The Falconer (The Falconer #1)

Chapter 5

5

The carriage jolts and sways as it rattles along the cobblestone streets. I’m pressed into the velvet squab, palms sweating inside my gloves. My stomach churns with dread.

Beside me, Catherine peers out the window with a small smile. She turns to me, blue eyes bright. “Remember to glower at anyone whispering about you,” she says. “Do that thing with your eyebrows that suggests you’re looking at something foul you just scraped off your shoe.”

I force a small smile. “Ah yes, my fearsome eyebrows. However would I survive society without your sterling advice?”

Catherine gives my arm a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “You look lovely. And you’ll be fine, I promise.”

I chew my bottom lip, unconvinced. This glittering world seems so far removed from the nights I spend hunting. My title aside, I’m not made for frills and finery. The sooner this interminable ball is behind us, the better.

The carriage wheels crunch on the gravel as we turn onto the lane leading up to our destination—an elegant Georgian townhouse, with warm light spilling from its windows and liveried footmen flanking the doors. I’m seized by the urge to leap from this carriage and flee into the night before it’s too late.

“Are you certain my breasts won’t just...pop right out of this?” I pluck at my snug bodice with a scowl. The neckline barely covers my cleavage. One ill-timed twirl or curtsey, and I’ll cause a scandal.

“You look perfectly decent, I promise.” She leans close, whispering, “But if they do pop out, I’ll stage a diversionary fainting spell so you can stuff them back in.”

I let out a surprised bark of laughter as the carriage rolls to a stop.

The footman opens the door. I gather fistfuls of velvet green skirts in one hand and accept his assistance down to the pavement. My heeled slippers click on the stone walkway as I stare at the receiving line visible through the open front door—an ocean of silks, velvets, and sly, judging eyes.

Catherine links her arm through mine and propels me forward before I can bolt. “Relax your shoulders,” she murmurs. “You look as though you’re marching to the gallows.”

I force the rigid line of my spine to soften, trying to adopt an air of bored politeness. As if mingling with Edinburgh’s elite is beneath my interest. “Might as well be, for all the appeal this holds.”

“Still, do try to convey serene disinterest rather than the appearance of someone about to be executed.”

As we wait our turn in the receiving line, I scan the throng of aristocrats—lords and ladies adorned in jewels, faces flushed with champagne. Out of habit, I seek out potential threats or anomalies. But all seems normal—if one considers an excess of self-important gits engaged in relentless preening and social climbing to be normal.

The announcer’s voice booms out over the din. “The Honourable Miss Catherine Kilmartin.”

Catherine glides into the glittering ballroom, sinking into a graceful curtsey as polite applause greets her entrance.

Then it’s my turn under their scrutiny. I steel myself as the announcer calls out, “The Most Honourable Marchioness of Douglas.”

Here we bloody go.

Every eye turns my way, raking over me in cool assessment as whispers ripple through the crowd. They hunger for any visible crack in my armour, awaiting the moment the mad recluse shatters beneath the crushing weight of their judgement. They know my mother died in the filthiest pisspot of Cowgate under mysterious circumstances, and they know her strange daughter shunned society for months following the tragedy. Whispers of scandal already clung to my name, and her death only confirmed what the wolves already thought.

I may inhabit this world, but I am not of it. Not truly.

Let them whisper behind their fans all they like. I survived the violent slice of a fae’s blade across my ribs at fourteen. Endured broken bones at eighteen. Felt the sharp pain of teeth shredding my body just months ago. Their words are nothing.

“Come along,” Catherine murmurs, slipping her hand into the crook of my elbow and steering me toward the refreshments table. “Let’s get you a drink before you disembowel the nearest matron with a butter knife.”

I offer her the hint of a smile. “Already plying me with spirits? I knew I liked you.”

We weave through the glittering throng. Here, a viscountess eyes me with unveiled distaste. There, a sallow-faced earl watches me over his claret, his expression calculating. Taking the measure of the scandalous Kameron heir.

