Gilded: The St. Croix Chronicles (24 page)

The carriage tilted.

Surprise filled the earl’s face, promptly followed by as determined a scowl as I’d ever seen. In one smooth motion, his arms banded around me. He twisted. All oxygen fled my lungs as we collided with the street below—his back to the unyielding street, my body to his.

The horse shimmied and danced in unruly anxiety; the driver wrestled with the reins, calling sharply for the pedestrians about us to move out of the way. The carriage wobbled wildly.

The earl had shifted us so that he took the brunt of the fall. I was not so delicate as to shatter on cobblestones, but it would have hurt tremendously nevertheless, and he . . .

What common man did that?

Gasping for air, I pushed up to see his face. “Cornelius!”

Pain etched a line beside his mouth, between his eyebrows, but his chest expanded beneath my hands as he took a deep breath.

There in the muck of the street, the gas lamps guttering all around us and the horse shying nervously as its ears flicked this way and that, one of Compton’s gloved hands slid into my hair. Cupped the back of my head and held me when I would have wriggled away.

Someone, something, had spooked that horse. Deliberately, no less, for I saw no sign of accident. There’d been nothing. Only the horse’s own senses.

And mine.

Yet I could say nothing of this; how would I explain the instincts finely honed after years in this very fog? The surprisingly hard shape of the man sprawled beneath me caught me unawares, one of my legs tangled between his and his palm warm at the back of my skull.

The driver exclaimed urgently to see if we were well, but the earl ignored him. “You called me by name,” he said, soft, but no less resolute for the gentleness.

“You have an exceptionally stubborn dedication, my lord,” I assured him, attempting for chastisement but falling instead to uncertainty and concern. “Are you hurt?”

“I will be the more so if you deny me.” The grip at the back of my head tightened. “Say you’ll have me, Miss St. Croix.”

A crowd was gathering. Demanding answers, yelling. In my peripheral, a large longshoreman grabbed the horse’s reins, but the beast was placid now.

I stared into fog-green eyes framed by heavy-lidded sandy lashes, felt his heart pounding solid and warm beneath my hand.

His mouth was only a breath away; it would be so simple to lean down and press mine to it.

Was that an answer? Could it ever be?

Marriages have been made on less.

Mine would not be one made. “My lord—”

“Think on it,” he said over me. Under me, for that matter. “I shall ask again.”

A firm hand wrapped around my upper arm, the polished shoes of the carriage driver at the edge of my vision. I frowned down at Compton’s determined stare. “My answer will not change.”

“I will not hear it,” he told me, nodding with a glance to his footman, “until it does.”

Stubborn. Inexcusably so!

“My lady,” the driver said by way of warning, and I found myself partially lifted by the one, partially supported by the other man whose body had protected my own.

Stubborn, indeed, but kind. Demanding. Wealthy, of course, titled. He claimed to be fond of me.

I shook out my skirts, studying the throng around us as several of the stronger dockworkers righted the carriage with much shouting.

Was the danger I’d sensed among them? The person who somehow spooked the horse must be close. He’d want to see the damage, wouldn’t he?

The fur once more settled around my shoulders. “These roads are terrible,” he commented.

Of course. The roads. As if that were all. He watched the men work, and I inspected his profile and barely kept from sighing.

Just my luck that I would be saddled with the one man in all of England who would not be put off by a lady’s refusal of his hand.

A put-off proposal would not do it, but I’d wager all of my inheritance that if he knew that I chased a murderer in the fog, his indignation would be fierce, indeed.

One gloved hand settled over his own shoulder. I detected a subtle wince.

“My lord, you’re hurt.”

“Nonsense,” he countered, with a tone that declared that was the end of it. Whether he was or was not, I would not get an honest answer. I suspected more than his service in Her Majesty’s Navy kept his upper lip stiff. Pride came part and parcel with the Northampton legacy. “Let us get you home, Miss St. Croix. Mrs. Fortescue will not thank me for tarrying too long in your company without a chaperone.”

