Apexology: Horror Read online

  It wasn't that Camille didn't appreciate the importance of the Rising. And of course she agreed that Bonaparte had gotten exactly what he deserved—to think that he’d call upon the Elder Gods just to escape Elba! Really, France had been nothing but a trial since the Revolution, anyway, although Camille would miss its milliners.

  Still, so few of England’s military officers had come through the Rising unscathed. The list of eligible bachelors this Season was decidedly dismal, with so many army and naval officers slain or insane; only old men and aloof Exquisites were left to entertain all of the ladies who’d descended upon London for the Season.

  One of those Exquisites stood beside her now, inspecting the rest of the guests at Almack’s through his quizzing glass.

  “Lady Camille, do cast a glance to your right and observe Lord Wilcox’s coat,” Douglas Marsh murmured. “Upon my word, if it isn’t the very garment he was wearing last night when he was dancing court so assiduously over the Misses Merrion. I wonder, were we to stand close to him, which of the young lady’s perfumes might we detect lingering upon its wrinkled velvet like a lloigor over its victim?”

  “Really, Marsh,” Camille chided with affection, “you go too far.”

  “Indeed. Do you suppose the same might be said of the Misses Merrion?”

  She tapped his arm with her painted fan and tried not to smile. Lord Marsh enjoyed going too far. A marquess’s second son and a commander in the king’s navy, he had only recently arrived in London. Unlike so many military officers who’d been left without employment in the wake of Napoleon’s exile, Marsh had done well on the Stock Exchange; avoided loss of life, limb, or lucidity during the Rising; and now seemed to be intent on frittering away his wealth on the most outrageous frivolities. It was a pity, Camille had often thought to herself, that the young man possessed such unfortunate features. His stocky frame wasn’t shown off to advantage by the wasp-waisted, skin-tight fashions he affected, and he was cursed by the Marsh family’s hereditary bulbous eyes and wide mouth. His complexion was very pale and smooth, however, which was unusual in a naval man and counted in his favor among the ladies.

  “Oh, my,” Marsh breathed. “You must avert your eyes, my dear; Willy Curwen has done his cravat an unspeakable offense.”

  Camille glanced at Lord Curwen and perceived at once that his linen neck-cloth wasn’t up to the consummate standards of her companion’s highly starched, painstakingly arranged work of habilimentary art, but it was Curwen’s companion who drew her eyes.

  “Who is that, Marsh? The dark man beside him?” she asked, leaning closer to her companion.

  Marsh adjusted his quizzing glass, his wide mouth screwing up in a disdainful moue.

  “That is Lord Neely Chambres, the new ambassador from Carcosa,” he replied, contemplating the man’s clothing with the horrified fascination of a maiden aunt who has inadvertently stumbled across a midnight orgy with Shub-Niggurath in the fields behind her country home. “I fear he fell into a lady’s jewel box and encountered some difficulty climbing back out again.”

  Camille hid another smile as she inspected the Carcosan. Lord Chambres wore a great yellow gemstone pin in his cravat and heavy golden rings on his slender fingers. A strange, three-armed golden brooch was pinned to his collar. His unfashionably long black hair was held back with a gold clasp studded with small red stones like drops of blood, their sanguine color repeated in the embroidery covering his ornate yellow silk waistcoat.

  Marsh sniffed.

  “The ladies of the committee will never grant him a second voucher.”

  Camille had opened her mouth to reply when Lord Chambres’ eyes met hers across the dance floor. Her heart stuttered, then began to pound, and she forgot whatever it was she’d intended to say.

  The ambassador’s features were sharp and hawk like, his mouth severe and his eyes dark and watchful. His skin was deep brown, and his build tall and slender. Camille was suddenly, acutely aware of the raw masculine strength beneath his exotic apparel.

  Lord Chambres’ thin lips curled up in a conspiratorial, possessive smile, and Camille averted her eyes, turning to Marsh to escape the scrutiny of those foreign, piercing eyes.

  “You look flushed; is the heat too much for you?” Marsh asked solicitously, holding out his arm. “Perhaps a cool drink?”

