by Kitty Curran
“Madam Crosby, you have a soft spot for ruined women,” you say in the confident way of someone from whom everything they wanted has been torn away by the gnarled claws of the Way Things Are.
“Ruined, experienced. Comme ci, comme ça.” The madam is focused on her hand of bridge, but her eyebrows are arched impossibly high.
“May you spare this experienced woman before you a carriage?”
“Surely, you can take my carriage—” Lady Evangeline insists, looking concerned, but you nod at her as a means of assurance and adieu.
“Of course. Where to?” the madam responds.
“Hopesend Manor in Ravenscar, Yorkshire.” Lady Evangeline gasps, but you press on. “I feel I need a new start. One far away.”
Madam Crosby stares. You shift awkwardly from foot to foot until she finally breaks the silence.
“Yorkshire is a long way to go for a new start. Still, my man can take you as far as York. You’ll have to take Ravenscar’s mail carriage from there. Best of luck to you, girl. And remember, you are always welcome here. For friendship, work, or—”
“Thank you, Madam Crosby, but…” your voice trails off. No, a fresh hand of cards has been dealt. It is on you to play them. It is on you to win. “I need to get far away.”
Lady Evangeline stands. “Then come with me instead, dearest. Come be my lady’s companion on my trip to Egypt.”
Do you head off to the heat of Egypt for adventures with Lady Evangeline? If so, turn to this page.
Or do you want no reminder of Benedict, including his lovely cousin? A trip to Yorkshire to do some governessing would fit the bill nicely. If so, turn to this page.
“Step aside, all of you!” says a low, commanding voice. “She needs air.”
“You heard her, you miserable sān bā!” spits out another voice, this one higher in pitch but raspier. “Move aside before I make you!”
Your eyes open slowly, and you wince as bright points of light pierce your foggy vision. Trying to determine exactly where you are, and what you are doing there, you force yourself to rise and are greeted by a heavy throb between your temples.
Some cool, sweet liquid is brought to your lips. “Drink,” says the low, commanding voice. You gulp it down gratefully, and to your amazement the throbbing begins to subside. You turn to the source of the voice and see a graceful, dark-skinned woman, her hair braided in delicate strands tightly to her head. She smiles at you, radiating calm.
“Better?” she asks.
“Much better,” you admit. She nods.
“Welcome to the Wahhat Ranya,” she says, “a simple tavern, run by our great proprietress, Ranya Abd al-Sayyid.” She points to an older woman standing behind the bar; she has a shock of gray hair and wears an eye patch. The older woman nods at you. You nod back weakly and turn back to your healer.
“My name is Damilola Adebisi,” she says. “And I am leading this band of vagabonds through the desert to our next, shall we say, job?” An audible snicker rises among the women, which Damilola silences with a look.
“I—I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.” Your voice sounds as if it is traveling down a distant tunnel to your ears.
“Oh, Jaysis, she’s an Englishwoman! And a posh one at that!” says another voice. You turn and see a mass of red curls framing a youthful face with a turned-up nose and a dusting of freckles. The face is currently scowling at you.
Damilola sighs. “This is Gráinne. She is an expert shot, and not too shabby with a cutlass either.”
Gráinne spits and says nothing.
Damilola continues her introductions, pointing to a wiry young woman, whose slim brown arms ripple with lean muscle. Her dark hair is pulled back in a long, neat braid and her large brown eyes sparkle with amusement.
“This is Noor, our master sailor. There is not a vessel around that she cannot work.”
Noor raises a dark eyebrow. “Among other things.”
The rest of the women roar with laughter. You blush as Damilola then points to a pair of heavyset women who had previously been arm-wrestling in the corner. “This is María José and Amirah. They can best any man in a fight—or any woman, for that matter.” You glance at their hulking forms. You don’t doubt it.
