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“I’m certain that Lady Selfridge can assist you,” Nuala said, gesturing to Frances. “Please join the others.”
The young man did so, moving with a loose, upright stride in spite of his pain and poverty. Deborah stared after him.
“It doesn’t seem as if he belongs here,” Deborah said.
“He probably came to London from Wales, seeking a way out of the mines,” Nuala said quietly. “The city doesn’t always welcome those who are different.”
“If only there were more we could do,” Deborah murmured.
“Yes. Once we have the drivers and more volunteers, we—”
“Oy! Wot’s a wee gal loik yer doin’ ’ere, missy?”
The troublemaker had been ignored too long, and now he’d found fresh prey. Before Nuala could tell Deborah to ignore him, the young woman turned to face the man.
“If you are only here to cause trouble,” she said, “you should leave.”
The man burst out laughing, his spittle flying in Deborah’s face. “Quite th’ bold un, ain’cher?” He bent to peer more closely into Deborah’s eyes. “Yer looks roight familiar, a’ that. Sure yer ain’t never been spreadin’ yer legs fer them wot can pay?” He rubbed greasy fingers together. “I got a pence er two ter spare….”
“Enough.” The Welshman, his hazel eyes flashing, pushed his way between Deborah and the lout before Nuala could do so. “It’s all jaws ye are, Bray, and we’ve no desire to hear more of your foul talk.”
“An’wot’ll yer do abou’i’, wif yer crippled hand?”
“I’ve another,” the Welshman said, raising his left fist.
It almost seemed as if Bray would back down, but instead he reached into his frayed coat and withdrew a knife. He sliced the air in front of the Welshman’s face, then lunged toward the younger man’s injured hand. He withdrew the blade in a blur of motion, leaving a red line across the back of the Welshman’s knuckles.
Deborah gasped. Without thinking, Nuala concentrated on the knife and made a light gesture with her fingers. Snarling an oath, Bray dropped the knife and shook his hand as if it had been burned. He cast an evil, speculative glance in Deborah’s direction, turned and barreled through the diminishing group of waiting men.
Nuala stared at her own hand in astonishment. Surely it hadn’t really happened. Pure chance that Bray had dropped the knife just after she had chanted the spell. Mere coincidence…
Deborah rushed back to the table to fetch her reticule and returned with a handkerchief. “Oh,” she said to the Welshman. “Oh! Your poor hand.”
He glanced at the blood seeping from the wound. “It is nothing, madam.”
“Nothing! You saved my life.”
The boy’s jaw locked. “He would never have hurt you.”
But Deborah was in no mood for argument. She seized the Welshman’s hand and pressed her handkerchief to the laceration. He tried to withdraw, but she kept a firm hold.
“Do not struggle so,” she scolded. “You must let Lady Selfridge bind it, and splint your fingers.”
There was a look about him that suggested he wished only to flee the scene of what he very likely regarded as his humiliation, but when Frances came forward to chivvy him toward the table, he didn’t resist.
Reluctantly, Deborah returned to distributing the remainder of the food. Nuala watched over her while Frances finished cleaning and stitching the first boy’s infected wound, gave the old man a liniment for his joints and went to work setting the Welshman’s fingers. He didn’t flinch as she snapped them into place.
“You’re fortunate, young man,” Lady Selfridge said as she splinted and bound the fingers together. “A longer wait, and you might have lost the use of them.”
“It’s grateful I am, madam,” he said.
“You must change the bandages daily—here, take these—and keep the wound clean. It is not deep, and should heal quickly.”
“I shall do as you direct, madam.”
She muttered under her breath and began packing her supplies. The Welshman headed for the door.
“I beg your pardon,” Deborah called after him.
He turned, his eyes shaded by the brim of his cap. “Madam?”
“I only wished to thank you again.”
“It is not necessary, madam.”
“What is your name?”
“Ioan Davies.”
She offered her hand. “Deborah…Lady Orwell.”
