A Lady's Formula for Love

by Elizabeth Everett

She did, and his nervousness disappeared. Every last worry about anything or anyone else fell away.

  “Wh-what?” she stammered.

  In dangerous situations, Arthur’s training took over. He could fight as easily with his left hand as with his right. Blinded or deafened from an explosion, his marksmanship never faltered. Over the years, his killing skills had become second nature.

  The connection between himself and Violet was the same: like breathing and sleeping. Blind or deaf, now or a hundred years from now, Arthur would know what to say to make her color that gorgeous shade of crimson, to make her stammer and set her pulse beating at her throat.

  There was a name for this feeling. He wouldn’t say it. Even to himself.

  “The color of your chemise,” he said. “I called it pink and was quickly corrected. It’s blush.”

  “How did you know?” she asked, smoothing out the skirts of the gown for his perusal. “Of all the dresses I tried on, how did you know this was the one?”

  “It’s my job to know,” he replied, echoing what he’d said the night they first met.

  “Did you purchase undergarments for Lord Dickerson as well?”

  Keeping a straight face, he bowed. “Lord Dickerson favors wool over cotton and is less partial to lace trim.”

  Violet’s dimple deepened in approval, and the floor tilted sideways for a moment.

  “You look . . . ,” he said. “My paltry store of compliments cannot come close to describing how lovely you are tonight in that dress.”

  Violet’s eyelids lowered; a sultry smile curled the corners of her luscious mouth. An unfamiliar sensation of joy skidded along Arthur’s veins.

  Six musicians had crammed themselves into the well beneath the lecture stage. It could have been an orchestra the way the music swelled around them.

  One-two-three.

  The count of three is where great leaps of faith begin. A three-count is the time it takes to take a breath, swear a vow, or dance a waltz.

  “May I have the pleasure of this . . . ?” He paused when Violet’s dimple disappeared and her skin blanched, all light extinguished.

  A low hum reverberated in one corner of the room, and a few heads turned Arthur’s way. Following the direction of Violet’s stare, he spied Fanny Armitage by the dance floor, malice gleaming in her beady eyes. Lady Potts stood next to her, wringing her hands, while Althea Dertlinger had a hand to her mouth in shock. Letty Fenley was heading toward them from the opposite direction.

  Caught among them all, Violet tilted her head to meet Arthur’s gaze. A rapid succession of choices examined and discarded grew thick between them.

  Violet’s theory of ghosts made sense. He’d lived with the loss of his home for thirty years, and the pain had steered him into a life devoid of connections. Athena’s Retreat was Violet’s home. What would happen to her if she lost it? Dredging up a polite expression, he forced his facial muscles to rearrange themselves. Tonight was a celebration of everything she’d worked so hard for, and he would ruin it if he stayed.

  “My invitation was selfish,” he said. “You have other claims on your time. I will take my leave. Good night, Lady Greycliff.”

  The murmurs had grown louder, and Arthur had half turned to leave the dance floor when Violet did the unthinkable and took his hand.

  One.

  The low note of a cello tracing the arc of a turn in the honey-scented air.

  Two.

  The only places he touched her—the small of her back and the palm of her hand—as they began the dance.

  Three.

  One step forward, one step to the side, one step together, and then the dance reversed.

  A pattern repeated over and over until the end. What had Violet told him about the laws of physics holding their world together? For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. One stepped forward, and the universe dictated that a step backward must follow.

  In the end, you stepped together.

  For a handful of golden moments, Arthur relished the sensation of dancing with a woman in his arms who knew the whole of him. He’d stopped trying to hide from her. Whatever she saw was the truth, and the truth was . . .

  Invisible needles pricked the back of his neck.

  There, to the left, Grantham appeared in a doorway, squinted at him, and frowned.

  Not yet.

  Stubbornly, Arthur guided Violet through the spinning tops of brightly colored gowns and sparkling cravat pins. Two men stood with their backs to the guests, one with auburn hair glinting in the candlelight.

