Kat, Incorrigible (13 page)

The fish-faced woman drew herself up haughtily, folding her thin face into fishier lines than ever. “
My
maid,” she said, “is a genius from France, and she will take care of the matter herself, thank you very much.” She cast
one last simmering look at me. “And you should dismiss your own maid without references if she’s the one who cut your daughter’s hair. It looks ridiculous!” With a swish of her remaining skirts, she turned her back on us. Supported by two of her friends, she hurried across the room, back toward the stairs to the guest quarters. She was followed by whispers all the way, mounting into a full-out roar of delighted gossip.

Stepmama turned on me. She couldn’t tell me everything she thought, of course; not now, under the pressure of all the eyes still upon us. But her face spoke for her.

“
Later,
” she said, and twitched her skirts away from me.

“Ah, Margaret.” Lady Graves appeared. She was very nearly panting with exertion, in the most refined possible manner; she must have hurried all the way through the crowd to arrive so quickly. “And girls. I do hope you are all enjoying your evening so far.”

I don’t know what looks we gave her, but I saw her blink and step back an inch.

“I’m afraid Miss Katherine suffered a small injury to her head,” Stepmama said, in tones that were trying to sound honeyed. “It would really be best if you excused her so she could lie down quietly in her room. Isn’t that so, Kat?”

I gulped. Five minutes ago, I would have argued. But now …

“Nonsense,” said Lady Graves. “A girl of her age can hardly miss dinner. Isn’t that so, Miss Katherine?”

“Well …”

“There, now.” She patted my arm. “Never mind, dear. Once you have a little wine, you’ll think nothing of a mere headache, I can promise you that. But in the meantime …” Her smile broadened as she turned to Elissa. “There is someone who is particularly anxious to meet you, Miss Stephenson. And all your family, of course.”

Lady Graves swept us with her, and the crowd moved aside to make way—whether in honor of the hostess in our midst, or out of fear that I’d go mad and attack them as well, I couldn’t be sure. I was glad of it, though. If it had been up to me, I wouldn’t have come face-to-face with another guest for the rest of our stay at Grantham Abbey.

All too soon, though, Lady Graves drew us up before an enormous painting of a morose-looking old gentleman in a really startling long red wig. In front of the painting stood two tall, dark-haired men in black coats, their heads turned away from us as they studied the painting—or, perhaps, just marveled at the painted wig. I couldn’t believe anyone had ever been willing to wear such a monstrosity.

Lady Graves coughed delicately, and both gentlemen swung around to face us.

“My dear Sir Neville … and Mr. Collingwood,” she purred. “May I have the pleasure of presenting my cousin, Mrs. Stephenson, and her daughters? Miss Stephenson, Miss Angeline, and Miss Katherine.”

We all curtsied. But I was so busy peeking up under my eyelashes at the gentlemen, I nearly toppled over as I did it.

They looked very alike, both with hawk noses, dark eyes, and glossy black hair. But the older brother—Sir Neville—had harder eyes. I could actually feel the power vibrating off him as his gaze swept across us. The younger brother, Mr. Collingwood, smiled with what seemed to be real, friendly interest. Sir Neville looked as if he were measuring each and every one of us for a contest of strength. My skin prickled under his gaze, and I didn’t like it. Worse yet, I felt a telltale heat against my leg as the mirror awakened inside my reticule.

Just perfect. If I had to guess the single thing most calculated to send Stepmama into a screaming, uncontrollable rage, even at the best of times, it would be exposing the shame of Mama’s magic in front of an eligible bachelor. And to do it right now, just after publicly humiliating the entire family on the very first night of our visit … I gritted my teeth and closed my hand tight around my damaged reticule to keep any hint of golden glow from leaking out.

“Charmed,” Sir Neville said, and smiled. It looked like a predatory snarl.

Elissa looked as if she might faint from sheer panic.

I stiffened my back and returned Sir Neville’s smile with interest. His eyes widened.

“I say,” said Mr. Collingwood. “Are you perfectly well,
Miss Stephenson? You look a bit under the weather, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“No, no,” Elissa murmured faintly. “I’m fine, truly.”

“Are you sure?” He started forward, one hand held out as if to catch her arm.

“She is perfectly well,” Stepmama said. “Honestly. Young ladies these days.” She gave a trill of laughter. “I’m sure you gentlemen both understand. The honor of attending such a grand party as this, for an innocent young girl …”

Angeline looked sardonic. Elissa looked ready to swoon again, but this time from humiliation rather than nerves. Mr. Collingwood blinked and flushed and tugged at his cravat. He stepped back hastily.

“Of course,” he said. “So sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“We are all delighted that she could be here,” Sir Neville said. “And her charming sisters as well, of course.” But his hard eyes were fixed only on Elissa now. “Will you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you into dinner tonight, Miss Stephenson?”

“Of course,” Elissa murmured. Her eyelashes fluttered down to cover her eyes, and color rose on her pale cheeks. “Thank you, sir.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Collingwood. He looked like a little boy who’d just found out he couldn’t have a puppy after all. “Erm.” He set his shoulders. “Miss Angeline, would you—?”

“Thank you,” Angeline said. “I would be delighted.”

“Mm,” said Mr. Collingwood, and gazed wistfully at Elissa.

“Excellent,” said Lady Graves, and nodded to the butler who stood in the corner of the room, waiting.

He rang the bell with a jangle, and everyone formed into pairs to enter the dining room. I, of course, had to walk next to Stepmama. But still, I had an excellent view as Sir Neville led Elissa forward like a man claiming his latest and least important possession. Just like a milch cow, as Angeline had said earlier. My mouth twisted at the thought.

