The living art was an even better treat. Several men wore the customary black dinner jacket or tailcoat, but most had come in rich velvet waistcoats and trousers that complimented the shape of their backsides. That was one thing Emmeline loved about aesthete men, they were far from shy when it came to their vanity, and the women were no different. They swept between guests, all nymphs with toothy smiles and elaborately coiffed hair. She couldn’t imagine what they did, but somehow she doubted it was sitting at home with a brood or a husband who expected them to keep house. They were women of charms or means, most of which required skirting the knife’s edge of propriety. Before everything that happened with her mother and Lord Rose, she never would have imagined how close she came to ruin every day.
As Emmeline stepped into the drawing room, gooseflesh rose on her arm, pulling every hair to attention and sending a shiver through her. She didn’t dare look. With several glasses of champagne loosening her walls, the spirits stood out among the party guests as pale imitations of life. Sometimes they appeared on the street as bright as the living, and she would apologize for nearly bumping into them only to find her elbow passed right through them. She didn’t want to see them here, not in a house so full of vitality she could feel the energy resonating inside her. It was probably why the hollow-eyed souls flocked to her there, especially now that they knew she could see them. Jerking her arm away, Emmeline strolled through the drawing room, keeping her head erect and her eyes down until she stood at the edge of the parlor where a handful of couples danced to a lively waltz.
“What a charming dress. Whoever suggested you wear it has exquisite taste,” a familiar voice whispered low enough at her ear only she could hear.
Emmeline’s lips quirked into a smile at the sardonic edge in his voice. Without looking at him, she knew his dark amber eyes were already cutting through the crowd, sharp as flint. The sensation of a match striking within her echoing through her form at the touch of his hand against the small of her back as he came to her side. From the corner of her eye, she traced the waves of his hair from crown to collar where it dusted the fabric of his peacock blue coat. The notes of gold in his brown skin glowed in the lamp light, but what she loved most were the lines of kohl ringing his eyes. A dramatic popinjay, she told herself, but she enjoyed the spectacle as much as anybody. Nadir Talbot, a writer of some note and an Aesthete of the highest caliber, could hardly be missed at any party, let alone one he hadn’t been invited to.
“And a good evening to you, too, Mr. Talbot. I’m surprised you made it inside the door.”
“Oh, old Elsy hasn’t seen me yet.” He flashed her a toothy grin and offered her his hand. “Shall we spoil his fun?”
“Only if it won’t result in my gossip partner being expelled from the premises. We have far too much to discuss.”
“He wouldn’t dare make a scene in front of everyone. Kicking a beloved author out of your salon is in poor taste.”
As the musicians paused to begin a fresh melody, Nadir gave her hand a gentle squeeze and she followed him onto the floor. His arm swept around her, comfortable and sure against her spine. Despite his reputation as a cad, his touch had never been possessive or groping. With the trill of a violin, they stepped in harmony, bodies no more than a hand’s breadth apart. Mr. Talbot had a dancer’s physique and the skill to match. In his grasp, she always felt out of practice, yet he turned into her idiosyncrasies and managed to make them look like flourishes. Circling the dance floor, guests on the sidelines watched them with looks of envy and admiration. If only the girls she debuted with could see her now. They would be horribly jealous or appalled, though not as much as their dear mothers. A year ago, she never would have pictured herself happily moving in the same circles as the people she met when she and Cassandra ate at the Dorothy. Aesthetes, artists, philosophers, writers. All her life she had dreamed of balls where she could waltz with lords but stepping from lords to aesthetes had been as simply as changing petticoats.
Emmeline’s chest tightened as she turned. Through the haze of cheroot cigarettes, Emmeline thought she saw a familiar pair of eyes, but as soon as they appeared, they were replaced by David Elsworth’s glower. His gaze cut through the other revelers as they spun away. When his fine features contorted into a sneer, Emmeline bit her lip before a laugh could escape. Once upon a time, she would have fallen for a man like Elsworth; all judgment, pomp, and pomade. But life had taught her well that love was not meant for those who walked hand in hand with death.