“Lastly, this is my second-in-command, Ming.” Damilola points to the woman who had earlier ordered everyone to give you room. Ming is tiny and yet gives you the impression of a tightly coiled spring, ready and waiting to launch into action at a moment’s notice. “She is the deadliest woman alive when she has a knife. But I have seen her kill men with her bare hands, too.” Ming looks at Damilola with eyes filled with pride and love. You gulp.
“We are all of us travelers here, and we have many women from all walks of life,” Damilola continues. “But I think that you are new to this world. Tell me, how did you come here?”
Before you can answer, a lush, womanly figure bursts through the door. She is clad scandalously in breeches and a shirt like a man, but there is nothing masculine about the way the clothing clings to her supple curves.
“Ladies!” cries a thrillingly familiar voice. “I’ve come looking for reinforcements!”
You can scarcely believe it.
“Lady Evangeline?!” you say. The vision at the door turns and spots you, freezing for a second in sheer disbelief. Suddenly, her lovely face cracks open into a smile of pure joy and relief, and she comes running toward you full tilt. You are halfway to her when you realize that you are running, too.
“Oh, my dear!” she cries and throws her arms around you, momentarily lifting you off your feet in a warm embrace. “I thought I had lost you forever!” You bury your face in her shoulder and take in her scent, delicately feminine and intoxicating.
Lady Evangeline takes your face in her long, elegant hands, concern shining from the depths of those ocean-blue eyes. For a moment the world melts away.
“They didn’t hurt you?” she asks.
“Not as much as I hurt them!” you say.
Lady Evangeline throws back her head, laughing. “I’m very glad to hear it, my dear.” The cerulean depths of her eyes darken further. “Still, Delphine must pay for what she has done. I have let this go on for too long, accepting what she does, whom she hurts, due to a lingering misspent…affection. But when she involves those I love within her schemes? Well, then I must take action.”
“Action?” You stare into those bright sapphire orbs, which now burn with righteous fury.
“Yes, my dear,” says Lady Evangeline, casually rubbing your cheek with her thumb. “It will be an extremely dangerous journey, and one that may end in death. I have resigned myself to it…but I do not expect you to join me in this. I ask that you leave.”
“But—”
“Listen to me,” Lady Evangeline interrupts. “You are still young. Your life is stretched out before you, full of possibilities. I do not expect you to sacrifice yourself for my own mess.”
You have no idea what to say and can only stare mutely back at her. She turns her head ruefully.
“Well, my darling?”
Do you insist on venturing onward to stop the dastardly Delphine once and for all? Turn to this page.
Or do you leave the adventuring to the adventurers? You know your limits, and rushing headfirst into likely death with no weapons training goes very far beyond them. Turn to this page.
“I know very well what I saw, Manvers, and it was no angel.” You positively seethe at the vile manservant. “It could be an intruder of ghostly or earthly variety, or a shared figment of imagination between the boy and me, due to our heightened emotional states. The fact remains that something upsetting did happen, perhaps because many upsetting things have already happened, and I would like to find the root of the upset. I would also like to have my raw edges smoothed by a tender mind, such as the one belonging to Mrs. Butts. There is no shame in seeking comfort after a trying event. I am very
sorry there is no one in your purview who can provide this service to you. Your attitude would be much improved by spending a moment in the company of a living person who could stand the sight of you!”
You know you are being defiant to the point of extremity, but extremity be damned! Manvers is a miserable sod and you won’t stand for him sassing you about hither and thither.
Apparently, Manvers won’t stand for you not standing for his antics. “Suit yourself, you guttersnipe,” he sneers before stalking away.
Do you stick around and have tea with Mrs. Butts? You are, to be perfectly honest, still feeling mighty frazzled from all these strange encounters. If so, turn to this page.
Or do you clear your mind of these odd detours from the job you came here to do? If you know that, above all, it is your sworn duty to be the best damned governess young Master Alexander has ever had, turn to this page.
The hand releases you, and you turn slowly, in a daze. You already know the person you will see, but you can scarcely believe it. Are you going mad?
