No Proper Lady

by Isabel Cooper

  Joan laughed shortly, with black humor in it. “If you’re feeling it only from time to time, you’re doing a hell of a lot better than most of us.”

  “But not you, surely,” Simon said, half in jest. “You have proof otherwise, don’t you?”

  “Like hell I do.” Joan leaned forward, spreading her hands in illustration. The deck of cards rested forgotten on the table between them. “Sure, something out there likes us. Is it more powerful than the things that hate us? I don’t know. Is everything going to turn out okay? Nobody knows. Even the visionaries can’t see all the future.”

  “Why not?”

  “Powers and Entities, did you ever get the wrong girl!” She picked up the deck and started dealing again. “If I remember the priests right,” she said after a moment, “and I never listened too closely, there are two theories. The first is that we’re too human.”

  “Too human,” Simon echoed, and thought of Gillespie. “Not entirely?”

  “Me? Probably, or as near as makes no difference. I can’t see the future or start fires. Maybe I’m carrying something—magic doesn’t take hold as much on Dad’s side…” She looked off at the fireplace for a second, cleared her throat, and went on. “Anyhow, it’s probably nothing big, and it’s sure nothing that shows up.”

  “But there are people in your time who aren’t completely human?”

  “Sure.”

  Simon stared frankly, like he couldn’t have done with Gillespie. “Then what else are they?”

  “I don’t know that either. Things from Outside. Some of them are the Dark Ones probably, or close. Some of them aren’t. We call the others the Watchers, and I couldn’t tell you why.”

  “I could,” said Simon, thinking of The Book of Enoch and a quotation from it: There were giants in the earth in those days…“It’s having their blood that lets you see the future, then? And that blood’s not strong enough in most people?”

  “That’s one way of thinking about it. Some people don’t think even the Watchers, or the Powers—if they’re different things—could see the future very well. They say there isn’t a future after you get to a certain point or there are too many futures, or both. It’d be nice to think there was a great plan, but nothing’s set in stone, is it? Or I couldn’t be here.”

  “Unless you were meant to be.” Simon found that a comforting thought. Amid a storm of revelations, he liked to think that some guiding force was behind everything.

  “Maybe,” Joan said, and she looked dubious. But there was something of gratitude in her face as she picked up the cards again and of understanding. “You never know.”

  Chapter 26

  “Lovely,” Eleanor said, turning from her mirror to take a better look at Joan. Her eyes widened then, and her mouth fell open a little. “No, beautiful.”

  “That’d be more flattering if you weren’t as surprised.” When Eleanor blushed and started to murmur an apology, Joan laughed, waving it away with one white-gloved hand. “No, I understand. This really isn’t anything like street clothes, is it?”

  She’d been surprised herself. Long dresses and bright colors seemed almost normal now. She’d even—sort of—gotten used to the corset. But the skirts and blouses she wore every day, and even the high-necked, long-sleeved dresses she wore to parties, didn’t begin to compare to this getup. Ball gowns and everything that went with them were a whole different world.

  Even now, Joan wanted to take off her gloves and run her hands down the blue silk, or to spin the way she had after the maids had left. It was a stupidly undignified impulse but a compelling one all the same. “You’re looking pretty gorgeous yourself,” she said as distraction.

  Eleanor wore a silvery-white gown, high necked compared to Joan’s, with short puffed sleeves and pink ribbons trimming it. Her hair had delicate pink rosebuds wound through it and had been piled high on her head, a style even more impressive when Joan’s own scalp was still on fire from a similar procedure.

  A bit like ritual scars, in a way, all this stuff. “Hey, I can endure pain!” That’s what you want in a wife—especially here.

  “You really think so?” Spots of color burned high on Eleanor’s cheeks, and her eyes were almost feverishly bright. “I wasn’t quite sure about the color—perhaps I am still too pale to wear white—but it’s the thing for young girls. And—well—I thought it was best.”