“Do you think we have sufficiently tortured him?” Nadir whispered, the words zipping past her ear making her shiver.
“I wouldn’t mind another turn to drive the point home. Uh oh.”
Roderick Douglas leaned against the wall, watching them beneath long blonde lashes. Beautiful and cold, he was the sort of man who only need raise his gaze to get what he required. Emmeline felt the cut she had given other women dozens of times before as he raked his eyes over her from the flowers woven into her hair to her slippered feet. She swallowed against the knot in her throat before meeting Mr. Talbot’s gaze.
He arched a black brow. “Uh oh?”
“Roddy’s here.”
“So?”
“He hates me.”
“He hates everyone.”
Roddy’s softened focus lingered on Nadir’s back. “He certainly doesn’t hate you. He ignores me like I’m dead, and I should like to know why.”
“You probably don’t.”
Emmeline’s hand tightened a fraction on Mr. Talbot’s as they slowed into the final steps of their dance. Beyond the confines of the tight dance floor, reality waited for them. Hollow-eyed creatures stared back between the revelers, but it was the living she feared. The dead never lied or asked for much. The living sat in judgment. Tonight, she had no escort, no husband or fiancé, but she clung to the arm of a man whose company she had been in at nearly every gathering they had attended together. Rumors would start to fly once the season got going, and she hoped they wouldn’t make their way back to her aunt.
Catching the quickening of her breath as they crossed the floor to clear the way for a new group of couples, Nadir steered her to a chair. “Are you all right? You look pale— well, paler than usual.”
“Just tired.”
Mr. Talbot shook his head. “Miss Jardine, what will we do with you once the season gets under way? How will you survive a ball?”
“I doubt I shall be invited to any balls.”
“You’ve given up on the Ton?”
“Yes.” As they approached, Emmeline pretended not to notice a woman shepherd her daughter away. “And they on me.”
“All the better for the rest of us,” he replied with a playful wink. “I’ll go find you something to drink.”
She whispered her thanks and tried to sink into the stiff chair without looking like a deflated cake. After all that champagne, she had hoped her thoughts would fuzz into something pleasant. Instead, she found herself staring into a gulf where her old life should have been. Wasn’t that why she left? Wasn’t that what she had tried so hard to escape from? And yet… And yet she yearned for its predictable restrictions even though those bounds chafed and left her with angry wounds.
A swath of dove grey appeared on her left, but Emmeline refused to acknowledge him. He loomed beside her, the charge of his energy prickling the side of her face like a dull itch. The man could smell weakness like a predator.
“If you’re looking for Mr. Talbot, he’s probably at the punch bowl,” she said coolly.
“I think I’ll wait,” Roddy replied, his voice breathy. She hated how he always sounded as if he were about to yawn from boredom, as if the entire world was a trial. “And where is your dear aunt? I thought she had been chaperoning you last season, or is she under the daisies, too?”
Emmeline stiffened.
“You know, I heard some interesting things about you. They say you went mad and stowed away on a dirigible to the Continent. Some think there was a reason you
ran off, but you came back far too soon for that. Some even say you ran off with someone before dear Lord What’s-His-Name was even cold.”
Flexing her jaw, Emmeline swallowed down the venom threatening to spew out. In someone else’s parlor, she would have gone off on the honorable Mister Douglas, he could take it, but here, it would only confirm that the gossip-mongers were right. That she was a mad and wild girl, just as they suspected. Leaving England had been the only way she could tame her anger. If she hadn’t—
“Don’t call him that,” she managed through clenched teeth. “Insult me, but don’t insult him.”
“Fine. Have you spoken to dear Cecil since? Nadir told me of your so-called gift. It must be lovely to have a chat with your dead fiancé whenever you choose.” He released a high, attention-drawing laugh. “How convenient. A marriage with none of the work.”
Emmeline stared ahead at the dance floor, pretending the heat behind her eyes was the spark of fire and not the burn of tears.
