A School for Unusual Girls (4 page)

I would do anything to stop my father from signing those papers. I would throw myself at his feet and beg him to forgive me. I'd vow to never
ever
conduct an experiment in the stables again. I'd even swear not to dabble with explosive components again. At least, not in such imprudent quantities. If only he would let me come back home.

A thin beam of gray light penetrated the thick darkness ahead. I ran faster and, in my rush, tripped on a crumbling step and fell to my knees. A mouse pipped in alarm and scurried past my shoulder. The floors were wood here. I leaped up, and brushed the grit and splinters from my palms. At last, I'd found a doorway out of this interminable pit. I scrambled up the remaining steps, but stopped short on a narrow wedge-shaped landing.

This was not a door.

And the voice did not belong to my father.

I teetered on the edge of a precipice overlooking a room. I stood in a small alcove facing the backside of a tapestry, one that must hang very high on the wall. Thin gauze-like peepholes in the tapestry's weave allowed me to survey the chamber below with a fair amount of clarity.

The voices belonged to two gentlemen, one young and one middle-aged. But this sparsely furnished room wasn't intended for guests. The only chairs were four uncomfortable looking straight-backed chairs from the Tudor period. There was no welcoming fire and a table stood off to the side, strewn with maps, letters, and books. It did not bode well. What were these men doing in a girls' school late at night? Equally baffling was the question of why a spy hole existed in a dark passage of that same school. It must be a forgotten hiding place from the house's Tudor days, when, according to my history books, royal families were obsessed with spying on one another.

The younger of the two men paced, while the elder stood completely still. Both tall in stature, they were opposites in every other way, angel and devil, light and shadow. The older man stood at ease. Tranquil. His golden hair thinning and his skin roughened from years in the sun. The younger man looked only a handful of years older than me and had midnight black hair and hard angular planes in his face. His eyes flashed with impatience and a sword swung at his hip as he paced.

“We're wasting time, Captain,” he grumbled. “If we leave now we can make the crossing before morning. We must strike while his men still think he's dead.” I detected a slight French accent in his speech.

The captain shook his head. “They already know.”

“How?” The younger man stopped pacing and pressed a fist atop the hilt of his sword. “His own family has been kept in the dark.”

“Face facts, Sebastian, he has eluded us for weeks. Always a step ahead. Someone is helping him.
Someone
knows he's alive.”

Sebastian spun around and raked a hand through his dark curls. “Who? Thistlewood and his Jacobean cronies?”

“No. Too well-organized for that lot.” He rested a hand on Sebastian's shoulder. “I think the Order of the Iron Crown is back at work. It's the only thing that makes sense. Half of France wants Napoleon restored to the throne. There must be more collaborators on this side of the pond than we suspected.”

Order of the Iron Crown?

What sort of girls' school welcomed conspirators into their private rooms? I clutched the wall to balance myself. Bits of old mortar crumbled in my palm.

Sebastian circuited the worn Turkish carpet, grumbling so low I could hardly hear. “… If anyone knows, mark my words, it's her.”

Who?
I wondered.

He circled back to my side of the room and declared, “We'll make her tell us—force her if necessary.” I leaned as close as possible, straining to hear the other man's response to Sebastian's dire threat.

“Be reasonable. She's a peer. What would you do? Put her on Emma's rack?”

I covered the gasp that nearly escaped my mouth.

Sebastian shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. “Wouldn't help. She'd only lie.” He stopped in front of the Elizabethan chest directly beneath me, and smacked his fist against his palm. “We have no choice. We must cross and run him aground now.”

“There is always a choice. You're allowing emotion to rule your head.” The older man tucked his hands behind his back and waited until he had Sebastian's full attention before continuing. “If Emma's new student has developed a reliable invisible ink, one that can't be detected by simply running a candle under the letter, think how that will aid us. Our time is better spent here, rather than chasing the Ghost across the channel and risk using the old codes.”

