“How?”
“If I just put my head in—”
“It might pull you all the way through,” he said, voicing her worry.
“I can get out again. I did it once.”
“Will it last that long?”
She looked up at him. “What do you mean?”
He nodded at the door, his face pale. The edges of the opening were wavering slightly—no, fading, like a wash of pigment in a watercolor blending into nothing. Evidently the magic that had built the portal was not stable. Why hadn’t she thought about that before? Building a permanent, or even long-lasting, spell took time and effort, and the comte had set this spell while purportedly admiring the flower arrangements that morning. Furthermore, why would he have cared to make the portal a permanent one? He had no intention of using it again, once the duke had been caught.
“Then I have to try,” she said. “Hold on tight.”
“Sophie, I can’t think the duke would want a young girl to endanger herself—”
“But I’m not just any young girl. I’m—”
Before she could say anything further, he lifted her hand and kissed it. “I know you aren’t. That’s why I don’t want anything to happen to you,” he whispered. “Very well, go. I’ve got you.” He squeezed her hand.
Sophie tried not to think about the feeling of his lips on her hand and turned back to the door. Taking a deep breath, she thrust her face toward the portal.
A peculiar sensation, like angry bees crawling on her skin, nearly took her breath away. It was quickly replaced by a tugging sensation, as if the door was pulling at her. “Duke!” she shouted.
He looked up. “Good Lord! Lady Sophie! What are you doing here? How—”
“Got to—get you—” she managed to force out. It was almost as though the spell were trying to pull her face off.
He’d scrambled to his feet and took a step toward her. There was a strange expression on his face. “How? All I see is—well, your face, hanging in midair.”
No wonder he looked so shocked, poor man. She was about to hold her hand out to him, then realized she didn’t have one to give him. Her right hand, growing numb with cold, held the door spell open … and Peregrine held her other. Why hadn’t she realized that she’d probably need two hands? Impatiently, she tried to tug it out of his grasp, but he only clutched it harder. Drat it, how could she make him understand she needed it, without telling him? She didn’t dare turn back into the ballroom and tell him, lest the spell disintegrate so much that she couldn’t reach through it again.
Very well. It was stupid and awkward and improper and thoroughly absurd, but she had no choice. She balanced on her good left leg and thrust her lame right leg, in its new built-up slipper, through the door and wiggled it. “Grab—it,” she managed to say. “I—pull—you. Hold—tight.”
He didn’t hesitate but bent immediately and grasped her ankle with both hands. Sophie balanced a moment more in the doorway, gathering her muscles, then threw herself backward as hard as she could, back into Brussels.
And into Peregrine.
“Uhhf!” he grunted as she fell on him, knocking them both to the floor. It was the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard.
So were the other grunt and thud that followed as another body hit the floor quite nearby. She looked down and saw the Duke of Wellington, looking as dazed as he probably ever had, still clutching her ankle. Above him the portal into the comte’s gray hell had vanished, only a wisp of cold breeze marking that it had even existed. In a second, it had blown itself out.
“Sophie, we have to stop falling on each other in ballrooms,” Peregrine murmured, his voice cracking with suppressed emotion, into her ear. “People will begin to talk.”
Chapter
21
Behind Sophie someone shouted, “The duke!” The cry was taken up around the room, and the crowd surged around them. Shouts of “He’s back! He’s safe!” filled the air. A few of the ladies burst into tears.
By the time Papa had helped her to her feet, the duke had risen as well. He ignored the shouted cries and questions and attempts by Captain Hill and his other aides to get his attention. Instead, he took both of Sophie’s hands and held them tightly, looking down at her. “I must beg your pardon for being such a martinet in there, Lady Sophie.”
She met his eyes and was glad that she could. “I’m grateful you were, sir. I’m not sure I could have done it without you.”
“Oh, I expect you would have, given time.”
She shivered, remembering the fraying edges of the spell. “I’m not sure how much time we had, really.”
“Time or not, there’s no way I could have done it myself. I am at your service, madam.” He let go of her hands and made her a deep bow.
