Getting to my feet seemed easier than it should, and I spent some time stretching my leg muscles and hips, as well. The key to continued success below the drift would be in keeping limber.
I padded barefoot across my bedroom, foregoing my slippers, and sat on the vanity chair. “Bloody bells,” I muttered. I looked frightful. No matter how much vigor flowed through my limbs, my reflection painted a wholly different picture.
Betsy had worked to get the lampblack from my hair, and had admirably succeeded on that front. My hair was braided tightly in a thick plait down my back, once more restored to its red, if somewhat dulled, hue. I flicked the end over my shoulder, leaning forward to study the shadows beneath my eyes.
Clearly, though I’d slept, I hadn’t slept well.
My eyes looked somewhat glazed, as if covered over by a sheet of glass. My skin was slightly too sallow. I looked, in a word, exhausted.
But I felt wonderful.
I braced my hands against the vanity mirror and leaned in as close as I could, studying myself with fierce concentration. Tremors vibrated through the soles of my bare feet. Masculine voices slammed through the floorboards, and I straightened so fast that the mirror rocked dangerously.
“I’m terribly sorry, my lord, but Miss St. Croix is still unable to receive visitors.” Booth’s voice, impeccable as ever.
“Still ill, is she?”
The voice snapped hard around me, as brutal, as unforgiving, as any cage. I sucked in a breath.
“My sympathies to the house,” Lord Cornelius Kerrigan Compton said, his rich, educated voice clear as day beneath me. I squeezed my eyes shut, but it wouldn’t help to block out the raw apprehension in his so-polished voice. “Would it help to send my personal physician?”
“Thank you, my lord, you are kind to offer. However, Miss St. Croix’s physician is of the highest caliber.”
“Of course. I will not . . .” He hesitated. “I shall take my leave. Please give my regards to your lady.” The footsteps faded once more as Lord Compton said his farewells.
My forehead hit the vanity with a dull thunk of bone on wood. The crystal vials of my various perfumes clinked and clattered. Anger bit deeper than any blade, any mo-shoe I could have dredged from the depth of hell itself. Anger, and guilt.
He had kissed me. He had professed to admire me, to tell me how much he enjoyed my company.
And I . . .
I what? What did I want? What could I expect from a member of the peerage, one so fine as the Earl Compton?
Nothing. Of course, nothing. No more or less than anything I expected from the rest of Society. I had already been cut once, though the harpy marchioness had found her machinations undone by her very own son.
If word of the night’s events ever trickled out of the Menagerie?
Images of the night flashed through my mind, suddenly daylight bright and too vivid to be a dream. Micajah’s hands on my breasts. Callused fingertips plucking at the rose-tipped flesh of my nipples. My skin flamed. I squeezed my eyes shut even tighter, until pain pulsed through my eyelids, but he was still there.
Are you with me, Miss Black?
“Devil take it,” I whispered. I was so confused. I stared at my hands and tried to concentrate on the facts. The facts of the situation. Hawke had . . . seen me in the flesh. He’d touched me, but I was . . . I’d needed his help. I’d practically begged him, hadn’t I? This was forgivable.
The blood on the sheets after had been from my own wounds, I remembered making them. I remembered Hawke’s surprise as they’d vanished. There was something truly mysterious about the drug the madman had given me.
Hawke had done what he’d needed to do. At least, that’s what I told myself now.
But then I thought of Compton and it was as if I couldn’t breathe. Why? Why did I let the earl capture my thoughts so thoroughly?
It shouldn’t have mattered. I did not want to marry, and surely there was no call to assume Compton would ever ask for my hand. And even if he did, I’d long since resolved to deny every man who would try. I was assuming a great deal about Compton, and I had no reason to assume anything of the sort.
Why, then? Why did I feel as if I’d made a terrible mistake?
The door slid open on silent hinges.
Zylphia stepped inside, so tame in appearance I almost didn’t recognize her. Her tea-stained skin was scrubbed clean of everything even resembling rouge, her eyes lacking in the dark kohl she’d worn so often below the drift. Her hair was tightly coiled once more, and her clothing identical to Betsy’s in every regard. Her dark dress and white apron were clean, her shoes polished and the tea service in her hands remained steady.
