to say is this: Nothing in life is accomplished without risk. Fortune favors the bold. There is a tide in the affairs of men, which if taken at the flood . . .”
Luisa dropped to her knees before the chair on which Olympia sat, in a pool of striped cornflower blue silk. “What have you done, Uncle?” she whispered.
He took her hands on his lap. “Listen to me, my dear. We have not been idle, these past few months, Miss Dingleby and I. We have discovered that there is indeed a group of agents in England this minute, tracking down the three of you. We have discovered, moreover, that they are getting their information from a person with some knowledge of your situation. We believe we can turn this . . . this disruption of Emilie’s disguise to our advantage.” He patted her hands, as if to console her.
Quincy, who was sniffing the tea tray for further traces of ham, turned his head in Olympia’s direction and let out an inquisitive growl.
“Use her as bait, you mean.” Luisa could hardly move her lips.
Miss Dingleby’s voice interrupted the barnyard air of the parlor. “We have made our plans with the utmost care. We will hold an engagement ball, with great fanfare and public ballyhoo, in Olympia’s house. Dozens of our agents will be placed there, in every room. The Duke of Ashland will guard her personally . . .”
Luisa turned to Miss Dingleby, who stood at the parlor door, lean and angular in her gray maid’s uniform and incongruous white cap. “Oh, indeed! What on earth could possibly go wrong?”
“My dear, we’ve done these sorts of things endless times. Our agents are highly trained.”
“And Emilie will be right there in the middle of it all, with a target painted on her forehead . . .”
“She will not be touched, Luisa. I promise it.”
Luisa leaned forward and grabbed her uncle by his blue silk shoulders. “I will not lose her, do you understand me? I’ve lost my mother, my stepmothers, my father, my own husband! I will
not
lose my sisters as well!”
“There, now.” Olympia took her arms gently in his broad hands. “I quite understand.”
“They are all I have left.”
“Nonsense,” said Dingleby. “You have . . .”
“I quite understand,” said Olympia. “And I would sooner send a bullet through my own head than cause the slightest harm to you or your sisters.”
Luisa laid her head on his cheap silk knees and closed her eyes, so she wouldn’t see Miss Dingleby’s incredulous and somewhat disapproving face staring down at them. A long, warm tongue licked at her ankles, wetting right through her black wool stockings to her tender skin.
“Dear me,” said Olympia.
She didn’t cry. She wouldn’t cry; crying had long since been banished from her repertory of emotional display, such as it was. But she felt a certain brimming heaviness around her eyes and her heart. It had, after all, been a trying week. A trying winter, to be perfectly honest. She had never known anything like the atmosphere of the Earl of Somerton’s household, with its lines of battle etched out invisibly on the floorboards and its inhabitants tiptoeing about the heavy silence as if the life had been frozen out of them. As if they had all fallen into a trance of some kind, a nether-existence that was not living at all. Though Holstein Castle had been run along strictly formal protocols, and her father had treated her with brusque professionalism, and her stepmothers had died in childbed, her home nonetheless managed—perhaps even because of these struggles—to seethe with life and laughter and sisterly love.
She thought of Emilie now, golden-haired and quiet behind her spectacles, and tried to imagine her falling in love with a duke. Experiencing that great transformative joy—so the novels claimed, not that Luisa had read many novels—in which her family now played no part. No Luisa or Stefanie to share her happiness and sorrow, the unexpected moments of ecstatic connection and
Luisa dropped to her knees before the chair on which Olympia sat, in a pool of striped cornflower blue silk. “What have you done, Uncle?” she whispered.
He took her hands on his lap. “Listen to me, my dear. We have not been idle, these past few months, Miss Dingleby and I. We have discovered that there is indeed a group of agents in England this minute, tracking down the three of you. We have discovered, moreover, that they are getting their information from a person with some knowledge of your situation. We believe we can turn this . . . this disruption of Emilie’s disguise to our advantage.” He patted her hands, as if to console her.
Quincy, who was sniffing the tea tray for further traces of ham, turned his head in Olympia’s direction and let out an inquisitive growl.
“Use her as bait, you mean.” Luisa could hardly move her lips.
Miss Dingleby’s voice interrupted the barnyard air of the parlor. “We have made our plans with the utmost care. We will hold an engagement ball, with great fanfare and public ballyhoo, in Olympia’s house. Dozens of our agents will be placed there, in every room. The Duke of Ashland will guard her personally . . .”
Luisa turned to Miss Dingleby, who stood at the parlor door, lean and angular in her gray maid’s uniform and incongruous white cap. “Oh, indeed! What on earth could possibly go wrong?”
“My dear, we’ve done these sorts of things endless times. Our agents are highly trained.”
“And Emilie will be right there in the middle of it all, with a target painted on her forehead . . .”
“She will not be touched, Luisa. I promise it.”
Luisa leaned forward and grabbed her uncle by his blue silk shoulders. “I will not lose her, do you understand me? I’ve lost my mother, my stepmothers, my father, my own husband! I will
not
lose my sisters as well!”
“There, now.” Olympia took her arms gently in his broad hands. “I quite understand.”
“They are all I have left.”
“Nonsense,” said Dingleby. “You have . . .”
“I quite understand,” said Olympia. “And I would sooner send a bullet through my own head than cause the slightest harm to you or your sisters.”
Luisa laid her head on his cheap silk knees and closed her eyes, so she wouldn’t see Miss Dingleby’s incredulous and somewhat disapproving face staring down at them. A long, warm tongue licked at her ankles, wetting right through her black wool stockings to her tender skin.
“Dear me,” said Olympia.
She didn’t cry. She wouldn’t cry; crying had long since been banished from her repertory of emotional display, such as it was. But she felt a certain brimming heaviness around her eyes and her heart. It had, after all, been a trying week. A trying winter, to be perfectly honest. She had never known anything like the atmosphere of the Earl of Somerton’s household, with its lines of battle etched out invisibly on the floorboards and its inhabitants tiptoeing about the heavy silence as if the life had been frozen out of them. As if they had all fallen into a trance of some kind, a nether-existence that was not living at all. Though Holstein Castle had been run along strictly formal protocols, and her father had treated her with brusque professionalism, and her stepmothers had died in childbed, her home nonetheless managed—perhaps even because of these struggles—to seethe with life and laughter and sisterly love.
She thought of Emilie now, golden-haired and quiet behind her spectacles, and tried to imagine her falling in love with a duke. Experiencing that great transformative joy—so the novels claimed, not that Luisa had read many novels—in which her family now played no part. No Luisa or Stefanie to share her happiness and sorrow, the unexpected moments of ecstatic connection and
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