A Star Shall Fall (17 page)

Bracing himself, he helped his sister to the stair, then his mother. The elder St. Clair glared away any prospect of aid, so he waited until the old man had passed, before following like a docile sheep.

On the roadway above, Cynthia contrived to fall back so they could walk together, following the line of people to the waiting carriages, and the building that marked the entrance to the Spring Gardens. “All will be well,” she assured him, letting their parents draw a bit ahead. “If it helps, think on this: you may believe you’re the hunter, but in truth you’re hunted. All those mothers with unwed daughters, looking to trap you in their snares. You hardly stand a chance, poor boy.”

A hint of pain hid behind those light words. No such happy snares awaited Cynthia; she had no profit to offer a prospective husband, beyond her good nature. “Then I shall hunt on your behalf,” Galen promised.

She hadn’t Daphne’s beauty, but Cynthia was the only one of the St. Clair children to inherit their mother’s dimples. They flickered briefly in the lantern light as the garden entrance drew near. “We can work together, like a pair of hounds. I’ll bring suitable young ladies to you, and you shall find gentlemen for me. With such an alliance, success cannot be far away.”

Galen smiled down at his sister, feeling his spirit lighten. “If there are any young men here worthy of your good heart, my dear, I shall not fail to lay them at your feet.” And with those words, they passed through the building into the Spring Gardens beyond.

Despite the windy night, the Grand Walk was well lit by globes hung from the trees. Beneath those lights circulated the cream of London’s society, from wealthy merchants to the aristocracy itself, to the accompaniment of music from the orchestra in the grove.

And half of them at least were hunting spouses, for themselves or for their offspring.

At least he needn’t winnow the grain from the chaff. Tonight’s ridotto al fresco was a charity event, to benefit some worthy cause or another—the Foundling Hospital, perhaps, or soldiers wounded in the Jacobite Rebellion. On an ordinary night, anyone who could afford the shilling entrance fee could come inside. Poorer folks saved their pennies, then dressed in their shabby best to gawk at the music and the paintings and the splendor of their betters.

His mother had a point, Galen was forced to admit; the place
wasn’t
entirely reputable. Hopefully Cynthia knew to keep far away from the Druid Walk and other such dark corners, where young bloods laid snares for unchaperoned young ladies. It should be safer tonight, with the prostitutes chased out, but not every peer’s son respected a woman’s dignity as he should.

Food was laid out in the Rotunda to their left, slightly better than the usual overpriced fare of the gardens. Peter Mayhew lurked there, and his face fell when he saw that Daphne hadn’t accompanied them. “Hurst is about somewhere,” he told Galen, gesturing vaguely at the expanse of the gardens. “If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re here; I believe he intends to spend the night hunting on your behalf.”

It seemed Galen would have all the assistance he could stomach, and more. He was grateful to spot Dr. Andrews near the orchestra, the one man in London with whom he could talk something other than marriage prospects.

The stick-thin man turned when Galen called his name. “Ah, Mr. St. Clair. Here to support the good efforts of the Marine Society?”

So it was the Navy they were benefitting. “Yes, of course,” Galen said, as if he’d known. Andrews’s mouth compressed, not quite concealing amusement. To prove he wasn’t
entirely
ignorant of the evening’s design, Galen added, “Mr. Lowe will be singing later, I believe. Have you had the pleasure of hearing him? A fine tenor indeed.”

“A fine voice, but an inferior grasp of musical art,” Andrews said. “One would think the latter could be taught, and the former could not, but it seems beyond Mr. Lowe’s capacity. Nevertheless, a splendid singer—I do not mean to belittle him. Hanway would not engage him for this event, otherwise.”

“How go your studies?” Galen asked, and they spent an enjoyable if gruesome few minutes discussing the medical arts. This entirely inappropriate conversation, however, was interrupted by the arrival of Cynthia, with another young lady in tow. “Oh, I do apologize—Galen, I wanted to introduce you to my friend Miss Northwood.”

He bowed, sighing inwardly.
From one duty to another, this one less pleasant.
Northwood; that was one of the names Hurst had suggested. The one whose given name Byrd had derided.

