No Proper Lady

by Isabel Cooper

  Arousal was so quick that it left Simon no time for thought. One step brought him close enough to reach out, to raise his hand to Joan’s cheek. Her skin was like warm silk beneath his fingers. “Thank you.”

  “For what?” Her eyes were dark now, full of heat.

  She wants me, Simon thought, and knew it to be more than vanity. When he spoke, his voice was thick. “Many things.”

  Joan’s laughter was low and sensual. “Things that already happened? Or are you thanking me in advance?”

  Slowly he slid his fingers down her cheek and then across to trace the curve of her lower lip. “Which would you prefer?”

  A knock at the door made them both jump. Joan’s right hand, Simon noticed in a sort of delirium, still went to her waist when she was startled. “Yes?” he called out, and hoped that he sounded at all like himself.

  “The carriage is ready, sir.”

  “I’ll be out directly,” he replied, and only then turned to face Joan. He could still feel her skin against his fingertips, warm and smooth. If he’d ever known what to say in such a situation, he’d forgotten. “Ah. Well.”

  She smiled easily enough—with a shade less warmth, and the smile could almost have been mocking—but her face was flushed, and she too was breathless when she spoke. “You’d better go.”

  “It seems I’d better,” he said, and fought back the urge to step toward her again. Instead, he dropped his hand back to his side and bowed formally. “Be well.”

  Joan met his eyes, serious now and with all the playful sensuality gone from her face. “Be careful.”

  ***

  London was as Simon always found it in the summer—hot, noisy, and crowded. He’d given no notice of his arrival. Fortunately, he’d given no notice of his departure either, so the servants had not shut up the town house completely. He lived out of a very few rooms, but that was no great hardship for he spent very little time at home.

  Discreet inquiries among his more occult acquaintances turned up Gillespie’s address, a flat a fair distance from the fashionable part of town and a much shorter distance from several booksellers. The good doctor was known to deal, on occasion, in rare books. He was not known to deal with people, or at least not particularly well.

  Simon wrote and sent a brief letter, communicating his connection with Sangupta, the recommendation of Gillespie by the same, and the urgency of the matter in question. I beg for your discretion and aid, sir, he finished. I fear that more than one life may hinge upon my business.

  The rest of the day fell under the broad heading of “reconnaissance”—dinner at his club, followed by the theatre. Many of his friends asked about Eleanor, and Simon found their concern unexpectedly touching. It was good to be reminded that the world was bigger than him and his problems, and to be reminded, perhaps, of what he and Joan were fighting for.

  Nobody mentioned Alex. But then, most people wouldn’t. Society at large didn’t know about the possession or even that Eleanor had been alone in a room with Alex, but it knew that the two of them had been often seen together and that Alex had sported a black eye around the time that Eleanor had “taken ill.” Whatever people assumed, it wasn’t the sort of thing they wanted to discuss around Simon.

  The rumors had Alex gaming more profligately and more luckily than ever, though fewer and fewer men would sit down with him. They mentioned a few liaisons, though none of them was doing as badly as the baker’s daughter who’d spurred Simon to confront Reynell in the first place. Otherwise, they were silent. Business as usual.

  That night, he dreamed of Joan, a not uncommon occurrence of late, but this was an extraordinarily vivid dream. They were at the circle of stones again and this time had neither rain nor cerberi to worry about. It was high summer with the sky arching blue overhead, and Joan was naked. A breeze blew her loose hair around her, showing him teasing half glimpses of her small firm breasts and flat stomach, of the golden patch of hair between her legs.

  It was no surprise to find that he was naked too, or that his cock was flushed and erect. The very feeling of the air brushing his skin was arousing, almost electric, and he moaned as he looked up.

  In the circle, the dream-Joan met his gaze. Her eyes were brighter than he’d ever seen them and full of a joyful excitement that was almost as arousing as her naked body. She smiled, the slow, teasing smile that she’d given Simon before he left, and held out a hand. “Well?”

