Clemency passed through Emeraude House’s small but elegant ballroom and covered her nose to suppress a sneeze. Mama’s idea of proper decoration for a young lady’s first ball involved bringing a vast quantity of green boughs indoors, holly and yew, as if anticipating the Christmas season. The greenery twined over the high, narrow window frames and across the sills; it draped across the broad doorways, dripping ripe red berries that would certainly be crushed underfoot, ruining many a lady’s shoe. Clemency reminded herself to have Slater send the footmen around to sweep up the loose berries before the guests arrived. It was typical of Mama not to think beyond the beauty of the moment.
Again, her nose tickled, deep within, and she pinched its bridge and breathed shallowly through her mouth until the urge to sneeze passed. The gesture was indelicate, but no one was around to notice. She sniffed lightly once and inhaled the fresh, sharp scent of yew, stronger than mint and more appealing to her. The tapers in the wall sconces and both brilliantly-lit chandeliers gilded the greenery like a summer sunset, warming the room as if in anticipation of the guests who would fill the ballroom in just under an hour.
Clemency put away her pocket watch and circled the ballroom one last time, admiring the white walls and the dark floorboards that contrasted so beautifully with them. There had been no gatherings here since before she went away to war; though Mercy had been presented at court, she naturally had not expected to dance, and Clemency recalled the letter she had received from her sister, imploring her to influence Mama to stop pestering Mercy to attend dances where she would, in Mercy’s words, “be nothing but a figure of pity.”
She paused at the top of the three steps leading down to the ballroom floor. Prudence had not seemed enthusiastic about the ball that morning at breakfast, but neither had she been antagonistic, and Clemency hoped that boded well for the evening. Mama had told Clemency, in hushed tones as if imparting a great secret, that Prudence had shown an interest in the guest list, “and perhaps she will make a fine connection, too, would that not be wonderful?”
Since Mama had not followed this sally with a comment on how Clemency needed to make a fine connection, Clemency had not objected, though in her heart she felt Prudence was still too young to contemplate marriage. But Mama’s habit of making matches for all her friends’ unmarried daughters was well known, and Clemency did not take her remarks seriously.
She encountered Mercy in the hall at the top of the stairs. “Oh, I am not yet dressed,” Clemency said. “If you will wait for me, I will hurry so I may convey you downstairs.”
“Francis will be here shortly, and he will help,” Mercy said. She wore a lovely silk gown of pale green, and her dark hair was pinned up with a golden net securing her curls. “I declare Movers are so very useful, everyone should marry one.”
Clemency laughed. “If that were so, I should be besieged by suitors, so I hope no one else shares your opinion!”
“No, you have your heart set on a single suitor,” Mercy teased. “Will he attend tonight?”
“I fail to understand your meaning,” Clemency said, and hurried away so Mercy would not see her blush.
She chose a gown that was plain and bland so she would not outshine her sister. Prudence, of course, would wear white muslin, which meant not outshining her was difficult, especially when one was a titled Extraordinary permitted to wear any color or fabric one liked. Clemency settled on dark cream satin with a gauzy white over-gown and white shoes, accompanied by her customary pearls. She preferred their sheen and perfection of shape to faceted stones, with the exception of her father’s garnet pendant.
When she left her room, Prudence was just shutting the door to her own chamber. They regarded each other silently. Clemency had not realized her sister was now as tall as she; Prudence usually hunched as if hoping not to draw attention to herself. Now Prudence stood straight-shouldered with her hand on the door handle and glared at Clemency as if daring her to judge her appearance.
Clemency stayed where she was. “That gown is lovely. It suits you.”
“I feel foolish,” Prudence said. “White is a terrible color.”
“That is how I always felt,” Clemency said. “Our family is not one suited to white. I regret custom does not permit you to wear something richer and darker.”
Prudence’s eyes narrowed. “Yet that is not something you ever needed worry about.”
“I was always afraid to wear anything but white,” Clemency said. “I feared people would believe I was putting on airs. It was not until after I entered the Flight Corps that I discovered, firstly, that no one cared whether I wore white or green or puce, and secondly, that what I wore mattered less than how I behaved.”
“I never realized,” Prudence said. For once, she did not sound antagonistic.
Clemency smiled. She offered Prudence the long jewelry box she held. “Father entrusted this to me,” she said. “I believe he feared Mama would lose it, or forget it, and it mattered very much to him that it reach its rightful owner at the proper time.”
