Transmuted (24 page)

We had best step out of obvious view.

“These are collectors,” I announced for the earl’s benefit. “No doubt they were furnished with a notice for my capture.”

“Your what?” Piers hesitated, acquired tube clenched in hand. He stood with all the affronted dignity of his breeding—for all that he’d mucked about below as I had, blood truly did tell in such matters. “You’re not serious. Collectors set on a countess?”

“A disgraced countess,” I reminded him, though gently.

To be sure, it would take little else to force the hand of Society gentlemen whose standing did not reach the lofty eaves of an earl or would-be marquess. Without the protection of the marchioness, nor a husband to shelter me, I was but a quarry to them—and I supposed they’d considered me easy pickings.

More fool they.

Ashmore bent over the young man, checking for signs of vitality. “He will live,” he said, and hauled him up by the lapels. “Come this way.”

I followed my tutor to a deeper portion of the terrace, farther from the doors and near enough to the stairs taken by the fleeing gentlemen that I studied the dimly lit grounds beyond for any sign of movement.

The gardens beneath the terrace were cultivated for strolling, akin enough to the private gardens at the Menagerie that I wondered at the likeness. No doubt such a garden had been used for much in its time.

At this moment, as I braced myself against the balustrade and studied the shadows looming within, I forced an outward calm I did not feel.“They appear to have scarpered off.”

“As long as we’ve one,” Ashmore replied, “then they can hide anywhere they want. You’ve more than proved your mettle.”

“And how,” Piers added, dry as dust. He held the tube between gloved fingers, proffering it to me without a hint of irritation. I accepted it—the tube and the unspoken understanding of my expertise in this particular arena—with a nod of thanks. “I had always wondered if I would ever face a collector, but I’d never expected to be so ambushed.”

“Such is the nature of the life below.” I ran my own fingers over the item. “Save for the certainty that those lot would never see it as more than a lark.” The weapon was shaped somewhat like a flute, long and slender, but made of stone instead of metal. The color was a mix of fog and green, pale under the faint light afforded by moon and straining lamps across the way.

“Jade,” Ashmore volunteered before I could. He braced the young man upon the balustrade, a fist tight in the twitching gentleman’s lapels.

I took up the thread of my tutor’s thoughts without pause. “I know of only one source wherein such tools might be made of jade and carved to suit.”

Piers, who studied the young man with a raised eyebrow, followed along. “It looks Oriental to me, what with the dragon’s mouth on one end and all.”

“So the question I am pressed to wonder,” I mused, “is whether Lady Sarah Elizabeth set the collectors upon me direct, or if the Veil did. And if the latter, then is our lady allied with him?”

“I wonder.” Piers studied me with raised eyebrow. “While I am aware of her attachments to the Menagerie, would she make such a fuss in her own gala?” A pause, and then he bent forward and said with droll interest, “I think he’s coming about, poor sod.”

I left the unfortunate boy to Ashmore. Perhaps not the kindest of options, but I was rather taken by the tube I studied; my exhaustion with all precepts of so-called propriety did not allow much mercy for them what wished me harm.

One side of the tube was a bit slimmer, whilst the mouth of the narrow dragon the whole had been carved gaped wider than the tube within allowed. It was the sort of weapon that one blew a projectile out of.

Frowning, I recalled the efforts all three had made to do just that.

Although one might not expect it, such attempts were not so easy to master as it might seem. To aim from one’s mouth, holding the tube steady and aloft, bore with it a greater need of skill than assumed.

As the young man groaned in bleary awareness of pain, I retraced steps back onto the terrace proper, searching the ground near where I had stood. The projectiles flung from the tube might be as thin as a needle.

Or, I realized as I turned in a graceful swirl of black and caught a glimpse of bright red, luck would be on my side.

I bent, tucking the tube under my arm, and gathered my skirts so that I might reach the farthest hem at my left. It took some effort, some sifting through various draping, but I found the dart aimed at me buried in the capacious folds of my gown.

A bit of red feathers, sewn on to a needle-fine point, provided an easy mark to grasp. Holding it ever so carefully between my gloved thumb and forefinger, I returned to my companions. “Hold still.”

