Chapter Ten : "L'amour Est un Oiseau Rebelle"
4th September, 1890
Despite the oppressive damp weighing down upon London, the evening air seemed remarkably aromatic to Holmes as he disembarked from the cab. Gazing about the covered carriage entrance to the Covent Garden Theatre, awash with the gentry in their finest, he spied the flower sellers nearby. Roses, violets, and lilies lay in their baskets for gentlemen to purchase for their ladies on their way to and from their evening's entertainment. The fragrance was more pungent than even his alert senses would normally have accounted for, and he turned from the blossoms with little doubt as to the reason.
For the past two days, he had been in the blackest of dark moods. Of late there had been no case of note to interest him and left to his own devices, he had sunk into a morass of introversion. Neither Mrs. Hudson's attendances, nor Watson when alerted, could reach him. And in truth, both knew him and his moods well enough not to strive too much. Nothing and no one, no matter how dear, could bring him from this mood save himself.
That said, Watson had still maintained a quiet vigil for those hours he could afford given his wife's expectant condition. Reading silently or transcribing some old notes of his, he remained with his soundless friend until anxiety compelled him to return to his own home. His leaving was always marked by reluctance and a solemn assurance to the detective that he might return at any hour.
Both the reluctance and the near warning regarding his return were symptomatic of the greatest fear Watson had for his friend -- that inevitably, augmented by ill temper and lack of cerebral stimulus, the dangerous craving lurking ever present within Holmes's bloodstream would exert its will. That temptation and need would overcome him.
As indeed they had.
The uplifting flush of the narcotic's effects were fresh upon him when Mrs. Hudson had delivered the unexpected communiqué from Miss Thurlow, via courier. The short missive informed him that she was unexpectedly in London after her mother's return to St. Albans. It had also remarked that she had come into possession of a pair of much sought after tickets for tonight's eagerly awaited performance of Carmen at the Garden. As a lady never invited a gentleman out, she had taken discreet pains to assure him that the invitation came not from herself, but rather via her friend Sir Nicholas Sotherby. The peer had forwarded the tickets to her on hearing of her presence, wondering whether they might make use of them, as he and his wife, Lady Margaret, could not use them due to their young son Colin's slight illness. It might also be, Nicholas had thought, the perfect stage for that 'launch' which had so carefully been prepared for them to this point.
Mrs. Hudson, surprised enough by his change in demeanour, could only watch as he burst forth into an acclamation of Bizet's masterpiece and without any thought at all, cheerfully accepted the invitation by return of courier.
Thankfully, the euphoric side effects had waned somewhat now, though his heightened awareness of things around him still spoke of an expansion of the mind and a level of emotional reaction far closer to the surface. Reactions he knew he must take pains to disguise. Taking a light breath, he inclined his black silk hat to a pair of passing ladies politely before turning and offering his hand to the lady behind him in the cab.
Almost as soon as Helen stepped from the cab resplendent in a blue satin cape, certain eyes amongst the exterior crowd alighted upon them. Their launch had begun. As had been agreed upon two weeks previous, word had been discreetly spread amongst London society of the truth of the relationship between Miss Helen Thurlow and Mr. Sherlock Holmes.
The reins controlling the story had been in the firmly capable hands of Lady Margaret and the formidable Duchess of Monmouth, neither lady allowing the tale to become anything more scandalous than that of two friends whose admiration had deepened quite properly over time. To all intents and purposes, this had occurred only after the departure of Major Edwards for India.
Needless to say, with or without scandal, the story had caused ripples. Helen's wealth on her father's side and sufficiently good, if somewhat removed breeding, on her mother's had made her entirely eligible to a great many, now thwarted, gentlemen. These ripples in society had almost become waves, created by the sheer number of dropping jaws, when it had been announced that Sherlock Holmes of all people was at last squiring a woman.
His 'fall' had undoubtedly been the subject of some restrained mirth in the withdrawing rooms and salons of fashionable London. But, he noted to himself on escorting Helen into the foyer of the theatre, not half as much amusement as curiosity, the whispering spreading as more and more people caught sight of them. Sir Nicholas had been quite right -- a perfect stage indeed.
Reaching up, he drew Helen's cape from her shoulders as she unfastened it, turning to hand it to the cloakroom attendant before removing his own black cape, hat, and white silk scarf and receiving his coat ticket. Turning back to Helen, he joined her in taking in the sumptuous foyer, his own eyes scanning the cream of society with polite indifference.
Turning back to him, her grey eyes dancing, she gave him a soft eager smile. She had always loved going to the opera. The music, the costumes, the drama unfolding, the emotions it produced -- it all caught her imagination. She had not as yet seen the passionate Carmen, but her excitement did not only stem from the upcoming production. "I believe," she murmured, "the opera will not be the only entertainment tonight."
