A Debutante's Guide to Rebellion (7 page)

“I had a great deal of information to relay. And you didn't let me get to my question.”

“What was your question?”

He paused. There was one logical solution to Lady Eddie's problem. It was also a rather selfish suggestion on his part, as he would doubtless get more out of the arrangement than she. “You can marry me.”

She stared at him. “That's not a question,” she said at last.

“I suppose the question should be ‘Will you marry me?' or ‘What would you think of marrying me?'” he acknowledged.

“Why would I marry you?”

“Because you need to be married,” he said. “And I am available, and object to none of your faults.”
Because I want you to. Because I'm infatuated with you. Because after three conversations, I am certain I want to have a thousand more.
He cleared his throat. “With my uncle's decision to remain unmarried, I am his heir. I will inherit the title and a great deal of money. You would be comfortable. You could read as much as you like. And dance as little as you like.”

“A very reasonable arrangement,” she acknowledged. “And you would be willing to do this for me?”

He couldn't tell her the truth of his feelings. It would only make things awkward. “I will enjoy your companionship. And you are the least objectionable wife I could conceive of.”

“Well, when you put it that way, how could I refuse?”

She was being sarcastic. He was not terribly skilled at recognizing sarcasm, but even he could hear it in this instance. “I apologize. I'm doing this all wrong,” he said. “I know I am hardly the ideal husband. But if you require a swift marriage, I should be happy to fill the role. I should be very pleased to be married to a friend. I should be very pleased to be married to you.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip. “Very well, then.”

His heart leapt. He had always disliked that phrase, but now it did seem as if the organ made a physical lurch in his chest. “Yes?”

“Yes,” she said. “I'll marry you.”

Eddie walked back toward the town house with a frown tugging at her lips.

It was possible, she reflected, for a proposal to be less romantic, but it would have to take a great deal of effort to make it so. It should not bother her. And yet it did. Because the truth was, she completely adored Ezekiel Blackwood. And she rather wished he completely adored her.

She was not a foolish romantic. She did not believe that two people so briefly acquainted could be said to love one another. What she had instead was the deep certainty that she
would
love him. Not now, not yet. But with time, she would love him.

Perhaps he did not share any such certainty. Perhaps his mind was too methodical for love.

She had reached the town house and scaled the steps, wincing a little at the sight of her stained slippers. They were meant for a day around the house, not for tramping through an abandoned lot, but there was nothing to be done for them now.

As soon as the door shut behind her, her mother appeared from the drawing room. “Where
have
you been?” she demanded. “I have been simply beside myself with worry.”

Eddie sighed. “I was out getting engaged,” she said.

For once, she had rendered her mother speechless. Lady Copeland gaped at her, jaw falling more widely open millimeter by millimeter as her eyes rounded in horror. Then her jaw snapped shut. Her eyes narrowed. And she strode across the foyer to seize Eddie by the arm.

“Ouch! Mother, you're hurting me,” Eddie protested as her mother hauled her up the stairs.

“Not one word from you, Mildred Philomena Weller. Not one word.”

She marched down the hall, dragging Eddie behind her, her skirts flapping out with each angry step. She yanked Eddie into her father's study and stood, chest heaving with exertion, inside the doorway.

Lord Copeland was in his favorite armchair, a book open before him. He slowly set the book down in his lap and regarded them with a blank expression. “And for what purpose have you interrupted me?” he asked.

Lord Copeland was a thin man, an oddly monochromatic man. His hair was the same very light brown as his skin, which had not yet sluiced off the color the Indian sun had introduced. Rather than making him look more hale, it made him looking oddly washed-out from head to toe. He projected an air of utilitarianism, as if every extraneous detail had been left out of his design. Emotion was apparently on the list of unnecessary flourishes. Eddie had never known her father to raise his voice, or to laugh.

“Your daughter claims to be engaged,” Lady Copeland said.

“It's true,” Eddie said, shaking herself free of Lady Copeland's grasp at last. “A man asked me to marry him, and I agreed. That does constitute an engagement, does it not?”

“And what man is this?” Lord Copeland asked.

“Not Lord Averdale,” Lady Copeland said.

“I assumed so, judging by your shrieking,” Lord Copeland said with a disdainful look toward his wife. “I did not ask who he was not. I asked who he was.”

Eddie stuck out her chin defiantly. “Mr. Blackwood.”

“Mr.
Blackwood
?” her mother near-shrieked. Eddie winced.

“Mother . . .”

“This is highly irregular. And utterly unsuitable,” Lady Copeland continued. “And we won't stand for it. Will we, Lord Copeland?”

