No Proper Lady

by Isabel Cooper

  “What people?” she asked. Simon knew that she was smiling and that her eyebrows were raised just a little. “And what exactly do they think you’re going to do to me like this?”

  “God only knows,” said Simon. Though he could imagine. Not that he could manage any of it right now. Still he welcomed his arousal at the thought, faint as it was. It was more proof that he was alive.

  “Or maybe,” Joan said, speculative and amused, “they’re worried about what I could do.”

  The idea was simultaneously laughable and stirring. Simon had seen certain little-discussed publications showing bound men, haughty women, bonds and whips. The dim heat he’d felt earlier grew stronger. “I doubt anyone worries about my virtue,” he said thickly.

  “How sad for you.” Joan started to get up. “But if—”

  Despite his exhaustion, he wanted her badly in ways it was best that he couldn’t carry out right now. But when Simon caught her wrist, it had nothing to do with sex. She was warm and human; she was the one person in his household who’d lived through what he’d seen. “Please,” he said. “Stay. Until I sleep.”

  If Joan had looked at all askance in that moment, Simon would have summoned up the remains of his dignity and sent her away.

  But she didn’t even look surprised. Quite the contrary. In fact, she had a look of recognition on her face when she sat back down. “Sure,” she said. Her hand found his hair again. “Sure. I’ll stay.”

  Chapter 32

  Something was wrong.

  The first thing Alex noticed was his creature’s absence. The thing wasn’t much for greeting him—or, rather, he’d bound it not to greet him the way it would have liked—but he could sense its presence from two rooms away. He knew, from the moment he put his foot on the second-floor landing, that it was gone.

  Simon.

  Alex yanked open the study door, stepped in, and slammed it behind him. He’d long since stopped worrying about what the servants would think. They knew better than to talk; he’d made sure of it when he hired them. And there were more important things to do right now.

  He stalked over to the bookcase and pressed a spot on the underside of one shelf. A narrow drawer slid out, and Alex allowed himself to breathe again when he saw his manuscript looking just as it had when he’d put it away the night before.

  Sitting down at his desk, he took a yellow candle out of the top drawer and lit it. The smoke rose almost immediately, smelling strong and sweet, a bit like roasting pork. Alex stared into it for a second, let his eyes unfocus, and pronounced a long harsh name.

  The strands of curling smoke grew and solidified, turning pink. Unlike in the past, though, their outlines remained fuzzy, and Alex could still see the shapes of his study through them. Wounded, he thought, and indeed there were vivid gold shapes burnt into the writhing flesh of the creature.

  It would be no good to him for weeks. Alex swore and then focused his will again. “Tell me what happened.”

  In a moment, he was looking through the creature’s eyes—or whatever—as Simon’s astral body opened a gap in the wards and slid in.

  Didn’t think it was a trap, did you?

  There was at least some pleasure in that. Even if it wasn’t unmixed. Simon had fallen for the trap because Simon still didn’t think much of him. If I’d bothered to study wards as intensely as you did, Alex fumed, I would have been much better than you by now. But I got better at other things. More important ones. As you found out.

  In the creature’s memory, Simon went very still, as if stunned. It struck then, grabbing Simon by one leg. They struggled for a while.

  Then everything went blindingly gold. Enraged and wounded, the creature flung Simon outward along the dimensional roads. He vanished into a maelstrom of shifting worlds, and the creature went elsewhere.

  Alex couldn’t follow either of them and keep his mind. Not yet, anyhow. He muttered another word, dismissing the thing. No point wasting the candle, after all. It had cost him no little effort to make. One couldn’t get…materials…like that easily.

  He wondered idly if Simon had made some provision to get himself back. Perhaps he was dead now, or as good, his mind blasted out of space and time. The prospect should have made Alex entirely happy or at least relieved. He could deal with Simon readily enough, but doing so was a dashed inconvenience.

