Once Upon a Time

by Marylyle Rogers

  By virtue of aristocratic heritage their group was included in the first quarter of that orderly parade. Before Comlan, as host of their party, moved to follow the Queen's lead Orville maneuvered himself to walk at Amy's side. She felt trapped by the action so clearly supported by her parents and in defiance turned her gaze forward—only to shy away from something infinitely more distasteful.

  Amy's gray eyes took on a storm cloud darkness while immediately and pointedly averted from the golden beauty hanging on Comlan's arm. Like a bolt of lightning the piercing heat of jealousy had struck.

  Jealousy? No! Amy rejected the mere possibility of such foolishness. Jealousy was an illogical emotion, diametrically opposed to her long-avowed desire to take a rational view of life, to pursue a sane and well-reasoned approach to everything.

  Comlan was to blame. Amy firmly bit her lower lip. He was responsible for knocking her off that safe, carefully supported path. He was the one who'd led her into an utterly unreal and irrational world.

  A seldom silent conscience scoffed at Amy's too heated defense with memories of how she'd longed for adventure one spring afternoon while lazing in a ring of flowers.

  "Amy, are you not feeling quite the thing?" Orville asked, leaning uncomfortably near. "I could escort you back to Wyfirth House."

  "Oh, no." Amy stifled a gasp, annoyed that once again, as too often in recent weeks, she'd allowed herself to become absorbed in reveries of one afternoon's unfortunate lapse of judgment and all its repercussions. Amy gazed at her overly concerned companion, feigning the kind of wide-eyed, vapid admiration she most despised.

  "I'm far too curious to miss seeing everything inside this marvelous glass building." Amy forced a bright smile. "Why after breakfast Father read aloud from a newspaper article that said thirteen thousand exhibitors have contributed."

  Though mollified by Amethyst's flattering attention, Orville's mouth tightened with disapproval. Her father ought not to encourage such unfeminine interests. Offer of escape refused, he urged Amy to close the gap her inattention had opened in the line.

  A fresh flood of glowing color spread flags of embarrassment over Amy's cheeks. Not only had the Queen already moved some distance down one aisle with the column of her subjects trailing after but a space had opened between where Amy stood and the point to which her parents, their host and Lady Isobel had progressed. Garnet and Lovey hovered behind her and others in their group crowded near while the throng waiting farther back impatiently murmured and glared.

  Amy hastened forward, sincerely anxious to view the Crystal Palace's innumerable displays. Her first glance inside the pavilion's eighteen glass-enclosed acres had been enough to convince her it held far too much to be seen in a single visit, and she fervently hoped this wouldn't be her last.

  Like the two representations standing near the entrance—Courage in the form of an enormous statue of Richard the Lionhearted and Power symbolized by a twenty-four-ton block of coal—the whole exhibition was an amazing mix of art and machines. Things of great beauty vied with others grotesque or just plain gaudy. There were mundane items such as could be seen in any shop but also ingenious mechanical wonders.

  The American section included two exhibits that stirred particular interest: a reaping machine designed by an American named McCormick and a new gun called the Colt revolver. While the men in her party fell into a discussion of the various merits of these items, Amy thought it odd that she seemed to be the only one who recognized an obvious paradox: One had the potential to benefit mankind while the other could only destroy.

  Unconsciously responding to the call of a steady emerald gaze, Amy glanced sidelong and met Comlan's wry smile. He gave a nod, almost imperceptible but enough to set rays of sunlight rippling over golden hair. She immediately looked away, biting her lip hard. His action suggested that he understood and shared her unspoken opinion.

  Could he read her thoughts? Surely not! A faint frown marred Amy's smooth forehead. No folklore or fairy tale she had ever heard even hinted that his race possessed such a talent. The mere suggestion that anyone could freely roam through her mind made Amy terribly uncomfortable and left her shifting uneasily at Orville's side.

  Comlan saw the fleeting expressions chasing across Amy's face and recognized his mistake. Since humans neither shared nor comprehended the acute perceptiveness of his kind, it was likely that the dark colleen had misunderstood. The viscount and his wife moved on with the procession, but Comlan lingered for a moment longer beside the revolver exhibit. Then, despite either the impatient blond beauty clinging to his arm or the glowering Orville, he gave Amy a quiet explanation couched in an innocuous compliment.

