Transmuted Page 17

  I tipped my gaze to Zylphia, who looked down at herself as though weighing the swell of her belly against her pride.

  Though she did not bend beneath the unkind judgment so many might paint her with, Zylphia was not a woman that took to inactivity well. The carelessness she might have ascribed to in the name of revenge now must be weighed against the child she carried. For this reason, she often stayed at home when matters could be handled by myself, Hawke and Ashmore.

  Her jaw clenched, a delicate line given remarkable strength. “Once again, I am forced to agree.”

  “You’ll send Cherry alone?” Maddie Ruth demanded.

  “Not alone,” Ashmore replied gravely, “for I will provide escort, as is proper. I’m afraid we’ve little choice in the matter. If that is where Ma Lài has gone, then it is safe to say that trouble will soon follow. The stakes here are too high.”

  A sound behind us might have been a grunt. Perhaps a growl. Either way, Hawke’s voice was unmistakable, thinned to a fine fury. “And that is why she won’t be going.”

  The finality in such a statement galled.

  My chin lifted. “Of course I’m going.”

  A hand wrapped about my head, covered my mouth and jerked me hard against lean muscle and immovable will. “There is no cure. Find an alternate path to your intentions,” Hawke ordered—and it was no doubt an order. Whether he levied it on Ashmore or the Chinese girl who’d broached the plan made no difference.

  I suspect he viewed them both as enemies; one was slightly more palatable than the other.

  Ashmore surged to his feet, the aristocratic shape of his features pulled into lines of taut impatience. “There is no alternate path.”

  Zylphia stepped aside. She knew better than to engage either, for it was akin to beating one’s senses against brick. She had her own immovable mountain to contend with; I would not begrudge her this fight.

  It was mine to have.

  I pulled at his hand, my breath hot in his palm. It did not budge.

  He ignored me, snapping at Ashmore, “Make one.”

  “Of what?” My tutor’s fists braced at his hips. “I suppose you imagine your will alone enough to force the issue?”

  The tension at my back increased. Long fingers bit into my cheeks.

  Giving up on subtle, I seized Hawke’s wrist in both of my hands and wrenched his grip from my mouth. “Stop it,” I said curtly. I tipped my head up, but all I could read was the thrust of his jaw, the heartbeat pounding fast and strong against the column of his throat.

  The beat of it echoed fiercely within me.

  With one grasp, he claimed me. With his presence, he dominated me as though he’d the right.

  And yet the words I was most afraid to hear never came.

  Relief and disappointment no longer felt like separate feelings. I was always in tumult when it came to Hawke.

  Whether that made of me a fool or a glutton for punishment, I couldn’t decide.

  “I forbid it,” Hawke said. Only the fool I’d just called myself would dare brook such a tone.

  His fingers, no longer cupping my face, now smarted at my shoulder.

  Ashmore pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Let her go,” he said, striving for mild. “You’re only acting the beast.”

  Zhànzhàn remained still, saying nothing to interrupt this tableau. That she watched quietly struck me as punctuation to the offer she’d made; Hawke was a beast. How much of that could be laid at the feet of the things done to him by the Veil’s own machinations, I didn’t know.

  But he deserved a cure, We all deserved his cure.

  Maddie Ruth watched this all unfold, wide-eyed. Mischievous though she may be, and slightly more careless than I, but even she knew better than to lay herself out as bait before two predators of extraordinary potency.

  “You will pry her from me when I am cold in the ground,” Hawke said, silken promise.

  Of course, they were not the only ones to bear fangs here.

  Ashmore’s hand lowered to his side. “A laughably simple goal.”

  “Try it.”

  Enough. I stomped my heel into Hawke’s foot.

  In matters of brawling, his habit was not to enforce distance but to overwhelm—bring forth his strength to bear. Without a whip in hand, he was no less dangerous.

  When he attempted to fold me into a tighter embrace, to capture me completely under his power, I drove an elbow into the hollow just under his ribs.

  He may not favor them, but I recalled his wounds.

