by Emily Larkin
Magic was real? Faerie godmothers actually existed?
Impossible, said a voice in her head. But it wasn’t impossible because she’d seen it with her own eyes. She’d experienced it. Mr. Pryor had picked her up without touching her and held her in the air.
Pip sat at her desk, while her thoughts spun in a chaotic whirl. Slowly the different strands began to unsnarl themselves. The events in the shrubbery—the shock of seeing Lord Octavius change shape, the terror she’d felt when Mr. Pryor had caught her with his magic—those things were one strand. A jagged and rather unsettling strand.
The revelations about the Pryor family legacy was another strand.
They had a Faerie godmother? And a great-grandmother who’d wanted them to rule England?
That was a strand she wanted to know more about. She wanted to read the journal they’d spoken of and she wanted to talk with Lord Octavius further, perhaps even speak with the grandfather he was so in awe of, because it was all so inconceivable and so fascinating and she had a thousand questions she wanted to ask.
Pip almost reached for paper and a quill and began listing her questions, but if she started she’d never stop, and there were other strands she needed to untangle first.
The revelation about Lord Octavius’s run-ins with Lord Rumpole was one of those strands, and his encounter with the valet was another. Lord Octavius had called that encounter an attack. A violent attack.
Those strands felt thick and prickly and uncomfortable in her head. That such things had happened! That she lived in a household with two such unspeakable men! But uncomfortable or not, those strands were easily tidied away, because Lord Octavius and Mr. Pryor were going to take care of the baron and his valet.
That thought led her down another looping strand, one that quite canceled out the terror of seeing Lord Octavius change shape and the panic of being caught by Mr. Pryor.
Lord Octavius and Mr. Pryor were going to stop Rumpole and his valet by using magic.
That felt . . . not disturbing at all. On the contrary, it felt intriguing. A little exciting.
She wanted to know more about their plan—how exactly were they going to scare Rumpole and his valet into good behavior?—but there was still one very important strand to unravel first: her feelings for Lord Octavius.
Pip looked across the schoolroom. Edie and Fanny sat side by side at the worktable, diligently sewing colored beads on their half brother’s slippers.
She let her eyes rest on their bent heads for a moment, then gazed past them to the long bank of windows.
How had this afternoon changed her feelings for Lord Octavius?
Had it changed her feelings for him?
She felt as if it ought to have changed them. Lord Octavius wasn’t the man she’d thought he was, except that . . . he was. Her knowledge of him might have changed, but he hadn’t changed. He was exactly the same man he’d been yesterday. All that was different was that she knew his secret. His huge, shocking, unbelievable secret.
But even if his secret was huge and shocking, it didn’t actually alter her opinion of him. He was still patient and kind and good-natured. He was still a man who didn’t swagger or smirk, a man who taught little girls how to make kites and how to climb trees, a man who had honorable intentions towards governesses.
Pip considered this for several minutes, and decided that discovering Lord Octavius’s secret had changed her opinion of him, because Lord Octavius had come to Hampshire to deal with Baron Rumpole. He’d come here for that express purpose.
Which made him more than a little heroic.
Chapter Twenty-One
The men dined with them in the nursery and then they all played jackstraws. Pip probably ought to have read from the Bible given that it was a Sunday, but her father had allowed gentle entertainments on Sundays, and anyway, what was the harm in jackstraws and laughter? It did the girls good. It did them all good.
After the girls had gone to bed, Newingham stirred the jackstraws on the table. He was frowning. Not the frown of mock outrage that he’d worn when Fanny had beaten him yet again, but a real frown. “I wish . . .” he said.
Mr. Pryor leaned back in his chair. “What?”
The frown on Newingham’s face deepened, pulling his eyebrows together. He pursed his lips, then shook his head.
“Out with it, Bunny,” Lord Octavius said.
“I wish the girls didn’t live with Rumpole.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Mr. Pryor said, “He’s their father.”