Philadelphia
certainly was a grand name for its bearer. She was excessively thin, and had the kind of plainness that showed its worst in fine dress; elegance merely heightened the lack of it in her face. Not ugly, just very unexceptional—the sort who attracted compliments for her fine straight teeth. And even those only appeared briefly, in an awkward smile.

“We’d be poor gentlemen indeed if we objected to the company of two pretty girls,” Galen said, substituting courtesy for truth. “And if you overheard our topic—I promise you, we
can
be more civilized. Just a few minutes ago Dr. Andrews and I were discussing the singer, Mr. Lowe. Have you heard him, Miss Northwood?”

“Once,” she said, in a soft contralto. “Not the most subtle in his interpretation of the melody—but you hardly notice that fault, past the glory of his voice.”

Which earned her Dr. Andrews’s instant approval. The two of them immediately commenced a debate over whose musical interpretation was superior to Lowe’s, while Cynthia cast Galen a look he could interpret all too easily. So this was her assistance to him: Miss Northwood as a prospective target. He had not known they were friends.

She seemed pleasant enough. And Galen
had
said that beauty was not his chiefest requirement. In fact—noting the colorful chiné silk of her gown, the intricate cording around its neckline—he recalled now why Hurst would have suggested her. Philadelphia Northwood’s father was one of the Directors of the Bank of England. Wealthy, and eager for his daughter to marry into a better family. In short, exactly what Galen was looking for.

He marshaled his courage and waited for an opportune moment. When it came, he said, “Miss Northwood—do you dance?”

She raised her eyebrows at him. Galen had the distinct impression this was not a question she was often asked; young men, seeing her, no doubt assumed that plainness on her part meant bruised toes on theirs, and inquired elsewhere. But the musicians were striking up a contredanse, and a platform had been built in the Grove for the purpose. She said, “I do, Mr. St. Clair—when invited.”

“Then please allow me to extend my invitation,” he said, proffering his arm to accompany the words.

Cynthia’s encouraging smile pursued them as they went to join the other dancers. This was easy enough, easier than conversation; he’d been through many hours of dancing lessons, and no doubt she had, too. He settled his hat more firmly upon his head, so the trickster wind could not snatch it away, and gave his hand to Miss Northwood, who accepted it with a curtsy.

She danced like an instruction book, every movement precisely as her own dancing master must have dictated it to her, without any particular flair or grace. But neither did she step upon his toes, and once he was certain of that safety, Galen realized he must make conversation after all. “I was not aware you were friends with my sister,” he began, seizing upon the first safe topic that came to mind.

“Cynthia and I share certain charity interests,” Miss Northwood replied, as they circled each other in an allemande. “The Society for the Improvement of Education Among the Indigent Poor.”

A perfectly respectable thing for polite young ladies to do. “And do you fill all your days with the improvement of one thing or another?” he asked, with a smile to show he meant no disdain. “Or do you spare an hour here and there for more frivolous pursuits?”

Her careful mask of pleasantry briefly deepened to something more genuine as they joined hands for a promenade. “I am no Methodist, Mr. St. Clair. If I filled every day with nothing but good works, I would soon burn my candle to a stub. The occasional frivolous diversion, I find, restores some of its lost wax—if I may be forgiven my execrable choice of metaphor, which I fear has taken a wrong turn somewhere. I should have gone with lamp oil.”

It startled a laugh out of him—a real one, not the polite chuckle every gentleman cultivated for genteel conversation. “Forgiven, Miss Northwood. What manner of diversion do you prefer?”

She hesitated for only the most fleeting of instants; had the dance oriented him away from her at that moment, he would have missed it. “I enjoy reading.”

As many plain young ladies did, their time unoccupied by the demands of flirtation and social intrigue. “Novels?”

Her answering look was sharp, before she moved to change places with the lady of the neighboring couple. By the time they were rejoined, the careful mask was back. “Sometimes. Also history, philosophy, translations of classical works—”

Galen realized his mistake. He should have detected it sooner; Cynthia knew him, and knew where his priorities would be in courting. “I apologize, Miss Northwood. Were it not at our estate in Essex, I would show you my own library, and you would see I’m of your mind. These days, I must make do with a circulating library.” It was the only way he could get new books; his father firmly condemned the expense of purchasing them.