He smiled, pleased with her matching observation as she stepped closer and, for the first time in public, took his proffered arm as her beau. She worked hard to curb the pride and pleasure that bubbled inside of her as he led her towards the sweep of the carpeted stairs, the grand staircase curling upwards to the private box above that Nicholas had provided for them. Clad in her new pale grey silk and lace gown with its puffed sleeves, her auburn hair neatly pinned except for the curls of hair about her temple that she knew he privately adored, she felt every inch the queen upon his arm, for once not at all minding the attention levelled at her, though she knew such feelings were immodest.
Moving to the steps, he nodded at some gentlemen of his acquaintance and began to slowly lead her up them. "Given your love of music, I thought it odd you had not seen this work before, but of course, you were but twelve when it was first staged and have hardly had much opportunity to see it since."
She chuckled a little and nodded. "Yes, though I have been endeavouring to make up for lost time these last couple of years. I particularly enjoyed Gounod's Faust...but do admit to finding Wagner rather tiresome. Of course, Mozart's operas are not to be missed."
"Indeed not," he agreed, while noticing a particularly renowned society gossip take careful heed of their arrival and close proximity as they made their way to the first floor. Holmes also could not fail to see the subtle elbow the tiny but immensely haughty lady dug into the side of her bored-looking husband.
The man was exceedingly well trained, his eyes and manner springing to life at the signal. Clearly in terror of his diminutive wife, he looked around swiftly and, following the direction of her gaze, spotted her mark. "Good evening Mr. Holmes," he said hurriedly by way of the greeting and lure his bird like wife could not, through feminine reserve, cast the detective's way.
Stifling his smile, Holmes slipped to a smooth halt and inclined his head. "Good evening Mr. Patterson-Hill, Mrs. Patterson-Hill." His hazel eyes met the sharp green of those of the near professional tattler. There was a lengthy silence as she waited expectantly, he allowing her to, until a flash of irritation showed in her eyes and he claimed a silent victory. "Miss Helen Thurlow," he said lightly, finally acquiescing to the introduction that gave the older woman the opening she required.
Her slender gloved hand fairly shot out, her face all sweet amiability and charm, eyelashes fluttering alarmingly. "My dear, what a pleasure to meet you at last," she gushed, her olive green silk gown rustling with the volume of her wide gesticulations. "I was just saying to St. John here," she tapped her husband's arm with her fan, "that it was an absolute scandal that we have not crossed paths at the more fashionable parties, nor been sufficiently well acquainted via friends to call upon one another."
Helen, rather taken aback by the flapping of the lady's eyes and hands, composed herself and took her hand. "Most regretful," she replied, thanking heaven internally, "though I must take the blame as I do not attend a very great number of…fashionable…parties and, living in St. Albans as I do, afternoon calling is somewhat of an inconvenience."
"My dear, St. Albans is an inconvenience!" Amelia Patterson-Hill's irritatingly tinkling laugh rang out -- a laugh far too girlish for a woman of her forty-five years or so. "Why, anywhere outside of London is an inconvenience during the Season. The city really is the only place to live."
"Thankfully not," Holmes interjected dryly. "Otherwise, you might find it severely overcrowded."
Mr. Patterson-Hill's snort of humour was rewarded with a withering glare from his wife, a look that transformed itself back into a sugar-filled smile as she turned her gaze back to the detective. "As sharp as ever, Mr. Holmes," she replied, leaving the small ensemble with the vague awareness that she did not necessarily see that as attractive in a man. Her smile grew a little more as her eyes flashed. "A trait you have taken new efforts with to succeed in duping me into believing your friendship with Miss Thurlow here was merely that." Despite her light tone there was no hiding the underlying indication that she personally did not believe either the Duchess of Monmouth or Margaret in their assertion that the romance was only lately bloomed.
She was correct, of course, but Holmes was not inclined towards giving her the slightest satisfaction, knowing as he did that her razor tongue had been indirectly responsible for a great deal of mischief in others' marriages. "On the contrary, Mrs. Patterson-Hill, no effort at all was required…"
Helen's gentle cough beside him covered her laughter, as Mrs. Patterson-Hill's eyes widened.
"After all," Holmes continued reasonably as if totally unaware of any intimated offence his strategic pause might have given, "Miss Thurlow and I were friends and indeed continue to be. Just as I am quite sure you and your husband are." He smiled a little at the couple's uncomfortable expressions and, giving a polite nod of his head, excused himself and Helen, taking them on their way.
Her shoulders quivering slightly in silent laughter as they mounted the second flight of stairs, Helen gave him a look that somehow managed to be half admonishment for his baiting the dreadful creature, and half sheer delight. "Mr. Holmes," her amusement still rang in her tone even as she forced her features into composure, "we came here to watch an opera alongside good society, not to dance with it."