  She was too pale normally. Now, though, her pallor was hard to notice. Besides, Joan knew what I thought it was best meant. White was for purity. People in this demented place thought that was important, and Eleanor’s had been called into question. She wanted to make a point.

  “I do. You look great.” Joan grinned at her. “And if anyone says otherwise, I’ll break her nose.”

  Eleanor laughed. The sound was brittle and too high, but she did laugh. “Don’t do that. Pugilism’s not at all the thing this year.”

  “Bah,” said Joan cheerfully. During the days before the dance, she’d worried. Now she felt the calm that came over her at the start of every mission, and she knew that she was ready. She looked decent, and she could dance well enough to get by. Her corset hid the flashgun really well, and the slit in her skirt, right above the long dagger strapped to her thigh, didn’t show at all.

  Everything was good.

  ***

  Waiting downstairs, Simon wanted to drink, to pace, and quite possibly, to throw things.

  There was simply too much that could go wrong. Yes, Joan had danced before, but with him and in private. Yes, she’d been to a party or two, but always with him or Eleanor close at hand and with little one-on-one conversation. Yes, she’d met Alex and talked to him without any ill effect, but in a crowd when they’d met more or less by chance.

  From what Joan had said, Alex had seemed interested. If he’d taken the bait, this evening would be his opening move. Gossip would have let him know that Joan was coming. He would have had ample time to prepare, and he would almost certainly be able to talk to her alone.

  And do what? said the more reasonable part of his mind. Guess who she really is? Insanity.

  True. But Alex could well guess that something was wrong, that Joan was trying to trap him, that her connection to Simon was deeper and less carnal than it appeared. All the arguments that had seemed so favorable to Simon at the beginning of this endeavor now looked utterly foolish.

  And if Alex didn’t guess? If he used his powers on Joan?

  She can defend herself. And you want him to make the attempt on her virtue. Or have you forgotten the reason you’re helping her in the first place?

  It seemed different now.

  Cold feet.

  At first, Simon welcomed the sound of footsteps from the staircase. It was a distraction from his thoughts. It also promised that they would soon get the evening started and, thus, over with all the sooner.

  Then he looked up, and everything in his chest seemed to tighten unbearably.

  Joan was beautiful.

  The dress was pale blue silk with indigo trim that complemented the violets tucked into Joan’s hair. The dress flowed down her body like water, showing all the slim strength of her figure. Above the bodice, her breasts were creamy and inviting, pushed high by the corset, and her neck was long and slender, bare of cloth and hair alike. Looking at her, Simon was conscious of instant, aching desire.

  That wasn’t new. The regret was.

  She looked like she belonged.

  In that moment, Joan could have been any lady Simon had ever met, flirted with, or kissed. They could have met in some ordinary, unremarkable way and now be looking forward to nothing more than dancing and no worse threat than gossip.

  He might not have been sending her into the arms of his worst enemy.

  Simon swallowed. “You’re exquisite.”

  “Thank you,” she said lightly and smiled. “I’d like to think so. I can’t do anything else in these clothes, so I might as well look good.”

  A certain light in her eyes and a rush of co
lor in her face belied the casual way she spoke. Joan wasn’t one to lose her head over compliments or dresses, Simon knew, but when she thought he was looking elsewhere, she smoothed one hand down her skirt as if to make sure it was real.

  He wondered if any of the old fairy tales had survived to her time. Had she, in her hard and bloody journey from girl to woman, ever heard about disguised princesses and fairy godmothers? Would she have listened if she had?

  Joan made an odd princess, and he was no fairy. And if she was transformed so that she could go to a ball and meet a man, then that meeting was still for an older and a grimmer purpose than had been in any of the romances.

  Love and death, one of his teachers had said, are the two great forces for change. In some respects, they are virtually identical.

  There was the regret again, as sudden and sharp as a knife to the throat. Not that he’d know anything about that, Simon thought. Joan would. That had been her world.

  He shook his head quickly, trying to throw off his thoughts, as Eleanor came down the stairs. She looked flushed and nervous, but not actually unwell. She would come with them, though he and Joan had both said she could pretend to be ill. There was some cause for joy yet. He just had to hold on to it.

