by Aya Ling
“Um…” I don’t dare to look into his eyes. “Be…because I know you better?”
A gleam flashes in his eyes. “Even if I were your fiancé, it would still make better sense for you to simply hail another man, not one who was in the middle of a croquet game.”
My heart pounds. He really is a bigger flirt than he appears.
I bite my lip and try to recall that day on the croquet lawn. Obviously I can’t tell him about my scheme to set him up with Elle. But I’m lame with excuses, and he’s waiting, his eyes shrewd and piercing. I have to say something.
“Because I wanted to annoy Bianca,” I blurt out. “As you probably can tell, we’re not exactly the best of sisters. I…I was tired of her always getting what she wants, and there were so many men that were vying for her attention that day. I didn’t want her to add you to her list of lovesick swains.”
His eyebrows raise. “You harbor jealousy toward your sister?”
With sinking horror, I realize I might have given him the wrong idea. He might think I elbowed Bianca out of the way because I want him for myself.
Noooooooo!
“I…um…it’s not fun when everyone ignores you or wants to use you for getting closer to your sister,” I say, rubbing my palms against my gown. I wasn’t just referring to Bianca; I’m always used to being the less pretty, less popular sister. “Anyway,” I try to speak more normally, “when I saw her flirting with you, I wanted to butt in—I mean, create a diversion.”
He stares at me for a moment, perhaps trying to decipher if I am telling him the truth.
“What about her other suitors? Did you also discourage them from courting your sister?”
“No, in fact—” I put a hand on my mouth. This conversation is getting way out of hand. “Bianca doesn’t really care for them, but it’s different with you, so I tried to stop her…maybe I shouldn’t have, but I…um, I’m sorry?”
“No need to apologize, Kat.” He smiles—a genuine one that reaches his eyes. “You needn’t worry about your sister. I can assure you her attentions are quite unnecessary.”
I smile back, relieved. But it isn’t enough. I still need him to fall in love with Elle. Now he seems to like me, but if I make it clear that I’m not interested, he should get the hint and set his sight elsewhere. He’s the prince, he can have anyone he wants.
Though looking into his warm, espresso-brown eyes with flecks of gold, somehow I don’t want to.
When I stumble back to the ballroom, a bit breathless after my conversation with Edward, a servant comes up to me.
“Miss Katriona?” He makes a courtly bow. “Your sister awaits.”
Bianca is sitting in a corner in this luxurious red velvet armchair. Two young men are gathered around her, but I can read the words “Bugger-off!” emblazoned on her forehead. When I approach, she looks relieved, even delighted.
“At last you’ve returned,” she says in a reproachful tone. “I want to go home now. I’ve sprained my ankle.”
“Allow me assist you to your carriage, Miss Bradshaw,” one of the men quickly says.
“No, let me,” the other jumps in. “I shall fetch your cloak and wraps and accompany you to the door.”
“That will be unnecessary. My sister is here.” She stands up and grasps my elbow. “Give me your shoulder, Katriona. No, Mr. Rothschild, my injury isn’t serious at all. Please don’t trouble yourself. Mr. Lindsay, I suggest you return to the dance floor. There are several young ladies whose attention should not be ignored.”
As she leans forward, putting her weight on me, her long, cold fingers dig into my skin. As much as I dislike her, I tolerate it the best I can. Once we reach the carriage, Bianca climbs in with little difficulty; I suspect her sprained ankle was merely an excuse to leave early.
“Why are you in such a hurry?” I ask. “It’s barely past midnight.”
She fires me a piercing gaze. I can feel the intensity even in the darkness.
“Don’t lie to me, Katriona,” she hisses. “First the duke sends us separate invitations, then he leads you out of the dining room. What is it between the two of you?”
I gulp. One thing I’m sure of—I can’t tell her about Edward. He clearly wished that no one would know he was at his cousin’s mansion. Besides, I can’t even imagine Bianca’s wrath if she learns I was alone with him.
“He wanted to show me his library,” I say. “It holds at least a thousand books. I thought it was most impressive. I wanted to stay and browse through his collection, so he just left me there and went back to join the guests.”
