Prelude (Underworld Lucian Fanfiction)

79 - Chapter LXXIX: Perfume and Mischief

Three days later.

Of course, had he known what was occurring in the southern wing, he might have given better instructions to Allegra. Instead Lucian found himself blissfully in a state of doing whatever the fuck he wanted while entertaining the false impression that he was still in control of his own affairs. Decorum requiring him to be awake until dawn, but his desire to keep his sanity leading him to spend an hour after each day buried in his forge. The old sketches of his broken sword finally drawing enough interest again that he'd sat down on a workbench to try and reconfigure the gears. The kind of thing that was good enough, but at the risk of sounding immortal, could be better.

The arrival of Weylan in said forge resulting in a general sinking feeling as the man took him through the daily briefing. The offering comprising of his schedule for the upcoming season, punctuated by depressing notes on the daily occurrences in his den. For example, the previous afternoon, Sabine had—to the surprise of all—attended the luncheon, but left shortly after leaving a cigarette-burned napkin on the table. Weylan gingerly handed it to him from the ledger. It had the words 'I hate you' scrawled across the back in red lipstick.

He reflected on it. "She's learning Italian?"

"Yes, sir."

"I suppose that's progress?"

"Of a kind, sir."

He waved a hand. "Next," he said. Continuing to sketch while attempting not to tune out the rest of his schedule. A hard lesson so many years ago, but one he was willing to learn if it kept his house in order. Weylan apparently kind enough to have given him some reprieve by limiting the number of dinners, hunts, and clay pigeon shootings which he had to attend. Leaving him now with a burgeoning sense that—with Raze in London for the next two weeks—at least someone had his back in the Scottish countryside.

Until his ear pricked.

"Repeat that."

Across from him, Weylan was looking out-of-place, sitting on a filthy workbench with his moustache precisely centred and coiffed. "Hangrove Society Ball, sir."

Lucian started laughing. Darkly. Ever since Freyja had joined their damnable board of trustees, the Hangrove Society had been trying to get him to host their annual ball. As though the tenth year of saying no was going to change his mind.

"No."

"I'm afraid..." A thick invitation decorated in gold leaf came out of the ledger. "Lady Allegra already accepted on your behalf, sir."

His laughter died. "When?"

"Two days ago, sir..." The young man looked truly apologetic as he held out the paper. It smelled of perfume and mischief. "The ball was to be held in Edinburgh, but upon reflection, Lady Morrigan felt that with all the rationing, Durness was the only den capable of hosting such an event this year—she sends her deepest regrets."

He doubted that.

Also he was feeling confused. The prospect of a ball something that Allegra had suggested, but as far as he'd been aware, it was all supposed to be a 'small and quiet' affair over the holidays. "I thought we were hosting Yuletide this year."

"We still are, sir..." Weylan seemed to know the news would not be well-met. "...only the Lady Allegra suggested we combine the two events...as a financial saving. One ball...but grander."

"What do you mean by 'grander'?"

"Well, it..." For once, Weylan was allowing a mild whiff of excitement to coat his scent. "...it's always a grand event, sir. But it would seem the presence of...yourself and...Miss Freyja Gottfridsdatter is considered to be...quite the draw," he said, still holding the accompanying missive like it was sitting on a golden platter. "They're uhm..." He dared to lean forward as though imparting news. "...they're calling it the event of the decade."