Chapter Three

Chapter Three

With her feet jammed into slippers and a wrapper around her borrowed nightgown, her hair neatly plaited to one side and a quick check of the hallway to make sure the coast was clear, Evangelina slipped from her room and dashed down the stairs. She made for the library and shut herself inside only to find Callista Marston already there. The young woman was seated on a window bench, the window beside her cracked, letting in the summer-cool night. In her hand was a lit cigarette, and white puffs of smoke billowed from the woman’s nose and mouth. She looked over to see Evangelina and smiled.

“Does the smoke bother you?” asked Callista.

Evangelina shook her head, coming over to sit on the seat beside Callista. “It smells funny, but not bad.”

Callista inhaled deeply, holding her breath for a moment as she held the lit cigarette out in offering to the other young woman. Evangelina shook her head.

“I’m afraid I’d choke,” she said simply.

Callista let out her air in a breathy laugh that billowed smoke all around them. “Indeed. I did the first few…hundred…times as well.”

The pair exchanged smiles, and Callista plucked up the crystal glass from the table beside her. The slanting, silvery moonlight caught the amber liquid as she brought it to her lips.

“Whisky,” explained Callista. “Damn good stuff, too. If you won’t have one vice, how about another?”

The glass Evangelina gladly accepted. She took a small sip and found fire on her tongue. It blazed a path down her throat, but to her surprise, she did not cough or sputter.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Evangelina handed the glass back.

“Thirty years aged in oak casks up in Scotland, distilled by masters whose family has been making it for centuries,” Callista swirled the liquor in the glass, inhaling the perfume. “You have a good palate; It’s sturdy stuff. Makes you feel alive.”

Evangelina couldn’t help but smile. She’d never seen a woman smoke, never seen a woman even drink whisky, let out wax poetic about it like there was romance to be found there. Even Samira, who took brandy when she wanted, did not sip whisky. Yes, Evangelina decided, Callista had been a good person to seek out.

“So,” Callista took another drink before setting the glass aside. “What can I do for you, Miss Evangelina?”

“Well,” Evangelina shifted a little in her seat. “I think you will perhaps be the only person who is truly honest with me.”

Callista nodded. “Honesty is both the benefit and the cost of being my friend.”

Evangelina nodded. She’d hoped so, and she hoped they were friends as well.

“What has the Earl of Claymore done to make everyone hate him so?” asked Evangelina. “Other than abandoning my mother, Samira, and me, of course. But those are old wounds. There is something fresh, something that makes your family so eager to help me when it would be infinitely easier to simply let me go.”

Callista snorted. “You don’t know my family very well. Sticking their noses in other people’s business is sort of our modus operandi. But you are right; there is something else.”

She took a long pull from the cigarette and Evangelina waited, if impatiently. Finally, Callista spoke again.

“He tried to blackmail me into marrying him,” said Callista flatly.

Evangelina balked. “Excuse me?”

“He found out I was entangled with a gentleman – a man – with whom an association would not do my family honor,” said Callista. “Nor myself, for that matter. An independent woman who takes what she wants, church and vows and conventions be damned, is seen as a dangerous woman. With that information, he planned to make me wed him; me, my family connections, and my rather sizable dowry.”

That was a lot of information that had come very quickly at Evangelina, and she tried to file it all into proper places in her mind, her understanding of the situation, but was having trouble moving forward.

“Blackmail,” she said softly, her head swimming.

“Rowan hired your sister to steal the proof back,” explained Callista, then she winced. “Damn, perhaps I shouldn’t have said that.”

Evangelina paled. “Excuse me?”

Callista cursed. “I really shouldn’t have said that.”

“But you did,” Evangelina countered. “And there’s no going back now. Explain.”

Heaving a grand sigh, Callista put out her cigarette on the stone windowsill, crushing it before flicking it down to the ground outside. “Your sister, Miss Evangelina, is a very talented thief. I understand she attempted to take something from Rowan, and he took it as a good audition of her skills, so hired her. She and my brother got the evidence away from the Earl, but then he…”

Callista shifted then, looking out the window once more.

