No Proper Lady

by Isabel Cooper

  “Of course,” she said, and placed her hand in his.

  She was still nervous, Simon knew, but she was here and she was relaxing by the minute. That was something, and he inwardly thanked Henry for it. He tried to think of that.

  Mostly, he tried not to see Joan.

  Chapter 27

  “…and so we ended up going before the headmaster,” Henry said, leading Joan back to the side of the room, “both of us soaking wet. Simon claimed that it had all been my idea, of course.”

  “Of course,” Joan said, laughing. The first four dances had gone damn well. She’d been lucky in partners too. Henry had talked easily the whole time, and Archie almost didn’t speak at all. The middle-aged man who’d claimed her for the third set had been glad to discuss mythology, and Simon…had been Simon. “He was the ringleader a lot?”

  “Off and on. We all took turns, though. To be honest, it was me as often as it was Simon or—Alex.” Henry stopped short.

  Reynell stepped out in front of them and bowed smoothly. “Mrs. MacArthur. Mr. Meyers. Good evening to you both.”

  “Evening,” said Joan, and quickly scanned the crowd for Eleanor. She wasn’t nearby, thank the Powers, but either dancing with someone or getting refreshments. Simon, of course, was nowhere in sight.

  Henry was making his own greetings, as stiffly polite about it as someone with his personality ever could be. He probably didn’t know about Reynell’s weirder activities, but he sure knew something. That was all over his face.

  Reynell, who couldn’t have missed the look, just smiled. “If I’m not interrupting,” he said, “I was hoping to claim a dance with Mrs. MacArthur. Unless, of course, she’s otherwise engaged.”

  “No,” Joan said, “I don’t believe I am.” She smiled at Reynell and then back at Henry. “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Meyers. I hope I’ll get the chance to talk to you soon.”

  “Yes, of course,” Henry said, clearly worried but just as clearly unable to say anything.

  Poor guy. Joan wished she could’ve said something: I know what he is. I have this under control. It’s all right.

  Though she really didn’t know about either of the last two.

  This was the next step, though. And, hell, it was just a dance. How bad could it be?

  ***

  Dancing with Reynell was like rolling in carrion.

  That was stupid, and Joan knew it. Reynell was handsome and well dressed. He danced well. He didn’t try to grope her or breathe in her ear. Outwardly, he was a great partner.

  And Joan had never been sensitive. The only auras she’d ever seen were the aftermath of concussive fire. She’d sensed the Dark Ones by having sharp eyes and keen hearing, and by knowing what to look for. There’d never been anything more about her. She’d never seen more than the flesh.

  So there was no reason why she should want to throw up right now.

  Reynell’s aura was probably black and as rotted as a bad tooth. In the underworld, his hands were probably dripping with blood. Joan had no way to know that, though. She couldn’t actually feel the corruption oozing out of his palms and over her body because it didn’t work like that, and she wouldn’t sense it if it did. Everything she felt was psychosomatic.

  She kept repeating that to herself. It let her smile up at Reynell without gritting her teeth.

  At least he didn’t speak for the first few seconds of the dance. That gave her time enough to get herself under control and to note that he’d clearly been trying to impress her by coming out of the crowd like that. That was a good sign. It helped to analyze him, and it broke the whole thing down into information gathering and mission objectives. Colder things. More sterile things.

  “You dance very well, Mrs. MacArthur,” he said.

  Bullshit. Between her lack of experience and her urge to pull away, she’d missed two steps already. He clearly wanted to get her attention back, though, so she smiled up at him. “Do I? You’re too kind.”

  “I’ve rarely been accused of that.”

  “Then let me be the first. I’m rather out of practice, and I know it. This sort of dancing’s new to me.”

  “Ah, yes, you’re new this Season, aren’t you?” Reynell tilted his head and smiled, a slow, insinuating thing. “Here to guard Miss Grenville’s virtue, I hear.”

  That was the opening shot you didn’t talk about—virtue, or the lack thereof—that in ballrooms. A proper woman of this time would’ve said something shocked and cutting to Reynell, or maybe even slapped him. For once, Joan wished she were proper.

