The Ruthless Lady's Guide to Wizardry Page 8

  “Pretty generous of you,” Delly said. “I won’t say that I wouldn’t attempt a murder, if enough money was offered.”

  “And that’s why I don’t think that you’re a murderer,” Winn said. “I imagine that any personage who wanted to murder someone would be unlikely to put themselves forward as a suspect just out of a sense of fair play, what?”

  “I don’t have the sense of fair play that God gave weasels,” Delly said. She was blushing, which she found somewhat confounding. “So what do we do now?”

  “Watch and wait, I think,” Winn said. “And have your melting hand ready.”

  They watched and waited and rode in silence for a while. This time, when the attack came, the others barely had time to react before Delly and Winn had set upon the creature. It was, partly, simply easier this time; this thing was more hastily constructed than any that had come before: it was clearly and evidently a rough assemblage of buckets and horseshoes and other spare parts barely held together with magic and the fury of the poor dead animal. Winn smashed it apart a bit with a poker—Delly had a brief amused moment of imagining where she’d stolen it from and how she’d smuggled it out—and Delly melted it, and then everything went quiet.

  “It was another cat,” said Mrs. Totham.

  “Yeah,” Delly said. “We had a suspicion of the same.” Then she looked about herself a bit. Everyone was present and accounted for except for the Wexins and Miss Dok, who a moment later popped her head out of the carriage. “Could you please come here, Mrs. Totham? Ainette has fainted again.”

  Winn and Delly exchanged a glance and then whispered to each other. “Funny how she’s started fainting without having used any magic at all, what?” Winn said.

  “Convenient,” Delly murmured back. “How she’s always unconscious just when we might need a bit of assistance preventing her sister from being killed by a murderous spider bucket.”

  “Or it could just be a coincidence,” Winn said. “Maybe she faints when she’s nervous.”

  “Nervous flaming,” Delly muttered. “Fucking likely.” Then she added, “We ought to keep an eye on her when we get to that manor.”

  “I’ll agree to that,” Winn said. “I didn’t take on this job just to be an unwitting assistant to a sororicide, what?”

  “I’ll agree to that,” Delly said, and they exchanged a quick handshake before they rode on.

  By the time they were in sight of the manor it was getting dark, which made it a little difficult to get a good clear look at the place. Delly had imagined some sort of foreboding old ruinous place, probably because she read too many cheap horror novels. From what she could see it was pretty and well kept up enough, broad and white and thickly speckled and coiffed with windows and chimneys, with a wide, sweeping lawn in front like they had in the kinds of novels that Delly usually got bored of halfway through because she couldn’t keep all of the lords and ladies straight.

  They rode up the broad driveway toward the house, and before they’d reached it they were waylaid by a gangly fellow—a footman, Delly thought, that seemed about the thing, or maybe a butler—with a grim look to his face, who quickly set to attempting to split them up between the quality ladies and the dirt-common girls. Delly was sorted with the Tothams and was in the process of being steered toward the servants’ entrance when Winn put her foot down. “I’ll just be going with them, then, if we’re going to be split up. Not good for company morale to have half of our comrades drinking gruel in the cellar and the rest eating Esiphian cakes in the blinkin’ drawing room, what?”

  For a moment Delly was the appreciative audience to a tableau: Quality Young Ladies Feeling Wretchedly Uncomfortable on Manor Lawn. Then Miss Mayelle said, “I’m afraid that Lady Crossick has only expected four guests for dinner, and an added three might put her out considerably. Perhaps all of us could retire to the small parlor together after we’ve dined?”

  “Not the drawing room, then,” Winn said, whatever in the releft that meant.

  “Oh, please, Cynallum, you’re only making yourself difficult,” Dok said. “If you drag Wells into the dining room and put out Mayelle’s mother-in-law, you’ll accomplish nothing to advance your Adaptivist politics and everything to make Lady Crossick hostile, which will ruin all of our digestions for the evening and probably embarrass Wells exceedingly. She won’t even be able to dress for it, for God’s sake. Let us bear the personality of Mayelle’s future mother-in-law while you enjoy a pleasant meal downstairs, and then we can all gather in the small parlor for sherry and gossip while free of unpleasant relations, like civilized people.”

