George chanced a glance at Richard. The man stood very still, his gaze fixed on Charlotte as she walked across the floor, and despite his new face, in that moment Richard looked nothing like Casside. A mix of emotions reflected on his face, desperation, passion, longing. It lasted for half a moment and looked like torture, then Richard slipped back into Casside, the way one put on a shirt in the morning. He must miss her.
George glanced back at Charlotte and forgot to breathe. Three steps behind her, to the left, Sophie walked across the terrace.
The world took a step back.
She wore a flowing gown of a pale gray with a touch of blue, draped at the top, caught by a sash, then floating in a weightless long skirt. He’d seen that precise color when she unsheathed her sword. The dress shimmered as she walked, slick and fluid, as if the metal of her blade had come to life and streamed over her like liquid, shifting with every movement.
He saw the graceful lines of her neck.
He saw her dark hair and a single pale blue flower in it.
He saw her face.
She was beautiful.
He realized he was standing there like an idiot, with his mouth hanging open, and clamped it shut.
A moment later, Charlotte joined them. Her Grace hugged her, gently. “My dear, I had almost given up hope.”
“I wouldn’t disappoint you if it is at all in my power.” Charlotte smiled.
“And you’ve brought Sophie.” Her Grace opened her arms, and Sophie hugged her. “How can you hide this beautiful flower in that country house of yours?”
“The country is where the flowers bloom the best,” Charlotte replied.
“Oh please.” Lady Olivia made a dismissive gesture that could’ve done a premier dancer proud. “It’s about time for the child to see the wider world.”
“Excuse me, Lord Camarine?”
A singsong female voice tugged on him. George turned. Lady Angelia Ermine stood next to him, wearing a fishtail gown of light powder blue. Her caramel golden hair cascaded in a tumble of locks on her left side, drawing attention to her delicate shoulders and long neck. She was quite attractive, George reflected in a detached way. She also profited from the sale of slave women and robbed them of their future children.
Her escort, a well-groomed, elegant blond man in a tailored russet doublet smiled at him with a sardonic spark in his eyes—Baron Rene, Spider’s cousin. He seemed perfectly at ease and enjoying himself. Two of the Five for the price of one.
George smiled. “May I help you, my lady?”
“Do you happen to know Lady de Ney?”
“I’ve only met her casually. I understand she has a very rare talent. Her Grace holds her in the highest regard. Some sort of family favor.”
“Her dress is divine,” Baron Rene volunteered. He was looking at Charlotte with a distinctly male appreciation.
“It’s probably one of her own designs,” George said, keeping his voice light. “Would you like an introduction?”
“I suppose we can spare a moment or two.” Angelia shrugged.
She was clearly dying to be introduced. George stepped to the side, waited until Her Grace leaned over to Sophie, and caught Charlotte’s gaze. “My lady, Lady Angelia Ermine and Baron Rene.”
Charlotte smiled. “A pleasure.”
Baron Rene bowed, bringing Charlotte’s fingers to his lips. As he bent, George caught sight of Richard’s face. His expression was so perfectly placid, so even, it was slightly alarming.
Baron Rene straightened. Charlotte and Angelia touched the back of their hands to each other. As their skin connected, a tiny tendril of black shot from Charlotte’s hand to Angelia’s. If he wasn’t looking closely, he would’ve missed it.
The two bluebloods said a few more words about the festival and weather and disengaged.
The center of the terrace rumbled. That’s right, he realized, it was almost dark.
The tiles in the middle slid aside. Magic surged in a translucent wall, forming a tall column. Inside it something sparked. Flames burst, roaring upward at the sky, perfectly contained by magic—a perfect imitation of an ancient bonfire.
The bluebloods applauded. He clapped with them, watching Charlotte and Sophie out of the corner of his eye. The ground was prepared. It was up to Charlotte to set her trap.
TIRED, Charlotte descended the staircase from the front entrance where their rented phaeton waited, the driver holding the door open. Sophie walked next to her. They conquered the last few steps, got inside, and sank onto the soft cushions of the seats. The driver shut the door, and, a moment later, they were off.
Charlotte pulled her shoes off and thrust her feet onto the opposite seat. Across from her, Sophie groaned and did the same. They wiggled their toes at each other.
“Ow, ow, ow.” Sophie bent forward and massaged her toes. “Why do the heels have to be so high?”
