No Proper Lady (20 page)

He ran a hand down her arm, brushing the long scar there. “I shouldn’t ask where you got yours, should I?”

“Not this late at night,” she joked, but her eyes were serious, watching his face. Looking for any hint of disgust, Simon thought, and he met her gaze seriously. “There’s the flashgun, of course, where it fastens on. You know that one.”

He glanced down at the scar in the crook of her elbow. “Is it always there?”

“Not always. It has more of a kick with the major vessels and closer to the heart.” She rubbed the little circle absently with one hand. “I’ve attached to the femoral sometimes if I had time to prepare in advance and someone to supervise. And if I could eat a steak afterward.”

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Not during. The gun’s got anesthetic. Aches a bit after, though. The tattoos hurt worse.”

There was one of them on her back, high enough that he could see why her ball gowns were relatively modest: a spiraling blue shape near her spine. Another, also blue but more angular and runic, adorned the inside of each thigh. “They look like they took a while too.”

“Oh, yeah.” She winced but with pride. “The priests tie you down when they do it. Only way to make anyone keep still. And you have to. They’re magic.”

“What do they do?” he asked, stroking his finger over the blue spiral.

“These? Speed. Strength. Protection. Other people get other things.”

“But everyone has them.”

Joan nodded. “It’s a sign that you’re grown up.”

“Enduring pain,” he said dryly. “I suppose that’s a reasonable enough mark of adulthood. Particularly in your time—no offense intended.”

“None taken,” she said, amiable and relaxed. “There’s a reason I came back.”

Abruptly, Simon pulled her into his arms, rejoicing not in sensuality now but in the sheer feel of her, warm and alive and whole against him. He held her tightly, perhaps too tightly—in recompense, perhaps, for the time in the library before when he couldn’t.

Joan sighed, contented, and rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m glad I got to meet you too,” she said.

Then she sighed and pushed herself upward. Her body was shadow and silver, now that moonlight had replaced the dying fire, and her hair fell around her like Danae’s cloud. “I’d better head out. Before anyone wakes up.”

“You could stay here,” Simon said. He told himself it was a sudden impulse, but he knew he was lying.

And he knew what the answer would be, even before Joan shook her head. “If I could stay, I would.”

There was always a morning after.

Not that Joan had any regrets—even the faint damn-it’s-been-a-while soreness was good, since it brought back hot memories and gave her the satisfied feeling of hard work well done—but logistics had gotten a lot more complicated all of a sudden.

The ripped dress, for one. Much as she’d enjoyed Simon’s company the night before, Joan looked at the shredded bodice and cursed him quietly. The tear was a simple one, but it was in a very revealing place. So, wincing inwardly, she stuffed the dress into the cupboard where she kept the rest of her more damning supplies. At least today was Betty’s day off. That gave Joan something of a reprieve.

She found a blouse that would hide the bruise on her neck and a skirt, and then went downstairs.

Eleanor was in the library. Her usual book was on the desk, but for once she was paying no attention to it, looking out the window instead. She jumped a little when Joan came in.

Was Eleanor going back to her old nervousness? She hadn’t dressed in black or anything, and she smiled, but she did drop her eyes. Joan sighed inwardly even as she smiled. “Hey.”

“Good morning.” At least that came without stuttering or hesitation. “Are you all right? Did the party go well?”

“Pretty well,” said Joan.

Eleanor looked her over, trying to be surreptitious. Her eyes lingered on the high collar of Joan’s blouse. “I’m sorry I wasn’t awake when you came back.”

She was worried, Joan realized, and she was a lot less innocent than most people here thought girls were. It did look bad: a late night in the company of a bastard, followed by plainer clothing than usual with a high neckline.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said. It came out sounding rougher than she’d meant it to, more like rejection. “I mean—”

She reached over and put a hand on Eleanor’s. “Nothing happened. I swear. There was a crowd. Reynell tried flirting with me, like usual. That’s all.”