  “That implies, sir,” she said, meeting his eyes squarely, “that her virtue is in any danger.”

  “She’s a lovely young woman.”

  “Respectable and intelligent as well.” With a little shrug, Joan added, “Besides, any serious danger to her honor would hardly find me much of an obstacle.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you can be quite intimidating if you try.”

  “I’ve heard that before.” Joan gave him a playful look. “Do I scare you?”

  “No. But then, I don’t frighten easily.”

  “Good to know.”

  The tempo changed and they sped up to follow it. Joan looked over Reynell’s shoulder to avoid getting dizzy and watched the dancers beyond them. A very few were visibly bored or nervous; most were smiling and some laughing. But then, so was she.

  Was anyone in that crowd faking it as much as she was? You could hide all sorts of things if you knew how.

  “Have you been acquainted with Miss Grenville long?” Reynell asked very lightly.

  Want to know how much she’s said about you, you son of a bitch?

  Joan shook her head. “A year, maybe, through writing to her and her brother. Only a month or so in person. And, of course, it’s hard to be really acquainted with someone that intellectual.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, she doesn’t talk very much about herself. It’s all mythology, philosophy, poetry. Interesting, but it doesn’t give me the feeling I know her very well.” Forcing a laugh, Joan added, “And it makes me feel pretty vain.”

  “A little vanity suits beautiful women.”

  “You seem to think so, the way you’re encouraging it. Why do you want to know about Miss Grenville?”

  The question was innocent enough, but she thought something flickered in Reynell’s eyes before he answered. “Merely curious. You said she introduced you to spiritualism.”

  Gushing like Thompson was not the way to his heart. Joan shrugged again and said diffidently, “She gave me books, at least. And got me to go to that lecture.”

  “And now that we’re no longer surrounded by ardent devotees, what did you really think?” He gave her a conspiratorial smile. “I promise I’ll never tell.”

  “I think it would be amazing.” Joan let that lie for three seconds and then added, “If I were convinced that it was real.”

  “But you’re not?”

  “People see what they want to. I haven’t seen anything myself. Until I do, I’m not going to make up my mind.”

  “Honest indecision? In this society?” Reynell widened his eyes, laughing. “You’ll have to learn better, you know. You’ll stand out like a sore thumb without some sort of ignorant devotion or other.”

  Her own laughter caught Joan by surprise. Yes, there was a reason Simon had liked this man once. Seeing it made everything worse.

  “I’ll do my best to be a fanatic then,” she said, forcing cheer into her voice. “Just give me some time to catch up.”

  “I’d like to do more than that, if you’d be willing,” he said not quite suggestively. “As I’m sure you’ve heard, I have something of an interest in the subject myself.”

  “I hope you’re not offended then.”

  “Not at all. Your honesty’s quite refreshing. And if I may, I look forward to showing you a great deal you haven’t known before.” His voice deepened just a little, enough to make his meaning clear.

  As the waltz ended, Joan looked back at
him. The heat in his eyes was unmistakable.

  “I’m always interested in…new experiences,” she said, leaving her hand in his as he walked her back toward the side of the room. “I hope you can provide a few.”

  “Be certain of it,” he said. Then he bowed and drifted off, moving through the crowd with a grace neither she nor Simon had managed.

  Joan watched him walk away. The doors to the terrace were across the ballroom. The doors to the hallway and the dressing room were a little nearer. But people were coming toward her already—Henry and Eleanor, she saw as they drew closer—and she had to stay behind.

  So she lifted her chin, smiled, and let them take her off for a glass of lemonade. She danced with more men, talked a little and listened much, and managed to hold on to her dinner until she was back in her room.

  See, she thought to herself then, as she raised her head from the basin, you’re doing just fine.

  Chapter 28

  Two weeks later, Alex thought that the whole thing was coming together rather well. If Simon and Eleanor had mentioned anything to Mrs. MacArthur, they clearly had not included any particular slurs on his own good name. They couldn’t, after all. The actual circumstances had been far too odd to tell a stranger, and anything they could make up would implicate dear Eleanor as much as it would Alex.

