by Eloisa James
Jemma looked in the glass and felt, not for the first time in her life, a bone-deep gratitude for her beauty. As an intelligent person, she had never allowed herself to fall into the trap of thinking that beauty made her a person of greater worth.
But if one had to face appallingly frightening—and yet exciting—events, it helped to be beautiful. It gave one backbone. Her hair fell in lazy honey-colored waves down her back, and the little roses gave her the look of a wanton matron prancing off to some sort of pagan holiday. The kind that involved spring woods and satyrs, Jemma thought, seeing the pink high in her cheeks.
“Quite nice,” Brigitte said, coming forward again.
“A patch, perhaps? Just one?”
“I am preparing for bed, not a ball,” Jemma protested.
But Brigitte wasn’t listening. “Just there,” she murmured, pressing a small velvet patch just above the corner of Jemma’s mouth. “The bisous—the kissing patch. And a touch of lip color.”
Jemma reached for her favorite pot of color, but Brigitte presented her with another. “More rose than crimson this evening, Your Grace.”
It truly was a strange life, one in which her maids dictated the color of her lips and the flowers in her hair. She turned and gave them a huge smile. There was no need to speak, after all. They were servants and friends, and in their eyes she read the hope that her evening would be a pleasurable one.
“I suppose,” she said, “that I should join His Grace before our meal cools. You may all retire for the night.”
They curtsied and left, unspoken encouragement floating in the air behind them.
Jemma took a deep breath. Now it came down to herself and Elijah. Their marriage had been an embittering, desolate thing so far. But it had changed—and they had changed. The night could be one of joy.
And tenderness. She had learned in their years apart that while pleasure was desirable, tenderness was far more rare, and far more valuable.
She straightened her shoulders and opened the door to her bedchamber.
Elijah came awake all of a sudden. He always did. The slide into unconsciousness was like drifting into darkness. Generally when he woke after one of these spells, it was to find himself staring into the frightened face of someone who thought he was dead. That was a bracing sensation.
Then he would find his heart beating wildly in his chest, trying, one had to assume, to catch its rhythm again, keep itself going.
When he had fainted in front of the House of Lords, he had woken to find a shocked Lord Cumberland shaking him. The Duke of Villiers had actually slapped him on finding him in the library. Once he awoke in an armchair to find Fowle shouting in his ear. The butler had backed away, dull red rising in his cheeks.
But this was the worst.
Jemma’s face was utterly drained of color. Her fingers, wrapped around his wrists, were trembling.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, after a moment.
“Oh my God.” Her voice wobbled like a child’s.
“Please, tell me this is a bad dream.”
He managed a smile.
“It’s your heart,” she said. “Your heart…your heart is faltering, just as your father’s did.”
“I’m not dead, Jemma. I’m almost accustomed to these spells now. I could live for years like this, fainting occasionally.”
He lifted his hands, and her fingers fell from his wrists. She was kneeling by his chair, just where she must have thrown herself. Elijah put a hand on her hair and a small rose tumbled into his lap. Like the roses one throws into the grave at funerals, he thought with a wrenching twist of self-pity.
She still hadn’t moved. “Oh God, Elijah, this can’t be happening.”
“I didn’t know how to tell you.” Her hair was warm, thick and springy against his fingers.
“How long have you known?”
“Since I fainted in the House last year.”
“But—we—”
He wrapped a hand behind her neck and gently pulled her toward him. “Come.”
“Don’t exert yourself!” she cried, terrified.
“There’s no need to fear that. The attack is over.” He reached down and scooped her up, sitting back with his wife curled into his lap.
“I can’t believe it!” she said a moment later. “I won’t believe it. You’re so young and we were going to have children and grow old together.”
He put his cheek against her hair. “Life should not be measured by time. The only thing that counts is how one uses the time one has.”
“You knew before last year, before you summoned me home from Paris, didn’t you?” she asked suddenly. She was shivering in his arms as if a frigid wind were blowing through the room.
