What followed were ten days of hurried preparations for Mr Santiago’s debut in Society. Tiffany went to bed every night convinced it would be a disaster; after all, had she not trained her whole life for this? Santiago had a few weeks of lessons, in between running what seemed to be a busy shipping empire.
‘And of course, he is busy with the house,’ said Aunt Esme, with that small smile Tiffany did not have the courage to ask about. ‘Now, I believe I shall invite the Misses Brockhurst. One an artist, one a renowned translator of German folklore. She’s fascinating so long as you don’t get her started on the Brothers Grimm.’
Tiffany dutifully added them to the list of invitees to Esme’s soirée. It was quite short, and mostly consisted of artists and bohemians: the sort of people who would not be too shocked if Mr Santiago made a terrible faux pas. Not to mention they would have no other plans at such short notice. Tiffany knew Lord and Lady Selby were to hold a ball that evening and she still hadn’t come up with an excuse not to go. She was currently working on some sort of plan to attend both, using her increasingly useful witchcraft to persuade Elinor that she was in her chambers getting ready for the ball whilst actually attending Aunt Esme’s soirée, then racing home to join them in the dining room before attending the Selby ball.
It was either that or pretend she had a headache. The headache would probably be simpler. But on the other hand…
She was a witch. There seemed little point in denying it now. At Esme’s house she practised her craft, learning how to light the fire by an effort of will, or conjure a light with her hands. And she was positively encouraged to draw all she could, in any media Esme could find for her. The more she drew, the better at it she became, until her drawings looked so realistic they could quite literally be picked up off the page. Every day she left Esme vases of flowers, their petals velvety and their scent delightful, quite indistinguishable from the real thing.
‘What is it like?’ she asked, as idly as she could.
‘Oh, you know, full of hobgoblins and the like. Miss Camelia Brockhurst is incensed that the Brothers Grimm did not choose the far more prevalent myth of Snow White falling in with thieves. Apparently there is a Scottish version involving cats. She does tend to go on slightly too long about it.’
Tiffany blinked at the inkwell. ‘Uh, no, I meant Mr Santiago’s house. Is it suitable for a gentleman?’
Aunt Esme laughed as if Tiffany had said something very funny. ‘Oh, I should say so! But not at all ready for receiving guests. I am told,’ she added quickly. ‘I have not visited, of course.’
Tiffany gave her a sidelong glance, scribbling idly with her pen on the edge of the paper. She ought to remind Mr Santiago to have some visiting cards made. His trade cards would send entirely the wrong impression.
And then, of course, she would know his address. She wondered what sort of person he had inherited it from. ‘Has Nora visited? Or Madhu?’
‘Single ladies visiting the home of a bachelor? Of course not.’
Tiffany was about to say that neither of them seemed to consider themselves ladies, when something ruffled the page she had been doodling on. A tiny black feather fluttered as she moved her hand.
‘A raven, then?’ she guessed, as Esme picked up the feather and inspected its gleaming iridescence. ‘Did you send one of those?’
‘This is quite marvellous, you know. Do you think you could draw an entire raven and have it come to life?’
Tiffany shook her head. ‘I can’t do it with living things. They just don’t animate. Plants and things, yes, but not animals and people. Besides, they only last a few hours and then they fade away. That would be quite awful with a person.’
‘It would indeed,’ said Esme, setting down the raven feather. ‘Is it only with things you have drawn yourself?’
‘No. Well … I don’t know. Paintings sometimes move, like that one did,’ Tiffany said, pointing to the seascape she’d noted on her first visit. ‘People move, wave, that sort of thing. It’s more like … like when you see something out of the corner of your eye and you’re not sure if it moved or not. Except I am sure it moved,’ she added, with feeling.
‘Could you make a painting come to life, do you think? With practice?’
Tiffany found herself screwing up her face as she thought about it, then stopped, because Elinor said that caused wrinkles. ‘I don’t know. Would I want to? To make a painted person speak?’
The thought suddenly came to her that she could enchant the portrait of her father that hung in the library at Dyrehaven. Ask him why he never came home. Ask him where her mother was. But would he answer? And would she want to hear his answer? What if asking the portrait questions meant her father would hear them—and know she was a witch? He could condemn her. He could certainly have her sent to the madhouse.