Just before they disappeared into the dining room, Sir Neville looked back at the rest of us. His gaze went straight to me.

I lifted my chin. He smiled and turned away. And the mirror in my reticule burned hotter than ever.

Just to make the evening complete, I ended up sitting directly across from the fish-faced woman, who wore a new and different gown, probably also from Paris, and hadn’t let her change of gown change her mind about me. Of course, Stepmama had drilled it into me beforehand that I was only allowed to converse with my neighbors on either side and was never, ever to be so rude as to speak across the table, so Fish-Face and I wouldn’t have had a chance to talk anyway. But sitting only a few feet away from me gave her plenty of opportunity for disdainful looks and sniffs whenever I picked up the
wrong fork or knife or actually spoke to my own lawful neighbors. Luckily, that didn’t happen often, as I was squeezed between two middle-aged gentlemen who were both completely intent on their own dinners and their gallons and gallons of red wine.

But Fish-Face surprised me by having a much more interesting conversation of her own across the table. The moment I heard the word “highwayman,” I gave up even pretending not to listen.

“It is too shocking for words,” she said to her neighbor, a pallid, thin young man who looked far too fashionable to move or even speak. “Lady Graves may tell us all she likes not to concern ourselves, but how can we help but worry with a dangerous highwayman on the loose?”

The pallid young fashion plate’s only reply was a languid, “Um.” He seemed more concerned with lifting the food on his plate and then gracefully replacing it, uneaten, than with any nearby highwaymen, dangerous or not. I wondered how he managed to survive without eating. Was he powered entirely by fashion?

Fish-Face’s other neighbor, though, harrumphed loudly and shifted in his seat to glare at her. “Nonsense, nonsense! Only dangerous at night, Mrs. Banfield, no danger to you in the day. Just don’t drive out at night and you’ll be perfectly well. No need for flights of fancy here!”

“How ever can you say so?” Mrs. Banfield’s fish face pursed with irritation, and she tossed back a glass of wine, emptying it to the dregs. I watched, fascinated. “One cannot
remain forever confined to one small house for an evening. One would go mad!”

Small?
I thought, and blinked. But she kept going.

“We can hardly let ourselves be trapped here, can we? And the miscreant might well take to harassing innocent travelers in the daytime, too, if we all stay safely hidden away from him at night.”

“Then give your footmen a pair of pistols each,” the harrumphing neighbor said. “Tell ’em to shoot the devil down at first sight. Only in danger then if you drive on a night without moonlight so you can’t see him. You can bear to stay inside only on moonless nights, can’t you?”

“There is no need for the moon to be hidden for him to hide from us. With that dreadful forest hanging over the road, no wonder he manages to stay hidden until the final moment every time! I should never feel safe for an instant—and my footmen are hardly trained shots, you know.”

“Better stay inside, then,” the harrumphing man said, and turned back to his veal and mutton as the twelve new dishes of the second course arrived.

“Well!” Mrs. Banfield said. “I never.”

The pallid fashion plate beside her smiled dreamily, perhaps in sympathy, or perhaps just in a world of his own. Mrs. Banfield looked at him, gave another impatient sigh, and then looked across the table at me. I smiled in as friendly a way as I could manage. She shuddered and
turned back to the lobster on her plate, her massive silk turban rustling with frustration.

Since her conversation seemed to have dried up, I decided to try again for my own. I turned to the man beside me, whose attention was focused intently on his plate of beef. “Is there really a highwayman in the area, sir?”

“Eh? What?” He blinked at me as if I’d only just appeared beside him. “Highwayman, you say? Deuced odd thing for a young girl to talk about, I must say.”

“But if there really is a highwayman loose near Grantham Abbey—”

“Stories,” he said dismissively. “You’re perfectly safe here. The devils never come near the houses themselves. They’d be fools to risk it.”

“But—”

But he had already turned back to his beef. I sighed and took a sip of my wine. It was a deep, rich red, and it tingled against my tongue. I’d never drunk unwatered wine before, and it made me a little nervous. I decided not to try flinging it down my throat yet, the way Mrs. Banfield had done, even though I was sorely tempted. After my misadventure earlier, it would be hard enough to convince Stepmama to let me downstairs again tomorrow night, even without spilling red wine all over Lady Graves’s tablecloth now.

Maybe later tonight, safe in the privacy of my own bedroom, I would practice flinging a glass of water down my throat until I had the movements perfected.

By the end of the final course, my stomach was so burstingly full I couldn’t even think about drinking more wine, or anything else that might shift the horridly delicate balance of my digestion. I watched my plate be taken away with pure relief and stifled a macaroon-flavored burp. Mrs. Banfield had finally drawn the pallid young fashion plate into, if not a real conversation, at least one that seemed to moderately interest him. She spouted her opinions on the latest fashions, and he roused himself enough to make noises that might have almost been taken to be encouragement whenever she paused. Her other neighbor’s face had grown redder and redder with every refill of his wineglass. He was bellowing about hunting methods to the poor woman on his other side.

The noise levels had risen all along the long table, actually, into a not-so-civilized roar that bounced off the walls. Together with my over-full stomach, the din made me feel dizzy and a little nauseated. I swallowed hard and fixed my eyes on Lady Graves at the head of the table. Thank goodness, she was already starting to rise. As soon as she signaled, all the ladies would have to follow her out into the drawing room for tea and coffee, and then—

A footman approached Lady Graves and whispered into her ear. She frowned and looked at Stepmama, signaling down the table with her eyebrows. Stepmama was too engrossed in conversation to notice.