Worlds of Ink and Shadow (11 page)

Castlereagh shook his head. “I can refuse you nothing, my friend.” He drank the remains of his sherry in one swallow to brace himself for what he was about to do. Then he gripped Zamorna's shoulder in parting, smiled grimly, and left the room.

EMILY

E
MILY STOOD WITH HER HAND ON THE
door. Her mouth was dry and blood throbbed in her ears. It was Rogue. Her Rogue. How real he was—exactly like her portrait of him, only more vivid, more vigorous.
I wanted to meet him dressed in red
, she thought,
not with these ridiculous bows in my hair.

“What an unusual gown,” he said. “It changes color with the light.” He took a step forward and seemed to fill the room.

Emily looked down. Her dress was the one that Charlotte had given her, but now it was a deep scarlet, and the roses trimming the bottom were real and in full bloom. She touched her head, hoping her hair had changed as well. It hadn't, though a glance to the mirror told her the bows had also turned red.

“I'm afraid I am lost,” he said. “Is there a party somewhere
in this rabbit warren?” When no one spoke he gave a small bow. “Alexander Percy, Earl of Northangerland. Also known as Alexander Rogue.”

“We know who you are,” Anne said, backing away. He raised an eyebrow at this.

Emily curtsied, though her body didn't feel her own. She was sure her face was as scarlet as her dress. “I am Lady Emily, and this is Lady Anne,” she said. “We are cousins of the Duke of Zamorna.”

“And these are private rooms,” said Anne. “Please begone.”

Emily turned and glared. Her sister had retreated behind an armchair and was gripping its back with tense fingers. Emily turned back to Rogue and smiled what she hoped was a sweet smile, but it felt insipid on her lips.

“Forgive my sister's rudeness. Do sit down, Rogue . . . your lordship.”

“We must not detain you,” Anne said.

Rogue glanced at Anne, then back at Emily. “I do have business at the party.” His hand went briefly to his waist, where Emily knew his pistol was hidden.

He mustn't go yet
, she thought. She caught a hint of his scent—like horses and tobacco—and had the strongest urge to lean into his chest.
Emily Brontë. Take hold of yourself.

“Before you go, do have a look at . . .” She wracked her brains for something that would keep him. “This.”

She leapt to the drawer where Anne had found the
scissors. “One, two, three,” she said under her breath, and she pulled the drawer open.

“Good heavens,” he said. “Is that an antique stiletto?”

“Yes,” she said, surprised as he, but pleased with her result. “Indeed it is.”

Carefully Rogue took the long, thin dagger out of the drawer and held it up. “Beautiful. Look at the workmanship on the hilt. I collect these, you know.”

“I know.”

“For heaven's sake, Emily,” Anne hissed. “Now you've armed him.”

“He was armed already,” Emily retorted. “He has his pistol.” Rogue started at this, and she smiled sweetly at him again. “One assumes.” She sat down and gestured to the place next to her on the sofa. “Do make yourself comfortable. I'm sorry we have no refreshments to offer you. All the servants are occupied with the party.”

He sat down. “Cousins of Zamorna, you say? I'm surprised to find the duke has such amiable relations. You'll forgive me. He and I are not exactly friends.”

“Oh, that's all right. We think our cousin Zamorna is the most colossal ass. Don't we, Anne?”

Anne glowered, and Rogue barked a laugh at Emily's candor. “I can't say that I disagree.”

He toyed with the stiletto, trading it from one hand to the other. Then, as if coming to a decision, he gripped the handle and
pointed the tip toward Emily. “I suppose he'd pay a high ransom for you girls, should you go missing.”

Emily's heart leapt. “Oh,” she said. “Are you going to kidnap us? What a wonderful idea!”

Rogue frowned. “I can't say that anyone has ever reacted that way before—and I've carried off a dozen women.”

“Thirteen,” Emily said. “If you count the Hawthorn twins as two.”

He looked at her now, and his wide smile was a beautiful surprise, piercing her heart as surely as the stiletto. “What a strange young lady you are. I'm beginning to wonder why I've never been to the provinces.”

