A Star Shall Fall (15 page)

The fact that he was right made it no easier to swallow. And even if she broke up the Sanist leadership, the sentiments would remain; it might give her a brief respite, but nothing more.

She lifted one hand to pinch her brow, then made herself lower it. While there was no great warmth between the two of them, she couldn’t fault Aspell’s effectiveness; he’d served her almost continually since her accession to the throne, and proved his use more times than she could count. Sooner or later he would find the right thread to pull, and unravel this knot.

She just hoped it came sooner. It would be pleasant to have one less problem to deal with.

“Keep watch over Carline,” Lune said at last. “If she isn’t involved, they may yet approach her. Inform me if you uncover any signs of trouble.”

Ordinarily she put the Lord Keeper’s spies to a variety of uses, but they were useless in the matter of the comet, and the Sanists were by far her second greatest worry. Anything else could wait. Valentin Aspell bowed deeply and said, “Madam, I will do everything I can.”

St. James, Westminster: February 14, 1758

Miserably chill rain washed across Westminster in sporadic waves, but the interior of Gregory’s was warm, and laden with the competing scents of coffee, wig powder, perfume. The close of the Christmas holidays, the sitting of Parliament, and the prospect of approaching spring meant the quality were returning to London from their country estates, and marshaling themselves for the beginning of the Season.

Of Galen’s companions, two had retired in such fashion, while one—like him—had stayed in London, for lack of money to make that country estate habitable. Today was the first renewed gathering of their usual club, which Mayhew had dubbed the Feckless Scions. It was more a joke than anything else. They were just a small group of friends meeting in a coffeehouse; nothing like so organized as White’s, or even the clubs of the whores or the Negroes. It was, however, the only one Galen belonged to. There was one for men associated with the fae, but it was an awkward thing; they were too mismatched of a lot, and as Prince, he felt very self-conscious in attending.

Besides, those men would not have been able to help him with his current problem. Galen drained his coffee cup, clapped it onto the table, and said, “Friends, I need your assistance. I have to find a wife.”

His declaration met with appalled looks. Jonathan Hurst, eldest of their coterie at twenty-five, said, “What for? By any decent standard, you’ve got at least five more years of free whoring ahead of you, before being shackled to a wife.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve sired a bastard,” Laurence Byrd said suspiciously.

Peter Mayhew smacked him on the shoulder. “He said
find
a wife, idiot. If he had a bastard, logic says it would come with a woman attached.”

“Not if the mother’s dead, or unsuitable! He might need another woman to raise the child for him.”

“I don’t,”
Galen said, before their speculations could saddle him with enough scandal to occupy society gossips for a week. “There’s no child—at least not that I know of. But my father is forcing my hand.”

Noises of comprehension sounded around the table. All had met his father, and knew Charles St. Clair’s manner. “It had to happen sooner or later,” Byrd agreed, his countenance now sympathetically gloomy. “Well, there’s one silver lining: the sooner you’re married, the sooner you get out from under his thumb. You have that to look forward to, at least.”

For what it was worth. Galen knew better than to believe his wedding and departure from Leicester Fields would mean freedom from his father. He knew men of thirty years’ age who still flinched when their sires spoke.

None of his companions suffered quite so much under the patriarchal hand. Byrd’s and Mayhew’s fathers were both of a more amiable nature, and Hurst’s had died seven years ago—though that had the unfortunate effect of making him responsible for two headstrong younger brothers, both of them disinclined to respect him as the patriarch of their household.

“My round,” Mayhew said, and got up to buy more coffee, threading his way through the room.

Hurst tugged the folded cuffs of his coat straight with a precise motion and said, “All right. You’ve asked our aid, and we shall give it. What do you need?”

“A wife,” Byrd reminded him.

“And any female creature of marriageable age will do? Provided, one imagines, that she has two legs, two eyes, and all the other parts customary to such a creature—”

Galen laughed. “I took your meaning, Hurst, and he did, too. He’s just being an ass. As to your question . . .” Laughter turned to a sigh. “The primary requirement, as you might imagine, is wealth.”

Hurst nodded. “Your sisters.”

