Lord John and the Hand of Devils Read Online Free PDF Page B

embolden Quarry to open violence, he found himself instead face to face with George Everett.
    “John,” Everett said softly, smiling.
    “Mr. Everett.” Grey inclined his head politely. Nothing squelched, Everett continued to smile. He was a handsome devil, and he knew it.
    “You are in good looks, John. Exile agrees with you, it seems.” The long mouth widened, curling at the corner.
    “Indeed. I must take pains to go away more often, then.” His heart was beating faster. Everett’s perfume was his accustomed musk and myrrh; the scent of it conjured tumbled linens, and the touch of hard and knowing hands.
    A hoarse voice near his shoulder provided welcome distraction.
    “Lord John? Your servant, sir.”
    Grey turned to find the gentleman in rose velvet bowing to him, a look of spurious cordiality fixed upon saturnine features.
    “Mr. Bubb-Dodington, I collect. I am obliged, sir.” He bowed in turn, and allowed himself to be separated from Everett, who stood looking after them, a faint smile upon his lips.
    So conscious was he of Everett’s eyes burning holes in his back that he scarce attended to Bubb-Dodington’s overtures, replying automatically to the man’s courtesies and inquiries. It was not until the rasping voice mentioned the word “Medmenham” that he was jerked into attention, to realize that he had just received a most interesting invitation.
    “…would find us a most congenial assembly, I am sure,” Bubb-Dodington was saying, leaning toward Grey with that same attitude of fawning attention he had noted earlier.
    “You feel I would be in sympathy with the interests of your society?” Grey contrived to infuse a faint tone of boredom, looking away from the man. Just over Bubb-Dodington’s shoulder, he was conscious of the figure of Sir Francis Dashwood, dark and bulky. Dashwood’s deep-set eyes rested upon them, even as he carried on a conversation, and a ripple of apprehension raised the hairs on the back of Grey’s neck.
    “I am flattered, but I scarcely think…” he began, turning away.
    “Oh, do not think you would be quite strange!” Bubb-Dodington interrupted, beaming with oily deprecation. “You are acquainted with Mr. Everett, I think? He will make one of our number.”
    “Indeed.” Grey’s mouth had gone dry. “I see. Well, you must allow me to consult…” Muttering excuses, he escaped, finding refuge a moment later in the company of Harry Quarry and his sister-in-law, sharing cups of brandy punch at the nearby buffet.
    “It galls me,” Harry was saying, “that such petty time-servers and flaunting jackanapes make my kin to be the equal of the he-strumpets and buggerantoes that infest the Arcade. I’ve known Bob Gerald from a lad, and I will swear my life upon his honor!” Quarry’s large hand clenched upon his glass as he glowered at Mr. Justice Margrave’s back.
    “Have a care, Harry, my dear.” Lucinda placed a hand on his sleeve. “Those are my good crystal cups. If you must crush something, let it be the hazelnuts.”
    “I shall let it be that fellow’s windpipe, and he does not cease to air his idiocy,” said Quarry. He scowled horridly, but suffered himself to be turned away, still talking. “What can Richard be thinking of, to entertain such scum? Dashwood, I mean, and now this…”
    Grey started, and felt a chill down his spine. Quarry’s blunt features bore no trace of resemblance to his dead cousin-by-marriage, and yet—his face contorted with fury, eyes bulging slightly as he spoke…Grey closed his eyes tightly, summoning the vision.
    He left Quarry and Lady Lucinda abruptly, without excuse, and made his way hastily to the large gilded mirror that hung above a sideboard in the dining room.
    Leaning over the skeletal remains of a roasted pheasant, he stared at his mouth—painstakingly forming the shapes he had seen on Robert Gerald’s mouth—and now again on Harry Quarry’s, hearing in his mind as he made them the sound of Robert