If I were a terrible human being, I would raise the price on A Rational Arrangement after today’s cliffhanger ending. But, to prove that I’m not a monster, I’m putting it on sale instead. It’s now just $4.99!
The good news: this sale will last until the present predicament resolves, in five-six weeks.
The bad news: that’s how long it takes to resolve in the serial. You may want to buy it if you hate suspense. Just sayin’.
When Nik returned to himself, Sharone was asleep, curled sideways on the chair with her head on his shoulder. For his own part, he was resting against the chair with one arm on the seat cushion, legs folded half underneath him, the buckles of one dress shoe digging into his thigh and both legs numb. I really need to stop doing this when I’m not in a comfortable position. Or clothing. The Whittakers were standing nearby, watching him anxiously. Meredith was sprawled and asleep in a boneless heap on the floor.
“Ess she…will she be well, my lord?” Mrs. Whittaker asked, voice hushed.
He nodded, shifting Sharone’s head gently from his shoulder to the seat. “She’ll be a while recovering and it may be some time before her behavior is fully normal for a girl of her age. Being so long possessed took a toll on her. But the demon is gone now. She’ll no longer have spells of violence or wild uncontrollability or hallucinations.” Bracing against the chair, Nik heaved himself to his feet. Mr. Whittaker stepped forward to steady him as Nik winced at the prickle of life returning to half-asleep limbs.
Mrs. Whittaker gave a little gasp and covered her mouth with both hands, eyes watering with grateful tears. Mr. Whittaker pumped Nikola’s right hand in both of his, indifferent to the lack of glove. “Thank you, my lord, thank you, I don’ know how to tell you how grateful we are, for all tha’ y’ve done.” His mind was sturdy and well-balanced, especially for one whose life had been unsettled for so long.
Nikola waved off their thanks and their eagerness to press a gift on him now – “there will be plenty of time to deal with that in the morning. I need to return to the Palace – what time is it?”
It proved to be half-past midnight, which did not delight him. Still, the Ascension Ball lasted until after dawn, and even his parents rarely left before two in the morning. There would be time yet to enjoy Miss Vasilver’s company – not to mention the carriage ride home.
Nikola took his leave of the Whittakers, who were still thanking him, and made his way in long strides to the front door. Anthser had the night off, of course – even if the greatcat had not been independently wealthy, Nik would scarcely have asked any employee to work on Ascension when he himself expected to be out all night at a party. If it were up to him, there wouldn’t even be a footman made to wait by the door to let in returning houseguests and hosts. Gunther and Jill had taken the carriage and his parents to the party. After Meredith – who was not even an employee, for all love – had run all the way to the Palace and back again with a rider, Nik was not about to wake her from her well-earned sleep and ask her to repeat the trip yet another time. No, he’d find a cab, or one of the street runners – greatcats with riding seats who took fares. He paused by the hall mirror and used the lint brush from the bureau by the door to clean stray fur and dust from his coat and breeches, with help from the footman. “Do you need anything else, m’lord?”
Nik waved him off. “No, thank you, Robert, I’ll be fine.” His mother would have sent the man find a cab for her and bring it back, but Nik was too impatient to wait. He stepped out into the night and strode briskly down the drive, through the gates, and out to the quiet street beyond. Most of the cabs will be near houses that are hosting a celebration, Nik thought. I’ll head for the Palace and hope to catch one on the way. Or walk the whole way, if I must – it’s not that far.
The icy night could not chill his spirits, which were warmed by the lingering joy of healing Sharone Whittaker. He felt vindicated in his determination to help her, and beyond that elated by her recovery. On a considerably less altruistic note, the prospect of seeing Miss Vasilver again warmed him further still.
Distracted by the memory of her lips against his, Nikola paid little attention to his surroundings. He did not notice the three men trailing behind him until after he’d turned onto one of the darker streets.
