Courtship and Curses

by Marissa Doyle

  “Figere!” she commanded, dropping her cane and pointing at Parthenope’s assailant.

  To her surprise, it worked. Instantly the figure froze in place, ceasing its attempts to restrain Parthenope … and so did Parthenope’s attempts to free herself. The spell had worked too well, and frozen them both.

  Sophie edged her way to the front of the box and twitched the curtains closed, then peered out the crack left between them. To her relief, she didn’t see any opera glasses turned in their direction.

  “I’m tempted to leave you there and fetch your mother to see you in this position, Parthenope Hardcastle,” she said severely, turning to look into the face of Parthenope’s captor. As she expected, Norris Underwood glared back at her, equal parts of fear, anger, and disbelief showing in his eyes. Thank heavens the spell immobilized his mouth as well, or she was sure she would be the recipient of some extremely strong language just now.

  She hobbled around to face Parthenope and retrieved her cane, then looked at her thoughtfully. Parthenope also stared, her mouth as immobilized as Mr. Underwood’s, but her eyes were eloquent.

  “I know, I know,” Sophie said to her. “Give me a moment. I have to think about this. Magic can be tricky sometimes.” Or in her case, all the time. Attempting a releasing spell while Parthenope and he still touched would be risky: assuming it even worked, there was no telling what he might do once they were released.

  Parthenope’s eyes widened, and an idea came to Sophie.

  “Yes, I said magic,” she said, walking around them to face Mr. Underwood. “Were you attempting to publicly compromise my friend so she would have to marry you, Mr. Underwood?” she asked him. “That was rather crass, don’t you think? You must be quite desperate to have attempted such a thing. Lord Woodbridge said you were ridiculously in debt, and I believe it. Only a desperate man would have thought up such a scheme.”

  He glared at her.

  “A duke’s daughter! Think of the scandal! It might have worked, but there was no way for you to know that her best friend was a witch, now, was there?” she continued in a soothing voice. “Though I expect you may have called me that name or worse, in your mind.” She paced around until she faced Parthenope. “Get ready,” she mouthed, pantomiming setting something free, then circled back to where Mr. Underwood could see her.

  “Now, listen to me well, you,” she said, leaning toward him in as menacing a fashion as she could manage. “I stopped you just now, and I can stop you again. In a moment, I’m going to release you. You will set my friend down—gently, mind you—and then you will leave this box without saying a word, to us or to anyone. After that, you will have twelve hours to get yourself out of London, and you will stay out of London for … for a year and a day, or my magic will hunt you down and freeze you once more, and the next time, I might not be around to free you. Do you understand?” She pushed her face against his until they were nearly touching—she could smell fear coming off him in acrid waves.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” she said, pulling back, and then made herself smile at him almost tenderly. “You do believe me, don’t you? And if you ever—ever—try to tell anyone of what has happened tonight, your throat will close on your own breath.” She paused and said, “You know I can do it, don’t you?”

  His eyes bulged.

  Now came the hard part. She moved to the side where neither could see her—she was not sure she could do anything with Mr. Underwood’s angry eyes or Parthenope’s pleading ones on her—and raised her hands. Mama, help me, she said in her mind, and pointed at them. “Liberamini,” she whispered.

  Nothing happened.

  Panic, dry and cold like a winter gale, surged up her throat. “Libera—” she began, more loudly.

  Without warning, Mr. Underwood crumpled to the floor as if his bones had suddenly dissolved. Parthenope collapsed on top of him, and for a moment Sophie wondered if she had done something hideous to the two of them. Then Parthenope jumped up awkwardly, backing away from Mr. Underwood as if he had smallpox.

  “You villain!” she cried, patting her chest. “You broke my busk! If it tears my corset, you will pay—do you hear me?”

  Mr. Underwood was trying to lift himself to his feet, but had only made it to hands and knees. “You … you bitch!” he spat, staring up at Sophie.

  She ignored him. “Are you all right?” she said to Parthenope, touching her arm.

  “No!” Parthenope squeaked. “This was my favorite busk! It was carved ivory with my initials—” She stopped and looked down at Mr. Underwood. “What did you just say?”