She shuddered. ‘Would it not be eerie?’ she said.
‘Dear, we are witches,’ said Esme, ‘we are eerie.’ But she took the hint and changed the subject. ‘How about Sir Isembold Button for the soirée? A most entertaining gentleman and current favourite of the Regent.’
‘But Mr Santiago is not going to move in the same circles as the Regent,’ laughed Tiffany.
Esme merely arched an eyebrow. ‘Well, my dear, nothing would surprise me. Now. I believe I was going to show you how to do a finding spell. It’s quite simple, and you can use it on people as well as objects. Take a candle, thus…’
* * *
His grandfather’s house was a huge edifice that formed most of one side of the square. Smoke and dirt had darkened the stonework, turning a plain building into a glowering one. The last time Santiago had seen a building this big it had housed the tomb of the Mughal emperor, and that had been a damn sight prettier.
Currently, he occupied precisely one and a half rooms of it, a bedroom overlooking the street and the dressing area accompanying it. The dressing area was almost the size of the bedroom, and currently lined with racks showcasing the frankly jaw-dropping amount of clothing Robinson had managed to assemble for him in just over a sennight.
‘That don’t look very comfortable, guv,’ said Billy. He sat on a large chest, drumming his heels.
Santiago tugged at the high collar Robinson had fastened around his neck. It was so high and so heavily starched he thought it would add to the scar on his cheek. ‘It isn’t.’
‘It fits as it should, sir,’ said Robinson. ‘Would you like me to tie your neckcloth?’
Tiffany had told him he should defer to his valet in all matters sartorial. And to be fair, the young man’s work was excellent, and the style of dress Santiago was being stitched into was exactly the sort of thing everyone at the Russell ball had been wearing. He saw rowdy young men spilling out of fashionable clubs in such outfits on the streets around this mausoleum of a house.
It was just all so … plain.
He allowed Robinson to fuss and fuss with the stack of cloths he had brought, each one carefully folded and starched and placed with reverence upon a dressing table. The wretched thing was wrapped carefully around his neck and tied with great precision, studied, undone and replaced. This happened twice.
‘Robinson?’ he said pleasantly, as Billy got bored and started wandering around, opening drawers and poking at the contents.
‘Sir?’
‘The next cloth will be the final one.’
‘But if it isn’t right, sir—’
Santiago fixed him with the sort of look he had given one of Madam Zheng’s pirates when the man had tried to take his purse. ‘The final one.’
Robinson sighed as if tortured. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said mournfully.
The process of dressing went on. ‘What time is it, Billy?’ Santiago called, unable to turn his head because of the muslin noose around his neck.
‘I dunno.’
‘Can you see the clock?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Then what time is it?’
‘I dunno,’ Billy repeated, as if Santiago was the one being stupid.
‘You cannot read a clock?’
‘Whassa point, guv? What’ve I got to be on time for?’
Santiago supposed he had a point.
‘You gonna teach me, guv?’ asked the boy, as Santiago had his coat taken off and fussed with for the third time.
‘In my plentiful spare time, why not,’ he murmured.
‘Miss Gwen, she said she’d teach me how to read and that. But she forgot, I think. Or she said’—Billy’s face appeared in his field of vision, all screwed up with recollection—‘that I already knew. Or would already know. I like Miss Gwen, guv, but she don’t make no sense half the time.’
‘No. I would not ask her to teach you about clocks,’ Santiago said.
Some time later—maybe half an hour, maybe three weeks—Robinson gave him one last critical look, and stepped back.
‘There, sir,’ he said, and Santiago risked a look in the mirror.
The person looking back at him was … a gentleman.
He was dressed in severe black and immaculate white, and he couldn’t move his head very much, nor his shoulders, and his breeches were so tight he feared for his modesty, but he looked, from the neck down at least, like a gentleman.
Robinson had offered him a shave and a haircut. Santiago had undertaken the former himself and turned down the latter. The fashionable young men he saw around the place cut their hair like they hated it; and besides, he wanted to be able to take off this ridiculous gear and just be Santiago again. If he cut his hair like a young buck, Penderghast and de Groot would wet themselves laughing at him.