Oh, yes, she would. I bit my tongue and allowed the earl to help me alight.

From my higher vantage point, I scoured the chattering folk now turning away; curious event witnessed, now all must return to their daily routines, their goals. None stared too long. None lingered, save for the few beggars and Abram men hoping for a scrap or two.

Who, or what, had spooked the horse so badly?

Chapter Seventeen

A
s if some secret announcement had been made, as if the gossips had learned that I was once more solidly in Earl Compton’s favor, social invites began arriving by the following day. I greeted this new development with a facial tic I acquired on the spot.

Fanny all but waltzed through the house, humming in a rusty but perfectly acceptable key. More often than not, I caught her humming Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. I gritted my teeth and said nothing.

I would not keep shouting my denial to deaf ears.

To make matters worse, Mrs. Booth became her conspirator and enabler. I had never seen either so cheerful. Often, I came upon them in the kitchens—where Fanny rarely ventured—or in the parlor, head to head studying this fashion periodical or that catalogue of silk ribbon and gilded fluff.

I drifted out of view before either could see me, silent as a ghost, contemplative as a nun.

Hungry for something beyond food or drink.

I passed Booth as he walked from the door to the parlor, a small stack of carefully organized cards in his gloved hands. His smile was indulgent, his gray eyes snapping with good health and nature.

He said nothing to me; I did nothing to engage him. Booth was too proper a butler to invoke casual conversation with the lady of the house.

And I had nothing to say.

I rested one hand atop a lion’s head for balance, circled the silent, watchful beast with an affectionate, distracted pat and took the stairs quietly. My plaid skirt rustled; the only noise to combat the girlish laughter and delight drifting from the parlor.

Zylphia was just coming from Fanny’s room, her arms loaded with pale linen bedsheets. The look she gave me over her burden wasn’t cheerful or excited. It was probing.

And all too knowing. “You look peaked,” she said flatly. She dropped the bedsheets into a basket, pushed them down with a strong hand. “Are you taking any of that laudanum at night?”

I looked away. “There is none left.”

“Are you sleeping?” Because Zylphia was not the type to fritter away an afternoon gazing at fashion plates, I followed her downstairs.

“Not entirely.” An honest answer, for all it revealed nothing. “There is much going on, Zylla, it’s difficult to ascertain my sleeping habits.”

“Hm.” A noncommittal sound as she balanced the basket upon her pinafore-tied hip. “Have you considered a bit of Ashmore’s brandy—”

“Good heavens, no,” I denied hastily. “I’d never developed the taste for it, and I’ve been assured Mr. Ashmore’s private stock is beyond my reach.” But I lowered my voice, because we neared the parlor, and Fanny would not approve. “May I help?”

Zylphia snorted outright. “You, doing housework? That one would have my head,” she replied, nodding to the parlor. Whether she meant my chaperone or my housekeeper, it didn’t matter.

She was right.

I needed something to do. I was tired of idly sitting, listening to the cheerful harmony of my door chimes as caller after caller depressed the mechanism just to leave a calling card.

Propriety stated that I would have to go through them, decide who I would call upon in turn and who I would simply send ’round a note.

I couldn’t give a fig for any of it.

I felt trapped in my own house.

And I was, to a certain degree. Fanny would not allow me to go below; not while so many eyes were suddenly trained on me.

I kicked at my skirt hem in silent, childish protest. “What are they so gleeful about, anyhow?”

Zylphia’s sky eyes, filled with sympathy, flicked at me. “I’m not to say, but . . .”

I frowned at her when she trailed off. “Zylphia.” A warning.

“Shh.” She glanced at the parlor entry, then whispered, “Your earl sent a letter of intent.”

“The devil he did,” I gasped.

She nodded, blue eyes steady. “Mrs. Booth was talking it about it to Mr. Booth this morning. Have you considered,
cherie
?”

