The Wolf Witch

by Kara Jorgensen

  Leaning around the column, Nadir spotted a woman standing near the water’s edge. Even from behind, he could see the fine fabric of her lavender gown with its black trim lining the bustle, but what made him look closer was how her heavy, black curls tumbled down her back free of a hat or pins, unabashedly natural in the Mediterranean sun. He could make out the kinks where pins had once tried to contort it into knots or tucks only to have the humidity work them free. The urge to run his fingers through her curls and work them loose rose in him like a blaze.

  As he slowly stood, she turned toward him. The first thing he had seen were her eyes, which were unnaturally wide to the point that her nose and straight lips looked small. Sunlight caught the sheen in her eyes as moisture gathered at the edge of her lids and her lips pursed only to grow more flushed. Eyes that would have ordinarily been simply brown glowed the red of stormy seas. For a moment, she softened into the women of his stories who had preternatural beauty and wielded it better than any sword. His heart pulsed in his mouth as he took a step toward her, but when she saw him, her face tightened into a scowl and suddenly he knew her. Emmeline Jardine stood before him with wild hair and a look that fell away when she realized who stood before her. She was what he had been looking for when he went to Trivoli.

  Without thinking, he called, “Miss Jardine.”

  “Sir?”

  Nadir set his breakfast tray aside and pulled off his crumpled shirt from the previous night. Roddy had played him for a fool. “Perkins, start the steamer. I need to go to the florist.”

  ***

  Emmeline had awoken in a foul mood. It wasn’t a particularly unusual occurrence. Even as a child, her mother would give her a wide berth until her breakfast and tea had worked its magic to somehow convert her from a grunting goblin to a passably pleasant young lady. Today had been exceptionally bad as she woke with Roddy and Elsworth’s words buzzing through her mind like hornets. Price was sensible enough to leave her alone once she settled into the study with a handful of candles and a bowl of water, but it didn’t take long for Emmeline to realize it was a pointless endeavor. Anger muddied her connection to her abilities, and there would be no calling to spirits or flames until she calmed down. Frankly, it was a brilliant failsafe in case her temper got the better of her, which it often did. Burning down half of London would only land her at the Interceptors’ door or in prison. Releasing a resigned breath, Emmeline pulled down her favorite book. The Queen’s Heir had brought her comfort in the first few weeks she lived with her aunt and uncle. Adam Fenice had brought over a pile of books for her to read, but this was the first book she had revisited over and over to the point that she convinced her aunt to purchase her a copy of her own. Now, the pages had grown thin and discolored where she fingered their edges and the binding fell open to her favorite parts.

  On the surface, it was merely another scandalous romance novel. A queen under the rule of a tyrannical regent has a daughter in secret and spirits her off to the country to keep her safe. That sort of thing was expected in fantastical books, but what sent parents scrambling to pry the book from their daughters’ hands or demand booksellers take it off their shelves were the sword fights, carriage chases, thefts, and assaults, all perpetrated by an unapologetic seventeen year old princess in a gown. The story made Emmeline feel more dangerous and less alone. The princess had thought she was an orphan until she found her place at court and returned to her mother after defeating the evil regent. Her favorite bits—marked by pages made wavy from the rub of her thumb or a few drips of tea—had been the sentimental moments. They felt real with subtle touches and so much left unwritten. Each time, Emmeline felt the lump in her throat when she imagined the queen embracing her daughter once more. How many times had she imagined a moment that was never to be?

  Getting her fill, Emmeline set the book in her lap. She sighed and ran a fingertip over the cracked embossed letters on the spine, lingering on the hollows of the A, B, and O. Her eyes blurred as she tried to make out the grandfather clock near the door before clicking open the watch at her waist. Past tea. She scrubbed her eyes with her knuckles. Price knew to leave her alone if she was in one of these moods, but she wished she would interfere if for no other reason than to keep her from squandering her entire day. Not that reading ever counted as squandering time. Returning the book to its place, she made her way to the foyer, tripping over the spot in the runner that always seemed to rumple. If the flat had been hers, she would have replaced it, but ultimately it still belonged to Lord Dorset and she could only change so much.

