Preston cracked one eye open to check on the angle of the sun and sat up quickly at the site of his unfamiliar surroundings. He glanced around frantically, then the sleepiness cleared from his mind and he recalled his job at Kelthorne Hall. He immediately glanced at the other pallet in the small room, but frowned when he found it empty. Having fallen asleep only seconds after his head hit the comfortable straw mattress, he hadn't heard Bobby come in.

Although it had only been a few hours since all the servants had retired, and the sun had only started to rise, Preston wasn't terribly surprised that Bobby was already up and about. He stretched and yawned, very tempted to return to his comfortable bed until the rest of the staff was up and about, but knew that being a layabout wouldn't earn him a place in a big house.

Propelled by that and the thought of breakfast, he rose and donned the few items of clothing he'd discarded before going to sleep the night before. Having made himself as neat as possible, he wandered out of the small room and into the kitchen immediately next door, where a lone scullery maid was the only other person up. She was struggling with a full coal hod she had brought from the cellar, and Preston hurried to help her, marvelling that she could lift it at all--she was even smaller than Bobby.

"Thankee," she smiled shyly at him and tossed her black hair back over her shoulder.

"Have you been up long?" he asked her.

"Here'n about a half-hour," she returned. "And rushin' t'get all ready for Cook."

"Have you seen anyone else up?" Preston asked. "Another page? He's new here and only a bit bigger than you and--"

"I know who you mean," her blue eyes were alight with admiration. "Him with gold hair and freckles. Cook was uncommon fond of him."

From her expression, Preston could tell Cook wasn't the only one. "That's him. Have you seen him this morning?"

"Nay, mayhap he's washing in the back garden."

Preston nodded. If there was an opportunity to catch a few moments out of doors, he had no doubt Bobby would want to take advantage of it. "Thank you," he smiled at her. Hurrying past his temporary bed chamber, he slipped through a door that took him to the gardens. Not the magnificent gardens with paths and carefully kept plants, but a small one with a shaggy lawn, a pump and trough, a thriving vegetable garden and several benches. But no cheerful Irish lad, Preston observed as he pumped some water for his morning wash.

After a quick tour of the grounds by the light of dawn revealed that Bobby was most certainly not outside, Preston went back in. The sunrise had also brought several kitchen maids downstairs, and all were sitting at a table along with the scullery maids, eating a breakfast made from the remains of the ball's grand supper. The little scullery maid smiled at him and moved down to make room for him on her bench, and Preston sat down. "Cook isn't up yet?"

"The fancy won't be up until well on into the afternoon," she replied. "So Cook and the higher staff can have a bit of a lie-in."

"We'll be wakin' them should his lordship call for anything," a kitchen maid with long red hair added shyly.

Preston nodded and fell to the best breakfast he'd had since his mother's passing, pretending not to notice the furtive looks all the maids kept giving him and not to hear the occasional giggle his unaccustomed presence brought.

The maids rose from the table and began preparing for their days duties, although they urged Preston to stay where he was and keep eating for as long as he was hungry. It didn't take too much convincing before Preston was filling his plate for a second time.

He was just debating whether or not to take yet another helping when Sheila walked into the kitchen. The kitchen maids all murmured respectful greetings--Sheila was a housemaid and of higher status for all that she had helped Cook on one occasion. The little scullery maid brought her a cup of tea as she sat across from Preston.

"My thanks, Tessie," Sheila smiled at the girl.

The maids immediately went back to their work, leaving Sheila and Preston to as much privacy as could be expected in a large kitchen.

"Good morning," Preston offered when he'd swallowed his mouthful.

"And to you," Sheila returned with another smile. "Where is himself this fine morn?" she asked as she sliced some more bread and cheese. "I was thinking to see him here and havin' a grand rummage in the pantry by now."

"I haven't seen him yet," Preston said. "I was asleep before he got in last night and he was gone when I woke this morning."

Sheila shook her head in resignation. "Up and about already, is he? I'll be askin' Tessa or Varlie where he's scampered off to, then."

"They haven't seen him yet--I asked."

Sheila's teacup halted halfway to her lips. "Faith, are ye sayin' he's not been seen anywhere at all this morn?"

"Not yet."

"And are ye certain he was told t'stay here for the night?"

