The Sweetest Dark (23 page)

“Very well. Good afternoon, Lady Sophia.”

“Good—”

Perhaps I moved. Probably I did. With the door practically to my nose, I'd been holding my breath, and what likely happened then is that I released it. Regardless, what happened
next
is that Sophia turned her head a fraction toward the gap. Toward me.

And she saw me. One pale-blue eye grew wide, then narrowed. I glared back at her.

“I say!”

Westcliffe spoke up. “I beg your pardon?”

“Ma'am—did you see it?” Sophia dashed into the room, leaving the door untouched. “There, at the sill?”

I peeked past the door's edge. Sophia was pointing to the window behind the desk. Westcliffe rose to her feet, turning her back to me.

“What?”

“There—just there! It was a little bird pecking to come in!”

Westcliffe's shoulders relaxed. “Is that all?”

I angled around the door. Sophia prattled on.

“Oh, but birds can become such a serious nuisance. I'm sure it was a mudlark, and they're especially devious. One never knows what trouble they'll get into next.”

“Mudlark? I don't believe I'm familiar with …”

I was away! I took a few running steps from the office door before stopping, waiting for the inevitable. I stuck my hand in my pocket and ran my thumb over the golden roses, stroking a fresh song from their ridges.

Sure enough, Sophia caught up to me within seconds, her eyebrows risen nearly to her hairline.

My voice came out like ground glass. “Where is Chloe?”

“The front parlor, maybe. Or her room. Someplace with mirrors.”

I spun on my heel and headed toward the parlor, because it was closest. And that's where I found her, laughing and seated and surrounded by her toadies, a box of chocolates on the floor being shared between them.

I walked up, and every one of them but Chloe glanced up at me—then began to snigger.

“My, my,” Chloe murmured, studying the chocolate she held. “I do believe this one's gone off. It stinks like a cesspit.” Her eyes lifted. “Oh, wait. It's only the guttersnipe.”

“Or perhaps it's your perfume,” I said cordially. “You always smell like a whore.”

“It's
French,
” retorted Runny-Nose, before Chloe could speak.

“Then she smells like a
French
whore.”

“Aren't
you
the eloquent young miss.” Chloe's gaze cut to Sophia, standing close behind me. “Slumming, little sister? I can't confess I'm surprised.”

“I'm merely here for the show,” Sophia said breezily. “Something tells me it's going to be good.”

I took the brooch from my pocket and let it slide down my index finger, giving it a playful twirl. “A fine try. But, alas, no winner's prize for you, Chloe. I'm sure you've been waiting here for Westcliffe to raise the alarm about her missing ring, ready with some well-rehearsed story about how you saw me sneaking into her office and sneaking out again, and oh, look, isn't that Eleanore's brooch there on the floor? But I've news for you, dearie. You're sloppy. You're stupid. And the next time you go into my room and steal from
me,
I'll make certain you regret it for the rest of your days.”

“How dare you threaten me, you little tart!”

“I'm not threatening. You have no idea how easy it would be to, say, pour glue on your hair while you sleep. Cut up all your pretty dresses into ribbons.”

Chloe dropped her half-eaten chocolate back into its box, turning to her toadies. “You heard her! You all heard her! When Westcliffe finds out about this—”

“
I
didn't hear a thing,” piped up Sophia. “In fact, I do believe that Eleanore and I aren't even here right now. We're both off in my room, diligently studying.” She sauntered to my side, smiling. “And I'll swear to that,
sister.
Without hesitation. I have no misgivings about calling you
all
liars right to Westcliffe's face.”

“What fun,” I said softly, into the hush. “Shall we give it a go? What d'you say, girls? Up for a bit of blood sport?”

Chloe pushed to her feet, kicking the chocolates out of her way. All the toadies cringed.

