by CJ Archer
"Uncle August's rooms take up the entire top-most floor of the eastern wing of the house," Sylvia said as we hurried up the stairs. It was growing late in the day and being almost winter, the sun had already begun to set. The stairwell would have been dark if it wasn't for the small candle-shaped gas lamps attached to the walls. "There are a few things you ought to know about Uncle August before you meet him. First of all, he can't walk."
"How does he get about?"
"In a wheelchair."
"How did he lose the use of his legs?"
"It was an accident of some sort. He doesn't like to talk about it, and you're not to ask him."
That was like telling a fish not to swim. Yet I would hold my tongue, for now. My situation was too precarious to jeopardize it. "So he doesn't walk, but he lives all the way up here?" We'd reached the landing on the top floor. Sylvia had told me that the Langleys used only the eastern part of the house. Her uncle occupied the second floor, Sylvia, Jack and I had rooms on the first, and the ground floor was where the dining room could be found along with the formal drawing room and a more intimate informal parlor. Staff quarters were at the rear of the house with the kitchen and other service rooms.
"He has everything he needs up here," Sylvia said, her tone clipped.
"Everything except his freedom."
"When one doesn't have the use of one's legs, how much freedom can be expected?"
I thought it a narrow view, but didn't say so. Her curt manner invited no opinion. Besides, I was too anxious to argue with her. My stomach began to churn again and I had a pressing urge to turn around and run back down the stairs. I wondered what Sylvia and Jack would do if I just walked out the door.
Return to Windamere and kidnap the real Violet Jamieson?
We paused at a door on the landing, and Sylvia drew in a deep breath. She let it out slowly and knocked. The door was opened by Jack. He'd changed into formal evening wear of black tailcoat, waistcoat and trousers, white shirt and necktie. His hair was neatly combed back, and he looked every inch the lord of the manor. "Come in, ladies." He stepped aside. "He's waiting for you."
The room was very large, running half the length of the eastern wing. The far end was crowded with low tables, cupboards and desks, and a bench ran along one wall. Most of the surfaces were covered with lamps, paperwork or equipment that appeared to be scientific in nature. I recognized glass bottles, burners, at least two sets of scales and a cabinet housing dozens of small drawers. There were tools too, but I was too far away to identify them, and I probably couldn't anyway. Science was not my strength, as Miss Levine had frequently informed me.
The rest of the room where we stood was more sparsely furnished. A deep leather chair hunkered near the hearth, a small table close by, and one wall housed densely packed bookshelves. I couldn't make out their subject matter. Three of Sylvia's Frakingham paintings decorated another wall in a perfectly neat row. Not a single one hung crookedly.
There was another chair too, but it had wheels instead of legs and was occupied by a man dressed in a crimson and gold smoking jacket. He was quite handsome for a gentleman of about forty or so, despite the silvery streaks through his blond hair and the slight slackening of his jaw. He could have been even more handsome if he wasn't frowning so hard that his mouth was little more than a pink slash in his pale face. He was broad in the shoulders too, but his waistcoat bulged at his middle and he filled the chair completely.
Behind him stood a very tall man with stooped shoulders. His dark hair had receded, leaving a pronounced widow's peak at the front. It was difficult to tell how old he was, or what his nature might be. Indeed, he reminded me of an automaton awaiting his key to be turned. He simply stood there, quite still, his hands behind his back, staring unblinkingly ahead.
"Welcome, Lady Violet," the man in the wheelchair said. "I am August Langley. You've met my niece and nephew."
"You know I have," I snapped. I refused to make it easy for him, just as I refused to wipe my clammy palms down my skirt. Instead, I clasped my hands in front of me, the picture of calm serenity. Or so I hoped.
August Langley looked down at his lap and expelled a breath. It was a long, awkward moment before he spoke again. "Please sit down."
"I'd rather stand."
Sylvia gave a little gasp, and I felt Jack stiffen. It wasn't just that I didn't want to do this man's bidding—although that was certainly part of my reason for refusing—I also felt awkward sitting when others were standing. If Sylvia and Jack left, then perhaps I would sit to be on a level with Langley. Being alone with him was the very last thing I wanted, however.
"Forward, Bollard," Langley said.
As if his key had been turned, the man behind Langley came to life. He stooped even more and pushed the wheelchair until Langley put up his hand to stop. The servant let the chair's handles go and settled once more into a stiff stance.
Langley tipped his head to look up at me. "I suppose you've guessed why you're here."
"Actually, no. It's quite a mystery. Your relations wouldn't divulge anything, despite my questions. After the method in which I was snatched from my home, I think I'm entitled to some answers, don't you?"
"Don't try to turn this into something it's not, Violet. I may call you Violet?"