“We should get Elsworth to hold a séance. We could call on Cecil. It would be like old times. What do you say to that?”
“Please stop,” she mustered as flatly as she could.
“Stop? Why would I do that? You haven’t stopped bothering Nadir and the rest of us since you returned.”
“I doubt I’m bothering Mr. Talbot.”
Cocking his head with a cruel smile, he brought his glass to his lips before letting it drop a fraction. “Oh, you orphans with your sob stories, latching onto your betters like some Dickensian urchin. It is so tiresome, but we look bad if we kick you aside. You might as well leave on your own before he sees through your orphan and widow act like I do.”
Emmeline snapped up from the chair so fast she hadn’t realized she had done it until she stood eye to chin with Roderick Douglas. He stumbled back, bumping into a woman who turned to stare at them both, but Emmeline didn’t care. Whatever self-control she possessed had been replaced with the raw urge to destroy. Her palms itched as her mind flitted to the idea of setting his waistcoat ablaze. When she met his gaze, he stared down at her as if she were something foul.
Before he could speak, she stuck her finger in his face. “How dare you. You know nothing about me, but I do hope Nadir Talbot sees you for the conniving little ratbag you are.”
Turning on heel, Emmeline cut through the crowd as slowly and calmly as possible. Her legs trembled but her face betrayed nothing even as she caught a glimpse of soft black hair and the sweep of kohl-rimmed eyes where she had been. In the empty foyer, Emmeline flattened against the wall and drew in a long, slow breath. Footsteps sounded behind her, and for a moment, she didn’t know whether she wanted to see Nadir Talbot standing there.
“Leaving already?”
David Elsworth stood watching her from the threshold. While his grey-brown hair and mustache had not a hair out of place and his suit was perfectly tailored without being flashy, she felt the nudge in her gut that something was wrong. He was the sort she could never place. No title or employment but money, bland but handsome, invited to every gathering yet close friends with no one. He fell into too many boxes for her liking, and now, he stood between her and the vibrancy of the party. Her eyes drifted to the door. Her cloak had been taken by a servant, but she could probably stand the January cold if need be.
“Yes, I’m afraid I must be going. I— I have a lot of calls to make tomorrow.”
“I see. If you’re leaving, take your muck snipe friend with you,” he said, low enough to be a warning.
Biting back an equally unkind reply, Emmeline turned toward the door.
“Miss Jardine, be aware that I invite people for a reason. It isn’t your place to decide who attends my gatherings.”
“Then don’t invite me.”
The words hung in the air, broken only by a distant laugh. “You’ve changed. And not necessarily for the better.”
“Good,” she said, her hand tightening on the knob.
She hadn’t expected to say it. Words rolled off her tongue faster than her mind could stop them, but she rarely regretted them. The breath squeezed from her lungs as she pushed into the night air, heedless of the bitter cold. Behind her, someone called her name, but she had already swept into the back of the first steamer cab that slowed for her. Even as harried footsteps and hollers followed, she didn’t look back for fear she would never stop.
Chapter Three
The Language of Flowers
Nadir grimaced at the glaring light cutting across the sheets. Why the hell were the drapes open? Leona. Pulling the sheets greedily over his shoulders, he buried his aching head in the pillow. If only his dear cousin would mind her own business and stay out of his room. Who else would have—? Before he could finish the thought, he shot up, patting the bed as if to be sure he wasn’t seeing things. The sheets on the other end remained undisturbed, the pillow as plump as it had been before he dragged himself in after the party. Nadir released a relieved sigh and collapsed back into bed. Staring at the dark ceiling, Nadir traced the familiar shapes of constellations among the stars painted over his head. Leona hated his bedroom. Every wall had been painted dark grey while the trim and floors had been stained nearly black. The only color came from his sheets and the clothing hanging in his wardrobe. His cousin called it “the tomb,” but this bit of darkness belonged only to him. When he spent hour upon hour in his study writing, his room offered an eternal night no matter what hour he collapsed into bed.
