Page 80 of Confounding Oaths
“I think what Iwanted …when I”—Miss Caesar held up one hand to the sky and let the starlight sparkle through it—“when I asked for this … what I wanted was to be looked at like other girls.”
Miss Penworthy, who had kept her flirtatiousness under a bushel for fifteen whole seconds and was feeling the effort acutely, could keep silent no longer. “I look at a lot of girls, Mary. I don’t think I look at any of them as I do you.”
“But you would,” Miss Caesar replied, “if they were”—she made a fluttering movement with her fingers, and light danced about her hand in gold-and-silver motes—“like this.”
“Well, yes.” Miss Penworthy nodded. “But theyaren’t.”
While Miss Penworthy seemed not quite to have grasped the thrust of the argument, Miss Mitchelmore was more understanding. Then again she usually was; it was one of the things I liked least about her. “You mean that to him you could beanygirl. As long as she was—” She imitated the fluttering, although the light did not respond in the same way.
Miss Caesar nodded. “‘I hope you aren’t going to recommend me something sentimental’ is something only Lady Georgiana could say to only you. And I think that’s—I suppose that’s what I want love to be.”
“I think that is very wise,” said Miss Mitchelmore. “But justbecause you do not find what you are seeking with the first gentleman who shows an interest does not mean you will never find it.”
“No, but”—Miss Caesar cast her eyes down—“before the wish, all people saw in me was my heritage. Now all they see is the magic. At least the first of those was my own.”
Perfectly contented to be seeing the magic, Miss Penworthy gave a sharp grin. “If it helps,loveisn’t the only thing in life. After all, itisthe nineteenth century, ladies are doing allsortsof things now.”
Miss Caesar lifted the hem of her skirt and showed her friends the spiderweb of cracks that were spreading across it. “How many of those things,” she asked, “can you do in a body made of glass, that is slowly breaking?”
And to that, neither Miss Mitchelmore nor Miss Penworthy had an answer.
With my usual impeccable timing, I returned to the drawing room just as Miss Bickle fixed Miss Anne with her gravest, most urgent look and said, “Anne, Lieutenant Reyne is a murderer.”
Thunder crashed outside. Which was unusual, because as I had established previously it was a fine evening. But, well, I am not sometimes above providing a little ambiance.
Miss Anne shuddered. “Oh, how thrilling.”
I could see, from my vantage and with my mysterious senses, every strand of Miss Bickle’s reason fighting against the instinct to agree. “I think he might have tried to murder your brother.”
That appeared to strike Miss Anne as rather less thrilling. “That seems very unlikely. I know him well.”
“How well?” asked Miss Bickle, looking disarmingly innocent.
“We have danced several times, and he has visited me on more than one occasion.”
This was, even by the standards of a society that expected men and women to interact occasionally and cordially, not any great standard of intimacy.
“I know it is hard to countenance,” Miss Bickle offered, “but I think perhaps it is possible to dance with a gentleman without knowing that he has attempted to kill one’s brother.” It may surprise the reader a little (although it did not surprise me in the slightest) that Mr. Caesar had indeed chosen his messenger well. Miss Bickle lived in a world of bright colours and high dramas, but she inhabited it so fully that it was hard for others—especially those others who were fourteen—not to be drawn into it.
Thus, for Miss Anne, uncertainty began slipping slowly into denial on the way to getting a clue. “He is of good character, and good family.”
“Oh, but the worst villains always are,” pointed out Miss Bickle, now on slightly firmer ground. “After all, a villain who oneknowsto be a villain is scarcely a great villain at all. Why, look at Mr. Wickham. He wasveryplausible in his manners, but he treated poor Lydia quite cruelly.”
That analogy, at least, got through. “But surely even Wickham would not have murdered anybody.”
“Well, no,” conceded Miss Bickle. “The anonymous lady author is rather reticent about such matters. But I certainly would not put it past him.”
Miss Anne had grown quiet. She was staring down at her hands and looking a little closer to weeping than she had a moment ago. “You must be mistaken,” she said without conviction.
“And if I am not?”
Long, pretty eyelashes blinking back tears, Miss Anne looked up. “Do you think he will try again?”
“I do not know. I just want to make sure that you are being safe.”
Belatedly, a thought occurred to Miss Anne. “How do you know this?”
“Captain James told me. He recognised his voice.”