“Miss Callista?” Evangelina asked softly. “Did he hurt you?”

Callista turned, a telltale sheen in her eyes that shattered Evangelina’s heart. “Not much. Scared me, mostly. And that was when Rowan came crashing in like an avenging angel. I tell you, I have never seen a person so close to taking a life as my brother was that night.”

She shook her head and picked up her drink again.

“I’m sorry,” said Evangelina quietly.

Callista turned her gaze to the other woman as she passed her the drink. “Not your fault.”

“But he is my f-father,” the word stuck in Evangelina’s throat.

Callista’s hand closed around Evanglina’s arm. “No, he is the man who sired you. That is not the same thing, unless you want it to be.”

“I don’t want it to be,” said Evangelina, taking another drink.

“Good,” Callista nodded. “And you can be sure that the Marstons have as much desire to see any of that man’s plans thwarted as the Acharyas.”

Evangelina drummed her fingers on the glass before taking another sip. It was getting easier, and more delicious, with each taste.

“Why would he want me?” Evangelina demanded. “I have nothing.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Callista countered. “Now, you are related to both the Marstons and the Marquis of Conway. That is not nothing.”

“But is it enough for all this?” challenged Evangelina.

Callista shrugged, plucking up the drink again. “Doubtful. One of his largest concerns about me seemed to be my dowry.”

“So he needs money?” asked Evangelina. “I have none of that.”

“Rowan planned to dower you, remember,” said Callista. “But obviously would not have done if you were back under your so-called father’s protection, as it would become his responsibility. It must be something else.”

Evangelina folded her arms around herself, chilled despite the wrap and the warmth of the summer night. Callista snapped the window closed at seeing Evangelina’s discomfort, and Evangelina was grateful.

“Perhaps he has found someone who does not need money, but needs you for some reason,” said Callista. “A Cit with pockets full of cash and no pedigree. They might seek entry into society through marriage, and marriage to you, with your connection to a Marquis, a Viscount, and an Earl, if none of them direct, might be inducement enough to pay handsomely.”

Evangelina’s blood ran cold. “So I am simply chattel then?”

Callista’s smile was sour. “Welcome to the club. It’s an honor to have you. Most of us women are bought and sold by fathers, brothers, husbands, sons, until we die. A few of us find happiness, and a great many fewer find freedom. I dearly hope you are one of the lucky ones.”

“Me too,” whispered Evangelina, snatching the drink and downing the rest in a gulp.

Callista smiled at that. “More?”

Evangelina nodded, and Callista sloshed a bit more into a new glass, giving it to Evangelina before refilling her own glass. Evangelina smiled, bringing the strong scenting liquid back to her lips and taking another drink. She laid her head against the wall and stared out the window.

“Do you want to marry my brother?” asked Callista.

Evangelina shook her head slightly. “I don’t know. I think perhaps I do, at moments, but I always wanted to fall in love. And yet…” Evangelina glanced over to Callista. “Sometimes I think I could fall in love with Ezekiel.”

Callista tapped her fingernails on her glass. “For what it’s worth, I think Zeke could fall in love with you, too.”

“I take it you think I should marry him then?” asked Evangelina.

She shrugged. “I don’t know you very well, but Zeke is my favorite brother, most days, and you seem like a good person. It’s a lot better than it could be.”

Evangelina laughed, almost bitterly. “Better than it could be. What a ringing endorsement.”

Callista lifted her glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

Evangelina’s next laugh was genuine. She clinked her glass with Callista’s and drank again.

Zeke was deeply unsure whether he should speak more to Evangelina about the possibilities facing them or if he should simply let her be. They traveled out to the country estate of the Marston family, Courtnay Park, with he and Evangelina in the company of Rowan and Samira. It felt remarkably normal, easy, even. It seemed to spin out as a possibility, of the four of them happy as two couples, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives. It made a pretty picture; Zeke would have liked to paint it, to capture on canvas the feeling of lightness, of belonging, contained as they drove slowly down the country roads toward the place he and Rowan thought of most as home.

