by Juliana Gray
The stakes must have been high, for they played with intensity. A fine current of tension buzzed through the humid smoke-laden air. One man, his mustache merging seamlessly with the thicket of whiskers along his jaw, adjusted his seat and emitted a fart so long, so luxuriously slow, so like a mechanical engine in its noxious resonance, the very air trembled in awe. A pack of men at a neighboring table looked up, eyebrows high with admiration.
And yet his companions were so intent on the game, they couldn’t be bothered to congratulate him.
At that point, Emilie had taken out a volume of Augustine in the original Latin and made an impressive show of absorption. Travelers, she had discovered early in today’s journey from London, tended to avoid striking up conversations with solitary readers, especially when the book’s title encompassed multiple clauses in a foreign language, and the last thing Emilie needed was an inquisitive traveling companion: the kind who asked one impertinent questions and observed one’s every move. St. Augustine was her shield, and she was grateful to him. But tonight, at the bitter end of her journey into deepest Yorkshire, that godforsaken wilderness of howling wind and frozen moor, she could not focus her attention. Her gaze kept creeping over the edge of the volume to the table beyond.
It was the boy, she decided. Like her, he seemed out of place in this stained and battered inn, as if—like her—he had sought it out over higher-class establishments in order to avoid his usual crowd. He sat at a diagonal angle from her, his left side exposed to her gaze, illuminated by the roaring fire nearby. He was not much more than sixteen; possibly not even that. His pale face was rimmed with spots of all sizes, and his shoulders were almost painfully thin beneath a long thatch of straw-colored hair. He alone had not taken off his coat; it hung from his bones as if from an ill-stuffed scarecrow, dark blue and woven from a fine grade of wool. He regarded his cards with intense concentration behind a pair of owlish spectacles.
Emilie liked his concentration; she liked his spots and his long fingers. He reminded her of herself at that age, all awkward limbs and single-minded focus. Without thinking, she pushed her own spectacles farther up the bridge of her nose and smiled.
The boy was clearly winning.
Even if the stacks of coins at his side were not steadily growing into mountains, Emilie could not have mistaken the scowls of the other men at the table, the shifting in seats, the sharp smacks with which they delivered their stakes to the center of the table. Another round had just begun, and the dealer passed the cards around with blinding swiftness, not to waste a single instant of play. Each face settled into implacability; not a single mustache twitched. One man glanced up and met Emilie’s eyes with cold malevolence.
She dropped her gaze back to her book. Her wine and chicken arrived in a clatter of ancient pewter, delivered by a careless barmaid with clean apple red cheeks and burly fingers. Emilie set down the book and poured the wine with a hand that shook only a little. The coldness of the man’s gaze settled like a fist in her chest.
Emilie concentrated on the ribbon of wine undulating into her glass, on the chilly smoothness of the bottle beneath her fingers. Her wineglass was smudged, as if it had seen many other fingers and very little soap. Emilie lifted it to her lips anyway, keeping all her fingertips firmly pressed against the diamond pattern cut into the bowl, and took a hearty masculine swallow.
And nearly spat it back.
The wine was awful, rough and thin all at once, with a faint undertone of turpentine. Emilie had never tasted anything so awful, not even the cold boar’s heart pie she’d been forced to eat in Huhnhof Baden two years ago, as the guest of honor at the autumn cornucopia festival. Only duty had seen her through that experience. Chew and swallow, Miss Dingleby had always instructed her. A princess does not gag. A princess chews and swallows. A princess does not complain.
The wine felt as if it were actually boiling in Emilie’s mouth. Was that even possible? She held her breath, gathered her strength, and swallowed.
It burned down her throat, making her eyes prickle, making her nostrils flare. The atmosphere in the room, with its roaring fire and twenty perspiring men, pressed against her forehead with enough force to make her brow pearl out with perspiration. Except that princesses did not perspire; even princesses in exile, disguised as young men. She stared up at the ceiling, studied the wooden beam threatening her head, and let gravity do its work.
