A Debutantes Guide to Rebellio - Kathleen Kimmel

Titles by Kathleen Kimmel A Lady’s Guide to Ruin A Gentleman’s Guide to Scandal A Debutante’s Guide to Rebellion

A Debutante’s Guide to Rebellion

Kathleen Kimmel INTERMIX BOOKS, NEW YORK

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014 A DEBUTANTE’S GUIDE TO REBELLION An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author Copyright © 2016 by Kathleen Marshall. Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader. INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

For more information about The Berkley Publishing Group, visit penguin.com. eBook ISBN: 978-0-451-48792-6 PUBLISHING HISTORY InterMix eBook edition / April 2016 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents Titles by Kathleen Kimmel Title Page Copyright Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six

Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten About the Author

Chapter One London, 1815 Mildred Weller, called Eddie by those who knew her well (a very short list), had not a single good quality to recommend her. She knew this because she had been told as much on many occasions, by the foremost authority in her life: her mother. “It’s a pity you shall never be beautiful,” her mother was sighing even

now. “At least you have your figure, or I don’t know what would become of you.” Eddie sat straight-backed in front of a mirror while her mother’s maid combed out her loose, spritely curls. Her own maid adored them, loved to coax them out. Lady Copeland knew better. Mildred had been a disappointment to her mother all her life, but tomorrow she was going to make up for it. Tomorrow she would succeed where she had failed so many times before. She bit the tip of her tongue, reminding herself. Silent, still. Let the maid’s skill and the dressmaker’s talents take the stage. As long as you don’t distract from them, someone may be taken in.

She could do this. For once, she could make her mother proud. “As tight as you can manage,” Lady Copeland instructed her maid. Eddie’s mother dominated the reflected image. At forty years old, she was still a beauty who turned heads. Unfashionably short, she’d had special shoes constructed to bring herself to an acceptable altitude. Her straight hair had been similarly browbeaten into curls with the same scented pomade and curling papers with which her maid, Judith, was now attacking Eddie’s hair. Lady Copeland’s hair was a brittle golden yellow, achieved through sun-bleaching and arcane powders that smelled foul and

made the eyes and nose sting. But there was nothing artificial in the swell of her breasts, except perhaps the degree to which she called attention to them with a perfectly cut bodice, her collar limned with the finest wisps of lace, as if she’d trapped the morning fog and had it woven into substance. Having determined that none of her good qualities had been passed on to her only living daughter, she had declared that they would have to take the first offer that came along, and that Mildred ought to be grateful for it. Eddie did not see how she could argue. Her mother was right, after all. She was not beautiful; her mouth was

strangely small, her eyes too close together, her complexion prone to blotchiness. She could not sing; many tutors had been hired to turn her rasping, off-key holler into the dulcet tones of a nightingale, and they had all failed. She could not dance; she had a tendency to get light-headed and fall over, or else get tangled up in her own skirts—which had the same ultimate effect. Her watercolors were muddy blobs, her sewing utilitarian at best, and when her mother had suggested she might at least attract a pious man by studying the Bible, she had developed a distressing tendency to ask awkward theological questions.

When she had pointed out to her mother that many men were interested in a lively interrogation of the holy book, her mother had rightfully reminded her that they did not wish to have their wives intruding on the conversation when they did. Which left her, again, with only her overly large bosom to rely upon. She had once suggested to her mother that such a bosom was unfashionable, and her mother had laughed. Not to men, she’d said. And you aren’t looking for a wife, are you? “Tomorrow will be a triumph,” Lady Copeland declared. “Lord Averdale is certain to make his interest official by

the end of the evening, provided your father stays conscious and you don’t do anything rash.” “Rash, Mother?” Eddie asked dully. It was wise to always get specifics from her mother. Otherwise she would end up doing something rash without realizing it had been so until her mother started lecturing. “Don’t speak too much. Only smile and return compliments, and appear to be enthralled with the subject of conversation, whatever it is. Don’t drink more than a few sips. Don’t eat. There is nothing more unattractive than a woman eating. Except strawberries. You may eat strawberries, provided they are small

and you take only a single bite. No one wants to look at the half-bitten remains of a fleshy fruit. Don’t dance. Don’t speak to any one person for too long. Don’t retreat into a corner like you usually do.” “Fragaria ananassa,” Eddie whispered to herself as the maid tugged hard on a section of her hair. “What’s that?” Lady Copeland asked. “The garden strawberry,” Eddie said. “It’s a hybrid, cultivated from Fragaria virginiana and Fragaria chiloensis. Technically, it’s not a botanical berry; it’s a spurious fruit.” Her mother stared at her in the mirror. “Whatever you do, don’t go on

like that,” she said. “Where on Earth did you hear such things?” Eddie flushed and looked down at the ranks of curling papers, combs, and brushes on the vanity. “Lord Averdale’s nephew is a botanist. He mentioned something about it last week, at the Reardans’ ball.” Mildred’s voice was barely above a whisper. She’d been all but clinging to the buffet table in an attempt to avoid the dance floor (a strategy she could not repeat, after the lecture it had earned her) and Mr. Blackwood, the nephew in question, had been unceremoniously spat out from the dance floor, seemingly squeezed out of the press of bodies and

propelled to the edge of the room. He’d fetched up short beside her, raked back his unkempt hair, and declared, “Fragaria ananassa.” She had been as nonplussed by the outburst as her mother was now. It was only later that she had realized he’d been babbling in order to give the impression they were engaged in mutual conversation, thereby avoiding the raven-haired beauty he’d been dancing with. “Men don’t like when women show intelligence,” Lady Copeland said, patting Eddie’s shoulder. “They don’t like to chance discovering that the woman might be smarter than they are.

Not that it’s a risk for you, dear—it would all be sorted out after a few minutes of conversation—but first impressions matter. If you are to quote something, make it ladies’ journals or the most popular poets. Nothing obscure, and for God’s sake nothing scientific.” “He just blurted it out. And then he left as soon as . . .” As soon as the raven-haired vision had wafted away with an exasperated sigh. Eddie didn’t see why anyone would be trying to avoid such a graceful, beautiful creature. Much less why one would trade such a woman’s company for hers, even if only for a few seconds.

“There you are,” her mother said, as if she hadn’t heard Eddie speak at all. The maid stepped back, pleased. Mildred stared at her reflection. The papers held her hair in rolls against her skull, the ends sticking out haphazardly. She looked mad, and uglier than ever. “They’ll look lovely in the morning,” her mother assured her, and patted her cheek. “Now get to bed. We must try to soothe those horrid shadows under your eyes. And remember: Lord Averdale. You must charm him. It shouldn’t be too hard. Every man in London’s down on one knee these days. A little thing like defeating Napoleon and suddenly the whole city’s gone mad.”

“Yes, Mother,” Eddie said. Her mother looked at her with eyes filled with worry and doubt. Mildred didn’t blame her. She was the furthest thing from charming. She could not afford complacency. She would train every ounce of her will toward the task of preserving the Earl of Averdale’s interest. Which meant being silent, and still, and garnering no notice from anyone at all. *** Ezekiel Blackwood would never be able to look at a strawberry again without thinking of failure. What on Earth had he

been thinking? Spouting the scientific names of fruit did not qualify as conversation, much less the sort women were interested in. It was his cousin Sophie’s fault, he told himself. She hadn’t given him time to formulate a more effective approach. They’d been dancing, he’d been trying to get a better look at Lady Mildred where she stood by the buffet, and then Sophie had shoved him in that direction with the whispered directive to For God’s sake, just talk to a woman for once in your life. He had pointed out on several occasions that his conversations with Sophie were entirely successful. The

majority of the time they both derived enjoyment from the process; unlike most females, Sophie was happy to converse intelligently about a number of subjects, none of them related to fashion or dancing. First of all, Z, you should stop calling us “females,” Sophie had told him when he had informed her of this fact. And second of all, it is my experience that most women are quite interesting when it is suggested that they ought to be. It was an intriguing hypothesis. One that he was ill-suited to test, as his only experiment so far had resulted in a slack-jawed stare on the woman’s part

and a hasty retreat on his. He had surely put the young woman off any future desire to spend time with him, and dwelling on the incident was therefore a very inefficient use of his time. Logically, he should forget about her. The human mind was not always amenable to logic, however, and his was no exception. “Reading again?” Ezekiel snapped his book shut and turned. He had been standing at the window for thirteen minutes almost exactly, and had read only seventy words. He doubted that this would cheer up his father, though, who was examining him from the doorway with his arms

crossed. His father was a man of considerable girth, his weight distributed in a pattern that Ezekiel had frequently observed in men who had once been bulky with muscle but no longer maintained it. Sophie called him squashy. Ezekiel preferred not to call him anything, since his observations had frequently led to harsh discipline in his youth. There were a number of words and phrases he had ascertained were safe, chief among them sir—though Ezekiel had also learned to modulate his tone carefully, lest his father detect (or imagine he detected) sarcasm. “Yes, sir,” Ezekiel said, since the truth would have seemed an obvious and

willful lie. “You do enough reading,” his father said. “It’s time you learned something useful.” Ezekiel did not point out that de Saussure’s Recherches Chimiques sur la Végétation undoubtedly contained a great deal of useful knowledge. “What did you have in mind?” he asked instead. “I’ve hired you a tutor.” “I do not need a tutor,” Ezekiel said. “My studies—” “Not for your studies. He’s going to teach you to box.” His father gave a pleased nod. “I . . . what?” Ezekiel frequently found himself flummoxed by his father.

Technically the man was his stepfather, though as he had filled the role for all but three months of Ezekiel’s life, there was little functional difference. Certainly it had been sufficient time for Ezekiel to become familiar with his character; yet the man still managed to puzzle him to the point of speechlessness. “I don’t want to learn to box.” “You’re too soft,” his father said. “You need to toughen up. Learn to throw a punch, for God’s sake.” “Father, I have been quite deliberate in creating a life that does not require the use of violence,” Ezekiel said. “I find it

highly unlikely that I would need to know how to throw a punch.” “That’s half your problem!” his father declared, throwing up his hands in disgust. Ezekiel steeled himself, refusing to flinch from the gesture as he might once have done. “In any case, it’s too late to argue. He’s already here. I’ve gotten you the very best. Doesn’t usually box anymore, but I wouldn’t let him say no.” He looked over his shoulder. “Come in, Mr. Holliway.” The man who stepped inside was nearly as big in the shoulders as Ezekiel’s father, but there was no padding to his musculature. He had a fat, bristling mustache that accentuated the

downward pull of his mouth. The man was clearly an expert in scowling, and Ezekiel expected he had become so through extensive practice. “Here you are. Your student. An hour should suffice for the first lesson. I’ll leave you to it.” Ezekiel’s father began to back out. “Here?” Ezekiel asked weakly. “In the library?” His father waved a hand vaguely. “Clear away the furniture first. Your uncle would have a fit if you broke anything.” With that, he backed out of the room and shut the door behind him.

“You’re going to want to take off your spectacles,” Mr. Holliway said. Ezekiel stepped toward Mr. Holliway. “I should warn you that this is going to be most unsuccessful,” he said. “Don’t you want to learn to fight?” Holliway asked. “Reedy thing like you, you must’ve been on the receiving end of a few licks.” “I prefer to apply creativity and logical thinking to a problem, rather than brute force. For instance, alternating one’s route confounds the majority of ambushes from the common school bully.” Ezekiel folded his hands behind his back. “My mother taught me that violence is the resort of a dull mind.”

“I’ll try not to take that personally. But haven’t you ever wanted to hit someone? Give them a good wallop? Haven’t you ever been angry enough to throw a punch?” Ezekiel lifted one shoulder. “I do not frequently engage in anger. Frustration, frequently. Usually quickly cured by removing myself from the presence of the frustrating individual.” It was very difficult at times to make himself understood, to the point that he believed many people pretended to be denser than they were to put him off. This had all but been confirmed when Sophie refused to deny it. His conclusion was that his peers found enjoyment in watching him

grow increasingly flustered, and his selfremoval from conversation was an added benefit. He was not popular at parties. “Look. There’s only one way I get paid, and that’s if I teach you. There’s more than one way to do that, and they don’t all require your cooperation.” Ezekiel nodded. He understood. There was no point in trying to avoid the lesson. Once his father decided on something, there was little anyone could do to dissuade him, whether they applied minutes or years to the endeavor. It wasn’t that his father disliked him, precisely, or that he was ashamed of him. In fact, he only wanted the best for

him. It was only that he was desperately convinced that Ezekiel must be unhappy. His father understood one version of happiness: his own. The twenty years of Ezekiel’s life ought to have provided sufficient empirical proof that this version of contentment—one that involved the advanced development of the muscular structure and engaging in sportsmanlike activities—was entirely antithetical to Ezekiel’s own. One might imagine that his father would have accepted defeat. It was illogical to be concerned with continuing to attempt such a fruitless task as turning Ezekiel Blackwood into a “proper man.”

But the human mind was not always amenable to logic. “Do what you must,” Ezekiel said, and carefully set his spectacles behind him.

Chapter Two “Oh, darling, that dress is magnificent,” Lady Copeland cooed. Eddie had been trying to catch a stray breath of fresh air from the slender breeze through the carriage curtains, but now she straightened up. Such compliments were, she knew from long experience, barbed reminders to watch her posture or her diction or whatever Lady Copeland had most recently found fault with.

“If you like yellow,” John said. He grinned at her and mouthed the words “It’s marigold” exactly in time to their mother’s protest. Luckily, as he sat beside her and slightly behind the overlarge feathers decorating her hair, she didn’t see. Mildred pressed her lips together to hide her own smile. She had treasured the years her parents were in India, leaving her in Sussex under the care of her aunt. The one good thing about their return was that they’d brought her brother back with them. If not for him, she didn’t know how she would have survived the past two years.

Their father, sitting on Eddie’s right, was reading correspondence, and likely would not have looked up unless one of them spontaneously exploded. Which meant he was paying as much attention to his daughter as he ever did; he seemed confused about what to do with her on the rare occasions he found himself in her presence without a distraction. “Remember, you must be sure to dance with Lord Averdale,” Lady Copeland said. “Mother, he’s three times her age,” John said with a wince. “He’s been married twice already.” “And still has no living son. And you with all those uncles!” She winked.

Eddie groaned inwardly. When her mother had latched on to this idea, she’d conducted an informal study of her acquaintances and tried to convince her mother than a proliferation of uncles did not appear to have any effect on the ability to throw sons. Lady Copeland had responded that sums should be used only to manage a household, and never to argue with your mother. “He has an heir,” Eddie said. “That nephew of his.” “Lord Averdale would be a fool to let that boy inherit, and everyone knows it,” Lady Copeland said with a sniff. “And Eddie’s only nineteen,” John pointed out. Quite sensibly, Eddie

thought, but at the same time she wished he would be quiet. If those arguments would make any difference, she might have tried them. “Eddie, don’t you have anything to say? What do you want?” Eddie only smiled and shook her head, knowing better than to say anything at all. Silence was always the best solution when it came to her mother. And if she were married to a man thrice her age, at least she would be out of her mother’s house. And anyhow, Lord Averdale was only two point seven nine times her age (rounded to the nearest hundredth, of course), and not badlooking for his age, if a tad portly.

“Oh, I nearly forgot!” Lady Copeland threw up her hands and then dove for her reticule, causing John to lean swiftly away from encroaching feathers. “I wanted this to be a surprise.” From her reticule she drew a jewelry case. Eddie blinked at it. It couldn’t be. “It just arrived today.” She opened the box and held it out to show Eddie. Inside lay a necklace of silver chain and minute, sculpted leaves, twining around the settings of three huge diamonds. The one at the center was the color of honey; the two flanking it were smaller, but perfectly clear. The Indian diamonds.

“The new setting is exquisite,” Eddie said, a little in awe. She had only been allowed to look on the diamonds a handful of times since her mother brought them home, and only once had been allowed to touch the center stone— and then only with a single, gloved finger, lest she somehow damage it. If there is a way to shatter a diamond with a fingertip, Mildred will find it, her mother had sighed. “Much better than that horrid old design,” Lady Copeland agreed. Mildred frowned. Lady Copeland was already wearing a necklace, a long string of pearls. And she was taking the diamonds

from their case, and leaning forward as if— “I’m to wear them?” Eddie asked, her voice more a sigh than a sentence. “They will dazzle, and you need to dazzle,” Lady Copeland said. She secured the necklace and ran her hand down it, smoothing it into its proper place. The stones were cold against Eddie’s décolletage, the silver like wisps of winter, until the necklace warmed against her body. Lady Copeland clasped her hands, her eyes bright. “My treasure,” she said softly. For a moment, Eddie’s stomach jolted. She had never been called that;

had never heard such loving words from the woman. “And it does draw the attention, doesn’t it? That’s where the eyes should be, after all. Pity we couldn’t do more about . . .” Lady Copeland’s eyes flicked from Eddie’s chest to her face, and she sighed. My treasure. Of course. Eddie smiled blandly. She was getting so very good at it. “I will take very good care of your treasure,” she assured her mother. “And I am sure it will be the talk of the ball.” John gave her a look somewhere between horrified, amused, and

exhausted, as if to say, I don’t know how you put up with it. Luckily, they had arrived, and the jolt of the carriage distracted Lady Copeland from noticing. John was lucky like that. Eddie never was. The hint of rolled eyes from across the house and Lady Copeland sensed insurrection. Disobedience was never worthwhile. Lady Copeland clasped both of Eddie’s hands in her own. “My darling, you must succeed tonight. If you do not . . .” “It’s not as if it’s the last ball for all eternity, Mother,” John said. “It’s not even the last ball this week. It’s not even the only ball tonight.”

