It was within Fabian’s power to end Victoria’s reign with the flick of a hidden switch that he had incorporated into her life-giving chair during its construction. A safety measure, he had told himself. A means of ensuring that if it all went wrong, there was a way out. He’d initially considered this a precaution in case the surgery that had welded her to the chair had failed, but now he dreamed of the day he might trip that switch, and smiled secretly at the notion that it was he, not the Queen, who held the real power in the room.
Outwardly, however, he bowed his head and mumbled an apology, allowing the Queen to consider him admonished. Now was not the time to reveal his secrets. But there would come a point when it would prove necessary for him to assert that power. The thought galvanised him.
Victoria’s breath was rasping and dry. Fabian tentatively approached her chair and leaned in, making an adjustment to the intravenous fluid system that kept her hydrated. Close up, she smelled of stale sweat and chemicals, preservatives. He wondered whether her maids were washing her and changing her dressings as regularly as he had ordered. He would quietly check with them later.
“So? What news from the Grayling Institute?” This, then, was the real purpose of his summons.
Fabian stepped back from the chair. The bellows hissed and wheezed. He looked down at Victoria, meeting her gaze. He tried to keep the defiance out of his expression. “Things… progress. While the engine has proved ineffective on nearly all of our patients, on the girl it is finally beginning to work.”
Victoria rubbed her hands together with something approaching delight. The grin on her face was obscene.
Fabian swallowed and continued. “Seven days. Seven days is the longest we’ve achieved so far. But I am hopeful the duration will increase with further testing.”
“Why do they fail?”
Fabian shrugged. “The girl is frail and sickly. Her… special talents are a tremendous drain on her physical well-being.”
“We are not interested in her physical well-being. Her talents, however, are of much interest.”
“We are learning a great deal, Your Majesty. A great deal. But I have yet to identify exactly why the engine works on the girl and no one else, and whether those talents are part of the reason for our success. These are the two areas that concern me most: the long-term viability of the… product, and how to replicate the success with another subject. I would not want to risk causing any lasting harm to, let us say, a more significant patient…”
The Queen gave a sickly laugh. “You always were of a cowardly persuasion, Doctor, too keen to keep your own neck off the block.” She looked suddenly serious. “Ensure the machine is fully operational within a week. We grow weary of waiting.” She laughed again, but this time it was spiked with menace. “And close your mouth, won’t you? It’s unbecoming.”
Fabian, stunned, stammered out his reply, pushing his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. “But that’s impossible, Your Majesty. Absolutely impossible. Seven days! Our success has been incredibly limited so far. We’re making headway, yes. But a week! I simply can’t do it. We’ll need months of testing and experimentation before we’re even close to being operational!”
Victoria’s expression hardened. “You will do as we say, Fabian.” She used his name as a curse. “You will go from here and you will not return until the device is in full working order.” She seemed to consider her next statement carefully. “Double the amount of testing on the girl.”
Even Fabian felt himself blanch at this. “But Majesty, it will kill her.”
“We are not concerned with whether she lives or dies, so long as the tests prove successful. Identify the factor that separates her from the others. Discover the reason for your recent success. Go to work.” With this she turned her cheek to him and waved a hand in casual dismissal.
Fabian remained still for a moment, unsure how to respond. He wanted to rage at her for the ridiculous nature of her demands, her arrogance. But he knew he could not win that particular battle. He ground his teeth, dug his nails into the palms of his hands. Victoria resolutely refused to look in his direction; as far as she was concerned, their business was over and he had ceased to exist.
Fuming, and filled with a frustrating sense of impotence, Fabian turned on his heel and stalked out of the audience chamber, leaving Victoria chuckling to herself in her chair. He would do her bidding. For now. He could do nothing else. But the time would come for him to assert his dominance. And that time was growing closer by the day.
CHAPTER
8
Packworth House, the building frequented by the members of the Bastion Society, was perhaps the most grandiose clubhouse that Veronica had ever seen. Not, she admitted to herself, that she’d seen the insides of many gentlemen’s clubs in her time.
Nevertheless, this one in particular had an air of the spectacular about it, unlike most of the more austere establishments that she’d had the misfortune to frequent. Even Newbury’s club, the White Friar’s, with all its writers and artists and bohemian types, had nothing on this place. She looked around in barely disguised wonder. The money that must have been spent…
They were standing in a huge saloon, a hall that could have seated three to four hundred people. Tables were placed with unusual precision, according to some prosaic pattern that she supposed would really be discernible only from the wide baroque balcony that ran around the entire perimeter of the space, high above her head. A large marble surround, depicting characters from classical myth, enclosed a roaring fire, even this early in the day. Tall vases stood to either side of it and were filled with plumes of bright emu and peacock feathers, their multifaceted eyes watching her with unblinking interest.
Servants bustled amongst the tables, still clearing away debris from the prior evening’s festivities, which-from the look of the place-had evidently been a riotous banquet of some kind. And before the little group of Crown investigators, greeting them in a haughty but polite manner, was Sir Enoch Graves, the club’s premier.
The man was clearly an eccentric. She’d already been able to discern, from just the few words he had spoken, that he was possessed of both an enormous intellect and the requisite ego to accompany it. He was thin-painfully so-and in his early forties, with a pencil-thin moustache on his top lip and a shock of silvery grey hair that was parted and fell in a comma across his forehead. He was dressed in a black evening suit with a rapier strapped to his side-a dress sword-and spoke with an upper-class lisp that belied-to Veronica at least-the affected nature of his persona.
“Welcome to the Bastion Society,” he said, gesturing with open arms to the room around them. He smiled, but Veronica thought it looked more like a threat. “I do apologise for the state of the place. The poor servants have their work cut out for them this morning. I think we somewhat overdid it last night.”
“A special occasion?” Newbury ventured, his voice low.
Graves cocked his head to one side, as if wondering how to respond. “A new member. We were celebrating his induction into our little club.”
Bainbridge raised his eyebrow at the understatement. “Not so little,” he mumbled beneath his breath.
Graves laughed. “Quite so, Sir Charles.”
Newbury scratched his chin unconsciously. He was processing something, some piece of information he had gleaned from the room, or something Graves had already given away. “A new member?” he ventured. “Do you actively encourage applications?”
Graves smiled. “Are you interested in joining us, Sir Maurice? I’m sure we’d be delighted to welcome someone of your stature into our fold.” He paused as if waiting for a response from Newbury, but went on when he realised none was forthcoming. “But to answer your question: No, we do not. We have a strict vetting and admissions policy, and we adhere to it with the utmost devotion.” Veronica noted his hand was now resting on the hilt of his sword. “We believe in chivalry and order, in upholding the standards which have made this country great. We believe in protecting the land of our birth and setting an example for how a refined Englishman should behave. We are knights of the realm, Sir Maurice, and we act in her best interests.”