D2D_Poison or Protect (7 page)

“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.

The company was impressed by the novelty. Few families could boast a ghost. This daughter must have been quite creative to linger so. It had been thoughtful of the duke to bury her nearby, where she might interact with guests. Although, Preshea wondered if it were not kinder to consign her to a proper graveyard, where she might enjoy the company of other ghosts going through the same experience. After all, no one at the table knew what it was to be dead. In consequence, Formerly Connie had little to add to the conversation.

The company was disposed to be equally impressed by the food.
So it goes. If you are careless enough to die, your merit shall be weighed against the pleasantness of a meal. Could be worse, I suppose.
It was delicious. Preshea was hard put to stick to her regimen. She didn’t like to overindulge, but the Snodgrove cook was excellent. There was beef stewed with pickles, stuffed loin of mutton, and roasted teal with sea kale. The afters were equally glorious, comprising apricot venetian creme and almond blancmange, with Stilton for those who preferred savory.

After dinner, it was back to the drawing room for the ladies, where Formerly Connie’s tether allowed her to join them. They conversed politely on matters of little interest for the requisite half-hour, at which point the gentlemen reappeared, smelling strongly of cigars.

At this juncture, the party redistributed itself according to taste. With one of the footmen acting as her hands, Formerly Connie played whist with her father, brother, and Miss Leeton.

Preshea spent time with Lady Violet and Mr Jackson, more to appease the Duke of Snodgrove’s glares than with any ulterior motive. Nevertheless, she used the aura of conviviality to press him into wild declarations and romantic nonsense, pleased every time he said something that made Lady Violet wince.

“My pearl of the sea,” he declared at one point, “I will find for you all the delectables of the briny deep. Have you ever had winkles?”

“Pardon me?” Lady Violet was taken aback.

“Winkles!” said Mr Jackson loudly. “Sea snails, don’t ya know? Like whelks, only smaller. Very tasty. You must try them. Next time I visit the seaside, I shall return with a bouquet of the little creatures.”

“Oh, dear.” Lady Violet was coming over faint. “I don’t think. Not a snail. Too far, I’m sure.”

“Oh, but my dear Lady Vi, they are dee-lish!” Mr Jackson hardly needed Preshea’s encouragement. His boisterousness was doing more to nip the burgeoning romance in the bud than any scheme of hers. Really, even if he were not a fortune hunter, these two were most ill suited.

Lady Violet seemed a sensible little thing. Given time, she would figure this out on her own. Ridiculous of her father not to have more faith in her.

Still, there was the other assignment to think on. Preshea stared out the window a moment, but there was nothing to see; it was quite dark.

She glanced at the window seat, where she had made up the fourth earlier. Captain Ruthven was back charming the young ladies. Miss Pagril glowed under his kind regard. Preshea thought he was wasting his time with that one, although it would be a good match (he had exactly enough money for her lack not to be seen as grasping). For some reason, Preshea found that painful to consider. What had been congenial when she was a participant seemed depressing when she was across the room.
This is what comes of attempting friendship.

Using the excuse of a long day’s travel, she retired just as Miss Leeton sat at the piano. It might have been thought rude, but she didn’t care.

Ghostly Consequences

Gavin wasn’t one to drink every night, in the way of some refined gentlemen, but he did occasionally take a drop of claret in the wee hours to settle his ghosts.

There were some ghosts, like the one at dinner – real, interactive, haunting her old home. And there were some ghosts that haunted a man instead of a place. Ghosts that were made of formless stuff, spirits of a brutal past, undead lurking in corners of men’s minds. Especially after war.

Gavin didn’t regret his soldiering days. He knew for a fact that he didn’t have it as bad as most. Some ex-soldiers drowned themselves in gin. It was cheaper and better at dulling memories than claret. Gavin couldn’t abide gin and he didn’t require saucing to sleep. His ghosts were only occasional visitors. In the wee hours, they woke him, sweating, with no memory of which battle he’d revisited or whose faces he’d seen damned.

Gavin’s ghosts were impressions left on the backs of his eyelids, of werewolves shifting not for joy of the hunt but for war. The sounds troubled him, not the loud bangs but the softer crunching bone that always went with a vanguard of fur, the nighttime attack of the great packs of the Empire. The smell was there too, copper and sulfur, blood and blast. His ghosts were borne aloft on the glory of men’s suffering. His eyes popped open to the buzz of fear and anticipation, as if he too might shed skin for the madness of a moon.

Wakefulness was immediately followed by an amorphous feeling of profound loss.

He excused himself that, under such circumstances, a glass of claret was medicinal. Mawkins certainly made no judgments.
For a change.
Perhaps he too indulged for the sake of his ghosts.

Sometimes, Gavin drained the snifter quickly, seeking numbness, and rolled into the less sweat-soaked side of the bed – to dream of lesser ghosts, or better, nothing at all.

Sometimes, he took his claret to the window and stared into the night, enjoying the peace of smaller hours.

And sometimes, he awoke to a restless hunger.

“Dainty sandwiches,” he said, into the silent room.
Two bites at most. Cucumber or egg and mayonnaise, the bread spread thick with butter.

He would not ring for Mawkins. It was gone two in the morning. He would make shift for himself. Surely, the pantry held something for a man to nibble.

He got himself out of bed. It was a cold night, yet Gavin wasn’t one for nightshirts. Mawkins professed to be shocked, but had learned to tolerate this eccentricity. In case of fire or sandwich peregrinations (Mawkins was well aware of his master’s habit of midnight food pilfering) the valet set out a banyan.

It was a quality robe, all dark blues and greens, dignified and big enough to cover Gavin entirely, crossing over at the front. Of course, a banyan was considered outdated in these days of smoking jackets and indoor trousers. It had been his father’s, but it was such a nice plaid. Gavin thought he looked rather well in it. Plus, it reminded him of his da.

Candle holder in hand, he padded softly downstairs into the bowels of the house, where delicious things resided. He found an apple, a wedge of brown bread, and a bit of Stilton left over from the cheese plate. He ate them standing up like a barbarian, confident that Mawkins would explain the midnight theft so no servant would take the blame for his gluttony.

He was headed back up, passing through the main entranceway towards the grand staircase, when a voice nearly had him jumping out of his skin. And he was a large man; it took a big jump to get away from that much skin.