Gilded: The St. Croix Chronicles

by Cooper, Karina

  Not even the ornate brass crutch affixed to his right knee marred the appearance of irreproachable civility. Upon meeting the man who was to run my new house, I had very seriously informed him that he struck me as fine a figure as any gentleman pirate.

  He had bowed most seriously, thanked me in his deep, elegantly educated voice, and won my heart forever.

  “Tea, miss,” he offered, setting a tray before me. On it, I knew there would be toast and boiled eggs, sausages cooked fresh by Mrs. Booth, and jam. I peeked around the papers.

  Strawberry. My favorite, and well my housekeeper and cook knew it.

  “Thank you,” I said, the very model of propriety, just as Fanny offered a regal nod and echo of the same.

  Booth withdrew, leaving me and my silent companion to regard one another across the breakfast table.

  Fanny considered my interest in the papers a waste of time, and a gentleman’s domain, at that. I considered that idea worthless as a rule. I believed in knowing what went on in the world.

  But it was not worth arguing anymore, and Fanny had stopped commenting. In turn, I stopped needling, and offered her news from the pages she preferred. I knew the key to Fanny’s conversation.

  I smiled and dropped my gaze to the paper once more.

  The Society columns exasperated me.

  Up until a few meager weeks ago, I had happily ignored its existence. Unfortunately for me, this was not to last. While I trusted my staff to keep my secrets, I had no control over anyone else and could not risk the chance of my name serving as grist for the gossip mill. Too many strange things happened last month, too many indications that at least one fiend knew my identity.

  I needed to stay aware of the rumors, and do my best to remain out of them.

  Unfortunately, this was easier planned than carried out.

  For now, I could speak a language Fanny knew well. “Mrs. Bingham’s eldest daughter is to be wed,” I said aloud, reaching around the paper for my toast.

  Fanny’s reply came oh-so-politely. “Is that so?”

  “A Christmas wedding, it seems. I imagine there’ll be snow, don’t you?” I kept my tone light and sweet, just the way she had so often demanded of me. A lady was to converse on things that would not strain the mind. Needlework, music, fashion, soirees and marriages; social topics salient to a lady’s place in Society.

  Bugger that for a lark.

  But for this moment, I allowed it. I so wanted to mend this breach between us, and I knew that simply explaining myself would never do. I could not tell my chaperone, who worried for my well-being since I was thirteen years of age, that I continued to travel below the drift because I owed a dangerous criminal enterprise a debt.

  Or because the stipend my guardian allotted was not hefty enough to carry the price of the opium I purchased alone.

  “Lovely,” Fanny said from behind the mask of my paper. “Lord Datchery is a fine match for the family. A second son, already secure. She could have not done better for herself.”

  So the columns assured me. I skimmed them as quickly as I glanced over the rest, seeking only references to anything that might stand out to me. Or as me.

  I did not like Society’s speculation as a rule. I have no love for frippery and balls, either, but my role as well-to-do heiress sometimes demanded my tolerance.

  I attended when I had no other choice, or to make Fanny happy. And when I did, Almira Louise Compton, the Marchioness Northampton, made certain that I knew the value of my company. To wit, less than nothing. I was a boil on the face of Society, a thorn in her side. She has always been a clever cat and holds considerable power among London’s most fashionable peerage.

  The evening I met her much vaunted eldest son is the same evening that her family delivered the cut direct—thereby cementing my reputation as worthless.

  This kind of terrible blow should have spurned me from every parlor here to the Brick Street Bakers’ territory below the drift. And it did, for a time.

  Until the marchioness’s eldest son, Cornelius Kerrigan Compton, returned me to Society’s good graces—and the gossip pages—with an interest in my company that waned as mysteriously as it waxed.

  I sometimes wonder if Earl Compton had somehow learned of my evening activities. But surely, he was a man more likely to confront me himself over it.

  Whatever the case, he left London within a fortnight, and I stopped receiving the invites to this ball or that soiree. Much to my relief, of course, but also to my chaperone’s dismay.

