The Privilege of the Sword (47 page)

A
RTEMISIA
F
ITZ
-L
EVI WAS NOW FREE TO MARRY ANYONE
who would have her. She was not, however, free to leave the house.

She had taken up fancywork. It gave her something to do with her hands, so that she didn’t tear her mother’s eyes out, or better yet, her tongue. She plied her tiny hook with a vengeance, creating yards of tatted lace of varying sizes.

“At least Lord Ferris is behaving like a gentleman,” Lady Fitz-Levi said again.

Artemisia jabbed the shuttle through another hole. It made a change from yesterday’s refrain of
There, miss, are you satisfied?
or the day before, with its shrieks of
Ruined, ruined, this
friend
of yours has ruined you!

“A real gentleman would have permitted me to break the engagement myself.”

“And make you look like a jilt? Oh, no. Lord Ferris is behaving as he should—though I could wish he had waited just a little longer after that odious challenge so people would not be tempted to connect the two. As long as he continues to comport himself with discretion and not let anyone suggest the fault was yours…”

“But Mother, I won the duel! That proves it wasn’t my fault!”

“Shh, darling. We know that, but you understand that no one else must, now must they? Or they could find out about that—
other
thing, and we don’t want that, now, do we? Oh, Artemisia, we must do what we can to get you back on your feet! Perhaps a companion, someone sedate…My cousin Lettice married a drunkard, she never had any sense, and now that she’s widowed she’s short of funds; perhaps she’d be willing to come chaperone you.”

“I don’t care.”

Her mother considered her. “No, Lettice could never handle you. There’s only one thing for it. You need a new lover, and quickly.”

“What?”

“Yes, indeed, my darling. It’s the only way to allay suspicion: to make it look as though you fell for someone else and Ferris kindly released you. Now, who among all your beaux did you like second-best?”

“No one.” Artemisia twisted her shuttle with a sure hand. “I will never marry.”

“Is that what you want to be, a disgraced old maid? It’s not a life for you, my dear, indeed it’s not.” Now her mother softened and seemed to look at her directly. Even sulky and resentful, Artemisia was a pretty picture in the low chair by the window, her dark curls gleaming, her slender neck bent over her work. “You like lively people and nice things. You love Society—and Society will love you once again, once we have you settled. The question is, who is still available who’s worth having? Someone nearer your own age, I think, dearest, so you can enjoy a long life together.” Artemisia shuddered. “It’s a pity Terence Monteith is taken—he was just mad about you, wasn’t he?”

“He was a bore.”

“Yes, a bit. Still, he is such a
safe
young man. So unexceptionable.”

“He wouldn’t want me now.”

“Do you think so?” Her mother looked archly at her. “I happen to know he’d snap you up in an instant. But he would have to break with Lady Eugenia first, and that would cause scandal, and I think we’ve had enough of that for one season. What about Gregory Talbert, then?”

“You said he was unsuitable.”

“His mother has come to town. She is spending a great deal on clothes for herself and furnishings for their country house. He is not as unsuitable as he once was. And he is still free.”

“Dream on, Mama. The fact is, I’m damaged goods.”

“Don’t be a fool, girl. Nobody knows about that unfortunate incident, and as long as Lord Ferris keeps on being a gentleman, nobody has to, since fortunately there was no…untoward result. It is simply a matter of discretion. Discretion, breeding, and…well, a reasonable offer on our part, which of course we will make. Your marriage portion will be the same as it was for Lord Ferris; better, even. He can see that and regret it ’til his dying day.”

“May it be soon,” Artemisia muttered.

Her mother ignored her. “Many of the finest families are overburdened with second, third, even fourth sons whose inheritance is nothing to speak of. Any one of them would be delighted with the match. In fact—Oh!” Her mother smiled. “Why did I not think of this before? It seems so obvious, and you’ve been such good friends for years, now.”

“I can’t marry my brother,” Artemisia said waspishly.

“No! I was thinking of your cousin Lucius.”

“Lucius Perry,” Artemisia said softly. Well, of course. He already knew of her condition; he’d brought her home from the Rogues’ Ball, after all, and never told a soul. “I thought he’d disgraced himself, somehow.”

“Well, dear…” Her mother weighed the situation and decided it was time to be frank. “The truth is, when dear Lucius first came to town he was very young, and he fell in with the wrong crowd. He made a bit of a spectacle of himself, and your aunt and uncle were very upset.”

Artemisia remembered Lucius sitting in her window seat saying, “It’s the old story: boy comes to city, boy disobliges family, family hears about it, ructions ensue.” Is this what he’d meant?

“But he’s a good boy, you see. As soon as he learned how much harm he might be doing his family and himself, he promised them he’d stop. And I think you’ll agree he’s behaved admirably ever since. There’s not a breath of scandal anyone can attach to Lucius Perry.”

“No,” Artemisia said thoughtfully, “he’s never around for people to notice. He’s sleepy, and quiet, and he’s always late for things.”

“But there’s no harm in that. He’s a handsome boy with nice manners, very fond of you. I really think I shall write to my sister and see what we can arrange.”

“
Then
may I go to the play?” She said it just to annoy, knowing the answer already.

