Tournament of Ruses

by Kate Stradling

  “Ah, you must be Miss Dalton. Thank you for coming so promptly.”

  She stammered some sort of response, still not sure why he had sent for her.

  Mr. Sterling didn’t seem to mind her obvious discomfiture one bit. Instead, he reached for a thick stack of papers on his desk and pushed them in her direction. “These are for you,” he said efficiently.

  Flora stared down at the stack. It consisted of a number of files. “I beg your pardon?”

  “They’re for you,” he repeated unhelpfully.

  “But what are they?”

  “They’re the applications for the position of consort. The Eternal Prince has ordered that you put them in a suitable order. You’ll find your own application on top.”

  “I didn’t submit an application,” she protested.

  He regarded her dubiously. “Your father did. Most of the lords submitted the applications for their daughters. It’s surprising the number of others that applied themselves, for it’s not as though we announced that we even had such a form, but I suppose word travels well enough in this city. At any rate, in honor of your father’s eagerness to help in the Eternal Prince’s search for a consort, the Prince has designated that you should have the privilege of ordering these as you see fit.

  “Congratulations,” he added dryly, and she knew he didn’t envy her the task. It probably would have fallen to him otherwise.

  “And that’s all?” Flora inquired.

  “Is that not enough?” Mr. Sterling replied with raised brows.

  “No, no,” she said quickly. She was wary of offending or of appearing too forward for her own good. “It’s an honor, of course. I’ll do my best. But what am I putting them in order for?”

  Mr. Sterling suppressed a cynical laugh. “Well, that has yet to be decided.”

  Flora stared.

  “At any rate, whatever the Prince does decide, he’s promised to conform it to whatever order in which you choose to place these.” He pushed the stack an inch closer to her, a mute gesture for her to pick it up. Flora obeyed with an increasingly nervous heart. Perhaps this was her punishment. Perhaps the Prince had a wicked sense of humor and this was his means of calling vengeance down upon her head, to saddle her with such a task. Oh, if Georgiana Winthrop caught wind of what she was being asked to do—!

  She shuddered at the thought. “Thank you,” she muttered to Mr. Sterling.

  “Have a nice day,” he replied. His attention was already fixed upon his memo.

  Flora retraced her steps back down the stairs and through the halls to the main entrance. The stack of files felt ungainly in her arms. Silently she wished she had taken Mrs. Finch’s suggestion of the carriage.

  The guards positioned along the way watched her curiously. If she had been a casual observer, she probably would have watched curiously as well. It was an unusual sight, a lord’s daughter hauling around an enormous stack of files in the palace corridors. It would be even more of a curiosity along the road to her house.

  The wind had turned needling, and dark clouds loomed against the horizon, portent of another evening storm on the rise. Flora hugged the files to her as she crossed the courtyard to the open gates. Too self-conscious of the spectacle she posed, she failed to notice a small patch of ice directly in front of her. Her boot slipped and, in an effort to regain her balance, she let go of the stack.

  Amid a clatter of falling folders, Flora somehow managed to remain upright, though in a very awkward stance. For that first moment she dared not move, lest she lose her balance again. A very loud guffaw from the direction of the gate snapped her from her daze. She looked up to discover that one of the two guards stationed there was hunched over in gut-wrenching laughter.

  Embarrassment flooded through her. Immediately she knelt and gathered up the files as quickly as she could. The applications were secured within, thankfully, or she would have been chasing papers all across the palace grounds.

  The guard’s laughter continued to rake across her ears. She was beet-red with shame and almost wished that the pavers would part and swallow her whole into the earth beneath them. Thus humiliated, she fixed her attention on re-gathering the files so she could escape the scene as quickly as possible.

  A second pair of hands joined her endeavors.

  Flora looked up in surprise to discover the other guard, a handsome, earnest young man, crouched and gathering files alongside her. He glanced up and met her gaze. “Rough day?” he asked with a frank, friendly smile.

