Chapter 11
Eleven
Your family killed her daughter.
Emmy twirled about the Mistfield ballroom, the cobwebs on the chandeliers swaying in her wake. Hastening her pace, she replayed
each shrill order her dance instructor had barked at her, from where to position her hand to where to look. Sweat glistened
on her forehead, and her blistered feet begged to be free of her stiff ballroom slippers, but still, she spun.
Your family killed her daughter. How Grace’s proclamation had delighted the dress shop. How quickly they’d humiliated Winnie Fairchild in her first hour of
existing.
One, two, three. One, two. She stomped her screaming feet, sending dust motes whirling as she tried to recall the Grand March, tried to drown out all
thoughts of yesterday’s failure.
The ballroom doors burst open, and in sauntered the fairy-tale prince Emmy had designed: neat chestnut hair, straight nose,
strong jaw. Jack, as Nathaniel.
“Did you miss me, Vallill— Oh.” Jack froze, his foot dangling. Pure shock flooded in his widened eyes as he stared at Emmy’s face—or rather, Winnie Fairchild’s.
“‘A simple dress appointment.’” She mimicked his debonair drawl.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Speechless, for once.
“Yes, I’m Winnie now, but we have more important matters to discuss.” She folded her arms over her chest. “Yesterday, I was
practically chased out of Clara’s shop.”
His Nathaniel complexion was paling by the second. “What . . . what happened?”
“I made a fool of myself.” The understatement of the century.
He stopped gaping at her long enough to pull the ballroom doors shut. “Tell me.”
“Mrs. Windsor discovered that Miss Fairchild is related to you and fainted in horror.”
He didn’t look surprised, exactly.
Chest heaving, she studied him. “They all believe your family murdered her daughter.”
“I’m aware.” Averting his gaze, he raked his fingers through his hair.
“Clara had her receptionist escort me to the curb.” And if that hadn’t been humiliating enough, Grace had treated Emmy as
if she’d physically assaulted her aunt. One tiptoe into the Society, and Emmy was already a pariah.
Jack began to pace, his expression unreadable. “I’d hoped that if you met them before the Inaugural Splendor, it would smooth
things over a bit.”
Them. Emmy stared at him. “You knew others would be there?”
He stopped pacing.
Deny it, she wished fiercely. She could not be the naive fool again.
“If I’d told you,” he said carefully, “you wouldn’t have been surprised when Clara threw you to the wolves.”
The jolt of betrayal was all too familiar. He’d known. He’d known and he’d lied.
“If it had seemed like you were there to ingratiate yourself, they would have seen right through it.” He shrugged. “This way,
you couldn’t overthink it.”
The audacity of him, to use her emotions to further his plans. “Grace was there.”
His brows disappeared beneath his now ruined hair. So he hadn’t planned for that part. But he lifted a casual shoulder. “And
you’re still standing.”
Callous words from a callous man. Shame on her, really, for expecting anything else. He’d never hidden his intention to use her like a weapon. This was what it felt like to be used.
Head high, she met those piercing gray eyes. An emotion she couldn’t place flashed in them. Something raw, something heavy
enough to heat her skin.
“Caleb was right.” She still held his gaze. “You truly are selfish.”
“Wait,” he called after her, but she was done letting the puppet master tug on her strings.
Even with her door shut, the house buzzed with the charmed staff Jack and Caleb had hired off the Society’s list. A steward.
Two valets. A butler. Underbutlers. A cook. Footmen. Underfootmen. Gardeners. Coachmen. Grooms. Pages and stable boys. Housekeepers
and housemaids and laundry maids and scullery maids and more possible spies than Emmy could count. Charmed people destined
to wait on other charmed people who had accomplished the admirable feat of being born rich. The entire system was infuriating.
And maybe Emmy was a little bit mad at herself, too.
Grace had played the part of the benevolent young lady, sweet enough to welcome the newcomer while others kept their distance.
Yet at the first opportunity, she had held Winnie responsible for the sins of all Fontaines. Loudly. She’d embarrassed a stranger
who did not know a single soul there. And anyone present could easily dismiss Grace’s cruelty, for the poor girl was only
defending her grieving aunt.
Without even knowing Winnie was Emmy, Grace had outplayed her. Again.
“Winnie?” Caleb knocked on her door. “We’re waiting on you for dinner.”
Emmy nestled deeper in her bed. The only person she wanted to see was Jimmy, but now that they had a full house, he could
not enter Emmy’s room without causing an uproar.
“Come on, sister.” Caleb’s knocking grew more insistent. “Open the door.”
With a groan, Emmy yanked off her covers and threw open her door.
