A Lady's Formula for Love

by Elizabeth Everett

  “This isn’t what I ordered,” Violet said. Still, she held the dress to her chest.

  One reason Lady Potts was fascinated with tarantulas was their ability to shed their skin, leaving the empty replicas behind when it was time to change. Violet felt an itch beneath her skin as though her body were readjusting itself.

  At the last moment, Violet lost her courage and sent the dress away. Instead, she chose a copper-colored gown of a more modest cut.

  “Ridiculous waste of time,” she muttered to herself on the ride home. “Who cares about stupid gowns and stupid gloves and stupid—oh!” The carriage swerved, and she fell to the floor. Outside, angry men shouted, and her coachman screamed at the horses.

  They rounded one more turn, then the carriage shuddered to a halt.

  On the left-hand side of the road, a group of large, rough-looking men had cornered a thin, frightened youth in front of a small lecture hall. Something in the way the youth held himself drew Violet’s notice.

  She leaned out the coach window and shook her fist at the men. “Stop, you bullies. Stop it right now!”

  Ignoring her coachman’s panicked protests, Violet jumped from the carriage. Hurrying across the street, she pushed her way through the circle of angry men to try and reach Winthram’s side. With an astonished curse, the guard vaulted off the back of the carriage and followed.

  “Run and fetch the watch,” she cried to him. “They won’t do anything to me, but Winthram is in danger. Please!”

  Two burly men stood to either side of Winthram but stepped back at Violet’s approach. The doorman’s thin face twisted in dismay at the sight of Violet coming to his rescue.

  “Oh no, my lady,” Winthram cried. “How could Mr. Kneland let you out on your own? You must get back to the carriage right away! This is no place for you.”

  A small part of Violet acknowledged this was not a sensible choice of actions, but her back was up now.

  “My groomsman has gone to fetch the watch,” she said in a loud, clear voice, “and there are pistols in my carriage. The coachman is not afraid to use them.”

  For a moment, the men surrounding Winthram hesitated, until one man scoffed and spit at her feet.

  “Think we’re scared of the watch? You’ve no idea what we c’n do to ’em,” the man crowed.

  A current of malice charged the crowd. Violet’s heart jumped to her throat as the loose circle of men tightened around her. Winthram tried to push her behind him at the same time she grasped his arm, hoping to pull him back to the carriage.

  Arthur would be furious.

  Here, in a most inconvenient place for an epiphany, an elemental fact about Arthur became clear to her. The impassive facade he presented to the world, that curtain of stillness, was not erected to keep people out. His walls were meant to keep his emotions within.

  Arthur would be furious, but he’d hide that rage and worry. If something happened to Violet, he would never forgive himself, and never show the slightest hint to anyone how much it grieved him.

  Violet gripped Winthram’s arm tighter. She wanted, more than anything, to see Arthur again. She would not be the cause of any more pain to him.

  Sweet relief rushed through her when a door to the hall behind them slammed open. The threatening crowd froze when a tall man emerged.

  “Stand down, stand down!” he shouted. “If you want to be treated with dignity, behave with such.”

  He wore the clothing of a laborer but without the patina of grime. The rakish set of his felted cap gave Violet the impression that his garments were more a message than protection from the elements. Auburn sideburns glinted in the watery March sunlight, and the man squinted at the sky when he adjusted the plain cambric scarf at his neck.

  “Winthram, is he family to you?” Violet whispered to the doorman when she noticed the striking similarities of their features.

  “Not according to him,” Winthram replied.

  Winthram’s brother—for, surely, it must be—strolled with apparent unconcern into the circle of men and let his gaze travel over Violet’s person in a manner a fraction shy of offensive.

  “There are too many men out here,” he said. “We don’t need the Riot Act read. Get on your way.”

  With a few muttered protests and a half-hearted show of reluctance, the men backed away, filing into the hall.

  This was the man Arthur believed to be behind the threats to her. A ripple of apprehension tinged with fascination pricked the backs of her hands when he fixed his gaze on her. While she wouldn’t classify him as handsome, something compelling emanated from his person.

  “I regret we have no one here to introduce us,” he said. “I am Adam Winters.” Winters sketched an insolent bow.

  Winters? Violet looked at Winthram in question, but the young man’s attention was fixed on his brother’s face. He stepped between Violet and his brother, despite the slight trembling in his frame.

  “I won’t let you hurt Lady Greycliff,” the young man declared.

  “Look at you.” Winters shook his head. “You told me you were leaving everything behind, including the people who loved you, to be true to yourself. Is this how you define ‘freedom’? Bowing and scraping to highborn ladies. Is that who you are, Hen? A servant?”

  “I am being true to myself,” Winthram protested. “I do honest work for my wages.”

  “He does indeed,” Violet seconded. “He is invaluable to us and is paid well for his services.”

  Winters scoffed. “Paid well according to whom? Do you even know what it costs to keep a family in London? Are you familiar with the long hours and backbreaking work involved in domestic service, my lady?”

  “Lady Greycliff isn’t like other toffs,” Winthram said.