But her eyes. They were so blue, startlingly colorful in her dark skin, and so full of sympathy that I was seized with a vicious urge to throw something at her.
How dare she approach me with so much knowledge in her face?
I dashed an arm across my eyes, though no tears had fallen, and turned resolutely away. “Just leave the tray,” I ordered stiffly.
She complied, though she took a slow, deep breath. “It’s difficult, isn’t it?”
My back went rigid. I sneaked a glance through my lashes, saw her staring at the delicate teapot with such sadness on her face. I bit my lip.
“We all have secrets,” she told me, but she didn’t look at me. “Some of us, it’s worse than others. Them that’s without, they’re always on the out and looking in. You think you’d be better sticking with them like you.”
Them like me. Like Zylphia.
Like . . .
Hawke.
My fists clenched so tightly, pain speared through my palms. “At least my Lord Compton is concerned,” I said flatly. “At least he cares enough to bloody well ask after me.”
“Is that what you think?” She looked at me, then, her eyebrows furrowed. Her hands settled on her aproned hips. “You believe he simply left you? Cherie, Cage was—”
I couldn’t stand to hear his name. Embarrassed, my pride damaged deeply, I shot to my feet, my nightgown swirling around my ankles, and flung a hand to the door. “Get out,” I ordered, each word bitten to the quick.
The vanity chair tumbled backward as I strode across the room. Zylphia passed me, her lips tight with disapproval. With anger.
I didn’t care.
The door shut behind me as I poured myself a cup of tea. She must have been listening for my stirring, for the brew steamed as it hit the china cup. Fresh from the kettle. And she’d left only sugar on the tray. No cream.
My hands shook as I brought the cup to my lips.
What kind of awful creature was I becoming?
The kind that could lie with ease. That could blame others for my own shortcomings.
“Damnation,” I seethed, and scalded my tongue on the tea. It was a small pain.
It did nothing to overwhelm the hole in my chest.
I was angry. I was mortified by my own behavior and acutely aware of how petty I was acting. It only worsened my mood. I was frightened, I admit now what I couldn’t then, feeling out of sorts from all of it. Compiled with the restless energy I always felt after a bout of strong opium, and I was beyond help.
The events with Hawke were only a portion of my frustration. The things he’d made me feel seemed somehow . . . unnatural. I was no closeted miss unaware of the ways of the world, but I was virginal in the strictest definition and entirely too embarrassed by the subject matter in regards to myself.
I’d never summoned the nerve to ask Zylphia about such things.
To feel the same whispered urges when I heard Compton’s voice? This was deucedly unfair, and baffling beyond. Micajah Hawke sold his soul to charm the stars from the sky—and more than a few ladies from their stays, I was sure. That he could engender such feelings from a girl like myself was unsurprising.
The earl was no ringmaster. No wicked tempter in the dark. Why, then, did I think of him?
Bah, I was back to this again. I needed a distraction.
I spent as much time as I possibly could in the relative safety of my room. I paced, I curled up beneath the covers. I called for a bath, scrubbed myself until my skin turned pink, then soaked until the water turned cold and my fingertips wrinkled.
I dressed, decided against the pretty rose-colored day gown and found something instead in charcoal gray. Much more somber.
Much more to my mood.
I brushed out my own hair until it shone, dry and vibrantly lustrous. I began to weave it into a plethora of tiny plaits, like I’d seen on the dark-skinned man beneath the drift, then impatiently gave up and twined it all up into a simple coil.
When I couldn’t stand my own company a moment longer, I seized my courage in both hands and left my bedchamber.
The house was quiet. Not empty; not even pared down. I waited at the top of the stair, gloved hand gripping the banister tightly, and strained to hear every sound trickling through the tomblike silence.
There was motion in the kitchen. Betsy and Zylphia, perhaps? Or simply Mrs. Booth with early preparations for the afternoon tea. I stared at the foyer beyond the stairs, willing myself to take the first step.
