Once Upon a Wallflower

by Wendy Lyn Watson

  She hesitated just a moment, and then opened her small jewelry case and withdrew Olivia’s locket, slipping it over her head so that it hung entangled with the jonquil pendant. It would look strange, perhaps, but Olivia should be somehow with her tonight.

  Mira rose to leave, and, on impulse, threw her arms around the tiny maid in a short fervent embrace. “Thank you, Nan. Whatever happens, you have been a wonderful friend these last few days. The best I could have hoped for.”

  Quickly, before Nan could respond, Mira dashed out of the room and made her way to the drawing room in which the revelers were meeting.

  When she entered, there was a brief lull in the lively conversation as all eyes turned to her. She lifted her chin and managed not to blush, and soon everyone returned to his or her chatter.

  Mira did not bother trying to insert herself into any of the small groups of people, but instead moved to stand near the fireplace, hoping to be as unobtrusive as possible.

  Just to Mira’s left, Lady Beatrix and Lady Bosworth sat on a settee speculating about whether dress waists would remain high or drop lower the following season.

  A flash of movement caught Mira’s eye, and she looked up in time to see Mrs. Murrish slipping around the periphery of the room. The broad, dour woman approached the settee and, without a word, handed a note to Lady Beatrix.

  Beatrix unfolded the missive and scanned its contents quickly. Her eyes narrowed, and her mouth tightened as she read.

  “Dear, is something amiss?” Lady Bosworth asked, leaning in and speaking in confidential tones even as her eyes lit up with lurid curiosity.

  “No, no,” Beatrix responded, her mouth tilting in a strained smile. “Nothing serious. Jeremy has sent down his regrets. He is feeling a bit under the weather.”

  “Oh, no, how sad!” Lady Bosworth exclaimed. “He shall miss all the fun.”

  “Indeed. Now, what do you think about necklines? Surely they will become more modest next season, don’t you think?”

  So, Mira thought, Jeremy was crying off. She wondered whether he was laying low because he had ended things with Bella and wished to avoid her, or whether he was staying behind to prepare for the elopement. Bella had not yet put in an appearance, and Mira was intrigued to see whether she would show up at all.

  Before Mira could give Bella and Jeremy any further thought, Nicholas arrived. His entrance was met with the same sudden quiet as hers had been, but the conversation never resumed.

  He swept the room with his aloof gaze until he settled on Mira. She offered him a shy smile. He inclined his head in response, and Mira thought she saw his shoulders relax a bit, but his expression was distant, noncommittal.

  Bella flounced in behind Nicholas, looking like a dream in a gauzy white dress adorned with clusters of violets. Bella’s attention moved unerringly to Lady Beatrix, and the tension between the two fairly crackled. The tilt of Bella’s chin and the bounce in her stride as she made her way to her mother’s side were entirely unapologetic.

  Lady Beatrix glared at Bella for a heartbeat longer, and then looked over her guests, subtle nods marking her count of heads. Apparently satisfied that everyone was present, she began herding guests out.

  Although they were not going far, the ladies’ dainty slippers made walking difficult. Most of the house party guests piled into carriages to travel into Upper Bidwell and then double back across the moor to the circle of standing stones, although a few of the men—including Nicholas—chose to ride instead.

  Mira rode with Kitty, George, and Bella in the family coach. Mira assumed the mood in the other carriages was more festive, but the Fitzhenrys were a solemn bunch. George sat silent as a mouse, toying with the buttons on his waistcoat, and only occasionally shooting a nervous glance at either Mira or Kitty. Bella pressed herself into her corner of the carriage, staring out the window, her face expressionless. She and her mother had obviously not yet made amends. Even Kitty was uncharacteristically quiet, and Mira wondered if her aunt, like George, was beginning to feel guilty about shuffling their niece off to a reputed murderer.

  The somber mood of her family suited Mira well. She settled back against the squabs and allowed her mind to drift as she marshaled her energy for the evening to come. She did not know what the night held in store for her, but she knew she would need every resource at her disposal to survive it unscathed.