“It’s the only one worthwhile,” Lady Copeland said. “My point is, you have a very narrow window here. There are many other girls of middling prospects who might swoon to have a chance at Lord Averdale.” “I have the diamonds, Mother. How can I fail?” Eddie asked, and then the carriage door was opening. She had the diamonds. She would succeed. And get the hell away from Lady Copeland once and for all. Lord Averdale had a residence in Scotland, she remembered. She’d always wanted to visit Scotland. As soon as they were married, she’d

arrange to do so. And then forget to come back. *** It was very difficult to make progress through the crowd at the ball. Ezekiel found large numbers of people to be stressful at the best of times. Now, with every jostle setting off fresh bouts of pain where Mr. Holliway’s lesson had left an impression, it neared a literal form of torture. He was willing to admit that his prior use of the word should be categorized as hyperbole, now that he had this fresh experience as a comparison.

Nor did it help that every three feet (more hyperbole; judging by the average length of his stride, he estimated an average of seven-foot intervals) some young man stopped Sophie to ask her for a dance later in the evening. By the time they reached the far side of the room, she had booked the whole evening. “I can see that I shall be on my own for the night,” he said glumly. She patted his arm. “I know, Z. But I come to these balls because I like them, you know. Not just because you hate them and need the company.” “My father’s opinions on balls and boxing are similar. If I am forced into them, I am certain to develop some sort

of skill as a survival mechanism. I expect he would throw a fish from a cliff to provide it the proper motivation to discover flight.” “You’re not a falling fish,” Sophie said. “If you get along fine with me, you’ll get along fine with someone else. Maybe even multiple someones. We just haven’t found them yet.” “I suspect that this is the wrong environment for such a search,” Ezekiel said. “Stop moping, Z. Where’s that American gumption?” “I’m not actually American. I’ve never been to America,” Ezekiel reminded her. His stepfather had come to

England three years before he had even laid eyes on Ezekiel’s mother. “And I’m afraid my father has entirely failed to impart any modicum of frontier spirit.” Sophie shook her head in mock despair. “What are we going to do with you, Mr. Blackwood? Sometimes I think you should have been born a medieval monk, so you could sit all day copying manuscripts. But you’d never survive a vow of silence.” “Am I talking too much again? You are supposed to tell me when I’m talking too much,” Ezekiel said. “No. We’re having a perfectly lovely conversation, even if it does have the stink of self-pity about it. And you are

going to go have a perfectly lovely conversation with someone else in a moment.” She was looking over his shoulder. He half turned, and swallowed. Lady Mildred—or, as he had begun to think of her, the girl of the Strawberry Incident—was standing a short distance away. She appeared to be absorbed in conversation with her brother. What was his name? John, Ezekiel recalled, or more properly Lord Welford. He would have no trouble with boxing lessons, Ezekiel was sure. He had broad shoulders and the sort of firm, squared jaw that Sophie informed him made a man look “properly manly.”

Ezekiel’s thin face and pointed features did not qualify him for this distinction. “She’s already talking to someone,” he said, but Sophie had given him a firm push in that direction, and he found himself stumbling forward. Lady Mildred saw him. A tentative smile appeared briefly on her features, and then vanished. She looked away, as if searching the crowd. “Talk! To! Her!” Sophie instructed in a hissing whisper. He tugged nervously on his jacket. She was a very, very lovely girl. Not, perhaps, by the standards that most men seemed to employ. The mole on her chin and the slight bend to her nose ensured

that she would never achieve an ideal facial structure, and her complexion was considerably darker than those displayed by the women Sophie most often deemed fashionable. In fact, though he had seen her at nearly every ball this Season and watched her with great interest, he could not specify any one feature, or even any combination of features, which could be objectively presented to explain the curious effect she had on him. She made his mouth dry. She made him feel lightheaded, and she drove coherent thoughts from his mind until all he could think about was Latin nomenclature and the botanical histories of common fruits.

Of course, that might have had something to do with the gaudy lumps of precious gem at her neck, flashing in the light as if trying to blind everyone in the near vicinity. He could not imagine how she managed to navigate with such a distraction. She was eating a grape. She popped it into her mouth with a furtive glance around, as if someone would catch her doing it. Then she looked at him and smiled again. “Are you going to tell me the name for grapes?” she asked. He blinked. He had somehow approached quite near to her. Now he was hovering at an entirely awkward

distance. His options were retreating completely or dedicating himself to the approach. Feeling Sophie’s eyes on him, he opted for the latter. “Vitis vinifera,” he said. “But in fact, I was rather determined to open with a different mode of conversation. My previous attempt at a botanical opener seemed to have a deleterious effect on the social exchange.” Lord Welford made an odd sound; almost a laugh. It was a sound Ezekiel was entirely familiar with. “I apologize,” Ezekiel said. “When I get nervous, I tend to use nonstandard —” He paused. “I’m told I sound very strange.”

“You do,” Lord Welford assured him. “I didn’t realize you two knew each other,” he added pointedly. “Relax,” Lady Mildred said. “We were introduced weeks ago.” The introduction had been all that had passed between them, however, until the Strawberry Incident. “Excellent. Mr. Blackwood, my sister has not yet had the opportunity to dance this evening. Perhaps you two would like to . . . ?” They both stared at him, then at each other. “If you . . .” Lady Mildred began. “Only if you . . .” Ezekiel said. He despised the rules which prevented them

from simply stating outright whether they were interested or not. He had more than once discovered himself dancing with a very sour young lady after inadvertently leaving her with no polite means of refusal. He had tried to explain to Sophie that he would not be hurt if they simply told him they didn’t like him— after all, he was well aware of his difficult personality, and anyway, with the variety of humanity available to the world, what were the odds that any two random people at any one time would prove to enjoy one another’s company? Sophie had suggested that he pick his battles.

“Excellent!” Lord Welford declared. “Off you go, then.” The decision had been made for him. “I should warn you,” Lady Mildred said as they joined the throng, “I am terrible at dancing.” “I’m afraid my skills are merely adequate,” Ezekiel said with regret. “Then you won’t show me up too badly.” Lady Mildred smiled. She had the most dazzling smile, he thought, and dazzling was not a word he could recall using prior to this moment. It was imprecise and metaphorical, both things he normally had little patience for. Light could dazzle. A smile should not. And yet here he was, tripping over his feet as

if dazed, putting his claims of adequate skill to a swift and unceremonious death. The dance took them apart, and for a moment Ezekiel regained his equilibrium. Then he nearly knocked into Mildred as they reunited. Her curls bounced, and she stumbled back, barely catching herself before she toppled into another couple. “You see?” she said. “I am possibly the worst dancer that was ever born.” “That would be extremely difficult to prove,” he said, meaning to be reassuring. She laughed. He hadn’t meant to make her laugh. Granted, people frequently laughed at him when he said things, though he could rarely

determine the humor in the situation. But her laugh was entirely different. And it had banished the brief look of melancholy that had occupied her features. “In fact,” he continued, wanting her to laugh again, “proving that you were the worst dancer ever born would be impossible. Written records hardly encompass the whole of history or span the globe, and do not include a strict ranking of such skills.” “What about the worst dancer living, then?” she asked, and stepped on his foot. He managed not to wince. The dance floor was hot and crowded, full of swirling bodies. This level of

crowdedness always made him anxious, and tonight was no exception. But the conversation helped. “That would be a simpler proposition,” he acknowledged. “Though still, I think, impossible. One could eliminate great swathes of the population altogether—anyone with a reputation for being a good dancer, or even a fair one, would presumably not be a threat to your title.” “My title?” “Of Worst Dancer Living,” Ezekiel told her. “However, anyone whose prowess was not established would have to be tested. Group demonstrations could be arranged; in a lifetime, one might in fact establish that you were the

Worst Dancer in England. Perhaps we could even manage Scotland, perhaps a portion of the continent, before we perished of old age. But by then, a whole new crop of dancers would have been born, and we would be forced to circle back.” “I see. I hadn’t thought through the practical concerns,” Lady Mildred said, eyes sparkling. The two of them were taken apart again, and Ezekiel watched Lady Mildred bump and stumble her way through the steps with another partner while he handled his own with brisk efficiency. “However, I doubt that such a search would last very long,” Ezekiel said as

soon as they touched hands again. “You are undoubtedly not the worst dancer in all of London, much less the world.” “Is that so?” “There are a number of one-legged men in London. Also, the blind, those with an inability to balance, the insane —” “Well. I’m glad to know I rate above the one-legged and the mad,” Lady Mildred said. He paused. Had he offended her? She was still smiling, but sometimes smiles were misleading. Sophie frequently smiled at him a moment before she said, Z, you’re being insufferable or Z, that’s horribly offensive. It was always only a moment,

though, and over time he’d come to recognize the tight, brittle quality of the smile. The dance ended. They were already at the edge of the dance floor, and Lady Mildred, a little out of breath, smoothed her hands over her sides and glanced toward the onlookers. Ezekiel followed her gaze, still worried that she was angry with him. Sophie always told him outright; it was extremely helpful, and he wished more people would follow her example. Lady Mildred stiffened. She was looking at Lord Averdale, Ezekiel’s uncle, who appeared to have been watching them. The man gave Ezekiel a

nod and turned away, walking toward the exit. Unsurprising; Lord Averdale did not enjoy balls. Ezekiel was uncertain why he had attended so many of them this year. Lady Mildred let out a little breath, halfway to a sob. Her eyes were sparkling again, but now with tears. What had he done? “Did I offend you?” Ezekiel asked. “I’m terribly sorry if I did. I can’t always tell.” She looked at him mutely. “I—I’m sorry, I can’t,” she said, and fled in the direction Lord Averdale had gone. Ezekiel stood stupidly, staring after her. He must have done something

wrong. Perhaps Sophie would be able to tell him what it had been. *** Eddie could not believe how foolish she’d been. She was meant to sit and wait, to stay off the dance floor and stay out of conversations, until Lord Averdale arrived. She was meant to play her part and have this done with at last, and instead she’d made a fool of herself, stumbling around like a drunken bear and babbling on about inconsequential subjects. And Lord Averdale had seen, and now he was leaving. Did he think her

fickle? Foolish? Ungraceful? All of them, no doubt. She pushed past elegant ladies. Her dress was flawlessly fashionable, and yet it hung on her like sackcloth drizzled in egg yolk. These women could wear actual sackcloth and look gorgeous. She squeezed artlessly between the backs of two such goddesses and stumbled into the foyer. Lord Averdale was exiting out the front. She hurtled after him. “Lord Averdale,” she called, and then dropped her voice, blushing. “Lord Averdale,” she said again. Her pursuit had left her slightly breathless, and her

voice was delicate with the rising pressure of repressed tears. He turned. He held a walking stick loosely in one hand, his intent to leave obvious at one glance. She swallowed. He was a plain man, round in the face, with hair gone to a coarse gray and a bristling mustache hanging over his wide lips. He was hardly an object of desire; it was what he represented that she yearned for, and for that she could force herself to accept the rest. “Lady Mildred,” he said. “Is something the matter?” “No, nothing,” she said. “Except that I wondered if you might like something to eat, or perhaps—” She stumbled over

her words. She was being too forward, but what choice did she have? “I’m afraid I must be getting home, Lady Mildred,” Lord Averdale said. Was he disappointed in her? Angry? It was so hard to tell with him. She had never seen him so much as smile, or raise an eyebrow. He spoke slowly, deliberately, and without emotional inflection. It was like trying to read the disposition of a boulder. “But the dancing has only just begun,” she said weakly. “And I hope that you continue to enjoy it,” Lord Averdale said. She suppressed a groan. He was angry with her, then. Angry that she’d been dancing

with his nephew, instead of him? Or that she’d been dancing at all, and making a fool of herself? “Good night, Lady Mildred,” Lord Averdale said, and made a graceful exit. Eddie wrapped her arms around her middle and watched him go, biting the inside of her cheek. Idiot, she cursed herself. What had possessed her to dance with Ezekiel Blackwood, of all people? Everyone knew he was a social disaster. A social disaster who had not tried to speak to her about the dance or gossip about the other people present, or simply talk endlessly about himself. He’d talked about fruit, of all things, and made her

laugh, and that was more than she could say of anyone she’d danced with since her debut. Behind her, someone cleared their throat. She turned with growing dread, knowing who she would see. He mother raised her eyebrows wordlessly, hands folded in front of her. And then turned away.

Chapter Three The rest of the ball was excruciating. Her mother did not say a word to her. Not yet. But she glared every time Eddie made as if to depart the corner she had retreated to. John missed the drama, as he was distracted by dancing with a series of pretty girls. He had a bit of a reputation as a rake, and while Eddie would have seen that as good reason to avoid him, many girls seemed to consider it the opposite. As a result, she

was on her own until it came time to leave. The carriage ride was stiff and quiet. Eddie found herself fingering the gems at her neck, until her mother started staring, at which she dropped her hand to her lap. Her mother probably didn’t think she was worthy of even looking at the jewels now. She’d failed. Miserably. But her punishment waited until they had reached the foyer, with the door closed behind them. Lady Copeland rounded on her. “What possessed you tonight?” she demanded. “I’m sorry,” Eddie said immediately, fixing her eyes on the rug. If she could

focus on the trellis pattern, the fernlike details, perhaps she could distract herself enough to make it through the next several minutes. Her father gave a heaving sigh and headed for the stairs, apparently disinterested in whatever might come next. Just as well. She had no desire for an audience. “You had one task. No; that’s an exaggeration. Your only job was to do nothing at all, but you failed even at that! My God, Mildred, do you have any idea what will happen to you if you allow Lord Averdale to lose interest? You’ll go year after year at these balls, never being asked to dance, never being brought into the circle of whispers and

conversation, until you shrivel up. Do you want to be a spinster, Mildred?” “No, ma’am,” Eddie whispered. The rug was not sufficient. She started to do sums in her head. Two plus two is four. Nine times seven is sixty-three. One hundred and sixty-three divided by nineteen is eight point five seven something-something. “Well, that is what you will be.” “Someone did ask her to dance,” John pointed out. He had remained, but off to the side. He knew better than to get into the middle of such a display. “Yes. And you ought to have refused. Honestly, the only thing worse than not being asked to dance is being asked to

dance by someone so . . . so . . .” Lady Copeland was getting red in the face. “So odd,” she concluded. “I rather liked him,” John offered, but Eddie balled her hands into fists and willed him to shut up. He’d only make things worse. One thousand and twelve times nine is nine thousand one hundred and eight divided by seven is one thousand, three hundred and— “You are a burden on this family,” Lady Copeland was saying. “If your sisters had survived, they would all be married by now, and perhaps one of them would have taken you in, but there’s only John, and he will have the

burden of the Copeland name, which is quite enough without you adding to it!” The square of three is nine. The square of nine is eighty-one. The square of eighty-one is— “Will you look at me when I’m talking to you!” Lady Copeland said. Eddie’s head snapped up. Her mother’s nostrils were flared and pale. Not a good sign. She had only truly angered her mother twice in her life. They had not reached that point. Not yet. But it was coming, and there was only one sure defense against it. Eddie swooned. It was useful to have a reputation for swooning. The key was in doing it on a

soft surface, and falling to the side, bowing one’s legs so that it appeared you were falling straight down, but in fact you were lowering yourself gently (but swiftly) into a heap. Eddie let out a soft cry and flopped to the right, eyes shut. Her mother shrieked. “My poor child!” she cried. “My poor child has fainted!” Eddie gritted her teeth and kept her eyes shut. She thought she heard John sigh. “Quickly, quickly, we must take her to the parlor,” Lady Copeland said. Strong arms slid beneath her. Not John, but the butler, Fellowes, a man

well familiar with her “fits.” And another witness to her mother’s tirade. All the servants in the vicinity would have heard, but it wasn’t anything new. She saw them giving her pitying and scornful looks when they thought she wouldn’t notice. Or maybe it was just that they didn’t care if she did. She’d once heard the scullery maid and a footman arguing about whether they’d swap lives with her. The maid came down on the side of soft beds and being waited on hand and foot; the footman preferred his dignity. She herself was undecided. Fellowes set her down on the chaise longue in the parlor and departed

without so much as a whisper of comfort. That she was used to as well; her father chose servants who were like him: disinterested and efficient. Her mother flapped about in a state of exaggerated agitation until John said, “You are only going to drive yourself into a faint as well. I’ll look after her, Mother.” “Oh, my sweet boy,” Lady Copeland said, and Eddie heard the sound of her kissing John’s cheek. Her footsteps headed toward the door; hesitated. They came back, drawing very close to Eddie, and she forced her breathing to stay steady. Her mother’s hands roved to her neck, and

the necklace slithered over her skin. Lady Copeland wouldn’t want to leave her prize behind, after all. Only when the door shut did Eddie dare open her eyes. John had folded his hands and was watching her with something akin to resignation. “A swoon? Aren’t you a bit old for those kinds of tricks?” he asked. “If you have a better idea, I’d like to hear it,” Eddie said, straightening up. “You could try not provoking her,” he suggested. “Provoking her? All I did was dance. And you’re the one who suggested it,” she pointed out.

