No Proper Lady (18 page)

“Lunch, sir,” said Mathers, setting the tray down by Simon’s bed. “And a letter for Mrs. MacArthur.”

Being sick had some advantages, Simon had discovered. A healthy man couldn’t have a woman sitting by his bed without causing comment—oh, Mathers was far too well-trained to say anything to Simon’s face, but he would have looked very purposefully blank, and the others would have talked among themselves for days. But now, as long as Joan stayed safely in the chair, nobody would bat an eye. He was sick, after all. And Eleanor couldn’t be expected to attend him all the time.

She and Joan had traded off shifts. Ellie read to him, mostly—they were halfway through
Kidnapped
by now—and Joan picked up the book occasionally too, reading in a low, rough voice and sometimes stumbling over Italian names and long words, but with a verve that kept Simon listening attentively. She talked more than Ellie, though. Over the past two days, she’d asked questions and given her opinion on subjects from horse racing to theology.

Now she picked up the letter, and her face went blank for a second. When Simon glimpsed the handwriting on the envelope, he understood why.

Of all the things they’d talked about, they’d never mentioned Alex. After that first day, Joan hadn’t brought up the mission. She’d stuck to trivia and philosophy, or she’d read about pirates. Simon hadn’t forgotten either Alex or the tasks that lay ahead—how could he?—but they’d slid into the back of his mind. Until now.

“I do a lot to save the damn world, you know,” she said dryly when Mathers had gone.

“Oh?”

As she read, she pronounced each word with elaborate, ceremonial care. “The privilege of your company is requested at a Demonstration of Mediumistic Powers and an Exploration of the Realms Beyond.”

Despite his worry, Simon had to laugh. “Standard wording, I fear.”

“If anyone I’ve met here got a good look at the ‘Realms Beyond,’ they’d come back with their pants wet and their brains running out their ears, if they came back at all.” She added as an afterthought, “Except you, and Reynell.”

The name came out flat, and Joan picked up the letter again. It was a hasty motion, aimed at disguising something. Revulsion? And if so, at Alex or the situation? Or at herself?

Her behavior hadn’t been what Simon would expect of a woman wrestling with her own desires, but then, it wouldn’t have been. She was a better actress than most.

“Who’s holding it, and when?” he asked, trying to disrupt his own thoughts.

“Thursday. Mr. Harrison. I
think
I met him.”

“That means Alex is probably behind it. Harrison’s tremendously attentive to Alex’s concerns.”

“Which means I should go to the damn thing.” Joan looked down at her skirt, thoughtful. “What do you wear to a demonstration of whatever?”

“Good God, I have no idea.”

In the course of the discussion, her face had become slightly flushed and her eyes brighter. Strategy? The thrill of the chase? Or something more?

Simon sipped his tea and didn’t taste it. The toast could have been paper. “I could get the book,” he said abruptly, “while you and Alex are at the séance, at least.”

Joan stared at him. “You? Play ninja? After Reynell’s watchdog got a taste of your blood?”

“I can handle the guardian,” he said stiffly. “At least if I’m prepared.”

“Yeah? And how are you going to get in? Got the Ninth Ring?” When he looked baffled, Joan waved a hand. “It makes you invisible. And it’s only a story, anyhow. Nobody can turn himself invisible—can you?”

“If I could do that, I would’ve told you at once.”

“You told me,” she said, “that breaking in was a bad idea. And I had a lot more advantages than you do now.”

It was horrible logic. But it was sound. “He might be killing people,” Simon said. “Or worse.”

Joan nodded. “He might be. And he might not. You don’t have any proof that he’s still doing whatever he was doing, just that he’s done something bad enough for it to show up. That’s not any change from when I got here, is it?”

He couldn’t read her face.

She’d had plenty of opportunity to press harder, to become more acquainted with Alex and his household. She hadn’t taken it. There might even have been a few moments where she could’ve struck. Poison, at least, would be subtle enough, and the Joan who’d come through the portal would’ve counted her life well spent if she could’ve killed Reynell with her last breath.

She wants the book first.

Simon could destroy it. Would destroy it. And Joan knew that.

She promised me.

That was laughable. He’d seen the world as it would be, and now even he found it hard to hold on to his principles. If he’d been raised in the world he’d seen—if he’d traveled two hundred years and left all he’d known to see it put right—he wouldn’t have stopped for the honor of one man, or even for whatever mystical consequences came of being forsworn.

Joan wouldn’t have. At least, not the Joan he’d met.

It’s just tactics
, Simon told himself sternly.
She’s waiting for the right opening.

Of course it was. Of course her feelings hadn’t changed. He knew she was a good actress. It was only natural that she’d be able to pretend to like Alex.

Simon wanted badly to believe that.

