“You see?” said Angeline. “He’s making a complete fool of himself.”
“Really?” I said. I squinted and looked harder, trying to understand.
As we watched, one of the young ladies reached out and tapped him on the arm. “La, Mr. Carlyle! You are wicked!”
They all exploded into giggles. I turned back to Angeline—then scooted my chair backward. “What?” I said. “They don’t seem to mind whatever he’s telling them.”
“Ha.” Angeline stabbed a kipper and glared at it. “I’m sure they do not.”
“Then …” I eyed the knife in her hand warily. “What is the problem?”
“Well, if they wish to waste their time flirting with a hardened rake, then I see no problem whatsoever,” Angeline said. Her knuckles whitened around her knife. “Why should there be any problem with that? I’m sure I don’t mind at all.”
“Good?” I tried. I scooted my chair back another inch as her glare scorched me. I tried again. “Why would you?”
Another explosion of giggles sounded behind me. Angeline’s hair nearly shot out sparks. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Gregson turn another page of his newspaper.
Inspiration struck. I pushed my chair all the way back from the table and jumped up. “I’ll see you later,” I told Angeline. “If Stepmama asks where I am …”
But I could tell she wasn’t listening.
I tiptoed all the way down the final corridor of the guest wing, ready to run and hide at the first sign of Stepmama’s approach. Other groups of ladies bustled past me on the way, looking askance at my tiptoeing walk and whispering to one another as they passed, but I didn’t care about any of them. All I cared about was getting into Angeline’s room undetected by the rest of my family.
It was the perfect opportunity. Mr. Gregson had only just begun reading his morning newspaper—an occupation that, so I’d heard, could take some gentlemen up to an hour every single morning—and Angeline was busy eating breakfast and enraging herself over Mr. Carlyle’s flirts. I might not understand what had come over her to make her so bothered by them, but I knew Angeline, so I knew one thing for sure: She wouldn’t leave the breakfast room until all three of the other young ladies did. Anything else would be an admission of failure.
As I passed Stepmama’s door, I heard the unmistakable rustling sounds of preparation. I ran the final six feet and turned Angeline’s doorknob just in time. Even as I slipped inside and closed the door behind me, I heard the next door in the corridor start to open.
Footsteps sounded outside. They paused just in front of the room I was in. A light knock sounded on the door. I froze, holding my breath.
“Angeline?” Elissa said. “Are you in there?”
The doorknob began to turn. I looked around wildly, searching for something—anything—the closet? I prepared myself to leap—
Stepmama spoke in the corridor outside. “Good morning, my dear. I heard Angeline go down to breakfast some time ago. Shall we meet her there?”
“Oh,” said Elissa. “I suppose so.” She sounded wistful, and I wondered if she’d been hoping for a private chat with Angeline, away from Stepmama’s listening ears. If she was hoping to get sympathy from Angeline over Mr. Collingwood and her Tragic Dilemma, she’d chosen the wrong morning for it. I hoped Angeline would give her a good withering scold for her idiocy. Not that it would make any difference—once Elissa had made up her mind, no one could ever convince her otherwise.
“Pinch your cheeks, child,” Stepmama said. “You’re pale as death. Sir Neville may be at the breakfast table, you know, and you must look your best.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Elissa murmured, and their footsteps moved away together.
I stuck my tongue out in their direction as they went. Then I turned to survey the territory before launching my attack.
I would have known Angeline’s room anywhere, even without the long strands of thick, dark hair caught in the combs on the dressing table or the familiar rose-colored dressing gown that had been flung across the chair in front of it. There was already something about the whole feel of the room that made it Angeline’s, even though she’d occupied it for less than four-and-twenty hours. Two years ago, Charles had borrowed an electrifying machine from one of his friends and brought it home to show us. Angeline, Elissa, and I had all linked arms, and he’d shot an electric current down the whole row of us, flying from one person to another in the chain. It had happened only once, but I’d never forgotten the sensation, the exhilaration and the fear of it. Now I was feeling it again.