  But, as it had been when he set the hounds on Simon, Alex’s pleasure was mixed with regret. He shouldn’t have felt it, of course. Simon’s treachery should have killed off any feelings save hatred, and yet he did. A mark of a sensitive nature, perhaps.

  I never wanted this, Simon, he thought at the absent man. You could’ve left me alone, you know. A friend would have.

  Alex found the bottle he kept in his desk and poured himself a glass of port. He couldn’t make himself drink it immediately, though. Instead, he stared down at the ruby liquid, all his pleasure in the day gone.

  And it had been such a good day. Oh, propriety had forced him to spend it with a gaggle of Society maidens and their beaux, but he’d been able to talk mostly to Mrs. MacArthur. She seemed more receptive by the day, both to the theories Alex advanced and to his own person.

  He’d even thought that she might make more than a plaything in the end. It would be no bad thing to have an apprentice for some tasks, and a woman wouldn’t be the threat a man would, particularly when Alex was confident that he could keep her loyal.

  After Harrison’s séance next week, he’d thought, she would be as good as his. The man was an amateur, of course, but one with a few visible gifts. More importantly, the party would be private, quiet, and dark.

  Harrison was suggestible enough in Society matters. A word in his ear would secure Mrs. MacArthur an invitation. After the day’s conversation, Alex was certain she’d attend.

  Yes, it had been a good day. And now it was spoiled.

  If Simon was still alive—and it was best to assume he was—he knew more than he had before. He probably didn’t know about the manuscript, but Alex was well aware of how his study looked in the astral. Seeing that, Simon would naturally try to intervene, preaching choirboy that he was. Particularly since Alex was winning over his mistress day by day.

  Well, the wards would hold very well against force. Simon couldn’t direct any attack from a distance that Alex wouldn’t be able to rebuff, just as Alex doubted he could take care of Simon remotely, now that he was prepared.

  Simon would seek him out, probably in private. Eleanor’s name was at stake, after all, and now her friend’s.

  Alex thought of the creature and of the other…allies…that he’d made since the Great Ones had started teaching him their secrets. He smiled into the dim room. Perhaps it would be for the best if Simon did decide to have it out with him.

  Perhaps that would even give Alex the opportunity to make Simon see reason. And if not, a man could do only so much on his own. Even the Church said that.

  He downed the rest of the port and got to his feet, fingering the ring on his left hand. It was plain gold with only a small emerald, not outstanding in any way. Alex had been very careful about that. Just as carefully, he now took it off and slipped it into the innermost pocket in his waistcoat. Where he was going, it didn’t do to show jewelry openly. Even he could be overwhelmed by a gang of thieves.

  The sun was setting when he left the house, carrying a large black bag and walking briskly.

  Allies didn’t come cheaply, after all. And if Alex was going to use them in the future, now was the time to start the diplomacy.

  ***

  It didn’t take long for Simon to fall asleep once he let himself. Joan wasn’t surprised. Projection took it out of you, especially when it went wrong. And Simon hadn’t exactly been relaxing lately.

  Now, watching him, she thought that she’d never really seen him relaxed. He’d come close sometimes when they’d gone riding together back at Englefield and during their first week in London when she’d sat in his study and they’d played cards. At
those times, Joan had seen a little bit of the way he had used to be: as careless as the average wealthy man in this time, though more learned than most.

  He had the beginnings of lines around his eyes now. Not many of them, but they were there. Compared to the other men she’d met at balls, he was thinner as well and wearier. Henry had mentioned it once. He was never what you might call stout, but now—well, we’ll make him go to a lot of dinner parties.

  Someone should. Poor bastard. Joan passed her hand over Simon’s hair again, took a few strands of it in her fingers, and let them fall.

  It was hard on him, this new duty. She wished it hadn’t happened, but she couldn’t wish that Simon hadn’t gotten involved. He was a good man, too bound by this world’s idea of honor, sure, but maybe that helped even while it exasperated her. She could trust him the way she would never have trusted anyone from her world after only two months. Not just to keep her secrets and not stab her in the back, but to know what needed doing and to go after it.

