“A past without error is like a library without books—empty and useless. Though, I daresay, every library needs a good cleaning now and then.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lord Berne upon said gentleman’s complaint that Lady Berne’s feline companions twice destroyed both his draperies and his waistcoats.
This was the room where Phineas had proposed to Maureen. Blue draperies had since been replaced by gold ones, and he thought the carpet might be new, but otherwise, the library at Berne House remained as he remembered: Wood-paneled and small, it was as cluttered and comfortable as the Huxleys themselves. A winged chair sat between the window and fireplace, the worn, age-crinkled leather beckoning hours of reading. A small sofa sat along the opposite wall, and the large writing desk beside it was littered with papers, an open book, and a teacup steaming beside a pen.
Phineas remembered this feeling—as though he’d wandered in by mistake, a stranger from a frigid, desolate land discovering warmth and chaos and ready affection for the first time. The last six years had changed many things, but this feeling was not one.
“Holstoke.” Stanton Huxley, the Earl of Berne, rose from the desk, his smile wide and welcoming. “By God, it is good to see you.” The lean, silver-haired man extended his hand.
Phineas shook it, still uncertain why all Huxleys appeared to like him so well. “Lord Berne. Thank you for agreeing to speak with me. My apologies for the early call.”
“Nonsense.” The man’s eyes—a lively hazel none of his daughters had inherited—glinted with humor. “A bit early for dinner, but hardly for conversation.”
After offering him tea and inviting him to sit, Berne perched on the sofa, sipped from his cup, and casually stated, “If you think to cry off, I should warn you, Lady Berne will not have it. She would have invited you sooner, had she thought you might agree. We’re all rather fond of you, young man.”
Sighing, Phineas stroked the winged chair’s creased arm. He supposed their fondness must go perpetually unexplained. “No, I shall be here. Your daughter insists.”
Berne’s smile turned sympathetic, an expression Phineas was beginning to loathe. “Maureen’s heart is in the right place.”
“Not Lady Dunston,” Phineas corrected, his earlier vexation returning in a flood. “Lady Eugenia.”
Berne’s brows arched. “Eugenia.”
“You are aware, of course, that until recently, she was working.”
“Yes.”
“For a shabby milliner near Soho.”
“Mmm. She is no longer employed there.” Berne’s demeanor was calm. Too calm.
Phineas wanted to shout at him, but shouting was the response of a man ruled by his anger—which Phineas was not. “Because she was dismissed,” he snapped, “which may be the only thing more offensive than her being employed. How have you tolerated this?”
Berne deposited his tea on the desk and sat forward. “With great patience.”
“More than is wise. I would not permit my sister to walk along that end of Oxford Street, let alone—”
“Allow me to explain something to you, Holstoke.” Berne’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “If I may.”
Phineas nodded.
“When you are a father to five daughters, you might realize, as I did, how deuced little you know. Each child is different from the next. Different temperaments. Different interests. Different talents and aspirations. A man who loves his daughters must decide how much pressure to apply in fitting a girl into the mold society demands. Too much, and she will be crushed. Too little, and she will be ruined.” Berne sat back and retrieved his tea again, taking a sip before continuing. “Take Maureen, for example.”
“We were discussing Lady Eugenia.”
“Patience, my boy. I am getting there.” Berne took another sip. “Now, then. Maureen never gave me a moment’s trouble. Sweeter than the cakes she makes for me at Christmastide, that’s my girl. Her fondest wish was to be a wife and mother, and she did not mind following the prescribed path for that purpose.”
“I remember.”
“Hmm. Yes, I suppose you must.” Sympathy flashed again then disappeared. “Eugenia is …” Berne chuckled, the sound affectionate yet sad. “Well, she is quite another sort, isn’t she? Like it or not, she speaks her mind freely and goes where her interests take her. Unfortunately, one of those interests was footmen.”
Something sharp and dark twisted inside Phineas. It made him restless. Made him want to leave before Berne elaborated further about Eugenia’s fascination with the lower rungs of English society.
“Although she’d never done more than admire their handsomeness, her mother and I worried others would mistake admiration for intention,” Berne continued. “We pressured her to abandon her prior habits and focus upon landing an appropriate husband. She wished to please us, so she stopped speaking about footmen. She also lessened her fixation on bonnets and the like, and moderated her conversation to appear more … amiable.
“My daughter is an attractive young woman,” Berne continued, stating the obvious. “She turned heads at Almack’s. Danced and mingled and conversed in the manner of every young lady making her debut. She shaped herself into what was expected.” Berne paused. Dropped his gaze to his cup. Appeared to gather his thoughts. “To put it simply, she disappeared. My little rebel was gone, replaced by a girl indistinguishable from any other. Made her desperately unhappy. She hid it well, for a time. But we knew something was wrong, even before the incident at Lady Reedham’s ball.”
