Corsets and Crossbows: A Drake Chronicles Novella in Letters (3 page)

“Morning, Papa.” I waited until the footman had brought a fresh pot of chocolate to the table and stepped back to a discreet distance. I lowered my voice. “I must speak to you, sir.”

“I am not increasing your allowance, Rosie. You have more than enough for your needs.”

It was an act of will not to roll my eyes at him, Evie. Why do they always think we want more money for dresses and baubles? I’d much rather buy myself a new throwing dagger, though I am not nearly so skilled with them as you are.

“I don’t need more pin money,” I assured him as calmly as I could.

He frowned. “You’re not expecting to race your carriage through the park with some ne’er-do-well again, are you? You must learn to comport yourself with some dignity, my girl.”

Honestly, Evie.
Parents.

“Papa, please. This is about something I overheard at the Wintersons’ ball last night.”

“Ballroom gossip?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No, two men talking in hushed tones outside Lord Winterson’s office.”

He put his paper down, frowning more intently. “What were you doing up there?”

“Hunting,” I answered proudly.

“You don’t mean to tell me you were chasing a vampire through the family rooms of the Winterson town house, do you?”

I did roll my eyes that time. “No, Papa, of course not.”

“What then? And don’t think we won’t be discussing such cheeky behavior, young lady.”

Cheeky? I was going for stealthy. Heroic, even. Bah.

“There were two men arguing about Lord Winterson. One of them was a hunter, the other was not,” I told him.

“Who were they?”

“I do not know. I didn’t see their faces, only heard them talking. About removing Lord Winterson, Papa. They mean to murder him.”

I waited for a reaction. I’d expected a gasp or for the color to drain from his face. Maybe for him to knock over his coffee cup in his agitation.

I was, most empathically,
not
expecting him to laugh. My own father, mind.

“Oh, Rosie, you misheard, I’m sure.”

“I did not.”

“It’s not unusual, poppet. Why, when I was your age I was convinced our housekeeper was a vampire. I nearly staked her in the pantry when she was pickling eggs.”

I stared at him, affronted. “You don’t believe me?”

“Hunters take their oaths to the League and to one another very seriously.”

“I know that.” I stirred sugar into my tea with more force than was strictly necessary.

“And as the leader of the order, Lord Winterson is particularly well guarded.”

“I know what I heard,” I insisted stubbornly.

“A whispered conversation late at night, when you’ve been drinking champagne and dancing with young men I have not approved”—he looked pointedly at me then and I knew he was referring to Dante Cowan—“is not evidence enough to toss out wild accusations of murder and treason.”

“But—”

“Leave it be, Rosalind. You’ll only embarrass us and this family if you pursue it.”

“I wouldn’t!”

“Do you forget last summer when you threw Lord Hallbrook into the pond?”

I scowled. “How was I to know he’d capped his tooth with a diamond. It was a ridiculous affectation and all that glue to hold it in place cannot be good for the constitution. And it looked like a fang.”

“You nearly killed a peer of the realm by drowning him in our fish pond.”

“This is different! I—”

“Leave it, Rosalind. I’m ordering you, as your father and elder in the League, to leave this be.”

I opened my mouth to further protest even as I was fighting the tears burning my eyes. If I had wept then he never would have taken me seriously again. But I wanted to, Evie. I really wanted to. My own father condescended to me and does not believe in my hunting capabilities. The folderol with Lord Hallbrook happened nearly a year ago. Am I meant to suffer for it until I am gray haired and wrinkled as soggy custard?

Before I could say anything else, however, my mother came into the breakfast room in her best day gown, with lace at the hem. Father glared at me warningly and then smiled at her.

“Good morning, my love. Are you off visiting today?”

Mother sat next to him, accepting a fresh cup of coffee. “I am touring the bookshops today, darling. With Beatrix and her mother,” she added, for my benefit.

“Excellent. Perhaps you might take Rosalind with you. She is clearly bored and needs some form of diversion.”

“I was going to train today, Papa. With the throwing daggers.” “Your time will be better suited accompanying your mother,” he said sternly.