Predictably, her mother launched into: “And don’t think I don’t know what kind of nonsense That Book’s put into your head. ‘Fabian,’ indeed. When we read it, my friends and I knew that he was a monster, a seducer and a cheat—we all agreed Tyrian was worth two of him—Helena Nevilleson was even planning to name her firstborn Tyrian, but her husband wouldn’t permit it. To put such a thing on the stage, and with the Black Rose, of all people…”

“All the girls have seen it,” she wheedled.

“Well, now,” her mother said. “Maybe you should go, at that. We don’t want you to disappear, do we? Why don’t we all go next week, and invite your cousin Lucius to join us?”

T
HE
D
UKE
T
REMONTAINE HAD RETURNED TO
R
IVERSIDE.
The Black Rose did not like visiting him there as well as she liked his house on the Hill, but now that she had accepted a substantial gift from him and severed her ties with her last protector, she hardly felt that she could be too choosy about where to consummate their new arrangement.

“Points to you,” she said; “points to you and your little niece.”

“What in hell are you talking about?” He sucked a deep breath in on his pipe. “You must forgive me, but I’ve been enmeshed in family matters. I’m not up on the talk of the town.”

“The talk of the town, as you very well know, is that Katherine challenged and defeated Anthony Deverin, though it didn’t faze Ferris one little bit. No one is claiming the challenge, so it’s anyone’s guess what the offense was, and to whom—but all the safe money’s on you, of course, on behalf of someone he’d insulted…. Oh, Alec,” she wrapped herself sinuously around him, “dare I think that it was on my behalf?”

“Think what you like,” he said; “it wasn’t.”

She laughed. “If you weren’t so completely useless, I’d be in love with you already. You’re the only one who tells me the truth.”

“It was Katherine’s idea, really. Ask her, if you like. She’s around. I thought it best to keep her in Riverside for a while. The Hill is such a…busy place right now.”

“Yes, you’re right. Much safer for her here, if dear Tony tries anything. He’s not a forgiving sort, as I know.” He offered her the pipe, but she shook her head. “I don’t. You shouldn’t, either.”

“Why not? It relaxes me.”

“You want to be on your guard,” she said. “You’ve made a real enemy of Lord Ferris.”

“I did that before you were born.” He laid a warm hand on her thigh, and she did not contradict his arithmetic. “Kiss me,” he drawled, “I can’t feel my knees.”

chapter
V

A
NTHONY
D
EVERIN,
L
ORD
F
ERRIS, WAS PREPARED
to put up with a great deal of inconvenience, even of affront. But he did not readily forgive. In the matter of his stymied marriage, he put the blame where it truly lay: not with the gormless Fitz-Levi clan and their bubble-headed daughter, but with his ancient and annoying enemy, the Duke Tremontaine. Ferris needed to know: had the duel been a mere whim, an opportunity to discomfit him and show off the duke’s latest family eccentric, or was it more, the opening salvo in a plan to bring Ferris down altogether? It would not do to wait to find out. He would strike first, to make sure Tremontaine knew he was not without resources.

Ferris made certain inquiries and was not disappointed; if anything, he was a bit surprised at just how many fronts young Campion had left himself exposed on. Going after him would be like shooting arrows at a popinjay tied to a pole. Only the question of St Vier remained open. But it was early days, yet.

It began, innocently enough, with a bit of doggerel and a little artwork, nothing out of the ordinary in a city where printers regularly catered to the tastes of a population that simultaneously gloried in the glamour of its resident nobility and loved seeing them taken down a notch.

On this particular broadsheet, it was His Lordship of Tremontaine being taken down. But instead of the usual willing boy or overendowed swordsman, the duke’s partner was a grossly fat woman, dressed like a cross between a peasant and a shopkeeper from what one could see, for her skirts were up over her head with His Lordship crawling under them exclaiming:
Behold the motions of the stars!
while she pointed upward, responding:
No, you fool! They’re up there still!

The duke’s Riverside household staff, from scullions to secretaries, were far from pleased. What went on between their walls was private business, family business. Those snooty Hill servants might be given to passing on gossip up and down town, but in Riverside things were different. For the duke’s ugly Mathematical Girl to be the butt of city jokes was dead wrong. Someone had been talking, and the wrong person had been listening.

“I’ll have them put out on the street,” the duke told Flavia, “whoever it is.”

“You’re an idiot,” she said mechanically. The Ugly Girl herself was unaware of the rush of sympathy the household felt on her behalf. She’d received little of it in her life, and did not look for it now. “It could be anyone—one of your scholars, drinking in a tavern, making a quip where some apprentice would overhear him, that’s all it would take.”

“I’ll find someone to whip the printer, then. If it distresses you so.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

The second broadsheet was even more offensive: calculations on a slate being made by a piglike woman with the duke’s own tool engulfed in her hammy hand—

“And they’re not even
right
!” she wailed, waving the sheet.

He chuckled. “Would you expect them to be?”

She said, “Yes, dammit. They owe me that, at least.”

Again he said, “I’ll make them stop, if you mind so much.”

She looked bleakly at her friend. “
How
will you make them stop? Will you really set bullies on the printer? the artist?”

“Why not?” he said airily; but he knew he was in the wrong. He answered her unspoken accusation himself: “It’s not unheard of. Karleigh did it when they targeted his mother. Davenant is known as a man not to mock. In a city where most of the wealth is controlled by a small few, certain things are overlooked, particularly when it comes to the assertion of privilege.”

“Don’t you dare.” She stood rigid, clutching the latest broadsheet in her two hands in front of her.