“Of course not.” Lord Copeland lifted his book and returned to reading.

Eddie stepped forward. “He's Lord Averdale's heir,” she said, trying not to sound as if she were begging. She hated to beg, and it never helped. “He'll be an earl.”

“This is dreadful,” Lady Copeland moaned.

Lord Copeland sighed and lowered his book again. “Do try to contain your dramatics, Lady Copeland. Tell me, girl. Does anyone else know about this?”

“No,” Eddie said. “Not yet. We've only just agreed.”

“Then there is no reason to be so upset. We will simply pretend it never happened.”

Eddie balled her hands into fists, her jaw tightening. “But it
did
happen,” she said. “And I am going to marry him.”

Lord Copeland raised an eyebrow. “Don't tell me that you're in love with the boy.”

Eddie paused. “Well, no,” she said. “Not precisely.” She did not know how to describe that joyous certainty, that steady sense as sure as her own heartbeat. Surer, as her heart was now galloping at an alarming rate.

“Put him out of your mind, then. No harm done,” Lord Copeland said.

“I wasn't in love with Lord Averdale, either, and you didn't object to that,” Eddie said.

“Lord Averdale was suitable. Mr. Blackwood isn't. He lacks even a modicum of social graces; he would be an embarrassment to our family. And whatever Lord Averdale's current opinions, he may have decades left in which to reverse them and sire an heir. With Mr. Blackwood as the alternative, it seems inevitable, in fact.”

“But—”

“You are still too young to marry without my consent, and you don't have it. There will be no further discussion.” He lifted his book one last time.

Eddie spun and dashed for the hallway. Her mother caught her and wrenched her around, eyes cold and bright. “No, you don't,” she said with a hint of a hiss. “You aren't running off again. You are going to stay in your room until the ball in three days, and you are going to do as you are told. And you are going to marry Lord Averdale.”

She propelled Eddie down the hall in front of her, back to the bedrooms, and shoved Eddie inside. She stumbled, whirled—and was greeted by the door slamming shut. She scrabbled for the knob, but the key was already in the lock. “You can't do this!” Eddie cried.

“Of course I can. I'm your mother,” Lady Copeland said, and then her footsteps marched away.

Eddie fell back from the door, collapsing onto the bed. Idiot. Of course things couldn't be so simple, so easily solved.

There was a knock on the door. She stared at it. Her mother, back to berate her? Certainly not her father, whom she had never managed to interest for more than a few minutes at a stretch.

“Eddie?” John called softly. She rose and moved to the door, resting her brow against it.

“Can you let me out?” she asked.

“I don't have the key. And Mother would murder me,” John said. “Are you all right? I heard some of that.”

“No, I'm not all right. I'm locked in my room, and Mother's going to use me in some utterly ridiculous and immoral plot to disgrace Lord Averdale.”

“I think disgracing him is a side effect, not the main point,” John said, laughing.

“It's not funny.”

“It's a little bit funny,” John said.

She glared at the door separating them. Sometimes John was her only ally. Sometimes he was a complete beast. “You have to help me,” she said.

“What can I do? Once Mother sets her mind to something, you know she'll get her way.”

Eddie sagged. If he wouldn't help her, she was trapped. Unless . . . “Wait,” she said. “Can you at least get a letter to someone for me?”

“As long as it isn't your ‘fiancé,'” John said with a chuckle. She couldn't
believe
he was finding this amusing.

“Just wait there a minute,” she said crossly, and went to her little writing desk. She snatched up the book she had been reading the night before—
Flora and Fauna of the British Isles—
and thumbed through it quickly. When she'd found what she needed, she dashed off a quick note, addressed it to Sophie, and returned to the door, sliding it underneath. “Take this to Miss Sophie Osborn,” she said.

“Gladly.”

She rolled her eyes. It must be nice to be so pretty. It must also get rather tiresome. “Just hurry,” she said.

“I shall be swift as Hermes himself,” John pledged.

Then he was gone, and Eddie was alone again. She could only hope that her message was received—and understood.

***

The message was troubling. Ezekiel had read it thrice over as he stood by the library window, Sophie's eyes on him the entire time.

“It's obviously for you,” Sophie said.

“It was addressed to you.”

“And I have no idea what it means.”

Ezekiel frowned and read it again.

Dearest Miss Osborn,

Regarding the subject of your proposed study: I fear I will be unable to join you in your investigation. However, you may be interested in an examination of a local specimen of
Hedera helix
and the effects of elevation and auditory stimulus on said specimen. Preferably, look for such a specimen amid
Atropa belladonna.