“You,”
she sneered, her gaze scouring me. “
You
with your ridiculous clothing and that preposterous bracelet, acting as if you actually belong here! Really, Eleanore, I wonder that you've learned
nothing
of real use yet. Allow me to explain matters to you. You may have duped Sophia into vouching for you, but
your
word means nothing. You're no one. No matter what you do here or who you may somehow manage to impress, you'll always be no one. How perfectly sad that you're allowed to pretend otherwise.”

“I'm the one he wants,” I said evenly. “No one's pretending that.”

I didn't have to say who.

She stared at me, silent, her color high. I saw with interest that real tears began to well in her eyes.

“That's right.” I gave the barest smile. “Me, not you. Think about that tomorrow, when I'm with him on the yacht. Think about how he watches me. How he listens to me. Another stunt like this”—I held up the circlet—”and you'll be shocked at what I'm able to convince him about
you.
”

“As if you could,” she scoffed, but there was apprehension behind those tears.

“Try me.”

I brought my foot down on one of the chocolates, grinding it into a deep, greasy smear along the rug.

“Cheerio,” I said to them all, and turned around and left.

...

It happened that a yacht was a big, sleek boat, although to call it just a boat would be akin to calling a peacock strutting around in full plumage just a bird. It was made of wood, it floated, like the ordinary punts I knew. But all similarity ended there. The duke's yacht was three levels of hand-rubbed teak and glass and brass so polished I couldn't look at it directly. Beneath the open sun it looked trimmed in fire, too dangerous to go near.

Yet there
were
people going near: menservants in snowy- white jackets, plus the duke's other guests, a stylish crowd in cool linens and crisp straw hats poking about with walking sticks and parasols. They passed the other vessels moored at the village docks—the smelly rust-streaked trawlers, the battered rowboats, a handful of sailboats—as if they did not exist.

Armand and the duke stood by the plank that angled up to the yacht and watched as the motorcar they'd sent for me pulled in close. The chauffeur came around and opened my door and I scooted out, slammed at once by the wind.

I was beginning to realize that wind was a constant here. In London we had days—weeks—of heavy, choking smog that ate up the streets and sky, trapped in place by all the buildings. But this part of the country was so wide and clean and open, the people so glossy and well fed.

Jesse was right. It was a land in a bubble.

I clapped a hand to my own straw hat, my same plain one from the donation bin. The brim flapped up and backward along an old fold, a line in the weave that was already cracked.

It was Armand who greeted me, stepping forward while his father only fidgeted in place.

“How good to see you, Miss Jones.”

That debonair tone, the friendly press of his hand upon mine–it was such a contrast to our final moments in the cottage that I couldn't help but smirk.

“Thank you for having me,” I replied, loudly enough for the duke to hear.

“But I haven't,” said Armand under his breath. “So far.”

I tugged back my hand. “Ever the gentleman, aren't you?”

“I try. Come aboard, waif. Come and experience a gentleman's world.”

First I curtsied to the duke. He wore no hat, so his hair blew stringy and long and the sun lit the jaundice yellow beneath his skin to a sickly sheen. He gave me a nod, his gaze twitching only briefly to mine.

“Have you been out to sea before?” Armand asked me in his public voice, escorting me up the plank.

“Once. But I don't remember it.”

“I think you'll like it. Most people seem to find it relaxing, but I've always thought it was more invigorating than not. Once we get going, I'll take you to my favorite spot at the bow. With enough wind in your ears, it feels rather like you're flying.”

We exchanged glances.

“Or so I've always imagined,” he said guilelessly.

Inside the boat–the yacht–twenty or so of the linen people had gathered in what resembled a formal salon, drinking and talking in clipped, nasal accents. The white-jackets meandered through them, bearing trays of tea and champagne and something darker, like sherry. The air was laden with gossip and jewel songs.

Armand snared a flute from the nearest tray. “Champagne?”

“Water,” I said, which earned me an arched brow.

“Really?”

I shrugged a shoulder. The champagne sparkled palest amber in its glass, scented enticingly of grapes and yeast. But I remembered how it went with Armand and the whisky. I wanted to keep my wits.

“Well, then. I'm sure we've a pitcher around here somewhere.”