  “No?” Winters’s response bordered on sarcastic. “What has she done to earn her fortune other than marry into it? Does she or anyone in her class make anything? Contribute to the common defense? What does the ruling class do other than perpetuate itself and hinder the growth and well-being of the lower classes? How exactly is she different?”

  Despite the showy flourishes of his deep voice, Winters’s sincerity rang through. Violet had never considered these questions and had no ready answer.

  Winters focused on Winthram. “And your honest work is to serve these people?”

  “You make a compelling argument,” Violet said. “You are a member of Omnium Democratia, I assume?”

  Winters smiled, but his expression held an edge and he stared at Winthram when he answered. “That organization has recently been made illegal, my lady. Though I admit to sharing their ideals, I’ve never participated in any of the riots the government tries to blame on the Omnis.”

  “You haven’t said anything against them, though,” countered Winthram. “You have so much sway, Adam. I’ve seen you change folks’ minds with a speech and a handshake. Now, you travel with a group of bully boys. Your crowds are getting rowdier and angrier. This will end poorly.”

  Winters dropped his veneer of amused distaste and squared off with his brother. “Come now, Hen. I taught you this myself. Never in history has power shifted in a civilization without radical movement.”

  “Fear and anger are like fires,” Winthram argued. “When they burn out, who’s left hurting? You once talked about hope. About solidarity.”

  “If you want things to change, stand with me, Hen. Come home.”

  Unabashed longing colored Winters’s voice. Winthram must have heard it, too. Shaking his head, he sighed. “If I did, would you call me ‘brother’?”

  The older man’s expression closed, although he could not manage to put the facade of ambivalence on again.

  “No. I want my sister back, not . . . whoever you think you are now.” Winters’s voice hovered between grief and dismissal as he walked toward the hall. “If you change your mind, if you miss your family
even the slightest bit, you know where to find me.”

  Winthram watched his brother turn away and shut the door.

  “I’m sorry, Winthram,” Violet said. “Someday . . .”

  He rolled his shoulders, took off his hat, pushed his hair into a neat coif, then settled the hat back on his head. Mouth thin with resolve, he stared at the closed door.

  A shrill whistle sounded as the watch approached. Violet accepted the arm Winthram held out to her, and they returned to her carriage.

  Violet turned to him. “Why were you there if you knew what he might say? My goodness, there’s a chance you could have been hurt.”

  “Chances are meant to be taken when it comes to love,” the young man said. He spoke without inflection, as if unaware of the power in his words. “We can’t always choose who we love, my lady. Even when a person disappoints us, it doesn’t kill the part of them we care about. Caring for someone else is half the story.”

  “The other half is yourself,” she said.

  “Yes,” Winthram said. “Love can’t be in one direction. If I go back to them as Henrietta, I’m asking them to love a lie. Can’t be loved by my family—by anyone else—unless I love myself.”

  Tears pricked at the back of Violet’s eyes.

  Since Daniel’s death, she had convinced herself that love might have come had she been a better wife or given him a child. Had love been waiting for her all along? Did happiness have nothing to do with setting up a nursery or throwing a successful dinner party?

  She’d cut off her anger, her hopes, her true self, to fit into a box labeled lady and wife.

  Years wasted trying to be good enough for Daniel to love, when she could have been taking a lesson from Winthram.

  Everything inside her had been frozen.

  Up ahead, the sun waited.

  * * *

  “YOU COULD HAVE been killed.”

  Arthur’s jaw clenched so hard the muscles in his cheeks bunched.

  “The watch was there before anything could have happened, and Winthram did a fine job of protecting me. My, you have a lengthy stride.” Violet huffed, cheeks red from keeping pace with him as they walked down the hallway.

  Arthur relented, and she patted her chest as they slowed. “Consider, please, the average lung capacity of a woman wearing a . . . It’s unladylike to say the word out loud, but it starts with a ‘c’ and ends in ‘-orset’ and has me in its steel grasp.”

  He sympathized and slowed his tread even more, remembering the raised red welts on her waist yesterday.

  “As I was saying, there was no immediate danger. Winthram had complete control of the situation.”

  They were on their way to the third floor, where the fire had broken out. Arthur wished to test a theory about the exits and entrances there. He was not convinced that Letty Fenley and Mrs. Pettigrew were telling the truth.

  “What did you think of him?” Arthur asked.

  “Winters?”

  It was delightful to watch Violet when she considered a question. Her thoughts ran through a complex system of twists and turns, much like the spigots and pipes in her lab, at such a rate he could almost hear the process.

  Was it mad to find a woman’s mind as alluring as her body?

  “He is compelling—in a dark, magnetic fashion.”

  Obviously, Violet’s brain was working sluggishly today.

  “Dark and magnetic, eh?” he grumbled. “Anything else? Smell nice? Well-made?”

  “Well-made?” She tapped a finger to her chin, and his jaw clenched even more. He’d have a headache later. “I’m afraid I didn’t notice.”

  Excellent. Her faculties were working again.

  “However charismatic he wished to appear, he seemed lonely and nervous. Yes, there was an undercurrent of fear in his manner,” she said. “He misses Winthram.”

