D2D_Poison or Protect Read online

  She forced herself to focus, undoing the many buttons down the front of her dress with small, nimble fingers. She should summon one of the upstairs maids, but she needed time alone.

  She hung up the green gown. Her trunk had been unpacked, the clothing pressed. The duchess ran a tight ship. Her outfits hung, a cluster of dark dramatic colors. The last husband was three years gone. She was not required to wear mourning, but Preshea liked dark colors. She looked well in them. Plus, they reminded people that she was the Mourning Star.

  Abruptly, she shut the wardrobe door and went to perch on her bed. It was high. Her feet did dangle.

  For longer than she ought (given the coldness of the room) she sat in her underthings, shoulders hunched down into her stays, arms wrapped about her tiny waist. Mentally, she stripped herself of the longing, bit by bit, as she had stripped herself of her traveling gown.

  He would be no different from the others. His tenderness was a front to hide angry force. He was a soldier and he had killed, like her. Once bare of society’s trappings, he would be as demanding as any man, as ignorant of her needs, as cruel in his desire. How dared she want? To forget the past so easily?

  For shame, Preshea Buss. There is no hope to be found in a man. I am done with wanting anything but control.

  I will break his heart, she decided. That is the only way to expose his brutality. Then he will lash out at me as they all do. And I will have my reason for never trying at all.

  It occurred to her to be sad, that she equated her power with his pain. She forced herself to imagine his face if she let him love her and then spurned further advances. She did like him, pathetic creature that she was, and she should suffer for that weakness. She welcomed the bitter pill of self-loathing as an antidote to lust. She would not expose herself again. She would not risk her heart or anything else. Better to be alone.

  And yet.

  And yet. She could not stop imagining his big hands under her foot as he lifted her. For he would be gentle. She had to believe that. Some man, somewhere, had to be gentle. Why not this one?

  I am such a fool.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dangling Feet and Participles

  What on earth just happened? Gavin wondered as his valet helped him into a fresh cravat.

  Mawkins was a dab hand with the length of cloth and would have taken care with the tying of it, but Gavin grumbled his usual refrain. “I’m a simple man – keep it simple.”

  Mawkins tutted but did as requested. “Which coat, sir?” He hadn’t asked about the waistcoat. Mawkins had stopped asking about waistcoats years before. Gavin was hopeless with waistcoats.

  “We’ll be at cards all afternoon.”

  Mawkins selected a refined charcoal frock coat, cut in such a way as to make Gavin’s shoulders seem even larger. Gavin thought it a bit much, but Mawkins was never wrong about frock coats.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  Can you explain to me the workings of one wee assassin’s brain beneath the blackest hair I’ve ever seen? Would it be soft, that hair? I’ll wager it’s soft. And springy.

  “Nay. Thank you, Mawkins. Everything solid belowstairs?”

  “Nothing of consequence to report, sir. The odds are against Mr Jackson.”

  “I ken that’s the truth of it.”

  “Would you like a flutter in favor of his suit?”

  “Nay.”

  “Sir? You know something of consequence?” Mawkins was never one to turn down a wager, especially if he might benefit from inside information. Since he’d started out as Gavin’s batman, he enjoyed a level of familiarity with his master unprecedented amongst his peers. Thus, he was wise to the aristocracy.

  Gavin explained, “I’m thinking Jack has more than just family set against him.”

  “Poor Mr Jackson.”

  “Aye, indeed.” Gavin didn’t explain further. He didn’t know why Lady Villentia was intent on Jack, nor what relationship she had with Snodgrove. He was beginning to doubt she was there to kill the duke. But that might be wishful thinking.

  He must conclude that his own feelings regarding Lady Villentia were too confused to relay anything further to Mawkins. The valet was in favor of matrimonial bliss and could prattle on at the slightest whiff of interest. Sir is such a nice man – why hasn’t sir found himself a wife? Gavin would not be beaten down by his valet. No matter how old a friend.

  “Find us a mourning band for dinner tonight, please? There’s a household ghost. It wouldna do to be disrespectful.”

