Lessons After Dark

by Isabel Cooper

  He pulled away from her again. Not much. Just enough to start undoing his trouser buttons with one hand, the other pushing her skirt up, sliding over her leg like he’d wanted to do in the first place. Damned distracting, trying to do both at once, but he felt no inclination to stop touching her, particularly as she showed no inclination to stop him. She was breathing hard in the aftermath of her climax, and watching the rapid rise and fall of her breasts was enough to make Gareth yank the rest of the buttons open, hearing threads break and not caring. His fingers reached her thigh, slid farther up to feel wetness and soft hair, and Olivia made another of those maddening noises in her throat.

  And then there was a knock at the door.

  Chapter 20

  None of the words Gareth used were exactly new to Olivia, not after ten years in a not-precisely genteel neighborhood of London, but she hadn’t ever heard them in such close proximity. One had to give the man credit, though. He kept the profanity under his breath. Given the circumstances, Olivia wouldn’t have blamed him if he’d sworn at the top of his lungs.

  She found the idea rather tempting herself.

  Nonetheless, she didn’t say anything, only lay still and managed not to protest as Gareth drew his hand out from under her skirt then got to his feet. Several of his trouser buttons had come off, and his arousal was still quite apparent behind the ones that remained. She felt another pulse of heat between her legs, an echo of her earlier crisis and the excitement that had been starting to build again.

  Another knock.

  “Yes?” She and Gareth answered as one, and neither of them sounded particularly patient.

  There was a longish pause. Then: “Um. It’s Violet, sir, ma’am. Mrs. Grenville asked me to come and see if Mrs. Brightmore was all right.”

  Olivia raised herself gingerly from the couch, supporting herself on one of the arms until she found out her ankle would bear her. She didn’t look at Gareth. “Yes, thank you. Dr. St. John’s been very helpful.”

  At least she’d remembered to call him by his title and last name when she spoke. Her mind, apparently, had decided it was absurd to keep thinking of the man that way, considering what had just passed between them. Considering what had just passed between them, Olivia told herself, was a horrible idea just now.

  After a moment of silence, Violet continued. “Oh. Um, in that case, she says you’re to join her and Mr. Grenville in the drawing room. In about an hour. Mrs. Brightmore, we’ve some dry clothes upstairs, if you can walk, and we’re running a bath.”

  “I’ll be right out,” she said.

  “Let the Grenvilles know I’ll join them shortly,” said Gareth. Olivia couldn’t resist glancing over her shoulder at him, and saw he was sitting at his desk and staring fixedly out the window. His hands were flat on the top of the desk pressing hard. She didn’t want to think about the urges he was resisting.

  Really, she did. That was the problem.

  Olivia made a few quick adjustments to her dress and opened the door. The accident would explain any lingering disarray.

  It was a good thing she did have an appointment downstairs, or she might have lingered in the bath, retracing the path of Gareth’s hands on her body and remembering the moments of mindless pleasure she’d felt when she’d rubbed herself against him.

  Needless to say, Olivia told herself, she hadn’t entirely been in her right mind to begin with. She’d heard of great fear producing certain reactions afterward, excess energy and survival instinct and all that. She would have responded the same way to any halfway attractive man, probably, and she’d found Gareth handsome as soon as they’d met. Fortunately, and a little amusingly, he was also the least troublesome of the men at Englefield in a way, being neither married nor too young nor a servant.

  Besides, there’d been that odd connection when he’d mended her ankle. It hadn’t been sensual at the time. She’d been in too much pain to register anything like pleasure, but she’d been aware of the contact between their energies. That had probably played into the attraction she’d felt.

  There were explanations for everything. Moreover, they’d been interrupted, thank God, before anything more could happen, and it wouldn’t happen again. So there was nothing to worry about.

  That is, nothing except looking him in the face next time they met.

  Olivia rinsed her hair, toweled off, and told herself not to be a ninny. Gareth was a man of the world and a man of some experience, obviously, and she was no debutante. She bit her lip at the memory of his hands, knowing and firm and urgent. Things had happened. Life went on.