"True, but then it has been some time since we danced," he reflected, his own amusement playing around his lips.
She turned and gazed up at his profile, watching him scan the crowd with that casual but perceptive expression on his face. "True," she agreed.
"Perhaps next time we venture out, we may go somewhere to dance if you would like?" he suggested, halting them at the top of the stairs, joining the line that led to the liveried usher deferentially examining the tickets of the most prominent of the attendees this evening.
A few more glances came in their direction while they stood, a pleased expression forming on Helen's face at his taking a jesting remark and turning it to a thoughtful gesture. "I would like that very much," she replied, her fingers lightly squeezing his arm, the offer doubly meaningful as she knew he was not particularly fond of dancing.
Tickets taken, they moved on down the plush corridors that ran behind the private boxes. The carpeted walkways were crowded with exquisitely dressed ladies and parading gentlemen, the buzz of an opening night growing with each passing minute. With time yet, a few acquaintances were greeted and pleasantries exchanged. Again, there was a certain level of unspoken curiosity from those familiar with Helen but not her beau, his reputation and the change in it fascinating them quietly. The short conversations were genial with the odd congratulatory smile or approving glance given to one or other of the couple as they departed.
The hubbub of conversation grew, the assembly excited but not vulgarly so, at least until a cry of "Holmes!" came from a boisterous male voice emanating from the opposite direction they were walking in. Holmes's eyes shifted from scanning for the number of their box, his jaw tightening somewhat at the sight of the blond gentleman hailing him.
Her gaze also turning to the unexpectedly loud voice, Helen was struck by the sight of one of the most handsome men she had ever seen careening his way to a stop in front of them. Mid-twenties at the most and immaculately dressed, he was tall, slim, and broad shouldered, his form speaking of power and grace. High cheek bones and an aristocratic brow were augmented by an attractive strength of jaw, a firm but slightly sensuous mouth and the healthy glow of the athlete. With his ice blue eyes and wave of golden blond hair worn loose to the nape of the neck, he all together resembled nothing so much as a classical Greek sculpture brought to life.
Stopping dead in front of them and barring their way, he jolted forward slightly as a second, somewhat unsteady, dark young man collided into his back. The darker man was almost as handsome as his companion, though there was a more feminine quality to his features. In addition, there was a slightly harsh curve to the lips that detracted greatly from his attractiveness, to Helen's mind. He was also vaguely inebriated and worse, uncaring of it, draping his arm around his friend's shoulder and leaning into him for support.
"Lord Duncan." Holmes inclined his head stiffly towards the blond gentleman, and then the dark. "Sir Charles. I trust you are both well."
"Splendid, Holmes," the golden haired Adonis replied, the mellifluous sound of his light tenor voice lost on Helen as a second blast of alcohol assailed her nostrils. It seemed Lord Duncan held his liquor far better than his friend, though appeared just as fond of it. "And owed in no small part to you, of course," he continued, clapping his hand upon Holmes's shoulder, a gesture entirely unappreciated by the older man, the resulting glacial stare lingering upon the nobleman until the hand was removed. Lord Duncan, however, was entirely unaffected, his open admiring enthusiasm remaining. "You have no idea how much of a relief it was to me that Father was able to get you to do that little job two years ago. You aided me greatly." The blond man smiled, taking hold of the arm that was draped around his shoulders. "There really is no one half as good as you."
"Your father is a fine man." Holmes nodded perfunctorily, ignoring the compliment.
The two young men glanced at each other and chortled at that in a manner that Helen thought decidedly unbecoming. One did not denigrate one's family in front of friends if one could help it. To do so in front of strangers, when she had not been introduced to them, was almost shocking. As if reading her mind, Lord Duncan Fairbrass turned his blue eyes to her. Despite their vivacity, she could not help but notice a coldness in them.
"But who's this, pray tell?" Lord Duncan looked Helen over with a murmur. "Holmes, where are your manners?" he said with breathtaking audacity.
"Why, Duncan," Sir Charles said, eyeing Helen closely as he tightened his grip on his friend, making them both lurch and giggle slightly, "haven't you heard? Holmes here has fetched himself a lady friend at last."
The detective straightened, their boorishness bringing a touch of colour to his face. "This is Miss Helen Thurlow, Sir Charles," he said coolly.
"Thurlow...Thurlow..." Lord Duncan frowned as if in deep in concentration, though it was clear from his smirk that he knew precisely who she was. "The shipping heiress!" he concluded triumphantly. "Why, Holmes...you've bagged yourself some money!"
Helen's fingers tightened imperceptibly on her beau's arm, not appreciating being reduced to little more than a cash cow, and her expression stiffened into one of cool reserve.
Holmes's, however, moved a great deal beyond polite reserve to darken noticeably. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen," the word came witheringly from his lips, "we should get to our boxes."
