by Emily Larkin
“If I have your right wrist it doesn’t mean you’re helpless. You can use your left hand and elbow. You can use your feet and your knees. You can bite my hand and scratch my face and kick and scream.” He smiled at her. “Go on, try it.”
“Try screaming?” she said doubtfully.
He laughed. “No. Try using your left hand. What can you do with it?”
After a moment, Miss Toogood mimed scratching his eyes out.
“Good,” he said. “And what else?”
“Hit him on the nose,” Dex suggested helpfully.
After Miss Toogood had metaphorically bloodied Octavius’s nose by a variety of methods, he swapped wrists and had her practice some more. Then he took hold of both of her wrists, one in each hand. “Now, what can you do?”
“Scream,” she said. “And bite. And kick you in the, ah, the groin.”
“And the knee,” Dex said abruptly. “Kick him hard enough in the knee and he’ll fall right over.”
“True,” Octavius said, and wondered why he’d not thought of kicking Rumpole’s knee at Vauxhall Gardens.
The answer was that he’d felt too threatened, that he’d been too panicked.
“You can break a man’s knee that way,” Dex said helpfully. “Give it a try, Miss Toogood. Don’t use your toe; use your heel. As if you’re stamping on something. Put your whole weight behind it.”
Dex demonstrated the movement on Octavius’s left knee, and it was his turn to wince instinctively. Miss Toogood mimicked Dex. The hem of her dress rose as she did so. Octavius noted that she had very fine ankles. In fact, based on that glimpse, he’d go so far as to call them the finest ankles he’d ever seen.
After Miss Toogood had practiced several times, Octavius released her wrists and stepped back, glad that his knees were still intact. “Do you think you could do any of that for real, if you had to?”
Miss Toogood considered this question seriously and then nodded. “If I had to, yes.”
“Good,” he said. “Let’s practice again tomorrow night.”
“Is that necessary?” Newingham, the voice of propriety, asked from his position by the worktable.
“Yes,” Octavius said. “It is.” He met Miss Toogood’s eyes and spoke quietly, trying to convince her without scaring her: “If you should ever be attacked, it won’t be like this. You’ll be afraid and you won’t have time to think things through. The more you practice now, the more likely it is that you’ll be able to fight back.” He almost added, Trust me, I know, to the end of that statement, but managed to stop himself in time; he couldn’t refer to Vauxhall Gardens, however obliquely, without inviting questions he couldn’t answer. “So, another lesson tomorrow?”
Miss Toogood barely hesitated. “Yes.”
“Good.” He was relieved enough to grin. “You did very well, Miss Toogood. Perfectly, in fact.”
He wondered if she heard what he’d come to think of as their private joke in that “perfectly.” He thought she might have. Her mouth tucked in at the corners as if she was suppressing a smile. “Thank you,” she said, and then she looked past him to Newingham and said, “Lord Newingham, I know it’s not my place to thank you for coming to see Edith and Frances, but your attention and your kindness mean the world to them. I hope you won’t take it amiss if I thank you on their behalf?”
Newingham went bright pink with embarrassment, because the only reason he was in Hampshire was that team of blood bays. “Not at all,” he said. “It’s been my pleasure. They’re, uh, they’re good girls.”
“Yes, they are,” Miss Toogood said. “Very good-hearted. But they’re also extremely shy, and you’ve been so kind to them and so patient. I’ve never seen them as happy as they’ve been today.”
Newingham went even pinker. “My pleasure,” he said again, and then, “By Jove! Is that the time? We’d best be going.”
Octavius would have gladly lingered in the schoolroom with Miss Toogood, but Newingham was heading for the door with great determination. “Come along, Otto, Dex! Miss Toogood, it’s been a pleasure. Good night.”
“Good night,” Octavius said to Miss Toogood. He wanted to take her hand and kiss it, but it wouldn’t have been at all appropriate, so he merely nodded to her and followed Dex from the schoolroom.
Newingham hustled them along the corridor and down one flight of stairs, then halted on the landing. “You do remember that we’re the baron’s guests, don’t you, Otto? We’re meant to be spending our evenings with him, not with governesses.”