“I know.” Newingham pushed aside the pile of jackstraws. “I know that. I just . . . He was vile to Amelia, and he’s going to be vile to the girls, too, and I just . . . wish they didn’t have to live with him.”
No one said He’s their father again, but Pip thought they were all thinking it. “Could you become their guardian?” she asked.
Newingham shook his head. “He wouldn’t let them visit me because I’m a bachelor. He’s sure as blazes not going to give me guardianship.” He rubbed his brow. “What about a boarding school? Do you know of any good ones, Miss Toogood?”
“I’ve heard of some schools,” she said, “but I can’t speak as to how good they are. It’s something that could certainly be looked into.”
“You think Rumpole would pay to send his daughters to a good school?” Lord Octavius asked. He began to gather up the scattered jackstraws. “He’d probably ship them off to one of those Yorkshire schools and call it good riddance.”
Pip had heard of Yorkshire schools. They were notoriously brutal. She repressed a shiver.
“I would pay for it,” Newingham said. “I’d pick the school and I’d pay for it and I’d call it a gift, and Rumpole wouldn’t have any say in the matter except to give permission, which he’d do . . . don’t you think?” He looked at Pip, a hopeful expression on his face. “An education for his daughters that he doesn’t have to pay for? He’d jump at it!” And then he said, more tentatively, “Don’t you agree, Miss Toogood?”
“I can’t imagine he’d refuse, unless he did so out of spite.” Which was something she could see the baron doing. “But it would need to be a school where the girls would thrive. They’ve very shy. They need kindness and encouragement. The wrong school would crush them.”
Too late, Pip realized that she should have phrased that as a suggestion. It had sounded as if she, a mere governess, was telling a viscount what to do.
But Newingham didn’t appear to mind. “Will you help me select the school?”
Pip nodded. “I’ll write some letters, ask for some recommendations.”
Newingham beamed at her.
Once the jackstraws were put away, they repaired to the schoolroom for a lesson in defensive techniques. With Lord Octavius’s description of the valet’s attack in mind, Pip practiced diligently, and perhaps Lord Octavius had been thinking of the valet, too, for after she had broken Mr. Pryor’s nose and gouged out his eyes, he said, “There’s something else I’d like to show you.”
“There is?”
“This is a choke hold.” Lord Octavius stepped up behind his cousin and hooked one arm around his neck. “How do you think you’d get out of it?”
Pip examined the hold. Mr. Pryor couldn’t bite his cousin when he was held like that, or kick or punch easily. “Elbow him in the stomach?” she suggested. “Stamp on his foot?”
“Those are both possibilities.” Lord Octavius released his cousin and beckoned to her. “Come see what it feels like.”
Pip cautiously stepped forward.
Lord Octavius had rolled up his shirt sleeves earlier. Now he unrolled them and came to stand behind her. He angled one arm around her neck, not as tightly as he’d done with his cousin, but still tightly enough that it made her feel trapped. All Pip’s senses sprang to full alert. She felt a faint frisson of fear and a stronger frisson of awareness at how close Lord Octavius was. Close enough for her to smell clean linen and soap. Close enough to hear his breathing. Almost close enoug
h to feel his heart beating. His arm was pressed against her throat, a strong and inexorable barrier, his linen sleeve warm and rumpled against her skin. Her back wasn’t pressed to his chest, but it almost was, and that thought made her shiver.
“If someone ever does this to you, they’ll hold you much more tightly.” Lord Octavius flexed his arm. For a second Pip felt uncomfortable pressure on her throat. Her heartbeat accelerated, the frisson of fear blooming into something close to panic, and then the pressure eased.
“What’s your first instinct when you’re held like this?” Lord Octavius asked.
Pip was conscious of two conflicting instincts. A small and wholly inappropriate instinct urged her to press herself back against Lord Octavius’s chest, to get closer to him. The second instinct—which was much stronger—demanded she do the exact opposite. It didn’t like that arm around her throat, didn’t like the sense of being trapped and helpless, of knowing her breath was dependent on someone else. That was the instinct Lord Octavius was talking about, so Pip tugged on his arm—which didn’t move. Next, she tried to elbow him in the stomach, but Lord Octavius stepped to one side, pulling her with him, forcing her to take several backwards, off-balance steps. Pip tugged on his arm again and stamped, trying to find his foot, but again he moved aside.
