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Before we continue our tale, the disembodied, spirit narrator directs all to subscribe to the site conjured by Alexander Flamel on You Tube. Mr. Flamel created this video and you should see it...
and now our Illuminati Arc goes on~~~~
London in this age had few hotels. Members of the landed classes had their own townhouses and used those during 'the season.' People a wee bit socially deprived rented distinguished domiciles. Unmarried gentlemen lived bachelor lives at their clubs and parvenus attempting to be what they were not took rooms in the better inns or rented space in suitable homes owned by respectable widows.
Lawrence and his artificial 'aunt' left Miss Bobbin's residence for a somewhat small, though smartly set up neo-classic townhouse owned by the Illuminati. Few knew it was not theirs. Funds from the organization covered everything. And do not believe they who claim sinister intent. True Illuminati follow an assortment of recognized creeds and denominations, or none at all. Liars who tout fealty to evil forces are just that... liars and have no place among the group. There are no horned gods , or fallen angels, or revenant mummies. Seek them in fiction, for they are not here.... although mystery of a sort and shadowy intrigue run rampant and reality can be just as lethal.
The Thames holds many victims tied in sacks and drowned. River mites creep up from the mud to take the leavings. The little crabby things work fast, pinching off the waterlogged flesh and stuffing it down their loathsome maws. In a fortnight only the bones remain. Hagfish and lampreys grind into those. The river swallows it all. Them what takes no dives in dark waters dies just the same, but the trip can be more troubling..... Cross the wrong sort and you might get throwed in a fiery furnace, or head-crushed in a vice, or ripped to shreds in the bear pits. The folks 'round Seven Dials got their tricks. Professionals, they are and known to work for the highest and mightiest in the land... plain and rich alike... those who scrape for their fat and them with golden pockets.
Lawrence Edgerton was about to meet some... the golden pockets sort. That evening his new sponsor, the 'honourable' David (Beau Brummel) Hefton came by in his brougham and carried him off to a private roast beef dinner in an establishment known as Mivart's Hotel... indeed, the first concern of its kind to bear that lofty designation. Later generations knew it as Claridge's, but that came in Kitchener's time, soon after the fall of Khartoum.
They spoke, as a quartet of chestnut geldings bore them over the damp, London cobbles.
First trip to 'the Aldwyck' (early Saxon name for London, popular with romantic poets), my boy? - said Hefton..... Lawrence nodded. I believe I was here as a very young child, perhaps two or three years old, but I remember none of it, sir..... Well, you'll soon remember some after this night is over.....
Then the talking ceased. Every so often the soft gleam of a street lamp cut in to warm the shadows, till they stopped by the white, marble curbstone and exited the carriage..... A liveried footman opened the door. They passed into a public room worthy of a duke's house, bright with candles and London society.
Few took notice, perhaps a quick practiced glance, for all had parts to play...
But they left that 'stage' and climbed the wide, main stairs to a private room above....
And there it all began...
<more to come>
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