Mayhew had just come back, and the bowls rattled against the table as the he set them down. He was the youngest of their group: eighteen, and precisely Daphne’s age. Galen knew full well that his friend harbored a not-so-secret tendre for his middle sister. He also knew, unfortunately, that the Mayhews were in even worse straits than the St. Clairs. Regardless of what wealth Galen acquired with his marriage, his father would never consent to let Daphne wed someone of such low status.

“How large of a settlement do you need?” Byrd asked. If he noticed Mayhew’s discomfiture, he gave no sign, but simply took one of the cups.

Choosing a number left a bad taste in Galen’s mouth, but he’d promised himself, while Edward shaved him that morning, that he would approach this in precisely the same way he did the threat of the Dragon: identify what needed to be done, evaluate potential methods of achieving it, and then pursue them one by one until he attained success. It was a wretched manner of seeking marriage, but it was also the only way he could bring himself to do it at all.

“Five thousand,” he said at last. “More, if possible.” Which made it unlikely he’d snare the daughter of a gentleman. Those with good fortunes were seeking better prey than him.

His companions nodded, and Hurst said, “Anything else?”

Now it became a matter, not of necessity, but of desire. And that was far more treacherous territory. “The usual,” Galen said, trying to make light of it. “An agreeable nature, good habits of cleanliness, no insanity in the bloodline—”

“No fondness for lapdogs,” Byrd suggested. “Can’t stand the damn things. I’ll never visit if you marry a woman with a dog.”

But Hurst didn’t break his gaze from Galen. He, too, sought a wife, though less urgently; as head of his own household, it was now incumbent upon him to secure an heir. “You’re a romantic, St. Clair,” he said, over Byrd’s complaints about useless dogs. “Surely you must desire more in a wife than a moderate fortune and a clean bill of health.”

Byrd ceased his tirade. Mayhew, too, was watching. They would not let it go, he knew; they understood him too well.

A faerie queen,
he thought, images of Lune filling his mind. Seated on her throne, or taking her ease in the garden, ethereal as the moon.

He closed his eyes. “A serene manner,” he said, releasing the words one by one, as if laying treasures on the table. “Well-educated, not just in languages and music and dancing, but history and literature. And above all, a quick mind, curious and clever. Someone I can converse with, in more than mere flirtation.”

Silence greeted his description. Galen made himself open his eyes once more, and found himself facing three very different expressions. Byrd, ever the cynic, recovered his tongue first. “You’ll have to keep such a wife on a leash; curiosity and marital stability rarely go hand in hand.” Mayhew smacked him again.

“I’m quite serious,” Galen insisted, flushing. “Fortune is well and good, but that is my father’s requirement, not mine. And he isn’t the one who will be living with her until death do us part. I’m damned if I’ll take a wife I don’t respect.”

It silenced Byrd, and put a thoughtful look on Hurst’s face. “It narrows your field, at least, and that is a virtue; you’ll be pursuing specific targets, which they often appreciate. Judith Chamberlain might do.”

“Too old,” was Byrd’s immediate verdict. “He can’t take a wife half again as old as he is.”

Which was an exaggeration, but Hurst let it pass. “Abigail Watts. Cecily Palmer. Northwood’s eldest—what’s her name—”

“Philadelphia,” Mayhew supplied, after a moment’s pause.

Byrd had objections to them all. “Abby Watts would never tolerate a mistress. The Palmer girl’s mad for another fellow;
she’d
be the one straying from
you,
St. Clair. And Philadelphia—phaw! Can you imagine a more unwieldy name?”

“Well, damn it all, Byrd; you’ll shoot down every girl in England if we give you half a chance!”

He met Mayhew’s accusation with a shrug. “As they merit, my friend.”

“Every marriage is a compromise,” Hurst said—a declaration so authoritative, it could almost make one forget he was still unmarried himself.

“I’ll compromise on beauty,” Galen said; none could meet the standard of Lune, anyway. “But not upon fortune, nor upon respect. If that means there end up being lapdogs, then Byrd, you’ll just have to endure.” He drew a small book and pencil from his pocket. Opening it to a blank page, he asked Hurst, “Which names did you suggest, again?”

