“Never doubt me, Oscar. Never doubt—”
Gripped by a mad impulse, Wilde lunged forward and gave the slighter man a vicious shove. The marquess reeled backward several staggering steps and sat down hard upon the floor. Seizing the moment, Wilde grabbed the boy by the arm and tugged him off the bed. DeVayne stumbled to his feet and stood wavering, held at bay by the derringer leveled at his chest. He watched, powerless, as the Irish wit scooped the little girl from the bed and tossed her upon his shoulder.
“I am leaving now. And taking the children with me.”
“You’re being very rude, Oscar. Are you trying to make me cross?”
“You must excuse me, Marquess, but I find that this room reeks of excrement, and I do not think it is from something I’ve trodden in.”
“Mister Wilde, you have spoiled my evening. However shall I redress this insult?”
“I suggest a strongly worded letter to The Times. I find them most efficacious.”
And with that final riposte, Wilde turned and fled the room, dragging the boy behind. The rush of adrenaline had momentarily burned off the fog swirling in his mind, but his bloodstream was still awash with narcotics and he struggled to navigate the labyrinthine hallways. Finally reaching the grand staircase, he stumbled down it several times only to find himself back at the top of the landing. On the third attempt, as he rested on the middle landing, he accosted someone coming up the stairs. The man wore a pair of fine boots and a shirt, but had carelessly misplaced his trousers somewhere. A Venetian mask concealed his features but could not hide a fine head of blond hair, tightly curled. Although he seemed familiar, the man was bleeding light trails and strangely colored sounds, which made further identification impossible.
“Excuse me,” Wilde said, addressing the stranger. “I am attempting to descend this staircase, but it appears to go up in either direction. Would you be so kind as to point the way down?”
The man gestured and stepped aside and Wilde followed his point and finally tripped off the stairs onto the ground floor. He noticed that he still held the derringer in one hand and, anxious to be rid of it, deposited it upon the silver tray of a passing servant. As he dragged the children past the open door to the great hall, he could not help but glance inside. The bacchants still writhed in the pit, and their sweating bodies, in the gleam of firelight, resembled a scene from The Inferno.
At last he reached the entrance hall, where the living golden statues had abandoned their posts and were trying to shoo the panicking herd of sheep out of doors. He pressed through their baaing mass, and was relieved to finally stumble down the marble steps into the night. The shock of cold November air scourging his lungs revived him somewhat, although as he hurried to his carriage, a pair of long-necked giraffes lollopped across the circular drive. Wilde could not be sure if they were real or a vestige of the volatile chemicals roiling in his brain. When he reached his four-wheeler, Gibson stirred inside the carriage, tossing aside the heavy blanket he had wrapped himself in. “Mister Wilde? What? Why do you have those children?”
“The evening began as an indulgence and quickly devolved into a rescue,” Wilde explained as he flung open the carriage door and loaded the children inside. “Quickly, Gibson, fetch a blanket to wrap these babes before they catch their death.”
“Are we going back to your club, sir?”
“No,” the Irishman said, hauling himself inside the carriage and collapsing onto the seat cushion. “We must find an orphanage to provide a safe haven for these waifs, and then I want to go home. To Tite Street. I have been a neglectful father of late and wish only to reside in the bosom of my family. After this evening I am done forever with drinking and carousing.”
The children were bundled under a pile of blankets and promptly fell asleep. Soon the carriage was rattling back up the drive, away from the house. As the Irishman looked out the window, a pack of something with sharp claws and razor teeth gazed back from the darkness with luminous eyes. He suppressed a shudder and slipped a hip flask from his pocket.
Well, perhaps just the carousing for now, Wilde thought to himself as he quaffed a mouthful of brandy.
CHAPTER 24
USELESS FRIENDS AND DANGEROUS DRUGS
As the maid conducted him into the parlor of number 16 Tite Street, Conan Doyle caught Constance Wilde standing compromisingly close to Robert Sheridan — much closer than two casual friends should stand, and one a married lady at that. They sprang apart upon hearing him clear his throat. Sheridan moved to the window and stood gazing out, clearly embarrassed. Constance, in full blush, rushed over to greet the author.
“My dear, Arthur. It is so good to see you,” she said, gripping his hand solicitously. “With Oscar forever at his club, we have become strangers of late.”
Conan Doyle was still recovering from the shock of catching her in a moment of indiscretion and had not yet composed his face.
“How is Louise?” she asked. “Her struggle for health continues?”
He nodded gravely. “She abides.”
“You must be so very lonely. Still, I understand you have a new friend? Several of my acquaintances have seen you dining with a most attractive young lady.”
The thinly veiled threat was not lost upon Conan Doyle. Apparently all of them, Arthur, Oscar, and Constance were engaged in some degree of infidelity. Still, Conan Doyle was distressed to hear that he was already the subject of gossip.
“I have many friends amongst the Society. Miss Leckie has been assisting me with my research on the occult… for a book I am writing.”
Constance Wilde was a striking woman with an intellect to match. “Research? Is that what it is called now?” She smiled. “I wish you both much success with your… research.”
Conan Doyle brushed his walrus moustache with agitation. “Is Oscar at home? I stopped in at his club, but he did not spend the night.”
“Yes, my husband did grace us with his presence last night. He arrived home in the early hours, rather the worse for wear. I cannot imagine what he’d been up to, but he was in quite a mania. He insisted upon waking the children and lavishing them with hugs and kisses. He promised that he would never stray and that his children were the dearest thing in the world to him.” Constance smiled ironically. “Of course, Oscar promises many things when he is feeling… poetic… as you no doubt know.”
Conan Doyle felt himself being drawn into a confidence about the Wildes’ marriage he did not wish to share. His own personal life was tangled enough.
“Is Oscar awake?”
Something in Constance’s eyes drew back, realizing she had crossed a line. “He is in his study with the boys. I’m afraid he is still somewhat discomposed.”
When Conan Doyle entered the study, his Irish friend was slumped in a chair, an ice bag balanced on his head, a lavender mask blindfolding his eyes. The boys, Vyvyan and Cyril, were marching about the room like soldiers, Vyvyan blasting on a tin trumpet while Cyril banged a toy drum with the kind of hateable fervor only a child can manifest.
Wilde moaned beneath the lavender mask and called out, “Is that you, Arthur?”
“Yes!” Conan Doyle shouted to be heard above the racket. He dropped into the armchair opposite Wilde’s.
The Irish wit paused to remove the eyeshade and display eyes that resembled bloody marbles. “As you can see, I had quite the evening.” He turned to the end table and sifted a spoonful of white powder from a paper packet into a glass of water and agitated it with a spoon. He glugged down the glassful and shivered with disgust.