The Queen of Hearts lay on the table.
They were silent.
“Beautiful color printing, wouldn’t you say?” Jonathan coaxed. When it seemed his father would say nothing.
“It’s quite fine,” Isaiah said absently. He seemed riveted by the image.
Jonathan watched thunder slowly gather in his father’s face. His hands trembled. His jaw turned to granite.
His father looked slowly up at him.
“What the devil do you mean by this?” Every word was etched in cold fury.
“Her name is Thomasina de Ballesteros. But you already know that, as you had a little conversation with her. And there it is, right there”—Jonathan tapped the card—“printed right across the bottom in tiny letters. I am going to marry her. And you will love her. Because I love her.”
His father’s mouth was trembling in fury. It was a moment before he could finally make words emerge, and they were scraped raw. “How dare—”
Jonathan held up a hand. “I repeat: You will love her. You will receive her in this house. And you will allow Cynthia Brightly into this house. And you will love her, too, because I love her, and Miles loves her, and Violet loves her. Because it is you, Father, who has caused the upheaval and division in your family. You who are causing your own unhappiness with your attempts to make yourself happy. Not your children. You. And the only thing that matters in life is that you have people to love. Surely, somewhere inside you, you know this.”
His father’s jaw was dropped now.
And then he clapped it shut again swiftly. And his words emerged an arid hiss.
“How dare you speak to me this way.” It was a tone of voice that would have terrified Jonathan when he was a child. “If you marry this girl you won’t receive another pen—”
“And with regards to my allowance,” Jonathan continued smoothly, as if his father hadn’t said a word, “you’ll find the entirety of what I have been paid for the past two years in your account. I’ve doubled my wealth inside a year. Next year I intend to triple it. And if you care to know the reason why, it’s because I now own the Lancaster Mill. I sat with the solicitor, Mr. Romulus Bean, yesterday, and we made if official. I’m also in discussions with Mr. Bean to purchase a part ownership in the cotton mill in Northampton. I won’t require another penny from you. But I will be happy to discuss investment opportunities with you, for I’ll be forming my own investment group. One of the group’s first priorities is helping Miles find the funding for his next expedition.”
His father took all of this in, as if to say, “You’re . . . jesting.”
Jonathan sighed. “Feel free to write to Mr. Bean to inquire, but I do have the deed—” He slipped it from his coat, a coat of horrors as far as his father was concerned, and slid it over to him. “—right here.”
His father gingerly dragged the document toward him and stared down at it.
He looked back up at Jonathan, his face entirely unreadable now.
Jonathan put his palm over it and slid it back into his possession. “I’ll just take that back now, shall I? And do you know why he sold it to me? As luck would have it, I saved him from some thugs in a street brawl. Right outside a gaming hell. Of course, I had funds, too, thanks to my prior investments, or Mr. Bean wouldn’t even have bothered to speak with me. I’ve been investing in silks and similar cargos for the past two years. As I told you.”
His father levered himself gingerly back in his chair, as if he’d suddenly become brittle and feared he would shatter. He stared at Jonathan as if he’d never seen him before.
And in many ways, of course, he hadn’t.
Jonathan would warrant his father wouldn’t make that mistake again.
“One thing that might cheer you: Thomasina’s father is, in fact, a duke.”
And there was a flicker of something on Isaiah’s face then. Hope or surprise. More likely a reflexive response to the word “duke,” perhaps, knowing his father and his hunger for a title that the king forever dangled before the Redmonds and Everseas, and which still remained out of reach.
“You can’t tell anyone, however. She’s quite illegitimate.”
Jonathan was enjoying himself a bit too much.
“And I suppose I ought to tell you we already have children. A good hundred or so of them. Well, in a manner of speaking.”
His father slowly closed his eyes. His lips moved in what might have been a prayer.
“One final thing, Father. You may want to stay on my good side, because I’m running for parliament to dismantle the practice of child labor. And I have every intention of winning. I expect when you’ve time to recover and have had a good think, you’ll be proud of me. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, that sort of thing. And of course you’ll be able to turn it all to your benefit.”
Isaiah’s green eyes snapped open again. His hands remained flat on his desk, as if the earth was moving and he was attempting to hold it still.
Jonathan stood. “And oh . . . you may have realized this, but that isn’t the Diamonds of the First Water Deck. It’s a special edition. The only deck I’d ever consider drawing from.”
Jonathan winked at his father, slipped the Queen of Hearts back into his pocket. And then he slid back his chair and left the room.
Short, shocking, and to the point. Jonathan had honed that skill playing darts.
But, of course, he’d first learned it from his father.
ISAIAH SAT STUNNED for another moment, staring at the doorway.
And then he drew in a long breath and idly pulled the deck toward him. He was appalled to find his hands shaking.
He turned over the top card.
The Queen of Diamonds.
He peered: This particular monarch had green eyes, and tiny slanting black brows, and red hair, and a regal tilt to her head. She wore a proud secret smile.
An unmistakable face.
He cautiously, slowly, turned over another.
It was the Knave of Spades.