  He had managed to regain his feet and stood swaying slightly and glaring at Sophie. “You cursed little whore!”

  “Nobody speaks to my friend that way, Mr. Underwood, and I suggest you stop or I shall make you,” Parthenope said to him as she put up her fists and set her feet. “I am told I have a quite punishing left jab for a female.”

  “Parthenope! You can’t mean you know how to box!” Sophie wasn’t sure whether to be scandalized or amused.

  “Of course I do.” Parthenope continued to watch him with narrowed eyes.

  Mr. Underwood’s left eye was twitching oddly. “You crippled bitch! Think you can best me, you miserable—”

  Parthenope sighed, shifted her stance slightly, and punched him.

  He tottered back a pace, swearing again and feeling his nose. A shocking spatter of blood crimsoned his snowy neck cloth.

  “Dear me, I’m so sorry,” Parthenope said pleasantly. “Did I say it was my left jab that was so noteworthy? I meant to say my right, of course. So silly of me.” She took a step toward him, smiling widely. “May I suggest you close your potato-trap and leave this box now, Mr. Underwood, before I see what I can accomplish with my left? Your hat is on the floor there—I seem to recall having kicked it during our earlier discussions.”

  Mr. Underwood looked as though he would have liked to say something to her too, but Sophie stepped forward.

  “Twelve hours,” she said, raising her hand and pointing at him.

  He scowled, made a grab for his hat, and almost lunged for the curtain enclosing the box.

  “Safe journey!” Parthenope called as he flung the curtain aside and dashed into the passage.

  Sophie let out her breath in a whoosh and tottered over to the purple velvet sofa. “I do wish you hadn’t made me do that,” she said, collapsing onto it.

  Parthenope sat down next to her. “You can do magic!” she said. “You can truly do magic!”

  “No,” Sophie said, slightly crossly. “I’m just so terrifying that Mr. Underwood was paralyzed with fear.”

  Parthenope snorted. “You’re not going to fob me off with that, you. Sophie, you’re a witch!”

  “And you’ve yet to explain to me how you got yourself into this situation. How could you, Parthenope? You were the one who said this box looked as though it was the setting for a seduction. Why did you let him drag you in here?”

  “Because he said you were in here,” Parthenope snapped.

  “What?”

  “I was on my way to your box just at the end of the interval—I’d been waiting for Perry to come, but he didn’t arrive—and Mr. Underwood suddenly stepped out as I passed. He said you were inside and that there was something wrong—that you’d fainted or fallen or something. So of course I rushed right in, and then he grabbed me. How could he lie to me about such a thing? I was nearly speechless with worry!” She sniffed.

  Sophie wanted to laugh, but was so touched by Parthenope’s concern that she didn’t. “I suppose I have to forgive you, then.”

  “You certainly do. Now come on, Sophie Rosier—it’s your turn. Tell all.”

  Sophie shifted uncomfortably, then stood up and went to the box’s entrance. “Can’t it wait? I’m going to be missed if I don’t get back to Papa’s box soon, and I’ll bet you will be too.”

  Parthenope scowled at her but stood up. “Fine. But you’d better be ready tomorrow to talk.” She threw bac
k the curtain and stepped through, then gasped, “Why, Perry!”

  Sophie, though not sure how she did it, managed to melt away to one side of the entrance and slip behind the curtain as Parthenope stepped through it. Of all people, why Lord Woodbridge now?

  “Parthenope!” she heard him say. “What in blazes have you been doing? I was just nearly knocked down by Norris Underwood with blood running down his face, looking like the hounds of hell were after him and muttering something about not letting her get him.”

  “Oh.” Parthenope let out a tinkling little laugh. “Why, that was me, of course.”

  “You—”

  “I drew his claret quite properly! Remember how I made you teach me to throw a punch two years ago after you started taking boxing lessons with Gentleman Jackson?”

  “Are you saying that you bloodied Underwood’s nose?” Lord Woodbridge said incredulously.

