Corsets and Crossbows: A Drake Chronicles Novella in Letters

by Alyxandra Harvey

  There were a few banknotes inside, a diamond cravat pin, and other odds and ends, but nothing at all related to the society. I confess I didn’t know what I was looking for. It just flustered me so to know that our cousin died in different circumstances than we were led to believe. It all seems so sinister and suspicious. And overly dramatic.

  That was about the time I decided to abandon my search and return to the ballroom before I was missed. There was no sense in damaging my reputation irrevocably over … a faint feeling of disquiet. Even I am not so reckless.

  I was at the top of the stairs when I heard men’s voices. Two voices, one older and vaguely familiar though I couldn’t place it and still cannot, the other young and impatient. I slipped between an armoire and a huge brass urn full of ostrich feathers. I take back what I said about the trend for feathers, they can make a most convenient hiding spot. I held my breath as the conversation turned into a hushed argument. I had to strain to hear so I cannot be certain I heard every word correctly.

  But I am mostly certain.

  “It’s too soon,” the older voice snapped.

  “You’ve been saying that for weeks now. I haven’t the time to coddle you if you’ve gone milksop on me.”

  “I’ve done no such thing.” He sounded affronted. “Then let’s get on with it. I’m the one who was ambushed at Vauxhall, if you’ll recall. You’ve barely sullied your fine hands.”

  Evie! Surely this is the same man I saw in Vauxhall!

  “I do not think you comprehend what I am doing. It’s betrayal.”

  “Your problem, not mine. I’m not breaking any oaths.”

  “Well, you aren’t a hunter, are you? I am.”

  An irritated sigh followed. “Are you going to help me remove Winterson or not?”

  “Shhh. Are you mad, saying that out loud?”

  “I grow weary of your excuses and hand-wringing.”

  “And I of your neck-or-nothing arrogance.”

  His voice lowered even more until I had to lean out so far I nearly fell at their feet. “Another incentive not to procrastinate further, wouldn’t you say?”

  It took me a moment to realize they’d walked away entirely. I stood in the hallway but I couldn’t hear footsteps or smell a trace of cologne or cigar smoke. I had no way to follow them. It was as if they’d vanished entirely. I went back downstairs because I didn’t know what else to do. People must have thought me mad, I stared so hard at every gentleman I passed. Justin accused me of squinting like a pirate.

  I was just inside the doors and could see no one looking nervous or secretive. I sighed, disgruntled.

  “Miss Wild, might I have the pleasure of this waltz?”

  Dante Cowan, Lord Thornwood and the Earl of Dunrowan’s son, had come up behind me, and was standing so close that I could feel the length of his body nearly touching mine. He was so close that when I jumped and whirled, I elbowed him in the stomach. I didn’t mean to, but he startled me! And the ballroom was devilishly crowded.

  Did I mention how handsome he is? I barely remember him from before he went on his Grand Tour but now that he’s returned from the Continent, there is an air about him, something mysterious and dark in his gray eyes. He has away of smiling that makes you wonder what he is actually smiling about.

  “I say!” Justin raised his monocle. Did you know he’s taken to carrying one around and wearing pink-striped waistcoats? He fancies himself a dandy now. “Have you been properly introduced?”

  “Yes.” I out-and-out lied and I’m not sorry for it. I also crushed Justin’s foot under the sole of my dancing slipper.

  Dante smiled his crooked smile at me and held out his arm to lead me to the dance floor.

  “Not here.” I tugged him behind a portly couple and into a far corner. “I don’t technically have permission to dance the waltz yet.”

  “I shan’t give you away.” His hand went to my waist and he drew me close.

  I can understand, now, why the old dowagers make such a fuss over the waltz. It’s not that they fear we’ll get dizzy from the whirling and fall down in a heap of petticoats. It’s that it affords an opportunity to get so close to a charming young man that one can see the way his hair curls over his ears, the exact shape of his cheekbones, the feel of his shoulder under one’s hand.