“Sir!” Captain Hill looked as though he needed to sit down. “We didn’t know—are you—”
The duke gave Sophie a quick, wry smile and turned to him. “I am quite well, thank you,” he said, very loudly. The uproar lessened as those closest hushed their neighbors behind them.
“But what happened?” blurted out poor Captain Hill.
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he said. “But as you can see, I am quite well.”
“But—”
“You did it. I knew you would.” Parthenope nudged past the captain. And then, for the first time since Sophie had known her, words seemed to fail Parthenope. She threw her arms around Sophie and burst into tears. Hester, who had been perched on her shoulder, flew into the air with a small squawk, then settled again when Parthenope drew back to find her handkerchief.
“Of course she did it,” Papa said, his voice shaking. “Are you all right?”
“She’s not just all right!” Parthenope blew her nose fiercely. “She’s a hero—or a heroine, I suppose.”
“Oh, really, Parthenope!” Sophie felt her cheeks redden. “Do I look like a hero?”
“Heroes are not always the biggest or the strongest, petite. They are just the ones who do what is most needed when necessary, without hesitating,” Amélie said softly.
“I must concur,” the duke said, nodding.
Sophie suddenly noticed that he was in his shirtsleeves and remembered why. She started to take off the duke’s coat and felt hands behind her easing it off her shoulders. Then Peregrine handed it to her, still smiling slightly, but with an expression in his eyes that made her feel slightly giddy. She passed the coat to the duke, who accepted it with a bow, then shrugged it on.
And then it was mass confusion again, with Aunt Molly and Amélie wanting to hug her, and the ball guests pressing toward them to exclaim, to ask questions, to touch her dress or the duke’s arm.
Off to Sophie’s left, a young woman’s voice proclaimed, “Wait until my friends hear about this! They’ll be positively green they weren’t here.”
“They will be no such thing, Miss Robbins,” the duke said, frowning darkly at her. “Because you’re not going to tell them.”
She goggled at him. “Why, your grace—I didn’t mean any harm—”
“No, I am sure you did not. But we are living in a war zone, ma’am, in case you had forgotten. I should not like the enemy to hear anything of tonight’s events, even though it seems his ends were defeated and his agent caught. And so you will all do me the favor of not gossiping about what you may have seen or heard here tonight. You may say you had a pleasant evening. That is all. If I hear a breath of talk about this evening at the next ball or breakfast I attend, I will be most displeased.”
A man smirked. “Worried that Bonaparte might go out and try to find himself another witch, eh?”
The duke’s famously frosty gaze fell on him, and the smile vanished from the man’s face. “Would you like it if he did, sir?”
“No—good Lord, no,” the man mumbled, and did his best to melt away from the duke’s notice. The duke paid him no further attention, but consulted his watch.
“My dear Lord Lansell, it is close enough to midnight that I think w
e all might use with a little refreshment,” he said. “Might I suggest we all retire for supper and then come back for more dancing?”
Papa looked a little surprised, but immediately agreed. “An excellent idea, sir. Please, my friends, let us go down.”
The duke waited with them while the guests began obediently to file toward the stairs. “I trust that will help keep tongues from wagging,” he said in a low voice. “We can’t have this all over Brussels by tomorrow morning. The emperor doesn’t need to know that his plan failed—the less information he has, the better.”
“Thank you. You are the only one who could have done it,” Papa said, shaking his hand, then turned to Amélie and held out his arm. “Shall we, my dear?”
Amélie colored under his smile. “With pleasure.”
To Sophie’s delight, the duke turned to Aunt Molly. “Ma’am?” he said inquiringly. She broke into dimples and took his arm as well.
“Poor Aunt Molly,” Sophie said quietly to Parthenope. “It will be hard for her. To have her lost lover return to her and then to have it all turn out to be a sham.”
Parthenope looked pensive. “I expect we can keep her attention occupied tolerably well till we go home, where she’ll have her garden again. And speaking of lost—”
“Not quite so quickly, if you please,” said a cool voice.