“We’re unwanted guests,” Octavius reminded him.
Newingham inhaled in a manner that could only be called pompous. “Courtesy demands that—”
“The devil with courtesy,” Octavius said. “You came here to see your nieces—ostensibly. They’re still in the schoolroom, too young to dine downstairs, so why shouldn’t you dine upstairs with them? Rumpole’s not going to complain. In case you haven’t noticed, he likes you about as much as you like him.”
Newingham impersonated a fish for several seconds, opening and closing his mouth, then said, “But it’s the height of rudeness.”
“No,” Dex said. “Merely middling rudeness. But if it bothers you so much, old fellow, you can dine with your brother-in-law. Otto and I will be up in the nursery having dinner with your nieces.”
Newingham gritted his teeth and then said, “I don’t want to dine with Rumpole.”
“Then don’t,” Octavius said.
Newingham scowled at them both. “You’ve got no manners, the pair of you.”
“No manners at all,” Dex said cheerfully. “But we’re very good-looking, so that makes up for it.”
Octavius snorted at this nonsense. So did Newingham.
They descended another flight of stairs and halted on the next landing.
“Billiards?” Newingham said, with no real enthusiasm.
Octavius shook his head. “I think I’ll turn in. That hill knocked the stuffing out of me.” He sent Dex a significant glance.
“Me, too,” Dex said.
“What a pair of old fograms you are,” Newingham said, and then smothered a yawn. He bade them good-night and headed off down the corridor.
Octavius glanced at Dex.
“You’re not really tired, are you?” his cousin asked.
“No.” He rubbed his hands together. “I want to go hunting.”
Chapter Ten
Octavius decided to have blonde hair tonight. He gave himself rosy cheeks and a full bosom. Dressing went swiftly; Dex was getting much faster at lacing the stays. “How long do you think you’ll be?” Dex asked once Octavius had pinned up his hair and settled the mobcap into place.
“Shouldn’t take long.” Either he’d find the baron downstairs, or he wouldn’t. “Ten minutes?”
Dex flung himself down in the armchair by the fireplace. “I’ll wait here, then.” He yawned widely, then gestured at the door. “Hurry up. You might not be tired, but I am.”
Octavius made his way swiftly and silently downstairs. He peeked into the library. The candles were lit, but the room was empty. He tiptoed further. The billiard room was empty, too.
Damn, he’d hoped Rumpole would still be up.
He turned away from the door, disgruntled, and headed back towards the staircase, and as he passed the dining room he saw that the candles hadn’t been snuffed.
He backtracked and peered inside, and discovered that the reason the candles were still burning was that the baron was there, sprawled in his seat, his legs extended beneath the table, drinking port.
As he watched, Rumpole drained the glass and pushed back his chair. He yawned, tugged at his neckcloth, and stood.
Octavius’s heart leapt with a huntsman’s glee. He stepped hastily back from the doorway and tried to anticipate what Rumpole would do next. Where would the man go? To the library? Or to his bedroom?
The baron yawned again, loudly. He sounded like a man ready for his bed.
Octavius picked up his skirts a
nd ran on tiptoe for the stairs. He climbed the first flight swiftly and whisked along the corridor in the direction that he thought Rumpole’s room lay, then halted in the shadows to wait.
A minute passed. Then a second minute.
Curse it, he’d made the wrong choice.
Octavius headed for the staircase—and paused when he saw movement on the half landing. Was that the baron?
Yes, it was.
He took several hasty steps sideways until he stood directly beneath a wall sconce with two glowing candles, so the baron might see him more clearly.
Octavius’s grandfather didn’t require his housemaids to pretend to be invisible. Neither did his father. But Rumpole did. Octavius had noticed it today, so he turned to face the wall, trying to make himself as invisible as was possible for a person standing directly beneath two bright candles.
He stared at the wall and listened to the baron’s footsteps. The wallpaper was maroon red, with vertical black stripes.
Rumpole’s footsteps drew closer. The skin on the back of Octavius’s neck tightened. His heartbeat sped up. He stared at the wallpaper without seeing it. All his attention was focused on the baron. Were Rumpole’s steps slowing? Was he looking at Octavius? Was he thinking unspeakable thoughts?
