No Proper Lady

by Isabel Cooper

  Alex had prepared himself for some disappointment, a temporary setback, at least. He could always try again. Delay did increase desire, or so they said.

  Still, after so much time, he was impatient to see the culmination of his plans—his own carnal pleasure, Simon’s pain, and perhaps an aid to his magical practice or an agent in the Grenville home. There were a number of possibilities at hand, and Alex badly wanted to grasp them.

  He’d given most of the servants the night off, saying that he’d have a quiet supper in his rooms—which he had—and retaining only two maids and the butler. Casborough had been serving him long enough to be unshockable and knew enough not to ask inconvenient questions. At Alex’s request, he’d prepared the drawing room by lighting a fire, turning the lamps down low, and placing glasses and decanters on a low table.

  Wine did great things for an evening, after all. If it didn’t, Alex could always slip a little more of the potion into Joan’s glass. When Casborough opened the door, a few minutes past ten, Alex felt a thrill that he hadn’t quite been expecting. Physical desire and more emotional satisfaction mixed deliciously. In a very short time, he would have everything he wanted.

  Perhaps he wouldn’t even have to kill Simon afterward, or his sister. Alex smiled and rose from his seat to greet his visitor.

  Joan was wearing an evening dress: blue and white, frothing with ribbons, and long sleeved but temptingly low cut. Her hair was loose, almost unbound, and there was a wide velvet ribbon around her neck. Alex wondered idly where she’d told Simon that she was going. He’d know the truth soon enough, anyhow.

  “Joan,” he said, taking one of her hands in both of his. Her eyes widened most gratifyingly. “It’s so very good to see you.”

  “And you,” she said, her face already flushed. Through her glove, her hand was a little cold.

  Nerves, Alex thought. Best not to rush things. If he blundered here, Joan could run straight back to Simon. Not that she’d ever be able to do anything to his good name, not after having come here more or less unescorted, but there was no sense in ruining the game. He waved Casborough away and led Joan over to the wide sofa. “I thought you might care for something to drink,” he said.

  “Oh—” she began, looking over at the decanters. “I—a very little, please.”

  Alex poured slowly, letting her hear every sound he made in the otherwise silent room. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’d like to have you well aware of everything.”

  “That’s practically a given,” she said, laughing a little as she took the glass.

  It wasn’t taking her long to relax, Alex thought. In a way, that was good; in another, it was less than flattering. “I do hope,” he said, watching her toy with the wine, “that you’ve been doing all right. Particularly after that little display we witnessed.”

  “Very well, thank you,” she said.

  Alex lifted an eyebrow. “No nightmares, then.”

  She caught her breath. Rich color spread up her neck and over her face. There was a little pulse in the hollow of her neck, beating fast now, like a rabbit’s heart as the animal cowered before a predator. Alex was hard almost instantly.

  “No,” Joan said. “No nightmares.” She added, “You have a very nice house here,” her eyes darting around the room.

  “Yes,” Alex said. “It’s very spacious. The view from my bedroom window is particularly excellent.”

  “Oh?” She tilted her head and looked up at him. Unconsciously, it seemed, she wet her lips.

  “Mmm.” Alex sat down beside her, almost close enough to touch but not quite. She was breathing quickly now, he noticed, with desire or fear, or both. He hoped for both. Forcing women was no fun, but a little fear always made seduction more interesting. “Are you the sort of woman who enjoys a good view?”

  Joan caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “Maybe,” she said. “Though I must admit I haven’t seen very many.”

  “Then tonight should be quite enlightening,” Alex said, and reached for her.

  Her shoulders were tense beneath his hands, but she didn’t pull away, and her mouth opened at the first touch of his tongue on her lips. Alex slid one hand up to the back of her head, tangling his fingers in her hair so that pins scattered across the couch, and the other down to the base of her spine, crushing her to him.