  “That’s putting it lightly,” she murmured, more embarrassed than ever. She returned her attention to the task at hand and babbled, hoping that idle chatter might dispel some of the awkwardness she felt. “I haven’t the first clue what I’m supposed to be doing with these—organize them in whatever order pleases me, he said. I suppose I could consider this a sort of organization and be done with it.”

  “That’s very true,” said the guard. He handed her the files he had gathered and turned to pick up several that lay behind him.

  “Yes,” Flora agreed. “Then instead of fretting about this, I can go back to fretting about the disappearing, reappearing puddle of rose-scented blood in my garden. Maybe Mrs. Finch is right and I need to get more rest.”

  She said this off-handed remark with every assurance that the pleasant guard would think she was crazy. It didn’t matter what he thought of her, she told herself. The important thing was to get away, and fast. As she extended her hand to receive the last of the files from him, though, she found him staring at her with an unsettled expression.

  “What did you just say?” he asked.

  The seriousness of his voice unnerved her. Flora’s instinctive response was to laugh it off, so she did. “It’s nothing. My mind’s been playing tricks on me all morning, that’s all.”

  “You saw a puddle of blood in your garden?” the guard pressed intently.

  She realized that, as she was speaking with a soldier who was commissioned to keep the peace of the city, she should have omitted any mention of the word “blood,” as it implied that a crime may have occurred. “It wasn’t blood at all,” she said quickly. “It was just that darkish red color—I should’ve described it differently. And anyway, it was all in my head.”

  The guard suddenly rose and called to his laughing fellow, who had mostly recovered his wits. “Roy! Can you man this position on your own until we’re replaced? I’m going to escort Miss Dalton home.”

  Hastily she stood, dismay heavy upon her. “That’s not necessary! I’m quite all right to go—” Her voice suddenly caught in her throat when she realized what exactly he had said. “How did you know my name?” she asked in growing alarm. She had never met this young man before, so there was no reason for him to know who she was. She dreaded that rumors of her were circulating the palace.

  He confirmed her suspicions. “These are the applications for consort,” he said, and he lifted the last few files he still held. “The Prince suddenly decided they would be given to Miss Dalton, so you could be no one else. Here, let me carry them.”

  As he reached for the rest of the stack, she angled away from him almost possessively. “As I said, I’m perfectly capable of going home on my own,” she told him stiffly. “I thank you for your help, but I’ll be quite all right on my own from here.”

  A sheepish smile crossed his face. “I’m afraid I must insist, Miss Dalton,” he said. “If you prefer to carry such a large stack yourself while I accompany you, I’m going to look quite un-chivalrous to anyone we pass. Please?” Again he extended his hands to receive the files.

  Flora felt like stamping her foot, but she resisted the childish temptation. “I don’t need an escort home,” she reiterated.

  Gently he took the files from her slackened grip. “Come along,” he said, and he led the way to the gate.

  “Watch out, Miss Dalton,” said the other guard, Roy, as she reluctantly followed. “Charlie’s quite the lady-killer.” He laughed jovially. Flora picked up her pace to jo
in her escort.

  He had heard the warning and looked disgruntled about it. “I promise you, I’m a perfect gentleman.”

  Flora made no response. Instead, she trained her eyes on the pavement at her feet, wary of any more patches of ice that might appear in her path. They walked in silence for half a street.

  “When did you first see the puddle in your garden?” he asked abruptly.

  Her eyes snapped to his profile. He continued to stare ahead as he walked, his expression unreadable. “It isn’t blood,” she assured him.

  “You said it smelled of roses,” he replied.

  “It was all in my head. When I tried to show Mrs. Finch, twice, it had vanished. Maybe I really am going crazy.”

  “I sincerely doubt that,” Charlie replied, which caused her to stare up at him again. He spared her a sidelong glance. “Miss Dalton, if that puddle is what I think it is, it has no business being in your garden. If you don’t mind my taking a quick inspection, I would be very grateful.”