After a moment’s hesitation he took her hand with his left and made a little bow. “Lady Orwell.” He released her hand quickly and was out the door before she could speak again.
Clearly distressed, Deborah turned to Nuala. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have come,” she said.
“What happened was not your fault.”
“But that man…” She wrapped her arms around her waist. “Did he actually call me a…” She trailed off, flushing. Nuala took her hand.
“They were only words, Deborah.” Only words. As Nuala’s little spell had been “only magic.”
It was not real. It couldn’t have been.
ALL THE WAY BACK to Belgravia, Deborah was very quiet and lost in thought. Nuala could well understand why. She had seen ugly things in Whitechapel: the worst sort of misery and poverty, pain, hatred. She would see it again. Her previously sheltered life was coming to an end.
“Do you suppose we’ll see Mr. Davies again?” she asked Nuala as Frances descended from the carriage.
“Only if he breaks another finger,” Nuala said. “That young man has pride.”
“Surely some measure of pride is something to be admired in a place like that. He has nothing, yet he behaved like a gentleman.”
“One is a lady or gentleman by nature, Deborah, not only by birth. There are true gentlemen in the rookeries and brutes in Mayfair.”
“But most people are something in between.”
Yes, Nuala thought. Very much like Sinjin Ware.
And herself.
We are none of us innocent.
If she had indeed used magic in Whitechapel—if it had not been a figment of her own imagination—it was no cause for celebration. She had come very close to the Gray. And that was not how she would wish her abilities to return. Better she remember that she had earned their disappearance, and wish them away again.
She let Deborah off at the girl’s house and continued to her own home on Grosvenor Street. Once in her boudoir, she sat at her desk and laid out a sheet of stationery. Pen poised above the paper, she wondered how to begin.
Dear Lord Donnington,
It has come to my attention that you and I must…
She scratched out the words and selected another sheet.
Dear Lord Donnington,
Much to my regret, it appears that there have been certain misunderstandings…
With a soft curse, long antiquated, but not inappropriate to the situation, Nuala crushed the paper and placed her chin on her palm. It simply would not do. They must speak privately, face-to-face.
She selected a third sheet and began another letter, folded it, sealed it and sent it with a footman to Tameri’s town house. It was very likely that a socially prominent—if controversial—gentleman such as Lord Donnington would be invited to her garden party. And there, at last, they might have a chance to talk in a relatively safe environment.
As if she could ever be safe again.
MAYE HOUSE was all that a duchess’s should be. It had been the Duke of Vardon’s second house in London; the first was now occupied by the current duchess, the wife of the dowager’s brother-in-law. But the former duke had seen his widow well lookedafter, and so the stately mansion—named, it was said, after a distant relation of a previous century—was a model of luxury.
Luxury in the ancient Egyptian style. Towering statues of the goddesses Bast, Hathor, Sekhmet and Isis greeted the visitor in the entrance hall; the walls were painted with murals of kings and queens giving audiences to their subjects and exotic foreign vassals. In concession to modern tastes, the chairs along the walls in the ballroom, as well as those at the table in the dining room, had been constructed in a more comfortable style than the hard chairs the dowager Duchess of Vardon favored in her more private quarters.
None of these sights were unfamiliar to Society. Eccentric the dowager might be, but she held considerable influence when she chose to use it, and had a great deal of money to spend on her entertainments.
The garden party was no exception. Maye House had an exceptional garden and a conservatory that was the envy of every botanical enthusiast in the capital. Exotic plants crowded against the glass, vast rubbery leaves nodding over each other, brilliant flowers popping up in unexpected places. In the center, a cleared space allowed room for chairs and conversation. If one could tolerate the heat, it was a very pleasant venue.