  She’d made paying audiences think she could summon the dead and float crystal balls around. Keeping her countenance around one man should not, would not, be a problem. Even so, she chose the plainest of her black skirts and a high-collared shirtwaist in dark gray and pinned her hair up in the primmest knot she could manage.

  At times like these, a woman did need some armor.

  ***

  Everyone else was already in the drawing room when Olivia walked in: the Grenvilles on one of the couches, Gareth straight-backed on the edge of a chair, and Michael, whom she hadn’t expected, perched on another. Michael and the men rose as Olivia entered, and everyone looked at her.

  The Grenvilles, to her relief, seemed only polite and curious. Gareth met her eyes soberly and squarely. His hands moved slightly on the arms of his chair, fingers flexing, but his face was a very careful blank. Michael, on the other hand, let out what sounded like an hour’s worth of held breath, then gulped and flushed and looked down at his shoes.

  While Olivia found a seat, everyone was silent, her footsteps on the carpet were the only sound, and then the rustle of her skirt as she sat. Even such small noises seemed obtrusive. The atmosphere felt solid and fragile all at once, like cut glass.

  “Well,” she said and smiled at Michael. “Nobody’s come to any great harm, it seems, and now we know something we didn’t before. Not a bad afternoon on the whole, I’d say, though I hope none of the horses were hurt.”

  “No,” said Mr. Grenville. “A little frightened, but that’s all.”

  “An apt description for everyone involved, then,” Olivia replied.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” said Michael, dragging his head up so he met her eyes. “I didn’t mean to. I’d never have meant to do anything like that.”

  Olivia reached over and patted his shoulder. “Of course you didn’t,” she said briskly. “I saw you, remember? If you knew what you were doing, you’d have to have been a remarkable actor indeed to have looked that scared. Furthermore, I told you to—”

  “And I told you,” said Joan.

  Mr. Grenville smiled. “Perhaps Gareth’s the only one of us who shouldn’t be castigating himself this afternoon.”

  Briefly, Gareth’s fingers tightened on the arms of his chair. “I’m sure I can think of something to regret,” he said and did not look at Olivia.

  The door opened again before anyone else could speak, and hopefully before anyone but Olivia noticed the slightly husky tone in Gareth’s voice. One of the footmen came through, carrying a silver tea tray. Pouring and serving broke some of the tension. Michael in particular seemed heartened, though whether that was due more to the words or the sandwiches and cakes, Olivia couldn’t say. For a thirteen-year-old boy, it was probably a fairly close race.

  “The question is,” Mr. Grenville said once the footman had left, “what exactly happened, and why? Michael, how much do you remember?”

  “Most of it, sir. It’s…a bit hard to put in words, though.” Michael toyed with one of his crusts.

  “Do your best,” said Mr. Grenville. “We’ll figure out the rest of it.”

  Michael took a deep breath. “All right. I started to try to reach the clouds, like Mrs. Brightmore told me to do. And I did. Only I went…too far, maybe?” His forehead wrinkled. “It was like I meant to whisper and wound up shouting instead. Only it took me a bit to stop shouting once I realized I was doing it, and th
en I’d, um, woken things up.”

  “Was it you shouting?” Joan asked, leaning forward. “Or was it something acting through you?”

  “Me, ma’am. I didn’t really know what I was doing, but it was me.” Michael looked down at his plate again.

  Joan relaxed back against the couch. “That’s something.”

  “Gareth,” Mr. Grenville said, “have you had a chance to look at Fairley?”

  Gareth nodded. “Shortly before we came in here. There’s nothing physically wrong with him. He’s in excellent health.”

  “Good,” said Mr. Grenville, and Michael looked considerably relieved as well. Mr. Grenville hesitated for a moment and then went on. “I can think of a few reasons someone might use more power than he intended. Splitting his attention between the magical task at hand and controlling a horse, for example, one of the things we were originally attempting to test. You’re looking doubtful, Fairley.”

  “It didn’t feel like being distracted, sir,” Michael said.