There. I thought I hadn’t done a bad job. I read somewhere that to make a lie convincing, you need to mix elements of truth into it.
“How does he know that you like reading?” Bianca says. “Reading those trashy novels has only been a recent habit of yours. Have you talked to him recently?”
“I…I met him at The Bookworm.” This is true, anyway. “He is friends with Mr. Wellesley, the bookshop owner.”
“So you bonded over books?” Her tone remains incredulous.
“Of course not. Obviously he is dazzled by my startlingly good looks.”
Bianca snorts. “You consider yourself pretty enough to attract the duke?” Her tone kind of reminds me of Krev, when he laughed at me for thinking I should be Cinderella.
A moment later, she grasps my wrist. “I don’t care what kind of relationship you have with the duke, but since he’s the closest friend to the prince, you can do something for me.”
Oh no. Something undesirable this way comes.
“Whenever you see Duke Henry, I want you to ask him everything about the prince. His schedule, his doings, and most importantly—if he has shown ANY interest toward a lady.”
“Didn’t Mother already plant a spy in the castle?”
Bianca crosses her arms and huffs. “The prince found out. Now the lad has been assigned to a summer resort miles away from the castle.”
Way to go, Edward. So that’s how you maintain your mysterious, aloof character to the public.
“But I barely see the duke. And even if I talk to him, it’s unlikely I can learn all you want about the prince.”
“If Henry bothered to send you an invitation, especially after that dreadful event with McVean, he must at least hold you in special regard.” Special regard? He was acting under the prince’s orders.
“Find out from him about the prince,” Bianca commands. I roll my eyes—she’s acting like she’s already queen. “Or I’ll tell Mother you’ve been using our hansom to visit the poor neighborhood, and taking Elle with you.”
This time I grasp her wrist. “You knew?”
She tosses her head. “Van told me you’ve been to the slums as well as that bookstore. Mother won’t be pleased to hear about it. Nor of the fact you let a servant ride in the hansom with you, as though you’re of the same rank!”
“It was an emergency,” I grit. “Elle’s mother was seriously ill, and then her little brother was injured—”
“That’s their business,” Bianca hisses. “What are you, a saint or a nun? You ought to be worrying about your marriage prospects! Two months into the Season and no one has showed an interest in you.”
“Mr. Lloyd did,” I mutter.
“He doesn’t count, he’s intolerable.”
My sympathies go out to Lloyd.
“And your prospects dropped further because of your stupid tantrum with McVean. If the duke hadn’t taken an interest in you, Mother would have been profoundly embarrassed. She could pack you off to our country estate with a governess until you learned how to behave.”
I shudder. Definitely don’t want that to happen. I’d be stuck in Athelia forever.
We are silent for a while. Only the clop-clopping of the horse’s hooves can be heard.
“Why are you so hung up—why must you aspire for the prince?” I ask.
“It has been a dream of mine, ever since I saw him when we were children,” Bianca says., her voice softeni
ng noticeably. I didn’t know she had it in her to speak tenderly. “Do you remember the picnic we had at the palace, when we were about ten?”
“No.” Of course I don’t.
She makes a disgusted noise. “You were busy stuffing yourself with jelly tarts at that time. Anyway, all the boys had their eyes on me, but only he didn’t stare. I vowed then and there I’d make him notice me.”
I roll my eyes. And to think I thought she had a fluffy anecdote to tell. She isn’t infatuated with Edward, she just can’t stand being ignored.
“And I know I can. I have a better chance than any girl in the kingdom.” Then her cold, hard tone returns. “Nothing will stand in my way of becoming queen, the queen of Athelia. And you will help me achieve it.”
TWENTY
Back in my room, Krev is sitting on my window sill, snoozing. When I shut the door and stagger to bed, my feet sore and aching, he opens one eye. Then he leaps into the air, hovering above the bed. I’ve got to admit that even though he’s annoying, it’s a relief to talk to someone who knows who you really are.
“How did it go? What did the duke really want?”