  …

  They heard and smelled the Midsummer festival long before they arrived. The aroma of roasting meats, the yeasty scent of ale, and woodsmoke tinged with burning herbs all permeated the cool night air, and the moors rang with music and raucous laughter.

  As the coach ground to a halt, Mira looked out the window at their surroundings. Before the carriage a circle of tall stones stood, each easily twice as tall as the tallest man Mira had ever seen. The stones jutted out of the earth, straining into the night sky, and were it not for the symmetry of their formation, they would have appeared to be a natural part of the landscape.

  The stone circle was lit by a massive bonfire and a ring of blazing torches in its center, the light as bright as daylight but hellish in its cast, throwing long dark dancing shadows in every direction. It was a London ball gone wickedly, monstrously mad. As Mira and her family cautiously left the protection of the carriage, she observed people dancing frenzied jigs, couples locked in lewd embraces, laughing men chasing squealing women in every direction, and everywhere the sultry beat of drums and the earthy perfume of ale made the very air vibrate with dark delight.

  As she struggled to take it all in, Nicholas suddenly appeared at her side. In the flickering orange glow of the flames, his grim visage was as sinister as his reputation.

  “Good evening, Mira,” he said, a thin smile curving his mouth. “Welcome to Upper Bidwell’s Midsummer festival.”

  His dark allure was potent, and a sizzling thrill shot through her when he spoke. She struggled for a polite smile. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  Nicholas’s gaze slid down to her chest, and his smile widened a fraction. “I see you are wearing my gift.”

  “Always,” she replied, feeling the blush warming her cheeks.

  “And this,” Nicholas reached out to run a finger along the curve of Olivia’s locket. Mira held her breath, watching with dread for some sign of recognition on Nicholas’s face. “I have not noticed you wearing this before. It is pretty. Is it special to you?”

  Mira’s legs went weak with relief. Nicholas did not recognize Olivia’s locket. He acted as though he had never seen it before. Someone else must have left it at Dowerdu, someone who wanted her to find both it and her shawl. Someone who wanted her to doubt him. She smiled. “It is very special to me. It belonged to a friend.”

  Before he could inquire further, Mira rushed to change the subject. She waved her hand to indicate the frenetic merrymaking all around. “This is not quite what I expected. Until tonight, the townspeople seemed so, well, reserved.”

  Nicholas chuckled. “But this is a special night.”

  He leaned down to whisper in her ear, the rhythm of his voice and the caress of his breath stealing Mira’s last coherent thought. “It is Midsummer’s Eve, Mira, the night when the doorway to the magical world swings open and the pixies and faeries cavort with men. It is the night when fortunes are made, both good and ill, when the face of love may be divined, and when all manner of sin may be committed with impunity.” He brushed the curve of her ear with his lips and Mira’s eyes fluttered closed. “Tell me, Mira-mine, what sort of sin will you indulge tonight?”

  Before Mira could summon the will to answer, a young man with wild eyes and a garland of herbs around his neck careened into her, sending her stumbling to the side. Nicholas’s hand shot out to steady her, and the young man laughed as he righted himself before disappearing into the dark.

  As Mira turned to face Nicholas, however, another group of merrymakers crowded around them, forcing them apart, and before she could gain her bearings she had lost sight of Nicholas entirely. A
line of people moved past her, laughing men and women, all holding hands as they executed some strange dance. As the last dancer passed, he grabbed up Mira’s hand and pulled her after them.

  She was swept along in the wake of the dancers as they made a circuit around the stone circle, weaving in and out of the massive stone pillars as though they were dancing around some sinister maypole. As the group completed the circle, Mira managed to break free.

  She steadied herself and began searching the crowd for Nicholas. She saw Lord and Lady Marleston, both flushed with excitement and clasping hands like young lovers, and Lord and Lady Bosworth, locked in a scandalous embrace as they joined the dancing in the center of the stone circle. Mira even caught a glimpse of timid Lady Phoebe, lurking in the shadow of one of the standing stones, being swept into the arms of a stranger, a man built like a blacksmith. All around her, the members of the Blackwell house party were surrendering to the wanton madness of the Midsummer festivities.