  “Distraction doesn’t always,” said Mr. Grenville slowly, “but that’s certainly a point away from the first theory. Another factor could be, well, your age.” He coughed and picked up a sandwich. “That may be something you should discuss with Gareth when the ladies are gone.”

  A brief, awkward silence ensued, in which Joan rolled her eyes, Olivia tactfully pretended to consider her teacup, and Michael turned red again.

  “The third possibility,” said Mr. Grenville, “is location. Have you worked outside before?”

  Olivia shook her head just as Michael replied, “Not here, sir. At home, once in a while, but not most of the time. Nothing ever happened there.”

  “It might not,” said Olivia, looking over at Mr. Grenville. “We talked about the forest before, you know. The gardens are tolerably close, and if there’s any kind of effect, the rest of the land might share in it to some degree. Magic doesn’t have terribly strict borders most of the time.”

  Mrs. Grenville lifted her eyebrows and shrugged. “Could be,” she said and then smiled. “I hear men see strange things there.”

  “On occasion,” said Mr. Grenville with a smile of his own. Olivia decided to pour herself some more tea and noticed Gareth seemed to need another biscuit as well.

  She looked across the table at Gareth, intending to be businesslike, and ended up noticing the line of his neck, almost golden against his white collar. “Have you,” she asked, trying to keep her voice brisk, “ever been in places where it was easier to use your talent? Or harder, I suppose?”

  “I haven’t exactly kept records,” Gareth said, immediate and curt. He looked slowly from Olivia to Mr. Grenville to Michael, then, and sighed. “But there might have been a place or two. Possibly. Nothing as showy. Then again—”

  “You have a great deal of practice in not being showy,” said Mr. Grenville.

  “Right,” said Gareth. “And it wouldn’t have manifested. I mean, healing is self-limiting.”

  “Sometimes,” said Joan. “You got off lucky that way.” She grimaced, and the others followed suit as unpleasant alternatives came to their minds.

  Olivia finished off a sandwich, her third, but it wasn’t exactly a formal party, and she was unexpectedly hungry. Terror and lust, she supposed, would do that. Certainly Gareth had put away most of a plate. “It seems to me,” she said, “we should try a few tests. Only, less dangerous tests.”

  “How?” Joan asked. “Fairley’s dangerous. Donnell’d be worse, floating off the way she does.” The room collectively shuddered at the thought. “And Woodwell’s talent isn’t internal and wouldn’t increase in power even if it was. I guess you could always cut yourself and see how much it takes out of Dr. St. John when he heals you.”

  “Perhaps as a last resort,” Mr. Grenville said while Olivia blinked and Gareth coughed.

  “I was thinking perhaps ceremonial magic rather than natural talents,” Olivia said. “If there’s a thinning in the world in the forest or a nexus point of power, it should influence all sorts of magic. Ceremonial’s much easier to control. That is, it’s easier to find spells that won’t do much damage if they do get away from the caster.”

  Mr. Grenville nodded. “At the very least,” he said, “I think it’s time to more seriously investigate the forest. You and I, St. John, and Mrs. Brightmore.” He said to Joan, “If you don’t mind keeping the students in line while we’re out.” She nodded briskly. “Perhaps, Miss Woodwell as well. The wild beasts might know something we don’t. We’ll set out tomorrow, weather permitting.”

  “Meanwhile,” said Joan, “keep any experiments indoors. Nobody’s died from that so far.”

  Chapter 21

  “Damn.”

  Olivia hadn’t expected profanity from Mr. Grenville, and certainly not at the breakfast table. Neither had almost anyone else. There had been only the one word, and it had been quiet, almost a whisper, but it had nonetheless made most people catch their breath. Even the footman paused for a second. At the other end of the table, Joan was watching her husband too, but she didn’t look at all surprised.

  Worried, yes. Olivia couldn’t blame her.

  Mr. Grenville was staring at a buff-colored slip of paper: a telegram. His lips were a thin line with a little bit of whiteness around them. Olivia wasn’t certain he knew he’d sworn, or spoken at all, for that matter.