Prudence opened the box. Her eyes widened. “For me?” She withdrew a strand of pearls identical to Clemency’s except for the pendant, which was sapphire instead of garnet.
“Father was fascinated by the history of gemstones. The history of what people believed about their influences.” Clemency gestured, and Prudence put the necklace into Clemency’s hand. “He chose a stone for each of us that reflected our natures. Garnet for me, for constancy and enduring love—I am not sure how right he was about that, but I am mindful of it. Diamond for Mercy, for purity and light.” Clemency laughed. “You should have seen Mercy’s face when I told her.”
“Father saw the best in us,” Prudence said.
Clemency fastened the necklace around Prudence’s neck and adjusted it so the sapphire settled in the hollow of her throat. “And sapphire for you, for inner peace and creativity. You know he always said you should share your music with the world.”
Prudence rested her fingertips on the sapphire. “I don’t see how,” she said, but without the sullen heat she usually managed.
“Neither do I.” Clemency stepped away, but Prudence did not turn to face her, and she did not press the issue. “Women of our social class perform for their families, usually, but there are many ladies who sing or play musical instruments for larger gatherings. Still intimate—you would not have to go on the stage—but how many would love your music if they were permitted to hear it?”
Prudence still did not turn around. She ducked her head slightly. “Perhaps,” she said, and hurried away toward the stairs.
Clemency watched her go. She felt heartened by that interaction. For the first time in years, she recalled how bright and cheerful Prudence had been as a child, how eager to share her interests. Guilt struck Clemency. Mercy was right; she had neglected her sister. Well, perhaps it was not too late to make amends.
She brushed her fingers over the garnet as Prudence had done her sapphire. It was not until she was older that she had learned garnet meant passion as well as love. She did not know whether her father had known it, or had intended that second meaning for his eldest daughter. She and Armand had had passion, and the memory burned hot embarrassment through her. He had taunted her with the past, as if desire was something shameful, something no lady would experience, and now Clemency could not decide where the truth lay. Surely passion was not wrong if one shared it with one’s beloved, within the bounds of matrimony? And yet her memories of what she had done with Armand shamed her, so suppose it was the passion itself that was wrong, and not the fact that she had been Coerced?
She flung her head back and let out a heartfelt groan. Damn Armand. Damn Napoleon. Damn herself for not being able to leave the past in the past.
With those harsh words ringing in her heart, she descended on foot to the ground floor.
It lacked a few minutes of the hour, but Clemency took up her station near the door where she would, as official hostess, greet Prudence’s guests. She, unlike Prudence and Mama, had not looked over the list of those invited; Mama’s flightiness did not extend to a careless disregard of the social niceties, and she would not invite anyone improper. Unfortunately, Lord Winder was not among the “improper” set, but Clemency had wagered with herself that he would not attend even if invited, as he knew she disapproved of him.
She wished now that she had seen the list, to see if Mr. Wescott and his sister had been included. It was unlikely, as they were not part of Clemency’s usual social circle, but Mama had spoken highly of Miss Wescott after the party on Monday, and perhaps it had occurred to her to make a late addition to the guests. Clemency told herself not to build her hopes high. If Mama had made the invitation, and the Wescotts chose to attend, that would be lovely. If not, Clemency would not permit herself to be disappointed.
She heard footsteps, and turned to see Francis approaching from the ballroom. “Clemency, do say there will be a waltz?”
“I fear not,” Clemency said. “Mama considers the waltz indecent. But I did not believe it mattered to you what dances we will have, unless you intend to abandon your betrothed for another?”
“I daresay I could waltz with Mercy. It is not so difficult to Move a partner in time with oneself, so long as the pace is not too rapid.” Francis retrieved his snuff box and took a pinch. “But attempting any other dance would likely end in disaster. So the experiment will have to wait for another time.”
“You do not mind? That Mercy is infirm?” Clemency shook her head. “I beg your pardon, that was a foolish question.”
Francis struck an affronted pose. “I should think so! It is my own true love of whom you speak, and I would not wish her different.”
The bell rang, and Slater sailed into view. “Then return to your own true love, and if you don’t mind, ask the musicians to strike up a tune,” Clemency said, and composed herself to greet the first of many guests.
Mama had done her work well. The tide of guests swelled quickly and did not ebb for more than an hour. Many of them were known to Clemency only by name, and most of those were friends of Mama’s. Lord Winder did not appear. Nor, to Clemency’s disappointment, did the Wescotts. She bridled her disappointment and cheerfully greeted the next guest, and the next.