  The prickle turned to jangling nerves, and his nostrils flared.

  Time was up.

  “I have to go,” he whispered in Violet’s ear.

  “Now? I thought . . .”

  Thomas was nowhere to be found, and the sounds and smells of the party had faded to nothing. The two men he’d spotted had disappeared as well. Arthur held himself in check, aware that he and Violet were still the object of speculation.

  “Do not go anywhere with anyone alone,” he warned Violet. “Remain here until I return for you.”

  As he left, the breeze from Fanny Armitage’s skirts ruffled his pant legs, but he did not glance back over his shoulder. If Arthur was sure of anything in this world, it was that Violet could handle Fanny from now on.

  Especially in that dress.

  * * *

  VIOLET WATCHED ARTHUR as he parted the crowd like a cutter, slicing through waves of pale, limpid aristocrats. It made no sense that the Omnis would try anything tonight. There were too many people, and she’d finished her formulas. They were locked away in a cabinet in her workroom.

  She’d almost forgotten her surroundings in the sensual excitement of the waltz, but the sight of Fanny Armitage brought her awake like a bucket of cold water. Violet’s lips and fingertips went numb, and she pressed her hand to her stomach. There was no escaping the laws of physics. Newton taught that every action in the universe had an equal and opposite reaction.

  London’s social scene was as perilous today as it had been 150 years ago.

  “I can’t fathom why there is so much to-do over your club,” Fanny told Violet. “All I can see is some tatty rooms and garish plates. Although I suppose anyone can maintain appearances for one night.”

  Ignoring Fanny’s grating voice, Violet calmed her thoughts. How deeply ingrained in her the instinct to hesitate when it came to her desires.

  “That gown resembles a Mensonge creation,” Fanny went on. “The woman charges shocking prices when you consider how little material is used in the bodice.”

  Fanny’s earbobs dangled like rattles as she shook her head in disgust, and her small, sharp teeth flashed in the light. “Who was that gentleman you were speaking with by the refreshments? He looked familiar,” she said. “Or should I say, infamous?”

  “You are not stupid,” Violet said.

  Fanny’s sneer disappeared, and her lips formed an oval of surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You are not stupid,” Violet repeated. “You are not poor. You married well, and you have three healthy children. You are invited most places and, as far as I know, you’ve never been bullied or slandered.”

  Fanny didn’t know whether to preen or object. Her lips opened and closed, the thin skin beneath her chin shaking with confusion. “What is your point, Lady Greycliff?”

  “My point is that you have everything you could want, yet you spend your time tearing apart others who do not. You exude malice rather than joy. Instead of extending a hand to help, you use it to slap women down.”

  The hectic flush of nastiness drained away from Fanny’s cheeks, leaving her gaunt and unsure.

  “You are an unhappy woman.” Violet shook her head as Fanny started to protest. “I should know. So was I.”

  There were still loads of people in
the room, but Violet and Fanny stood miles apart from them, with one foot in the past as they reviewed the choices that had brought them to this place.

  “I don’t know what has stolen your joy,” Violet said. “It could be a lifetime of comparing yourself to others. It could be you had someone in your life who spoke to you the way my late husband spoke to me.”

  Fanny shrank in on herself. “You . . . you are drunk. Where did you find the nerve to say such things?”

  Arthur. Arthur helped Violet to find her voice.

  “Go home, Fanny. You are not welcome back at Athena’s Retreat, but I do not wish you ill.”

  Despite Fanny’s snort of disbelief, this was the truth. Violet did not hate Fanny Armitage.

  “I wish you change. I wish you empathy. I wish you happiness,” Violet said. “There isn’t enough of that in the world. Maybe if you find some, you can spread it around.”

  Leaving the past behind, Violet joined the rest of the club members in bidding their guests farewell. Whatever expression she wore must have served to warn her friends not to broach the subject of Arthur and the aborted waltz.

  All except for Lady Phoebe.