  Since the earl’s departure, it seemed as if any temperance once displayed by the marchioness faded. She turned back to her old tricks, and with a vengeance. She and her salon of like-minded bats—called the Ladies of Admirable Mores and Behavior—had once more taken to slandering me in their nasty little columns. Oh so subtly, of course.

  The ladies’ sermons were cleverly crafted around the expected behaviors of the Society female, artfully arranged in such language that could be mistaken for objective encouragement to the girls I was positive lapped up every edifying word. Yet buried within these lectures, I often found a reference to a faux pas I made, or a bit of strained conversation made under duress at a function where our paths had crossed.

  Had it been anyone but a marchioness at the head of that salon, I would have considered the words a threat. Perhaps they were; or could be, if I gave a toss for her much-vaunted company. I did not.

  Yet in her language, I suspected that she offered a none-too-veiled suggestion that I—and girls like myself, of which I knew none—was a hairsbreadth away from joining the unfortunate slatterns plying their trade below the drift.

  She had said as much before, and to my face. I expected nothing less of her column.

  Such remarks did not concern me overly much. To my regret, I knew they hurt Fanny. Not only on my behalf, but her standing among the matriarchs and chaperones in her own social set suffered when she could not go out on invite.

  For this reason, I said nothing about LAMB’s latest snide suppositions, folding the paper closed. There were days—many days—when I fantasized about the many and varied creative analogies I could make about that den of sheep and their viper-tongued mistress.

  Today, I set aside the irritation and the paper that carried it, and turned to my breakfast instead. “It seems all has gone quiet,” I said before filling my mouth with toast and sausage.

  Fanny, who ate much more delicately than I, sipped at her tea. It gave her the freedom to talk, though I often thought this a rather unfortunate side effect rather than the purpose. “The bulk of the Season is done. Many have retired to their estates. It shall remain quiet, as is usual for the winter.”

  “A breath of fresh air, then.” Or as near as one could achieve in London proper. Murders notwithstanding.

  Fanny, lovely in deep purple with her gray hair pulled into a sleek chignon, studied me from across the table. Her eyes were a pretty shade of blue, as expressive as they were pale, and I had many fond memories of the way they crinkled when she slipped a rare laugh or a warm smile.

  But her features tended toward stern, and her posture was as unforgiving as the many hours she’d spent forcing mine.

  I owed this woman much; yet I could not stop myself from doing what I did best. I was a collector. I took to the streets for coin and adventure, it’s simply what I did.

  Because the alternative—find a husband, marry—robbed me of breath. Of freedom.

  For now, I held my tongue and my temper, and said innocently, “What is on our agenda, Fanny?”

  “Luncheon with Lady Rutledge,” she said. “I would like you to wear the bronze silk.”

  I wrinkled my nose. The three-piece walking gown was among my loveliest, admittedly. The color turned my hair into an autumnal sunset, and flattered my fashionably pale skin. That she wanted me to be seen in it spoke of machinations. “Who is attending?”

  “Don’t make faces, Cherry.” I smoothed my features by rote, though it didn’t do anything to soften F
anny’s stern regard. “As we are talking of Lady Rutledge, I assume it shall be an eclectic collection of characters.”

  I brightened.

  “Do not look so pleased,” she added dryly. “I’m not entirely convinced you should be attending such functions.”

  “Lady Rutledge is—”

  My chaperone was nobody’s fool. “A pillar of the scientific community, yes, I’m aware. You’ve said as much time and again.” She reached for her teacup once more, taking a delicate sip.

  The act gave me just enough time to mutter, “Well, she is.”

  “Don’t mumble.” Fanny laid her napkin upon the table by her half-emptied plate. “Whatever her scientific accomplishments, the fact remains that she is the last ally you have in this world, and she could be a powerful one.”

