“Oh! Well, I hope you have plans to visit all the lovely things London has to offer. Hyde Park, the opera, St. James’s Street,” I say in a rush. “There are many more that escape me at the moment. How long will you stay?”
The waltz comes to an end, interrupting our conversation. He bows before me and offers his arm. “I have yet to decide. At least another fortnight.”
“Plenty of time then,” I say with a smile.
He leads me back toward Wren, and with every step, I dread the moment we will part and I will have to resume my comparatively dull dances.
“Lucy,” he says in a quiet voice, his eyes holding mine, “would you allow me to call on you later this week?”
“Yes, I would like that very much.” I can barely keep the relief from my voice.
He smiles back at me until we’re grinning at each other like fools. “I haven’t many friends in London, so this means a great deal to me.”
“No friends in London?” Colin drawls from behind us and I jump. I must have been so engrossed in my conversation with Alexander that I didn’t notice his approach. “How lucky of you to find the one person who can befriend anyone.”
Alexander’s smile fades quickly, replaced by a wary expression. Colin’s is just as suspicious, and nervousness blooms within me as I hurry to introduce the two.
“Alexander, hm?” Colin’s face darkens. “Did you know I personally invited each guest at this party? The Devonshire I invited is three times your age, and I may not have memorized every member of the peerage, but I do know Devonshire’s name to be William. You wouldn’t be impersonating an earl, would you?”
“My goodness, Colin, don’t be such a bully,” I say as a gentle admonishment. Since neither even turns his head in my direction, I can assume my comment goes unheeded. With one hand gripping the side of my skirts in anxiety, I peer around for Wren. If ever a situation needed a mediator, it was this one.
“My father’s name was William,” Alexander says, his face void of emotion save for a slight tightening of his jaw. “He died a fortnight ago, so I accepted your invitation in his place.”
At this realization, I have to curl my hand in a fist to keep from reaching out to touch his arm. “I’m terribly sorry to hear about your father.”
A smile touches his lips. “Thank you for your condolences, Miss Sinclair,” he says.
“Yes, the loss of a parent is a difficult thing,” Colin says, and I can sense my brother-in-law’s suspicion weakening. “I’m sorry to hear of it. I wonder, though, why I’ve never met you before.”
“I am new to my title having spent most of my life in India.”
I let out a little breath when I see Colin’s expression soften. With an estate that is a miniature of the Taj Mahal, Colin and his family have long had a love affair with India.
“And your family?” Colin asks, though his tone is not so antagonistic. “Do they reside in India as well?”
“I have no siblings, and my stepmother resides in the dowager estate near Devonshire. I rushed home to England as soon as I received word of my father.”
“Ah, I see,” Colin says without a hint of regret over interrogating Alexander so abominably. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance then.”
Alexander gives a nod in acknowledgment, his posture still on edge. I cannot blame him.
“Lucy,” Colin says, “I sought you out because there is someone who has asked to be personally introduced to you.”
The pleasantly diverted mood I was in evaporates. “Oh yes, of course,” I say slowly, my tone reflecting my reluctance. I turn to Alexander. “I very much enjoyed our dance. I’m so glad to have made your acquaintance as well.”
“You were the highlight of my night,” he says, his eyes trained on mine. “How lucky I am that you discovered me on the terrace.”
“The terrace?” Colin asks sharply.
I nearly groan in frustration. Just when I thought he might actually tolerate Alexander. “He happened to be escaping the crush at the same time I was,” I say. My voice takes on the soothing tones I use when speaking to Izzie after she’s taken a tumble.
Colin says nothing for a few painful moments. “How fortuitous for both of you,” he says finally, the tension around his mouth still holding a hint of a warning.
“Shall I be introduced to your friend now?” I wish I could stay and converse more with Alexander, but certainly not under the scrutiny of my brother-in-law.
Colin gives a brief nod of his head. “Good evening to you, Lord Devonshire.”