Sophie turned. Norris Underwood stood there, eyes glittering unpleasantly above his customary smile, and she could feel tension rolling off him in a smoky wave.
“It had better be just a moment,” Parthenope said crossly, “or there might not be any of Madame Mabuse’s hazelnut meringues left by the time I get down there.”
“Do not let me detain you, Lady Parthenope. My business is mostly with Lady Sophie. Though you too might find what I have to say of interest.”
“What is this about, Underwood?” Peregrine asked, coming forward.
“Merely a gentlemanly agreement.” He looked again at Sophie, and his smile vanished. “As much as our duke would like to fancy he can control what gets discussed tonight, I regret to say he’s sadly mistaken as far as I am concerned. I have a simple proposition: You stop meddling with my courtship of Kitty Barker, and I won’t make sure all of Brussels—and London too—learns about your interesting demonstrations this evening.”
Before Sophie could say anything, Parthenope laughed. “What a gooserump you are, Underwood. I’m the one who made sure Kitty got to know the Richmonds, not Sophie.”
He shrugged. “That doesn’t alter the matter in the slightest. If you do not repair the damage you’ve caused me with her, I’ll be delighted to drag your friend’s name through every mud puddle I can find.”
“Kitty is free to make her own—” Sophie began fiercely, at the same time that Peregrine said, “I’ll call you out before I’ll see you do such a thing, sir!” But a gentle hand fell on her arm.
“Did I hear my niece’s name mentioned?” Mrs. Barker said, eyes wary but smiling pleasantly.
Mr. Underwood bowed. “In passing, ma’am. Are you going downstairs? I should be delighted to accompany you there in a moment or two, as soon as I have finished my business here. Will you excuse us?”
To Sophie’s surprise, Mrs. Barker shook her head. “I think I should rather like to hear what is being said about Kitty … if I hadn’t already guessed. Rest assured, Lady Sophie, that Kitty is quite safe from Mr. Underwood.”
Norris Underwood flushed an unbecoming shade of crimson. “I beg your pardon, madam!”
“I expect you’re here trying to blackmail Lady Sophie and Lady Parthenope into fixing your interest with Kitty, or you’ll go gossipmongering. Don’t do it, Mr. Underwood. It won’t work. You’ll never have Kitty. We know what you are.”
He tried to speak, but nothing came out. His eyes had taken on a hint of hollowness, as if he were afraid, which he might well be, if the shop owners of Brussels had begun to call in their bills. Sophie found herself nearly sorry for him. Nearly.
“But you know, I have a bit of business I’d like to discuss with you myself.” Mrs. Barker’s face remained solemn, but a faint twinkle was visible in her eyes. “As I said, I know what you are. I also know that you’re in line to be a baronet and that I’d rather fancy being called ‘her ladyship.’”
Parthenope made a queer sound, which quickly turned into a cough. “Sorry,” she said, pressing her handkerchief to her lips.
Mrs. Barker looked at her, and Sophie could have sworn she winked. “So what do you say, Mr. Underwood? I’m even more capable of buying myself a fine title than my niece is, you know. And I know what I’ll be getting for my money, so there won’t be any unpleasant nonsense. I expect we could come to a very comfortable arrangement, in time.”
Sophie wished she had her fan to hide behind. Mr. Underwood was still flushed, but a calculating expression had come into his eyes.
Mrs. Barker saw it too, and nodded. She held out her arm and managed neatly to make it appear that he had offered his and she had taken it. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I really could do with a cup of tea right now. Or maybe something stronger.” Looking quite as if she was leaning on his arm, she led him toward the stairs, throwing a smile back at them over her shoulder.
Parthenope removed her handkerchief and gasped for breath. “Oh, my stars, I have never, in all my life, been so—so—”
“Vastly diverted?” Sophie wasn’t sure whether to collapse in laughter or tears. Or both, perhaps.