  “Very good, sir.” Mawkins collected the travel-soiled garments. “Will there be anything else?”

  “You’ll manage the claret for later?”

  “As always, sir.”

  Gavin retrieved his current book, in case card games or conversation lulled over the course of the afternoon. He was back downstairs a mere fifteen minutes after having left.

  Jack was hovering over his lady, who was busy with her scandalous flower sketching. They were discussing the finer points of herbaceous borders. It was a subject about which Gavin was certain Jack knew nothing. However, ignorance had never stopped Jack from waxing poetical on any subject.

  Of course, he searched the room for Lady Villentia, pretending that he was getting a feel for the gathering and watching out for Snodgrove’s safety. The resulting spike of disappointment at her absence was ridiculous.

  She’d surprised him in the hallway. She’d flirted with him, and not in the calculated manner she threw at others – with those sharp, careful smiles. No, she’d forgotten herself for a moment and given him insight and delight without caution.

  He had to wonder. Did her inclinations match his own? Did she wish to be cared for in the way he preferred? His sexual experience was limited to ladies of a professional nature. Yet even the most experienced of his partners had been startled by his requests. As a result, he’d given over finding a lass who might answer his desires in kind. Yet Lady Villentia had appeared almost eager. Should she like it, to be cherished?

  He forestalled his thoughts – not right in polite company.

  He was disinterested in the game of whist between Miss Leeton, Lord Lionel, Lord Blingchester, and the duke. The two matrons were gossiping softly about who was to be presented at court, a conversation in which he would be unwelcome.

  With no other option, he approached Lady Florence and Miss Pagril, who, while disinterested in him as a marriage prospect (thank heaven), seemed pleasant lasses.

  They occupied a window seat together and were not averse to his company, if their smiles were any indication.

  “Captain Ruthven,” said Lady Florence, “are you refreshed from your journey?”

  “Aye, Lady Florence. The sandwiches were verra helpful.”

  Lady Florence hid a smile.

  Miss Pagril did not. “Should you like more?”

  Miss Florence joined her friend in teasing. “Shall I ring for Jennings? It would be no trouble.”

  Gavin chuckled, delighted that they were relaxed enough in his company to mock. “I’d as lief na trouble Jennings. He seems the type to mock a lad who canna resist a sandwich.”

  Both ladies laughed.

  They chatted amiably, Lady Florence and Miss Pagril disposed to be charming both to him and to each other.

  Lady Villentia took longer than Gavin expected, even for an exquisite. When she finally appeared, she had changed into a dark blue day dress of watered silk. Again it was simple, decorated only with a little fringe about the bodice. His lass seemed to favor simplicity. None of that, now, she isna mine. I need na pay attention to her preferences, much as I would enjoy it.

  He noticed, attuned after her conversation earlier, that her skirt was narrower than any other present. It flowed out the back, emphasizing her curves. Never one for frills and puffs, he found the dress pleasing. Although he missed those jet buttons.

  Lady Villentia circulated, as he had, and drew the same conclusion, joining them at the window. In the hallway, his
paltry charm had brightened those sad eyes, but they were dulled once more. He was tongue-tied at the loss.

  It fell to the daughter of the house to formulate a greeting. “Lady Villentia, welcome. Is your room to your liking?”

  “Very much so, Lady Florence. It is pleasing in both proportion and furnishing.”

  “Oh, Lady Flo, please. Lady Florence makes me feel like someone’s maiden aunt.”

  “Lady Flo, then.” Lady Villentia gave a half-smile of genuine pleasure, as if she rarely experienced kindness.

  “The bed isna too high?” wondered Gavin, testing.

  “I did not try the bed, Captain.” Her eyes narrowed at him in warning.

  The younger girls were rendered speechless.

  Gavin realized his gaffe. “A wee joke from earlier. Pay me no mind.”

  Lady Villentia’s attention was caught by something outside the window. “Lady Flo, your father wouldn’t set his staff to gardening in such a storm, would he?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Ah. So.” She said nothing more, but Gavin strained his eyes to see. Had she noticed someone lurking in the pouring rain? Had she spotted the real assassin or was she deflecting notice? He saw nothing.