  "You have a most expressive face, Miss Danton."

  Willing the heat of her cheeks to fade, Amy yielded to Orville's less than gentle hand at her back and followed as Lord Comlan and Lady Isobel moved a few steps forward. When the column of humanity paused again, she studied the exhibit to her left with unmerited intensity although she couldn't later have described it to anyone.

  Was it true? Had she shown interest in the reaper but distaste for the gun? Was it that and nothing more which had revealed her opinion to the king of the Tuatha De? But if Comlan could read that in her expressions, what more had he seen? Jealousy? Oh, horrors, no! A renewed flood of color burned.

  "Amy—" Orville irritably demanded the return of his companion's attention. After watching the Irishman effortlessly draw Amy's gaze all too often, he'd had quite enough. Certainly enough to confirm his wisdom in arranging to see a permanent end put to such interference.

  "Look at that." Orville motioned toward an ornate easy chair made of papier-mâché which, for all its padding, looked woefully uncomfortable. "They call it the Day Dreamer."

  Amy murmured a quiet, conventional acknowledgment. It was clear that Orville intended to establish his prior claim on her to Lord Comlan. And she was trapped in his company despite a heartfelt wish to be rid of the pompous man. Again, resentment simmered—resentment of watchful eyes forcing her to welcome Orville to win some small chance of remaining near enough to the devastating Irishman that she could talk with him… Or at least obliquely pass on information gleaned from Patience's letter.

  To Amy's growing frustration, that hope proved in vain. By the time the Queen's tour concluded hours later, Amy's feet hurt and her stylishly voluminous skirts felt lead weighted. A whole night's dancing wasn't half so tiring as this slow procession. Yes, the exhibits were as exciting as promised, and she did intend a later return to revisit her favorites. But now she'd be happy to escape this strictly regimented, laggardly walk. She prayed for better fortune at the tea party in winning an opportunity to speak with their host.

  As the procession slowly neared the exit, Amy realized that even this tour's sedate pace had been overly trying for Orville. She was tired but the stout man was so weary he wheezed rather than talked. Amy sympathized yet couldn't help being thankful that something had ended or at least slowed the constant droning of his voice.

  Thousands of the Queen's guests poured from the pavilion and were absorbed into the tens of thousands still crowding Hyde Park. On leaving the Crystal Palace, Amy's party paused on green lawns to one side. Despite either Lady Cornelia's pointed glare or the deep frown creasing a nearly bald Orville's brow, Amy's dark crystal eyes helplessly shifted to the fascinating man whose hair was burnished a gleaming gold by sunlight.

  As if to justify being center of the dark beauty's attention after recognizing himself as inspiration for the condemnation others had turned on her, Comlan graciously reminded his guests. "A hopefully restoring tea awaits in my lodgings."

  The masses ebbed and flowed while men busied themselves visually searching the sea of waiting coaches for their own. Their haste betrayed a longing for the welcome ease of the leather seats inside.

  "Come, Isobel," a stern voice intruded.

  Glancing sidelong, Amy saw Isobel's previously unnoticed older sister. She had been a widow for more than five years b
ut by choice still dressed in severe black and looked impossibly grim while stepping forward to direct Lady Isobel toward their waiting carriage.

  Amy's eyes darted to the left and found a tight, satisfied smile on her mother's lips. She was plainly pleased by the vain beauty's departure, even though she'd earlier welcomed Isobel's distraction for the Irish lord. Demonstrating disdain for the retreating pair, Lady Cornelia gave her full attention to dissecting the fashions worn by other women of their class—with Lovey's avid participation. But Amy's gaze returned to Lady Isobel and her sister. She watched until they'd climbed into a plush interior and dealt with the rich cloth of their skirts as well as the multitude of petticoats worn beneath.

  Idly glancing again toward the rest of her party, Amy's eye was caught by the silver glitter of a sharp blade.