***

It seemed like a bad idea to ask your maid what to wear to a séance, and the small book of etiquette Joan had bought was no help at all. So she found Eleanor in the drawing room and asked her.

Eleanor closed the leather-bound book she’d been reading—a different one now, Joan thought—and frowned. “Is it after six?”

“Eight.”

“I’d wear evening dress, then. It’s more likely to be a party in disguise than anything serious.” Eleanor sounded like she was trying to reassure herself, and she didn’t quite succeed. “I don’t want to intrude, and I certainly mean no offense, but are you certain you want to go to this?”

Joan laughed. “God, I’m certain I don’t. I don’t like the crowd, and I don’t see why everyone thinks the dead want to come back and chat. You’d think they’d either be resting or have more important things to do. But I have to.”

“Oh.” Eleanor gave her a slow, searching look, opened her mouth, and then shook her head. “Be careful, then. I mean, I’m sure you are anyhow. And I certainly don’t mean to imply that you need the warning. But these gatherings can be more dangerous than most people think.”

Stupidly, Joan half hoped this one was. There’d been a restlessness riding her for the last couple days due to the séance itself, as well as Simon making suggestions that were incredibly dumb, especially for him, and generally being trapped in a small house in a crowded city. The walls pressed in on her, and she wanted to hit them. To hit something, anyway.

None of that was Eleanor’s fault, though, so Joan just nodded. “I know.”

“It might not be. Most of them are just party tricks and imagination. But if Mr. Reynell’s there…” She broke off, dropping her gaze to her lap.

“Then he’s going to try to pull out all the stops. Don’t worry. I can stay a couple steps ahead of him.”

“I’ll pray that you do,” said Eleanor. Her voice was even quieter than usual, the whisper of a child who didn’t quite dare to name the thing she hoped for or the thing she feared.

It was strange to be traveling by herself at night.

For one thing, she wasn’t really by herself. Betty, the maid who waited on Joan in London, was sitting silently across from her, and the driver was at the front of the carriage. Joan had led ambush teams with fewer people. She’d also done a fair number of solo missions, many of them at night. And now, just because she’d left Simon and Eleanor behind and the sun had set, it seemed new and a little scary.

Not without reason. Joan watched the twilight streets go by, a maze of winding alleys and wide roads turning unpredictably and crowded, even this late. If she had the wrong house—if something went wrong—how would she ever get back?

Betty would know, Joan told herself. So would the driver. And if neither of them was available, she at least knew Simon’s address, and she could hire a carriage herself. She had several pounds in her purse and a few more in the bag she’d strapped to her leg, next to her knife. Everything would be all right. If it wasn’t, she would deal with that. Even so, she was relieved to arrive at a well-lit house and be shown into a crowded drawing room.

Harrison himself was tall, balding, and gaunt. He’d have been intimidating if he’d worn dark clothes rather than the bright, elaborate outfits he favored. He’d also have needed to keep silent and stand still. “My
dear
Mrs. MacArthur!” he cried, fluttering his way across the room as Joan entered. “
So
glad you could attend—hope you had an easy journey—”

“Thank you,” she said after Harrison had gone on in that style for a bit and then stopped to take a breath. “Very easy, yes.”

She greeted his wife as well, though she didn’t have to come up with nearly as many responses there. The woman was much quieter and almost seemed lost in her own world half the time. Anyone probably would have to be, married to someone like Harrison.

Thomson was there, looking simultaneously vague and intense as usual, and chattering to a couple of other young women. One or two of them chattered back; Cole, nearby, kept quiet. Joan saw Cunningham lounging near the sofa, talking with another man and a striking dark-eyed woman. Archie was already coming over, beaming.

And Reynell turned from his conversation and met her eyes.

He held her gaze for a second and then smiled. His look of slow appreciation suggested he saw every inch of her and liked it a lot. At first, that look had made Joan shiver. Now she hardly noticed except to make sure he was still interested enough to work at it.

Not that he came over to meet her at first. That would’ve been too common and too available. Instead, he watched while Archie made his way past the furniture and then turned back to his partner, content to wait. Archie, Reynell’s body language said, was no threat.

Joan wished Reynell wasn’t right about that, both because he was a smug bastard and because Archie seemed like a nice enough guy. Young, but nice. The sort Joan might have tried to get into bed—if he wouldn’t have taken it exactly the wrong way and if she didn’t have a mission. He would, and she did.

So she treated him like a brother, like a member of her squad back home, and was pleased when he fell into conversation with a little red-haired girl from Thomson’s set who seemed smarter than her friends. That left Joan alone for a minute, and Reynell found his way to her side.

“I thought I’d never get the chance to talk to you,” he said. “Your companions are so…devoted.”