Her stomach cramped, recoiled, heaved, and settled at last with a warning grumble. A buzz sounded from somewhere inside her spinning ears.
Emilie picked up her knife and fork with numbed fingers and sawed off a leg from her chicken.
Gradually her ears began to pick up sound again, her nose to acquire smells. To her right, a rumble of discontent ricocheted among the card players.
“Unless my eyesight is capable of penetrating the backs of your cards,” the boy was saying, his voice skidding perilously between one octave and the next, “your accusation is impossible, sir. I must beg that you retract it.”
One of the men shot upward, overturning his chair. “Not bloody likely, you cheating little bugger!”
“You are wrong on both counts. I am neither dishonest nor a practicing sodomite,” said the boy, with unnatural calm.
The man flung out his arm and overturned the pile of coins next to the boy’s right arm. “And I say you are!” he yelled.
Or so Emilie presumed. The words themselves were lost in the crash of humanity that followed the overturning of the coins onto the floor.
Emilie, who had just lifted the chicken leg to her mouth with a certain amount of relish—she had never, ever been allowed to touch a morsel of food without the intercession of one utensil or another—nearly toppled in the whoosh of air as a long-shanked figure dove from his seat near the fireplace and into the tangle of flailing limbs.
“Oh, fuck me arse!” yelled the barmaid, three feet away. “Ned! Fetch the bucket!”
“Wh-what?” said Emilie. She rose from her chair and stared in horror. A coin went flying from the writhing scrum before her and smacked against her forehead in a dull thud.
“I’ll take that.” The barmaid swooped down and snatched the coin from among the shavings.
“Madam, I . . . oh, good God!” Emilie ducked just in time to avoid a flying bottle. It crashed into the fire behind her in a shattering explosion of glass and steam, laced with turpentine.
Emilie looked at her wine and chicken. She looked down at her battered leather valise, filled with its alien cargo of masculine clothing and false whiskers. Her heart rattled nervously in her chest.
“Excuse me, madam,” she said to the barmaid, ducking again as a pewter tankard soared through the air, “do you think . . .”
“Ned! Bring that bleedin’ bucket!” bellowed the barmaid. The words had hardly left her lips when a thick-shouldered man ran up from behind, bucket in each hand, skin greasy with sweat. “About time,” the barmaid said, and she snatched a bucket from his hand and launched its contents into the scrum.
For an instant, the scene hung suspended, a still-life drawing of dripping fists halted in mid-swing and lips curled over menacing teeth. Then a single explicit curse burst fluently from some masculine throat, and the fists connected with solid flesh. Someone roared like a wounded lion, a feral sound cut off short by a smash of breaking glass.
“You’d best fly, young sir,” said the barmaid, over her shoulder, as she tossed the second bucket into the fray.
“Right,” said Emilie. She picked up her valise and stumbled backward. She had already engaged a room upstairs, though she wasn’t quite sure where to find it; but at least she knew there was an upstairs, a refuge from the brawl, which seemed to be growing rather than ebbing. Two men ran in from the other room, eyes wild, spittle flying from their lips, and leapt with enthusiasm onto the pile.
Emilie took another step backward, a final longing gaze at her chicken. She’d only had a single rubbery bite, her first meal since a hurried lunch of cheese sandwich a
nd weak tea at the station cafe in Derby, as she waited for the next train in her deliberately haphazard route. She hadn’t thought to bring along something to eat. What princess did? Food simply arrived at the appropriate intervals, even during the flight from the Continent, procured by one loyal retainer or another. (Hans did have a knack for procuring food.) This chicken, tough and wretched, pale and dull with congealed grease, was her only chance of nourishment until morning. The dismembered leg lay propped on the edge of the plate, unbearably tantalizing.
At the back of Emilie’s mind, Miss Dingleby was saying something strict, something about dignity and decorum, but the words were drowned out by the incessant beat of hunger farther forward in the gray matter. Emilie ducked under a flying fork, reached out with one slender white hand, snatched the chicken leg, and put it in her pocket.