  He woke aching then, and when he wrapped his hand around his cock, he found the head already damp with arousal. Ah, God, he thought, dazed with sleep and lust, this is a dangerous place where I’m going.

  It didn’t matter. When he closed his eyes, he saw Joan’s face turned up to his, lips parted a little. He heard the hunger in her voice and saw the warmth in her eyes like a living flame.

  If he’d drawn her to him, kissed her—

  It took only a few strokes to make him spend. The force of it was stronger than anything he’d ever felt—by himself or with a woman.

  The next few months, Simon thought as he came back to himself, are going to be a challenge.

  Chapter 14

  Joan still walked too fast.

  She didn’t notice it much, most of the time—she moved a lot slower than she’d done back home, now that she had lots to take in and no need to run—but on the way back from the village, walking next to Eleanor, it was hard to miss. Ellie glided. Joan strode.

  As they walked back to Englefield, Joan halfheartedly tried to work on that, but she suspected it’d take more time than she had. Maybe more time than she’d have even if she lived here for the rest of her life. This was a world in the summer of its time, and the people here moved and talked like leaves on the wind. Someone probably had to be born here to learn how to relax in that way. Even Ellie, who never really relaxed, had something of that air about her.

  She walked along now with a parcel under her arm, a perfect leisurely gait, and a tight, nervous look on her face.

  “Those books looked interesting,” Joan said, to take Ellie’s mind off things. “Mind if I have a look when you’re done?”

  Eleanor looked up, surprised. “Of course, if you’d like. It’s more mythology, and some history and politics. You’re not expected to know anything about it, though. Most girls don’t.”

  Joan snorted. “Most girls sound like a pack of damn fools.”

  For a second, Eleanor looked like she wanted to protest, but she just laughed a little, disbelievingly, and shook her head. “What are women like where you’re from, then?”

  “People.”

  They’d passed out of the village a while ago, walked up the road past fields and farmhouses, and now were on the road leading uphill to Englefield. Nobody was around—the farmers were small figures behind them—and the world seemed fresh and new and sunlit.

  It reminded Joan of her first day there, and realizing that she’d arrived only about six weeks ago made her uneasy. Her time there felt like a lifetime. More than that, it felt like her only lifetime. As her manners improved and the face she saw in the mirror got more like the ones around her, her memories of home felt like they belonged to someone else.

  Maybe they did. Maybe travel wasn’t just a matter of space and time. Maybe you went from self to self, leaving who you were behind. If she was far away from what she’d known, maybe she was far away from who she’d been as well.

  She shivered and spoke hastily into the silence. “What happened to Ariadne, anyhow? In your version, I mean? Did she marry the hero or what?”

  “No,” Eleanor said, returning from her own distant thoughts. “He left her on an island instead when she was sleeping—there are arguments about whether or not he meant to—and she cursed him. He’d set off with black sails and told his father that he’d come back with white ones if he was alive, but Ariadne made him forget. Theseus’s father saw the black-sailed ship returning, and he killed himself.”

  “So she punished his dad for what he’d done? Sounds unfair.”


  Eleanor shook her head slowly. “Theseus was the one who had to live with the guilt. Killing him might have been kinder. Once you’re dead, I suppose you don’t feel things as much.” She had a thoughtful look in her eyes, and she was paler than she had been.

  “Once you’re dead,” Joan said sharply, “you don’t do much of anything until you’re born again. And then you have to grow up and get trained all over. Shi—I mean, it’s really a waste.”

  “They believe in reincarnation where you’re from?” Eleanor asked, but absently.

  “At least until you’ve done everything you’re supposed to.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  Eleanor took a deep breath. “Do you know what business took Simon to town?”

  “Not specifically, no,” said Joan slowly.

  They walked on in silence for another few paces, their boots crunching against the gravel path. When she spoke, Eleanor’s voice was almost inaudible. “Does it have to do with Mr. Reynell?”