  He seemed familiar with rose-scented puddles and whatever they signified. While that heartened her with respects to her sanity, she still didn’t see why the puddle would appear for him when Mrs. Finch could not see it.

  As for Mrs. Finch, there was no telling how she would react when Flora came home alongside a palace guard and with all the applications for consort entrusted to her care. She was just about to suggest that they sneak around the back so he could have his look at the garden and be gone again without anyone else being the wiser, but a voice suddenly jarred her from her thoughts.

  “Why, Flora!”

  They had turned the corner onto Lords’ Row only to run smack into Dorothea and Augustina, arm in arm.

  “H-hello,” said Flora with a nervous glance to the guard beside her. He smiled charmingly at the pair of girls and tipped his head in mute greeting.

  Dorothea and Augustina glanced between Flora and her companion with open suspicion.

  “Gussie and I were just on our way to pay a visit to Georgiana,” said Dorothea impulsively. It was a blatant lie; they had been walking away from Lords’ Row, not down it in the direction of the Winthrop household. She forced a smile and continued, “Can you not come with us? I’m sure she would love to see you. Both of you,” she added, and she ventured to turn her false smile towards Charlie, though she did not quite meet his eyes.

  He answered before Flora had a chance. “I’m afraid that’s not possible today, Miss Spencer, Miss Markham,” he said fluidly. “Please do convey our greetings to Miss Winthrop. Come along, Miss Dalton.”

  Flora quickly ducked her head in a goodbye and followed after him. Dorothea and Augustina, who from their words should have been walking the same direction, stood stock-still and stared at their retreat. Flora glanced back over her shoulder, only to see their heads duck together in a secretive whisper.

  “Oh, what new story is going to start now?” she murmured fretfully.

  “What was that?” asked Charlie.

  She glared at him. “You know Miss Spencer and Miss Markham, then?”

  “Of course.”

  “Perhaps you really are a lady-killer,” she said, her words stained with cynicism.

  The comment earned her a sharp glance. “I am nothing of the sort! It’s practically my job to know everyone!”

  “Well, it’s none of my concern,” said Flora. “We’re the last house on the right.”

  He stopped dead in his tracks and stared as though astonished. Before Flora could question this odd reaction, though, he suddenly clenched his jaw and continued onward.

  “Is that a problem?” she asked as she kept pace beside him.

  “No. It makes perfect sense,” he replied in a clipped voice. She wondered if she had done something to offend him.

  They covered the remainder of the street in silence. As they mounted the front steps, Flora gestured for the files he carried. “Hand those to me,” she said, and before he could answer, she took them from him. “Stay out here for a minute, would you?”

  She opened the door and peered inside. Mrs. Finch heard the squeak of hinges and came to the entry in eager anticipation.

  “Well?” the housekeeper asked.

  “I’ve been given charge of these files,” said Flora succinctly. “Can you take them up to my room for me, please?”

  Then, without waiting for a response, she dropped the entire stack into Mrs. Finch’s arms.

  The housekeeper looked mystified. “What are they?”

  “Oh, just the applications for consort to the Eternal Prince. I’ll be up to look at them in a bit, after I’ve put away my coat and bonnet. Can you put them on the little table by my bed, please?”

  Mrs. Finch nodded as if in a daze and wandered up the stairs to Flora’s bedroom. The moment she was out of sight, Flora pulled open the front door and beckoned Charlie to come inside.

  “Don’t want anyone to know I was here?” he wryly asked.

  “She already thinks I’m crazy,” Flora retorted. “I tried to show her that puddle twice this morning, and it disappeared both times. I doubt it’ll show itself to you, but since you’ve insisted upon an inspection, we might as well get it over with.” She led the way to the back door as she spoke. Secretly she hoped that the puddle would be there, if only to alleviate her own doubts about her sanity, but she knew it wasn’t likely.

  “This is your garden?” Charlie asked, and he surveyed the land before him with a troubled furrow between his brows.

