Chapter 12 #2
Stratton. How lovely to see you again.”
Emmy gaped at Papa’s killer.
In his costume, she nearly hadn’t recognized the man who’d sentenced her to endless imprisonment. But she would never forget
that stern, pale face. His icy blue eyes flitted over her, utterly impassive as they moved to Caleb and narrowed. He might
have helped them gain entry to the Society for the summer, but he did not trust the telepath.
“This is my cousin.” Jack inclined his head toward Emmy. “Miss Winifred Fairchild.”
With fire in her heart, Emmy curtsied to the vile man.
But the chancellor hardly even looked at her. “And this is my wife.”
“Mrs. Stratton, what a pleasure.” Jack kissed her gloved hand and introduced Caleb and Jimmy.
Unlike her husband, Mrs. Stratton was rather chatty, asking about their lineage, the repairs at Mistfield, and their plans for the summer.
As the boys supplied their rehearsed answers, Emmy stole glimpses at the chancellor, who watched the party like a sentinel.
Judging by the deep-set lines around his scowl, there was about as much warmth in this man as there was in a glacier.
To win him over, Caleb was better off using an ice pick.
“Come closer, dear. Let me have a look at you.”
With an encouraging nod from Jack, Emmy drew nearer to Mrs. Stratton.
“Such lovely bone structure.” Mrs. Stratton examined Emmy’s face as if it were artwork to be judged. “Your green eyes are
exquisite. Tell me, what does your father do?”
“He’s in the gold business,” Caleb supplied. That was their story: their world-traveling parents were busy overseas, trusting
Paxton to accompany Winnie to New York to find a husband. “His mines are mostly abroad—”
“I believe I asked your sister.” Despite her chastising tone, Mrs. Stratton’s practiced smile did not waver as she turned
back to Emmy. “Are the men in your family always this pushy?”
Emmy glanced toward Jack, remembering how he’d trapped her in his arms to unlock her conjury. The break-in at headquarters.
The dress shop lies. “Usually, they’re even worse.”
Mrs. Stratton’s lips quirked. “Give me your dance card, dear. My son is a lovely dancer.”
Emmy could practically feel Jack’s excitement as she removed the small card from her wrist. Once Mrs. Stratton handed it back,
they were dismissed.
She’d expected Jack to snatch the card right away, but he stared at the crowd with his eyes unfocused. “Hey.” Emmy nudged
him, but he hardly heard her. “Hey.”
His gaze snapped to hers, and for the briefest of moments, she glimpsed his raw anger. His pain. But with a shake of his head, the mask snapped back into place. “Nice work.”
Mrs. Stratton had seemed to like her well enough. Mrs. Windsor, too, despite their earlier meeting. If only middle-aged women
were her targets.
With renewed swagger, Jack meandered from table to table, brokering introductions and making small talk with the people he’d
known his entire life. As Nathaniel, he was the perfect mix of confidence and affability. Emmy tried to emulate his airs,
all the while ignoring the lemon-size knot in her throat. Her new appearance seemed to be working, at least, and by the end
of the cocktail hour, her dance card was nearly full. Nine dances, though she’d learned only six—and badly. She’d need to
fake an injury or, preferably, disappear.
Much too soon, the orchestra began to play the opening notes of a waltz. Her first dance partner arrived—a boy named Richard
Hamilton who hardly looked old enough to attend a ball, let alone drink champagne—but before Emmy could conjure a single good
excuse, she was on the dance floor, her gloves saving her the humiliation of sweaty palms.
The waltz began.
Emmy could not think about her tattered nerves, not while counting one, two, three over and over. Richard tried to engage her in polite conversation, but Emmy had to focus on her feet. Richard was surprisingly
graceful, and he smiled often, as if he could calm her nerves. She could have done much worse for a first partner.
Emboldened, Emmy stole a glance at the other couples. She could practically sense Jack to her left, wielding that roguish
smile on a girl who looked positively hypnotized. Behind him, Caleb was waltzing with a young lady Emmy didn’t recognize,
and judging by his elegance, Rose had taught him to dance as well as he’d claimed. And beside him—
Grace. Dancing with Oliver, who wore his ivory uniform. Just like Grimsbane’s guards.
A jolt of tension shot through Emmy as she watched them. Their locked gazes revealed unmistakable intimacy, the sort earned
through stolen kisses and jailed friends and fires that burned innocent girls in bed. They were in love. And, if Jack’s timeline
was correct, they had been for years. Yet Grace had kept him from Emmy, had lied by omission through countless conversations
about the boys they might meet in the Society. But Grace had told Oliver about her, given that he’d helped her schemes by conjure-binding Emmy. They trusted each other.
It was enough to make Emmy sick.
Poor Richard Hamilton was still talking amiably, but Emmy could not hear a word he said, not when she had a front-row seat
to Grace’s new life. Grace danced effortlessly, as if she’d been born a golden-slippered ballerina and not the bastard daughter
of a rake and a wayward drunk. This life suited her. She seemed far more at ease here than she’d ever been back home. But
Emmy would never belong here. She’d always be out of place with these people, no matter how much she practiced her curtsies or how pretty she
made her face or how powerful her conjury. There was an unmistakable air to the elite. Grace had always possessed it, even
in their tenement house. And Emmy did not.
Emmy stepped on Richard’s toes, and he winced. “I’m so sorry!” Emmy exclaimed.
At his reassuring smile, Emmy relaxed—but someone snickered.
A glutton for punishment, Emmy glanced at the source. Clara Claremont was huddled with three other girls about their age,
pointing at Emmy. They quickly turned away, but not fast enough to hide their amusement.
Heat rushed to Emmy’s cheeks. She turned her attention back to Richard, determined not to make another mistake. Somehow, she made it through the rest of the waltz without further embarrassment, but her next partner found her before she could hide.
Polkas were supposed to be fun, with spinning skirts and circling couples, but Emmy could hardly keep up her smile while she
stepped on her partner’s foot five bloody times—once hard enough for him to grab his toes while hissing in pain. The snickers
grew louder, and humiliation scorched her face like a blistering sunburn. If the quality of her dancing was a testament to
her character, then Winnie Fairchild was thoroughly depraved. It took everything she had not to run off the dance floor after
the polka finally ended.
As Emmy picked up her skirts, Oliver Stratton stepped into her path. “My mother informs me that I have the honor of your next
dance.” He looked far from pleased.
A string of vile curses rose to Emmy’s lips. She could not dance with Oliver, not without abandoning all hopes of impressing
him. “I don’t suppose we could . . . play cards instead?”
His sour expression brightened. “Some friends just sat for stud poker. Shall we join?”
Oh, sweet relief. Stud poker was a Baxter Street tradition. She was practically a shark.
Emmy flashed her first genuine smile of the evening. “Lead the way.”