  “I’m sure,” Simon said, falling back on the old familiar phrases, “that I’m the most fortunate man in town tonight.”

  ***

  The first thing Joan did as they entered the Coles’ ballroom was check for exits. There was the hallway she, Simon, and Eleanor had come through, two small rooms on the left side, and a large set of double doors on the right. People moved quickly through all of them. There were maybe forty or fifty guests, plus servants and the band, but in motion they looked like more. Like ants in a hill.

  “Quite a crush, isn’t it?” Simon murmured from behind her. “Don’t worry. We don’t trample more than six or seven people an evening.”

  Joan laughed. “That’s reassuring. I’ll only have to be the eighth slowest person here.”

  “You’ll manage that easily enough.”

  That was true, considering that a number of older women and men were seated in the corners, talking and watching the dancers rather than dancing themselves. Joan saw a few of their heads turn as she, Simon, and Eleanor made their way across the floor, and she drew herself up. The knife at her thigh and the gun in her cleavage were comforting. They reminded her of who she really was: Joan, daughter of Arthur and Leia, who’d faced a million worse things than a ballroom full of overdressed, overfed primitives.

  She looked through the crowd for Reynell but didn’t see him. At least she’d have some time to adjust.

  The room shone. Candles on the walls and in a chandelier overhead reflected in the long mirrors, doubling their light. Light sparkled off gems too, at the women’s necks and hands, sometimes even in their hair or on their clothes. It was almost blinding. It was also gorgeous.

  She ended up in a small clear space on the side of the floor, next to Simon and Eleanor, looking out at the whirling dancers themselves: white lace, emerald silk, gray-silver skirts that moved like the ocean before a storm; young men with flushed faces dancing stiffly with demure girls; older men with bushy whiskers chuckling at their partners; flowers, jewels, and motion.

  Through the music, a voice. “Simon!”

  It wasn’t Reynell. The voice was too cheerful for that. Slightly loud too, but anyone would have to be a little loud here to be heard. Joan turned and saw a tall, skinny redhead making his way toward them. “And Miss Grenville,” he went on. “It’s such a pleasure to see you here again! Your guest too, of course.”

  The first thing that made Joan think she liked him was his wide and sincere smile. It was a little doglike in its sincerity, but dogs were pretty damn trustworthy. Also, Simon was laughing even as he bowed, and even Eleanor was relaxing.

  “Henry,” said Simon, “it seems like an aeon. This is Mrs. MacArthur. She’s the daughter of my mother’s friend. Lived in America until very recently. Mrs. MacArthur, this is Henry Meyers, an old friend of mine.”

  “Charming country, America,” said Henry, and then added with a laugh, “or so I hear. I haven’t had time to visit myself, so my opinion is based on every kind of wild tale. I’m sure you’ve heard most of them.”

  Joan grinned back at him. “Not nearly enough. I like hearing what other people think about it.”

  “In that case, I must press my advantage now, when you’ve just arrived, and ask you and Miss Grenville for a waltz each. If Simon will permit it, of course. Fearsome guardian that he is.” Henry widened his eyes in mock fear and shrank back, pressing one hand to his throat.

  “You should’ve gone on the stage, Henry. You’re wasted on this crowd,” Simon said.

  “But this crowd is so very charming. Miss Grenville, may I?”

  Eleanor blushed but smiled and didn’t look away. “I’m very much out of practice.”

  “All the more reason to dance with me then. I’m sure you’ll do excellently. You’ll look even better in comparison to me, and everyone will think you’re the soul of charity.”

  However goofy he acted, there was something warm and genuine in his eyes when he looked at Eleanor. Joan didn’t know if it was love, but it looked at least like honest liking.

  Maybe that was what Eleanor responded to, because she smiled again and placed her fingers in Henry’s outstretched hand without either hesitating or freezing up. “If you’re willing to be patient,” she said, “I’d be glad to.”