That gave Preston a moment's pause. "You believe he went back to Covent Garden, then?"

Sheila took another sip of tea before leaving the table. "I'll give the Hall the quick once-over," she told him. "If he's not to be found here--"

"I'll go to Covent Garden to find him," Preston finished.

"Nay, lad. Ye've a fine chance of a position here if ye want it. I'll not be having you risk that."

"Better than you losing yours," Preston countered. "I've a place with old Kell to fall back on. What's more, I most likely could get to Covent Garden and back with Bobby before we're missed."

"'Tis very gallant of you, Preston, but I cannot allow it."

"I must insist upon this, Miss O'Brien," Preston said in his best imitation of a haughty noble, because he knew if he made Sheila laughed, she was more likely to agree.

With a light chuckle, that's exactly what she did. "Very well, then. But there may be no need if I'm after finding me laddie somewhere here and about."

It was not to be, however, and within the half-hour, Preston was crossing St. Martin's Lane and keeping an eye out for the younger boy. He decided to check his room under Kell's shop first, before the apothecary was awake. Even though Covent Garden was already bustling, it would be another hour before Kell emerged from his gin-induced haze.

Slipping silently into the building and down to his room, Preston grinned when he saw Bobby curled up on his straw tick. Gratified that his trek hadn't been in vain and that they would still have time to get back to Kelthorne, Preston crouched down next to his sleeping friend and gave him a small shake. "Good morning, layabout. Did you forget we were to stop at Kelthorne Hall for the night?" Receiving no response, he shook a bit harder and pulled at the thin coverlet. "Bobby, we have to get back to Kelthorne."

Bobby gave a pained moan and tried to curl into a tighter ball.

"Bobby?" Preston frowned, trying to turn him over. "Are you ill? What is it?"

"Divil man...my foot...death house...fell...divil man..."

"Your foot?" Preston focused on the only words that made any sense to him. He flipped back the coverlet and immediately saw that the skin above the right boot discolored--far too discolored for it to be the usual London grime. Quickly Preston unlaced the boot and began to tug it off, but immediately pulled back when Bobby let out a sharp cry. He hesitated briefly, and when Bobby's incoherent mutterings continued, he braced himself to try again. This time, he loosened the boot as much as possible and then pulled it off as gently as possible. Bobby shifted and let out an occasional whimper, but otherwise didn't react.

Even in the dim light, Preston could see Bobby's foot was badly twisted. That, combined with the near-black bruises covering the skin, convinced Preston that Bobby's foot was broken, likely in more than one place. "Bobby, what's happened to you?" he asked, laying a hand on the damp forehead. Although the skin was clammy, Preston could feel heat radiating from the boy. Bobby kept moaning about the "divil man" and gave no sign he knew Preston was there, which was more worrisome than anything else.

There was nothing else for it, Preston concluded, he had to return and tell Sheila--he knew he couldn't care for Bobby alone. He wasn't even certain how long he would be able to keep Bobby's presence concealed from Kell, although he reckoned they would be safe enough for the next few days.

With that in mind, Preston covered Bobby again, then quickly and quietly made his way up to Kell's shop to collect several things that would be helpful. Listening for Kell the entire time, he rolled all the relatively clean cloth he could find into a bundle and held it under one arm while he also collected a pitcher and basin. He found a half-filled bottle of quinine and was pleased to find a handful of arnica blossoms at the bottom of a small tin. He put the flowers to steep in the kitchen, then returned to Bobby, wrapping the injured foot loosely--he would have to do it again with the arnica when he returned. Making certain that Bobby was warmly covered and as comfortable as possible, Preston slipped back out of the shop and started for Kelthorne at a run.

Preston grabbed her hand and pulled he away from the house, so they wouldn't be heard.

Taking her hand was so unusual for the shy apprentice that Sheila was immediately alarmed. "What's happened?"

"I can't say for certain. I don't think Bobby knew what he was saying."

"What?" Sheila clutched at his arm. "Sweet Mary, is he hurt? Where is he?"

"He's in my room under Kell's shop," Preston assured her. "He must have crawled in last night, because--"

"Crawled?"

"Or hopped," Preston amended quickly, seeing Sheila turn pale. "One foot is broken, I daresay. And he has a fever--fairly bad, because he was not making sense. I couldn't understand him."