  His breath surged out on a sharp sound, but his grip upon me eased as his body hunched. I slipped away, rotated the arm he attempted to capture and brought the full force of an openhanded slap to his cheek.

  The whole of his head turned with it, braid swinging to slide over his shoulder. He wore only his shirtsleeves, though loose over his trousers. The shape of bandages beneath distorted the fabric.

  That muscle I so enjoyed goading ticked rapidly, its own measured pulse of anger. Red bloomed under his swarthy skin, and I would swear every breath in the parlor ceased.

  Had Ashmore been in reach, I would have delivered the same to him.

  My hand lowered slowly to my side. It trembled. “There is no affection,” I said, each syllable a measured force of emotion I dared not allow purchase, “that will endure when treated as a thing.”

  Hawke’s eyes flared an unholy shade, neither wholly tawny nor the blue of his curse, but I was not so foolish as to mistake the intent. Forcing my stare from his, I leveled Ashmore with the same challenging glare.

  Ashmore’s jaw hardened; he had clenched his teeth. His gaze slid from mine.

  Of all the things I wished to say, none would untangle long enough to allow me to say them.

  Seizing my skirts in both hands, I gave them all my rigid back and strode from the scene of my own degradation.

  I was many things, true. Collector and Society heiress, widow and blackened countess. I was reckless and I was drawn to danger; arrogant and even a little thoughtless when I didn’t mean to be.

  I was sober, a circumstance to which I might ascribe my new found dignity. Yet I was not—and I never would be—a thing for men to fight to claim. Swallowing a hard knot of tears, I went in search of Fanny.

  Chapter Sixteen

  For all I did not hide the intentions of my return to Society’s gilded halls, Fanny’ s excitement could not be dimmed. Once she had assured herself of my well-being, touching her cheek to mine to ascertain that the redness of my face stemmed from high dudgeon and not fever, she settled to the formidable organization she was so skilled at.

  With her assistance, I made for Ashmore a list —items, apparel and other such accoutrements I would need in order to ensure my return to Society went as smoothly as possible.

  I did not have the heart to remind Fanny that it was a temporary position. That she did not speak of returning to live above the drift told me that she suspected. For this moment in time, as she mended a pair of Levi’s worn trousers and I drafted for her, we were of one accord.

  “Mourning dress,” Fanny added after I’d made notes of the various day to day items I’d need. “You won’t need more than two, as the accessories and crape will provide alterations of form.” She peered at me over her mending. “The fashions have changed so quickly, we couldn’t possibly alter one of your old gowns.”

  I winced at this, easing the nib from the parchment I wrote upon. “I only need one, and there’s no need to have it tailored for me.” Fanny looked so aghast at this that I amended myself to a mild, “I’m sure I’ll find a readymade that I can have altered.”

  A sniff was my only answer.

  Muting a smile, I dutifully wrote a reminder to ensure I had enough alterations of skirts, jackets and black-trimmed petticoats to suit the demands of mourning. We had not the time to have one made for me, truthfully.

  Because of my efforts to please Fanny, I did know rather more of the rapidly altering lines of
fashion than I pretended. The current favorite was heavily inspired by couture—thanks in no small part to the House of Worth. Corsetry was much firmer than it had been, so severe that I likened it rather more to armor than support. The sleeves of day gowns had developed a bit of a flare, a hint of leg of mutton.

  I preferred the slimmer sleeves of last year’s demand, but as with most matters of Society, what I wanted did not impress much.

  That I was still less than a year into widowhood meant I would be attending no galas. The expectation was that I wear black, including the stiff, crinkled crape that signified a widow’s first year of deep mourning.

  Once we’d compiled the list, Fanny set down her mending so that she could look it over. I fetched for her the slim spectacles she had taken to wearing for matters of reading. Tipping her head back, she scrutinized my careful script, mouth drawn down in deep concentration.

