The Princess and the Pauper (26 page)

The Honorable Lucy Carrington
reclined in the wide armchair, puffing on a Havana cigar. She
propped her red, square-heeled shoes on the st
urdy oak desk, circled her lips
and exhaled a perfect ring of smoke.

“
How does it feel to be a
quarter of a century old?”

Lucy
lowered her gaze and narrowed her
eyes on Juliana Talbot, the youngest member of their secret
society. Spirited and unabashed, with a penchant for needling,
Jules often sported a wicked smile. As the daughter of a railroad
tycoon, she was a wealthy heiress. She possessed grace and
education, soft features, too. Her dark brown hair and bay brown
eyes contrasted sharply with her pale skin, making her a striking
beauty, but the desirable traits could not blot out the secret
truth—she was a tainted woman.

Lucy took another puff, blowing the misty
fumes in her friend’s direction.

Jules
chortled, baring her straight, white
teeth as she chomped down on a cigar.

“
Don’t tease her, Jules,” from
Winifred. “It’s poor karma.”

“
Karma?” She snorted. “I
don’t believe in the claptrap.”

“
I didn’t either until my sister
quarreled with our
ayah
. . . and sprouted whiskers the next day.”

Jules
reached for her upper lip in alarm as
Winifred Knolls sniggered. She had recently returned from India
with her family, where her father, a captain in the regiment, had
been stationed for almost a decade. She had a sound grasp of Hindu
culture and religion and spoke the native dialect with aplomb. At
four-and-twenty, she was one year younger than Lucy, and like Lucy,
she possessed a flattering shade of blonde hair. She had fine
ringlets, though, and grey-blue eyes. She also maintained a fair
complexion, well guarded from the hot, sub-Asian climate. There was
a fragile, mischievous quality about her, too, reminiscent of a
fabled faerie . . . though ruthlessness sometimes twinkled in her
eyes.

“
No whiskers,” sighed
Jules.

Winifred smirked. “Yet.”

Jules
frowned.

The three ladies were entrenched in the
study, nursing the finest cigars, drinking the most expensive port,
and enjoying a good round of ribbing. It’d become a tradition,
their weekly gatherings, and the masculine study was the ideal
setting for their unorthodox cabal. The thick, wood paneled walls
concealed their laugher while the sonoma cabinet nourished their
vice for spirits and tobacco.

“
Jules is right, though,” said
Winfred, winking. “You’ve reached a pinnacle age.”

Pinnacle, indeed.

Lucy seized the crystal glass on the
table and hoisted it into the air. “A toast to
spinsterhood.”

The other ladies followed suit,
downing the smooth, spicy, fortified wine.

“
And to mark the momentous
occasion,” from Jules, drawing on the cigar, “we’ve arranged a
special surprise for you.”

“
Animal? Vegetable? Or
Mineral?”

Jules
giggled. “Animal, of
course.”

“
No, mineral,” said
Winifred.

“
Drat.” Lucy pouted. “I’d
hoped for vegetable.”

As the trio of misfits cackled, the
study door opened and a tall, robust figure filled the
entranceway.

The room hushed as Noah Carrington,
Viscount Payne, glowered at the unwelcomed intruders through the
haze of cigar smoke. He was dressed in sharp black eveningwear, his
green eyes darkening to match the tone of his suit, his sandy-blond
hair ruffled as if he’d stroked the short, wavy curls once too
often.

Lucy looked away from her formidable older
brother. She glanced down at the man’s desk, littered with estate
papers, and defiantly crossed her ankles over his account book. She
eyed the shelves next, stacked with precious tomes belonging to her
quiet, intellectual brother, Mathew. The walls, meanwhile,
epitomized her youngest sibling, Andrew, with his gothic, strangely
dream-like paintings.

It was the domain of the Carrington
brothers, the study . . . but it belonged to Lucy, for she had paid
for it—all of it—with her soul.

“
It’s half past nine.” He fisted
his fingers. “Do you intend to sit in here until the celebration is
over?”

The merriment from the ballroom seeped
into the study through the open door, but she wasn’t in a rush to
receive the guests. She avoided Time. On all grounds. She loathed
its constrictive hand at her throat, falsely frightening her into
believing she was going to lose or miss something important if she
wasn’t always hopping in a hurry.

“
Come along, Jules,” said
Winifred. “Our meeting is adjourned.”

The two ladies dunked their cigar butts
into their empty glasses, then sashayed from the room, arm in
arm.

Noah watched their saucy movements
askance, his lips firm, before he narrowed his dark gaze on his
sister once more.

Her feet still planted on the account
book, Lucy matched her brother’s scowl. Soon blood beat in her
skull. She slowly uncrossed her ankles, lowered her limbs to the
ground, feeling woozy.

The caster wheels rattled as she
pushed back the arm chair and moved away from the desk. She
approached the dour patriarch, handing him the smoldering fag
end.

A vein pulsed in his neck.

She smiled. “I lost track of the time,
I’m afraid.”

She took one, uneven step toward the
door.

“
You’re drunk,” he said in
disgust.

“
Balderdash.”

She paused beside the sonoma cabinet
with glass inlays, primping her hair. The folded curls still neatly
arranged, she fluffed her short, feathered bangs and tweaked the
ruby headpiece to make sure it was pinned securely in place.
Running her gloved hand over her red sateen bodice, she dusted her
skirt and plumped her bustle, draped in three tiers of lush taffeta
with gold thread needlework.

“
I had a little port, is
all. It’s my birthday, and I’ve every right to celebrate.” She
grabbed the short dress train in one hand, gathered her breath,
then leveled her brother with a piercing expression. “Now, if you
will excuse me, I’ve guests to greet.”

