by Anne Mallory
The memory of what happened lit, then slipped away, right there on the edge of his consciousness, eluding him once more. He whacked his fist on the table with enough force to move it. Of course, it didn’t budge.
And he had annoyingly discovered that only Abigail could hear the sounds he tried so hard to make.
If he could find a way to detach himself from her without getting stuck inside something else…. He had stayed in her family’s carriage during one such trial and been stuck there until her return from the call. He hadn’t been able to budge from the carriage and had nearly gone out of his mind with boredom verging on panic that he’d be stuck there for his dream’s eternity. He didn’t plan to do that again. He didn’t understand the boundary situation at all. Abigail had said that she’d seen spirits—dreamers, his mind forcefully inserted—wandering the streets. Surely he should be able to do that too?
But as soon as he had tried to separate from Abigail, his thoughts had started to sieve loose again. The waterfall seemed to be there ever ready to catch him in her current and sweep everything that remained of him away.
It was incredibly frustrating.
Then there was the tug. He hadn’t said anything to Abigail, not that she would care. But it was like a snag in his jacket caught by a sharp hook. There was something definitely wrong. Well, there were many, many things wrong at the moment, but a creeping sense of dread was upon him. He needed to find out what it was and why, before some rogue monster alighted from under the bed.
As Abigail entered the room, Mr. Farnswourth greeted her like an overly excited puppy panting around her legs. A dozen scathing comments popped into Valerian’s head. He had cultivated quite a repertoire when it came to Abigail’s suitors—not that she had ever been able to observe or hear them all. And he had done well to make sure that society wasn’t any the wiser to his attention.
But when she was away, any suitor was fair, fair game and he had delighted in dispatching most of them.
Fifteen minutes later they were roaming around the park in Mr. Farnswourth’s barely adequate carriage and Valerian practiced poking the man between the eyes while Abigail pretended oblivion.
“Isn’t the weather just dandy today?” Farnswourth said as he shook the reins with a bit too much gusto, causing the team to lurch forward.
Valerian snorted and gave him another invisible poke—this time with two fingers right in the eyeballs. Dandy described a lot of things today.
Abigail continued to ignore him and responded to Mr. Farnswourth instead. She was completely bored by the man, it was obvious in every automatic response she uttered—displaying none of the fire or brimstone that she possessed when fully engaged.
A man walked along the edge of the Serpentine. He looked reflectively into the depths and tossed an acorn. There was something familiar about the man, but he was too far away to recognize.
Valerian would never admit that glasses made everything in the distance clearer. He’d never worn the blasted things, and as a result he had never been able to best Abigail Smart at shooting because of it.
He couldn’t believe that even in his dream he was poor-sighted for distance. What a stupid thing.
He looked back at Abigail. Mr. Farnswourth was sitting entirely too close to her and his foot was inching closer to hers still. Valerian narrowed his eyes and instinctively ran a finger down her arm, urging her to move away from the man. To his complete shock she shifted, moving her body an inch away. His mouth parted and he scrambled to sit up from his lazy position. He touched her again, wishing that she would tell the man to move them into the more heavily trafficked lanes.
“Mr. Farnswourth, would you care to show your beautiful carriage in the promenade?”
The idiot man straightened proudly. “Of course, Miss Smart.” But Valerian had eyes only for Abigail. Her brows drew together, pinching in thought. He moved his hand away, whistling as all sorts of delicious possibilities presented themselves.
If only he could touch her for real…
Abigail frowned. The thought had just popped into her head. Not that she wouldn’t have ignored it if she hadn’t been getting more bored with the outing. Still…
She looked at Rainewood, but he was merely staring out toward the other horsemen. She wondered what he was thinking.
Mr. Farnswourth moved them into the more well-traveled lanes. They made the standard circuit, promenading, then stopped to speak with a number of other carriages, collecting together. Carriages joined for a few minutes, then moved on to other groups, a constant stream of rotating groups. Women showing off their finery, men showing off their companions or horseflesh.
A chill went through her as Rainewood brushed her and she got the urge to walk.
“Mr. Farnswourth, would you like to walk a bit?”
“Of course, Miss Smart.”
She could see her mother and Mrs. Browning ahead, gathered in a group on foot that was chatting amiably.
They joined the group a few minutes later and a number of younger people did as well. A man that she didn’t know well joined them and gave her an encouraging look. He had always been nervous around her before. Had Rainewood really ruined so many relationships for her? She sent him a dark look. She couldn’t seem to send him anything but.
“Miss Smart, so good to see you.”
“And you.” She nodded to the man, a little surprised by his eagerness.
“Grandfather’s taken crazy,” Rainewood muttered. “Confirmed on that blasted list. Not enough sane thoughts in that family to rub together and make a quilt.”
A chill—from the cold, from his words, and from his touch—rocked through her as his fingers skimmed her arm. “Crazy thoughts seem to be going round though,” Rainewood continued muttering. “Ask him if his father has recovered from his recent bout of insanity himself.”