She stopped breathing.
Oh
, she thought.
This is how I'll die. From a look.
It wasn't a handsome face by most standards—his brow was too heavy; his eyes were too wide-set; his whiskers and eyebrows were too bushy—but in that moment she couldn't possibly look away.

Lightly he brushed her cheek with his finger, making a chill run down her spine. Somewhere Anne began to cough, but it seemed far away.

“You're not one of those women who screams all through an abduction, are you? I find that very trying.”

“Screaming is a very sensible response to kidnapping, in my opinion. But no, I'd be meek as a lamb. I'd faint a lot and sigh like a bruised flower. Then, when you least expected it, I'd stab you in the eye with your own knife and steal your horse.”

“Marvelous,” he said.

“I know!” Anne's voice punctured the moment. “Perhaps the earl would like to help us wind our wool into balls while we tell him all the gossip of the provinces.”

“Pardon?” he said.

Emily blinked as if awakening from a dream.

“We country girls would find such an evening a thrill, I dare say,” Anne went on. “And—goodness!—if we are kidnapped, we shall have many such evenings in front of us. We may bring our knitting with us, mayn't we? Lord Percy, my sister tells the most amusing story about a vicar's cat getting caught in a tree.” She feigned a laugh. “Wait until you hear it.”

Rogue was looking around the room as if wondering how he got there. Emily flushed, suddenly aware of her youth, her scarlet dress, her ridiculous plaited hair.

“But I hope we are not keeping you from other engagements, Lord Percy,” Anne continued. “Didn't you have someone to meet? An evil plan to put in motion? I feel you mentioned something along those lines.”

Rogue felt again for his hidden pistol. “Yes.” He stood. “I don't know why . . . I really ought . . .”

Emily stared daggers at Anne. “Before you go, you must see what's in
this
drawer,” she said to Rogue. She stood, reaching for the table on the far side of the sofa.

“It's yarn,” Anne said. They both made a dash for the knob,
counting under their breath, but Anne was first. “I was right. A drawer full of yarn.” She pulled out a tangled, multicolored mass and waved it at Rogue. “Winding this will take all night. I
do
hope you'll stay.”

“Oh, no. Thank you,” Rogue said, backing away from them. The stiletto was still in his hand, but he set it on the sofa cushion.

“That is not what I wanted to show his lordship,” Emily said through clenched teeth.

“It's been a pleasure,” Rogue said at the door.

“Stop!” Emily said, and Rogue stopped, frozen and unmoving. She hadn't known she could do that.

Emily went to him and took his hands in her own, though they seemed cold and inhuman now. She didn't like him this way. His hands should be warm. “This is what I wanted to show you,” she whispered, and she squeezed her eyes shut. “One. Two. Three.”

When she opened her eyes, Rogue was frowning into them. Anne was gone. Wellesley House was gone. They were outside under a gray sky, a strong wind whipping their hair. Where was she? She wanted to look around, but Rogue's black eyes fixed her to the spot. She could smell moor and damp, and she heard, somewhere close, the mournful call of a curlew.

“What witchery is this?” he said, and pulled his hands away.

Immediately they were in the sitting room again, and he was backing away from her across the floor. Emily hardly knew what
had happened. It must have been Gondal, she realized with a stab of regret. She'd done it. She'd been there for a brief moment—far too brief. Her very own world.

Rogue was pressed against the wall now, pointing at her, terror in his eyes. “Genii,” he breathed.

CHARLOTTE

C
HARLOTTE WAS INDULGING ONE OF HER
secret Verdopolitan passions. She knew it was unseemly, but she told herself that, after all, it was the very last time. She had gone to the grand ballroom, weaving her way in and out of the dancers to stand at one of the heavily laden refreshment tables at the far end of the room—and there she began to eat. She ate the way a ten-year-old boy would eat—without worrying about manners or growing fat. She ate marzipan and bonbons and sugared limes. She ate miniature oranges and tiny cakes that looked like musical instruments or crystal flowers or horses' heads with spun-sugar manes. She ate walnuts and glazed pecans and fruits that only grew in Verdopolis but that tasted like a spiced candy someone
had given her once, a long time ago. No one dared to scold her. She was Lord Charles Albert Florian Wellesley, after all.

