A man on horseback suddenly rode abreast of the carriage. His hat had toppled off and the capes of his greatcoat fluttered like crow wings. “Are you mad?” he shouted. “Get back inside!”
I inched forward, vision blurry from the air rushing at my eyelids. I was within reach of the bench when the man leaped from his horse and landed with a thud beneath me. He was reaching for the reins just as I tumbled over, landing hard on the seat. The coachman’s gin bottle rolled, hitting the man’s foot. He tugged on the reins, shouting instructions at the horses. They finally halted, suddenly enough that the carriage skidded sideways and came to a rickety stop, leaning against an oak tree. Acorns rained down on our heads. The horses snorted and stomped. I was panting, my heart like a blacksmith’s hammer striking great blows against my rib cage. I felt lightheaded, my knees surprisingly weak. I sat down with a thump.
“Blimey.” He blinked down at me and then actually bowed. “Miss Wild.”
Dante Cowan.
Of course.
I know you’ll think me a muttonhead when I tell you my first thought was that he would not wish to court a madcap girl like me.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, running his hands down my arms, his eyes raking over me.
“Lord Thornwood,” I croaked, trying not to lean into his touch. He makes me feel positively wanton. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t curtsy.”
“I think we might dispense with titles, don’t you?” he said drily, apparently satisfied that I hadn’t broken any bones or concussed myself. “Seeing as you’re quite obviously insane.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He smiled and there was nothing lighthearted about it. It was wicked and dark and sharp as any dagger I might have secreted on my person. I could have staked a vampire with the edge of it. His voice was no softer. “What on earth are you doing in a runaway carriage in the middle of the night in Hyde Park, alone and wearing trousers obviously too large for you?”
“A … prank. I was playing a prank and it went awry.”
“I am almost afraid to imagine what prank might require you to take such clumsy care of your own life.”
“It’s … complicated.”
“I’m sure it is. You might have been killed, Rosalind.”
I tried a sunny smile. “I’m perfectly well, thank you.”
“Shouldn’t you be swooning or weeping?”
“What would be the use in that?” I asked quizzically. Honestly, boys.
His smile went crooked and delightful. It was as tempting and sinful as chocolate cream. Indeed, had it been such, I would have given myself a bellyache on it.
“What were you really doing, Rosalind?”
I nearly answered him, leaning forward slightly when he did. Dangerous, that smile.
I clambered off the seat and swung down to the ground, just to put some space between us. I did not fully trust myself. There is something about him, something that makes my head feel fuzzy. I checked the horses for injuries, feeling his eyes on me the entire time.
“They don’t seem any the worse,” I said, patting one on the side. He was sweaty and warm, but he didn’t nip or leap away from me. In fact, his companion was blithely munching away on the grass. Dante’s own horse padded over to join them.
“You were very lucky,” he said quietly, leaning down to loop his horse’s reins to the back of the carriage.
“I know,” I answered, climbing back up to sit next to him. “Thanks in large part to you.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know anyone else who would think to crawl onto the roof.”
I shrugged. “I couldn’t just sit there.”
“No, I don’t suppose you could.”
The stars were thick overhead and crickets sang from the tall grass. Mist hung between the branches like smoke. His hair was tousled from the chase, his cravat askew. We might have been alone in the world, except for the soft noises of nocturnal animals and the scent of night-blooming flowers. I think he might have kissed me then, but I ruined the moment entirely.
“The coachman!” I exclaimed suddenly.
He pulled back and I like to think he was a little disappointed. “So you did have one.”
“Yes.” I winced. “I caught sight of him when the horses first bolted and he was on the side of the road in a pile. I do hope he’s not seriously harmed.” I tried to grab the reins from him. “Do hurry.”
He wouldn’t relinquish control of the carriage but he urged the horses into a walk, easing them off the lawn and back onto the lane. There would be frightful divots in the grass come the light. “I think you’ll have to tell me about this prank,” he said pointedly.