Sheila was untying her apron with swift movements, "You'll be findin' us a hack, then? There's a good lad."

Preston watched as she hurried back into the house and after considering her stricken expression, he decided it would be best to obey. He went back out to the street and hailed a hack, although the driver didn't seem too impressed to find that Preston was one of his customers and had not hailed him on behalf of the Fancy. Sheila was taking rather longer than Preston expected, and it took the lonely sixpence Preston had on him to keeping the irritated driver waiting.

Finally Sheila came rushing through the gate and didn't even bother waiting to be handed into the hack, her cheeks flushed and her expression tight. She gave the driver their direction in such a sharp tone that the man didn't venture the lip he had given Preston.

Preston, for his part, couldn't help but notice the large bag Sheila had tossed into the hack before she'd climbed in herself. "Did Mr. Houghton give you more than your half-day off, then?"

"He did not," Sheila snapped, then sighed. "I had no luck in findin' him and was after askin' Cook t'make me pardon for me, but bedad if Mrs. Middlebar wasn't listenin' just outside the door."

Preston winced. "I suppose you had to do some pretty talking for her to allow you to go."

"Faith, all the blarney in County Cork couldna change that woman's mind," Sheila snorted. "She told me that if I meant t'leave my duties that there was no need to be returning to Kelthorne afterwards."

"She...you've been sacked?"

"Aye," Sheila's lips thinned. "Sure, and although I hate t'use our savin's for home, I'll be able t'tend the lad and not put the burden on you. I've enough t'get by 'til Bobby is better, I'm sure."

"You'd best stop in my rooms at the least until Bobby's fever goes down," Preston said. "Kell never comes in there and I know how to mix some of the things that will help him."

"That's heavenly kind of you, Preston," Sheila gave him a grateful smile. "If you'll be after tellin' me the rate you'll be askin', I'll--"

"Rate?" Preston gave her an indignant look. "You think I'd ask rent of you?"

"Preston, I know you've a kind heart, but--"

"If there's ingredients or food we need that Kell doesn't have, then you may have to see to that," Preston conceded. "And if Kell becomes suspicious, you may want to lay out enough for a bottle or so of gin," he grinned in response to Sheila's raised eyebrows, then sobered again. "But you will have to find a place to work at some time. How will you do it without a recommendation?"

"That's something t'be worryin' about another day," Sheila replied firmly. "Faith, but not a thing means more t'me that seein' me lad well again."

When the hack stopped just down from Kell's shop, Sheila fumbled in her shabby reticule for the fare. She practically threw the coins at the driver before climbing out. Preston barely had time to pick up Sheila's bag before she did, then had to scramble to get to the shop ahead of her. He listened briefly for Kell, then led Sheila down to his room, where Bobby had not moved.

"Macushla!" she whispered, dropping down beside her brother. She laid one hand on his forehead and took his wrist in the other. When Preston knelt as well, Sheila gave him a relieved smile. "Sure, and he's a bit warm, but not near as bad as I was fearin'."

Preston touched Bobby's forehead as well and nodded in agreement. "His fever has gone down from this morning," he said. "But the foot will still need tending. The arnica should be ready by now, so if you'll unwrap his foot, I'll get that ready." He got up and went back into the kitchen, not seeing the fond look Sheila gave him.

Alone with her brother, Sheila smoothed his tousled hair. "Faith, acushla, I've no notion what's happened t'ye, but the saints were surely watchin' over ye when they sent a friend such as Preston."

The sun was coming up and Baron Vengrave had extinguished his reading candle before he found a death that would suit his Avenging Angel. It was in an obscure medieval text that had itself been translated from an older Latin work.

"This will take much longer than I anticipated," he said casually. "But there is no doubt it will be well worth the time and trouble. Would you care to hear what the Fates have in store for you?"

The blue eyes that have remained fastened on Vengrave throughout the night now narrowed in renewed fury.

Vengrave studied his expression with amusement, "Very well." He turned back one page and began reading--"'...for all that angels exist with and within light, before death is possible, this light must be extinguished. Confine the being in darkness without nourishment save for stagnant water to be poured over the face and head at the darkest hour of every night. Seven days in darkness shall extinguish the light within and will render the flesh brittle.'" He paused long enough to look up and confirm that his prisoner's anger was once again transforming into fear, then went back to the tome. "'When the flesh has been suitably treated with salt and iron, it shall prove weak enough for the task. Should the executioner not have the strength for the last, a vise must be built and employed...' I'll spare you the instructions for building the vise, as I don't believe I will find it necessary.