His eyes mocked and invited her to mock with him. Joan let herself smile for a second, shaking her head. “He’s very amiable.”

“I know. It’s rather sad, really.”

Joan lifted an eyebrow. “For whom?”

“Me, of course,” Reynell said, as if astonished that anyone could think he’d meant anyone else.

This is a hell of a game
.

“Well, I’d hate to make you sad,” she said, sipping her punch. “Not when you’ve been so…educational. When do we start, anyway? And how?”

Reynell laughed. “Soon. Very soon. Impatient?”

“Curious.”

“I hear it’s a painful thing, unsatisfied curiosity.”

Joan lowered her eyelashes. “I do my best to endure,” she said. “What happens?”

“I presume our host will give us some instruction.” Reynell glanced toward the middle of the room at the woman talking to Cunningham. “Mrs. Stewart has volunteered to be our medium tonight, I understand. It’s very generous of her to put herself in Harrison’s…hands…like that.”

It was very clear what he meant. Joan blinked.
Harrison—and Mrs. Stewart?

Maybe he’s really good in the sack.

The image made her bite the inside of her cheek. Reynell saw it and grinned, only a little smugly. “Can I get you something more to drink before we start?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Joan, without thinking about it. That was standard practice around here, and at least it gave her a minute or two alone. She wanted to take a look around, partly out of curiosity and partly to be sure she knew all the exits.

There were candles around the couch and a bowl of water at one end. No sigils or wards, but a set of silk ropes lay on the couch itself. None of the ropes back home had been silk, but the memories came up anyhow.

It wouldn’t be like home. The gorgeous, if misguided Mrs. Stewart wouldn’t have volunteered if people regularly lost their minds, and Harrison didn’t have the air of a man who drove his subjects insane. Still, Joan shuddered.

“Worried?” Reynell said from behind her. Joan flinched and then cursed herself, both for the reaction and for not hearing him come up in the first place. Too many damn people in the room talking too damn loudly. “You needn’t be. We’ve never lost a guest yet.”

“So you’re due?” Joan asked, turning toward him.

As he handed her the glass of punch, he let his hand brush hers for just a moment longer than he should have. “Never fear. I’ll make sure it’s not you.”

Harrison clapped his hands. The room fell silent, or as silent as a roomful of people ever could, and the guests turned toward the couch. Harrison stood at its head now, Mrs. Stewart beside him. “My dear friends and fellow explorers,” he began, “I want to thank you all for your attendance here. It’s faith such as yours that will take us from the darkness of prior days into a new dawn of spiritual enlightenment.”

He turned to look at Joan. “And I am gratified, most gratified, that we have a new arrival in our midst, a new initiate into the mysteries that were old in the days of Atlantis and that we are only now rediscovering. It is my fondest hope, Mrs. MacArthur, that what you see tonight will give us another ally and you a source of guidance on your own path.”

Applause blew through the room like dry leaves. Joan made a slightly awkward curtsy and smiled.

“I am gratified, also, by Mrs. Stewart’s gracious offer to be our means of communication with the world beyond. For the purposes of this exercise, her hands will be bound, for when we cannot reach out with our hands, we must perforce do so with our minds and souls.”

Perforce. He said perforce.
Joan kept her gaze fixed straight ahead. She couldn’t look at Reynell.

Mrs. Stewart lay down on the couch. The redhead who’d been talking to Archie—a slight girl in pale yellow silk—moved in a circle around her, lighting the candles. As they sprang to life and the faint smell of burning wick and melting wax filled the room, Joan no longer wanted to laugh, and her disgust faded into a faint background presence.

Harrison was pretentious as hell. Stewart was doing the whole medium thing to get into his pants. But that didn’t matter. This was ritual. Joan had grown up with it, and it was deadly serious.

One of the young men, who’d clearly done this before, turned out the lights, and the room dwindled to the circle of candle flames. Above them, Harrison’s long, gaunt face was like something out of a nightmare.

He reached into the bowl of water, wet his fingers, and very carefully began to draw shapes on Mrs. Stewart’s forehead. As he finished each one, he intoned a name. Greek, Joan thought, remembering some of the texts Eleanor had showed her, or maybe Latin. Hard to tell.

Behind Joan’s ear, her sensor began to heat up. Whatever Harrison thought he was doing, it was working.

Then Mrs. Stewart began to float: one inch up, then two, until she was hovering half a foot above the sofa. The train of her dress hung beneath her. It rippled in an unfelt wind. Joan gasped, since people would expect that.

Reynell put a hand on her shoulder in response and then left it there. His touch sank down through Joan’s clothes, warm and viscous.
You’re not feeling that
, she told herself, and took a hasty swallow of punch.

