“Absolutely.” Emma beamed. She wasn’t going anywhere near Victoria’s, but if that’s what it took to get her father to stop worrying and let her out the door, she’d do it. It’d add plenty of time to her journey, but luckily she hadn’t given Callom an exact time for her arrival.
Package in hand, and a thicker shawl wrapped around her shoulders at her father’s behest, Emma was out the door and on her way. The morning light filtered through the cracks between the towering buildings around her, offering more of an annoyance to her eyes than any warmth at all. The brisk breeze whipped down the street and tangled her skirts around her legs, chilling through the many layers of clothing.
Perhaps later she would thank her father for insisting on the shawl.
With the package delivered to Mr. Hudson’s footman, Emma had just turned to go on her way when a particularly feminine voice stopped her.
“Emma!” Victoria hurried up beside her, wrapped in a bundle of furs. “Have you come by to visit?”
For a moment, Emma hesitated, but luckily Victoria wasn’t one to slow down on chatter.
“I never was able to tell you just how stunning your engagement party was. I should only hope to one day have one quite as lovely.”
“With your betrothed present?” Emma joked, half-heartedly.
“Oh, yes of course! I’m sorry, you poor thing, it must be so difficult having Frederick away for such lengthy periods.”
“Oh, quite,” Emma said sarcastically, but her friend didn’t catch her tone.
“Oh, Emma!” Victoria grasped her arm and pulled her toward the door. “I’ve heard the most scandalous thing. Ms. Knolles says she saw you conversing in private with Mr. Smith! Tell me it isn’t true!”
Smythe.
Emma’s heart thundered in her chest but she kept her countenance. “What? What a ridiculous thing to suggest.” She brushed a stray curl away from her eyes. “When did supposed incident happen?”
“At your engagement party, of course!”
Emma held back a lengthy sigh of relief. For a moment she’d worried someone had seen her at his private residence. “It was merely coincidence, nothing to worry over. I went outside for some fresh air and he happened to be there, but he was just leaving.”
Victoria’s eyes widened in understanding before a hurried nod and smile proved to Emma the issue was said and done. “Would you care to come inside? We’ve just taken some pastries from the oven.”
“Oh, thank you but I must be on my way.”
“Oh? Where are you headed?”
“I . . .” Desperately needed a cover story before heading out, she thought. “I’m making a few stops to pick things up for my father, and I know he’s worried with me out in this cold.”
“Yes, of course. It’s quite unexpected. I had hoped the heat would last longer.”
Emma smiled. “One never can tell in New York.”
“Well then, off with you, and visit soon!”
“Take care, Victoria.”
Her social disaster averted, Emma let her shoulders relax as she turned away from her nosy, albeit well-meaning, friend.
With her minor detour complete, Emma returned in the direction of her actual destination, Savoy, a private dining club for the elite, owned by Callom Smythe.
She’d only been by Savoy once before, just to be certain she knew of its location. It appeared less likely a place for her to be seen in scandal than waltzing in through the front door of his home. She thought the place would be stuffy, but was shrouded in warmth the moment she stepped beyond the club’s threshold.
The club, intimate and inviting, had hanging ivy draped as barriers between many of the tables. They gleaned with the darkest wood stain under individual, miniature crystal chandeliers. Rather than obnoxious, the room bordered on lush and comforting.
In a slight hurry, Emma was led to a table in the back corner of the room where Callom already waited. The moment he saw her, his slouched posture fell away as he stood up, as was proper with a lady joining the table.
“Encounter any troubles getting here?” he asked, drawing her eyes up the line of his chest. Her skin flushed at the realization she knew precisely what he looked like beneath the row of buttons on his shirt, and found herself grateful that even that was covered with a vest and coat.
You aren’t here to flirt, Emma.
“No trouble at all.” She gave him a pleasant smile and buried her inappropriate thoughts.
She took the plush chair across from him and sank into the lavish fabric, more comfortable and relaxed than she should have liked. The sweet scent of a fine tobacco tinged the air. She’d never entertained the idea before, but if someone had come by offering her a pipe, she probably would have said yes.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for owning such a place,” Emma said with another glance around. From where she sat, she barely saw another table, leaving her to wonder whether the choice for it had been strategic or if they all offered such privacy.
Perhaps he always met others in private.
Callom’s lips lifted but he said nothing as someone came by and set a fresh cup of tea before Emma and tumbler of gin before him. It was only after the man left and they were once more alone that he spoke.
“Your opinion of me must be grave, indeed.”
“You were present for all of my interactions with you, Mr. Smythe.”
“That I was,” he said, as those same lips seemed to take on a more devilish form.
Emma adjusted uneasily in her seat. “I received your message. So, what is it you wished to share with me?”
“We’ve made some new discoveries,” Callom said as his playful behavior faded away. “Have you heard of a man by the name of Chester Graves?” He searched her face for some sort of recognition, but the name meant nothing to her. “He’s fairly well known to be involved in underground gambling, but the coppers have never been able to nail him.”
“Okay, and what does this business have to do with—”
“He’s been playing with dark magic,” Callom said matter-of-factly.
