“It’s more complicated than that.” Lord Kinsworth rubs his chin. “I only let her think she is chasing me. Not that it matters. Either way, she’ll never catch me.”
His uncle frowns. “You’re confusing me, my boy. Who is chasing whom? Miss Barrington doesn’t seem the sort of young lady to run after a man, or lay a trap for him. Now that I’ve studied her out a bit more, I’d be willing to wager she’s too reserved and gentle for that sort of thing.”
“Are you blind, Uncle Gil?” Lord Kinsworth, the scoundrel, laughs at his uncle for defending me. My fingers itch to squeeze something until it snaps. Something like his big neck.
“Perhaps you drank too much wine at dinner.” Ben resumes his pacing, this time faster than before. “Can’t you see? Miss Barrington is the most dangerous kind of female. She doesn’t need to lay a trap. Oh no. She’s the sort who can trick a man into thinking he wants to give up everything. Blink twice, and she’ll have you believing you actually want to live out the remainder of your days locked away with her, in a dull gray stone house, surrounded by nothing but bleating sheep. Worst of all, she lures you in with a song. All that gentleness—that is the trap.”
Lord Kinsworth steps back waiting for his uncle to respond. When all he gets from his guardian is a shrewd measuring squint, he lowers his voice and calmly tries to explain further. “You understand, don’t you? She’s like an exotic flower. If a man gets close enough, he’ll drown in those big brown eyes of hers and never wake up again.”
“Ah.” Lord Harston clicks his tongue sympathetically. “Hmm, yes, I see. That kind of woman is dangerous, indeed.”
Dangerous?
Perhaps I ought to demonstrate exactly how dangerous. Just as I’m ready to rip a handful of jasmine off this blasted hedge and heave it at both of them, Lord Harston says, “But I don’t understand, Ben. If all that is true, why do you keep buzzing around her?”
I freeze, crushing the jasmine blossoms in my palms. Yes. Why?
Lord Kinsworth presses his lips together and glances up to study the ornate ceiling. Before answering, his pursed lips relax into an innocent lopsided smile, a smile that surely won him forgiveness from every female he’d ever wronged. Completely disarming, his wretched smile softens the tension in my belly, causes me to slacken and slump against the wall. People think my voice is magical, but my skills are nothing compared to what he can do with a simple roguish grin.
Even so, it is his words that cause me to slide down the wall and hug my knees like a confused child.
“Because, Uncle, have you ever seen so bewitching a flower?”
The Lion’s March
A bewitching flower?
What kind of words are these, that both tease and burn my ears? Why do they confuse me? I am an expert at perceiving the truth behind what someone says. I learned years ago to listen for the tiny fractional notes that betray a person’s true meaning. And yet Lord Kinsworth eludes me. I hear his words, the nuances, the clever shifts in his tone, but the truth beneath it all escapes me.
I should be pleased he likened me to a flower. Shouldn’t I? The way he said it warmed my heart, softening it like sunshine on butter. Yet, a moment later and it is as if a swarm of monkeys shakes the trees of my mind, chattering and screaming. His words trouble me. No doubt, he only meant them as flummery, a joke, a feeble excuse for the attention he had so unwillingly bestowed on me.
Confusing man!
Why is it most men, indeed most people, are as easy to read as a sheet of music, but this one is forever confusing me? But then, I suppose my father is equally inscrutable. Mayhaps it is because I have difficulty hearing either of them with full impartiality.
Impartial.
Caring—that is my mistake.
Caring is dangerous. Lord Kinsworth made his reluctance to associate with me perfectly clear. I rehearse his list of my faults, ending with his notion that I am a threat to his precious freedom.
What utter nonsense!
Not that I care. Because I don’t. He cannot be trusted. Men cannot be trusted. Now that I think on it, I dislike him calling me a flower.
I dislike it intensely. Flowers are fragile things. They wilt too easily. They fall to pieces on the ground and get smashed underfoot. Other girls might be flattered to be likened to a flower—not I. My heart cries out against it.
I am not a flower.
I am a roaring lion.
I am a raging storm.