  “I was pleasantly surprised to find your father kept a dirigible, Lady Flo,” commented Lady Villentia.

  “Oh yes, Father can be quite avant-garde. Not in his faith, of course, but he does have some progressive leanings. Hides them well, poor thing, but can’t seem to stop.” She glanced fondly at her father. “We’ve had members of the local werewolf pack to tea, and I know he meets on business with vampires in town. Of course, such interactions go hand in hand with the latest technology. Do you favor newfangled gadgets, Captain Ruthven?”

  The Scotsman gave a rueful smile. “I too was surprised by the dirigible, but na pleasantly. I canna deny it – poor Lady Villentia played witness – I’m a terrible floater.”

  “He was near as green as Lady Blingchester’s dress.” Lady Villentia’s tone said much on her opinion of said dress.

  The girls tittered, raising their fans to look surreptitiously at the gown in question.

  Lady Florence was sympathetic. “I understand your suffering, Captain. Brutal way to travel. And so slow.”

  “Oh, but it’s such fun,” Miss Pagril disagreed.

  “It’s unnatural, taking to the skies,” objected Lady Flo. “What do you think, Lady Villentia?”

  The widow watched this mild disagreement with interest. She must be noticing the intimacy of the two lasses. The delicate little touches. The way they leaned into one another.

  “Are you asking me to render judgment on floating as a practice, or merely my opinion?”

  “Both,” said Miss Pagril, cheekily.

  “Technology is difficult to pause, once it has taken flight. Only ask the Luddites. Floating is here to stay and cares not for my judgment. As to the other, I find dirigibles useful under certain circumstances, when one wishes to make a grand gesture, for example. I knew a gentleman once who floated up to a lady’s window, singing an aria, his arms full of roses.”

  “Oh, how romantic!” breathed Lady Flo.

  “What foolishness,” objected Miss Pagril.

  “Perhaps.” Lady Villentia shrugged delicately. “But the lady was impressed and disposed to look upon the gentleman favorably. I call that a good use of a dirigible.”

  “Was it a beau of yours, Lady Villentia?”

  “Of mine? Certainly not. I should never hold with such silliness.”

  Did she glance in his direction? Gavin was glad. His heart might favor tenderness with the fairer sex, but he was not inclined to sentimental codswallop.

  Miss Pagril tapped Lady Flo on the wrist with her fan. “There, you see?”

  Gavin was surprised to find he was enjoying himself, despite painful awareness of the pristine perfection next to him. The way Lady Villentia spoke, so careful, so clipped, and yet encouraging. It showed years of training. She smelled of peaches. Was that also training? She was like a white rose, all velvet petals and sharp thorns. But roses did not smell of peaches.

  I’m no poet to be hunting lyrical descriptions. I’ll learn her given name and then think of her by that. I hope it isna somewhat awful, like Ernestine.

  Or Beulah.

  * * *

  Preshea did not expect to enjoy herself. How was such a thing possible in the company of perfectly sweet girls and a perfectly decent gentleman? Well, perhaps not perfectly decent. He had wickedness buried within, to tempt her with talk of beds.

  As a rule, Preshea loathed nice people. Add to that the fact that both ladies were a full decade her junior, mix in that they were female, and Preshea expected to be anywhere else in the room. Yet there she sat.

  She had acquired female friends before, but in the manner by which she acquired pierced ears (necessary for her image and to prove to the world that she could). She never liked them and they had not liked her. They had tolerated her because friendship guaranteed that her cutting remarks were (slightly) more frequently targeted elsewhere.

  There was nothing wrong with Lady Flo and Miss Pagril. There was nothing wonderful about them, either. Their manners were neat but their experience narrow and their conversation confined. In short, they were the kind of young ladies whom, under other circumstances, Lady Preshea Villentia would have ignored.