As I take Colin’s arm, I meet Alexander’s gaze and we share a hesitant smile. He will never come to call on me now—not when he must face such censure. This weighs heavier on my heart than I would have thought, and my shoulders slump a little in defeat while I let Colin guide me toward whoever is waiting to meet me.
“The gentleman I wish to introduce you to is an old friend of my father’s.”
“I believe my dance card is full.” I try for a lighthearted tone but am dismayed to find that my words are sharper than I intended.
To my relief, Colin only smiles. “I deserve that. No, my dear sister, it’s not the gentleman himself who would truly like to make your acquaintance, but his daughter instead. A girl your age, who I’m told spends nearly as much time as you do amidst paints and charcoal and paper.”
Relief combines with piqued interest, and I let a true smile shine through. “How lovely. Why didn’t you say so in the first place? I can’t wait to meet her then.”
“Unfortunately, she was unable to accompany her father tonight. He tells me she is of a frail constitution, but the more he described her to me, the more I thought the two of you would suit.” He nods toward a steel-haired man watching the dancers with a nostalgic smile. “But I’ll let Sir Thornby tell you himself.”
“Lucy, my dear, how glad I am to meet you,” Sir Thornby says, taking my gloved hand in his. “Rose was devastated she couldn’t accompany me, but her lungs have never been strong, and her illness only worsens with the cold.”
“Rose must be your daughter,” I say with a smile. “Colin was only just telling me about her. I understand she likes to paint?”
“She adores it, and she’s quite good at it, too.” The pride on his face reminds me so much of Papa that I find myself instantly drawn to him. “But as I’m sure you know, such pursuits can be lonely ones, and she is doubly cursed by her lungs. I know she’d be overjoyed at the prospect of not only a visitor her age, but one who shares the same interests.”
“Then I would very much like to meet her.”
His smile brightened. “You may come to call any day you like. Thornewood, you still remember the location of our townhome, yes? I can still see you as a young man accompanying your father.” He leans toward me as though imparting a great secret. “Do you know, his expression even at that young age was just the same as it is today? I never thought I would see such a haughty look on a child.”
“You’re mistaking my look for boredom, Thornby,” Colin says. “As with any child, I found my father’s conversations with other adults unbearably dull.”
Sir Thornby lets out a laugh so loud many turn in his direction. “And still that remains unchanged! You are bored to tears by the conversations of those around you.”
Colin’s answering grin is wide and knowing.
Another waltz begins, and though I tell myself not to, I find myself searching for Alexander.
“Looking for me?” asks a voice that still sends a little thrill through me, much as I hate to admit it.
I smile as I turn toward James. “That depends. Are you next on my dance card?”
James’s gaze slides toward Colin, who is still engaged in conversation with Sir Thornby. “What does it matter? Your nanny is otherwise occupied.”
He holds out his arm, and with a sigh, I take it. The dance is another calmly twirling waltz, the music beautifully soothing.
“Did you enjoy your brief respite on the terrace?” he asks
, and my gaze darts to his. At the absence of a smirk, I realize he’s genuinely asking.
“Yes, thank you. You’d make a truly skilled accomplice.”
He pauses in the dance dramatically, causing others to nearly collide with us. “Accomplice? Are you implying you would be the mastermind and I the lowly servant? I must say, I’m insulted.”
I laugh. “All right, you’ve made your point. Might we continue our dance? Others are staring.”
“Let them stare!” James says amid my embarrassed laughter.
I duck my head as he pulls me close again, and I don’t need a mirror to know my cheeks are flushed. “Have I done something terrible to deserve every gentleman acting as though we were on the grand stage instead of a dance floor?”
“Very well, you’ve convinced me. I’ll behave myself.”
As we fall quiet and enjoy the music and familiar motions of the dance, my gaze wanders. I find Wren and Rob in one corner of the ballroom, talking with bright eyes and endless smiles while Papa lounges with a glass of scotch in hand. The plush leather chair in which he sits was clearly brought in from the library, no doubt just for him.