“Yes, but then you ran after Lord Averdale like that. What did you think was going to happen? He’d turn around and come back in to the dance?” “Nothing I could have done after that would have made a difference,” Eddie said. “Mother was going to be disappointed in me regardless. She always is.” “Because you don’t try,” John said. “I do. I try, and I fail. And she likes it that way. I don’t think she’d know what to do if I proved competent at something.” John sat beside her on the couch and frowned. “At least you got to dance,” he said.

“It was actually a bit . . . fun,” Eddie allowed. “I enjoyed myself, until the Lord Averdale Disaster.” “More like the Debutante Debacle,” John said, nudging her with his shoulder. “The Marigold Mayhem?” Eddie suggested. “The Frantic Frock Foofaraw.” “Now you’re just being silly,” Eddie scolded, and gave a sniff. Her incipient tears were in retreat, at least. “It was good practice,” he said. “He’s a good stepping stone.” “What?” “A stepping stone. He’s so damn awkward it won’t matter what you do around him. You can use him as practice,

and to put Averdale off. He won’t court you if he thinks you’re interested in his nephew.” “I don’t want to put Averdale off,” Eddie said, horrified. “He’s fat and old.” “He’s the best I’m ever going to do.” “That’s just Mother talking,” John said. “You’re the one who was agreeing with her earlier,” Eddie snapped. “I wasn’t agreeing. Just suggesting that you try to keep her happy,” John said. “And you’re not being kind to Mr. Blackwood. He was charming.”

“Oh, please. The man’s barely warmblooded. He’s some kind of lizard in human clothing, I swear,” John said, half laughing. “One time—” “Shut up,” Eddie said. She stood. “You are being cruel. And I am quite familiar with such cruelties, as I endure them on a regular basis. He’s strange and awkward and wordy, and I’m ugly and clumsy and stuck-up.” “You’re not stuck-up.” “Everyone thinks so, since I’m not allowed to talk to them, on account of my profound lack of wit,” Eddie said. She crossed her arms and glared at him. “I’m going to bed. And I don’t want to

hear you say anything bad about Mr. Blackwood again, do you hear me?” He laughed. “Fine. Whatever you wish, darling sister. You always did have strange taste.” “Sometimes I think you’re as bad as they are,” she said, and stormed out of the room. *** Ezekiel collapsed into an armchair in the drawing room with a groan, removing his spectacles so that he could pinch the bridge of his nose. “That was a disaster,” he said.

“It wasn’t a disaster,” Sophie chided him, curling up in her favorite seat opposite. Her parents had passed a few years prior, and she had lived with their uncle ever since. Ezekiel had entertained fantasies of her coming to live with him, but he could not blame her for choosing Lord Averdale’s guardianship over his father’s. “You danced. With someone other than me. I would think I had been dreaming, if there weren’t so many witnesses.” “It’s not as if it’s the first time.” “Yes, but all the other times I had to bully you into it,” Sophie said. “This time you only needed coaxing. It’s progress.”

“I don’t see why you should insist on the endeavor at all,” Ezekiel said. “I have no need of dancing, or of speaking with women. I intend to devote my life to my studies. I don’t need any female companionship for that.” “Oh, please. You’d be an intellectual pauper without me,” Sophie said, tossing her head. “You think best out loud, with someone to ask questions.” “Your questions are always extremely basic,” Ezekiel said. Sophie persisted in her ignorance of his favorite subjects, even after years of listening to him talk about them. They simply didn’t interest her. He had spent a great deal of time being annoyed by this before he

realized that she listened to him anyway, and had for years, because she knew it helped him. That was when he had agreed to start going to balls with her. “But they help. I’m honestly not sure how, but I know they do,” Sophie insisted. Ezekiel nodded. His mind had a way of haring off on wild tangents. When he was forced to consider the basics, it grounded his thinking. Still, he could not help but think that a more engaged partner would be of far greater utility. “I intend to forge a scholarly partnership, not a romantic one, as the primary focus of my social life,” Ezekiel

said. “As a result, I have little time for frivolous pursuits.” “It’s not frivolous if you like her. And maybe she’d be interested in what you’re doing,” Sophie said. She bounced her foot up and down, rolling her ankle as she did so. It was a long-standing habit, and extremely distracting. “I don’t know if I like her,” Ezekiel said. “I find her interesting.” “Why?” “I don’t know.” “Well, that is interesting,” Sophie said with a sly smile. “I think you might be in love.” Ezekiel snorted. “Nonsense. Love is not something that can be developed

after a single dance.” “Of course it is. Haven’t you ever read a poem?” “My mother always said poetry gets people into trouble.” “Your mother was a woman with a singular lack of imagination or whimsy, and don’t look at me like that, because it’s not an insult, just a fact.” Ezekiel tapped his finger on the arm of the chair. “Her ardent belief in the tales of the Old Testament could be viewed as whimsy.” “If you want to be wildly inconsiderate of others’ beliefs.” Ezekiel regarded her with surprise. He had not ever perceived his cousin as

the religious sort. “You don’t believe that every species of animal could fit onto a solitary vessel in the singular, much less ‘two by two,’ do you?” he asked. Sophie rolled her eyes. “Why is that always the example? I’ve always felt that staunch adherence to literalism is the true display of no imagination, whether it leads to refuting such tales or embracing them. You really ought to develop a sense of metaphor.” “I’ve never needed it before,” he said, but now he was just needling her, and she knew it. She always knew. “Arguing about religion?” his father asked.

Ezekiel stiffened and turned in his chair. He had not heard the man enter. “Father. We were discussing metaphor, in fact.” “Well. Don’t let me disturb you.” He paused. “I heard you danced with a girl tonight.” “Lady Mildred Weller,” Sophie offered. “Lord Copeland’s daughter? Huh. Well, they have money. And with a face like that, offers might be scarce, title or no. You could do worse. A lot worse.” He paused again, then nodded once. “Well done, Ezekiel. So. Good night.” He left without another word, and the two younger folk stared after him in

dazed surprise. “I do believe that’s the most approving I’ve ever seen him. Actually, it’s rather unsettling,” Sophie said. “You should dance with girls more often.” “What did he mean?” Ezekiel asked. “About what?” “About her face.” “Oh.” Sophie shrugged uncomfortably. “You know. She’s . . .” She trailed off. “Ugly?” Ezekiel asked. “I wasn’t going to say that.” “You were,” Ezekiel said, troubled. His cousin was normally kind when it came to appraisals of other women. She did not gossip, as a rule, nor insult

anyone who had not done her harm first. “You decided not to, but you were going to say it.” “Oh, all right,” Sophie said. “But I thought better of it. I wouldn’t have said it at all, if anyone else were around. As far as I know, she’s a perfectly lovely girl, even if her mother never lets her talk to any of us.” “I don’t think she is.” “You don’t think she’s perfectly lovely?” He looked at her crossly. “I don’t think she’s ugly. Have you seen her smile?” “I don’t think anyone’s ever seen her smile.”

“I have,” he said. That seemed significant. It meant something, though he wasn’t entirely sure what yet. Obviously, she had enjoyed something of the time they spent together. Had perhaps enjoyed his company specifically. “I’d like to speak with her again. I’d like to call on her.” “Hm. I suppose I can clear my schedule and act as escort,” Sophie said. “If you’re this interested in her, I shall need to stage an interrogation. Before things get serious.” “It’s only a conversation,” Ezekiel said. After all, he had no need of female companionship in his life. But he definitely had a need to answer the

questions that Lady Mildred raised. For instance: Why had she smiled? Why did it matter to him so much that she had? And why had she run away?

Chapter Four Eddie was surprised to hear that someone had come to call on her, and even more surprised when that person proved to be Ezekiel Blackwood, accompanied by the raven-haired beauty she had seen him dancing with that disastrous night with the strawberries. She was entirely sure that she had snuffed out whatever spark of interest he might have had in her with her abominable display of manners the night before, but there he was, looking

nervous, clearly expending a fair bit of effort to keep from fidgeting. It made Eddie tense just looking at him. She wished he’d just fidget and have it over with. “Mr. Blackwood,” she greeted him, when she had descended to the foyer. “Lady Mildred,” he replied, and then silence hung between them for a long, awkward moment. “My mother isn’t feeling well,” Eddie said. Lady Copeland had claimed to be having one of her “headaches,” which were really an excuse to sigh in bed all day and be cooed over by her lady’s maid.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” the raven-haired woman said, and gave Mr. Blackwood a pointed look. He started. “Oh! Lady Mildred, may I present Miss Sophie Osborn, my cousin. Miss Osborn, this is Lady Mildred Weller.” They dipped curtsies and murmured greetings, and Eddie felt a strange sense of relief. She’d known that Lord Averdale had a sister as well as his younger brother—Mr. Blackwood’s late father—but she had quite forgotten that he had a niece. Cousins. That was all. And why would it matter if it was anything different? It wasn’t as if she were actually interested in Mr. Blackwood’s

attentions, beyond simple friendly conversation. “Perhaps you would like to join me in the drawing room,” Eddie offered, and the two agreed. When they entered, the cousins sat side by side on the chaise longue, and Eddie settled herself opposite, nodding to Fellowes when he asked if they would like refreshments. She did not often entertain visitors; her mother preferred her to be out of the way on the days when she had guests. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s been a while since I played hostess. My manners may be somewhat rusty.” “That’s quite all right. Z’s never developed manners in the first place,”

Miss Osborn said with a little laugh. “And I have a horrid habit of ignoring them when it suits my whims.” She was the sort of woman to get away with it, too. She had an easy grace about her, an effortless charisma that made Eddie’s stomach churn with jealousy. “When my family was in India, I stayed with my mother’s cousin here in England,” Eddie said. “Out in the country. The most illustrious visitor we ever entertained was the vicar.” She felt a pang of longing, thinking of her cousin’s house. It was old, ivy encroaching on its stones, and far away from anyone of consequence. Her cousin

Honoria’s husband had passed away years before, and they’d spent their days out in the gardens or in the library, twittering away to each other like birds on a branch. Honoria had promised that Eddie could stay there forever, but then she’d grown ill. She’d died just weeks before Lord and Lady Copeland returned home. “I would think you would have all sorts of visitors here,” Miss Osborn said. “I’m always hearing about the wild Indian adventures of Lord and Lady Copeland.” “Stories that I am not privy to, I’m afraid,” Eddie said with a thin smile. “I did not accompany my parents.”

“But those were the Indian diamonds you were wearing last night, weren’t they?” Eddie nodded. “My mother’s treasures,” she said, keeping every hint of bitterness to herself. She looked sidelong at Mr. Blackwood, who seemed content to let his cousin speak. “I must apologize for my behavior last night,” she said. “That isn’t necessary,” Mr. Blackwood assured her. “I’m sure that the fault was mine.” “It wasn’t,” she said, brow furrowing. “Why would you think that it was?”

“I assumed I had offended you,” he said. “You didn’t,” she said. “What did you say that could have offended me?” “I believe that I compared you to a one-legged madman,” he said. “I don’t think you went quite that far,” she said, grinning. “So she does smile,” Miss Osborn murmured, so softly that Eddie almost didn’t catch it. “It’s entirely my fault that I abandoned you,” Eddie continued, pretending she hadn’t heard. “I was . . . distracted.” “More distressed than distracted, I think,” Miss Osborn said. “What

troubled you?” Eddie flushed. “I shouldn’t like to speak of it,” she said. “Oh, come now. We’re all friends, aren’t we? Perhaps we can help you,” Miss Osborn said. “If Lady Mildred does not wish to provide details, she needn’t,” Mr. Blackwood said. Eddie flashed him a grateful look. But then she sat forward, suddenly realizing something. “Maybe you can help me,” she said. “He’s your uncle, after all.” “This is about Lord Averdale?” Miss Osborn asked, frowning. Eddie felt a flicker of doubt. Surely Miss Osborn would not be inclined to support her

uncle’s marriage to an ugly duckling like Eddie. Even if Eddie were a great beauty, she might—rightly—assume that the motive for the match was mercenary. “I’m afraid I was the one that caused offense last night,” Eddie said. “To Lord Averdale. I am worried that he has the impression that I was ignoring him.” “Ignoring him?” Miss Osborn echoed. “Why would he have that impression?” “We’ve been—we have . . .” Eddie trailed off. This was entirely the wrong conversation to be having with this particular woman. “Oh,” Miss Osborn said. “I see. I have seen you speaking to one another a

few times. I suppose I did not consider the implications until just now.” Eddie couldn’t read her tone of voice. Mr. Blackwood looked confused. “What do you mean, the implications?” he asked. “Do I have it right that our uncle has been courting you, Lady Mildred?” Miss Osborn asked, and this time Eddie was sure she was keeping her tone carefully bland. “Well, no. I don’t know. Maybe. My mother certainly thinks so,” Eddie said, and she was horrified to feel the prickle of tears behind her eyes. She took a deep breath. “She’s very concerned that I

might have spoiled something. It would be very fortunate if perhaps you could help me mend things.” She tried to keep the desperation from her voice, and failed. Miss Osborn’s look crumbled from one of detachment to one of sympathy. Mr. Blackwood simply looked at sea. “You want to marry my uncle?” he asked. “He is significantly older than you.” “I know,” Eddie said. “And I do not make any presumptions about his intentions. I only want to ensure his good will.” And marry him, and get out of here. “But if such a person were interested in me, of course I would

return the interest. Your uncle is an important man, and a good one.” “And thrice your age,” Miss Osborn said, not unkindly. “Two point seven nine times, actually,” Mr. Blackwood said. “Rounded, of course.” “Of course,” Miss Osborn said drily. “Then what do you think, Z? Should she marry our uncle?” Eddie blushed. She shouldn’t have brought it up. Mr. Blackwood looked stiff and uncomfortable in the face of his cousin’s question, and she realized she’d only made all the awkwardness a hundred times worse—precisely, without rounding.

“If Lady Mildred wishes to marry him, then she should do what she wishes,” Mr. Blackwood said, surprising her. “I assume she has good reason.” “I do,” Eddie assured him. Her reasons were her own, but they were good ones. Mr. Blackwood nodded sharply. “Then we shall put in a good word for you. In fact, if there is anything that I can do to aid you, please do let me know.” *** “I cannot believe you offered to encourage Lord Averdale’s courtship,”

Sophie said when they had returned home. She was furiously pacing around the library, pulling books off shelves and then discarding them. Ezekiel observed her from a safe distance. “It seems perfectly reasonable to me,” Ezekiel said. “She is in need of a husband, apparently. Lord Averdale is in need of a legitimate son.” “No, he isn’t. He has you,” Sophie said. “You can inherit.” “We both know that would be disastrous,” Ezekiel said with a sigh. “I would be entirely too unsuitable, and unlikely to have children of my own.” “Unless you got married to a nice girl who clearly finds you charming. Why

didn’t you speak up more? I’ve never met anyone so disinterested in talking to me as she was,” Sophie said. “She was far more interested in you, and you sat there like a turnip. And then offered to —!” She threw up her hands in disgust. Ezekiel looked off to the side, unable to meet her eyes. It had all been very overwhelming. He’d wanted to say something interesting, but by the time he came up with something, the conversation had moved on. And then she had begun talking about Lord Averdale. And while he was no student of human emotion, even he could see how pleased she was at the prospect of marrying him. It was in that moment that

he had admitted to himself that he was in fact extremely interested in female companionship, if it came in the form of Lady Mildred Weller. And it was in that same moment that he had realized they would never be anything more than friends. But friendship was enough. Friendship was a rarity in itself. And so he would do what a good friend should, and help her with her problem. He wanted to explain this to Sophie, but all the noise she was making was making him anxious. He bounced up on the balls of his feet and fell back, scratching the back of his hand. Sophie paused.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m upsetting you.” “I’m fine,” he said. A lie. “I want to help her, Sophie. So that we can be friends.” There. That wasn’t so very difficult to explain. “Friends,” she said. “Yes, I see. All right. And as we are friends, the very dearest of friends, I will help you to help her.” “How?” he asked. “Leave that to me,” she said firmly. “You just do as I say, and everything will turn out the way that it should.”

Chapter Five Miss Osborn came to collect Eddie the next day, but refused to say where she was taking her. Lady Copeland offered no help, ushering them both out the door as swiftly as possible with the gleam of avarice in her eye. She must have suspected Miss Osborn was an emissary for her uncle. Or maybe she was simply pleased to have Eddie out of the way for the morning. Eddie expected a carriage to be waiting, but Miss Osborn led the way on

foot, chatting merrily about the weather (hot) and the surrounding architecture (in her opinion, uninspired). She had a way of turning the most dismissive comment into a lighthearted jest. Eddie wondered if anyone actually managed to be offended at anything she said; she might have insulted a man’s mother and made it sound like a compliment. Pretty girls really could get away with anything. “You truly aren’t going to tell me where we’re going?” Eddie asked after several minutes of brisk walking. “We’re here,” Miss Osborn replied with a smile, and flourished her hand. Eddie blinked. They had stopped in front

of a run-down greenhouse, its panes streaked with dull green and occluded with brown, decaying plants. Several panes had shattered altogether; only the fence and gate barring entry remained well-kept. “What is this?” Eddie asked, befuddled. She did not enjoy feeling dull. “A convenient meeting place. It belongs to my uncle. So does that.” She pointed. The house next to the lot was a narrow, foreboding affair, all its windows shuttered. “But it’s been closed up since our grandmother died. And that”—she pointed to the house on the other side—“belongs to our great-

aunt. She’s nearly blind and totally deaf, and her only servant is a man who’s little better off. Well. Technically he’s a servant, but I suspect he may also be a contributor to the family line, if you take my meaning.” Eddie blushed, feeling her cheeks grow hot enough to scald. Miss Osborn laughed. Anyone else would have made the laugh sound mocking, but from Miss Osborn it was like an invitation into a conspiracy. Oh, I’m so terrible, aren’t I? Not Oh, look at how she blushes. “The point being, there is absolutely no chance of interruption, so we can begin our plotting,” Miss Osborn said. “Plotting?”

