She was no longer bored.
Not as she followed the giantess through the trees to a light in the distance that flickered and glowed brighter and brighter, until they came upon a clearing where Sesily had never been before. There, on a raised platform, stood a magician, and one with no small amount of skill, considering the way she defied the fireworks in the sky and held the rapt attention of the audience clustered tightly around her as she levitated a hound before their eyes.
The magician’s gaze found the stilt-walker and slid instantly to Sesily, not a flicker of surprise in her eyes as she completed the trick and released the hound with a wave of her hand and a bit of dried meat.
Wild applause exploded through the clearing as she took her bow, deep and grateful, honoring the truth of all artists—that they were nothing without audience.
The audience returned to the evening, their rush to find another spectacle more urgent than usual—driven by the knowledge that they had scant hours before the gardens closed for the season.
Within moments, Sesily was alone in the clearing with the magician and her hound, the stilt-walker somehow disappeared into the night.
“My lady,” the magician said, her easy Italian accent filling the space between them, the honorific clear as the night sky. She knew who Sesily was. She’d been waiting for her, just as they all had that evening. “Welcome.”
Sesily approached, curiosity consuming her. “I see now that I’ve not been making the night difficult; you’ve been holding me at bay. Until you had time for me.”
“Until we could give you the time you deserved, my lady.” The magician bowed, extravagant and low, collecting a small, gilded box from the ground and setting it at the center of the table between them.
Sesily smiled, looking to the dog at the magician’s feet. “I was very impressed with your performance. I don’t suppose you’ll tell me how the illusion works?”
The woman’s gold-green eyes glittered in the lanternlight. “Magic.”
She was younger than Sesily had first believed, a dark hood having hidden what she now recognized as a pretty, fresh face—the kind that most definitely turned heads.
As someone who prided herself on her own ability to turn heads, Sesily admired the woman’s unique beauty.
Of course, she hadn’t been able to turn the only head she’d ever really cared to turn.
She’d so failed to turn that head, it was on a boat to Boston that very moment.
She pushed the thought out of her mind. “You had them all enraptured.”
“The world enjoys a spectacle,” the magician replied.
“And in the spectacle, they fail to see the truth.” Sesily knew that better than most.
“Therein lies the business,” the woman said, opening the box, a collection of silver rings winking at her. “Shall I show you another trick?”
“Of course,” Sesily replied, flashing a bright smile to hide the immediate pounding of her heart. Earlier that day, she’d felt herself on a precipice, at one of the rare moments in life when a body knew there would be a before and an after.
But that had been a feeling in her heart. One that would wane. Quiet. Until the moment would fade and she’d struggle to remember the details.
That had been emotion.
This … this was in her head.
This was truth.
She did not hesitate, putting her hand into the empty box, her fingers brushing across the firm, smooth oak within. Extracting her hand, she said, “Empty.”
The woman’s brows lifted in a charming flirt and she closed the wood top with a firm snap, then passed a hand over the top before opening it again. “Are you certain?”
Delighted and curious, Sesily reached inside, her breath catching as she removed the small silver oval inside. Turning the portrait over in her hands, she tilted it to the light.
Surprise came. “It’s me.”
The magician inclined her head. “So you know it was meant for you.”
The interception. The machination. The maneuvering. The way her path had been charted that evening. Her fingers tightened on the little portrait, the silver frame biting into her skin.
But why?
As though she heard the question, the magician passed another wave over the empty box. Tilted it toward her. Sesily reached inside, heart in her throat, breath coming fast.
Here, now, everything was to change.
At first, she thought it was empty again, her fingertips stroking over the smooth wood, seeking. Finding.
She extracted a small ecru card. Held it to the light.
An ornate bell inked on one side, a Mayfair address in the lower left corner.
She flipped it over, the strong, sure script searing through her.
Not this path, Sesily.
We’ve a better one.
Come and see me.
Duchess
South Audley Street, Mayfair
The London Home of the Duchess of Trevescan
Two Years Later
It’s as though one is watching a carriage accident.”
Lady Sesily Talbot stood behind the refreshment table at the Duchess of Trevescan’s autumn ball, contemplating the teeming mass of aristocrats and happily commentating for her friend and hostess. Indeed, Sesily had trouble looking away from the throngs of frocks—each one unique and dreadful in its own way.
It was 1838, and while ladies of the aristocracy had at long last been blessed with unabashedly plunging necklines and tight, boned bodices—two of Sesily’s favorite things—anyone in a dress was simultaneously cursed with lace and frippery and haberdashery, brightly colored ribbons and flowers piled high, like a tiered cake at court.
Sesily nodded toward an unfortunate debutante lost in a sea of patterned grenadine gauze. “That one looks as though she’s been upholstered in my mother’s bedchamber curtains.” She tutted her disapproval. “I take it back. It is not one carriage accident. It is a ballroom full of them. History will surely judge us harshly for these fashions.”
“Would we say fashions?” At her right elbow, the Duchess of Trevescan, Mayfair’s most beloved hostess—though not a single member of the aristocracy would ever admit it—brushed an invisible speck from her stunning, fitted sapphire bodice (fully lacking in frippery), pursed her boldly stained lips, and surveyed the crush of people with a discerning eye.
“The only explanation is that the new queen loathes her sex. Else why would she choose to make these the styles of the day? The goal is clearly to make us all look atrocious. Look at that one.” Sesily pointed to a particularly unfortunate bonnet—an oversized oval creation that encircled a young woman’s face in an effect that could only be described as clamlike, complete with layers and layers of pink lace and feathers. “It’s as though she’s being reborn.”
The duchess coughed, sputtering her champagne. “Good God, Sesily.”
Sesily looked to her, the portrait of innocence. “Show me the untruth.” When the duchess could do no such thing, Sesily added, “I’m going to have my modiste send that poor thing something that makes her look gorgeous. Along with an invitation for a bonnet burning.”
A chuckle, followed by, “Her mother will never allow you near her.”
That much was true. Sesily had never been beloved by aristocratic mothers, and not only because she refused to wear the fashions of the season. Her beautiful mauve silk aside, Sesily was universally terrifying to the aristocracy for additional, hopefully much more unsettling reasons.