The next few days whirl by in a flurry of activity as we prepare for the journey to London. With all the uproar, anyone would think we were preparing for Armageddon. Like all of the servants, Alice is extremely busy. So far, she hasn’t found time to meet with anyone from the Iron Crown. We know, because we’ve been keeping watch on her movements.
Breakfast is no longer a pleasant conversational hour. It’s a beehive, with servants running to and fro, delivering messages, and gathering instructions from the queen of this swarm, Miss Stranje.
This morning the queen bee and Madame Cho are arguing. According to Tess, Madame Cho is actually Miss Stranje’s adopted sister, and today they are bickering as if it is true. Madame Cho no longer has a bandage on her head, and she’s adamant about making the trip to London with us. “I will not allow you to face Lady Daneska without me.” She smacks her hand on the table to emphasize her point.
Personally, I think she wants revenge for the brutal whack on the head Lady Daneska gave her, and the long scar etched on her throat.
Miss Stranje prunes up. “You nearly died. I don’t want anything to compromise your health. London is noisy and we are perfectly capable of…”
Greaves holds out his silver tray containing several letters.
“… dealing with Lady Daneska on our own.” Miss Stranje glances at the top letter and draws a quick breath. “I’m not certain you’re up to the rigors of the journey.”
“Rigors. Do you think me a cripple?” Madame Cho stands. “Come to the mats today. I will show you rigors. I can best any of these young sprouts.” She sweeps a hand at all of us, and crosses her arms imperiously. “Rigors. Bah! I’m going.”
It surprises me, when Miss Stranje relents so easily. “Very well, it will be a comfort to have you with us.” Obviously distracted, she picks up the letter and breaks the seal.
“What is it?” Madame Cho shifts in a flash from annoyance to concern.
Miss Stranje scans the contents. “It’s from Captain Grey. The wool wagons arrived safely in London.”
A question pops out of my mouth before I can stop it. “And Mr. Sinclair?”
She rubs the bridge of her nose for a moment. “Yes. There’s a letter from him enclosed for you, Lady Jane.” She hands the sealed note to me with two fingers, as if Mr. Sinclair painted the parchment with rat poison. “This is highly improper. You must not encourage this sort of thing from a gentleman to whom you are not engaged.”
She thinks it’s a love letter. Heat blazes into my cheeks. “I didn’t encourage him. Not in the least. I’m sure he merely has a question about his ship’s notes, or some other business matter.”
She shakes her head at me, as if I’m responsible for Mr. Sinclair’s breach of etiquette, and heaves a sigh. “I suppose one must excuse his manners. Mr. Sinclair is, after all, an American. They can be so very uncivilized.” She sends one last frown in my direction. “And brazen.”
Miss Stranje never said a word, nothing at all, when Georgie received several notes and letters from Lord Wyatt, and they’re not engaged, either. I hoist my chin in the air and stuff the uncivilized American’s letter into my left pocket, the one that doesn’t have an opening next to my dagger and sheath. It’s difficult pretending the parchment isn’t making my fingers itch to tear it open.
“Is there any other news?” Sera leans forward, drawing our attention back to Captain Grey’s letter.
“Lady Daneska has not yet arrived in London. Her ship is expected in port tomorrow.” Miss Stranje’s shoulders stiffen, as if the next sentence makes her uncomfortable.
“What?” I demand. “What’s wrong?”
She pinches her lips together before answering. “Captain Grey has heard rumors that Ghost will arrive incognito on the same ship as Lady Daneska.”
A monstrous claw reaches up and clutches my stomach. I can hardly breathe as she continues speaking.
She continues reading. “He also mentions that his men observed several fast-moving sloops armed with guns, anchored in the Thames near Canvey Island.”
“Pirates.” Georgie nearly knocks over her water glass. “You were right, Jane. The Iron Crown sent them to take the Mary Isabella.”
Miss Stranje inclines her head in my direction. “Well done, Lady Jane. Your plan kept Mr. Sinclair and his prototype safe thus far.”
Thus far.
Small comfort. Ghost is coming.
Possibilities for disaster gnaw my composure to shreds. I can’t stand the uncertainty a second longer. “Does he say where they’re staying? Are they well hidden? Do they have men standing guard at their quarters?” It is not like me to barrage her with such desperate questions.
“For now they are safe. That’s all we know.” Miss Stranje folds the letter primly and glances pointedly at me, a silent scold for my outburst. I turn away as she addresses the others. “We will be altering the departure date for our journey. I would like to arrive in London as soon as possible.”
“How soon?” Maya’s tone is buttery smooth, but I detect a peppery hint of nervousness, highly irregular for her.
“We shall leave in the morning.” Miss Stranje claps her hands and rises. “Attend to your sewing today, ladies, and pack your things this evening.”
A collective groan rises among Georgie, Sera, and Maya. Changing the schedule means they have hems to finish, lace to add to collars, sleeves to stitch in place, bonnets to trim, ribbons to match, and slippers to dye. Tess and Madame Cho head to the ballroom for morning practice, but the rest hurry off to the yellow parlor.