  “For you, my lady, I would wait until the end of time.”

  “Since that’s settled…” Simon drawled. He turned toward Joan, holding out his hand. “Mrs. MacArthur?”

  Touching him was like picking up a live wire. More pleasant, sure, and probably less lethal—at least in the short term—but it focused all her attention on a single moment of contact. The whole world narrowed to the hand holding hers, the one on her back, and Simon’s body in front of her, warm and lean and inviting. Joan looked up into his face and caught her breath at the desire there.

  They couldn’t act on it, but that didn’t matter. Here and now, while the music played, they could at least come as close as would ever be wise.

  No, Joan thought as they started to move. They’d already come closer than that.

  ***

  Other women were better dancers. Oh, Joan did well enough, but she had to catch herself a few times during the fastest part of the song. Other women were better flirts too. They’d have chattered gaily, pouted, beamed, looked up at Simon from under their eyelashes, and generally done their best to be alluring.

  Yet in ten years of dancing, Simon had never enjoyed himself as much as he did during that one waltz with Joan.

  There were good reasons for it, reasons that had nothing to do with desire or sentiment. It was important to remember that. Dancing with a woman of a decent height, for instance, was a relief. A man got neck cramps looking down at a tiny partner. Having a dance partner who wasn’t marriage minded was also a refreshing change, as one felt less like a stag at bay.

  Simon reminded himself of these things. Both of them were true, but neither was an adequate explanation. Not since he was sixteen had his nerves been at such a fever pitch. He was painfully aware of the few inches between them and of the firm warmth of Joan’s body, even through the silk of her gown. It was a wonder, he thought once, that he could dance—or walk.

  But the dance itself was a pleasure, not the horror of frustrated desire that he’d been expecting. It was good to move with Joan, to have her echo his steps with perfect confidence. The fact that following didn’t come naturally to her made it better, as if she was trusting him specifically when she responded to his lead.

  Of course, that was nonsense. He and Eleanor had trained Joan well, and she was so utterly professional that she wasn’t likely to balk at following anyone in a dance.

  Yet he couldn’t help but feel pleased. After all, he was the only man in the ballroom to whom Joan would
’ve complained if she hated the whole affair. She hadn’t. She was smiling up at him instead, and the desire in her face blended with friendly challenge: Do your worst. I can keep up.

  Surely he was the only man in the room who knew she was having a good time.

  When the waltz was over—too damn soon—and Simon had walked Joan back to the edge of the floor, he found Archie from the lecture already standing with Henry and Eleanor, and another young man was drifting through the crowd in their direction. “Mrs. MacArthur, how very good to see you,” Archie said. “And you too, Simon.”

  “Yes,” he said, “how fortunate.”

  “Your sister,” Henry said, “dances divinely, by the way. You should take a turn with her, Simon. Keep her from being plagued by fools like me. It’s the sort of thing that must be tiring for a young lady.”

  Eleanor didn’t look particularly tired, but she had fallen silent again, probably because Archie had arrived. Though Archie and Eleanor had been introduced, they weren’t on comfortable terms with each other, and Simon heard and appreciated the hint in Henry’s suggestion.

  Besides, he would have to leave Joan alone for their plan to work, and dancing with Ellie might keep his mind off that plan. Simon found that he also didn’t want to watch the way Joan was smiling at Archie now, lifting an eyebrow and shaking her head at some compliment or other. She’d turned a little, and Simon could see her face only in profile, but her expression wasn’t unlike the way she’d looked before while dancing with him.

  She was a very good actress. She had badly needed his help. A façade could have many levels, he knew. Where did he stand with hers?

  Joan didn’t have to worry about working with Archie or Henry. She would be discreet, Simon knew; she would do nothing to endanger her mission. He almost wished she wouldn’t be. It would have given him more reason to object.

  He’d never been a jealous man. He knew very well that he’d had his chance already.

  “Yes,” he said abruptly, turning to Eleanor. “Ellie, would you do me the honor before all your dances are taken?”