My Lady's Choosing

by Kitty Curran

  He is the one to break away first. Your arms are still intertwined as you stare at each other with equal parts horror…and desire. You breathe heavily. He breathes heavily.

  “Oh, dash it!” you both cry out and flee in opposite directions.

  You meet Lady Evangeline at the carriage outside.

  “Are you quite all right, my dear?” she asks as you rub your mouth.

  “What? Oh…yes. Yes, quite all right!”

  Lady Evangeline nods but clearly does not believe you. Still, you are grateful when she trills brightly, “Well, my dear! We’d best be on our way to London.”

  After seating yourself in Lady Evangeline’s elegant carriage, you rest your fevered brow against the cool glass of the window and curse yourself and your foolish loins for getting you into such a scrape.

  Turn to this page.

  You climax harder than you ever have before. You lay entwined with your lover, and the moonstone of your sex glows with otherworldly desire for Lord Craven.

  He places that broken-statue hand of his on your left breast, which he has taken to calling Rent Promise. His other hand travels to your right breast, which he has named Raven’s Wing. He senses your soul stirring betwixt your bosom.

  “I sense your soul stirring betwixt your bosom,” he growls.

  In answer, you make love to him again, with all the rushed intensity of spirits wrongfully dispatched from the mortal coil trying to communicate with the living from the great beyond.

  You climax harder than you did the first time you climaxed harder than you ever had before, but the cries of your ecstasy are pierced by something harsher and louder: the sound of Alexander screaming in terror.

  Go see to the child, you neglectful hussy! Turn to this page.

  It takes only a moment to stumble out of the carriage and down a snowdrop-lined path deep into a high hedge labyrinth. It takes only a few moments more until you find yourself utterly lost. You are too turned around by the uniformly mysterious shrubbery and your compromised emotional state to escape. Just when you are ready to scream in frustration, you feel strong hands pull you into a leafy alcove off this living maze.

  “Miss me?” A cool, deep voice drips into your very soul. Cad. Before you can speak, he silences you with kiss.

  It feels like kissing the wind. Brief, strong, impossible, foolish. You push him away.

  “I know everything about your lies, Cad. I know about your mother. I know about your father. I know that even the truth won’t stop you from trying to get what you want.”

  “And who I want,” Cad adds, and he attempts to kiss you again.

  “Do not try me.” You move to slap him, but he seizes your wrist.

  “Oh, sweeting.” He laughs, dark and sharp, into the night. “You do realize the only thing stopping you from ruin right now is our own good behavior.”

  “Our own?!” You shake your wrist free of his grasp.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t want me…” Undeterred by your anger, he begins to unbutton his shirt, as a sort of slow, unasked-for but not entirely unwanted striptease. Although you do not hate the show, you are of two minds about what you really want from the even more arrogant member of the Granville-ish bloodline.

  Do you give him a piece of your mind?! Turn to this page.

  Do you give him a piece of your body?! Turn to this page.

  You slap Ollie across the face. You remember the long month you spent weeping in your bed when news came of his death.

  “You let me think you were dead!” you cry. “I mourned for you! Why—” You reach out to slap him again, but he grabs your wrist.

  “Listen! I have earned your anger, I know that,” Ollie says. “I wish it were otherwise, but I had to do what I had to do, including throwing away my old life and all that I cared about.”

  “I cried for you for years!”

  “And I wish that I could have left you with a pure memory of the boy I was. But I had to come forward, for your sake. You need to know that you have taken a job with someone very dangerous.” His tone and words are the metaphorical bucket of water you needed.

  “What?” you say. Ollie releases your wrist and takes your face in both hands.

  “I’ve been trailing him for quite some time. When you turned up in London, I couldn’t believe it. But I couldn’t let you stumble into this lion’s den without warning you.”

  “I—I don’t understand!” Tears stream down your face. His roughened thumb wipes them away.