On the same day Miss Stranje decided we should make this trip to London, she turned her upstairs parlor into a massive sewing room and hired a dozen women from the village as temporary seamstresses. There are more comings and goings from the upstairs parlor than from a field marshal’s tent. High-pitched chatter floods the hallways. Barked orders ricochet off the walls. “Pass the scissors. This seam puckers, tear it out. Hand me the pink thread. Stand still! That hem is crooked.”
Thank goodness my wardrobe is already ample, and I’m spared the aggravation of fittings, pinnings, and hemmings. I dash into the library and close the door, shutting out the clamor and fuss. I want a quiet place where I might read my brazen American’s letter.
The library is my favorite room at Stranje House. My safe harbor. I relish the smell of oiled leather bindings and lemon-waxed shelves, and the way the books soften the noise of the world. I wander to my private desk beside the window, and run my hand over the smooth oak. Everything on it stands in perfect order, the blotter is squared and everything is in its place.
Grateful for this haven of peace, I sink into one of the overstuffed chairs by the fireplace, and stare at Mr. Sinclair’s highly improper letter. Lifting the folded paper to my nose, I expect to find a whiff of something that will remind me of him, perhaps the musty tang of welded copper, machine oil, or anything. Except there’s nothing, only the scent of paper, ink, and sealing wax.
I break the seal and read:
My dear Lady Jane,
The Mary Isabella arrived in London without incident. Your ingenious idea to hide the smaller parts in bags of wool worked admirably. Now, however, little tufts of sheep’s fuzz are stuck to everything. I anticipate hours of cleaning ahead. Wool and grease seem to be attracted to one another despite their drastic differences. Does that remind you of an equally cockeyed relationship?
Enough sentimental drivel—on to more important points.
Drastic differences. He means us. Cockeyed. It’s another of his absurd American expressions. It conjures the image of a half-blind rooster tilting its head stupidly, which must indicate his opinion of our “relationship.”
“Sentimental drivel, indeed.” I feel a sudden urge to punch something.
I read the paragraph again, and squelch a low growl rising in my throat. Ladies do not growl. It’s unbecoming. A small rumble escapes. His fault.
And to think, Miss Stranje was worried he might’ve written me an improper declaration of his affections. “Ha!”
I lower the letter and glare across the room. I don’t see the oak paneling or the fireplace. Oh no, he stands before me. Alexander Sinclair leans casually against the mantel, his tousled blond hair catches sunlight from the window, his unpredictable eyes spark with mischief, and, of course, there is no escaping his customary smirking grin.
A hallucination sent to mock me.
Or humiliate me.
Or both.
I’ve half a notion to wad up his ruddy note and throw it through my hallucination into the fire. Instead, I give way to curiosity and continue reading his cockeyed note.
You will be delighted to learn I arrived in London without a scratch on my person other than those you left etched in my heart. I passed myself off as a sheep farmer quite easily. The question is—can I pass for a gentleman? Lord Wyatt tells me the Admiralty and the Prince Regent himself intend to inspect the steamship once we get her put back together. Lofty company indeed. I wish you were here to guide me.
My mouth curves into a soft smile and my shoulders relax, melting toward him. Not all the way, mind you, I’m only thawing a bit.
I have a request. Lord Wyatt tells me Miss Stranje is bringing all of you to London for a visit. Might I impose upon you to teach me the steps to one or two of your English dances? Before you roll your eyes and wrinkle up that adorable little nose of yours, allow me to explain.
The Prince Regent requests my attendance at a soirée wherein I’m to be introduced to a number of key naval dignitaries. Naturally, there’s to be dancing at this gathering and several young ladies whose fathers are men of influence, and I’m told they are eager to make my acquaintance.
Does he mean their fathers wish to meet him, or their daughters? I believe the rascal left it intentionally vague.
To be perfectly frank, I would rather not dance at all, but Captain Grey says refraining may be considered ungentlemanly. I don’t wish to disappoint the Prince or his esteemed guests. Therefore, my dear friend, I’m relying upon you to keep me from making a cake of myself. What do you say, Lady Jane? Will you teach me to dance?
With deepest regards,
Alexander Sinclair
The letter wobbles in my fingers. Mr. Sinclair’s apparition still stands across the room, only now he wears a fine set of clothes. His black coat sets off his halo of gleaming curls as he innocently smiles at dancers in the ballroom at Carlton House. He does not see Lady Daneska waltzing toward him. Does not see her concealed dagger until it is plunged into his ribs. She whirls off, carefree and laughing. He crumples to the floor.
I flinch, even though it’s only a mirage, a figment of my imagination, a fear.
A perfectly rational fear. Lady Daneska will be at the Prince’s soirée.
I pace to the window. Alexander is in danger, and I don’t see how we can protect him and the Prince? How can we truly protect either of them when Daneska is so stealthy? It seems impossible.
Thinking this way does no good. There is always a way. That’s what I tell myself in times like these. “There’s always a way,” I murmur, hoping it’s true.
A copy of the London Times sits on the side table. Picking it up to distract myself from morbid worries, I smile remembering how Mr. Sinclair spoke to me of using his uncle’s ingenious design to create a steam-driven press for newspapers. “Mark my words,” he said. “Someday, the London Times will be printed using a steam engine.”