  She didn’t want to lie, Joan realized. That had never bothered her before, but she didn’t want to lie now, not to this girl. “He—”

  Eleanor stopped, put a hand out, and caught Joan’s arm. Her face was white. “Simon’s not going to challenge him! Please say—”

  “No. He’s not. Calm down.” On firmer ground now, Joan went on. “If Simon wanted pistols at dawn or whatever else you go for here, he’d have done it already.”

  The fear left Eleanor’s eyes, and her taut body slumped. She looked down, away from Joan. “You know what happened, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. Simon didn’t want to tell me, but I was pretty insistent when we met. Wanted to know how he knew Reynell.”

  “Then…you know Mr. Reynell.”

  Joan nodded, wincing inwardly. “He’s a common enemy,” she said, and tried to divert the conversation. “Anyhow, don’t blame your brother, and I’m sorry if this bothers you.”

  “No—I mean, it does, a bit, but—well, I’d thought for a while that you might know. You have been very understanding. And someone who didn’t know would’ve asked before—why I’m like this, I mean.”

  “Someone who didn’t know would’ve thought it was none of her business, if she wasn’t a total…witch.”

  “Oh,” Eleanor said. It looked like a new thought. She started walking again, going faster than Joan for once. “Do you talk about it often?”

  “No. It doesn’t come up much.”

  “Oh.” A few more feet, with her hat and dark hair bobbing briskly. Then: “Is he very angry at me, do you know?”

  This time, Joan stopped first, her first thought stunned dismay: Oh, hell. I wasn’t trained for this! “No,” she said as calmly as she could. “Why would he be?”

  “I—well, it’s my fault that he’s out here. And that he’s angry at Alex.” Eleanor looked down at her hands. She didn’t seem to notice that she’d used Reynell’s first name. “They used to be the best of friends, and I—perhaps I presented too much temptation. If I’d refused his invitations or his suggestions, if I hadn’t been so quick to believe what he perhaps never intended to suggest—”

  Joan caught Eleanor by the shoulders and swung her around. “That’s bullshit,” she said, “and you know it.”

  Eleanor cringed, eyes wide.

  “Sorry,” Joan said, and stepped quickly back. She’d never talked to sheltered young girls back home. There hadn’t been any. “It is, though.”

  “Wh—what do you mean?”

  “It’s not a crime to be innocent. Especially not when your whole stupid world tries to keep you that way. And there’s nothing wrong with…liking someone or wanting to believe he likes you when he acts like he does.”

  “He might not have meant to,” Eleanor said softly.

  Joan rolled her eyes. “Oh, he damn well did. He had a grudge against Simon, for one thing. Also, he’s ten years older than you are. He’s been dealing with women for a long time. Don’t you think he knows how to avoid sending that sort of signal?”

  “I—I don’t know.” Joan read guilt and hope and fear all mixed in Eleanor’s face. Fear of the hope itself, because sometimes guilt was better. Guilt at least meant you hadn’t been helpless.

  “I do. Reynell wanted to get back at your brother, so he did a horrible thing to you. That means he’s a son of a bitch. It doesn’t mean anything about you except that you’re hurt now. And that’s natural.”

  “I wish it wasn’t.” Eleanor closed her eyes. She wasn’t quite crying, but her voice cracked when she spoke. “I wish I could forget about it for more than an hour at a time. I wish I could turn out the light without being afraid—or look at Simon without wondering if he hates me.”

  “He doesn’t hate you.” Joan sighed. “God, he’s as torn up about the whole thing as you are, and he thinks you hate him. Your society is just great at communication, by the way. And the other stuff…it’ll get easier. It has a little, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes. A little. But,” her voice dropped, “I keep thinking I feel it. Looking at me.”

  That, at least, was familiar territory. “Well, it’s not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure.” The dermal sensor might not pick up something watching from another plane. “Anyhow, Simon would know. And he could probably show you. You should ask.”

  “Oh, no. I don’t want to bother him. Maybe he thinks I’m better.”

  “He does not. I mean, he knows you’ve been getting better, but you haven’t been fooling anyone.” Joan raised her hands, stopping an apology before Eleanor could start it. “And you shouldn’t be. If you’d broken your leg yesterday, would you be trying to run a race right now?”

