The Trouble With Moonlight (12 page)

Lusinda nodded. Portia scowled. Rhea jumped up and down clapping her hands.

The four of them fit comfortably in the carriage and departed for the short ride to the Farthingtons’. Lusinda peered out the curtain at the sky overhead. The quarter moon threw a soft light, not enough for a full-phase. Still, she could feel a dull tingling in her fingers. Clouds moved across the night sky, taking turns at covering the moon all together, and the tingling would briefly subside.

“That’s an interesting brooch, Lusinda. Is that something new?” Aunt Eugenia asked.

Portia immediately turned from her station at the window to survey the piece of jewelry. “It’s an old maid pin,” she announced before returning her attention to the passing scenery.

Though stung by the hurtful comment, Lusinda refused to let it show. She unhooked the brooch and handed it to her aunt. “It was a . . . gift. The shopkeeper said it would protect the wearer from danger.”

Her aunt held her gaze for a moment, an unspoken rebuke for accepting a gift from a man. Lusinda refused to feel remorse about Locke’s gesture. Surely her aunt, a spinster herself, recognized that a sterling reputation was certainly unnecessary for a woman with no prospects.

Eugenia glanced at the blue stone, turning it from side to side, watching the shimmer mimic the lunar cycle. “A moonstone, ” she said with a soft smile. “A fine specimen, indeed, though I’m afraid the shopkeeper misstated its abilities.”

“Oh?” She accepted the brooch back from her aunt. “It doesn’t protect against danger?”

“Perhaps.” Her smile deepened. “However, it’s supposed to protect the wearer against people with our talents: the Nevidimi. ”

“That’s silly.” Lusinda laughed. “Why would anyone need protection against the likes of us?”

“We’re different, dear. That always invites fear.”

Her aunt and she continued to chat amicably until the carriage pulled to a stop behind two other carriages in line before the Farthington residence. Aunt Eugenia and Portia stepped down from the carriage and joined the others walking the short distance to the entrance. Once the driver had closed the carriage door, Rhea pulled back the curtain to watch the grand parade.

“Look at the pretty dresses. I’m going to look like that some day.”

“You’ll be even prettier,” Lusinda replied absently. It didn’t seem fair that her sister could enjoy the entertainments of society while she remained hidden like a disgraced member of the family. Jealousy twisted in her gut. This was a mistake. Coming here was akin to poking a festering wound. She glanced irritably at the window. However, instead of the expected view of another pretty debutante and chaperone, she saw the distinctive head and shoulders of Mr. James Locke pass by the square frame.

Quickly she slid to the opposite end of the bench, straining to see his back through the limits of the frame. If she hadn’t seen his face, she would still recognize him by his stiff, alert posture. She smiled. He held himself apart, as if an invisible wall separated him from his companion—Mr. Ramsden she guessed from the swagger—and everyone else. Her sessions with Locke must be improving her powers of observation. He’d like that. She pressed her nose closer to the glass, ignoring Rhea’s complaints. Locke’s evening jacket spread nicely across the expanse of his shoulders. She’d never seen him in such fine array. If only she could see him from the front. He and his friend mounted the steps to the front entrance and disappeared from sight. She slumped back in the seat.

The carriage jerked forward. A familiar wish teased Lusinda’s thoughts, that she could be one of the “pretty ladies” who would wave their fans and bat their eyes at the eligible young men at the party. This time, however, her wish added an identity to the targeted man of such flirtations. Would Mr. Locke be interested, she wondered? Mr. Ramsden would, she had no doubt, but Mr. Locke?

Their carriage turned a corner rounding the west side of the Farthington property. In sudden inspiration, she rapped at the roof of the carriage, alerting the driver to stop.

“What are you doing?” Rhea asked as the carriage pulled to the curb.

“Wait here,” Lusinda replied. “I won’t be long. I just want to see something.” She opened the carriage door, stepped down without assistance, then pushed the door closed behind her. Rhea’s face appeared in the window and Lusinda held her arm out in a silent plea to stay. Lifting her skirts clear of the cool grass, she quickly darted behind the bushes that hid the house from the street and advanced toward the windows of Farthington House.

