by Elisa Braden
Maureen’s expression melted into a soup of maternal sympathy. “Of course, how thoughtless of me. The season can sometimes be … all too short.”
Pity. That was pity on her face. Pity for him and his doomed quest to find a wife who neither fled from him in terror nor caused him to contemplate celibacy.
Bloody hell, it was galling. Her pity. Dunston’s smugness.
He straightened. Raised a brow and his chin. “When shall I arrive, Lady Dunston?”
Minutes later, as he exited Lady Randall’s house and donned his second-best hat, he breathed deeply the cool spring air. His headache yet pounded. His stomach yet churned. Nothing good had come of this torturous night.
But he had not allowed it to defeat him. A small victory, perhaps. Lately, small seemed to be the only size he was permitted.
He blew out another breath and started down the street, passing a pair of young gents conversing beside a waiting carriage. Neither paid him any mind.
“… five daughters in all.”
“The youngest is a fair one, I reckon.”
The first man laughed and jostled the second man’s shoulder. “Fair of face or fair of bosom?”
“Why not both?”
The two men guffawed.
Phineas released another breath and continued on his way.
“I don’t know. If she’s anything like her sister … well, I’m loath to wed a chit who might be another Huxley Harlot.”
He stopped. Every muscle hardened. He closed his eyes. Reached for rationality. If two vulgar cretins wished to insult one of the Huxley sisters, it was none of his concern.
“Wouldn’t mind lifting the sister’s petticoats a time or two, I daresay.”
“Bit of practice before you offer for Lady Katherine, eh?”
A sharp laugh. One of them leaned toward the other. “The Harlot’s tastes run to footmen. Likely she’d be grateful for a change of mount. Do you suppose sisters are the same between their—”
“Gentlemen.” Although Phineas’s voice was quiet, the word jerked the two cretins around like a shot. Both were young—boys, really.
He should not be doing this.
It was stupid.
Reckless.
“I could scarcely help overhearing your discussion,” his anger said softly.
The taller one, who appeared to have imbibed too much of Lord Randall’s port, stumbled back into the carriage wheel.
The shorter one—Phineas recognized him as Randall’s nephew—swallowed convulsively. “L-lord Holstoke.”
He politely fingered his hat brim, keeping his motions smooth and his expression still. “I have seen you at Reaver’s, I believe.” He glanced at the taller one. “Both of you.”
“Y-yes, my lord. We were guests of my uncle. Lord Randall.”
“Reaver’s serves excellent coffee,” Phineas commented casually. “And Lord Randall serves superior port.”
The taller one’s head began to tremble visibly.
“Curious fact: Either coffee or port—any liquid with a strong flavor, really—makes an ideal vehicle for, shall we say, delivery of medicinal compounds.”
The shorter one squinted a bit. Soon, his eyes rounded. “P-poison?”
Phineas slowly blinked. Only once. Then he stared. “If you like.”
“N-never cared for coffee. Or port.”
“There are other options.” Phineas moved his gaze calmly between the two men. “One must be clever when delivering medicine.” He took a single step forward, and the shorter one retreated three. The taller one appeared to be having more trouble than his companion. Each breath emerged with the edge of a whimper attached to it.
Phineas stopped. Clasped his hands at his back. “A pity no cures exist for the crassness of youth. Alas, all we have are punishments.”
The whimpering grew louder.
“Now, then. I must be on my way. Tomorrow I dine with Lord and Lady Berne and their lovely daughters. Good evening. Gentlemen.”
He’d likely damaged his own cause, he thought, as he strolled into the deepening night. Confirming everyone’s worst suspicions about him was far from helpful. He estimated he’d worsened his chances of acquiring a suitable wife by fifteen percent. Perhaps twenty.
But he was smiling as he turned the corner toward Holstoke House. Despite his headache. Despite seeing Maureen again. Despite everything, he was smiling.
