4 OUR HEROINE IS HANDSOME, CLEVER, AND RICH—HOWEVER, SO TOO IS OUR HERO—FIRE!—MR. DARCY IS NOT DISTURBING—CHARLOTTE FLEES—NOT EXACTLY PEMBERLEY—THE MYSTERY OF MALE ANATOMY—SOMETHING IN THE AIR Charlotte Pettifer had lived twenty-one years in the world with a great deal to distress and vex her, but Alex O’Riley was the worst of all. How vile of the man to make trouble simply because she absconded with his briefcase . . . and caused him to be assaulted . . . and, um, assaulted him herself. No doubt he thought he could get away with such behavior because he was a male with a big sword, several knives, and dark-rimmed blue eyes that could only be described as beauti— Charlotte pressed her lips together in an effort to stop herself from gasping at her own train of thought. She could not afford to let Captain O’Riley rattle her again, especially not in sight of two dozen witches and pirates, primary amongst whom was her Aunt Judith. Getting rattled in front of Aunt Judith would lead to Disappointment. And every instinct in Charlotte’s body had been trained at an elite level against Disappointing Aunt Judith. Besides, Charlotte was better than him. Smarter, as evidenced by the briefcase in her possession. Tidier in dress and mind. He was not even wearing a tie today! Why, she could see part of his chest through the open upper buttons of his shirt . . . could glimpse dark ink thereon . . . Goodness, but electrical lighting made a room hot! Charlotte straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and marched up to Alex O’Riley (and, er, Miss Plim). “Hello, Aunt,” she said in a tone that communicated no interest whatsoever in the pirate’s conversation—or the pirate himself, for that matter. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him smirk. “Hello, Charlotte,” Miss Plim said. Her syllables tapped like a sharp fingernail against Charlotte’s composure. “Captain O’Riley has just been telling me the most interesting tale about you.” “You shouldn’t listen to him, Aunt. He’s a pirate.” “Nonsense, dear. I would not be caught dead talking to a pirate.” “But Aunt, have you not noticed his earring? Boots? The extensive collection of weaponry about his person?” Miss Plim sniffed. “A lady does not look at a man’s person, Charlotte. Besides, if he is a pirate, which I doubt, I’m sure he can’t help it.” Charlotte’s eyes slipped momentarily out of focus as she tried to process this. Perhaps Miss Plim equated piracy to an unfortunate infectious disease? Charlotte could certainly agree with her there. “In any case, whatever he told you is a lie.” “I see.” Miss Plim glanced at Alex. He shrugged, and Charlotte knew if she looked upon his face she would find a crooked smile there. Just as well she had no intention of looking. She would rather perish than do so! He flashed his crooked smile back at her and Charlotte turned quickly away, furious that her eyes had so thoroughly ignored her brain. “So,” Miss Plim said, “to be clear: at St. James’s the other day, you did not save a tea shop waiter from cruel verbal abuse, thus earning the admiration of this—this gentleman of undetermined occupation, as well as the pride of your entire family?” “Er . . .” Charlotte blinked, bemused. “Well, perhaps I might have done that.” Miss Plim stretched her lips into what might have been called a smile by someone without the benefit of wit or a thesaurus. “You are being modest, dear.” “You know me, Aunt,” Charlotte said with a brisk nod. “I don’t like to draw attention to myself.” Alex did not laugh, but Charlotte sensed how carefully he was not doing so, and she scowled again. Arrogant creature! (The captain, that is—certainly not Charlotte, of course.) Words tumbled in a whisper from her tongue before she could stop them. A moment later Beryl’s gold spyglass leaped off a wall display and flung itself across the room toward Alex’s head. He caught it without looking. “I commend your humility,” Miss Plim said, not noticing the inclusion of weaponry into their conversation. “Thank you, Aunt,” Charlotte replied, surprised by such a positive remark. “Indeed,” Alex murmured. “Miss Pettifer seems like an exceedingly humble girl.” Charlotte counted at least three different insults in that single compliment. The churl! She pressed the toe of her elegant, embroidered boot against his much rougher one, and had the pleasure of noticing his body stiffen with what was undoubtedly fear. “Nevertheless,” Aunt Plim continued, “it was gracious of the captain to tell me about it, and a well-behaved lady would be gracious about such graciousness in return.” “And not