  Joan made some muffled noise and wriggled against him, perhaps struggling from surprise or perhaps trying for closer stimulation. Either way, the friction felt wonderful. Alex took her mouth again, taking her lip between his teeth—gently, but not too gently—as he pressed her down into the sofa. He hadn’t meant to take her here, but if circumstances got the better of him—well, there’d be the rest of the night to move upstairs.

  He found the buttons of her dress with one hand, cursing the need for secrecy that kept him from ripping the damn thing off. Still kissing Joan, he began to undo them.

  Then a woman screamed.

  Alex didn’t raise his head at first. He could calm Joan easily enough, and Casborough would handle whichever stupid girl had lost her wits at the sight of a mouse or something. Nothing he had to worry about. But then the world flashed green before his eyes, and he smelled something sharp and bitter.

  The wards.

  Simon.

  He pushed himself off Joan and onto his feet, frustrated desire only adding to his anger. “I have to see to this,” he said. “I’ll be back. Call one of the servants if you need anything.”

  “But what is it?” she asked, eyes wide. “Are we in danger? Is it a burglar? Should I—”

  “Wait. Here.”

  He stalked out of the drawing room. Casborough met him on the way. “Sir,” he began. “I beg your pardon, sir—”

  “You had better,” Alex said darkly.

  “—but one of the maids saw a shape, sir. A dark one. Toward your bedroom. And I’m afraid there’s all sorts of damage in the dining room, sir. It hardly seems—shall I call the law?”

  Human was what he’d been about to say. The shape hardly seemed human because it wasn’t. Perhaps Simon had set aside some of his more inane prejudices after all. It would have been a good sign—except that Simon had done it to him. “No,” Alex said. “Stay out of the way. I’ll handle this myself.”

  ***

  Joan watched the door close behind Reynell. In her mind, she saw the house as Simon had drawn it for her: the dining room down a long hallway from the drawing room, with the staircase in between. She tore open the loose stitches closing the slit in her skirt: there were the knockout darts on one side of the band around her thigh.

  Reynell would be out of sight by now. Joan palmed the darts and headed for the door.

  The hallway lights were dim, and there was nobody around. No cover either, though. Joan could see the staircase up ahead, but there wasn’t a door or even a niche between her and it. She walked quickly. Running would look too suspicious. She had the darts, but if a servant got a scream out first, she was screwed.

  I got nervous, she said silently, rehearsing, and then I got lost.

  Down the hall, something crashed. Something heavy. Joan’s sensor had gone off pretty strongly just as Reynell had started feeling things. Maybe Eleanor or Simon had set up something large. She hoped it was that. She couldn’t afford to check.

  As she reached the staircase, a shape appeared ahead of her. Large. Male. Joan slipped a dart into her hand and raised her chin. The man was in rough clothing, she saw now, with a cap that hid his face, the kind a stable hand might wear. She should be able to scare the hell out of him with rank alone.

  “You—” she began, quiet and imperious.

  Then she saw that it was Simon.

  They couldn’t talk. There wasn’t time, and it wasn’t safe. Joan met his eyes, though, and the glance was like a shot of good whiskey. Whatever happened now, she had somebody at her back.

  Joan took the staircase as fast as she could, her skirt looped over one arm, and it still took forever. The carpet was thick enoug
h to almost trip her up once or twice, the flashgun between her breasts jolted her at every step, and the knife and flask under her skirt chafed her thigh. Before she was little more than halfway up, her corset started stabbing her in the ribs. If she’d had time, she’d have asked Simon to cut the whole damn outfit off her.

  One turn, midway between the floors, hid them from anyone watching below. They bolted around it and farther up. Not a second too soon.

  “What the hell do you mean you don’t know?” Reynell was at the bottom of the stairs, shouting at someone. “Find her. Bring her back to the drawing room. You have someone watching the front door, don’t you?”

  The answer was inaudible. Joan climbed faster. She didn’t look at Simon.

  “Then there’s only one place she can be.”

  As they reached the second-floor landing, they heard him start to climb. Joan started toward the hallway and then turned back when Simon’s footsteps stopped.

  He spoke quietly. She still heard every word. “You know where to go.”

