Chapter 21
Twenty-One
As the carriage careened toward Pinnacle Bluffs, the Strattons’ summer estate, Emmy was careful not to jostle against Jack,
who sat as far from her as one might sit from a leper. And of course he did; she’d mauled him.
From the opposite bench, Caleb studied the two of them warily. “Jimmy will keep Mary in Emmy’s room until we return. In the
meantime, we need to focus on the Strattons.”
The Strattons, who’d be scrutinizing Emmy’s every move as a potential match for Oliver. All the while, she’d be trying not to think about how Mary knew her and Jack’s identities, and how Jimmy was their only hope to keep Mary contained. Jimmy,
who’d trust water if it swore it wasn’t wet.
A scream bloomed in Emmy’s chest, but she had no choice but to swallow it. “Any picnic etiquette I should know?”
“Let the attendants fill your plate. And, as usual, take only small bites.” Caleb stilled, squinting at Jack. “Are those teeth marks?”
If only Emmy could have jumped out of the carriage.
“Vallillo bit me.” His teasing gaze burned into her as he adjusted his collar to hide the blemish. “I tried to stop her, but
she was rather insistent.”
“The bracelet made me do it.” Emmy whirled to glare at him. What she wouldn’t give to start today all over. But her mistakes were branded on
her brain. Mary’s horrified expression. Jack frantically trying to run away from her . . . advances.
Emmy was going to make Grace pay.
“What sort of conjury do you think Grace bridged?” Caleb asked. “Seen it before?”
“No, but the Society keeps records of every gift.” Jack fanned himself with the brim of his top hat. “We’re lucky you discovered
it while we were still at home.”
“Lucky?” Emmy spat. “She was able to enter Mistfield. To breech my bedroom.”
The hour that had passed had done nothing to quell Emmy’s horror. They knew Grace had objects bridged with Mary’s invisibility,
and yet they’d let their guard down. Who knew what other enchanted items she might have left behind?
“Grace had the Fontaine grimoire while you were in Grimsbane,” Emmy bit out, still unable to meet Jack’s eye. “I think she
cut out the pages Rose used to make the relic. We need to consider that she might have made her own.”
“Impossible.” Jack waved a dismissive hand. “She would have needed my flames.”
“And the sternum of someone who possessed amplifying conjury.” Caleb shrugged. “Rose was certain she’d found the only one.
And she didn’t simply follow the steps in the grimoire; she had to experiment.”
Jack was watching her now, but she couldn’t meet his eye. “When Grace held Rose’s relic, she stole my conjury without needing
to bridge it to an object. If she could do that now, she’d have used Caleb’s telepathy against us, and we’d be dead. Or worse:
in Grimsbane.”
But Emmy couldn’t imagine Grace simply giving up on power that vast. “You shouldn’t underestimate her.”
The muscles in Jack’s jaw twitched. “Can’t you just trust me for once?”
“She was in Mistfield. In my room.” Emmy would never let her guard down again.
“It could have been worse. If you hadn’t caught it in time, you could have bitten Oliver instead.”
“How, exactly, is that worse?”
His nostrils flared. “Then be my guest.”
“Perhaps I will.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Caleb rubbed his temples. “I should be paid for this.”
The carriage slowed, filling Emmy with dread. The Strattons’ estate was the last place she wanted to be right now.
“Time to focus.” Still scowling, Jack rubbed his hands together. “I’ll find a way to mention my connection at the Bronze Door
to Oliver. Caleb, you stay glued to the chancellor.”
Caleb smoothed his lapels as the carriage stopped. “Anything else?”
“Be ready for the chancellor to prattle on about the virility of his horses.” Jack pitched his voice like Chancellor Stratton’s.
“‘Gunner here sired six males in as many weeks.’”
“That bad?”
Jack’s gaze slid out the window. “Worse.”
Chancellor Stratton smacked the rear end of a frighteningly large horse. “Gunner sired six males in as many weeks. Six! Can
you believe it?”
Emmy did not trust herself to look at Jack or Caleb, so she kept her gaze fixed on the midnight-black stallion.
“Six!” Jack exclaimed in his Nathaniel accent. “If only it were that easy for the charmed to produce heirs.”
“Well, if you boys wouldn’t wait so long to marry, there wouldn’t be such a terrible dearth of charmed offspring.” The chancellor
gave Oliver a pointed look.
As they moved to the next horse, Jack attempted to fall into step beside Oliver, who regarded him with his usual disdain.
Emmy joined Mrs. Stratton at the back of the party as the chancellor continued his tour of the stables, which were bigger than most homes and smelled more like roses than manure.
“You’ll never believe who called on me this morning,” Mrs. Stratton whispered as her husband extolled the virtues of yet another
virile horse. “Mrs. Claremont.”