  “Awful, isn’t it?” said Flora. “Whoever lived here before us must have been half-crazy. There are more than a dozen holes dug up across the place and—” Her eyes landed on the scene before her. The snow had completely melted, and the more-than-dozen holes stood out like muddy wounds in the expanse of dead grass and mutilated shrubs. “I told my dad there was something strange!” she cried. “Those holes were filled with snow only an hour ago! It’s not warm enough for it all to melt!”

  Next to her, Charlie wore a grim expression. “Show me that puddle, Miss Dalton,” he said, and he started out into the yard.

  She hurried behind him, skirting around holes as she went. “It’s back by those roses over there—or at least, it was. Like I told you, I don’t know that it’ll even be there.” That very fear made her dart ahead to the deeper hole where the puddle had already appeared twice.

  Deep, muddy red glimmered up at her. Flora immediately tore the glove from her hand and knelt to touch the liquid. Even if the puddle disappeared, she would have proof of it, she was determined.

  Charlie grabbed her wrist before she made contact. The puddle of red that had been reaching up for her fingers flattened out again.

  Flora looked up breathlessly. “You can see it there, can’t you?”

  The scowl on his face answered her question. “I can,” he confirmed, and he let go of her wrist. When he extended gloved fingers toward the liquid, though, it recoiled from his touch. Charlie withdrew his hand and sat down hard on the ground.

  “This shouldn’t be here,” he said flatly.

  “What is it?” asked Flora.

  He studied her face as though trying to decide how best to answer this question. In the end, he simply didn’t. “I’m sorry, Miss Dalton. I have to inconvenience you. This shouldn’t be here,” he said again. His tone turned speculative as he considered what to do. “I suppose Viola should come and have a look—I should fetch her, and probably him as well. He’s likely to know more—”

  “Viola Moreland?” Flora interrupted sharply. “You know her?”

  Confusion danced across his face. “Of course I know her. She’s my sister.”

  A dozen connections suddenly formed in Flora’s head. “Charlie… Charles,” she said with growing horror. “You’re Charles Moreland?”

  His face reflected first surprise and then embarrassment. “You didn’t know?”

  “How should I have known something like that?” she retorted, recoiling away from him. “I’ve never met you before in my life!
”

  “That’s never stopped anyone else from knowing,” he replied. “That is, I’m just so used to people recognizing me that I guess I just assumed—”

  “No wonder Dorothea and Augustina were looking at me like that!” Flora cried in dismay. “And they’ll have taken their story straight to Georgiana! I’m dead! Absolutely dead!”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Charlie.

  “They saw me walking with you,” Flora replied. “I can just imagine what they told Georgiana! She’s going to have my head!”

  “Miss Winthrop? Please. Why on earth would she do that?”

  “Because the two of you are…” She let the sentence trail off, expecting him to fill in the rest.

  “We’re what?” he prompted.

  He was making fun of her, Flora instinctively thought. “You’re practically engaged,” she hissed.

  To her surprise, he recoiled. “What? Since when? Look, I’ll admit I’ve danced many times with Miss Winthrop—Georgiana—and I might’ve taken a few walks with her back when the leaves were changing, but I hardly think that amounts to an engagement.”

  “Well, she certainly thinks you are!”

  “Oh, yeah? From what I’ve heard, she’s gotten herself into the thick of the Prince’s search for a consort.”

  “Yes, and she was worried that you’d challenge the Prince to a duel over it, too,” said Flora without really thinking whether she should disclose this detail.

  Charlie outright scoffed. “That’ll never happen. Anyone fool enough to challenge the Prince will get what he deserves. And honestly, if Georgiana Winthrop is going to draw such ridiculous conclusions about me, the Prince is welcome to have her. Not that he will,” he muttered under his breath.

  Flora was prevented from remarking further on this by the sound of the back door opening.

  “Flora?” called Mrs. Finch uncertainly. “Are you out here?”

  Hastily she stood and blocked Charlie from view. “Yes? What is it?” she called back.