  She took a steadying breath and nodded, allowing the dandy to escort her to the lemonade and a circle of their friends. Her respite was short-lived, however, for within minutes they were joined by Curwen and the ambassador.

  “Here, I told you I’d introduce you to one of the most delightful ladies in London,” Curwen said to his companion. “This fetching young lady is Camille Wilmarth, the ruling queen of the Season.”

  Camille was aware that Curwen kept talking, introducing her friends, but his voice seemed to fade as her gaze was captured by the ambassador of Carcosa. Such strange eyes, she thought, entranced, as dark as the depths of the ocean but flecked with tiny specks of light, like distant, alien stars.

  For the first time in her sheltered life, Camille sensed the attraction of the unknown. It was like staring into an abyss and wondering whether to jump.

  “Won’t you do me the honor of permitting me this dance?” Chambres asked, bowing.

  “I would be delighted, your excellency,” she replied, her voice sounding faint even to herself as she laid a hand on his arm and let him whisk her away from her friends. Although they only walked a few feet, she secretly felt as though she were accompanying Lord Chambres to a strange and distant land.

  Lord Douglas Marsh smoothed the tails of his Weston coat and threw himself—carefully—into a chair at his club. He had been unaccountably piqued ever since Lady Wilmarth had danced with the ambassador the night before, and his irritation hadn’t abated even after arising at noon and spending three hours before the glass, dressing.

  The unwelcome sensation of feeling anything other than smugly pleased with himself was one he’d thought banished forever, now that R’lyeh had risen and certain questionable practices that were part of his family heritage had finally been legitimized.

  But there it was: almost a full day had passed since the dance, and he still felt palpably irked.

  “You’re in a brown study, Dougie,” boomed Major Reginald Hampton, taking a chair across from him and waving for the port. “Someone scuff your boots?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Marsh crossed his legs and contemplated the flawlessly gleaming surface of his Hessians. The sight, which would normally fill him with satisfaction, did nothing to dispel his glum mood.

  “Saw you at Almack’s last night. Got a look at that new wog ambassador, did you?”

  Marsh winced.

  “Do you mean Lord Neely Chambres, of Carcosa?” he inquired, as though there might have been some other ambassador at Almack’s whose presence had escaped his notice.

  “Carcosa.” Hampton snorted. “And what the devil was that last year?”

  “Corsica, I believe,” Marsh murmured. The port arrived, and Hampton leaned over to pour them each a glass.

  “Ever since R’lyeh popped out of the Pacific, the whole demmed world’s turned upside-down,” Hampton grumbled, handing a glass to the dandy. “Maps no good, celestial navigation shot to blazes, civil wars flaring up right and left, profane cults crawling out of the woodwork — devil of a price to pay just to get rid of Old Boney, if you ask me. Though I would have liked to have seen the look on his face when he arrived on the coast of France and them bloody shoggoths slipped out of his control, haw!”

  “They’ve certainly given Spain something to think about,” Marsh pointed out. Hampton’s handsome, freckled face cleared.

  “There’s that, by God. To Pax Britannica.” He raised his glass.

  “Iä, Cthulhu,” Marsh replied. It was the fashionable toast of the moment. Hampton rolled his eyes.

  “Don’t know how you manage so well with that wog-talk, Dougie. Sounds to me like a man having his tongue pulled out through
his throat.”

  Marsh smiled, inscrutably. Although few of his peers were in a position to recognize it, his pronunciation was precise and his accent impeccable. Discovering which of London’s other lords and ladies were similarly fluent was one of the few things that kept this otherwise lackluster Season lively.

  His smile vanished.

  One of the few things.

  “I say, Marsh, didn’t mean any offense,” Hampton said, eyeing him with disconcertion.

  “What? Oh, no, no; none taken.” Marsh took another sip of the port and set his glass down. “Forgive me. My mind is wandering.”

  “Yesss ... saw that wog dancing with Lady Wilmarth last night,” Hampton observed.

  “Only once,” Marsh countered. Surely the major wasn’t suggesting Lady Wilmarth had done anything improper, was he?