accuse them of being a pirate,” Alex added. Miss Plim nodded. “Exactly.” “But you are a pirate,” Charlotte pointed out. “That is no cause to accuse him of it,” Miss Plim said. Charlotte took a deep, calming breath. “Thank you for correcting me, Aunt. By the way, did you know about the new orphanage opening today on”—she pulled a name randomly from her imagination—“Knightley Street?” “New orphanage?” If Miss Plim’s ears could have pricked up, they would have. Her knot of hair did seem to spring more erect. “Indeed, it is so new they have no benefactors yet, and I hear the children are quite starved and cold.” Miss Plim snapped her head around to stare at Miss Gloughenbury, who was standing beside the amulet display, clutching her velvet-clad dog and trying to convince the guard she was a reputable antiques dealer and merely wanted to inspect the goldmark on the piece, after which she would give it back, of course, absolutely. “Does anyone else know about this orphanage?” Miss Plim asked offhandedly. “No one,” Charlotte said. Miss Plim stepped back, gathering up her stiff gray skirts. “Good heavens, look at the time,” she said, not even pretending to seek out a clock. “I am going to be late for my dental appointment.” “Oh dear.” Charlotte gestured toward the exit. “You had better dash!” No sooner had she thus advised than Miss Plim was hastening across the gallery, keeping an eye on Miss Gloughenbury as she went. “That woman is more ruthless than a nun who’s just seen a student with dirty fingernails,” Alex O’Riley muttered. Charlotte almost nodded in agreement, but caught herself in time. She turned to glare at him. “I don’t know what you are playing at—” “Playing at?” he echoed, his voice all innocence despite the darkness in his eyes. He idly flipped the spyglass around his hand as he looked at her. “—but I can assure you I am not discomposed.” The spyglass went still. His mouth slid into a smile that would have made a lesser woman blush. “And I can assure you, Miss Pettifer, that if at some point I do choose to play with you, you’ll end up thanking me profusely for how discomposed I make you feel.” Charlotte gasped. She did not actually know what he meant, but the suggestion in his sultry eyes was enough to warrant a significant inhalation of breath. “And I can assure you, sir, that I am not here to play. I am here on business. And the next thing I throw at your head will not be blunt.” “You are reassuring,” he said. To which the only reasonable reply was to stomp on his foot. Unfortunately, he moved it away a moment before impact, and her boot came down hard on polished stone. Charlotte winced as a metal dart in the boot’s sole crumpled, pressing back against her own foot. Only excellent craftsmanship, thick leather, and a durable silk stocking saved her from collapsing with an inconvenient paralysis. “Oh dear,” the pirate said languidly. “It looks like you are in some disc—” He smiled. “—omfort. Allow me to lighten your burden by taking that briefcase from you.” She snatched it behind her back. Inside were documents vital to her plan for getting the amulet. “Never! And furthermore—” “Fire! Fire!” The frantic call echoed through the exhibition room. Charlotte sighed. Alex rolled his eyes. “You’d think people might try to be more original,” he said. “Or at least learn faster,” Charlotte added. They glanced at each other, realizing they had inadvertently stumbled into agreement. Luckily, at that moment a flame leaped from a nearby wooden model displaying Beryl Black’s wedding gown. “Fire!” several ladies screamed, rushing back in horror. “Fire!” the guards shouted. There ensued a general trampling, pushing, writhing, and wailing, as the crowd attempted to converge upon the amulet. A guard pulled a hitherto unnoticed lever in the display plinth, and as a panel in the floor opened, the plinth sank immediately from sight. Pirates and witches stumbled over empty ground to collide in a tangle of fury, weaponry, and preposterous hats. Charlotte shrugged her mouth in reluctant admiration of this security measure. But seeing the same expression on Alex’s face, she hastily scowled instead. Anger flaring, she turned on her heel and snapped words at the burning dress. It obediently tipped to the floor. Charlotte took her besom from a pocket and pushed the minuscule button on its handle. The extendible broom shot out. Walking calmly over to the burning heap of satin, she began to beat it with the broom, albeit one-handedly, her other in firm possession of the briefcase. To her aggravation, Alex joined in, pulling Beryl’s black flag from a wall and applying it to the flames. Within moments, they had the fire out. “Hm,” Charlotte said brusquely, in lieu of thanking the gentleman for his assistance. “Hm,” he replied in an equally abrupt tone, tossing the flag onto the charred dress. “Everyone out!” shouted the museum guard. Without looking at each other, they followed the crowd out of the exhibition room. Its door slammed shut behind them.