Sensing someone behind him, Nik glanced over his shoulder, and was startled to see a burly figure lunging for him. Nik ducked by reflex and dodged to one side, only to collide with a second man. The first grabbed one of Nik’s arms while the second seized the other. “What—?” Nik started to say, kicking at the legs of the man behind him and trying to twist his arms free, when he felt a knifepoint at his back.
“’s enough of you,” one of the assailants hissed in his ear, pressing the blade hard enough to prick through the layers of frockcoat and jacket. Nik stopped struggling as a third man dropped a sack over his head. “Handsomely now, and there’s no one as gets hurt. Step along.”
Nik stumbled forward blind and unwilling, men herding him. “Where are—”
One arm wrapped over his chest and he felt cold metal slide beneath his jabot as the attacker pressed the blade against his bare throat. “Happens as I don’t need your tongue, yer majesty, so’s you can hold it or I’s can cut it out and hold it me own self,” the man at his back growled in a low voice. Nik closed his mouth and tried not to swallow. The knife felt razor-sharp against his skin. “Good choice. Which there’s less mess this way.”
They walked him several yards deeper into the alley. “Get the cart,” the knife-man said to one of his fellows. “Gag ’im. Don’t want his majesty gettin’ any ideas.” Someone pulled the sack up enough to force a gag into his mouth and tie it behind his head, then pulled it down again. They tied his hands behind his back as well, but left his feet free. So they want me to walk somewhere. Like this? Someone must notice. Nik did not struggle; the knife was too close to his throat. They must plan to hold me for ransom. Hah. At least I can afford to pay a ransom now. I just need to make sure they don’t have a reason to hurt or kill me before they make the exchange. He could imagine his father’s rebuke already: “What were you thinking, boy, walking about after midnight unescorted, in all your Ascension finery? You might as well have hung a sign about your neck reading ‘ABDUCT ME’.” Part of him was outraged by the whole situation: what kind of person assaults a Blessed on Ascension? Affrontery, anger, irritation (curse it I wanted to get back to the ball!) all vied with fear for dominance.
So far, fear was winning. He tried to think past the varied emotions: what can I do that might be useful but won’t get me killed? Leave a sign? He twisted his bound hands until his fingers reached the shirt cuffs, and worked off one of the links. He held onto it for the moment, afraid the men would notice the noise it would make falling.
A few minutes passed before the slow rattle of wheels against cobblestone approached. Nik considered the wisdom of causing a commotion in the hopes of attracting some attention versus the possibility of having his throat slit now. But the wheels stopped nearby anyway, and he realized this was the assailants’ own cart. As the men shoved him into it – it was small, some kind of pushcart rather than greatcat-driven – Nik dropped the cufflink, grunting and stumbling to cover the sound. One of the men cuffed him. “Shut up, you.”
Knife-man leaned down to whisper, “We’re gonna be right here pushin’ this cart, yer majesty, an’ they’ll hang a man for abduction sure as for murder.” He drew a shallow line in Nik’s cheek with the knife; Nik whimpered involuntarily as blood trickled from the cut. “So’s don’t be thinkin’ as anyone might save you afore we can kill you. Which you jus’ keep still and quiet and there’s no one as gets hurt.” They threw a tarp that reeked of seaweed and mildew over him, and the cart jolted into motion.
“Certainly.” She rested her hand lightly against his forearm: even through the layers of dress jacket and cloth, the hard underlying muscle was evident, thick but with no trace of fat. “Elsewise you might see fit to end your ceasefire with yourself, and I would not wish to be responsible for that.”
“So you are defending me. Cleverly done. You ought to teach my sister that trick: she’s been trying to get me to stop for years. On second thought, don’t. I cannot allow it known that I am so easily thwarted – I shall have to master some way around your gambit.” Lord Comfrey steered her to the nearest door leading to the third-floor hallway, scarlet and gold coattails flaring behind him.
