by Eloisa James
“Lady Wrothe says you’re not to leave this room all day,” Rosalie said importantly. “You’re quite the heroine of the hour, I must say. Those youngbloods who caused your boat to capsize are properly ashamed of themselves and planning some sort of gift.”
“No!” Kate said. “Surely not.”
“Yes, because you were the only one who wasn’t plucked out immediately, but actually had to swim across the lake. Like a mermaid, that’s what everyone is saying.”
“I wasn’t in the least mermaidlike,” Kate objected. “The prince towed me along like a dead fish.”
“No need to get into the particulars,” Rosalie said. “Now Miss Starck and Lady Wrothe, they were saved by the quick thinking of Lord Wrothe. He righted the boat, and the only ones to fall in were yourself and the dog.”
“Is Coco all right?”
“Lord Dimsdale dove straight off the boat to save you, but I gather you came up on the other side. So he saved Coco, because the prince had already swum after you. By all accounts, Lady Wrothe was screaming so loudly that they could hear her on shore.”
“So Algie saved the dog, rather than me,” Kate said grumpily, sitting up.
“Lady Wrothe wasn’t very pleased. And she was very sharp with Lord Hathaway this morning,” Rosalie confided, pulling open the curtains to reveal a beautiful sunny morning. “She told him at breakfast—where anyone could hear!—that she’d instructed him to save you, and her husband to save her dog, and he could have had the courtesy to make an effort to follow her directions instead of just staying in the boat.”
Kate couldn’t help smiling.
“And then Lord Wrothe said that for his part he was dashed pleased that Dimsdale had gone for the dog, because he didn’t want to ruin his new boots. And then she bonked him on the head with a kipper.”
“Very exciting,” Kate exclaimed. “I had no idea married life was so entertaining.”
“Lady Wrothe’s maid says it’s always like that in their house. They squabble something terrible. Until he buys her a ruby, and it’s all over. They’re that fond of each other; anyone can tell.”
“I suppose I should get up, if Effie wants to pay a visit,” Kate said, yawning again.
“I’ll just put a wrapper on you and brush out your hair,” Rosalie said. “She wouldn’t expect you in a proper gown, not after the terrible shock you’ve had. Do you feel as if you have a fever, miss? The prince offered to send the castle’s doctor.”
“He has his own doctor?” Kate said, swinging her legs out of bed.
“Came over with him on the boat,” Rosalie said. She started giggling. “The ‘ship of fools,’ that’s what Mr. Berwick calls it. Because the duke over there in foreign parts, he tossed out half his court, including the fool himself.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” Kate said, washing her face. “I’ll have breakfast with Effie, but then I want a bath, Rosalie, and I mean to get dressed. I don’t feel in the least bit chilled.”
“You mustn’t bathe yet!” Rosalie said, alarmed. “You were shivering so last night that I thought the bed might crack in half. Please sit down, miss, and I’ll brush out your hair. I’ll tie it back with a ribbon for your breakfast with Miss Starck, and then you must pop straight back into bed.”
It was immediately clear that Effie considered their midnight adventure to have made them the best of friends. She sat down opposite Kate at a small table Rosalie set before a roaring fire (never mind the balmy air coming through the window), and proceeded to give a breathless rendition of what it felt like as the boat drew away in the black, black water, with Kate nowhere to be seen.
“We knew then that you were dead,” she said with thrilling emphasis. “Killed by that freezing water!”
“Luckily for me, I wasn’t,” Kate said, taking another piece of buttered toast. She had ridden out, shivering, on a hundred chilly mornings, which likely inured her to the cold, though she didn’t think Effie would understand if she tried to explain her hard-earned immunity.
“Lady Wrothe was on her feet,” Effie continued, “desperately searching the waters.”
“Could you see Coco?”
“She was splashing alongside the boat, paddling really well. You should have seen how small that dog was after Lord Dimsdale rescued it, no bigger than a kitten with its wet fur. Lady Wrothe acted as if her own child had fallen in.”
“So where was I?”