“O spirit,” Harrison began, “we welcome you to our company tonight. You honor us with your presence and your knowledge. If it is in our power to make your rest easier, you have only to ask.”

“I?” said something, using Mrs. Stewart’s voice. “I need nothing of you. I am the Wanderer. I am the restless. All things are mine to see. All are mine to tell, or not to tell, as I will. What is it you wish?”

Stewart’s eyes opened. They were bright blue from side to side, without pupil or iris. One of the girls screamed a little.

Joan relaxed. The Wanderer was one of the neutral spirits, not really a power of light or dark, and sort of liked humans. Opportunistic little bastard, they said, under the pretentious talk. Liked its booze. Still nothing to mess with.

Any of the spirits could cause trouble, if only by deciding that it liked a body enough to stay there. Joan wondered what was worth the risk to these people, if they even thought about it that way.

She expected Thomson to ask something first, some idiot girlish romantic thing. Cole stepped forward instead, her face as grim and set as any warrior’s before a battle.

“I want to know about a baby,” Cole began. “A little girl. Nine weeks old. Her name was Anne Elizabeth. Is she there? Is she happy?”

The voice of the Wanderer was subtly different from Stewart’s, deeper and wavery, like someone talking under water. “Of course she’s not here. She’s gone onward.” Then a pause, and Stewart’s head turned jerkily toward Cole. “You’ll meet again.”

“Thank you,” said Cole. Now her voice broke, and she stepped hastily backward. “Thank you,” she said again.

More came forward after her, and some of them did ask the stupid questions Joan had anticipated:
Where’s the will? Which horse should I bet on tomorrow?
Nobody, surprisingly, asked about romance explicitly, though Thomson asked where she’d be next year and got sulky when the Wanderer said it didn’t know. It had said the same thing to the man asking about the horse race, but he took it with a sigh and a shrug.

Joan watched with what she hoped was the appearance of calm. She tried not to think that the Wanderer might refuse to leave if someone like Harrison told it to and tried not to think about what she would do then. She held her breath as he went through the whole ritual with the water again, commanding the spirit to depart “without harm or malice to any here.” Mrs. Stewart sank down until she was lying on the sofa again, but Joan didn’t relax until the woman stirred and opened normal dark eyes.

“Well,” said Reynell, as the other guests began to chatter in excitement. “What did you think?”

“I admit I’m impressed.” It came out as a croak. Joan looked down at the glass of punch in her hand and took several rapid sips. Now it was warm, but it did the job. “More than I thought I’d be.”

“It happens that way to some people. You held up well, though. No screaming, no fainting.”

“I do my best,” said Joan. “Do people generally faint?”

“Young ladies, sometimes. Generally if there’s a likely young man about.”

Joan laughed and let Reynell escort her to a seat, watching the room on her way. Harrison was talking to Mrs. Stewart, of course, smiling and leaning in close. His wife was smiling too. Joan wondered if triads sprang up even here under the thirty-seven layers of clothing and manners.

She’d never been one for women, and she sure hadn’t been attracted to Harrison, but a slow warmth spread through Joan at the thought. Adrenaline, probably. It usually wasn’t this strong, but she was used to running around when she risked her life. She clamped down on it.

At least, she tried. But then she had to look at Reynell, and that was worse. He was at least physically attractive, and her body had no conscience. Joan shifted in her seat. “What happens now?”

“Now?” Reynell smiled at her. “Now, or at least soon, we go to bed like good little boys and girls.” He emphasized “bed” just a little, and Joan, horrified, felt her nipples harden immediately.

Adrenaline, my ass! What’s wrong with me?
“I see,” she said. “That’s too bad. We’ve hardly gotten to talk at all this evening.”

“It’s a pleasure I’d like to prolong as well. Perhaps we could meet another time without quite so many people around.” Reynell leaned forward, lowering his voice. “It would be very nice to talk privately.”

There it was. The opening she wanted. Only part of her could look at it tactically, though. The rest responded blindly to the promise in his eyes and his voice. She was fully aroused now, and it took every atom of willpower to keep her thoughts coherent.

Trying to distract herself, Joan tightened her hand around the punch glass and then stopped. She didn’t look down. That would have given the whole thing away.

He drugged me.
It was like a brief splash of cold water. The lust was still there, but the shock gave her space to think, at least for a while.
A love potion?

Not by the feel of it. Besides, he wouldn’t waste mind control on some random woman, not when he thought she was already attracted, and people in this time had sex and love all twisted up here. An aphrodisiac, then.

Son of a bitch.

“If you’d be amenable,” Reynell went on, picking up her gloved hand, “I’m sure I could arrange something.”

“I’d like that,” Joan said, and took a deep breath. She could feel Reynell’s eyes on her breasts as they swelled beneath the green silk. “I’d like that an awful lot.”