Chapter 46
GRACE
Her husband had seen her in her vulnerable tears, in her angry fits and mocking laughter.
And now, he had seen her at her worst.
Days had passed since her pains had gone away like they always had. Grace didn’t discuss the episode with Drasko save for a soft, “Thank you,” the morning she woke up in his bed.
Drasko didn’t mention it, though his gaze on her became more attentive.
Grace was grateful for the days without pain, for the friends she now could freely have by her side, and for her husband who woke in her the most profound gratitude.
She spent her spare time learning anything she could about him. If his answers were elusive, she talked to the servants, his people, the ones who had been brought from overseas.
Grace was a musician, and if she’d learned anything throughout the years of practice was that persistence paid off.
And, oh, was she determined to know her husband better.
She had never been allowed anywhere around the servants’ quarters at the Sommervilles.
Now, she let her curiosity out. She freely walked into the kitchen, the size of a drawing room, the air thick with steam and spices.
So many unusual scents assaulted her at once that for a second, she felt dizzy, exotic images fluttering in her mind like a colorful kaleidoscope.
There was a lot more Indian staff than she’d assumed, their vibrant loose garments in contrast with the strict English uniforms.
She smiled at the group of kitchen staff who flashed toothy grins, awkwardly bowing and wiping their hands on their aprons.
Narayan, one of the chefs, greeted her with a gracious smile, proudly showed her around, the tandoor oven and the rows of spice jars, and explained the intricacies of Indian cuisine.
She asked Samira to give her a lesson on Indian fashion.
Grace asked, asked, and asked so many questions that finally, the servants started telling stories without a prompt.
How Drasko found immense joy in riding an elephant as a boy.
How he fought with the Thuggees when he was a young master.
How one summer, when he was with the work crew in the river delta, shirtless and tanned, a visiting Englishman mistook him for a worker.
Drasko obeyed his every order and kept silent through every insult only to tell the Englishman at the end of the day that he didn’t do business with men who didn’t appreciate those who worked hard to make him a fortune.
Grace was falling in love with her husband.
She cherished every minute with him, though he spent most days preparing for the auction.
She craved him and wanted their second night, way overdue.
But he wouldn’t even mention it. Was there shame in asking him?
But then he might say that he had been right.
Ah, the devil. This was indeed tricky.
She asked him about their wedding day. “You never told me why you married me.”
He stiffened, though he didn’t show emotion. “Several reasons.”
“And they are?”
“One will offend you. Another will scare you. There is one more, but I am not yet ready to admit it.”
She was intrigued. “All right then. Offend me. It wouldn’t be the first time,” she said with a smile.
“It’s part of a deal I made some time ago.”
“A deal,” she echoed. “Why me?”
“Not sure.”
Disappointment swept through her. “All right. The other reason—scare me, husband.”
“No.” His gaze hardened. “Not yet.”
Two answers. Both mysteries. “Will you admit the third one?”
“All in good time.”
And she was left with nothing again.
He cared for her, she knew it now, the only person who rightly did, besides Rivka and Julien. He started staying at breakfast longer and exchanged stories with Samira, mostly in English. And though those were stories from his years in India, they were meant for Grace.
So, she listened and asked questions and played piano in the evenings, leaving the door open, hoping that he would hear, and stiffened when he walked in yet continued to play but never sang.
She thought the infatuation with her husband was growing inside her.
But no, this was deeper. She couldn’t explain the overwhelming feeling of being next to him, the need to be closer when he already was, the flutter in her stomach when he gazed at her, the way she craved to know every bit about him, was hurt that she didn’t, wanted the world to know he was hers.
Several days were left before the Summer Ball. It would be their first public appearance. She would perform, and she practiced day and night on the piano. It had to be perfect.
One day, she rode down Piccadilly with Nina. Grace had started enjoying having the woman by her side, a fighter at that. She constantly asked her all sorts of questions.
“When you fought men back home, during the matches, did you wear?—”
“A one-piece, yes, and pants.”
“No corset, huh?”
Nina gave her a side glance.
“Of course not.” Grace laughed at her silliness.
Nina fascinated her, like any woman who was willing to step out of her comfortable life and do what pleased her.
Especially something as extraordinary as martial arts.
Grace secretly wished there was an opportunity when Nina had to fight.
No, not to see her hurt, but to see her in action.