He does not know me—this is what I tell myself. I care nothing for this man’s opinion. Remember who you are. Rise lion and stalk through the tall grass. Blend into the scenery. Find a way to escape this maddening clump of jasmine.
And so, I do. I slide under the curtain, and flatten myself against the wall, easing away from them behind the curtains until I reach an open door and slip unnoticed out onto a balcony where I am welcomed into the arms of darkness.
A soft breeze cools my temples. The night breeze also carries with it the stink of London in summer, of too many people, and too little fresh air. I miss the forests of home, the wind from the rivers. I even miss the ocean air that sweeps up over the cliffs near Stranje House. But Miss Stranje brought us to London for a reason. Our enemies are here. And our friends. She needs me here in this rancid place, to prowl among traitors and fools. She needs me to listen for the murmuring lies and whispers of truth, and bring them in my sharp teeth to lay at her feet.
For now, I am her loyal lion, and she has given me a task to fulfill. I breathe in the sour air, turn away from the comforting quiet of the night, and reenter the ballroom to make my report to Miss Stranje and the others.
I whisk silently through the crowd. Avoiding anyone’s gaze until I am stopped short. Without looking, I know who has stepped in my way. I would know Lord Kinsworth’s music anywhere. I step aside intending to go around the obstacle. But he matches my step, blocking my way.
“And what were you doing on the balcony, young lady?” He pretends to take a fatherly tone. It is the actor in him. Unbeknownst to Lord Kinsworth, my real father would’ve sounded distant and unconcerned. “It is not safe for a young woman to be prowling around dark balconies without an escort.”
“I have no need of a guardian.” Those were his exact words to his uncle, and I dared to throw them back at him. A foolish risk. I cover my mistake with a brusque wave of my hand. “I assure you, my lord, I can take care of myself. Aside from that, it is no business of yours if I should decide to take a breath of cool air, now is it?”
He is not used to such sharpness from me. I catch the startled expression that dashes across his features, but he banishes it immediately and squints suspiciously. I can tell he is wondering if I overheard him from the balcony.
“Now if you will excuse me.” I try to dodge around him, but he forestalls me.
“How much did you hear?”
“What?” I cannot control the heat scalding my cheeks. He knows. What a fool I am. And if he didn’t know before that I was eavesdropping, he does now. My traitorous blush will have given me away. I lower my face, afraid to meet his scrutiny. “I have no idea what you mean, and I really must go find Lady Jersey. She is waiting.”
Her venerated name ought to force him to stand down and stop questioning me.
“Oh, but I think you know exactly what I mean.” He holds his position like a great hulking wall of iron.
I swallow, struggling to know how to answer. My mouth turns dry as the Thar Desert. I can only shake my head.
“I’ve heard rumors,” he says, with a sly upturn dancing at the corner of his eyes. “Nothing more than whispers. Conjecture. A scrap of gossip here and there . . .” He waits, towering over me. “Naturally, everyone knows the story of Miss Stranje’s odd brood of young ladies saving the lives of the Admiralty. But there are those of us who wonder exactly how that feat came about.”
Those of us? Who wonders? Who besides him? Surely, his uncle has a notion. After all, he is in the business of spying himself. But who else has Lord Kinsworth heard speculating ab
out our activities?
“It was a simple matter of luck—that’s all.” I press my shoulders back, refusing to let him intimidate me. “Good fortune.”
He has the decency to laugh. It is a warming laugh, the kind of easy chuckle that sets the hearer at ease. Except I know better than to lower my guard. He is treading too close to the mark. I shrug and smile back at him as innocently as I can manage.
“Very pretty.” The edge of his mouth stays in a wry upward curve. “But you cannot charm your way out of my question, Miss Barrington. What exactly is Miss Stranje training you to do?” He stares at me intently, studying the way my neck tightens and my lips part despite my struggle to control them.
He stands too close, so close that he will sense a lie before it leaves my mouth. I will have to tell him the truth, or at least something near the truth.
It startles me when he speaks before I can answer. “You smell like jasmine,” he says, and his gaze jerks back to the bank of flowers near where he and his uncle had stood.