  Winn looked a bit pink in the cheeks, which Delly found fairly fucking endearing. No one had ever tried to fight a high-quality gull to defend Delly’s honor before. It was a pleasant sort of feeling, even if it had been a misguided attempt: Delly’d been trotted out before rich old ladies before and hated every second of it. How the hell could anyone’s guts work right with some superior creature in silk wincing over their table manners while they tried to eat a nice slice of ham?

  “Sounds all right to me,” Delly said, in a nice loud, booming voice. That was enough to rattle the quality ladies free of their stalemate and allow the gangly fellow to continue his herding. Winn, the stubborn beast, went along with the common-as-dirt gulls as they walked around to the back of the house. Her presence earned her a glare from the Herding Gangle, who leaned in to whisper to Delly, “Don’t see how we’re meant to sit and eat with a clanner at the table.” He had a nice lilting Gally accent that made her think of misty shores and fresh fish. Not that she’d ever been to the Gallen Islands, but she’d seen a play set there once, and it sounded like it might be a nice place for a holiday, if you were the sort of person who had those.

  “Just pretend she ain’t a clanner,” Delly whispered back. “It’ll be good for her. She’s not a bad sort of gull.”

  “Oh, no,” murmured the Gangle. “She’s one of those nice Adaptivists. Probably brings food baskets to the poor sometimes and tells her friends about how we’re all equal in the eyes of God and doesn’t know how to manage a staff properly.” Then he gave Delly a nod. “Jok Fairnbrook.”

  “Delly Wells,” Delly told him. She didn’t mind a tall, dark-eyed ironical fellow, not a bit. She had to remind herself that she was pursuing a prospect and keep her eyes up at the face level.

  “Welcome to the lion’s den, Miss Wells,” Fairnbrook said, and gave her a little wink. Then he said, “You don’t seem like you’re in service.”

  “Not a day in my life,” Delly said. “And not a respectable bone in my carcass. What makes the ladies and gentlemen lions, then?”

  “That’s what I like to hear,” Fairnbrook said. “And they’re all at each other’s throats. Half of ’em think that this Wexin girl’s not good enough for ’em. Going to be a bunch of miserable old prunes at that wedding, sure enough. Lady Crossick’s pleased, though. The Wexin girl’s father just died and left her a fortune, and this place leaks cash like a rusty bucket.”

  Delly rolled that round in her head like dice in her palm. “So, once she’s married the money would be the Crossicks’, then.”

  “That’s right. Husband or householder gets the property.”

  “Mm,” Delly said. Then she said, “What if she never married? Who would inherit then?”

  “Closest living relative, I expect,” Fairnbrook said. “Parents are both dead, so I suppose it’d be the sister. Not that the sister’s got much hope of inheriting a fortune. Miss Wexin doesn’t look too likely to get carried away by a fever the week before her wedding.”

  “No,” Delly said after a moment. “Fever doesn’t seem likely.”

  Delly practically squirmed herself into a fit during dinner, wanting to tell Winn about what she’d learned. She managed to hang on all through the bread and butter and pea soup, and then through the rice pudding and tea, until the people of the house began to
rush out to serve the grander meal to the people abovestairs, and finally Delly had a moment to catch Winn alone. She relayed all of the information she’d gathered in one long rush. Winn looked grim. “Dok must know about Ainette being set to inherit before her sister marries. Why wouldn’t she have said something about it sooner? She and Mayelle are thick as thieves.”

  “Might be in on it,” Delly said. “She’s chummy with both sisters.”

  “Or she won’t believe it of Ainette, because she’s chummy with both sisters,” Winn said, and bit her lip. “They’ll be dining with everyone else upstairs now, so she’s safe for the moment, I suppose. And then we’ll all be with her in the parlor.”

  “So it’ll be later tonight, then,” Delly said. “If Miss Ainette tries something else.”

  “If it’s her, and if she won’t wait for some time when she can get her sister alone when she’s meant to be somewhere else, so no one will suspect her. You can’t blinkin’ well inherit a fortune if you’re in Stretworth jail waiting to be hanged for murder.”

