Courtship and Curses

by Marissa Doyle

  So she and Amélie and Papa were free to attend Viscountess Montashton’s musicale that night. Parthenope would be there, and she’d assured Sophie that Peregrine would be too, although as they were ushered into Lady Montashton’s reception rooms, crowded with rows of small gilt chairs rapidly filling with guests, Sophie still wasn’t entirely sure how she would broach the topic of the attempted murders with him. Trying to discuss anything of such a sensitive nature in a crowd like this would be almost impossible. But she had to try.

  She was pleased to see the comte, who came to bow over her hand and ask after Aunt Molly. His smile when she told him that Aunt would probably be well enough for visitors soon lit his whole face. Less pleasing was the attention—or lack of it—which she saw being paid to Amélie. Two ladies (though they hardly seemed to deserve the name) quite pointedly cut her while gushing over Papa, and others were distinctly chilly, greeting Sophie and Papa in a friendly fashion, then barely acknowledging Amélie.

  “This is outrageous!” she murmured as they seated themselves. “What have you ever done to anyone, besides be incredibly kind?”

  Amélie lifted her shoulders. “I exist, ma chère. We have discussed this before—why do you still let it trouble you?”

  “Because it’s horrible and unfair!”

  “They think they are being patriotique, Sophie. It does not trouble me. Please, do not permit it to trouble you.” She patted Sophie’s hand. “See, there is Parthenope. It looks as though she is trying to gain your attention.”

  Sophie scanned the crowd and spotted Parthenope waving at her enthusiastically from partway across the room while the duchess tried to catch her sleeve. Sophie nodded to them, and the duchess looked relieved as she captured Parthenope’s arm and brought it down. Parthenope grimaced, then began to jerk her head to one side in a most pointed manner. Sophie smiled, wondering if the duchess would try to grab her head, and looked where Parthenope had indicated. And saw Peregrine Woodbridge sitting alone, his eyes fixed on her.

  The music was probably very good, as Lady Montashton was known to be something of a connoisseur, but Sophie heard very little of it; every time she allowed her gaze to wander over to where Peregrine sat, she saw that he still watched her. As soon as the applause had died away and the quartet had laid down their instruments, she saw him rise and begin to make his way toward her. There was a seriousness and purpose in his stride that made her heart beat a little more quickly.

  He greeted them all, then asked Papa, “May I claim the pleasure of your daughter’s company in the supper room?”

  “If Sophie wishes it, then by all means.” Papa smiled indulgently and turned away with Amélie on his arm.

  “Lady Sophie?”

  He was regarding her steadily. She made him a small curtsy and replied, “Thank you, sir.”

  He held out his arm. “I was very sorry to hear about your aunt’s accident. I assume that your being here means she’s improving?”

  Oh, good. This sort of polite social exchange she could handle … but why was he still looking at her so intently? She could almost feel the weight of his regard. “We hope she might begin to come downstairs soon. She was rather battered by the fall and is just feeling better.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” He was silent for a moment as they followed Papa and Amélie and the rest of the crowd toward the dining room, then said, simply, “I’ve missed you. It’s been fiendishly dull and flat without you. I thought about calling, but I didn’t want to disturb your household, so … so I’ve been waiting for you to return. I think it’s been the longest week of my life.”

  Sophie dropped her eyes and wished she could hide behind her fan, but using her cane got in the way. What reply was one supposed to make to such a statement? And how was she supposed to discuss possible assassins with him when he said things like that?

  “I—I am flattered, Lord Woodbridge,” she said carefully. “In fact, I am especially glad to see you, as there’s something that I would like to dis—”

  “Sophie.” His voice dropped, and he glanced around them as if to make sure they were not overheard as he drew her arm a little closer. “Not being able to see you this week made up my mind.… I know it’s not the usual thing, but I … I thought this way was the best. I would like to speak to your father about paying my formal addresses to you.”