He’d relished those men’s pallor, their palpable fear. It was satisfying. Nearly as satisfying as picturing her reaction. She would laugh, he suspected. Cat-like eyes would spit fire at the cretins. Then, she’d congratulate him for putting his “peculiar nature” to good use.
His smile grew into a grin. He only wished she could have been there to see it.
*~*~*
The girl already showed signs of failing: White edged with green. Glassy eyes darting about. Convulsive swallowing.
She clutched at her mother—as plump as she—while the yellow pair climbed into the carriage.
“Once we are home, your father will send for the physician,” the mother crooned frantically. “Simply a fever, darling. A bit of laudanum will help.” He heard the woman’s desperate platitudes continue as the coach door closed.
He covered a grin with his gloved hand, shrinking back into the shadows of Lord Randall’s house.
Laudanum would not help. Laudanum would only carry her further along the river of death.
He hunched and leaned a shoulder against the bricks of the house, biting his fist now. His chest shook and shuddered.
Her death was a divine thing. An ordained thing.
And that which had been ordained could not be undone.
*~*~*
CHAPTER THREE
“The rules are simple: Do not awaken me before breakfast. Do not singe my hair. And do not dally with the footmen. The secret to keeping your position, my dear, is to avoid violating all three in one day.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham upon dismissing her most recent lady’s maid, the eighth in as many months.
Beneath her blankets, Genie’s world was simple. Warm. Dark. A bit close, but that was to be expected. She burrowed tighter as the knocking echoed on.
“Genie! Unlock the door.”
Genie sighed, heating her blanketed den further. Tugging a corner, she squinted at the rude white light from the window then glared at her bedchamber door. “Go away, Kate!”
Back into the den. Safe. Quiet.
Bang, bang, bang.
Perhaps not so quiet.
She closed her eyes, drawing her pillow up against her ears. There. Better.
“Dash it all, at least come down to breakfast,” came the faint, muffled voice of her younger sister. “Cook served a ham. It is your favorite.”
Once again, Genie poked her head into the appallingly bright day. “I don’t want any. Now, go away!”
She waited. One breath. Two. Silence. Blessed silence.
Her eyes drifted closed again. Her head dropped back onto the pillow. She didn’t bother to tug the blankets back into place.
God, she was tired. Sleep either came in long visitations or not at all. Today, it failed to arrive.
Failed. Much like her, she supposed.
The bitter truth clamped down upon her throat. She gritted her teeth and fisted the pillow. Flopped over and smashed her face into the soft, feathery thing. Screamed until her throat hurt.
It didn’t help. Nothing did, really. She was a failure without a future. She would linger at the edges of her old life like a ghost. Annabelle and Jane and Maureen would have a dozen more children. Kate would marry and add to the Huxley numbers. Her brother, John, would soon return from Scotland with tales of mad adventure, then dazzle the ladies of London before choosing one to bear him a half-dozen babes of his own.
And Genie? She would live at Clumberwood Manor. Alone. She would make hats no one would buy. She would avoid speaking with neighbors out of concern for their reputations, avoid appearing friendly with the household sta
ff lest she reignite old gossip. She would grow old. Eccentric. Children would whisper about her in dreading tones, dare one another to approach while she haunted village shops.
The ghost of Eugenia Huxley, ever in search of the perfect red ribbon.
Her chest ached. She glared at the window.
She should have known better. Eugenia Huxley an employee? Preposterous. She could scarcely manage obedience to her doting father. When she was a girl, Papa had called her his “little rebel.” He’d always said it with a fond twinkle. Most employers hadn’t any use for a rebellious assistant, and Mrs. Pritchard—incompetence aside—was no exception.
Of course, Mrs. Pritchard had waited to give her the sack until she’d wrung every drop of work from Genie’s fingers. The morning after the incident with Holstoke, Mrs. Pritchard had entered the workroom with a beaming smile for Fancy Nancy. She’d avoided glancing at Genie, merely placing eight written orders upon Genie’s stack and collecting the five gold turbans from the shelf.