‘Mr Robinson,’ he said, ‘you have outdone yourself.’
Robinson nodded, and gave a small smile. ‘It’s just Robinson, sir. No Mr.’
Ah yes. Santiago had been instructed as much by Tiffany. He glanced at his valet through the mirror. ‘How come a talented young man like yourself isn’t already in someone’s employ?’
Robinson shrugged and began gathering up discarded items. ‘Like I said, sir, my face doesn’t fit.’
Santiago leaned in and inspected the scar Madam Zheng had given him. ‘Neither does mine, I think.’ He straightened up and looked himself over. ‘Still, you have endeavoured to make me look the part. Do you think they will look at me and think, “He was born a gentleman”?’
‘If I can carry it off, you can, sir,’ said Robinson. ‘Shall I tell the coachman to bring the horses round, sir?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’ The coachman was already in situ, because the horses were a permanent feature of the house, regardless of whether the owner was in residence. The butler and housekeeper were hiring new maids and footmen, and dust sheets were being removed whether Santiago liked it or not.
He was a gentleman now. He had a gentleman’s house and a gentleman’s clothing.
He felt like an actor on a stage.
It only remained to see whether he could play the part.
* * *
Tiffany had decided upon a plan to go to Aunt Esme’s for a ‘card party’ earlier in the evening, promising to be back in time for the Selby ball, and then decided she would see how things went. Either she would return in time for the ball as promised, or feign some kind of illness. She wasn’t sure she would have the stamina to fade into the background and pretend not to be there, or maintain a glamour over her appearance all evening.
Because she already knew she would be casting a glamour. To look nice for Mr Santiago. Even though she knew there was absolutely no reason to.
The man was blackmailing her. Probably. At the very least he was using her.
Tiffany had to keep telling herself this, because the alternative was admitting how attractive she found him, and then that would lead to getting her hopes up, or—even worse—him reciprocating her feelings … and then she might end up marrying him. A tradesman! Elinor would probably die of shame, so at least there was a silver lining.
But now she had seen the freedom Esme and the others had, the idea of marrying anyone seemed twice as repulsive as it had before. She couldn’t bear the idea of shackling herself to a husband who barely seemed to tolerate her, like Cornforth and Elinor, or who drove her away as conclusively as Tiffany’s father had to her mother. No. She would go and live with Esme, and be a witch, and never be beholden to a man again.
All she had to do was see Mr Santiago successfully attend a few events, and then her freedom would be close enough to taste—
‘You cannot go,’ Elinor said.
Tiffany looked up from the gloves that were being buttoned by Morris. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘To your aunt’s again. I forbid it. You spend every waking hour there. Cornforth and I have gone to the trouble and considerable expense of arranging a Season for you and you refuse to take part. Your selfishness knows no bounds.’
Elinor had mentioned the expense? She must be angry. Usually she considered such things vulgar.
‘I will be back in time for the ball—’
‘I have invited people for supper! Mrs Barrowes and her daughters, who are also having their first season. They are looking forward to meeting you. And Lord Felbourne is bringing his sister.’
‘But I promised my aunt—’
‘And you wonder at having no friends! You simply cannot assume you are above all this, Theophania.’
My name is Tiffany.
Oblivious to the curling of Tiffany’s hands into fists, Elinor rattled on. ‘I see the superior little looks you give the other girls. You are not better than any of them.’
I am a witch.
‘They are all the daughters of peers—of dukes and marquesses! Confidantes of the Prince Regent! You need to find a husband just as much as they, and they have a better chance—’
‘Why?’
The word spilled out of Tiffany before she could stop it. Boiled out of her. Hot and unstoppable.
Morris, who had frozen when Elinor began speaking, quietly scurried from the room.
‘Why? Their chances are better than yours, young lady, because they smile and make conversation and do not enter every social occasion as if they were doing it a favour.’
‘Not why are their chances better. Why do I need to find a husband?’
Elinor simply stared at her, cheeks pink with anger, her decorously small bosom heaving.
