On the same day Miss Stranje decided we should make this trip to London, she turned her upstairs parlor into a massive sewing room and hired a dozen women from the village as temporary seamstresses. There are more comings and goings from the upstairs parlor than from a field marshal’s tent. High-pitched chatter floods the hallways. Barked orders ricochet off the walls. “Pass the scissors. This seam puckers, tear it out. Hand me the pink thread. Stand still! That hem is crooked.”
Thank goodness my wardrobe is already ample, and I’m spared the aggravation of fittings, pinnings, and hemmings. I dash into the library and close the door, shutting out the clamor and fuss. I want a quiet place where I might read my brazen American’s letter.
The library is my favorite room at Stranje House. My safe harbor. I relish the smell of oiled leather bindings and lemon-waxed shelves, and the way the books soften the noise of the world. I wander to my private desk beside the window, and run my hand over the smooth oak. Everything on it stands in perfect order, the blotter is squared and everything is in its place.
Grateful for this haven of peace, I sink into one of the overstuffed chairs by the fireplace, and stare at Mr. Sinclair’s highly improper letter. Lifting the folded paper to my nose, I expect to find a whiff of something that will remind me of him, perhaps the musty tang of welded copper, machine oil, or anything. Except there’s nothing, only the scent of paper, ink, and sealing wax.
I break the seal and read:
My dear Lady Jane,
The Mary Isabella arrived in London without incident. Your ingenious idea to hide the smaller parts in bags of wool worked admirably. Now, however, little tufts of sheep’s fuzz are stuck to everything. I anticipate hours of cleaning ahead. Wool and grease seem to be attracted to one another despite their drastic differences. Does that remind you of an equally cockeyed relationship?
Enough sentimental drivel—on to more important points.
Drastic differences. He means us. Cockeyed. It’s another of his absurd American expressions. It conjures the image of a half-blind rooster tilting its head stupidly, which must indicate his opinion of our “relationship.”
“Sentimental drivel, indeed.” I feel a sudden urge to punch something.
I read the paragraph again, and squelch a low growl rising in my throat. Ladies do not growl. It’s unbecoming. A small rumble escapes. His fault.
And to think, Miss Stranje was worried he might’ve written me an improper declaration of his affections. “Ha!”
I lower the letter and glare across the room. I don’t see the oak paneling or the fireplace. Oh no, he stands before me. Alexander Sinclair leans casually against the mantel, his tousled blond hair catches sunlight from the window, his unpredictable eyes spark with mischief, and, of course, there is no escaping his customary smirking grin.
A hallucination sent to mock me.
Or humiliate me.
Or both.
I’ve half a notion to wad up his ruddy note and throw it through my hallucination into the fire. Instead, I give way to curiosity and continue reading his cockeyed note.
You will be delighted to learn I arrived in London without a scratch on my person other than those you left etched in my heart. I passed myself off as a sheep farmer quite easily. The question is—can I pass for a gentleman? Lord Wyatt tells me the Admiralty and the Prince Regent himself intend to inspect the steamship once we get her put back together. Lofty company indeed. I wish you were here to guide me.
My mouth curves into a soft smile and my shoulders relax, melting toward him. Not all the way, mind you, I’m only thawing a bit.
I have a request. Lord Wyatt tells me Miss Stranje is bringing all of you to London for a visit. Might I impose upon you to teach me the steps to one or two of your English dances? Before you roll your eyes and wrinkle up that adorable little nose of yours, allow me to explain.
The Prince Regent requests my attendance at a soirée wherein I’m to be introduced to a number of key naval dignitaries. Naturally, there’s to be dancing at this gathering and several young ladies whose fathers are men of influence, and I’m told they are eager to make my acquaintance.
Does he mean their fathers wish to meet him, or their daughters? I believe the rascal left it intentionally vague.
To be perfectly frank, I would rather not dance at all, but Captain Grey says refraining may be considered ungentlemanly. I don’t wish to disappoint the Prince or his esteemed guests. Therefore, my dear friend, I’m relying upon you to keep me from making a cake of myself. What do you say, Lady Jane? Will you teach me to dance?