Genie had completed the eight orders in the time it had taken Fancy Nancy to finish a sad yellow cap from which all traces of lace had been removed. By late afternoon, Genie had wondered if Mrs. Pritchard might have forgotten her name, or perhaps Holstoke had revealed too much after all, and the milliner debated how to address her. A cold lump had settled in her stomach as she’d watched the woman grow increasingly pinched.
In the end, it had been worse than she’d imagined. Mrs. Pritchard had swept aside the curtain just before six. She’d watched Genie trim her last ribbon. Then, while Fancy Nancy hung her apron in the dimmest corner of the room, Mrs. Pritchard had spoken.
“Miss Huxley, you may consider your work here finished.”
Genie had blinked up at her, a bit dizzy after bending over her needle all day. “Yes. I was just about—”
“For good.”
The cold lump in her belly had grown. Spread to her muscles and skin. Crystallized and stung. “I—you—”
“Miss Knox will complete any remaining orders.”
Genie’s eyes had dropped to the capote in her hands. Wool felt and satin ribbon had blurred into a blob of delicate pink. “None remain,” she’d murmured, stunned despite the warnings that this would happen. “They are all complete.”
If anything, her answer had angered Mrs. Pritchard further, as though she’d wanted Genie to fall short. “Leave your apron. Leave the tools. I should not like to discover you have stolen from me.”
Raising her gaze, Genie had slowly stood, watching the woman’s face. Mrs. Pritchard had refused to meet her eyes. The coward.
She’d placed the capote on the shelf, quickly tugged at her apron’s ties, and folded it neatly before tossing it onto the worktable. “I should like to bid farewell to Mr. Moody.”
“He was dismissed this morning.”
A wave of nausea had struck, bringing Genie’s hands to her belly. “No. You—you—”
Finally, the milliner had looked at her. Viperous triumph lifted one corner of her lips. “He was caught reading again. Mr. Pritchard does not countenance sloth.”
Every sarcastic epithet that had risen in Genie’s throat stuck in place. She must help Mr. Moody. He’d been sacked because of her. She could not allow it.
And so, she’d begged. “Please,” she’d said hoarsely. “Please do not punish him. He’s done nothing wrong. I am to blame.”
Satisfaction had edged Mrs. Pritchard’s unpleasant smile. “Yes. You are.” She’d gestured toward the dimmest corner of the room. “Miss Knox and I shall do well enough without you, I daresay. And one of Mr. Pritchard’s previous assistants has already agreed to return to his position. Neither Mr. Moody nor you, Miss Huxley, will be given a reference. Now, leave my shop.”
Inside, Genie’s wrath had blasted Mrs. Pritchard with every scathing truth she’d held in check for nearly a year. The incompetence. The cowardice. The ugly, unpleasant pleasantness. The absurd tea sessions, vapid tittering, and absurdly tight hair. Nobody is fooled, you vain, talentless peahen, she’d longed to shout. Your idiocy is as obvious as your forehead creases! Unfortunately, Mrs. Pritchard had swished through the curtained doorway and departed the shop before a single word could escape past Genie’s tight throat.
The final indignity had been Fancy Nancy, smirking from her dim corner. “No less than you deserve. Conceited bit of baggage.”
Fortunately, Genie’s throat had loosened. As she’d passed by the bitter lemon, she’d leaned in, braving the stench. “When Mrs. Pritchard claims you and she will do ‘well enough,’ whom do you suppose will be charged with completing eightfold the orders you ordinarily make in a day? Mrs. Pritchard? Or her last remaining assistant?”
The dawning dismay from dull, muddy eyes had been Genie’s only solace that day. She hadn’t lingered to deliver further satisfying truths. Instead, she’d rushed back to Berne House and asked their new butler, Emerson, to locate Mr. Moody. Previously, Emerson had been employed by Dunston, and, like most of Dunston’s employees, he had a talent for ferreting information. But the process took time. Too much.
Days later, her guilt was making her writhe. She must find Mr. Moody. She must tell him she would secure a new position for him. A better position. One which paid enough that he could purchase his medieval adventures in bookshops rather than circulation libraries.