“Are we speaking of a warlock? That can’t be right. It’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Those types of magic died out centuries ago. No human could possess them.”
“Why are you assuming he’s human?”
Emma grew silent. Could such conjuration have survived the test of time even while the rest of the world believed it extinct? And was it possible there were other races that had somehow slipped by unnoticed? Her eyes flickered in continued thought.
“You know,” Callom said, “for someone who knows that the impossible happens every day, you’re quite cynical.”
“I’m well aware the impossible happens every day, such as me joining you for a morning chat. I’m also aware many more impossible things will never occur, such as me joining you in anything more than a necessary alliance.”
It was intended as a dig, but Callom smirked and lifted a hand to his chest. “You dig a deep wound, Miss Clearwater.”
“And you speak insanity.”
“But there’s a piece of you that believes me,” he said, leaving her to momentarily mull on her own words.
Finally, she sighed. “Yes.”
“It makes sense, really.” He leaned back into his chair. “If one wanted to create an inhuman army to spark a war, then they’d need someone skilled in dark magic. A warlock should be our first suspect.”
Emma hated how right Callom was. She sipped her tea and watched his nonchalance as he regarded her. His vibrant honey-colored eyes followed the curve of her face and down toward the neck of her gown. She almost felt the heat of his large hands caressing her flesh as his eyes studied her.
“Where will we find this Mr. Graves?” she asked.
There was something in Callom’s mischievous smirk that left her uneasy as he slid a small, pocket-sized book across the table. Curiously, Emma reached for it, only to nearly shoot tea out of her nose the moment she read the cove
r.
“The Gentleman’s Directory?” she quietly shrieked, for fear of anyone hearing her speaking about such a horrific item. Though written in a way to offer information on what locations to particularly avoid, everyone who was anyone, was aware the guide led unscrupulous men into the snake’s den of prostitution.
As if the item was fire, Emma tossed it back at Callom, leaving him to snatch it up before it tumbled to the floor. With an amused laugh, he tucked the offending object deep into his pocket.
“He owns a brothel farther south,” he said, as if that explained everything and made it okay.
“You can’t possibly expect me to go there.” Emma was horrified at the idea.
There were many things she could look past, and a great deal of rules she was willing to bend, but this was not one of them. “I’ve a reputation to uphold!”
“Ah, right.” Callom reached for his drink and tossed it back. “Your upcoming wedding.”
His sour tone prompted her to ask, “Do you hold issue with my future nuptials?”
“What? No, of course not. You’re free to do as you please, though I do think it ridiculous that any man would dream of trying to tame a woman like you.”
Emma wasn’t certain whether to be enraged or flattered. “There is no ‘taming’ as you say, to be done.” She leaned forward, pressing her arms onto the table. “I follow all the norms of respectable society. Only when necessary, do I break them, and I do so in the most discreet of manners.”
She didn’t mention the small display she’d put on only days ago in public and he didn’t reference it. “You would prefer to be an armpiece meant to only look good and never be heard?”
Emma sipped her tea before answering him. “I may abide by the rules of society, Mr. Smythe. It doesn’t mean I like them.”
“A peacock may walk and talk like a duck, Ms. Clearwater, but that doesn’t make it so.”
“Your meaning?”
He matched her position and sat forward. If she reached an arm out, she could touch him. “There’s a fire in you, Emma.”
He said her name with familiarity, and the sound delighted her in ways it never should.
He continued. “And a man like Mr. Milton will never be able to kindle those embers. He is a duck and you . . .” He looked her over once more, his gaze stopping to linger on her lips. “You are a peacock.”
She should’ve smacked him for behaving in such a vulgar manner, but the shock of his words had silenced—and frozen—her. No doubt, a wild rosy blush crept up her face. Emma cleared her throat and pushed away her unfinished tea.
“Where else can we find this Chester Graves, other than in a location that will risk even base propriety?”
Callom slumped comfortably back into his chair. “He will be attending the masquerade this Saturday evening.”
Emma gasped. “The one being held at the Astor Ballroom?” It was an event that trumped any other and allowed people to mingle behind the guise of a thin mask with the pressures of society lessened for a single night.
“Yes, that’s the one. I’ll come by in my carriage to escort you.”
It was almost an offer to accept, given her and her father still waited for a replacement carriage to arrive.
Callom’s finger circled the top of his empty glass and Emma couldn’t repress the shiver that rose over her spine.
“No,” she finally said. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Suit yourself.” He smiled smugly. “We’ll see how well you can find me in a faceless crowd.”
Emma quickly gathered her things and rose to leave. She wouldn’t admit it aloud, but she had no doubts, that even if she’d lost her sight, she would be able to sense him in a crowd of hundreds.
Callom Smythe, the dragonborne prince, had somehow worked his way into her mind and she doubted he’d vacate anytime soon.
6
By sheer luck, a new carriage was delivered in time for Emma to attend the masquerade ball. It was the one event of the year in which she could attend without her father’s escort, and seated in the carriage alone, she questioned her decisions.