“It’s nothing really,” I insisted.
“Rosalind.”
“What?”
“You do realize, don’t you, that if your coachman was knocked off his perch, it was most likely a deliberate action?”
“Perhaps he was robbed.” “Perhaps.”
He didn’t sound convinced. “Or it may have been directed at you. Did you ever consider that, prancing about without protection of any kind?”
I blinked at him. “There’s no reason to think so,” I said.
Even though there was every reason to think so.
Indeed, I was horribly convinced that we would pull up the Honeychurch town house and hear screaming or the night watchman with his bell. Perhaps the assassin had merely wanted me out of his way to complete his nefarious plans. I couldn’t tell Dante that, of course; he is a gentleman after all and has no notions of such things. The worst he would worry about is thieves, never mind the kinds of creatures we have been told about.
I am happy to report that the town house was brightly lit and filled with music and laughter, with very little suspicious activity to recommend it. In that at least, I have not failed.
Even the coachman was relatively well, with only a sore head and a sore temper. He agreed with Dante that it must have been a thief out for some coin, but he couldn’t remember clearly. He thought there might have been one man, well-dressed. He would’ve had to have supernatural speed to avoid the countless other coachmen on the road.
You’ll forgive me if I leap to the most obvious conclusion.
A vampire, clearly. And perhaps even the one from Vauxhall! I do not think it outside the realm of the possible.
I gave the driver extra coin but he still refused to see me home. He muttered something about going straight to the first pub he could find outside of Mayfair. I don’t think he’ll be in the neighborhood again for some time. Dante very gallantly offered to see me home, even though he only had his horse. I accepted his gloved hand and launched myself into the saddle in front of him. He cradled me very gently against his chest and the short ride home was far too short. The sun was just beginning to burn a faint scar in the sky above the buildings and the trees when Dante hurried me off his mount.
“It wouldn’t do for you to be seen,” he explained, nudging me into the yew tree at the edge of our lane. The birds were starting to sing from the chimney tops. The first of the servants would be up and about soon, and the deliveries would start arriving at the back door.
“Can you get inside without alerting the household?” he asked me.
“Of course,” I scoffed. If only he truly knew what I could do.
“This isn’t over,” he promised me softly. “I mean to find out your secrets, Rosalind.”
I shivered a little even though it was warm out, the summer air thickening between the houses. He closed the gap between us then and slanted his mouth over mine. I crushed the front of his coat in my hands, kissing him back. I vow I could have stood there until the snows came, with his lips on mine, his hands in my hair, his chest pressed against mine.
It was perfect. And over too soon. By the time the sun sent its first arrows of light, he was already cantering down the road and out of sight.
Do you think that means he is courting me now? Shall I call him my beau? I don’t want to ask him but the curiosity i
s maddening.
Do come home soon, Evie.
I have a feeling I’ll need you desperately.
Yours,
Rosalind
June 17, 1815
Dear Evangeline,
I have never felt like this before.
I have always rolled my eyes at those girls who sigh and flutter and won’t stop talking of their beau’s cravat pins or the dashing length of their sideburns. Never fear, I have no intention of fluttering, but I fear I really must tell you about Dante or else I shall surely burst. In the interest of not finding bits of your dearest friend all over the settee, I’ll beg you to oblige me. I suppose I could talk to Eleanor, she certainly knows about these things, but it would be insufferable. Besides, it is your duty as a true friend. So, you see, you must simply endure it.
This morning, the foyer was filled with flowers. There were at least three dozen roses, all from Percy, poor fellow. It is like comparing milk to whiskey. There were tulips as well, from some bloke who is more interested in my dowry. The fortune hunters this Season lack a certain subtlety. He all but asked how many sheep Father’s country estate can support.