“Considered what?” I considered many things. Escape by my bedroom window, fleeing to the eastern desert savages where I understood women of pale skin and vivid coloring like myself were prized harem jewels, even so far as briefly considering asking the Menagerie for sanctuary. Of course, the fact that the Menagerie seemed a far more bitter pill to swallow than a harem’s life amused me, but I still considered it.

I discarded all of them. Fanny would only be upset, I’d likely balk under any man determined to keep me a possession—as gossip rumored all such desert princes demanded of their kept harem women—and I would rather die than give Micajah Hawke the satisfaction.

“I mean,” she was already asking as my thoughts drifted, “have you considered what would come of your
other
life if you are wed?”

“Of course I have,” I snapped. The retort escaped before I realized another figure now filled the parlor entry in the corner of my vision. I started guiltily; too late.

“That life,” Fanny said determinedly, closing the distance between us and cupping my cheek in one hand, “will be over, and soon.” Her gaze fell on Zylphia, haughty as only Society could be to a servant. “And I’ll thank
you
to get back to your duties.”

“Yes, madam,” Zylphia murmured, bobbing a partially formed curtsy. But the lingering question in her vivid eyes haunted me as she vanished into the kitchens, making for the washing tubs in the basement below.

My fingers twitched. It weighed on me, how much I wanted a draught to soothe my fraying nerves.

Fanny patted my arm and said cheerfully, “Fret not, my dove. All will proceed smoothly, you’ll see. Nerves are expected.”

“Expected of what?” I demanded.

My chaperone would not engage me. Fuming, I watched her as she walked away, as determinedly ignorant of my attempted unrest as a satisfied cat upon her own territory.

If she ever suffered a drastic change in her lot, Fanny would make a disastrous fortune-teller. Her words of comfort turned instead to a taunt that came on a harmonic warning.

It was only just after teatime. Seated in the parlor, Fanny knitted quietly in her favored armchair, the fire sparking brightly beside her. She’d complained of chill, and I knew we’d the house funds to maintain a steady supply of coal for the burning, so I kept the flame stoked for her.

The tea cart was only just cleared away and a book cradled in my hands when the mellifluous chime of my doorbell sang sweetly. I didn’t start; a credit I gave to the mildly entertaining book I idly read. It had been at least two hours since any caller, but I’d already developed the knack for ignoring the sound.

A shame, for I loved that doorbell. According to Fanny, my father designed the system—a complex pulley to trigger a set of carefully balanced gears and strikers against a row of delicate bells inset in the attic—and had it installed to please my mother.

They say she smiled each time a caller came, for there were days when the pretty melody would not be heard at all.

My mother had lost much favor when she married Abraham St. Croix.

I envied her, sometimes. Silence, I was learning, was becoming an extremely valuable commodity.

Step-thunk, step-thunk.
Booth’s uneven footsteps traveled down the hall. I turned another page, a silly bit of Gothic fluff from my own collection, and did not look up as he passed through the door.

He cleared his throat. “Her Ladyship,” he intoned, not a single syllable out of place, “the Marchioness Northampton.”

Fanny’s gasp emphasized the sudden energy in both of us as we both surged to our feet. The book tumbled from my hands, fell open to the carpet in a flutter of pages. “My lady,” I said, propriety at least hammered that far within me, “welcome to my home.”

The marchioness did not look impressed. Neither in the cursory glance she gave my not inelegant parlor, nor in the following scrutiny leveled upon me.

I couldn’t entirely blame her. Lady Northampton was a fashionable, graceful creature, no matter where she chose to go. Whether in taffeta and silk in a ballroom or, like now, wearing sage green linen trimmed and patterned by lovely darker green velvet, her winter coat firmly in place and a matching top hat perched jauntily upon her upswept hair, she looked the very picture of Society at its finest.

A right thing, for the Marchioness Northampton had always been looked to in fashionable decree.

Her gaze through the dark green netting draped from the brim of her riding hat was not kind. Nor did it allow me even a shred of uncertainty as to her thoughts on her son’s proposal.