“My father died at thirty-four. I’d have been a fool not to question my ability to live much over that date.”
“When did you understand that?”
“When I was eight years old.”
“No, no.” She was moaning it, her hands clutching his shirt.
“It drove me,” he said. “It was a passion, to make sure that my life came to something.”
“Because your father’s didn’t.”
“He had no time. I hated him for a while. But then I realized that he hadn’t my advantage. He had no idea. He was young; he might have proved himself a man had he lived another forty years.”
“Life allowed him to be foolish. Oh, Elijah, you never had the chance to be foolish. I’m just so—so sorry.”
They were silent a moment. Jemma’s eyes were dry, and fierce, like those of a mother hawk. “If you die before me…Well, whenever you get to where you’re going, Elijah, you sit down and wait for me.”
He laughed at that. “What do you envision? A bridge?”
“I’m thoroughly unimaginative. But I want to find you waiting for me.”
“I will wait for you,” he said, kissing her again.
She swallowed. “Does it hurt?”
“You mean, when I fall asleep?”
“That was no sleep,” she said. “But yes.”
“Not at all. It generally happens when I sit down. It’s as if the darkness just gathers itself up and comes over me. There’s just a little pain when I wake up, that’s all.”
“Your heart?”
“It works hard to bring me back. And it does bring me back, Jemma. In that sense, the attacks are no worse than they were a year ago: I wake up every time.”
“Don’t be so brave,” she said, her hands moving quickly. “I can’t bear it; I can’t bear it.”
He put a hand on her cheek but didn’t know what to say. Words came to him easily when he was in front of the House of Lords. But he became tongue-tied at the most important moments of his life, and all of those were with his wife.
“There’s nothing to be done, Jemma. I shall just live until I can’t anymore. People die unexpectedly every hour.” Unfortunately, his attacks were always followed by a headache, and he could feel its iron grip tightening.
“I don’t believe you when you say it doesn’t hurt, Elijah. Your eyes are tight.”
“I have a headache. Fowle has something for it.”
She was up in a flash, ringing the bell for his valet.
“Fowle knows?”
“I meant to tell you. Eventually.”
“Who else?”
“Vickery.”
“And Vickery didn’t tell me!”
“I wouldn’t allow it. Villiers.”
“You told Villiers and not—”
“No. He found me one day, in the library.” Elijah stood with some difficulty, given that his head felt as if it were a blacksmith’s anvil, pounded by blows from a sledgehammer.
“Sit down,” Jemma said. She came back and pushed him a little. “You shouldn’t be up.”
“Physical exertion is necessary,” Elijah told her, brushing her mouth with his. “I have lived past my father’s life span because I am fit.”
“How do you know when an attack is likely to happen?
”
“I have begun to entertain the idea that they result from moments of sudden, great exertion. The time I fainted in the House, for example, I felt passionately angry about my subject. And this evening, when I saw you on the yacht, I was so alarmed that my heart lost its rhythm.”
“You must stop being so exhausted.” Her eyes brightened. “You could stay in bed!”
Elijah smiled wryly. “That’s not a cure, but a prison. The attacks don’t happen constantly, Jemma. I likely won’t have another one for a week.” He rolled his head from side to side, trying to ease the pressure that clamped his forehead. “I’ve found that taking exercise is very helpful. If my heart begins to beat irregularly, I can head off an attack by going for a ride. Forcing my heart into a regular rhythm helps it remember the correct pattern.”
He looked down at her. “I have every belief that marital intimacy will achieve precisely the same effect.”
But she just scowled at him. “Have you seen a doctor?”
“There’s no point to that.”
“I don’t agree!” she said hotly.
“No one’s found a cure for a broken heart,” he said.
“Not in any sense of the word.”
She did cry then, and he found himself cursing his heart, not for the fact that it was broken, but for its ability to break other hearts.