"Oh no...no!" Lord Duncan held out his hand. "It's been too long since I had the pleasure of your company. I enjoyed our dining at Father's so much, and the talks we had. You have turned down my invitations far too often since. Say you'll have dinner with us afterwards, Holmes! Both of you." His eyes shifted once more to Helen, the ice of the blue in them seeming that much more real to her again. A shiver ran down her back as he murmured, "It will be far more entertaining than this opera."
"Perhaps, Lord Duncan, but there would be no entertainment whatsoever in it for me and still less for Miss Thurlow, I would imagine," Holmes rejoined, finally tiring of their ill manners. "Good evening, gentlemen. Enjoy your evening's...pursuits." He inclined his head towards the two men, Lord Duncan appearing genuinely disappointed before annoyance set in, and moved Helen away from them at a sedate but firm pace. "My apologies," he said to her as they approached their box.
She shook her head and smiled up at him, trying to put aside the strong and rather puzzling feeling that Lord Duncan had a very real dislike for her. "It is not your fault, Sherlock," she assured him. "They were the ones inebriated and uncouth...you were polite and..." Her smile widened just a little as she dipped her eyes.
His eyebrow arched just a little as her words trailed away, and on reaching the door, he turned to regard her quizzically. "And?"
Her cheeks coloured a pale pink as she gazed up at him from lowered lashes. "Protective," she confessed, her pleasure in that fact impossible to disguise.
Holmes looked down at her, knowing full well that one more comment from the two alcohol sodden sybarites and he most probably would have struck them both. His words were frank and certain as he opened the door for her. "You should not be exposed to the company of men like Lord Duncan and his particular friend." Her fingers stroked the inside of his arm in gratitude as he led her in. "Young men often develop admirations for more experienced men of their acquaintance. I'm afraid Lord Duncan fancied himself to be a soul mate of sorts. It was most certainly not the case. His tastes and attitudes are…" his expression soured somewhat, "unpleasant. In fact, if their fathers were anyone other than who they were, it is entirely possible both young men would be serving time at Her Majesty's pleasure." Holmes closed the door behind them and moved to take the ornate programmes from the two red and gilt chairs populating the box, drawing her seat out and holding it for her.
Once seated, she smoothed out her dress and turned her head back toward him, thanking him with that shy, warm smile that only he was allowed to see before turning back to peruse the programme.
Moving his chair just behind and a little to the left of hers, he flipped out his tails behind him and sat, his eyes automatically scanning the crowded auditorium. The number of opera glasses and lorgnettes turned in their direction was notable. "It would seem," he said, looking down at his programme, "that Her Grace and Lady Margaret did an exceedingly efficient job."
Her eyes did not move from their careful contemplation of the pages in front of her, though a small smile tugged at her lips. "I hope they pay attention to the opera when the time comes, or the Prima Donna will be most heartily offended."
He smiled at the image, his eyes flitting to her, his position affording him an excellent view of the upsweep of his sweetheart's ever striking hair and the slender lines of her neck running down to the milky expanse of shoulder and back exposed by the wide cut of her dress's neckline. He inhaled soundlessly, pulling his gaze away to look out towards the stage as the orchestra began to tune, only to find her perfume filling his senses. As usual, his methodical mind broke down the components, sifting through the ingredients that produced the delicate scent, though he was more than aware of his body's reactions to the stimuli. "Comfortable?" he enquired, drawing his chair a little closer.
"Yes, thank you," she replied, turning her head to look back at him, her smile causing the corners of her eyes crinkle ever so slightly. "You?" She wished he would draw alongside of her, but fashion and chivalry dictated that he sit just that little bit behind her, placing himself between her and the door. Still, she noted with pleasure, he was closer now.
He nodded, a small smile on his lips as the lights started to fade and the hubbub around them died. The theatre bathed in shadow, his eyes flickered again to the pale span of skin in front of him, her scent again rising as she wafted her fan once or twice, the air spilling backwards. Perhaps comfortable was not quite the word.
He had felt like this around her once before -- his sight removed, senses heightened, vigilance weakened. This close to her, it seemed the residue of what coursed through his veins was enough still to reproduce those intense effects.
And indeed, as the overture began, the hum of his blood only seemed to grow in intensity. Forcing himself to focus, he dragged his attention back down to the stage below, on the sweep back of the curtains, and on the backdrop of a bridge in Seville as the story of the young soldier Don José and the wild freedom loving Carmen, which had caused such a scandal fifteen years earlier on its first performance, began to unfold.
The music and the performances drew him in. Don José was performed well enough, the tenor singing fine though his acting was a trifle gauche, but the mezzo soprano in the title role was enchanting. Her performance of the tricky role through the first act was splendid, her Carmen at once dangerous, quick-witted, and charming. But it was her voice that caught his more than usually eager reaction. Vibrant and rich, it washed over one like velvet, the passion and seduction in her voice quickening the heart.