  “The Omnis are in trouble,” Arthur said. “You are close to nullifying their weapons, and, more worrisome, the government is poised to break up the movements in the north. A scared man does stupid things.”

  He hardened his voice. “Which is why you should not have left without telling me.”

  Therein followed a convoluted explanation about copper gowns and yellow silk and intimidating capes. All the while, scenario after scenario where the watch did not come, where she and Winthram did not emerge from the carriage to find him waiting and ready to wring their necks, played out in his head.

  Disturbed by the images, he picked up the pace.

  “Have you tried walking?” she asked him.

  He scowled. “I am walking.”

  “You are prowling,” she said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “That way you walk as though you are hunting prey, rather than simply strolling along a corridor like the rest of us mortals.”

  Arthur couldn’t think of a reply. Rest of us mortals? When they reached the doorway connecting the two parts of the club, a tingling in his neck halted his steps.

  Something about the door was different. He bent to examine where it sat flush with the carpet, running a finger along the door’s edge.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to lock the door and give each of the club members a key?” he asked.

  When Violet didn’t answer, he glanced up to find her examining him with blatant appreciation. Some of his anger melted away.

  “Is anything amiss?” he asked, biting down on a smile.

  “No. Nothing missing,” Violet said. “All where it should be, in exactly the right proportions.”

  He pivoted on his heels to face her, bringing his knees close enough to touch her skirts. Taking his time, he brushed against her body on purpose as he stood, admiring the flush that entered her cheeks.

  “I asked you about a key,” he said.

  “Of course. You asked me about . . .” She frowned. “Are you trying to mesmerize me, Arthur?”

  “Mesmerize you?”

  “Yes. Is it taught in assassin school?” she asked. “How to make a woman confused with a look?”

  “You are the one distracting me,” he countered. “Lady Greycliff, is there a key to this door?”

  “Oh, back to business, are we?” she teased. “We tried a lock once. Everyone kept forgetting where they put their keys.”

  “Everyone?”

  Arthur stared at Violet.

  She stared back.

  “Me. It was me. I kept losing my key.” Violet pushed past him and reached for the door handle. “Now, I have already lost precious time—first with the fitting and then with your lectures. Don’t forget to duck.”

  “What the . . . ?”

  For two seconds, Arthur’s entire misbegotten life flashed before his eyes as a giant metal ball covered in two-inch spikes came hurtling directly toward his face. Within the space of an inhalation, he bent his knees, twisted his torso to the right, and grabbed Violet around the waist. On the exhalation, he continued the descent, pulling them both to the floor a mere half second before the missile completed its near-fatal path.

  “I said, ‘Duck,’” Violet complained from beneath his prone body. “Not ‘Throw me to the ground.’”

  Above Arthur’s head, the spiked metal ball swung back and forth, suspended from a chain.

  He rolled off Violet but kept hold of her arms as he stared at the instrument of death while waiting for his heart to dislodge from his throat.

  “Duck? That was your warning?”

  “I trusted your reflexes,” she said.

  Peering over at her, Arthur couldn’t tell if she was joking. “Why is there a mace swinging over our heads?”

  “That is what I wanted to show you. It was Caroline’s idea. She thought you would appreciate its simplicity,” Violet explained with cheerful calm.

  As though they hadn’t just narrowly avoided death.


  “A clever mechanism,” she said. “Once you open the door, a hook is released and—”

  “For God’s sake, how could you think a mace was better than a key?” He was coming undone. The women in the building were turning him inside out. Later, he would take Winthram and Thomas out to drink beer and, if he was lucky, punch things—thus restoring sanity to his world.

  “I wasn’t the only one who voted against keys,” Violet muttered. “The last time we had them, Milly locked us in. Poor Winthram broke a toe kicking in the door. Another time, Miss Orphelia Higgins picked the lock with her tools, but they kept breaking and getting stuck in the lock. Then there was that fire once when someone else hypothesized that if we lit pressured gas on fire to melt the—”

  “Stop,” Arthur begged her, tilting his head so that their foreheads touched. “This hurts my ears. Flying maces. Pressured-gas fires.” He lifted his head. “What happens if the club members forget to duck when they open the door?”

  A slight headache awoke at the scenarios the question conjured, and he filled his lungs with Violet’s calming scent: an absurd mix of lilacs and copper. “Again, a key would solve . . . Could it be the excess use of your brains somehow interferes with the instinct for survival?”

  “I thought you’d be pleased,” Violet said, pouting.

  Arthur forgot his objections at the sight of those plump lips pressed together. “Five minutes in your presence, and twenty years of training disappears from my brain as though it was never there. You are the one who is mesmerizing me. I am utterly . . .”

  He let go of her and shifted onto his back, staring at the metal ball overhead.

  Utterly what?

  What was the word he couldn’t allow himself to say?

  * * *

  VIOLET LAY STILL, despite her increasing discomfort. She’d donned a new corset today and gone in search of Arthur, to see if he’d be amenable to removing it. Unfortunately, Alice had tied the strings too tight. The boning dug into her back.

  Now, however, she could have been wrapped in bands of steel and she wouldn’t have moved. She rolled onto her side, pressing her chest against Arthur’s arm, and set her head in her hand.