I must answer quickly before he figures it out. “Miss Stranje is training us to navigate the treacherous waters of your complex English society.”
“Hmm.” His mouth twitches to the side. “You mean how to navigate gatherings like this one? Or do you mean soirées? Musicals, perhaps? Or the theatre? Oh yes, that does sound treacherous.”
“Now, you’re just mocking me.” I spin indignantly and skirt around him.
“Wait.” He has the audacity to grab my arm. “They can be treacherous. Especially if you’re referring to political waters.”
I stare at his hand on my arm. The silk of my sari does nothing to shield me from his touch. His hold is not tight. Barely enough pressure to arrest me. He loosens but doesn’t let go. Not right away. He, too, stares at where his fingers graze my skin, white on brown, rough on smooth.
I did not expect his hands to feel so . . . I shake off these wayward thoughts and focus on what I can learn. Lord Kinsworth must do more with his time than loiter in ballrooms and play cards at Brooke’s. He does work of some kind. His hands are too solid and calloused.
I look up to find I am no longer the only one blushing. His lips part, his focus floats like a warm cloud enveloping us both, as his hand slides gently down my arm before he lets go.
I must strike while I have the advantage. Lowering my voice, I intone chords I should not employ, dangerous chords, but the lioness in me has returned. I want to repay him for his audacity—for his attempting to guess about Stranje House, for stopping me from walking away as if he has some right to do so, for calling me a flower. And for a hundred other unspoken offenses. So, I draw on soft enticing notes, notes that will make him hungry.
“Take a good look at me, my lord. Pray tell, do you see a young lady who knows about your complicated English politics?” The scent of jasmine fills the warm air between us, and the softness of my words flows over him like an achingly slow river. “I am only sixteen, my lord.” I pause, letting the innocence of my age unsettle him. Never mind that childhood abandoned me long ago when I was six. I blink up at him, and he is trapped. Now, I strum the last notes of this ballad, filling my voice with flower-like innocence. “What can I know of such things?”
It takes him a full half-minute before he remembers to breathe.
I quickly curtsey before he can completely recover. “And now if you will excuse me.”
As I walk away, I hear him ask aloud, “What, indeed?”
No longer darting here and there to avoid notice, the lioness inside me smiles in triumph, and I stride boldly across the ballroom. I have performed the task Miss Stranje gave me, and I have bested Lord Kinsworth.
I glide through the throng toward Miss Stranje and the others. When I arrive, Sera takes my arm. “Maya?” She squints sideways at me. “You look . . . peculiar. What happened?”
I remembered that I am a lion, not a wilting flower.
Lady Castlereagh and the others glance up from their discussion with Lady Jersey. Miss Stranje takes one look at me, and her gaze flies beyond me, no doubt she is assessing the young man I left standing across the room. I do not need to turn around to know what she sees. I can hear his confusion tumbling through the air from here.
A gratifying breeze.
Lady Jersey follows Miss Stranje’s gaze, and then they both turn to me. “What do you think of him?” Lady Jersey asks me.
“I do not think of him,” I answer too sharply and feel my cheeks redden.
“Of course, not.” She chuckles and pauses, leaving my lie hanging between us. The others shift and shuffle, holding back half-cocked grins. “But I was asking what you thought of his character.” Lady Jersey employs a more commanding tone. “His uncle has proven to be a valuable asset. And we are considering bringing his lamb, as it were, into the fold.”
Lord Kinsworth—one of us?
“No!” I blurt out before I can stop it. “He’s too . . .” I struggle to find the right word. “Too impetuous. The man does not take anything seriously. He can’t be trusted.”
Lady Jersey steps back assessing me, then skewers me with another question. “Can’t be trusted with what?”
I catch the side of my lip in my teeth. How am I to answer? Secrets? No, that’s not it. Ben would keep their secrets. Loyalty to England? That’s not it, either. He would remain true to his country.
Lady Castlereagh leans closer to me, and a soothing lullaby hums beneath her words. “My dear, are you concerned the young man might fold under pressure?”
I shake my head. “No, he’s not easily ruffled.” On the contrary, he’s altogether too devil-may-care if anyone were to ask me.