  “Teddy—”

  “Mr. Helmsley remains, to my great dismay, a fine friend, but he is not intent on offering for your hand,” she cut in smoothly, her shoulders straight as a board. She lifted a finger at me, a gentle admonishment. “Nor does he have the wherewithal to protect you from your own nature. You are bored. There can be no other explanation for why you continue to gallivant—” She hesitated, then dropped her voice several octaves. “Below. A family of your own, social engagements, these things will occupy you.”

  Not in the slightest.

  I stared at the food left on my plate—much less than left on Fanny’s—and resisted the urge to rub my throbbing shoulder.

  “Lady Rutledge will provide you the means,” Fanny told me, as sure in her knowledge of the workings of these strange politics as I was in the street gangs that ran below the drift. “However, as the Season is all but finished, there are no other invites to busy yourself with. There are no balls, no soirees.”

  Just as I liked it. Yet I understood Fanny’s concern. I sighed, pushing the last of my eggs about my plate with a delicate silver fork. “I am sorry.”

  “You are not.”

  I refrained from smiling, even if there was a wry note to her rebuttal. “What would you have me do? The marchioness is intent on keeping me from my own ambition. This appears to mean all of Society.” Save for Lady Rutledge, who seemed quite keen on thumbing her nose at the marchioness.

  “If only the earl hadn’t left.” Fanny sighed.

  “Better that he had,” I returned, raising my chin as Fanny’s eyes narrowed. “I did not fancy him in the slightest.” A lie.

  A part of me fancied him. The inner thoughts of a girl flattered by the attentions of an earl. Even I, for all my bluster, was not immune to charm.

  “You speak of love, Cherry.” There was steel in her voice. Strong as the girders that held the city high. “You are nearing one and twenty years of age, this is an ideal time for marriage.”

  “I do not speak of love.” Another lie. But a narrow one.

  “Then whatever can be the issue?”

  “There was no word of a proposal,” I protested, pushing away my half-empty teacup with a distracted hand. “He was only making up the insult delivered by his family. Why on earth would you think that he intended to marry me?”

  She hadn’t seen the kiss, stolen in the exhibit where my father had worn his disguise so well. Or heard the earl’s declaration of admiration.

  Fat lot of good any of that had done.

  These were things men did, weren’t they? I knew it better than most, perhaps. Certainly better than the wide-eyed young misses thrown to the cattle market that was the Season. I knew the fallen women who flaunted their wares in the East End. The sweets sold to the highest bidder for an evening’s entertainment.

  Hadn’t I evaded Monsieur Marceaux’s auction tables by sheer perseverance?

  I’d known, and still I nursed a silent hurt. Lord Compton fled London and could not be bothered to send word to me about it. I shouldn’t expect it. What was I but a minor distraction?

  Someone he once owed an apology to.

  He had delivered. I could expect nothing more.

  I wanted nothing more.

  “There are signs, my dove,” she said with a shrewd glint in her eye. One that suggested her thoughts mirrored mine.

  “I am an heiress, Fanny.” An old argument. “An independent woman. I shall have no need of a husband when I come of age.”

  China clinked delicately as my chaperone set her teacup upon its saucer. Each motion came sharp and controlled. I’d upset her. Again. “And what will you do?” she demanded of me. “What do you plan with all of your wealth?”

  I rose, shaking out my skirts because it gave me something else to focus my attention on than her sharp gaze. “I will tour the world,” I declared. She scoffed, a dismissal. “I will hire a sky ship and travel to America and France. I will fund scientific inquiries and attend lectures.”

  I would purchase opium in whatever quantity I desired. Fund the finest craftsman to make for me items I could use while I collected.

  I would be free.

  “To what purpose?”

  I hesitated, gripping the back of the chair. To what purpose, indeed?

  Did I need one?

  I shook my head, swiping the fringe of fashionable curls from my forehead with an impatient hand. “I need no purpose,” I told her.

  Her smile surprised me. “Oh, my dove.” She sighed. “One day, you will understand.”