  All except Bella, who hung back near the carriages, a secretive smile tilting her lips, an aura of tightly concentrated energy radiating from her small form.

  Turning in a circle to better search the crowd, Mira suddenly found her field of vision completely occupied by a broad male chest clothed in the most exquisite white brocade waistcoat, a perfectly knotted cravat spilling over the top. A hollow feeling settling into her chest, Mira slowly tipped her head back to look directly into the face of Lord Sebastian Ellerby, Earl Blackwell.

  Blackwell’s features were as composed as usual, only the faint twist of a smile and a glint of jaded amusement in his eyes giving any hint of expression.

  “Miss Fitzhenry. You are looking well tonight.” Blackwell punctuated his compliment by running his gaze the length of her body.

  She shivered beneath his bold scrutiny. “Thank you, my lord.”

  His eyes searched the crowd behind her before he turned his full attention back to her. “Would you care to accompany me on a turn around the circle? I believe there is a troop of jugglers and magicians on the far side, and we might see some of the braver young men leap through the bonfire. For luck, you know.”

  He offered his arm, and Mira could think of no polite way to decline. Setting her hand upon his forearm, she allowed him to lead her away.

  “So, Miss Fitzhenry,” Blackwell began, leaning down so that his mouth was only a whisper away from her ear, “if you will permit me to say so, you seem to have blossomed over the past few weeks. Your new clothes and the style of your hair suit you.”

  Mira’s cheeks burned at the unexpected flattery. “Thank you, my lord,” she responded, through lips that barely moved.

  “You are not the only one who has changed,” Blackwell continued. “Ashfield is a new man entirely, and I believe that you may be the reason for his transformation.”

  Blackwell stopped, his hold on Mira’s arm forcing her to do the same. “Ashfield has already lost one potential bride. Take care that he does not lose another.”

  Mira could not think what to say. Blackwell’s words sent a shiver down her spine, but she could not tell whether he meant them as threat or warning. Thankfully, she was saved from having to respond.

  “Here you are,” Nicholas said, neatly insinuating himself between Mira and Blackwell, his body sheltering hers, claiming her as his.

  “Ashfield.” Blackwell inclined his head politely and took a step back, relinquishing his position by Mira’s side.

  “My lord.” Nicholas’s tone was frigid.

  “Well, if you two will excuse me, I see Lord Bexley over from Pelmeth Moor, and I intended to speak with him about a brood mare of his. It seems I am still in the market. So,” he turned an intent gaze on Mira, “I hope you will heed my advice. But for now, I bid you good night.”

  As Blackwell made his way past the revelers, in the direction of an enormously fat man wearing tiny-heeled shoes and an outdated wig the size of a small sheep, Mira turned her face to Nicholas and gave him a grateful smile.

  He did not return her smile, but instead looked profoundly suspicious. “What was that all about?” he questioned. “What advice?”

  “Oh, nothing, my lord.”

  “‘My lord’? Are we back to that then?” The thought seemed to sadden him, and Mira opened her mouth to correct her mistake, but he held up a hand to stop her. “No, it is fine. I have something I must tell you. Something I should have said before. Something I should have done before.”

  In that instant, a thousand thoughts ran through Mira’s mind. He is going to tell me he loves me. He is going to tell me he despises me. He is going to tell me he is leaving me. He is going to tell me he dislikes blood pudding.

  He is going to confess.

  “You were right,” he said, and Mira’s breath left her body in a dizzying rush.

  “I was right? About what?”

  He took her by the arm and began to lead her away from the thick of the crowd, toward the dark shadows on the far side of the stone circle. “About my father,” he said. “And about justice. I am prepared to swear out an information against my father.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mira stared at Nicholas in amazement. Nicholas was going to help her. He was going to see justice done.

  A shrill scream of delight from within the stone circle shook Mira out of her daze. “Are you certain? Are you certain you are willing to do this?”