‘Do you think yourself special?’ she asked after a long moment. ‘That you alone need not marry? Will you support yourself, run your own household, on your pin allowance?’
‘I have funds in trust from my father,’ said Tiffany, who had never really needed to think about that money before.
‘For your dowry! But I see, you will not be needing that, hmm?’ Elinor’s foot tapped. ‘Perhaps if you live quietly in the country with one maid and no footmen? Rusticating?’ She spat the word as if it was a terrible punishment, when to Tiffany it actually sounded quite nice. ‘And who will pay her when your funds run out? Who will care for you in your old age, with no husband and no children?’
‘I will have friends,’ Tiffany said, because Aunt Esme and the others were her friends. Sort of.
Elinor openly snorted. ‘Well, that will be a first, child!’ She looked over Tiffany’s elegant blue dress, which was unadorned and flattering and might impress Santiago, and shook her head. ‘Morris! The pink satin with the frills.’
Tiffany hated that dress. It made her look like a milkmaid.
‘Perhaps the blue—’
‘The pink,’ said Elinor viciously, turning on her heel. ‘And dress her hair properly. We expect company.’
* * *
Mistress Blackmantle had told Santiago this would be a relaxed gathering of artistically inclined friends who would not look down upon him for being in trade. He had hoped this meant nobody would have, or use, a title, but the first person he was introduced to was a Lord Hornwood.
Now. A lord with a first name was likely the son of a Duke; a lord who was a peer in his own right would be introduced as Lord Hornwood, Earl of Somewhere That Sounded Made Up In This Stupid Country, and a lord with just a surname was probably a baron.
This meant a small bow, little more than a nod. Lord Hornwood did not seem displeased.
‘Pleasure, sir.’ Hornwood looked him over approvingly. ‘Where did you find this one, Esme?’
‘On a beach, in Essex,’ she replied, and they both laughed. Santiago laughed too, just for the look of it.
‘Dark, delicious, dangerous. I predict a hit.’ Hornwood winked and sauntered off.
‘I think you have an admirer,’ said Esme Blackmantle.
Santiago’s brows went up. ‘I did not think such things were spoken of here.’
She laughed. ‘Oh no, not spoken of. That doesn’t mean they don’t happen.’
She hesitated. ‘I may have misread you, my dear—I had thought your interests lay with my niece.’
Was it that obvious? Not that it mattered because she had made it achingly clear she did not want to marry and that she found him far beneath her besides. It did not matter that she had fine pale skin and white gold hair and a bosom that haunted his dreams. It didn’t matter at all.
‘They don’t,’ he said. ‘Lie anywhere. Not with Lady Tiffany. I would never presume,’ he babbled, trying not to think about lying with Lady Tiffany.
‘Of course not,’ said Esme smoothly. ‘I should warn you, however, Hornwood is devoted to his valet, so don’t go looking there. I could introduce you to some select gentlemen if you would like.’
Santiago had recovered enough composure by now to say, ‘Mistress Blackmantle, you are incorrigible.’
She smiled. ‘I am. Now, who shall I introduce you to? Mistress Winterscale?’ She gestured at a lady all in red, who caught her eye and came over, looking Santiago up and down in a manner he did not like.
The introduction made, she said, ‘I had been hoping to meet you. Tell me, are you yet married?’
That was alarmingly direct. Santiago tried not to splutter. ‘No, and I am not expecting to be—for some time,’ he said hurriedly. ‘I have only recently arrived here in London, and I have many affairs to set in order—’
She smiled and laughed throatily. ‘I am sure you do, Your Grace. Rest assured I am not baiting my hook for you. It is Lady Tiffany, is it not?’
Why did everyone think he was after Lady Tiffany? She didn’t even like him.
‘I am acquainted with the lady,’ he allowed, ‘but not well.’
‘Well, give it time. Now please do excuse me, I have an appointment at the Admiralty.’
‘This late?’ said Mistress Blackmantle, as if the hour was the only thing strange about a woman having an appointment at the Admiralty.
‘Ah, yes. You know how it is,’ she said knowingly. She curtsied, and sailed off.
‘A singular lady,’ said Mistress Blackmantle. ‘Mark well her words, for she always knows what is to transpire.’