The tingling intensified, reminding her that this excursion was not without risk. Still, she was drawn toward the window, much as the moon was said to pull the tide. She just wanted to see Locke when he wasn’t focused on managing all aspects of her life. She told herself she just wanted to see if he favored a particular woman. But in reality, she just wanted to see . . . him.

This is silly, she scolded herself. She was acting like a schoolgirl spying on the adults at a dinner party, but still she moved forward until a long open window in the music room provided a view of the activities within. Half-hidden behind a tree, she could see the profiles of the guests. Good. Their attention would be riveted on the piano in front of the room. She could watch discreetly, unobserved.

She spotted Locke the moment he entered the room. Her heart gave a little jump. Mr. Ramsden already had a young woman wrapped around his arm, while Mr. Locke had followed without escort. What a fool the young woman must be if she chose Mr. Ramsden for her attentions rather than Mr. Locke. He was stunning. His creamy white cravat and shirt only emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. He clenched his hands behind his back and slowly scrutinized the room. The minute movement of his eyelids and tightened lips were the only indication of the thoughts clicking like tumblers in his agile brain. She reached out her hand, surprised to feel her fingers touch the rough brick that outlined the open window. When had she moved that close?

She should retreat to the relative safety of the tree, but her curiosity kept her glued near the side of the window.

Everyone had taken their seats. Mr. Ramsden partially blocked her view of Mr. Locke. She looked for Portia and Aunt Eugenia and found them toward the back of the room. Suddenly, a tug on her skirt caught her attention. A swift glance down revealed Rhea at her side.

“I want to see too.”

Lusinda quickly pulled her sister away from the window and back toward the base of the tree. At least, her whispered reprimand wouldn’t be overheard from this distance.

“Rhea, quiet!” She hissed, afraid to raise her voice. “I told you to stay inside the carriage.”

“But I want to see the pretty ladies.”

A breeze moved among the treetops, separating the clusters of leaves, allowing moonlight to filter through to previously sheltered havens. A shaft of moonlight settled on Rhea, and Lusinda thought she saw a soft sparkle in her skin. Could it be a trick of the light, or was it a predecessor of something else? Ignoring Mrs. Farthington’s guests, Lusinda studied her sister instead.

“Do you feel anything? Like a tingle in your toes?” she asked cautiously. She didn’t want to alarm Rhea if she hadn’t inherited her mother’s unique traits.

Rhea screwed up her tiny face. “What do you mean?”

How to explain the prickling with which Lusinda had become so familiar? The tingling sensation that even now teased her fingers. “You know how it feels to prick your finger with a needle? Do you feel something like—”

The scream interrupted further explanation. Lusinda glanced up at the window and saw a woman frantically pointing in her direction. Her gaze shifted to Locke, who looked at her full face, his brows descending in unmistakable displeasure.

She quickly grabbed Rhea’s hand, noting that to Rhea’s full-flesh hand, hers was a ghostly white, semitransparent one. “Run!”

She dashed for the carriage, pulling Rhea roughly behind. She thought she heard footsteps and loud voices behind her, but she didn’t dare look back. The moon slipped behind a cloud, causing her ghostly appearance to become more opaque and her features more recognizable. She reached the carriage and quickly tossed Rhea inside, scrambling up behind her.

“Go!” she yelled before she pulled the door shut. The driver, well-used to her barked commands, snapped the reins, and the carriage rolled off, allowing her to slump in relief on the cushions.

“Why did that woman scream, Sinda?” Rhea asked while Lusinda struggled to calm her breath. “Didn’t they know the moon was out?”

The question made her smile even while her heart pounded a furious rhythm. “I guess not.” She tried to look out the window to see if anyone followed, but it was impossible to see. Not that it mattered. Locke had not only seen her, but recognized her as well. She could tell by the furl between his eyebrows that deepened with his scowl. She glanced to her lap. Her hand still held a subtle glow of milky white. She imagined her face looked much the same, yet Rhea didn’t seem to notice. She curled up on the bench seat and rested her head in Lusinda’s lap, her pale hair shimmering in the moonlight. Lusinda soothed her hand down the child’s cheek. “I guess not.”

SHE DIDN’T RETURN TO LOCKE’S RESIDENCE THAT night.