  Sophie would have liked to stop and try to make sense of what her ears were telling her, but the press of guests behind them was too great. He had said … he was more or less asking her to— But he was still speaking.

  “I am asking you first if … if you would not mind if I did. Under the circumstances, I would not wish to speak to him if you find the idea repugnant. That would just distress the both of us. So … would it be all right with you if I do?”

  Would she be able to take another step without collapsing from sheer shock … and from sheer happiness? More important, could she give him a coherent answer without dying of embarrassment? Preferably one that was gracious and polished and elegantly phrased.…

  “Yes, please,” she murmured, and felt her face burst into flame.

  * * *

  She knew in a distant sort of way that they had made it into the supper room, and knew too that Peregrine left her at a table with Amélie while he and Papa went to fetch ices and marrons glacés and tiny cakes. Gradually her breath came back to her along with the ability to think … and an enormous happiness. He did love her. Of course, now it would be impossible to discuss her concerns about Papa’s safety: Her inability to think about anything but the enormous shiny bubble of joy inside her had seen to that. But they could talk tomorrow. Surely he would be willing to go driving or riding with her in the park—

  “Something has happened,” Amélie observed quietly.

  Startled, Sophie met her eyes. “What?”

  But Amélie only smiled and adjusted her gray gauze shawl more snugly about her shoulders. “I should not have spoken. It is too soon, I am thinking. Ah, Monsieur le Comte.” She nodded graciously as he strolled up to their table. “I am happy to say that your friend is looking forward to receiving callers again in a day or so.”

  “So I have heard from Lady Sophie.” He bowed. “It is news that makes me very happy, you may be sure, and I will plan on calling the day after next, if you think it will not be too soon.” For a moment he looked pensive, then brightened. “Ah, but might I be of service to you ladies? I shall be happy to procure some champagne.” He turned and spoke to a footman, who nodded and disappeared.

  Papa and Peregrine reappeared then with several little plates of delicacies and convinced the comte to join them. Peregrine sat down next to Sophie; she was deliciously aware of his proximity, of how he was able to gracefully arrange his long limbs on Lady Montashton’s silly little chairs, even of his breathing. She stole a glance at him from the corner of her eyes and saw that he watched her too. Was he thinking thoughts similar to hers? Someday—the thought gave her shivers—someday she would ask him.

  The footman appeared with a tray of glasses. Sophie idly watched him set them down in front of Amélie and her and Papa and—there was something wrong with Papa’s glass.

  Sophie leaned forward, gazing at it, ignoring the sprightly conversation being conducted around her. The glass looked just the same as the others, but it wasn’t: a feeling of wrongness, of badness, radiated from it like stink from a pile of manure. What could it—

  And then Papa picked it up and began to raise it to his lips.

  “Papa!” she shrieked, scrambling half to her feet, and pointed at the glass. It broke in his hand, the bowl cracking away from the stem and falling into halves, as if cleaved by a sword.

  For a second there was stunned silence at the table and at the tables around them. Then everyone seemed to move and speak at once.

  “Mon Dieu—Gilbert!” Amélie cried, jumping up and grasping Papa’s sleeve.

  “My dear marquis,” the comte exclaimed. “Are you injured?”

  “What�
�Sophie, what happened?” Peregrine turned to her, helping her back down into her seat.

  Sophie thought fast. “Papa—your glass—I saw it crack!” she said loudly, then pretended to collapse in her seat.

  “Thank God that you did,” Amélie said fervently, trying to hand her dainty, black-edged handkerchief to Papa. He took it from her, glanced at it wryly, and used it to blot some of the champagne from his hand. Sophie winced as she looked at the liquid that bespattered the table, and wondered what would happen if, say, a mouse were to happen along and drink some of it.…

  Except that she didn’t have to wonder. Papa’s champagne had been poisoned. That’s what the sense of badness she’d felt meant.

  * * *

  They left for home early, of course, as Papa was drenched in champagne. Sophie sped matters along by coming down with a convenient headache. She didn’t want Papa wearing those clothes any longer than he had to.