  But, no, he realized, looking at the major’s sly grin, that wasn’t what Hampton was suggesting at all. The comment had been a dig at him, not her.

  Ridiculous!

  ...So why the devil did he feel as though the remark had struck home?

  “Of course,” Hampton said with a sage look, “but upon my word, something about that man gives me a monstrous chill. Don’t like any of this new breed that’s popping up all over the place, to tell you the truth—all them heathens from R’lyeh and Carcosa and Leng riding through Kensington Gardens and gaming at White’s like civilized men. Ain’t decent.”

  “The ladies don’t seem to mind,” Marsh said, striving to maintain his usual mild-mannered neutrality about everything but the vagaries of fashion. Secretly, though, he sympathized with Hampton’s view. He might be a bit of a half-breed, himself, but it didn’t signify—the Deep Ones had always been solid English citizens. Their sunken cities shared the same wares as Bristol and Southampton, Portsmouth and Liverpool, and their children had sailed on English ships to India, Africa, and the Americas since the Norman invasion. “There’s a dearth of eligible gentlemen this Season.”

  “All the better for those of us still standin’,” Hampton retorted, refilling his glass. “It ain’t right for us to sit back and let foreign upstarts like that ambassador tempt away our honest English ladies. What’s wrong with their own womenfolk?”

  Marsh felt another pang of sympathy and frowned.

  Great Father Dagon! Could he have possibly fallen in love with Lady Camille and not noticed?

  Camille Wilmarth was thoroughly enjoying herself, perched on the high-seated phaeton next to Lord Neely Chambres as they made the Kensington Gardens circuit with the rest of the ton. They stopped on a regular basis to exchange greetings with other riders and drivers, and Camille felt that the Season was looking up at last.

  “Tell me, Lady Camille, have you been introduced to the Prince Regent?” Chambres asked, as they rode.

  “Not personally, although I saw him at the Opera earlier this year,” she replied, giving him a quick, curious look.

  “I confess myself surprised that he has not sought out your acquaintance,” the ambassador said. “He is a great admirer of beautiful women, and surely you are the loveliest in London, just as our friend Curwen declared.”

  “Too great an admiration no longer flatters,” Camille demurred. Like many young ladies, her feelings toward the Prince of Wales were mixed. He was a member of the royal family, true, but so terribly subject to the excesses of masculine folly — gambling, women, wine, and spending far too much money on his beloved Carlton House. There was something about him that wasn’t quite respectable.

  “Wisely said.” Chambres shot her a sideways glance. “Although it is a difficult business for those of us who have fallen under your spell to hide the depth and sincerity of our admiration.”

  Camille gazed into his star-flecked eyes a beat too long. She forced herself to laugh lightly and look away. To her relief, she spotted Lord Douglas Marsh riding a splendid chestnut in the company of Lord Wilcox. She waved. The dandy returned her wave with a languid gesture and Wilcox gave her a broad smile. The two rode up to join them, and Camille made the introductions.

  “Tell me, ambassador, do you race?” Wilcox asked, admiring the sleek little phaeton. In a moment the two men were deep in discussion, debating the merits of various racing vehicles. Camille turned to her friend, who had reined in next to her side of the carriage.

  “You’ve forgiven Lord Wilcox, I see.”

  “He promised he would burn the offending coat,” Marsh replied, looking rather oddly at her. “How generous of you to honor the ambassador with your company so soon after making his acquaintance.”

  Camille bridled.

  “His excellency has few friends so far from home,” she said, her voice cool.

  Marsh touched the brim of his hat in apology.

  “Perhaps you would ride with me tomorrow,” he suggested. “I’ve bought a splendid little filly that I’ve yet to take out, and I think you might appreciate her gentle manners and fine gait.”

  “How kind of you to offer,” Camille replied. She was surprised; Marsh had never paid her any but the most casual and friendly of attentions before. “I would be free at five.”

  “Splendid.”

  A few minutes later, the two men took their leave and rode away. Lord Chambres gazed after them a moment.