With deepest regards,
Alexander Sinclair
The letter wobbles in my fingers. Mr. Sinclair’s apparition still stands across the room, only now he wears a fine set of clothes. His black coat sets off his halo of gleaming curls as he innocently smiles at dancers in the ballroom at Carlton House. He does not see Lady Daneska waltzing toward him. Does not see her concealed dagger until it is plunged into his ribs. She whirls off, carefree and laughing. He crumples to the floor.
I flinch, even though it’s only a mirage, a figment of my imagination, a fear.
A perfectly rational fear. Lady Daneska will be at the Prince’s soirée.
I pace to the window. Alexander is in danger, and I don’t see how we can protect him and the Prince? How can we truly protect either of them when Daneska is so stealthy? It seems impossible.
Thinking this way does no good. There is always a way. That’s what I tell myself in times like these. “There’s always a way,” I murmur, hoping it’s true.
A copy of the London Times sits on the side table. Picking it up to distract myself from morbid worries, I smile remembering how Mr. Sinclair spoke to me of using his uncle’s ingenious design to create a steam-driven press for newspapers. “Mark my words,” he said. “Someday, the London Times will be printed using a steam engine.”
The world is racing forward, and Alexander Sinclair is precisely the sort of man who will be holding the reins as it gallops into the future. I must make sure he survives to do it.
With a sigh, I scan the news. Several items catch my eye. The Duchess of Oldenberg is staying in London at the Pulteney Hotel, and last Saturday afternoon the Prince Regent introduced her to the Prince of Württemberg.
“How very odd.” The Prince of Württemberg is the duchess’s cousin, they hardly needed an introduction. The paper reports that the duchess also received a letter from her brother, Tzar Alexander I, who is rumored to be visiting in Paris.
I wonder if the Prince Regent is trying to broker a marriage between the Duchess of Oldenberg and his ally, the Prince of Württemberg? If that’s the case, why is the duchess’s brother, Emperor of Russia, in Paris visiting Napoleon Bonaparte?
I’ll wager it has something to do with Lady Daneska’s visit. Plots and possibilities swirl through my mind and send my thoughts spinning. I fold the corner of the page intending to discuss this matter with Miss Stranje later, and scour the rest of the gossip column for clues. Two paragraphs later, one name grabs my attention by the hair and gives it a painful yank.
A name that rings in the destruction of my future.
Lord Harston.
It is the very name I feared. The one man I must avoid at all costs. His name traps the breath in my lungs. Nay, it stops my heart, and squeezes until I am cold and shivery.
It will be impossible to dodge him in London. “He’ll find me.”
Lord Harston, the paper says, was seen riding in the park this afternoon with the Prince Regent. Later in the evening, the Prince Regent was observed entering White’s Gentlemen’s Club in the company of Lord Harston, Lord Alvanley, and Sir Lumley Skeffington. According to reliable sources, Lord Harston is currently the Prince’s guest at Carlton House.
I drop into a chair. Can fate be this cruel?
As if I have not been kicked in the teeth enough, one paragraph below Lord Harston, the paper mentions my two good-for-nothing brothers.
“Blast!
” Once again, the wastrels have disgraced me. Breath comes shuddering back in furious heaves. They, at least, are not guests of the Prince. I ought to be grateful for that one small blessing, instead I groan under the weight of my humiliation.
The report says my eldest brother, the notorious Earl of Camberly, and his younger brother, Bernard Moore, caused a riot at the Royal Theatre in Drury Lane. It began innocently enough, with Francis and Bernard throwing rotten fruit during a performance of Othello. In and of itself, throwing fruit at the stage would not have been newsworthy. After all, vendors sell rotten apples and moldy pears in the theater for that very purpose.