  Yet these girls knew who she was and were cordial with no ulterior motive. They showed no inclination to underhandedness. Preshea wobbled on unstable ground. Her instincts screamed to protect herself, to ward off kindness for the cruelty that inevitably followed.

  She remained aware of Captain Ruthven, as one might be conscious of the warmth of a fireplace. Crikey, I’ll be toasting bread over him next. How could one not be aware of the man – he took up so much space.

  In consequence, she directed the bulk of her remarks to Lady Flo and Miss Pagril. She experienced unexpected pleasure, watching them blossom under her interest. They valued her opinion. Or they simply didn’t want to be poisoned at supper. Lady Villentia’s reputation included her preferred methods. The last rumor she had heard mentioned her love of a certain ring. She was wearing it now, under her black gloves, an unassuming onyx-and-silver trinket. It wasn’t filled. She never used a poison ring for actually poisoning anyone – too obvious. She used it to remind people that she could.

  Preshea rubbed the bump of it with her thumb. When they know more of men, when they are fully out in society, they will not wish to know me. I would hurt their prospects with my sophistication. Poor little things, they had no means of protecting themselves, no resources at all. She might not have friends, but at least she had training.

  I’m going soft in my old age, thought Preshea, and then, there is definitely someone out in the garden.

  She swiveled to check on the duke. He sat well away from the windows, thank heavens. Out of shooting range. Of course, it would take a truly excellent marksman to kill a single person amongst the group sitting in a drawing room, near a window or no. The man in the garden was only watching, waiting for them to leave the house. If I were a hunter, I should plan around an outdoor activity, one that spreads the party out. Like walking. Or riding. Nevertheless, I shall check that everything is locked down this evening, after the house is abed.

  As to her other assignment: she had put the idea into Lady Flo’s head. That a grand romantic gesture, involving something risky, like a dirigible, was the thing to win a girl over. Now she must see that idea spread to Mr Jackson.

  Knowing the duke’s lack of subtlety, he would ensure Preshea was seated next to Mr Jackson at supper. She would take that opportunity to begin working on him, encouraging ridiculousness. At the moment, he was waving about a fern frond as if fanning himself. She was inclined to think it wouldn’t be difficult.

  * * *

  Preshea was indeed seated next to Mr Jackson, precedence be damned. Over the mock turtle soup, she intimated that a grand gesture was just the thing to set true
love aflame.

  “Take a stance, you think?”

  “Don’t you?” It was always best if a gentleman felt an idea were his own.

  “She does love flowers.”

  “My dear boy, she lives in the country, surrounded by gardens.”

  “Yes, of course. Something more exotic? What about a lobster?”

  “A lobster?” Preshea, unflappable though she might be, was flapped by this suggestion.

  “She was saying earlier today how fond she is of lobster. Perhaps a brace of lobster? Is brace the right word?”

  Preshea hid a smile in her napkin. “Perhaps not a gift, but more of an action? Lobsters might be considered ambitious.”

  “Quite right, quite right. Show her I am a man of deeds, not lobsters, what?”

  “Exactly so.”

  “I must ponder further.”

  “Ponder away, dear boy.” Preshea knew her normally cool eyes were bright with merriment; what an absurd fellow.

  Mr Jackson’s wide mouth relaxed out of its perpetual smile. He squinted in thought. Clearly, devising non-lobster gestures of affection taxed his mental capacities.

  A lull descended over the guests as the soup was removed and cod in supreme sauce brought out.

  Until that moment, the table had included an empty chair, its place unset. The sun now below the horizon, that chair began to fill with the ghostly form of the deceased daughter, Formerly Constance Bicker-Harrow. The family encouraged their guests to refer to her, rather coarsely, as Formerly Connie.

  The ghost, from what one could see of her in the bright candlelight, looked much like her sisters, although thinner and more somber by way of general expression.

  How novel – a dour ghost.

  Formerly Connie was, naturally, not served. She was included in conversation, however, and seemed fresh enough in her ghostly state to follow most of it. Her voice was breathy and she was wispy about the hair. Preshea was inclined to regard this last as carelessness, or perhaps Connie had been flighty when alive.