“He would have to be taken into Exilium,” Ekstrand muttered, looking at Sam out of the corner of his eye. “This is an appalling breach.”
“If we want that information, and Lavandula agrees to help, we have to bring him in or kill him afterwards.” Max was so matter-of-fact that Sam believed he would kill him then and there if it served their purpose.
“We bring him in,” Petra said, her hand tightening on his arm. “It isn’t his fault he was there. Look at him. He’s harmless.”
Sam tried his best to look as harmless as possible, disturbed by what he’d heard. He hoped their attention would shift and he’d be able to make a run for it.
“He’s clearly an idiot,” Ekstrand said.
“Hey! Stop talking about me like I’m not even here!”
“He knows about computers,” Petra said and Ekstrand narrowed his eyes at him.
“Really?”
“He speaks their language,” Petra added.
“Is this true?”
“Yeah.”
“And he’s protected, as you said,” Petra said. “We can’t kill him.”
“We can if there’s a breach involved, Lord Iron would understand,” Max said.
“Would he?” Petra raised an eyebrow. “Do we want to take the risk?”
“No,” Ekstrand concluded. “I have enough to worry about. Max, go to the Censor first thing in the morning and make it clear to her that if she doesn’t secure help from her patron, we may never find her brother. All of you,” he looked at the students, “need to write up this evening’s investigation and make a list of the questions you may want to ask the subject about life in Mundanus. Dismissed.”
They all bowed and left, once the gargoyle stepped aside.
“And Petra–” Mr Ekstrand stroked his chin, looking at Sam. “Ask Axon to find our subject a secure room for the night.”
“I want to go home,” Sam protested.
“That’s out of the question, I’m afraid,” Ekstrand said. “You’re too valuable to send back into Mundanus. You didn’t have anything important to do tonight, did you?”
Sam was too tired and drunk to think of anything quickly enough. “Not exactly.” At least with Leanne being away for the night she wouldn’t freak out. Then he wondered if that was actually a bad thing. “What’s Mundanus anyway?”
Petra steered him towards the door. “We’ll talk about that another time. You need to sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”
22
Will knocked on the door of his father’s study, not looking forward to the conversation he was about to have. At the call he entered to find his father studying what looked like a property contract. A frown had taken residence and looked like it was settled in for the evening.
“I thought you would have left by now,” he said, setting the paper down, directing the frown at his son instead. “It is the soirée at the Peonias’ tonight, isn’t it?”
“I need to speak to you about something before I go.” Will closed the door behind him. “I’ll pass on your apologies.”
“I’ve already sent a note. Sit down, Will, something is clearly troubling you.”
Will did as he was invited. “Father… I need to borrow your purity opal.”
The frown was swept away by a look of surprise. “How in the worlds did you know about that?”
Will smirked. “A girl in the French Court told me about it. She said all the heads of families have one.”
Father pursed his lips. “You know what my next question is.”
Will nodded. “It is for Catherine Papaver. I’ve heard a rumour and whilst I don’t trust the source, I felt it prudent to have all the facts.”
“A rumour that precipitates such a request is serious indeed, considering the contracts have already been signed.”
“That’s why I want to be thorough, Father.”
“Who’s the source of this rumour?”
“The Gallica-Rosa.”
“Not trustworthy.”
“Even unreliable sources can cause trouble.”
Father nodded and unlocked the top drawer of his desk. “I’m sure I don’t need to emphasise how discreet you must be. Don’t let another soul see you use this.”
Will nodded and took the small velvet pouch. “How do I use it?”
“Press it directly against her skin and hold it there for a few seconds. If it turns black… the rumour is true.”
Will tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Thank you, Father, I assure you I will be careful.”
The Peonias lived in a large house but not in one of the fashionable streets of Aquae Sulis. Nevertheless, their soirée was the place to be that evening; Will and Imogen’s carriage had to wait for a space to clear before they could pull up.
“We wouldn’t have had to wait if you hadn’t taken so long,” she muttered at him.
“But now we can be fashionably late,” he said, and helped her out.
He spotted the Papavers as soon as they entered one of the reception rooms. Thomas and his wife Lucy were chatting with Oliver’s parents whilst Catherine stood near the punch bowl in a world of her own. Will suppressed a surge of irritation. She should have been engaged in the conversation too, but instead she clearly thought herself above it all. When they married – if they married – that would have to change.
She was dressed very conservatively again, the dress far higher in the neckline than everyone else’s. He wondered what her mother was thinking, instructing the maid to dress her so. Did they not care about whether she was fashionably attired now that she’d been promised to him and no longer needed to impress anyone?