  On the foyer table sat a pile of mail on a silver plate. Settling in before the fire in the parlor, Emmeline opened each letter. Several were invitations to small events before the season began in earnest, a handful were correspondence from acquaintances in town or the practioners she spent time with in Europe, but she set those aside for later. More than anything, she was relieved not to see Aunt Eliza’s handwriting. She didn’t need her needling questions or her requests to have tea that were anything but a request. Flipping to the final missive, her breath caught in her throat. Her mother’s name hit her like a slap until it registered that it was addressed to her mother rather than from her.

  Emmeline frowned. It had been two years since her mother died, and it had been months since anyone had written looking for her. Cracking the red wax seal of an ornamental B, Emmeline drew out a piece of expensive hotel stationary. At the top was the logo and address of the Savoy Hotel while the rest of the page contained the same clipped, masculine hand as on the envelope.

  Dearest Madeline,

  I hope this letter finds you well. I tried sending you a telegraph in Oxford when I arrived, but they told me it couldn’t be delivered to that address. It makes sense that you would have moved to London. Has Emmy been out one season or two? I bet she looked magnificent and it would explain your silence. I would ask if she is married, but you would have surely written to me.

  I know we agreed to go our separate ways, but I need your help. My youngest came to London working for the Pinkertons and hasn’t been heard from since he arrived three weeks ago. He’s a grown man, but I’m worried and my leads have run dry. You understand the need for discretion while I’m here. I think he may have also been working for Les Meutes without telling me, which may put him at odds with your people. If you’re willing to help me find Wesley, I made a reservation for two at the Cafe Royal at seven. If you can’t, I understand and will respect your wishes.

  Ever your friend and servant,

  Silas Bisclavret

  A wave of irrational jealousy worked its way up Emmeline’s neck until it settled into her jaw. How dare this man be so forward with her mother. It didn’t matter that she had been gone so long that Emmeline had a hard time remembering her voice. The thought of some man trying to lay claim to her mother still ate her from the inside out. Madeline Jardine had been a queen in silk and lace who could command servant and gentleman alike. Early widowhood had ensured Lady Jardine would be governed by no man. Despite the reflexive anger telling Emmeline to toss the letter into the fire and go back to her novel, the curiosity within her grew as she reread the note for a third time. This Silas Bisclavret had known her mother and supposedly cared for her. He had even asked about Emmeline’s debut. She could picture her mother’s reaction to such a note. Without question, she would be there, ready to help whoever this Mr. Bisclavret was. Emmeline released a huffed sigh. She should at least go and tell him in person about her mother’s death. It was the least she could do for a free meal.

  ***

  Standing at Miss Jardine’s door, Nadir took a moment to compose himself. His brow furrowed at the realization. Why was he composing himself? Usually, his rakish, slapdash charm bubbled to the surface in an endless font, but today, he found it hard to smile and even harder to act like everything was fine. Perhaps it was the hangover, though he had had those more times than he could count, or perhaps he was still angry at Roddy. More often than not, he could revel in his ang
er. It took no more than an afternoon to concoct some petty revenge that would remind them that he wasn’t one to toy with. Instead, he found he hadn’t thought much of Roderick and had spent his waking hours tramping through London’s largest purveyor of hothouse flowers in search of a bouquet that not only made sense aesthetically but said what he wanted to say. Roddy had made a mess of— of whatever this was, and he had to make it right. He had seen the same pain written on Miss Jardine’s features in Italy, though he knew not of its source. The embarrassment from the whispers and insensitive remarks alone would have taken their toll, but they would have been nothing compared to grieving for her beau. Nadir had little experience with the latter, though he was no stranger to public scrutiny. Even after being acquitted of murder, he had been cast out of certain social circles, and at parties he still caught the occasional scrutinizing stare or hushed remark.

