Page 9

Meanwhile, strength of body and mind are sacrificed to libertine notions of beauty, to the desire of establishing themselves, the only way women can rise in the world—by marriage.

—Mary Wollstonecraft

With a loud groan, I glanced up at the overcast sky from my quiet spot in the gardens at Osborn House. I was surrounded by crumpled sheets of parchment, the puckered spheres like little grenades of incompetence. Who knew that writing an acrostic verse to express my feelings about Frankenstein would be such an impossible feat? The poem was meant to go in tandem with the musical piece I was composing.

My emotions veered from rage to melancholy to bitterness to absolute loathing…not for the monster, who was a murderer, but for the circumstances that had driven him there. Perhaps every gentleman embodied Dr. Frankenstein, and the twisted monster that threatened and plagued humanity was a metaphor for society. Or perhaps women were the metaphorical monsters, unable to act or think for ourselves, stitched together by a social hierarchy built on the whims of men. The message from a young woman to her sex was that we were all just cobbled together. Half beings, as Mary Shelley’s own mother had once said.

My thoughts churned. Did not the themes of the novel parallel womanhood? Loss of innocence, the ambition of men, injustice, fate versus free will…The similarities were rife.

Gritting my teeth, I threw another sheet to the grassy patch of ground to join its brethren and nearly snapped my quill in half in frustration.

“What did that poor sheet of paper ever do to you?” a deep voice drawled, making me nearly leap out of my seat in fright.

I turned, heart racing. “Mr. Nasser, what are you doing here?”

“I accompanied Ridley,” he said, using my brother’s courtesy title. “The duke wanted to see him about a bill in Parliament before we headed to White’s for a luncheon.”

White’s was a gentlemen-only social club, yet another institution that placed their members on unearned pedestals, simply for the sake of being male. “What bill in Parliament?”

“Something to do with British currency and the gold standard.”

I shook my head. One day, a bill would be passed about a woman’s right to have a voice in her own future, and I would scream my delight to the high heavens. Rafi strolled to the table and picked up my novel. “A little light reading?”

Snatching it from his fingers, I glowered. “None of your business.” When he stooped to swipe up one of the discarded parchments, I blushed and rose to grab it, but he held it high out of my reach. “Give that back, you busybody!”

“What’s this, then?” he said, unrolling it, fending me off with one hand as I attempted to climb him like the gnarly tree he was. “?‘ F is for fighting to be seen and heard, R is for revenge, though it may sound absurd. A is for the apathy that consumes my heart, N is for never feeling…’?” He trailed off as my ears burned with humiliation. Clearly, I would hardly receive any accolades for being a poet. “Never feeling what?”

“I don’t know yet.”

He peered down at me, curiosity alight in his gray gaze. “What is this for, Firefly?”

“A school project if you must know. Now give it back.” I shot him my most scathing glare. “And once again, do not call me Firefly.”

Still fending me off with one hand, he nodded to the other balls of paper littering the grass. “The muse isn’t striking, I gather.”

“Aren’t you observant?” I snapped. “Hand it over, Rafi. I mean it.”

“Or what?” A slow, playful smirk that caused a host of butterflies to erupt in the pit of my stomach bloomed over his face. Gracious, that wicked curl of his lip could sway the most modest of ladies to temptation. Was it directed at me, or was it just Rafi being Rafi?

“Or I’ll…I’ll…,” I growled through my teeth. “I’ll kick you in the shins!”

“Perhaps I should call you Hornet instead of Firefly,” he teased, reaching out to tug on one of my spirals that had sprung loose from its pins. “I should have known that a girl who trounces her competition in a horse race, sneaks into gaming hells, and reads about monsters would be vicious.”

Those gray eyes that glinted silver in the sunshine peered down at me, making me lose focus for a second. Or perhaps it was the curl that he idly caressed between his fingers that made my breath falter. Goodness, how had we gotten so close? Barely a handful of inches separated us, likely from my futile efforts to retrieve my dreadful poem. The press of his gaze felt as tangible as touch, and I sucked in a shallow breath. I could feel the heat of his body and smell the woodsy warmth of his skin. The combination wreaked havoc on my scattered senses.

