodice, delved into her loosely tied stays, and removed Mr Daventry’s ring. She’d often seen the ring on his finger and presumed the scales of justice engraved into the carnelian stone represented his work in Hart Street.

“You may turn back now, Mr Crocker.”

The man obliged without comment. Would Mr Crocker follow her every command? Or was his loyalty to the Order of Themis the reason for his unwavering compliance? Was the man open to bribery? That was the question uppermost in her mind.

The Council members were speaking amongst themselves when she entered, except for Mr Hunter, who sat silently observing his colleagues.

The sight of him alone on the outskirts of this tight-knit group brought a lump to her throat. The need to draw him to her bosom and soothe his woes, to make him smile and laugh and chase away the loneliness proved more compelling than her need to solve this case.

Rachel strode over to Mr Truscott and handed him Lucius Daventry’s ring. “The accompanying letter proves I’ve not stolen the ring, nor have I murdered your master.”

“We have no choice but to accept Daventry’s request,” Mr Cantrell said.

The men took a minute to observe the ring before handing it back. Rachel slid it onto her thumb for safekeeping.

“Mr Hunter said you gather information, prevent uprisings and assassinations. You work with poor people who’ve been charged with crimes. You seek to prove their innocence and save them from the hangman’s noose.”

Mr Young smiled. “We see justice served, Miss Gambit, in whatever form it takes. These monthly meetings help us determine which cases to take and the level of our involvement. We decide which members in the field will be called upon for their services.”

It would be impossible to investigate all the men who served Themis. And so, the obvious place to start was with a list of the most recent cases.

“The theft of the sacred seal takes precedence today,” Rachel stated. “We will assemble again tomorrow to discuss prospective new cases. Agreed?”

With obvious annoyance, the men nodded.

“Mr Truscott, tell me about the current cases, those with trials outstanding. Those where you’re still gathering information.”

Singling out the man would achieve two goals. It would play to his vanity and give her a chance to study him closely.

“You’ll need pen and ink, Miss Gambit.”

“I have an amazing memory which I’m sure you’ll put to the test.”

Mr Truscott’s arrogant grin said he hoped she’d fall short. “The case for Mary Harcourt is pending. She was a maid in Lord Meyer’s household, caught with his wife’s stolen jewels under the boards in her attic bedchamber.”

“She is awaiting trial in Newgate,” Mr Hunter added.

“Can they prove she stole the jewels? Did she not share the room with another maid?” That was usual in most wealthy households.

“Miss Harcourt acted as lady’s maid to Lady Meyer and had her own attic room,” Mr Truscott informed.

“And what is Mary’s plea?”

“She claims she was paid to give birth to Lord Meyer’s child. That someone planted the jewels to get rid of her and cast doubt on her word.”

Mr Hunter turned to her. “There’s no proof there was a child. The servants support the Meyers’ version that Miss Harcourt is grasping at any means to prove her innocence. Unless we find evidence to support her claim, she’ll hang.”

Rachel inwardly seethed. She had been mentally and physically abused by men who would see her in Bedlam before she inherited a penny of their mother’s wealth. There’d been no one to turn to for help. This case would allow her to help someone in a similar position.

“I require all documentation relating to the case.” Rachel rubbed her temple. Despite the sudden rush of confidence, her head felt woozy. “Have it delivered to my chamber this afternoon.”

Mr Hunter stood. “The intruder stole more than the sacred seal. He stole the current case files. Daventry only stores completed files in his underground vault at Bronygarth.”

Panic erupted. The men bombarded Mr Hunter with questions. Through the din, Rachel felt the potency of the wine take effect. It didn’t help that Mr Crocker stormed into the room, rang a handbell, and then refilled everyone’s goblet.

The room quietened.

“At Lucius Daventry’s behest, Mr Crocker is charged with keeping proceedings under control.” Mr Hunter looked at her through narrowed eyes. “It can get rather hot down here, Miss Gambit. Perhaps we should adjourn the meeting until later this afternoon.”