  “True enough,” Delly said. “Nasty piece of business. Her own sister. Should we tell Dok?”

  “I’d keep it close to our knickers, myself,” Winn said. Delly tried not to look shocked at such language out of a young lady. Not that she didn’t say worse six dozen times a day herself, but she’d always been under the impression that young ladies weren’t supposed to know what knickers were, even while they were putting them on in the morning. “Just in case we’re wrong, and one of the others is involved.”

  “Makes sense,” Delly allowed. “Bleeding f—fiddle-faddle, it’s enough to put you off your oats. Her sister.”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” Winn said. She looked pretty grave about it, though. Then she sighed, glanced about herself, and produced a pack of cigarettes from somewhere on her person. “Do you . . . ?”

  “All right,” Delly said, and they slipped out to smoke.

  It calmed Delly’s nerves a bit. At least she felt like it did, though that might have been her imagination. She nodded at Winn. “Your parents know you smoke these things?”

  “You’re very worried about my parents, aren’t you?” Winn asked. “And whether or not I’m quite the blinkin’ young lady I ought to be.” Then she said, “They know. Pop smokes. I only do when I’m nervous.”

  “And you’re nervous now?”

  “Oh, no. I’m never nervous when I’m about to mingle with a murderer in a third headman’s small parlor, what?”

  And here Delly hadn’t thought Winn had it in her to be ironical.

  They stayed out there for a while. Long enough that the people upstairs had finished with their dinner and one of the parlormaids popped her head out to tell them, in tones that indicated how little she thought of them, that they were kindly invited to join the ladies in the small parlor. Delly couldn’t stop herself from shaking her head. “Think it’d be a hanging offense if I said I had a headache?” she asked. “Don’t think I can face that crowd at the moment.”

  Winn looked at her. Her expression was soft. “You look ready to drop,” she said. “How about I post myself close to Mayelle for the next few hours, and I wake you up in the wee hours to take over, after you’ve gotten in a bit of an amble in the gardens of peaceful dreams and all of that?”

  “That’d be kind of you,” Delly said. “Very kind. Though I don’t know if I’ll drop off straightaway, after the day we’ve had.” That cat. That damned pitiful dead cat.

  “Take these, then,” Winn said, and handed Delly her cigarette case. “They’ll kill the time, at least.” Then she said, “I’m off to strap on the old battle garments,” and strode off.

  “Thanks,” Delly said to her back. Her throat felt tight.

  She stayed right where she was, growing roots to the spot and smoking for want of something to do with her hands. Then the gangly form of Mr. Fairnbrook appeared through the kitchen door.

  “All right, Miss Wells? It’s getting a bit nippy out here.”

  “Yeah, I’m all right,” Delly said. Acting concerned about her. All sorts of people making tender worried faces at her today. She didn’t know why it was making her stomach clench. She offered him a cigarette. He took one, and they smoked silently together in the dark. Maybe it was just the smoking making her a bit sick.

  It felt inevitable when he ground out his cigarette and gave her a sidelong look. “Don’t suppose you’d be up for a bit of fun, Miss Wells?”

  He did suppose, obviously. He wouldn’t have asked the question of a gull he didn’t suppose all sorts of things about. She couldn’t bother to get all rain-drownable about it, though. He wasn’t wrong. She said, “Might it so, if you got a privy bolt-for,” just in case he was worried he’d been wrong about her being Wester trash up for an easy gallop.

  “I know a spot,” Fairnbrook said.

  Delly dropped her cigarette and ground it out with her heel. “All right, then.”

  She’d expected a spot behind a stable or in a muddy ditch. Instead it was a house. A real little house, far finer than any place she’d ever lived, down a little path about ten minutes’ walk from the manor. “The gamekeeper’s cottage,” Fairnbrook said. “He was fired a month ago, but before he left he told me where he hid the spare key.” Under a rock, it turned out. Then he let her inside and shut the door and started to kiss her.

  He was a fine kisser, she thought. Nothing to set her skirt ablaze, but she’d plenty of that this week already. He kissed kindly, like he was saying, I think you’re worth the bother, and she kissed back to say, Thanks very much, and I think that you are as well. God knew that a man in service and a piece of disrepute like Delly were used to little enough of that.