  “Very good,” she said after a moment. She did not ask me how much Ashmore was willing to spend on such matters. While I had not broached the subject with him, Fanny’s philosophy was that a woman did not ask, and a gentleman did not stoop to engage in matters of financial discourse with her.

  For my part, I was feeling a bit vindictive. The costs of this venture would not be small.

  “How do you intend to make your return?” she asked, withdrawing the spectacles from their delicate perch upon her nose.

  A stumbling block, that one. “By all accord, six months have passed in deep isolation. This should suffice to soften the demands of mourning.”

  Fanny shook her head. “I’m afraid not, my dove. For matters of polite company, a widow’s deep mourning lasts for a full year in isolation. Aside from attending church, you are expected to remain at home, wearing your widow’s weeds.”

  This posed a rather large problem. I sat back into my chair, then caught myself and straightened again when my dear Fanny’s pale eyebrow lifted in silent censure. Ensuring my spine remained rigid—not so great a feat with the corset I wore to maintain it—I wracked my thoughts for a solution.

  For some time, only the faint crackle of the fire kept low in Fanny’s rooms punctuated our employment of design. Fanny’s needle winked and flashed as she skillfully applied it.

  I studied the regal tip of her head, the set of her thin shoulders beneath her mauve day dress. “Fanny,” I said, earning a measured stare by reply. “Why did you cease to wear mourning black?”

  The fragile shape of her mouth, always thin but now almost colorless, eased into a gentle smile. “My dear Mr. Fortescue passed early in our marriage. Back then, the rules were somewhat softer. I was not beholden to a lifetime of mourning, as an older matron might.”

  “Was it a matter of Society’s strictures, then?”

  “Oh, no,” she demurred, warmth bolstering the somewhat reedy quality her voice had taken on in recent years. Her mending eased to her lap. “Truth be told, I would have remained in mourning for the whole of my life, were it up to me.”

  Of the various stages expected of a widow, only half-mourning tended to last beyond reasonable regard—and this only if the widow were too old to marry again. Fanny’s palette tended towards dark blues, grays, various hues of heliotrope, and each was appropriate for halfmourning.

  However she was not so stringent as to remove all other colors from herself, either.

  “When I was employed to care for a wayward child,” she said, earning my startled regard, “I felt that such outward signs of mourning might be too dreary an atmosphere for her.” Fanny’s light blue eyes brimmed with warmth. “I had no desire to constrain the poor dear to any more rigid stricture than required by her termagant behavior.”

  My lips softened into a helpless smile. “And there was much required,” I teased.

  “Bosh,” she replied, a hint of tart to her gentility. “You were as wild a thing as I’d ever seen, fit to hiss like a cat. You needed a firm hand and a warm home.” Again, her needle flashed. “But I am pleased, my dove. You are a fine woman.”

  This did for me what all the posturing in the world could not. My face warmed, my eyes filled with tears that had nothing at all to do with sorrow. “I had a fine tutor,” I said, my voice not entirely even.

  Fanny cleared her throat. It was so mild a sound that I pretended not to hear, as I was sure she’d hoped. “Now, then. What is your purpose in Society?”

  I hesitated.

  A sharpness entered her eye, punctuated by the point of the needle she tugged into place. “Please don’t make of me a senile old fool just yet.”

  My smile deepened, and with it, my heart seemed fit to burst. “My apologies, Fanny.” I quickly outlined the briefest of intentions; to wit, that I had hopes to find this villain before he disappeared entirely.

  She listened in silence, and at the end, made a thoughtful hum that relieved me. I had expected argument.

  Fanny did not seem inclined to deliver.

  “If you are so restrained,” she mused, “then you would be forced to hope this villain comes to you in your mourning estate. Are you so positive that your worth is that much to him?”

  “No,” I admitted. I rose from my chair, the fabric of my skirt rustling as I crossed the small room to study the shape of the window, and the abysmal dreariness behind it. “Worse, if this villain already enacts a plan, I may provide less a lure if I am locked away.”