She spun around and hesitated, for just the smallest fraction of an instant.
“I’ve got you, you bleedin’ little bu—” The shout rang out from the melee, cut short by an oomph and a splatter.
Emilie turned back, set down her valise, and wrenched the other leg from the chicken. The bone and skin slipped against her fingers; she grabbed the knife and sawed through until the drumstick came loose.
A half crown coin landed with a thud on the platter, at the bisection of leg from trunk, in a pool of thickened grease. “Oy!” someone yelled.
Emilie looked up. A man rushed toward her, his nose flinging blood, his arms outstretched. Emilie took the chicken leg, left the coin, and scrambled past the chair.
“What’ve you got there? Oy!”
A heavy hand landed on her shoulder, turning her around with a jerk. Emilie held back a gasp at the stench of rotting breath, the wild glare of the bulbous eyes. The chicken leg still lay clenched in her left hand, the knife in her right.
“Stand back!” she barked.
The man threw back his head and laughed. “A live one! Bleedin’ little squeaker. I’ll . . .”
Emilie shoved the chicken leg in her pocket and brought up the knife. “I said stand back!”
“Oh, it’s got a knife, has it?” He laughed again. “What’s that in your pocket, mate?”
“Nothing.”
He raised one hamlike fist and knocked the knife from her fingers. “I said, what’s that in your pocket, mate?”
Emilie’s fingers went numb. She looked over the man’s shoulder. “Watch out!”
The man spun. Emilie leaned down, retrieved the knife, and pushed him full force in his wide and sagging buttocks. He lurched forward with a hard grunt and grabbed wildly for the chair, which shattered into sticks under his hand. Like an uprooted windmill he fell, arms rotating in drunken circles, to crash atop the dirty shavings on the floor. He flopped once and lay still.
“Oh, well done!”
The boy popped out of nowhere, brushing his sleeves, grinning. He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and examined the platter of limbless chicken. “I do believe that’s mine,” he said, taking the half crown and flipping it in the air.
“Wh-what?” asked Emilie helplessly.
“Freddie, you bleedin’ fool!” It was the barmaid. Her hands were fisted on her hips, and her hair flew in wet strands from her cap.
“I’m sorry, Rose,” said the boy. He turned to her with a smile.
Rose? thought Emilie, blinking at the broad-shouldered barmaid.
“You has to watch yer mouth, Freddie,” Rose was saying, shaking her head. Another shout came from the mass of men, piled like writhing snakes atop one another on the floor nearby. Someone leaped toward them, shirt flapping. Rose picked up Emilie’s half-empty wine bottle and swung it casually into the man’s head. He groaned once and fell where he stood. “I’ve told yer and told yer.”
“I know, Rose, and I’m sorry.” Young Freddie looked contritely at his shoes.
“You’d best fly, Freddie, before yer father comes a-looking. And take this poor young sod with yer. He ain’t fit for fighting.”
Freddie turned to Emilie and smiled. “I think you’ve misjudged him, Rose. He’s got a proper spirit.”
“I have nothing of the sort,” Emilie squeaked. She took a deep breath and schooled her voice lower. “That is, I should be happy to retire. The sooner”—she ducked just in time to avoid a spinning plate, which smashed violently into the wall an instant later—“the better, really.”
“All right, then. Don’t forget your valise.” Freddie picked it up and handed it to her, still smiling. He was a handsome lad, really, beneath his spots. He had a loose-limbed lankiness to him, like a puppy still growing into his bones. And his eyes were pure blue, wide and friendly behind the clear glass of his spectacles.
“Thank you,” Emilie whispered. She took the valise in her greasy fingers.
“Have you a room?” Freddie asked, dodging a flying fist.
“Yes, upstairs. I . . . oh, look out!”
Freddie spun, but not in time to avoid a heavy shoulder slamming into his.
“Jack, you drunken bastard!” screeched Rose.
Freddie staggered backward, right into Emilie’s chest. She flailed wildly and crashed to the ground. Freddie landed atop her an instant later, forcing the breath from her lungs. The knife flew from her fingers and skidded across the floor.