  “Fanny Armitage has forgotten how to breathe. She’s gasping like a dead fish,” Phoebe said. “Her coloring is much the same, if you think about it.”

  “Hush, Lady Phoebe,” Letty scolded.

  “Keep your voice down, dear,” Violet added. “It’s bad enough I created a spectacle on the dance floor. Have you seen Grantham? I wanted to ask him if he knew when Grey planned to arrive.”

  “I have,” said Phoebe. “There was a message delivered to him just now.”

  “This is taking forever,” said Letty.

  The two women spoke to each other while Violet replayed the conversation with Fanny in her head. Could she sacrifice her position at Athena’s Retreat?

  Everything was about to change; of that, she was certain. Was she ready for a life so altered?

  The answer eluded her until her friend leaned over and whispered into Violet’s ear.

  While everyone around them was carrying on as though nothing had happened, everything Violet had ever believed was falling apart.

  25

  ARTHUR ELBOWED PAST a gaggle of servants outside the large assembly room, searching for the two men.

  “Blast,” he muttered to himself. Foreboding cramped in his gut as he questioned the staff. Although none remembered seeing two men leave by this exit, one had seen Grantham poking his head into the room earlier.

  Johnson left off his flirting with an upstairs maid and added to the account. “He grabbed Winthram and told him to come along with him back to the house. Winthram wanted to stay here, said he had to keep watch over my lady, but the earl told ’im that’s your job.”

  Arthur rubbed the back of his neck and took off toward the entrance to Beacon House’s kitchen. The connecting door between the two buildings stood open, and dismay flooded him. Thomas was slumped in a chair before the fireplace, and Cook was wringing her hands. An acrid stench like burnt onions hung in the air.

  Mrs. Sweet was kneeling before Thomas, wiping his face with a wet cloth and murmuring soothing words.

  “What and when?” Arthur asked without preamble.

  Thomas looked up with red, swollen eyes, his breath labored. “Two men. They had a canister like what the Omnis used. The spray . . .” Thomas coughed into a rag, which came away speckled with blood.

  Mrs. Sweet came to her feet. “Enough. Don’t make him say anything else. He must rest his lungs.”

  “Listen to me,” Thomas rasped. “They were on their way upstairs—”

  “They barreled through here,” Mrs. Sweet said, “and were headed for the servants’ stairs when Earl Grantham and Winthram arrived. Thomas got the spray full in his face, but they all inhaled some of it. The men ran out the back with the earl on their heels.”

  “I tried,” said Thomas.

  “You are not to blame yourself.” Arthur set a hand on his shoulder when Thomas made to protest. “They will pay for this, Thomas. I swear it.”

  His fury on behalf of Thomas was tempered by the knowledge that Violet stood safely among the crowd of guests in the other building. Adam Winters and his conspirator must be on the hunt for the formula.

  “They left not five minutes since,” said Mrs. Sweet.

  Arthur went out the back door and picked his way through the tiny kitchen garden. At the end of the path stood the mews, where a paved drive led out onto the main street. The light from the house did not reach here, and the carriage house was unlit. He slowed his steps, listening intently.

  A whisper of air behind him was the sole warning, but it was enough for Arthur’s instinct to take over. He twisted to the right as a meaty fist flew past his cheekbone. Throwing a punch of his own, he heard a satisfying grunt of pain erupt as his fist connected with a soft, vital part of another man’s anatomy. As Arthur’s sight adjusted to the darkness, he could make out the outline of the hulking figure, a man larger even than Earl Grantham.

  The big man must have inhaled his own poison. His punches were sluggish, and he swayed on his feet. Thinking to himself he ought to teach Winthram this move, Arthur swept his foot out in an arc and kicked at the back of the man’s knees, toppling the giant to the ground.

  “Where’s Winters?” he demanded of the man, crouching and grabbing him by the hair. Arthur had done his job too well, however, and the man’s eyes rolled up into his head, his body sagging like a dead weight.

  “Right here.”