“You finally came up on the far side. You were very lucky not to have hit your head on the other boat. Everyone from that boat was in the water, though they came out again quickly, all but the prince. Lady Wrothe was the first to spot you, and she shrieked at him to fetch you, this instant.” Effie giggled. “I’d never have imagined that anyone could order a prince to do something the way she did. And of course he obeyed and swam over to get you.”
“How odd,” Kate said. “I felt as if it was just a moment before I found my way to the surface, and the boat was already moving away.”
“It probably was,” Effie said, considering it. “We were pulled off by the footman, of course, who didn’t know what was happening. But at the time it seemed very slow, I assure you. When you didn’t come back up, and the red and blue torchlight was bouncing off the water . . . even the prince looked horribly distressed.”
“How could you see? Wasn’t he in the water?”
“Yes, but Lady Wrothe called out that you were missing and I saw his eyes. My mother says that I’m never to go anywhere near the lake again. Not even during the ball.”
“Don’t tell me they’re planning to do it again!”
“No one is to be allowed in the boats but servants who know how to swim,” Effie said. “But it is already planned, so they’re going ahead with it. The boats are going to be shooting off fireworks, which I must say sounds very pretty. I shall have to watch from the steps, though, because Mama is quite overwrought.” She sounded wistful.
“Will you have the last piece of toast?” Kate asked.
“No, thank you,” Effie said. “I eat very little. You have it. You are at such risk of getting sick; everyone is talking about it. After that terrible illness you had a few months ago, and now the shock and cold.” She paused. “Though you look very well.”
Kate smiled at her. “I feel just fine.”
“I didn’t know you had such long hair,” Effie said. “Why do you always wear a wig? Don’t you find it terribly hot? I can’t bear them myself.”
“I like wigs.”
“I hope you don’t mind a comment,” Effie said, “but I think your hair is lovely. All those different colors of red and gold . . . it’s just like a sunset. Better than that red wig, even though it is fashionable.”
“Red sky in the morning,” Kate muttered.
“Sailors take warning,” Effie said. She twiddled her fork for a moment. “It was so romantic when Lord Dimsdale went into the water after you. I wish you could have seen it. The boat righted itself and he shouted your name and then dove straight off the side. Though of course you weren’t actually on that side.”
“Who did that? Oh, Algie,” Kate said. “It does sound romantic. My fiancé apparently has hidden depths.” Frankly, she was surprised.
“They’re all in love with you,” Effie stated. “Lord Hathaway as well.”
“He’s all yours,” Kate said promptly.
“I’m not sure . . . you’re so amusing. You say such witty things.” She looked across at Kate with her sweet seriousness and said, “I don’t want you to think that I’m in love with Lord Hathaway because I’m not. And I’m not desperate to marry anyone.”
“Neither am I,” Kate said, getting up to ring the bell. “You don’t mind if I call for more cocoa, do you? I think that dunking made me ravenous.”
“We didn’t meet during the season,” Effie continued, “though I heard about you, of course. But no one told me you were so funny. I think that’s why they’re all in love with you.”
Kate burst into laughter. “What on ear
th are you talking about?”
“They’re all in love with you,” Effie repeated. “Lord Dimsdale, and Lord Hathaway, and the prince too. I saw his eyes, remember? They were wild with fear.”
“You have a natural gift for melodrama,” Kate said. “Oh good, there’s Rosalie.” She sent the maid to bring another round of cocoa and some more buttered toast as well.
Then she sat back down. “I’ve got the shivers just listening to you talk about the black, black water and the torchlight bouncing everywhere.”
“It was awful,” Effie said. “I kept imagining that a hand draped in seaweed had come up and dragged you into the murky depths.”
Kate laughed again. “That lake doesn’t even have fish in it; it’s just a pond fed by an underground stream. There aren’t many weeds!”
“You never know what lives in an underground stream,” Effie said, her big eyes growing even bigger.
“Minnows, maybe,” Kate said. “No one’s in love with me.”
