No Proper Lady

by Isabel Cooper

  “Must be destiny, then.” Joan dismounted, hitting the ground even as the men were stepping forward to help her. She saw the blond’s eyebrows go up but not, she thought, disapprovingly. “I was looking for company myself.”

  That was even true, in its own way.

  “Please permit me to introduce you.” Thomson stepped back a little and gestured to the dark-haired man, who smiled and bowed. “Mr. Cunningham.”

  “Mrs. Cole.” That was the other woman. Up close, Joan could see that she was five years or so older than Thomson. Probably a chaperon, then, whatever else she was.

  The blond man was watching her during the introductions, undressing her with his eyes and then evaluating what he saw. He was subtle enough—anyone else would’ve missed it—but Joan felt his gaze like she hadn’t felt anyone else’s in this time. Simon’s had come close, but that had been simple lust. The way this guy sized her up was predatory.

  Joan met his eyes, narrowed her own, and lifted her chin even as she smiled. There was no reason to make a scene, but she’d be damned if she’d let some overdressed primitive get away with looking at her like she was meat for grilling.

  He smiled back, looking a little surprised but mostly interested.

  Well, thought Joan, we can deal with that too.

  “Mr. Reynell,” said Thomson.

  Chapter 24

  Reynell bowed like a tree bending with the wind. As he rose, he met Joan’s eyes and smiled—knowing, sensual, and conspiratorial. We know something they don’t, his expression said. How nice for us. “How do you do, Mrs. MacArthur?”

  A red cloud passed across Joan’s vision. She saw herself lunge forward, grabbing the knife from her sleeve while the others drew back, their faces blank with horror. She saw one hand settle in Reynell’s hair, yanking his head back for the knife.

  This is for Eleanor, you son of a bitch. And this is for everyone else.

  She felt his blood spray over her hands.

  In her whole life, she’d never wanted anything more.

  But she couldn’t do it. Not here, not in front of everyone. Too much could go wrong. If I don’t take him down with the first strike, he’ll know something’s up. And if he knows—if he even suspects—

  Besides, I need to find the book.

  “How do you do?” Joan said, through half-numb lips. “It’s a pleasure to meet you all.”

  She couldn’t see any of their faces properly. The red cloud obscured them, like the shadow of the Earth on the Moon. Joan fought it back. She needed to know too much: Was Reynell suspicious? How much had she given away?

  Little enough, it seemed. Reynell was still smiling at her, the smile that suggested they were in this together and nobody else understood. It made her teeth itch. She hoped he was just thinking of sex.

  What had he heard about her?

  No way of knowing.

  At least her training seemed to have held up and she’d hidden her feelings well. Nobody was staring, and nobody had backed away. Thomson, in fact, had stepped forward. “Do please join us. Unless—well, are your hosts expecting you? Or are they about?”

  Nobody could have missed the hopeful look on her face. And nobody could think it referred to Eleanor. Sad, really. Joan shook her head. “Mr. Grenville and his sister don’t care so much for riding in the morning, I think. I brought one of the grooms with me, but he’s waiting at the park entrance.”

  Thomson’s mouth fell open a little, and she raised one gloved hand to it. “How very brave of you to come all this way alone.”

  Oh, very. Really dangerous park. Is it my independence that bugs you, or are you just disappointed that you can’t drape yourself over Simon?

  “I’m used to doing things by myself. Comes of growing up in the country, I suppose.”

  “I daresay they do things differently in…America, is it?” Cole asked.

  “Montana,” Joan said, nodding. “I’m afraid I’m going to make more than a couple mistakes while I’m here.”

  “Hardly mistakes,” said Reynell smoothly. “I’d say, rather, that you’ll probably show us several fascinating things about ladies from your home.”

  Again the voice that could be sincere or anything but. “Thank you,” said Joan, keeping hers equally neutral. However, she dropped her eyelids, smiled, and took a closer look at Reynell from under her lashes.

  He was handsome. High cheekbones, full lips, and big brown eyes with long lashes. He moved smoothly, he talked smoothly, and he practically oozed sex. Joan stopped her hands from clenching.