Lady Jersey collapses her fan into her palm with a sharp thwack. “For pity sake child, I’m not asking if we can trust our hearts to the lad. He’s sure to be a rapscallion in that regard. Never you mind, we’ll discuss that later when you are not overwrought. For now, you must tell us what Prinny—excuse me, I meant to say, what His Highness, Prince George, and the Admiral were arguing about.”
I am not overwrought—I want to argue. Except they are all leaning in, having steeled themselves to hear my report on the other matter. So, I stand straight-backed and report. “Admiral St. Vincent was warning the Prince not to trust Napoleon, and to forego meeting with him. Prince George did not appreciate the Admiral’s advice and declared rather vehemently that he would go forward with his plan with or without Parliament’s consent. Parliament is not my nursemaid, is how he phrased it.”
“Did he now?” Lady Castlereagh harrumphs.
Miss Stranje kneads her knuckles against her chin. “Did they mention when this meeting is to take place?”
“They are not sure. It could be as soon as three or four weeks.”
“Did they say where it will be held?” Lady Castlereagh no longer hums like a caring mother as she had a few minutes earlier. Lullaby gone; she charges forward with the bull-like rumble of a general preparing for battle.
“They do not know.” I try to soothe them with a calming cadence, like the washing in and washing out of a gentle sea. “Lord Harston asked the same thing of the Admiral. I am certain he intends to find out.”
Lady Jane appears to be deep in thought. She uncrosses her arms and draws a circle in the air between us, marking a place on an invisible map. “What if we set up their meeting place? We could offer them neutral ground. Someplace out of the way, safe for both leaders, but with specific controllable access points, a rendezvous location we could manage. We might suggest Ravencross Manor, or perhaps, Stranje House.”
Georgie grins. “Splendid idea. Stranje House has ample spyholes. And if we should need to evacuate the Prince Regent, we could use the secret passages.”
Lady Jersey flicks back the enormous ostrich feather bobbling over her brow. “Hhmm. An interesting stratagem. That would allow us to maintain some small measure of control over the situation.”
“It’s better than the alternative.” Lady Castlereagh squares her shoulders. “But it mu
st be handled with the utmost care.” She nods. “The Prince will need to think it’s his idea.”
Seraphina frowns. “How can we convince him—”
I shiver. Despite all the chatter, the music, and dancing surrounding us, I hear the unmistakable sound of Tess running toward us. Dread gallops alongside her like a shrieking dark horse. She bursts into the middle of our circle, white-faced with worry, and points at the double doors on the east wall. “She’s here! I saw her.”
“Slow down. Take a breath.” Miss Stranje grasps Tess’s shoulders and calmly asks, “Who? Who is here?”
We all know the answer. There is only one person on this wretched island who could make Tess’s heart thunder with such intense alarm.
“Daneska,” Lady Jane murmurs and unconsciously lowers her hand to the wound still healing on her leg.
Tess’s shoulders sag, and she nods.
“No. It can’t be.” Georgie stares at the double doors. “She wouldn’t dare come here. Not after—”
“She would,” I say softly. “Lady Daneska has many traits, timidity is not one of them.”
“It is precisely what she would do.” Sera’s lips flatten into a thin line. “We should’ve expected it. I’m ashamed I didn’t—”
“No. Even she is not that foolhardy.” Georgie grabs Tess’s arm and squints hard as if she can ferret out a mistake. “Was it a vision? How can you be certain it was really her? It might’ve been—”
“It was her! Not a vision.” Tess shakes free of Georgie’s hold and glares at her. “I’d know Daneska anywhere. She was in disguise, but there’s no hiding those eyes.”
It’s true. Lady Daneska’s eyes are a startling ice blue, and as empty of warmth as the hollow drums that thud in her soul. My opinion has nothing to do with the fact that there is no love lost between us. I am at peace with the fact that Lady Daneska has always hated me. It’s understandable—she cannot gull me with her sugary lies.
Miss Stranje is already moving toward the doors. So are we all. “Where did you see her?”
Tess hesitates. “She’s gone now. The minute I saw her, she took off running.”
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