  “Well, no.”

  “And you wouldn’t be going around pretending that everything was fine, right?”

  Eleanor shook her head. “But this is different.”

  “No, it’s not. I mean, people here don’t believe in what happened to you, but people here are wrong about so damn many things I don’t even know where to start. So.” Joan started to count off on her fingers. “Point one: if there’s any chance something is hanging around you, we need to know. You can tell Simon when he gets back, or I will.”

  This time, when Eleanor flushed, it was at least partly with anger. Good. “I’ll do it,” she said. “What’s your second point?”

  “This isn’t a small thing. You’re not malingering. You’re not slacking off. You’ve been trying to get over it—I’ve seen you, and so has Simon—and you’re doing a whole hell of a lot better than anyone else I’ve seen. But you’re not just going to tell yourself to be fine and do it. You’ve been hurt. Healing takes time. That’s, um, physics.”

  “Biology, I should think,” said Eleanor, with a very faint smile.

  “Whatever. Keep trying. Stop beating yourself up. That’s my point.”

  Joan stepped back, letting everything sink in and hoping she’d done right. For a moment or two, they were silent again, and then Eleanor took a deep breath. “We should keep going,” she said. “They’ll have dinner started at home.”

  Good girl, Joan thought. She took Eleanor’s arm. Together, they started down the road again.

  “You said anyone else you’d seen,” Eleanor said, after a minute or two. “Have you seen other people like me?”

  Don’t try to recruit her, Simon had said. But this wasn’t recruitment, and Eleanor had been lied to quite enough. “I have.”

  Eleanor bit her lip but went on. “This happens often in your world?”

  “Yes,” Joan said, “it does.”

  “It’s a…a bad place, then?”

  “Yes,” Joan said, “it is.” She kept her eyes on the road ahead. It blurred a little in front of her.

  Chapter 15

  The note came on the third morning with the paper and what little there was of the post. Gillespie wrote in a thin, spidery hand with elaborate loops and flourishes, but he came to the point quickly enough: I will be at home this af
ternoon.

  That was all.

  Simon took a hired carriage to the building where Gillespie kept his rooms, an anonymous redbrick square spotted with small windows, like a hundred or a thousand others in the city. Knocking on the door brought a small gray woman who looked at Simon somberly and didn’t speak.

  “Dr. Gillespie, please.”

  She nodded and turned. Simon followed uncertainly up a flight of narrow, dim stairs and through a hallway that smelled strongly of cabbage. They stopped in front of a plain, slightly warped door, and the landlady—or whatever she was—knocked more loudly and briskly than Simon would’ve thought her capable of doing.

  “Pray come in,” said a low voice. The woman shrugged and gestured toward the door with one hand, then took her leave.

  Inside, the room was surprisingly well lit and comfortably appointed, mostly with bookshelves. They lined each wall, and all were stuffed full. There was a small fireplace with a row of crystals glimmering on the mantel and a black statue in one corner. Kali, Simon recognized after a moment, and a chill went down his spine. Perhaps it was truly a coincidence, but it made him think, nonetheless, of patterns and of fate and of the weight of invoking great powers.

  In this state of mind, he saw a figure rise from one of the chairs in front of the fireplace.

  Gillespie was a tall man, half a foot taller than Simon, and very thin indeed. Had his nose not been so prominent, nor his bones so small, he would have looked skeletal. As it was, he gave the appearance of a large wingless bird. Unbound gray hair fell to just below his shoulders, and he wore wrinkled linen.

  His green eyes were startlingly vivid. Cat’s eyes almost.

  Simon cleared his throat. “Dr. Gillespie, permit me to express my gratitude for allowing this intrusion. I know that we have not been introduced, and ordinarily I would not have dreamed of presuming—”

  “From the content of your letter,” Gillespie interrupted, “it is not the presumption that bothers me but the danger. Yet if our Indian friend thinks the matter serious enough to recommend you to me, I cannot but trust his judgment, at least so far. I had a letter from him, you see, a little less than four days ago.”