Each inhale made the rise of my bosom nearly touch his lapels. And with his fingers tangled in my hair, anyone could look outside one of the windows of the manse and form an indelicate opinion. For some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to care. “Why do you call me Firefly?”

Smudges of red lit his cheekbones, and for a moment, I thought he wasn’t going to answer, but then he canted his head to study the tight coil of hair that he still held. “You always reminded me of a fierce little beacon. Small but mighty.” He chuckled quietly to himself. “No matter how angry I was or how lost I felt, I’d look at you and see that light shining, then ground myself.”

Speechless, I stared at him as my blood warmed. “Oh.”

“You haven’t lost that spark, and I hope you never do.”

The flush on his cheeks deepened as he abruptly let go of me and took a small step back as if he hadn’t meant to say any of that. The confident, swaggering Rafi was nowhere to be seen, and I found this side of him to be unexpectedly sweet. He ran a palm over his dark hair and then stuffed his free hand into his trouser pocket, looking adorably awkward. Who knew a gent with a reputation for being a shameless rake had such a warm sponge cake center?

“That’s rather poetic for you,” I told him, for lack of something clever to say. Those mercurial eyes met mine and held them.

“Yes, well, I mostly call you that because you are a pest,” he added in a cooler, mocking tone that did not fool me. It was as though he’d reminded himself of our usual rapport. “Some fireflies are predacious. They poison their enemies.”

Hiding my smile at his prevarication, I cocked my head. “So, I’m a vicious, poisonous beacon? Isn’t that a contradiction? Touch me and die?” I snatched the parchment out of his other hand while he wasn’t paying attention and stuck it into the pocket of my dress. “One could argue that some lovely things are worth getting pricked for. A rose isn’t a rose without its thorns.”

“A rose won’t kill you. I meant beautiful but deadly, like the oleander flower, so fragrant and delicate, and yet it can cause convulsions. Or the golden dart frog, which secretes a toxin that will stop a man’s heart.”

I blinked, my own heart in danger of stopping. He thinks I’m beautiful?

He also thinks you’re deadly, you ninny.

Clearly, I could not quite read Rafi or trust myself around him. At times, he was brotherly in a domineeringly protective way, as he’d been during the race, and other times…when he stared at me like I was the spark in his darkness, my heart teetered on a precipice that shouldn’t be breached. It would be so easy to fall for his charm. But many a girl, including my nemesis Sarah, had dashed herself on the rocks that were Rafi Nasser.

I refused to be another casualty, even if his earlier words had been sincere.

In truth, he was the beautiful danger.

“Trust me, my father wishes I were more boring and less willful,” I said glumly, and crouched to gather the rest of the discarded papers. “It would make his life much easier. If I were obedient and dutiful as a lady should be, perhaps I could be the perfect daughter.”

“Perfection is a myth,” Rafi replied softly. “We are forced to meet unreachable expectations, and any dreams we might have become ancillary.”

“Even yours?” I asked, looking up, curious at the bitter notes in his voice.

A muscle flexed in his jaw. “Yes. Mine, too.”

I desperately wanted him to confide in me, but a few moments of camaraderie did not make us bosom friends. I knew Rafi had always wanted to be a painter, but his uncle had threatened that if he didn’t focus on more masculine pursuits, whatever those were, he would be disinherited. The man was stuck in the Dark Ages if he thought painting wasn’t a worthwhile endeavor. Tell that to Botticelli, Rubens, and Da Vinci. Rafi wasn’t in need of money, however. He could quite easily leave and pursue those artist’s hopes of his.

“Hey, Nasser! Where’ve you gone?” my brother yelled, and Rafi and I both jumped apart another foot as if we were on the cusp of being caught in a ruinous embrace. People in the ton had been marched to the altar for less. I was here without a chaperone, after all, even if it was in my own garden.

Keston rounded the bend on the path, and he grinned when he saw me, though his smile wilted when it fell on Rafi, who now thankfully stood a respectable distance away. “Mother said you were out here, but I didn’t expect to find the two of you together. Honestly, I’m surprised not to have to break up a brawl or at least clean up some bloodshed.”

