Chapter 12 Gentlemen Callers
GENTLEMEN CALLERS
The double doors to Lady Guinevere’s office were more intimidating than usual, the guards stationed outside somehow more deadly.
Diana knew that the one on the right—named Harold—would wink whenever Miss Maple looked his way.
And the one on the left liked to take his luncheon in the roof garden because he adored butterflies.
These men were good with knives but could be gentle with their hands when they wished.
Her rescuer Ned offered ample proof of that.
When he wasn’t out guarding some woman Lady Guinevere had deemed in need of protecting, the intimidating man was flirting with Sarah, a potion mistress whose fleeting glance could make him blush.
The question was: Were the guards supposed to be gentle or deadly with her today? What were Lady Guinevere’s intentions? She’d never find out standing here.
“I’m expected,” she told the guards.
Harold pushed one of the doors open, and Diana entered.
All was as usual. Mr. Bran kept to his usual corner, this time polishing a pistol, and the raven hopped about on its perch. Lady Guinevere stood at the window, peeking through the curtains. The sunlight torched her yellow hair into a halo.
“You’re early, Miss Chester.”
“I could not sleep.”
“Because you were out late last night?”
“Is there a curfew I was unaware of?” Irritating to speak to a back, and she did not succeed in keeping that irritation from her voice.
“No.” Lady Guinevere finally turned around. “Only, I worry.”
“I thank you for your concern.”
“Well, your life was, quite recently, threatened. And you left Finsbury last night with a man you barely know.”
“I think I know him rather well by now.” Especially after last night. “Why have you requested to speak with me this morning?”
Lady Guinevere sat at her desk, and the raven hopped onto her shoulder. She cooed at it, then steepled her fingers and faced Diana. “You prefer to leave out pleasantries. I approve. Let me be direct, then. What do you plan to do, Miss Chester? After you leave here?”
There it was. What she’d been afraid of. “Will I be leaving soon?”
“You may remain here as long as you like, but”—she looked about the small and barren room—“it is not a forever home. It seems to me that Lord Knightly is offering you something rather more permanent. At least I hope that’s what he’s offering.
I suppose I’ve come looking for gossip. If he offers, will you accept? ”
She’d already rejected him. Twice. How could she not with the secrets she carried? “What would you do, Lady Guinevere? If you were being courted by a good man from a lovely family. And your life was complicated, messy. Would you marry him and hope your stain did not bleed onto his life?”
“You are not a stain, Diana.” Her voice held the bold tenor of battle. She would not be argued with. Or she would win.
Diana ducked her head. “Still.” A quiet word, a word awash in silent pain. She pushed the heel of her hand against her eye, holding her breath for a long moment. “Still. What would you do in my position?”
“Easy. I would not hide away. I would fight. And when a champion presented himself, I would not reject him. Women must take what allies present themselves in the war of life.”
“Even if building such connections is not in your allies’ best interests?”
“Even then.”
“Would you… keep a secret from a husband?”
“In a heartbeat.”
So much brutal confidence. This a woman who knew how to survive, a woman Diana must listen to if she, too, wished to survive. “Must I leave here? How much longer may I stay?”
“As long as you like, Miss Chester.” Diana nodded, and had her hand on the door to leave when Lady Guinevere added, “But how long do you think you can freeze your life before it starts up again? Or, a better question: Would you rather wait around for someone to start your life for you, or start it on your own terms and in your own time?” She laughed.
“I’m being philosophical this morning. I’m sure you’d rather be on the roof. Go now.”
Diana slipped into the shop and up the stairs where she donned an apron and slipped a wicker basket on her arm.
She could stay as long as she needed, as long as she wanted.
Thank God. She would not be forced to accept a marriage proposal simply to survive.
She could breathe in the lavender morning air with ease now.
She plucked leaves and vines and petals and placed them in her basket, humming and happy she would not have to leave, not be forced into marriage to save her life.
When her basket was full, she descended into the still room at the back of the shop and hung several of the plucked specimens to dry.
She could leave the entire basket here and the potion mistresses could come get what they needed themselves, as they had been doing, so she did not have to enter the front of the shop often.
But she knew Miss Maple to be particularly low on lavender, so she kept the basket and stepped into the shop. Miss Maple was with a customer, so Diana paced the perimeter of the shop, hiding her face beneath her too big cap and watching the potion mistresses at work.
She’d learned so much in so little time. She could not yet brew a decent potion herself, but she had begun to learn the ingredients for certain ones. The love elixir was well above her expertise level, but she could concoct a sleeping draft and something to clear the skin.
“Can I have some of that?” Miss Binkins asked. She was one of the older potion mistresses, more Diana’s age than the younger girls, and Diana hefted up the basket for her to take her pick.
“Thank you, Miss Smith, thank you. Are you well today?”
“Quite. And you?”
“As well as can be. Better than most days.” Miss Binkins chuckled. “There’s an anomaly in the shop.”
“An anomaly?”
“A man.”
“I do not think that fifty percent of the population can be considered an anomaly,” Diana said.
“In the shop they are.”
“There’re men in here every day.” Diana nodded at the guards.
“Oh, them. They’re less men and more machines. There’s a real man here. Right through there.” Miss Binkins nodded between two elegantly clad ladies near the front door. “Take a look. Quite the fine fellow to look at. I almost can’t concentrate.”
Diana looked in the same direction, and she could not see anything for a moment. Then the crowd parted, and Diana’s heart stopped. She wanted to run. To hide. To melt right through the floorboards. But she lost all ability to move.
“Transcendent,” Miss Binkins said. “Must be. No one looks like that without a glamour.”
