The Sweet Far Thing (58 page)

“We might pass the time with cake,” Madame Lumière suggests.

I do not want to
pass
the time. I want to grab hold of it and leave my mark upon the world.

“Oh, poor Madame Lumière. Do have some. Miss Doyle and I shall wait here for your return,” Felicity says, giving one of her brightest smiles. Madame Lumière promises to return
tout de suite.
The moment she is out of our sight, we walk quickly away so that we might explore the wonders of the ball unfettered.

“Have you anyone lovely to dance with?” I ask, noting Felicity’s dance card.

“They’re all horrors! Old Mr. Carrington, who smells of whiskey. An American who actually asked if my family owned any land. And several more suitors, not a one of whom I would save from drowning, much less consent to marry. And there’s Horace, of course.” Felicity growls low. “He follows me about like a mournful puppy.”

“You’ve thoroughly bewitched him,” I say, laughing.

“Simon said to be charming, and so I have charmed my way through every appointment with Lady Markham and her son, but I don’t think I can bear much more of his attention.”

“You’d best prepare, for here he comes now.”

I nod toward the crowd of three hundred people, where Horace Markham pushes his way toward us, raising his hand like a man trying to secure a hansom. He’s tall and slender, aged twenty-three, according to Felicity. His face is boyish and given to frequent blushing. I can tell at a glance from the way he carries himself—slightly stooped forward, a little embarrassed—that he hasn’t the courage or, frankly, the devil it would take to keep pace with Felicity.

“Oh, dear,” I say under my breath.

“Indeed,” Felicity shoots back.

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“Miss Worthington,” Horace says, out of breath. A curly lock breaks free and sticks to the sheen on his high forehead. “Here we are again, it would seem.”

“Yes, so it would.” Fee glances up at Horace through downcast eyes. A coy smile plays at her lips. It’s no wonder the poor boy is besotted.

“I believe the polka is next. Would you care to join me for it?” he asks, and it sounds like begging.

“Mr. Markham, that’s very kind, but we’ve already had so many dances that I am afraid of what people will say,” Fee says, playing proper, and it is all I can do not to laugh.

“Let them talk.” Horace straightens his waistcoat as if preparing for a duel to defend his family’s honor.

“Gracious,” I mutter.

Felicity’s sidelong glance says,
You’ve no idea.
Lady Denby sits at a table eating cake. She looks on with disapproval and it doesn’t escape Felicity’s notice.

“How very brave you are, Mr. Markham,” Fee says, allowing Horace to squire her right past Lady Denby to the dance floor.

“I don’t suppose there is still room on your dance card for one more?”

I turn to see Simon Middleton smiling at me. With his white tie and tails and that wicked twinkle in his eyes, he is ever so handsome.

“I was to dance with a Mr. Whitford.” I demur.

Simon nods. “Ah, old man Whitford. Not only does he walk with the aid of a cane, but his memory is rather faulty. Chances are he’s forgotten you, I’m sorry to say, and if he hasn’t, we could have our dance and be back here again before he’s hobbled to your side.”

I laugh, glad for his delicious wit. “In that case, I accept.”

We glide into the swell of dancers, brushing past Tom, who is intent on charming his dance partner: “Dr.

Smith and I cured the poor man of his delusions, though I daresay it was my insight into the case that started it all….”

“Was it really?” she says, drinking his story in, and it is all I can do not to give Tom the ears of a rabbit.

Mrs. Tuttle has returned from the ladies’ dressing room. She holds two glasses of lemonade. She sees me dancing with Simon, a look of pure horror on her face, for it is her duty to see that every gentleman who might court me passes muster. She holds the keys to the gate. But she has been relieved of duty whether she knows it or not.
No, Mrs. Tuttle. You want to stay there. I am fine here in Simon’s arms.

I need no tending. Please, enjoy your lemonade.
Blinking and confused, Mrs. Tuttle turns around and drinks from both glasses of lemonade.

“I say, your chaperone is a bit wobbly. Is she a drinking woman?” Simon asks.

“Only lemonade,” I answer.

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Simon gives me a flirtatious smile. “I daresay there is something changed in you.”

“Is there?”

