The Fire in the Glass

by Jacquelyn Benson

  “There is quite a lot of research still to be done,” Hartwell noted.

  “How very remarkable!” one of the women close by murmured.

  “Indeed,” her companion replied, though her focus appeared to be more on the doctor’s figure than on his ideas.

  The heat began to get to her. She pushed away from the group, looking for more air, but there was none to be had, the crowd thick in every direction. Silk and gems shimmered, the scent of furniture polish and perfume thick and cloying.

  She shouldn’t have come. This was not her world. The whole endeavor had been a poorly thought-out lark.

  If that weren’t enough, her leg was beginning to throb. She had pushed it too far since the wreck, and it was announcing its irritation. It was well past time she went home.

  She pulled her cloakroom ticket from her reticule, intending to weave her way to the door.

  She turned to see Lord Strangford standing just behind her.

  “Oh!”

  “I didn’t mean to surprise you.” His gaze fell to the ticket in her hand. “Were you leaving?”

  All the unasked questions flooded in, demanding answers to the mystery of his role at The Refuge. She had no intention of seeing him again, which meant this moment was likely the last where she could hope to satisfy the curiosity that burned inside of her.

  “I was just . . .” she began, but the rest of her words were cut off by the high song of a female voice that cut through the hum and clatter of the crowd.

  “Anthony!”

  The sound had a surprising effect on Lord Strangford. Though nothing obvious changed in his posture or expression, Lily could see a stiffness infuse his frame, an air of tight control.

  A woman approached them, one who did not slip through the crowd but rather parted it around her like Moses with his staff. She was small and well-rounded, clad in a striking ivory gown that contrasted with her shining dark hair. Her skin was flawless, glowing with the kind of beauty that men did not bother to conceal their admiration for. Lily realized that it was her clear laugh she had been hearing dancing above the crowd all evening, like a siren’s song enchanting everyone within earshot.

  “Who would have thought to find you out at something like this!” she exclaimed as she arrived. “But what a charming surprise it is. It has been ever so long since I’ve seen you!”

  “Mrs. Boyden.” Lord Strangford greeted her with a flat courtesy that contrasted starkly with the woman’s chatty enthusiasm.

  “You know that you may always call me Annalise—did we not grow up practically side-by-side? If that does not justify such intimacy, I do not know what would.”

  Lord Strangford did not answer.

  Mrs. Boyden did not seem to notice the silence. Instead, she turned and called over her shoulder.

  “Darling, you won’t believe who I’ve found!”

  The crowd moved again, revealing who was coming toward them.

  Lily felt her own chest tighten.

  She knew that face. She knew those clear gray eyes, the patrician nose. The cut of his jaw bore a neat resemblance to the features she saw every time she looked into a mirror, because both came from the same noble source.

  The man standing at the side of the brunette who so unsettled Lord Strangford was Simon Carne, Viscount Deveral—eldest son of the Earl of Torrington.

  And Lily’s half-brother.

  SIX

  THE FIRST TIME LILY saw her half-brother, she did so deliberately. She read a notice in the paper that an alumni match between Oxford and Cambridge veteran scullers would be taking place on the Thames. Lord Deveral’s name was mentioned. Lily was unable to resist the urge to catch a glimpse of the eldest of Lord Torrington’s four sons, a man who shared half her blood.

  It was easy enough to spot him, even yards away on the water. He was clearly their father’s son, though with the countess’s light hair and a softer cut to his features.

  The second time was pure accident, nearly walking into him as he exited his club with a raucous group of other young noblemen.

  On neither occasion had she introduced herself. Why would she? What possible interest could he have in her? She was certainly less than nothing to him, if he even knew she existed. If he didn’t, it was better it remain that way.

  Faced with her father’s heir in the posh, crowded gallery on Bury Street, Lily shifted her body. It was a subtle maneuver, slight enough not to attract Mrs. Boyden’s attention, but it would give someone just arriving at the scene the impression that she was part of a different conversation.

