This house was built on rotten foundations. So was Danny’s whole empire. You didn’t get loans that big without leverage. You didn’t rise to the top of the tree without treading on a million lesser folk along the way, without ruining other people’s lives. Mrs. Bone pictured Sue, and the girls who came before her. Her own fortune was tainted by association.
So was her blood.
Begone, you green-eyed monster, she told herself, shuddering. Now wasn’t the moment for jealousy. It was time for absolution.
Sniff.
She was up like a shot. “Who’s that?”
She peered through the keyhole. Pale eyes goggled back at her.
“Sue,” Mrs. Bone said, taking a breath.
The girl spoke in a whisper. “I can help!” she said.
Mr. Lockwood was clearly furious, but he smiled. “It’s unconscionable,” he said, drawing Miss de Vries into one of the anterooms, away from the main crowd, “that you should not have apprised me of all this.”
“Why?” said Miss de Vries. She halted, feeling the heft and weight of the ballroom beyond. Alice and the under-footman hung back, watching her, listening. “What difference would it make to tell you?”
He stared at her, disbelieving. He lowered his voice. “You understand how this works? You entrust me with your affairs. Your interests are my interests. As you rise, so do we all. That is the compact between us.” His face was flushed. “There wasn’t a single detail of his affairs that your father didn’t share with me.”
Miss de Vries didn’t bother lowering her voice. “Weren’t you listening, Lockwood? My father didn’t entrust anything to you at all.” She smiled at him. “Perhaps he meant to dispose of your counsel.”
Lockwood’s expression twisted. He was about as indebted to the house of de Vries as any man could be.
“Send Lord Ashley to me,” she said.
“What?”
“I don’t see that you’re making any progress with him. I shall have to take matters into my own hands.”
“Into your own…” Lockwood’s eyes widened. “You can’t be serious.”
She pressed her face into his, not caring if the other servants saw her do it. “Why not?” she said, hating him, exhausted by him. “Why not?”
The bruise on his lip was turning an ugly color. She wished she’d given it to him herself.
She snapped her fingers for Alice. “Come.” She felt rather than saw, her maid obeying her, edging closer, reaching out to fix the final threads on her dress. She could smell the faintest tang of sweat rising from the girl’s neck. It gave Miss de Vries a shooting feeling of relief. Here, at least, was someone she could depend on. She wanted Alice near. Not with Lockwood. Not anywhere near Lord Ashley.
The emotion startled her: she tried to swipe it away. She glanced down at her dress. “Have you fixed it?”
Alice looked pale. Clearly, the heat and excitement of the evening had gone to her head. She opened her mouth, as if to say something. Then she shut it again, nodded. The rip had been mended; the dress was perfect.
Miss de Vries was ready.
Lord Ashley was still in the garden, joshing with ministers and clerics and dour old judges, poking them in the chest, tugging on their doublets and robes. His own gaggle of lordly friends followed him, tittering, approving every gibe. He was in good spirits. This seemed promising. The garden felt sweaty, swampish, anticipation on the air.
“My lord,” Miss de Vries said, pitching her voice up a note. “I abandoned you. Forgive me.”
He turned, appraising her, and gave her a curt, quick bow from the neck. Miss de Vries felt a burst of fierce satisfaction.
“You are forgiven,” he said, a little spot of color rising in his cheeks.
He can’t talk to women, she thought. This pleased her. This confirmed what all her senses were telling her: she was in charge.
“Gentlemen,” she said to the others, “perhaps you might excuse us?”
They hesitated. Lord Ashley’s eyes whipped sideways, looking for someone: his lawyers, or hers. “The lady deserves a chaperone,” he said, with a leery sort of gallantry.
As if you could seduce me, she thought with an inward laugh, but she kept her expression solemn. “You’re very good to think of it.” She turned to the oldest, most wizened-looking man she could find. “Your Honor. You will accompany us if we take a turn about the garden, won’t you?”
The judge’s lip wobbled, but he nodded—certainly, certainly—and the others stepped away, dissolving into the crowd. The judge grinned at them, a filmy, toothy smile.
“Lord Ashley,” said Miss de Vries, locking her arm into his, tugging him into motion, “I would be honored to be your wife.”
It was like punching him. It made her feel as if she lived at the dockyard, as if she’d rubbed chalk on her fists. It was exactly what Papa would do: a clean, fast cut. She sensed his recoil.
“There’s no dignity in poverty,” she added, voice lower. “And I won’t wait all season to close this matter. You must answer me at once.”
His body went rigid beside her. “We do not discuss this,” he said.
She made her face gentle. If anyone were watching them, they would have fancied he had just paid her a beautiful compliment. She led him along the terrace, feeling the weight and density of him. It was like dragging a mountain rock. “I will not permit your mother to manage this matter. This should be your choice, yours alone.”
She stole a glance at him. Surprise crossed his face. “My mother?” he said. “She has nothing to do with this at all.”
Miss de Vries understood, in that moment, how this game was played. He really believed his wishes were his own, that his thoughts were of his own design. His people had managed things to make him believe that it was so. He cocked his head at her.
“Of course you understand that you must submit to me, if we press ahead?” he said. “You must obey me, in everything.”
If she had been a superstitious person, she might have crossed her fingers behind her back. “Naturally,” she said. “My vows will make sufficient provision for that.”
He chuckled, the tension leaving his face. Changeable, she noted. Inclined to take things as a conquest. Not a bad temperament, perhaps.
“Then come,” he said, “and dance. My people will settle the smaller details.”
He was only fractionally taller than she was. At that height she could look directly at his forehead, pierce his skull, read his mind. Victory surged within her. “Your Honor, thank you,” she said, inclining her head toward the judge.
“My dears,” he said, in raptures, stretching his hands out to them. “My deepest congratulations.”
Hephzibah had been in the Boiserie this entire time, gathering herself. Mr. Shepherd hadn’t understood her when she’d told him her name. It meant nothing to him. And in any case her mouth had become so dry, so sticky, that she’d garbled the words. I’m foaming at the lips, she thought. They’ll have to cut out my tongue.
But the urchin, who had likely never been to a theater in his life, who would likely never earn enough to even contemplate purchasing a ticket, had gaped up at her. “What did choo say?” he’d asked.