  “I’d love to join you,” she said, “but I’m not sure what you do about horses around here.”

  “Oh, that’s no trouble at all,” said Cunningham. He raised one hand and beckoned, and an older, plainly dressed man came over from where he’d been walking. “Meadowes, take Mrs. MacArthur’s horse. Which direction did you ride from?” he asked Joan.

  “Over there a bit. But I don’t mean to impose. I can take him back myself.”

  “Not at all, dear lady, not at all,” said Reynell. “After all, that would deprive us of your company, wouldn’t it? And surely it would be more of a problem to injure so many than to make Cunningham spend a few moments without his man.”

  “Truly, it’s no inconvenience,” said Cunningham. He didn’t look at Reynell. Clearly, something in the other man’s voice had made him uncomfortable.

  “Thank you, then,” Joan said, and relinquished the horse’s reins to Meadowes, squelching the urge to thank him as well. “Do you always take walks here in the morning?”

  “Oh, yes!” said Thomson, her face lighting up again. “I find the morning very inspiring. Don’t you, Mrs. MacArthur? It seems as if the entire world is made new. And the light at this hour—it must have looked so in Eden itself!”

  Joan bit the inside of her cheek. “Morning’s one of my favorite times, yes,” she said. “Especially with a place like this to ride in.”

  “Do you ride often?” Reynell asked.

  “When I can,” Joan said. “I’m not very good at riding in the city yet, but I hope to improve.”

  “If your hosts will permit,” said Reynell, “I’d be very glad to go riding with you.”

  Now the double meaning was clear. Joan fought a shudder and cursed herself for being a wimp. If things went well, she was going to have to do a hell of a lot worse than listen to the man. She’d better start getting used to it now. Besides, if Simon were saying these things, you’d be getting pretty hot.

  But this wasn’t Simon. It wasn’t any of the other men she’d met in London, from whom innuendo would probably be fun and, at worst, be nothing she hadn’t heard before. This was Reynell, the man who’d thrown an innocent girl to the Dark Ones, who would destroy the world, and who would kill, in the end, half the people she’d grown up with. Her stomach clenched.

  None of that mattered. “I’m sure they won’t object,” she said, “and I’m sure I’d love company.” She smiled again through gritted teeth.

  ***

  Walking wasn’t nearly as much fun as riding. A woman couldn’t take proper steps in a riding habit, just little mincing half steps that made Joan want to rip the damn skirt up the side before they’d gone more than a few feet.

  It might have been all right in decent clothes. Or in decent company. Thomson was burbling about some poet she’d seen at someone’s house, Cole and Cunningham were making the same polite comments Joan did, and Reynell was chiming in with the occasional not-quite-sarcastic aside about how lady poets of that stature were so very rare these days. Mostly, though, he was watching Joan.

  He wasn’t obvious about it. Joan had to give him that. She’d met plenty of men who couldn’t keep their eyes from her chest or her ass and who hadn’t bothered to hide the fact. Reynell wasn’t like that. If Joan hadn’t been aware of him, alert to every movement of his hands and every shift in his pace, she might not even have noticed where he was looking.

  It might have been easier if he had leered. Joan was used
to that. She could dismiss him then as just another drooling monkey-boy. But he looked at her subtly and, as he’d done before, with the cool, focused perception of a predator. It made Joan want to hit him. It also made her nervous.

  He’s good, she thought again. Shit.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Reynell, sounding both surprised and irritated.

  For a hideous moment, Joan thought that she’d spoken aloud—or that Reynell could read her thoughts. Everything went cold.

  “I’m sorry,” said Cunningham, “I’d asked if you were acquainted with the works of Mr. Stanford. Mrs. Cole and I would very much desire your opinion on the subject.”

  He was talking to Reynell, but he met Joan’s eyes as he did, just for a second. It was long enough for her to see the concern in his face, though. She wasn’t the only one who’d noticed Reynell’s gaze. Joan wished she could have thanked Cunningham, maybe said something reassuring.

  As if there were anything reassuring to say.