Codes. Ink.
I couldn't believe my ears. Surely, they weren't talking about my ink formula. It had to be a coincidence. I clutched the edge of the niche and leaned closer, intent on hearing every word. They couldn't possibly know about my experiments with ink. No one knew about my research, no one except my father, and …

Mother
. She must have mentioned it in those wretched letters she sent Miss Stranje.

Sebastian exhaled loudly and glanced about the room before blurting, “We can't be certain this girl has anything viable. We're going on too little. The strength of a few letters and one governess enamored of her student.”

He couldn't mean my Miss Grissmore? Surely not. What could she possibly have to do with all of this?

The captain's stance stiffened, no longer tranquil, and if I were a sailor on his ship, I would be backing away. “I assure you, Emma has researched the matter thoroughly.” His tone was terse, full of command. “She's been investigating the young lady for some time now. That is good enough for me.”

Open-mouthed, I sucked in air. Had someone been watching me? Investigating? No, surely not. They couldn't be talking about me.

“Even so, she's a mere girl. New to the school.” Sebastian crossed his arms. “What can she possibly know of chemistry and ink formulas? Chemistry requires an understanding of mathematics. In my experience, girls' heads are full of fripperies and trinkets. Their weightiest calculations are deciding how many ruffles they want on their next ball gown.”

Fripperies? Ruffles?
I curled my fingers around a decaying timber. What an arrogant jackanapes. I'd like to hit him over the head with a calculation or two.

With a shake of his head, the captain relaxed and said, “Careful, my boy. Never underestimate women. They're dangerous. Apart from that, you know how selective Emma is about her young ladies. She only takes in the ones who…” He stopped and rubbed at the stubble on his cheek as if contemplating his next words.

Drat! What about the girls in this school? I balanced on the edge of the landing, barely able to keep from shouting at him,
Yes, yes, go on. The ones who
…?

I did shout. My foot slipped off the ledge. I screamed and scratched wildly at the tapestry, trying to grab hold of some nubbin or knot in the weave, fighting to keep my balance, but it swung open. Scrabbling in vain, midair, I dropped like a stone. Except time slowed to a torturous crawl.

My future rushed toward me in predictable angles, calculable forces, inescapable Newtonian physics.

I would be dashed to bits on the monstrous Elizabethan chest below. My lungs would be punctured on the steepled gothic finials. Other parts of me would be bruised and pierced on the metal studs hammered along the edge. In short, I would die.

I closed my eyes.

Instead of breaking my ribs against the sharp-edged chest and plummeting to the floor, I felt myself whisked sideways, swooped away from the furniture. An angel must have saved me. Or perhaps I had died and flown directly into heaven?

Unlikely, on several counts.

I opened my eyes and found myself cradled in the devil's arms. Stunned beyond words or good sense, I blinked, noting that Sebastian's eyes were a startling blue.

I ran through several explanations I might give for my sudden appearance, but decided against speaking. Instead, I concentrated on recovering my breath. I felt a distinct sense of satisfaction to see that Sebastian's impatience had completely disappeared. The young man seemed quite as astonished as I.

Introductions were in order.

So, I began. “For your information, I have
never
given a single thought to the number of ruffles on my ball gown.
Ever
.” There. That told him.

One of his eyebrows shot up to meet a shock of dark hair that had fallen across his brow. My moment of triumph might've lasted longer if his surprise hadn't melted into a lazy sardonic smile.
Smug scoundrel
.

The captain rushed to us. “Is she all right?”

Sebastian's gaze wandered casually down my neck and kept going, brazenly surveying areas of my person that he ought not to look upon so directly. “Yes, I believe so.” Finally, his wicked eyes returned to my face where they belonged. However, from the way he studied my nose and mouth I wondered if the brigand was counting my freckles. He cleared his throat, and with a sly half smile, said, “Although she must have bumped her head. She keeps going on about ruffles.”

“I do not. And for your information, a ball gown doesn't have ruffles, it has flounces.”

“See what I mean?” Sebastian shook his head mournfully. “Poor thing is delirious.”