The Times explains that my brothers, in an extremely drunken state, purchased two entire baskets of moldy oranges. Reeling, as they must’ve been, their aim was sadly off. Many of their throws missed the stage entirely. Fruit flew every which way, and my siblings began amusing themselves by aiming at several distinguished members of the audience, some of whom were visiting dignitaries from Vienna and Russia. When audience members decided to return fire, disrupting the performance altogether, my ne’er-do-well brothers were forcibly removed and tossed into the street.
The Times goes on to comment on the disgraceful behavior of some members of the nobility, and castigates my brothers by name, noting their shameful examples, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera …
My attention whips back and forth between my brothers’ embarrassing public reprimand and the paragraph about Lord Harston. The tighter my jaw clenches the blurrier the words get. All I can see are names I wish did not exist. The newspaper trembles in my hands, until I give up and crumple it in my lap.
I’m done for.
I cannot go to London.
Mr. Sinclair will need to find a different dance instructor. Miss Stranje can teach him. Yes, and Tess is far more capable of protecting him than I am. It’s true. She’s ten times the fighter I am. And yet, I dread leaving his care to anyone else.
What choice do I have?
My heart crashes against my chest as if it’s a rock tumbling down the cliffs toward the sea. Appropriate, considering it feels heavier than a millstone.
Head in hands, I curl over my knees. I’m tired of these millstones. Go ahead, toss me in the sea. Let me drown.
No, that’s foolish thinking. I slap my legs and straighten. There’s an obvious solution. I won’t go to London. That’s all there is to it. Tess and Lord Wyatt will protect Mr. Sinclair. They’ll do as good a job or better than I could do.
If I go, my brothers will heap shame upon me and everyone connected to me, Mr. Sinclair included, and Miss Stranje. Everyone. The scoundrels are bound to be in debt up to their eyeballs. They will undoubtedly try to find some way to bilk money out of my being there. Their rotten problems will become my rotten problems simply by proximity.
Even worse, if they should meet Lord Harston, and discover the truth …
No. No. No!
I simply can’t go. Not with my money-grubbing brothers prowling about. And especially not with Lord Harston in town and running in the same circles with the Prince Regent and Lady Daneska. The entire trip reeks of disaster.
I can’t go.
I won’t.
The decision is made. I take a deep breath, smooth out the newspaper, fold it neatly, and set it on the table exactly where I found it. I arrange the blotter on my desk so it is perfectly squared. I close the desk drawer, turn the key, and lock away my emotions.
Ten
TRUTH
Tess broods all during dinner, not silently, as I do, she fumes noisily, huffing and grumbling, and thumping down her glass. When she stabs her roast beef a little too viciously, Sera tries to draw her out. “Are you upset because the doctor gave Lord Ravencross permission to go home today?”
“No. Why should that upset me? I’m not upset, I’m angry. He thinks he is fully recovered. Stubborn man—he insists he’s going to go to London, too. ‘I’ve obligations in the House of Lords,’ he says. Folderol. He’s going because he’s worried about me. I’ve tried to make him see reason. Nothing I say will make him change his mind.”
“Of course not.” Georgie smiles. “Whither thou goest…”
“Don’t sermonize me.” Tess bristles up like one of her beloved wolf-dogs. “It’s too dangerous for him in London. With Daneska coming to town, you know perfectly well his brother, Ghost, will be there, too, lurking in the shadows. I want Gabriel to stay home and recuperate where it is safe.”
“Yes, but how can he, if he is worried about you?” Georgie makes the mistake of trying to argue with her. “He’s a man. It’s only natural that he wants to be close by to protect you.”
“Don’t be absurd.” She leans into Georgie holding her fork at a dangerous angle. “I can take care of myself.”
Georgie backs away. “Of course you can. Everyone knows that.”
“At least.” Sera’s voice cracks nervously as she tries to disrupt their fuss. “You needn’t worry about Punch and Judy. Phillip promised me he would take scraps to them now and then.”
Tess’s only answer is to shuffle food around her plate, something we are both doing. Maya offers light conversation by asking how many books she might bring. The others spend the rest of the dinner discussing which maps to bring, and how many gowns and bonnets to pack.
Miss Stranje finishes her dessert course, sets down her spoon and turns to me. “You’re very quiet this evening, Lady Jane. Are you ill?”