Some men did. And her cousin was one of them.
Apollo. Here. In her safe haven, in the place where she’d found a home. Of course it couldn’t last. She had not thought the end would come so soon. Her hand flew to her neck, and her ears buzzed.
“Miss Smith?” Miss Binkins might have put a hand on Diana’s shoulder. Hard to tell. Diana felt nothing. And everything. The world exploded in chaos. Laughter too loud. Air too hot. Apollo shining too brightly, a dark glow, his hands weapons at his sides.
He would hurt her again.
He might hurt these women.
She couldn’t allow it. But what was she to do against him? She could not pull on a glamour here in the shop. Someone would see.
“Miss Smith.” Miss Binkins put an arm around her, guided her toward the stairs. “You’re unwell. To bed you go now.”
She let the other woman guide her upstairs and put her to bed, and she only rose to lock the door, to shove the old writing table she’d displaced last night against it.
Not enough to keep him out. These breaths she gulped in through trembling lips…
they could be the last free ones she took. They could be… the last ones.
* * *
She woke with a pounding head who knew how many hours later. She was curled in her bed with her forehead pressed against the window. She didn’t remember falling asleep, only trying to curl more and more tightly into herself, to make herself so small no one could find her.
She opened her eyes.
And screamed. She jumped out of bed, lurched away from the window and the scowling demon beyond the glass.
Apollo. Apollo had found her. Or he’d sent his henchman, and she was not long for this world and—
“Diana, it’s me.”
The words pushed through the pounding of her heart against her skull. It’s me.
No demon in the pitch-black sky.
Temple. The name calmed her racing heart and soothed the pounding in her brain.
“How in heaven’s name are you flying?” She threw the window open, and he climbed through as she stuck her head out.
Night once more. She’d slept all day. “What is wrong with the shop’s sign?
” The iron arm that extended the hanging sign from the side of the building had warped upward.
It snaked like a vine toward her window now.
“Can’t manipulate metal that’s already been set. But the sign had some rust on it, so I could reach inside and twist it a bit. Not too much. Not sure I could’ve gotten up here otherwise. The window ledges helped.”
She blinked, pulling back into the room and shutting the window. “Did you physically reach inside it?”
He slapped his hands together, brushed his palms on his pants, and winked.
“I want to see you do it one day. See you work in your forge. See how it’s done.” True. She wanted it badly. But she’d never have that opportunity. Not unless… “You owe Lady Guinevere a new sign.”
“She’ll have it. And perfectly set so no one can manipulate it. I’ll even rust-proof it.”
“You can do that?”
He nodded, yawned. “I came earlier, but they told me you were sleeping. Why is your bed in front of the window?”
“Why are you climbing through my window?”
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a dull yellow stone, its glow extinguishing. Her own stone, its companion, lay on her bed, dull yellow as well.
“Oh. I must have rolled atop it in my sleep. Apologies.”
“None needed.” He gave another yawn, ambled closer to her. The last time they’d been alone in her room, he’d entirely shattered her sense of what was possible in the world, in the body, in regards to pleasure. “You did not dress for bed.”
She’d not known she was going to bed. Her body ached for relief from her corset. “Will you chastise me for it?”
“Will you let me undress you?”
A dangerous answer sat ready on the tip of her tongue. Yes. She ran from one man, a sniveling mess. From another, she seemed to want to hide nothing, would agree to letting him strip her bare.
“Help me put this bed back where it belongs?” Furniture rearrangement a distraction from that realization. No, more like it gave her time to consider other questions she might say yes to, should he ask.
He helped her without asking again why she’d moved it to begin with. Thank God. She’d hate to have to admit it was because she felt safer where she could see the very space he’d last been.
“Your meeting with the king last night?” she asked. “How did it go?”
“As well as can be expected. I move too slowly for him.”
“Do you have news from Mr. Squires?” She could at least discover why Apollo had been here.
He huffed a laugh. “Funniest thing. He swears your cousin has no talent. Thinks the man’ll be caught out soon. Then that’s it for the Fordham estate. Either King William will give it to someone else, or it will dissolve completely.” His gaze sharpened itself on her. “Does that upset you?”
“No.” It felt freeing. If everyone thought the Fordham talent truly dissipated, then they would not listen to Apollo if he decided to tell her secret. Quite possibly, they’d think him a ranting madman. They’d scoff. A woman had inherited a marquess’s talent? Unlikely.
Yet every bump in the night made Apollo her monster. Every stranger in the road kicked her heart into a desperate racing rhythm.
She could not live like this—terrified of her cousin, expecting every new morning to bring her closer to his vengeance. He’d been here. So close to finding her if he hadn’t already.
Yet she had no money to leave and would not earn a large enough sum for some time yet. Weary soul exhaustion chased her. It would soon run her over like a passenger train. No mercy. No slowing down.
In a few hours, the rooftops of Finsbury Square would glow pink and orange. Morning would come, and she had a choice. Terror, running, hiding the rest of her days, or—
“He asked me, again, about a wife.” Temple’s hand had somehow slipped into hers. He squeezed it.
“And what did you tell him?” she asked, her voice as soft as the coming morning.
He spoke softly, too. “What I always do. That I’m very diligently working on it.”
“I think you should tell him something else, Temple.”
They were facing one another, and their hands had come alive, wandering where they pleased.
Hers had found his chest, flattened, savoring his strength.
The strength he was offering her. The protection.
His hands found their favorite places—cupping the back of her neck, nestled in the small of her back.
He pulled her closer. No space between them now. His eyes were silver moons. “What should I tell him, Diana?”
“That you’ve found a woman to be your wife.”