“I hope you do not; I have no better ploy in my mind if you defeat this one. Where are we walking to, my lord?” Wisteria resisted the temptation to caress his arm. It took a surprising amount of effort.
“I don’t know. If you were me, which way would you expect me to go?”
“Oh.” Wisteria was not very good at guessing what other people would do. “Right, towards the grand staircase and the petitioner’s hall? For refreshments.”
“Well enough.” He turned left, strides brisk but not so quick that she could not readily keep pace.
She tilted her head at him as they walked. “Would you have done the opposite of whatever I suggested?”
“Of course.” Lord Comfrey nodded to the liveried greatcat at the end of the hall. The servant pawed open the door with a bow, and they walked through.
“Oh. Are you thwarting my prediction in retaliation for my successful defense of your character?”
“Hmm? No, not at all. I am defending myself from a few overeager acquaintances.” He glanced about the exhibit hall, then drew her to a spot to one side of the doors, half behind the display of mannequins in Abandoned World dress. He leaned against the same wall that had the doors.
Wisteria blinked at him. “Are you hiding, my lord?”
“Me? Hide? No. Not at all. Never. What reason could I possibly have to hide? Inconceivable.” He gave a sidelong glance to the closed doors. “…all right, perhaps a little.”
“I thought I was the only one who did that at balls.” She fell silent as he touched a finger to his lips. The doors swung open inwards, several feet to their right. A group of two men and a woman spilled through. They chattered merrily as they gave a quick look about the room, but the door and the exhibit combined to screen Comfrey from their glance. “We’ll catch up to him,” one of the men said, and the three continued to the next hall.
As the newcomers left, Lord Comfrey took Wisteria’s hand and led her quietly back out the doors through which they had just entered. As the liveried greatcat closed the doors behind them, the lord set her hand back in the crook of his arm and they moved at a casual stroll. “Now, what possible reason would a beautiful gentlewoman such as yourself have for hiding during an evening of such splendid entertainments?”
“I am not good with people. What reason does a handsome lord such as yourself have?”
“Possibly I am too good with people. My dear, why would you say such a thing about yourself?”
“Because it is true? How can one be too good with people?”
He smiled, watching her sidelong as he said, “What sort of reason is that? Where would we be if everyone said things only because they happened to be true?”
“In a more perfect Paradise? I daresay I might even be better with people. Is there a disadvantage to being too good?” Wisteria remembered moments too late that she ought not repeat a question if it went unanswered.
“That depends on whether or not one minds hiding from them occasionally.”
She tilted her head at him as they paced down the long, wide hall, this one adorned with enormous portraits of past rulers encased in heavy gilt frames. Most of the guests were in one of the main rooms; only a few couples were promenading along it as they were.
He must have seen something in her expression – Wisteria had no idea what – because Lord Comfrey tossed back his long black hair and laughed. Sobering, he patted her hand and said, quietly, “Lord Micheldon – the particular individual whose notice we just escaped – is a perfectly harmless, amiable man with a great fondness for fencing, an interest I happen to share. He is also a voluble man who can speak at the sort of length that makes it nigh-impossible for almost anyone else to get a word in edgewise. Now, I am not the sort of man to be silenced easily – or at all, as you may have already learnt to your dismay – so if I wish to discuss fencing or sport or indeed anything else with Lord Micheldon, he is a fine companion. However, if I wish to talk with anyone else about any other topic, I have found it simplest to avoid his attention entirely.”
“Oh. So the downside is that people will seek you out whether you wish to be sought or not?”
“Precisely. I would apologize for bragging, but I gather you have an inexplicable fondness for honesty and I am not in fact remorseful.”
“I am afraid you have the wrong of me, my lord. My fondness for honesty is entirely explicable.”
“Is it?” Lord Comfrey tapped one tan finger against his slightly crooked nose. “It does not seem a passion that brings you any pleasure. Have you considered cultivating a taste for a more conventional interest?”