To achieve your goal, we will first need to gather a sample of
Primula scotica,
as the present garden environment is hostile to the growth of the intended hybrid. In fact, my own gardener is far more interested in grafting
Athyrium filix-femina
and
Euphorbia helioscopia
, through inventive (though, in my opinion, ill-advised) methods. He intends to seed the hybrid amid a patch of
Arum maculatum
next week.

I hope that this has been useful. I am glad to offer my meager expertise to your cause.

It was signed by Lady Eddie, and had been delivered by her brother, but he could not understand the purpose of it.

“This makes no sense,” he said. “An examination of the effect of elevation and auditory stimulus on ivy? And what does that have to do with
Atropa belladonna
? And you would never make a hybrid of
Athyrium filix-femina
and
Euhorbia helioscopia
; it makes absolutely no sense.”

“It's obviously a code of some sort,” Sophie said. “I expect she thought someone might read it. Which her brother most certainly did, judging by the crude job he did of folding it back up.”

He looked again. A code. But what sort of a code? It had to be the plants.
Hedera helix
was ivy.

“Sound and elevation,” Sophie said. “The first part's easy. She wants you to come to her window. Or stand under it, anyway. To talk.”

He looked between his cousin and the page. “Are you certain?”

“No, but it makes sense. If someone is trying to keep her from speaking to you, she'd try to arrange a way to do it without anyone noticing.” She sat on the bench by the window and tugged him down next to her so she could see the letter. “This is all so romantic. Who knew you had it in you?”

“It's confusing, not romantic,” Ezekiel grumbled. “If we do accept your hypothesis, and I am not convinced of it, what does she mean by ‘
Atropa belladonna
'?”

“Belladonna. That's poisonous.”

“‘Deadly nightshade' leaves little to the imagination,” Ezekiel said.

“Nightshade! That's it. That's the common name, correct? And she said—”

“‘Amid
Atropa belladonna
,'” Ezekiel quoted. “Amid deadly nightshade.” He frowned. “Amid nightshade, amid night. Midnight?”

“Awkward, but clever,” Sophie said. “What's the common name for this one?” She pointed.

“
Primula scotica
. The Scottish primrose. Endemic to the region.”

“She says you'll need to gather it. So that means going to Scotland. Why?”

Ezekiel's frown deepened. “Because of this. The gardener is interested in grafting sun spurge and lady fern.”

“You lost me,” Sophie said.

“I suspect she was in a hurry. Sun spurge is known
very
colloquially as Irby-dale grass, which I assume is Lord Averdale,” Ezekiel said. “Lady fern would be, presumably, Lady Eddie herself.”

“And the gardener is Lady Copeland? Lovely,” Sophie said. “And what's this scheme, then? A patch of—”

“The common name is ‘lords and ladies,'” Ezekiel said.

“A ball,” Sophie replied definitively. “Whatever Lady Copeland intends to do to secure the match will be at a ball. And next week. Oh dear. The only ball Lord Averdale will be attending next week is in only three days.” Her eyes widened. “Scotland? She wants you to go to
Scotland
? Why does Lady Mildred Weller think that the two of you should elope, dearest cousin?”

“Because I asked her to marry me,” Ezekiel said, his voice brittle. He had meant to solve Lady Eddie's problems, not spawn a whole host of new ones.

“Well,” Sophie said slowly. “You certainly work quickly.”

“It was the logical way to address her predicament,” Ezekiel said. He rose. It had been only one hour and twenty-seven minutes since he had left Lady Eddie's company. In that time, her fortunes had dramatically worsened. The question remained whether further exposure to his influence would resolve the issue at hand or merely exacerbate it.

“Logical. Of course,” Sophie said. “Your own feelings would have nothing to do with this decision?”

“My feelings are immaterial.”

“But you do have feelings for her,” Sophie prodded.

“Yes. Their exact nature is . . . not easy to define,” he said, avoiding her probing gaze. He did not enjoy discussing
feelings
. They were such imprecise, squashy things. Difficult to categorize. There was no scientific taxonomy of emotion. There was not even an agreed-upon set of emotions across cultures. The Portuguese concept of
saudade
, for example—

“You're drifting,” Sophie told him. “Don't define them, then. Describe them.”

“I want to be around her. My mood is considerably better when I am around her, and I have rapidly developed a tendency to be in a poor mood when I am not around her. This does not make any sense, as I have spent less than a combined four hours in her presence.”

“Four hours is hardly enough to know if you wish to marry someone,” Sophie said.

“Correct,” Ezekiel said. He started to pace. “However, given the choice between risking an ill-advised marriage and risking the removal of Lady Eddie as a potential spouse due to her marriage to another man, the first risk is preferable.”