No Proper Lady

by Isabel Cooper

  “It might not be. Most of them are just party tricks and imagination. But if Mr. Reynell’s there…” She broke off, dropping her gaze to her lap.

  “Then he’s going to try to pull out all the stops. Don’t worry. I can stay a couple steps ahead of him.”

  “I’ll pray that you do,” said Eleanor. Her voice was even quieter than usual, the whisper of a child who didn’t quite dare to name the thing she hoped for or the thing she feared.

  Chapter 34

  It was strange to be traveling by herself at night.

  For one thing, she wasn’t really by herself. Betty, the maid who waited on Joan in London, was sitting silently across from her, and the driver was at the front of the carriage. Joan had led ambush teams with fewer people. She’d also done a fair number of solo missions, many of them at night. And now, just because she’d left Simon and Eleanor behind and the sun had set, it seemed new and a little scary.

  Not without reason. Joan watched the twilight streets go by, a maze of winding alleys and wide roads turning unpredictably and crowded, even this late. If she had the wrong house—if something went wrong—how would she ever get back?

  Betty would know, Joan told herself. So would the driver. And if neither of them was available, she at least knew Simon’s address, and she could hire a carriage herself. She had several pounds in her purse and a few more in the bag she’d strapped to her leg, next to her knife. Everything would be all right. If it wasn’t, she would deal with that. Even so, she was relieved to arrive at a well-lit house and be shown into a crowded drawing room.

  Harrison himself was tall, balding, and gaunt. He’d have been intimidating if he’d worn dark clothes rather than the bright, elaborate outfits he favored. He’d also have needed to keep silent and stand still. “My dear Mrs. MacArthur!” he cried, fluttering his way across the room as Joan entered. “So glad you could attend—hope you had an easy journey—”

  “Thank you,” she said after Harrison had gone on in that style for a bit and then stopped to take a breath. “Very easy, yes.”

  She greeted his wife as well, though she didn’t have to come up with nearly as many responses there. The woman was much quieter and almost seemed lost in her own world half the time. Anyone probably would have to be, married to someone like Harrison.

  Thomson was there, looking simultaneously vague and intense as usual, and chattering to a couple of other young women. One or two of them chattered back; Cole, nearby, kept quiet. Joan saw Cunningham lounging near the sofa, talking with another man and a striking dark-eyed woman. Archie was already coming over, beaming.

  And Reynell turned from his conversation and met her eyes.

  He held her gaze for a second and then smiled. His look of slow appreciation suggested he saw every inch of her and liked it a lot. At first, that look had made Joan shiver. Now she hardly noticed except to make sure he was still interested enough to work at it.

  Not that he came over to meet her at first. That would’ve been too common and too available. Instead, he watched while Archie made his way past the furniture and then turned back to his partner, content to wait. Archie, Reynell’s body language said, was no threat.

  Joan wished Reynell wasn’t right about that, both because he was a smug bastard and because Archie seemed like a nice enough guy. Young, but nice. The sort Joan might have tried to get into bed—if he wouldn’t have taken it exactly the wrong way and if she didn’t have a mission. He would, and she did.

  So she treated him like a brother, like a member of her squad back home, and was pleased when he fell into conversation with a little red-haired girl from Thomson’s set who seemed smarter than her friends. That left Joan alone for a minute, and Reynell found his way to her side.

  “I thought I’d never get the chance to talk to you,” he said. “Your companions are so…devoted.”

  His eyes mocked and invited her to mock with him. Joan let herself smile for a second, shaking her head. “He’s very amiable.”

  “I know. It’s rather sad, really.”

  Joan lifted an eyebrow. “For whom?”

  “Me, of course,” Reynell said, as if astonished that anyone could think he’d meant anyone else.

  This is a hell of a game.

  “Well, I’d hate to make you sad,” she said, sipping her punch. “Not when you’ve been so…educational. When do we start, anyway? And how?”

  Reynell laughed. “Soon. Very soon. Impatient?”

  “Curious.”

