Except then, the sound of our pursuer’s boots changes tenor. The familiar thump-thump on the walkway diminishes. Sera and I blink at each other in surprise. His footfalls are headed away from us. I dare to peek out. “He’s gone.”
Sera edges out behind me. “Must’ve turned the corner.”
We stay close to the smooth stone wall as we approach the gap between buildings. I bob out to check and instantly pull back. My breath trips down my throat in an awkward gulp. “He’s in the alley.”
Glancing up and down the walkway, she takes stock of our surroundings. “It leads to Church Street.”
“Maybe he’s given up.” I paste on an air of composure, brush out my skirts, and step away from the wall, so we don’t look suspicious to passersby.
She taps the toe of her boot nervously against the walkway. “If so, he might be heading back to report to Lady Daneska.”
“Quite likely.” I check to make sure my knife is still in place before suggesting, “If we follow him, maybe we will discover where members of the Iron Crown are hiding.”
She agrees, and we cautiously peer down the alley. Our spy is almost to the end of it. Surely, he will look over his shoulder before turning. Except he doesn’t. Instead, he waits for a carriage to pass and darts across Church Street, entering an even narrower passage between buildings.
We steal farther down the alley and find a shadowy niche from which we can observe our quarry. He stops and pushes back his hat, revealing a familiar profile. Sera and I both stifle exclamations.
“The footman!” Sera says under her breath as if it’s a curse.
“No wonder we recognized that stride.” It is the same servant we had followed that very morning into the Prince’s bedchamber. The same fellow who had assisted me in the kitchen.
“Traitor.” Sera’s voice trembles, not with fear, but outrage. It catches me off guard because she is so rarely stirred to anger. “How could he do this . . . why?”
“Money,” I suggest, even though it could be a dozen other reasons. I watch, noting the fellow cannot be very well-trained because he fails to doublecheck over his shoulder before rapping on a door. Instead of being invited in, a tall broad gentleman steps out to meet him.
“Can’t be!” Sera lurches back into the deep shadows and reaches for my hand.
She is right to be frightened. The man has the same fearsome height and coloring as Lord Ravencross, but even from this distance, the vibrations pulsing from him cause my stomach to tighten in a way Lord Ravencross’s never could. It is as if a sudden storm gathers around us, rumbling with anger.
The sky does not darken, but my soul does.
“Ghost!” I gasp the name of our enemy, transfixed by the force of his hatred. Sera and I stand, stock still, staring in disbelief.
In that moment of shock, a hand grasps my shoulder. Startled, I spring into action. In less than a breath, Sera and I have both drawn our knives. We wheel on the perpetrator and pin him to the wall.
“Whoa!” His hands lift in surrender to the twin blades aimed at his throat.
“Kinsworth? What—?” I blink, unable to comprehend his presence. “What are you doing here? How?”
“I saw you on North Street—”
There’s no time for him to finish answering. Our scuffle has aroused notice. Sera and I immediately stand down, turning our attention back to the passage across Church Street.
The footman and Ghost have spotted us.
Ghost jerks the footman up by his collar, growling curses at the man, pointing at us, showing his inept spy that we have turned the tables on him—the hunted became the hunters. The hapless servant dangles in Ghost’s grasp, gesturing wildly, shaking his head.
Ghost has no interest in the man’s excuses. His black glare remains on us.
The heat of his anger crackles over the cobblestones. A burning wheel, it rolls straight for us, scorching everything in its path.
I cannot look away.
Amidst his thunderous fire, I hear the telltale ping of cold steel. Ghost draws his knife. The blade flashes. And even though it should be impossible from this distance, I hear it slice through the footman’s neck. Cutting gristle. Ripping through muscle. Bursting airways. Still, Ghost stares, not at his handiwork. At us.
At me.
“No, no, no,” Sera whimpers beside me.
“God in heaven,” Kinsworth mouths in a hushed tremor.
Ghost lets go of his victim. The footman’s body drops to the ground. A spray of red arcs through the air, spouting like a demented fountain, making it rain blood, turning cobblestones to wine.
Ghost steps over the carcass, heading toward us, as if the footman’s body is nothing more than a crumpled rug in his path.