I pull off my slippers and stockings and toss them on the rug. God, what a relief to wiggle my toes in front of a roaring fire. Martha or Elle must have kindled it when we arrived home.
“It was…okay. Henry and I didn’t talk much, actually.”
“I don’t believe you.” Krev’s bulbous eyes glow like yellow traffic lights. “The more indifferent you are, the more I detect that something big has happened. Spit it out, girlie. Or I shall overturn that jug of water on the dresser.”
Damn, he really gets me. I haven’t washed my face and hands, nor brushed my teeth, and no way am I gonna tumble in bed in my current state.
So I give him a brief account of the dance. I had to include Edward, since Krev is convinced my “indifferent tone” has to do with meeting the prince, so I try to downplay it by mentioning the eight-hour law only. Somehow I also mention Bianca’s request—scratch that—threat, that I report to her the prince’s schedule, now that I’m a “special” acquaintance of Duke Henry.
“She wants you to acquire information of dear Eddie from his cousin?”
“Stop. Calling. Him. Eddie.”
Krev grins. “Here’s an idea: how about you try seducing Duke Henry?”
I almost fall off the bed. “You’re nuts!”
“Why not? It would solve a lot of your problems.”
I groan. “First, Bianca doesn’t even believe Henry’s interested in me. Second, he…he probably has a thing for Elle already.”
Krev flips upside-down like Spiderman, and grins at me with his stupid feet in the air.
“Aha! Girlie, if you can turn the duke’s attention toward you, you’ll come closer to your goal.”
“I don’t see how.”
“Dumb as usual.” Krev shakes his head mournfully. “I thought that your goal was to get Eddie together with your maid.”
And then it hits me. If I can manage to turn Henry’s attention toward me, then he will forget about Elle. Plus, if Henry and I were an item, Edward couldn’t flirt with me anymore.
“But…” I pull over a pillow and bury my face in it. “God, I’ve never had a steady boyfriend, and now you’re telling me I have to go out there and seduce a duke?”
It’s ridiculous. It’s impossible. Me, a seductress? I’d sooner hear Ashley exalting the rustic delights of small town life.
Krev continues to bounce. “Well then, you can always stay in the book. Won’t be too hard, once you’re used to the big skirts and fancy hats.”
No way. I WANT to go home. I want simple, comfortable clothes, I want hot running water, I miss having the internet, and most of all, I miss my family. I toss the pillow aside and sit up straight.
I don’t see Henry as anything but a good friend, but he does have an attractive physique, evidenced by his rescuing Elle from the river. He’s amiable, kind, compassionate. A girl could do much worse.
I push aside thoughts of the impossibilities, of awkwardness, of the sheer terror of trying to catch a guy. God, I should have read more issues of Seventeen. You know, I might have picked up some tips for attracting a guy. But then they probably wouldn’t work in this old-fashioned, elitist society.
“All right.” I feel like Wendy, being forced to walk the plank on Captain Hook’s orders. “I’ll give it a try.”
Lady Bradshaw is surprised when I ask for extra lessons in etiquette.
“So you have finally realized the importance of attracting a husband?” she asks when I also request a shopping trip.
“Yes, Mother,” I say, trying to look repentant. “While attending Duke Henry’s ball, I found that his acquaintances are more desirable than others’.”
“Hmph.” Lady Bradshaw purses her lips. “The duke tends to go around with tradesmen more than the peerage. But I should be thankful if you can get anyone at all, judging from your performance so far.”
I work hard on my appearance and deportment for a few weeks, trying to combat my klutziness with the horribly uncomfortable crinolines and poofy skirts. I am making some improvement—I keep thinking of Mom and Paige—and after all, having been subjected to Athelian culture for an extended period, I am more competent by now.
When Pierre proclaims my gait and posture acceptable, I decide it’s time to act. I settle at my writing desk and pen a note for Henry, asking if I can visit his library again. It’s a perfectly reasonable request; I found it easy enough to write without embarrassment.
However, when the messenger returns, he tells me that the duke is absent, though he has left my note with the butler, Thomas.