  “I hear it’s a painful thing, unsatisfied curiosity.”

  Joan lowered her eyelashes. “I do my best to endure,” she said. “What happens?”

  “I presume our host will give us some instruction.” Reynell glanced toward the middle of the room at the woman talking to Cunningham. “Mrs. Stewart has volunteered to be our medium tonight, I understand. It’s very generous of her to put herself in Harrison’s…hands…like that.”

  It was very clear what he meant. Joan blinked. Harrison—and Mrs. Stewart?

  Maybe he’s really good in the sack.

  The image made her bite the inside of her cheek. Reynell saw it and grinned, only a little smugly. “Can I get you something more to drink before we start?”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Joan, without thinking about it. That was standard practice around here, and at least it gave her a minute or two alone. She wanted to take a look around, partly out of curiosity and partly to be sure she knew all the exits.

  There were candles around the couch and a bowl of water at one end. No sigils or wards, but a set of silk ropes lay on the couch itself. None of the ropes back home had been silk, but the memories came up anyhow.

  It wouldn’t be like home. The gorgeous, if misguided Mrs. Stewart wouldn’t have volunteered if people regularly lost their minds, and Harrison didn’t have the air of a man who drove his subjects insane. Still, Joan shuddered.

  “Worried?” Reynell said from behind her. Joan flinched and then cursed herself, both for the reaction and for not hearing him come up in the first place. Too many damn people in the room talking too damn loudly. “You needn’t be. We’ve never lost a guest yet.”

  “So you’re due?” Joan asked, turning toward him.

  As he handed her the glass of punch, he let his hand brush hers for just a moment longer than he should have. “Never fear. I’ll make sure it’s not you.”

  Harrison clapped his hands. The room fell silent, or as silent as a roomful of people ever could, and the guests turned toward the couch. Harrison stood at its head now, Mrs. Stewart beside him. “My dear friends and fellow explorers,” he began, “I want to thank you all for your attendance here. It’s faith such as yours that will take us from the darkness of prior days into a new dawn of spiritual enlightenment.”

  He turned to look at Joan. “And I am gratified, most gratified, that we have a new arrival in our midst, a new initiate into the mysteries that were old in the days of Atlantis and that we are only now rediscovering. It is my fondest hope, Mrs. MacArthur, that what you see tonight will give us another ally and you a source of guidance on your own path.”

  Applause blew through the room like dry leaves. Joan made a slightly awkward curtsy and smiled.

  “I am gratified, also, by Mrs. Stewart’s gracious offer to be our means of communication with the world beyond. For the purposes of this exercise, her hands will be bound, for when we cannot reach out with our hands, we must perforce do so with our minds and souls.”

  Perforce. He said perforce. Joan kept her gaze fixed straight ahead. She couldn’t look at Reynell.

  Mrs. Stewart lay down on the couch. The redhead who’d been talking to Archie—a slight girl in pale yellow silk—moved in a circle around her, lighting the candles. As they sprang to life and the faint smell of burning wick and melting wax filled the room, Joan no longer wanted to laugh, and her disgust faded into a faint background presence.

  Harrison was pretentious as hell. Stewart was doing the whole medium thing to get into his
pants. But that didn’t matter. This was ritual. Joan had grown up with it, and it was deadly serious.

  One of the young men, who’d clearly done this before, turned out the lights, and the room dwindled to the circle of candle flames. Above them, Harrison’s long, gaunt face was like something out of a nightmare.

  He reached into the bowl of water, wet his fingers, and very carefully began to draw shapes on Mrs. Stewart’s forehead. As he finished each one, he intoned a name. Greek, Joan thought, remembering some of the texts Eleanor had showed her, or maybe Latin. Hard to tell.

  Behind Joan’s ear, her sensor began to heat up. Whatever Harrison thought he was doing, it was working.

  Then Mrs. Stewart began to float: one inch up, then two, until she was hovering half a foot above the sofa. The train of her dress hung beneath her. It rippled in an unfelt wind. Joan gasped, since people would expect that.