  Mrs. Boyden, either oblivious to or purposefully ignoring Lord Strangford’s coolness, tucked a hand under his arm, extending the other to pull Lord Deveral closer.

  “Lord Deveral, Lord Strangford. There, Deveral, now you can put a face to the stories—it has taken long enough.” She turned back to Lord Strangford again, flashing him a smile marked by white, even teeth. “You’ve become a regular hermit, haven’t you? Though one wouldn’t know it to look at you. You are keeping quite well.”

  Lily was still listening attentively, even as she pretended to be drawn into some chatter about race horses.

  She recognized Mrs. Boyden—not the woman but the type.

  The theatre attracted them, men and women who were beautiful and had developed expertise at manipulating that valuable resource. Mrs. Boyden wielded her beauty with an easy confidence, clearly accustomed to its power.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Lord Deveral replied flatly.

  Lily’s every fiber was aware of him beside her though he had yet to take notice of anyone but Mrs. Boyden and Lord Strangford. He appeared bored and restless.

  “Lord Deveral,” Lord Strangford acknowledged, bowing politely. He was clearly too much the gentleman to give anyone a snub, no matter what history lay between him and the woman beside him—and what present relation stood between that woman and the viscount.

  Lily could hazard a few guesses.

  She sensed the shift in Lord Strangford’s body and realized with horror what he was about to do.

  Please don’t, she begged silently, but the message went unheard.

  “May I present Miss Albright,” he offered with exquisite formality.

  It was possible the name would mean nothing to the steel-eyed man holding Mrs. Boyden’s other arm. She had no notion what he knew of his father’s past. He was only a few years older than herself. He would have been a child when his father’s affair had been carried on, hardly of an age to be taken into confidence about such matters or even treated to gossip about them.

  Lily turned from the group in which she had been hiding herself and plastered a polite smile on her face.

  Any hope that he was unaware of her existence was snuffed out. His gray eyes had gone even colder, any pretense of charm dropping from his features.

  “You,” he hissed.

  The antagonism was so strong it had substance, thickening the already close atmosphere of the gallery. It made her want to bolt, fleeing the room like the fox at a hunt.

  She would not. To do anything now but play the part of graceful indifference would be to show weakness in front of this man, this stranger who was also her brother—and who clearly, unequivocally hated her.

  She straightened her back, wrapping herself in cold courtesy. She curtsied, the gesture well-practiced thanks to her finishing school years. It was only as deep as was strictly necessary, an expression of pure formality.

  “A pleasure to meet you, my lord.”

  “Do you know each other or not?” Mrs. Boyden demanded, her curiosity clearly sparked.

  Lily was saved from answering, and from hearing Lord Deveral’s reply, by the return of Mordecai Roth.

  He addressed Lord Strangford.

  “Excuse me, my lord. May I speak to you privately for a moment?”

  Hesitation flickered across Lord Strangford’s features. His eyes touched on Lily and she realized he must have picked up on the tension between her and the new arrival,
even through his own obvious discomfort.

  Thankfully, he could not possibly know the reason for it.

  Lord Deveral had regained some control over himself, at least for the moment. He sniffed loudly and looked away, directing his glare over the crowd itself, fingers tapping restlessly against his leg.

  She gave no response, no indication that Lord Strangford’s concern was warranted. She did not need some nobleman she barely knew trying to play knight-in-armor in a battle he couldn’t and shouldn’t understand.

  “If you’ll pardon me,” Lord Strangford said and allowed Roth to lead him away.

  Mrs. Boyden sighed. Her disappointment reminded Lily of a cat deprived of a mouse. She applied herself to scanning the crowd for some other source of entertainment.

  “Oh, there’s George. I simply must congratulate him on that merger of his. Deveral?”

  She moved on without bothering to confirm whether the viscount was following.

  He did not follow. He remained where he was.