  And when that man is Dante Cowan, there is danger indeed.

  I don’t want to be like the other debutantes, obviously fawning over him and simpering when he walks by, but he makes me feel … kaleidoscopic. Does that even make sense? I don’t remember if we spoke much because he maneuvered us out the French doors and onto the deserted balcony. He drew me even closer until a breeze could not have passed between our bodies. It was exceedingly shocking of him, of course. And, of course, I let him. He didn’t take liberties, only kept whirling us until I was laughing and breathless and dizzy.

  “You’ve spilled wine on your gown,” he said softly.

  I glanced down at the stain near my knee. I’d forgotten all about it. He must have exceedingly good eyesight to have noticed it. “It will wash out.” I shrugged.

  “Most girls would be swooning or running weeping for the nearest ladies’ maid.”

  “I am not like most girls,” I declared.

  “No, I should say not.”

  I wanted to ask him if he meant that as a compliment but I was half-afraid of the answer. And I know, I know, I should have been concentrating on the fact that someone was plotting to kill the leader of the Helios-Ra society. I like to think I am talented enough to worry and waltz at the same time.

  “There is a maid upstairs if you’d like her to wash the spot out.” He seemed very serious all of a sudden, his eyes flaring.

  “The maid is downstairs, actually, and the stain has already set. It’s of no matter.”

  The song ended too soon and he bowed over my hand as I curtsied. I know this is going to sound strange, Evie, but I could swear he leaned forward and sniffed me. And his face went hard, his jaw clenched. It was very brief but I saw it.

  But I’m convinced that’s just the hunter training talking. Right?

  Botheration. Might Eleanor actually be right about something? Have I forgotten how to be a normal girl?

  Worriedly yours,

  Rosalind

  June 11, 1815

  Dearest Evangeline,

  I am so cross I can barely calm myself enough to write this.

  You would think that after the training we have endured and, I might add, excelled at, a small measure of trust might be expected. Even the barest trace of confidence in our common sense and intelligence, if nothing else.

  I regret to say, that is not so.

  I suppose you know this already, with your mother inventing all manner of country pursuits to keep you from London and the hunters. And I can understand that, I really can. She is your mother, and, of course, she will worry. The fact that she worries equally for all your brothers speaks well for her character, I believe.

  But this is different. My father ought to know better. It is devilishly unfair. I spent a long sleepless night trying to determine the best course of action regarding the whispered conversation I overhead at the Wintersons’ ball. I do not take it lightly, nor our duty to the League, and I expect the same consideration. Murder is bad enough, but the traitorous murder of the leader of the Helios-Ra by a fellow initiate is abhorrent. It behooves us all to be on our guard, to take our oaths seriously. To take one another seriously.

  You see where this is going, I am sure.

  By the time the sun rose I was convinced that I must tell my father everything. It is one thing to seek out vampires in Vauxhall Gardens or take one on in a dark alley after the opera, but it is another thing entirely to unravel a conspiracy in a society that barely recognizes you (though I mean to turn that to my advantage shortly. More on that later, I assure you). I am not so reckless that I think I must do everything myself.

  I found my father at the table, eating coddled eggs and toast and read
ing the newspaper, freshly ironed and smelling like scorched ink and paper. He glanced up to smile at me before going back to his reading. “Morning, poppet.”

  “Morning, Papa.” I waited until the footman had brought a fresh pot of chocolate to the table and stepped back to a discreet distance. I lowered my voice. “I must speak to you, sir.”

  “I am not increasing your allowance, Rosie. You have more than enough for your needs.”

  It was an act of will not to roll my eyes at him, Evie. Why do they always think we want more money for dresses and baubles? I’d much rather buy myself a new throwing dagger, though I am not nearly so skilled with them as you are.

  “I don’t need more pin money,” I assured him as calmly as I could.

  He frowned. “You’re not expecting to race your carriage through the park with some ne’er-do-well again, are you? You must learn to comport yourself with some dignity, my girl.”