“I can see why you all love it here,” Evangelina told him when they arrived. “It is beautiful and seems a lovely place for children to grow up.”

When his mother took the ladies inside and they began to get settled, Zeke went off to find a quiet spot to sketch. His mind was a muddle and he needed to clear it, and his art was the best way to do that.

“Brother!” Rowan called after him.

Zeke slowed his strides and turned back. “Rowan, I’m just going to sketch.”

Rowan nodded curtly. “May I walk with you?”

Zeke’s slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “Of course, as long as you can keep up on those short legs of yours.”

Rowan scowled and fell into step beside his brother who, he begrudgingly had to admit, was a bit taller. Zeke never let him forget.

“So I assume you are here to interrogate me,” Zeke said. “Out with it, so I may be left to my work in peace.”

Rowan faltered. “If you do not wish to talk to me about it–”

“Good lord, Rowan, are you so fragile?” Zeke stopped in his tracks and turned to his brother. “We have not stopped teasing each other in two decades, and now, when things get a little dicey, you’re going to act as though that changes something between us? I will inform you, it does not; for me, at least.”

His older brother rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure how to approach this, you know. Father would have been better at offering you council.”

Zeke set his jaw. “Believe you me, Brother, I am happy to have you as my guide in this matter.”

Zeke really did not understand how Rowan didn’t see it, how Rowan still imagined their father as some perfect ideal of paternal love. To Rowan, he had been nearly impossible to please and demanding of perfection, yet still his eldest worshiped the ground the man trod upon. His love had been given and taken away depending on whom he could be most proud of at that moment. Rowan always stood head and shoulders above the rest, Rowan and Thalia, the first the ideal of manhood, the latter the ideal of womanhood. Rowan rode, he shot, he boxed. Women fell at his feet, always comely widows and skilled, richly styled courtesans, not opera singers, artists’ models, and back-alley slatterns, as the previous Lord Marston had described the people with whom his second son spent his time. Zeke could not help but wonder what Anselm Marston would think of the future Viscountess. Did Rowan know it was a good thing their father had not lived to see the day when Rowan gave up what the world thought for a poor lockpick of Indian heritage? For love?

Oh, their father had loved their mother, it was true, but he would have loved her a lot less if she had not given him six healthy children, carried herself with grace, dressed with style, kept her beauty and her figure as well as anyone could, if she had not maintained such a home and hosted so well. He was turning over in his grave at Samira, and Zeke hoped Rowan never had to know that. It drove Zeke wild that his older brother was so very blind, but he would not shatter that illusion for anything.

It was a pity their father wouldn’t have seen the value of a woman like Samira, her kindness and her strength, her difference and her voice that would teach them things they never would have seen before. It was why Zeke was an artist, at least as much as his drive to create something beautiful and something true. He wanted to understand, and when he saw a piece made with heart and soul poured into it, he knew he understood the world and the people in it a little better.

The new Viscountess, with her history and her roots, her outspokenness and bravery, would be in sharp contrast to the daughter Anselm had molded to perfection. Ariane had almost been that creation, but she had always had too much fire, and a tendency to show it. Thalia was, in a house of large personalities and boisterous voices, nearly silent. She was careful, poised, and unearthly beautiful. She was made of stone, unshakable, and austere, even as a child. Zeke knew there was something in her, something else, but he had never been able to tap it, no matter how hard he tried. He wondered if their father had been the one to bury her spirit so deep it seemed never out of reach, or if her spirit had always been hidden like a light under a bushel, and that was why their father had adored her so.

It didn’t matter now, really; the result was the same.

“Listen,” said Rowan, drawing Zeke’s thoughts back to the present moment. “What you did was very nobel, but you’re making a choice that will affect the rest of your life.”

