A Star Shall Fall (42 page)

“Ladies,” Irrith said, with a courteous bow, “I apologize for troubling you. But at noon today I am bound to appear in a meadow of this park and face my mortal enemy in a duel, and if I am to have any hope of defeating him, I must bear the good luck of a maiden’s kiss.”

She wished she had a mirror in which to see her own glamour. For this, she had added every detail she could think of: a man’s suit all of green; hair as silver as Lune’s; a fresh hawthorn blossom growing out of her buttonhole, ignoring the December chill.

And a face that, while not her own, was as faerie a face as any in the Onyx Hall.

Miss Northwood appeared to be staring at the exaggerated point of her ear. Mrs. Vesey said, in a tone of artful regret, “Oh, good sir, I would—but I was wed many years ago. Delphia, my dear—”

The young woman startled like a cat, and stared wildly at Mrs. Vesey. “What?”

“A kiss for the gentleman,” her friend reminded her. “So he may win his duel.”

She was supposed to be a woman, begging a pin to keep her tiny faerie cows from straying. This was Hyde Park, though, where men held their illegal duels, and that was far more interesting of a story. Fortunately, Mrs. Vesey adapted quickly. Miss Northwood, on the other hand . . .

The brief flash of her tongue over her lips betrayed the young woman’s uncertainty. Still, Irrith had to grant the strength of her nerves when she said, “Sir, I fear you are not human.”

“No, I’m not,” Irrith agreed cheerfully.

Even though it was obvious to see, the admission made Miss Northwood’s eyes widen. “How—how am I to know that you deserve to win your duel?”

Delight began to tickle Irrith’s heart. Let Carline collect the beautiful people; Irrith preferred the ones with spirit. “Does it matter?” she asked. “I’ll grant you good luck in return for for your kiss, and the outcome of the duel is hardly any concern of yours.”

“It
does
matter,” Miss Northwood insisted, eyes darting to Mrs. Vesey in a desperate plea for either confirmation or assistance, possibly both. “I should not want to help you win if you don’t deserve to. And to ask a
kiss,
” she added, warming to her topic. “It’s very inappropriate, sir; I do not know you.”

Perhaps the pin would have been the better course after all. Irrith floundered for a reply. She’d done all she needed to, really; the notion was to have Miss Northwood encounter faeries, and then for Mrs. Vesey to admit calmly to their existence, whereupon the young woman would be advised to speak with Galen, as if he hadn’t arranged it all himself. Far too complicated, in Irrith’s opinion, but he’d learned his lesson too firmly after Dr. Andrews: faeries first, explanations later.

But she refused to give up so easily. She’d asked for a kiss, and she would get one. “It need only be on the cheek,” Irrith said. “I am a gentleman, I assure you. As for your doubts about my honor . . .”

Well, she’d eaten bread. That wouldn’t make this enjoyable, but at least it wouldn’t hurt her. “If either of you ladies has a cross about you?”

Mrs. Vesey’s eyes widened. She looked to Miss Northwood, and Miss Northwood looked to her; both of them shook their heads.
This modern age,
Irrith thought, caught between annoyance and amusement.
Time was, you couldn’t throw a rock without hitting someone with a cross.
Resigned, she said, “I was
going
to swear on a cross that I intend no harm this day to anyone who doesn’t deserve it. But you’ve spoiled my plan—and, I might add, quite spoiled this meeting, which was supposed to be a brief and mysterious encounter. Look, a magical stranger in Hyde Park! But no, you had to
argue
.”

She glanced up to find the most extraordinary expression on Miss Northwood’s face. It turned out to be laughter, bubbling up out of the young woman’s throat and lighting her eyes. Even Mrs. Vesey began to chuckle. Edward Thorne sat very still, but Irrith could tell he was dying to turn and say something.

“Here.” Miss Northwood leaned forward and planted a brief kiss on Irrith’s cheek. “For your luck, and I am sorry that I don’t know how to behave properly when accosted by a faerie.”

Irrith mock-frowned at her. “Serve you right if I gave you no reward. But you’ve amused me, and for that I’ll give you two things. One, when you return home, you’ll find your favorite rosebush in bloom. Second, I will bless your dreams, miss, that you may find happiness in them.” And she swept Miss Northwood a grand bow.

“Thank you,” the young woman said gravely.