“Our cousin Ned used to do this a lot,” Lord Octavius said, his voice almost in her ear. “Wasn’t a day went past when he didn’t catch one or other of us like this.”
Mr. Pryor snorted. “Most annoying six months of my life. Idiot didn’t stop doing it until Sextus broke his arm.”
“Ned broke Sextus’s arm?” Newingham asked, his eyebrows lifting.
“No, Sextus broke Ned’s arm.”
Newingham’s eyebrows climbed even higher. “He did?”
Mr. Pryor nodded. “And not about time. I was about ready to break Ned’s damned neck.” Which statement he followed with, “Begging your pardon, Miss Toogood.”
The swearword didn’t bother Pip, but Lord Octavius’s arm did. She wanted it gone, wanted the freedom to move as she pleased, to breathe without that pressure on her throat. Let me go! she almost demanded, but she had just enough pride not to. “How does one get out of a choke hold?” she asked instead. Her pulse was agitated, but her voice was calm.
“Sextus did it by tipping them both down the stairs,” Mr. Pryor said.
Newingham gave a huff of laughter. “Is that how Ned broke his arm?”
“It was,” Mr. Pryor said, grinning. “Most effective, it was, too. Ned hasn’t tried to put anyone in a choke hold since.”
“A broken arm will do that to you,” Lord Octavius said, dryly, and then he said, less dryly, “But I don’t recommend trying to do that, Miss Toogood, if you’re ever attacked on a staircase. It’s too dangerous. You could kill yourself.”
“How, then?” Pip asked, resisting the urge to tug uselessly on his arm again.
“A couple of ways,” Lord Octavius said, at the same time that Mr. Pryor said, “Fingers.”
Pip gave in to the urge to tug on Lord Octavius’s arm again, feeling the power in the muscles, the sheer implacable strength. Then she sought out his fingers. They weren’t easy to find, nor was it easy to get a grip on one.
“If you can get hold of a finger and yank hard enough, you’ll dislocate it, perhaps even break it,” Lord Octavius said. “He’ll release you in a jiffy.” He did just that: releasing Pip and stepping to one side. “Then you either run or fight—depending on what your attacker is doing.”
Pip nodded and rubbed her throat, not because it hurt, but because being held like that had been deeply uncomfortable. “What’s the other way?”
Lord Octavius beckoned to his cousin. “Put me in a choke hold, Dex.”
Mr. Pryor obliged, pushing away from the wall and hooking his arm around his cousin’s throat.
“Arm’s too strong for me to break the hold.” Lord Octavius demonstrated, tugging as futilely on Mr. Pryor’s arm as Pip had tugged on his.
Pip nodded.
“It’s my chin that stops me sliding out of the hold, can you see that? Gets hooked up on Dex’s arm.”
Pip nodded again.
“But if I turn my head to the side . . . Watch.”
Pip watched in utter astonishment as Lord Octavius turned his head until his chin lined up with his shoulder, gave what looked like a little tug on his cousin’s arm, bent his knees, and dropped out of the hold.
He rose to his full height, grinning. “Like that.”
Pip stared at him, realized her mouth was open, and closed it.
“By Jove,” Newingham said. “That’s something, that is. May I try?”
Newingham had a go, and Pip did, too, and then Lord Octavius said, “You don’t always need to turn your chin to get free. Let’s show them, Dex.”
The two cousins set themselves up again.
“Here, where the elbow is, there’s a tiny bit of space.” Lord Octavius pointed to the crook of his cousin’s elbow. “Tuck your chin down into it, pull on his arm, and sometimes you can squeeze out that way. An inch is all you need.” He demonstrated—tucking his chin, tugging on Mr. Pryor’s elbow, gaining that precious inch of space, and dropping out of the hold.