Zeke tilted his head. “I do know that, Brother.”

Rowan nodded. “As I am aware. But knowing something with your head is different than knowing it with your heart and soul. Sometimes one is vastly ahead of the other. For me, my heart and soul knew I wanted and needed Samira, that I loved her, long before my head would ever catch up. For you, I think your head has come up with a solution and left your heart and soul out of it.”

“Rowan, I appreciate your concern, but people marry for far lesser reasons than this all the time,” said Zeke simply.

“I know that,” Rowan reached out and put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “But you are not people. You are my family, and I know your soul is more precious than the rest of ours. It is purer. And I believe it worthy of the greatest sort of love. I would hate to see you sacrifice that if another way might be found.”

Zeke smiled at the earnestness of his brother, and he could not help but see Samira’s influence in the man already. Never would Rowan have made such a speech before that stony heart of his had been cracked open by the brutally precise strike of falling in love. Madly, totally, utterly. Zeke knew what Rowan didn’t, though, that Zeke was in love all the time. Not with a person, but with life, with the world. He was in love with art and joy and beauty, and while he might not ever love Evangelina like Rowan loved her sister, while he might turn out to be a dreadful husband as he had no idea how to do any such thing, he would find a way to love Evangelina. Perhaps it would not be as grand as Rowan wanted for his brother, or as deep as even Evangelina deserved, but Zeke was sure he could find a way to love her, in his own way.

“Do not worry for me,” Zeke urged his brother. “I do not think and feel the same way you do. The world is a vast tapestry of love and joy and pleasure. I have no need to push it or bend it, to make it to my will.”

Rowan looked at him oddly. “Is that not the very definition of art?”

Zeke laughed. He couldn’t help it. “Art is not a process of will, my dear brother, but a revelation of truth locked inside the canvas or the lump of clay. We do not break the medium, we set free its potential.”

His older brother looked at him, bewildered. “So that means you…want to marry Evangelina?”

Zeke grinned broadly and reached out, clasping his brother on the shoulder as Rowan had done only moments before.

“It means,” said Zeke. “That I have picked my medium. Let us wait and see what truth comes of it.”

Rowan shook his head as Zeke stepped back. “Strange man.”

Zeke only smiled as he grabbed his supplies and left his brother. He made his way out to his favorite spot, a secluded path that led to a small vista overlooking the pond and the rolling hills. Soon, he was set up and began to dab at the canvas, quickly losing himself in the process of revelation he’d described.

Evangelina wound down the path through the lush estate. She had never been to the country, and as soon as they reached it, she had felt a change in her. It was beautiful, and it felt like home in a strange, undefinable way. As soon as she had gotten into the grand room the Marstons had prepared for her, or rather their staff had, Evangelina immediately left for the outdoors once again. The color, the plants, the air…she felt freer here than she ever had in her life. Evangelina wandered for some time, letting her mind wander with her, trying to see all the flowers she could name, all the plants she had only known from books, and dozens upon dozens of others she had no hope of identifying. It was glorious, and just enough to keep her mind from dwelling on the situation at hand. Evangelina was almost sure she was close to a decision, but she felt she was teetering on the edge of thrilled to marry Ezekiel Marston and desperate to hear someone come up with another way.

She rounded a bend and caught sight of a glimmer through the trees. Snatching up her skirts, Evangelina trudged off the path, tromping down underbrush in her effort to reach the water. Stepping out onto the grassy bank, Evangelina found herself bathed in sunlight. She pulled the hat from her head and turned her face up to the sun. Oh, how she had loved the sun as a little girl. She used to play outside so often, whenever the London smog was lifted and the rain didn’t come.

“Oh, my love,” her mother had said, petting her cheeks and arms after one long day Evangelina had spent out of doors when she was eleven. “You have such lovely, pale skin. You should not spoil it in the sunlight.”

Evangelina had asked Samira about it that night when they had lain in their beds. “Mama says I should not go in the sun because my skin will be spoiled.”