Not exactly the truth, though, not about Simon and, more importantly, not about Reynell. Joan thought she’d done a fairly good job of hiding that, but Eleanor gave her a long, measuring look before she nodded. “I’m very glad to hear it. Did you have a good time?”

“Not really.” Joan sat down on the edge of the desk. “I don’t really like messing with spirits. Especially not when I’m with people who don’t know what they’re doing.”

“You don’t think
anyone
there does?”

Joan shook her head. “I think there were people there who can call things up. Reynell might be able to put them back down again. But eventually he’s gonna run across one that he can’t make go away or one that puts its mark on him before he does, and then—” She brought her hands together with a sharp clap.

“Oh.” Eleanor frowned a little. “You seem to know a great deal about them.”

“Yes,” said Joan.

“It’s odd, really, that they should be so much the same between your world and ours. When yours is so different, I mean.”

“Maybe,” said Joan. “But maybe they come from outside all worlds, so that wouldn’t be so strange.”

Eleanor walked back to the desk and closed her book, smoothing her hand down the leather cover. “You’re here to do something very serious,” she said. “Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Joan.

“It’s to do with Mr. Reynell.”

“Yes.” She waited.

Eleanor looked down at the book. “Oh,” she said, and left it on the desk. “Simon says we might go to the theatre tonight. Would you like that?”

***

Theatre dresses were low necked, but a broad velvet ribbon hid the bruise all right, and Joan pinned on a brooch to make it look like jewelry instead of camouflage. She let Betty fuss over her hair a little more than usual too, and peered into the mirror for just a moment longer, looking at the masses of rose satin and the piled curls.

Dumbass. You need infatuation right now like you need a hole in the head.
Still, there it was. When she thought of Simon, her pulse sped up. Stupid, but undeniable.

And when she met him in the hall and saw the way he looked at her, Joan found herself smiling like a complete moron. She couldn’t even be properly embarrassed about it. Not when he was smiling back the same way. On him, it looked gorgeous.

“You’ll have a good time tonight,” Simon said, as he walked into the theatre with her and Eleanor. “It’s an excellent play—and has a very well-known actress in the lead part.”

“That,” Eleanor said, quiet and wry, “will guarantee a packed house no matter what the play is.”

She was talking more tonight, her small jokes more frequent. That might have been a good sign. There was energy there, nervous energy, though, Joan thought. She hoped that Eleanor hadn’t found out about her and Simon or that she wasn’t upset if she had.

They tried not to be too obvious. Joan didn’t know how successful they were. Simon pointed people out to her and Eleanor alike, but when Eleanor was distracted, he sometimes bent close to Joan and told her something he’d never think of mentioning to his sister, or he ran his fingers up her neck for a moment. Joan thought it was fairly subtle, but she had no real way to be sure.

Not that she was objecting.

“It is a tragedy,” Simon said, leaning over to her when the curtain fell for intermission.

“Hmm?”

“You’re smiling.”

“So are you.”

“It’s a very thoughtful smile. I’m contemplating the meaning of life.” He straightened up as Eleanor got to her feet, turning to her with a slightly less joking look. “And how did you like it?”

“Oh, very well, thank you.” They were heading out of their box now into a hall filled with richly dressed people. Joan strained to hear Eleanor as she went on. “I’ve seen it done before, but the staging here was—”

She stopped short. A gaunt woman in ostrich feathers bumped into her, sniffed loudly, and stalked on. Eleanor didn’t seem to notice.

Joan followed Eleanor’s gaze across the room and saw, as she’d expected, Reynell. He was standing in a small group of young people, holding a drink in one hand and leaning against a wall. When he saw Joan, he bowed—the drink didn’t even wobble—but he looked from her to Simon and Eleanor and didn’t step forward.

Oh, Powers.

All right. I’m supposed to be crazy about this guy. What do I do now?

She turned to Simon. His hands were clenched at his sides now, and if she put a hand on his arm, Joan knew, she’d feel the muscles as tense as wire. Much as she wanted to touch him, though, to give him some kind of reassurance, she couldn’t. Too many people were watching, and one person in particular.