“If you intend to marry my uncle, we will need to take a systematic approach. We shall put our best minds to the task. The best minds obviously being our own.” “Miss Osborn—” “Oh, please call me Sophie. If we’re to plot, we cannot stand on formality.” Eddie hesitated. She had rarely been invited into such a level of intimacy. Once she had grown out of her childhood friends, she had largely had the company of Honoria’s friends, all of them women of advanced years who called one another “Mrs. Black” and “Mrs. Teacher” and so on, even after four decades of friendship. To them, she

had always been “Lady Mildred.” It had only been Honoria who called her by the name she preferred. “Perhaps you could call me Eddie, then,” she said. “Eddie?” “I’ve always hated Mildred,” Eddie confessed. “I’ve always wished my father didn’t have a title, so I could simply be ‘Miss Weller.’” “Eddie it is, then.” Sophie smiled. “Now. We must join the other conspirator.” She led the way through the gate and around the back of the greenhouse. The door had been chained, the lock all but rusted shut; Sophie, whom Eddie

suspected was not a woman to be dissuaded by mere practical concerns, had instead removed the hinges from one of the doors and leaned it against the other. Mr. Blackwood was waiting inside, fidgeting with the sleeves of his jacket. When he saw them, he froze. “You brought her?” he said. “You sound horrified,” Sophie said, with the tone of someone providing information rather than rebuke. “Oh. I’m not,” Mr. Blackwood said. “Only surprised. I apologize, Lady Mildred.” “Hm. That won’t do,” Sophie said. “He certainly can’t neglect your title, but

I refuse to let us contribute to the misery of being assigned such an ungainly name. Z, call her ‘Lady Eddie.’ That should do, shouldn’t it?” “I’m not sure that’s proper,” Eddie protested. “Oh, it’s going to get worse,” Sophie said. “I’m leaving.” “What?” they yelped in unison. Sophie smiled. “If there’s anyone who can be trusted to maintain propriety without an escort, it’s the two of you. And I have some rather important errands to conduct.” “Alone?” Eddie asked. “An escort is meeting me. I will come to collect the two of you in an

hour. I expect by that time you will have formulated some sort of plan for snaring our uncle’s attention.” “You said that you were going to help,” Eddie protested. “I will! With the things I’m good at. Like, say, helping you purchase a wedding gown. But I’m rubbish at uncles. Z knows him far better than I do, believe me. You’ll be fine.” “We will not be fine,” Mr. Blackwood said. “This is highly irregular.” “Absolutely no one will discover your presence here. I guarantee you that. And I won’t be long.” Sophie’s tone invited no argument. Eddie looked at Mr.

Blackwood, who shrugged helplessly. She supposed he was a better judge than she regarding the likelihood of talking his cousin out of this. Or of anything. Sophie clapped her hands together. “Excellent! I will be back before you know it.” She swept out, leaving them in the run-down greenhouse alone. Eddie glanced around, mostly so she did not have to look at Mr. Blackwood. The plants were all long dead, turned brown and moldering or else dried to sharp twigs. “Pity,” she said. “It looks as if it would have been marvelous, if everything were alive.”

“It was chaotic,” Mr. Blackwood said. “And poorly maintained. There was no logic to the selection of specimens, nor any true research put into discovering the necessary care each plant needed. I used to spend hours redesigning this place.” “And then you just let it all die?” Eddie asked. “I do not often spend time in London. When my grandmother passed, I was unable to return to supervise the handling of the plants. They were left to perish,” Mr. Blackwood said sadly. “And as I was only seven years old, I doubt I would have had the physical strength or, frankly, height to have

undertaken the task of resuscitating them on my own.” “At seven, you were spending hours thinking about how to run a greenhouse?” Eddie asked. At seven she had mostly been concerned with protecting her toys from her brother’s rough attentions. She knew every hideyhole in every one of their residences. A pity she’d outgrown them all; sometimes she still would have liked to hide herself away. “I was frequently described as precocious.” Mr. Blackwood was frowning. He had his hands folded behind his back, and he had not yet looked at her.

She cleared her throat a little and stepped forward. He flinched. “So, about your uncle.” “I do not know why Sophie believes that I will be able to help you in this matter. I have absolutely no expertise at matchmaking. And my familiarity with our uncle is little better than hers.” “What do you know about him?” Eddie asked. He shrugged. “He is somewhat intelligent. Somewhat soft-spoken. He does not have a temper. He has three grown daughters, to whom I am not close. He is generous, allowing his relatives to stay with him—even my

stepfather, with whom he has never had a particular affinity.” “Generous is good,” Eddie said softly. In her conversations with Lord Averdale, she had gleaned little more. He didn’t speak of himself. He asked her questions. Whether she was enjoying herself, what she liked to do around the city, whether she had read anything interesting of late. She always found herself caught up, and forgetting to ask any questions in return. He must think me terribly rude. She started to walk, feeling pent up standing in one place. She trailed her fingertips along the wooden tables set against the walls, trying to guess at what

the dried and shriveled clumps of brown had once been. There were taller plants at the back, forming a near-complete screen blocking off the back wall. A single green branch jutted between a tangle of spindly, dead ones. “There’s something alive back here,” she said. Unlike in our conversation. Mr. Blackwood moved swiftly, his face suddenly alight with interest. Together, they hauled aside several deep pots of dead shrubbery, revealing a stubborn, stunted shrub still clinging to its greenery. It sported a number of red blossoms and a few clusters of thready bristles.

“They look like bottlebrushes,” Eddie said, touching one. “Thus the common name. Crimson bottlebrush,” Mr. Blackwood said. “I can’t believe it’s still alive.” “Has someone been tending it?” “Perhaps,” Mr. Blackwood said doubtfully. “It needs to be repotted.” “We could do that,” Eddie said eagerly. “We don’t have what we need,” Mr. Blackwood said with a regretful shake of his head. “And the process could cause irreparable damage to your clothing.” Eddie glanced down. She was certainly overdressed for the task.

Frankly, she was overdressed for the time of day, but when people noticed her clothing first they tended to give her personality less attention, which worked out better for everyone. “Does your uncle like botany?” Eddie asked hopefully. “Not that I know of. He does ask me questions about it, but he asks questions about a great number of subjects. Not to any particular end, mind you. I think he just likes asking questions.” “I had noticed that,” Eddie said. “It’s . . . nice. It makes it seem like he’s really interested in you.” “Yes.” Mr. Blackwood was frowning again, and looking away from her. “I

really am the wrong person to be helping you. I have never had any skill with interpersonal interactions. In fact, I have an abysmal rate of success at small talk, much less romantic entanglements. I would not know how to approach a potential match for myself, much less for you.” “You’ve never . . .” Eddie trailed off. “Have you ever flirted with anyone?” “No.” Eddie felt a little twinge in her belly at that. What, did you think he had been flirting with you? “Sophie insists that I should acquire the skill, but I see little point. I don’t intend to marry.”

“Why not?” “I wish to dedicate myself to a life of the mind.” “But a wife would be very useful in that case,” Eddie pointed out. Mr. Blackwood raised a querying brow. “If you were to dedicate yourself entirely to your studies, who would have the keeping of your household? How would you manage expenses, ensure that you have done your social duties sufficiently to remain undisturbed when you need to be? Who would ensure that your staff is trustworthy?” “If I have a small domicile, with minimal servants, none of that should be necessary. I have few needs. And

certainly no requirement for social entanglements.” Eddie gave a little sigh. “Of course you do. Genius doesn’t flourish in isolation. You will want to meet with other bright minds, converse with them. You’ll want to be published, no doubt, and that does require a degree of interaction with the publisher, if no one else. You will have family obligations. Besides, you will not be satisfied with a small ‘domicile.’” She was chattering. She really should shut up, but Mr. Blackwood looked intrigued. “Why not?” he asked. “At seven you had grand plans for a greenhouse. Do you really think you will

be content to read about plants, rather than study them directly? You need room to grow a garden. You need a greenhouse. You need space.” “A fair point,” Mr. Blackwood said. He rubbed his chin. “I see I had not considered all the necessary angles.” “And the right kind of wife would make that all easier,” Eddie said with a nod. “What kind of wife is the right kind of wife, though? It’s not a question I have entertained.” “You’d need a wife who is interested in your work, at least enough to support it. Who is not a social butterfly, or she would feel stifled. A wife of modest

expectations, who enjoys evenings spent in and who doesn’t mind getting her hands dirty now and then.” Eddie looked down at her own hands, smeared with grime after moving the pots, and rubbed dirt from them self-consciously. “Assuming that I found such a woman, I would have no idea how to approach her.” “That’s not so difficult,” Eddie assured him. “I’ve never managed it before.” He sounded glum. She sighed. “Come here, then. I’ll show you.” ***

Ezekiel considered Lady Mildred— Lady Eddie, he reminded himself. Her hair had come slightly out of its pins in the effort of hauling pots, and there was a smudge of dirt on her left cheek, approximately an inch below her eye. He found himself staring at that smudge. It seemed beautiful, but he could not explain why. She held out her hand, beckoning him with bent fingers. “Come on, then. The first step is to get within five feet of a girl.” She smiled. He smiled back automatically. Normally he had to remind himself to maintain a neutral expression instead of scowling; people tended to misread it as

malice, rather than concentration and distraction. Smiling as an automatic reflex was rare indeed. He despised those who ignored concrete evidence in favor of their preferred narrative, and so he was forced to acknowledge, despite the obvious inconvenience, that he was rather enamored of Lady Eddie. And so when he drew close, it was with a mix of trepidation and delight. “Now, let’s say that we’ve met in the park,” she said. “I would greet you, you would greet me, and then . . . Oh, you should ask if I should like company on my walk.” “Would you?”

“No, you have to say the whole thing,” Lady Eddie said with a little roll of her eyes. “Lady Mildred, would you like me to accompany you on your walk?” he asked woodenly. She stifled a laugh. “Oh, that was dreadful. You’re terrible at conversation; I’m abysmal at dancing. What a pair we make.” “We may be hopeless,” Ezekiel agreed. “In any case, I should greatly enjoy your company on my walk,” Lady Eddie said, and turned primly on her heel, casting a look behind her. He hurried to join her, and she began a slow circuit of

the greenhouse. The narrow aisles between the central table and those at the sides necessitated that they walk quite closely together, their sides brushing against the wood and their bodies nearly touching. Ezekiel swallowed. He had never had such an awareness of another person’s body. She was entrancingly constructed, with slim shoulders and a larger-than-average bosom, displayed with obvious intention by the cut of her bodice. The rest of her body was better concealed, but each time she stepped the fabric of her dress pulled against her legs, hinting at the shape of her hips.

“You’re meant to make conversation while we walk,” Lady Eddie reminded him, and he twitched, certain that she had noticed his gaze straying to her ingeniously proportioned form. “I don’t know what I could possibly speak about,” Ezekiel said. “When I talk, I talk too quickly and too much. I become fixated on a subject, and I can never seem to determine when an appropriate time has come to stop. Even when I remember to pause, there is rarely a reply, and so I am forced to continue.” “When you think to pause, you should ask a question instead,” Lady Eddie suggested. “Something simple. And

perhaps limit yourself to a number of sentences. Say, five. Once you have said five sentences, pause, and ask a question.” “What sort of question?” “Oh, let’s say that we are talking about the weather. You explain the difference between cumulus, stratus, and cirrus clouds. So you’re explaining cloud modification and variations in the atmosphere, and then you realize you’ve said five things, so you finish with, oh, I do enjoy reading a good book on a rainy day, don’t you? or What sort of weather do you think we’ll have next week?”

“You know Mr. Howard’s work on cloud modification?” Ezekiel asked with surprise. It did not seem like typical reading for a young lady. But then, the whole reason they were here was his lack of expertise on that particular subject. Lady Eddie laughed. “I’m afraid I’m a bit of a magpie when it comes to bits of information. Once I hear something, I can’t seem to forget it. And I was once stuck in a particularly gloomy cottage on a particularly gloomy day with nothing but scientific papers to read. I can also tell you a great deal about Lamarck’s classification of invertebrates, if you like.” She glanced at him, horrified.

“Don’t ever tell my mother that we’ve spoken of this.” “To do that, I would have to tell her something of the circumstances, which would not be prudent,” Ezekiel said, which made her laugh again. He decided to start keeping count of the number of times he could do that. They made another circuit of the table, and then another, and then sat side by side on a short bench beside the bottlebrush to rest their feet—and keep talking. Their conversation ranged from cumulus clouds to carnivorous plants to tales of their childhoods and back again, and never once did she chide him that he

was speaking too much, or that he was boring her. She laughed seven times. She smiled more times than he could count. On a whim, Ezekiel plucked the smallest of the bottlebrush blossoms from its branch. “I do know that it is a customary gesture of affection to give a woman a flower,” he said. He held it out. “A poor approximation of the usual varieties, but we are playacting, after all.” She took it from him, and momentarily her fingers brushed against his. He felt a peculiar tingling sensation in his abdomen. The urge to pair and procreate was perfectly natural, he

reminded himself, part of the human condition. And he was, despite the suspicions of his classmates and relatives, entirely human by every anatomical test that he could conceive of (and which could be performed prior to his death). It did not necessarily mean anything, this infatuation. It was only his instincts insisting that he beget another generation and preserve the species. She tucked the bottlebrush behind her ear, looking downward with a closedlipped smile. He rather forgot to breathe for a moment. “You look beautiful,” he said. “See? You aren’t so terrible at this after all,” she said. “When you court a

lady in earnest, you may even earn yourself a kiss.” Ezekiel blanched. “That would be the end of things. I have no idea—” “How to even approach a kiss?” Lady Eddie guessed. She leaned in toward him a little, as if confessing something. “I’ve never kissed anyone, either. I worry about it sometimes. What if I’m rubbish at it?” “It would not be indicative of your eventual level of skill, in all likelihood. Kissing seems to me an act like any other. Talent plays a role, but practice and persistence are sure to make up the difference in time.”

“But kissing isn’t exactly something you can practice,” Lady Eddie pointed out. “Once you find someone worth kissing, you want to be able to do it right straightaway.” “That is a problem,” Ezekiel admitted. “You could kiss me,” she said. “As practice.” His mouth felt very dry. He stared at her lips. He would definitely like to kiss her. He definitely did not want to do it merely for the practice. She was smiling that closed smile, as if a delighted laugh were waiting to escape the moment she parted her lips.

“Well?” she said. “Would you like to kiss me? For practice, of course. Purely an intellectual exercise.” She had an excellent point. He wouldn’t want to go into his first kiss unprepared, would he? It was an operation with a high potential for disaster. “It seems prudent,” he acknowledged. “It would practically be irresponsible not to,” Lady Eddie said gravely. “Well,” he said. “All right.”

Chapter Six Eddie waited, but Mr. Blackwood did not move. He was making fists with his fingers and then stretching them out again, and he had his weight canted slightly away from her, as if he were prepared to run. “Unless you don’t want to?” she said. “No, no, you’re right. It’s an entirely sensible precaution,” Mr. Blackwood said. She stifled an inward sigh. A sensible precaution. Of course Mr.

Blackwood would be the one man in the world who would take her at her word when she claimed it was only for practice. Her mother would be horrified. She was meant to be marrying his uncle, and yet she had spent their whole conversation wondering what a kiss from Mr. Blackwood might be like. Like him, she imagined. A little bit awkward at first, until he focused on the task instead of what someone might think of him. Then he would be precise. Serious. Thorough. He would kiss her as if there were nothing but kissing to think of, as if every variation and angle must be considered and experimented with. He

would kiss her like she was a puzzle, or a question to be answered. She leaned ever so slightly toward him. “The gentleman is meant to begin,” she prompted him. She rested her hands on his shoulders. Tentatively, he leaned toward her. There was a crash outside. “Drat!” Sophie said, and they sprang to their feet and apart so rapidly that Eddie banged against the table beside her, nearly knocking it over altogether. Sophie appeared, kicking her shoe against the door to knock a clod of dirt from it, and grinned at them. “So. Have you figured it all out?”

“No,” Mr. Blackwood said. “We have not made any progress. I don’t see why you thought we would, in the space of a single hour.” “It’s been three hours,” Sophie told him with a smirk. He frowned. He did not lose track of time. He simply didn’t. But he’d had no suspicion that so much time had passed. “Oh, well,” Sophie said. “In that case, we’ll simply have to talk up Lady Eddie to our uncle, plant suggestions about his need for an heir, and then get the two of them in the same place at the same time at the next ball so that they can talk.”