A faint, flowery smell tickled my nose. Electricity crackled through the air, sparking off my skin as I moved. Even as I looked around, noting the tall closet with its potential as a hiding place, and Angeline’s four valises piled in the corner, the electric sparks pushed against my skin, stinging me and pushing me backward. Maybe now wasn’t the best time to do this after all. Maybe I should come back later, when Angeline was here to help me. Maybe if I went to Angeline and told her what I was doing …
What? I shook my head hard, sending the sparks flying. I could actually see them now, ghostlike in the corner of my vision as they flashed past.
This wasn’t just the force of Angeline’s personality, frightening though that could undeniably be. No, this was magic. She hadn’t only been practicing love spells after all.
The sparks settled in around me again as I went still. They clustered around my face like buzzing insects. I ought to leave now, immediately. I ought to forget about this. There was nothing to look for in here, anyway….
“Balderdash!” I said, as forcefully as I could. But the word came out surprisingly weakly from my mouth. It sounded uncertain.
Really, what was the point of searching Angeline’s room? I’d wanted to find the magic books, to keep them safe from Mr. Gregson; but my lie to him had turned out to be the truth. They were protected. No one could touch them. No one even knew where they were except for me; and even as I thought that, I became less and less sure of it. Maybe she didn’t have them here after all. Maybe I’d only imagined it. Maybe …
“Oh, no, you don’t, Angeline,” I said, through gritted teeth. “Not this time.”
I pushed forward through the spark-filled air. My leg seemed to weigh at least two hundred pounds. It moved sluggishly, leadenly, through air that was much too full to let it pass. I stopped, panting. I hadn’t progressed a single step. The sparks buzzed against my ears and eyes and the bare skin on my arms, pushing me backward, toward the door.
It was useless. I should just give up. I should …
Never. I was so dizzy and angry I could barely see. Magical pressure built around me. The sparks pushed against me. My head was throbbing. But I didn’t care.
Angeline could set all the spells she wanted. She could try all her tricks. She could intimidate or make a fool of anyone she chose. But I was her own sister. I knew her better than anyone else in the world, and I would not give in.
“I will not be fooled!” I shouted.
The air exploded around me.
I blinked and staggered back, my ears ringing. The sparks were gone. The pressure had lifted. My head was suddenly, furiously clear. It felt as if it had been scalded on the inside. It hurt.
I sucked in deep lungfuls of air. Slowly, gradually, I regained my balance. I stepped forward. Nothing stopped me.
“Ha!” I said, as firmly as I could. “You see?”
But I looked around nervously as I said it.
Surely Angeline wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble to set a spell that would just go away on its own if someone waited long enough. Surely? Maybe it was a trap. Maybe it was meant to lure me further.
I didn’t care. I’d come too far now to give up. And I was not going to let Angeline have the upper hand. She couldn’t chase me away no matter how many spells she threw at me.
I was Mama’s daughter too. I had every bit as much of a right to her magic books as Angeline.
I stalked across the fl
oor and started my search.
The magic books weren’t in any of Angeline’s valises. They weren’t under her bed. But when I opened the tall closet, it took less than a minute of poking around before I found them, hidden underneath a single pile of thin chemises. She must have depended upon the spell she’d set to hold off any investigators before they came this far.
Why hadn’t it worked on me?
I set my teeth as I reached for the magic books, waiting for the stinging sparks to return in a full attack. All I felt was the frayed leather binding of the books underneath my hand. The spell had truly disappeared.
I would have to think that through later. But not yet. Right now, it was time for me to do what I should have done more than a week ago, the first time I came across the magic books. It was my fault that Mr. Gregson and Lady Fotherington and their Order were after Mama’s magic books. So it was my duty to learn how to protect them—and protect them properly this time, not just with a spell that anyone could break through sheer stubbornness. I had a nasty feeling that Lady Fotherington—and even Mr. Gregson, for all his mild way of speaking—might prove to be at least as stubborn as I was, and just as unwilling to give up what they wanted. I really didn’t want Angeline to be in their way.