It was time for the mission now.

“I’m going to go and get some fresh air,” she said, just a little too loudly. “It’s a bit hot in here.”

Simon frowned. “Would you like me to come with you?”

“No, don’t trouble yourself. I’ll only be a minute. Besides, I’m sure Eleanor could use some refreshment.”

That much, at least, was true. Ellie was staring back and forth between them and then at Reynell, looking more troubled than she had in a long time.
Hell
, thought Joan, but she couldn’t worry about it now.
I’ll just find the book and stab him, and this will all get better.

First she had to make herself an opening. She patted Eleanor on the arm, then slipped through the crowd.

Of course, she couldn’t actually go outside. Ladies didn’t do that. There was a small open window on the other side of the room and enough people to provide plenty of cover between it and Simon. Joan squeezed between people to get there, smelling rich food and heavy perfume, and tried not to think about what would happen in an attack.

At the window, she stared outside, letting her hair blow back and taking deep breaths. It really was a relief—at least until she felt a gloved hand on her shoulder. “I’ve missed you horribly, you know.”

“It’s only been a day,” she said, laughing nervously. The nerves supplied themselves, at least. She only had to fake the laughter.

Reynell met her eyes as she turned and let his tongue slip out, passing over his lower lip for just a second. “A day can seem like an eternity,” he said, “especially without the company one desires. I can only count myself lucky that chance brought you here.”

Does this really work on people? Maybe just on girls he’s drugged.

“Why do you say that?” She dropped her eyes. “I do have to get back soon. The play will be starting.”

“But before it does,” Reynell said, sliding his hand down along her arm, “perhaps we can make more private arrangements.” His hand reached hers, clutched it, and pressed a slip of paper into the palm. “Bring a maid, if that will satisfy your hosts. Only take care to bring a discreet maid.”

He smiled at her, utterly sure of himself.

“Nothing could keep me away,” said Joan.

Reynell raised her hand to his mouth and slowly kissed the knuckles. “I’ll be counting the hours,” he said, and then he was gone.

Turning back to the window, Joan opened the paper.

Tomorrow night,
it said, in perfect handwriting.
Ten o’clock.
And an address.

Ten o’clock. Not horribly late for town life. Still too late and too private to be anything but sex. At least he was honest. Joan folded the note and slid it into her reticule. Her hands shook only a little.

Calm down. You’re ready for this. You’ve been getting ready for years.

That was the problem. Five years of training back home and more than a month here. Suddenly, time had weight, and Joan felt all of it at her back. Everything she did from now on would be important, either because it would affect the mission or because…well, because it would probably be one of the last times she did it.

Here we go.

She crossed the room again and found Simon standing by himself. “Where’s Eleanor?”

“Over that way,” he said, gesturing roughly toward the area where Joan had been. “Talking with a friend from school, she said. I thought with so many people around, and since you were talking to Alex—”

“‘Just a distraction.’ Goes great on a tombstone,” Joan said, and laughed a little too sharply.

Then Simon’s hand was on the small of her back, firm and warm, and she felt her racing heartbeat slow. Arousal ran second now to relief. She looked up, met his eyes, and saw confirmation.

“There are two of us, you know,” he said mildly. Then, frowning, “Are you all right? Did he—”

“He didn’t do anything that wasn’t in the plan. And I’m fine.” She took a deep breath, hardly even feeling it. “But we’ll need to talk when we get home.”

The note wasn’t surprising, really. Still, Simon read it slowly and then read it over again. If there was ever a time to have all the details of a situation down, it was now.

Joan paced while he read. She picked up one book after another and set them down again, took a diffident sip of tea and then abandoned the cup, and finally took the poker and began, entirely without need, to stir up the fire. Color flamed in her cheeks, and her eyes were so bright that she looked almost feverish.