  Reynell said that he wasn’t familiar with the man. He didn’t have time to develop the knowledge of music that Cunningham and Cole had. It was a source of great sorrow to him, but he had to stay an interested amateur.

  “But perhaps,” said Thomson sweetly, “that makes you the most valuable sort of person there is. After all, by coming innocent to a work, don’t you open yourself to the purest of sentiments, untainted by prejudice or popular opinion?”

  “A lovely sentiment. Beautifully put.” Reynell turned a slow smile on her.

  It made Thomson blush violently and look down. “You’re too kind, sir.”

  Watching, Joan wanted badly to smack the girl in the back of the head and even more badly to shove her out of Reynell’s sight. She was a babbling moron, yes, but she didn’t deserve him.

  “Celia mentioned that she met you at a spiritualist lecture, Mrs. MacArthur,” Cole said. “Do you often take an interest in the unseen world?”

  You’d be amazed.

  “Oh, not in any organized sort of way,” Joan said, “or I haven’t until now. We didn’t have many lectures in Montana, and I’ve been traveling too much, until recently, to attend any. Miss Grenville lent me a few books, though.”

  Reynell lifted his eyes to her face again, and this time they were keen with another sort of interest entirely. “And what do you think, now that you’ve had the lecture as well as the reading?”

  “I think I’d like to know more,” Joan said, “before I develop any solid opinion. After all, it’s such a large field, with so many new discoveries happening—”

  “Oh, indeed!” said Thomson. “Do let me recommend that you pursue such studies further, Mrs. MacArthur. There’s such a wealth of knowledge, and better than knowledge, understanding.”

  The beauty of ignorance, evidently, was only for things Reynell was ignorant about.

  “It sounds worthwhile indeed,” Joan said, and then sighed as she saw the entrance to the park ahead. “Unfortunately, this is where I have to leave you. It’s past time I was getting back. The Grenvilles will worry if I stay out too long, and I’d hate to cause them any trouble.”

  “That would be unfortunate,” Reynell agreed. Cunningham and Cole exchanged glances at the silky note in his voice. “But I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again quite soon. As, I’m sure, do my friends.”

  “Since it seems like fate that we ran into each other, Mr. Reynell, I’m sure we’ll do it again before too long.”

  “So am I,” he said. “How fortunate for us all.”

  Chapter 25

  Indeed, it didn’t seem that Joan would go long without seeing any of the people she’d recently met. She would never be the belle of the Season or the most sought-after guest at any particular party. She wasn’t young enough for the former nor well-known enough for the latter. But she was pretty, intelligent, and startlingly unconventional, while still observing enough of the proprieties to be polite and, most importantly, a new arrival in a Season half over.

  “You’re quite a success,” Simon said, opening one envelope in a thick stack of invitations.

  Sitting in front of the fire with her feet up on the hearthstone, Joan made a face. “Yeah, like a two-headed dog.”

  Simon looked down at the heavy cream paper in his hand, an invitation to a dinner party. This one was from a man he knew, one who’d previously enjoyed some notoriety for his collection of Egyptian relics. “I wish I could tell you otherwise.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Joan said with a low chuckle. “Better to be honest. Anyhow, it’s not like it matters. I’m not really here to make friends or get married or…fit in, really. I’m glad to be a freak if it gets me what I want.”

  “Most freaks aren’t nearly so attractive,” Simon said without thinking.

  He got a smile in return that brought swift heat to his face and a tightening somewhat lower. “Thanks,” Joan said. She leaned forward, peering at the pile of papers on his desk. “What’ve we got, anyhow?”

  Simon set the dinner-party invitation on the “maybe” pile. It was for two weeks hence, and they had more immediate concerns. “Tea with Lady Fairfax Wednesday afternoon. Tea with Mrs. and Miss Greenwood Friday afternoon.”

  “More weather,” said Joan, disgusted.

  “Not necessarily. Lady F. has a bee in her bonnet about spiritualism. If you’re from America and you know anything about it, she’ll probably ask if you can get an Indian brave to guide her through the underworld.”