But I didn’t have much time. I couldn’t count on those three young ladies to hold on to Mr. Carlyle forever, and as soon as they left the breakfast room, Angeline would too. So I had to find a good spell, fast.
I flipped through the books, vibrating with impatience. Love spells, spells for beauty and fashion—you’d think someone who’d been part of a great and mysterious Order meant to protect the nation would have had more important things on her mind than clothing, but maybe that was why she’d turned to witchcraft. Spells for scent and taste and—
Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, breaking my concentration. They came to a halt just outside the door. There was no knock. The doorknob didn’t turn. But the footsteps didn’t move away.
Someone was standing just outside. Listening.
My hands clenched around the book I was holding. If it was Angeline, I would be in so much trouble. If it was anyone else—someone looking for these books, for example—then things could be much, much worse.
I glanced down at the page the book was open to. Useless. All I saw was a spell for changing one’s appearance. Nothing about protection, or fighting, or …
Wait. Changing one’s appearance …
I barely breathed as I scanned the page. Mama’s lovely, looping handwriting spelled out all the steps for me. The incantation itself was easy, and then all I had to do was focus on exactly what I wanted to look like. Or rather, who I wanted to be … It had to be someone safe. Someone eminently proper. Someone even Angeline wouldn’t attack for being here and looking at these books.
The footsteps outside still hadn’t moved. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. As I whispered the words of Mama’s spell, I focused hard. Elissa, I thought. Elissa, Elissa, Elissa …
The doorknob began to turn. What if it wasn’t Angeline? What if it was Mr. Gregson? What if, even worse, it was—
My whole body burst into flame. I bit back a scream. My poor scalded head shifted and stretched. My legs lengthened, shooting fiery pain through my joints. My hair burned against my scalp as it grew suddenly heavier. Dark strands fell around my face. The sharp, sweet scent of fresh raspberries filled the room.
I dropped the books from my lap onto the floor as I jerked backward, flailing—
The bedroom door flew open.
“Good God,” Mr. Gregson said. “Lady Fotherington? What are you doing here?”
Twelve
I stared at Mr. Gregson. He stared back.
“I thought we had agreed that you would stay in London unless I called for you,” he said. His shocked stare was rapidly becoming a grim scowl.
I pulled myself up to a sitting position on the floor and swallowed hard. Even my throat felt different. Longer. Thinner. And my chest …
I blinked and shifted my shoulders to adjust myself. Lady Fotherington had a very different shape from what I was accustomed to. I felt as if I were carrying weights on my chest just by breathing. My—her—chest was only barely covered by the same dark green, low-cut gown she had worn when I saw her several days ago. I hoped Mr. Gregson was too much of a scholar to take notice of the fashion mistake. I was almost certain that anyone as elegant as Lady Fotherington would never dream of wearing an evening gown at eleven o’clock in the morning, at a country house party.
Even as I thought that, I caught sight of Mama’s books in the corner of my vision. They had fallen to the ground just by the bed, hidden from Mr. Gregson’s line of sight. I lunged forward, swept out my arm, and shoved them all the way under the bed as I pushed myself up off the floor, hoping that the whole movement looked natural. From the way Mr. Gregson’s eyes widened, I hadn’t succeeded in looking anything but deranged. I tossed my head back, flinging the fallen hair out of my eyes and trying to look coolly dangerous and invulnerable.
“I decided to come and see for myself,” I said. “Quite understandable, don’t you think?” I smiled as thinly as I could, trying to replicate Lady Fotherington’s customary sneering smile. The problem was, I hadn’t actually seen her smile much at our meeting. When I smiled, Mr. Gregson blinked and stepped farther into the room.
“Are you quite all right?” he asked. “You look rather …”
“I fell,” I said. I rose to my full height, which was quite a bit taller than it had been five minutes earlier, and smoothed down the front of the green evening gown, resisting the urge to tug up the bodice. I felt as if I were about to spill out of the top of it. How on earth did she manage it? Surely, no matter how low-cut the current fashion might be, it wasn’t possible for even the most stylish gowns to entirely escape the bonds of gravity.