She hadn’t bothered to take off her evening dress, but she had pulled the pins out of her hair, one by one, shortly after they’d entered the library. Now her hair hung loose and golden over the rose silk, completing the picture of a woman in an advanced state of distraction.

Not that Simon could blame her. Not that he didn’t have his own inner maelstrom of relief that things were finally coming to an end, regret that it was this end, a now almost nonexistent glimmer of hope that Alex could be redeemed or at least could meet an honorable death, and what he could now freely admit was bitter jealousy where Joan was concerned.

He spoke from the last. Everything else was too momentous, too intense. “If it’s possible,” Simon said, putting the note down, “I would rather not give him the chance to get very far.”

Joan spun around and stared at him. For a second, her eyes were blank, and Simon waited for anger. She laughed, though. There wasn’t much humor in it, but it was laughter. “Powers help me, neither would I. If he weren’t a wizard, it might be a good idea, tactically speaking. But—you know what I mean?”

“I do.” There were spells that used sex as a conduit. There were some that needed only close physical contact.

“Yeah. I’d rather not sleep with him. Besides, he probably wouldn’t trust me enough to roll over and fall asleep after.”

“No,” said Simon. “I doubt he falls asleep with anyone else in the room these days.”

“So,” said Joan, flopping down at the desk and drumming her fingers on the surface, “I need a distraction once I get in there. Something that’ll keep him busy for a little while so I can look for the book. Something that goes off before too long. I don’t want to eat or drink anything he gives me, and I can make only so many excuses.”

“The book’s probably in his study,” Simon said. “If you’re in his bedroom, it might take you ten minutes to get there. Five if you’re in the drawing room. That’s assuming you’re not interrupted.”

“I’ll deal with interruptions,” said Joan, and then shook her head when Simon’s alarm clearly showed. “Nonlethally. I’ve got enough knockout darts to take down a horse.”

“And the guardian?”

“Flashgun. A couple shots should take care of it, from the way it sounded. Maybe not kill it, but at least send it off for a while. Long enough.”

The image of that thing with its tentacles around Joan made Simon’s throat close. But he knew better than to try to protect her against her will. “I hope so,” he said. “I’m afraid he’s probably hidden the book fairly well. You can lock the door behind you, probably, which will buy you at least a little time.”

“The longer I have, the better. I want to make sure the book’s gone before I have to deal with Reynell at all.” Joan frowned. “So a fire wouldn’t work. He’d go to grab the manuscript himself. A break-in, maybe?”

“Possibly.” Simon leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes, and rubbed at his temples. “It’d have to be something magical, though. Otherwise he’d just send a footman to deal with it. And that—”

“—means you’ll have to do it,” Joan said. She didn’t sound happy about it, which Simon supposed made them even. “Unless you can make something and send that in with me.”

He shook his head. “The wards would pick up anything like that instantly. I suppose I’ll have to turn out-and-out housebreaker. He’ll never believe you’d bring a manservant to something like this, and his servants would never let me in otherwise.”

“I don’t like it,” Joan said. “We don’t have anyone on the inside. You break in, and we’re opening this thing up to police, servants, you name it. It’s not just us and him anymore, and that makes it a whole less predictable. But—”

The door opened.

Both of them looked up. Joan stood, one hand going to her side—and then saw Eleanor. She was standing just inside the doorway, her face pale but set.

Before either Joan or Simon could speak, Eleanor pushed the door closed and then clasped her hands behind herself. “I could do it,” she said. “I could be the person on the inside.”

***

Simon looked like he’d seen the dead walk. Joan wasn’t so surprised. This made sense when she thought about it: Eleanor’s nervousness, her questions about Reynell, the way she’d been studying magic. “You were listening,” she said.

“Yes,” said Eleanor, and swallowed. “And I-I spied on you earlier, I’m afraid, when you met with Mr. Reynell. I saw him give you a note. I’m sorry. I know it was deceitful, but I had to find out.”

“Why, in Heaven’s name?” Simon asked, sounding like someone had throttled him.