Kicking off the covers, Nadir staggered out of bed and yanked the curtains shut. As he dug through his drawers for his hangover tonic, the door squealed open. Nadir stiffly turned, but upon seeing his valet, he continued his search. Darius Perkins waited, practically blending into the wall with his dark skin, bald head, and penchant for absolute stillness. Nadir loved him for it, but Leona hated him after being startled one too many times, much to her cousin’s entertainment.
“Bottom drawer,” Perkins said over his shoulder as he set the breakfast tray on the bed.
A wave of nausea rippled through Nadir’s gut as he pawed through his undergarments until his hand brushed against the cool metal of a flask. Taking a long swig, Nadir resisted the urge to cough against the burning in his throat. The hangover tonic tasted lethal, but it was the one good thing he got out of his time at Harrow.
“Good party?”
“Abysmal.” Nadir looked up to find Perkins staring down at him with a knowing smirk. “I should never drink absinthe.”
“You say that every time. The purple suit or the green suit?”
“Green. And pair it with the paisley waistcoat.”
Collapsing back onto the bed, Nadir massaged his temples. As his fingers brushed the scar on the side of his head, he jerked his hand away. His mouth tasted like dirty socks and his tongue was unpleasantly tacky. So much of the night remained in a haze. He couldn’t remember falling into bed, but he could remember Emmeline leaping from the chair looking as if she wanted to take Roddy’s head off.
“Did Roddy leave with me?”
“Yes, but I deposited him at his front door as you instructed.”
Setting the tray on his lap, Nadir buttered a piece of dry toast, hoping it would settle his stomach. After the last two times an intoxicated Roddy had tried to weasel his way into Nadir’s bed, he had learned to drop him off first. The man couldn’t hold gainful employment or finish a bloody poem, but he could be damn persistent when he wanted to be. It wasn’t that Roddy with his wicked mouth and liquid eyes wasn’t devilishly attractive; Nadir just couldn’t put himself in that position.
To sleep with a man like Roddy meant the possibility of becoming the latest exotic treat to be discussed over drinks in a smoky club. Exotic. The word left a bitter taste in his mouth. How many times had he heard that word crooned by men and women as their eyes slithered under his clothes to imagine the body beneath? Suddenly, he was no longer Nadir Talbot, Cambridge attendee and author, he was the Egyptian harem boy to be savored and given trinkets for a n
ight well spent. Nadir Talbot made certain he belonged to no one but himself. He might wear the occasional turban and kohl around his eyes, but it wasn’t done to win their affections. It was to feel that momentary thrill knowing that he held the eyes of every man and woman in the room, that he could hold them captive and reject them all without a qualm. That was one of the things he liked about Miss Jardine; she barely looked at him. They both lived for themselves rather than for the expectations of others.
Guilt soured his first bite of soft boiled egg. Emmeline Jardine’s face surfaced in his mind as she darted into the steamer. He found there exists a moment before a person cries where for a fraction of a second their features are caught in the most exquisite irony, when vulnerability renders them most beautiful only to crush it a moment later. It was the second time he had seen her look like that, but this time he had been responsible for it and he felt awful. He never should have left her alone with Roddy. The first time had been at the Villa Adriana in Tivoli.
He had been sitting beside a fractured column working on the third chapter of his latest book. Well, he told himself he was writing when in reality, he had been gritting his teeth and staring into space when his brain couldn’t conjure a single character or situation befitting the rows of cracked, stone caryatids and the lush hills surrounding the ancient baths. The whole reason he had gone to Italy was to do research for his book and all he had to show for it was a journal full of haphazard notes and blisters on his heels. Sitting at the edge of the massive pool, Nadir tried to remember the airship schedule he had perused earlier. He had less than a day left in Rome before he left for Venice and all he could think about was whether to return to London or venture to Alexandria when the crunch of grass roused him from his thoughts.
The Wolf Witch Page 2