  “My entire cell was killed,” Ollie whispers, his dark eyes like those of a cornered animal. “All of them. Picked off like stray dogs—each time, the French were there waiting for us. I was the only one who made it out alive, for I got so drunk mourning the woman I loved that I missed the appointed time of my mission!”

  You stare at him in horror.

  “Someone must have sold British secrets for them to have known exactly where we were,” Ollie says. “And after much investigation I realized who the mole must be.”

  “No…,” you whisper.

  “Yes. It could be only one man—Captain Angus MacTaggart.”

  Uh-oh. Turn to this page.

  “I—I think that my time in Manberley is done,” you admit gingerly. “And my time with the Dowager Lady Craven. But Lady Evangeline! Whatever shall I do next?!”

  “Ah, my dear. Well, my offer to take you to Egypt still stands.” A strange smile plays across her lovely mouth, too full for fashion and all the more intoxicating for it.

  “Thank you, my lady,” you say. “You are very kind. And now that I have calmed down enough to think on it, I know that I have had two other offers of employment. One caring for the orphans of the war with brave Captain MacTaggart. And one as a governess for your other cousin—Lord Craven!”

  It is now Lady Evangeline’s turn to widen her eyes. “Oh, my dear, are you sure? Those are harder paths than a life of excitement in Egypt with a good friend.”

  Do you choose a life of excitement in Egypt with a good friend? Because, well, it would be easier. If so, go to this page.

  Do you choose to do good works with the orphans in the West End and get to know a certain rugged Scotsman better? If so, go to this page.

  Do you choose to make your bed with the most mysterious Lord Craven and his manor upon the Yorkshire moors? If so, go to this page.

  “Are you sure, my dear?” Lady Evangeline asks. “I wouldn’t want to hinder your fun on your first time abroad.”

  “It is no trouble at all, my lady!” you cry, a little too enthusiastically. Feeling embarrassed, you glance at your dusty feet, if only to hide your face, which you are quite sure must be glowing scarlet.

  If she notices, Lady Evangeline doesn’t let on. Instead, she catches your chin with her cool, pale hand and lifts it so your eyes meet. You find you can barely breathe as a smile spreads slowly across her face.

  “In that case, my dear, I would be very glad for the company.”

  “You may have my study to work in,” volunteers Kamal. “It is just down the corridor.”

  Lady Evangeline releases your chin so swiftly you feel you must have imagined it.

  “Splendid,” she says, and she links her arm with yours and starts down narrow the corridor. As you feel her velvet-soft skin touching yours, a thrill travels down your body.

  “I’ve always found the study of artifacts fascinating,” Lady Evangeline says, “even as a young girl. Which, as you can imagine, made me as much a rarity among girls as it makes me a rarity among my scholarly colleagues now. But I don’t believe we of the fairer sex should be restricted from such pursuits. If nothing else, it’s a waste of half the intellectual brilliance and human insight in the world, don’t you agree?”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  Before you reach the study, a large, shadowy figure swathed in loose black garments almost blocks your path. You gaze up in alarm
at the impassive frame and see a face almost completely concealed save a striking pair of Nile-green eyes. Lady Evangeline is undaunted.

  “Excuse me, Farouk,” she says primly, and then guides you around the hulking mass of a man.

  Once out of earshot, she turns and whispers into your ear, her full lips so tantalizingly close you can feel her gentle breath. “One of Kamal’s guards. I can’t say I’ve ever trusted him, but I suppose he’s useful for scaring off the worst of what Cairo has to offer.” She throws another glance over her shoulder at the glowering brute. “Not that it did much good last night.”

  Warily, you look back at the man, who is staring at you in a manner that makes you feel as though he can see through to your very soul. Before you can ponder what this means, Lady Evangeline throws open the study door.

  “Well, my dear,” she says. “Shall we begin?”

  Turn to this page.

  You depart for the loch that night. Alone, as instructed.

  The chill air makes a fine companion for your uneasy mood. You wrap your shawl tighter and reach the shores of the loch just as a shadowy figure rises you greet you. The clouds clear and you see…

  “Abercrombie?”