‘She cannot know who I will marry,’ said Santiago.
‘Can she not? Ah, Miss Brockhurst,’ she waved at a lady wearing a grey dress and what was most obviously a wig. ‘Do come over and tell us all about your latest translation.’
Miss Brockhurst was undoubtedly very intelligent and passionate about her subject; so much so that all Santiago had to do was nod and look interested. Indeed, he was somewhat relieved when Mistress Blackmantle interrupted to introduce him to someone else, an African gentleman wearing a much more exciting waistcoat than Santiago had been permitted.
Mr Noakes was well-travelled, and the two of them were deep in discussion about the perils of Barbary pirates when he became aware of a presence at his shoulder.
‘The beasty with the squirmers,’ said Gwen without preamble. ‘You have faced it.’
‘Miss Gwen, do you know Mr— wait, the cuero?’ He stared wildly between Gwen’s slightly unfocused gaze and Mr Noakes’s surprised face.
‘I don’t know if that is how it is called,’ said that gentleman, ‘but I have seen a beast of great—immense—power, seemingly made of waves.’
Santiago goggled at him. ‘I have seen it too! It seemed to come from nowhere, in shallow water, and it grabbed and threw me into the air! I still have its marks on my— er, my skin,’ he finished, realising that rolling up his sleeve would be both frowned upon and, thanks to Robinson’s precise tailoring, probably impossible.
‘The creature touched you? And you live?’ Mr Noakes was astonished. ‘I saw it take a whole ship. As if the sea itself had grown arms and engulfed the vessel.’ He shook his head. ‘No one else saw it. I was on middle watch. The witching hour.’
‘’Twas not witches,’ said Gwen indignantly. ‘Witches will not bring forth such a beast! ’Tis evil.’
‘Are not witches evil?’ asked Mr Noakes.
‘Witches are people,’ said Esme Blackmantle smoothly, appearing from nowhere. ‘Some are good and some are evil and most are somewhere in between.’ To Santiago, she said, ‘Might I have a private word?’
He glanced back at Mr Noakes, eager to learn more about the creature that had nearly killed him and had probably sunk his ships. But Mistress Blackmantle was clearly not in a mood to be disobeyed, and had already taken him by the arm to draw him out of the room.
‘Tiffany is not coming,’ she said.
He should not be so disappointed. He had little interest in Lady Tiffany beyond her help in conforming to this blasted Society. In fact he had many reasons to be actively disinterested in her. She was a witch. She might have brought forth that tentacled beast. She did not want to marry.
It should not matter to him that she was not here.
And yet.
‘Why not? Is she ill? Did she send word?’
‘No, but she should have been here by now. So I sent a raven.’
‘A … raven?’ He knew that the younger footmen on the backs of carriages were called tigers. Was a raven another kind of servant?
‘Yes. The Cornforth carriage has just left, and it isn’t heading here.’
Mistress Blackmantle was still walking. She continued along the hallway and into the kitchen, where Madhu and Nora were leaning over a dish of water and a candle.
‘Have you found her? Gwen’s message was rather garbled, and then she started talking about tentacled beasts,’ said Esme.
Nora nodded. ‘Gone to a ball, by the looks of it. Loads of fancy nobs dressed up like magpies.’
‘Magpies have colour on their wings,’ grouched Santiago.
‘Is it the Selby ball?’ asked Esme. She had produced a cloak out of nowhere and was swirling it onto her shoulders.
‘I dunno, how would I know?’
Esme peered at the bowl, which looked to Santiago to simply contain plain, clear water. ‘Hmm. Yes. She— Ah yes, there is a frieze with the Selby crest in the lobby, you see? Now, you will make my excuses, please. Send up more wine and nobody will realise I am gone.’ To Santiago, she added, ‘Here,’ and threw him something.
His own evening cloak, carefully tied around his shoulders by Robinson earlier in the evening and removed by an extremely unimpressed Nora on his arrival here.
‘Come,’ Esme Blackmantle commanded, already halfway down the hall.
He glanced back helplessly at the two women leaning over the table. They were whispering to each other and giggling. Was that witchcraft? Had they just been doing witchcraft?