The baron halted directly behind him.
Octavius held his breath. The hairs on his scalp felt as if they were standing on end beneath the mobcap.
“You,” the baron said.
Octavius bobbed a curtsy, still facing the wall. His nose almost bumped the maroon wallpaper. He felt ridiculous. “Me, sir?” he squeaked.
“My room,” Rumpole said. “Now.”
Octavius held absolutely still while the words sank in.
Rumpole hadn’t learned his lesson.
A fierce, warlike emotion leapt in his chest. He wanted to turn around and punch the baron; instead he said, “But, sir . . .”
Rumpole grabbed Octavius by the arm, a grip that was both familiar and painful. He marched Octavius along the corridor, flung open a door, and hauled him inside.
There was someone else in the room. A valet.
“Out,” Rumpole said.
The valet glanced at Octavius, his gaze resting for a moment on the tight grip Rumpole had on his arm. He didn’t look shocked; instead, he smirked faintly.
The smirk outraged Octavius. He almost wrenched free and launched himself at the man. With effort, he forced himself to stand still.
The valet departed. Rumpole still didn’t release him. Octavius thought of the techniques he’d shown Miss Toogood only half an hour earlier. It was tempting to try them now, to scream and bite and kick, but he had something else in mind for the baron tonight, something no female would ordinarily be able to do, so he waited.
Rumpole shoved him towards the bed. “Lift your skirts.”
Octavius cowered. “I don’t want to, sir! I’m a good girl, I am.”
Rumpole ignored this protest and shoved him again. Octavius stopped cowering. He grabbed the baron’s wrist, pulled and twisted, and flung the man to the ground in a perfect cross-buttock throw, then he stamped his foot in front of Rumpole’s gaping, astonished mouth and said loudly, “No!”
As punctuation to this statement, he picked up the ewer of water the valet had left on the washstand and upended it over the baron’s face. Then he stormed out of the room.
Two minutes later he tiptoed into his own bedchamber and found Dex waiting there, yawning and bored.
Octavius closed the door and locked it. His grin felt slightly maniacal.
Dex looked him up and down. His eyebrows lifted. “What did you do?”
Octavius’s grin became even more maniacal. “Cross-buttock throw, and then I dumped a ewer full of water on his head.”
Dex laughed. “Well done!” He climbed to his feet and said, “Let’s get you out of those clothes,” and then, “Wait a moment. What have we here?” He took Octavius by the shoulder and lifted his arm, and Octavius discovered that he’d ripped open quite a few seams.
It appeared that maidservants’ clothes weren’t suitable for performing cross-buttock throws.
“Damn it,” Octavius said, inspecting the torn seams.
“Just as well Miss Toogood’s teaching us to sew tomorrow, eh?”
It only took a few minutes to extricate himself from the clothes, and while he undressed, he thought. The baron hadn’t learned his lesson in London, and he hadn’t learned it last night, and Octavius doubted he’d have learned it tonight, either. The man’s lechery was ingrained too deeply, his soul too corrupt. “How the devil are we going to stop Rumpole?” he demanded of Dex.
“Dashed if I know,” Dex said. “But I’m not sure violence is the answer. I think . . . honestly, Otto, I think we need to put the fear of God into him.”
“How?”
Dex shrugged. “No idea.”
Octavius lay awake for several hours that night, thinking about the fear of God and about the various magical abilities that he and his cousins possessed. He still didn’t have a plan when he finally fell asleep.
Chapter Eleven
Yesterday had been an excellent day, but today was turning out to be even better. Pip wasn’t a giggler, but she found herself suppressing giggles that morning. In fact, whenever she looked around the worktable and saw Lord Newingham, Lord Octavius, and Mr. Pryor bent over their sewing, mirth bubbled up in her chest. She stifled it successfully a dozen times, but it rose up again, buoyant and effervescent, while she watched Lord Newingham sew quite the crookedest seam she had ever seen anyone sew. He looked up and must have read her expression correctly, for he gave her a lopsided, rueful grin—and Pip couldn’t help herself. She giggled.