  Reynell put a hand on her shoulder in response and then left it there. His touch sank down through Joan’s clothes, warm and viscous. You’re not feeling that, she told herself, and took a hasty swallow of punch.

  “O spirit,” Harrison began, “we welcome you to our company tonight. You honor us with your presence and your knowledge. If it is in our power to make your rest easier, you have only to ask.”

  “I?” said something, using Mrs. Stewart’s voice. “I need nothing of you. I am the Wanderer. I am the restless. All things are mine to see. All are mine to tell, or not to tell, as I will. What is it you wish?”

  Stewart’s eyes opened. They were bright blue from side to side, without pupil or iris. One of the girls screamed a little.

  Joan relaxed. The Wanderer was one of the neutral spirits, not really a power of light or dark, and sort of liked humans. Opportunistic little bastard, they said, under the pretentious talk. Liked its booze. Still nothing to mess with.

  Any of the spirits could cause trouble, if only by deciding that it liked a body enough to stay there. Joan wondered what was worth the risk to these people, if they even thought about it that way.

  She expected Thomson to ask something first, some idiot girlish romantic thing. Cole stepped forward instead, her face as grim and set as any warrior’s before a battle.

  “I want to know about a baby,” Cole began. “A little girl. Nine weeks old. Her name was Anne Elizabeth. Is she there? Is she happy?”

  The voice of the Wanderer was subtly different from Stewart’s, deeper and wavery, like someone talking under water. “Of course she’s not here. She’s gone onward.” Then a pause, and Stewart’s head turned jerkily toward Cole. “You’ll meet again.”

  “Thank you,” said Cole. Now her voice broke, and she stepped hastily backward. “Thank you,” she said again.

  More came forward after her, and some of them did ask the stupid questions Joan had anticipated: Where’s the will? Which horse should I bet on tomorrow? Nobody, surprisingly, asked about romance explicitly, though Thomson asked where she’d be next year and got sulky when the Wanderer said it didn’t know. It had said the same thing to the man asking about the horse race, but he took it with a sigh and a shrug.

  Joan watched with what she hoped was the appearance of calm. She tried not to think that the Wanderer might refuse to leave if someone like Harrison told it to and tried not to think about what she would do then. She held her breath as he went through the whole ritual with the water again, commanding the spirit to depart “without harm or malice to any here.” Mrs. Stewart sank down until she was lying on the sofa again, but Joan didn’t relax until the woman stirred and opened normal dark eyes.

  “Well,” said Reynell, as the other guests began to chatter in excitement. “What did you think?”

  “I admit I’m impressed.” It came out as a croak. Joan looked down at the glass of punch in her hand and took several rapid sips. Now it was warm, but it did the job. “More than I thought I’d be.”

  “It happens that way to some people. You held up well, though. No screaming, no fainting.”

  “I do my best,” said Joan. “Do people generally faint?”

  “Young ladies, sometimes. Generally if there’s a likely young man about.”

  Joan laughed and let Reynell escort her to a seat, watching the room on her way. Harrison was talking to Mrs. Stewart, of course, smiling and leaning in close. His wife was smiling too. Joan wondered if triads sprang up even here under the thirty-seven layers of clothing and manners.

  She’d never been one for women, and she sure hadn’t been attracted to Harrison, but a slow warmth spread through Joan at the thought. Adrenaline, probably. It usually wasn’t this strong, but she was used to running around when she risked her life. She clamped down on it.

  At least, she tried. But then she had to look at Reynell, and that was worse. He was at least physically attractive, and her body had no conscience. Joan shifted in her seat. “What happens now?”

  “Now?” Reynell smiled at her. “Now, or at least soon, we go to bed like good little boys and girls.” He emphasized “bed” just a little, and Joan, horrified, felt her nipples harden immediately.

  Adrenaline, my ass! What’s wrong with me? “I see,” she said. “That’s too bad. We’ve hardly gotten to talk at all this evening.”

  “It’s a pleasure I’d like to prolong as well. Perhaps we could meet another time without quite so many people around.” Reynell leaned forward, lowering his voice. “It would be very nice to talk privately.”

