Strange Horizons (A Freak House Novella) C.J. Archer Copyright 2015 C.J. Archer Visit C.J. at http://cjarcher.com CHAPTER 1 Mrs. Calthorn's snort of laughter had the rest of the dinner guests turning toward her. Some winced, others smirked at the intolerable woman's coarseness. Jack Langley caught his wife's gaze and rolled his eyes. Hannah pressed her lips together to suppress a smile, but didn't quite succeed. The corners of her mouth lifted, and the sight warmed his blood. Hannah's good humor always lightened his own mood, no matter how bad his day had been. She was mischievous and adorable—and all his now. Not for the first time, however, Jack wondered how they'd ended up at the Calthorn woman's apartment as dinner guests. They were supposed to be on their honeymoon, enjoying each other's company in Paris, not that of the ridiculous Englishwoman and her small circle of friends. The invitation had arrived at Jack and Hannah's hotel suite that morning, demanding they attend. Jack had wanted to decline, but Hannah's curiosity had been piqued the day before when they'd met Widow Calthorn at the opera. The woman, who favored an excess of flounces and ribbons in her attire, wasn't the typical English émigré with an eye for fashion and all things Parisian. Indeed, she called the Seine a cesspit, derided the architecture for being pretentious, and claimed France would be a better country if it didn't contain so many French. Paris simply wasn't English enough for her tastes. So why, Hannah had asked, was she living there? Jack didn't care a whit, but Hannah wanted to know, and when Hannah's curiosity was released, there was no reining it in. It was one of the many things he loved about her. "I know why I'm here," said Beetlesby, the portly, middle-aged fellow seated beside Jack. The retired major had arranged his carrots into rows and was proceeding to round up his peas with his knife and fork. He seemed like a nice enough gentleman, if somewhat obsessed with the Napoleonic war. "And I know why you're here. But what I don't know, is why he's here." He gave the subtlest nod at the figure sitting opposite who'd been introduced to Jack as Mr. Lincoln Fitzroy. They'd not had the chance to converse at length yet. Jack admitted to being curious about him as well. He seemed to know no one else aside from their hostess, and had spoken little. His age was difficult to discern, but Jack guessed it to be between twenty-five and thirty. His shoulder-length wavy hair was tied back with a ribbon as black as his locks, and a small crease between determined brows had yet to smooth out. But it was his eyes that raised the hairs on the back of Jack's neck. They were the color of pitch, and they settled on each guest with cool, calculating intensity. "Oh?" Jack drawled. "Would you mind enlightening me as to why Mrs. Langley and myself have been invited?" The major dabbed each tentacle of his giant whiskers with a napkin. "You're here because you're a curiosity, Mr. Langley. Now, don't take offense." Jack hadn't. He was used to being called more offensive names. "But your affiliation to Freak House has made you such, that's all there is to it." Jack ignored the common nickname to his home. It no longer offended him either. "And why are you here, Major?" "Because I could come at short notice, and I was needed to balance out the numbers." "But the numbers aren't even anyway. We're a lady short." There were five men and four women, not an ideal number for a dinner party. It was why Jack had ended up sitting beside another man instead of having a lady on each side. "Ah, yes, but only because Miss Wilcox had to pull out at the last moment, apparently." He sipped his wine and dabbed at his moustache again. "Everyone here is known to me, Mr. Langley. Except Mr. Fitzroy. I've never seen him before. Have you?" "Just met him tonight," Jack said, keeping his voice low. Although the fellow sat opposite, he didn't seem to be quite listening to the lady beside him. Jack couldn't blame him. If either of his table neighbors engaged him in gossip about the antics of an infamous artist, he'd have tuned out too. "I believe our inimitable hostess only met him at the theater last night," Beetelsby said. "Can't see why she thought him good company. Handsome fellow. Mysterious too. But lacking in wit and conversation." "It sounds like you have your answer. She's intrigued by his air of mystery and his handsome face." "One doesn't invite a newcomer without a recommendation or introduction first. Mrs. C admitted to me that she knows nothing about him." "He sounded English," Jack said. "Perhaps she simply wanted to make him feel welcome in a new and strange city." "He is English, by God. We all are. Mrs. C wouldn't have it any other way, man." Heaven forbid if she had an actual Frenchman sit at her table. "As to his connections," the major added, "can't honestly say. Definitely the right sort though. Superior bearing. Speaks the queen's English. Has an air of authority about him too. All evidence points to him being a gentleman of quality." Jack didn't agree. He'd met many men who'd pulled themselves out of the gutter and mimicked the accents and aloofness of the upper classes with great effectiveness. His good friend Tommy, for one, and himself for another. If Fitzroy was as observant and clever as those penetrating eyes made him out to be, then he could have come from anywhere originally. The dinner seemed to go on forever. All Jack wanted to do was take his wife back to the hotel. He thought about setting fire to his napkin, but didn't want to be on the receiving end of one of Hannah's admonishing glares. Besides, he had a feeling Fitzroy wouldn't fall for any explanations of spontaneous combustion. Finally Mrs. Calthorn stood and announced the men could enjoy brandy and cigars while the women waited for them in the parlor. The guests filed out, led by the hostess. The major went next, followed by the others. Fitzroy hung back, allowing Jack and Hannah to leave together. "I'll join you soon, and then we can get out of here," Jack whispered in her ear. He drew in the scent of violets from her hair before pulling away. She shot him a mischievous smile and he wondered what she was up to. Being the most senior gentleman there, and a good friend to Mrs. Calthorn, the major took up a position by the sideboard once the men found themselves alone in a small chamber near the dining room. "Our hostess may not care for the French very much, but she enjoys their liqueurs. Anyone care for a nip?" "Brandy for me," Jack said. A round of agreement from the others followed. The major poured and handed the glasses out. "I believe I heard her call the French bloodthirsty revolutionaries," one gentleman said. "Why does she live here if she dislikes them so much?" Everyone looked to the major, but he merely shrugged. "The weather?" Jack saw an opportunity to engage Fitzroy in conversation. "Perhaps she came to Paris for love, only to have it end tragically." He spoke quietly, so that only Fitzroy could hear, but his theory had failed to raise even an eyebrow twitch let alone a response. "Perhaps mixing tragedy and love means she can't stand the place and people, yet can't bear to leave either." Fitzroy shot a glance at the door. Looking for an escape? Jack couldn't blame him. "Is that what you think?" he said blandly. "I don't know what to think, and I don't very much care why she's here when she so obviously hates the city." He sounded bored and he didn't care about that either. Fitzroy sipped his brandy and Jack wondered how to politely excuse himself and join in one of the other conversations. Then Fitzroy deigned to speak. "She could be a criminal in England and is living here in self-imposed exile to avoid arrest." Jack's brows shot up. "Do you know something I don't?" He probably should have defended Mrs. Calthorn's honor, but the infernal woman's annoying laughter over dinner hadn't endeared him to her. "Probably." At Jack's continued raised brows, Fitzroy added, "You mean regarding Mrs. Calthorn? No, unlikely. I just met her as, I believe, did you. That makes us the only people in this room who are new acquaintances." "True. So why are you here, Fitzroy?" "I was invited." So much for that line of questioning. "I mean in Paris. Business or pleasure?" "Sightseeing." "Were you at the Louvre yesterday?" "It was closed yesterday. As I'm sure you are aware." "Was it?" Jack sipped and tried to look like he wasn't attempting to catch the other fellow out. Fitzroy's gaze slid to Jack's and drilled into him. But Jack remained defiant. He'd fought evil in different guises in recent months and he was half demon.