The rest of the day was spent in conjecturing how soon the Pettifer ladies would return to the museum, and determining whom they should invite to dinner when they had the amulet in their possession. At least, Mrs. Pettifer was thus occupied. Charlotte, sitting very straight and very quiet on the sofa, read Pride and Prejudice and murmured agreement every now and again. She was not going through the book page-by-page but skipping to her favorite scenes, seeking mental balm so the memories of the day troubled her less. Mr. Darcy—now, there was a man worth thinking about! Dignified, tidy, well-shaven, just exactly the sort Charlotte liked. He would not threaten to kiss a lady, nor smile at her in a way that made her rather wish he would . . . “Heavens, what is it dear?” Mrs. Pettifer asked as Charlotte jolted up from the sofa. “Surely you approve of Mrs. Claybooth as a guest? It’s hardly her fault she married a butcher.” “I beg your pardon, Mama,” Charlotte murmured, sitting again and smoothing her skirts. “I thought I saw a mouse, but it was just a shadow.” A quarter of an hour followed in assuring Mrs. Pettifer no rodent of any kind existed in the sitting room, after which the good lady settled again to her planning. But then Mr. Pettifer, consulted as head of the household, declared there should be no dinner at all. A busy man, he had no interest in witchcraft and even less in entertaining witches. He considered them, as a species, altogether unlikable (with the exception of his good wife . . . and Shirley too, of course. No, wait—Charlotte). He would absolutely not have witches to dine! By evening, fourteen names were on the invitation list. “What about that handsome fellow you were chatting with at the museum?” Mrs. Pettifer asked Charlotte in the kind of mild tone that sets off alarms in a daughter’s head. Charlotte looked up warily from Mr. Darcy’s second proposal scene. “What about him?” she asked. “He seemed nice enough. We should invite him.” “He is a pirate, Mama.” Mrs. Pettifer waved this concern away. “I’m sure he just needs a woman’s influence to help him settle down and take a proper job, perhaps as an artist or a slightly melancholy poet. And my rune stones predicted just this morning that you would meet an eligible gentleman, Lottie dear.” Charlotte would have rolled her eyes were they not widened in horror. Over her (or at least someone’s) dead body would that diabolical man set foot in Pettifer House! “I do not think so, Mama,” she murmured, and attempted her book once again. But Mrs. Pettifer possessed the determination of a mother whose daughter was not so much on the verge of old maidenhood as about to tumble right off it into a space devoid of future grandbabies. “Our other guests would be most entertained by his looks—I mean, his books—I mean, he seemed an educated man, judging by his—er—broad shoulders. He must have carried many encyclopedias over the years to make him so muscled. You yourself like reading and thinking. Surely you would enjoy having a conversation with him?” Charlotte frowned sidelong at her mother, not liking the way she’d said the word conversation. “Mr. Pettifer, don’t you agree?” Mrs. Pettifer called across the sitting room to her husband. “A tête-à-tête or two with an erudite gentleman is just what our Charlotte needs?” Mr. Pettifer snapped his newspaper as a reminder to his wife that he was actually trying to read the thing. “Charlotte is old enough to make her own decisions,” he said. (And since her dowry was in an account earning him good interest, he did not mind if she never spoke with gentlemen, regardless of their education.) “I am entirely content, Mama,” Charlotte insisted. “What you are is shy and tenderhearted,” Mrs. Pettifer replied, ignoring the fierce scowl Charlotte was giving her. “You need to take a few risks, start a new cycle in life, reach for the sky . . . Oh dear, Lottie, shall I bring you a drink of water?” “No, no,” Charlotte said when she was able to breathe again. “However, I might just go for a stroll to get some fresh air.” Donning sunglasses against the mellow autumnal light, she fled the house. But clamoring pedestrians and the clatter of horse-drawn