  The ride home was a quiet one. Sophie sat with eyes closed and head back because of her supposed headache; she thought she felt Amélie watching her, but she was too preoccupied with trying to figure out how this latest attempt on Papa’s life—for it had to have been one—had happened. Magic had not been used—at least, she didn’t think it had. It looked as though it had been a straightforward attempt to poison him. But who had managed to get the poison in the right glass? If only there were some way for her to go back and question Lady Montashton’s footmen … but there wasn’t. To the rest of the world, this had been a simple incident of a breaking glass, and that had been her doing. No one else knew what she did … except the person who had arranged it. If she hadn’t sensed the wrongness about it …

  Which was another matter, less worrisome but just as mysterious: Was her magic coming back at last? She had sensed the poison and destroyed the glass so quickly and easily—the spell had just rushed out of her, almost without conscious thought or intention, almost as her magic had before her illness. It made her want to bounce in her seat with excitement; as soon as she got home and was safely alone in her room, she would have to see what else she could do.

  And then there was Peregrine … good heavens, her head was practically awhirl with it all. Would he come as soon as tomorrow to speak to Papa?

  But on their arrival home, Amélie took her arm. “I know you have un mal de tête, Sophie. But I should like to speak with you for just a small moment before you retire, s’il vous plaît.”

  Sophie’s heart sank, but she said, “Yes, of course.” On the way up the stairs, she again felt Amélie’s eyes on her, as she had in the carriage on the way home.

  Once in Sophie’s room, though, Amélie seemed nervous and distracted, refusing a chair but setting her candle down and choosing to stand, fidgeting slightly—so not her usual calm, smiling self that Sophie asked, as she tossed her shawl on her bed and sat down at her dressing table, “Is there something wrong, Amélie?”

  “Wrong? No … at least, I do not think, not yet.…” She pressed her lips together, as if to keep herself from saying more, then sighed. “Ma chère Sophie, may I ask you to make me a promise?”

  Whatever she’d been expecting Amélie to say, it wasn’t this. “Er … what promise is that?”

  She came to Sophie’s bench and knelt beside it, taking her hand. “That you will use at all times the canes Nalini and I have made for you. It is very important.”

  Sophie blinked and looked at the cane she had carried tonight. It was one Aunt Isabel had given her a week or two ago, inspired perhaps by a desire not to be outdone by a mere houseguest, and was of wood and ivory inlay. “Of course I shall, if you wish, but may I ask why it is so important?”

  Amélie hesitated. “It is … I am not sure that I am able to explain, petite. Will you just take my word for it that it is?”

  It seemed an odd thing to ask, and yet Amélie had been so kind, so understanding, that it seemed churlish to demand an explanation. “If you wish it, then I will, Amélie.”

  Amélie looked relieved and gave her hand a squeeze. “Thank you, Sophie. You set my mind at rest.” She stood up, then to Sophie’s surprise, bent and kissed her forehead. “Now, petite, to bed. It has been an evening très occupé, I am thinking.” She took up her candle and left the room.

  Sophie sat for a moment after she left, thinking. That had been very strange—why should it be so important to Amélie that she use only her canes? She rose and went to the large brass umbrella stand she’d appropriated from the hall to store them in, and pulled one out at random—a delightful confection of woven pale blue and rose pink ribbon and tassels—then took it back with her and sat down to examine it more closely.

  It looked perfectly ordinary. Poking the ribbon aside, she could see plain brown wood underneath it, and it had been perfectly serviceable when she had used it last. She examined it carefully, standing to lean all her weight on it, and sighting along it to make sure it was straight. It was. At last she laid it across her lap and closed her eyes as she ran her fingertips along its length … and there it was. A faint something—not quite a tingle, but something smoother, like brushing the surface of running water.

  She sat staring at it for several minutes after that. Was that magic she felt? If so, it was unlike any other magic she’d felt before—and so subtle that she wasn’t even entirely sure it was there.