“Because I kept finding out other things,” Eleanor said, looking like she might faint. “They were little things, but they came together, and I started to see that something very large was going on. And that I can help.”

Simon stared at her. “You don’t know any more about housebreaking than I do.”

“I don’t have to. Nobody looks twice at a maid. You know that. Most people don’t look twice at me, anyway. I don’t think even Mr. Reynell has, since I’ve come back, except to try to scare me. He doesn’t see me as a threat. I don’t think he sees me at all.” She smiled wanly. “Certainly his butler won’t know me or care. And I know a little magic. I could do enough to set off the wards, and then I could scream and run away.”

“You think they’d let you get far enough into the house to cast a spell?” Joan asked.

“I think so. At the very least, I could let Simon in one of the back doors. If I said I’d forgotten to give you something and then pretended to get lost…I think I could manage.”

“Absolutely not,” said Simon, coming back to himself. The hope vanished from Eleanor’s face, and she looked down. “There’s no way I’m letting you—”

“Think about it for a second,” Joan interrupted, holding up a hand. “She could be useful.”

Simon turned to her, eyes narrowing a little. “This isn’t about your mission,” he said, “and I told you when we started that I wouldn’t have her recruited.”

“Exactly when do you think I recruited her, huh? When she listened at the door, or when she spotted me with Reynell? Besides, everything’s about this mission. It has to be.”

“I’m well aware that you think so,” he said icily. “But this is my sister. She doesn’t have to be, and, by God, she isn’t going to be.”

“Not even by her own choice?”

“She’s a child.”

Joan snorted. “She’s eighteen. Old enough here to marry and breed. And I was in the field three years younger—”

“—because your world is like something out of Dante. That doesn’t mean anything. It certainly doesn’t mean I shouldn’t protect her.”

“Yeah?” said Joan. “Well, did you ever think maybe so much protection’s why she—”

Simon knew what she was going to say. It was obvious from the way his eyes flashed. He opened his mouth to interrupt as Joan was about to go on—and then Eleanor cleared her throat.

It was a very quiet sound, but it made them both turn. Heat spread across Joan’s face, and she saw Simon flush as well.
Right. We’re both assholes.

“Um,” said Eleanor, “I wanted to say that I wouldn’t be in nearly as much danger as either of you would. Not even if I went.”

Simon blinked. “Well,
no
,” he said. “You shouldn’t be.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Eleanor swallowed again. “I mean, it isn’t as though I don’t worry about you or as though what happens in there won’t affect my life. And if I didn’t go and it went wrong, don’t you think I’d hate myself for that?”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and she looked hastily down at her feet.

It took about two seconds for Simon to get out of his chair and put his arms around her. “Ellie,” he began, and then stopped. Joan looked away. She’d have left the room, but that would have been more disruptive.

Eleanor sniffled. “You can’t tell me nothing will go wrong, Simon. I couldn’t believe you. I’d want to, but I couldn’t.”

“It wouldn’t be your fault,” he said, “if it did.”

“Wouldn’t it?” Eleanor looked solemnly up at her brother. “Why not? If you’d left me in danger when you could have done something about it at very little risk to yourself, wouldn’t you feel as though you were to blame?”

“That’s different,” said Simon, but halfheartedly. He looked down at Eleanor for a long moment. “Is that the only reason you want to do this?”

“No,” she said very quietly.

“Is it to try to be like Joan? Because—”

“No.” Eleanor blushed and looked over to where Joan sat. “I like you a great deal, but I can’t be like you, any more than I could be like Rosemary. I…hope you understand.”

“Of course I do,” said Joan, and left it at that. “Why, then?”

“I had no part in saving myself,” Eleanor said, and her voice was almost too quiet to hear. “I don’t even remember it. And now when I see Mr. Reynell, he’s…larger than he should be. Scarier. Like an ogre in a fairy story. I thought that maybe if I could do something to him, just a little thing, it wouldn’t be so bad. He’d be more human.”

