My enjoyment faded at the reminder of the fate awaiting me. I glanced over and saw Florence engaged in earnest conversation with Mr. Oligary and Inspector Grayling. She was probably doing her best to get Mina married off as well.
It was true. An unmarried woman was considered useless in our world. There was a reason spinsters were considered “on the shelf”—like a useless old toy.
I looked back at my friend, who was watching me with an expression of pity and entreaty. “Have you decided what to do?” she asked, her eyes flickering toward my beau.
“No. Of course not. It’s only been a few days. I’ve got time.”
“But what if he asks you? Evaline, it’s been all over the Ladies’ Tattle-Tale—you and Ned Oligary. I even saw a mention in the Times about you going to New Vauxhall with him.”
“I don’t care about the on dits,” I snapped, feeling my lungs tighten. “Those gossip notes don’t mean anything except that some newspaper person was bored and had to write about something.”
“Lord Bells-Ferry only knew Leticia Spring for three days before he proposed to her,” Mina said. “And what about Baron Qualley? He asked Jemmy Richards the day after her debut. You debuted into Society almost two years ago, Evaline—despite the fact that you’ve dodged as many events as possible. From what I hear, they’ve—all of the husband prospects—been waiting for you to show some sign of wanting a proposal. And now you’ve done.”
“I haven’t done,” I said, my eyes stinging with fury. “I haven’t done at all. It’s Florence and Bram. It’s their fault, and now I’m going to have to—to sacrifice myself—my life—to fix their mess.” I could feel my nose starting to drip and the angry flush warming my cheeks.
“Evaline—”
But I had already turned away, blind with angry tears I knew I had to hide before I found myself written up in the gossip on dits for a different reason than being on Ned Oligary’s arm and on the marriage mart.
Keeping my face averted, I pushed my way along the edge of the ballroom, anxious to get somewhere I could collect myself in private. I bumped into a maidservant dressed in the ice-blue livery, and nearly sent her tray of glasses tumbling. I didn’t pause, but dodged around one of the silver-painted trees and along one of the fluttering tapestries that covered the wall.
The orchestra had begun to play, and the swell of music distracted many of the partygoers because it was time to find a partner and dance. I walked even faster; the last thing I wanted was Mr. Oligary—or anyone else—to intercept me for a dratted waltz or blasted quadrille.
Finally I broke free from the ballroom, slipping past a dividing screen that blocked a short corridor. The passageway was empty of everything but a small table and one painting above it. Tucked away from the roar of the crowd, it was much quieter here. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to lead anywhere; there was a double door at the end that probably opened into a study or library. That meant I couldn’t make the escape I’d fantasized about making: of walking down a hall, finding another way out of the house, and running away.
Running away from everything.
I looked toward the doors speculatively, then began to walk toward them. Maybe there was a terrace outside the window and I could—
No. That was cowardly.
Running away wouldn’t help.
Venators didn’t run away. Grandmother Victoria surely never ran away.
Just as I reached the door, I heard the unmistakable rustle of skirts and starched petticoats. I spun, ready to shout at Mina to leave me alone—but it wasn’t her. It was the maidservant I’d nearly bowled over. She was still carrying her tray, though the glasses were missing.
“I’m looking for the ladies’ retiring room,” I said, averting my face so she wouldn’t see the tinge of red in my nose and eyes. Servants were the worst gossips, mainly because no one ever paid attention to them.
Without a word, she set the tray down on a half-table. To my surprise, she murmured, “In there,” and pointed to the door I’d been about to open.
I didn’t have to be told twice. I slipped inside and closed the door behind me.
It was not, however, the ladies’ retiring room. As I’d expected, it was a study. The heavy maroon leather furnishings and faint scent of tobacco told me it belonged to Lord Cosgrove-Pitt and not his wife. It didn’t matter; no one was here and I’d have a few moments to compose myself.
But I’d barely stepped away from the door when I heard the knob turn behind me. I whirled, ready to send the nosy maidservant away in no uncertain terms.