  The sweet old man looks uncha​racte​risti​cally menacing in the moonlight. “I see ye got my letter, lass.” His usual light tone is now a growl. The moonlight catches on something, and for a moment your heart stops. There, glinting in the darkness, is Abercrombie’s pistol. And it is pointed at you.

  “I hate to do this, lass,” he continues. “I do like ye. But ye are much too fond of getting too close to the truth.”

  “Constantina…,” you breathe.

  “A fine woman, aye. Always goin’ on about her wee bonnie Ollie and the life they’d make together. Stuff and nonsense.” Abercrombie cocks the pistol. “She didn’t know that spies don’t live to love. They live to die.”

  “She wasn’t the mole, then?” you ask. Your eyes dart around in search of a weapon, a path, anything to aid in your escape. Abercrombie snickers at your frantic display.

  “O’course not. I was the mole, she was merely my conduit. That’s why the lass turned on Mac, who was clueless to all of it. He thought she was tipsy and needed warnin’ away from the nest o’ French, when really she needed to get close enough to pass them information. She went for him to save her skin but got herself killed in the process, the foolish bitch.”

  You cringe.

  “Ye and wee Angus are two peas in a damn pod, ye ken? Each always sticking your nose in everybody’s business, when ye should be minding your own. Now,” he sighs, “I’m going to kill ye. How ye’ve been whoring yourself out to him—even the actual whores with ye haven’t dared…” Abercrombie snickers, and cocks the pistol. “Everyone will believe when I say Mac’s the one who done it.”

  “You’re a monster!” you cry. Abercrombie narrows his eyes at you.

  “This was all for the money, love,” he says. “Fat lot of good it did, since ye started looking through my papers and I’ve had to burn them—yes, the papers I needed to get the fortune I’m owed! I inherit a crumbling estate, and not a penny with it. What was I meant to do?!”

  “Not betray your country!” says a booming voice. Mac emerges from the shadows and throws his powerful arms around you.

  Abercrombie laughs bitterly. “Perfect! A murder-suicide, right by a romantic loch! No doubt the villagers will start saying it is haunted!”

  “By you!” A pistol-wielding Ollie leaps up from yet other dark shadows. “You betrayed us. Constantina betrayed us.”

  “All’s unfair in love and war,” Abercrombie retorts.

  “Now I have nothing to live for,” Ollie continues, his pistol trembling. “I have nothing to lose.”

  His wild eyes grow clear, and he levels his gun at Abercrombie’s heart. Mac releases you, which causes only momentary disappointment, as he is trying to prevent a murder.

  “Careful, man,” he says. “Dinnae do something ye’ll regret.”

  “Shut yer infernal take-charge mouth, laddie. I’ll kill ye all!”

  “No you bloody well won’t!” screams a high-pitched cockney voice. Out of yet another part of the shadows come Timmy, Dodger, the rest of the kids, Mrs. Ferguson, Fiona and her husband, Rose and Gertie, and literally all the villagers.

  “How?!” Abercrombie blusters.

  “Allow me to explain,” you say calmly. “You thought you were setting a trap for me. However, it was I who set a trap for you.”

  The burliest villagers grab Abercrombie’s arms to lead him away, but with a quick twist of the arm, he escapes—until Dodger leaps forward with a snarl and pins him down.

  “Dodger, yes!” you shout. The thwarted Abercrombie curses your name to the night sky.

  Mac grins. “Good boy.”

  Turn to this page.

  You are overwhelmed by the sheer expanse of Hopesend, as well as by the fact that most of its halls and great rooms are decorated with portraits of an ethereally beautiful woman with raven locks and a devious look. You are certain these are depictions of the late Lady Craven, and despite your confidence in your own personality and good looks, you know your beauty cannot compare to her mysterious, commanding, dead-as-a-doornail brand of it.

  You have never trusted ethereally beautiful women, and you wonder bitterly how Lord Craven has held onto any of his fortune, since he or his wife clearly spent a good deal of it commissioning portraits.