  Society certainly spread its rumors, but Society, by and large, thought that Alex was largely innocent and Simon far too quick-tempered. Of course, doing such things with a young girl hadn’t been quite proper, but in the end, it was only a foolish party game gone wrong. Especially now that Eleanor was clearly not suffering any of the more visible consequences of impropriety.

  Nonetheless, he broached the subject—he hoped—before Mrs. MacArthur could. It was at a garden party at one of the few houses near the city that could manage that sort of thing, and they were walking under a line of stately oaks. “I suppose you’ve wondered,” he began, after a suitable period of looking distressed and brooding, “why Mr. Grenville and his sister avoid me.”

  “A little,” she admitted, and her face went grave and attentive. Rather gratifying, really. “I’d thought maybe you just didn’t know each other, but—”

  “No, I’m afraid not. We used to know each other very well.” He sighed. “And I’m afraid it’s rather my fault that we’re no longer on speaking terms.”

  “What happened?”

  Alex sighed again and ran a hand through his hair. “A spiritualist experiment gone badly. Very badly. I know you’re skeptical about such things.”

  “Just unconvinced so far,” Mrs. MacArthur said. “I don’t claim to know everything. And I’ve never done any of these experiments. I’d like to know what you think.”

  Better and better. Alex looked off into the distance, down the lane of trees toward the wrought-iron fence beyond. “I wish I knew myself,” he said, with just the right touch of self-recrimination. “Miss Grenville had volunteered to serve as medium. She truly seemed glad of the experience. I tried to call forth a spirit. I succeeded.”

  Mrs. MacArthur’s eyes widened, and her mouth opened a little. She didn’t gasp or draw away, though, and neither did she laugh. She gave him a long, thoughtful look instead, weighing his claims against some internal standard. It would be great fun to see how she’d respond to a summoning. Breaking that much self-control would be worth it, even without Simon’s pain as relish.

  Alex cleared his throat. “I’m still not sure who—or what—I summoned. I was far less prepared than I should’ve been. Whatever the spirit was, it took control quickly. It was very hostile. Dark.”

  As all real power is in the end. What would you have me do, Simon? Alex could see the other man now, walking with his sister at the end of the lane. Work one-handed? This isn’t some schoolboy game. We’re not bound by old men’s rules, and there’s no pride in second place. You’ll learn that. A new experience for you, I should think.

  Bitterness cramped his gut and closed his throat. Alex looked away from the figures on the grass.

  Mrs. MacArthur put a hand on his arm. It was an impulsive gesture, and she drew her hand back after a moment, but the sensation of her touch remained. She looked unsettled too, either by the story or by the contact. “It must’ve been awful,” she said. “For both of you.”

  “It was. I was trying to think of what to do when Simon came in. I don’t know quite what he’d heard, but he obviously assumed the worst. And I was in no mood to argue well.” Reynell rubbed his face, wincing in memory. “I can’t blame him for his actions then. When I came to, he was gone. With Miss Grenville.”

  “And the…spirit?” A trace of skepticism remained in her voice. For the moment, though, she listened as she might have done to a ghost story on a winter night, not quite believing but willing to be convinced for the time being.

  “Simon must have found a way to banish it. He has a little knowledge of that sort of thing himself, if he’s not given it up entirely since the incident. We went to a great many lectures together as boys.”

  They’d even bought admission to some of them. Others, like most of those they’d managed to attend at school, they’d sneaked into. A sudden memory rose up, clear and warm, of twelve-year-old Simon keeping lookout while Alex squirmed through a gap in one of the hedges.

  If a master comes, I’ve dropped a ball somewhere and I’m trying to get it back.

  Alex, you know I’m no good at lying.

  Everyone’s got to have some fault, I suppose.

  Just try to be quick.

  As the nun said to the bishop.

  Stop making me laugh. It looks bad.

  Those days had been warmer and full of more sun, and the world had stretched out wide before the two of them, ready to be explored or conquered. Alex supposed he was man enough to admit that the memory hurt now in the face of Simon’s betrayal.