Again, Phineas wanted to stop him. He did not wish to hear more about Eugenia’s “incident.” He wished to castigate the man for failing to stop it. But something in Berne’s face gave him pause. Regret—deep and pained—etched inside a father’s grimace.
Berne’s eyes drifted to the window above Phineas’s shoulder. “So, you see, my boy, the mistake was not in granting her too much license, but too little. Spirit such as hers does not fit easily into a mold. Before you know what’s happened, it’s sprung back into its true form and broken everything apart.” At Phineas’s glare, Berne gave a small smile. “Someday, you may understand. Perhaps you will have a daughter of your own.”
Phineas understood quite enough. Berne was far too tenderhearted, and he had lost control of her. “You believe allowing her to work in a third-rate milliner’s shop is acceptable, then.”
“I believe forbidding her to pursue her aims would be worse.”
“I disagree. She should be married. Protected.”
Hazel eyes crinkled with amusement. “Are you offering, then?”
Lightning ran from his head to his feet. Offering? For Eugenia Huxley? The very thought was disorienting. Berne’s jest caused his skin to pulse strangely. He struggled to ignore the sensation, as he would one of his megrims.
“No,” he murmured. “Of course not. I am merely concerned for her and for your family.”
Berne smiled. “You are a fine man, Holstoke.”
Eugenia’s father moved on to other topics—a renovation of the gardens at Clumberwood Manor, a recent bill introduced in the House of Commons, the odds of greater crop yields due to fair spring weather—but all the while, Phineas puzzled away at Berne’s explanations for Eugenia’s predicament.
He had long admired the Huxleys. They laughed together, teased one another, argued and embraced. He did not remember ever being embraced as a boy. Perhaps that was why it seemed alien.
Eugenia, in particular, often failed to maintain a proper distance. Every time they spoke, she managed to position herself within a breath of him. She brushed his arm with her fingers, grasped his fingers with hers, patted him like a familiar friend. When she wished to make a point, he found her reaching for him.
It was odd. That might have been how she liked to describe him, but in fact, he found Eugenia Huxley and her entire family odd—so outwardly affectionate, he felt like a foreigner.
Perhaps he was. He had trained himself to mimic affectionate gestures for Hannah’s sake, and his sister had learned to accept them from time to time. He wanted Hannah to know what a proper, loving family should be. The Huxleys were the best model he’d found.
Except for Eugenia. Little rebel, indeed. She had certainly spoiled the broth.
He frowned. Berne had given up on reining her in, but she faced a bleak path of spinsterhood if someone did not take action—and soon.
“By Jove, you are a good listener, Holstoke,” Berne said now, setting down his empty cup. “Most gentlemen prefer to hear themselves talk. Serves them well enough in Parliament, I suppose.”
Phineas nodded, realizing their conversation had reached an end. He shook hands with Berne and made his way down to the foyer, only to find Eugenia there, clutching the hands of a plump, freckled young man in rough workman’s clothes. Phineas recognized him from the hat shop. She spoke softly, beseechingly, as though they were lovers.
The lightning that had burned through him earlier—such an unusual feeling—struck again, jagged and sharp. His skin prickled. His neck tensed. His stomach tightened.
“… accept my apologies, Mr. Moody. I shall make inquiries on your behalf this very day. You mustn’t despair for a moment.”
The young man’s cheeks were flagged with red. His eyes were near glassy with lust. It must be lust. He’d scarcely looked away from Eugenia’s lips.
Phineas understood, of course. She had splendid lips—plump and curved and mobile. But he needed to remove her hands from the other man’s grasp. He needed to put distance between them. Much, much more distance. The impropriety was damned risky for her and an insulting overstep for the young hatter.
“Thank you, Miss Hu—I mean, m’lady.”
“Oh, pooh. Call me Eugenia. And I shall call you Lewis.”
Moody’s flush deepened, as did his grin.
Bloody hell. Yes, distance. Now.
“Lady Eugenia will send a note round when she has news to report.” Phineas’s lashing statement had the desired effect—Moody dropped her hands, backed away three steps, and stammered out a “yer lordship,” in gratifyingly short order.
Phineas ignored Eugenia’s startled glare to stride forward and finish his rebuke. “Until then, I suggest you refrain from touching her.”
He’d meant to say, “Recall your proper station.” But the more explicit admonishment was better. Specificity left little room for interpretation.
“Lord Holstoke,” Eugenia said tightly as he came to stand behind her. “May we speak in the parlor?”
“After he leaves.” Phineas leveled a cold warning at Moody, watching with satisfaction as the hatter’s color drained to freckled white. “You were leaving, were you not?”
Eugenia’s “no” was drowned out by Moody’s high-pitched “yes, m’lord!” The portly young man staggered backward, bowing awkwardly and muttering a series of m’lords and m’lady’s.
“Mr. Moody—Lewis,” Eugenia protested, starting forward.