Her tone must have been convincing, because after a second Effie said, “Well, Lord Dimsdale is, of course.”
She’d forgotten her fiancé again. “Except Algie,” Kate agreed.
“You’re so lucky. I would love to have a fiancé like Lord Dimsdale. He’s so considerate, and young, and handsome.”
“Well, so it is Lord Hathaway,” Kate said, rather surprised.
“Actually, he is older.”
“But he is very handsome, and kind. Steady,” Kate added.
Effie nodded. “I know. My mother says that too.”
“But you’re not excited by steady and kind.”
“He’ll make a good husband, I’m sure. He didn’t dive in after you, though.”
“A black mark against him,” Kate agreed.
“He said afterwards that he couldn’t see you, and so what would have been the point? Which is logical, but not what a woman wants to hear, particularly if she were dead.”
“Maybe he would have plunged in for you, just not for me,” Kate offered.
“I doubt it. I think he feels sorry for me, which is not the same as the kind of mad adoration that Lord Dimsdale obviously feels for you.” She hesitated. “Did you hear what . . . what happened to me?”
Could she mean the fork? “No,” Kate said. “Your mother did speak of your father in the past tense . . .”
“First he died, just before my first season, and then my aunt died the next year, and then my great-aunt died.” Effie’s soft little face took on an edge. “They ought to make an exception for mourning when a person just has to make her debut. People talk about me as if I’m an old maid, and I had barely one season!”
“Nonsense,” Kate said, pushing away the memory of Henry’s casual description of Effie as an octogenarian. “I’m—” She just caught herself before she confessed her age. “I look older than you do. That’s all that matters.”
“Things were going very well last year,” Effie said, sipping her cocoa, “and then an awful thing happened with Lord Beckham. Have you met him?”
Kate shook her head.
“My mother was so affronted that she took me to the country after I’d been to only two balls. So then I had to start all over this year.”
It had to be the fork. “What happened?” Kate asked.
Effie rolled her eyes. “He’s barking mad. He said . . . You may not understand this, Kate, but he told everyone that I pawed him. In a private area!”
“No!”
“Yes, he did. And the truth was that he had tried to kiss me. I wouldn’t have minded so much, but he pressed against me in the most revolting way. I twisted away and told him he was a repellent slug. It made him angry and he grabbed me down—down there, with his hand.”
Even given Effie’s talent for melodrama, the man was odious. “What a toad,” Kate said. “We had a baker in the village like that once. My father had to throw him out of the county.”
“He wouldn’t have done it if my father was alive,” Effie said. “Because my father would have skewered him. At any rate, we had carried our plates of apricot tart onto the balcony, so I snatched my fork and stuck him in the hand. Since my father wasn’t around to skewer him, I suppose you could say I did it myself. But next thing I knew, his story was everywhere.”
“You should have stuck him in the breeches,” Kate said.
“He was telling a lie, but no one believed me except my mother, of course. So we had to retire to the country. And this year”—she looked rather miserable—“well, someone like Lord Hathaway is so logical and kind that of course he doesn’t listen to that sort of rumor.”
“Horrible,” Kate said. “That is horrible. I knew the moment I met you that it couldn’t be true because—”
“So you did hear it too!” Effie said, and she burst into tears.
Fortunately Kate was inured to tears after living with Victoria, so she poured her another cup of cocoa, and gave her a pat on the hand. And left her to it. With Victoria, every expression of sympathy just prolonged her weeping.
Sure enough, Effie wiped her eyes and apologized. “I’m nervous,” she said, “because Beckham arrives today, and I haven’t seen him since last year.”
Kate narrowed her eyes. “He’s coming to the castle?”
“Yes, today,” Effie said damply. “Isn’t that bad luck? I managed to avoid him all season because my mother bribed one of his footmen, so we always knew what he was doing. But now my mother says we can’t leave because Lord Hathaway is close to proposing to me.” She didn’t look terribly happy about that prospect.
“I like Lord Hathaway,” Kate said.