I looked down my nose at him in the most imperial manner I could muster. It was not something I'd seen Vi ever do, even with Miss Levine, but I thought I made a good attempt. "What do you mean, turn it into something it's not? This is exactly what it appears to be. Abduction, imprisonment, extortion."
"Not extortion." He said nothing about the other two accusations. So it was true. He intended to...keep me.
My knees suddenly buckled, but Jack caught me by the elbow and steered me to the chair. I sat down heavily and struggled to catch my breath. The damned corset was too tight, and I had to gasp for air.
"It's not what you think," Jack said, crouching beside me. "We mean you no harm."
"Jack!" Langley snapped.
Jack straightened to his full height and glared down at his uncle with such ferocity I thought he might punch him. "She's frightened. I was the one who had to do your dirty work, and now she's frightened of me. Forgive me if I find the need to offer comfort."
Langley didn't take his hard gaze off his nephew, and I got the feeling if he could stand, he would square up to Jack and use his bulk to intimidate.
"Jack, perhaps now is not the time," Sylvia said in a sing-song voice. She came up beside him and looped her arm through his. Despite the placating tone of her voice, I could tell she was using all her strength to drag Jack away.
Finally, with a flare of his nostrils, Jack obliged her. I immediately felt less secure, and when I felt afraid, I talked.
"Then what do you want with me? If you mean me no harm, why am I here?"
Langley turned his steely gray gaze on me. "I'd heard you were clever."
I bristled. "Heard from whom?"
"Never mind that. You're here not because of who you are, but what you are."
My heartbeat slowed. My cheeks cooled. I sat very still and stared at Langley, although I didn't really see him. I'd known it all along, but I'd not wanted to admit it—I'd been kidnapped because they thought I was Vi, and Vi could start fires with her mind.
I swallowed hard. Langley was going to be in for a rude shock when he discovered I couldn't set anything alight without matches. And once he did, then what?
"But why do you want someone who can start fires?" I asked.
"To train you."
"Pardon?"
"Jack is going to teach you to use your power at will and control it."
I held up my hands, closed my eyes. My breath seemed unnaturally loud in my ears. "One thing at a time. For what purpose are you training me?"
"You cannot go about setting things ablaze willy nilly. You'll never be able to function in the real world if you don't learn to control it. We're going to help you, Violet. The sooner you see that, the sooner you'll accept your
situation here."
"My situation being that I am a prisoner at Frakingham."
"Leaving would be foolish, and I've already established that you're a clever girl."
"Clever people can do foolish things."
He gave a slight nod. "I advise you against trying to leave. I know your father kept you confined to the attic, but you'll have more freedom here."
"He was worried I would set fire to something! And we lacked nothing."
"How do you know? Did you see what he gave your younger sister? Did you?"
His words would have hurt if I really were Lady Violet Jamieson. I knew she loved her father, despite everything. I think she secretly hoped he would remove her from the attic one day and introduce her to Society. She'd been bitterly disappointed after her eighteenth birthday when it became obvious her position, and mine, wouldn't change. She'd been sad—sadder—for weeks.
"That's enough, August," Jack said, his voice ominously low. "We don't want to rile her."
"Let's go downstairs," Sylvia said rather too brightly. "It must be almost dinnertime and I've a grand feast planned for our guest." She beamed at me so hard her cheeks must have ached from the effort.
"A good idea." Jack held out his hand to me, but quickly withdrew it with a glance in Langley's direction.
Langley scowled at him. "I believe Violet has one last question to ask me."
"I do," I said. "Why is Jack going to be the one to train me?"
"Do you care to answer this?" Langley pointed his chin at his nephew.
"Perhaps she shouldn't be overwhelmed just yet," Jack said.
"Come now. I know you're desperate to tell her."
"August. Don't. It's too soon."
"I'm ordering you to tell her!"
Jack stretched his fingers then closed them into fists. "Very well." He turned to me, and I was shocked at the feverish color of his green eyes, the mocking set of his mouth. "We're two of a kind, you and I, Lady Violet. As far as I know, we're the only two fire starters in England. Perhaps the world. I don't know why or 'ow, but we just is. We should join a travelin' sideshow. Or per'aps not travelin'. We could stay put. Make the customers come to us. Fleece 'em of every penny while we set their 'ats on fire."
"That's enough, Jack," Langley warned.
"Be famous, we would," Jack went on, his chest rising and falling with his hard breathing. "So what you fink, Vi?"
"I said, enough!"
"Jack," Sylvia whispered. She hesitantly reached for his hand, but when their fingers touched, she sprang back with a yelp. A spark shot from Jack's fingertip, but Sylvia stamped on it before it could scorch the rug.
I rose out of the chair and stared at Jack. I couldn't take my eyes off him. I'd never witnessed Vi during one of her episodes, my narcolepsy having shielded me from that, and to see actual sparks erupt from his bare skin was incredible. Not frightening, but...curiously thrilling.