“Right, you little whoreson,” said the attacker. He was the first one, Emilie thought blearily, the one who had knocked the coins from the table to begin with. He was large and drunk, his eyes red. He leaned down, grabbed Freddie by the collar, and hauled back his fist.
“No!” Emilie said. Freddie’s weight disappeared from her chest. She tried to wriggle free of the rest of him, but Freddie was flailing to loosen himself from the man’s grasp. Emilie landed her fist in the crook of one enormous elbow and levered herself up, just a little, just enough that she could bend her neck forward and sink her teeth into the broad pad of the man’s thumb.
“Oy!” he yelled. He snatched his hand back, letting Freddie crash to the ground and roll away, and grabbed Emilie’s collar instead.
Emilie clutched at his wrist, writhing, but he was as solid as a horse and far less sensible. His fist lifted up to his ear, and his eyes narrowed at her. Emilie tried to bring up her knee, her foot, anything. She squeezed her eyes shut, expecting the shattering blow, the flash of pain, the blackness and stars and whatever it was.
How the devil had this happened to her? Brawls only happened in newspapers. Only men found themselves locked in meaty fists, expecting a killing punch to the jaw. Only men . . .
But then . . . she was a man, wasn’t she?
With one last mighty effort, she flung out her hand and scrabbled for the knife. Something brushed her fingertips, something hard and round and slippery. She grasped it, raised it high, and . . .
“Oogmph!” the man grunted.
The weight lifted away. Her collar fell free.
Emilie slumped back, blinking. She stared up at the air before her. At her hand, grasping the tip of a chicken leg.
She sat up dizzily. Two men swam before her, her attacker and someone else, someone even broader and taller, who held the fellow with one impossibly large hand. Emilie expected to see his other fist fly past, crashing into the man’s jaw, but it did not. Instead, the newcomer raised his right arm and slammed his elbow on the juncture of his opponent’s neck and shoulder.
“Oy?” the man squeaked uncertainly, and sagged to the ground.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Freddie. He stood up next to Emilie and offered her his hand. “Was that necessary?”
Emilie took Freddie’s hand and staggered to her feet. She looked up at the newcomer, her rescuer, to say some word of abject thanks.
But her breath simply stopped in her chest.
The man filled her vision. If Emilie leaned forward, her brow might perhaps reach the massive ball of his shoulder. He stood quite still, staring down at the man slumped on the ground with no particular expression. His profile danced before her, lit by the stil
l-roaring fire, a profile so inhumanly perfect that actual tears stung the corners of Emilie’s eyes. He was clean-shaven, like a Roman god, his jaw cut from stone and his cheekbone forming a deep shadowed angle on the side of his face. His lips were full, his forehead high and smooth. His close-cropped pale hair curled about his ear. “Yes,” he said, the single word rumbling from his broad chest. “Yes, my dear boy. I believe it was necessary.”
Dear boy?
Emilie blinked and brushed her sleeves. She noticed the chicken leg and shoved it hastily in her pocket.
“I was about to take him, you know,” said Freddie, in a petulant voice.
The man turned at last. “I would rather not have taken that chance, you see.”
But Emilie didn’t hear his words. She stood in horrified shock, staring at the face before her.
The face before her: His face, her hero’s face, so perfect in profile, collapsed on the right side into a mass of scars, of mottled skin, of a hollow along his jaw, of an eye closed forever shut.
From somewhere behind him came Rose’s voice, raised high in supplication. “Your Grace, I’m that sorry. I did tell him, sir . . .”
“Your Grace?” Emilie said. The words slipped out in a gasp. Understanding began to dawn, mingled with horror.
Freddie handed Emilie her valise and said ruefully, “His Grace. His Grace, the Duke of Ashland, I’m afraid.” A sigh, long and resigned. “My father.”
* * *
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Berkley Sensation titles by Juliana Gray
A LADY NEVER LIES
A GENTLEMAN NEVER TELLS
A DUKE NEVER YIELDS