“What makes you think it brings me no pleasure?”
“Why, because it does not make you smile.” A crease formed between his narrow eyebrows as he drew them together. “…or perhaps it is I who do not make you smile.”
Wisteria shook her head. “I am afraid that nothing makes me smile, Lord Comfrey.”
“Nothing?” he asked. “Not jesters? Roses? Fluffy bunnies? Chocolate?” She shook her head in turn to each item. “I truly have no hope of seeing you smile, Miss Vasilver?”
“You truly do not want to see me smile, Lord Comfrey.”
“But I do, I assure you. I have been curious to see your smile since the first time I saw you, and having it cruelly withheld from me thus has made my interest keener still.”
“You only say that because you have never seen my attempt at a smile.”
“Undeniably I would not yearn to see for the first time your smile had I already done so.” He was smiling at her now. She liked the way he looked smiling, the lively animation it gave his features. “You have the most remarkable control over your expression, Miss Vasilver. I shall not see you smile even a little?”
“You mistake me entirely. I exercise very little control over my expression at all. That is the problem,” Wisteria said. Lord Comfrey did not respond to that, and she knew that he did not understand. “Oh, very well.” After glancing about to make sure no one was paying attention to them, she drew him to one side of the hall, near the far end from where they had begun, stood to face him, and turned the corners of her mouth up.
He burst into laughter, and covered his mouth with one hand, trying to turn the laugh to a cough. “That’s – er – that’s the most impressively fake smile I have ever seen. You may stop now.”
“Do I not have it right? Let me try again.” She let her mouth relax, then tried harder, turning the corners up and exposing her teeth. Lord Comfrey choked on laughter. “No? How is this?”
He shielded his face with one hand from the others in the hall, still struggling to control his laughter. “All right, now you’re not even trying. Enough, I beg you.”
Wisteria let her expression return to its usual default. “I did warn you.”
“So you did. Consider me schooled.” Lord Comfrey offered his arm again, and she took it. He smoothed his features into composure and they resumed their stroll. “I am impressed you can pull such faces and not be the least diverted by it.”
He doesn’t understand. He is not going to understand. It took your parents years to grasp it at all and they live with you. Let it go, Wisteria thought. “But I am diverted by it. I find it deeply amusing, especially your reaction. It just doesn’t show. There’s something wrong with my body; it doesn’t reflect my moods the way people expect it to.”
Lord Comfrey stopped and looked at her for a long moment. “Truly?”
“Truly. Even when I was an infant. I so seldom cried that I am told I suffered – silently – a host of simple childhood ailments – dehydration, ear infections, the like – because no one could tell when I was hungry or thirsty or otherwise in need of attention. Healers treated those ailments, but none could discern the underlying cause. I have conscious control of my body, obviously, but those things others do automatically in mirror of their mood – laughing, smiling, crying – my body does not do naturally. I can try to fake it, but, well, you saw the result of that. It’s better if I don’t.”
“I…see. That certainly explains a great deal.” The dark-haired man resumed their walk. He turned them when they reached the far end of the hall. “You must be a brilliant poker player.”
“My brothers will no longer permit me to sit down with them at it.”
“Hah! A grave injustice. I observe that there is always at least one table in the gaming room at this event, if m’lady wishes to indulge.”
“I should be very happy too, if my lord would join me? Or – have I kept you from your sister too long?” Wisteria belatedly realized she was monopolizing someone else’s companion, and she was not at all sure of the etiquette involved in this case.
But Lord Comfrey smiled at her. “She knows where to find me, if she runs short of dance partners.” He steered her to the grand descending staircase at the center of the wide hall. “So, do you mean that ‘very happy’, then, and it is not mere politeness?”
“Oh, I mean it, my lord. I do not say things I do not mean for the sake of courtesy; I find interaction complicated enough without adding well-meant falsehoods to the mix. That’s why I prefer truthfulness. I am no better at reading the moods of others than I am at expressing my own.”