  Bad news. Urgent bad news. Olivia thought of death, of disgrace, of financial ruin, and glanced quickly across the table to Gareth before she realized what she was doing. He’d started taking breakfast with her and the Grenvilles in the last few days, for some reason, though he never talked much. Now Olivia was glad of it. He knew Mr. Grenville far better than she did.

  But Gareth looked back with as much confusion as she felt.

  It was late fall, almost winter, and the wind whistled outside. The sunshine was deceptively bright through the windows. The silver was old, and the food was rich, but Olivia remembered a small flat in London and the taste of dry toast. She’d left a piece half-eaten when the doctor had come downstairs to inform her of her husband’s death. It had been summer then.

  Very carefully, she put down her teacup.

  “Simon?” Joan’s voice was both steady and steadying. “What’s wrong?”

  Mr. Grenville looked up and let out a breath, only now seeming to focus on his surroundings. “Nothing. Nobody we know. It’s from Gillespie.” He glanced over at Olivia, who held herself very still, then back at Joan. “He wants us to come up to London.”

  Joan lifted her eyebrows. “I’m guessing not a social visit.”

  “No. Not at all. It’s that business in Whitechapel.”

  The stillness around the table changed, transmuted into something both less and more fearful, relief that the news wasn’t worse, dread of what might yet happen. Even out at Englefield, the papers had been very informative. The previous day’s in particular.

  Olivia picked up her teacup again, mostly to have something to do with her hands. She didn’t realize where she was looking until she met Gareth’s eyes again. No answers waited there, nor had she expected any, but there was comfort in his gaze nonetheless. It helped to know she wasn’t the only stunned bystander in the room.

  “I told you before,” Joan said, forehead wrinkling, “I don’t recognize anything in this Ripper but a madman who’s managed to find some easy targets in an awful neighborhood. What does Gillespie think we’re going to find?”

  “Perhaps nothing. Perhaps he wants only to confirm that we are dealing with a human here and not one with any particular powers. Or, perhaps not.” Mr. Grenville smiled a little, without much humor in it. “It’s rather difficult to read a man’s mood in a telegram, you know.”

  “So we’ll have to wait until we get to London. Which means I’d better start packing.” Joan rose from the table, glanced over her shoulder, and added, “St. John? Olivia? You’ll have to manage the forest without us. Woodwell should be able to get you in and out if the maps fail.”
>
  “We could wait—” Gareth began.

  “You shouldn’t,” said Joan.

  “It’s probably best not to take any chances,” Mr. Grenville added, “given what’s already happened. If anything out there could affect this household, we’ll need to know.”

  “We’ll head out today, then,” said Olivia. She picked up her tea and drank but didn’t taste anything. Responsibility felt like a lead cloak on her shoulders.

  ***

  “It should take a few days. A week at most. I’ll certainly write if we’re delayed any longer.” Simon prowled the library, three volumes in his arms already, and frowned dubiously down at a fourth. “You can write as well. Brooks has my address.”

  As he turned to cross the room again, Gareth stepped to the side, then took refuge against the windowsill. His leg wouldn’t permit much more dodging. Neither would his dignity. “I doubt I’ll have to,” he said.

  Simon paused. “I don’t know what’s in that forest or what Michael’s display yesterday afternoon might have awakened. I do know I’m leaving you and Mrs. Brightmore with five students and the servants to keep safe. The killings in London are likely the fault of a human, probably without any magic at all, and I very much doubt there’s anything human in the forest other than a few poachers. And they won’t be the danger.

  “If women weren’t dead, I’d much rather stay here and keep a watch on Englefield.”

  Gareth sighed and shook his head. “No. No, that’s fair. I just wish you’d more information going in than three lines from some…who is this man?”

  “Gillespie?” Simon chuckled. “It’s somewhat difficult to describe him. He’s a bookseller, let’s say, and a magician. He was the one who recommended Mrs. Brightmore to us.”

  A month ago, Gareth would have made a snide comment: That’s certainly a mark of distinction, or something similar. He could feel the shape of it now in the back of his head, but other things seemed more important. “Oh? How does he know her?”