  Arthur dropped the giant’s head and peered over his shoulder.

  Arthur hardly recognized Winters at first glance. He was dressed in fine evening clothes, with his auburn hair pomaded. His cravat was askew, and he was shaking as he wheezed. The arm holding a canister was steady enough, however.

  “It’s over, Winters. Put down the canister,” Arthur ordered. “The formula has already been finished. Your weapon is useless.”

  “It’s over when I say it’s over,” Winters said. A note of peevishness lay beneath his words. “I don’t care about the damned formula anymore. Don’t care about your lady, either. Move aside, and I won’t have to use this.”

  “Why risk coming here at all?”

  “That heartless woman ruined everything, and I will get revenge.”

  “What did she do?” Arthur rose from his crouch, hand on his knife handle beneath his jacket, ready to throw.

  “What did she do? She misrepresented herself to me.” Winters set a hand to his chest, and it settled right over the spot where betrayal hurt the most. “She came to hear a speech of mine and approached me afterward. Said my message moved her. I described to her how women have been treated as chattel for centuries, not unlike the common man, and she claimed I understood her as no man had before.”

  “You explained the subjugation of women to her, did you?” Arthur asked.

  Winters nodded, oblivious to the irony. “When I confided to her that we planned to bring the fight to the streets, she supplied us with the gas canisters.” His brows drew together then, the corners of his mouth drooping. “I didn’t mean to kill anyone. I should have listened when she told me to dilute the solution.”

  Arthur cocked his head, and Winters scowled at the silent admonishment. “You have no idea how much that woman can talk. I can’t be bothered to listen to everything she says when I have the fate of England’s workers in my hands. Besides, Lady Greycliff was working on an antidote.”

  “Which you tried to stop her from completing.” Arthur had lost patience with Winters’s self-absorption and took a small step forward.

  Winters shook his head. “No. At first, yes, but then I had the brilliant idea . . .” He paused at Arthur’s huff of disbelief. “We had the brilliant idea that I would steal the antidote, then turn around and present it to the Queen, thus delive
ring our country from fear of the rioters.”

  Arthur took another step. “What about the Omnis? Have you abandoned your support for republicanism and universal suffrage?”

  “All that will come in good time. More important, I need funds.” Winters shrugged. “You can’t eat good ideas. Legitimacy brings with it the security of a steady wage.”

  A touch of the confidence Winters had displayed in Shoreditch now returned, and he gestured with his free hand, letting his voice rise and fall. “If you rush to change, you risk losing everything. My followers understand that nothing valuable can be lost by taking time.”

  He shook a clenched fist in the direction of Beacon House. “Of course, this is a concept beyond the comprehension of that female. She stole my canisters, intending to travel the world from Albania to Afghanistan—wherever there is war—and sell the gas canisters to one side, then sell the antidote to the other side. Perfidy, thy name is woman!”

  Arthur blinked. “I don’t think that’s the exact quote.”

  Winters didn’t care. “Let me pass, I say. I will see her face one last time and curse her soundly. She has no honor. But I will confess, at one time she had my heart.” He gazed past Arthur’s shoulder at the lighted windows of Beacon House. “Love brings us all down in the end, doesn’t it?”

  His moment of reflection finished, Winters raised the canister. Aiming the nozzle at Arthur’s face, his eyes widened with sudden surprise. He let out a groan, then crumpled to the ground. Behind him stood Winthram, holding a brick and looking as though he might cast up his accounts.

  “Will he be all right?” the doorman whispered.

  Arthur stepped over Winters and held Winthram’s gaze. “He will be fine. You’ve done the right thing. I’m proud of you.”

  He clapped Winthram on the shoulder, letting his hand rest there for a moment. Despite his anger at Winters, a tiny flicker of happiness lit in his belly at Winthram’s courage.

  “I’ve got to go find Letty Fenley and bring this to an end,” Arthur said. “Do you know where Grantham went?” He’d known Letty’s story about the hair lacquer was too far-fetched to be true.