  There it was. The opening she wanted. Only part of her could look at it tactically, though. The rest responded blindly to the promise in his eyes and his voice. She was fully aroused now, and it took every atom of willpower to keep her thoughts coherent.

  Trying to distract herself, Joan tightened her hand around the punch glass and then stopped. She didn’t look down. That would have given the whole thing away.

  He drugged me. It was like a brief splash of cold water. The lust was still there, but the shock gave her space to think, at least for a while. A love potion?

  Not by the feel of it. Besides, he wouldn’t waste mind control on some random woman, not when he thought she was already attracted, and people in this time had sex and love all twisted up here. An aphrodisiac, then.

  Son of a bitch.

  “If you’d be amenable,” Reynell went on, picking up her gloved hand, “I’m sure I could arrange something.”

  “I’d like that,” Joan said, and took a deep breath. She could feel Reynell’s eyes on her breasts as they swelled beneath the green silk. “I’d like that an awful lot.”

  “And I’d hardly deny a lady any pleasure. I would offer you my escort home, Mrs. MacArthur, but that might cause problems.” He bent over her hand, touching his lips to her knuckles. “So we’ll have to be content with the future. The very near future.”

  Chapter 35

  By the time she got into the carriage, Joan was almost unbearably turned on. Whatever Reynell had put into her drink had kicked in all the way. She felt every inch of her clothing as it rubbed against her skin, every motion of the carriage on the way back to Simon’s. If Betty hadn’t been there, she might have at least started to take care of it herself.

  She wondered if Reynell had thought of that. Was the drug designed so you could be satisfied only with a partner? With a man? Or did he assume that she, like the fainting morons of this time, wouldn’t think to handle the problem on her own?

  Hard to say. Joan wished desperately that she could at least experiment.

  Instead, she clenched her fists and looked out the window, watching the stars overhead and thinking about anything but sex. The drug would work its way through her system. She just had to wait it out.

  It wasn’t even worth using the antidote.

  Joan slipped into the house, handing her cloak to the sleepy boy who came to meet her, and sent Betty away. She’d get herself out of the dress somehow. Having someone else undress her right now would be a really bad idea.

  She hurried through the dark hallways, and she didn
’t see the light under the study door until it opened just in front of her. Joan jumped backward.

  “I’m sorry,” Simon said, retreating back a step. “I heard footsteps. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Not your fault,” Joan said, cursing at herself silently. Lust was no excuse to get stupid.

  He looked her over for a second. Shadows fell across his face, making it unreadable, and Joan swallowed hard. Even his gaze seemed to brush tangibly across her skin.

  “Will you come in? I’d like to hear how the evening went.”

  If she were smart, she’d say she was tired. Oh, sure, debriefing came before her needs, even when those needs had been boosted by magic or alchemy or whatever, and it was important to share information as soon as possible. But it wasn’t like Simon would disappear in the middle of the night.

  “Sure,” said Joan, and followed him back into the study.

  I’m not sleeping with him, she reminded herself. I shouldn’t. He won’t.

  Then I don’t have anything to worry about, do I? And there’s no harm in looking.

  Simon waited for her to sit down and then dropped into the chair next to her. Now Joan could see his face and the lines of tension on his brow. “Are you all right?”

  He’d waited up for her. He was worried. Joan felt a sudden warmth in her chest. It didn’t match the sensations lower down, but it was more disturbing in its own way. She’d been trying to forget that she loved him. “Yeah. Things are coming along pretty well.”

  “Ah. Are they?”

  Had his voice gone flat there, or was she imagining things? They were both tired. Joan shrugged. “He suggested meeting in private sometime soon.”

  “If he went that far, he must be fairly certain of your interest,” Simon said, and this time Joan definitely heard the flatness in his voice. “Unless he’s playing some deeper game.”

  “Possible. But I doubt it. I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m really drawn to him.” Joan shifted in her seat. Embarrassment and lust made a great combination.