  “What the hell do Indians have to do with America? Indians were from”—Joan waved a hand vaguely in the air and continued—“the East. Near Tokyo.”

  “American Indians are different. Lots of, ah, hunting. And spirits. They’re great believers in spirits, I hear.”

  “Smart of them. She’ll be disappointed, though. I can’t summon one.” Joan frowned, tapping her fingers on the arm of her chair. “Well, maybe I could, but I’d have to have a chicken or something to kill. And we’d probably get eaten anyhow.”

  They said that Lady Fairfax was always in at the end of the hunt, and that she went regularly to the bloodiest plays the theatre could show. “Tell her that. She’ll be all the more impressed.”

  “As long as she doesn’t make me do it. If I switch the details around a little, I can probably make her hair stand on end.” Joan grinned. “What other gauntlets do you have me running?”

  “Dinner at the Stancliffes’. That’ll be a large affair. I’ll brief you on the guests beforehand so all you should need to do is ask questions at convenient times. A small private dance at—oh Lord, the Coles’. Which means I’ll be trying to dodge Miss Thomson the entire time.”

  “Oh?”

  “She’s Mrs. Cole’s sister.” It came out as a groan.

  Joan snickered. “Should I be prepared to defend your honor?”

  “Maybe,” Simon said, and sighed. “Less than charitable of me, I know. But there are dozens of appropriately sentimental young men in London. I can’t imagine why she hasn’t settled on one of them.”

  “Couldn’t say. I wouldn’t choose you if I were a starry-eyed young idiot.”

  “So much flattery will spoil me,” Simon said.

  “Hey, I think it’s a good thing that you’re not running around babbling about fate and dreams and misty April whatever. But I don’t do it myself.” She shrugged and turned back to the fire, closing her eyes. “Maybe she wants what she can’t have. That’s human enough.”

  She said it very casually, but it was a reminder nonetheless. They both fell silent, each feeling the sudden, electric tension in the room. Perhaps, Simon thought, what was between them meant that they couldn’t count on anything to be casual or to remain so. All that they could do was to try to get past these moments.

  So he looked away from Joan, with the firelight playing over her face and throat, and back to the pile of invitations. “Three garden parties in the next fortnight. Someone’s very confident of the weather.”

  “Don’t you start,” she said. W
as there relief in her voice? Or disappointment? “What will I have to do at those?”

  “Wander about and gossip, as far as I can recall. Perhaps play croquet or go boating, if you feel active, or—do you play cards?”

  “Three kinds of poker. Will that be okay?”

  That was how Simon ended up teaching her piquet. He went to some pains to explain first that one didn’t gamble for money, or at least ladies didn’t, at least not at garden parties. “Quite probably not this one, anyway.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Joan. She’d taken over shuffling the cards while Simon talked. In her hands, the cards hissed smoothly against one another, and she didn’t even look down. “I guess I could always say we hadn’t played much in America.”

  “Most people don’t think you do anything else except perhaps shoot bears. And each other.”

  “Because everyone who lives in America is bugs-in-the-walls crazy, of course.” Joan cut the deck and tapped it with quick, decisive movements. “I’m surprised they want to invite me to parties. I might get nervous and start stabbing people.”

  “Only if they offend you. Or cheat at cards.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Well, yes.” Simon smiled at her. “Lady gunslingers are supposed to be much rarer. I don’t think anyone’s particularly nervous about you.”

  She stopped in the middle of dealing and gave him a disbelieving look. “But people do kill each other over card games?”

  “Men can win or lose a great deal of money at cards,” Simon said, “and sane men have been known to take extreme measures with a fortune at stake.”

  Joan shook her head. “There’s only three or four things someone can knife you over. If you’re a free human, that is—I bet anything goes with the Traitor Lords’ people. None of them is a game. Or money.”

  “We do hang murderers,” Simon pointed out. “We don’t think it’s all right.”

  “But you don’t think it’s crazy.”

  “Perhaps it’s a sign that the world is crazy,” he said, remembering late nights discussing just such things. “I confess I’ve felt that way myself from time to time.”