The Duchess War (The Brothers Sinister) (16 page)

“Called prince by you,” Robert put in. “The rest of us called you ‘princess.’ It doesn’t make sense otherwise. Dragons want to devour princesses. They don’t care about princes.”

“You have a great deal to learn about dragons. Think about it: We get more beef from steers than cows. It’s well known that the male of the species produces finer flesh.”

“I thought,” Miss Pursling said, “that we didn’t eat female cows because we preferred to save them for their milk.”

Not this argument. Down this road there could only lie doom. Robert hunkered back in his chair and waited for the inevitable time in which Sebastian would send Miss Pursling screaming.

Mr. Malheur winked at Miss Pursling. “Dragons like cheese.”

“But dragons cannot milk princesses,” Miss Pursling responded. “They do not have opposable thumbs.”

Mr. Malheur looked upward. “Very clever, and you’d almost be right. But dragons have
minions
. In any event, it’s quite clear that the female of the human species has inferior meat. They are saddled with those unfortunate fatty deposits round the front. Whereas flank of manflesh is lean, tender, and succulent.” He emphasized this by standing up and setting one hand against the seat of his trousers.

The countess rolled her eyes. “The least said about flank of manflesh, the happier we all will be. Besides, I thought you rather liked those unfortunate fatty deposits round the front. You spend enough time—”

Robert coughed loudly.

“My preferences are irrelevant,” Sebastian managed, with a great deal of haughty grandness. “
I
am not a dragon.”

“True,” Robert put in. “You’re a peacock—flaunting your feathers for the female of the species.”

“If it works…” Sebastian smiled, and then turned his head, peering at imaginary tail feathers on his behind. “And yes, that
is
one of my better features, thank you.”

The countess let out a loud, defeated sigh. “Are we talking about Sebastian’s buttocks again? Has he no other body parts?”

That was the point when Robert realized that Miss Pursling wasn’t staring at the floor and hadn’t been for some time. She had a small smile on her face, and she was looking between the two of them, her eyes round in fascination, her cheeks flushed pink.

Robert pointed a finger at Sebastian. “You see?” he said accusingly. “I knew you would do it. You baited me into that, you did. I will never believe a word you say again.”

“You’re welcome.” Sebastian bowed low and then sat once more. “All that unrequited awkwardness…” He gave a mock shiver. “I will collect my thanks later.”

“Gah. I hate you both.”

Normally he’d have loved passing time like this—listening to his friends bat the ball of conversation back and forth between them like deranged cats. But Miss Pursling was going to think he was insane, spending time with these two. Hell; he was related to Sebastian. First cousins. He might as well have announced that he had an entire branch of his family in Bedlam.

“Oh, dear,” Sebastian said. “Were we not supposed to have said any of that?”

“Of course we could,” said Violet. “We specifically mentioned that he never played princess. That makes him manly. You still think him manly, Miss Pursling, do you not?”

“I feel it important to make no comment.” Miss Pursling looked down, but her eyes sparkled.

“You know,” Sebastian said, “I must object to that line of reasoning. It takes supreme confidence in one’s manliness to play princess. Maybe we’ve only made him appear insecure.”

“Maybe,” Violet said all too loudly, “if we don’t mention that, she won’t notice.”

Miss Pursling smiled. “Don’t mind me,” she said, dropping her eyes. “I never notice a thing.”

“Well, then.” Violet was using her
all’s-well-that-ends-well
voice. “I don’t see what there is to be upset about. Robert, stop sulking.”

Robert shut his eyes in defeat.

When the train stopped, he waited until Sebastian gathered his things and left, until Violet followed after to see to her owl. Then, and only then, did he turn to Miss Pursling.

She was standing at the door of the car, wrapping a scarf around her neck.

He turned his hat in his hands. “Look,” he said. “About that conversation…” But what excuse was he to make?

They’re not usually like that.

That was a lie.

You have to understand. Sebastian’s jokes brought me through many a hard time. I love him more than I want to kill him.

But the truth was too much. He was struggling to find some way to apologize—and he wasn’t sure whether he should even be apologizing. But she adjusted her gloves, glancing down, before looking at him again.

“Your Grace.”

“Miss Pursling.”

Her eyes were gray, light and clear, and they seemed to see straight through his not-quite-apologetic hand-wringing.

“I always thought you could judge a man by the company he kept.”

“Ouch.” He winced. “Sebastian,” he finally said, “he’s always been excessive. He can be a little much to take in, all at once. But he’s a good man.” He was. Sort of.

Miss Pursling frowned. “What are you talking about? I like your friends.”

“I—you…” He sucked in a breath. “That almost sounds like you like
me.”

She gave him a nod. “Logic,” she said, “is a lovely thing, Your Grace. That is precisely what I said. I only wish it weren’t true.” She turned the handle and stepped out the door.

“Wait,” he said, reaching after her.

But the door had already slammed behind her. He was still staring at the space she’d occupied when the conductor blew the whistle. He grabbed his bag and ran.

She liked his friends. She
liked
his friends? It was odd, to have all that embarrassment turned around. He found himself grinning madly, gleefully, as he caught up with Violet and Sebastian and the rest of their entourage. They were crowded around Violet’s notebook, peering at the pages.

“What are you two giggling about?” he asked suspiciously.

Violet snapped her notebook shut. “I was keeping score,” she said. “I hate to inform you of this, but your Miss Pursling won the conversation.”