carriages along the street only served to irritate her nerves further. Soon she found herself longing to run—and run—and not stop until she was in the countryside, where Jane Austen assured her one day was exactly like another, and no blue-eyed pirates with prodigiously long swords could be found. At this reminder of Captain O’Riley, a strange electrical sensation leaped in her stomach (or at least a zone of her body one must discreetly refer to as the stomach). She muttered without thinking, and a man walking past found himself suddenly jumping to catch his hat, which had shot off his head as if propelled by a small and highly targeted tornado. Life had been so peaceful before that bothersome pirate barged his way into it! So routine. So exceedingly tedious—no, wait, tranquil was the word she meant. And now here she was striding through Soho at an hour usually reserved for attending to her blackmail correspondence. Charlotte vowed that as soon as she had possession of the amulet she would buy a train ticket for Hertfordshire. If adventures would befall a young lady in her own city, she must escape them abroad! Having reached this pleasant decision, she lifted her chin to face the future with better spirit—and promptly lowered her eyebrows in a frown. She’d unconsciously walked back to the British Museum, where an odd sight confronted her. Several houses were cluttering the footpath—for pirates did not like to walk if they could fly, and set their houses down at maximum inconvenience to everyone else, and then complain about receiving a parking ticket—but amongst the elegant abodes an old cottage squatted. Charlotte removed her sunglasses to stare at it. Whereas the others were pirates’ houses, this was a piratic house. Its stones looked like they had been dragged out of a marshland and scraped of old, murky ghosts before being cobbled together into walls and chimneys. Moss stubbled its steep slate roof and grew between many of the stones. This was a building that really needed to take two aspirin and have a good night’s sleep. Charlotte wanted nothing more than to give it a scrub down and hang curtains in the bare, white-framed windows. But scorch marks across the front and a broken chimney suggested the house had faced worse than Plimmish disapproval and had responded to it with ferocity. Altogether it brought to mind an ancient raptor (for example, a falcon of millennial age), and Charlotte shuddered again as she recollected the popular notion that a pirate’s house reflected their character. What kind of loutish woman lived here? Just then, movement in a window caught her eye. Someone was standing behind the mullioned glass, buttoning their shirt. A glimpse of naked chest, ridged with muscles and marked with a swoop of black ink, made Charlotte catch her breath. Although she couldn’t see a face, she knew instinctively this was Alex O’Riley. The knowledge seemed to sing through her blood and nerves, causing more of those electrical sensations that made her wish to take an urgent holiday to Rosings Park. She averted her eyes. He finished buttoning the shirt and proceeded to tuck it into his trousers. Charlotte realized her eyes had once again disobeyed a direct order, and she closed them firmly. But her vision fought back, flashing an afterimage of bare skin in the darkness behind her eyelids. She had never seen such a thing before, except in cold marble. Years ago, she’d consulted the natural science books in Pettifer House library, only to discover certain pages had been torn out. It did not seem dignified to pursue the matter through a public library; besides, classical statues provided enough information to convince her men’s physical specificities were all a storm in a teacup. Why, therefore, her pulse should be racing now, and in places where one’s heart was not located, she could not understand. Suddenly the man paused in his shirt-tucking. He began raising his head, and as long black eyelashes and a crooked smile were slowly revealed, Charlotte understood that he was aware of being watched, and that any second now he was going to see her. The smile curved, and she realized he already had seen her. Despite the several layers of her clothing, she felt naked right down to her hot-blushing soul. Turning abruptly, she marched home, intent upon taking up a copy of Mansfield Park and submitting herself to a stern talking-to from Fanny Price. So focused was she on this course that she failed to notice the pale-haired gentleman following her from a distance, his nose making sharp little noises as he sniffed the air in her wake.