This, Evie, is why my aim with the daggers is not improving at the rate I would like. There was nothing to be done, just then. I spent the day with Beatrix, at least, which was pleasant. She so rarely comes out into society anymore. She is turning into a recluse, just like her elder sister. But she seems happy, happier than I’ve ever seen her at any ball or musicale. I told her everything, of course. And she at least, like you, believed me. She has promised to write letters to her contacts and to do any research we might need. She’s not strictly from a hunter family, of course, but she is decidedly intelligent and her brother has been on the fringes of the League since he came back from traveling abroad on his nineteenth birthday. I know you don’t particularly care for him, but he may prove useful.

Indeed, I do not know where I would be without such stalwart friends. Because it’s up to us now, Evangeline.

We are on our own.

Your friend,
Rosalind

Dear Evie,

You will laugh.

I have had the most thrilling night and there wasn’t a single vampire anywhere to be found.

Dawn is just unfurling over the city, like lilac and peony petals scattered over the sky. The mist is hanging low between the trees of Hyde Park and I can just imagine it drifting over the Thames. The birds are singing from the rooftops and the swans are like ghosts searching out the ponds in the park. Even the cats in the laneways seem fat and content. You’ll think me fanciful. I just feel as if I am awake for the first time in my life and I cannot imagine going now back to sleep.

I admit the evening did not start so promising. The musicale was horrid, Mother fluttered because there were no eligible bachelors to throw me at, and Father glowered every time I so much as shifted in my chair. I was very glad they decided to go to a private supper with friends and leave me to my own company. They made me solemnly promise I would stay at home.

Ha.

I promised, of course, but I did no such thing. I am not so easily managed. Though I didn’t have much of a plan. I dressed as Robbie again, just to be safe. One never knows, after all. I hired a hack out on the street and told him to drive slowly through Grosvenor Square. I happened to know that the private supper my parents were attending was a Helios-Ra affair at the Honeychurch townhouse, and that Lord Winterson would be in attendance. I wasn’t entirely certain what I was looking for. It seemed unlikely an assassin would choose a crowded house party in the middle of the evening with so many people going to and fro outside the window. Not to mention that I had to hide myself from our own coachman, who waited under one of the new gas lamps. Still, I suppose I thought to acquaint myself with the carriages and crests of the guests. We have so little information, anything at all might yet be useful.

It was dull as tombs. I sat for at least two hours, alone, drifting up and down the street with my crossbow propped at the window, until the coachman complained and I let him stop at the corner. I could still see the front door but, in truth, I was feeling rather useless. I was about to
thump the roof to let him know he could abandon the square when the wheels started to roll, first slowly, then picking up entirely too much speed. I shouted at him but got no response. The carriage lurched sideways as the horses ran at a gallop far too spirited for the slick cobbled street we were on. I was beginning to wonder if I should be concerned.

And then I stuck my head out of the window.

Definitely, I should have felt concern.

The horses were running frantically, the reins looped uselessly over the bench where the coachman ought to have been sitting.

Where no one at all was sitting. Instead, the coachman lay in a heap on the sidewalk. That tears it, Evie. There is definitely mischief afoot.

The carriage wobbled and creaked with disturbing enthusiasm. I have never understood the propensity for carriage accidents until now. The horses were quite mad, as if they had been prodded with a sharp stick. It wouldn’t be long before they ran afoul of another carriage, as the street was rather crowded. Or worse yet, they might trample a night watchman and how would I explain myself then, unchaperoned and in men’s trousers?

It was a mixed blessing when the horses hopped the curbside and went straight into the park, intending, I am sure, to wrap me right round some obliging tree. The sudden rattle of the lurching carriage had me nearly biting my tongue clean out of my head.

So I climbed out of the window like any gothic heroine worth her salt.

Really, what else was I to do? Help was not coming and I hadn’t the patience to wait around for it, regardless. And I didn’t fancy cracking my teeth, or my head entirely, when the carriage finally fell off its axle or shattered a wheel. Hanging out of the window was quite easy; wriggling out enough to grab hold of the roof was less simple. I was exceedingly grateful to be wearing pants. I’d have tumbled clean into the bushes if I’d been wearing a corset and a long silk gown. As it was, I got a mouthful of oak leaves and a slap in the face from a lilac tree.

