Judith had blinked at this. “You came here to point your pistol at me?”
He put one hand over his face. “In a sense,” he’d muttered. “There’s a rule that gentlemen ought not give ladies gifts that are too dear. Flowers, yes. Ribbons, maybe. But never anything particularly expensive or thoughtful.”
“It will make the lady seem fast if she takes it,” Judith had said with a nod.
“No,” Christian said. “That’s what they tell the young ladies. I don’t think it’s the true reason, though.”
“No?”
“It’s because some gentlemen aren’t gentlemen. Sometimes, a man will say he’s giving a gift, and then later, he’ll ask for compensation in the form of attentions a lady does not wish to give.”
Judith heard herself laughing. “Goose. Nobody will think you’re seeking my attentions.”
He hadn’t laughed with her. He’d bit his lip instead and looked over at her. “Won’t they?”
And then he handed her the box he was carrying.
It had been heavy. She’d needed two hands to steady it on her lap. Then she’d lifted the lid.
Inside that wooden box had been a brilliant tableau. A shepherdess sat in a field, her face upturned. She had been smiling. The painter had captured the look of sun kissing her lips.
But that had not been the best part. Around her, three clockwork sheep were arranged on a little track that wound round the figurine’s skirts. And when she pulled the shepherdess out of the box, there was something underneath her—a thick volume, the spine stamped with the notation Elements of Clockwork.
“Oh, my.” Judith had touched the figurine and then found the mechanism and wound it. The sheep danced, turned, and—one by one—leapt a tiny wooden fence.
She had turned to Christian. He was watching her with an unreadable expression on his face. Even if she couldn’t read his expression, she could comprehend what he’d given her. This wasn’t the sort of bauble one handed to one’s best friend’s younger sister on a whim.
She had been glad. “It’s perfect.”
He had scuffed his foot against the carpet. “If you flip it over, you’ll discover that the clockwork can be accessed via a simple panel. You can completely disassemble it, if you wish.”
That had been it: the moment she had known that he’d seen her, that he knew what she most desired, and that he’d wanted to give it to her. It was more intimate than a kiss. She was seventeen; he was nineteen. She was unlikely to see him at all in the next few years.
She had been old enough to think of boys, but not quite old enough to do so seriously. Up until that moment, she hadn’t let herself dwell on the possibility of Christian. He spent summers in her house, for God’s sake; there was no point working herself up to being nervous in his presence.
She was nervous now.
“It’s extremely improper,” he said. “Far too expensive. And I had it commissioned for you in particular, which makes it even worse. But I won’t ever ask you for anything because of it. I won’t even remind you I offered it.”
“Won’t you?” She felt almost wistful.
“No,” he said. “While your father and your brother are gone, you are going to stay with your uncle three counties over. You’ll be in mourning, not taking visitors. We won’t have a chance to talk at breakfast. We shan’t have any meetings in the orchards. You won’t be out. So no, Judith. I won’t have the opportunity to ask you for any attentions. Not for two years.”
She nodded. “It’s a farewell gift.”
His eyes had held hers. “By the time I see you again, you’ll be nineteen, and every inch the lady. I am not asking you to do anything improper, Judith. But I must admit that I’m hoping you will do me the honor of…”
She had waited in utter confusion.
“Of not forgetting me,” he said.
She hadn’t. She’d taken his shepherdess apart and reassembled it until she could see the gears in her sleep. She’d studied the book and saved her pin money so she could order the parts she needed to make the sheep leap backward, and when her first attempt had failed, she’d tried again.
She had never forgotten him. Not during those two years while her father was away and she was stranded in mourning at her uncle’s. Not when she saw him again after all that time. Not after her father’s trial.
She’d thought of him the day she sold her first design for a clockwork dancing couple.
She picked up the shepherdess now and gave it a perfunctory wipe.
Her memory was too good. She also couldn’t forget Benedict’s lip. She remembered that the little bits and pieces she’d scraped together for her sisters added up to a tiny fraction of what they would have had…and that it felt like she’d spent the last years of her life scrambling from one sinking ship to the next.
They should have had more. She should have had more.
“You’re right,” she told the shepherdess. “I can’t let myself forget that I hate him.”
Chapter Eight
“Wire ahead,” Christian was saying to Mr. Lawrence, his man of business, as they walked in the front door of his house. “We’ll need a conveyance of some sort when we arrive.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Beside him, the butler gave him a faint nod in greeting and tilted his head slightly to the right.
Christian turned back to his man of business. “Reschedule my meeting with Lord Grafton.”
“Yes, my lord. Already accomplished.”
The butler moved ten degrees, back into Christian’s field of vision, and mildly cleared his throat.
“And find my notes from the Worth affair, if you will—there’s one matter I must think about briefly.”
“Of course, my lord. I’ll have them brought right over.”
The butler cleared his throat a little louder, and when that didn’t work, coughed mildly into his fist.
“Good.” Christian handed his hat and gloves to the butler, hoping that this was the source of the man’s insistently putting himself forward. “Then we can knock off these last—” He stopped midsentence, looking into the front drawing room.