She slipped inside and closed the door behind her, then turned around to face me. “Evaline.”
I gasped and looked at her closely for the first time. It wasn’t a maidservant at all. It was Pix.
Miss Stoker
~ Two Skirted Figures in an Unsatisfactory Tete-a-Tete ~
We stared at each other for a moment.
“You look surprisingly attractive in a dress, Pix,” I managed to say, even as I battled back the rush of relief.
He’s alive. He’s well. He’s here.
“Blue is a very flattering color on you.” I fervently hoped he couldn’t see the remnants of my tears or my red nose.
“What is it, Evaline?” He came toward me, rustling like a woman, but moving like a man. “What’s wrong?”
I didn’t have the chance to step away before he took me by the arms and brought me close enough that I could feel his warmth and the faint smell of tobacco and whoever had worn the maid’s dress previously. It was incredibly strange looking into a face topped by a female wig and mobcap, along with some sort of makeup that made him appear feminine and slightly altered the shape of his cheeks and jaw.
But his dark eyes bored into mine, and they were all Pix.
I had no words to respond to his heartfelt question. I was afraid if I even tried to speak, all the emotions I’d packed away for weeks would come rolling out: fear and anger at him for disappearing without a word, fury about my situation and how helpless I was to change it, and—most of all—the realization that I cared more for this cunning, mysterious, disreputable thief than I should…and that, very soon, once my future was set, I was never going to be able to see him again.
At least, not in the way I wanted to.
So I pulled from his grip and stepped away. I kept my voice and expression cold and hard. “What are you doing here?”
“Evaline. You were crying. What—”
“What happened to your damned accent, Mr. Smith?” I shot back, unashamed by the unladylike word, fighting to keep the frustrated tears at bay.
He looked at me, holding up his hands as if he expected me to lunge at him. “All right, then.” He put some space between us. “All right.”
By now, I’d collected myself. “Nice to see you again, Pix.” I was very proud of my cool, flat tone. “Sorry I don’t have time to chat. But it’s time I returned to the party. I was a trifle warm. Needed some air.”
“Right.” The weight of his gaze, the seriousness in his eyes, told me he had plenty more to say. But for some reason, he remained silent, just looking at me as if he’d never seen me before.
Or as if he’d never see me again.
With a pinched heart, I started for the door as promised.
I could have insisted he tell me what he was doing here, and why he’d disappeared without a word.
I could have teased him about wearing petticoats and maybe even a corset, and needled him about his choice of face powder.
I could have interrogated him about The Carnelian Crow and the Ankh.
I could have demanded to know whether he was Edison Smith. Whether he was wanted for murder.
But I didn’t.
I wasn’t brave enough.
My hand was almost to the doorknob when I heard his swift intake of breath behind me.
“Evaline.” He said my name in a tone he’d never done before. In a sort of tight, strangled whisper.
I wanted to turn back, but I knew
better. I felt the prickling at the nape of my neck—not that portent of the UnDead, but of something more intimate. More pleasant, and familiar.
“Don’t do it.” His words were almost unintelligible. But somehow I heard them, and I knew what he was referring to.
And it wasn’t about me leaving the room.
“I have to,” I replied, staring at the door only inches from my face. My vision was beginning to blur. “I have no choice.”
More rustling behind me. He’d moved closer. And though I felt him, very, very close, he didn’t touch me.
“Why? Why does it have to be him?” His voice was filled with loathing. “Oligary?”
And that very question—the tone of it, the fact that he’d asked it—answered my own unspoken one. Numbness overtook me, but I managed to move my fingers toward the knob.
“Goodbye—”
“Evaline—”
The knob turned without me even touching it, and I stumbled back as the door opened.
“Miss Stoker?”
“Mr. Oligary!” I was barely able to keep from shrieking with shock.
“Is everything all right?” He was there now, in the study with Pix and me, his voice and expression filled with concern.