Suddenly, I felt myself to be a very small, insignificant thing indeed.

“I will take up precious little of your”—her gaze dropped to the book upon the floor, contempt clear within—“obviously valuable time, Miss St. Croix.”

Dry mouthed, I nudged the book under my settee with one foot, even as I gestured to my now-vacant seat with a—dear heaven, I only just noticed—bare hand.

“Please, take your leisure, my lady,” I managed, the very picture of polite, save my forgotten gloves. I must have taken them off for tea and left them draped somewhere. In this room? Where? If they were left in sight, that would only take the prize, wouldn’t it?

“Would you care for a cup, my lady?” asked Fanny, setting her knitting down in her also abandoned chair. Her expression was oddly set; one part uncertainty, one part determination. Every bit the very picture of model civility.

“No,” the marchioness said, flicking that icy stare to my chaperone. “You may leave us, Mrs. Fortescue.”

There was no argument to be brooked in that clear dismissal.

When Fanny looked at me, one gloved hand curled in her rust-colored skirt, I nodded slightly. This would be worth hearing, I was sure, even as my stomach clenched in nervous anticipation.

I thought I knew the subject she would broach.

Her son must have made clear his intent to his lady mother, as well as my own chaperone. With a proposal extended, the fate of her family now rested on me. No gentleman could back out of an engagement without terrible scandal to the lady involved, and I knew enough of the earl that I was sure he’d never do so, even if he did come to his senses.

Was that why his lady mother was here? To convince me to turn him down?

Did she know I already had?

The marchioness circled the settee, inspecting it with obvious disdain before sitting. As Fanny took her leave—I would wager my next few grains of opium that she would not go far, and rather expected Mrs. Booth to do the same—I took the seat beside the marchioness, smoothing my green plaid skirt. Today, I’d paired it with a simple brown silk blouse and matching linen jacket. I thought I looked fetching this morning.

Now, I was positive I looked more the dowdy spinster beside the marchioness’s fresh glow.

“I shall make short work of my intent,” Lady Northampton said, studying me with abject dislike. She was too polite to ever say so, but I knew the signs. Had always known them. “I am prepared to sign over to you a moderate sum, Miss St. Croix.”

And just like that, I was shocked into stillness. I stared at her, searched her perfectly arranged expression for any clue that she jested, yet saw only the same iron-clad determination that so shaped her son’s features.

When my silence did not give her what she expected, her eyes narrowed.

I found my voice. “My estate,” I said quietly, when all I wanted to do was find that bloody Gothic book and fling it at her, “is in excellent health, my lady. Money is the very
least
of my concerns.”

“I see.” The entire frigid north seemed weighted in her voice. Her chin rose, back ramrod straight. “What will it take? Name your price, I am capable of affording a princely sum.”

Crass. And she knew it, the marchioness did. Yet she persevered. As mounting anger overcame my shock, my hands laced tightly in my lap and I could not tell if the heat in my cheeks came from fury or from the fireplace. “What is the result of this
princely sum
?” I inquired tightly.

There, a flicker of satisfaction. And of outright condescension. She expected me to take her offer, the money-grubbing
unfortunate
soul that I was. “You will inform my son that you will not, nor will you ever, marry him. Today,” she clarified flatly, “now, via letter that you shall give to me.”

I swallowed hard. My fingers trembled, I locked them tightly together. Mirroring her rigid pose—because anything less would reveal the turmoil juddering through me—I met her eye to eye and asked without art or malice, “Why do you hate me so?”

She blinked those so-familiar eyes. Once. Surprise?

Her nose turned up. “Breeding always tells, Miss St. Croix.”

My mother.

Lady Rutledge had once informed me that the marchioness retained no love for Josephine St. Croix.

And yet again, I found myself painted with my mother’s colors.

My jaw set. A surge of anger—of hurt, if I were to be honest—replaced my fear. “I see.” Clearly, whatever malice she carried for my mother now fell to me.