He covered her hand on his arm with his own. “I shall endeavor to bear that in mind, my dear.”
“Miss Vasilver.” A masculine voice broke into her thoughts, and she turned to see Lord Comfrey’s handsome, broad-shouldered figure. He was not so tall as Lord Nikola – only a few inches taller than herself – but his deep-chested frame gave an impression of such power that he seemed larger, magnificent in a long scarlet jacket patterned with gold. He took her breath away; an uncomfortable reminder that Lord Nikola was not the only extraordinarily handsome man of her acquaintance. “What are you doing up here all by yourself?”
He was smiling; as was her usual default, she took the question for factual and not accusatory. “Watching the dancers.”
Lord Comfrey chuckled. “That answers the ‘what are you doing’ but not the ‘all by yourself’. Lord Nikola cannot have abandoned you so early? Or, wait – you found his company so tedious that you abandoned him?”
She shook her head. “Not at all. He was called away by an emergency, but he plans to return.” Soon, I hope.
“What sort of emergency? Is his family all right?”
“Oh, nothing to do with them, my lord. A petitioner.”
“Ah.” Lord Comfrey rested a hand against the railing next to her, but turned sideways to face her, rather than watching the dancers.
Wisteria searched her mind for useful small talk and fell back on imitation. “And you, Lord Comfrey? What are you doing up here all by yourself?”
“Why, making conversation with the most beautiful woman at the ball,” he answered. Puzzled, Wisteria looked about to see whom he meant, and Lord Comfrey laughed. “I am referring to you, Miss Vasilver. You are meant to take it as a compliment.”
“Oh.” She felt more as if he were making sport of her. No one but Byron and her mother ever called her beautiful.
“I see Miss Vasilver is not to be flattered for her exquisite looks. Am I forced to confess my wish to speak with the most intelligent woman at the ball as well?”
Now he had to be mocking her, even if calling her smart made more sense than calling her beautiful. She leaned on the railing, watching the glittering guests turn and bow below. “You’d best start looking for her, then. It’s early yet, you might have time to find her.”
He laughed again. “I daresay I already have.”
“Then perhaps you should screw up your courage and speak with her instead of me,” Wisteria said.
“Ouch.”
She stole a glance at him; he looked unhurt, although no longer smiling. She didn’t know what that signified. “Shouldn’t you be entertaining the young lady you invited to this occasion?”
He smiled again. His features did not have the stark perfection of Lord Nikola’s: nose slightly bumpy instead of straight, lips narrow, dark eyebrows low and a bit crooked, face rather triangular – but the imperfections did not detract from the overall appeal. Added to it, perhaps, making his face more interesting. She looked away quickly before she started staring, listening as he said, “Alas! The weakness of the flesh forced me to withdraw from the dance floor earlier, and when I returned – mere minutes later! – my partner had already been cruelly stolen from me. My sister even now dances with that cad Blackwell, leaving me no choice but to inflict my presence on innocent young women such as yourself. Or sulk in a corner, I suppose, but what sort of a man would I be if I did that?”
“Your sister?” I must have missed that in the introduction earlier. “What terrible plague do you have that you had to ask your sister to the Ascension Ball?” Wisteria asked without thinking.
That made Lord Comfrey laugh again. “The kind that makes one procrastinate until it’s too late to ask anyone else who is not already engaged. Fear not, I am assured it’s not contagious.”
She realized belatedly how insulting that must have sounded. “I apologize, my lord, I intended no offense – it’s just something Lord Nikola said to me earlier—”
“Ah, so Lord Nikola is the one who intended to offend me?”
“No, no, not at all, he was speaking of what other people would say if…oh, I am not going to recover from this, am I? Please forgive me, Lord Comfrey.”
“Forgiven.” Lord Comfrey smiled at her again, and gave her a slight bow. “In return, might you be so good as to tell me what I did to annoy you, that I might ask forgiveness for that?”