  Straightening the paper, he made certain the sprigs of lilac, February Daphne, and lavender hadn’t been squashed in the ride over before ringing the bell. After a muffled oath and the shuffling click of locks, the door swung open to reveal Emmeline Jardine in a red dinner dress trimmed in black lace. The breath caught in Nadir’s throat at the way it framed her neck to look longer and trailed lower to reveal the swell of cleavage beneath it. The cut was exquisite and the color daring. Nadir finally raised his gaze to her face and found her staring at him with equal parts annoyance and surprise. Her inky curls had been artfully coiled and piled atop her head, and beneath her eyes, he could make out the hint of dark circles.

  “Is that a Worth gown?” he asked lamely, his mouth dry.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You know how to spend your money well. You look lovely.”

  She crossed her arms. “And you look like a palm tree. Is there something you need, Mr. Talbot? I was about to leave for an important meeting.”

  “I promise, this will only take a few minutes of your time. I came to apologize.” He proffered the bouquet. “I shouldn’t have left you and Roddy alone. I—”

  At the sound of squealing brakes across the road, Emmeline grabbed him by the lapel and yanked him into her apartment. Shoving him inside, she slammed the door and locked it for good measure. Nadir straightened the front of his jacket, watching her as she stared through the peephole. When she turned back to him, she motioned for him to be quiet before leading him into the parlor.

  “I’m not allowed to have men in my rooms unattended,” she said in a mocking falsetto and a roll of her eyes. “I’m fairly certain my aunt has a spy reporting back to her. I just haven’t figured out which neighbor it is.”

  “You could have left me on the pavement.”

  “I could, but then someone might have seen you, and I’m certain neither of us want that.”

  “I see. Well, as I was trying to say, these are for you. I feel awful about how Roddy treated you. It was out of line.”

  Emmeline hesitantly took the bouquet from his hand. He had always sent them around by courier rather than deliver them himself, and she wasn’t sure how to react. Behind closed doors, she could smile and gush and examine the flowers to her heart’s content. Now, she had to play the expected game of pleasantries and tepid thank yous. Bringing the purple blossoms close, a small, defiant smile worked its way across her cheeks at seeing her favorite color. Lavender, lilacs, and February Daphne. A desire to please would serve Mr. Talbot well, but the rest was too early to think about. At least his bouquets were never overly dramatic. Ringing the bell, Price appeared before she had let go of the rope.

  “A vase, please.”

  “Should I bring tea too, miss?”

  “No, he won’t be staying,” she replied, giving him a pointed look.

  When the maid reappeared with a crystal vase, Nadir took to studying the parlor. Being so close to Hanover Square made the neighborhood a highly desirable place to live, far beyond what a writer of his stature could afford, so how had a young Spiritualist medium been able to? All of the parlor’s furnishings were fine and fairly new, though not so new as to have been bought by her. It was far too pastel and dainty. Previous tenant’s, he concluded, eying a gaudy, pink Spangle Art vase so fussy it couldn’t possibly have been Miss Jardine’s taste. While she was a lover of rich velvets and flowing silks, she had a sensibility in her dark purple gowns, and this was anything but sensible. How had she afforded it? She could have a well-off relation or a sibling who came into some money, he supposed. Perhaps, she was some man’s mistress. Or some woman’s. He wouldn’t put it past himself and he wouldn’t put it past her, either. She had a tongue like a switch and a self-assured nature certain people would find attractive. Stalking closer to the side table, Nadir lingered on a photograph of four young women and a boy and beside a piece of Savoy stationery. Five dark-eyed, dark-haired children who bore a vague resemblance to Miss Jardine stared back at him but none, as far as he could tell, were her. His gaze slowly crept to the letter beside it.

  “Where did you find these?”

  Nadir jolted toward her at the sound of her unusually breathy voice as he finished reading the first paragraph of the letter. She loudly sniffed and exhaled, eying him over a stem of lavender.

  “At Pandel’s. You can find anything in London if you look hard enough.”

  “Apparently, though it must have cost you to get hothouse flowers this time of year. They really are lovely, Mr. Talbot. Thank you.”

  “So am I forgiven, then?”

  A knowing smile crossed Emmeline’s lips, half between amusement and annoyance. “It’s an admirable start but not unless you can send your friend Roddy lettuce and leeches.”