They obeyed me, the earl more out of curiosity than aught else, and allowed me to study them carefully. The young man held between them lolled back his head, in that fitful way of a body struggling to ascertain in which direction lay
awake
.

I saw no sign of darts attached to either of my companions, which was something of a relief—and, no doubt, a consternation to them gentlemen who had failed most spectacularly.

“I found this,” I said, and proffered the dart to my tutor. He took it with interest. “This is no common tool.”

“What?” The word was more of a snort, a grunt as unconsciousness merged rather abruptly with reality in the poor young man’s awareness. Once cognizance returned to the unfocused sheen of his otherwise pretty grayhued eyes, they flared wildly. “What is this? Unhand me!”

I might have thought of him a bit better if the demand did not crack, as a boy’s did.

“I am afraid not,” I said politely. “My apologies.”

On cue, Ashmore’s grip tightened upon the young man’s lapels. He put on for me—or, rather, for our captive—a fierce expression of deeply rooted severity; a promise, no doubt, of terrible consequence to come.

The boy paled.

This close, I saw him as perhaps only a touch older than I, though with none of the worldliness I felt I’d learned to carry. His hair was neatly cropped, black under the dim sky, and his grip trembling as it latched around my tutor’s wrist.

Those eyes turned imploringly to Piers. “Please, my lord,” he pled. I winced to hear it. “Don’t let them hurt me.”

Piers, for his part in this farce, folded his arms across his chest, his mouth pursed in deep thought. “You’re… Willoughby’s lad, aren’t you? Third or fourth.”

“Fourth son,” he confirmed, though he stuttered to do it. “Two sisters. Ah… Bennett Hale Willoughby, if you please.”

“Bennett Hale Willoughby.” Piers rolled the name around his tongue as though tasting it for a memory. When he tipped his head, he did so with a finality that did not bode well for the boy’s hope of safety. “Well, young Master Bennett, you’re in a rather lot of trouble, aren’t you?”

On cue, and perhaps rather more abruptly than necessary, Ashmore pushed against the gentleman’s chest, forcing his back out over the expanse of the garden below.

I watched in mixed resignation and amusement as he croaked out a shout, clutching at Ashmore’s jacket with his free hand. “No, no! Please, I’ll do anything!”

“And this,” I said with a sigh, “is why Society collectors are worthless.”

“Yes, of course,” Bennett replied hastily. “As you say.”

“Right him,” I said, and Ashmore obeyed—though a hint of a smile played about his mouth. “Do you know who I am?”

“Lady Compton,” our captive said quickly. His gaze darted about every which way— seeking sanctuary, no doubt. “We were told to acquire you, my lady.”

“By notice?” I asked sharply.

He shook his head, fingers white in Ashmore’s coat. “No, my lady. I mean, yes, my lady, but we were approached direct.”

That was exactly what I’d hoped to hear.

I tucked a hand into the crook of Piers’s arm, tugging him gently to the side so that I might better fill Bennett’s vision. My smile, as I so intended it, was a sharp one. “Tell me, Mr. Bennett,” I said, rather more sweetly than the situation warranted. “To whom were you asked to deliver me?”

He squeezed his eyes shut, a gleam of sickly sweat blooming over his forehead and cheeks. “Please, my lady. If I say, I’ve no doubt I’ll be next on the bounty list.”

“That is assuming that I do not get to your patron first,” I said.

His eyes flew wide. “What? My lady, you cannot hope to—”

The tube I carried whistled through the air in an arc, connecting with the top of his head quite soundly. The echoing
thunk
of stone meeting skull was quickly supplanted by a harsh yelp and a quickly bitten out, “Mercy, my lady!”

I tucked the tube against my shoulder, as though it were the club I’d just designated it. “Now that we’ve cleared the formalities,” I said, again with a sweetness that belied my intent. “Shall we broach this again? Your patron, if you please.”

Ashmore’s fist tightened to a knot under the young man’s chin.

I felt a bit sorry for the fellow, this much was true, yet I considered our actions something of a service. This boy had clearly joined the ranks of Society collector out of boredom; the life of a fourth son was no doubt fraught with such ennui. Unless he married well—and married up, for that matter—Mr. Bennett Hale Willoughby was destined for a life of service or trade.