  The eyes of each painting seem to scrutinize you as you follow Mrs. Butts down hallway after hallway, through rooms fine and rooms bare, to meet the cracking staff that Craven has assembled to care for himself and his home. Your home. You shudder.

  To a man and woman, every member of Lord Craven’s staff bears the mark of some tragedy. Mrs. White, the cook, has a problem with falling asleep suddenly and deeply for odd spans of time. “You never know when tea will be ready with Cook, but it’s always worth the suspense!” Mrs. Butts insists while gently yanking the dozing woman up and off the pastries.

  Then there is the mute scullery maid Betsy, a slip of a thing even younger than you, with eyes as wide as saucers and twice as expressive. “Betsy doesn’t use her words, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Butts explains. “But you will find she communicates just as fine as you or I might, love.”

  As if to demonstrate, Betsy takes your hands into hers and squeezes them tightly, shaking her head vigorously no. You are unsure if she means that you have made a terrible decision, or the right one.

  Before you can decide, a gentle cough interrupts you. A handsome young blond man dressed in black, with the flat-brimmed hat and white collar of a country vicar, smiles warmly at you.

  “I am terribly sorry, I hope I didn’t startle you,” he says, his innocent blue eyes full of sincere concern. You merely gape, your mouth incapable of speech for your heart has leapt into it. The young man nods and holds out a hand in greeting. “I am the Reverend Simon Loveday, vicar of Ravenscar parish. I didn’t mean to intrude, but I thought I should pay a visit and welcome you to—”

  “Fresh blood! Fresh blood!” A well-built middle-aged man with wild hair and wilder eyes barrels past Mrs. Butts and the Reverend Loveday, clutching a terrifyingly sharp shovel in his rough-hewn hands.

  The handsome vicar maintains most of his composure. “Should you ever need my assistance, please call on me.” He smiles, clutching your hands warmly. “We should very much like to see you at church on Sunday.” With that he scampers away, leaving you with Mrs. Butts and the madman with the murderous gardening implement.

  Mrs. Butts smiles her warmest smile yet and nods in his direction. “And that’ll be Higgenbottom, the groundskeeper. He keeps a lovely lawn and has few words, but blurts things out from time to time. Who among us doesn’t? He’s a good soul.”

  “He’s a fool.” A voice, sharp as ice in winter, makes the hair on your neck stand on end. A man whose once-fine featur
es have been whittled away by years to reveal a skeletal mask of pained distaste descends the stairs. He is dressed impeccably, his chin lifted defiantly, with all the pomp and self-importance of—

  “Are you the butler?” you ask, knowing the moment the words escape your lips that they will give the haughty man the slap your hands cannot. His pale eyes narrow.

  “I am Manvers,” he says brusquely and brushes past you, evidently intent on polishing the golden frame of a particularly imposing portrait of the late Lady Craven. “You may notice I am not quite as…compromised as the rest of Lord Craven’s staff. I was the late Lady Craven’s butler in the house where she grew up, when she was still Miss Blanche von Badwolff. I followed her here after her marriage to Lord Craven.”

  You merely nod, at a loss for words while he sizes you up and clearly finds you wanting.

  “There are many exquisite things in this house, which you will take care not to disturb,” Manvers continues as if he started the conversation with you, rather than the other way around. “Evidence of theft will lead to your immediate dismissal. Is that clear?”

  “As crystal,” you respond through gritted teeth. You know you are required to be civil and polite to this man, but you find him irksome and in no measure attractive.

  “Then good day.” Manvers finishes his polish with a flourish and a curt nod to you and Mrs. Butts. Then he turns on his heel and is gone.

  “Never mind Manvers, love,” Mrs. Butts says, trying to keep an edge of darkness from her voice. “If you can.”

  You are not sure you can, but you still have a job to do! Turn to this page.

  With simmering anger and a barely concealed air of dejection, you approach Madam Crosby. She and Lady Evangeline are playing cards in what some would describe as a Sapphic paradise and others would not bother to describe at all because no words could do it justice.