“Yes, yes. Yes, everything’s fine.” I had the urge to babble, and I had to use every bit of control to calm myself. Why was I so nervous? I hadn’t done anything wrong. “I—er—there was a problem with my gown, and—er—she was helping me attend to it.” I gestured carelessly toward Pix behind me as I moved forward to slip my hand through Mr. Oligary’s arm in an effort to keep him from coming completely into the room.
“Your gown,” he said, stepping back a trifle so as to give himself a better look, “appears absolutely perfect to me. Have I mentioned how lovely you look in it, Miss Stoker? The belle of the ball—at least in my eyes.”
I made a noise that I hoped was taken as a sound of gratitude for his compliment, but the fact that Pix was standing there, watching and hearing all of this, made me feel ill. He’d gone utterly silent and still, yet I was more aware of him than ever. My entire body was prickling unpleasantly.
“Right then…er, is that a waltz I hear?” I said, once again moving closer to Mr. Oligary in hopes of backing him out the door. My skirt and petticoats spilled over his shoes as I looked up coyly.
“I believe it is,” he replied, smiling down at me from behind his trim mustache. “Have I also mentioned how much I’ve been looking forward to our first waltz, Miss Stoker?”
“Mm, no…I don’t believe you have,” I replied, trying to inch us out of the chamber.
“For nearly a year now, Miss Stoker. And it seems at last I am to get my wish.”
“Right then,” I replied. “Shall we?”
“After you, Miss Stoker.”
The door swung closed softly behind us, but we were only two or three steps away when I was certain I heard the sound of glass shattering—as if something had been knocked off a table.
Or thrown against the wall.
Miss Holmes
~ In Which Miss Holmes Willingly Relinquishes Control ~
“Is everything all right, Miss Holmes?”
I turned to find Grayling at my elbow. He was dividing his attention between me and looking off after Evaline, who’d stormed away while fighting obvious tears.
I sighed. There was little I could do at the moment to help Evaline; she must come to terms with her decision—whatever it might be. Aside from that, I couldn’t be distracted from whatever was going to happen tonight. There was no doubt in my mind that Lady Isabella had some nefarious plan tucked inside her dainty glove.
“Miss Stoker appears distraught,” Grayling added—quite unnecessarily, I thought.
“She—er—I believe a pine needle got into her eye, and she went off to see to it. She’s got a bit of an allergy like Miss Hasherby, you know.”
He didn’t seem wholly convinced, but at that moment, the orchestra began to play. Grayling glanced over, cleared his throat, then offered me his arm.
“If I were to allow you to lead, Miss Holmes, would you do me the honor?”
“Of course, Inspector, but I hardly think it necessary for you to relinquish the lead,” I replied, a trifle frostily. Smitten? Miss Stoker was clearly addled if she thought that was true. “It would look quite strange if I were to be directing our steps across the dancing floor,” I added.
“I venture to say it would look more strange if we were both attempting it,” he responded. There was a pleasant glint of humor in his green-flecked brown eyes. “Therefore, I shall demur to your very capable abilities. You are, after all, a woman of sharp mind and particular forethought.”
My flicker of irritation died in light of his self-effacing gallantry, and I smiled. “I believe I could bear to relinquish that responsibility for at least one waltz this evening.”
“I am most complimented, Miss Holmes. Shall we?”
Grayling and I had waltzed before, more than once—and the first time had been here at Cosgrove Terrace. However, I must confess, this was the most pleasurable spin we’d ever taken around a dance floor. I was no longer offended by his height, nor did I attempt to pull or push the direction of our pacing (though it was a struggle at first) while he was intent upon doing the same.
Thus, we made rather graceful box steps in gentle spirals between and around the other couples. I neither trod on his foot, nor did he trounce on my hems, and there was a very long moment when it felt as if no one else was in the entire room other than the two of us. It was a divine feeling.
“You’re quite an accomplished dancer, Inspector,” I said after several measures—once I was able to actually relax and enjoy being maneuvered through the paces by his capable hands.