My cheeks heated. “We’re not that bad, Kes.”

He let out a scoffing sound as his eyes took in my novel and papers. “Father surely doesn’t know you’re reading that. Unless you’re planning on giving him apoplexy, that is. Frankenstein ’s not exactly ladylike reading material.”

“And what exactly is? Lessons on etiquette? Needlepoint design? Tutu decoration?” I shot back, earning a shocked snort covered up with a cough from Rafi.

My brother halted with a wary expression at my glower. “Never mind. Read what you want.”

“Thank you.” Choked laughter came from Rafi’s direction. “Where’s Ela?” I asked. “Is she with you?”

“She’s consoling Lady Rosalin,” Keston said with an exaggerated sigh. “Blake’s courting someone new, so she’s in a funk.”

I liked Rosalin, but she tended to fall in love every month, which was usually at the root of her problems. She was infatuated with Blake, with whom she’d supposedly shared a kiss once, forever ago, but Blake was a free spirit who wasn’t ready to settle down. Everyone could see it but Rosalin, unfortunately. Ela was far more patient than me. I was much too busy carving out space for myself and guarding the minuscule freedom that I had to worry about boys.

My gaze slid to Rafi and just as quickly fell away.

He and Keston strolled toward the residence, but after a few steps, Rafi slowed and looked over his shoulder. “Your verse has promise,” he said, slanting a half smile my way. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Firefly. Just write from your heart.”

The West End of London was dirty and terrifying most days, and infinitely worse at night. Especially on underground fighting nights, with hundreds of unwashed bodies bellowing wagers at the top of their lungs and furiously exchanging money in a cramped tavern. The place, aptly named the Hog’s Head, took on its own monstrous personality.

A woman with an enormous mug of ale nearly crashed into us. “Watch it, pigeons!”

I blinked. Did she just call us weak people who were prime to be swindled? Good. That meant our disguises were working. We’d gone even further as to put over our chins false facial hair that Greer had somehow gotten from a local theater. It was much more convincing than a flimsy mustache!

“This is wild,” she said with a grin plastered on her face. She looked good as a boy, the blond beard making her look rugged and mean. The piecemeal clothing we had filched from my brother’s armoire and the stubble on our faces helped to sell the story, but her spine was too straight. Too proud to mimic commoners of these parts. And she was big, so she didn’t exactly blend into the grimy background.

“Slouch more,” I whispered to her. I did the same, the band I’d bound across my chest pulling tightly and making it hard to breathe. That was a small price to pay for not being outed as female. I caught sight of a well-heeled man observing us from one corner, but he just as quickly strolled away when he saw me looking. I shook off my nerves—no one knew us. We were pushing the boundaries of acceptability by being here, which was part of the thrill, wasn’t it? The knife-edge of discovery hovering over our heads.

Coming to the Hog’s Head had been Greer’s idea. The Lady Knights weren’t only devoted to engaging in charitable endeavors and reading dangerous books. We’d initially formed the club as a means of breaking the control held over us. Rules were meant to be broken. Safely, of course. Every month, we each took turns to pick one thing to try—an outing or an interest—to which we might normally not have access.

Most weren’t hazardous. Lalita had voted for us to try her uncle’s cigars, which had been revoltingly disgusting. I didn’t even know why gentlemen chose to sit in clouds of foul-smelling smoke after dinner. On my first selection, I had opted for us to learn archery. That one had taken some finesse to find someone to teach us in secret, but I’d wheedled Blake into doing it. We’d even had a contest at the end. Lalita had won by a stretch, much to everyone’s surprise. She confided that when her father had been alive, he’d taught her the sport in India, but she missed him too much to go into further detail.

Nori’s first choice had been to have a breeching ceremony, which was peculiar to say the least, but she insisted her brothers had each done it, going from children’s dress to knee-length fitted pants. “It is a milestone for young boys,” she’d explained. I didn’t pretend to understand why she felt it was so imperative—it was important to her, and that was all that mattered.