Once he had shaken hands with Oliver and kissed his sister’s hand, form dictated that he greet his fiancée before anyone else. Will kept it brief, bowing and kissing her hand, noting her stilted movements even in such a simple interaction. He hoped the opal would turn black and provide a decent reason to break the engagement. Then he remembered what his father had said about needing the alliance to be a success and suppressed his selfish desires.
Free of his initial obligation he headed for the card room, planning to while away some of the evening over hazard and poker, knowing that would remove the pressure to stay near Catherine. He planned to draw her away later on, once people had filled their bellies with punch and stopped watching out for who was there and who was not.
On the way he had brief conversations, maintaining a couple of running jokes with his peers and generally doing his best to make a good impression. The air in the hallway was thick with perfume and the heat of the social throng. He wondered whether the attendance was high because of the sponsorship of the Rosa. Everyone wanted to know the story behind it.
“Good evening, Mr Reticulata-Iris.”
He turned at the woman’s voice. It was a Rosa from the other line, the Alba who’d managed to snare the Indian princess. He bowed and kissed her hand as he tried to remember her name. Her gloves smelt of rose petals. “Miss Alba-Rosa,” he said, smiling. “What a pleasure to see you.”
“And you, Mr Iris. I was commenting to my brother yesterday that it was such a shame I didn’t get a chance to dance with you at the opening ball.”
“I’m sure I can correct that oversight at the next one.”
“I would like that very much. You dance a fine waltz. Your fiancée is very lucky.”
He smiled. “I was on my way to play cards.”
“Oh.” She looked disappointed and pulled him across the hallway to stand next to her against the wall, so they could speak without blocking the way. He was astounded by the gesture, but took care not to show it. She leant closer, the scent of roses floating up from the décolletage at which he was studiously not staring. “I understand it would be a faux pas for me to join you.”
“At cards?”
“Yes. I’ve heard it’s not the done thing for ladies to play at the same tables as the gentlemen, is that right?”
It had never occurred to him for it to be otherwise. “Absolutely,” he replied. “It would not be proper for a gentleman to win a hand and take a lady’s money.”
“Such a shame,” she sighed. “I wanted to see if you were as good at poker as you are at the waltz. One can tell only so much from the way a man dances.”
He enjoyed the thrill her flirtation sent through him. “Am I to understand that it’s different in Londinium?”
“Oh yes, at certain soirées the ladies and gentlemen play at the same tables. It makes it so much more interesting.” The way she said it made the thrill pulse into excitement. He wanted to touch her cheek, to stroke the back of her neck. He hadn’t felt this way since Sicily, and never before in Society. “You’ll have to come up for the season. I’m sure Cornelius would sponsor you if I introduced you to him.”
“I would very much like to meet your brother,” he replied. The way she spoke and held eye contact was quite intoxicating. There was none of the shyness nor the coy games played by the young ladies of Aquae Sulis about her. She was a delight for the eyes too. Again, Will hoped the opal would turn black. “Is Princess Rani here?”
“She’s having her own Grand Tour. Aquae Sulis was just one place on a very long list.”
“Not tempted to accompany her?”
“Not when there’s so much to hold me here. I hope you will dance with me at the next ball, Mr Iris.” She waved to someone behind him, leaving him with a smile to remember her by.
He deliberately settled at a table on the other side of the room to the Gallica-Rosa, forcing himself not to think of Amelia. He feared if he played a hand with Horatio, the Rosa would make a comment committing him to a path he didn’t want to take without knowing if his fiancée had any honour to defend.
When he was almost two hundred of the Queen’s pounds up and in need of a drink he left the table and returned to the main reception room. Imogen slipped her arm into his on the way, fanning herself excitedly.
“I’ve heard the most fascinating rumour, dear brother,” she said, and Will steeled himself for disaster. “Apparently, the Gallica-Rosa has told Cecilia he has a surprise that will make the princess seem dull in comparison.”
Will hid his tension behind a bored expression. “Oh? What does he have up his sleeve? A Prince from Atlantis?”
“A house in Aquae Sulis apparently, but that is to go no further. Cecilia told me in the strictest confidence.”
“Are you certain?”
“Cecilia is. And she’s trying very hard to make it up to me for not telling me he was coming for the season. He’s dripping with money, too. I think she’s hoping to catch his eye but I’m certain I can–”
“Keep away from him, Imogen,” he said, too sternly.
“He’s been sponsored in by your best friend.”
“Under duress. Father has a very low opinion of his family. It won’t go anywhere.”
“He may change his mind if he becomes a resident,” Imogen said with a smile. “Oh, and by the way, what in the world is Catherine Papaver wearing? I’d give her my seamstress’s details, but I fear she would wear her creations so poorly I’d be forced to find another.”