“No.” I stab a spoon at my half-eaten custard.
“Are you certain? You don’t look yourself.”
“Quite sure.”
She waits with an unrelenting hawk-on-the-hunt stare.
“Very well then.” I set my spoon down carefully beside my bowl and face her. “I considered pretending to be sick, but decided it would be better to be frank. I simply cannot go with you to London.”
“What!” Georgie springs out of her chair.
Miss Stranje holds up a silencing finger. “You are all excused from the table. I would like a moment alone with Lady Jane.” She gestures for them to leave. Our wily headmistress doesn’t say a word until the dining room door closes behind Tess.
I wish there was a way to avoid this conversation. “You know they’ll be listening.”
“I expect so, but if you speak softly enough they won’t be able to hear.” She scoots her chair closer to me. “What is troubling you about this trip? Is it the prospect of seeing Mr. Sinclair again?”
I shake my head. “Nothing to do with him.” That’s not entirely true. In some respects, it has everything to do with him. “Suffice it to say if I go to London it will spell disaster for me.”
“Disaster?” She raises one eyebrow skeptically. “A strong word. How so?”
“For one thing, it will result in my being taken from your school.” I evade her scrutinizing gaze, and trace the ornate pattern on the spoon handle. One sympathetic glance, one well-placed word, and she would unravel my composure and I might spill my secret.
“Is it because your brothers haven’t paid your tuition this year?”
“They haven’t? Good grief! I should’ve guessed.” I shove the spoon handle away and huff loudly. “Those dirty, rotten scoundrels. I’m astounded they would imprison me here and then fail to send money for my upkeep.”
“Imprison you?”
“That’s not what I meant. My brothers think Stranje House is a prison. Not I. I like it here. You know I do.”
“I’m delighted to hear it.” My headmistress’s shoulders twitch and her mouth quirks up at the corner. Leave it to her to find mirth in this situation. “In that case, you will be pleased to know, I sent a letter to your eldest brother concerning your welfare here. Lord Camberly wrote back and suggested I allow you to stay in exchange for you serving as a tutor or a ladies’ maid to one of the other girls.”
“How very thoughtful of him.” I groan and bury my face in my hands.
“You needn’t worry on that score, my dear. I required him to pay quit
e handsomely when he first brought you to me. I don’t require any more tuition from you, if that’s the cause of your distress.”
“If only it were that simple.” Realizing I must give her at least a partial explanation, I take a deep breath. “Let us just say, certain parties in London will remove me from your care if they learn of my whereabouts.”
Her mouth purses up. “Let us say a bit more than that, shall we?”
“You don’t understand. My brothers didn’t tell anyone that they sent me here. I’ve no idea what Banbury tale they spread abroad to explain my absence, but I’m quite certain no one knows I’m here. Which is exactly how I prefer to keep it.” This sounds rather snappish of me, so I try to soften my tone. “There is someone in London who absolutely must not know my whereabouts.”
“Someone, other than your brothers?” She digs for an answer.
I swallow and hold my ground with a curt nod, saying nothing.
Miss Stranje utters an exasperated sigh and I make the mistake of looking up. “If you explain the matter to me,” she says. “In more detail. Perhaps I can help you. I am not without connections, you know.”
Not even you can dissolve a legally binding contract.
“No one can help me.” My insides tighten up at the thought of telling her the sour, stinking truth. The familiar sting of my parents’ betrayal burns me. Hot tears well up in my eyes. I squeeze them back down where they belong. This is not a crying matter. “There’s nothing you can do. It’s too late.”
“Humph.”
I blink. “You don’t believe me?”
“I’ve no idea what to think, Lady Jane. You say it’s too late. In my opinion, only a thimbleful of situations in life are that dire. Death begins and ends the list. Everything else is simply an obstacle that must be dealt with.” She sets her custard bowl to the side and folds her hands. “You are not dead. So, unless you are in the process of dying, I sincerely doubt it is too late.”
Refuge for Masterminds Page 10