  Nicholas held her gaze unwaveringly, nodded solemnly. “It is over.”

  A bubble of laughter welled in Mira’s throat. “After all of this…this worry, it comes to something so simple? You take me aside and calmly tell me that you are ready to accuse your father?” Mira shook her head in wonder. “I have been torn to pieces inside over this mystery, worrying that I would never know for certain, worrying that I might miss something vital, worrying that my logic would fail me and my heart lead me astray, worrying that I might be so confused that I had actually fallen in love with a murderer! And now you announce, tepid as tea, that it is over?”

  As her mind caught up with her mouth, Mira grew still. She stared at Nicholas with wide, worried eyes, wondering if he had caught her slip.

  The sudden silver fire in his eyes told her he had.

  “What did you say?” His voice resonated with a low, vital energy.

  “Hmmm?”

  “You heard me, Mira-mine. Did you just say that you love me?”

  Mira looked down at her hands as her insides turned to water. She had said it—and meant it—and he had heard her. There was no point denying her feelings. But what if he took a disgust of her, thought her weak and clinging? What if he found it amusing that he should have such power over her?

  Marshaling all her courage, she raised her eyes to meet his. “Yes, Nicholas. I did say that.”

  A breathless silence ensued, both Nicholas and Mira standing unnaturally still in a magic circle of their own. The laughing and singing and music of the festival seemed far away, and only the pixie-light of the bonfire offered any evidence that they were not utterly alone.

  “Then why are you leaving?” Nicholas whispered.

  Mira frowned. “Leaving? I am not leaving.”

  He shook his head stubbornly. “I heard George give you the money to leave. I heard you take it.”

  “He gave me the money, and the choice. I could hardly refuse his generosity. And I admit that I gave his offer some thought. But I decided against it. I decided to stay.”

  “But I stopped at your room this evening, thinking to tell you about my father then, and I saw that your bags were packed. There were trunks and valises piled nearly to the ceiling in your room.”

  Now Mira shook her head. “My bags were not packed, sir. The bags must have been Bella’s.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Mira bit her lip, reluctant to break Bella’s confidence. She needed to explain the baggage in her room to Nicholas, however, and she did not think he would try to interfere with the elopement. After all, he had once offered to give up h
is own bride, to be jilted and played for a fool, in order to allow Jeremy to elope with the girl of his heart.

  “Bella and Jeremy are planning to elope tonight,” she explained with an apologetic shrug. “Bella asked me if she could hide her baggage away in my bedroom. I told her I did not think it was necessary, and that I did not want to be involved. But she insisted. And I just could not bring myself to deny her,” she added with a small smile of apology. “I confess that with everything that has happened in the last few days, I had almost forgotten about that aspect of her plan. And I was not certain whether the elopement would actually happen, or whether one of them would come to their senses. But apparently she went ahead and had her bags moved to my room after I left. No wonder she was late coming downstairs this evening.”

  “Bella. Bella is the one who is leaving?” Nicholas sounded dazed, as if he could not quite grasp what Mira was trying to tell him.

  “Yes, Bella and Jeremy. Not me.”

  Nicholas closed his eyes briefly, his entire body sagging with relief. But then he opened his eyes, and a sly smile crept across his face. “Well, that is an interesting turn of events. Beatrix will not be pleased in the least.”

  “No, she will not be happy. She seems to dislike poor Bella immensely. And Aunt Kitty will not be happy either.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  Nicholas cocked a questioning brow.

  “No money,” Mira replied.

  “Ah.” He shook his head, visibly shifting his attention back to more immediate concerns. His smile turned warm and intimate. “So, you are staying and you love me?”

  Mira’s breath caught in her throat.

  “Yes,” she whispered. The frightful promise of the moment, the dread and terror and hope all tangled together, left her feeling strangely calm, every sense attuned to Nicholas, focusing on how he would react.

  He stared at her for what seemed like an eternity, his smoldering smile unwavering, his eyes burning into her. But he said nothing. Finally, he reached out one hand to stroke a wayward curl of her hair.