“Run!” Sera tries to shake me loose from the hold Ghost has over me. But all I can see is death. All I can hear are silent screams of terror.
Run. Her plea brushes past my ears, moth wings fluttering by in the dark tunnel of my stupor.
“Maya!” Kinsworth commands sternly. The sound of my name on his lips stirs me from this nightmare.
He doesn’t have to say it.
I run.
The three of us tear down the streets of Brighton—dusk and death chasing our souls. There is no thinking. There is simply the drawing in and out of breath, and the drumbeat of evil pounding in our wake.
We do not look back.
No casting anxious glances over our shoulders. We run. Only that. It does not matter if Ghost is chasing us. We must also outrun the horror of what we saw. We scramble over the paving stones, trampling beneath each footfall the hideousness of the slaughter we witnessed.
Sera stumbles. Kinsworth scoops her up, setting her back on her feet. Still, we run, except now I hold her hand, and guilt stings my eyes. There is a shaking in my chest. A fist-like thumping. A terrible knowing.
“It’s our fault.” Sera puts tear-speckled words on my wild thoughts.
“No, it’s not!” Kinsworth pulls us to a stop as soon as we are inside of the palace gates. He checks behind us to make sure he is not following us, and then he steers us through the doors. “Come, we must get you inside.”
“If only . . .” My eyes water and I cannot catch my breath. “If only we had been more careful—”
“No! Listen to me.” Ben grasps my shoulders, keeping his voice low enough that only the three of us can hear. “His doing. Not yours. That footman chose to associate with a monster.”
“Ghost.” Sera quietly supplies the name of our monster.
“Ghost?” Lord Kinsworth lets go of me and rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve heard stories, but . . . he’s real? Napoleon’s henchman?”
She nods.
“Leader of the Iron Crown.” I cannot keep the tremor out of my voice.
“If he’s here in Brighton, your lives are in danger.” Lord Kinsworth shepherds us up the stairs. “And from the look on his face, he intends to kill you.”
“Not yet.” Sera shakes her head as he guides us down the hallway. “I don’t think he will yet. He needs Maya at the meeting with Napoleon. I think he . . . he meant it as a”—she shudders—“a warning to us. To Maya. A threat of things to come if she doesn’t do his bidding.”
Lord Kinsworth grumbles with frustration. “But if you are right, at best it is only a temporary reprieve. I will contact Miss Stranje immediately, so she can take you home. The situation here in Brighton has grown too dangerous.”
We are alone in the long hall leading to our room. At Ben’s high-handed edict, I stop and plant my foot firmly. “You will do nothing of the kind, Lord Kinsworth. We discussed this before. I will complete the task set before me. Miss Stranje expects nothing less, no matter the danger.”
Sera crosses her arms, siding with me. “Aside from that, my lord, what makes you think we would be any safer at Stranje House? It is not an impenetrable fortress. Ghost has broken into the school in the past. He snuck into the manor, captured Tess, and carried her out to sea.”
; I lift my chin defiantly. “Safety is an illusion, my lord.”
Lord Kinsworth’s jaw clenches as he considers our argument. He stares at the painted vines crawling up the pink wallpaper. “Very well. You have a point.” He admits this with an irritated huff. “But no more excursions without me. At least, you will be safe here inside the palace.”
Sera and I both stifle the urge to laugh in disbelief. “Here?” I try not to gape as if he has suddenly lost his mind. I point at our door. “You mean, in our rooms. Where, when we unlocked our door after visiting Prince George this morning, we found Lady Daneska sitting inside? This is where you believe we will be safe?”
“Maya is right. Nowhere is safe from Ghost.” Sera lowers her head as if it grieves her to admit this.
Ben rubs his neck again. Apparently, this whole discussion has given him a roaring headache.
I am finally breathing calmly. “Don’t worry, my lord. We have been trained for this sort of thing. We will be prepared. Preparation is our safest course.”
“Yes. Yes. Preparation.” He studies the carpet for a moment before brightening. I recognize that look. He has a plan. “I have it! This evening, after everyone has retired, I will come and sit guard in your room.”
