Cordelia drew back the curtain of the carriage window and looked out into the night. Instead of the tree-lined streets of Kensington, shrouded in winter snow, they had arrived at the outer edge of the West End. The streets were narrow and thick with fog, and crowds of people milled about, speaking in a dozen languages, warming their hands over fires in oil drums.
“Soho?” she said curiously. “What—the Hell Ruelle?”
Matthew cocked an eyebrow. “Where else?” The Hell Ruelle was a Downworlder nightclub and salon, operating a few nights of each week in an outwardly nondescript building on Berwick Street. Cordelia had ventured there twice before, months ago. Her visits had been memorable.
She let the curtain fall and turned back to Matthew, who was watching her closely. She pretended to stifle a yawn. “Really, the Ruelle again? I’ve been there so often it might as well be a ladies’ bridge club. Surely you must know a more scandalous place?”
Matthew grinned. “Are you asking me to take you to the Inn of the Shaved Werewolf?”
Cordelia hit him with her muff. “That’s not a real place. I refuse to believe it.”
“Believe me when I say that there are few places more scandalous than the Ruelle, and none I could take you to and expect James to forgive me,” said Matthew. “Corrupting one’s parabatai’s bride is not considered sporting.”
The laughter went out of Cordelia; she suddenly felt very tired. “Oh, Matthew, you know it’s a fake wedding,” she said. “It doesn’t matter what I do. James won’t care.”
Matthew seemed to hesitate. Cordelia had broken with the masquerade, and he was clearly taken aback. He never remained speechless for long, though. “He does care,” he said, as the carriage turned onto Berwick Street. “Not, perhaps, in the way everyone imagines. But I don’t think it will be a hardship to be married to James, and it is only for a year, isn’t it?”
Cordelia closed her eyes. That was the agreement she had made with James: one year of marriage, to save both their reputations. Then she would sue for divorce. They would part amicably and remain friends.
“Yes,” she said. “Only a year.”
The carriage drew to a stop, just beneath a streetlamp whose yellow light illuminated Matthew’s face. Cordelia felt a small catch at her heart. Matthew knew as much of the truth as anyone else, even James, did, but there was something in his eyes—something that made her fear for a moment that he suspected the last piece of the puzzle, the bit she’d hidden from everyone but herself. She couldn’t bear to be pitied. She couldn’t bear it if anyone knew how desperately she loved James and wished the marriage were a real one.
Matthew pushed the door of the carriage open, revealing the pavement of Berwick Street, glossy with melted snow. He jumped out and, after a quick conversation with the driver, reached up to help Cordelia down from the carriage.
The Hell Ruelle was reached through the narrow alley of Tyler’s Court. Matthew took Cordelia’s arm and tucked it through his, and together they made their way through the shadows. “It occurs to me,” he said, “that while we may know the truth, the rest of the Enclave doesn’t. Remember what pests they were when you first came to London—and now, as far as that smug bunch is concerned, you’re marrying one of the most eligible bachelors in the country. Look at Rosamund Wentworth. She’s gone and gotten herself engaged to Thoby Baybrook just to prove you’re not the only one getting married.”
“Really?” Cordelia was highly entertained; it had never occurred to her she had anything to do with Rosamund’s sudden announcement. “But I assume that marriage is a love match.”
“The timing raises questions, is all I’m saying.” Matthew waved a hand airily. “My only point is, you may as well rejoice in being the envy of all London. Everyone who was snide to you when you first arrived—everyone who shorted you because of your father, or muttered rumors—they’ll be eating their hearts out with envy, wishing they were you. Enjoy it.”
Cordelia chuckled. “You always do find the most decadent possible solution to any problem.”
“I believe that decadence is a valuable perspective that should always be considered.” They had reached the entrance of the Hell Ruelle and passed through a private door into a narrow hallway lined with heavy tapestries. The corridor was seemingly done up for Christmas （though the holiday itself was weeks away）; the tapestries were adorned with green boughs wound with white roses and red poppies.