He had seen the opera before -- more than once, in fact -- but never had it seeped inside him like this. Music so often lifted and held him tight in its embrace, sweeping him away to another world, a world of restfulness and beauty, a joy in and of itself. But tonight, he was too conscious of other things about him, the words and music only enhancing their power. And as Carmen seduced José, dancing her seguidilla, and the doomed lovers slipped away together, he became more and more aware of the woman by his side.
Helen watched, entranced as Carmen bound her José to her utterly, thrilling to his pleas of devotion as the Flower Song was sung. It could only end badly, she knew. The woman was hedonistic and violent, but to wield such power over a man, to encourage such ardour…it was a thrilling, if self-indulgent, thought.
So caught up was she that her sharply inhaled breath came loudly at the unexpected brush of his finger over the skin of her shoulder. Her hands clutching her fan tightly, she barely kept herself from turning, swallowing back any other sound of surprise. Her heart raced while he gently traced the curved line of her shoulder, his finger lightly stroking from left to right underneath the clasp of her pearl and emerald necklace. Her eyelashes fluttered with the rush of electricity that shot through her veins, as that same finger drifted down in a slow sweep over her back, brushing softly and reverently over her skin.
Holmes watched the transverse progress of his finger across the ivory silk of her skin with rapt fascination. The brief clash of steel below as a fight broke out between José and his lieutenant, Zuniga, did not distract him in the slightest as he leaned forward…the idea in his mind, its execution the most natural of things in the world, even given the close proximity of half of London's society. As in his work, shadow was often his friend.
Two spines in Helen's fan snapped, twisted beyond breaking point by her gloved hands, her breath shivering gently from her the moment his soft lips touched the curved join of her shoulder and neck, the heat of his breath washing over her. Her eyes closed, bottom lip bitten to keep the sound of pleasure that was boiling up inside of her from slipping out of her and alerting their neighbours. She could only pray that those around them were attentive now only to the opera and that he was cloaked enough in the shadows to keep their eyes from him and what he was doing.
She could not wholly convince herself that the reason for such a prayer was only so they would avoid scandal, and absolutely nothing at all to do with him having to stop.
But stop he did as the loud applause of the audience burst around them and the lights came up, indicating the end of the second act and the beginning of the interval.
As he slid back smoothly from her, Helen turned to face him, her skin so heated she knew she must be dreadfully flushed. She could barely believe it as she saw him -- he seemed so much the picture of composure with only the merest momentary flicker in his eyes that he was at all irked at the interruption or affected by his actions.
Standing and looking down at the three thousand plus people around the highly decorated auditorium, their applause slipping into the loud murmur of conversation once more, he turned to her and bowed slightly. "May I fetch you a glass of wine or punch from the bar?" he asked politely as the crowd began to move. "Perhaps some bon bons?" he enquired. "I'm reliably informed by a certain doctor still intent on giving me advice that ladies 'adore' bon bons."
If she did not still feel the tingling in her skin and hadn't seen his irritation, she would barely have believed that it had ever happened. Stifling her desire to query him as well as her own slightly frustrated reaction to the interlude, she smiled rather unsteadily up at him. "A glass of wine and some bon bons sound quite tasty," she agreed. "Shall I accompany you?"
Glancing at the moving crowd, he discerned that with so many 'gentlemen' at the bar it was likely to be something of an unseemly scrum. "You may if you wish," he acquiesced, "but your comfort may better be afforded here."
Looking around quickly, she nodded, still feeling the heat in her face and deciding inwardly that would indeed be for the best. "Very well," she replied before reaching out and catching his hand as he turned to leave, filling her voice with meaning. "Perhaps, on second thought, water rather than wine. It has become a trifle warm in here. But…" she paused, her eyes finding his, "not unpleasantly so."
His smile was slow and small before he bowed again and exited through their velour padded door into the gathering throng to make for the second level bar, leaving Helen with her thoughts.
The young woman watched him leave, both unable and unwilling to turn her eyes away, her smile still on her lips even after the door closed. The shock still ran through her at his actions, her mind turning it over now she was alone. He had seemed in excellent spirits upon collecting her this evening, eager -- even a little energetic -- when alone with her in the carriage, but she had not expected such…attentiveness. No single lady…other than of a certain sort, she reminded herself…ever would have expected it, especially from him. She had always known of his bohemian spirit -- the snubbing of convention and even manners in how he lived his own life. It would seem, now that he had at last crossed the Rubicon that was intimacy with her and grown more comfortable with it, his unique and unpredictable behaviour would be applied there as well.