I finally made it up onto the roof. It was surprisingly loud and disorienting, with the push of the wind, the creaking of the wheels, and the thundering of hooves. I could barely lift my head as I clung to the roof like a beetle on glass. I couldn’t see much except for the trees hurtling past.

A man on horseback suddenly rode abreast of the carriage. His hat had toppled off and the capes of his greatcoat fluttered like crow wings. “Are you mad?” he shouted. “Get back inside!”

I inched forward, vision blurry from the air rushing at my eyelids. I was within reach of the bench when the man leaped from his horse and landed with a thud beneath me. He was reaching for the reins just as I tumbled over, landing hard on the seat. The coachman’s gin bottle rolled, hitting the man’s foot. He tugged on the reins, shouting instructions at the horses. They finally halted, suddenly enough that the carriage skidded sideways and came to a rickety stop, leaning against an oak tree. Acorns rained down on our heads. The horses snorted and stomped. I was panting, my heart like a blacksmith’s hammer striking great blows against my rib cage. I felt lightheaded, my knees surprisingly weak. I sat down with a thump.

“Blimey.” He blinked down at me and then actually bowed. “Miss Wild.”

Dante Cowan.

Of course.

I know you’ll think me a muttonhead when I tell you my first thought was that he would not wish to court a madcap girl like me.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, running his hands down my arms, his eyes raking over me.

“Lord Thornwood,” I croaked, trying not to lean into his touch. He makes me feel positively wanton. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t curtsy.”

“I think we might dispense with titles, don’t you?” he said drily, apparently satisfied that I hadn’t broken any bones or concussed myself. “Seeing as you’re quite obviously insane.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He smiled and there was nothing lighthearted about it. It was wicked and dark and sharp as any dagger I might have secreted on my person. I could have staked a vampire with the edge of it. His voice was no softer. “What on earth are you doing in a runaway carriage in the middle of the night in Hyde Park, alone and wearing trousers obviously too large for you?”

“A … prank. I was playing a prank and it went awry.”

“I am almost afraid to imagine what prank might require you to take such clumsy care of your own life.”

“It’s … complicated.”

“I’m sure it is. You might have been killed, Rosalind.”

I tried a sunny smile. “I’m perfectly well, thank you.”

“Shouldn’t you be swooning or weeping?”

“What would be the use in that?” I asked quizzically. Honestly, boys.

His smile went crooked and delightful. It was as tempting and sinful as chocolate cream. Indeed, had it been such, I would have given myself a bellyache on it.

“What were you really doing, Rosalind?”

I nearly answered him, leaning forward slightly when he did. Dangerous, that smile.

I clambered off the seat and swung down to the ground, just to put some space between us. I did not fully trust myself. There is something about him, something that makes my head feel fuzzy. I checked the horses for injuries, feeling his eyes on me the entire time.

“They don’t seem any the worse,” I said, patting one on the side. He was sweaty and warm, but he didn’t nip or leap away from me. In fact, his companion was blithely munching away on the grass. Dante’s own horse padded over to join them.

“You were very lucky,” he said quietly, leaning down to loop his horse’s reins to the back of the carriage.

“I know,” I answered, climbing back up to sit next to him. “Thanks in large part to you.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know anyone else who would think to crawl onto the roof.”

I shrugged. “I couldn’t just sit there.”

“No, I don’t suppose you could.”

The stars were thick overhead and crickets sang from the tall grass. Mist hung between the branches like smoke. His hair was tousled from the chase, his cravat askew. We might have been alone in the world, except for the soft noises of nocturnal animals and the scent of night-blooming flowers. I think he might have kissed me then, but I ruined the moment entirely.

“The coachman!” I exclaimed suddenly.

He pulled back and I like to think he was a little disappointed. “So you did have one.”

“Yes.” I winced. “I caught sight of him when the horses first bolted and he was on the side of the road in a pile. I do hope he’s not seriously harmed.” I tried to grab the reins from him. “Do hurry.”