“That seems remarkably straightforward,” Eddie said with a frown. “Why did you need us to come up with a plan, then?” “I suppose I didn’t after all,” Sophie said. Eddie narrowed her eyes at the older girl. She’d thrown the two of them together, alone, in an isolated space. Why? Was she trying to pair them up? That was probably it. She viewed Eddie as unsuitable for her uncle, and thought that if she could be distracted or compromised, it would save him the trouble of marrying her. She had not believed Sophie thought so poorly of

her, but she had been wrong about such things before. The fact that the notion of marrying Ezekiel Blackwood inspired a faint tingle of delight only made the deception rankle all the more. “Well,” Eddie said briskly. “Thank you for your help. I should be getting home.” She started for the door. “Wait,” Mr. Blackwood said. She turned, half hoping that he would—oh, she didn’t know. That he would make it all better. But instead he pointed to the bottlebrush behind her ear. “You should probably take that out,” he said. She snatched the bottlebrush and tossed it onto the table beside her.

“Thank you,” she said again, and turned to go. *** Ezekiel didn’t understand exactly what had transpired in those final moments in the greenhouse, but he knew that he had made some sort of grave error. Lady Eddie had looked distressed in a subtle way. He was not good at the subtleties of human emotion, however, and he couldn’t say for certain what the nature of her distress had been. Sophie was no help. “Don’t be silly,” she said. “She likes you. It’s obvious.”

“That was not my question,” Ezekiel said. They were walking home together, a long jaunt but a welcome one. It allowed Ezekiel the chance to fit in exercise as well as conversation with Sophie, both of which were essential for a day well-spent. Also on the list: reading, eating, proper hydration. However, none of these three tasks were easily combined with exercise, so this particular arrangement was the most efficient by far. “And I don’t see how it is relevant at all. We are not trying to ensure that she likes me. We are trying to ensure that our uncle likes her.” He did not enjoy the roil of jealousy that followed those words. He was

determined to be enlightened about this arrangement. A triumph of intellect over base instinct, in the service of friendship. “You must see that she deserves better than to be married to a man so much older than her, for the sole purpose of providing an heir,” Sophie said. “I cannot believe that Lord Averdale would be so callous and cynical as to pursue her.” “He’s only being rational,” Ezekiel said. “And I see no reason why she wouldn’t be a suitable wife.” “For whom, exactly?” Sophie asked. “For Lord Averdale, of course,” Ezekiel replied. He was not enjoying

this conversation; it was extremely uncomfortable, in fact, and he was relieved when they reached the town house and Sophie excused herself to her room. After some consideration, Ezekiel made for the library. He was certain he had seen several horticultural texts on the shelves, and he wanted to investigate the proper tending of the crimson bottlebrush. That way, he and Lady Eddie would be able to— He stopped in the doorway. His uncle was already in the library, sitting in an armchair with a book open before him. Ezekiel could not read the title from this distance, but forced to guess, he would say it was a philosophical text.

Lord Averdale was far more comfortable with the abstract than Ezekiel ever had been. “Ezekiel,” Lord Averdale said, looking up. “I thought you were out with Sophie today.” His voice had a hint of a rumble about it, suiting his wide frame perfectly. He was not a fat man; only a large one. Ezekiel might have compared him to a bull, but for the gentleness of his demeanor. “Our errand has concluded,” Ezekiel said. This was it; the perfect opportunity to begin this undertaking in earnest. If he truly wished to be a friend to Eddie, he must say something now. “I wondered if

you might have a moment to talk,” he said. “Of course,” Lord Averdale said, and indicated the other chair, angled slightly toward his own. Ezekiel crossed quickly to it and sat, tugging his coat down and clearing his throat. “What is it, Ezekiel?” “I wanted to discuss the subject of matrimony,” Ezekiel said. “It has recently been pointed out to me that it can be extremely advantageous. A wife provides a great many services to her husband. The social sphere and the private are better tended to in partnership than in isolation. There is also the question, of course, of

children.” He paused. That was five sentences. “What do you think?” he asked. “I think you are absolutely correct. The right marriage can indeed be very advantageous,” Lord Averdale said. He had shut his book, but kept his finger between the pages to mark his spot. He pushed his spectacles up his nose. “However, you are still young to be worrying about such things.” “Oh. I see I have been unclear,” Ezekiel said. He shifted. “I was not considering my own marriage. I was considering yours. It has been five years since your second wife died.” Five sentences, even if the first one was

alarmingly short. Could one utilize the semicolon in the spoken word, he wondered, or would that be cheating? “Have you considered remarrying?” “I have considered it,” Lord Averdale said slowly. “Though only because of the question of inheritance.” Ezekiel nodded. “You’ll require a male heir; it’s obvious enough that I am unsuited to the role.” Hm. He’d count that as one. “I take no offense at that; it’s clear to anyone who has spent any time with me, and I have spent more time with myself than anyone.” Yes, this was much more convenient. “Given the average lifespan of a man of our social class, it would seem prudent to acquire a

new wife without a great deal of delay. Hopefully you will have many more years, but there’s no sense in incurring more risk than necessary. And you will want to seek out a young wife, one more likely to be able to provide you with the requisite heir.” Five. Damn. “Have you considered any specific candidates?” Lord Averdale laughed. “Ezekiel, I would have no qualms about passing the title on to you. None at all. You would hardly be the most unusual earl England has seen, believe me. You remind me a great deal of your father, in fact, and at times I thought he would have made the better earl than myself, had he lived.”

Ezekiel blinked. He spent so much time thinking about how unlike his stepfather he was, he had never stopped to consider that he might bear some similarities to his natural father. He had never known the man, and his mother never spoke of him; not once. “I have considered taking another wife, but I have rejected it for the very reasons you state,” Lord Averdale continued. “I would need to take a young wife, if my end was producing an heir. And I cannot bring myself to do it. To saddle a young woman with an old man such as myself.” Ezekiel reflected that his uncle had used more than five sentences. Perhaps

he should be allowed seven sentences instead. “I could present a number of arguments refuting my suitability for the role,” he said with a frown. Before he could launch into his next six sentences, though, his uncle held up a hand. “Ezekiel, this is not an argument we need to have. I’ve made my decision, and I intend to abide by it. Why do you think I’ve invited you to stay here for the Season? As my heir, you’ll need to spend a great deal more time with me. Whatever the statistics indicate about my life span, I hope we’ll have plenty of years to get you settled and comfortable with the idea.”

Ezekiel stared at him. This made very little sense on a number of levels. “What about Lady Eddie?” he said. “Who?” Ezekiel shook his head a little. “Lady Mildred Weller. If you don’t intend to marry, why have you been courting her?” “Courting . . . ? Oh, dear. Have I given that impression? It certainly wasn’t my intention. She’s hardly more than a girl, Ezekiel. And the loneliest girl I think I have ever met. She reminds me of Jane.” His eldest daughter, now married. Ezekiel had met her only a few times, and spoken only a few words to her. At the time, he had imagined that she didn’t like him. Now, he wondered if

she had been as shy as he felt around strangers. “She’s miserable every time I see her, so I try to cheer her up.” “Oh,” Ezekiel said simply. He did not know how to react to the news. Part of him was exultant. Part of him was imagining what it would be like to relay this news to Lady Eddie. She would be devastated. He did not understand her reasons for wanting to marry his uncle, but it was obvious even to him how important it was to her. “I shall have to tell her,” he said softly. “Tell Lady Mildred? Then she believes it as well.” Lord Averdale shook his head. “I never meant to

mislead her that way. Poor girl. I should speak to her.” “No, don’t,” Ezekiel said. “I’ll do it. We’re . . . friends.” He wasn’t sure that was precisely true. But if he was forced to name a friend, and Sophie was not an option, hers was the first name he would speak. Besides, it was he who had promised to help her, and therefore he who had failed her. He rose. “Will you go to speak to her now, then?” Lord Averdale asked. “Yes,” Ezekiel said. “Yes, I think I had better.” “Ezekiel, you and Lady Mildred are perhaps the two young people most in need of friendship, out of all of my

acquaintances. You are both unusual, and that is not an easy thing to be. Be kind to her.” Ezekiel paused. Was it kinder to give her news that would sadden her, hurt her? Or to preserve her hope? He knew which he would prefer, and as unusual as he was, it was the only measurement he had to go by. He would want the truth. And so the truth she would have. *** Eddie returned to the house feeling vaguely sick. Had Sophie been playing with her? Taunting her? What about Mr.

Blackwood? He had seemed to genuinely like her. They both had. And she’d liked them. She’d managed to forget her purpose in being there. Perhaps she was so hungry for any kind of approval that she was an easy target. “Darling, you look distressed,” her mother said. Eddie turned slowly. Lady Copeland was on the stairs, one hand on the banister and her eyes narrowed in appraisal. “Did Miss Osborn not return with you?” “Miss Osborn had her own business to attend to,” Eddie said. “Did she mention her uncle? Did he send her?”

Eddie cocked her head to the side. “Why him?” she said. “What do you mean?” “Why Lord Averdale? Why do you want me to marry him? I’m still very young, Mother. Some people would say nineteen is too young to get married at all.” Though she might point out to those people that they did no favors by simply raising the floor of the appropriate marriageable age, without lifting the ceiling as well to compensate; it seemed that by the time one was mature enough for matrimony in some eyes, spinsterhood was already waiting to pounce.

Her mother sighed. “Oh, darling. You know I only want the best for you, don’t you? Come upstairs. We can talk there. And I have something to show you.” Eddie followed her mother dutifully up to her room. Her mother crossed to her vanity. A lockbox sat atop it, next to an old silver jewelry box that held her mother’s less expensive baubles. Lady Copeland lifted a key from around her neck and fit it into the lockbox, opening the lid to reveal the Indian diamonds— without their necklace. A few folded sheets of paper were tucked in next to them, and Lady Copeland removed them and spread them out on the vanity. Eddie drew near. Sketches, she saw, of a new

necklace. This one was more geometric, bolder, the lines making the diamonds seem somehow commanding. “You’ve changed the setting again,” Eddie noted, because it was clear she was supposed to say something. This made the fourth such alteration. “Diamonds like these require the perfect setting. One that can match their particular qualities. What do you think?” Eddie leaned over the sketches. “It would certainly draw the eye,” she said. “You don’t think it’s too masculine?” “Perhaps a little,” Eddie admitted. “Ha! You see. I coax the truth out of you. I utterly agree. These won’t do at all. I’ve sent the man back to the

drawing board.” Lady Copeland clasped her hands and sighed. “You were always such a timid child, and I’m afraid you’ve never grown out of it. It takes a hundred questions to get one clear answer from you.” “I’m sorry,” Eddie said. “Sometimes I wonder if it was my fault. I was always so afraid for you. The whole time I was carrying you, I was sure I’d lose you. And then the birth . . . It was so smooth, I was certain that we must have missed something, that something must have gone wrong. And then you were quiet, even as a baby. Sometimes I’d pinch you, just so you’d

startle and I’d know that you were still alive. I lost all your sisters so young.” Her sisters. Isabelle, Elizabeth, Prudence, Millicent. All dead before they could walk. “They were all so lovely, your sisters,” her mother said, and stroked her hair. She did not have to add and you are not. Eddie looked down. The princesses had died, and the little goblin girl had somehow survived. The girl with the crooked nose and large ears, with pimpled skin and large, ungainly feet. “I lost them, but I have you. And I will do right by you, Mildred. I will see you taken care of. I will see you comfortable and safe. Lord Averdale can

provide comfort and safety and more. He’s perfect, don’t you see?” Eddie blinked away tears. She was disloyal, wanting to marry Lord Averdale only to get away from home. Ungrateful. It was true that her mother had always, always protected her. When she found out her friends were mocking her, her mother had held her close and whispered that it would be all right, that she didn’t need such false friends. They had each other, didn’t they? She was harsh, yes. But she could be kind like this. Sweet and doting. And at these times Eddie wondered if it was only her foul temperament that kept her from pleasing her mother. Maybe she

was stubborn and obstinate, and drove her mother to such harshness of pure necessity. Perhaps Eddie hadn’t tried hard enough. Perhaps there was still a chance for her to change herself in some small way. She would never be a swan, but perhaps she could be not quite so much of an ugly duckling. She could manage a goose, at least, surely. “I know what’s best for you, Mildred,” her mother said, and kissed her brow.

Chapter Seven Three visits in two days. It’s almost as if I have friends, Eddie mused as she descended the stairs, her mother trailing her. Ezekiel Blackwood was here again, and she couldn’t imagine why. It was not as if they would be able to speak freely with her mother as escort. When they entered the drawing room he was standing stiffly, fiddling with a loose thread at the hem of his jacket. Their greetings were perfunctory, and when he sat none of the tension went out of him.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said immediately when they sat. His eyes fixed on a point somewhere to Eddie’s left, but she was used to that by now—his habit of never quite looking you in the eye. It might have been interpreted as shiftiness by some, but Eddie recognized it as shyness, or something similar. “I spoke with my uncle on the subject of matrimony. His opinions, both generally and specific. We spoke about you.” Lady Copeland shifted, her expression altering like quicksilver. She was clearly battling a mix of emotions— distaste at Mr. Blackwood’s manners;

eagerness at news of Lord Averdale’s disposition toward her daughter. “He does not intend to marry,” Mr. Blackwood said, and Lady Copeland’s face turned to a stony mask. Eddie felt made of stone herself. Cold, lumpy stone, chiseled into something that vaguely resembled a lady in conversation with a man. But stone had no thoughts; it was inert, and so was she. She heard the words, but they held no meaning. She could not allow them to hold meaning. “I beg your pardon,” she said. She had no conscious awareness of selecting the words; they simply emerged. “Could you repeat that?”

Mr. Blackwood looked pained. “My uncle does not intend to remarry. Anyone. He enjoys your company, but he does not intend to ask for your hand now or ever.” “I see,” Eddie said. She rose, still feeling as if someone else were in control of her body. Lord Averdale does not wish to marry me, she thought, expecting to feel despair. Instead, she felt nothing. And then, quite the opposite of nothing—a thrill of hope. Perhaps, the hope began, and it ended with Mr. Blackwood and the wide, earnest eyes behind his

spectacles, but she didn’t dare fill in the rest. She cleared her throat. “Thank you for investigating the matter, Mr. Blackwood. You have been most helpful. If you will excuse me, I’m afraid I am not feeling well.” He jolted to his feet. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll go. I’m sorry. I thought that you needed to know. Maybe I should not have said anything. Was I right, to tell you?” “Of course,” Eddie said coolly, shoving that flickering little hope away. “I am most grateful to be spared the humiliation of pursuing someone who is not interested in me.”

He said something else, but she wasn’t listening. She was glad when he left, striding out of the room with hunched shoulders. Behind her, her mother’s skirts rustled as she repositioned herself. “Well. That won’t do at all,” she said. Eddie didn’t turn. She couldn’t look at her mother just yet. If she did, her mother might see the relief on her face. Or guess at the traitorous little perhaps. “It’s not as if it’s a great surprise,” she said. “It did seem strange that I should be the one to catch Lord Averdale’s eye.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You have much to recommend you.” “Do I?” Eddie said. “That comes as news to me.” “Your father is an earl. You have wide hips, good for childbearing. You are unobtrusive.” “Practically irresistible,” Eddie said. She pressed her hand over her stomach, reminding herself to breathe steadily. Her best chance of a quick escape was gone. So why was she not more upset? Why was she not thinking of Lord Averdale, but of Ezekiel Blackwood’s look of abject apology? Of pity, more likely, she told herself, and crushed that

small hope beneath the weight of the realization. “Don’t despair,” Lady Copeland said. “He isn’t out of our grasp yet.” Eddie turned to her at last. “Did you not hear what the man said? Lord Averdale has no intention of marrying anyone, least of all me. He’s uninterested.” “Interest isn’t necessary,” Lady Copeland said. She had a scheming look in her eye, one that Eddie knew by long experience was cause to be wary. “He’s obviously a softhearted man. And a noble one. Yes, that’s it. If you were compromised . . .”