Just one, and my other foot could continue the motion. Step by step.
Guilt gripped at my throat.
I gritted my teeth, took a deep breath, and forced myself to move. Daintily. Skirts held just so. A proper lady.
What a liar.
I stumbled on the last step, caught myself with both hands around the lion’s mane newel and shook my head hard. Enough of this. As far as anyone else knew, I was still just me. All right, so I’d tipped my hand to my staff, but they were my staff, weren’t they?
Only Zylphia knew what had happened below.
But she’d never stand for a character witness. I had to be certain that my secrets stayed below. I spoke often of choosing to live as an exile, but if it ever came to that, I preferred it on my terms. If news of this—any of this—ever reached my guardian’s ears before I came of age, I could lose everything.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
I could do this. I was Cherry bloody St. Croix. My father was a notorious madman. I’d been through worse, I was sure. A knife wound I’d sustained years ago surely outweighed embarrassment. A childhood spent in the circus rings certainly mattered more than a week’s worth of inconveniences. In less than a year, I’d have everything I ever wanted.
I straightened, shook out my skirts, and strode into the parlor.
Fanny started, her knitting needles clacking together in surprise. “Cherry!”
I waved a dismissive hand at her as I crossed to my favorite settee. “Don’t get up,” I said quickly. “I feel fine. I was just ill.”
Her eyebrows furrowed, thin lines of deep suspicion. “Ill, then?” Her lips pursed. “How ill?”
“Just ill,” I said, carefully arranging my skirts so I didn’t have to look up at my chaperone’s all-too-sharp scrutiny. “I believe I ate something below that disagreed with my constitution.”
It was as if I’d slapped her with the word below. Her indrawn breath hissed. “Yes,” she said after a taut silence. “Below.” She chewed on the word slowly. Cautiously. “Cherry, what on earth—”
I looked up, already shaking my head. “It’s a long story, Fanny. I’m tired. Can’t it wait?”
“You spent all day abed.”
“I was—”
“Ill, yes,” my chaperone finished for me, but her tone was dry. “So you said. My dove, do you have any idea how close your reputation is to lying in tatters?” Her needles clicked, once, twice, before she gave up and set them aside. Standing, Frances Fortescue began to do something I had never in my life seen her do.
She began to pace.
I blinked at her as the rustle of her heavy poplin skirts filled the silence.
“You vanished for an entire day and almost all of the night,” Fanny pointed out, her gloved hands twined together. I bit my lip. “Betsy was beside herself; we practically had to force it out of her by a switch,” she added grimly.
I stood so quickly, the blood left my head in a dizzying rush. “You didn’t!”
“Sit down, Cherry,” Fanny snapped. I sat, but only because it was that or fall. “Of course we didn’t,” she added irritably. “What do you think we are?” She pointed a gloved finger at me before I could answer, though I hadn’t the faintest idea what to say. “We’re your family, that’s what! How dare you, Cherry St. Croix?”
I flinched.
It wasn’t enough. My rail-thin chaperone was nobody’s idea of a formidable foe, but as she stared me down across three feet of elegant parlor, every quivering inch clad in elegant navy blue poplin, I thought even a seasoned pugilist would quail.
“How dare you,” she demanded again. “How dare you place Betsy into such an untenable position? How long has this been going on?”
I opened my mouth.
“Trousers, Cherry!”
I shut my mouth again.
Red-cheeked and all but vibrating in high dudgeon, Fanny spun and stalked to the mantel, her thin shoulders rigid. “And your corset! Good heavens, what on earth was it doing being seen by anyone who could look at you?”
“It’s plated,” I began, then threw my hands up in surrender when she spun, fury glinting in her pale blue eyes.
“You are a disgrace,” she snapped. I winced. “A disgrace to your father and mother, God rest their dearly departed souls, and a disgrace to this very house!”
I shot to my feet, impatiently scraping away tendrils of my less-than-expertly pinned hair. “Now you see here,” I began heatedly.