Samira had seemed so very old then, but she was barely older than Evangelina herself was now. That was a perplexing thing; time often made lies of true memories, and it unsettled Evangelina a little. Samira had simply sighed and rolled onto her side to look over at her sister. “Mama is right. You are very lucky to be as light as you are. You don’t stand out in a crowd for anything except your beauty.”

Evangelina had never been quite sure what to make of that, but the sadness with which Samira delivered the words made Evangelina not wish to question it. She knew why now; she had been raised in a beautiful bubble where the slurs and slanders were slung first at her mother and sister, and she, the oblivious child, was protected. But adulthood had come upon her and life had brought the disparity into high relief. She was in a better position than her sister or her mother because half of her was white. Half of her, the half of her she sometimes wished she could cut out, was the half of her that would have given her a chance to be a diamond when Samira never could.

When she was little, Evangelina had known her father was out there, somewhere, but her questions were largely deflected. She knew it did not end happily between he and her mother, and that made her sad. The first time she wished she could tear out whatever piece of her was his was when her mother had been crying over a man that had left, and Samira, in an unguarded moment, had said that she wouldn’t have had to suffer so if it weren’t for him. There was only one “him” to Samira, and Evangelina hated that any part of her belonged to someone Samira could speak of with so much hate.

Sam was not a hateful person, but fury burned in her eyes every time the Earl of Claymore was mentioned. Now, Evangelina wished she could cut it out of herself, hack it off like a limb, and then the Earl would not want her anymore. If she could remove the piece of her that was his, she would be free. And then, perhaps, when she was free, she could finally begin to know who she was and who she wanted to be.

But there was no time for that, not now, and a growing realization that there was only one choice made her feel strangely hollow. It was not that Evangelina didn’t like the place she would have to go, might have even hoped for this destination many times, but the path to get there was overgrown and treacherous. A shiver passed through her as a cloud blotted out the sun, and Evangelina took her eyes away from the water and turned to go.

“I beg of you not to move.”

Evangelina gasped, snapping her head toward the direction of the voice. “Mr. Marston!”

Zeke was positioned at the top of a small cliff, perhaps six feet off the ground. He had a pad of paper on his knee before him and was gazing down at her. Evangelina suddenly felt extremely conspicuous; she hadn’t talked to herself aloud, had she? Sometimes she did that when she was working out problems. Had she acted strangely? It was a horrid thing, to be watched unawares, and yet it sent a prickling of awareness through her being that it was Zeke who had watched her.

He smiled from his vantage point. “I am sorry to have startled you, Evangelina.”

“Why did you not announce yourself?” Evangelina attempted to sound put out, even crossing her arms over her chest to try and communicate her displeasure at being spied upon.

“Well, I was painting and in rather a state of focus when I looked up to discover you had come to stand in my line of sight,” he explained.

Her face flushed deeply then. “I see. I am sorry to have spoiled your picture.”

Evangelina gathered up her skirts to leave, but Zeke rose from his seat. “Evangelina?”

She paused, looking up at him as he stepped to the edge of the earth before it dropped down to where she stood.

“Do not apologize,” said Zeke. “You’ve as much right to be here as anyone. You didn’t spoil anything; you never could.”

That made her flush as well, but flush differently, and it made her mouth go dry. Zeke looked particularly gorgeous like that, in far less than she’d ever seen a gentleman in her life. Sure, there were the street toughs and dock workers who wore far less than Zeke’s plain, deep blue trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. But Ezekiel Marston was a gentleman, and gentlemen didn’t go about with their necks unclothed and their shirts unbuttoned so she could see the faint curls of dark hair protruding–

Evangelina snapped her eyes back up to his face. A mistake. His eyes, so impossibly, unbearably blue, made her stomach lurch. Zeke was watching her like a hawk, no, like an artist, as though he was mapping her every movement, how emotions played across her face. Could he read what she was feeling, even when Evangelina herself could not? There was something fascinating about an artist, the way he could see into the soul of a subject and draw out their very essence onto his canvas. Evangelina feared that kind of power, feared and loved it.