“Compromised?” Eddie asked in alarm. “We can arrange for the two of you to be found alone together in a room. Hopefully with your bodice askew. Then he’d have to wed you.” “You must be joking.” It was obvious that Lady Copeland was not. “We shall have to ask a few favors, to ensure that everyone is in their proper place.” Eddie stared at her mother in frank bewilderment, but Lady Copeland’s mind was clearly elsewhere, making plans. “Mother, this is ridiculous. And unnecessary. My father is an earl. Surely there are men who would be interested

in marrying a stoat if it would get them an earl for a father-in-law.” “Oh, you might catch some schemer. Someone who needs money and your father’s ear. But it would be someone reaching up, by necessity. And such a marriage would drag our family down.” “You mean, to my level,” Eddie said drily. “Well. I would never say such a thing, of course. But as long as they are your words, not mine, then yes. Essentially.” “Dear Lord.” Eddie spun around, unable to look at her mother another moment, and gulped down a breath. Her mother had always been hard to bear, but

this was something else. This was not just pushing Eddie to be something worthy of the Copeland name. This was —this was—she couldn’t even put words to it. Her mother was willing to turn her into a schemer and Lord Averdale into a dupe. Just to get rid of her. It had never, ever been about what was best for Eddie, had it? Because this could not be best for her. Not when it would ruin her reputation and brand her as some kind of monster for the rest of her life. “I won’t do it,” she said. “I won’t trap a man in a marriage he doesn’t

want, and I certainly won’t compromise my virtue to do it.” “You’ll do as you’re told,” Lady Copeland snapped. Eddie gave her a hard look over her shoulder. “I always do what you tell me to, Mother, and look where it’s gotten me.” With her mother gaping at her, she strode out of the drawing room and kept on going, right out the front door and down the street. *** Ezekiel left the town house with the distinct sensation of having been kicked

in the stomach. He could not go home and risk facing his relatives; Sophie would be sympathetic, Lord Averdale wise and knowing, his father—well. The less he thought about that, the better. Instead, he returned to the greenhouse. It was an ugly place, a dead place, but when he stepped inside he felt warmth. Satisfaction. He felt as if he were not alone, and that his company took a very particular form. He wanted her here with him. He wanted to name every species of decaying plant in alphabetical order until she smiled. Would that make her smile? He thought so. He thought she would make a joke out of it. It was so

much easier to talk to her than to anyone else, even if they’d only done it twice, properly. He would tell her five things, he thought, and ask a question, and she would notice. Because she paid attention. She listened to him, and not because, like Sophie, she was his friend and it was the friendly thing to do. She listened because she wanted to hear what he had to say. So he would tell her five things. I think you are beautiful. I always think so, but especially when you smile. I think you are the smartest woman I have ever met. I think you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. I think that even if you were the worst dancer

in all the world, I would still dance with you. And then it would be time for a question. “What are you doing here?” He turned, startled. Lady Eddie stood in the doorway. She was not dressed to go out of doors, and she wore only thin slippers, now scraped and muddied. Her eyes were red and puffy, the tip of her nose nearly as crimson as the bottlebrush. She’d been crying. She still was crying; a fat teardrop slid down the side of her nose. She wiped at it furiously. “I came here to think,” he said.

“So did I.” She put her hands on her hips and glared at him as if he were the interloper. “What do you have to think about?” “You, mostly,” he said. He swallowed. She gave a hoarse laugh. “Come to think about how pathetic I am? How much of an idiot I was?” “I was thinking about how much I like you,” he said. She dropped her hands to her sides, her eyes wide. “I was thinking that I hope we can be friends, even after what I told you.” “Oh.” She walked past him, brushing by so close that her arm caught on his coat and pulled it partially open. She

bent, flipped over a flowerpot, and sat down on it with a little hmph. “Why?” “Why what?” She looked up at him, her arms crossed and her body bent forward, almost as if she were cold. But it was sweltering in the greenhouse; they were both perspiring. “Why do you want to be my friend?” “Because.” He paused. “You are intelligent. You seem to enjoy listening to me when I talk, and I enjoy listening to you when you talk. You don’t mind that I’m strange. To my knowledge, you have never mocked me. And I like your smile. Why wouldn’t I want to be your friend?”

“Because I’m a social disaster,” she said. “So am I.” “I’m ugly.” “I have been reliably informed that I am gawky and without charisma,” Ezekiel told her. It was becoming awkward to look down at her, so he sat on the floor, one leg out in front of him and the other bent up, his hands laced around it. “I have a truly horrific family,” Lady Eddie pointed out. “I have no desire to be friendly with your family,” Ezekiel said. “Why would they matter?”

“My parents have done horrible things. They don’t think I know anything about it, but I hear people whispering. They are not good people. And I’m their child. Don’t you think some of that may have rubbed off on me?” “I have spent my entire life under the care of my stepfather, and I am nothing like him. You have the confounding variable of inheritance to consider, but we don’t fully understand the mechanisms of—” He paused. “I mean to say, I do not think you are like your parents. Unless you have done horrible things that I’m not aware of.” “I used to have a cat,” Lady Eddie said, looking off into the distance. “I

loved her very much. But sometimes, when I was very upset, I would look at her and I would want to hurt her. I would want to fling her away from me, or hit her. Just for batting at my skirts or crawling into my lap when I wanted to be left alone.” “Did you?” “No, of course not,” she said, her gaze whipping back to him. “She did not deserve my anger.” “We cannot always control what impulses arise in us,” Ezekiel said. “I have violent impulses. But I don’t act on them. And neither do you.” “What if I do, someday?” “You won’t.”

“How do you know?” “Because if you have the choice, you will always choose kindness,” Ezekiel said. “You don’t know me well enough to say that.” “It is an initial hypothesis,” Ezekiel allowed. “But I doubt that subsequent observation will alter it.” She was crying again. He’d upset her. He sat upright in alarm. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Stop saying you’re sorry so much. I’m not upset at you, Mr. Blackwood. I’m upset because . . .” She sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with the side of her thumb. Suddenly recognizing his

responsibility in this situation, Ezekiel rummaged in his pocket for his handkerchief and handed it over. She smiled gratefully through her tears. “I’m crying because you’re being so nice to me.” “That doesn’t make sense,” Ezekiel said, confused. She laughed. “I know. Humanity is a strange thing, isn’t it?” “Plants are much more predictable,” Ezekiel agreed. “I didn’t really want to marry him, you know. I mean, I want to marry. I want to marry as quickly as possible. And marrying your uncle seemed like the best way to do that.”

“Why are you so eager?” Ezekiel asked. He understood that women wed far earlier than men, on the average, but it wasn’t as if she were approaching that dreaded twenty-sixth year of life, in which a woman, through some mechanism beyond his understanding, transformed into a spinster. “It’s my mother,” she confessed. “It’s terrible, I know, but I cannot stand to be around her. And I cannot please her, whatever I do. I am weary of knowing at every moment what a burden I am. Of being reminded of my failings. At least if I were to be married, it would take some time for my husband to become fully acquainted with my faults, and perhaps if

I were lucky he would decide to overlook them.” “What faults are those?” Ezekiel asked. “I’m ugly, I’m clumsy, I’m a terrible conversationalist, I get distracted, I talk too much, I walk too loudly, I hold the wrong opinions, and I read too much.” “I don’t think you’re ugly,” Ezekiel said. “And I don’t care that you’re clumsy. As for conversation, I am hardly a good judge, but you at least exceed my own skills. Distractibility is frequently confused with curiosity, and I think you possess the latter. You certainly don’t talk as much as I do, I have never noticed a particularly robust auditory

quality to your stride, I want to hear your opinions, and there’s no such thing as reading too much.” “That was a very long fifth sentence,” she said, one side of her mouth curling up in a smile. It made her face look all the more crooked, and rather impish. “I had a great deal of information to relay. And you didn’t let me get to my question.” “What was your question?” He paused. There was one logical solution to Lady Eddie’s problem. It was also a rather selfish suggestion on his part, as he would doubtless get more out

of the arrangement than she. “You can marry me.” She stared at him. “That’s not a question,” she said at last. “I suppose the question should be ‘Will you marry me?’ or ‘What would you think of marrying me?’” he acknowledged. “Why would I marry you?” “Because you need to be married,” he said. “And I am available, and object to none of your faults.” Because I want you to. Because I’m infatuated with you. Because after three conversations, I am certain I want to have a thousand more. He cleared his throat. “With my uncle’s decision to remain unmarried, I

am his heir. I will inherit the title and a great deal of money. You would be comfortable. You could read as much as you like. And dance as little as you like.” “A very reasonable arrangement,” she acknowledged. “And you would be willing to do this for me?” He couldn’t tell her the truth of his feelings. It would only make things awkward. “I will enjoy your companionship. And you are the least objectionable wife I could conceive of.” “Well, when you put it that way, how could I refuse?” She was being sarcastic. He was not terribly skilled at recognizing sarcasm,

but even he could hear it in this instance. “I apologize. I’m doing this all wrong,” he said. “I know I am hardly the ideal husband. But if you require a swift marriage, I should be happy to fill the role. I should be very pleased to be married to a friend. I should be very pleased to be married to you.” “Oh.” She bit her lip. “Very well, then.” His heart leapt. He had always disliked that phrase, but now it did seem as if the organ made a physical lurch in his chest. “Yes?” “Yes,” she said. “I’ll marry you.”

Chapter Eight Eddie walked back toward the town house with a frown tugging at her lips. It was possible, she reflected, for a proposal to be less romantic, but it would have to take a great deal of effort to make it so. It should not bother her. And yet it did. Because the truth was, she completely adored Ezekiel Blackwood. And she rather wished he completely adored her. She was not a foolish romantic. She did not believe that two people so

briefly acquainted could be said to love one another. What she had instead was the deep certainty that she would love him. Not now, not yet. But with time, she would love him. Perhaps he did not share any such certainty. Perhaps his mind was too methodical for love. She had reached the town house and scaled the steps, wincing a little at the sight of her stained slippers. They were meant for a day around the house, not for tramping through an abandoned lot, but there was nothing to be done for them now. As soon as the door shut behind her, her mother appeared from the drawing

room. “Where have you been?” she demanded. “I have been simply beside myself with worry.” Eddie sighed. “I was out getting engaged,” she said. For once, she had rendered her mother speechless. Lady Copeland gaped at her, jaw falling more widely open millimeter by millimeter as her eyes rounded in horror. Then her jaw snapped shut. Her eyes narrowed. And she strode across the foyer to seize Eddie by the arm. “Ouch! Mother, you’re hurting me,” Eddie protested as her mother hauled her up the stairs.

“Not one word from you, Mildred Philomena Weller. Not one word.” She marched down the hall, dragging Eddie behind her, her skirts flapping out with each angry step. She yanked Eddie into her father’s study and stood, chest heaving with exertion, inside the doorway. Lord Copeland was in his favorite armchair, a book open before him. He slowly set the book down in his lap and regarded them with a blank expression. “And for what purpose have you interrupted me?” he asked. Lord Copeland was a thin man, an oddly monochromatic man. His hair was the same very light brown as his skin,

which had not yet sluiced off the color the Indian sun had introduced. Rather than making him look more hale, it made him looking oddly washed-out from head to toe. He projected an air of utilitarianism, as if every extraneous detail had been left out of his design. Emotion was apparently on the list of unnecessary flourishes. Eddie had never known her father to raise his voice, or to laugh. “Your daughter claims to be engaged,” Lady Copeland said. “It’s true,” Eddie said, shaking herself free of Lady Copeland’s grasp at last. “A man asked me to marry him, and

I agreed. That does constitute an engagement, does it not?” “And what man is this?” Lord Copeland asked. “Not Lord Averdale,” Lady Copeland said. “I assumed so, judging by your shrieking,” Lord Copeland said with a disdainful look toward his wife. “I did not ask who he was not. I asked who he was.” Eddie stuck out her chin defiantly. “Mr. Blackwood.” “Mr. Blackwood?” her mother nearshrieked. Eddie winced. “Mother . . .”

“This is highly irregular. And utterly unsuitable,” Lady Copeland continued. “And we won’t stand for it. Will we, Lord Copeland?” “Of course not.” Lord Copeland lifted his book and returned to reading. Eddie stepped forward. “He’s Lord Averdale’s heir,” she said, trying not to sound as if she were begging. She hated to beg, and it never helped. “He’ll be an earl.” “This is dreadful,” Lady Copeland moaned. Lord Copeland sighed and lowered his book again. “Do try to contain your dramatics, Lady Copeland. Tell me, girl. Does anyone else know about this?”

“No,” Eddie said. “Not yet. We’ve only just agreed.” “Then there is no reason to be so upset. We will simply pretend it never happened.” Eddie balled her hands into fists, her jaw tightening. “But it did happen,” she said. “And I am going to marry him.” Lord Copeland raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me that you’re in love with the boy.” Eddie paused. “Well, no,” she said. “Not precisely.” She did not know how to describe that joyous certainty, that steady sense as sure as her own heartbeat. Surer, as her heart was now galloping at an alarming rate.

“Put him out of your mind, then. No harm done,” Lord Copeland said. “I wasn’t in love with Lord Averdale, either, and you didn’t object to that,” Eddie said. “Lord Averdale was suitable. Mr. Blackwood isn’t. He lacks even a modicum of social graces; he would be an embarrassment to our family. And whatever Lord Averdale’s current opinions, he may have decades left in which to reverse them and sire an heir. With Mr. Blackwood as the alternative, it seems inevitable, in fact.” “But—” “You are still too young to marry without my consent, and you don’t have

it. There will be no further discussion.” He lifted his book one last time. Eddie spun and dashed for the hallway. Her mother caught her and wrenched her around, eyes cold and bright. “No, you don’t,” she said with a hint of a hiss. “You aren’t running off again. You are going to stay in your room until the ball in three days, and you are going to do as you are told. And you are going to marry Lord Averdale.” She propelled Eddie down the hall in front of her, back to the bedrooms, and shoved Eddie inside. She stumbled, whirled—and was greeted by the door slamming shut. She scrabbled for the

knob, but the key was already in the lock. “You can’t do this!” Eddie cried. “Of course I can. I’m your mother,” Lady Copeland said, and then her footsteps marched away. Eddie fell back from the door, collapsing onto the bed. Idiot. Of course things couldn’t be so simple, so easily solved. There was a knock on the door. She stared at it. Her mother, back to berate her? Certainly not her father, whom she had never managed to interest for more than a few minutes at a stretch. “Eddie?” John called softly. She rose and moved to the door, resting her brow against it.

“Can you let me out?” she asked. “I don’t have the key. And Mother would murder me,” John said. “Are you all right? I heard some of that.” “No, I’m not all right. I’m locked in my room, and Mother’s going to use me in some utterly ridiculous and immoral plot to disgrace Lord Averdale.” “I think disgracing him is a side effect, not the main point,” John said, laughing. “It’s not funny.” “It’s a little bit funny,” John said. She glared at the door separating them. Sometimes John was her only ally. Sometimes he was a complete beast. “You have to help me,” she said.

“What can I do? Once Mother sets her mind to something, you know she’ll get her way.” Eddie sagged. If he wouldn’t help her, she was trapped. Unless . . . “Wait,” she said. “Can you at least get a letter to someone for me?” “As long as it isn’t your ‘fiancé,’” John said with a chuckle. She couldn’t believe he was finding this amusing. “Just wait there a minute,” she said crossly, and went to her little writing desk. She snatched up the book she had been reading the night before—Flora and Fauna of the British Isles—and thumbed through it quickly. When she’d found what she needed, she dashed off a

quick note, addressed it to Sophie, and returned to the door, sliding it underneath. “Take this to Miss Sophie Osborn,” she said. “Gladly.” She rolled her eyes. It must be nice to be so pretty. It must also get rather tiresome. “Just hurry,” she said. “I shall be swift as Hermes himself,” John pledged. Then he was gone, and Eddie was alone again. She could only hope that her message was received—and understood. ***

The message was troubling. Ezekiel had read it thrice over as he stood by the library window, Sophie’s eyes on him the entire time. “It’s obviously for you,” Sophie said. “It was addressed to you.” “And I have no idea what it means.” Ezekiel frowned and read it again. Dearest Miss Osborn, Regarding the subject of your proposed study: I fear I will be unable to join you in your investigation. However, you may be interested in an examination of a local specimen of Hedera

helix and the effects of elevation and auditory stimulus on said specimen. Preferably, look for such a specimen amid Atropa belladonna. To achieve your goal, we will first need to gather a sample of Primula scotica, as the present garden environment is hostile to the growth of the intended hybrid. In fact, my own gardener is far more interested in grafting Athyrium filix-femina and Euphorbia helioscopia, through inventive (though, in my opinion, ill-advised) methods. He intends to seed the hybrid

amid a patch of Arum maculatum next week. I hope that this has been useful. I am glad to offer my meager expertise to your cause. It was signed by Lady Eddie, and had been delivered by her brother, but he could not understand the purpose of it. “This makes no sense,” he said. “An examination of the effect of elevation and auditory stimulus on ivy? And what does that have to do with Atropa belladonna? And you would never make a hybrid of Athyrium filix-femina and Euhorbia helioscopia; it makes absolutely no sense.”

“It’s obviously a code of some sort,” Sophie said. “I expect she thought someone might read it. Which her brother most certainly did, judging by the crude job he did of folding it back up.” He looked again. A code. But what sort of a code? It had to be the plants. Hedera helix was ivy. “Sound and elevation,” Sophie said. “The first part’s easy. She wants you to come to her window. Or stand under it, anyway. To talk.” He looked between his cousin and the page. “Are you certain?” “No, but it makes sense. If someone is trying to keep her from speaking to

you, she’d try to arrange a way to do it without anyone noticing.” She sat on the bench by the window and tugged him down next to her so she could see the letter. “This is all so romantic. Who knew you had it in you?” “It’s confusing, not romantic,” Ezekiel grumbled. “If we do accept your hypothesis, and I am not convinced of it, what does she mean by ‘Atropa belladonna’?” “Belladonna. That’s poisonous.” “‘Deadly nightshade’ leaves little to the imagination,” Ezekiel said. “Nightshade! That’s it. That’s the common name, correct? And she said—”

“‘Amid Atropa belladonna,’” Ezekiel quoted. “Amid deadly nightshade.” He frowned. “Amid nightshade, amid night. Midnight?” “Awkward, but clever,” Sophie said. “What’s the common name for this one?” She pointed. “Primula scotica. The Scottish primrose. Endemic to the region.” “She says you’ll need to gather it. So that means going to Scotland. Why?” Ezekiel’s frown deepened. “Because of this. The gardener is interested in grafting sun spurge and lady fern.” “You lost me,” Sophie said. “I suspect she was in a hurry. Sun spurge is known very colloquially as

Irby-dale grass, which I assume is Lord Averdale,” Ezekiel said. “Lady fern would be, presumably, Lady Eddie herself.” “And the gardener is Lady Copeland? Lovely,” Sophie said. “And what’s this scheme, then? A patch of—” “The common name is ‘lords and ladies,’” Ezekiel said. “A ball,” Sophie replied definitively. “Whatever Lady Copeland intends to do to secure the match will be at a ball. And next week. Oh dear. The only ball Lord Averdale will be attending next week is in only three days.” Her eyes widened. “Scotland? She wants you to go to Scotland? Why does Lady Mildred

Weller think that the two of you should elope, dearest cousin?” “Because I asked her to marry me,” Ezekiel said, his voice brittle. He had meant to solve Lady Eddie’s problems, not spawn a whole host of new ones. “Well,” Sophie said slowly. “You certainly work quickly.” “It was the logical way to address her predicament,” Ezekiel said. He rose. It had been only one hour and twentyseven minutes since he had left Lady Eddie’s company. In that time, her fortunes had dramatically worsened. The question remained whether further exposure to his influence would resolve the issue at hand or merely exacerbate it.