"'...secure the shoulder and all the body lower thereof, then, well-braced, take the head in your hands and rotate it mightily--'" Vengrave met the viscount's horrified gaze as he spoke the last words, "'--until it is facing opposite from the body.'" He noted with satisfaction that Hank's anger had vanished. "This will be my best portrait by far. And such an honor for you, as well, to be so immortalized by a master."

"It truly is appalling, my dear," Lady Wylde said as she joined Diana for a very late breakfast. "That you should look so fresh and lively the morning after such a crush."

Diana laughed at the compliment. "And why should I not when this is the latest I've risen all Season?" She spread a generous amount of marmalade on a scone. "Have you any plans for today?"

Lady Wylde yawned delicately behind her hand. "None at all. Everyone is far too exhausted after the Masque to be out and about today."

"Surely not," Diana blinked. "The Masque was not so much later than most balls."

"I suppose it may be because such preparation is done for the Masque that everyone is rather downcast when it is all over."

Diana considered this as she sipped her tea. "Then the shops on Bond Street may be quieter than usual. It would be an excellent time to do some shopping."

"Take pity on a poor old woman, darling Diana," Lady Wylde gave her a woeful look. "Surely you cannot be dragging me up and down the Pall Mall today."

"You--an old woman!" Diana laughed as she tried to picture it. "But if you wish to stay home and rest, I will simply bring a maid to--" she broke off as a footman entered and approached her.

"Forgive me, my lady," he held out a silver salver. "But this message just arrived from the Countess of Ravenwood."

"Thank you, Charles," Diana took the letter, broke the seal and began scanning the elegant handwriting. "It would appear that Viscount Rayner has still not appeared this morning," she told Lady Wylde as she refolded the note. "And Lady Ravenwood asks if I've heard from him since leaving the Masque."

"I must say this is very bad of Rayner," Lady Wylde set down her teacup. "I would not have thought it of him."

"Nor I," Diana admitted. "He is very fond of Lord and Lady Ravenwood and I can't imagine him doing anything to upset them." Abruptly, she plucked her napkin from her lap and laid it on the table. "I believe I shall forego my shopping excursion and call at Kelthorne Hall."

"Call at Kelthorne?" Lady Wylde was astonished. "The day after the Masque?"

"If anyone is to have news of Lord Rayner, it is Lord Blackmoor," Diana explained as she rose. "I will go change at once. Will you be joining me?"

Lady Wylde eyed her speculatively. "Yes, my dear, I believe I will."

Hank gave up struggling with his bonds not long after his captor left, and lay still on the table he'd been secured to, trying to make sense of the man's words. All he was certain of was that this was the same man that had tried to steal Bobby O'Brien away in Convent Garden. Hank wondered if this was revenge for his interference and found it strange that the man had not mentioned it.

Instead, the man had spoken of the death of angels and of immortality with a familiarity Hank did not want to dwell on for too long for fear of lapsing into blind panic. The man's references to him as an angel and talk of execution had the ring of mysticism and demonology and made Hank long for Reverend Alfore's bombastic but straightforward sermons that had allowed one to doze off in their simplicity.

When he heard the movement of servants in the rest of the house--he assumed it was a house--Hank was rather grateful for the distraction. He would most definitely be missed today, if he hadn't already been following the Masque, and certainly it would only be a matter of time before someone came looking for him.

But no one knows where you are. You left word with no one of your plans.

Except Eric.

Ah, but he may actually be glad to see the back of you.

Hank sighed and listened to the sound of servants going about their work. It was a noise he had grown so accustomed to since his arrival in London that he actually felt himself being lulled to sleep. He forced himself back to wakefulness by thinking of how strange it was that the servants were going about their business not even knowing that their employer had a prisoner bound and gagged within their midst. The thought occupied him for a time, as did plans for escape, but eventually, the servants took their work to another floor and Hank was left with almost complete silence. That, along with the unleavened darkness, lured him into a fitful sleep.

On to Part IX
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