  There was a bed in the house still covered by a worn quilt. He fucked her very courteously on it: took his time and knew how to use his fingers, and realized that he didn’t actually know how to use his fingers when she told him so and made the needed adjustments. He was kind. She felt something big and hurt rattling out of her. She thought she could feel something like it in him, too.

  They passed a cigarette back and forth after they were done. She asked, “Who’re you sweet on, then?”

  “Elgar, is it that easy to tell?” His accent was even broader now. Nice Gallen boy here living in a stranger’s house, shining a stranger’s shoes.

  “A bit, yeah,” Delly said. Poor thing.

  Fairnbrook was quiet for a while. “Young Mr. Crossick,” he said after moment.

  “The one who’s marrying Miss Wexin, so?” Delly asked, astonished. “Has he been—encouraging you?” She’d read about that sort of thing in novels, at least. Nice young people in service being ruined by wicked gents in grand houses. Not that fellas were ruined as easy as girls, as a rule, but the idea bothered her in any case. It occurred to Delly that Winn would be offended by it, too. Not regulation hammerball, that sort of thing. Winn cared about doing things the way that gentlepeople were supposed to do them, as if the rules really did apply to them, too. At least, she acted like she cared about doing things the right way. That was easy enough, when you weren’t the one backed up to the wall by your circumstances.

  “Yeah,” Fairnbrook said, and cuddled up closer to her. “Well—never made any promises, did he? Not like I could give him anything that he needs.” Money, kids, a higher-ranked headmanship, someone he could take out to parties who’d impress all his clanner friends. Delly knew the rules of the game all right. She petted his hair. It seemed like a thing to do. He asked, “You’re going after that clanner girl? The troll?”

  “Elgar, is it that obvious?” she asked. She was imitating his accent, trying to make him laugh. She wasn’t sure why she was bothering, exactly. She usually didn’t spend much time tending to anyone’s feelings, after a gallop. But she felt something sort of tender and gentle right now, in this house, in this bed, looking at this long fellow all knotted up from the
meanness of everything. She almost liked how she could see the hurt in him. Maybe she’d been like him once, a whole full barrel that someone had just stuck a tap in to drain dry. Then she figured she had to answer his question and said, “Yeah, I am. Best prospect I’ve ever had. Not that I’ve had many. Figure she’ll be good for some expensive jewelry and a hearty handshake, at least, if I play it right.”

  “Me neither,” Jok said. “I’ll wish you luck, then. If you think she’s all right.”

  “She’s all right,” Delly said. “It’s me that’s the problem.” Out here galloping with strange men and talking about expensive jewelry while her big, strapping good-hearted prospect went to guard a lady from peril. What in the releft did that say about Delly’s virtuous qualities? Nothing good, from what she could see.

  “Only,” Jok said, “won’t you stay a while, maybe? Play a game of cards?”

  “Might it so,” Delly said, and watched as he got up and dressed, marveling a bit over this deeper trough of strangeness in a long, strange night.

  Jok caught her glance then and smiled. He looked tired. “You can leave if someone will miss you,” he said. “Only I thought we might try to have a laugh while we have the chance.”

  “No one will miss me,” Delly said. She could always say that with confidence, at least. “And you’re right. Might as well have a cackle while we can.” You always took your chances when you could, she figured. Never knew when they’d decide to run out.

  She played a few rounds with Jok, then stood and kissed his cheek, giving him her sweetest West Leiscourt now. She couldn’t give him whatever farmer’s cottage he’d grown up in, but she could give him a rented room where a poor Gally boy wouldn’t be a scrap less than anyone around him. “I’m having to scramble now, pup. It’ll be my turn to watch Miss Wexin. Can’t just lie about kissing thee, so.”

  “All right,” Jok said, and then went a bit pink. “Think you might consider another round, this week?”

  “Might it so,” Delly said. “As long as you don’t get any romantic ideas.” That was a joke. Poor Jok’s fella was getting married in two weeks: she didn’t figure he’d be looking to fall in love with someone like Delly in the meantime. Just wanted someone to hold while he tried not to cry, that was all.