Transmuted

by Karina Cooper

  It was, I knew, a cruel thing to say, for no matter what the state of her virginity was, an examination would be a terrible slight to her pride—and her family.

  The unfortunate truth was that a single word from the right person would be enough to force the issue.

  She blanched so white, she may as well have become a ghost on the spot.

  I patted her cheek with a gentle hand. “Stay out of my affairs,” I warned quietly, “and I shall remain out of yours.”

  “You are abominable.”

  “Coming from such a fine lady as you,” I replied, “it means nothing. Tell me, have you offered shelter to the Karakash Veil?”

  Though she could not hide her surprise, I did not read within it any measure of guilt. Not when it closed so swiftly into marble arrogance. “You will learn to fear me,” she warned.

  I smiled with all the promise of violence my role of collector had taught me. “Your kitten claws are made of glass.” Because I could not help myself, I added sweetly, “Peashoot.”

  Without further ado, I gave her my back. I felt no risk, for we were amidst the Society that so constrained us both. The difference between us being this: I was done with it.

  I wanted nothing more to do with any of this gilt and glitter, and if that cost me everything, then so be it.

  Ashmore and Piers watched as I strode towards them. A question appeared in the earl’s features, but Ashmore was not so ignorant.

  A faint smile touched his mouth, warmed his eyes. Amusement, perhaps, and more than a bit of understanding.

  Lady Sarah Elizabeth seized her skirts in both hands and left, with so much huff and bustle that I knew it as much for show as it was to escape.

  Perhaps I frightened her.

  Of course, this was her gala. And her pride was not so fragile that she would allow herself to flee when provoked.

  These reminders came to me too late.

  I had forgotten what it was to face an opponent whose vanity was as strong as the mind that allowed her to balance between two worlds—just as I had. To be a very pillar of Society, and at the same time, secretly partake of those violent indulgences that the Menagerie furnished.

  She was not the sort to address her opponent without a plan.

  I should have thought more of the lady.

  Within a few minutes’ time, the doors closed one by one behind us. As three young men stepped out onto the terrace, clad in the finery of the peerage to which they belonged, I understood my oversight.

  They were dressed as lords, and carried themselves as gentlemen, but to my surprise, each carried a small tube; slender in design, easily hidden in the inner pocket of a coat, and two pale in color and one near black.

  Lordlings, yes, but more. Second and third sons, all three familiar of face but lacking in any name I’d cared to remember.

  Society collectors.

  And I the disgraced countess with notice on her head.

  Bloody well done.

  “Ashmore,” I called, warning rife in a name.

  He turned on cue, and Piers, unaccustomed to raised voices at a function, asked, “What is—?”

  A question gone unfinished. As two of the young men in their finery raised the tubes to their mouths, I twitched my skirts up and sprinted towards my friends.

  Chapter Twenty

  The terrace was large and well-lit, but compared to the brightness of the ballroom inside, it would look dark and dreary from the window. As it would be quite rude to be caught staring through glass when one’s company was in the other direction, I did not expect any to see the fuss kicked up outside.

  Should someone come, what would they possibly do? So rigid were the strictures of Society that even whispering about a lady in widow’s weeds locked in combat with three gentlemen would be dismissed out of hand as wild fancy.

  In this manner, such things worked in my favor.

  Ashmore was faster than I, and closer to the earl; thank whatever gods of science or reason might be watching. No sooner had one of the gentlemen taken a deep breath than my tutor’s agile mind had drawn a conclusion and launched into action.

  Piers, standing as tall and straight as any earl would, seemed intent to force answers from the young men, yet his attempt was suddenly aborted as Ashmore leapt in front of him.

  Both men staggered, collapsed in a tangle of formal black attire and no small amount of uncivility strangled by impact with the stone.

  For my part, I darted left, as quick as the heavy mass of my gown would allow.

  At the same time, a peculiar sound dotted the terrace’s atmosphere—a sort of pff, pff! And then a third, belated from the rest. Pff!