  To be her partner.

  In his sleep, Simon murmured something and turned toward her. As if of its own volition, Joan’s hand slid through his hair again and then downward, leaving her palm cupped against his cheek. His skin was warm and still damp from the water, a little rough with five-o’clock shadow.

  He looked very young and very old at the same time. Very mortal. Very tired.

  Two hours before, he’d nearly died—or worse—trying to figure out where the book was. Trying to help her like he’d been doing for more than a month, like he’d offered the first time he spoke to her, though she’d been covered in blood and holding a gun.

  Rage surged up inside her, blinding and white-hot. He’s going to come out of this, she snarled silently—at Reynell, maybe, or the Dark Ones or the universe itself. You do whatever you want with me. Maybe I deserve it. But he’s going to be alive when this is over and whole and happy. Or I’ll rip your goddamn face off and feed it to you.

  The anger left her shaking and shaken too when it passed through her. She wanted to spring up and go for someone’s throat, to put her fist through a window, to fight something. Anything. She wanted to run away.

  There hadn’t been much use for emotion in her life, but she wasn’t a moron and she wasn’t a robot. She knew what it meant, this rage. Same thing as the fear she’d felt earlier when Simon lay without breathing.

  I care about him. A lot.

  She pulled her hand away from Simon, stood up, and leaned her head against the window. The glass was cool against her forehead. Joan closed her eyes.

  You couldn’t surrender. Not to the Dark Ones, not to their minions, and not to yourself. But the first part of a fight was knowing your enemy.

  I love him, she thought slowly, and then spat it out. I’m in love with him.

  Oh, God. I’m really fucked now.

  Chapter 33

  “Lunch, sir,” said Mathers, setting the tray down by Simon’s bed. “And a letter for Mrs. MacArthur.”

  Being sick had some advantages, Simon had discovered. A healthy man couldn’t have a woman sitting by his bed without causing comment—oh, Mathers was far too well-trained to say anything to Simon’s face, but he would have looked very purposefully blank, and the others would have talked among themselves for days. But now, as long as Joan stayed safely in the chair, nobody would bat an eye. He was sick, after all. And Eleanor couldn’t be expected to attend him all the time.

  She and Joan had traded off shifts. Ellie read to him, mostly—they were halfway through Kidnapped by now—and Joan picked up the book occasionally too, reading in a low, rough voice and sometimes stumbling over Italian names and long words, but with a verve that kept Simon listening attentively. She talked more than Ellie, though. Over the past two days, she’d asked questions and given her opinion on subjects from horse racing to theology.

  Now she picked up the letter, and her face went blank for a second. When Simon glimpsed the handwriting on the envelope, he understood why.

  Of all the things they’d talked about, they’d never mentioned Alex. After that first day, Joan hadn’t brought up the mission. She’d stuck to trivia and philosophy, or she’d read about pirates. Simon hadn’t forgotten either Alex or the tasks that lay ahead—how could he?—but they’d slid into the back of his mind. Until now.

  “I do a lot to save the damn world, you know,” she said dryly when Mathers had gone.

  “Oh?”

  As she read, she pronounced each word with elaborate, ceremonial care. “The privilege of your company is requested at a Demonstration of Mediumistic Powers and an Exploration of the Realms Beyond.”

  Despite his worry, Simon had to laugh. “Standard wording, I fear.”

  “If anyone I’ve met here got a good look at the ‘Realms Beyond,’ they’d come back with their pants wet and their brains running out their ears, if they came back at all.” She added as an afterthought, “Except you, and Reynell.”

  The name came out flat, and Joan picked up the letter again. It was a hasty motion, aimed at disguising something. Revulsion? And if so, at Alex or the situation? Or at herself?

  Her behavior hadn’t been what Simon would expect of a woman wrestling with her own desires, but then, it wouldn’t have been. She was a better actress than most.

  “Who’s holding it, and when?” he asked, trying to disrupt his own thoughts.