“First, because they elongate your calves and make your legs look leaner. Second, because you couldn’t possibly do any work in shoes like this, so if you own them, you must live a life of leisure.” Charlotte leaned back. “All in all, it went very well. We owe Lady Olivia a favor.”
“What did you give Angelia?” Sophie asked.
Charlotte grinned. “You saw that?”
“I was looking very carefully.”
“She was already infected with Dock Rot, a very strong, virulent form of herpes. I just coaxed it into an outbreak.”
Sophie’s eyes went wide. “Is that one of the sexual diseases?”
Charlotte nodded. “Oh yes. They call it Dock Rot because it’s often found among port prostitutes. It’s curable, but the regimen is long and expensive, and it’s quite easily preventable through the use of the male sleeve and vaccination.”
“So why wasn’t she vaccinated?”
“Probably because it didn’t occur to her that she might catch it. The question is how did a blueblood flower such as Angelia end up with a dock-prostitute rash?”
Sophie grinned. “That’s an interesting question.”
“Isn’t it?” Charlotte rubbed her hands together. “I think we’re going to contact Lady Olivia and make sure Angelia gets an invitation to a tea. Mmmmm, about two days should do.”
“You’re scary,” Sophie told her.
You have no idea, sweetheart. You have no idea. “Yes, but I’m on your side.” Charlotte reached over and squeezed Sophie’s hand. “You did so well today. It will get easier, I promise.”
“It was . . . exciting.”
“I’m so glad.” Charlotte grinned. “Did you notice George?”
Sophie leaned against the back of the seat. “I know! He is so perfect, it’s sickening.” Her eyes grew wide. “That woman next to me, the one with the green rose in her hair? She leaned over to the other lady, and she said, ‘I bet I could teach him a thing or two.’ And the other woman said, ‘He’s just a boy,’ and the green rose woman said, ‘That’s the best time in a man’s life: they’re easy to steer, and they can go and go and go.’ Can you believe that? She must be thirty! It’s disgusting.”
Sophie stuck her tongue out and made a retching noise.
Charlotte smiled. “I don’t think George is in any danger. He does the distant, I’m-above-it-all impression quite well, and the duchess would fry anyone who looked at him the wrong way.”
Sophie’s dark eyes turned serious. “Is that how it’s supposed to be?”
“Is it how what’s supposed to be?”
“Are we supposed to be obsessed with sex?”
She’d asked it quietly, and Charlotte sensed the answer was very important. “It depends on the woman. We’re not all cut from the same cloth. Some women mature faster, some slower; some actively seek out sexual pleasure, and some don’t value it as much. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t want to do it.”
Charlotte tilted her head, trying to get a better look at Sophie’s face. “Which part?”
“I don’t want to have sex,” Sophie said. “Maybe later. But not now. I have friends. They kiss each other. The boys are . . . you know. Hands.”
“Mhm.” Charlotte nodded.
“I don’t like to be touched. One of them tried, and I told him I didn’t like it. He acted as if there was something wrong with me.”
Charlotte paused. There was so much she wanted to explain, but the little bond of trust they had between them was so fragile. She had to find the right words.
“There is nothing wrong with you. Your body belongs to you alone. Touching it is a privilege, and it’s up to you to grant it. Some boys—and men—don’t handle rejection well, and they will try to shame you or pressure you into letting them do what they want because they feel entitled. They’re not worth your time. Also, there is nothing wrong with not enjoying sexual touching or kissing. For some girls, their sexual awakening comes early, for some, later. I was almost seventeen before I became aware of men sexually, and even then, it was because of a particular boy I liked rather than men in general.”
Sophie looked out the window.
Charlotte couldn’t tell if she had said the right thing or the wrong thing. This is what parenting must be like. The duchess was right. Never knowing if you had done harm or good was awful.
“I’m sorry,” Sophie said. “It’s just that I don’t have anybody else to ask. My sister is gone a lot with William. My aunts always want to know who is it and what’s his name. And I can’t ask Richard.”
“Oh gods, no, don’t ask Richard.”
“He would be scandalized.” Sophie pressed her lips together, as if trying to hold something back.
“If he gets an idea that someone tried to touch you against your will, he’d kill them.” Charlotte cleared her throat and tried to produce a reasonable imitation of Richard’s raspy voice. “I’m going to decapitate that ruffian. Please don’t hold dinner. No need to trouble yourself on my account.”