He held it in his now-shaking hands and inspected it. The knave was wearing pantaloons, but scandalously; it was clearly a woman. Red hair knotted at the nape, and an elegant profile, a large slanting green eye with extraordinarily long lashes.
He turned over another card.
And another.
And another.
Every single court card, every last one of them, featured an image of Thomasina de Ballesteros.
Chapter 30
LATER, THE BROADSHEETS WOULD report it as “The Burlington Arcade Stampede.” The aftermath was still being dealt with the following day, when bits of ribbon and scraps of net—perhaps torn from bonnets or the sleeves of dresses—a glove, and even a slipper were swept up by the merchants’ assistants. One young lady turned her ankle and needed to be carried out. Another fainted, though that may have just been dramatics.
All anyone knew for certain was that a milling, restless, generally well-bred, brilliantly well-dressed crowd poured into the shops to snap up their Diamonds of the First Water decks, and claim the ones they ordered in advance, only to find that, much to everyone’s surprise, two different decks had been delivered.
The Diamonds of the First Water decks were torn open and rifled through, and shouts of glee and howls of protest went up. Fierce arguments and fits of weeping broke out, money changed hands as wagers were won or lost.
And in one appalling instance, a certain Lady Grace Worthington was rumored to have shouted something unrepeatable when she at first couldn’t find herself in the deck. It was whispered that the first word began with an “F” and the second was “Hell.”
And then she found herself in the deck and stared, appeased and captivated.
“But what about Redmond? Where’s Redmond?” the cry soon went up. For more wagers needed to be settled.
The merchant called for silence.
“From what I understand, Mr. Redmond is formally making his choice in a private ceremony at his home in Sussex. But you can find his choice
in this very limited edition deck.”
The merchants gestured at the other deck held behind their counters, and soon those decks vanished, too.
Silence descended as they all rifled in confusion through the deck.
Then muttering ensued.
Then a hush, as realization sank into each of them.
“But she’s not even blond!” Lady Grace Worthington howled.
Or so it was rumored.
And then she succumbed to overstimulation, fainted prettily, and needed to be carried away by two bloods who had lost money in the wager and considered a look at Lady Grace’s ankles a consolation.
SHE MUST HAVE dozed off, because Tommy awoke with a start when she heard the knock.
A long knock, as it turned out. A fancy complicated one.
Her heart leaped like a bird sprung from a cage.
She scrambled out of bed, shoved her arms into her pelisse, and ran barefoot down the stairs, through the corridor, and then came to an abrupt halt.
A message—this one written on foolscap, folded neatly, and formally sealed with red wax—had been slipped under her door.
She stood on tiptoe and peeked out the peephole. Not a soul stood there. She opened it a few inches and peered out.
Nothing but a dim, none-too-sweet-smelling London alley. Not even a cat or a rat strolled by.
She closed and locked the door and turned around abruptly, pressing her back to it. Then she plucked up the message gingerly. She ran her thumb over the seal—something had been pressed into it, a signet of some sort—but she couldn’t read it in the dark.
Her heart pounding loud enough to drown out her footsteps, she slowly carried it up the creaking stairs, back down the corridor, into her rooms again. She crouched down next to the fire, and peered.
Into the red wax were pressed the letters:
JHR.
She traced it with trembling fingers. Might as well have been his heart.
Pity she needed to break it to read what was inside.
She slipped her finger beneath it tenderly, and snapped open a sheet of foolscap.
There was no letter. No preamble. It was simply what appeared to be a numbered list, written in a hand as tall, dark, and bold as JHR was.
1. Walk twenty paces and turn left at the building with the red door.
2. Go straight for forty paces and turn right.
3. Walk up the stairs to the second story, turn around three times, touch your nose, then go twenty paces forward.
And on and on it went.
And then she burst into laughter and bounced on her toes, her heart singing. The beast! What on earth was he about?
She skipped to the bottom:
22. When you reach the carriage, board it and stay aboard until it stops. You’ll find a picnic repast inside to help you pass the time.
Unwrapping the gift inside will also pass the time.
Just as he’d said he’d never seen a woman undress so quickly when she’d flung herself off a bridge into the Ouse, he likely would have said he’d never seen a woman dress so quickly as she did this morning. But she dressed carefully. She hadn’t seen him in three weeks, a veritable eternity. She wanted to look spectacular.
She locked the door behind her, and gamely embarked on a labyrinthine journey very like the one she’d led him on the second midnight she’d met him.
Down narrow streets, up staircases, once doubling back to do it again.
She smiled like a looby the entire way.
“Greetings, Tommy!” Jasper called when she passed him the alley. He was leaning against the wall.
“Greetings, Jasper!”
She mulled how very Jonathan of him to effortlessly find his way to her when she needed him, labyrinth or no. Just as he’d effortlessly uncovered her secrets. But that was simply because he’d been born knowing the secret to her. He was hers and she was his. Just as there was one key for every lock.
At last, on Drury Lane, she found what appeared to be a brand new, quite spotless carriage pulled by four beautiful matched grays.
The driver was leaning against the side of it, arms crossed over his chest, beaming.
