Charlotte was happy to arrive at Lord Jamison’s door, where a manservant met him anxiously, having been already alerted about the excitement of the evening by ship speakingtube.
“But now what of you, ladies?” Lord Jamison asked cheerfully. “Who will escort you safely home?”
“I will protect Ms. Briggston,” Charlotte said promptly. “I can chaperone her safely to her housing.”
Valentina looked like she might protest, but couldn’t find a reason to.
“And then yourself?” Lord Jamison said, with an admiring smile.
Charlotte laughed. “I can attend myself quite squarely, I assure you,” she said with a toss of her head that bobbled her hat. How did Valentina get her own tiny hat to stay perched so perfectly over her hair? There must be a million pins in it.
Lord Jamison reluctantly agreed to let them go, with promises that he planned not to leave his safely-warded cabin the entire next day, and entreatment to save spots on their dance cards after Mrs. Smithers’ musical review the next evening. Charlotte did not want to volunteer that she had not been able to secure tickets to the event, not in front of Valentina, and it wasn’t until the door was shut did she realize that neither of them had tried very hard to maneuver Lord Jamison into inviting one or both of them in.
Then, uncomfortably, they were alone. Before Valentina could put her nose in the air or stalk away, Charlotte tucked her hand boldly into Valentina’s elbow and they set off for the Channing quarters where Valentina had earlier said that she was staying.
The cityship barely swayed beneath them, nothing like the smaller sail vessels that Charlotte had been on before, but she felt slightly dizzy and seasick. She was not going to admit such weakness, though she felt admirably ahead in the tally of their contest for Jamison’s hand. She wasn’t so foolish to think that she had actually saved his life, but her presence—and presence of mind—had certainly played a memorable role. He should be grateful and predisposed to see Charlotte in a flattering light.
“He didn’t exactly protest our departure,” she pointed out, glancing back over her shoulder. “He seemed in a fair hurry to retreat to his brandy and bed.”
“Well, there wasn’t a supernatural attempt on our lives this evening,” Valentina pointed out. “The cityships are generally agreed to be the safest place possible in these trying times and he said that his cabin was warded against the supernatural. There is very little theft, everyone aboard is screened for suitability.” Was she trying to make a dig on Charlotte’s own measure of suitability?
“I suppose you think a husband who is happiest keeping to himself would be most useful anyway,” Charlotte suggested.
Valentina considered. “I do not object to companionship, but my preference is for someone who is willing not to insert themself into my business.”
Charlotte glanced sideways at her, at the serenity of Valentina’s features. It would not do to get too settled in her victory. Even if Charlotte had saved Lord Jamison, Valentina had an undeniable appeal. The combination of her artful vulnerability and quiet self-confidence was as intoxicating as it was perplexing.
If Charlotte had not been watching her quite so closely, she would have missed the tiny hiss of pain as Valentina put her hand onto a railing for the steps up to the nearest junction. And if they had not been standing in one of the steplights, she would have missed the bloom of darker red in the garish stains of the punch on Valentina’s glove.
“You’ve hurt your hand!” Charlotte exclaimed, drawing them to a stop at the landing.
Valentina snatched it back to her side. “A small cut,” she said dismissively.
“A small cut doesn’t bleed that much,” Charlotte scolded her. “Show me.”
“It doesn’t require a medic,” Valentina protested. “I will wash it when I arrive home and have it bandaged.” But despite her words, she gave Charlotte her hand and did not protest when Charlotte peeled back her glove.
It was, as advertised, a smallish cut, and most of the stain was dry. What surprised Charlotte more than the injury was the fact that Valentina had not capitalized on it. An injury would have distracted Lord Jamison from being protected to being protector, which was a much more comfortable role for any man. It would have been such a simple score that Charlotte found herself frowning into Valentina’s serene face, trying to puzzle out why she had neglected it. Indeed, with the arrival of the Inspector, Valentina had become quite withdrawn, as if she wished to stop drawing attention to herself.
“You see,” Valentina said quietly. “It is not worth a fuss.”
But it could have been, Charlotte thought, still holding Valentina’s hand. It should have been. It was like the puzzle of why Valentina Briggston, with all her money and her business and her independence, would want a husband at all.
“That’s what this is about, isn’t it.” Charlotte suddenly guessed. “You’re going to lose your business!”