  He made a show of glancing around.

  “I don’t see your escort, Miss Albright.”

  She tensed, never doubting that this was an attack.

  “I am unescorted,” she replied evenly.

  “Casting your line for a new fish, eh? Odd place to go about it, but then I’m hardly the expert you must be, having learned the trade at your mother’s feet.”

  Her ears rang as though someone had just slapped her. The shock rendered her momentarily speechless.

  It was not the first time she had been so baldly insulted. There had been years of it to endure at Mrs. Finch’s once her classmates learned of her origins—which had taken them very little time at all. There are few things one can keep secret from a bevy of determined schoolgirls.

  This was different. There was more behind it than delight in an opportunity to set down someone who could not fight back. It was visceral, a pointed and real desire to inflict an injury, to cause her pain.

  Rage rose up in her in response to being called a whore, to her face, in front of a room full of people.

  Then he sniffed again.

  He pulled out a handkerchief, habitually wiping at his nose. Lily noted his quick movements, the restless energy of his frame. Then there were his eyes, the pupils dilated to nearly cover his distinctive gray irises, even though the room was quite well-lit. Lily had seen those signs before. She knew what they signified.

  He had taken cocaine.

  Mrs. Boyden’s cut-crystal laugh rang through the room, emanating from the center of a circle of well-dressed older men.

  She was using it as well. They must have taken it together, perhaps in the carriage before they came in. The effect would not last much longer than an hour.

  There was nothing inherently scandalous in the use of cocaine. It was a perfectly respectable remedy for all manner of ills, no different from quinine or laudanum.

  However, she doubted Lord Deveral was taking the stuff for his rheumatism.

  Contempt rose in her, that this arrogant man would believe himself justified in casting insults at her while making illicit indulgences of his own.

  She straightened, adopting her most haughty tone and posture, both of which she knew she came by quite naturally.

  “Fishing, my lord? I’m afraid I haven’t any experience of the sport. And my mother landed only one catch, to my knowledge—some bony thing I expect went off before she had any enjoyment of it. If you’ll excuse me.”

  She slipped past him into the crowd.

  She would not head for the door, no matter how desperately attractive the notion of escaping back to March Place and the solitude of her room was at that moment. She would not give her brother the satisfaction of feeling that he had driven her out. She would mingle with the crowd for a while, make a point of appearing to have a marvelous time, then quietly make her exit when he wasn’t paying attention.

  He would not be paying attention for long, at any rate. Not with cocaine raging through his blood.

  She moved without any clear direction, studying whatever paintings the current of the crowd threw her against without any real interest. Most did not justify more than a casual glance—dull, smoky landscapes, or still-life paintings of wilting flowers and glistening fruit. Amid all the drowning Pre-Raphaelite ladies and predictable portraits, however, were a scattered few pieces that did warrant a real look, works of more startling color and arrangement. She could see the mark of Roth’s taste in those choices, his appreciation for something a bit more daring than most aristocrats wanted in their drawing rooms.

  One in particular caught her eye. She used it as an excuse to linger and spin out more of the time that waited between her and her chance to make an escape.

  The canvas was light, as though incompletely painted. The scene it depicted was one of crashing waves under a bright, cloud-streaked sky. The water was rendered in elegant splashes of pale gray-blue, accented here and there with darker tones. Negative space formed the crests and foam. The whole effect was one of startling movement and liveliness, far more true to the experience of the sea than any literal representation would have been.

  “Ah, the Whistler. Roth is stretching his theme with it. The man was an American, however much he painted here in Britain. Still, excellent choice. But so is the other piece you have demonstrated an interest in this evening.”

  Lily turned to see Dr. Joseph Hartwell standing beside her.

  She felt her guard go up, though there was nothing in the man’s tone that indicated his interest in her was anything more than casual.

  He glanced across the gallery at Evangeline Ash’s portrait, which was just visible between the moving bodies of the crowd.