She did recognize more than a few eligible bachelors and again saw her mother’s hand in the guest list. Clemency did not like most of them, not because they were unappealing, but because so many of them were ten or fifteen years older than Prudence. Perhaps that would not matter in the abstract—Francis was eight years older than Mercy—but Prudence was, in Clemency’s opinion, very young for seventeen. She looked each of these men in the eye and held their hands a trifle more firmly than necessary, hoping to remind them that Prudence was not without a protector.
When Jane arrived, Clemency had begun to weary of greeting strangers. She fell on her friend gratefully. “Thank you for attending,” she said, and in a lower voice added, “I do not believe this is Prudence’s ball, given how many of Mama’s friends are present.”
“Prudence is likely to be swallowed up in this mess,” Jane agreed. “But your home is beautiful, and Prudence’s consequence cannot help but be elevated if this ball is as popular as it appears.”
Clemency turned to face the ballroom. Through its doors, she saw couples moving in a sprightly country dance, with other men and women strolling around the room. She could not see Prudence and hoped the girl was enjoying herself, wherever she was. “I must give Mama credit for knowing how to entertain.”
She turned around—and found herself face to face with Armand.
Shock and fear made her gasp and take a step backward. Armand’s smile broadened. “I beg your pardon, Lady Ashford, I appear to have startled you.” He bowed, a shallow but polite gesture, and did not look at all abashed at her reaction. “I suppose it is rather too loud for you to hear my approach.”
Clemency, keenly aware of Jane at her side, watching this interaction, forced a smile. “That is true, I did not hear you,” she said. “I was unaware you had been invited.”
Armand’s smile was now brilliant enough to outshine the chandeliers. “The Dowager Countess is most gracious. I count myself fortunate to have made her acquaintance. Surely you do not suggest I should not have come?”
“Of course not,” Clemency lied.
Jane cleared her throat. Clemency startled again. “I beg your pardon, Miss Pilgrim. May I introduce to you General de Villiers? General, this is Miss Pilgrim.”
“We were introduced at the Cabinet of Curiosities,” Jane said, “but I fear we had no opportunity to speak then. My father speaks highly of your military prowess, General.”
“I have heard of your father, Miss Pilgrim,” Armand said, accepting the hand Jane extended. “He is quite the world traveler, I understand. Do you accompany him on his journeys?”
“Very rarely, General,” Jane said. She lowered her lashes demurely and gave Armand a sideways, shy smile. “I prefer England.”
“As do I,” Armand said with an answering smile. “Perhaps you will tell me what you love about your homeland?”
Jane accepted his arm. “If you will share with me your impressions of London. Everyone can talk of nothing but General de Villiers.”
“All true, I assure you,” Armand said, laughing. He led Jane in the direction of the ballroom and soon passed out of Clemency’s earshot.
Clemency closed her eyes briefly and let out a deep breath. She did not know whether to curse Jane for attempting to add Armand, horrid seducer that he was, to her covey of swains or to bless her name for diverting Armand so he would leave Clemency alone. Of course Mama would have invited him; he was the guest of the hour, fêted everywhere, a man with a tragic past and an exciting future. No doubt mamas everywhere were plotting how to snatch him up for their daughters.
Clemency’s heart pounded sharply, a single pulse that numbed her body for a second. Mama could not possibly intend Armand for Prudence! The idea was absurd. Prudence was far too young—and yet Armand was eligible, he was charming, and as far as Clemency knew his fortune, while not large, was intact despite his having been Coerced. Clemency clenched her teeth against rising bile. Well, she was the head of the family, and so long as Prudence was underage, she had the final say in Prudence’s marriage plans. Unless she elopes to Scotland, her heart whispered, and the bile surged again.
She greeted a few more latecomers before concluding that everyone who intended to come had arrived, but instead of proceeding into the ballroom, she retreated to the small drawing room for a moment’s peace. This was where all the guests’ coats and wraps were held, and the smell of damp wool—it must be raining, though she had heard no sound of raindrops striking the windows—comforted her, made her feel warm and secure and able to forget Armand’s presence.
Flying would be an even greater comfort, but not while she was dressed like this. As well, she recalled Roger’s jab about how she took to the skies whenever anything troublesome occurred. She did not avoid her responsibilities. If anything, Flying calmed her spirits and made her more capable of handling her responsibilities. Roger’s words stung nonetheless.