She heard the man’s curses as he
collected the glasses and cigar ends, but ignored his foul
grumblings, picking up her fan and making her way toward the second
floor and the ballroom.

She approached the landing, and soon the
red checkered carpet appeared more and more distorted. She grabbed
the cherub finial on the balustrade for support.

“
I’ll take care of you,
Lucy. I swear it.”

She squeezed the alabaster angel’s
head with a sardonic smile, the memory of Noah’s passionate oath a
tatty echo now.

She tsked. “Promises, promises,
brother.”

Lucy climbed the steps, her vertigo
contained. As she neared the double doors, a coolness settled over
her, and her footfalls grew more refined. She flicked her wrist
with force, and in one fluid movement the paper fan opened.
Swatting at the air in light strokes, she entered the spacious
ballroom.

The heat, the noise came over her like a
swell. She blinked a few times, regaining her composure, and smiled
at the assembled company. A trumpet sounded upon her entrance. She
winced, her head throbbing. The music stopped. The guests turned
toward the door, admiring her. She especially sensed the men’s
approval, and her smile widened.

As the orchestra resumed their
instruments, a familiar medley filled the air, followed by an
accompanying chorus of
For She's a Jolly Good Fellow
.

The party erupted in
applause.

Lucy curtsied in gratitude for the many
well wishes. Across the room, Jules and Winifred grinned at her,
and she winked at the pair in return.

“
Many happy returns,
Lucy.”

Andrew, her youngest sibling,
cut
through
the crowd. Tall with striking green eyes, he approached her with
his usual confidence and pecked her on the cheek.

“
It’s about time you showed
up,” he said. “I was prepared to put Mathew in a dress and parade
him through the ballroom as the guest of honor.”

Her pensive, middle brother frowned at
the jest as he, too, joined their intimate circle, his gait more
timid. He averted his light green eyes, looked at his gloved hands.
“Many happy returns, Lucy.”

“
Thank you,
brothers.”

Mathew offered her a black velvet box.
“Here.”

She accepted the gift and opened the
narrow container to find a shiny gold, chain-link bracelet with
white diamonds.

“
It’s lovely,
Mathew.”

“
I’m glad you like it,” he
said quietly.

Andrew beamed. “I’ve a present for
you, too.”

“
Where is it?”

“
Drying in my
studio.”

“
I see.”

He shrugged. “I’ll have it for you by
week’s end, I promise.”

He promised? She’d come to view vows from
her brothers with skepticism. She certainly never relied on their
word.

She looked at Mathew again.
“Well?”

“
Well, what?”

She lifted her hand. “Aren’t you going
to fasten the bracelet to my wrist?”

He appeared discomfited. “Of
course.”

Andrew circled an arm around his
ungraceful brother’s wide shoulders. “It’s all right, old fellow.
If I had my nose pinned between the pages of Frankland’s
Organic
Chemistry
,
I’d forget the finer points of etiquette, too.”

Mathew glanced sidelong at his
pestering sibling before he fiddled with the tiny clasp for half a
minute. At last he secured the jewelry to his sister’s
wrist.

Andrew then bowed with fanfare. “Might
I have the honor of a dance, my lady?”

Lucy
folded the decorative paper fan and
took her brother’s right arm, releasing Mathew from further
trumpery.

The couple set out for the dance floor,
and Andrew took her in his arms for a waltz.

“
I’ve a confession to make,
Lucy.”

Her youngest brother
was tall and lean,
unlike her other brothers who possessed more girth. She had to arch
her neck to meet his emerald eyes. “What is it?”

“
I promised young Archibald
Watson a dance.”

“
Really? Well, I won’t keep
you from your partner.”

“
With you, my dear. I
promised him a dance with you.”

“
Oh? Mr. Watson cannot ask
me to dance himself?”

Andrew smirked as he twirled with her
around the grand room. “He’s afraid he’ll get his heart
broken.”

She lifted a single brow. “It’s
unfortunate for Mr. Watson I left my dance card in my
bedroom.”

“
I’ll send Mathew to fetch
it. He’d like nothing better than to escape the drudgery of polite
society.”

“
And if I’m not inclined to
dance with the cowardly Mr. Watson?”

“
Damnation, Lucy,” he
growled, dropping the cordial pretense. “Are you really going to
die an old maid with the epithet chiseled into your
gravestone?”

She stiffened at the cruel words, her
blood burning. “Yes.”

His features hardened. A dark light
played in his eyes. “It doesn’t suit you, my dear.
Spinsterhood.”

“
No,” she said tightly. “It
doesn’t suit
you
.”

He had a guilty conscience, like the
rest of her brothers. If he married her off, he wouldn’t have to be
reminded of his sin—her sin—but she wouldn’t be bullied into
wifedom. She intended to keep her moniker as the “iron
maiden.”

The waltz ended.

The room was still spinning in her
eyes, though. She was lightheaded, too. “I’m thirsty.”

Andrew escorted her off the dance
floor. “I’ll bring you some iced tea.”

“
Wine, if you
please.”

He frowned. After a brief pause, he wended
through the throng toward an anteroom with light refreshments—and
waited in line behind a gaggle of ladies for the tea. In a huff,
she gathered her train, making her way toward the corner of the
room and the open window.

As the cool breeze touched her warm
cheeks, she stared out over the green, misty cityscape of London.
The fan still secured in her gloved hand, she squeezed the ivory
handles between her fingers until her knuckles ached, imagining
them Andrew’s bones.

“
Good evening, Miss
Carrington.”

She glanced sidelong at the impertinent
fellow standing beside the thick yellow curtains with his hands
secured at his backside. He had approached her without a proper
introduction, and after her brother’s grating comments, she wasn’t
in a mindset to overlook his incivility.