“Oh…” Wisteria hesitated, suspecting she had completely misread the situation. As usual. “I thought you were mocking me, my lord. With that exaggerated flattery.”
“Ah.” He leaned against the rail, watching her. “I will confess to occasional use of hyperbole, miss, although in this particular instance I do not believe I resorted to it. Certainly it was not my intent to make mock of you. Why would you think that?”
She was facing the opposite balcony, her ear to him to hear him better. Does he truly think me beautiful? She could not ask. The crystals on her dress and in her hair caught the gaslight from the chandeliers and reflected it back, scattering spots of light around her. “I am…very bad at discerning intent, my lord. I took you for serious the other day when you made sport of Mr. Edgewick, and now I am wary of making the same mistake again.”
“I see. I know I warned you not to take me seriously, Miss Vasilver, but I assure you I would not sharpen my tongue at your expense. I save my mockery for deserving men – fortunately there’s always at least one around who suits, if the mood strikes me.”
“Always?” Wisteria glanced about them; their section of the balcony was clear of other traffic for the moment.
“Indeed.”
“And who would be that man now?”
“Why, myself, of course.”
Amusement bubbled inside her. “And what have you done to deserve such abuse, my lord?”
“Oh, the list is endless, my dear. The ball would be over before I was half-done. Why, I am so well-known as a monster that entirely blameless young women must assume I approach only to demean them.”
“It may be that these young ladies are a trifle oversensitive.”
“I would never say that.” He turned to rest his hands on the railing beside her, not close enough to impinge on her personal space, but she had the sense of his presence anyway. She caught the faint musk of his cologne, pleasant but curious, like chocolate and leather.
“Think it, perhaps?” Wisteria offered, stealing a sidelong glance at him. Lord Comfrey was not merely handsome but disturbingly attractive. It seemed especially wrong of her to find him so after she’d been kissing a different man not an hour ago.
“…perhaps.” He smiled for a moment before sobering. “But no, I do believe the fault is mine alone. I am quite the monster, after all.”
“And in what way are you monster, my lord?” Does your monstrosity extend to ravishing purportedly blameless young women? May I volunteer? Accustomed as she was to having her thoughts run on inappropriate topics, this one surprised even her. Am I so much the slattern that I crave any man’s touch now? She knew nothing of Lord Comfrey’s reputation on this point, but she’d made no specific inquiries into it either, so that meant little.
“All men are monsters, Miss Vasilver. Did no one warn you?”
“Too many times to count, and I give it no credence whatsoever,” Wisteria answered at once. “It is nonsense designed to rob men of agency and lay the blame for their faults upon their sex. It not only insults men but makes a tiresome excuse, as if one’s gender robbed one of…I was not supposed to take that seriously, was I?”
“Not a bit, but please, do not let that deter you.” Lord Comfrey faced her again with a smile. “What are we robbed of?”
“…responsibility for one’s actions.”
“Ah! That sounds refreshing. I have always longed to be irresponsible.”
Wisteria was beginning to catch on to the dark-haired lord’s irreverence. “Is this where you mock yourself, my lord?”
“You have caught me at it indeed! I hope you do not intend to defend me; I should hate for you to join on the losing side.”
“Should I be part of the attack, then? I might have some ammunition from the Colbury file.”
He considered this for a moment. “All things considered, I’d prefer you didn’t. I have sufficient ammunition against myself already.”
“Am I condemned to the role of mere spectator, in that case?”
“That doesn’t seem gentlemanly, does it? Now that you mention it. Very well, I will abandon my quarrel with myself in the interests of serving the greater conversational good.” The man paused, dark eyes studying her with such exaggerated scrutiny that even she could not miss it. “That was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”
“…perhaps.”
“Well-played.” Lord Comfrey turned from the rail and offered his arm. “Will you walk with me, Miss Vasilver?”