The world is racing forward, and Alexander Sinclair is precisely the sort of man who will be holding the reins as it gallops into the future. I must make sure he survives to do it.
With a sigh, I scan the news. Several items catch my eye. The Duchess of Oldenberg is staying in London at the Pulteney Hotel, and last Saturday afternoon the Prince Regent introduced her to the Prince of Württemberg.
“How very odd.” The Prince of Württemberg is the duchess’s cousin, they hardly needed an introduction. The paper reports that the duchess also received a letter from her brother, Tzar Alexander I, who is rumored to be visiting in Paris.
I wonder if the Prince Regent is trying to broker a marriage between the Duchess of Oldenberg and his ally, the Prince of Württemberg? If that’s the case, why is the duchess’s brother, Emperor of Russia, in Paris visiting Napoleon Bonaparte?
I’ll wager it has something to do with Lady Daneska’s visit. Plots and possibilities swirl through my mind and send my thoughts spinning. I fold the corner of the page intending to discuss this matter with Miss Stranje later, and scour the rest of the gossip column for clues. Two paragraphs later, one name grabs my attention by the hair and gives it a painful yank.
A name that rings in the destruction of my future.
Lord Harston.
It is the very name I feared. The one man I must avoid at all costs. His name traps the breath in my lungs. Nay, it stops my heart, and squeezes until I am cold and shivery.
It will be impossible to dodge him in London. “He’ll find me.”
Lord Harston, the paper says, was seen riding in the park this afternoon with the Prince Regent. Later in the evening, the Prince Regent was observed entering White’s Gentlemen’s Club in the company of Lord Harston, Lord Alvanley, and Sir Lumley Skeffington. According to reliable sources, Lord Harston is currently the Prince’s guest at Carlton House.
I drop into a chair. Can fate be this cruel?
As if I have not been kicked in the teeth enough, one paragraph below Lord Harston, the paper mentions my two good-for-nothing brothers.
“Blast!” Once again, the wastrels have disgraced me. Breath comes shuddering back in furious heaves. They, at least, are not guests of the Prince. I ought to be grateful for that one small blessing, instead I groan under the weight of my humiliation.
The report says my eldest brother, the notorious Earl of Camberly, and his younger brother, Bernard Moore, caused a riot at the Royal Theatre in Drury Lane. It began innocently enough, with Francis and Bernard throwing rotten fruit during a performance of Othello. In and of itself, throwing fruit at the stage would not have been newsworthy. After all, vendors sell rotten apples and moldy pears in the theater for that very purpose.
The Times explains that my brothers, in an extremely drunken state, purchased two entire baskets of moldy oranges. Reeling, as they must’ve been, their aim was sadly off. Many of their throws missed the stage entirely. Fruit flew every which way, and my siblings began amusing themselves by aiming at several distinguished members of the audience, some of whom were visiting dignitaries from Vienna and Russia. When audience members decided to return fire, disrupting the performance altogether, my ne’er-do-well brothers were forcibly removed and tossed into the street.
The Times goes on to comment on the disgraceful behavior of some members of the nobility, and castigates my brothers by name, noting their shameful examples, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera …
My attention whips back and forth between my brothers’ embarrassing public reprimand and the paragraph about Lord Harston. The tighter my jaw clenches the blurrier the words get. All I can see are names I wish did not exist. The newspaper trembles in my hands, until I give up and crumple it in my lap.
I’m done for.
I cannot go to London.
Mr. Sinclair will need to find a different dance instructor. Miss Stranje can teach him. Yes, and Tess is far more capable of protecting him than I am. It’s true. She’s ten times the fighter I am. And yet, I dread leaving his care to anyone else.
What choice do I have?
My heart crashes against my chest as if it’s a rock tumbling down the cliffs toward the sea. Appropriate, considering it feels heavier than a millstone.
Head in hands, I curl over my knees. I’m tired of these millstones. Go ahead, toss me in the sea. Let me drown.
No, that’s foolish thinking. I slap my legs and straighten. There’s an obvious solution. I won’t go to London. That’s all there is to it. Tess and Lord Wyatt will protect Mr. Sinclair. They’ll do as good a job or better than I could do.
If I go, my brothers will heap shame upon me and everyone connected to me, Mr. Sinclair included, and Miss Stranje. Everyone. The scoundrels are bound to be in debt up to their eyeballs. They will undoubtedly try to find some way to bilk money out of my being there. Their rotten problems will become my rotten problems simply by proximity.
Even worse, if they should meet Lord Harston, and discover the truth …
No. No. No!
I simply can’t go. Not with my money-grubbing brothers prowling about. And especially not with Lord Harston in town and running in the same circles with the Prince Regent and Lady Daneska. The entire trip reeks of disaster.
I can’t go.
I won’t.
The decision is made. I take a deep breath, smooth out the newspaper, fold it neatly, and set it on the table exactly where I found it. I arrange the blotter on my desk so it is perfectly squared. I close the desk drawer, turn the key, and lock away my emotions.