How quickly fortunes change in our fickle realm. A year ago, ambitious mothers thrust their sons at me, hoping to secure a match. Now, the same ladies whisper behind fluttering fans, wondering if scandal has tainted my value on the marriage mart. But fortune and title still make me a tempting prospect, despite the gossips’ vicious whispers. Especially with no heir to inherit, should I meet an untimely end.

“Don’t snarl,” Catherine warns under her breath. “And for heaven’s sake, stop looking so murderous. They already think you’re deranged.”

I paste a brittle smile on my lips. “Just practising my eyebrows, as instructed. Where is your brother? I thought he was meeting us here.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s around here somewhere, avoiding simpering debutantes.” She pauses. “At least raise the corners of your mouth a fraction so you don’t look so menacing.”

“I need something stronger than punch for that,” I murmur. “Wait here a moment.”

I leave Catherine hovering by the refreshments and retrieve two champagne flutes from a passing footman’s tray. As I turn back, the susurrus of whispers rises behind me. The vultures have scented blood.

“I heard her mother was found in Cowgate,” a debutante whispers conspiratorially.

My fingers clench around the fragile stems. One good squeeze, and I’ll have a fistful of glass shards.

“Cowgate?” another lady gasps, fanning herself. As if the very word were a profanity. “But who goes there willingly?”

Only those well-versed in darkness , I think bitterly.

None of these people know Cowgate is a stone’s throw from the entrance to the Fade. That my mother died there hunting a monster, too weary that night to be as vigilant as she should.

And it cost her everything.

Another lady gives a theatrical little shudder, relishing the drama. “The authorities insist it was an animal attack, but I heard the body was just dreadful. Mutilated.” She lowers her voice. “Rumour has it the Kamerons dabbled in unsavoury business.”

Don’t react. That’s what they want—one misstep to fuel the gossip.

“Hush, Iris,” chides a third. “Have some compassion.” A pause. “Though I must admit, it is rather sordid.”

I stare straight ahead and return to Catherine, handing her the champagne. In my mind, I’m pinning some debutantes’ tongues to the table with my knife.

“Well?” Catherine arches a brow. “Going to drink that or stare it into submission?”

“Trying to decide which would be more gratifying,” I reply through gritted teeth. “Drinking it or throwing it in someone’s face.”

Catherine’s keen gaze studies me. “I thought I heard whispers. Are you all right?”

“Of course.” I paste a smile on my lips. “How kind of them to take such interest in my affairs.”

I don’t mention I’m beginning to wish I’d feigned plague to avoid this evening. The longer we linger, the tighter the corset’s laces seem to pull.

Catherine notices our eager observers. “Of course, it’s Miss Emily Stanley behind it. Would you like me to scare her off?”

“Absolutely not,” I say. “I’m supposed to be your respectable beacon of moral support. A paragon of poise and temperance who would never publicly lose her composure.” I take a healthy swig of my drink. “No matter how much I might want to shove her into the punch bowl.”

Catherine’s answering grin is sly. “No shoving anyone just yet. But the night is still young.”

“I’d rather leave before resorting to violence. Please find some hapless man to dance with so I can glower at him like a spinster aunt.”

Catherine rolls her eyes. “As you wish, Auntie Aileana.”

The orchestra at the back of the room strikes a few practice chords on their fiddles. The waltz is about to begin.

Catherine nods toward a gentleman across the room. “Speaking of hapless men, Lord Hamilton is on his way over. Didn’t you promise him a dance the last time we were in Princes Street Gardens?”

Shite. I had hoped to avoid that unpleasantness.

I watch Lord Hamilton winding his way through the crowd toward us, his path direct and undeterred. A short, stout specimen some twenty years my senior, he has an unfortunate taste in embroidered waistcoats that even my charitable eye can’t defend. And the irritating habit of patting my hand whenever we speak, as if I’m a child needing soothing—which only makes me want to break his fingers.