  “Of course I did. He was behaving very badly, so we—” she broke off, then continued, “Umm … so I … well, I couldn’t very well let him get away with it, could I? I’m so glad I didn’t forget how to set my feet and put my weight into it, like you showed me.”

  “Parthenope, why did you have to punch Underwood in the face like that?” There was a pause, and then she heard, “Good God, Parthenope—there’s a sofa in there. You don’t mean that you—”

  Sophie held her breath, willing him not to enter the box.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Parthenope said hastily. “Where were you? I thought you said you’d be round to see us before the first interval—”

  “Would to God I had been. Then maybe you wouldn’t have gotten into Underwood’s clutches. What possessed you to enter this box with him? Do you want the entire world to think you’re letting him—”

  “Of course not, silly! Why do you think I punched him?” Parthenope’s voice had begun to take on a decidedly sulky tone. “Aren’t you impressed that I bloodied him? I thought I handled him rather well.”

  “Handled him well? The only way to handle a hellhound like him is to leave him strictly alone. But no, not you. You’ve been so busy trying to stage-manage my addresses to Lady Sophie that you haven’t paid a whit of notice to your own—”

  Sophie stiffened. Had she heard him correctly?

  “Not so loud!” Parthenope cautioned him. “Do you want the entire theater to hear us?”

  “I don’t care if they do. It’s no more than you deserve!”

  “But I’ve only been trying to help—goodness, you’d made enough of a mull of wooing Sophie on your own. And you didn’t want Mr. Underwood trying to woo her, did you?”

  “Good God, no!”

  “I didn’t think so.” Sophie could almost see her nodding smugly. “That’s why I had to draw his fire myself. Now, pay attention. Don’t you think Sophie is the loveliest, most charming girl in London?”

  Sophie closed her eyes and leaned against the wall.

  “That has nothing to do with—”

  “Do you?” Parthenope demanded.

  “You know I do. What—”

  She went on as if she hadn’t heard him. “And didn’t you fall head over heels in love with her the moment you saw her, so much so that you could hardly speak to her when you met? That’s what you told me!”

  “Yes, I did, but—”

  “And don’t you want to fix your interest with her before someone else besides Mr. Underwood realizes what an enchanting creature she is and crowds you out? Hmm?”

  “Stop poking me! God knows I do—but not if you’re going to get yourself caught by a villain like Underwood in the meanwhile. I can attend to fixing my interest with her without your help, thank you.”

  “Well, I would suggest that you bestir yourself, young Peregrine,” Parthenope said, sounding ludicrously grandmotherly. “Sophie is coming to spend the morning with me tomorrow—” She cleared her throat and repeated, “At least, I believe we have determined that she is definitely coming to spend the morning with me tomorrow as soon as she is possibly able, but you should certainly come riding in the park with us later in the day if the weather is fine.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I intend to take her driving myself tomorrow afternoon, and a chaperone is not needed, thank you. And now you must promise me something.”

  “Oh, all right.” Parthenope sounded grudging again, but Sophie could hear the edge of glee beneath her words. “What is it?”

  “That you undertake to promise that you will not receive Underwood anymore. No calls, no dancing, no riding with him, no more than the merest civilities if you should meet. Nothing more.”

  Parthenope sighed. “Oh, Perry, you’re such a—”

  “Promise me.”

  “Very well. I solemnly promise that I shall have nothing more to do with Mr. Underwood. You drive a hard bargain, dear coz.” Sophie wondered how he couldn’t hear the laughter in her voice. “Now I think it’s probably time we went back to Mama’s box. She has guests, and it helps if I take over poking Papa if he begins to snore too loudly, so she can concentrate on playing hostess.”

  “Can’t you go without me? I was intending to visit the Lansells’ box before I was so unexpectedly detained.”

  “Were you? Good boy. Now, don’t forget what I told you last time. If you should see her, don’t be afraid to let her catch a hint that given a chance, you’d like to drag her into the nearest alcove and kiss her senseless.”

  “Parthenope!”

  “Well, wouldn’t you?”

  “That is nothing I want to discuss with a chuffy-faced chit like you,” he said repressively. “Besides, what would you know of such things?”