  Nadir chuckled. “Sadly, I fear he would miss the message.”

  “Of course he would.”

  “So you’re off to the Cafe Royal? No wonder you’re so well dressed. God, I haven’t been to the Cafe Royal in months. I’m overdue. Personally, though, I prefer the Criterion.”

  “I’ve never been there myself.” Realizing what he had said, Emmeline slowly turned. Her dark eyes burned with fury as she stomped over to stand before him. She stood over half a head shorter than him, but the look in her eyes spoke of knives and very little to lose. “Give it to me.”

  When she reached out to snatch the letter from his hand, Nadir instinctively held it above his head, easily out of reach, as he had done with his cousin since they were children. His lips quirked in a smirk as he swaggered out of range when she tried to kick his shin.

  “Shouldn’t you have given this to Madeline? It seems we are both guilty of taking what isn’t ours.”

  Emmeline gritted her teeth. “Take your flowers and leave. I don’t care who sees.”

  “I’m kidding, Miss Jardine. Here, my apologies if I caused any offense,” he replied, holding out the letter for her to take.

  “I hope you know I like your opinions on fashion far more than I like you.”

  “Everyone does. But shouldn’t Madeline go to this meeting instead of you?”

  A bitter laugh escaped her lips as she snatched the letter from his hand. “I don’t think so. She’s dead.”

  Nadir opened his mouth but quickly shut it, shame leeching through his form. “Oh. I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

  “You and your friends are very good at bringing up my dead relations, Mr. Talbot. Your peace offering is beginning to ring hollow.”

  His voice and demeanor softened. Leave it to him to make a muck of things. “It really wasn’t my intention to offend you. Was she your sister?”

  “My mother,” she replied, her voice and face quiet as she carefully folded the letter.

  He nodded. “Would you like a lift to the Cafe Royal? Perhaps I can make amends this way.”

  Emmeline regarded him for a long moment, her lips pursed as she slipped on her gloves. Meeting her gaze, he flashed his most roguish grin and held out his hand. Heat crept into her cheeks until finally she shook her head and begrudgingly smiled.

  “Fine, fine. But you’re still an incorrigible busybo
dy.”

  Chapter Four

  The Cafe Royal

  Emmeline leaned against the seat of Nadir’s steamer, replaying what she might say to Mr. Bisclavret for the tenth time. At least the traffic gave her time to compose how she would explain that her mother had died without getting upset herself. If he pushed her for information or became emotional, she didn’t know what she would do. Hopefully, he would focus on his lost son, and she could easily claim she had no knowledge of how to find him and slip away before her entree arrived. Closing her eyes, Emmeline released a tense breath. It felt wrong. It felt wrong to be cruel and brush this man off, even though they had never met. Ever since her mother’s death, that reaction had been her mode of operation. She had always been quick-tempered, but she hadn’t always been so rude. When she lived with her aunt and uncle, it felt so good to snap, to see their eyes widen and their faces fall, for them to feel the hurt she felt even for just a second. But after returning from Europe, being mean took effort. Mr. Talbot seemed immune or even amused by her quick retorts, and she was tired.

  “I should go in with you,” Nadir said wistfully as he twirled his ebony cane between his hands.

  Emmeline jerked her head up so quickly it swam. “No.”

  “But it really is the sensible thing to do. Leona would have my head if she knew I let you walk into a situation that could be detrimental to your character.”

  “You have no responsibility to me. I’m not your cousin.”

  “True, but my driver is taking you there.”

  “I don’t need you to be my chaperon, Mr. Talbot. If I wanted or needed one, I would have brought my aunt.”

  “What if this Bisclavret fellow is a murderer or a lech? His letter was quite forward.”

  Emmeline’s frown tightened. Since she found the letter, her mind had turned up a dozen visions of who the man could be. If her mother had dealt with him, he couldn’t be all bad. But her mother had brought Lord Rose into their home. His chiseled features surfaced in her mind, but she dashed them away under the countenance of someone softer, younger, freer.