Often women planned their costumed ball gowns for such an event months in advance. Seamstresses were hounded, costumers were left without sleep, and weary fathers begged for their wallet’s respite. All Emma had wanted was a gown to give her the freedom to move if she were forced into a fight.
The world’s socialites always looked to Paris for the latest in fashion, and while bustles were popular, they went against everything she needed. She’d wanted something slimmer and unencumbered, even if that meant less places to hide weapons on her person.
She wore the opposite of what she wanted. Her corset, while annoying, slimmed her thin waist while her silk skirt fell with barely any petticoats beneath it. Above the tapered sleeves of her dress was no jacket, leaving much of her arms and shoulders bare.
She was dressed as the Madame of a French brothel, swathed in red and adorned with a pair of devil horns atop her head. It would surely be a costume to turn heads, which wasn’t entirely her goal, but the broad, scrolled mask would also keep her identity safely concealed.
As the carriage jerked to a stop and the door swung open, mortification slammed into her and she thought death a better option than going inside. Still, she had work to do, and with the aid of a deep breath, she took the footman’s offered hand and left the safety of her carriage.
What would Frederick think of me now?
It wasn’t a question she often asked herself. Surely, he would have been shocked.
Twice before Emma had attended a masquerade ball, but nothing compared to the splendor she found inside the grand ballroom. The pristine marbled floors and mahogany-lined walls glittered with the light of thousands of candles. Only the most perfect of wide, white roses filled vast vases in every corner, while the doorways looked like an arbor transporting the guests into a fairy-tale garden extravaganza.
Even the trays of food Emma saw drifting past on the hands of servers were touched by creativity and grandeur, leaving her to question whether the sandwiches were cakes or the cakes were sandwiches.
“Madame,” a single male, broad of shoulders and beaming with a pearly white grin greeted her.
Apparently, her costume worked.
“Sir,” she offered simply with a nod of her head as she continued on. She noticed the disappointment in his eyes as she’d walked off.
She settled herself farther into the ballroom, off to one side where she could easily observe the crowd. Somewhere among the masked women were Henrietta and Victoria. But no matter how much she focused her eyes in puzzlement, she couldn’t find either one of them. No one looked familiar, and she wondered if Callom had stood her up.
Not that they’d agreed to attend together.
With a slight scowl on her face, Emma waved off an offer of champagne, even though she desired it desperately. Once more though, practicality won out. She didn’t want to find herself dizzy from imbibing if it came down to a life or death situation. A warlock, if that was who they truly sought, wasn’t a figure to be trifled with. She needed to have her full and proper head on her shoulders throughout the night.
Emma watched a masculine figure move across the room. His shoulders looked broad enough to match Callom’s, and from under the brim of his hat, tendrils of hair dark as night fell. With a reassuring breath she stepped off to get a closer look, until a hand wrapped around her arm, halting her from behind.
Her fingers curled into a tight fist, ready to defend herself against a drunk imbecile.
She turned around, her fist hurtling upward toward her captor’s face when it was caught squarely in his open grasp.
“So good to see you, too, Madame.”
It took a moment for the voice to register, and then for the golden hue of Callom’s eyes to solidify it for her. Roughly, she tugged her hand away before someone saw them.
Callom wore a well-fitted sable suit with a long coat and a mask thinner than hers. Somehow,
though, the pure ebony attire, except for the crisp white of his shirt made him look too debonair for her tastes.
He stepped back and examined her from the bottom of her gown to the top of the curls upon her head. His movements were unhurried as he leisurely took her in. Did the golden hue of his eyes glow? No, impossible. It was a catch of the light and nothing more.
“I needed something I could move more easily in,” Emma finally said once her heart had settled back to its normal rhythm.
Callom grinned with the wickedness of the devil. “I approve highly of your choice, and how very fitting it is, given our target.”
“It means nothing,” Emma said. She had no idea which one of them she was trying to convince more.
“Of course not.” Callom’s hand stretched out in offering. “Would you care to dance?”
Emma eyed his open palm as if it were poison. “I hate dancing.”
“Ah, then you won’t dance with me simply because you don’t like dancing, and not because I am the one you would be dancing with.”
Her eyes narrowed up at him, and though she couldn’t be sure of it, she swore he winked. She looked away and focused on canvassing the crowd again. “Have you seen him yet?”
“No.” Callom’s voice was close, too close over her shoulder, but Emma dared not pull away and let him know his nearness flustered her. “But I was informed that he was seen leaving his home with a single emerald peacock feather tucked into his hat. Quite fitting considering our last conversation, wouldn’t you agree?”
Emma tightened her mouth and held back a grin. She refused to acknowledge any reference to their last encounter, especially considering his indecent behavior—and the way his statements affected her. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re referring to.”
“Of course not, my lady.”
She needed a change of conversation before her skin matched the crimson color of her dress. She leaned toward him, knowing her whispered words wouldn’t carry far in the din of voices and music. “When the carriage was attacked, one of the men left behind this cloud. It looked a bit like dust particles, and it was a vibrant green like emeralds.”
Sirens and Scales Page 450