  That each tube was pointed in our respective directions registered, but as I felt no pain anywhere, nor any other sign of attack, I did not pause in my assault.

  Society collectors. Those young lords and sons of wealthy tradesmen who thought it quite a lark to be caught up in a fashionably dangerous occupation. Them what claimed collector above the drift were little more than frippery and show, partaking of such notices that targeted the well-heeled.

  It was all for the distinction of collecting, but never so dangerous as to place them against true quarry. Matters of wealthy debt were common.

  And, naturally, any bounty that might pit these conceited pretenders against a disgraced countess with a price upon her head.

  Them what didn’t know my identity above and below the drift might be forgiven for assuming said countess to be harmless. These gentlemen were not prepared for my return volley.

  That I ran for them was a thing they found amusing, for I saw two of the gentlemen exchange knowing grins and a bit of acknowledged arrogance—as though they expected this to be all too easy.

  That I was forced to seize as many of my skirts during my sprint was awkward for me, and bemusing for them, for those same two appeared to hesitate at my suddenly flouncy approach.

  “What the helldo you think you are doing?” thundered Lord Piers behind me, assuring me that he was quite well—and quite above the Society collectors that challenged us.

  The third young man had kept his focus sharp on them, and he fumbled in his pocket for something. A weapon, perhaps.

  As for the bloke nearest me, he was not so tall that I labored to reach his open jaw with the toe of my black slipper. My foot collided with the somewhat receded profile of his chin, his teeth came together with an echoing crack. The pale tube flew from his nerveless fingers, and his eyes rolled back in his head.

  He did not fall to the flagstone so much as deflate.

  The other gentlemen paused; very likely wondering between them what on earth a countess had just done to their mate. Unfortunately for them, that left the second of them within my grasp.

  He earned a face full of my fan, closed for impact and snapped like a ruler on an errant pupil’s knuckles.

  If a fan’s rap was designed for flirting, this young man in his black and white finery would never flirt again.

  He splayed a gloved hand over the white welt left on his cheek, stumbling away from the other two with a shaken, “How dare you?”

  “I bloody well dare,” I snapped back, and stepped over the fallen so-called collector. “Who sent you? Where’s your notice?”

  The third, much calmer in demeanor, seemed the intellect of the operation. He noted Ashmore, regaining his feet, which was not so worrisome to them what did not know my tutor’s true nature. However, the full stature of the earl behind him bore too much standing to ignore.

  And then there was me—a widow in voluminous black, heavy crape glittering under the light. Supposedly a mere countess, but who had quite dropped one of his party, and wounded the second.

  I did not begrudge him the order to retreat. “Go,” he barked.

  In the lantern light, his pomaded hair gleamed like a citrine caught in the sun. His eyes met mine briefly, but it was confusion I read within the blue depths, not anything brighter.

  Seizing his mate by the arm, the S
ociety collector tucked the tube he carried into his jacket and hauled the red-faced gentleman at his side towards the wide stone steps at the far end of the terrace.

  “Halt,” Piers began, but I saw no reason to give chase. Neither did my tutor, who placed a hand upon the earl’s arm.

  “Let them be,” I called back. My skirts rustled heavily as I turned to scrutinize the unconscious lordling at my feet. He had not fallen gracefully, his arms splayed and legs wide as though he were a caricature. His mouth hung open.

  For a moment, I worried that he might have fallen too hard—or that I might have introduced him rather too forcefully to the boot, as it were.

  Ashmore approached, rolling back his shoulder. A fine stain of grit dusted his elbow and one portion of his fine black coat. “You were rather quick,” he noted.

  I accepted the compliment for what it was worth. “They were unprepared for a direct confrontation.” I would have crouched by the prostrate form of my would-be assailant, but quite frankly, the corset I wore squeezed all efforts out of me.

  It was bad enough to labor to breathe in such restriction.