Lusinda was quite sure he wouldn’t be pleased by her absence, but if he was going to be upset with her over the Farthington affair, he might as well be displeased that she decided to spend more time with her family.

The next morning Lusinda and her aunt lingered over their morning tea and toast. Eugenia read the society column in the
Illustrated Times
and began to laugh.

“I knew your appearance would not go unnoted. Listen to this: A music recital held at the Farthington residence ended with great drama. Miss Farthington had barely begun playing a sonata when a commotion interrupted the performance. Several members in the audience claim to have seen a ghost resembling Mrs. Farthington’s drowned niece. By several accounts, the glowing specter pointed a bony finger in the direction of the house before flying off into the night.” Eugenia glanced over her lenses. “I hadn’t realized you had developed the ability to fly, my dear.”

“At least they didn’t blame the poor girl’s piano talents for raising the dead,” Lusinda mused.

Portia burst into the room, still in her nightgown, and most agitated. “He’s coming! I saw him from the window. I knew he would come.”

Aunt Eugenia put the paper down, then tilted her head toward her niece. “Who’s coming, dear?”

“That man! The one we saw last night. He must be coming to see me.”

“Well, he can’t very well see you looking like that. You’d best run off and change into something appropriate.”

“Don’t let him get away!” Portia called as she rushed up the steps.

Lusinda caught her aunt’s scowl. “What man?”

“Portia saw someone she fancies last night. I told her the gentleman was far too old for her, but she would have none of it. Surely, you remember how it is when a girl first fancies herself a woman grown?”

But Lusinda didn’t remember. She’d never had the opportunity to attend functions like the one Portia had the previous evening. Her heroes existed in the books she’d consumed, not the flesh-and-blood models apt to be found at music recitals.

“She did look lovely,” Lusinda said. “Do you think it’s likely she caught someone’s eye?”

The door knocker sounded a moment before Portia’s frustrated shriek upstairs.

“Perhaps, though I hope it’s the eye of someone closer her own age.” Aunt Eugenia rose from the table to answer the door. Curious, Lusinda followed a step or two behind.

Mr. Ramsden stood outside their door, dressed in a dark morning coat, a striped silk neckcloth, and camel trousers. She could appreciate how he could catch Portia’s eye, or that of any other marriage-minded female, but Lusinda was past the age of swooning over a man based on his looks. Handsome men wanted women to accompany them to soirees and dinners and such. They rarely were content with those that hid from moonlight.

“Good morning, ladies.” He tipped his hat and bowed respectfully to Aunt Eugenia. “Am I to understand that this is the Havershaw residence?”

He winked at Lusinda when Aunt Eugenia reached down to capture Shadow, who was bolting for the open door.

“Yes, it is,” she said, black cat in hand. “May I help you?”

“I shall be down presently,” Portia’s voice faintly called from the back room upstairs.

“I was fortunate enough to have made the acquaintance of Miss Havershaw through a mutual friend, and I had hoped to have the pleasure of her company for a walk through the park this morning.”

Lusinda stepped forward. “Aunt Eugenia, this is Mr. Marcus Ramsden. He’s an acquaintance of Mr. Locke.”

“Oh, yes, lovely man, Mr. Locke.” She practically pushed Lusinda out the door, “Well then, off you go. Lovely day for a walk.”

Surprised by her aunt’s actions and the gutteral quality of her voice, Lusinda began to protest. “It’s a bit cool. Perhaps I should get—”

“Here, take my shawl.” She pulled the woven black material off her shoulders and tossed it toward Lusinda before closing the door. Through an open window upstairs, Lusinda could hear Portia frantically shout. “I’m coming.”

Ramsden raised a brow. “Shall we?”

Lusinda wrapped her aunt’s garment around her shoulders and turned to the steps.

“I believe you’ve made a bit of an impression upon my sister, ” she said as they crossed the street to the park on the other side. “She saw you at the Farthingtons’ last evening.”

“She did?” His face twisted for a moment, then swiftly settled in a smile. “And you? I would have remembered had you attended the soiree.” Interest lit his eyes. “Now I wonder why your sister attended in your place?”

“She didn’t really attend in my place . . . It is a rather long and evolved story, Mr. Ramsden.”