The Onyx Hall, London: March 11, 1758

Irrith didn’t have the temperament for spying and intrigue, nor the inclination to publish her thoughts in either of the Onyx Hall’s newspapers. But reading
The Ash and Thorn
for a few weeks vexed her enough that she did the one thing she was good at, which was to go after the source of her problem.

Carline.

Not Lady Carline, not anymore; she’d lost her position in Lune’s bedchamber after her ill-fated attempt to trick Irrith. She still occupied the same rooms as always, though, and that was where Irrith sought her out, pounding on the door with an impatient fist.

A mortal servant opened the door, a wrinkled old woman quite unlike the beautiful youths that had waited on the elf-lady before. The woman eyed her dubiously. “What do you want?”

“Carline. And my business with her is serious, so don’t even—”

“Irrith?” The surprised call was unmistakably Carline’s velvety tone.

The woman scowled and let Irrith pass. The chamber beyond was embarrasingly luxurious, with red-cushioned benches in some Oriental style; Carline lounged upon one of these, wine in hand. She rose as Irrith entered. “Why, it
is
you. I’d heard you were in London once more, but I confess, I never thought you would come to me.”

The fallen lady’s lush body showed to great advantage even in the relatively plain gown she was wearing, and she towered nearly a head over Irrith. Undaunted, the sprite put her hands on her hips and glared upward. “I wouldn’t have, except that I have something to say to you.”

The black eyebrows rose. “I see you haven’t changed. Or rather, you’ve changed back to what you were before I tried to refine you. Very well, be blunt: say what you have come for.”

“Stop trying to overthrow the Queen.”

The previous rise had been an elegant affectation; this time, Carline’s brows shot upward like startled crows. “I beg your pardon?”

Irrith dug a folded copy of the most recent
Ash and Thorn
out of her pocket and waved it. “You didn’t stop, did you, even after Lune found out. I told you fifty years ago, Carline: you don’t just
vote
your monarch out.”

“The mortals did,” Carline said. She’d recovered from her surprise, and set her wineglass down with a
clink
. “Seventy years ago. And now the Jacobite pretenders try to regain the throne through the votes of swords—which is better? But I have no wish to debate political philosophy with you, Irrith, as entertaining as it would be to watch the result. Since I have somewhere I must be, let me say this instead: come with me. I’d like to show you something.”

Irrith recoiled, sensing a trap. “No.”

“What do you expect—that I’ll knife you and leave you in an alley? I promise, I mean no harm.”

Carline might be taller, but she’d never be able to kill Irrith, especially not when Irrith had a pistol in her other pocket. “I’ve learned my lesson about trusting you.”

The former lady sighed in disappointment. “I confess, that was an error on my part. I didn’t think you clever enough to realize what I was doing. Well,
I
have learned
my
lesson; no more tricks.” She tilted her head and looked down at Irrith with an expression that might almost be called fond. “You had a certain charm, though. Unlettered, uncultured—I enjoyed introducing you to the
beau monde
and watching you scandalize them. Consider this a favor, in repayment for that diversion. I’ll even give you bread. And when it’s over, I’ll answer the demand you came to make.”

That Carline was dangerous, Irrith had no doubt. But it was danger of a sort that could be avoided, so long as she kept her eyes open. And the offer, she had to admit, had aroused her curiosity. “Very well. But if you’re deceiving me after all, you’ll find out just how uncultured I can be.”

Covent Garden, Westminster: March 11, 1758

Carline led her above and west. At first Irrith thought this more of her usual
beau monde
business, entertaining herself with society’s high-born and beautiful people. But their destination lay in a warren of narrow streets just north of the Strand, where a crowd of people both fine and not waited outside a large building. “Three shillings for a floor seat,” Carline said. “I will find you afterward.”

It was a theater. “Where will you be?” Irrith asked, but her companion had already vanished into the crowd.

If this was a deception, it wasn’t Carline’s usual style. Irrith frowned, paid, and went inside. There she found herself a seat on one of the backless benches that covered the floor. The theater, being crowded, she had to fight for a place, but being in London made her remember the use of her elbows. Soon she had a patch of green cushion large enough for her rump, just in time for the play to begin.