“I believe Cecilia is trying to catch your eye,” he said, glad to have a reason to get rid of her. He didn’t need her prattling to distract him.
He scanned the room for his fiancée, spotting her brother still talking to Oliver’s father, probably about cricket or rugby; they were both sports bores. He caught sight of Lucy’s red dress and saw her leading Catherine out of the room and onto one of the balconies. Intrigued, he got a glass of punch and went to the french doors in an effort to listen in.
“I had no idea it was going to happen,” Catherine was saying. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine, really,” Lucy replied. “Tom nearly burst a blood vessel but that’s not your fault. I’m just glad you were able to come back to us.”
“I just wish he could have let me come back to your house, not right into the ball. That was so awful.”
“Well, it’s all done now and you’re the toast of the Papavers.”
“Hardly.”
“Well, I’ve heard nothing but good things. It’s been a long time since one of us has been a favourite.”
“Do you mean the Rhoeas or Californicas?”
“Either.”
There was a pause. Will sipped the punch and tried to look like he was watching people go by, rather than being tuned into the conversation outside.
“So how are things? Was it as bad as you feared?”
“Worse.”
That piqued his interest.
“Oh, Jeez. I wish they would let you stay with us. I’d like the company.”
“I wish they would too, but that’s never going to happen.”
“At least William seems like a nice young man.”
There was a longer pause.
“I don’t want to talk about him,” Catherine finally said. “I don’t want to talk about any of that.”
“You’re gonna have face up to it sometime, honey,” Lucy said, sounding far more American than he’d realised. “We all have to.”
“Not tonight,” Catherine said, and the finality of her tone made him worry she was coming back in. He had to take the opportunity to get her alone. He went out onto the balcony.
“Good evening,” he said, ignoring the dread on Catherine’s face as they both curtsied.
“Mr Iris,” Lucy smiled. “I was just singing your praises.”
“How kind of you, madam, I hope my fiancée didn’t contradict you.” He earned the blush he was hoping for on Catherine’s cheeks, then berated himself for playing such games with someone so inept. “I would very much appreciate the opportunity of a moment with my fiancée, if I may be so bold?”
Lucy raised an eyebrow, gave Catherine an encouraging smile. “I’ll be just inside.”
Catherine looked as if she were going to be sick.
The balcony overlooked a modest garden but, having spent so much time in Mundanus, he realised how pathetically fake it all appeared without proper sunlight. The Charms required to keep the plants alive were more a demonstration of wealth than anything else. He’d never appreciated before how hollow a gesture it was. Although he found it distasteful he was grateful they both had something else to look at.
Catherine moved to the stone rail, avoiding his eyes. It gave him the opportunity to palm the opal; it felt cold and the heat of his hand failed to warm it. The neckline of her dress was far higher at the back than he’d hoped it would be and barely any of her flesh was exposed; even her gloves came up to where the short sleeves of her dress ended. He wondered how he was going to test her without her knowledge. Perhaps he’d need to come up with a story to explain it away instead.
“Did you want to talk about something?” she said nervously.
“I wanted the opportunity to see how you are.”
“And whether I’m going to be civil?”
He went to stand next to her and she shuffled away a step. “Perhaps we can start again?”
She still couldn’t bring herself to look at him. “I know you’re trying really hard. And I know I’m not very good at all this.”
“I just want you to relax,” he said. “That’s why I came out here, I thought it would be easier without an audience.”
She nodded. “I don’t like everyone watching. I don’t know why they’re so interested.”
“You’re Lord Poppy’s favourite.”
“And your fiancée.”
“That too.” He moved closer and she twitched. “Why do you insist on keeping me at arm’s length? It’s almost as if you don’t want to get to know me.”
“I just–”
“I wonder if you’re scared that if you do get to know me, you may actually want to get married.”
“There’s nothing worse than an amateur psychologist,” she muttered.
“Perhaps, if you gave me a chance, you’d change your mind.”
“What if I were to suggest your ego simply can’t handle the fact that I’m not falling over myself to marry you?”
That made him pause. “Has anyone told you that you may be too clever for your own good?”
“Frequently,” she said bitterly and looked back out over the garden. “I know I’m supposed to smile and go along with all this, but I just can’t. You know, the last couple of days I’ve actually wished I could? It would be so much easier.”
“Then why not just let all this tension go? Why not let me win you over?”
She pulled a face. “Did you read some schlock romance novel whilst you were on the Grand Tour or something?”
“Catherine,” he sighed.
“Perhaps this works on silly girls who think the only thing to aspire to is marriage, but it won’t work with me.”