Not anything like Lune. Nor, for that matter, like me.
But Irrith could see why Galen had chosen her—and, though it made her teeth hurt to admit it, she couldn’t fault the choice.

In which case, this encounter deserved to end properly, even if the middle had gone awry. Irrith vanished herself before their eyes, then patted Edward Thorne’s leg in passing as she stole away, behind the tree in which she’d hidden before. She listened as he came out of his “trance” and called out to the ladies; Mrs. Vesey reassured him, and then they drove onward, leaving Irrith to guess at the conversation that ensued.

Not at all what Galen had intended. But it would do the work.

And I have to get to Rose House, or that bush will be a sore disappointment when Miss Northwood goes looking.

Leicester Fields, Westminster: December 2, 1758

“Oh, thank
goodness
you’re home this morning.” Cynthia hurried across Galen’s bedroom, with free disregard for her brother’s half-dressed state and Edward’s meaningful cough. “You’re needed downstairs. Delphia has called upon me, but you’re the one she wants to speak to, only she can’t call upon you and have it be proper. Mama, thank Heaven, is out with Daphne, and I can make Irene be silent; so long as you are quick, Papa will never know. But you must come downstairs
now
.” Edward coughed again. “After you’ve put some clothes on, of course.”

Galen sat blear-eyed and staring at the carpet through her entire speech.
Damnation. Too soon!
The plan was for Mrs. Vesey to arrange a visit at her house, where they could speak in greater safety—and even that had worried him enough that he’d scarcely slept last night. But Miss Northwood, it seemed, was too impatient to wait.

Unless she didn’t intend conversation. Perhaps she’d come to Leicester Fields to cry off their betrothal.

That thought jolted him to unpleasant wakefulness. Edward was already there, with a shirt and breeches and everything else he needed; Galen was at present wearing only a set of drawers. Cynthia, blushing a little, retired to let him dress. Galen hurried everything on, with such speed that he almost went out without his wig; fortunately, his valet was more alert than he.

At the door to the parlor, he stopped and tried to slow his heartbeat. But the pounding refused to answer to the commands of his will, and so it still shook his ribs when he walked in and found Delphia Northwood waiting on the settee with his sister.

“I’ll see to Irene,” Cynthia said with a mischievous giggle, and slipped past Galen. What she thought they intended, he could only imagine; surely it fell far short of the truth. Whichever truth that might be.

What did a woman look like when she had made up her mind to cry off? He had no idea. Miss Northwood was letting nothing slip; the firm clasp of her gloved hands upon each other could have indicated anything at all. He stood in awkward silence, not knowing what he could possibly say.

Seen any faeries lately?

Are we still betrothed?

Chilly morning, isn’t it?

Miss Northwood said, “Did you arrange that incident now so I would have time to find a way out of this marriage?”

Galen’s heart attempted to leap straight out of his mouth. It took him three tries to swallow it back down. Then he said, unsteadily, “I suppose it would be foolish of me to pretend I did
not
arrange it.”

“Yes. It would.” She rose, hands still clasped tight, and then stopped as if she did not know where to go. “Why did you do it?”

He looked down. There was a small muddy scuff in the carpet just ahead of his left foot, not fresh; the maid should have cleaned that away. “I wanted you to know because it seemed unfair to leave you in ignorance of the greater part of my life. It happened now because yes, I thought you should have the opportunity to escape if you wished to. And I arranged it in such roundabout fashion because . . .” The words clogged in his throat. “Because I could not imagine sitting in Mrs. Vesey’s parlor and explaining it all to you, as if I were lecturing on some foreign land. I wanted you to see. And I thought that would be a safe way to do it, for if you were terrified by the experience, then Mrs. Vesey would tell you nothing, and I would know this is not something I could ever share with you.”

But Mrs. Vesey
had
told her, clearly. That gave him a tiny bit of hope.

Her sudden exhalation made him realize she had been holding her breath. “How very characteristic,” Miss Northwood said, and sat down hard precisely where she had been before.

“Characteristic?” Galen said, daring to lift his gaze.

She met it with a rueful smile. “Of you. At Sothings Park you said you were a romantic, and I see that it’s true. A gentleman all in green, a duel in Hyde Park . . . much more interesting, I suppose, than a lecture in Mrs. Vesey’s parlor. Though that came later, once we had driven back.”