  “It is not a true representation,” he commented. “She exaggerated flaws I doubt anyone who knew her in life would have noticed.”

  “I take it you aren’t referring to the extra arms.”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “A bit of grotesque fancy.” He continued, his tone just as light, though the import of the words was clear. “You may tell Lord Strangford that I will bid as high as is necessary for the work. He may drive the price up as much as he likes, but he will not have it.”

  Lily was in no mood to tolerate little slights, like being assumed the errand-girl of a nobleman she barely knew—not coming on the heels of Lord Deveral’s bald insults.

  “I beg your pardon, but I am not Lord Strangford’s page. If you have a message for him you may deliver it yourself.” Her Torrington blood asserted itself in her tone, infusing it with an icy hauteur.

  Hartwell bowed elegantly.

  “Of course. Do accept my apology.”

  Her dislike of the man was visceral, as tangible as the carpet under her slippers. It struck her with surprising force. She felt an urge to goad him into shattering some part of his elegant veneer and revealing what lay beneath.

  She pulled herself back from that edge, painfully conscious of her circumstances. She was an interloper in a room full of people who would be horrified to be seen with her if they knew what she was. She must tread carefully or risk exposure.

  She ought to move away but a spark of curiosity made her pause.

  Why did he want it?

  His interest in the piece could not be financial. Evangeline Ash was not so well-known an artist that her work would be seen as an investment. It also seemed a rather thin possibility that the man in front of her simply happened to be enamored beyond price with the artistic style of the woman who had passed him over for another man.

  There was something else at work here, despite Hartwell’s cool sophistication. Perhaps it was as simple as a sort of bitter revenge—if he could not have the woman, he would at least possess her portrait. It was a piece of her he could own, mounted on his wall like an exotic hunting trophy.

  But why had he wanted to own her at all? Based on Roth’s description, and what Lily herself had observed, Hartwell was a man with a healthy sense of his own worth.

  Evangeline
Ash hadn’t possessed a fortune. She was half-native, a severe handicap in the eyes of many of Hartwell’s class. She was not a conventional beauty. So what about the woman had drawn an eminent man of rising fortune to want her so badly he would still seek to possess what he could of her thirty years after her death?

  Ash’s words came back to her, floating across the cool, dim stillness of his reflection room.

  My wife was a charismatic.

  Fingers of unease crept up the exposed skin of Lily’s arms. She was conscious of the dark gaze of the dead woman through the gaps in the glittering bodies that separated her from the canvas on the far wall.

  Had Hartwell known? Had Ash? Was that what had drawn them to her like moths to the moon?

  But she was jumping ahead of all sense. Robert Ash was a well-meaning eccentric. His wife was a uniquely talented artist. That was all Lily knew for certain. Hartwell’s interest in the woman might very well have no logical explanation at all, unnatural or otherwise. Desire worked like that. How else could Lily’s own origins be explained?

  “Dr. Hartwell! A moment, if you please.” A well-dressed couple sailed toward him, another pair of admirers eager to stroke his ego.

  “If you will excuse me,” he said with a polite nod before turning to meet the new arrivals.

  A certainty arose in her, as real as it was unwelcome.

  She could not let him win.

  The portrait on the wall did not belong with him. It belonged at The Refuge with Robert Ash—who wasn’t here. Hartwell was right to be confident. Lord Strangford would certainly come out on the wrong side of a bidding war.

  Lily would simply have to ensure that this contest was not won in bidding.

  But how to accomplish that? Mordecai Roth might be her mother’s old friend, but that loyalty wouldn’t stretch far. It likely wasn’t enough to keep her from getting tossed out of the room if she caused any trouble that threatened his sales.

  What she needed was a way to take Hartwell out of the equation as a potential buyer. That would leave only Lord Strangford to purchase the painting. If Roth thought one of his catches had gone off, he’d be grateful for whatever was still on his hook.