Newingham didn’t appear to mind. His grin widened and he gave a laugh, and then Mr. Pryor looked at the viscount’s sewing and he laughed, too, and Lord Octavius joined in, and suddenly all four of them were cackling away, while Edie and Fanny stared at them in bewilderment.
“What’s so funny?” Fanny asked.
“Me,” Lord Newingham wheezed through his laughter. “My sewing. I’m undoubtedly the worst seamstress in England.” He displayed his crooked stitches to his nieces.
There was no denying it; sewing was a skill that Newingham did not possess. Lord Octavius’s seams were much straighter, but surprisingly it was the cocksure I’m-so-handsome Mr. Pryor who was the best of the three. Pip watched him for a moment, approving of his neat, deft stitches, before allowing her gaze to stray to Lord Octavius, whose stitches were misshapen rather than neat and dogged rather than deft. He frowned as he sewed, eyes narrowed in concentration, lips pursed, but despite the frown there was still something very appealing about his face.
Pip studied him, trying to determine what made his face so attractive. Was it the symmetry of his features? The strength of his nose and jaw and cheekbones?
But Mr. Pryor had similar symmetry and strong features, and he wasn’t nearly as attractive as his cousin.
Pip surreptitiously examined the two men, trying to puzzle out why her eyes preferred one to the other. They both had good bone structure, both had dark eyes that sparkled with humor, both had mouths that naturally quirked upwards—and yet one face pleased her much more than the other.
It was character, Pip decided, after ten minutes of covert scrutiny. Or rather, the stamp that character made on a person’s face.
Mr. Pryor tied a knot in the thread, snipped off the excess, then looked at his cousin and smirked. “I finished first!” And that was the difference between them: where Lord Octavius grinned, Mr. Pryor smirked.
Which was why she liked Lord Octavius’s face better.
“It’s not a race,” Newingham chided, hunching over his kite and sewing even faster and more sloppily.
Fifteen minutes later all seams were sewn, all sticks inserted, and all strings tied. They carried the kites up to the top of the hanger and flew them on the sheep-down, running backwards and forwards, shouting and laughing.
It
was, without doubt, one of the best mornings that Pip could remember.
After luncheon, they took the Reverend Gilbert White’s book and explored the nearby woods. The reverend had been a great observer of nature. In his opinion, the beeches that cloaked the Selborne hanger were “the most lovely of all forest trees.” He had much to say about their “smooth rind” and “glossy foliage” and “graceful pendulous boughs.”
After several minutes admiring those things, Lord Octavius said, “It’s my belief that people can’t fully appreciate trees until they’ve climbed one.” So they spent the next half hour looking for the perfect tree to climb, and when they found it, it was perfect, with branches that looked as if they’d grown for no other purpose than to be climbed upon, so broad and well-spaced they were.
Newingham went first, clambering upwards as easily as if he were a monkey. Mr. Pryor helped Edie and Fanny onto the lowest branches, then all four of them climbed higher. Pip gazed up at them. The emotion she felt as she watched the girls scramble upwards wasn’t anxiety; it was envy.
“Well?” Lord Octavius said. “Aren’t you going to climb, too?”
She glanced sideways, and found him watching her. “I can’t.”
“Of course you can.”
Pip shook her head. “I’m not ten years old anymore.”
He grinned. “I had noticed.”
Lord Octavius had a very attractive grin. A too attractive grin. The sort of grin that made young ladies fall in love when they ought to know better. Pip made herself ignore it. “And neither am I a man. I can’t climb in this dress.”
The grin faded. Lord Octavius studied her for a moment and she had the disconcerting impression that her reply had disappointed him. “Age has nothing to do with it,” he said, finally. “And you can climb in that dress. I wager it.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Oh, you do, do you?”
“I do.” He looked at the tree-climbers, high above them. “Don’t you want to?”
Pip hesitated. Yes, she did. Very much.
Lord Octavius correctly interpreted her hesitation. “I’ll go first.” He scrambled up onto the lowest bough, then crouched and reached a hand down to her. “Come on.”