He still had that stupid grin on his face, and it wasn’t going away. “Yes,” he agreed. “Isn’t it marvelous?”

Chapter Ten

T
HE OMNIBUS DROPPED
M
INNIE
a half mile from her great-aunts’ farm. She pulled her valise under one arm and began to walk the rest of the way home.

When she’d left the few clustered houses behind her, she pulled out the letter in her skirt pocket and awkwardly—she had only one free hand, after all—broke the wax seal.

The letter was dated two days past.

My dear Miss Pursling,
he had written.
I want to make clear what I meant the other day when we encountered one another at the Finneys’ residence. Writing handbills is not some sort of a whim on my part.

You told me the other day that you had looked high, and that you had been battered down. You’re not alone. It is the nature of English society to do precisely that: to keep the lower classes low and raise the upper classes even higher. It is lucky of me indeed to be able to look where I wish.

My most ardent wish is that you, and everyone like you, will look up. That you’ll do so and never be beaten into the ground again. I write handbills because I can write those words without fear of reprisal—because if I am discovered, the House of Lords will never prosecute me. I write because those words must be written. I write because to not write, to not speak, would be to waste what I have been given. I keep it secret because otherwise, anyone who associated with me would become the target for an investigation.

You are undoubtedly my superior in the matter of tactics. As proof, here you have a letter in my own hand, admitting what I have done. Use it to expose me, if that’s what you think will get you your good marriage to an ordinary man who wishes nothing more than to have a quiet wife. Use it, if you must, or keep it and say nothing. You told me the future terrified you. I can’t change the whole of it, but I can change this much.

Or you could look up. You could put that superior mind of yours to real use and fashion a different place for yourself entirely. You could be more. You could be much, much more.

Anything else would be a criminal waste of your talents.

Your servant,

Robert Alan Graydon Blaisdell.

No title. But then, the only title he’d chosen for himself in his writings was
De minimis
—a small thing. Not so small a thing, though. Minnie could feel the tide of his hope lifting her up with every step.

You could be more.

She’d tasted more once—just the tiniest nibble, but enough to make her life now seem dreary indeed. It was like eating nothing but unsalted gruel every meal, but smelling sausage and pastries all day. After all this time spent choking down tasteless glop, someone was offering her meat.

She couldn’t think logically. She couldn’t analyze. She could think of nothing but her hunger.

I could be more.

She had no idea what her future contained, but even the little hint of relief she’d felt at his admission—one less thing to fear, one worry put off after these last days of worry—seemed to ease her burden.

That feeling of false comfort stayed with her through the walk home. It buoyed up every step, elevated every breath. It buzzed through her as she greeted her great-aunts, as she went and washed and prepared herself for the evening meal. And it changed nothing. It only made the burden of reality feel all the heavier when its full weight descended on her shoulders.

By the time dinner came, Minnie found she couldn’t taste the soup.

Her great-aunts sat before her, eating steadily, conversing as two good friends who had spent decades in one another’s company were wont to do. The conversation ranged from the production of turnips to the uses for the far field come spring.

They chattered on as if nothing had changed, and she hated them because nothing
had
. Because on that fateful day when her life had upended itself, they had been the ones to come get her from London. They’d pointed her down this path.

If you come with us,
Great-Aunt Caro had said,
Minerva Lane will die forever. You will never say that name. The person who you are today? She will simply vanish.

Gruel. Nothing but gruel—and the fear that one day, there’d not even be that.

“Did you know that Billy is courting?” Great-Aunt Caro said.

“No! He cannot possibly be old enough.”

“He’s eighteen,” Caro said. “And heaven help me if I know when that happened. Why, it seems as if it were just last month that he was born…”

She couldn’t attend to the conversation. Minnie hadn’t just taken on a new name when her great-aunts took her away; she’d taken on a new personality. She hadn’t even known how to
walk
like a girl at first. For that initial year, her great-aunts had constantly corrected her behavior.
Don’t contradict. Don’t speak up. Don’t step forward.
Anything that drew attention was absolutely forbidden; she’d found herself shrinking smaller and smaller until a walnut could have encompassed her personality—and left room for it to rattle around.

She’d been small and quiet. Having known so much more, her frustrated, pent-up ambition had chafed. She’d seized on what little charity work was allowed to women, but it wasn’t enough. And now she faced a lifetime of this affliction—of being forced to make her soul as small and as tasteless as possible, in hopes that it would fit into the confines of her life.

You have steel for your backbone and a rare talent for seeing what is plainly in front of your face. I could make everyone see that.

Damn his eyes. Damn his letter. Damn that smile, the one that made her want to kiss him back, just so she could know that she’d put that light inside him.

Anything else would be a criminal waste.

Damn him, because even if he didn’t mean it—even if it was all a way to try to fog her mind and lead her astray—he had made her believe that she could change things. And that this time, when she did…

It struck her, that want, like a sharp fist to her solar plexus—painful and paralyzing. She didn’t just want. She hoped. She needed. She dreamed that this time, when she was revealed to the crowd for what she really was, they wouldn’t mob around her and throw stones. This time, they wouldn’t call her a beast
or the spawn of the devil. This time, instead of stripping her of everything, someone would love her for who she was.

A yearning like that was too big for the person she had to be.

Damn the Duke of Clermont, for giving her that hope. Damn him for his admonition to look up. Damn him for making her believe.

Her eyes stung. She aimed her fork at her plate and stabbed blindly.

“Minnie,” Eliza said, her eyebrows drawing down in worry, “are you well?”