  Despite the lingering crowd, she had an unobstructed view of a burly man dressed in Sunday best plunging his dagger into Comlan's belly.

  The Irishman fell back a step, laying one strong hand atop another to press against the wound.

  Gasping, Amy started forward but Garnet was closer and reached Comlan first.

  "I say, are you all right?" Honest concern filled Garnet's voice while others of their group crowded around. "Damn fool meant to kill you."

  "No doubt that's true. But as you can see—" With a rueful smile of great charm, Comlan spread his hands wide, laying bare the undamaged expanse of his waistcoat. "He did me no harm."

  "He missed?" Garnet's dark brows arched in disbelief. "I would have sworn he struck you a mortal blow." Studying the apparently untouched man, he slowly shook a head of hair as ebony-deep as Amy's. "You must lead a charmed life, my friend."

  "So it would seem," Comlan agreed. His smile tilted with remarkably gentle mockery as he met solemn gray eyes clouded with concern, confusion… and sympathy. Sympathy was an emotion seldom necessary in his realm and one he'd almost never received. But now the honesty of it flowed from her to him while the tender warmth in the depths of a charcoal gaze offered a rare and precious gift he fervently wished he could claim as his own.

  Calm thoughts knocked askew by the frightening but miraculously inept assault, Amy bit at her lip. She'd seen the weapon and the blow. She had! How could Comlan be unmarked? Thank God he was uninjured… but how? Clearly here was further proof—if she needed it—that strange forces were at work. Forces that had nothing to do with the rationality of science or her safe, sane, predictable world. In that same brief instant she questioned the value of her mundane world when judged against the joys of a life filled with new challenges, adventures… and love.

  "Come, ladies," Lord Farley called to his wife and daughter. "Our transport awaits."

  Still numbed by the scene but even more by the staggering revelation of love, Amy automatically obeyed her father's summons, aware to the depths of her soul of an emerald gaze never wavering from her back.

  Orville realized Lord Wyfirth and his lady wife were disappointed that he hadn't offered to escort Amethyst to the planned tea in his coach. But, having business to conduct, he climbed alone into his own coach. Not until the vehicle had been maneuvered well away and onto less crowded city streets did he give his attention to the burly figure hunched into one corner of the opposite seat.

  "You failed!" Orville's pithy accusation was an ominous hiss.

  "Oh, no, I didn't. I swear it. Felt me blade sink in deep, I did." These whined words issued from a man looking distinctly uncomfortable in fancier garb than was his habit to wear! "Only look. 'Tis enow blood on th' blade as to prove it true."

  Orville's eyes narrowed on the proffered weapon and its dark, telltale stain.

  "Well then, Macraedy," he hissed, "you've skewered the wrong man."

  "How can you say it?" The sharp arch of sandy brows reflected the speaker's honest consternation. Driven by nervous habit, he reached up to adjust the eye patch missing today in honor of his day's truck with the nobs and plaintively whined, "You saw me!"

  "What I saw only minutes ago was the Irishman not dead nor even harmed." Under a growing but impotent anger, Orville's hands curled into fists. "The man looked quite in the pink of health to me. Why even his clothing revealed not so much as a wrinkle out of place… far less a bloody gash."

  "Can't be so!" Hair once carefully combed for the part he had played in the Hyde Park charade fell forward in its more usual untidy clumps when Macraedy vehemently shook his head.

  "But it is. And you'd best make a better job of it next time… elsewise I'll call all those loans forfeit and see you carted off to debtor's prison."

  The next instant Orville was pleased by his minion's expression, like an animal trapped by a skilled hunter. No, this blundering nitwit wouldn't dare to fail again.

  Chapter 10

  "Farley, I've developed a most vicious headache." Pausing a few brief steps from their waiting carriage, Lady Cornelia pressed fingertips to her temples in affected pain while nearly whimpering a plea. "I beg you to take me directly home… please."

  "Certainly, my dear." The viscount instantly agreed. "Then after you're settled in your bed at Wyfirth House with a soothing compress and maid to administer a few comforting drops of laudanum, I'll send a footman with our regrets to Lord Comlan. I'm sure the man will understand, considering the long and exciting—but trying—day we shared."