The party spilled out onto a neatly kept lawn, edged with shrubberies clipped into the reclining canine form of the god Anubis, where tents had been set up to provide additional shade for tables displaying a selection of delicacies. Every sort of drink was provided, leaving no guest an excuse to go thirsty. Heaps of flowers had been beautifully arranged in vases on the surrounding walls. Doors stood open to a palm-bedecked reception room, available for those who found the clement weather too taxing.
Deborah and Nuala walked together, arm in arm, while the younger woman chattered incessantly in a manner quite out of character. Nuala thought she knew the reason. According to Tameri, most of the Forties had been invited—they were popular guests, in spite of their contempt for the state of holy matrimony—and though she didn’t expect all of them to turn up, she had received notice that both Lord Donnington and Mr. Melbyrne planned to attend.
The way Deborah’s gaze darted from face to face, searching for one in particular, suggested that Nuala had not been mistaken in her guess at the park. There had definitely been a spark between Deborah and Melbyrne. A rightness in their coming together.
Nuala shook her head. It was none of her business. If it was meant to be, they would find each other without her help.
At least not of the magical sort.
“Ah,” she said, spotting the young man in question. “I believe I see Mr. Melbyrne.”
Deborah craned her neck and almost immediately resumed a more prudent demeanor. “Oh? I did not know he was to come.”
“Perhaps we ought to greet him,” Nuala suggested.
“Surely it would seem a bit forward, would it not?”
“At a party such as this? Not at all. We have already been introduced.”
“Well…if you really think it the polite thing to do…”
“You like him, don’t you?” Nuala asked, unable to help herself.
“He…he is most personable.”
“Let us go, then.” Nuala gently steered Deborah toward the open doors of the conservatory, where Mr. Melbyrne was engaged in light conversation with a man with whom Nuala was not yet acquainted. Melbyrne noticed Deborah’s approach and beamed.
“Lady Orwell,” he said, bowing. “Lady Charles.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Melbyrne,” Nuala said into Deborah’s tongue-tied silence. “How very pleasant to find you here after our meeting in the park.”
“Indeed. A great pleasure.” He glanced at Deborah. “Are you enjoying the party, Lady Orwell?” he asked, his voice pitched a little high.
“We are only just arrived,” Deborah said quietly. “And you?”
“Yes.” He remembered himself and gestured at his companion. “Lady Orwell, Lady Charles, may I present Mr. Leopold Erskine.”
Mr. Erskine, a tall and lanky man with a pleasant face, bowed with a charming touch of awkwardness. “Ladies. It is a privilege to make your acquaintance.”
Nuala offered her hand. “I have heard your name, Mr. Erskine. Are you not an archaeologist and scholar of ancient languages?”
“Some have said so, Lady Charles.”
“Mr. Erskine is entirely too modest,” Melbyrne said. “He knows more than the rest of us put together.”
“Are you a member of the Forties, Mr. Erskine?” Deborah asked innocently.
Nuala kept her teeth locked together. If Deborah had any real interest in Melbyrne, it had been the height of foolishness to remind him of his club’s vows. But he seemed not to notice, and Erskine was already answering.
“I am not, Lady Orwell,” he said. “I have never been prone to joining such institutions, but I do count several of its members as friends.”
“And we are privileged by his condescension,” a deep voice said from behind him.
Nuala’s spine prickled. Sinjin had arrived.
CHAPTER FOUR
MELBYRNE SEEMED TO SHRINK a little, but Erskine raised a satirical brow. “Good afternoon, Lord Donnington.”
“Erskine. Melbyrne.” He turned immediately to the ladies. “Good afternoon, Lady Orwell, Lady Charles. It seems only yesterday that we met in the park.”
Nuala didn’t offer her hand. It was trembling far too much, and she feared that Sinjin might feel the beating of her heart through her fingers “Time moves very quickly during the Season, don’t you agree?” she said.
He studied her intently. “Perhaps too quickly. Matters of importance may be so conveniently forgotten.”
“Perhaps such matters ought to be dealt with as soon as possible.”
“Business of that nature might best be conducted in privacy,” Sinjin said.