Her nerve failed her at the last, and she didn’t look at Simon when she talked. Joan did, though, and saw him look like he’d been punched in the gut.

“I see,” he said, and then stood quietly for a long time, not looking at anyone or anything in the room. “Give me your word, then, that you won’t take any unnecessary risks. You’ll let me in, set off whatever distraction we need, and then hide. You won’t confront Alex.”

Eleanor’s face lit with surprise and pride, fear and love. Joan looked away.

“I swear it,” Eleanor said, lifting her head and speaking clearly. “I swear by the stars and the children of the stars, by the greater Powers and the lesser.”

It was like an oath from Joan’s world but different. From one of Simon’s books, she thought, particularly given the way Simon almost flinched at it. He managed a smile, at least. “Then God go with us all,” he said. “And we’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

He didn’t look at Joan when he left the room.

***

Sleep was long in coming that night. Past midnight, Simon was still awake and well acquainted with every crack in his ceiling. He was turning over for what might have been the fiftieth fruitless time when he heard the door open. He spun around almost instantly, less from any sense of real danger than from a general irritation of the nerves.

Joan closed the door behind her and stood silently looking at him. She was wearing a dressing gown again, with a nightgown underneath it this time. With her hair loose and flowing over her shoulders, she looked surprisingly young, and yet there was something in her face that could never be so.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“You were right.”

It hurt to say it, hurt both because of his pride and because of what it meant. He watched Joan’s face carefully, looking for triumph, and found none. Instead, she shrugged. “Maybe. But I said it wrong.” She smiled in a way that was half a grimace. “They should’ve sent a better diplomat.”

“I’d rather not work with a diplomat,” said Simon. He sat up a little and held out a hand to her. “And I’d certainly rather not do anything else with one.”

Joan flashed a grin. “Probably not. Our best diplomat was Winston. He’s a friend of my father’s—about the same age too—and has a giant beard.”

She joked, but the weariness was still in her voice. It was in her body too, despite her straight shoulders and high chin. Not just the fight, he thought, or maybe the fight hadn’t just come from Eleanor’s offer. Did everyone’s nerves go
twang
before something like this? “I’m sorry too,” he said.

“Good to know.” She sat down on the bed beside him and ran her fingers through his hair. Through the window, the moon picked both of them out in silver light. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

There was too much that they might say if they did. All of it seemed ill-omened, the sort of thing you told someone that you would never see again. Simon was magician enough to know the power of belief. If you acted as if something were true, maybe it would be. So he said nothing.

He wondered if Joan had the same reasons.
Everyone I love is there
, he remembered her saying. He wondered if that was still true, and if she’d prefer, at the end of whatever happened the next night, to leave this world to try to find whatever was left of those she’d known.

When she met his eyes, hers were sad and filled with the same awful knowledge. It didn’t matter what she felt or what he did. It couldn’t. Nothing was certain, and they would be risking everything. That was all either of them needed to know.

Simon rose, then, and kissed her. It was like coming home. They had all the time in the world and not nearly enough.

Slowly, Joan slid her arms around him and pressed her body close, her mouth sweet and warm beneath his. She moved to his neck after a little while when she felt him harden against her, grazing the skin lightly with her lips, tracing every inch until Simon moaned. More than lust was rising in his blood now; there was a warmth that felt almost magical.

Pulling away a little, Simon ran his hands down Joan’s body, grazing her breasts, until he found the knot holding her dressing gown closed. He undid it with care, and he knew Joan watched him. The gown fell away easily. She half sat, half lay before him, almost exposed, and then she reached for the hem of her nightgown and drew it upward.

There was none of the impatience or the frank sexual hunger that he’d come to expect. Not that Joan blushed or tried to hide herself. That sort of reaction would be as alien to her as this time was. But she took as much care removing her nightgown as he had untying the knot of her belt, drawing it slowly upward to expose slim, strong thighs and the sleek golden triangle where they met. Simon caught his breath.