All of those flowers might as well have been made of paper next to Dante’s gift. I admit, at first I thought the Chinese porcelain pot a trifle odd. Odder still the fact that there appeared to be a twig sticking out of it, with nary a blossom to be found anywhere. Upon closer observation however, there dangled a pale green bud from the tip of the twig. The note explained it to be a rare purple orchid, set to bloom shortly. After which it will return to being a twig. But if I keep it in the hothouse after and water it faithfully, I have been promised it will bloom a few times a year for many years. Is that not delightful? I can scarcely wait to see it. I’ve set it on the windowsill by my bed.
I had hoped he would come calling in the afternoon, but he never did. Percy, of course, was perfectly punctual and perfectly polite—he and Mother were so pleased with each other I strongly considered climbing out of the window. Especially when Mother promised him my first dance at the family ball.
I looked for Dante in Hyde Park until I got a cramp in my neck, and Beatrix asked me if I was considering joining the circus as a contortionist. He was not at the Taylor supper either, which was an interminably long and dull parade of curried lobsters and calves’ jellies and lambs’ tongues. I mostly ate the pudding.
He wasn’t at the theater either, and I used my opera glasses to peruse every member of the not inconsiderable audience. (On that note, we ought to consider recruiting Dowager Dewbury to our ranks. She has uncanny abilities when it comes to gossip. Also, Lady Mayford might well be a vampire. Or else she ought to speak to her maid about the overapplication of face powder. It bears further investigation.)
The night wasn’t all frivolity. Lord Winterson was in attendance and I was able to see who came and went from his box during the intermissions, but alas no suspects as of yet. I shall have to try harder. I was feeling a trifle disappointed when the night’s entertainments were over and I was standing in my nightclothes, admiring my soon-to-be orchid with no further word from its bestower—until the crickets paused in their ritual orchestra abruptly enough to have me glance out the window into the gardens.
At Dante.
He stood on the flagstones, bold as you please, grinning up at me. The moonlight touched his white cravat and shirt, as if he were glowing. He was all light and shifting shadows.
I pulled open my window and leaned out. “Are you daft?” I whispered loudly.
He bowed extravagantly, deeply, his dark tousled hair falling over his brow. “Such poetry, my lady.”
“Hush! My parents will hear you.”
He straightened, still grinning. “All the windows appear dark.”
I leaned farther out, twisted my neck to have a look for myself. Satisfied, I turned back to him. “Wait there,” I called out. I didn’t even bother with slippers or a candle but instead raced downstairs by sliding down the banister and crashed into the gardens in my bare feet. Luckily the stones were still warm from the sun and the breeze was heavy with summer. I couldn’t see him anywhere. I followed the path around a copse of twisted hazel and rosebushes. He detached himself from the embrace of the old oak tree with such deliberate and calculated grace, I scarcely saw him move. I only knew that I was tugged suddenly into the shadows, lace ribbons fluttering. He caged me against the mossy trunk, his hand over my mouth to silence me, his eyes an impossible green, greener even than the oak leaves.
I had to try very hard not to give in to my training and kick him. Flirting is harder than it looks.
“Pardon,” he murmured, so close that I could smell cherry liqueur on his breath. He eased his hand away. “I didn’t want you to be startled and cry out, giving us away.”
“I am made of sterner stuff than that,” I scoffed.
“Yes, I forget. You enjoy clinging to the rooftops of runaway carriages,” he teased. “A girl must have a hobby, after all.”
I could have pushed him away if I’d wanted to. Perhaps that was why I didn’t. I am ever contrary, as you know. But right then I was content to stay where I was, pressed between an ancient tree and a handsome young man in a dark gray frock coat. There were acorns under our feet and moonlight pouring like rain between the branches. My stomach felt full of fluttering hummingbirds; delicate, frenzied, and ticklish. His smile was crooked and solemn.
“Rosalind,” he said softly. “I’ve never known a girl like you.”
He wasn’t the first to say so, but he was definitely the first to say it with a hint of reverence. It made my throat swell a little, to be looked at like that. I am too accustomed to being accused of being hoydenish and headstrong and stubborn. I am all of those things, and proudly so, but it’s nice sometimes to be looked at as if you are more precious than any debutante with maidenly blushes. I think we both know I’ve never mastered the trick of blushing. But he doesn’t mind, Evie. He likes me as I am. I can just tell.