  From a mere two steps behind, Amy saw her mother sag helplessly against her much taller father like the delicate flower all well-bred women were taught they ought to appear. Moreover, Amy clearly heard the doleful plea which effectively sabotaged her ill-defined plans for stealing a few private words with their futilely waiting host. She ought to have expected it. Her mother was prone to these headaches… headaches which conveniently struck at the most opportune moments to ensure a desired result.

  Lord Wyfirth settled his wife inside the family carriage, and then turned to help his daughter climb in as well. After hours of alternately standing or creeping slowly forward,. Amy was grateful for the comfort of padded leather seats. The coachman skillfully drove their vehicle through lingering crowds while the viscount and his wife rode in silence—her now hatless head resting against his shoulder.

  Amy stared blindly through the window at crowds of common people still lining the streets, all dressed in their Sunday best. She was badly disappointed by her lost opportunity for time in the company of the one who'd deflected a deadly blade or healed its wound. That incredible action had simultaneously struck her with the stunning realization that the fantasy hero come to life cradled her heart in the magical power of his hands. Though this day had begun with hopes for a chance to share Patience's letter with Comlan, now she desperately wanted to assure herself that he was truly unharmed.

  Thrusting wit-dulling fears for Comlan's safety into a dark recess of her mind, Amy mentally searched for the next logical step. No, more importantly, the next plausible step to take. She couldn't send another message to him and again arrange a morning meeting in Hyde Park, not after her mother had specifically cautioned their servants against playing any role in such a forbidden event. By helping her they'd risk dismissal without character, a punishment certain to see them end quite literally on the street. And that selfish, that heartless, Amy wasn't nor could ever want to be. Yet, if she couldn't rely on the aid of servants, then what?

  Of course! The answer was so obvious that Amy was ashamed of herself for not immediately recognizing it. She glared blindly at a guiltless tree daring to rise above the city's rooftops. Any pretension she had to a clear and logical mind was left in question by her failure to see how easy it would be to simply send Patience's letter to Comlan with a note of her own explaining her concerns. After all, during their first meeting in the park hadn't he warned her about such dangers?

  Despite its new bruises, Amy's pride in a carefully developed skill for cool reasoning confirmed the wisdom of this cautious plan. However, her long regretted but still untamed spirit of adventure balked. If she merely sent the letter with a note, she w
ouldn't be able to learn Comlan's thoughts on the matter nor discuss with him actions to foil the blackguard behind Daffy's peril. Worst of all, she'd forfeit one of her likely few remaining opportunities to be near…

  Even to herself it was hard for Amy to confess that she'd miss most the chance for private time with the stunningly handsome and far too fascinating being from an utterly illogical fantasy realm— far less easily admit an impossible love. Yet, despite her best intents, she couldn't suppress memories of thrilling moments spent in his powerful embrace. Thick lashes drifted down to lie in black crescents on cheeks warming under potent, very private visions.

  Amy forced her eyes to open wide and focus on reality. Chasing errant thoughts back into the shadowy corners of her mind, Amy made what she justified as the most rational choice. The only option was to don her long, black, hooded cloak and go to Comlan alone… tonight.

  She couldn't call for the family carriage nor would a hansom cab be readily available in such finer residential streets as Ealsingham Court. But, though she'd never done it, Amy was certain she wouldn't have to walk too far before reaching busier thoroughfares.

  Although as sheltered as most debutantes, Amy wasn't completely unaware of the vague dangers lurking in dark streets. Her courage wavered slightly but she immediately berated herself for the possibility of failing Daffy by virtue of a craven heart.

  "Amy—" Lord Farley called his apparently daydreaming daughter—a fault that regrettably seemed to have become her habit of late. "We're home so please join us."

  Startled to discover their carriage had not only stopped at the front gate of Wyfirth House but that her parents had already stepped down, Amy hastened to slide across the seat and accept her father's hand to aid in a graceful descent.

  Once the trio entered the imposing brick building, several hovering servants solicitously helped Lady Wyfirth up the sweeping staircase to her boudoir while the viscount retired to his study.