horizontal seascape, showing dark silhouettes of double-masted ships riding high on storm-wrought waves. The two pieces seemed to be halves of a larger painting, though one revealed the dark heart of the storm, and the other showed a break in the clouds, with just a hint of clear sky.
Lord Blackheath loved the seascapes that hung above the doors. Since the first time he had entered this room—the day after he had been named a director of the Algernon Club—he had tried to discover their origin, but to no avail. Nowhere in the club’s records was there any mention of the founders acquiring those paintings. It seemed as if they had always been there, as though they themselves were a bit of magic.
A mystery. Lord Blackheath had a fondness for mysteries, small and large.
“Now then, gentlemen,” he said, “have you any further candidates for membership this evening?”
Lord Blackheath studied the faces of the men who had gathered around the table, the youngest of them perhaps forty and the eldest, Sir Horace, eighty-seven. They glanced at one another, a susurrus of low conversation ensuing, and after several moments determined that they were through. Thirty-two new members had been considered tonight, and only three had been admitted. the Algernon Club differed from other gentlemen’s clubs in the criteria it utilized to judge applicants, but its members were no less discriminatory. More so, in fact.
“Very well,” Lord Blackheath said. He settled into his dark leather chair and steepled his fingers beneath his graying beard. “There is one final candidate I would like to bring to your attention. I have taken the liberty—as director of the Algernon Club—of inviting him to attend Sir Darius’s birthday gala, so that you may all have a chance to evaluate him.”
Sir Horace cleared his throat. His back was so bent that he seemed always about to pitch forward onto the table, and when he turned to focus on Lord Blackheath it was painful to watch him shift his body. His flesh and bone were mutineers, unwilling to obey his commands, and so he had to force them to do so. Yet his eyes were alight with clarity and intelligence.
“You have that right, Blackheath, but it’s damned unusual for you to exercise it. Who is this man?”
“Sir Ludlow’s grandson, William Swift.”
The reaction was immediate. Sir Horace’s face darkened and he sputtered. Several of the others began speaking all at once, and all of them protesting. Lord Blackheath only waited for the torrent to subside.
Sir Horace rapped his knuckles on the table and the room fell silent. The ancient man stared at Lord Blackheath.
“We’ve discussed the boy before, Blackheath. Ludlow was always clear about him. William Swift could not perform the simplest coin pass or card trick if I showed it to him with my own two hands. He’s got no interest in magic. To admit him simply because his family has a legacy with this club . . . that’s the sort of thing you find at White’s and Boodle’s, but the Algernon Club simply does not work that way.”
Lord Blackheath nodded. “I’m bloody well aware of that. But I believe we must take a closer look at William Swift. You must admit that now that Ludlow’s dead, he bears watching.”
Sir Horace sneered. “You think that boy is the new Protector? Ridiculous!”
Blackheath narrowed his gaze. “ Someone prevented Balberith from rising several months back.”
From a shadowed corner of the room came the sound of a man clearing his throat. Lord Blackheath knitted his brows and glanced at the figure in the corner.
“My lord Melbourne?” he said.
The directors of the Algernon Club had never formally admitted Melbourne as a member. Politically, it would have been unseemly for the prime minister to be associated with the club. And though he had an interest in the mystical, he had no skill with magic, neither stagecraft nor spellcraft. Thus, he was usually a silent observer.
Not so, this evening.
“We
Lord Blackheath loved the seascapes that hung above the doors. Since the first time he had entered this room—the day after he had been named a director of the Algernon Club—he had tried to discover their origin, but to no avail. Nowhere in the club’s records was there any mention of the founders acquiring those paintings. It seemed as if they had always been there, as though they themselves were a bit of magic.
A mystery. Lord Blackheath had a fondness for mysteries, small and large.
“Now then, gentlemen,” he said, “have you any further candidates for membership this evening?”
Lord Blackheath studied the faces of the men who had gathered around the table, the youngest of them perhaps forty and the eldest, Sir Horace, eighty-seven. They glanced at one another, a susurrus of low conversation ensuing, and after several moments determined that they were through. Thirty-two new members had been considered tonight, and only three had been admitted. the Algernon Club differed from other gentlemen’s clubs in the criteria it utilized to judge applicants, but its members were no less discriminatory. More so, in fact.
“Very well,” Lord Blackheath said. He settled into his dark leather chair and steepled his fingers beneath his graying beard. “There is one final candidate I would like to bring to your attention. I have taken the liberty—as director of the Algernon Club—of inviting him to attend Sir Darius’s birthday gala, so that you may all have a chance to evaluate him.”
Sir Horace cleared his throat. His back was so bent that he seemed always about to pitch forward onto the table, and when he turned to focus on Lord Blackheath it was painful to watch him shift his body. His flesh and bone were mutineers, unwilling to obey his commands, and so he had to force them to do so. Yet his eyes were alight with clarity and intelligence.
“You have that right, Blackheath, but it’s damned unusual for you to exercise it. Who is this man?”
“Sir Ludlow’s grandson, William Swift.”
The reaction was immediate. Sir Horace’s face darkened and he sputtered. Several of the others began speaking all at once, and all of them protesting. Lord Blackheath only waited for the torrent to subside.
Sir Horace rapped his knuckles on the table and the room fell silent. The ancient man stared at Lord Blackheath.
“We’ve discussed the boy before, Blackheath. Ludlow was always clear about him. William Swift could not perform the simplest coin pass or card trick if I showed it to him with my own two hands. He’s got no interest in magic. To admit him simply because his family has a legacy with this club . . . that’s the sort of thing you find at White’s and Boodle’s, but the Algernon Club simply does not work that way.”
Lord Blackheath nodded. “I’m bloody well aware of that. But I believe we must take a closer look at William Swift. You must admit that now that Ludlow’s dead, he bears watching.”
Sir Horace sneered. “You think that boy is the new Protector? Ridiculous!”
Blackheath narrowed his gaze. “ Someone prevented Balberith from rising several months back.”
From a shadowed corner of the room came the sound of a man clearing his throat. Lord Blackheath knitted his brows and glanced at the figure in the corner.
“My lord Melbourne?” he said.
The directors of the Algernon Club had never formally admitted Melbourne as a member. Politically, it would have been unseemly for the prime minister to be associated with the club. And though he had an interest in the mystical, he had no skill with magic, neither stagecraft nor spellcraft. Thus, he was usually a silent observer.
Not so, this evening.
“We
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