At our aghast expressions, he adds, “Nothing untoward, I assure you. I shall sit vigil in a chair.”
I press my hand to my throat. “You most certainly will not. Oh, I know your intentions are noble, but my reputation would be in tatters, should anyone find out.”
“They won’t.” He waves away my concerns as if I am being overly missish. “Besides, Sera will be there. You’ll be properly chaperoned.”
Sera gawps at him. “In our sleeping quarters? Have you run mad? As it is, I’m scarcely old enough to be considered a proper chaperone. But for two unwed young ladies to allow a gentleman into our sleeping quarters is . . . is . . .”
“Beyond the pale.” I pat her arm reassuringly. “Lord Kinsworth doesn’t understand.” I square my shoulders and face Ben, who must be either surprisingly innocent or alarmingly naïve. “My lord, I’m afraid you sorely overestimate the benevolence of English society. If we were to allow you to stay in our rooms, tongues would wag viciously. Not only would my reputation be destroyed, but Sera’s as well. We cannot possibly permit you into our bedchamber at night, no matter the circumstances.” I curtsey. “Thank you, though, for your kind offer.”
A puff of irritation passes over his lips. “Well, if that is the case . . .” He marches toward our room and leans against the wall, folding his arms stubbornly across his chest. “I shall be obliged to set up camp outside your door. It will not be as comfortable, nor as safe, but one cry from you inside, and I will kick the ruddy thing in and charge forth.”
“To his death,” Sera mumbles.
His chin juts forward. “That may be, but I’ll run my sword through his gizzard first.”
I cannot bear the thought of Ghost cutting Ben’s throat as he did the footman’s. Not that it would be as easily done. Kinsworth is nearly as tall and strong as Ghost, but he is an inexperienced fighter.
He pulses with unspent fury. The need to protect marches through him like a troop of war horses.
I rest my fingers lightly on his clenched arms, testing a tone I hope will relax him, a soft low strum meant to lure him into a confidence I wish I felt. “There will be no need for swords through gizzards.” I smile as if the two of us are standing on a peaceful shore, watching a gentle tide wash in and out. “We will be safe for now. Sera is right, Lady Daneska and Ghost need my help convincing the Prince to concede to Napoleon. We must consider our dear Prince George. He is feeling so poorly—he needs your protection and care more than ever.” I infuse my words with gentleness and affection, and I hear his marching horses slow and fall asleep.
Warmth flows over him, like the sun breaking forth over a meadow after a thunderstorm. In its wake, I hear a gentle humming, as if blossoms are opening and raising their heads. Then, a deep violoncello begins to play, slowly at first, then with a melody so deep and full, it makes me want to melt into his arms.
He clasps my fingers in his, and another kind of warmth fills his eyes.
Want.
I swallow. Painfully aware of the notes I hear winding, swirling, dancing up from my own soul, singing in harmony with his. Our duet fills my mind so completely, it holds captive all other thought. Leaving me breathless. Words fail on my lips. And all I can see, are his. All I can hear is the symphony playing between us.
When I falter, unable to speak, he smiles.
That knowing smile of his is my undoing. He speaks and each word matches, with stirring precision, the beguiling notes of his violoncello. “They are going to play a waltz tonight. You must promise it to me.” His voice resonates deep and smooth, a sweet wine that curls alluringly inside me. He might ask anything, and I would agree.
“Yes,” I say, scarcely able to whisper, wishing he might kiss me.
The hall is empty except for Sera. Perhaps—
She unlocks our door. The click of the latch reminds me, we are not alone. Nor are we safe. This is a dangerous time to fall in love. I let go of his arm, but he keeps hold of my gloved fingers and brings them to his lips. Through the lace of my glove, I feel the press of his kiss on my fingers. “Until then,” he says, and glances in our room to make sure we are not afflicted with unwanted visitors.
Until then.
As he walks away, Sera asks me, “Do you suppose he still intends to stand guard outside the door?”
I turn to her, blinking, realizing I failed to secure his promise not to do so. “I have no idea.”
“I rather think he might.”