  Honestly, Evie. Parents.

  “Papa, please. This is about something I overheard at the Wintersons’ ball last night.”

  “Ballroom gossip?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “No, two men talking in hushed tones outside Lord Winterson’s office.”

  He put his paper down, frowning more intently. “What were you doing up there?”

  “Hunting,” I answered proudly.

  “You don’t mean to tell me you were chasing a vampire through the family rooms of the Winterson town house, do you?”

  I did roll my eyes that time. “No, Papa, of course not.”

  “What then? And don’t think we won’t be discussing such cheeky behavior, young lady.”

  Cheeky? I was going for stealthy. Heroic, even. Bah.

  “There were two men arguing about Lord Winterson. One of them was a hunter, the other was not,” I told him.

  “Who were they?”

  “I do not know. I didn’t see their faces, only heard them talking. About removing Lord Winterson, Papa. They mean to murder him.”

  I waited for a reaction. I’d expected a gasp or for the color to drain from his face. Maybe for him to knock over his coffee cup in his agitation.

  I was, most empathically, not expecting him to laugh. My own father, mind.

  “Oh, Rosie, you misheard, I’m sure.”

  “I did not.”

  “It’s not unusual, poppet. Why, when I was your age I was convinced our housekeeper was a vampire. I nearly staked her in the pantry when she was pickling eggs.”

  I stared at him, affronted. “You don’t believe me?”

  “Hunters take their oaths to the League and to one another very seriously.”

  “I know that.” I stirred sugar into my tea with more force than was strictly necessary.

  “And as the leader of the order, Lord Winterson is particularly well guarded.”

  “I know what I heard,” I insisted stubbornly.

  “A whispered conversation late at night, when you’ve been drinking champagne and dancing with young men I have not approved”—he looked pointedly at me then and I knew he was referring to Dante Cowan—“is not evidence enough to toss out wild accusations of murder and treason.”

  “But—”

  “Leave it be, Rosalind. You’ll only embarrass us and this family if you pursue it.”

  “I wouldn’t!”

  “Do you forget last summer when you threw Lord Hallbrook into the pond?”

  I scowled. “How was I to know he’d capped his tooth with a diamond. It was a ridiculous affectation and all that glue to hold it in place cannot be good for the constitution. And it looked like a fang.”

  “You nearly killed a peer of the realm by drowning him in our fish pond.”

  “This is different! I—”

  “Leave it, Rosalind. I’m ordering you, as your father and elder in the League, to leave this be.”

  I opened my mouth to further protest even as I was fighting the tears burning my eyes. If I had wept then he never would have taken me seriously again. But I wanted to, Evie. I really wanted to. My own father condescended to me and does not believe in my hunting capabilities. The folderol with Lord Hallbrook happened nearly a year ago. Am I meant to suffer for it until I am gray haired and wrinkled as soggy custard?

  Before I could say anything else, however, my mother came into the breakfast room in her best day gown, with lace at the hem. Father glared at me warningly and then smiled at her.

  “Good morning, my love. Are you off visiting today?”

  Mother sat next to him, accepting a fresh cup of coffee. “I am touring the bookshops today, darling. With Beatrix and her mother,” she added, for my benefit.

  “Excellent. Perhaps you might take Rosalind with you. She is clearly bored and needs some form of diversion.”

  “I was going to train today, Papa. With the throwing daggers.” “Your time will be better suited accompanying your mother,” he said sternly.

  This, Evie, is why my aim with the daggers is not improving at the rate I would like. There was nothing to be done, just then. I spent the day with Beatrix, at least, which was pleasant. She so rarely comes out into society anymore. She is turning into a recluse, just like her elder sister. But she seems happy, happier than I’ve ever seen her at any ball or musicale. I told her everything, of course. And she at least, like you, believed me. She has promised to write letters to her contacts and to do any research we might need. She’s not strictly from a hunter family, of course, but she is decidedly intelligent and her brother has been on the fringes of the League since he came back from traveling abroad on his nineteenth birthday. I know you don’t particularly care for him, but he may prove useful.