Gentleman? Duel? What in Mab’s name did Irrith do?
Galen hadn’t gone to the Onyx Hall last night, too nervous to hear the tale. Well, whatever the disobedient sprite had done, it achieved this much; it showed Delphia what she must see, and Mrs. Vesey had told her what she must know.

Now the decision was hers.

He came forward to kneel at her feet, but not too close. “This is the business that occupies me, Delphia. It will occupy me until the day I die. There is a great deal that even Mrs. Vesey doesn’t know, which I’ll tell you about, if you want to hear; some of it is not so pleasant. But all the secrets in my life arise from this one. If you want no part of it—if you prefer a husband whose secrets are of a more ordinary kind—then say so now, and we will end our betrothal. I will help you find a way to avoid Mr. Beckford’s son.”

Miss Northwood’s fingers curled in at the name. Then they relaxed, one slow degree at a time.

“No, Mr. St Clair. I will marry you still—on one condition.”

“Name it,” Galen breathed.

She caught and held his gaze, and in her eyes he saw both steely determination and a hint of joyous curiosity. “That the secret belong to me as well as you. Take me to the Onyx Hall.”

The Onyx Hall, London: December 8, 1759

Ever since ascending to the rank of Prince, Galen had rarely spared the time to really look at the faerie palace that consumed so much of his life. Though he spent long hours there, he almost never took notice of the place itself; he was too busy debating theories with the scholars, reporting to Lune, occasionally dallying with Irrith. His surroundings were of little import, compared with his concerns.

Delphia made him see it through new eyes.

Everything was a wonder to her, from the swift but gentle drop of the Newgate entrance to the grandeur of the greater presence chamber. She marveled at the sleek elegance of the black stone, that never seemed to show any wear; she delighted in the faerie lights that followed in her wake. Even the most grotesque of the court’s goblins failed to discompose her. Of course, those she encountered were on their best behavior; Lune had seen to that. But their faces alone would have been enough to frighten any young woman with less steel at her core.

He presented her to the Queen, in the more intimate environment of Lune’s privy chamber. Lune received her kindly, showing no hint of impatience at her Prince’s decision to spend time on this matter. Galen himself said little. Some cruel bit of wit on Fate’s part—or perhaps Irrith’s—had put the sprite in attendance upon the royal person that day.
The woman I love, the woman I am promised to, and the woman I am bedding, all in one chamber. I suppose I have no one to blame but myself.

He declined Irrith’s offer to accompany them on their tour of the Hall. What mischief she had in mind, he didn’t know, and didn’t want to discover. Instead he and Delphia walked alone—truly alone, without even Edward to attend them. “Your valet comes here with you?” she asked, surprised, and he explained about the man’s faerie father.

“It makes matters easier,” he said, as they approached the Hall of Figures, where the gems of the Onyx Hall’s statuary were kept. “I have chambers here in the palace, and often stay in them; if you’ve heard Cynthia complain of my absences, that is why. Having one valet who can attend me in both worlds is simpler than managing two. The servants who maintain my quarters are faeries, though.”

“Perhaps I—” Delphia began, then lost the rest of it in a gasp. They stood at the top of a half flight of stairs, which gave a splendid view of the long gallery, lined on both sides with statues. Some, in imitation of mortal habit, had been pillaged from Italy and Greece. Others were older and cruder, or simply stranger, taken from no land or time Galen knew of. He’d never liked this place; the frozen ranks of figures unnerved him too much. But Delphia, seeing them for the first time, was entranced.

Then he realized her eyes were fixed on the far end of the gallery, where stairs led up again to a dais and the far doors, and a single statue stood in glory.

They made their way toward it slowly, for there were other things in the chamber worth seeing. On this side, an enormous head, so lifelike it might have been taken from a noble-faced giant; across the way, a strange tangle of honey-veined marble, a figure half-emerging from the trunk of a tree. But mere stone was by comparison a weak thing, so before long they climbed the stairs and stood before the sculpture Galen liked least in all the Onyx Hall.

The flames spiraling around the central form gave off enough heat to prove their reality, not enough to drive the viewer back. They moved, though, writhing and twisting, and created the illusion that the figure trapped within them was moving, too. He towered above Galen’s and Delphia’s heads, hands clenched around semisolid flames, massive shoulders hunched as if to tear his enemy apart, and such was the skill of the artisan that it was impossible to tell which was winning, giant or flames.