  “Nothing. I’m utterly heartless and impervious to male blandishments and gallantry. Hadn’t you noticed?”

  “I’d noticed the utterly heartless part.”

  “Pooh. Well, if you don’t see Sophie, I shall tell her you were looking for her when I see her tomorrow. In the morning, bright and early.”

  Chapter

  10

  Sophie spent another nearly sleepless night, her mind bouncing from one to another of the evening’s events, trying to sort through them. Foremost among those were revealing her magic to Parthenope (and Mr. Underwood!) and overhearing (if that was the word—she was quite sure Parthenope had intended her to hear every bit of it) the conversation between Parthenope and Lord Woodbridge.

  What should she do when she arrived at Parthenope’s “bright and early,” as her friend had so loudly and distinctly directed? Throttle her or embrace her?

  When she’d heard Parthenope say Lord Woodbridge’s name last night, she wasn’t sure she’d ever missed having full use of her magic so much: a translocation spell would have been very useful. She’d already had quite enough drama for the evening, thank you very much, between Mr. Patten’s near accident and evidence that magic had played a part in it and then vanquishing Mr. Underwood … and Lord Woodbridge had definitely seemed ready to enact a dramatic scene with his cousin.

  To hear that her best friend had been directing Lord Woodbridge’s wooing had left Sophie torn between laughter and indignation. But then to hear him matter-of-factly agreeing that he thought her the prettiest girl in London, that he’d loved her on first sight, and that he needed to secure her affections before someone else did … well, was it to be wondered that her eyes would not close?

  Amélie looked at her sharply when she came into the breakfast room that morning. “Did you not sleep well, petite?”

  “Hmm? Oh, I … no, I slept perfectly well, thank you.” Sophie helped herself to a cup of chocolate.

  “Is that all you’re having? I hope you’re not coming down with green-sickness,” Aunt Molly said, leaning forward and peering into her face. “Perhaps I had better mix you up a spring tonic. I wonder if I can find some centaury flowers at the apothecary? The Domestic Encyclopedia says that worsted stockings should be worn by those suffering from green-sickness, rather than cotton or silk. Wha
t sort are you wearing?”

  “Thank you, Aunt, but I don’t think I’m ill.” Sophie helped herself from the platters of eggs and fried mushrooms and beef on the table, and rapidly began eating. “But I shall go up and change my stockings directly I’m finished, if you wish.”

  Aunt Molly beamed. “You’re a good girl, Sophronia.”

  As it happened, however, her cotton stockings were never changed, for only moments after Sophie had finished eating, Belton came to the door of the breakfast room. “Lady Parthenope Hardcastle presents her compliments, my lady, and says she is here to convey you back to her house for the day,” he said, looking as amused as he ever permitted himself to.

  “My goodness!” Sophie rose from the table and hurried into the hall. Parthenope stood there in her gray and red short cloak, whistling and tapping her foot.

  “I’ll give you ten minutes,” she said cheerfully, by way of greeting. “After that Belton has promised me he’ll drag you downstairs and lift you bodily into my carriage.”

  “He did no such thing,” Sophie said, a little crossly. “Might I be permitted to clean my teeth and comb my hair?”

  “He did too. Very well, you may do the teeth, but your hair looks fine to me. Oh, stop looking so disapproving and tell me that you’re not dying to talk.”

  Sophie relented. “All right, I am. Won’t you go sit with Aunt Molly and Amélie while I get ready?”

  Once they were ensconced in the Revesbys’ carriage, Parthenope sighed. “Thank heavens you didn’t take any longer. Your aunt thinks I am coming down with something called green-sickness and says you are as well. She asked me what kind of stockings I wore and threatened to dose me with some hideous-sounding tonic. Lord, if I’d known you were contagious, I would have just sent the carriage for you and waited at home.”

  “Green-sickness isn’t contagious. It’s just some old wives’ tale way of saying we both look haggard.” Sophie paused. “I’m not surprised—I don’t believe I slept very much. What happened last night after you left the box with Lord Woodbridge? You left earlier than we did.”