“Searching for someone?” James asks, and this time, his face wears a teasing smirk.
“Now who is playing the part of the overbearing nanny?” I counter.
His eyes brighten with mirth. “How I’ve missed this. Now that we’ve made friends again, you must agree to come for a drive with me. I think you’ll quite enjoy it.”
Echoes of the joy I would have once had over such an offer tease a wide smile from me. “I shall try to fit you into my schedule.”
James laughs, the sound infectious. “Do. Shall I have my valet send my calling card to your room? After all, we’re sharing the same house.”
“It’ll be rather hard to avoid you.” I’d already learned that to be true.
As the waltz ends, and James leads me back to Wren and the others, I allow myself one glance around the room.
Disappointment sinks low within me. Alexander is nowhere to be found.
THE night is clear and dark as Alexander Radcliffe enters his motorcar, bound for his father’s—now Alexander’s—townhouse. He settles into the buttery-soft leather seat. Outwardly, he is perfectly calm and still as deep water. Inwardly, though, his thoughts and emotions are violently at war with each other. And all because of that girl.
It’d been easy enough to find her. The moment he touched the invitation to the Honorable Lucy Sinclair’s debutante ball, he knew. He thinks of it now: the creamy vellum lying undisturbed upon his late father’s desk. He’d moved to throw it away, but once his fingers grazed its surface, he felt it: the intense tug within his chest, enough to confirm that she was one of the ones he was always searching for—one whose prana was so potent, he felt its echoes the moment he came to London.
And, possibly, one of them.
Her beauty he’d expected. The sparkling blue eyes, the blinding smile … he prided himself on being immune to such charms. What he hadn’t anticipated was her being so kind, so intriguing that she managed to make his heart stop aching for India for an entire hour. He had wanted to spend the rest of the night talking with her. He wanted to see her artwork … to hear her opinion on the work of Pablo Picasso … to speak with her not as part of an investigation but rather because he wished he could be a suitor.
He closes his eyes for a second longer than a blink, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.
The problem, of course, is she may very well be the enemy.
The motorcar slows, drawing Alexander from his reverie. His features rearrange into a frown as he thinks of the reception he will most likely receive the moment he enters the townhouse, which now belongs to him.
The chauffeur comes around to open the door, and Alexander exits the cramped space. He takes a moment to straighten his tailcoat and sweep a lock of his hair from his face. The townhouse looms above him, the black door illuminated by soft gaslights.
His polished shoes scrape against the brick, and before he can touch the wrought iron door handle, the door is opened by Mr. Styles, the late Lord Devonshire’s butler.
Styles gives Alexander a long look down the length of his hawkish nose. “Good evening,” he says, pausing with a slight curl to his upper lip before adding the requisite, “my lord.”
Alexander feels his skin prickling under the butler’s disdainful regard. Though outwardly polite, the butler barely manages to hide his contempt for his new half-Indian master. Alexander hates him in turn, but not enough to deprive a man of a position he has held for nearly thirty years. Besides, he doesn’t plan on staying in London long.
“I’ll be turning in now,” Alexander says, trying to banish the awkwardness from his tone. He is still uncomfortable with the notion of servants.
“I will send Smith up to help you change.”
Alexander pauses on his way up the old, wooden staircase. “No. I don’t need a valet’s assistance.” Especially not his father’s valet. A man his father knew better than his own son. His regard for Alexander was little better than the butler’s. This had been his father’s townhouse, but these were his stepmother’s servants, in truth. The cold reception he’d received here has made him terribly homesick, and he wishes he’d let Hansa, his nanny-turned-housekeeper, accompany him as she’d requested. Just thinking her name makes him crave sweetened chai and fresh roti bread—two things out of many he knows he won’t receive here.
“How will you remove your formal clothes on your own?” Styles asks.
Alexander’s mouth curves into a wry grin. “I shall manage.” He turns his back on the butler and continues up the stairs, feeling the servant’s disapproval follow him like a shadow.