The fluttering in her stomach at the thought was profound, mingling with a little fear and nervous anticipation, and the idea of not knowing what he might do next having the strange effect of setting her on edge and filling her with a most unseemly longing to discover it. She had always known his effect upon her physically, but ever since he had kissed her, and those kisses had progressed, she had grown more and more aware of…herself.
Turning back to gaze out across the auditorium, she discovered she was not alone in that awareness. With the lights up, she met the eyes of several others in boxes, catching their blatantly curious looks before they turned hastily away on being discovered. Her face flushed again furiously as she wondered again if perhaps they had seen. Mortification spread through her. No. Keeping her composure at least outwardly, she inwardly chastised herself, her mind telling her to think rationally. Observe and deduce…even now.
No, they did not know. Had they known, seen, there would have been scandal, distaste, or amusement upon their faces, and they certainly would never have looked away when she caught them. She had learned enough of high society to know that there was no pleasure to be had in not letting a person know, discreetly of course, that another was aware of their indiscretions, and thus be fully justified in acting with total superiority towards the afflicted. This was not at all the case here. Here, their looks had only been of an inquisitive kind, people who did not know her but knew of her, trying to deduce for themselves what manner of woman she was to have swayed London's most confirmed bachelor from his course.
She turned her eyes to the now curtained stage, and the smallest of smug smiles began to play about her lips. A woman who brought forth ardent feelings in that bachelor, it would seem, she thought a little triumphantly, feeling a hint more sisterhood with Carmen. Opening her fan, she moved to subtly hide her growing smile of satisfaction, only to notice the two broken spines dangling horribly in front of her face and close the fan with a rapid snap, blushing furiously and back to hoping no one had seen her.
Unfortunately, someone had.
"My compliments..." came a vastly amused voice from behind her, "Miss Thurlow, wasn't it?"
She spun around quickly, rising to her feet as the blond personage of Lord Duncan wandered in through the door he had not bothered to knock on. Dragging Holmes's chair backwards, he sat down firmly in the box, well out of sight of the rest of the theatre. In the half closed doorway lounged his companion, Sir Charles, the harsh curve of his mouth she had noted earlier resolving itself into a smirk.
"Oh, don't remain standing on my part." Lord Duncan waved her down, his voice quiet and unobtrusive. "No need to pay too much attention to my rank. You are hardly the parlour maid." He looked down at his dress suit and brushed at it lightly. "But, of course, your unfortunate time in Camden Town has probably blurred your view on that point."
A flash of alarm ran through her, keenly aware that the men had obviously continued drinking and that her earlier sense of Duncan's dislike for her had not at all been misplaced. Instead of following his instruction, she stayed on her feet, straightening with determination to show no fear, only composure. Gazing at both men coolly, she hoped her companion would hurry back. "If you are here for Mr. Holmes, he will be returning shortly." Her voice was level and polite, not dignifying his rudeness of action or word with a remark.
"Oh, we're here for him…in a manner of speaking." The blond young man nodded and smiled at his friend, who folded his arms across his chest before delivering a withering glare at her. "And I did say you could sit down," Duncan finished, turning back to her.
"Thank you, Lord Duncan," she replied, not budging from her place near the lip of the balcony, "but I am quite content where I am."
The blond man shot her a brilliant smile. "Ah well...if you are content!" he said, somehow managing to make the final word sound as if it was the most pathetic thing she could have uttered. "And tell me, madam, are you contentedly enjoying your dalliance with the brilliant Mr. Holmes? Or rather...is he enjoying his dalliance with you?" He glanced down at his nails. "You really must tell me how you managed to seduce such a resolute bachelor as he with your..." he looked her over, the sneer in his voice if not on his face, "feminine wiles…when so many others failed so abysmally?"
"Perhaps, Duncan," Sir Charles said from where he stood, his voice thick with drink, "Miss Thurlow did the dance of the falling cheques?"
Duncan chuckled in amusement before frowning exaggeratedly at his friend. "Mind your manners, Charles. Mr. Holmes would never be so venal as to be seduced by money."
Helen could feel the heat of fury coursing through her veins, every word and gesture the men were making painting her some kind of unworthy strumpet luring the detective away. She forced the coolness into her voice with effort. "I believe, my lord, that my affairs and Mr. Holmes's are none of your concern." Her now two years' worth of experience with solicitors, board members, and financiers had taught her the lesson of not saying more than one needed to.
"Affair, is it?" The blond man laughed softly. "Charles...it's a fully fledged affair."
She gave him a rather withering glance and turned her head away, not deigning his foul mouth or behaviour with any more of her time. "I will thank you to leave, Lord Duncan," she said. "You and your friend both."
"I'm sure you would thank us." He smiled without moving an inch. "But you have not done me the courtesy of an answer yet."
"Your behaviour thus far, sir," she said quietly, her tone one of barely contained disdain as she continued her very hard fight to keep her temper in check, "has forfeited any further courtesies from me."