“Mmmm. I cannot say what it is. Miss Doyle and her secrets.” He appraises my form with a sweeping glance that is far too bold and, I must confess, very thrilling. “But you are quite lovely this evening.”

“Is your Miss Fairchild here tonight?”

“She is indeed,” he answers, and I do not need the power of the realms to feel the warmth in his answer.

I’m filled with a sudden regret for having refused him. He is handsome and merry. He thought me beautiful. What if I do not find anyone like him ever again?

What if I could have him again?

“Miss Fairchild is an American. I suppose she’ll want to go home as soon as the season is over,” I say, leaning in just a bit closer to Simon.

“Perhaps so, though she claims to find England agreeable.” Simon’s hand presses a bit more firmly at the base of my spine. “And what are your plans, Miss Doyle? Have you set your sights on anyone special?”

I think of Kartik and turn that thought out of my mind before it can taint my mood. “None.”

Simon’s thumb moves ever so slightly against my dress. My back tingles where it touches. “That is welcome news,” he purrs.

The dance ends, and I excuse myself for the ladies’ dressing room so that I might allow the flush on my cheeks to cool. Ladies’ maids stand at the ready, but I’ve no need. Where my hair has gone limp, I put it to rights with a wave of my hand. I decide I don’t care for the gloves I’ve donned, so, away from prying eyes, I give myself a different pair. I smile at my handiwork.

“Good evening, Miss Doyle.” I turn to see Lucy Fairchild beside me.

“Miss Fairchild,” I say.

She smiles at me with great warmth. “It’s a splendid ball, isn’t it? How happy you must be for your friend Miss Worthington.”

“Yes,” I say, smiling back. “I am.”

“I watched you dance. You are very graceful,” she says, and I blush, thinking of Simon’s hand at my back, the way I leaned into him.

“Thank you,” I say. “Though my grace is very much in question, and I’m sure Si—Mr. Middleton much prefers dancing with you.”

We smile uncomfortably at one another in the mirror. She pinches her cheeks for color though there’s no need. She’s lovely.

“Well…,” I say, rising to go.

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“Yes. Do enjoy the ball,” Lucy Fairchild says with sincerity.

“And you as well.”

A gong sounds and the guests are called to the ballroom. Lord Markham staggers to the center of the floor. He’s had a bit to drink, and the red of his nose shows it.

“Ladies and gentlemen, our esteemed guests,” Lord Markham says, slurring his words a bit, “my dear wife has arranged a most stirring entertainment for this evening. The Whirling Dervishes of Konya have come to us as refugees from the Ottoman Empire, which has of late been the site of an unspeakable massacre of the Armenian people by the Sultan’s army. Such atrocities cannot stand! We must—”

Throats are cleared. Women fan themselves. Lady Markham looks at her husband beseechingly, that he might talk no more of politics, and he nods, cowed.

“I present to you the Dervishes of Konya.”

Eight men in very tall hats take the floor. The gleaming of the crystal chandeliers makes the white of their long, priestly robes shine. The music is hypnotic. The dancers bow to one another and slowly they begin their revolutions. The music swells, the tempo rises, and the dancers’ long skirts float out like bells.

The music speeds along with a passion that stirs my blood. The dervishes turn in ecstasy, their palms raised toward heaven as if they could hold God briefly on their fingers but only if they do not stop turning.

The guests watch in awe, caught up in the frenzy of the Dervishes’ spinning. To my right, I see Mr.

Fowlson dressed in servant garb, a tray in his hand. He’s not watching the dancers; he’s watching my brother. Seconds later, he exits the room. I’ll not let him go tonight. I intend to shadow his every move.

He’ll let my brother be or feel my wrath.

He walks upstairs and knocks on the door to the gentlemen’s parlor. I dart behind an enormous potted fern to spy. A moment later, Lord Denby appears.

“Yes, Fowlson?”

“’E’s watchin’ the dance, sir,” Fowlson reports. “I’m keepin’ my eye on ’im, jus’ like you asked.”

Lord Denby pats Fowlson’s shoulder. “Good man.”

“I wondered, sir, if I might ’ave a word.”