Chapter Five
March 27
Jemma rose the next morning with the emptiness that follows grief. The night before, she had forced Elijah to drink a posset, and then left. She had returned to her room, plucked a few wilted roses from her hair, washed her face, changed into a nice cotton nightdress—and cried for hours.
Not that crying did any good. She came to only one conclusion: Elijah must leave his work with Pitt. The unremitting work and frantic pace could not be good for his health.
Likely Elijah was right in his assessment that he wasn’t going to die today or tomorrow. But if he dropped the frenzied pace and the extraordinary hours of work generated by the House of Lords, he might be alive in a year. Or five years. Or…
She dressed carefully, avoiding Brigitte’s eyes. The household knew of their master’s heart problem now, of course. There was a distressed silence perceptible in the very air.
Elijah wasn’t in the breakfast room. When Fowle announced that His Grace had been summoned to an emergency meeting at the chief magistrate’s office, Jemma felt rage swell into that empty place in her heart.
“Did the duke leave a note?” she asked, and knew the answer already, of course.
Fowle cleared his throat. “Since the messenger came at dawn, His Grace merely asked me to give you his most sincere apologies.”
Elijah was killing himself. And for what? So the government of England would run more smoothly for one day, or even a week?
“He was not entirely certain what time he would be able to return,” Fowle continued, laying a carefully ironed copy of the Morning Post before her.
It was absurd to feel this angry at Elijah. And yet—how could he simply leave without a word, after what had happened last night? What if he died during the day? Would he leave her without a kiss, without a word? Realizing that thought would just lead to tears, she cut it off.
“My husband said he wouldn’t be home for the evening meal, didn’t he, Fowle?” she asked, hearing the peculiar deadness of her own voice.
“I’m afraid that His Grace did indicate the possibility that he would not return until late tonight,” Fowle replied, jumping straight to another subject with the adroitness of an experienced butler. “The duke left instructions with me about sending Mr. Twiddy to Swallowhill, should that person present himself today. The butler at Swallowhill has told me of the difficulty he has retaining garden laborers. I am sure he will be grateful for the help.”
So Elijah had not forgotten Twiddy, though he appeared to have forgotten his wife. Anger burned in Jemma’s chest.
The butler put down another paper. “I have also the Morning Chronicle, Your Grace. They are comparing the riots to the Gordon Riots four years ago. Though thank the Lord, there were fewer casualties and the Clink is unharmed.”
Elijah had looked so exhausted last night. He was utterly delectable even tired, of course. His dark eyebrows and dark eyes emphasized his cheekbones, giving him the raw beauty of a marble statue of a Roman statesman. Or perhaps it was the expression in his eyes: all that serious passion in the service of good had chiseled his face.
If he had been in the room, Jemma would have screamed at him like a common fishwife.
Couldn’t he be selfish for once? He must give up his seat in the House of Lords. Corbin was right, though for the wrong reasons. Elijah needed to enjoy himself, rather than get up at dawn and leave for pressured meetings about riots and floating prisons.
She stared blindly down at the paper, reading one sentence over and over again. It was the beginning of a piece about a hoax carried out near St. Paul’s Cathedral. Convinced that the devil had taken up residence in his sitting room, Mr. Bartlebee gave a conjurer a gold chain to exorcise the unwanted guest, she read. And then read it again.
And then finally moved on to the next sentence. Mr. Bartlebee’s son Jeremy was equally convinced of the devil’s presence…
How could they have children now? When Elijah was a child he had had white-blond curls, which implied that their children might have had the same. A darling young boy with Elijah’s beauty and his serious eyes drifted in her mind’s eye. Her throat tightened and she turned back to her buttered toast.
There was nothing she could do—nothing. The knowledge was bitter in the back of her throat. Even the idea of playing chess felt horrible, like fiddling as Rome burned. She was desperate to find a plan, something she could do to help.