“Make do?” She laughed. “They are a wonderful institution, for if I purchased every book I wished to read, my father would put me on bread and water to make up the expense.”

Not just the refuge of a plain girl who could get nothing better; she had actual passion for learning.
Vauxhall is a terrible place for her,
Galen thought. It advertised every good quality she did not possess, while hiding those she did.
She would do much better in another context.

The dance was ending, which was a good thing for them both. Their inattention had caused their steps to degenerate, his as well as hers. “Miss Northwood,” he said as he made his final bow, “have you been to see the curiosities of the British Museum?”

“I thought it wasn’t open to the public yet.”

He smiled. “It isn’t, but they can be persuaded to admit the occasional select visitor. I would be delighted to arrange a small party.” Cynthia would help, he was sure. And for the chance of snaring such wealth, his father would not begrudge the expense.

Having uttered those words, he saw that the smile Miss Northwood had offered upon meeting him was a false thing, her attempt at the coquetry expected of a marriageable young woman.
This
was the real Miss Northwood, and the frank honesty of this smile was much more charming. “Mr. St. Clair, I would walk barefoot to Bloomsbury for the chance.”

As they approached the edge of the crowd, Galen saw Cynthia raise an inquisitive eyebrow. He nodded at her, gratitude warming his heart.
There may be other prospects. Nothing is certain yet. But thank you, beloved sister—this is a very good place to start.

The Onyx Hall, London: March 11, 1758

There were two elf-knights at the chamber door, members of the Onyx Guard, but it was the valet Irrith couldn’t get past. “Lord Galen is occupied,” he said.

Irrith scowled ferociously. The servant didn’t so much as blink. He was faerie-blooded, that was obvious; it showed in the set of his eyes. Clearly he’d seen enough of fae to be less than impressed with the scowl of one slender sprite.

She had nothing to bribe him with, either. Flirtation was out of the question; Irrith was not Carline, in inclination or skill. She had to resort to something like the honest truth. “It has to do with the Dragon.”

The word was practically a magic key, opening doors throughout the Onyx Hall. But not this door, it seemed. “Very good, ma’am,” the servant said with a bow. “If you would care to leave your message with me—”

“I would not. Listen, nocky boy; I have a question for the Prince, and until I get an answer—”

The door suddenly swung farther open, revealing Lord Galen, in a state of half-dress. His shirtsleeves billowed silk-white out of his unbuttoned waistcoat, and his wig was missing. Irrith fought not to goggle. He looked very different without its carefully styled curls—somehow both older and younger, and definitely less foppish.

Galen ran one self-conscious hand over his cropped scalp, as if only just now realizing that perhaps it did not do to meet a lady at his door with his head so very bare. His hair was chestnut brown, darker than her own. “Dame Irrith. Come in.”

He did not say,
So I don’t have to listen to you and my man argue forever.
Irrith didn’t much care why he let her in; she obeyed with speed, slipping past the servant, and even restraining herself from smirking at him.

The Prince’s chambers were much changed from the last time she saw them—which was, after all, more than fifty years and several Princes ago. They were
light
! Someone, perhaps at Galen’s instigation, had covered the black walls with some kind of paint or paper in an agreeable shade of pale blue. Carpets softened the stone floors, and elegant chairs stood about, as well as a few sturdier pieces. No doubt those were there for the convenience of the Onyx Court’s more massive fae.

Irrith bowed, but Galen dismissed it with a wave of his hand, gesturing her to sit at a small table. “Would you like anything to drink? No? Thank you, Edward; that will be all.”

The man bowed and retired to an inner room. If he was a proper Onyx Court servant, he’d be eavesdropping at the keyhole.
Well, let him,
Irrith thought. Lune wouldn’t let him serve the Prince if she didn’t trust his discretion.

It was hard to attach that title to Galen, young as he was, and so uncertain. He seemed to breathe easier, though, away from Lune. He hesitated for a moment, before apparently deciding not to retire and dress properly; instead he seated himself across from Irrith. “So. You have something to say about the Dragon.”