Lord Denby loses his smile. “It’s not really the time or the place, old chap.”

“Yes, sir, forgive me, but it never seems to be, and I was wondrin’ when I migh’ advance in the Rakshana like we talked about. I ’ave some thoughts….”

Lord Denby sticks his cigar into his mouth. “All in good time.”

“Just as you say, sir,” Fowlson answers, his head down.

“We need more fine soldiers like you, Mr. Fowlson,” Lord Denby crows. “Now, do keep to your
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duties, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Fowlson says. He turns on his heel and strides back to the ballroom, where he might keep watch over my brother.

Lord Denby is of the Rakshana. The full weight of it hits my stomach like a fist. All this time. I’ve been in his home. I’ve kissed his son. Simon. Anger, hot and unforgiving, rises in me. He will answer for this, for my brother.

I don’t bother to knock. I open the door and step into the parlor, where only the men sit, smoking their pipes and cigars. The hard glint of their eyes makes it clear that I am a trespasser here. Swallowing hard, I march through the clusters of silently outraged men and straight up to Lord Denby. He puts on a false smile.

“Why, Miss Doyle! I’m afraid this is a room for gentlemen only. If you’re lost, perhaps I could escort—”

“Lord Denby, I must speak with you,” I whisper.

“I’m afraid I’m wanted at the tables, my dear,” he answers.

You’re wanted under my boot, you miserable cur.
I force a smile that is pure sugar and lower my voice. “It is rather urgent. I’m sure these kind gentlemen will wait. Or should I see if Mr. Fowlson is more receptive to my request?”

“Gentlemen,” he says, turning to the men in his circle, “do spare me a moment. You know how ladies can be when they are insistent.” The gentlemen chuckle at my expense, and it is all I can do not to inflict a painful rash on every one of them.

Lord Denby ushers me through a door into a private library. Ordinarily, I would be comforted by the sight of so many lovely books, but I’m far too angry for comfort tonight, and I suspect the books are rather like the people here—unread and purely decorative.

Lord Denby takes a seat in an overstuffed leather chair beside a chess table and blows out a stream of heavy smoke that makes me cough. “You wished to speak with me, Miss Doyle?”

“I know who you are, Lord Denby. I know you are of the Rakshana, and I know you’re courting my brother.”

He turns his attention to the chessboard, moving pieces for himself and an imaginary opponent. “What of it?”

“I want you to leave my brother alone, please.”

“My dear, I’m afraid that is quite out of my hands.”

“Who ranks higher than you? Tell me and I shall go to—”

“The Rakshana’s ranks are filled by some of the most important and influential men in the world—heads of state and captains of industry. But that isn’t what I meant. I meant that the decision rests in
your
hands, dear lady,” he says through a puff of smoke. His hand hovers over a piece for a split second before
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attacking and capturing a pawn in his way and moving swiftly across the board. “You only need to give us the magic and control of the realms, and your brother will be quite safe, I assure you. In fact, he’ll be a great man, a peer, even. He’ll be well looked after. You
all
shall. Why, I’m sure Lady Denby would host a ball for your debut that would put all the others to shame. The Queen herself would attend.”

“Do you think I’ve come to discuss parties? That I’m a child who can be won over with a new pony?

Have you no honor, sir?” I take a deep breath. “The Rakshana was meant to protect the realms and the Order. It was a venerable profession. Now you’re fighting against us. You would bully me and try to corrupt my brother. What have you become?”

Lord Denby knocks off his imaginary opponent’s rook and moves his bishop into position. “The times have changed, Miss Doyle. Gone are the days when a nobleman served as patron to all who worked his land. The Rakshana must change, as well—become less the chivalrous handshake of brotherhood and more the profitable fist of industry. Can you imagine how great our reach would be if we were to have power such as yours at our control? Think like an Englishwoman, Miss Doyle! What could this power do for the empire, for the future sons of England?”

“You’re forgetting: We are not all English, and we are not all men,” I say, insinuating myself into his chess game. I move a pawn forward, taking his bishop unawares. “What of Amar and Kartik and others like them? What of my sex—or of men of Mr. Fowlson’s station? Will any of us sit at your table?”