It is the Rakshana. I’m certain of it. They mean to keep me a prisoner until I give up the magic, and they’ve recruited my own brother to their purposes.
Tom shoves his fists into his pockets. “You and I, we must carry on, Gemma. I cannot afford the luxury of love. I must marry well. And now I must look after you. It is my duty.”
“How noble,” I snarl.
“Well, there’s a fine thank-you.”
“If you wish to suffer, you do so of your own free will, not on my behalf. Or Father’s or Grandmama’s or anyone’s. You are a fine physician, Thomas. Why is that not enough?”
His jaw tightens. That boyish lock of hair falls into his eyes, shadowing them. “Because it isn’t,” he says with rare candor. “Only this and the hope of nothing more? A quiet respectability with no true greatness or heroism in it, with only my reputation to recommend me. So you see, Gemma, you are not the only one who cannot rule her own life.”
He tilts his head back and drains the last of the spirits. It’s too much and he could do with a hearty cough but he holds it down. No hint of vulnerability will escape him. Not even a cough.
I wander to the window. There’s a carriage waiting outside. It is not our carriage but I recognize it. The black curtains, the funereal aspect. A match is struck and brought to a cigarette. Fowlson.
Tom’s just behind me. “Ah, my driver. I have a rather important engagement this evening, Gemma. I trust you’ll not burn the house down while I am away.”
“Tom,” I say, following him down the stairs to the foyer, “please don’t go to the club tonight. Stay here with me. We could play cards!”
Tom laughs and pulls on his coat. “Cards! How thrilling!”
“Very well. We needn’t play cards. We could…” What? What have my brother and I ever shared other than a few games in childhood? There is precious little that holds us together but the same unhappy history. Tom is waiting for my offer, but I have nothing.
“Right, then. I’m off.”
He grabs his hat, that silly affectation, and checks himself in the mirror by the door. I’ve nothing left to venture but the truth.
“Tom, I know I shall sound like one of your patients at Bedlam, but please, hear me out. You mustn’t go to that meeting this evening. I believe you are in danger. I know you’ve joined the Rakshana—” Tom tries to object but I hold up my hand. “I know it. Your gentlemen’s club isn’t what you imagine them to be, Tom. They’ve existed for centuries. They’re not to be trusted.”
Tom stands uncertainly for a moment. I can only hope I’ve reached him. He bursts into laughter and applause. “Bravo, Gemma! That is, without a doubt, the most fantastic story you’ve concocted yet. I do believe it is not I but Sir Arthur Conan Doyle who is in danger. For your stories may surpass his in intrigue and dastardly deeds!” I grab his arm and he brushes me away. “Have a care with that coat! My tailor is a good man but also a costly one.”
“Tom, please. You must believe me. It isn’t a story. They don’t want you; they want me. I have something they want, something they would do anything to get. And they would employ you to get to me.”
A terrible hurt flickers in Tom’s eyes. “You’re just like Father, aren’t you? Doubting me at every turn. After all, why would anyone want Thomas Doyle, his father’s constant disappointment?”
“I didn’t say that—”
“No, but you thought it all the same.”
“No, you’re wrong—”
“Yes, I’m always wrong. That’s the trouble with me. Well, not tonight. Tonight, I will become a part of something larger than myself. And they asked me, Gemma. They want me. I don’t expect you to be happy for me but at the very least you could allow me to have my happiness.”
“Tom…,” I plead, watching him walk out the door. The maid holds it open, trying to avert her eyes from our argument.
“And for the last time, I don’t know what you mean by all this Rakshana business. I’ve never heard of them.” He wraps his scarf about his neck with flair. “I bid you good night, Gemma. And please, stay away from those books you devour. They are putting the most fantastical tales into your head.”
Tom strides down the walk toward the carriage. Fowlson gives him a hand into it, but his wicked smile is all for me.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
FATHER’S ROOM IS LIT ONLY BY THE SMALL LAMP BESIDE HIS bed. His breathing is labored but he is calm. Dr. Hamilton has given him morphine. It is strange how a drug can be both tormentor and comfort.