  “Thursday. Mr. Harrison. I think I met him.”

  “That means Alex is probably behind it. Harrison’s tremendously attentive to Alex’s concerns.”

  “Which means I should go to the damn thing.” Joan looked down at her skirt, thoughtful. “What do you wear to a demonstration of whatever?”

  “Good God, I have no idea.”

  In the course of the discussion, her face had become slightly flushed and her eyes brighter. Strategy? The thrill of the chase? Or something more?

  Simon sipped his tea and didn’t taste it. The toast could have been paper. “I could get the book,” he said abruptly, “while you and Alex are at the séance, at least.”

  Joan stared at him. “You? Play ninja? After Reynell’s watchdog got a taste of your blood?”

  “I can handle the guardian,” he said stiffly. “At least if I’m prepared.”

  “Yeah? And how are you going to get in? Got the Ninth Ring?” When he looked baffled, Joan waved a hand. “It makes you invisible. And it’s only a story, anyhow. Nobody can turn himself invisible—can you?”

  “If I could do that, I would’ve told you at once.”

  “You told me,” she said, “that breaking in was a bad idea. And I had a lot more advantages than you do now.”

  It was horrible logic. But it was sound. “He might be killing people,” Simon said. “Or worse.”

  Joan nodded. “He might be. And he might not. You don’t have any proof that he’s still doing whatever he was doing, just that he’s done something bad enough for it to show up. That’s not any change from when I got here, is it?”

  He couldn’t read her face.

  She’d had plenty of opportunity to press harder, to become more acquainted with Alex and his household. She hadn’t taken it. There might even have been a few moments where she could’ve struck. Poison, at least, would be subtle enough, and the Joan who’d come through the portal would’ve counted her life well spent if she could’ve killed Reynell with her last breath.

  She wants the book first.

  Simon could destroy it. Would destroy it. And Joan knew that.

  She promised me.

  That was laughable. He’d seen the world as it would be, and now even he found it hard to hold on to his principles. If he’d been raised in the world he’d seen—if he’d traveled two hundred years and left all he’d known to see it put right—he wouldn’t have stopped for the honor of one man, or even for whatever mystical consequences came of being forsworn.

  Joan wouldn’t have. At least, not the Joan he’d met.

  It’s just tactics, Simon told himself stern
ly. She’s waiting for the right opening.

  Of course it was. Of course her feelings hadn’t changed. He knew she was a good actress. It was only natural that she’d be able to pretend to like Alex.

  Simon wanted badly to believe that.

  ***

  It seemed like a bad idea to ask your maid what to wear to a séance, and the small book of etiquette Joan had bought was no help at all. So she found Eleanor in the drawing room and asked her.

  Eleanor closed the leather-bound book she’d been reading—a different one now, Joan thought—and frowned. “Is it after six?”

  “Eight.”

  “I’d wear evening dress, then. It’s more likely to be a party in disguise than anything serious.” Eleanor sounded like she was trying to reassure herself, and she didn’t quite succeed. “I don’t want to intrude, and I certainly mean no offense, but are you certain you want to go to this?”

  Joan laughed. “God, I’m certain I don’t. I don’t like the crowd, and I don’t see why everyone thinks the dead want to come back and chat. You’d think they’d either be resting or have more important things to do. But I have to.”

  “Oh.” Eleanor gave her a slow, searching look, opened her mouth, and then shook her head. “Be careful, then. I mean, I’m sure you are anyhow. And I certainly don’t mean to imply that you need the warning. But these gatherings can be more dangerous than most people think.”

  Stupidly, Joan half hoped this one was. There’d been a restlessness riding her for the last couple days due to the séance itself, as well as Simon making suggestions that were incredibly dumb, especially for him, and generally being trapped in a small house in a crowded city. The walls pressed in on her, and she wanted to hit them. To hit something, anyway.

  None of that was Eleanor’s fault, though, so Joan just nodded. “I know.”