It wasn't the only thing that shocked me. His outburst had been unexpected, but not nearly as much as his accent. It had changed from the cultured tones of a gentleman to something altogether different. Something I'd never heard before, but had read about in books. Indeed, some of the characters in Mr. Dickens' novels spoke like that in my head when I read their dialogue. It was only the poor characters, however—laborers, beggars, thieves, murderers and street urchins.
Which category did Jack Langley fit into?
"Are you all right?" Sylvia asked him.
Jack nodded without taking his gaze off me. He seemed calm, his face expressionless. It was his eyes that gave away his true feelings. They were as wild as a stormy sea, but just before he turned away, I caught a glimpse of something else in their depths. Something that made him look as lost as a little boy.
He strode out of the room, leaving the door open.
"Well." Sylvia huffed. "Is there anything else, Uncle?"
Langley lifted a hand in a dismissive gesture. "Jack knows what to do." He spoke heavily, as if the little scene had sapped his strength. "The window, Bollard."
The servant wheeled him toward the window and positioned the chair so that Langley could see out.
"Shall we dine, Violet?" Sylvia asked, smiling. Did she ever not smile?
I wanted to make a quip to prove that I was unaffected by everything I'd seen and heard, but nothing came to mind. I allowed Sylvia to lead me down the stairs to the dining room.
The long table was set for three, but the third place was empty. A footman brought in a soup tureen and set it on the sideboard. He hovered until Sylvia asked him to serve.
"Jack will come when he's ready," she said as the footman ladled soup into her bowl.
"His accent changed up there," I said. "Why is that?"
"It happens when he's...upset." She glanced at the door, then at the footman. He'd paused in his duties and stared at me. "You mustn't speak of it to him," she went on. "He doesn't like talking about it."
"First your uncle and his legs, and now Jack and his accent. Is there anything in this house that we can discuss?"
"The weather?" said Jack, striding in. He looked and sounded quite composed again. He sat at the vacant seat opposite us. "I'm starving. You must be too, Violet. We both missed our luncheon today." It seemed he was going to pretend nothing untoward had happened in his uncle's rooms.
"I'm not feeling particularly hungry." I waved away the second ladle of soup. "It's amazing what being abducted can do to one's appetite. I highly recommend it for ladies wishing to shrink their waists."
"Your waist is already tiny," Sylvia said.
"I think Violet was being sarcastic," Jack said.
"I know that. Forgive me if I'd prefer to gloss over the nastier events of the day while I'm eating."
"Speaking of which, I'm sorry to say that your reticule couldn't be saved, Syl."
"That's quite all right. I didn't like it anymore anyway." She suddenly brightened. "Perhaps we can go shopping together to buy a new one," she said to me. I was so taken aback that I spilled some soup on the tablecloth.
"I don't think that's a good idea," Jack said.
"But Uncle August told me she's free to come and go."
I witnessed a silent exchange between the cousins as they communicated without words. Jack's glare was quite stern, and Sylvia's smile changed from genuinely hopeful to falsely polite. She was not the sort who could hide her feelings.
"Perhaps we'll go when you've settled in," she said to me. "In a week or more."
"She won't have time before then anyway," Jack said. "Training begins tomorrow. I can't spare her."
"Ah yes, training," I said. "Your uncle stated that I was brought here so that you could help me learn to control my...affliction."
"It's not an affliction," Sylvia said. Her response sounded automatic, as if she were repeating something often said.
I grunted. "That's easy for you to say. As to the training, forgive me if I don't believe Mr. Langley."
Sylvia blinked her wide blue eyes. "Why wouldn't you believe him?"
"Because I was kidnapped."
"I don't understand."
"You knew I lived in the attic, which meant Lord Wade—my father—obviously cared little for me. It would also be a natural supposition that I was eager to leave the attic. My removal to your uncle's care could have gone ahead without this fuss if you'd simply asked to have me. All of which implies that your reasons are less pure, and you didn't wish to explain them to Lord Wade."
Sylvia continued to stare at me, her spoon drooping over her bowl, the soup forgotten.
"You make a lot of assumptions," Jack said.
"What does Langley really want with me?" I asked.
Jack returned to his soup, and it was left to Sylvia to answer. "Uncle August truly does want to help you." She glanced at Jack then back at me. "He's not a bad man."
I said nothing to that, and neither did Jack. The irony was, if they'd gone about the task as I'd suggested and asked Lord Wade's permission, they would have
gotten the correct Violet Jamieson. As it was, they had an imposter. And this imposter was going to have to lie convincingly to make Jack believe she had the power to start fires.
Either that, or avoid lying altogether and simply escape.
CHAPTER 4