I grab Catherine’s wrist. “Quick, tell him I’ve contracted cholera. No, plague. I’m contagious. Practically at death’s door.”

Catherine’s eyes dance with wicked delight. “What other diseases should I give you? Ague? Consumption? Leprosy?”

“Yes, all of them. Maybe smallpox, too, just to be certain.”

I’m desperate now. “I’ll give you fifty pounds.”

“I’d pay fifty to watch you dance with him,” she said. “You agreed to it if I recall.”

I scowl at her, a look I hope conveys betrayal. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. I’m a hermit, easily taken advantage of.” When she remains unmoved, I add hastily, “A hundred pounds.”

“Tempting.” Catherine pretends to consider it. “But this is far more entertaining.”

“Traitor,” I mutter.

Too late now.

Lord Hamilton stops before us and sketches a polite bow. “Good evening, Marchioness.” He nods at Catherine. “Miss Kilmartin, always a delight.”

“The delight is ours, Lord Hamilton,” Catherine replies. “What a delightful waistcoat. The colours are so...vibrant.”

He peers down, chuffed as can be, and clasps his hands over what can only generously be described as a portrait of a many-tentacled sea creature rendered in violent mauve and crimson splashes.

“Why, thank you. The dyes form the outline of a unicorn. Part of the Hamilton crest, you see.”

I say nothing, fairly certain even squinting won’t transform those garish tentacles into anything resembling a unicorn.

Catherine simply nods. “How wonderful. It suits you very well, I think.”

The orchestra strikes a few more chords as couples move to the centre of the room and take their places for the dance. Lord Hamilton extends his hand. “Marchioness, may I have the pleasure?”

I open my mouth, prepared to make excuses, but another voice interjects smoothly. “Actually, I believe the marchioness promised this set to me.”

“Gavin,” Catherine says. “There you are.”

Gavin, Viscount Kilmartin, cuts an imposing figure. He stands a head taller than most gentlemen, blond, striking, with intelligent blue eyes that remind me so much of Catherine’s. We’ve known each other since childhood, though of late he’s been occupied with business matters at his estate. I haven’t seen him in months.

Lord Hamilton is spluttering. “But—”

“So sorry,” I say smoothly, taking Gavin’s hand. “I’ll have to dance another set with you later.”

I let Gavin lead me to the other gathering couples as the music begins in earnest. He places his hand on my waist as we begin the waltz.

“Thank you for saving me,” I say. “Your sister was about to hang me out to dry.”

“What are friends for if not rescuing marchionesses from unwanted dances?” He smiles. “Besides, I can’t claim my motives are entirely innocent.”

I sniff. “Ah. Using me to avoid the debutantes? Well, just know I’m liable to faint from the heat in this room.”

Gavin’s eyes gleam with humour. “I’ll endeavour to revive you, should it come to that. So what dire happenstance dragged you out of your self-imposed exile to grace us with your presence tonight?”

“Catherine bullied me into playing her beacon of moral support, but I suspect I’m here to glower at potential suitors.”

“Ah, yes. The famous Kameron glower,” he says. “I’m honoured to be on the receiving end this evening. How have you been occupying yourself while I was away?”

“Embroidering pillows,” I say. “Watercolour painting. Dainty things to fill my days.”

Gavin snorts. “Somehow I doubt that.”

“Needlework? Reading improving books?” I wrinkle my nose in distaste.

His grin flashes. “I’d honestly pay good money to see you reading improving books.”

“As would I.”

For a few blissful moments, I indulge in a fantasy where this cosseted world comprises the whole of my existence—a place of silks and champagne, not blood and shadows. A version of myself untarnished by the inhuman world I inhabit.

A perfect, gilded shell of a life. Civilised. Safe.

I’m so lost in those fragmented daydreams that the first warning takes me by surprise—a prickle climbing my spine, lifting the fine hairs at my nape.

Fae.