The only thing she could come up with was paltry indeed. If her husband didn’t have very long to live, then it was up to her to make certain that he enjoyed every moment. That meant following Corbin’s plan. Wooing Elijah. Winning him from another woman. Or was Elijah supposed to win her from another man?
She found herself staring at the account in the paper again. Given the lingering smell of sulfur, the constable asserted that a devil of some sort had paid a call to the sitting room.
She could not flirt with another man merely so Elijah could win her. The falseness of it curdled in her stomach. Even if he had cheerfully jaunted off to work, without even bothering to leave her a note, she could not flirt with someone merely for fun. Surely she could orchestrate a seduction—or an attempted seduction—of Elijah. There was only the matter of determining her rival. He knew all the English ladies of her acquaintance, and anyway, they were—
She froze, the toast halfway to her mouth.
For the eight years that she lived in Paris, she had had one great rival, the Marquise de Perthuis. Their sparring matches were known throughout the city. They competed against each other in fashion, in dress, and in manner. They excelled at insulting each other under the mask of an apparent compliment.
The marquise was now in England, and Elijah hardly knew her. Louise was consummately witty, but not so beautiful that she made Jemma’s liver curl. The question was only how to drive the marquise to Elijah’s side.
It wasn’t an easy proposition. The marquise cherished her milk-white reputation. Jemma knew it wasn’t for the sake of virtue itself; Louise was so besotted by her loose fish of a husband that she likely never even looked at another man.
The only way Louise would dance to her tune would be out of rage. That posed a challenge: to convince the marquise to attempt a seduction of Elijah, without that lady having the faintest idea of her intentions. It would be a fiendishly difficult task. Machiavellian, really.
Jemma finished her toast, forcing herself to read the paper’s account of the prisoners’ riot. Before recapture, the prisoners had burned a number of houses, though they were barred from a large area of the city due to the forethought of the citizens, who had defended themselves by erecting impenetr
able barriers.
The Morning Post issued a challenge to the mayor of London and to Pitt’s cabinet: How had it come to pass that common citizens had to defend themselves, using brooms and trash cans? Why wasn’t the Queen’s Royal Regiment called in to quell the violence of these criminals?
Jemma couldn’t bear to read any longer. It just made her think of the speeches Elijah would undoubtedly be called upon to make in the House. She threw the paper aside and rose.
“I must be at my most elegant,” she told Brigitte a moment later. “I shall go to visit the marquise. I caught a glimpse of her on the king’s yacht last night, so I know that she is currently in London.”
Brigitte’s eyes widened and she set to work with the concentrated fervor of a lady’s maid whose work would be judged by the best—her rival femme de chambre. A few hours later Jemma tripped into the marquise’s drawing room, fit to dine with Queen Marie Antoinette herself.
She was wearing, unusually for her, a wig. Unlike the rather tatty and (she felt) dirty wigs that she commonly saw in ballrooms, hers was made of white curls so delicate that they shone like spun sugar in the morning sunlight. They rose to an exuberant height, but rather than supporting an entire birdcage with its songbird or anything of that ridiculous nature, Mariette had simply tucked a few pale blossoms among the curls.
With it she wore an exquisite morning gown of the same pink as the blossoms, the skirts caught back to show a deeper, rosy underskirt with a border of amber gold. The pièce de résistance, to Jemma’s mind, was her shoes: delicate high-heeled slippers in rose-colored silk, with tiny gold buckles.
She had been seated a mere twenty minutes before the marquise appeared. Jemma rose, dropping into a short curtsy. It was a signal honor, indicating that she was overlooking their difference in rank. The marquise fell into a deeper curtsy, the sort that recognized the delicate compliment Jemma had just given her, and topped it with an expression of deep respect.
Finally they managed to seat themselves, on opposing sofas, naturally, given the width of their skirts. The marquise was even more elegantly attired than was Jemma. As a matter of course, the marquise never wore any colors other than black and white, a rather eccentric notion that complemented her dark eyes and hair. This morning her gown was white and embroidered with elaborate swirls of black silk.