  “I do. And—”

  “I’ll delay him. Then lead him on. You’ll never get the book otherwise.”

  Joan grabbed his shoulders and yanked him down to her. The kiss was hard. Her nails dug into his shoulders, and his hands pressed her to him with bruising force.

  “Don’t die,” Joan whispered, and then ran off down the hall.

  ***

  Fourth door on the right. Locked, as Joan suspected. Didn’t matter: what a hairpin had done in five minutes, her picks did in one. She grabbed the flashgun out of her corset and bolted into the study, slammed the door behind her, and locked it.

  The guardian wasn’t there. Maybe Simon had hurt it too badly. Maybe Reynell didn’t want to waste his strength when he was in the house. That didn’t matter either. Joan thanked the Powers for small favors and took a hasty look around.

  Outwardly it was a normal enough room with a fireplace, a low sofa against one wall, a large desk facing the door, and a bookshelf behind the desk. No blood. No dead virgins. But Joan’s sensor was almost flaming. This was the place. Reynell kept the book here, and he’d done more than that in the past.

  She crossed the room to the desk and began yanking out drawers and dumping their contents on the floor. Papers and booze in the top drawer. More papers in the next drawer. None of them were magical. The third drawer had more papers, and a false bottom. Joan smashed it open with the hilt of her knife.

  A shower of tiny bones fell out, hit the carpet, and scattered. They looked like fingers.

  Shouting in the hall outside. Not at the door, but close enough.

  When she stepped toward the bookshelves, the sensor flared again. It actually hurt this time. Joan tipped out each book, rifled through it, and dropped it—but nothing. Badly written pornography, pretentious occult bullshit, even poetry. But nothing handwritten.

  Damn.

  She grabbed control of herself before she could panic. Think. It’s not in the desk, and it’s not on the shelves. There’s nothing else here that can hold it, unless he put it in the sofa cushions, but it is here somewhere. Just keep going. One step at a time. It’s something hidden.

  The bookshelves were pretty thick.

  Joan reached out a hand. It was torture to go slowly, to slide her fingertips over the bottom of each shelf, but she made herself do it anyhow. The yelling outside was closer now. There was a sound like thunder.

  She told herself she didn’t hear it.

  On the third shelf, she felt a small bump, no bigger than a fingertip. It could have been a knot in the wood—but it wasn’t. Too regular.

  Joan drew her hand back quickly. There was no point in taking risks now. She drew her knife, cut a thick wad of satin off her skirt, and wound it around her fingertips until it was almost an inch thick. Then she reached out again.

  Nothing stung her when she pressed the button. Nothing exploded. Instead, a thin drawer slid out. Inside was a manuscript, rolled and tied with a black ribbon. Joan grabbed it.

  The writing was the same as in Reynell’s note. That, and a few sentences, was all she needed to know. This is it.

  She flung it into the fireplace, grabbed the flask from under her skirt, and dumped the liquid inside over the paper. There were matches on the mantel, and the cut on her palm was fresh. As Joan opened it again with her knife, she remembered her fight with Simon and what had come after. It was a good memory for a time like this, both the oath and the love.

  “By blood and fire,” she began, as her blood mingled with the red-gold liquid from the flask. “I cast you out. By sun and starlight, I destroy you. By my will, and the will of all mankind and its allies, I send you back to the void where you belong. Your power is broken, and your place is not here. You have no part of this world. Begone.”

  A faint breeze blew around the room. It lifted the hair on the back of Joan’s neck and toyed with the remains of her dress. She smelled jasmine.

  The match seemed to drop very slowly, but when it hit, the book exploded. A burst of blue-white flame made Joan leap backward, grabbing her skirt out of the way. When she could look into the fire again, she saw that the manuscript was black already and crumbling around the edges.

  Out in the hall, Reynell screamed.

  He’d come in soon. Simon might be there first, or behind him, and Joan could probably get a decent shot off either way. But—this was something he had to do. They all had that need. Even Eleanor had, in the end, and Simon had seen her right to it. So maybe he had the same right.