Oh yeah, rotten luck again. Not surprising.
I decide to pay a visit to the bookshop again. Elle hasn’t gone home for some time—Lady Bradshaw ordered the servants to do a thorough cleaning of the house plus laundry, leaving them completely exhausted. I could see Billy and ask how Jimmy is doing.
At the bookshop, only little Billy is there, cleaning the spines of the books with a big yellow feather duster.
“Hello Billy,” I say, smiling at him. “How are you doing today? Feeling energetic on this bright morning?”
He smiles back at me shyly and nods.
“Mr. Wellesley isn’t in here?” Usually it’s the other way round—Mr. Wellesley is minding the store while Billy goes on an errand.
“He’s in the basement.” Billy takes my hand and leads me behind the counter. We enter a narrow corridor that smells of old books and faded ink. At the end of the corridor is a rickety staircase that leads to a floor below. I go down the stairs carefully—no matter how plainly I dress, there’s no getting around ankle-length skirts, even though it’s the beginning of summer. Which might as well be a blessing for Bianca’s suitors. If they saw her in a mini-skirt, showing off those model-thin legs, they’d go from half-idiots to complete idiots. Then Billy shows me to a room with the door left open. Indistinct voices drift from within.
I halt in the doorway. Mr. Wellesley and several other men are gathered around a table. The room is kind of messy, with an old-fashioned printing press that looks like it should be in a museum and piles of books in danger of falling apart.
“Who’s that?” A man asks, his tone somewhat unfriendly. He’s big and broad-shouldered with a ponytail, and has tree-trunk arms that look capable of tossing me out of the window.
“Lass?” Mr. Wellesley raises his head and shoots me a curious look behind his spectacles. “Is something the matter?”
“Um…” I shrink back, unsure if I stumbled upon some felonious conspiracy. “You’re not doing anything illegal, are you?”
He chuckles. “Right you are, lassie. We’re smuggling opium and drugs into the kingdom. Now you’ve discovered our dirty little secret, I’m afraid you cannot leave this room alive.”
Now it’s plain that he’s kidding. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Mr. Wellesley wipes his glasses with his big green apr
on. “Aye, that I agree. His Highness would skin me alive if anything happened to you.”
My heart skips a beat. How does he know about me and Edward?
“That reminds me.” Mr. Wellesley slaps a hand on his forehead. “Today the parliament voted on the bill His Highness submitted.”
“The eight-hour workday?”
“It was rejected.”
My mouth falls open. “Rejected? But…why? Can’t they see it’s simply inhumane to let children work more than eight hours a day? Even before Jimmy was injured, he was so thin and shriveled up, it just hurt to look at him.”
Mr. Wellesley shakes his head. “Nothing stands between unscrupulous owners and their insatiable desire for wealth. At least a quarter of them hold seats in the parliament, and more than half of the lords are in one way or other affected by the industry. It’s going to be a long, difficult campaign if we wish to impose legislative intervention on those that protest the freedom of a man to work.”
“Does Andrew McVean also hold a seat there?”
“No, but his influence might as well equal ten. Now don’t go throwing wine on him again, lass. We’ll take care of it.”
“How?”
“Too inquisitive for a lady,” one of the men growls. “Wellesley, if you keep answering her questions, we’d never get anything done.”
The man with a ponytail pushes back his seat and stands up. He stalks toward me—for a moment I believe he really is going to take me by the nape of my neck and toss me out—but then he stops and scowls down at me.
“We don’ be needing a fine lady barging in and messing wi’ our business. Run along and stick your nose in your needlework.”
A hot flush of anger sweeps over me. Factory owner or laborer, their views toward women are the same. God, I miss the modern world.
Mr. Wellesley coughs. “Now see here, Godfrey, this isn’t your ordinary noble-bred woman. She supported His Highness submitting the eight-hour bill.”
Ponytail Godfrey doesn’t seem much affected. “Eight hours is bit of a drastic start, when the children were working twelve to fifteen hours. The prince ought to have stuck to his original idea.”