After about a minute, Clemency crossed the foyer to the ballroom door and stood at the top of the short flight of stairs. She searched the crowd for Prudence, and eventually saw her dancing with an attractive man Clemency recognized as a Mover she had seen at the trials before. She could not recall his name. He was one of Mama’s eligible bachelors, perhaps. He and Prudence seemed very intent on each other, which worried Clemency; she did not like the idea of Prudence making a connection with a near-stranger. Then she chided herself for her foolishness. It was not as if the man would propose marriage in the middle of the ballroom.
The dance came to an end, and all around ladies and gentlemen began to shift as they sought out partners for the next. Clemency indulged in a brief regret that Mr. Wescott was not present. He was likely an excellent dancer, but she was smitten enough that she would not care if he was not.
“Lady Ashford.”
The voice she heard over the noise of the crowd was Mr. Wescott’s. Excitement filled her, and she turned swiftly to greet him.
But the man addressing her was not Mr. Wescott, but Armand.
He did not react to how quickly her smile disappeared, nor to the disappointment she was sure was palpable to everyone within ten feet of her. “My lady,” he said with a bow, “may I solicit your hand for the next two dances?”
Clemency could not help herself; she glanced rapidly around to see if anyone was paying attention to this interaction. No one stared, but Clemency saw eyes shifting as the women surrounding them pretended not to have been watching Armand and hoping he would ask them to dance. Cursing inwardly, Clemency said, “Certainly, General.”
Armand took her gloved hand and led her to join the line forming up at the center of the room. “I consider it my good fortune that I claimed you,” he said. His smile deepened, and Clemency’s cheeks heated as she took in his double meaning. “You are no doubt popular, and I would hate to lose an opportunity to speak with you.”
“Speaking is not considered the primary purpose of a dance,” Clemency said, keeping a light tone.
“No. There is also the intimacy of sharing one’s time with another, just the two of you, promised to one another for the space of half an hour.” Armand bowed as the music began. “And we are not chance-met strangers, are we?”
Clemency chose not to respond. Already she regretted not finding a socially acceptable way to turn down his request. He looked at her with those eyes that had seen her naked, his hand clasped hers lightly and caressingly as if he had the right to touch her any way he chose, and she wished she could flee the ballroom and Fly away until she reached a land where no one had ever heard of Armand de Villiers.
The steps of the dance brought them close together. In a low voice, Armand said, “You are as beautiful as I remember, Clemency. My heart, my love—how I long to hold you again.”
Her name on his lips sounded like profanity. “I am not your love,” she said, all she could manage before the music drew them apart. Her heart pounded, her heavy breathing hurt her chest, and her eyes ached with suppressed tears.
They danced in silence until the music brought them back together. “You are my love,” Armand said. “You are mine, now and forever. I can wait for you to see the truth.”
“I was Coerced,” Clemency said, trying for defiance, but her voice sounded weak and her hands shook. “I feel nothing for you, and I wish nothing more to do with you. Do not approach me again.”
Armand merely smiled. When next they drew near, he said, “You will marry me, darling. It is inevitable.”
“I choose whom I will marry, and it is not you,” Clemency replied.
“You think any other man will have you, after you have given yourself so fully to me?” Armand’s smile gleamed in the light of a hundred white tapers. “You will marry me, and make me a Comte. I have always felt the lack of a title.”
“An Earl,” Clemency said automatically. “And I would rather die unwed than marry a cur and a scoundrel like you.”
Armand jerked as if she had slapped him. His smile faded briefly. Then it returned at full brilliance. “I see you need convincing, my love. Very well. We shall not speak of this again tonight.”
Clemency clenched her teeth on a scream. He tormented her, he taunted her, and yet she was the one who would appear unstable if she shoved him away and ordered her servants to throw him out. She would have to have words with Mama about not giving Armand access to Emeraude House again.
They finished their dances in silence. Clemency’s curtsey was perfunctory, and she made no effort to disguise the fact that she was fleeing Armand. Immediately, she was approached by another partner, whose invitation to dance she accepted gratefully. He was the Mover Prudence had danced with. She smiled brightly to conceal her forgetting of his name.
“Mr. Montague, my lady,” he said immediately. “I do not know that you recall me—it has been some time since last we met.”
“Of course,” Clemency said. Despite his words, she felt as if she had seen him recently, perhaps in passing at the aborted trials. “Thank you for attending.”