  She set it aside abruptly and began to unpin her hair. But despite all the events of the evening—or more likely because of them—it was a long time before she could sleep.

  * * *

  Two days later, Sophie sent Parthenope an urgent note, summoning her to come over that afternoon if at all possible. Parthenope did not disappoint her. They were all in the drawing room when she arrived: Aunt Molly lay on the sofa, directing Sophie and Bunty as they crocheted soft woolen yarn into plant ties.

  Parthenope crossed the room and knelt beside Aunt Molly, taking her good hand. “Out of bed so soon? You are a marvel, ma’am.”

  Aunt Molly bridled. “Oh, no, not really. But I do have a very strong constitution, if I do say so myself. I think it comes of living in the country. Very salubrious air at my house, you know, and the flues draw wonderfully. I declare, if only my arm weren’t broken, I’d order my carriage this very minute and go back to Lilac Cottage, so I could recuperate in peace and quiet!”

  “Flues.…” Parthenope tapped her chin in thought. “That reminds me. I can’t be positive, but I did think I smelled something not quite right coming from the direction of your conservatory when the footman let me in. Are the flues drawing well down there?”

  Aunt Molly’s eyes widened. “Did you hear that, Bunty? I thought they were, but perhaps we had better go and see. My dwarf oranges are just fruiting!” She cast aside the rug tucked over her legs and gestured to Bunty, who scurried over and helped her to her feet, then supported her from the room.

  Sophie regarded Parthenope. “You’re utterly shameless, you know.”

  “If you’re going to make a cake, you’ve got to break some flour, or something like that.” Parthenope fixed her with an exasperated look as she took off her bonnet. “Now, what’s so vital that we discuss it today? I hope you don’t ever decide to take up espionage on a regular basis, you hulver-headed peagoose.”

  “Why?”

  “‘An afternoon of needlework,’ sent in your aunt’s name? Sophie, she’s got a broken arm. Just what will she be doing? Hemming petticoats with her toes? It’s a good thing Mama has a sense of humor and knew it was just an excuse for us to chat.”

  Oh, drat. That had been careless, hadn’t it? “Well, never mind that now. Something very important’s happened.”

  “I’d guessed.” Parthenope pulled a chair close to her and looked expectant. “It had better be good, though, if you want me to give over teasing you.”

  “I don’t know that I’d call it good. Papa received an invitation from the Prince Regent yesterday. He’s holding a special reception at Carlton House for government members who are closely involved in the wa
r effort.”

  “Really.” One of Parthenope’s eyebrows rose.

  “Yes. Papa and Lord Palmerston and all of them—”

  Both eyebrows were up now. “All together at the Prince Regent’s house.”

  “It’s the perfect opportunity for our assassin to do a great deal of harm.”

  “Isn’t it, though?” Parthenope had lost her skeptical air and now looked excited. “You’re going, of course? All we have to do is figure out how to get me in. Perhaps I could disguise myself.… Hmm, can’t pass myself off as Amélie, too tall for that. Do you think I could pretend to be Aunt Molly if I put my arm in a sling and stooped a bit and … er, cut my hair and gained a couple of stone in the next week or so?”

  Sophie laughed. “Don’t be silly. I’m sure I can persuade Papa to bring you as one of our party.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. But it would have been much more fun to come in disguise.” She brightened. “Do you think I could bring Hester? He’d be very useful if we’re there to guard against magical attacks.”

  “Parthenope, you cannot go to the Prince Regent’s party with a parakeet on your shoulder. Countess Lieven and Princess Esterhazy will be there, and you’d never get into Almack’s again if they saw Hester.”

  Parthenope wrinkled her nose. “Why do you always have to be so practical?”

  “One of us has to. That reminds me—I wish you’d brought Hester with you today.”

  “I thought about it, but wasn’t sure Aunt Molly would approve. Why? Are you that fond of the wretched little thatchgallows?”