He helped her aboard.
“We’ll be traveling for just a few hours, madam. Please make yourself comfortable.”
It wasn’t difficult to do as the seats were well-sprung clouds; she nestled into them, sighing. Across from her was the basket mentioned in her message. She fished about, and inside were tea cakes, bread and cheese, a flask of tea. Ah! And there it was.
A little bundle wrapped in ribbon.
With trembling hands, she unwrapped it.
It was a key.
She stared at it for a moment, puzzled. Then she closed it tightly in her palm, holding onto it the way she’d once held onto her father’s medal.
AN HOUR INTO her journey, the roads began to look familiar, and she knew, just knew, where she was bound. And so though she wasn’t surprised when the low red brick of the Lancaster Mill came into view, her heart began to slam.
The mill was quiet now, closed for the evening, twilight hanging swaths of mauve and blue clouds behind it, as if the mill itself were festooned for a party.
The driver assisted her down.
And he nodded at her to go the rest of the distance alone.
It was so quiet she could hear the river moving behind the mill. Hear the wind stirring in the trees. Hear her own footsteps echoing on the path.
A sheet of foolscap was affixed to the door. On it was written:
USE THE KEY
Laughing, breathless, her hands trembling and a trifle awkward, she inserted the key into the lock and turned.
She gave the door a gentle push, and it swung open noiselessly. She approved of the well-oiled hinges.
The silence inside was resounding. She peered into the twilit cavern; not a living creature stirred. The immense machines were like a pride of slumbering beasts. All the children were in the dormitory for the evening. Bits of twilight pushed through the narrow rectangle windows.
And a row of lit lamps were arranged on the floor, forming a path of sorts toward the overlooker’s office.
Something rustled; she took a step backward. Below her feet another sheet of foolscap affixed to the floor. She crouched down and read:
Go left for twenty paces and open the door. Follow the lamps.
She measured off those paces as though she were walking a high wire. Dizzied, and shaking, and giddy, and hopeful, and exhilaratingly frightened. Don’t look at your feet, Tommy, she warned herself. The way to achieve the impossible is to simply do it as if it were the most possible thing in the world.
Twenty paces later she found herself staring at the door of the overlooker’s office.
She sucked in a shaking breath, closed her fingers around the knob, and pulled it slowly open. The room was dimly, warmly lit by a pair of lamps.
Jonathan was seated at the desk, his long legs crossed up on it. Arms folded behind his head. Very like he owned the place. Very relaxed indeed.
There ensued a moment during which they merely stared at each other. They never could speak to each other until that first wave of fierce joy and desire had washed each of them, and they had both caught their breath and gathered their wits again.
He caught his first.
“You made good time. In a hurry to see me, Tommy?”
A drawl, soft as a silk shawl drawn round her shoulders.
But she detected the slight tremble in it. And the tension in the arms that seemed oh-so-casually folded behind his head.
She knew then he hadn’t been certain she would come.
“Didn’t I just see you?” she said softly. Feigning boredom.
He didn’t smile. He stood, drawing his legs gracefully down from the desk, and slowly came to her. As if he, too, were walking a high wire.
He stood staring down at her.
“Here is what I have to say, then, Tommy.” His voice was still soft. What an untold pleasure it
was to hear his voice again. The very sound of love. “You wanted choices, Tommy. I have two choices for you.”
He reached into the pocket of his coat, and came out with a folded sheet of foolscap. It rattled a bit in his hands. He drew in a breath, and exhaled. And then he held it out to her.
“This is a deed to this mill. It’s in your name. In short, this mill now belongs to you, if you want it.”
She blanked in shock.
Suddenly she couldn’t feel her limbs at all.
She took it from him gingerly. The foolscap rattled between her trembling fingers. A haze of emotion moved over her eyes, and it was a moment before she could read.
But she did read. In the dim silence, while Jonathan held utterly still, she read.
And she saw that what he said was true.
She looked up at him.
“But . . . how . . . ?”
“I bought it. And the reason I was able to buy it is indirectly all because of you. I’ve another deed—I had the solicitor draw up two of them—that says something entirely different. It says the mill belongs to me. I’ll tell you about that next. For that’s where your choice comes in. First, I wanted you to know, Tommy . . . that I chose a bride from a deck of cards yesterday.”
She reared back. And now shock slowly iced her palms and the pit of her stomach. She longed to look over her shoulder. Longed to flee. But she was trapped here now.
Surely . . . surely the mill wasn’t an apology, or a thank you for services rendered? Was this a cruel trick?
And now panic shortened her breath.
“Would you like to see who I drew from the deck?” he asked. His expression gave away nothing.
She stared at him. Iciness had given way to a feverish heat in her cheeks. Fine. There was nothing she couldn’t endure. She straightened her spine and jerked up her chin, and thrust out her palm.
And he pulled a card from his right pocket as she took a bracing breath.
He settled it into her palm.
“Look at it, Tommy.” he ordered. When it appeared she never would.
So she looked.
Julie Anne Long - [Pennyroyal Green 08] Page 27