As he took in her new face, Caleb’s jaw nearly unhinged. He pressed his hands to his mouth as if lost for words, and Emmy
readied herself for a much-needed compliment.
Caleb laughed. And laughed some more.
Her cheeks blazed. “If you think this is helping—”
“I’m sorry.” Still, he could not tame his bemused smile. “You look marvelous. And we really do look like siblings.” He motioned
to the mahogany hair she’d given him, the shade identical to hers. His eyes were now green, like hers, and his skin was golden
and freckle-free.
He shut her door, his lingering amusement a tad contrite. “The Windsors’ Inaugural Splendor is tomorrow. We should practice
being ‘ourselves’ at dinner, in front of the legion of footmen.”
“I’m not coming.” Emmy’s traitorous stomach grumbled.
With a glance toward the door, Caleb lowered his voice. “He never lets anyone know what he’s truly thinking. It used to drive
Rose mad.”
“I saw Grace.” She hated that the words were spilling from her like a confession, especially to Caleb, of all people. “I had
to hide so she wouldn’t see me . . . ruffled.”
As if Caleb gave a damn about her. As if he cared at all that she’d faced Grace too soon, that she could not close her eyes
without seeing how beautiful she had become, could not breathe without feeling her betrayal slice through her heart.
“Did you know I was born here, at Mistfield?”
Emmy’s jaw snapped shut. Caleb never spoke about himself. At least not to her.
“My mother was nurse to Rose and me, and the Fontaines were kind enough to let me stay in the nursery while my mother was working. My father was Mr. Fontaine’s butler, and they were very good to my family.
And to me.” He tugged on his lapels, looking uncomfortable.
“All this to say that I have known Jack longer than anyone. He has many flaws—keeping secrets highest among them—but he is never purposefully cruel.”
She did not want to hear anything nice about Jack, but it had cost Caleb something to share this with her. Emmy fiddled with
a loose thread. “You and Rose must have been close.”
“It was not romantic between us, if that’s what you mean.” He smiled faintly. “But I knew all her thoughts, and she knew mine.”
Emmy had certainly shared all her thoughts with Grace. Her ambitions, her aspirations, even her fears. But Grace had kept
hers to herself.
“Did you ever want to be a protégé?” Emmy asked. “With your gift, plenty of families—”
But Caleb shook his head. “The debutante ball is a way to recruit outsiders with the right pedigrees. I was born into my place
in the Society. Which was fine by me, because I wouldn’t have wanted a life where everyone knew my gift and avoided me like
the plague. Instead, I was paid handsomely to spend my days with Rose.”
And yet he’d chosen to be Paxton Fairchild rather than a staff member. Caleb might have enjoyed his life as Rose’s attendant,
but he still had ambitions of his own.
“You know what?” Caleb straightened. “I’ll have one of the millions of maids bring you up a plate, and we’ll let Jack come
up with some explanation for your absence.”
“Really?” Her voice pitched.
“And while you’re fuming, remember Rose’s prophecy. Jack won’t bother us for long.”
Emmy’s jaw slackened.
“Kidding. That was far funnier in my head.” Blushing, Caleb turned toward her door.
“Caleb?” She waited until he looked at her, embarrassment still painting his cheeks. “What did Rose draw for your, ah, death?”
“Nice try.” With a dark laugh, he slipped out her door, letting in the strange new sounds of the busy mansion.
The house had long ago quieted, but there was no way Emmy would sleep a wink with so many people nearby. Instead she lay in
bed, replaying the thinly veiled excitement in Grace’s eyes as horror had spread through the dress shop.
An earsplitting crash jolted Emmy upright.
Her wall exploded. Plaster and wood shot into her room, followed by thick smoke. Emmy was on her feet in an instant, narrowly
missing the falling chunks. Before she could reach her knife under her pillow, Jack poked his head through the hole. “That
took me nearly an hour.”
Emmy gaped at him—at the mess he’d created. The giant hole between their rooms was blackened and smoky at the edges. “You
couldn’t just knock?”
“And ruin Winnie Fairchild’s reputation? I think not.” He tossed an enormous leather book onto her bed, then held out a pink
envelope, its black seal loosened.
Keeping a wary eye on him, Emmy took the envelope.
Inside was a square of black paper fastened to fuchsia velvet by sparkling rhinestone pins. Its edges glittered with the suits
of a Parisian playing deck: fuchsia diamonds and hearts, interspersed with onyx spades and clubs. The calligraphy at the center
swirled like white smoke.
The Windsors Cordially Invite You to Attend
the Inaugural Splendor
at Clarity Hall
Avalon-on-Hudson, New York
Saturday Evening, the Third of June 1882
This Year’s Theme Is Dangerous Games.
Please Dress Accordingly.