No, there he is. Standing before you, whole, handsome, and very much alive, is your long-lost love, Ollie Ruston!
“Ollie! But how? I thought you were lost at sea!” You stare at his face, at once completely recognizable and utterly strange, and try to find the sweet boy you knew in the man you now see. He stares back, his once-innocent brown eyes now darkened with anger and cynicism.
“I allowed everyone to believe that. It had to be done. Napoleon was a monster. I would have done anything to stop England from being invaded and conquered by such a man.”
“Oh, Ollie…” you say with a sigh, feeling overwhelmed. He cups your face gently with one rough hand, but his expression is etched deep with long-felt fury.
“You see, I had no choice. Not if I wanted to do right by my country and those who I loved.” He strokes your cheek with a hardened thumb. “I had to fake my own death so they wouldn’t know to look for me when I embarked on my new life as a spy.”
You stare at him, dumbfounded, as your heart races and long-forgotten memories rush back. Your first kiss. Your first…few other things. The long nights you spent weeping when he went to sea to avoid the brutal abuse his stepfather dealt. And the month you spent in bed after learning of his death. Which, apparently, he faked.
You slap Ollie across the face.
“You let me think you were dead! I mourned for you! You utter, utter bast—”
Ollie grabs your wrist.
“Listen to me! I have earned your anger, I know that. I wish it were otherwise, but I had a duty to my country, which included throwing away my old life and all that I cared about.”
“What do you mean?” you cry, still furious.
“I am a spy. I’ve been tracking one target for quite some time. But when I saw that you, of all people, had found work with him, I had to warn you. You have taken a job with someone very dangerous.”
“I don’t believe it,” you say. “And I can handle myself.”
“Listen! The French killed my entire cell, all except for me. Someone must have sold British secrets for them to have known exactly where we were. It had to be a person in his battalion’s chain of command. They were the only ones who knew all the information that was passed over.”
“No!” you cry. “That doesn’t mean it was Mac!”
“What is it? Who goes there? Are ye there, lass?” Your heart throbs at the sound of Mac’s voice, but Ollie grabs you by the shoulders and stares at you with manic intensity.
“You have to listen to me! He is a murderer and a traitor!” he hisses. “You have to get out of here! There is no doubt in my mind that he will kill you, just like he did Constantina!”
“You knew her?!”
Ollie nods. “She was a fellow spy, the bravest woman I ever knew…and the only woman I ever loved. Apart from you.”
And with that he disappears into the night. As you stumble out from the darkness, Mac catches you in a warm, deliciously masculine embrace that smells of salt and spice.
“Are ye all right, lass?” he says into your hair. “What happened?”
You stare up at him, tears in your eyes, and have no idea what to do.
Still, you best make a choice, lassie.
Do you go snooping around by yourself? You trust Mac. Mostly. But still, you need hard evidence to disprove Ollie’s accusations. Turn to this page.
Or do you go a-pouring your heart out to him? You are with friends now, no matter what Ollie says. So turn to this page.
You push him away apologetically.
“So you love him, do you?” the Reverend Loveday says.
You look away, blushing, and nod.
“Oh, dear…,” he says. “But also, how perfect.”
He reaches out to tenderly caress your face…then savagely pins your neck in his surprisingly mighty grip so that you cannot escape. You stare at him in horror as he begins his monologue.
“My real name is Simon Loveday Craven, and I am truly next in line to inherit Hopesend. I was Blanche’s lover the whole damn time she was married to Craven. No one could please her like I could, and no one was ever more devoted than she was to me. I urged her to get Craven and the children out of the picture so the house would be mine, she would be mine, and happiness would be ours! If she had managed to take out the foolish boy and Craven along with the girl, they would be under our feet right now, and you, Blanche, and I would be making filthy love on his grave!”