‘Now,’ said Mistress Blackmantle, striding up the stairs. Santiago hurried to follow her. ‘What is about to occur is something I shall ask you to forget. I have no carriage ready and a journey in a hackney is simply not to be borne under these circumstances. Besides which I did not receive an invitation. Stand there and let me look at you,’ she said, taking him by the shoulders opposite a lamp.
She peered at his face, as one might peer at a horse for sale. ‘Not too mussed. Not perspiring. Are you drunk?’
‘Er—’
‘No matter, you don’t seem it, and there’s a reason “drunk as a lord” is a saying. On which matter, Mr Santiago,’—here she dealt him a wicked look—‘have you any of your cards? Not the trade ones, the proper ones.’
He blinked at her, then nodded and indicated his breast pocket. Tiffany had instructed him to bring cards to the soirée, and the thought of her inspecting them filled him with dread.
‘Good. Now, did you receive an invitation for the Selby ball?’
‘Yes, but I declined because of this event.’ Not to mention the thought of a ball terrified him, now that he knew how much he’d got wrong the first time.
‘No matter. They will be thrilled to see you. Now, shh a moment and let me concentrate.’
Santiago had very little idea what was going on. He watched as his hostess placed a hand upon a green door which bore the sign of a compass, and murmured some words to it. Where was she taking him? Surely they should be going downstairs and outside? Should he be sending someone to fetch the carriage from his own mews?
‘Now, take my arm and pretend you’ve been there all along,’ said Mistress Blackmantle, upon which she opened the green door and swept him into another world.
* * *
The portraits on the walls were watching them.
Tiffany wondered if she could make them do anything in particular. Cross their eyes, blow raspberries, stick their tongues out. All the things she wanted to do to Elinor, and would the moment they were out of company. She didn’t need to give Elinor any more ammunition against her. Her silence so far had already been condemned as sulking, when in truth it was simply the only way Tiffany could keep herself from snarling at her like an angry cat.
She nodded along to the conversation of every gentleman she was introduced to, gave smiles that did not reach her eyes, and replied in monosyllables. Infuriatingly, this only served to make them talk to her more.
If I married you, she thought as one man waxed lyrical about the prize pigs on his estate in Gloucestershire, you would do nothing but talk at me and I would do nothing but disappear.
And yet she would end up married, probably to someone just like this man, unless she had the courage to leave. Could she do it? Could she go and live with Aunt Esme? Perhaps even before the end of the Season?
Elinor would never speak to her again, which was a definite upside, but she would probably prevent Tiffany from seeing much of Cornforth and the children. And whilst Tiffany was grateful her years of shepherding them around like an unpaid nursemaid were over, that didn’t mean she never wanted to see them again.
People were still arriving, and the announcements had become interminable. Tiffany was listening with half an ear to see if anyone she could actually stand had arrived. The Belmont sisters, perhaps, or the Broughams. It was too much to hope that—
‘Mistress Esmerelda Blackmantle!’
Tiffany blinked, and turned, and stared. And yes, there was her aunt, resplendent in crimson, descending the short flight of steps into the ballroom. Her lips curved in a positively feline smile as she saw Tiffany, and nodded.
What was Aunt Esme doing here? Had she been invited? Surely not, or she would not have organised her soirée for the same evening. Was it over? How had she—
‘His Grace the Duke of St James!’
A sudden hush fell over the ballroom, or at least the human voices in it. The orchestra played on, and so it seemed that the gentleman standing at the top of the steps was entering to music of his own, like a character in an opera.
He stood tall and straight, broader in the shoulders than many gentlemen, immaculate in black and white. His gaze as he surveyed the room was calm and assured, his demeanour that of unquestioned confidence. In the brilliant warmth of the ballroom’s many candles, he was breathtakingly handsome.
Below the music there was an excited hum of whispering female voices.
‘Did he say St James?’ hissed Elinor, jabbing Tiffany in her ribs. She did not turn to reply. She could not move.
Gold glinted in his ear as he turned his head. The light caught the scar on his cheek. The man who had just been announced as the Duke of St James was Santiago.