  More than man enough to be revenged for it.

  Judas was hanged, wasn’t he? Seems too quick, somehow.

  “Sounds like a bad misunderstanding all around,” said Mrs. MacArthur. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “You’re very kind,” said Alex.

  She really was a handsome woman, he thought. Her slim figure suited the frothy white dress she wore very well. Her hair, tossed in the light breeze, shone golden, and best of all, her hazel eyes were bright with sympathy for him.

  Alex felt a sudden rush of kindness toward her. It would be best, perhaps, not to harm her in the end. There were plenty of other women in the world. Perhaps setting Mrs. MacArthur up as his mistress and making her happy in that station would be the way to hurt Simon.

  After all, they said that the best revenge was living well. A man of Alex’s abilities had many ways to ensure that.

  ***

  “She has a great deal of range,” Eleanor was saying, “but she needs more precision to be really skilled. But then, she’s young…and I’m dreadfully afraid I’m babbling at you, Simon. I’m sorry.”

  “No,” he said, and tore his gaze away from the figures walking by the line of trees. Eleanor was talking to him now. She’d gone to the opera the other night with two of her friends from school, and today she had been sitting in the sun and smiling. The last thing Simon wanted to do was discourage any of that.

  And yet her words fell on his ears like rain, pleasant but meaningless. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re not babbling. I’m tired, that’s all.”

  “Yes,” she said carefully. “It must be very taxing escorting two young women all over town. I can’t imagine it’s how you usually spend your time.”

  “Hardly,” said Simon. “But I’m finding that I quite enjoy it so far.”

  That was devilishly true. Perhaps he’d needed to get away from his habitual clubs and his studies. Perhaps his enjoyment of the last few weeks had merely been a matter of fresh perspective or a heightened appreciation of everything that was at risk.

  He feared, however, that it was really due to the company. To Joan, to be precise: smiling
a challenge up at him while they danced, muttering under her breath when he beat her at cards, looking askance and skeptical during lectures and unguardedly amazed at the Royal Zoo. Talking seriously with Eleanor about sensational novels and Greek myths. Telling him about magic in her world, her hands moving in quick, descriptive gestures.

  She’d moved into his memories with as much ease as she’d moved into Society. Simon wasn’t sure he was comfortable with either.

  “Simon.” Eleanor’s voice was gentle. “Pretending doesn’t really help either of us, does it?”

  “Pretending?” he asked, drawing his attention back to her, now with guilt added to his uneasiness. If he was neglecting Ellie in addition to everything else…

  But she wasn’t looking hurt. Her gaze went to the end of the lane, and she pressed her lips together quickly. There was nothing out of the ordinary where she was looking. Joan was laughing up at Alex, and he was shrugging gracefully and shaking his head. Nothing too scandalous there. He was a grown man, she a grown woman, and her husband had been dead three years.

  Eleanor swallowed.

  Simon realized that his nails were digging into his palms. He made himself unclench his fists and put a hand on his sister’s shoulder. “We can go elsewhere,” he said, “if it would be easier for you.”

  Eleanor shook her head. “He…he’s going to be in Society for quite a while,” she said. “I’d best get used to it, hadn’t I?”

  “You shouldn’t have to.”

  “But I do. Besides, it—it must be worse for you, in a way, and you don’t avoid him.”

  “That’s different,” Simon said lamely.

  In the silence that followed, he had to look back again. Joan had drawn closer to Alex now, and they were talking more seriously. Sunlight danced on both of them, drawing gold from their hair. They looked quite the matched set.

  “I worry about her too,” Eleanor said.

  “Worry. Yes.”

  Seeing Joan with Alex was very like watching a snake charmer and the swaying cobra in front of him, knowing that death waited with one wrong note.

  There had been moments over the past two weeks when Simon hadn’t known who was the charmer and who the serpent. Of course, it was beyond unlikely that Alex would use any magic on Joan in such a public setting, particularly with Simon around. Simon told himself this and then told himself again.