  Joan turned the latch again, unlocking the door. She thought about praying, but there were better ways to spend the next few minutes.

  Chapter 40

  Just the edge of the backlash hit Simon, a glancing blow but quite enough to send him staggering forward, the world blurring in front of him. If he lived, he thought, he was going to have a devil of a headache in an hour or two.

  The burst of force had sent Alex to his knees, screaming and clutching his head. Not likely fatal, or even really damaging, but it had at least bought Simon some time. With luck, Alex had seen no more of him than his shape as it vanished down the hall—lure enough to follow but no clear target.

  The door opened easily, and Simon dashed into the study.

  The feeling of evil wasn’t as overwhelming, partly because he wasn’t on the astral and partly, Simon suspected, because of the fire in the hearth. It was small but surprisingly warm. It was also the same blue-white flame that Simon had seen in the stone circle and in the scrying ring.

  Simon couldn’t see Joan anywhere in the room, and he didn’t have time to look for her. Already he could hear Alex running down the hall. A hasty invocation to various protective deities threw shields of power up around himself. To deal with anything more physical, he grabbed the poker from beside the fireplace. Then Simon flattened himself against the wall beside the door and waited.

  When Alex rushed in, Simon grabbed his arm and yanked, pulling him into the room. He kicked the door shut behind Alex and braced himself for the next attack.

  It didn’t come right away. Instead, Alex stared at the fire and the remains of the manuscript there. It seemed not to be a surprise but a confirmation he’d been dreading. His face twisted in wrath and thwarted malice, and he swung back toward Simon with madness in his eyes.

  “You pious, interfering bastard.”

  What hit Simon looked like black fire, but it felt like living rot. It crawled over his shields like a mass of insects, seeking an entrance with revolting single-mindedness. The shields held, though, and then it was gone.

  Simon closed his mind to it. Instead he looked at Alex, trying to see behind the rage. He thought of years past and of the future that might have been, of old men trading books and praising each other’s grandchildren. That would never happen now, and he let himself sorrow for it, but there was still some hope that something might still be saved from this ruin. “Alex,” he said quietly, letting the other man’s arm go, “this doesn’t have
to happen.”

  At least Alex didn’t laugh. Not at first. The blind rage vanished from his face, replaced by surprise. Then he cocked his head, looking horrifyingly like Eleanor when she was curious about something. “It didn’t,” he said, his voice hoarse from screaming. “Now it does.”

  “No,” Simon said. “It’s never too late.”

  A smile writhed across Alex’s face. “Oh? Can I turn myself in? To whom, pray, and on what charge?”

  “There are other ways. You know that.” When Alex snorted and shook his head, Simon stepped forward. “Don’t do this. Don’t waste your life more than you already have.”

  “I didn’t know I was wasting anything. Time here, perhaps. But I’ve got plenty of that. And I’ll have more soon.”

  “At what cost?”

  “Who says there has to be one? Honestly, Simon.” Alex waved a hand, indicating himself. “Does it look to you like I’m lacking anything? Or are you really going to try to convince me that I’ve given up love? Friendship? The spirit of Christmas, perhaps?”

  “Well,” said Simon, “at the moment, you rather appear to be short a book.”

  He’d been expecting a magical blow for that. Instead the inkstand flew at his head. Simon ducked just in time, and it smashed into the doorway behind him as Alex threw back his head and laughed. “At least there’s some of you in there still, Grenville.”

  “I believe that’s my line,” said Simon. He spread his hands, though he still held on to the poker. “Or I hope it is. That’s why I’m here.”

  “To reform me before it’s too late.”

  “To tell you to get out of this while you can. I liked you once, Alex. I think you’re still that man, at least a little bit, but many more deals with the Dark Ones and you won’t be.”

  “Been studying for the clergy?”

  “This isn’t about sin, and you know it,” Simon said impatiently. “That’s simple. It’s mortal. They’re not. They’ll suck you in, and you’ll be lucky if they spit out the bones when they’re done.”