He stood up slowly, and for a moment, it seemed as if he might leave. Instead, he fixed a polite enquiring smile upon his face and moved towards her in an easy fashion, looking for all the world and to those who might see him across the way as if he were all grace and charm and merely paying a short call upon a lady.
"Mr. Holmes is a fascinating man, is he not?" he said in that same low tone of voice that kept the occupants of the boxes on either side from hearing anything but a murmur. "I came to admire him greatly during the time he aided my father and I. He has a genius that is uniquely rational and inherently masculine." His eyes gleamed. "To that end, I found myself particularly admiring his stance upon the female of the species. It seemed to me that he had summed you all up perfectly -- untrustworthy, illogical, and mere distractions to far more worthy pursuits."
"Your perceived analysis of his utterances lacks insight, feeling, and understanding of his unique perspective," she snapped as she drew herself up.
"Which, of course, you have, having won him," Duncan scoffed. "Very well..." He lowered his head closer to hers. "You must tell me how you managed to derail him so spectacularly. You have surely seen the curious glances thrown in your direction this evening...all those people wondering how you did it, quite a few as absolutely mystified as myself. Why you would reduce him so. Tell us what tricks you played to lower him to you." His voice grew even quieter, his proximity to her almost conspiratorial, the crude meaning in his words unmistakeable as he whispered, "And what he was like?"
She pulled away from him, a wave of revulsion washing over her at his intimations, his prurience, and the almost obsessive interest he had in her beau. Her beau's attitude towards women was not an uncommon one amongst men, harsh sometimes, but oft times she felt it a shield or even mere flippancy. Duncan's misogyny, however, was diamond hard, truly hateful, and masked something else…something angry and dark.
"Seems she doesn't care for you, Duncan..." Sir Charles chuckled from where he stood in the doorway, watching her move unwisely towards him and out of sight of the rest of the theatre. For the second time that evening, Helen's breath left her sharply, this time as Lord Duncan's hand closed about her wrist like iron and stopped her in her tracks. The act was so shocking that even his friend looked taken aback. "Duncan, perhaps you'd…" he began only to be cut off by the vitriolic hiss of his companion.
"I asked you a question, you hopped up seamstress," he snapped.
"Are you quite demented?" Helen flared, her words shaking with an anger that helped cover her considerable fright. "Have you no conception of where you are? Control your unreasoning enmity and, dare I say, jealousy, sir, and release me at once, or peer or not, I shall strike a note that will put this evening's leading lady to shame and bring every real gentleman here."
"Women," the peer snarled, but roughly cast her arm from his hold. "See, Charles, it is just like I say…hiding behind men, using us to fight their battles. They're all the same -- mouthing, yammering parasites who don't know their place and are intent on bringing a man down..." He looked back at her. "And this one is after one of the best of us. Well, I shall not let it..."
His words were cut off by Sir Charles crashing into him as he was thrust through the doorway. As the two men steadied themselves, they turned to see Holmes step inside, his eyes flat and hard as he took in the sight beyond him.
"Holmes." Duncan looked up at the taller man, his face utterly unrecognisable as the hate-filled one that had peered at Helen seconds before. Now, he looked to her like a schoolboy who had just been caught lax by the upperclassman he idolised. "We were just paying a call upon Miss Thurlow."
"I know what you were doing, Lord Duncan," Holmes replied in a hushed voice before looking to Helen, who was rubbing her rather sore and bruised-feeling wrist. No further information was required, and before Duncan could move, Holmes was looming over him, his anger towering as he raised his hand. "Give me your hand, sir."
Lord Duncan, clearly expecting a blow and well aware of the detective's reputation as a boxer, blinked. "What?"
"I said give me your hand." The detective's voice was like steel as he took the younger man's hand, his grip tightening like a vice as he slowly shook it. "It is only polite when one pays a call, after all." His eyes bore into Duncan's as he growled, his grasp tightening fiercely. "I should thrash you within an inch of your life for daring to come within a mile of her...or any woman for that matter." The peer grimaced and tried to pull away but was held fast without any apparent effort on the detective's part at all. "If it were not for the presence of a lady here or the scandal it would be to drag you both through this theatre to a more private place, I would."
Duncan moaned, his legs starting to buckle from the pain before Holmes released him with a dismissive sneer and with no one save Sir Charles and Helen the wiser about what had occurred.
"I warned your families to keep a tighter rein upon you and your pathetic cabal, and I thought I had made myself clear upon the matter of admirers. Onlythe respect I have for your father prevents me from pitching you over the edge of the balcony and adding an offstage tragedy to this evening's events."
Holmes quietened a little, but his voice carried such an edge, his eyes such hardness, that if anything, it was all the more imposing. "But remember this, Lord Duncan, while I found the man who held you to ransom for your past sins, I still know what those sins are and I know how to prove them again…if needs be."