“Too sweet,” someone said next to her, just as her mouth was full of cake.

Charlotte turned to see her brother leaning casually against a pillar. She swallowed quickly and brushed the crumbs from her velvet suit. “If you don't like the confections, may I direct you . . . ,” she began. “Well, may I direct you anywhere but here, Lord Thornton?”

“I'm not referring to the confections,” Branwell said, waving a hand over the assembly. “Or rather, this whole affair is a confection. Too sweet. It's all spun sugar, Charlotte.”

His criticism slid off her. She had only to look around to know she had outdone herself with this scene. The mirror-paneled walls reflected a hundred glittering chandeliers; the orchestra never missed a note; the swirling dancers never missed a step. Perfect.

“The name is Charles,” she corrected. “And I know jealousy when I hear it.”

“What have I missed? I saw Mary Henrietta in the conservatory. She looked more tragically beautiful than usual—if that's possible.” A footman with a gilded tray bowed his head and offered them refreshment, but Branwell waved him away.

“She's had a presentiment,” Charlotte said. “The suspicion that Zamorna loves another gnaws at her heart like a worm.”

Branwell frowned. “I hope she's not going to waste away from his neglect like his other two wives.”

“I haven't decided.”

“Don't kill her, Charlotte.” She was surprised by the emotion behind this request. “She's too lovely to die. She's . . . well . . . you've turned her into someone rather luminous.” The idea that Branwell admired the character more than he'd been letting on brought a smile to her lips, but he seemed to realize he had accidentally paid her a compliment, and the haughty tone returned to his voice. “Besides, it would be too similar to your previous plots, and you would begin to bore me.”

Charlotte was about to reply with a cutting remark but then remembered what was to come and repressed a smirk. “I think that as the story progresses, you will find it original enough.”

She looked out at the dance floor. Branwell hadn't noticed yet, but the Countess Zenobia and the Duke of Zamorna were already dancing together. It was a lively quadrille, and the partners did little more than hold hands as they performed the intricate steps, so there was nothing scandalous about their pairing. Not yet. She had to admit they made a handsome couple. Zamorna was magnificent in his short jacket and silk crepe breeches, and the countess's raven locks looked stunning against her scarlet gown.

“How could you call this a confection?” she asked. “When have I created a lovelier scene?”

Branwell shrugged, to her great annoyance. “You hardly let them breathe.”

“Who?”

“All of them. Those dancers—they're like clockwork. I think you control every step. You're frowning with the effort.”

What's wrong with that?
she wondered.

“And what's the Red Countess doing here?”

Now Charlotte allowed herself a wicked smile. It was time to advance the plot.

“
The quadrille ended and Zamorna made a gesture to the orchestra
,” she said. “
A waltz began to play. He put his arm around the Red Countess. There were gasps from the crowd as they began to dance.
”

“What are you doing?” Branwell asked.

There was something truly shocking about Zamorna and Zenobia waltzing together. They were altogether too close—and too at ease in their closeness. Neither took their eyes from the other. Dancers left the floor, but Zamorna and Zenobia didn't seem to notice. No one who saw them could have any doubt: They were lovers.

“Charlotte, you can't,” Branwell said. “The Red Countess is Rogue's wife.”

“It makes perfect sense. Rogue only married her for her money. He doesn't love her.”

“But you can't make my character a cuckold! Take it back.”

“You know I can't,” she said. “
At that moment, a pair of high doors
burst open, and Mary Henrietta came rushing through, ribbons fluttering, a vision in violet and green.
”

Mary Henrietta burst in just as Charlotte described. She looked at the dance floor, and a little moan escaped her. She put her hand to her heaving alabaster breast. Young Lord Castlereagh followed quickly after and was there to catch her when she fell into a graceful swoon.

“I thought you weren't going to write any more melodramas,” Branwell sneered.

His words hit their mark. For the first time, Charlotte wondered if she'd made a mistake with this new pairing.

Out on the floor, the duke and the raven-haired countess waltzed on. They hadn't noticed the stir they had created, though many of the guests were murmuring loudly to one another. Mary Henrietta lay across a velvet sofa, a tear running down her cheek. Mina the maid dabbed at her face with a handkerchief.