Getting four pairs of breeches sewn by Mama’s modiste with our measurements had been surprisingly easy since no questions had been asked. Then again, she wasn’t paid to be nosy, so that was a blessing. We had all discarded our dresses and stays to wear them, followed by a feast to commemorate the occasion, and exchanged gifts. In hindsight, it had been pleasantly liberating. For my next choice, I was planning to make us all attend a performance in Covent Garden. The newly launched Adelphi Theatre was putting on a concert featuring music from all around the world.

“We really should not be here,” Lalita said under her breath as we pressed deeper into the cramped space, and I glanced at her. “What if we get caught?”

She’d become a bundle of nerves in the past few weeks. For her, this was a countdown on finding an appropriate husband to appease her uncle and aunt. She could not risk scaring away suitors or upsetting her guardians.

“Keep your head down, and we won’t,” Nori told her. “Let Greer have her fun, and then we can go.”

We were only here as curious spectators. I’d heard my brother and his mates discussing the outcomes of bare-knuckle boxing before, and Greer’s father used to be a prizefighter himself until he met Greer’s mother and became a successful merchant banker.

Greer’s blue eyes were bright. “This is amazing!” She turned to speak to the man at her side, and before we knew it, she was handing coins over and he was writing the sum in a small notebook.

“What are you doing?” Lalita hissed.

She let out a snort. “Wagering, what does it look like? I’m betting on the underdog. Odds are twenty to one.”

An enormous man, one we had noticed at the entrance and who could be the director of the place, stopped beside us. We all froze, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. His attention landed on Greer. “You’re a sturdy lad,” he said, checking her over like one would a horse at auction. “You look like you could throw a punch, or at least take one. We let amateurs fight. Any interest in a round or two?”

Greer’s eyes practically bugged out of her skull with excitement. “In the ring?” she said, deepening her voice to a gruff rumble and remembering to flub her proper diction. “Who with?”

“That young lad over there.”

Glancing up, I followed Greer’s gaze to where he’d pointed. A boy around our age who seemed fit and strong was stretching out his limbs. At first glimpse, it seemed like Greer had a lot of muscle on him. But still…that didn’t mean they were evenly matched.

I nudged her arm. “Are you sure you want to do this, Gre…Gregor?”

“Why not? I’ll wipe the floor with that tosser,” she replied with a grin. “Bet on me, will you?”

Lalita let out a noise of distress as Greer went off with the man, leaving us alone. “What if she gets hurt? Those boys are vicious.”

Nori shrugged. “So is Greer.”

When the thinner of the two boys fighting smacked a right hook into his opponent’s cheek, a splatter of blood went flying across the ground…along with what looked like a tooth. Lalita gasped, and I could tell she was holding it together by a thread.

I squeezed her shoulder. “Greer was taught by her papa.”

My words did little to reassure her, and the crowd went wild when the smaller boy was declared the winner. I caught Greer’s eyes over the crowd, and she winked. She’d bet a quid, and with twenty-to-one odds, that was a cool twenty pounds. I dug into my pockets for the coin I’d brought with me and approached the man she’d spoken to before with the book.

“What are the odds for the next match?” I asked him in a deep, gravelly voice.

“They’ve gone up now since the win last round,” he said gruffly. “Thirty to one in favor of Jimmy Fleetfoot versus”—he consulted the penciled-in entry on the corner of his sheet—“Gregor the Viking.”

I almost laughed aloud at that. Greer would love her fighting name. Deuce it, I was jealous. “Two on Gregor the Viking to win.”

Nori shuffled up beside me. “What are the odds for a knockout?”

The man consulted his book again. “Fifty to one, sixty in the first round.”

“A quid from me, then,” she said. “First round.”

His eyes widened, but he sniffed dismissively as if our loss would be his gain. Which it very well might be. They were both bold wagers, given the terrible odds stacked against Greer. “Good luck.”

I was sure that we would need it, but I believed in my friend. When the whistle blew, and “Gregor” was announced, the jeers of the crowd were loud. Nori, who wouldn’t hurt a fly despite her saucy temper, looked like she was going to punch the man next to us right in the face. Greer’s opponent, Jimmy Fleetfoot, was obviously a crowd favorite, because when his name was called, the roar was thunderous. Nerves took hold of my belly as the starting gong sounded.