  Indeed, I do not know where I would be without such stalwart friends. Because it’s up to us now, Evangeline.

  We are on our own.

  Your friend,

  Rosalind

  June 13, 1815

  Dear Evie,

  You will laugh.

  I have had the most thrilling night and there wasn’t a single vampire anywhere to be found.

  Dawn is just unfurling over the city, like lilac and peony petals scattered over the sky. The mist is hanging low between the trees of Hyde Park and I can just imagine it drifting over the Thames. The birds are singing from the rooftops and the swans are like ghosts searching out the ponds in the park. Even the cats in the laneways seem fat and content. You’ll think me fanciful. I just feel as if I am awake for the first time in my life and I cannot imagine going now back to sleep.

  I admit the evening did not start so promising. The musicale was horrid, Mother fluttered because there were no eligible bachelors to throw me at, and Father glowered every time I so much as shifted in my chair. I was very glad they decided to go to a private supper with friends and leave me to my own company. They made me solemnly promise I would stay at home.

  Ha.

  I promised, of course, but I did no such thing. I am not so easily managed. Though I didn’t have much of a plan. I dressed as Robbie again, just to be safe. One never knows, after all. I hired a hack out on the street and told him to drive slowly through Grosvenor Square. I happened to know that the private supper my parents were attending was a Helios-Ra affair at the Honeychurch townhouse, and that Lord Winterson would be in attendance. I wasn’t entirely certain what I was looking for. It seemed unlikely an assassin would choose a crowded house party in the middle of the evening with so many people going to and fro outside the window. Not to mention that I had to hide myself from our own coachman, who waited under one of the new gas lamps. Still, I suppose I thought to acquaint myself with the carriages and crests of the guests. We have so little information, anything at all might yet be useful.

  It was dull as tombs. I sat for at least two hours, alone, drifting up and down the street with my crossbow propped at the window, until the coachman complained and I let him stop at the corner. I could still see the front door but, in truth, I was feeling rather useless. I was about to thump the roof to let him know he could abandon
the square when the wheels started to roll, first slowly, then picking up entirely too much speed. I shouted at him but got no response. The carriage lurched sideways as the horses ran at a gallop far too spirited for the slick cobbled street we were on. I was beginning to wonder if I should be concerned.

  And then I stuck my head out of the window.

  Definitely, I should have felt concern.

  The horses were running frantically, the reins looped uselessly over the bench where the coachman ought to have been sitting.

  Where no one at all was sitting. Instead, the coachman lay in a heap on the sidewalk. That tears it, Evie. There is definitely mischief afoot.

  The carriage wobbled and creaked with disturbing enthusiasm. I have never understood the propensity for carriage accidents until now. The horses were quite mad, as if they had been prodded with a sharp stick. It wouldn’t be long before they ran afoul of another carriage, as the street was rather crowded. Or worse yet, they might trample a night watchman and how would I explain myself then, unchaperoned and in men’s trousers?

  It was a mixed blessing when the horses hopped the curbside and went straight into the park, intending, I am sure, to wrap me right round some obliging tree. The sudden rattle of the lurching carriage had me nearly biting my tongue clean out of my head.

  So I climbed out of the window like any gothic heroine worth her salt.

  Really, what else was I to do? Help was not coming and I hadn’t the patience to wait around for it, regardless. And I didn’t fancy cracking my teeth, or my head entirely, when the carriage finally fell off its axle or shattered a wheel. Hanging out of the window was quite easy; wriggling out enough to grab hold of the roof was less simple. I was exceedingly grateful to be wearing pants. I’d have tumbled clean into the bushes if I’d been wearing a corset and a long silk gown. As it was, I got a mouthful of oak leaves and a slap in the face from a lilac tree.