Perhaps she had been the cause of his misfortune, but she might also be the solution. Being an earl’s daughter did have some advantages.
A key rattled and clicked. Her door opened on a rush of air. Soon, a face remarkably similar to her own hovered above her.
“Stop wallowing,” the face said. “Come eat some ham.”
Genie cupped her sister’s cheeks and gently shoved. “For the last time, Kate. Go. Away.” She rolled onto her side.
Kate’s face reappeared, now hovering above the flowered coverlet. Sparkling eyes shone with determination and—worse—a challenge accepted. “Ham, Genie. Then, you and I are going for a ride in the park.”
Genie groaned and rolled toward the opposite side of the bed.
That was when the singing began. Warbling and grandiose, Kate’s voice approached her ear as her arrival jostled the mattress.
“In the downhill of life, when I find I’m declining,” she sang merrily, “May my fate no less fortunate be, than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining and a cot that o’erlooks the wide sea.”
Genie covered her ears with her palms.
Kate clasped her wrist and drew her hand away. “With an ambling pad-pony, to pace o’er the lawn, while I carol away idle sorrow.”
“For the love of all that is blessed and holy, Kate. I will make you a new hat.”
“And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn.”
“Ten. Ten new hats.”
“Look forward with hope for tomorrow.” Kate drew a breath to start a new verse.
“Very well!” Genie sat up and threw her blankets off. “I will eat ham if you will only stop!”
“And ride with me in the park. It has been months since the last time.”
Genie hugged her knees and stared down at her bare toes. “You shouldn’t be seen with me.”
“Rubbish. We are sisters, and we shall ride together. Today.”
She was silent a moment too long.
“With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too, as the sunshine or rain may prevail. And a small spot of ground—”
“Good heavens. Yes, today. Now, do be quiet.”
Kate’s arms looped around her shoulders from behind. A soft cheek touched her own. “Never let that ill-coiffed prig defeat you,” she whispered, squeezing Genie into a fierce hug.
“She has already won,” Genie grumbled.
“The tartness of her face sours ripe grapes.”
“This is no time for Shakespeare’s insults.”
“Shakespeare is always appropriate. Particularly his insults.”
Genie’s head hung forward until her forehead touched her
knees. Gently, she squeezed her sister’s arm and kissed her sister’s hand. “Let me dress, Katie. I shall come down in a trice.”
“Do you promise?”
“Yes.”
Despite feeling she’d aged eighty years in three days, despite having no sleep and less reason to be awake, she gathered her hair into a simple coil, donned her finest blue velvet habit, and went down to breakfast.
The ham was salty. She ate two bites. But she kept her promise.
A half-hour later, as Kate rode at her side recounting her “magnificent performance on pianoforte” at Lady Randall’s fete the previous evening, Genie rocked with the motion of her horse and strove to ignore the scornful gazes of Hyde Park passersby.
The hypocrites. Both Mrs. Riley and Lady Baselton were carrying on torrid affairs with a groundskeeper and a butler, respectively. For either of those two supposed ladies to cast aspersions in her direction was patently absurd.
No, the feigned outrage of some in the beau monde counted little more than the fly currently buzzing near her right ear. A nuisance, merely. Instead, she raised her chin and savored the breeze upon her cheeks, sunlight fluttering inside busy leaves, birds chirping merrily.
“… quite the most eventful evening in recent memory. There was, of course, the death of Miss Froom. One of the sillier girls this season, I must say. Still, it is a shame. Apparently, she collapsed mere minutes after departing Lady Randall’s …”
Perhaps Kate had been right, Genie thought as warm wind soothed her. This might be better than her blanketed den.
“… reported that he simply stood there, conversing intently with Lady Wallingham. What about, I cannot guess …”
Now that she considered it, this had been precisely what she needed—a warm day, a pleasant ride, the scent of green and the stroke of sunlight.
And, of course, the chance to display her finest riding hat. It had three cerulean feathers and a touch of white silk braid.