  I doubted it. Rigorously. “If you’ll excuse me,” I said instead, picking up my paper with one hand and my gloves with the other, “I’ve letters to write.”

  Her mouth thinned, and she once more reached for her tea. “Yes, of course.” A retreat, though a tactical one. “Do send Mr. Helmsley my regards.”

  I fled before the conversation could once more bend around the subject of marriage and duty.

  The idea was preposterous. The only reason I was on the verge of independence now came on the coattails of tragedy. A woman could inherit only if all other male relatives were no longer living. My father was dead, and I had no uncles, brothers, or cousins to take my inheritance from me.

  Common law suggested that should I marry, all my intended wealth—the inheritance protected so carefully by my absent guardian—would belong to my husband. Entirely.

  Not an ideal situation for any woman. Yet time after time, women fell to the trap of marriage.

  I would not be one. There was nothing marriage could offer me that I could not attain myself.

  And so I retired to the sitting room, and its delicate, feminine desk arrayed in one corner. This was my study, because I was not allowed in the actual study. Although it had once been my father’s, and retained much of his chosen decor, it was nevertheless Mr. Ashmore’s, and Fanny frowned on my presence there.

  It was an argument I did not intend to pursue. Much like that of marriage.

  I wrote to Teddy first. As one of my dearest friends, the Honorable Theodore Helmsley was a figure I missed terribly when he left Town for his family’s rural estate. Although he was the third son of a viscount, his prospects were as slim as mine. If he intended to get on in the world, he would be required to join Her Majesty’s service, master a properly respectable trade, or marry well.

  Once, he’d considered asking for my hand, but I had little enough to offer him. Wealth, perhaps, and friendship, but I was not keen on marriages of convenience. Or marriages at all, for that matter.

  He was my friend, and I was his. Most Wednesdays, we met here in the parlor to talk about the latest science periodicals. We theorized and debated, and I enjoyed my dear friend’s company immensely.

  Even if I kept the secrets of my collector’s life from him.

  I was certain he hid his own, for I knew rumor placed him often in the gaming hells below the drift, and frequently among the Menagerie sweets. In a way, I have long suspected that the break from Town was a way for his family to gather their strength for the Season next.

  His father, Viscount Armistice Helmsley the Third, was a known hedonist, and encouraged all his sons to be the same. Teddy was a smart lad,
brilliant in his own way and possessing a sharp sense of humor, but blood tells.

  It always tells, doesn’t it?

  The letter I wrote him said nothing of my current troubles. What could he do from so far away? Besides that, I knew that he received the same papers as I. Just a smidge later. He’d see the columns, know what they meant.

  Instead, I included notations from the latest periodicals. I did not expound—we would have much to catch up on when he finally returned—but I informed him in no uncertain terms that his ongoing views on aether as the creator of all life were bollocks.

  I included that word, underlined it with a flourish, because I knew it would make him laugh.

  When I was done, I signed it, sealed it, and marked it with his family’s estate address. Then I turned my attention to the small stack of newspapers Booth left for me.

  I did not bother reading them all. Instead, leaving my gloves off to better handle the thin pages, I rifled through each paper quickly and found what I sought in the Leeds Mercury. “Two more women murdered,” I read aloud, frowning at the bold print. HORRIBLE MUTILATION, the headline swore.

  A quick read told me what I’d feared.

  Two more dead in the East End, but I’d known of only one. It spoke of the woman, identified as Annie Morris, found exactly where we’d left her to chase her killer. Zylphia had proclaimed her dead; the papers confirmed the tale. Yet it seemed that murder was not by itself enough.

  The killer—perhaps unfulfilled by my interruption of his work—had found another victim. Another unfortunate character.

  How he must have been furious to be so disturbed.

  The second victim, this time uninterrupted by the likes of me, was found half of an hour later, throat cut. Body terribly mutilated.

  I shivered upon reading the details. With a few grotesque descriptions, I was no longer seated in my elegantly furnished parlor, no longer warm and dry.