His cornflower-blue eyes glow with bloodlust. You wish to claw them out with your bare hands. “I wouldn’t be here if you had killed Craven. Craven sent for me. So, actually, I wouldn’t be able to make love, filthy or otherwise, on his grave.”
He ignores your logic and continues with his monologue (and with gripping your neck very hard).
“So I had to come up with a new plan. I would kill Craven and the brat Blanche didn’t get to throw in the fire and make it look like a murder-suicide by Craven’s hand. To convince the villagers that Craven was crazed enough to do this, I enlisted Manvers to help me by dressing up in Blanche’s garments in an attempt to haunt sense into the man. Manvers was obsessed by the idea that Craven was desecrating the memory of the late Lady Craven by screwing the help. Once Craven and the child were out of the picture, I would inherit everything, and then silly Manvers would have a terrible accident and die by falling down the stairs.”
“You’re a monster!” you squeak. He ignores you and continues with his speech apace.
“When you showed up, warming his bed and his soul and teaching his child confidence, I had to change my plan yet again!” His eyes light up with a murderous gleam, and he tries to choke you. “Don’t you see? You make it all the more perfect. Craven will be responsible for losing a woman he loves, again. And then I, the good, purehearted vicar, find your lifeless body in the eldritch garden. After Lord Craven snaps and kills himself, I will discover that I am the next in line to inherit. The headlines write themselves. History writes itself!”
Loveday presses you into a filthy, disgusting, murderous kiss.
Do you fight tooth and nail to break free from his clutches? Turn to this page.
Or do you play dead in a desperate attempt to survive? Turn to this page.
How dare this man of high station and good breeding use his natural-born position to put you in some sort of place?
“Perhaps you mistake me for an errant servant, sir?” You let the hard tone of your address take a stab at the old boy. “While I appreciate your concern for my ladylike frailties, I insist I am made of hardy enough stuff to withstand a bit of scandal at a ball. In fact”—you muster your iciest tone in spite of the heat you feel pricking your temples and, dare you admit it, your loins—“I do hope to think I will get to the bottom of this intrigue on my own!”
Benedict’s eyes burn yours with the caustic sting of a man shown up by a woman. “Is that so, miss—
”
“It is.” You do not give him time to insult you and attempt to wear an air of calm as you march away from this most detestable man.
With a concerted effort to give not a single damn about the whereabouts of Benedict’s quietly seething, handsomely dressed body, you cast a glance about the guests in the ballroom. Those who have not recovered from the shock of the evening’s events are gossiping in barely hushed tones or stuffing their faces with refreshments—shrimp and cucumber sandwiches, from the look of things.
In the corner, wringing her hands, is Henrietta. If what Cad says is true, she is a lady now and occupies a station above your own. But be it her youth, her general air of bruised innocence, or the fact that she is in danger of flooding the reception room with her tears, you can’t help but consider her a wayward ship and yourself a beacon of safe light, beaming from a not-so-distant shore.
“Henrietta,” you say as you approach her. “Your fate has just taken a wild turn for the better, yet you weep as one does for the dead. Forgive me my impudence, but these tears do not look to be shed in joy.”
“Nargh.” Henrietta shakes her head, gurgling most unbecomingly. “I’m so very happy, miss. Honestly, truly. I’m so very glad.”
You feel the heat of a gaze upon you and, sure enough, glance up to find Benedict attempting to incinerate either you or his own eyebrows with a look that could sear meat. You can’t help but arch a defiant brow his way as you lead Henrietta by her elbow into a private alcove off the main ballroom.
“If there is something you are frightened to say, child, say it to me. I matter not a whit to your family, and you may consider me an ally. I am no stranger to sadness myself.” Your voice positively sparkles with authority, and, child that she is, Henrietta cannot resist you.
“It’s just that I don’t want to be a lady, miss,” Henrietta says, wracked with sobs. “Ladies can’t marry farmers, and all I want is my farmer. My sweet, kind, gentle love from Kent. My lovely, true Farmer Sam.”