The fingers skimmed her arm and her lips moved without her consent. “How is your father? Has he recovered?”
Abigail watched, appalled at the question she had just asked, as the man’s eyes widened and he stuttered, “Yes, he is doing much better, thank you.”
Standing at their side, observing the interactions, Mrs. Browning’s lips parted an inch before pinching tightly. The poor man took off no more than twenty seconds later to parts unknown.
“Miss Smart,” Mrs. Browning hissed, under the earshot of the surrounding people. “What was the meaning of that?”
Abigail swallowed, horrified at herself. Rainewood looked smug.
“I had just heard that there was some turmoil in his family and wished to inquire after his father’s health.”
Mrs. Browning tutted. “Bad form. But obviously there is something there,” she said in a fashion as close to mulling as Abigail had ever seen. “Can’t have bad stock like that. I must make inquiries.”
Abigail turned dark eyes on Rainewood. He shrugged. “She’s right.”
It took everything in her to bite her tongue and not respond. The evening only went downhill from there.
She excused herself as soon as they returned home. She threw her reticule onto her coverlet. She didn’t know whether she wanted to follow the collapse of her article now that the day was over or give in to the ire that had grown to a boil.
She pointed at Rainewood. “You ruined my outing. My evening!”
He snorted. “I did not. I was simply trying to spice them up a bit for you. That man is dreadfully boring. And the others…” He waved a hand in disgust.
She poked a finger at him. “I need him. Them.”
His face turned unreadable. “Need them? Whatever for? An early death from complete boredom? If I hadn’t helped you along you might have succumbed.”
The suspicion that had been brewing all evening gelled. “You, you made me say those things!”
Rainewood crossed his arms. “And how is that?”
“I would never have said something about that man’s father! I don’t even know him!”
“But you asked the question, so you mus
t have,” he said, a smile working the edges of his mouth. “Unless you are claiming that I have some power over you?”
She sputtered.
“Maybe I can make you do other things while I’m in this state.” He reached out fingers and she skirted them wildly, half afraid he was right.
He looked smug again. “I’m figuring out how to control this dream. Excellent. Soon I will have you begging, Abigail.” His eyes slid half shut and her fear increased. She feared that was all too true.
“Only if you suffer a complete reversal in personality, Rainewood,” she said instead, lifting her chin. “You are hardly someone to whom I will bow.”
“Oh, don’t be too sure, Smart.” He reached across just enough to brush ghostly fingers against her cheek. “So many possibilities in a dream where one can start fresh.”
She wished her mind weren’t just conjuring up the wistful tone to his voice, but this was Rainewood. He didn’t get wistful.
“That is wonderful for you that you can start fresh—be anything you want in your dream state.” She laughed bitterly, because she could never start fresh with him on her own terms and because he still viewed himself in a dream from which he would wake. “But I need those men.”
Need those men? Over his dead body.
“Need them for what? Target practice?” He examined his fingertips. “You are a veritable ogre. Or are you only rude to the men you want?”
Hot red—rage or embarrassment?—suffused her face. “You know, I thought it might have just been me who wanted you dead, but obviously there are others out there too! And you really do, did, have that bloody list everyone is talking about. You used it on that poor man today. Made me use it against him. If only I could give you a good knock on the head,” she said, the color in her face blazing, her chest heaving. “Might put you out flat for a while, and give me some peace!”
The stunned sensation of a missing key fitting into a lock clicked through him. He had no idea what his eyes showed, but he saw her face change from outrage to confusion. The hot color drained to her normal peaches-and-cream complexion. Concern flashed across her face, and she reached out a hand.
Before her hand could make contact, he flickered and was gone.
Chapter 6
His eyes violently ripped open. But the pain of the candlelight two inches from his eyes and the tear of skin and lashes that hadn’t been opened for days dwarfed under the agony slashing through his body. Pain tore through him again as something crushed his smallest finger on his left hand. His back arched up and he tried to pull away.
“Awake and fighting,” a voice said. “Excellent. It does show some evidence. But can’t have you fouling my work yet. Can’t have that at all.”
His bleary eyes tried to focus on the speaker at his left. Something blocked the sun of the candle, hot liquid poured down his throat choking him, and he knew no more.
Chapter 7
Abigail strode up the stone walk and heavy steps of Grayton House.
“Miss Smart, stop fidgeting with your pelisse. You are the one who made me beg for this invitation. If Henny and I hadn’t debuted the same year, it hardly would have been possible. I expect you to be on your best behavior. I swear that if you…”
Mrs. Browning left the threat undefined as the door opened. The butler greeted them, relieved them of their wraps, and showed them to the tearoom. Abigail glanced around the hall, trying to locate her quarry. The insatiable servant spirits chased each other toward the ballroom, and she could hear the echoes of a bawdy ditty as well as see the frittering motions of an older woman dressed far too young for her age. Reliving her days as an ingénue.
But there was no stupidly handsome man with a cutting smile.
Mrs. Browning gave her a sharp pinch in the side as she passed by Abigail and entered the drawing room first.