His mother sat, a stiff expression on her face. Next to her on the sofa was Lillian, his second cousin, and her husband, Viscount Stafford. They were staring at him with matching, pained looks that suggested he had either murdered a score of baby elephants in the public square and was still dripping blood, or he was guilty of some minor breach of etiquette.
For instance, not noticing that he had visitors when he walked into his house.
Also, possibly, not remembering that he had promised his mother that he’d be home to visitors today. Damn it.
He handed his hat and coat to the butler and walked through the doors. “Lillian,” he said. “You look well. You’re much recovered from your confinement.”
“Thank you, Christian.”
“And Stafford. How good of you to come by.”
He reached for a biscuit; his mother frowned at him, and he left it on its platter.
“Do sit with us,” his mother said coaxingly. “Talk.”
Small talk was the last thing on his mind. He could have engaged Stafford on some of the little matters dithering about in Parliament if they’d been alone, but they were in mixed company. He might have enjoyed drawing Lillian out—he had never known what women talked about when they were alone until his cousin had begun to whisper details—but she’d never divulge her secrets with her husband present. Besides, he had a journey in the morning to plan.
Still. His mother handed him a cup of tea that she’d prepared, and he dutifully seated himself and set the cup on the little side table.
“Ashford.” Lillian touched her fingers to the coiled plait of dark hair wound about her head. “We are here on a very serious matter. We request that you give this your utmost…ah…consideration.”
He reached for a sandwich. “You perceive me all considering consideration.”
“Something dire has happened.” Lillian
reached for her own teacup, as if it were filled with liquid consolation instead of just brown brewed water. “Something truly, dreadfully awful. Your reputation will never be the same.”
“Oh my.” Christian sat up straight. “They’ve found out about the elephants.”
Lillian frowned at him. “The…what?”
“The baby elephants. In Trafalgar Square. With the guillotine…? Oh, you mean they haven’t realized that was me? Good, good. Never mind. Carry on.”
His cousin exhaled. “Christian. Do be serious. I am.”
“Continue,” Christian said. “You were saying that something truly awful has happened.”
Lillian sniffed. His mother handed her a handkerchief, which she used to dab at her eyes.
“My dear Lord Ashford,” Lillian said, “you know you’re the dearest of my cousins. I care for you as if you were my own brother. Despite your terrible sense of—well, never mind that. I can’t bear to see you suffer so. I would do anything to have you as happy as I am.”
“How am I suffering?”
She dabbed at her eyes and looked at him. “Lady Cailing said that you should be struck from the list of eligible bachelors.”
Christian took a bite of his sandwich. The bread was dry; the cucumber was limp. Clearly, he needed to discuss sandwiches with his cook. In fact…
No, no distracting himself with that now. His mother and cousin watched him expectantly, as if they’d disclosed all they had to say.
“That’s it?” he finally asked.
“Christian, Lady Cailing is respected in the highest levels of society!”
He supposed she was. He sighed and tried to take the complaint seriously. “Why am I to be so censured? Am I accused of murder?”
Lillian dropped her handkerchief. “Is there any danger of that?”
“He’s joking,” his mother said with a shake of her head. “You know how he is—always joking about murdering people.” She gave him a reproachful look.
“Not always,” Christian put in unhelpfully. “Sometimes I joke about murdering baby elephants.”
Three very proper people stared at him in utter horror.
“Although in my defense,” Christian continued, “this time, they weren’t really baby elephants, not by months. They were toddler elephants at the worst. I’m sure that makes you all feel better.”
“Christian.” Lillian put her face in her hands, and her husband patted her shoulder consolingly.
Christian sighed. “I never remember when it’s appropriate to joke about baby elephants. Not over tea, apparently. Tell me—elephant death is more of a breakfast subject, isn’t it?”
Lillian looked over at his mother. “Yes. I see what you mean. It’s getting worse. Much worse.”
Christian inhaled slowly. It was one thing to tweak his cousin and mother. With their long faces and dire pronouncements, he’d expected something that had actual consequences. But they cared about him, and he cared about them. “Very well. I’ll do my best to behave. Why have I been subject to such blistering, terrifying censure? And why is Lady Cailing saying such terrible things to your face? Someone should speak to her about her dreadful manners.”
“Of course she didn’t tell me directly! How horrible that would be.” Lillian sniffed. “She told Lady Whitford, who told Lady Dunworth, who told your aunt Madge, who told me.”
Christian smiled. “Oh, that’s good. You made it sound as if I were a total pariah. Instead, I’m the talk of the town.”
“Christian.” His mother glared at him across the table. “How can you jest so at a time like this? After all the work we did to make sure your image was so perfectly sustained, and now…” She shuddered. “I will admit that your somewhat peculiar sense of humor has not harmed your chances the way I thought it would. People seem to actually enjoy it.”
“Everyone loves you,” Lillian said. “But the gossip now is that you are too single-minded. You think of nothing but trade deals, smuggling, importation, exportation. You don’t go to balls. You don’t attend the opera. You don’t visit gentlemen’s clubs except to talk of Parliament.”