I buckled my lips together and then promptly unbuckled them. I meant to put a hasty end to his mockery. “Why were you discussing my ink?” I demanded.

At that precise moment, the door opened and Miss Stranje glided into the room. She took one look at me draped across Sebastian's arms, glanced up at the tapestry dangling open in front of the spy hole, and hesitated only a moment before calmly addressing us as if nothing was amiss. “Ah, I see you've met my newest student.” Her gaze narrowed at me. “Miss Fitzwilliam, how clever you are to have already discovered one of our secret passages. Incidentally, your parents asked me to bid you
adieu
.”

Adieu?
She was making that up; my parents didn't use French phrases. “They're gone? Without saying farewell?”

Miss Stranje inclined her head. “Your father thought it would be better this way.”

Better for whom? Not me. It wasn't better. Not better, at all. They'd abandoned me. How could they leave me in this awful place? I felt disoriented, dizzy, like I might be falling again. My stomach lurched. I bit my lip to keep from crumpling, and turned my face into Sebastian's chest, away from the wobbling light of the oil lamps.

I didn't intend to sink deeper into his arms. Sadness rendered me momentarily weak. Cradled in his arms I felt warm and comforted, yet uneasy at the same time. I'd never been held by a man before, except, perhaps, by my father, but that was so long ago I had no memory of it.
Father
—who had just discarded me, left me in this place like unwanted baggage. I suppressed the instinct to curl up, to double over against the gnawing ache in my middle. I fought it. Trembling with the effort.

Sebastian's arms tightened around me.

I mustered my pride, fought to regain my senses and take charge of the situation. To do that, I needed to get on my feet. I certainly didn't belong in this man's arms. Apparently, I didn't belong anywhere.

A surge of something, maybe it was anger at the injustice of it, or maybe it was knowing I had no one to depend upon but myself, whatever the source, I found the strength to push against his chest. “Put me down, sir.”

“Lord Wyatt is a viscount, Georgiana. One must address him as
my lord,
rather than
sir
.” Miss Stranje instructed me as if I were a complete simpleton. “Thus, you would say, ‘Kindly put me down, my lord.'”

I didn't care whether he was a viscount or a fishmonger. I needed to get out of his arms and onto solid ground.

Sebastian studied my face. “You're still pale. After that fall, are you quite certain you're steady enough to stand?” A wash of pity colored his features. I wanted none of it.

“Quite. Now, if you would be so gracious,
my lord,
as to
kindly
set me on the floor.” I emphasized his title with more sarcasm than I ought, and nearly spat the word
kindly
at Miss Stranje. My mother would've whipped me soundly for such rudeness. In my defense, I was still startled by the fall and my parents' hasty departure.

Sebastian lowered my feet to the ground. “You're welcome,” he said coldly, reminding me I hadn't thanked him for saving my life. He straightened his rumpled sleeves and brushed away a cobweb I must have carried down with me on my skirts.

I couldn't risk gratitude. Not just yet. My composure hung by a thread more fragile than the cobweb he brushed off his coat. I set my jaw and turned to Miss Stranje. “Did my father mention at which inn he would be staying?”

Her bird-of-prey features softened. “No. I offered him rooms here, but he insisted on a hasty departure. To avoid a fuss, as he put it.”

“I would not have made a fuss.”
A lie
. I would've clung to his boots and begged like a street urchin, like one of the peasants my mother detested. The untruth made me flush with heat. Unable to look at them, I studied the intricate pattern in the Turkish carpet.

“Of course not.” Miss Stranje stepped aside and gestured to the doorway. “You may be excused for the evening, Miss Fitzwilliam. Your trunks have been carried to the girls' dormitorium. You'll find it easy enough. It's up one flight, turn left into the east wing, the second room on the right.”

I was not a child that she should dismiss me out of hand. I faced her squarely, just as if my knees weren't quaking. “These men were discussing my invisible ink.”

Miss Stranje didn't flinch. That sharp hawk-like expression of hers returned, unreadable and shrewd. “Were they?” she said, without a modicum of surprise.