“I appreciate your invitation, Lady Ashford,” he said as the dance began. “You have a lovely home.”
“Thank you, Mr. Montague,” Clemency replied. “I do remember you. We have never competed against each other, have we?”
“I am a Mover only, not an Extraordinary, and my skills pale beside yours,” Mr. Montague said. “Though perhaps this is an oversight worth remedying, if the public trials are ever held again.”
“Why would they not be?” Clemency said, puzzled.
Mr. Montague’s eyebrows raised. “This threat to Extraordinaries means Mr. Jinks, whoever he is, is likely to strike again where he is least expected—but I believe something so overt as the trials would be too much temptation for him to ignore. It may not be safe to gather hundreds with talent in one place.”
“I hope that is not the case. Mr. Jinks cannot be permitted to control this city.”
“That is true.” Mr. Montague shrugged. “But we should not discuss such dire events tonight. I have been introduced to your sister, and she is charming, but—may I be honest?—you are as beautiful, and I find myself drawn to you.”
Clemency managed not to slap him. “That is kind of you to say, but I do not consider it a compliment that you admire me over my sister whose day this is.”
Mr. Montague appeared taken aback. “I meant no offense. I believed you admired plain speaking. It is what everyone says of you.”
“Plain speaking is not the same as a disregard for politeness,” Clemency said. “Pray, let us speak no more of it.”
Mr. Montague nodded and said nothing else. Clemency felt a twinge of guilt at her harshness, which she knew had been enhanced by her anger and misery over her interaction with Armand, but she found herself incapable of casual conversation. Perhaps Mr. Montague was not an awful person, but she did not care enough to discover more about him.
As one dance became another, tension gradually built in Clemency’s back and shoulders, rising from her irritation with her partner and compounded by her inability to stop comparing him to the partner she wished she had. Mr. Wescott would not try her patience; he would not torment her with words calculated to hurt and humiliate her. She wished with all her heart she had influenced the guest list in this one small thing.
At the end of their dances, she bade a polite but icy farewell to Mr. Montague and wished she dared roll out her shoulders, but that would be uncouth. When she was again addressed, she turned and once more startled at her unexpected companion. “Francis!”
“I have permission to dance just this once with someone to whom I am not betrothed.” Francis bowed slightly. “In truth, Mercy told me to dance as much as I like, but I find I prefer to converse with her. However, you seem out of sorts, and I intend to interrogate you as to the cause of your disquiet.”
Weariness spread over Clemency like a river fog, dimming her sight and making her long for her bed. “Very well,” she said.
Francis chuckled. “That is the least enthusiastic acceptance I have ever had. Tell me, Clemency, what troubles you?”
She did not wish to reveal her inner misery to her best friend. Francis was not likely to shun her, but she did not care to have him know her shame, and at worst he would challenge Armand, either privately or publicly, and that would truly be a nightmare. “I am so very tired,” she said. “I believe I will turn my duties over to Mama after our dances and go upstairs.”
“Then it has nothing to do with General de Villiers?”
Clemency blinked. “With General de Villiers? Why would you say that?”
“Because I watched you as you danced with him, and he looked very satisfied, and you looked as if you wished him to the devil.” Francis drew near and nearly missed his step. “Did he say something to displease you?”
Clemency’s heart sped up again. Not telling Francis the facts was one thing; actively lying to him was quite another. “He—he reminded me of events in France that were unpleasant,” she said. “They were memories I would prefer not to dwell on.”
“I had forgotten you knew one another in France,” Francis said. “When was that? It must have been quite late in the war, after he broke Coercion.”
“What did he say happened after that, do you know?” Clemency asked, hoping to divert Francis. “I only know that he was no longer Coerced to follow Napoleon.”
“It is quite the dramatic story. General de Villiers broke free of Coercion and took command of a division of the Grande Armée, bringing it against Napoleon’s troops and stopping his advance on Paris. You did not know?”
Clemency shook her head. “That is dramatic.” It also could not be true, for even had Armand no longer been Coerced, all of the Grande Armée still was, so how could he have turned some of its soldiers against Napoleon’s orders?
“Well, you should not have to endure unpleasantness,” Francis declared. “Perhaps he is mistaken about what memories you will find pleasing, and you will have to tell him to speak on other topics.” He laughed. “He does seem interested in you. Mr. Wescott may have to fight for your affections, if de Villiers intends courtship!”
Clemency smiled, and hoped it looked natural.