“Good heavens! He manipulated me with his voice, didn’t he? It should be him in the parley with Napoleon, not I.”
“Was it his voice?” she asks, skepticism wrinkling each word. “Or something else?”
Serenading a Serpent
“I placed a note for Miss Stranje in our prearranged hiding spot. I sent details as to where the Iron Crown is hiding. But . . .” Sera hesitates, her hand trembles as she tries to pin my hair into place. “I didn’t mention, uh, the footman. Miss Stranje and the others will be among the after-dinner guests tonight. We can tell her in person about, um, about what we saw on our return to the palace.” Sera cannot bring herself to say the word for what we witnessed.
Murder.
Except, no, it was worse than that. It was cold-hearted butchery.
She carefully smooths my hair and weaves flowers into the thick coil. I watch her in the looking glass. Our eyes do not meet. She avoids my gaze because she does not want me to say anything about the gruesome death we witnessed. Judging by the unsteadiness of her hands, it still haunts her.
It certainly haunts me.
I sigh, wishing I could make it right for her somehow. If only things were different. “Just for one night,” I say aloud. “Don’t you wish we could be like other girls?”
“Other girls?” Her hand stills. “In what way?”
“You know, behave as other girls might do on a night such as this. Be frivolous. Carefree. Happy. Think on it, Sera. Here we are in this glorious palace. We’ve been invited to dine with the Prince of England. Other young ladies would be giddy with excitement, wouldn’t they?”
She finishes with my hair, and I turn to grasp her hands. “And you . . . look at you! In that pale green silk, you look like a fairytale princess come to life. Shouldn’t we be prattling on about our beaus? Speaking of this gentleman, or that? Speculating as to who might ask us to dance? Our greatest worry might be over a bead missing from our slippers.”
She lowers her gaze to our hands. “You mean, act as if we are ordinary girls?”
“Yes. Exactly. Ordinary girls.”
“Even though we’re not?” It is a hard truth she speaks. I let go of her hands.
“I wish we could be,” I mumble. “If only for just one night.”
She looks up, her face alight. “We could pr
etend.” With an impish gleam, she surprises me, and dives into the game, chattering as if she hadn’t a care in the world. “Your gown is ever so pretty. Wouldn’t it be lovely if Mr. Chadwick were among the guests?”
We both know he is still in London, training with Captain Grey, but I eagerly play my part.
“Yes. That would be quite diverting. Perhaps, he will join us later this summer.” I lean closer, as I imagine other girls do when sharing a secret, even though I’m quite certain she already overheard this tidbit. “Lord Kinsworth made me promise to save the waltz for him.”
She laughs—a gentle, sweet, fairy-princess laugh. “He will be speechless when he sees you. Your hair shines like polished ebony, and the white flowers are like tiny stars dotting the night sky. You look magnificent, Maya. Truly.”
“Magnificent?” I shake my head at that. “Regal, I might have believed.” I glance down at my pomegranate red sari trimmed with gold embroidery, and the shimmering gold underdress, the colors of royalty in my homeland. “I am merely obeying Lady Jersey’s and Lady Castlereagh’s command to maintain my Indian mystique while including a nod to English fashion.”
“Which is, in actuality, French fashion. But never you mind. La!” She raps me on the shoulder, reminding me that we are playing at being ordinary girls, not girls who take their marching orders from two of the most powerful women in England. “What other gentlemen do you suppose will grace His Highness’s table tonight?”
“Dozens, I should think, and all of them plump in the pocket.” I meant it to be a jest, to parrot what other girls must remark on. Except it slipped out before I thought the comment through. True enough, money is the thing most debutantes take into account when they encounter a potential suitor. But Sera would never be the sort of girl to consider a man’s income over his character. Even when pretending.
“Oh.” Her enthusiasm for the game wanes. “Perhaps I wouldn’t enjoy being ordinary, after all.”
“Forget their pockets,” I say, trying to draw her back in, hoping to elicit that rare smile from her again. “I daresay, there will be many handsome young men. Younger sons, charming gentlemen, strong, brave, true-hearted men. Perhaps even some in their uniforms. Young men do look so dashing in their uniforms, don’t you think?”
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