  Piers, for his part, stalked with keen-eyed interest to the pale shape of the flute-like armament the man had wielded. “What the devil was that all about?”

  Around us, the air remained quiet, only slightly tinted by the orchestral accompaniment caught behind the closed doors. It was only a matter of time before a too-warm guest wondered at the closing and resolved the predicament.

  We had best step out of obvious view.

  “These are collectors,” I announced for the earl’s benefit. “No doubt they were furnished with a notice for my capture.”

  “Your what?” Piers hesitated, acquired tube clenched in hand. He stood with all the affronted dignity of his breeding—for all that he’d mucked about below as I had, blood truly did tell in such matters. “You’re not serious. Collectors set on a countess?”

  “A disgraced countess,” I reminded him, though gently.

  To be sure, it would take little else to force the hand of Society gentlemen whose standing did not reach the lofty eaves of an earl or would-be marquess. Without the protection of the marchioness, nor a husband to shelter me, I was but a quarry to them—and I supposed they’d considered me easy pickings.

  More fool they.

  Ashmore bent over the young man, checking for signs of vitality. “He will live,” he said, and hauled him up by the lapels. “Come this way.”

  I followed my tutor to a deeper portion of the terrace, farther from the doors and near enough to the stairs taken by the fleeing gentlemen that I studied the dimly lit grounds beyond for any sign of movement.

  The gardens beneath the terrace were cultivated for strolling, akin enough to the private gardens at the Menagerie that I wondered at the likeness. No doubt such a garden had been used for much in its time.

  At this moment, as I braced myself against the balustrade and studied the shadows looming within, I forced an outward calm I did not feel.“They appear to have scarpered off.”

  “As long as we’ve one,” Ashmore replied, “then they can hide anywhere they want. You’ve more than proved your mettle.”

  “And how,” Piers added, dry as dust. He held the tube between gloved fingers, proffering it to me without a hint of irritation. I accepted it—the tube and the unspoken understanding of my expertise in this particular arena—with a nod of thanks. “I had always wondered if I would ever face a collector, but I’d never expected to be so ambushed.”

  “Such is the nature of the life below.” I ran my own fingers over the item. “Save for the certainty that those lot would never see it as more than a lark.” The weapon was shaped somewhat like a flute, long and slender, but made of stone instead of metal. The color was a mix of fog and green, pale under the faint light afforded by moon and straining lamps across the way.

  “Jade,” Ashmore volunteered before I could. He braced the young man upon the balustrade, a fist tight in the twitching gentleman’s lapels.

  I took up the thread of my tutor’s thoughts without pause. “I know of only one source wherein such tools might be made of jade and carved to suit.”

  Piers, who studied the young man with a raised eyebrow, followed along. “It looks Oriental to me, what with the dragon’s mouth on one end and all.”

  “So the question I am pressed to wonder,” I mused, “is whether Lady Sarah Elizabeth set the collectors upon me direct, or if the Veil did. And if the latter, then is our lady allied with him?”

  “I wonder.” Piers studied me with raised eyebrow. “While I am aware of her attachments to the Menagerie, would she make such a fuss in her own gala?” A pause, and then he bent forward and said with droll interest, “I think he’s coming about, poor sod.”

  I left the unfortunate boy to Ashmore. Perhaps not the kindest of options, but I was rather taken by the tube I studied; my exhaustion with all precepts of so-called propriety did not allow much mercy for them what wished me harm.

  One side of the tube was a bit slimmer, whilst the mouth of the narrow dragon the whole had been carved gaped wider than the tube within allowed. It was the sort of weapon that one blew a projectile out of.

  Frowning, I recalled the efforts all three had made to do just that.

  Although one might not expect it, such attempts were not so easy to master as it might seem. To aim from one’s mouth, holding the tube steady and aloft, bore with it a greater need of skill than assumed.

  As the young man groaned in bleary awareness of pain, I retraced steps back onto the terrace proper, searching the ground near where I had stood. The projectiles flung from the tube might be as thin as a needle.