“You made the picture, my dear,” said Zeke. “It needed a focal point. You are perfect.”

Evangelina made a sound, almost a sigh, that floated off on the breeze before she’d truly made it. It was soft and sweet and beautiful. She wanted to capture the moment and keep it forever, staring up at this man in the process of creation.

“I’m glad I could help,” Evangelina said, her voice still small.

“Shall I escort you back to the house?” offered Zeke.

She shook her head. “No, thank you. I shall be fine. I made it out here all by myself, and I would hate to interrupt your work.”

“It would be no interruption, but a pleasure,” Zeke insisted.

Evangelina breathed out her nose. Did he have to be so bothersomely polite? Was he just being polite? That had to be the case, because if he meant spending time in her company was truly a pleasure, that he would willingly stop his work to escort her, well…Evangelina didn’t really know what that meant, but it meant something.

“It is such a lovely day,” Evangelina demurred. “It would be a shame to waste it indoors.”

And it was lovely, the sun beaming again after being freed from the momentary and proverbial dark cloud.

Zeke grinned suddenly. “Would you sit for me, Evangelina?”

Her heart thundered in her chest. Him sketching her as a small figure with her back turned as she gazed out at the pond, unaware he was doing it, was far different than sitting for him, up close, watching him as he drew her. Her lips parted as she tried to draw in air, the world suddenly seeming devoid of the necessary element.

“N-now?” Evangelina managed.

He smirked, as if reading her discomfort and not minding it one bit. “Yes, now.”

Evangelina wetted her lips. “How do I get up there?”

Zeke dropped to his knees and stuck out a hand. “Like this.”

Evangelina gaped for a moment, but broke into a grin as she darted forward to meet his grasp. She flung both her hands up, and his strong grip enclosed around her forearm. She clasped his bare, muscled arm with her fingers, and a jolt rocked through her like she’d been hit by a tidal wave. Zeke braced one hand on the ground as he hauled her up, his bicep curling and bulging above her until she was high enough that he could hook his arm around her waist and tow her up and against him.

Zeke sat down hard on the ground, lifting Evangelina over the ledge and onto the grassy earth above. He wasn’t even winded, but she was breathless, her chest heaving with the exhilaration of flying through the air and, more, of being in his arms. They were on the ground together, her legs draped over one of his, his arm still around her waist. He smiled at her, and she resisted the urge to sink against him. It had not been life or death, but Evangelina’s heart was going as though it was, and she could not help but feel that if ever it were so dire, she could trust the man who had her in his arms at that moment.

Reaching up, Zeke found one of the curls she’d left free around her face. Her hair was unendingly curly, not glorious, black waves like Samira, but wild, unruly, deep brown curls that leapt from their pins like frogs from lilypads. He tugged the curl down so that it reached her chin, then let it spring back up. He smiled a kind of pleased, distant smile that made her already booming heart race faster, the droplets of blood chasing themselves through her veins.

“You have the loveliest hair,” he said quietly.

She swallowed hard, trying to make her voice work when she wasn’t sure it would. “Really?”

“Spectacular,” Zeke whispered, toying with the curl again before flicking his eyes back to hers, then down to her mouth. Finally, his gaze settled on hers once more. “Would you take it down for me? To sketch you?”

It was a simple request; it should not have filled her with dread and anticipation. And yet it did, more than she could have imagined. All Evangelina could do was nod. She wanted to, wanted him to see her hair when she usually went to such pains to hide its natural wildness. But he was the artist; where he saw beauty, she believed him, and he saw beauty in her.

Zeke scooted back from her as she began to take out pins, never taking his eyes from her even as he reached for his sketchpad and brought it around. She had her hair free in a moment and shook her hands through it to let it fall evenly.

“Well?” she asked.

A muscle in Zeke’s jaw jumped, and for the first time, he looked away from her as he grabbed the pencil. “Lovely.”