“My mother would have me accept Percy’s suit,” I told him quietly. I’ve no wish to play games and no wish for him to hear it elsewhere as fact when it most certainly is not. I have read too many novels to chance such a misunderstanding.
“And would you accept it?” I shook my head. He leaned in closer, his big hand splayed over the peeling bark by my head. “Then I shan’t worry about the milksop.” He was so close now that his lips moved over mine as he talked, so lightly I might have imagined it. “And would you accept my suit?”
“Yes,” I said, because there was simply no other answer.
And then he was kissing me and there was simply no thought at all.
He took his time, sampling slowly, so slowly. I kissed him back insistently, running my tongue over his bottom lip. He pulled me forward, so that I could feel the silver buttons on his coat pockets press into my ribs. His mouth traveled slowly, as though tasting me, as if I were some delectable dessert he’d stolen from the finest kitchen in the finest royal palace. He kissed my jaw and along my neck, tilting my head back, taking a handful of my hair in his hand and pulling it from its pins. I had to hold tight to his shoulders, crumpling his fine coat. I would have melted otherwise, my knees felt that weak.
We pulled away, gasping for breath. There was nothing but his eyes, his severe cheekbones, and his serious mouth. And then he let me go.
“You’re too good for me,” he said, barely above a whisper, before passing through the lilac hedge and pulling himself on top of the stone garden wall. He stood there for a long moment, his gaze searing into me. Then he bowed and was gone.
Giddily yours,
Rosalind
June 21, 1815
Dear Evangeline,
The night began much as I’d planned.
Which means, of course, that it did not precisely end as planned.
I snuck out after the Middleton ball dressed in my borrowed trousers and shirt. I vow I have had more occasion to wear them than any of my fine dresses. Even Beatrix did not imme
diately recognize me. She had quite a start when she climbed into the hired carriage and found me lounging in my boots and waistcoat. I’ll give her credit for not shouting, though she did throw her reticule at my head when she realized it was me chortling away in the lantern light. Her reticule is uncommonly heavy with all those journals and books she insists on carting around with her everywhere. But since that is part of the reason why I have taken her into my confidence, I shan’t complain.
I paid the carriage driver rather handsomely with the last of my pin money to take us down the road to the Winterson town house, tucked away behind that elm tree so we were not immediately obvious and still had a good view of the front door and the lane. It seems silly since it’s less than a ten-minute walk from my house to theirs, but we felt we would be better served hiding in the carriage. The park is full of footpads and we hadn’t the time to sort them all out while we spied on an earl’s house. Also, it was raining. You know how Beatrix feels about the rain. I would not be at all surprised if she moves to Egypt one day, or somewhere equally exotic and hot. But tonight all I had to offer her was a carriage with worn cushions and the smell of gin and rose perfume.
We watched the Winterson house for a full hour before the candles were lit in the front hall. They must have been off at some dinner party or another, where at least they had the safety of numbers. It was late at night when everyone had sought their beds and even the horses were asleep.
My father will hear no more of my warnings. He is dashed uncooperative about the whole affair. I even paid a street sweeper to deliver Lord Winterson an anonymous letter warning him of the plot against his life.
Nothing.
I’ve noticed no increased security, no bodyguards, not a single Bow Street Runner lurking in the hedges. I do know he at least read my letter, however, because word got around, as it does. He did not take it seriously either, especially since Father told him he was fairly certain I’d sent it. To say Father was disgruntled is an understatement. I have never seen him turn that particular shade of violet before. He railed at me for a full half hour before Maman gave him a brandy and ordered him to stop endangering his health. He did look as if his heart was in danger of failing. Even the footman looked concerned, loitering in the hall outside the parlor.
Corsets and Crossbows Page 3