Phineas shifted to impede her path as the Huxley butler, Emerson, held the door open. Moody fled as though chased by a specter. Eugenia, attempting to sidestep Phineas, came up short when he grasped her wrist. As it had when he’d held her earlier, the fineness of her bones startled him. She was a strong woman. She should not be so small.
With her free hand, she gave his shoulder a bruising shove. “Now look what you’ve done,” she hissed. “You’ve frightened him away.”
He tugged her into the adjacent parlor before releasing her. “Do you really wish to embroil your family in a perpetual scandal because you cannot control your queer fascination with men of the lower classes?”
Her eyes—rich, sherry brown—flashed hot. “How dare you?” She stomped toward him, her cheeks flushing, her hands clenching into fists. “You may have sought to become my brother-in-law once, but you have not the tiniest, miniscule iota of authority where I am concerned.” She pointed at the foyer. “I ruined that man’s life, Holstoke. He did nothing to deserve it, apart from reading Ivanhoe and tolerating my presence.”
“‘Tolerating’?” Surely Eugenia understood, though Phineas could see from her expression that she did not. Baffling, given her predilections. But then, she was not a man. Perhaps she needed one to enlighten her. “Moody’s tolerance is rooted in lust. It is obvious.”
Her hands landed on her hips, drawing his eyes there, just below where her riding habit hugged a surprisingly tiny waist.
“What a lot of rot,” she spat.
How could a woman’s hips be so beautifully rounded and yet so slender? He frowned, puzzling at the contradiction.
“Lewis Moody is the sole person in either shop to show me kindness, and I will not repay him by letting him languish in penury.”
Still distracted by his attempt to reconcile the geometry of Eugenia’s form, Phineas answered honestly, if a bit hoarsely, “He was kind because he wants you.”
Those mystifying hips moved closer, bringing her within reach. His palms and fingertips tingled with a milder version of the lightning. He rubbed his fingers together to stifle it. Such a curious feeling.
“You are an appalling judge of character, Holstoke. You’d do well to confine yourself to plants and leave us humans to conduct our own affairs.”
His gaze slid up to meet hers. Her cheeks were blushing pink. Her lips, normally curved like a bird’s wing, were both flat and full. Another contradiction. One of many, it seemed.
“I am a man, Lady Eugenia. That is how I know what motivates his actions. The greater mystery is what motivates yours.”
“Mine?”
“The risks you take are both foolish—”
“Incredible. Bloody incredible.”
“—and destructive to those you profess to love. Your family—your father, in particular—has indulged your unruly nature too long.”
Rich, cat-like eyes narrowed to a bristling glint. “Get out.”
He raised a brow.
“I mean it, Holstoke. Leave. Before I do something unruly and strangle you with your cravat.”
“We had a bargain. I shall keep my end.”
“You are hereby absolved. Do not return for dinner. I will explain to Mama that you fell prey to an unfortunate ailment.” She sniffed. “In deference to her fondness for you, I won’t mention the ailment is your personality.”
He nearly laughed. The urge was yet another contradiction—one should not feel amused by insults. But Eugenia Huxley was proving the exception to every rule. He lowered his head until he could breathe her in, violets and an elusive hint of fruit. Cherries, perhaps.
“As I have given my word,” he murmured, eyeing her lips, “I must return, Lady Eugenia. Apologies.” Slowly, he smiled, enjoying her disgruntled frown.
For several moments, she gazed up at him, half bewildered and half infuriated. “You are not a bit sorry, so do not pretend. And why the devil are you smiling?”
His smile grew. Then, he shook his head, uncertain of the answer. “Must be the company,” he said. “Rarely am I insulted with such proficiency.”
She struggled against it, but soon, her lips quirked at the corners. She gave his arm a stinging swat and pushed him toward the door. “Go away, or I shall demonstrate my proficiencies with great relish.”
He gave her a bow. Then laughed.
He was still laughing as he passed an alarmed Emerson, donned his second-best hat, and descended onto Grosvenor Street, anticipating the evening to come.
*~*~*
The bony woman was almost too easy. Thin and listless, her body took his poison as though starving for it.
“I—I cannot …” She staggered forward, grasping at her chest. Her lips were already parched.
He smiled.
She dropped her cup into a shatter. Fell to her knees. Bled on the shards.
“Help.” Her voice was a hellish wheeze, her hand a desperate claw reaching for him.
He’d given her a swift journey. She should be grateful.
Leaning down to watch as her blood seeped from cut knees through her white gown, he smothered his laughter. “Time to fly, my lady.” His voice shook. “Fair thee well.”
Perhaps she was too easy. But the sacrifice was what mattered. The flight. The offering. As he left her father’s house, blending into the crowds along Brook Street, he looked to the sky.
Yes. His assignment was coming along splendidly. Splendidly, indeed.
*~*~*