Fanny had no mind to see anything. She covered her eyes with one hand, groaning, “If this gets out, you’re ruined. Don’t you see that? All the hard work and effort we’ve put into you—”
I’d had enough. “Madam Fortescue,” I said tightly, my voice pitched to a dangerous edge. “Will you shut your bleeding mouth!”
Fanny gasped, her cheeks draining of all blood. Her eyes widened, and I swear she swayed.
It was, I reflected later, likely the first time anyone had ever used such a word in her presence. And it coming from me, no less.
I forged ahead before she could collect herself. “My parents are dead, thank you very much. I can’t possibly disappoint them as they’re rather beyond caring.” I strode to the window, but didn’t reach for the drapes. I spun, my skirts frothing around my feet, and pointed at her. “They should have thought of what I’d become when they bloo—” No. I censored myself before the word escaped again. One such shock was enough for the old woman. “Before they died,” I amended tightly. “You have no conception of the life I’ve led, the choices I’ve made.”
“Of course we don’t.” But it didn’t come angrily. Fanny sat back on the settee I’d abandoned, her tone—her very demeanor—weary.
I blinked at her, my anger suddenly trapped between walls of uncertainty.
I could handle yelling. Even the too-sharp barbs that were Fanny’s way of keeping me in line.
I didn’t know what to do with . . . this.
“How could we possibly know, Cherry?” She looked at me, and her eyes were so large in her thin features. Brimming with tears. “You’ve never told us.”
My mouth closed once more. What could I say?
Nothing. She was right.
I tried anyway. “I’ve never told anyone. Betsy only found out that I’m a collector by accident, and I swore her to secrecy on—” I winced. “On pain of losing her post.”
“Oh, I think that girl enjoyed the secret,” Fanny said wryly, but it lacked every trace of humor. My chaperone rubbed at her cheeks, pale and so delicate, I was suddenly seized with the awareness of how old my chaperone suddenly appeared.
Were those wrinkles always there?
Were her veins always so dark in her translucent skin?
Something cracked in my chest, and I crossed the room, sank to the cushions beside her and took Fanny’s fragile hands in min
e. “I’m sorry,” I said. I wanted to give her something, anything. So I began to speak. Quietly, calmly. As if I were only recounting the plot thread of a book, I spoke to her of Monsieur Marceaux’s Traveling Circus. What little I could remember, I told her. Of the acts I participated in, the quota the vile ringmaster required of his acquired children. I mentioned the thievery, the threat of failure, but I left out a great deal more. Like the auction rings. The loss of limb or life when an act went terribly awry.
I avoided all those things I knew would bring pity to her eyes as she listened to me, her hands tight in mine. To her credit, my dear chaperone listened in silence, her gaze steady.
“Oh, my poor child. And now?” she asked when my voice fell to silence.
“Now, I collect,” I admitted. “I have for nigh on five years, Fanny. I was afraid you’d force me to stop.”
“Stop?” Her chuckle strained. “I don’t even pretend to know what it is you do.” She blew out a hard breath. “Nor,” she added quickly as I opened my mouth, “do I wish to. Please, let this old woman live in as much ignorance as possible. I know what I think a collector is, I’d rather leave it at that.”
That ache in my heart tightened, and I raised Fanny’s hands to my cheeks. I loved her. She was as close to a mother as I’d ever had, and I knew that I’d betrayed her trust in me.
In so many more ways than she even suspected.
She turned her hands, cradling my cheeks in her gloved palms, and ducked her head to meet my eyes. Her regard was steady. Worried. “But you must be ever so careful now, my dove. Your reputation is only a whisper away from ostracizing you from everything you know.”
“There is nothing to be ostracized from.”
“You know better, Cherry.”
I did, and I gave in. “No one here will breathe a word,” I said firmly. My staff trusted me. So much more, I realized, than I had trusted them.
That would have to change.
“And besides, Fanny,” I said lightly, patting her hands as I pulled away. “No one else even knows.”
“Ahem.” A masculine throat cleared itself of nothing at all, and both Fanny and I jumped.
Teddy hovered in the doorway, his hazel eyes sharp within a carefully tempered expression of indolent curiosity. “Knows what?” he asked.
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