“And to make jokes about baby elephants,” his mother muttered.
Lillian continued on as if she had not been interrupted. “Next they’ll be talking mental instability.”
Next to her, her husband was nodding. “It could become dire.”
Christian shrugged. “Well, that sounds surprisingly accurate for ton gossip. The long chain of whispers has managed to discover truth for once. This seems cause for celebration.”
His mother set down her cup and saucer. “Christian. You are my only child. You are my life’s work. I…” Her voice caught for a moment and she looked at Lillian and her husband as if for support. “I gave up everything to make sure that no rumors circulated of your condition. You know how gossip is. Go to a few parties. Dance with a few young ladies.” She shrugged. “Marry one of them, and nobody will ever speak ill of you again.”
Christian couldn’t help himself. He burst into laughter. Well, at least he’d tried to be serious. “Go to a few parties. Dance a few dances. Commit yourself in a public, binding ceremony to another person for the rest of your life. One of these things is rather different in scope than the others, don’t you think?”
“Christian,” she said repressively.
“Since you’ve been so solicitous, here is some advice on soothing your sensibilities: Buy a few ballgowns. Walk in the park with a friend. Renounce your British citizenship and move to the Maldives.”
She glared at him.
“Ah, see, no one likes the rapid escalation game, do they? I commend baby elephants to you as superior amusement in every way.”
“Christian, I am trying to be serious.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. I tried, too. It lasted about a minute before I decided it wouldn’t help one bit. I am who I am. I don’t care if people think I’m off, or if they wonder if I’m ever going to get married. I don’t mind if they strike me from whatever list they’ve put me on. I am never going to stop being the person that I am, and I don’t see why I should apologize for it.”
She leaned toward him. “We made sure that nobody knew of your night terrors. We never spoke of the list-making or the counting or any of the other oddities about you. People think you’re witty and charming and the little peculiarities, well… Nobody has minded until now. We must make sure that this continues. We must make plans.”
“Oh,” said Christian. “I have an idea. I could speak on behalf of a bill in Parliament. I could write an editorial for the newspaper. Or—how about this for a difference in scope—I could tell everyone my father wanted to put me in a madhouse when I was a child.”
“Christian!”
“Mmm.” He took another bite of his sandwich. “I see you still don’t like the game you invented.”
His mother looked around, as if to make sure that none of the footmen were present. “It was not a madhouse,” she finally said primly. “That makes people think of Bedlam. And you never went; I made sure of that.”
“Yes,” Christian said. “I recall.”
“But it’s those very facts that we must be vigilant about. It’s embarrassing—no, damaging—for everyone to think you’re obsessed with the details of the opium trade in the Orient. An interest is allowed; an obsession borders on the radical. Can you not just set it aside for the next decade or so? What is wrong with championing another cause? There are orphans here in England already. Orphans make an excellent cause.”
“Mmm.” Christian shook his head. “Given my track record with young elephants, I cannot think that trusting me with orphans would be a wise choice.”
Lillian set her fingers to her temples. “Lord Ashford. Christian. We love you. We want you to be happy. Just come with me to tea a few times. I can have Lady Ennish invite you tomorrow. You can make your jokes, and people will laugh. Behave yourself. Fit in. That’s all anyone wants to see—that you’re still a part of us.”
> That was precisely the problem. He was afraid that he wasn’t any longer.
“I know,” Christian said. “I understand. I’m sorry.” He patted her hand. “I love you all, too, and I’m only telling jokes because I can’t make this right. You see…” He’d stopped being one of them. He wasn’t sure when it had happened, but it had. “I don’t drink tea any longer.”
“Pretend,” Lillian begged. “You used to at least pretend before.”
He had pretended. He’d pretended very well for years. He’d told himself when his friend’s ship had sailed that Anthony would be back in seven years, having learned his lesson. Everything would come right again. Anthony would confess his error. Christian had pretended for years, even after he heard that Anthony had been…misplaced. He’d pretended those reports were in error even while he sent his own men to investigate. His pretenses had all started to break down, month by month, as the men he had sent returned, armed with interviews and notes, all of which amounted to one thing: Anthony was no longer in this world.
There would be no apology. There would be no promises. There would never be a reconciliation. What Christian had done was irrevocable, and all the doubts he’d pretended out of existence had welled up in his dreams with the fury of phantasms that would no longer be suppressed.
“I’m truly sorry,” he said. “I can’t pretend. Not anymore.”
It was three days after Judith had last seen Christian.
Daisy had come over and was perched on a rickety chair. Theresa and Benedict sat on the sofa next to her.
“I want to talk to you about tomorrow.”
Theresa raised a hand. “Pardon me, but we can’t start. We have to wait for all the cats to arrive.”
Judith grimaced at her sister. Squid sat proudly on the sofa next to Theresa, his paws stretched in front of him in the regal pose that had earned him his full name: Lord Squid, Baron of Kittensley. Caramel was curled on Benedict’s lap. Her brother rubbed her ears idly. Parson sat on the side table.
“The cats are mostly here,” Judith said. “Besides, I’ve seen little evidence that they attend to English in the first place.”