As my tutor held him over the rather less than terminal drop beyond the balustrade, as the young man came to understand that the earl he had so offended would not help him, I watched resignation replace fear in his eyes.

“All right,” he snapped, falling back to righteous indignation when pleas for mercy went ignored. It was, for him, better than the vulnerability of defeat. “All right, I’ll tell you what I know. Please don’t drop me.”

“Good.” Ashmore righted him once more, and even did him the courtesy of straightening his rumpled coat.

“Did you receive this from your patron?” I asked, holding up the tube. “This dart device.”

“Yes,” admitted Bennett, belatedly tugging his apparel into place. His gloves were less white than before, but any gentlemen would have a spare. He would return to the ball with none the wiser.

And I would ensure to find and stop his patron before anything befell Mr. Bennett.

Piers braced a hand upon the balustrade and peered out into the garden, as though he were no more a part of the situation as the shadows he studied.

“Then your patron,” I suggested. “Quickly, please. You no doubt wish to return to the festivities.”

Bennett smoothed down his hair. “All right. But you mustn’t say that I’d given you anything,” he added, quite firmly.

I was not so vindictive as to deny him this. Were he any more skilled, and matters might be different. “I have already beaten you once,” I told him, earning a flush for my honesty. “I’ve no intentions of putting the boot in when you’re down.”

“Thank you,” he said stiffly, and then countered with an awkward, “I think.”

I’d allow him to dwell on it without any reassurance from me. “Then—”

Piers raised a hand, white as marble in the faded light. “There’s someone here,” he said quickly, low and sharp.

I rounded our captive to study the same shadows Piers watched so intently. “Are you certain?”

“No,” he said quietly. “And ’tis that very reason I am uneasy.”

Bennett took the opportunity to rub at his face, as though weary. Ashmore ensured that he remained within reach of the boy, but said to us both, “We should return inside.”

I’d be deuced if I lost ground now. I rounded on Bennett, pointing at him with the blow tube. “Who gave you this? Who gave you the notice?”

He groaned into his hands, and then straightened. His chin lifted, as though he meant to bear whatever burden came. “I knew this all seemed rather distasteful, yet here I am, regardless.” A sigh. “Very well, my lady. Please accept my deepest apologies—”

“Yes, yes,” I said hurriedly. “Go on with it.”

Though disapproval touched his features, echoed by a faint snort from Piers behind me, Mr. Bennett inclined his head. “Our patron left no name, however he—”

Pff.
The sound seemed like little more than a brush of wind, a touch of breeze through the garden below. I would have paid it no mind at all save that at the same time, Ashmore’s gaze focused over the young man’s shoulder. He barked, “Down,” as he wrenched Bennett off the balustrade with a hard arm at the shoulder.

I moved without gauging the whole of the scene, for there was no time. A needle-sharp glint winked in the darkness, and I threw the whole of my weight upon Piers, who was not prepared for me.

We fell to the terrace stone, mirrored by the heavy thud of Bennett and Ashmore nearby, with protest tangling in Piers’s throat. It came out more a curse and grunt than aught else.

For a Society event wherein parlor games were not the intent, I was spending too much of my time upon the ground.

Among the many reasons I felt a female was to be vaunted above the singular male, the art of mobility whilst entrapped in such capacious attire as fashion required of a lady was perhaps primary. Intellect might be measured equally, were the scale objective enough to allow it, and certainly our capacity for emotion—both good and base—might be similar in scope.

However there was a reason I preferred trousers when hunting below, and that was simply due to the lack of obstruction.

Even so, I did not allow fashion’s dictates to halt me from my pursuit. Unlike Piers, who reeled a bit from his abrupt re-introduction to the cobbles, I rolled over, pushed myself up, and seized as many of my skirts and crinoline as I could in one arm. I hopped over Bennett and my tutor, who covered the boy, and all but leapt down the stairs.

The pull of my crape gown nearly tumbled me off-balance. I righted myself with a stumble, my free hand touching the ornately worked path before launching into a sprint in the direction from whence the darts came.

Such motion, the drag inherent in quick maneuvering, was enough to wrench my widow’s cap from my head. I wasted no time in righting it—I tore the damned thing off and left it floating in my wake as I darted for the closest arch framed in sculpted hedgerows. Locks of my hair tumbled to my shoulders.