  Or, I realized as I turned in a graceful swirl of black and caught a glimpse of bright red, luck would be on my side.

  I bent, tucking the tube under my arm, and gathered my skirts so that I might reach the farthest hem at my left. It took some effort, some sifting through various draping, but I found the dart aimed at me buried in the capacious folds of my gown.

  A bit of red feathers, sewn on to a needle-fine point, provided an easy mark to grasp. Holding it ever so carefully between my gloved thumb and forefinger, I returned to my companions. “Hold still.”

  They obeyed me, the earl more out of curiosity than aught else, and allowed me to study them carefully. The young man held between them lolled back his head, in that fitful way of a body struggling to ascertain in which direction lay awake.

  I saw no sign of darts attached to either of my companions, which was something of a relief—and, no doubt, a consternation to them gentlemen who had failed most spectacularly.

  “I found this,” I said, and proffered the dart to my tutor. He took it with interest. “This is no common tool.”

  “What?” The word was more of a snort, a grunt as unconsciousness merged rather abruptly with reality in the poor young man’s awareness. Once cognizance returned to the unfocused sheen of his otherwise pretty grayhued eyes, they flared wildly. “What is this? Unhand me!”

  I might have thought of him a bit better if the demand did not crack, as a boy’s did.

  “I am afraid not,” I said politely. “My apologies.”

  On cue, Ashmore’s grip tightened upon the young man’s lapels. He put on for me—or, rather, for our captive—a fierce expression of deeply rooted severity; a promise, no doubt, of terrible consequence to come.

  The boy paled.

  This close, I saw him as perhaps only a touch older than I, though with none of the worldliness I felt I’d learned to carry. His hair was neatly cropped, black under the dim sky, and his grip trembling as it latched around my tutor’s wrist.

  Those eyes turned imploringly to Piers. “Please, my lord,” he pled. I winced to hear it. “Don’t let them hurt me.”

  Piers, for his part in this farce, folded his arms across his chest, his mouth pursed in deep thought. “You’re… Willoughby’s lad, aren’t you? Third or fourth.”

  “Fourth s
on,” he confirmed, though he stuttered to do it. “Two sisters. Ah… Bennett Hale Willoughby, if you please.”

  “Bennett Hale Willoughby.” Piers rolled the name around his tongue as though tasting it for a memory. When he tipped his head, he did so with a finality that did not bode well for the boy’s hope of safety. “Well, young Master Bennett, you’re in a rather lot of trouble, aren’t you?”

  On cue, and perhaps rather more abruptly than necessary, Ashmore pushed against the gentleman’s chest, forcing his back out over the expanse of the garden below.

  I watched in mixed resignation and amusement as he croaked out a shout, clutching at Ashmore’s jacket with his free hand. “No, no! Please, I’ll do anything!”

  “And this,” I said with a sigh, “is why Society collectors are worthless.”

  “Yes, of course,” Bennett replied hastily. “As you say.”

  “Right him,” I said, and Ashmore obeyed—though a hint of a smile played about his mouth. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Lady Compton,” our captive said quickly. His gaze darted about every which way— seeking sanctuary, no doubt. “We were told to acquire you, my lady.”

  “By notice?” I asked sharply.

  He shook his head, fingers white in Ashmore’s coat. “No, my lady. I mean, yes, my lady, but we were approached direct.”

  That was exactly what I’d hoped to hear.

  I tucked a hand into the crook of Piers’s arm, tugging him gently to the side so that I might better fill Bennett’s vision. My smile, as I so intended it, was a sharp one. “Tell me, Mr. Bennett,” I said, rather more sweetly than the situation warranted. “To whom were you asked to deliver me?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, a gleam of sickly sweat blooming over his forehead and cheeks. “Please, my lady. If I say, I’ve no doubt I’ll be next on the bounty list.”

  “That is assuming that I do not get to your patron first,” I said.