Pip and the viscount practiced that, too. When they’d both done it several times, Lord Octavius said, “Sometimes none of those things work, but the thing is, Miss Toogood, if someone has you in a choke hold they’re going to expect you to do nothing more than kick and flail. As long as you don’t panic, you’ve got a good chance of getting away.”
Pip nodded.
“Right, one last hold. Dex, come here.”
Mr. Pryor did.
Lord Octavius stepped up behind him and swiftly took him in another hold, hooking his arms under his cousin’s armpits, then up and back until his hands were clasped behind his cousin’s neck. Mr. Pryor’s head was bent forward, his arms stuck out at an awkward angle, and he looked utterly helpless.
“How would you get out of this?” Lord Octavius asked.
Mr. Pryor definitely couldn’t bite or punch or even scratch, not held like that. “Kick,” Pip said, and beside her Viscount Newingham nodded.
Lord Octavius shook his head and grinned. “It’s really quite simple. Show them, Dex.”
Mr. Pryor raised his arms and bent his knees at the same time—and slid free. Pip blinked, unable to believe it had happened at all, let alone so swiftly and easily.
“Want to try?” Lord Octavius said.
Pip most definitely did.
“Stand with your back to me. I’ll do it slowly . . . my arms go under yours . . . then I reach up and interlock my fingers behind your neck . . .”
Several of the seams around her shoulders protested loudly.
“Sorry,” Lord Octavius said, loosening his grip. “Is that better?”
“Yes,” Pip managed to get out in a choked voice. Her seams no longer felt quite so close to bursting, but even held loosely the hold was quite incapacitating. Her head was pushed forward, her arms flapped uselessly, and she felt quite immobilized.
“Drop down in a crouch and lift your arms up at the same time,” Lord Octavius told her. “You’ll slide right out.”
It seemed impossible, but Pip bent her knees and let her body weight take her down while her arms went up . . . and an instant later she was free.
“Bravo, Miss Toogood!” the viscount said, clapping.
Pip felt her cheeks flush with a mixture of satisfaction, pleasure, and triumph.
She and Newingham took turns escaping the hold, and after she’d successfully freed herself for the third time, she asked, “Did your cousin do this to you, too?”
“For about a week,” Mr. Pryor said. “Until we figured out how to get out of it. We done, Otto? Let’s put the furniture back in place.”
Pip helped move the chairs and the desks, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the holds they’d just practiced and why Lord Octavius and Mr. Pryor knew how to get out of them.
Pip hesitated, and then said, “Your cousin . . . the one who used to catch you in those holds . . . is he a bully?”
“Ned?” Lord Octavius laughed and shook his head. “No, he’s just a big, clumsy oaf who likes to tease people. I say, Dex, would you call Ned a bully?”
“No, but he is an idiot.”
Newingham snorted a laugh. “Do you remember that time he fell in the Serpentine?”
“Which time?” Lord Octavius said dryly. “He’s done it twice.” Then he smiled down at her and said, “Does that set your mind at rest?”
“Yes.” Pip lost herself in his gaze for a moment, until a laugh and a muffled grunt made her look around. Newingham and Mr. Pryor were roughhousing, grappling with each other.
“Don’t break the furniture, you idiots,” Lord Octavius told them. He shook his head. “I apologize for my cousin, Miss Toogood. He’s—”
There came a loud thud. The floorboards shook beneath Pip’s feet. She turned and saw Viscount Newingham sprawled on the floor.
“What the devil?” Lord Octavius said.
“Cross-buttock throw,” Mr. Pryor said with a smirk.
“For God’s sake, Dex, they probably felt that all the way down in the cellar.” Lord Octavius held out his hand to the viscount. “You all right, Bunny?”
“Caught me unawares,” Newingham said, climbing to his feet. “Wouldn’t have thrown me otherwise.” He brushed himself down, then said, “Rematch?”
“Not in here.” Lord Octavius pointed at the door. “Out, the pair of you.”
Chapter Twenty-Two