Peregrine wasn’t laughing. “Are you sure she understands what she’s doing? She seems a sensible woman, but—”
“Mrs. Barker is a very sensible woman and understands quite well what kind of a bargain she’s making,” Parthenope told him. “Don’t worry about her. She’ll lead him a merry dance, and call the tune too.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Now, speaking of which … will you excuse us a moment, Sophie?” She took Peregrine’s arm and propelled him a short distance away.
Sophie watched as she drew him over to the fern-fronted corner where the musicians were set up. What was this all about? The room was emptying fast, thanks to the duke’s pleasant but stern suggestion, and she suddenly realized just how tired she was. Couldn’t they go downstairs too, so that she could sit down and have some tea as well—or as Mrs. Barker had suggested, something stronger.
But even better would be to slip away to her room and think about what had happened tonight—and not just the comte being Napoléon’s man and her rescuing the duke. And then there was Peregrine. She could spend the whole evening thinking about him.
No—she didn’t want to think about what had happened, but how. She took a breath and held her hand out toward one of the small chairs at the edge of the room. Appropinquā mihi, she said to it.
It skittered obediently across the floor, scraping slightly, and stopped in front of her.
She sank into it, and once again that evening wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to cry. Was it truly back? Had rescuing the duke brought her magic back to her?
Or had it never left her—as the duke had suggested?
I won’t let it go again. I won’t forget, she told herself fiercely. No matter what happened, no matter how Aunt Isabel or anyone spoke of her, she was who she was: a cripple … and a witch. Being who and what she was had saved the Duke of Wellington. No one could take that away from her by whispering and tittering behind a fan.
The last guests were halfway down the stairs when Parthenope finally finished talking to Peregrine. They came back to Sophie, and Parthenope looked at her. “Did you get that chair over here the way I think you did?”
“Yes.” And all at once Sophie knew that, given the choice between laughter and tears, she’d take laughter. “Shall we go down now? Sir, I hope you’ll stay at least for a bite to eat—”
“Oh, he’s staying all right. Messieurs?” Parthenope called, raising her voice and turning back to look at the musicians’ alcove.
Most of the musicians had gone down to the kitchen for their own refreshments
, but a couple of them were still there, conversing in low voices. Sophie hoped they too would take the duke’s lecture to heart and not gossip about the evening’s events. But on Parthenope’s call, they stopped chatting. “Oui, mademoiselle,” one of them said, and picked up his violin.
“What is it? What are you doing?” Sophie asked. Parthenope had that particular gleam in her eye that she had come to mistrust.
“Just tying up all the loose ends. I’ll see you downstairs in a little while.” Parthenope almost skipped toward the stairs.
The musicians—two of the violinists and a flutist—had started to play softly as she fled—a waltz, but at a slower, gentler tempo. Sophie looked from Parthenope to the musicians, and a faint feeling of alarm pushed aside her weariness. It became much more than faint when Peregrine cleared his throat quietly.
“Lady Sophie, will you give me the honor of this dance?” he said, bowing to her.
No. Oh, no. Parthenope was going to pay for this. “But—I can’t. You know I can’t. Can’t we just—”
“Well, strictly speaking, I can’t either. I’m wearing boots, which makes dancing with any grace quite impossible. But I understand that you’re wearing shoes that might make up for that a bit, and there’s no one here to mind if we stumble and miss our steps.” He held his hand out to her. “Sophie, please?”
How could she ignore the plea in his voice … and in his eyes? She gave him her hand and let him help her up. He put his hand on her waist, a little higher than usual, so that when she placed her hand on his shoulder, her right elbow was braced on his arm. He took her other hand in his and looked at her. “Ready?”
No. Never. She swallowed hard—how had her mouth gotten so dry?—and nodded. He began to move, very slowly at first and not to the music, in a simplified form of the slowest part of the German waltz. She gripped his hand hard and stared at his chin (dark with stubble—he had come straight from Ghent, hadn’t he?), trying to keep her balance, trying to remember the steps, trying not to die on the spot. She was doing what she thought she’d never do again—she was dancing. She was out of time to the music and clumsy and awkward … and it was the most wonderful feeling in the world.
Courtship and Curses Page 28