Abigail knew she had taken a risk coming here. She now owed Mrs. Browning multiple unnamed favors that would undoubtedly be painfully repaid. But she’d been unsettled ever since Rainewood had disappeared.
He was gone. Truly gone. He had disappeared from her bedroom two days before. The whispers in the ton concerning his whereabouts and missed invitations had grown to a dull roar, but there wasn’t a peep of anything other than speculation and dismay. He was just…gone. That fact unsettled her in a way she hadn’t come to grips with upon seeing him as a ghost.
What if he…what if his spirit had moved on? She tried to convince herself that his passing would be a good thing. She stumbled over the words in her mind. He was out of her life for good. He had achieved peace. He had moved on.
He was out of her life.
Her ears strained more desperately. The house echoed with the sounds of activity, but none of them what she hoped to hear.
“Welcome,” the Duchess of Palmbury, their hostess, said as she motioned them into the room. The dowager duchess gave Mrs. Browning a firm embrace on the forearm before they sat. She wasn’t nearly as cordial to her mother. Bad luck that the two had met before Mrs. Gerald Smart had perfected some polish.
“It’s been nearly a week since I’ve seen you, Mrs. Browning. I’m so glad you could stop in.” The dowager gave Abigail a sidelong glance. “And Miss Smart, how pleasant to see you again.”
“Likewise, Your Grace. It is a most favorable occurrence to see you once more.”
They exchanged the lies with vapid smiles.
“Undoubtedly.” The dowager’s pinched lips formed a point. She was a hag of the worst sort.
The woman had disliked her from their first meeting—when she had caught her by the back of the dress running through the kitchens, giggling riotously, sticks in her hair and a muddied duke’s son in her wake.
The animosity from that exchange had never disappeared. Had in fact grown worse with every scrape undertaken and new meeting discovered.
Her mother, as usual, was oblivious to the undercurrents. She was leaned forward in her seat, eagerness in every movement and a smile that could light the entire west side of London. Abigail loved her mother dearly, despite their problems, but why couldn’t she see…
No.
Abigail rubbed the ribbon running through the middle of her skirt between tight fingers. She just needed to secure a husband. Then her mother could have some social security. Maybe then she would settle like a basset hound instead of bob like a chirping westie.
Rainewood’s grandmother steered the conversation into increasingly inane topics to which Abigail and her mother continuously failed to submit interesting tidbits. There was a sort of clear victory in their hostess’s eyes, as if everything she had ever thought about the Smarts continued to play forth. Abigail could only wish that she hadn’t had the insane urge to come here and search for Rainewood.
“Your other charges, Petunia, how are they?” the dowager asked Mrs. Browning. “I must commend you again on the wonderful matches they made. A viscount for the first, to boot. A complete success all the way around no matter what happens.”
Abigail took a sip of her tea, not tasting the liquid. Not needing to see the significant look that was assuredly being passed from their hostess to Mrs. Browning. A look that said even if, when, Abigail failed, Mrs. Browning would still be a success. And at least she’d have a much fuller purse for having gone through the trial of the Smarts.
“Yes, Viscountess Berston is a lovely title and match.” Mrs. Browning touched her hair with her palm, then took her cup in hand. “Your grandson is quite the catch as well. Too bad that he was away when my niece Violet made her debut.”
The dowager inclined her head, tension forming about her eyes at the mention of the missing earl. “Yes, that would have been a splendid match. Violet is such a dear. And already two sons for Mr. Sestner. She would have made a fine duchess. And the fertile nature of the stock is a point in your family’s favor.”
Abigail coughed violently, her cup sloshing a drop of tea over the side.
The Duchess of Palmbury’s pinched features grew more pointed. “Bu
t some things, alas, cannot be overcome by—”
“Duchess, Mrs. Browning, Mrs. Smart, Miss Smart. Heston just informed me you had arrived.”
Abigail admired the timing of Rainewood’s younger brother in absenting himself for five minutes of their fifteen-minute visit. Though it was slightly bad form to appear so late, he was able to stretch protocol with a charmed smile. Not finding much use for protocol herself, she had to respect his escape from the inanity.
She gave him a firm nod with her greeting. One groomed brow rose in acknowledgment. Despite having known each other as children, they usually ignored one another out of the discomfort that arose from her feud with his brother.
He was greeted by the other women in turn and he sat down to make quick small talk for the time they had remaining. Lord Basil Danforth, sickly throughout his youth, had turned his frequent convalescences into extreme cleverness. Seemingly, the time that he had spent abed had allowed him to plot out his own future apart from his domineering father and grandparents.
Because of his illnesses she had never known him well. Instead she had spent her days with the unruly, forgotten middle child who had been abandoned by his father—for the heir—and by his mother—for the sickly second spare.
But now it seemed as if the sick child, who no one had expected to make it through childhood, would have the last laugh.
Basil would do well as the future duke. Affable with pleasant features. The type of man who didn’t raise men’s hackles, and who was a conversational hit with the ladies. If there was something entirely too calculating behind his eyes, then most seemed not to notice.