“Logical. Of course,” Sophie said. “Your own feelings would have nothing to do with this decision?” “My feelings are immaterial.” “But you do have feelings for her,” Sophie prodded. “Yes. Their exact nature is . . . not easy to define,” he said, avoiding her probing gaze. He did not enjoy discussing feelings. They were such imprecise, squashy things. Difficult to categorize. There was no scientific taxonomy of emotion. There was not even an agreed-upon set of emotions across cultures. The Portuguese concept of saudade, for example—

“You’re drifting,” Sophie told him. “Don’t define them, then. Describe them.” “I want to be around her. My mood is considerably better when I am around her, and I have rapidly developed a tendency to be in a poor mood when I am not around her. This does not make any sense, as I have spent less than a combined four hours in her presence.” “Four hours is hardly enough to know if you wish to marry someone,” Sophie said. “Correct,” Ezekiel said. He started to pace. “However, given the choice between risking an ill-advised marriage and risking the removal of Lady Eddie

as a potential spouse due to her marriage to another man, the first risk is preferable.” “There is another option. You wait. You get to know each other. When she’s of age, it won’t matter if her parents approve or not.” “We can’t wait that long,” Ezekiel said. “Why not? Assuming we manage to save her from whatever scheme her mother’s invented—” “She is miserable,” Ezekiel said. It was a misery he understood. But he had the influence of his uncle and cousin to counter that of his stepfather. And he had his peculiar mind, which so thoroughly

rebelled against his father’s ways that it had been clear to him from the time that he was a child that it was impossible to be what his father wanted. As a result, he had never tried to contort himself to those expectations. He had known who he was, because every moment of every day showed him a thousand instances of what he wasn’t. Lady Eddie was not as peculiar as he was. She still thought that what her mother wanted was possible. His father was asking a crawling vine to grow into an oak tree; Lady Copeland was merely demanding that a tulip change its color, and Lady Eddie still believed she could.

“She is always alone,” he said. “At every dance. When she does speak to anyone, she looks immediately for her mother. Only if she does not see her does she dare continue the conversation. She calls herself ugly and clumsy and worse with the confidence of one who has been informed of such attributes on a regular basis. She cannot stay in that household.” “She’s survived this long.” “Lord and Lady Copeland resided in India from the time Lady Eddie was ten years old until two years ago. She has been spared their attention for much of her life.” She had told him some; the rest had not been difficult to infer. He was no

student of humanity, but he found himself an avid pupil when it came to the subject of Lady Eddie herself. He was confident in his suppositions. And frightened of what might happen if he were right, and did nothing. *** Eighteen minutes before midnight, Eddie stole to the window and opened it a few inches. Any farther and it would creak. She had contemplated leaping to the street below to effect her escape, but she was on the third floor; the drop would surely break a leg, if not kill her outright.

And so for eighteen heart-pounding minutes, she waited. She ought to have known he would arrive precisely at the stroke of midnight, rounding the corner with a furtive gait that suggested a wading bird attempting a canter. “Lady Eddie,” he called up at precisely the right volume to be heard without drawing attention. “I received your message.” “I was worried you wouldn’t understand it,” she confessed. “I didn’t have much time to concoct the code.” “It was unusual,” he said delicately. “But Sophie and I were able to decipher

it, once we realized the basic principles at play. Are you locked in your room?” “Yes. And I’m not to be let out until the ball. I fear I’m a reverse Cinderella,” Eddie said. “And worse, my mother has planned some kind of trap for your uncle at Lady Brent’s ball. I don’t know the details, but we can assume it will turn out poorly for all who are involved.” “And you think that we should elope?” “Don’t you?” She peered down at him anxiously. Had he changed his mind so quickly? “It’s the only way we can be married, it seems. As that is our agreed-upon

goal, your strategy is sensible. The difficulty will be in liberating you from your room so that we can achieve an elopement.” He frowned, deep in thought. “Is there any way that you can climb down?” “The ivy won’t hold me, and my hair’s not long enough,” she said. “What does your hair have to do with anything?” “Rapunzel. Never mind. I suppose I could knot the sheets together . . .” She glanced back at her bed. She thought she could manage to knot them sufficiently to hold her weight, and perhaps if she tied the end around the bed-leg . . .

“Perhaps a different plan of attack is called for,” Mr. Blackwood said. Ezekiel, she told herself. If she was planning to elope with the man, she might as well commit the scandal of referring to him by his first name. “Your mother’s plan necessitates that you and my uncle be alone, correct? And for a period of time sufficient to imply some misdeed has occurred.” “That’s right,” Eddie said. “I expect she’ll arrange for us both to be in some secluded room, then burst in with her most gossipy friends.” She was, in fact, utterly certain that her mother had planned exactly that. She could even predict which ladies she would have

accompanying her. Lady Halbrook for an appropriate level of shrieking, Lady Cassandra Brent to absolutely insist there was no possible way to pretend it never happened, and Lady Marden to spread the rumor like a fever through the city. Lady Copeland would first insist that she was certain nothing untoward had happened. Then she would assure them that surely, surely this could be forgotten, there was no need to inconvenience Lord Averdale and shame her daughter. But the others, so carefully selected, would insist and push and sigh and exclaim, and in the end she would have simply no choice but to insist that

Averdale marry Eddie, as the only possible solution. If she had truly wanted to, Lady Copeland could have cowed her friends into covering up a double murder, never mind a simple moment of scandal. But of course she would go to no such effort. It was a pity that women were not allowed in the armed forces; Lady Copeland’s skill set would have been far more useful on a battlefield, and at least then she would have been serving interests other than her own. “I shall warn my uncle,” Ezekiel said. “But insist that he attend the ball. Your mother will be forced to let you out of her sight if she has any hope of

success. Then . . . then I could replace him. It would be the two of us caught in the scandal.” “It wouldn’t work,” Eddie said with a sigh. “If it was you, she would only cover it up and find some other way.” “Then we elope,” Ezekiel said matter-of-factly. “I will have a carriage waiting. I have visited the Brent home several times. I am familiar with its layout. I shall map the most efficient routes to the exit. By the time your mother returns to complete the tableau, we shall both be gone. We can go to Scotland directly, and be wed before anyone has the chance to stop us.”

Eddie ought to have told him he was mad. Instead she tilted her head, considering. “You’re certain that your uncle will help us? Because we will need his help, if we’re to accomplish it.” “No,” Ezekiel said. “But I will attempt to persuade him.” “If you fail to, make sure that he doesn’t attend. Or go into any rooms alone, at the very least,” Eddie said. Ezekiel paused. “I thought that you wanted to marry him,” he said. “Perhaps it would be better to allow your mother’s plan to reach fruition.” “I wanted to marry someone,” Eddie said. “But not like this. I should hate to

have him angry with me on our wedding day.” “It’s not you he would be angry with,” Ezekiel said. “You would be as much a victim as he.” “Few people would see it that way,” Eddie said. Everyone would say that she had arranged it herself, or at the very least conspired with her mother. She did not have friends to defend her, nor a reputation to offer any protection. “We could stymie the attempt, without eloping,” Ezekiel said. “You needn’t marry at all.” “I told you. I want to marry.” “You needn’t marry me,” Ezekiel said. “I do not wish you to feel that you

are in any way obligated.” “Nor are you,” Eddie said quickly. Of course he was having second thoughts. It had been a foolish proposal to begin with. They’d only known one another for a few days, and he was young. It would be ten years before anyone even began to grumble about him finding himself a wife. “Then do you not want to . . . ?” “If you don’t want . . .” Eddie said, and they paused, staring at each other. “I want to,” she said. “If you do.” “I do,” he said. “Because it’s a logical solution to our problems,” Eddie said, almost a question. She could not bring herself to

ask if it was anything more. She could not bear to hear the answer. Either way, it would make this all far too frightening. “Exactly,” Ezekiel said, and she relaxed. “Very well. I will make all the necessary arrangements. You need only ensure that your mother does not suspect us.” “I think I can manage that,” Eddie said. “Honestly, I think she would be surprised I had such an original thought.” “Your mother doesn’t know you well at all, does she?” Ezekiel said, and she felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the summer heat. She kept his words clasped close long after he’d left, when she lay alone

in bed, waiting for what the morning would bring.

Chapter Nine The door opened only for the necessities: water and a basin with which to bathe each evening; food; the ferrying of chamber pots. The day of the ball arrived to find Eddie pacing her room, near-mad with boredom and nerves. John had managed to sneak her a few books, but she proved too anxious to read them. When a key scraped in the lock, she froze in place. The door opened on a maid, who quickly stepped aside to

allow Lady Copeland to enter, her hands folded imperiously in front of her. She surveyed the room, her gaze seeming to light on Eddie out of chance. Her brows raised slightly. “Well. We certainly have our work cut out for us,” she said. “My room. Now.” Eddie bowed her head meekly. She must go along with her mother’s preparations and show no sign of anything but surrender. It would not be difficult. She had, after all, years of practice. So she followed her mother down the hall with small, shuffling steps, and sat with eyes downcast before the vanity.

Her mother’s maid attacked her hair at once. She had not curled it the night before, and so only her natural curls were on display, which set both older women clucking and sighing to one another. “No matter. As long as you look presentable, the rest won’t matter,” Lady Copeland said, as if to reassure her, and patted her on the shoulder. “You’ll see, my dear. You’ll be ever so happy.” Eddie bit her tongue and said nothing. Her mother hummed as Judith worked, perusing her own wardrobe. As the minutes dragged on, and Eddie focused on not wincing every time there was a sharp tug at her scalp, Lady

Copeland grew listless. She rummaged in the back of her wardrobe and took out the lockbox, as she often did when she was bored, and set it on her writing desk. Eddie looked away before she opened it. She didn’t need to see her mother fawning over the jewels. Those damned things received more attention than Eddie ever had. The constant sketches, one setting after another, all to find the perfect way to display them. It was far more care and effort than Lady Copeland ever put toward finding the right setting for Eddie. She was determined to force her into whatever situation presented itself first.

“That is the best I can do,” Judith said with an air of defeat, and waved her hand vaguely in the direction of Eddie’s head. Her hair was braided and knotted in a bun at the top of her head, held in place with a bevy of pins and a circlet of five-petaled flowers. Loose curls hung at the sides of her face in waves, softening her features. She looked, she thought, very nearly lovely. “A pity,” her mother said with a sigh. “Ah, well. If it’s all that can be done, we simply have to accept it.” She glanced at the lockbox, and sighed again. “A shame we cannot use the jewels to distract. The new setting isn’t ready yet. But I’ve ordered you a new gown.”

“Yellow again?” Eddie asked, unable to restrain herself. “Marigold,” her mother corrected. “And no. I’ve decided that marigold is not your color. This dress is crimson and silver.” “In what proportions?” Eddie asked, slightly alarmed, and then reminded herself forcefully that it did not matter. She would very soon be beyond the reach of her mother’s sartorial tortures. At least the marigold dress had been beautiful; it was simply not beautiful on her. This latest had the whiff of catastrophe about it. “You’ll see. Judith, if you might assist.” Lady Copeland swept out of the

room, shutting the lockbox as she moved past it. The maid followed. The door shut; Eddie listened for the click of the lock, and, sure enough, it came. She rose and tried the knob anyway. Not that she’d get far, even assuming she got out of the room. No, she had to be patient and trust that Ezekiel had arranged things as he had promised. She found herself staring at the lockbox. Her mother had not locked it again, had she? She tried the lid. It opened easily. The three diamonds winked at her from their tray, each nestled individually on small satin pillows. She bit her lip. Her mother would be angry when she ran

away, but all her devastation would be centered on the scandal. She would not care if Eddie was happy; she would not miss her in any way but the most selfish. But the diamonds . . . The diamonds, her mother would miss. And what had she done to deserve them? Bought the right mine. Or rather, married the man who had bought the right mine. And it hadn’t even been his to begin with; he’d cheated a business partner out of it under truly sordid circumstances Eddie was not supposed to know anything about—but which she knew were why Phoebe Spenser had stopped speaking to her, and several familiar faces had not returned to the

reestablished annual Copeland ball. They were, in sum, the compressed, cut, polished, and perfected symbols of everything Eddie hated about her family. Before she could think better of the notion, she snatched them from the lockbox and closed the lid. Together, they fit awkwardly in her hand. She needed somewhere to hide them, but where? She looked at herself in the mirror, and smiled. Her mother did say that her bosom was her most valuable asset. By the time the lock turned on the door, the diamonds were out of view, safely tucked under her shift and corset.

Her mother’s maid was carrying the dress, and held it up for inspection. “Oh,” Eddie said, fluttering her lashes becomingly. “It’s perfect.” Her mother nodded in satisfaction and, as if as an afterthought, locked the box that no longer contained three of the most valuable stones in London. *** “Do try to remember to breathe,” Lord Averdale implored his nephew. It was excellent advice. Unfortunately, Ezekiel had just spotted Lady Eddie entering the ballroom. She was, as ever, arresting.

“My God,” Sophie murmured from Ezekiel’s other side. “That’s . . . eyecatching.” It certainly was. Thick vertical stripes of silver and crimson adorned the dress, which by themselves would have commanded the gaze with great authority. It was the flowers that truly made people stare, though. There were dozens of them, the size of a child’s palm, sewn to the hem, climbing up one shoulder, and accenting the waist. At least the flowers at the arm of her gloves at the base of her sleeves were lace, rather than fresh; it almost approached restraint, compared to the rest. Ezekiel

knew nothing of fashion, but even he could tell it was an exercise in excess. But then she saw him, and grinned, and it didn’t matter what she was wearing. She was the most beautiful thing in the room. “Don’t stare too much. You’ll give us away,” Sophie warned him. “I hope we don’t have to wait too long. I do have an agenda of my own, you know.” She was looking not at Eddie, but across the room, at a young man with very wellarranged features and a look of studied boredom on his face. “Probably best if I’m on my own for the start of this,” Lord Averdale said. He nodded to them both. “Remind me that

next time you two ask for a favor, I’m to ask its nature before I agree. And Sophie, dear, do be gentle with the poor young lords, and remember that scandals are not a competition.” “Dear Uncle, you should know by now that it’s never a scandal when I do it,” Sophie said, and flashed a grin before wafting her way across the floor to hook her latest catch. Which left Ezekiel alone, fidgeting nervously and trying not to stare at Lady Eddie. It was difficult. She seemed to be at the periphery of his vision no matter how he positioned himself, a crimson-and-silver apparition. Even if he turned his back entirely, he could hear her occasionally

make a comment or laugh at something her brother said. And turning his back left him staring at a wall with no good reason, attracting several stares of his own. He turned back around in time to see a servant bend to whisper in Lord Averdale’s ear. Averdale nodded sagely and then scratched the side of his face with two fingers, the agreed-upon signal. Lady Copeland was not risking losing him to an early exit, then. Ezekiel’s hands felt clammy, and his heart suddenly began to beat much faster than its customary rhythm. He watched his uncle depart the room, and then watched Lady Copeland

prod her daughter forward. Eddie looked at him once, for half a second, before setting her shoulders and following Lord Averdale out of the ballroom. Ezekiel moved swiftly after them, keeping the mass of people between himself and Lady Copeland. He exited in time to spot Eddie rounding a corner and hurried after her. Judging by her trajectory, they would be meeting in the Yellow Room. Good. It was very quick indeed to traverse the hallways between the Yellow Room and the back entrance at which their carriage was waiting. When he caught up with Eddie, she was already in the doorway. Lord

Averdale stood inside the room, hands folded behind him. “Lovely to see you, Lady Mildred,” he greeted Eddie, and bowed, indicating the door at the opposite end of the room. “Have a pleasant journey. My servants will be expecting you.” She flashed him that marvelous smile and grabbed Ezekiel’s hand. They fled out the back, Ezekiel’s nerves on such an edge he felt as if he might snap in half. Once they were out the door he took the lead, bringing her down the hall and toward the back exit. “Quickly!” she urged him. “She only gave me three minutes.”

“We’re here,” he said, and reached for the doorknob. It was locked. He frowned at it. It was locked, and there was no internal mechanism to unlock it without a key. “Well. Damn,” Eddie said. Behind them, voices rose in appalled shock—and then abruptly cut off. “Oh dear,” Eddie said. “I’m afraid my mother has discovered my escape. Please tell me there’s another way out of here.” Ezekiel closed his eyes, mapping the house in his mind. Which exits wouldn’t be observed? “Upstairs,” he said. “Third room on the left. There’s a window with a trellis.”