“I can see that,” said Mr. Gregson, and it took me a moment to realize that he was talking about my fall. He frowned, looking back through the open door. “This is not a safe place for us to be discovered. Shall we find somewhere more private for our discussion?”
My absurdly overextended chest clenched at the very thought of it. But I didn’t see any other choice.
“What a good idea,” I said.
I would have to hope that this spell, at least, wouldn’t disappear without warning, like its forerunners.
Mr. Gregson held the door open for me, and I swept past him into the corridor, my head held high and my shoulders back, the way Stepmama said all elegant ladies should walk. I wasn’t doing it to be elegant, though. It was the only practical way to keep the gown from falling off my chest.
As Mr. Gregson closed Angeline’s door behind us, I spared a thought for her probable reaction when she arrived to find her closet door wide open and Mama’s magic books flung beneath the bed. But I didn’t have any energy to spare for worrying about that prospect. All my nerves were fully reserved for the interview ahead of me.
“This way,” Mr. Gregson said, and ushered me down the corridor.
He led me through a door at the end that opened onto a second staircase, one I hadn’t seen before. The staircase I’d walked down on my way to breakfast had been broad and grand, with a marble banister and massive paintings hanging above the steps. This one was narrow and dark, with only one tiny window set high above to light our way and keep us from tripping on the dirty steps.
“The servants’ staircase,” said Mr. Gregson. “I assure you, Lydia, I mean no offense by choosing this direction. I merely thought it would be best, all in all, for us not to be seen in conversation just now … particularly if, as I surmise, our hostess does not yet know of your arrival?”
Oh, Lord. My mind flashed ahead to what would come next: greetings with Lady Graves, gossip about mutual friends I’d never met, and a room assigned to “Lady Fotherington,” while my sisters and Stepmama searched for me throughout the house, creating gossip about my absence … and then, when the notice of this house party was
inevitably placed into the gossip columns of the London newspapers, the real Lady Fotherington’s reaction to the news that she had supposedly been a guest here.
I started down the narrow, dingy staircase with alacrity. “Excellent choice,” I said. “I fully understand and agree with you.” As more and more hideous possibilities occurred to me, I picked up my skirts to run faster and faster, finally clattering down the staircase at full speed. I had to wait for Mr. Gregson at the bottom of the stairs, before another closed door. He caught up a moment later, frowning at me.
I smiled weakly through the darkness. “No time to waste, is there?” I said.
“Mm,” said Mr. Gregson. “Let me check.” He pressed his cheek against the door and closed his eyes. “Ah. We’re safe, for the moment at least. We’ll have to be quick, though.” He opened his eyes, and his frown deepened as he turned his gaze to where I waited, still holding my skirts above my ankles for speed. I dropped them hastily and smoothed down my gown.
“Well, I do hope you know what you’re doing this time,” I said, giving my best Lady Fotherington sneer.
“I hope so as well,” Mr. Gregson said mildly. “But for now …”
He opened the door and waited for me to pass. I didn’t like brushing past him. It put all my senses on alert. I could actually feel him analyzing me.
I clenched my hands into fists to keep them from trembling and giving me away.
We passed into a narrow corridor. No one was inside, but I heard bustling noises and clanging pots; the kitchen must be nearby.
“I think,” Mr. Gregson said, and paused. “Yes. Yes, it would certainly be safest to conduct this conversation outside.” He nodded to a side door I hadn’t spotted. “Shall we?”
“Of course,” I said. I was so eager to escape, I pushed the door open myself instead of waiting to let him open it for me.
The fresh air tasted like freedom, brushing coolly against my face and overexposed bosom. We had emerged on the hill just above and behind the main bulk of the manor house. If the ground hadn’t been so rocky and bare around us, with no possible hiding places in sight, I might have given in to my impulse and simply run away, as fast as I could. But there was nowhere to go, so instead I lifted my chin and waited, trying to look bored rather than horribly afraid.
Kat, Incorrigible Page 11