“So do I, of course,” Effie said, sighing. “It’s just—well—he’s not exactly romantic, is he? He would never bring me flowers unless they happened to be in his garden and he tripped over them.”
“You have quite an imagination,” Kate said.
“I can just see his poor wife,” Effie said. “She’ll be waiting expectantly for her birthday to arrive, hoping that he’ll bring her a diamond tiara or at the very least, an Indian shawl, and he’ll turn up with a tea cozy. Tears will come to her eyes, but since she really loves him—and it’s not his fault—she’ll swallow her sadness.”
“And buy herself an Indian shawl, I would hope,” Kate put in. “You’re a superb storyteller! I could almost see her weepy eyes. Why don’t you just put about the real story of Beckham? I’m sure you could convince people.”
Effie shook her head. “My mother feels strongly that a lady should never mention such matters. She feels everything so deeply. In fact, she’s not getting out of bed today because she feels so distressed over my near death last night.”
Kate raised an eyebrow.
“I know . . . most people think you nearly died instead of me.” Effie sighed.
“If you told my godmother, Henry, she could squash Beckham,” Kate said.
“Does she really like to be called Henry? It’s such an odd name for a woman.”
“Her name is Henrietta, but she prefers Henry.”
“I love the way she calls her husband sugarplum,” Effie said. “It’s just so—”
“Romantic,” Kate said, laughing.
“I read too many novels,” Effie said shamefacedly.
“I haven’t read many, but the villain always gets his comeuppance, as I understand it. And that’s what’s going to happen to Beckham, I promise you. Think of Henry as being like a fairy godmother: She can wave her magic wand and take care of that nasty little toad.”
“How I’d love to see him turned into a turnip,” Effie said.
“Just watch,” Kate said. “She’ll make turnip mash out of him.”
Twenty-one
You will be taking a large party rabbit hunting this afternoon,” Wick said, catching Gabriel by the arm after the luncheon meal.
“That I will not,” Gabriel said instantly.
“What’s got into you?” Wick demanded. “You’ve never been the most biddable person, but I’d prefer y
ou didn’t go stark raving, if you wouldn’t mind. I have a castle full of people, and your aunt’s reader has already driven half the ladies into fits by handing out fortunes like confetti, and all of them depressing.”
“You want depressing, go talk to my uncle. I had to listen to him for an hour last night as he sobbed—sobbed!—over the failure of his naval spectacle.”
“It’s my fault,” Wick said. “I’d watched them practice it over and over, and I simply didn’t picture the timing’s being altered by drunk passengers.”
“Well, no one drowned,” Gabriel said. “I have it from Miss Starck, who breakfasted with Kate, that the lady is just fine. So no harm done.”
“That being the case, would you get on your bloody shooting gear and take some of these men off my hands?”
“No. Ask Ferdinand to take my place, will you?”
“I’ll see if I can drag him out of the pigsty,” Wick said, turning away.
When Gabriel was sure that Wick was well out of hearing, he snatched a young footman and gave him a number of explicit, rapid instructions.
Then he went to his study, locked the door, and walked over to a small painting hanging on the far wall. In the picture’s background, a battle raged; in the foreground, a songbird perched on a low branch. On the ground below lay a suit of armor, abandoned just where a knight had managed to kick it off. All there was to be seen of him was a lifeless foot in the lower right. And the bird sang on, his hard, alert eye showing total disregard for the crumpled warrior foolish enough to die under his tree.
It was the only painting that Gabriel had brought with him from Marburg, the painting that summed up his hatred of the patterned violence and sporadic warfare that marked all small principalities, including his brother’s.
With an easy crook of his finger under the frame, he pulled the painting out from the wall. Behind it was a simple lever. One yank, and a door opened in the wooden paneling, revealing an extremely dusty corridor.
Wick and he had decided that the benefits of ordering someone to clean the corridor were not worth the potential consequences, inasmuch as the existence of a corridor that ran inside the thick walls of the castle was not so terrible in itself, but the fact that the corridor offered peepholes into most bedchambers?