Jimmy was indeed swift on his feet, but I could see Greer studying his movements. Her father had taught her that any fighter’s style was evident in the first few minutes of a round—their choices told a story of whether they were aggressive, passive, or some combination of the two. Taking a few deflected hits was worth the wait.

My heart climbed into my throat as Greer did just that, a fast fist glancing off her shoulder, followed by three sneaky jabs to her torso as he danced around her. Lalita squeaked when Greer sucked in air and shrugged off the punches. But her eyes were still full of glee. She ducked and weaved for the next few hits, and I could see the triumphant expression on her opponent’s face as if his win were a foregone conclusion.

“Viking…more like milksop!” someone shouted, kicking off a fresh round of insults and catcalls.

“Are you going to fight, lad, or stand there all day and let him beat on you?” a man near to us asked.

“Wait for it, you bastard,” I heard Nori say under her breath.

Lalita frowned. “Wait for what? Why isn’t she fighting back?”

“Watch,” I said. I caught the exact moment when Greer coiled her body into action, her large form deceptively agile as she sidestepped an incoming uppercut on footwork that mimicked that of the first minute. She bobbed as her opponent came toward her for a torso hit, and she grinned, her right fist going back almost to her ear before she let it fly.

The punch was so fast and so hard that poor Jimmy Fleetfoot went down like a sack of moldy potatoes and didn’t move. He was out like a candle flame. There was dead silence in the room as Greer threw a fist into the air, after she’d made sure that he wasn’t getting up anytime soon, and then everyone was shouting and screaming.

“Hell, yes!” Nori screamed. “I told you!”

While we waited for Greer, who was currently being swarmed by eager spectators, we went to collect our winnings. Not a bad haul, thanks to Greer.

“Friend of yours?” the bookkeeper asked as he handed us themoney.

“Sure is,” Nori said.

The man who had offered Greer the round accompanied her back to us. He stared at us in turn with a wide grin on his scary features. He’d bet heavily on Greer, too, and had made a small fortune. “Next up is the blade rounds. Any takers here?”

My stomach gave a lurch. Out of our group, I was the best with an épée—I’d learned at the same time as Keston, who had educated me after each of his lessons with his fencing instructor—but I also didn’t want to get impaled and bleed out in the middle of Seven Dials. “Why does a place like this have fencing? It’s a boxing club.”

He laughed and gestured with his arm. “Look around, lad. Some of you rich nobs like to come to this neck of the woods, and I like to make easy money.” His lips curled into a sneer as he considered us part of that group. In our borrowed clothes, we could be young gents out on the prowl. “Where do you lot go to school? Eton? Harrow? In fact, I’d wager right now that at least one of you little dandies is good with a sword as part of your fancy classes?”

I didn’t answer him but cleared my throat. “What are the rules?”

“First to draw blood wins.”

My friends watched me with wide eyes as I considered my odds of coming out of this without bleeding. Fight to first blood could be quick. It could also be longer, depending on the skill of the duelists.

“Does anyone ever die?” Greer asked.

The man took much too long to answer, and his lie was as smooth as honey. “Not in a very long while.” He surveyed me, opened his notebook, and lifted his pencil. “Don’t worry, it will be a fair match with one of your own. What’s your name?”

“Knight,” I said, watching as he wrote down Mr. Night in hislittle book and not having the wherewithal to correct him.

“Z—” Lalita broke off and balked at the fact that she’d nearly used my real name. She coughed loudly to cover it up. “Are you truly considering this? It’s daft.”

“It’s all in good fun,” I said, and rolled my shoulders.

I was given a rusty-looking épée at the entrance to the ring and debated my chances of not just getting skewered but being poisoned by these unpolished blades. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they said. I followed the burly man to the middle area, trying not to stare at the red patches staining the ground.

“Welcome all!” the director thundered. “I have a special treat for you. A match to first blood between Mr. Night and anyone here who issues a challenge.”

His words rang in my ears. Wait, what ? I thought he’d already scouted an opponent who matched me physically. I sent a horrified look to my friends, questioning my life choices, when a deep, growly voice floated through the crowd. “I accept.”