The only action she’d seen until now was on the streets, Nina twisting big men’s arms who dared to come close to Grace for no reason and once knocking out a man who followed her and Rivka at the City Square.
Riding down the street, Grace was about to suggest taking a walk when she spotted a familiar figure in the crowd—Zeph Brodia. He was walking by himself, seemingly not in a hurry.
Grace ordered the carriage to stop.
“Mr. Brodia!” she called out, fighting her way through the busy street toward him. “Mr. Brodia! Good afternoon!”
He smiled, shaking her hand. “What a surprise, Mrs. Mawr. Business? Pleasure? A sunny day out?”
“Too sunny for my taste.” She fanned herself, the sun so bright that her summer hat felt like a hot bulky furnace on her head.
The street was indeed steaming with summer heat, the smoke from the factories too dense, the street hawkers too loud.
“I saw you in the crowd and wanted to chat,” she admitted. “If you have a minute, of course.”
“For you? Always! Anything in particular?”
She shrugged as they walked in an unknown to her direction. “Drasko said you knew each other before… Before he left for India. Is that true?”
“Absolutely. We lived together.”
“Oh?”
“On the streets.” Mr. Brodia smiled.
Her own smile fell. “Was he really a thief?” she asked carefully.
“Did Drasko tell you that?”
“No.” She shook her head. “He doesn’t tell me much. Doesn’t want to, I suppose, but I…”
“But you?”
“I would like to know more about him. Where he came from. What he was like a long time ago, when he was little, perhaps.”
“We lived in the slums, Mrs. Mawr.” Mr. Brodia nodded, his hands clasped behind him as they walked. “We stole for a living, yes. If living was what we had. Most children that age don’t survive for long. Did you know that?”
She bit her lip at the words.
“Then he disappeared,” he continued. “I didn’t see him until weeks ago. I thought he was long dead. It never occurred to me that Drasko Mawr, the Diamond King, was the boy I shared stolen bread and sleepless winter nights with in the East End.”
“I am sorry.”
“No need. We all have stories. Some people start well and end up in a ditch.” He chuckled. “I like my story better. And Drasko’s especially.”
“What sort of business do you have with my husband now?”
“Are you worried?”
“Should I be?”
“Not with Bankees’ protection. No, you should not.” He grinned. “But there is a lot Drasko won’t tell me. So, there is that.”
“Protection, you say.”
“Any man with such fortune needs protection, Mrs. Mawr. Though I have a feeling that the protection is more for you than him.”
“Me?”
“You don’t know your husband. A lot of what he does has to do with you. Trust me, men like him would give their lives for their loved ones.”
Loved ones.
“Women, Mrs. Mawr, make us do beautiful things. Also reckless ones. They make us lose our minds.”
She laughed. “You are not talking about my husband.”
That was, indeed, too much—loved ones, reckless, losing one’s mind—too many words at once that didn’t make sense in her and Drasko’s arrangement.
“Your friend, Miss Rebecca,” Mr. Brodia said suddenly.
“What about her?”
“A beautiful woman. Unmarried. Intelligent. Mysterious. A healer and a fortune-teller. What did I miss?”
“Oh, a dozen other things that you would know if you knew her better.” Grace’s heart warmed at the thought of her friend.
“How do I get to know her better? She seems a bit… hostile with me.”
“It didn’t seem so. Not at dinner.”
“But she refused to dine with me again.”
“Oh?”
“When I invited her a week ago.”
“Did you?”
“And yesterday.”
“I see…”
“In fact, today, I stopped by her shop to ask her again. She wouldn’t give me a minute of her time.”
“Mr. Brodia!” Grace bit back laughter. “You are a persistent man.”
“Sometimes, you meet a person, and you feel… Hmm…”
“You were saying?”
“That she is like no other.”
Grace nodded. She had felt the same way the first time she’d been introduced to Drasko.
“And I’ve known many women,” Mr. Brodia said with melancholy. “But this is quite peculiar,” he added as if to himself.
“Perhaps, the women in the establishments you frequent are of a different kind.”
He turned to her as they walked, a humorous flash in his eyes. “That’s a clever stab, Mrs. Mawr. I shall never forget that the first time I saw my friend’s wife, she wore a pink wig, a Venetian mask, and was accompanied by a half-naked orchestra.”
Grace blushed.
“I didn’t mean to offend you, Mrs. Mawr. Please forgive me!” He pressed his palm to his heart. “I am used to talking to your husband in a very informal way, you see. Please?—”