“Well, I’ll be excellently camouflaged, at least,” Eddie said with a nervous giggle. “How do you know the orientation of the rooms upstairs?” “I am very good at escaping balls,” Ezekiel confessed, and tugged her down the hallway. They half ran, moving as quickly and quietly as they could to a servants’ staircase and up to the second floor. The bedroom door was unlocked, thank goodness, and the room unoccupied. Ezekiel crossed to the window and threw it open. “Will you be all right to—” he started, but Eddie had already squeezed past him and thrown a leg over the sill.

“See you at the bottom,” she said, and began to clamber down. The door opened. Ezekiel froze. Eddie’s head was still sticking up above the sill, and she swore even more dramatically than before. “I didn’t know you knew that word,” Eddie’s brother said, and sighed. “I thought I heard someone coming this way. Scotland?” “That’s the plan,” Eddie confirmed. “Well. I suppose I should stop you,” he said. “But you won’t,” Eddie said. Ezekiel hoped fervently that she was right. Lord Welford did not look decided at all.

“What am I supposed to tell Mother?” he said. “That you have no idea where we’ve gone,” Eddie said firmly. “Or you could tell her that I hit you,” Ezekiel suggested. “You valiantly attempted to stop us, but were unable to overpower me.” “Like anyone would believe that.” “I’ve had boxing lessons,” Ezekiel said. In fact, he thought that after that torturous hour, he might actually be able to land a punch. What was meant to happen after that, he was not so certain. “Right. Didn’t see you,” Lord Welford said, and shut the door.

“Do you think he’ll tell her?” Ezekiel asked. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll be gone,” Eddie said. “Now hurry up.” She scrambled down the trellis, and Ezekiel followed after, somewhat more cautiously. It would do them no good to get to the ground swiftly if it meant a broken limb. Once his feet had touched the ground, he knocked stray bits of plant matter from his hands and looked around. They had come down on the wrong side of the building. “The carriage is this way,” he said, and pointed, just as a flock of welldressed partygoers passed by in that direction. He waited, hoping they would

move on, but they lingered at the rear of the building, their laughter floating to where Ezekiel and Eddie waited. “We’re sure to be spotted,” Eddie said. Inside, Lady Copeland’s voice rose in hysterical anguish. Ezekiel didn’t need to make out the words to guess the content of her complaint. “We’ll have to run,” he said. They did, away from the house—and away from the carriage. Neither one of them being accustomed to physical labor, they did not get far before they were panting and out of breath. At least they were out of view of the house.

It was then that it began to rain. Ezekiel immediately removed his jacket and put it over Eddie’s shoulders. She hunched against the onslaught of water. At least it was warm, still. “Where to?” Eddie asked, raising her voice over the drumming of water. “I suppose we shall have to hail a hack,” Ezekiel said, looking about. “Do you have any money?” Eddie asked. “Er. No,” he admitted. She sighed. “Nor do I.” “We could return to my uncle’s town house,” Ezekiel suggested. “And acquire funds there.”

“That will be the very first place my mother looks for us,” Eddie said. “And we can’t go to my home, either. Look. I have a way to get some money, but we’ll need to find a bad part of town, and absolutely swear one another to silence for our entire lives.” He gaped at her. “You don’t mean that you intend to—” “I have something to sell, you idiot,” Eddie said, but she was giggling. “I’m not about to become a lady of the night after fifteen minutes of hardship. Just a little bit of a thief.” She dipped her hand into her cleavage—he looked swiftly away—and then held out her hand. Three

diamonds winked in her palm. He stared. “Those are your mother’s diamonds,” he observed. “Indeed they are,” she said. “And I’m going to sell them to finance our escape.” “You can’t,” Ezekiel said. He knew enough of Lady Copeland to understand that she would not let such an offense go unpunished. “She won’t know,” Eddie assured him. “She would never suspect me of being capable of such a thing.” “She’ll know that you are capable of stealing yourself. Diamonds may not be such a stretch,” Ezekiel countered.

“Oh, she’ll blame you for stealing me,” Eddie said dismissively. “And it’s not like she can actually do anything to you. Not once we’re married.” The rain had turned her hair into a dark, bedraggled cap and ran down her face, but she was still smiling. He had never seen her so happy. “I don’t know how to sell stolen goods,” Ezekiel said. “Do you?” “I imagine one starts by finding a seedy-looking public house,” Eddie said. “For seedy, we shall have to walk at least five streets over,” Ezekiel said. “Then we had best get walking. My footwear is most unsuited to this rain,

and I should very much like to be on our way as soon as possible.” “Well, then.” He bent his elbow so that she could take it. She pressed against him as they walked. It was the rain, he told himself, that spurred her to do so. But when she leaned her head on his shoulder, he had no explanation at all.

Chapter Ten Though the night was warm, the rain was not, and before they had gone three streets over Eddie was shivering. It was also getting difficult to hold on to the slick diamonds with her waterlogged gloves, so she slipped them into a pocket of her borrowed jacket as they walked. Reality was beginning to catch up with her. She had no real idea how to go about selling stolen gems. Even if she knew where to find a criminal who might purchase stolen objects, they were

unlikely to have anything on hand approaching the right amount. Perhaps she could sell only one of them, for however much their chosen man had on hand. Perhaps it would be enough to take them to Scotland. Or at least buy them a few nights at an inn, so that they could hide until it was safe to send for funds from Lord Averdale. A door opened up ahead, spilling light and two listing forms into the night. Eddie stiffened against Ezekiel as the men staggered toward them. One was huge, broad in the shoulders with arms just about as thick around as Ezekiel’s whole body. The other was whip-thin,

but something in his face made Eddie deeply uneasy. The pair walked straight toward Eddie and Ezekiel. Eddie fetched up short, certain they would crash straight into each other, but at the last moment the men parted. The thin one brushed past her, jostling her against Ezekiel, and then moved on. She let out a relieved breath. “Are you all right?” Ezekiel asked. “Quite,” she said. She dipped her hand into her pocket unthinkingly—and froze. They were gone. The diamonds were gone. “He took them,” she hissed. Ezekiel’s head whipped around. “Hey!” he shouted. The men kept moving. “You! You can’t—you—stop!”

He was moving toward them at a jerky if determined gait. Eddie hesitated only a moment before flitting after. Those diamonds were all they had. The men kept their ambling pace, as if they had no notion what could have caused Ezekiel’s upset. He reached them with a final burst of speed and seized the slender man’s arm. The man whirled on him. The big one came around more slowly, gradually. Eddie fetched up a few steps short of them. The man was massive. He had arms too thick to wrap her hands around and a neck to match. His hands rolled up into fists like clubs. “Problem?” the skinny man asked. He had a reedy voice and a twitchy face.

“You took something from my friend,” Ezekiel said. “I’d like you to give it back.” “We didn’t take anything. Did we, Moses?” the man said, casually. The big man shook his head. “Best you move on, boy.” “I will not,” Ezekiel said. He glanced back at her, and there was something in his eyes she didn’t like. A fierce determination. His plan had fallen apart, and he was going to do something stupid to salvage it. Oh, Ezekiel. She’d thought he was immune to that kind of foolishness. “Ezekiel, let’s go,” she said. The rain drummed down over all of them. She

wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. “Ezekiel.” “‘Ezekiel, let’s go,’” the thin man mimicked. He made a face. “Better listen to your little lady-bird.” Eddie blinked. She had absolutely no idea what that word meant, but the snarl in the man’s voice said it was a most vicious insult. So did the sudden flush of color in Ezekiel’s cheeks. And the tightening of his fingers into a fist. And the sudden explosion of movement from his whole body. His fist struck the man in the jaw with cracking force. The man went down, folding like a fan. He struck the ground straight as a plank, and there was

a further crack where his head hit the pavement. For a long second, the three of them still standing stared at one another. Fear leapt into Eddie’s throat. Had Ezekiel killed the man? But he was swearing, slurring, lurching upright. “You skinny little piece of—” he said, and swung. Ezekiel might have managed a truly spectacular punch, but apparently his boxing lessons had not reached the topic of dodging. The strike caught him in the ear, and he lurched sideways, falling to his knees. Eddie lunged forward, shoving herself between them before the man could land another blow.

Ladies didn’t learn to punch. But it was instinctual enough to rake her nails down the man’s face, digging hard against his already-bruising flesh. Her nails drew blood. The man yelled in pain. And then she saw the knife. She froze in shock as the blade appeared in his hand. She met his eyes. There was no pity or hesitation there. Huge hands closed around the thin man’s arms. The giant lifted his companion a full two inches from the ground, turned, and deposited him on the giant’s opposite side. The big man looked over his shoulder. “Better go,” he said. “He really will stab you.”

Eddie’s mind took another half heartbeat to catch up with this information, but by then her body had taken matters into its own hands. She dashed to Ezekiel’s side and hauled him upright. His spectacles were askew, and his eyes were a touch unfocused, but he got to his feet readily enough. “Let’s go,” Eddie said firmly, and dragged him away. “But—” he said. “No,” Eddie said. He didn’t protest again. With the rain soaking through every layer of clothing and hot tears on her cheeks, she hauled him down the street and around the first corner she came to. They fetched up in an alleyway

strung with clotheslines, from which hung the now-sodden forms of handkerchiefs. Stolen handkerchiefs, no doubt. She felt much like they looked at the moment. She set Ezekiel against the wall, and he sagged to the ground. She lowered herself beside him. Her clothing could hardly get more ruined, could it? “You shouldn’t have done that,” Eddie said. “He stole the diamonds,” Ezekiel said dully. “Don’t say that so loudly,” Eddie chided. “It’s all right. Maybe we’ll get them back. We could tell a constable . . .” She trailed off. Only the

bravest Bow Street Runners would dare come into this neighborhood, she suspected. And what exactly was she supposed to say if one agreed to? A thief stole the diamonds I stole. Oh, that would go over well. “This is all my fault,” Ezekiel said. He held his head in both hands, fingers digging into his hair. “I’ve ruined everything for you, Lady Eddie. I am simply not suited for the act of courtship or adventure, I see that now. I had thought that with the proper application of my uncle’s assistance and what I have gleaned from my admittedly limited experience of fiction—”

Eddie laughed. The sound surprised both of them. She slipped her arm into his and nestled close. Truth be told, she needed the warmth. “If everything went according to plan, it would not be much of an adventure,” she pointed out. “I’m still glad you came for me.” “I wanted this to work out,” Ezekiel said. “I know that it is not what you deserve. You deserve to marry a man you are in love with. But I can at the very least supply you with a husband who finds you unobjectionable.” “How romantic,” Eddie said. “Entirely unobjectionable,” Ezekiel stressed.

“It still doesn’t sound very good,” Eddie told him. “What you have been told are your faults make you entirely intriguing and delightful to me,” Ezekiel tried. “I think you are clever and lovely, and . . . and you listen to me, and when you tease me I am not concerned that it is because you dislike me.” He seemed to be drawing each word toward him from a great distance. “However, these separate factors, when combined, do not serve to adequately explain the regard that I have for you. They are insufficient.” “I know exactly what you mean,” she said. “You do?”

“I think you are brilliant, and nice to look at, and kind, and entertaining. But none of that adequately explains the regard I have for you,” Eddie said. Ezekiel looked at her. A drop of rain hung at the very tip of his nose. More dripped down from his hair into his eyes, but they were both too wet to care. “But you are terribly wrong about one thing, Ezekiel.” “What is that?” he asked. “You are exactly what I deserve. Because I am in love with you,” she said. He stared at her. His lips moved as if silently repeating the words. “Since when?” he said.

“Just now,” she said. “It isn’t because I punched that man, is it?” Ezekiel asked. “Because I do not believe I shall attempt to replicate the experience.” She shook her head. “Definitely not. I would much prefer that you never punch anyone ever again. Though it was very brave.” “And stupid.” “Very stupid,” she agreed. “It’s interesting,” he said. “That punching someone is a stupid idea?” “No. That a few hours ago I was not in love with you. But now I have been in love with you since I saw you eat a

strawberry,” he said. His brow creased. “The two cannot simultaneously be correct.” “A scientific mystery you shall have to solve someday,” Eddie said. Her cheeks were flushed. She could not keep a smile from her face. He smiled, too, tentatively. “Well,” she said. “Well?” “We’re in love.” “So we have declared.” “Shouldn’t we kiss, then?” He blinked. “Oh. Yes. That is the correct procedure, isn’t—” She grabbed him by the jacket and pulled him to her.

She had been wrong. Perhaps she had startled him out of the scientific approach; he did not kiss her as if she were a puzzle to be solved. It appeared that she had discovered a new field in which Ezekiel possessed great natural talent. He kissed her as if she existed to be kissed by him. As if all that she was and all that he was centered on this moment, this touch. His lips against hers, his hands in her hair, the taste of rain on their tongues. She broke away from him, gasping a little, and he gave her a sheepish smile. “That was rather nice,” he said.

“Let’s do it again,” she said breathlessly. “Now?” She nodded. They resumed. It proved a most pleasant way of staving off the cold for the next several minutes. Eddie might have been content to continue the activity all night, if it were not for the sound of hoofbeats and carriage wheels on the street outside. She pulled away from Ezekiel again and looked over her shoulder. A large carriage had halted at the end of the alley. The door opened and a man stepped out, holding a lantern high. She squinted through the light.

“Well,” Lord Averdale said. “I see you’ve sorted that out, at least. Do you still need a ride? I can come back later.” Eddie rose, holding Ezekiel’s hand. “We should very much appreciate your assistance,” she said with every ounce of dignity that she could muster. Lord Averdale laughed. “Get in the carriage. You look like a couple of drowned terriers.” He ushered them inside, and they huddled, dripping, on the bench, while he continued to laugh. ***

To Eddie’s great relief, Lord Averdale had thought to bring them each a change of clothing. Eddie managed to change huddled beneath a blanket while the men turned their backs, and soon she was encased in one of Sophie’s dresses, which was considerably too small in certain areas but entirely preferable to her utterly ruined gown. “You should know that a few things have occurred,” Lord Averdale said when they were all able to face one another again. “First of all, you’ve been found out. It is now common knowledge that the two of you have absconded to Scotland together. Second of all, your

parents have spent the last hour shouting at one another.” “Oh dear,” Eddie murmured. She looked down at her hands. She could imagine the contents of that argument. No doubt their characters had been savagely torn apart by one another’s families. And their own. “Third of all, after all that shouting, they all seem to have realized that this solves a great number of their problems,” Lord Averdale said. “Ezekiel, your father suddenly began speaking about how you had finally shown some spine and proven yourself a man. Taking what you want, and all of that. He seems proud.”

Ezekiel looked startled. “He what?” “And Lady Mildred, your mother was much mollified when I reiterated to her my disinclination to produce an heir. She appears to have finally decided to take me at my word, as it is the only way to wring a personal triumph from the proceedings. She is suddenly thrilled to have landed you a husband; she is taking all of the credit. As for your father—” “I can only imagine,” Eddie said darkly. “Your father seems resigned to the situation,” Lord Averdale said. “More like disinterested.” “They have all agreed that should you be located and returned home, they

will consent to your marriage. A proper marriage. A swift one, mind you, but a wedding in a chapel with your families in attendance.” Ezekiel looked at Eddie, and she met his gaze. For all their talking, at this moment they didn’t need to speak a single word to understand one another. “No,” Eddie said firmly. “We’re going to Scotland. And if my family disinherits me, all the better.” “Ezekiel?” Lord Averdale said. “Under no circumstances is Lady Copeland to be allowed to involve herself in Lady Eddie’s wedding,” Ezekiel said.

Eddie’s eyes widened in horror. She hadn’t even thought of that. Everything would be a cause for dissatisfaction. The flowers, the choice of chapel, the dress, the shoes, the attendants— “Scotland,” Eddie said. “Scotland,” Ezekiel agreed. Lord Averdale chuckled. “Scotland, then. I hope you don’t mind an old man’s company.” “We should be honored,” Eddie said. “And you of course cannot travel alone in the company of two unmarried men,” Lord Averdale said. “Miss Osborn will be meeting us shortly.” Eddie settled back in her seat. She had always expected to be married with

great ceremony and hundreds of guests, primped and polished and posed at her mother’s whim. Instead she was going to her wedding with her hair hanging in damp defeat about her ears, wearing another girl’s ill-fitting dress, with only two witnesses. And it was perfect. Ezekiel’s hand crept to hers. Lord Averdale kindly looked away. They were almost married, after all, Eddie thought. “Lord Averdale,” Eddie said. “Did my mother happen to mention anything about her diamonds?” “Her diamonds? No, not at all,” Lord Averdale said. “Why?”

“No reason,” Eddie replied swiftly. Ezekiel’s fingers tightened convulsively around hers. She looked at him, and bit her lip to hide a smile. “Those men are going to be extremely surprised,” she said. “So is your mother,” Ezekiel said. Eddie began to laugh. With Ezekiel’s hand in hers and the rattle and sway of the carriage around her, she felt as if she could keep on laughing all the way to Scotland.

Kathleen Kimmel is the author of the Birch Hall Romance series, which began with A Lady’s Guide to Ruin. She works in the video game industry, writing for games on such varied topics as Jane Austen, supernatural detectives, romance visual novels, rubber ducks, and true love.

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