Mr Truscott sneered. “If Miss Gambit is not up to the task, perhaps someone else should take her place. Naturally, as the senior member, I offer my services.”

“Perhaps you should focus on which one of your colleagues wishes to bring Themis to its knees, sir, and not your lofty ambitions.”

Truscott’s cheeks flamed.

Mr Young called for calm and insisted they repeat the pledge. The men scooped up their goblets and looked to her to recite the passage from Amos.

Rachel repeated the oath and was forced to drink more wine.

“You must empty the goblet, Miss Gambit.” Mr Truscott grinned as if he’d moved his bishop into checkmate. “Hurry. We’ll not wait for you.”

Rather than be beaten by an arrogant toad, she drained the contents. By her estimation, she had ten minutes until she turned into a bumbling wreck.

“I’ll hear of one more case, and then I shall retire to my room to consider the facts. This evening, I wish to interview you all separately, including Mr Crocker and Mrs Gale.” She glanced at Mr Hunter. “I shall leave you to make the arrangements.”

He nodded. “Of course.”

“I’m overseeing a case of treason.” Mr Cantrell had the bearing of a war hero. He looked strong, capable, intelligent, a man resistant to displays of emotion. “Our fellow working in the Home Office believes someone is passing government information to the French.”

“Do you have any suspects?”

“Not as yet.” Mr Cantrell moved the conversation to the other men in the room. “Young and Swanson are working together. A youth is charged with murdering his stepfather inside Belton’s Emporium though the boy claims the owner killed the man by driving a longsword into his chest. The owner then locked the boy in the pantry.”

Young and Swanson. Two men working together on one case.

Two men needed to open the Sanctum.

Was it a coincidence?

Mr Young sat forward. “Has the thief stolen our files, too?”

“I’m afraid so.” Mr Hunter’s face was like a slab of granite, all rigid angles and strong lines. If he believed Mr Young was guilty of conspiracy, he gave no indication. “I suggest you spend a few hours noting all you can remember of the case, and we’ll confer later this afternoon.”

A sudden burst of energy had Rachel pushing out of her seat before she engaged her brain. The wine’s potency had taken command of her senses. The urge to laugh at these men and make fun of their stern faces meant it was time to bring the meeting to an end.

“I shall take some time to contemplate what I’ve learnt so far.” Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. Soon she would start slurring. “Then I shall meet with you all individually.” She turned to the indomitable Mr Hunter and ignored the childish impulse to run her hands over his broad chest, tickle him and make him laugh. “Is there a parting ceremony?”

“We drink and repeat the oath.”

Merciful Mother! She wished she’d not asked.

On cue, Mr Crocker entered and set about filling the goblets. The men looked unimpressed that the meeting had ended so abruptly. But she couldn’t worry about that now. In a matter of minutes, she’d become a bumbling fool. They would oust her from her position on the Council and demand Daventry choose someone suitable.

Rachel recited the oath, downed the wine, and waited for the men to leave.

Mr Hunter was at her side in seconds. “You’ve drunk far too much.” He kept his voice low. “You’ll need a few hours rest to recuperate.”

The room spun.

Rachel swayed.

She slung her satchel across her body, placed a steadying hand on Mr Hunter’s firm shoulder. “I’ve never tasted wine so strong.” A laugh escaped her. “Forgive me if I say anything untoward. I fear I am losing all grip on reality.”

Muttering a curse, he clasped her elbow. “Damnation. We can’t let them see you like this.”

Too much wine seduced the senses. Perhaps that’s why she reached up and brushed her hand through Mr Hunter’s thick hair. Perhaps that’s why she gave a coy smile, why her voice turned husky.

“There’s only one solution, Mr Hunter.”

“Thrust your head into the horse trough?”

The comment brought a frightful image of Jacob Hanaway to mind.

“No. You’ll have to take me to bed.”