He murmured a few words to the waiter with the tray, who bowed and vanished into the crowd.

We were clearly the youngest people aboard. There didn't seem to be anyone else even near our age, and there was no question that we were being noticed. Eyes ogled. Hands were raised to mouths to hide the whispers. A few of the older men looked me up and down with a bold combination of interest and speculation, but most of the stares were merely curious.

The duke's son and the pauper girl. I suppose as a couple we were the most interesting thing in view.

I took the champagne glass from Armand and finished what he hadn't. As Sophia had said, it wasn't swill.

So much for my manners.

“Why am I here?” I asked curtly, handing back the empty flute.

“Because I invited you.”

I dropped my voice. “Did you find out anything about Rue?”

“Is that why you came?”

“No, I came because I simply can't get enough of people looking down their noses at me. The girls at school are getting frightfully lax about it.”

“Are they? How remiss of them. We're taught from the cradle how to look down our noses, you know, we rich sons of bitches. Perhaps Westcliffe's curriculum is a tad too liberal these days.”

“Why, yes, my lord,” I said very audibly, “I
would
enjoy seeing the rest of the boat.”

“The yacht.”

“That, yes.”

He grabbed two more flutes of champagne and my arm, and we edged our way out of the salon to the wraparound deck.

To my surprise, the yacht was moving. It was very smooth and very quick; the dock had already receded to the size of a pencil, all the other boats dwindling to the size of toys. A cloud bank had mushroomed up beyond the hills and waterfront homes of the mainland, dove gray near the top, a darker pewter below.

“See those?” Armand gestured to the clouds, sloshing some of the champagne out into the channel.

I nodded.

“And see all the boats still docked? Even the fishing boats?”

I nodded again, uneasy.

“I believe it might rain,” he said.

I had to keep a hand on my hat; all my pins were giving. “Why are we still heading out?”

“Oh, because it's such ripping good fun.” He took a long gulp of champagne. “Being trapped at sea during a gale because Reggie wants to. What could be better?”

“Armand—”

“Don't worry. If we sink, we'll swim back together to shore. We'll use your bewitching chapeau as a float.”

The nose of the yacht dipped hard, then rose. The wind began a low howl around us.

“I'm not blotto,” he said, in response to my expression. He turned to the railing and chucked the empty flute to the waves. “Not yet, in any case.”

I went to stand beside him. The flute had sunk beneath the surface already, on its way to an eternity of sand and tide.

“That's good. Because I can't swim.”

“Why did you go swimming in the grotto, then,” he asked too pleasantly, “if you can't swim?”

“I wasn't swimming there. I was smoke, at the ceiling, when you came in. Falling into the water was an accident.”

“You're welcome,” Armand said.

I refused to ask for what. We both knew.

The clouds built. The yacht nudged farther into the sweep of blue.

“Jesse thought you might have questions,” I said at last.

His smile came sardonic. “Jesse.”

“He thought you might like asking me better than him.”

“Why does he call you Lora?”

I hadn't expected that, and angled a glance up at him. He was facing the distance still, his profile sharp, his jaw set. The color of his irises exactly matched the far waters.

“It's just my name.”

“Not the way I heard it.”

I pulled at some loose hair that had blown into my lashes, nettled. “Is that really what you want to know?”

“No, not really. I want to know if you've slept with him.”

Oh, if I could be any girl but me. A thousand responses flitted through me, a thousand different things to say, ways to behave. And from the thousand, all I could capture was:

“Why?”

He faced me. He said nothing.

I found, to my dismay, that I could not hold that burning look. I ducked my head and began to remove my hatpins, and when I finally spoke, I made certain my words remained beneath the wind.

“Did you locate Rue?”

“There was no marchioness named Rue listed anywhere in the history of the peerage,” he said tonelessly. “There was no name that even sounded like that.”

Without my hat on, the world seemed abruptly much brighter, and much louder, too. I took hold of one of the brass-fire rails as the yacht gave another dip.