He strides toward his room across plush red and gold carpeting, gilded paintings of his ancestors watching his progress. All have the same haughty looks he has come to expect from British nobility … all except Lucy, his mind reminds him, and he shakes his head.
Once inside his room, he shuts the door and begins the arduous process of removing his confining clothing. In India, his clothing had consisted of three parts: a linen or cotton tunic, trousers, and sandals. When required by cooler weather at night or by a visit from one of his few English friends, he wore a sherwani—a long coat.
He utters numerous oaths before he finally frees himself, missing the simplicity of his Indian wardrobe with every damnable button.
Knowing he is too tightly wound for sleep to come easily, he moves toward his writing desk with the intention of drawing until he is relaxed. His eyes land on three letters that must have arrived while he was out. The first two are business matters related to his father’s estates and can wait for the morning, but the name on the third letter has him eagerly tearing open the ivory envelope.
Alex,
I am writing to tell you that I will soon be in London—with any luck, at the same time as you.
Relief pours over him, and he closes his eyes in thanks. He will not be alone in this country he has so little claim to. Not only is Richard like a brother to him, he is as English as ivy. He will serve as a guide to help him navigate twelve-course meals, arrogant servants, and gossip-hungry nobility.
He scans the rest of the letter quickly.
As for the other matter we discussed so briefly on the telephone, I have news that will interest you. Suffice it to say that you were right: there have been rumors.
Until then.
R.
Though Richard spoke cryptically, Alexander has no doubt to what he referred. He’d ask Richard to use his considerable London connections to ferret out any leads. Common gossip rags have their uses, but nothing is better than a rumor flying mouth to mouth. And the rumors Alexander was particularly interested in were any to do with unusual activity—strange occurrences, mystical events, whispered rumors of power. Strangely, though, instead of the triumphant feeling he expected at the news, he feels a curious sinking in his chest.
After pouring himself a drin
k from the crystal decanter of scotch in the hopes of thoroughly distracting himself from his untoward reaction, Alexander pulls out the drawing he’d completed just before attending the ball.
The throne room of Buckingham Palace is beautifully rendered, though he’s never set foot inside, but of greater interest is the subject of the drawing: Lucy Sinclair smiling a nervous smile as she curtsies before the king and queen.
SIX
THE next afternoon, I call on Rose, Sir Thornby’s daughter. After a night of sheer mental torture, where my mind decided to remind me of every cringe-inducing moment with James, every word and glance shared with Alexander, and worst of all, Colin’s embarrassing interrogation, I was desperate for an interaction that wouldn’t result in a sleepless night. What is it about the dark that brings on such thoughts?
But today, the sunlight on my face is especially welcome, and London’s weather cooperates for once with bright blue skies. Emily, my lady’s maid, walks behind me in her navy blue dress and coat and her smartest hat. My own violet walking gown is a glorious complexity of silk, the matching coat beautifully tailored. My hair is styled in a pompadour beneath an elaborate hat for the very first time during the day—my debut allowing me to finally keep my hair pinned up rather than loose down my back like a young girl.
I may be exhausted from my late night with little sleep, but my beautiful frock lifts my spirits just as much as the sunlight renews my energy.
“We’re to turn right at the next intersection, miss,” Emily says, and I can tell from her relaxed tone that she is enjoying the chance to escape the house just as much as I am.
But the moment we turn onto the next street, my steps falter. The cobblestone path, the iron gates—I recognize these houses.
“Something wrong?” Emily asks.
Taken by surprise, I answer candidly, though it’s a subject we rarely broach. “My grandmother lives on this street.”
Emily’s dark brown eyes widen before she manages to hide her interest. The grandmother I hadn’t seen in three years, the one who’d been instrumental in nearly ruining Wren’s life. After Papa and Colin had paid off Grandmama’s many debts, she’d wisely withdrawn from society, and Wren and Colin had made it clear her presence in our lives would be unwelcome henceforth.
The Order of the Eternal Sun Page 5