“Thank you, Miss Holmes. I confess, it’s much easier to be accomplished when one isn’t fighting with one’s partner.”
I looked at him in surprise, saw the horrified expression that flashed across his face when he realized what he’d said, then, absurdly, I found it all quite amusing. “One cannot argue with that,” I replied with a laugh. “There can only be one captain on a ship, the single driver of a carriage.”
His horror had evaporated when I chuckled, and now he was looking at me with a very warm expression. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing you laugh,” he said, and I felt his fingers tighten slightly at my waist.
My mouth went a little dry and I did stumble at that moment, but he didn’t even flicker an eyelash when I stepped on his toe. “Thank you,” I said uncertainly.
I felt unaccountably warm all at once, and focused my eyes over his shoulder because I wasn’t certain where else to look. I felt…well, quite in the spotlight. And that was a place I didn’t particularly care to be.
I reminded myself firmly that there was work to be attended to, and it didn’t include giggling girlishly while being squired around the dance floor—although, as Grayling had once pointed out, being on the dance floor offered an excellent and varying view of the entire room.
Perhaps halfway through the dance, I noticed Evaline had returned from wherever she’d gone off to. She and Mr. Ned Oligary were just joining the waltz. Even from across the room, however, I could tell something unexpected had happened, for her face was set in a tight expression.
As Grayling directed us in a small circle to the left, I saw Lady Isabella. She was still standing near the entrance at the top of the ballroom where she’d continued to greet latecomers as well as employ her own expansive view of the event. I didn’t recognize the woman and man to whom she was speaking, but I did notice Mr. Oligary the elder standing nearby conversing with several other businessmen. I hadn’t realized he was here tonight, and I wondered if Evaline had ridden in the same carriage as both Oligary brothers, or only the younger.
After one more twirl, I spied Lord Cosgrove-Pitt in one of the balconies that overlooked the huge, high-ceilinged room. When I noticed him above, I was reminded of the first night Evaline
and I had encountered the Ankh in the Thames Tunnel, beneath the streets of London. We’d rushed back to Cosgrove Terrace after my companion had nearly gotten us killed after announcing our presence at a meeting of the Ankh’s Society of Sekhmet.
At the time, I had not made the connection between Lady Isabella and the Ankh—that they were one and the same. But I did distinctly remember returning to Cosgrove Terrace—after that harrowing experience being chased by the Ankh’s guards—and wanting nothing more than to make my excuses to our hostess and return home.
I hadn’t spoken with Lady Isabella upon my return, but I had waved to her up in the balcony, where she’d been standing exactly where her husband now stood. At the time, she was speaking with a cluster of other guests, but tonight Lord Cosgrove-Pitt was there alone, surveying the activity below.
I wondered for a moment whether he was like me in that way—preferring to be a spectator rather than in the midst of the activity, and that he’d sought a moment of solitude without actually leaving the fête.
“What is it, Miss Holmes? You’ve gone unnaturally—er, unusually quiet.”
I tipped my head back slightly to look up at Grayling, noting as I had done earlier what a smooth and perfect shave he’d acquitted of himself this evening. And whatever sort of lotion he’d used afterward was pleasantly scented with bracing lemon and rosemary. It suited him well. As did the glossy, dark auburn curls that brushed the nape of his neck.
“I was merely noticing that Lord Cosgrove-Pitt seems to have needed a moment away from the crowd.” I made a facial gesture in the appropriate direction, up and over to the balcony in question. “I suppose even the leader of Parliament requires a moment of solitude at times.”
“I would agree. And one can only imagine how different the view of this crush from above must be than the one we have here on the floor,” Grayling commented.
“Indeed. I— Oh my goodness!” I stopped dead still, and my partner bumped into me soundly, nearly rattling my teeth. “What on earth is he doing?”
Grayling turned and looked up to see what I had noticed: that Lord Cosgrove-Pitt was climbing up onto the railing of the balcony!
The Carnelian Crow: A Stoker & Holmes Book (Stoker and Holmes 4) Page 16