  Fanny’s sigh came long and drawn. “I hesitate to suggest such a thing,” she said to my back, “however it may be in your best interests to continue playing the role of madman’s daughter.”

  I flinched, turning, but Fanny lifted one hand, the mending pooled on her lap.

  “There is no need to offer any words on the subject,” she said firmly. “I have long been aware of Society’s labels upon you, my dove, and always, I have had faith that you would overcome.”

  I had hardly done that. Guilt struck me between the shoulders. “I am sorry.”

  “Whatever for?” Fanny rose with care, always graceful despite the ailments that had come to afflict her. She joined me at the window, mending left upon her chair, and companionably laced her arm with mine. “As I said,” she continued, “you are a fine woman, and the pride of my life.”

  I laced my hands with hers. That mine remained ungloved no longer earned a sharp comment.

  “Although,” she added a touch ruefully, “matters may have taken a rather more peculiar path than I had hoped.”

  I rested my cheek against Fanny’s. A breath filled my nose with lavender, a whiff of the fine powder she wore with its delicate fragrances. “’Tis all thanks to you,” I told her, “that I am so capable. You have done me no wrongs.”

  Her eyes clouded, but her hands squeezed mine.

  “Now, then,” she said briskly, stepping back to survey me at arm’s length. “You must make a bold statement. ’Tis true that there are some less rigid demands upon younger widows. Rather than full isolation, a young widow such as yourself might be allowed to attend social functions in her widow’s weeds.”

  “Is that so?”

  “While manners may counsel tolerance,” Fanny cautioned, “Society may not always agree. However, given your need, I suggest we include a ball gown in your list.”

  That surprised me greatly. I stared at her. “What? You’re serious?”

  “Quite.” Her smile was a fierce thing, though it retained those elements of severity I had come to associate with my companion’s strength of character. “There is one avenue you have not considered.”

  How did I not realize the extents of my chaperone’s deviance? “Do tell.”

  “You do so,” she said, drawing me once more to her writing desk, and the materials within, “by scribing a note of inquiry. Begin thusly,” Fanny ordered, imperious as only dictation demanded. “Addressed to the Earl of Compton, Lord Compton, but begin the missive socially.”

  I scribed as quickly as I dared, though I maintained as much neatness as Fanny’s lengthy years of tutelage provided. Social inquiry might
demand I call him by title, but Lord Piers and I had formed between us a certain understanding. So it was that my missive began with a much more familiar “Dear Lord Piers.”

  I wondered what thoughts would cross the earl’s mind when he received my letter.

  My late husband would no doubt lend every effort to talking me out of such a thing as Fanny proposed, but his younger brother had always been somewhat more wild in nature—the sort who gallivanted about the stews, made of a Negro girl his mistress, and in the end, came to a measure of accord with the woman his brother had married and died for.

  I sealed the letter inside an envelope and called for Booth to see it delivered.

  Fanny’s expression held equal parts concern and assurance. “There, now,” she said, squeezing it out on a sigh as though it pained her to do so. She clasped her hands at her bosom. “Make of yourself a blot in Society’s ledger, and I have little doubt your villain will see it as remarkable opportunity to strike.”

  “Breaking the stricture of mourning will be a terrible grievance,” I noted.

  She nodded. “Just so. However, it would also allow you the appearance of reprehensibility. A necessary matter if you intend to be seen in public.”

  “After all,” I said, finishing her thought with no small amount of admiration for my chaperone’s sudden turn of deviousness, “if I bring this upon myself, then who will bother to strive to protect a misbehaving countess?”

  “Oh,” my dear Fanny mused; an absent tone that salved the telltale truth of it not even a little, “I could name one or two.”

  Curse the color that surged to my cheeks.

  ***

  The earl replied promptly. That it came on a pithy note did not soften the tinge of laughter—and no doubt of mild resignation—I detected within.

  I await your calamities. Yours, P.

  How nice to be a gentleman, son of a marquess, and thus quite nearly above reproach. Whatever aid he’d lend to my endeavors, it would not be Lord Piers that suffered the sting.