Emmy felt as if her tea gown had ignited with flames from hell. “What did you say to her?”
“As if I accepted the visit! After what her daughter put us all through, she’s lucky I didn’t have the dogs run her off the
premises.” She dabbed a bead of sweat with her handkerchief, all the while smiling at whatever the chancellor was saying.
“Our social standings are rather like stock portfolios: one bad investment, and your overall value plummets.”
“What about Miss Montgomery?” Emmy whispered. “She and Clara were close.”
“Ah, but Miss Montgomery slithered away just in time.” With a careful glance at the men, she lowered her voice. “Forgive my
candidness, dear, but I do not care for the girl.”
With considerable effort, Emmy managed not to look smug. “Because of Oliver?”
“Young men are no better than these animals before they’re properly matched. Just look at the late Mr. Montgomery. Devilishly
handsome, but I knew he’d never settle down, even if it meant the end of an old charmed bloodline.” She beamed at her husband
before dropping her voice. “Oliver knows he cannot marry the illegitimate daughter of a rake and a . . . well, a harlot, if I’m being frank. To outright refuse the match puts us in a rather precarious situation, as her uncle is on the triumvirate.
But if Oliver had another prospect . . .”
Even without Mrs. Stratton’s knowing smile, Emmy would have understood.
Before Winnie Fairchild, Oliver had paid attention to but one Society girl, one who did not meet his parents’ snobbish standards.
And now Winnie needed to convince them that she was up for the job.
A high bar, given that Winnie was actually a tenement-raised immigrant’s daughter who’d spent the last two years pissing in a bucket.
A picnic waited in the apple orchard, the shade a refuge from the blistering June sun. With the Hudson glistening in the distance,
it would have been a lovely afternoon, had it not been for the company—and for the crisis waiting back home.
Mary knew their true identities. If she’d managed to slip past Jimmy, she might have already blurted the truth to someone.
“My grandfather, Arthur Stratton, planted this orchard.” The chancellor shooed away his attendant’s offer of a fan. “He was
killed in the war, and I was elected to take his place as the Society’s chancellor. The youngest in Society history: hardly
sixteen and not even wed.”
Mrs. Stratton patted his hand. “You had your sights on me, dear.”
“Your pedigree was the only one that held a candle to mine. And,” he added with a smug grin, “you had wide hips, perfect for
childbearing. I knew you’d produce an heir for me.”
His gaze slid down Emmy’s dress to her own hips, and it took everything she had not to squirm. “How old are you?” he asked
abruptly. “Seventeen?”
Emmy swallowed her bitter lemonade. “Eighteen, sir.”
“In my time, all the best girls were wed by seventeen. Before their fertility declined.”
“Jesus Christ,” Oliver muttered. “Must we discuss fertility all day?”
“There are far more important things that should be on my mind,” the chancellor snapped, “such as the safety of every charmed
soul in New York, or how a teenage dressmaker siphoned the brume from underneath our noses for years. But instead, I must contemplate your unfulfilled responsibilities to our family.”
Oliver rolled his eyes. “Here we go.”
“The longer you wait, the further you risk the Stratton line ending with you.” He spat the last word with such disdain, even Caleb winced. As if sensing it, the chancellor turned to him. “Is it not
your father’s desire that your sister find a suitable spouse this summer?”
“Ah, well, of course—”
Oliver rose from the table. “I’ll excuse myself.”
“But we haven’t even had dessert!” Mrs. Stratton called. “The chef made your favorite!”
“Let him go, Trudy.” The chancellor tossed his napkin onto the wrought iron table. “Mr. Fairchild, might I have your assistance
with a matter indoors? It won’t take long.”
He was asking Caleb for help. Emmy’s and Jack’s eyes met, but she quickly looked away.
Caleb rose from his seat. “Certainly.”
As they departed, Mrs. Stratton smiled as if her husband hadn’t just examined Emmy like one of his breeding horses and her
son hadn’t stormed off. “Shall we visit my rose garden?”
“I hear it’s the best in Avalon-on-Hudson.” Jack jumped to help Mrs. Stratton with her chair. He’d already abandoned his pale
gray suit jacket, instead wearing only his vest and shirt, the sleeves of which were pushed to his forearms. The same arms
that had pinned her in the river, that had desperately tried to push her away after she’d bitten him—
“Winnie, darling?”
Emmy turned to hide her blushing cheeks. “I, ah, thought I’d take a view of the water.”
“We can do both,” Mrs. Stratton offered.
“No need. I’ll make my way to the roses afterward.”
Mrs. Stratton looked as though she was about to protest, but something caught her eye, and she flashed Emmy a dazzling smile.
“Take your time, dear.”
Just like that, Emmy was left to explore the manicured property alone.