  “You British are very strange, to me,” he said at last, turning his dark gaze back to her. “You are governed by rules and customs unlike anything in Carcosa. And yet I find this land curiously dreamlike, with its brave men and beautiful women and astounding technological achievements. You are a more determined people than we expected.”

  “I am ashamed to admit that I know very little of your country,” Camille confessed, fingering the ivory handle of her parasol and wondering whether she should take offense at being called “strange” by a foreigner. After all, she wasn’t certain Carcosa had even existed before R’lyeh had burst from the ocean.

  “That’s not surprising, and certainly no fault of yours. We have always been a small and isolated land, and it was as much a surprise to us to find ourselves here as it was to you.” Chambres lifted his head, gazing around the Gardens with a curiously proprietorial expression. “But we find your king much to our taste.”

  “King George?” Camille gave the ambassador a sidelong look. Did Lord Chambres not realize the truth about the king’s long-term “illness”? Or did he simply not care?

  To be sure, madness had grown more common since the stars had realigned. Take Admiral Cockburn, whose ship had been close to France when Napoleon’s grip on the shoggoths had slipped. He’d survived the slaughter and returned to London, but he had grown deathly afraid of the night sky. As soon as the sun dipped low on the horizon, the once-great naval warrior barricaded himself inside his house and kept it ablaze with gaslight all night. Nor would he agree to set foot on a ship again, or even venture close to the water.

  Too many naval officers and military men had suffered similarly. Camille idly wondered how Marsh had managed to come through the Rising unscathed. His ship, she had heard, had been in the Pacific at the time, and most of his men had been lost.

  “King George, yes,” Chambres was saying, “and his son. Which reminds me; the Prince Regent is holding a banquet at Brighton Pavilion next week. It would be my very great honor to escort you.”

  Camille’s breath caught.

  “Your excellency ... I do not possess the rank....”

  “A lady’s respectability and beauty is her rank, Lady Wilmarth. I am only an ambassador, myself, who perhaps overreaches himself by aspiring to your company. But if you would forgive me my impertinence....”

  Camille looked away, her heart pounding again. Was this the invitation into the unknown that had been promised by the ambassador’s eyes at Almack’s? To venture into the Prince Regent’s exalted company would be to embark upon a new and possibly dangerous journey, indeed. She would be out of her depth, but —

  She swallowed. This was the sort of momentous decision that shouldn’t be made on the spur of
the moment.

  “May I give you my answer tomorrow, Lord Chambres?”

  “Of course.” He inclined his head.

  “I will be home between three and four,” she said, mentally reviewing her schedule. Yes, that would still give her time to dress for riding with Marsh at five.

  Heavens, if she accepted the ambassador’s invitation, she would have to ask Marsh what to wear. The Exquisite’s taste was ever so much better than her own....

  Douglas Marsh stormed down the tight, narrow cellar stairwell of his ancestral home, fuming. That blasted ambassador from Carcosa was positivly wiling his way into Lady Camille’s affections, seeking to impress her with his close acquaintance with the Prince Regent. And perdition take the girl, she had fallen for it! She’d even asked him what to wear to Brighton Pavilion!

  Of course, it wasn’t Lady Camille’s fault. She was young, three years younger than Marsh himself, and this was her second Season. Without any great title or inheritance of her own, she was without a doubt feeling great pressure from her family to obtain a wealthy or titled husband, especially now that so few suitable men remained alive and sane. Even if she found the ambassador unsuitable — and by Cthulhu, Marsh hoped Lady Camille understood how very unsuitable the man was! — having an entree into the Prince Regent’s social circle would open up many more possibilities, introducing her to men of higher rank than she might otherwise meet, and dignitaries both English and foreign.

  All of which left Marsh, who might otherwise have been able to offer himself to her with some measure of confidence, standing in the dust with his hat in his hand.

  He feared he was already too late. Camille was all that was respectable, to be sure; that wasn’t the problem. She had been careful to spread her company among her male and female acquaintances in such a way that nobody could suggest she had a favorite. But Marsh had seen the way her eyes grew distant when she spoke of the ambassador, and it worried him.

  Worried him so much, in fact, that he’d taken the grave social risk of leaving London for a week to go home.