Lord Duncan, his blond hair tousled and over his eyes, swallowed. "Holmes, I apologise. I appreciate everything you've done, you know that..." He raised his hand towards him. "You know how much I wish to..."
Stepping away from him, the detective opened the door. "Leave, sir," he said in a low voice as the call for the end of the interval went up. "Remove your unhealthy presence and take yourself and Kalamos there with you," he said of Sir Charles, "back to the gutter so the snipes can look down upon you."
With people returning to their seats in increasing numbers with each passing moment, there was little for the men to do but depart, Duncan moving with his head bowed past Holmes, hissing at Sir Charles to follow him. Closing the door swiftly behind them, Holmes turned and crossed over to Helen. "Are you injured?" he asked quickly. "Is it severe?"
She stared at him with an expression of awe and relief. "It is sore..." she murmured, "but not serious, I think."
Guiding her to a seat, he pulled his own in front of her. "Forgive me...but I will have to remove your glove."
"Of course," she replied, extending her arm out to him.
Reaching to her upper arm, his fingers slowly undid the button that helped to hold the long opera glove up and then gently rolled the soft white satin downwards, being especially careful as they got to the affected area. Drawing it off her hand, he lay it on the nearby chair, frowning immediately on seeing the extensive discolouration and light swelling. Rotating and flexing her wrist, while gently watching all the time for her reaction, he shook his head. "The blackguard," he said through gritted teeth. "I should never have left you alone."
"It is not your fault, Sherlock. You are not to blame for their disgusting behaviour. Nor could you have foreseen it. Who would ever have thought they would have the audacity to behave so in such a public arena? Had I been a more delicate woman, I would have screamed far earlier than I had planned." A tiny smile lit on her lips at that.
He gazed up at her as the lights started to dim in the auditorium, heralding the start of the second half. "I can only assume they asked you all sorts of prurient questions?"
"Insults. Implications. Imprecations," she replied, not wishing him to hear the things they had said to her in detail. He was angry enough that should he hear of half they said he would almost certainly seek them out later, and she had no wish for him to court danger for her. "And yes, there were certain questions." A corner of her mouth curled rather defiantly. "My refusal to answer rather met with his disapproval."
"Yes..." He nodded, releasing her hand and picking up her glove again, the orchestra striking up below them. "It would. Lord Duncan, as you most certainly ascertained by now, has no fondness for women...assertive ones least of all."
She inclined her head in agreement, not speaking as her eyes met his. After a moment, her bare fingers rose, the backs of them gently stroking his cheek.
His eyes softened as he relaxed a little, reassured by the gesture. "If you would rather return to your hotel, I would understand," he said quietly. "Should your wrist hurt or if you are too upset, I will willingly take you home."
A determined gleam shone in her eyes. "No...I am well enough to stay. It is only a bruise, and I would find it criminal indeed to allow such a pair of uncouth individuals to spoil what has been a wonderful evening out." A lighter tone entered her voice. "Also, I am intensely keen to see whether the drama onstage can continue to match that off it."
Proud of her, he rose to his feet. It was not the fact that she had not felt fear, but that she had managed to keep it in check. That she had remained calm and clear headed as long as she had until his return, and not let the experience send her into a swoon as it would have with so many other women. "Of course," he agreed, and as she sat further removed from the front of the box, he repositioned his chair so as not to disturb her by merely moving it once more just behind and to the left of her -- the act of placing himself between her and the door resonating with a far more practical purpose than it had earlier.
He precipitated her unspoken question as she glanced back at him. "I do not anticipate their return," he assured her quietly as the performance began anew.
However, while he watched the interplay on the stage, he found this time his mind could not engage with it at all. The heated events of the evening were ticking too rapidly through his stimulated thoughts and system. The two pampered aberrants who, like a deal too many of the Quality, thought it was their birthright to behave as they wanted with whom they wanted. He detested bullies, and there were none worse then those who preyed on women to feel strong and superior. Lord Duncan Fairbrass had no clue how lucky he had been to escape with little more than a badly bruised hand. Only Holmes's hold over himself and the waning influence of the narcotics had saved the peer a beating in full view of mixed society.
He had thought he had seen the back of Lord Duncan and his friends after he had rejected membership in a club they had started, the young men having learned nothing from their previous narrow escape from extortion. Men who had given into baser emotions and urges and tried to hide it behind a veneer of higher thought, logic, and reason. Failing utterly, to his mind.
The similarity with himself this evening was slight, very different, but clearly there.
His eyes drifted back to the young woman, watching her profile as she gazed raptly on the libretto before his gaze moved again down to the sweep of shoulder and back and the play of the half light on her skin that had so entranced him earlier. Entranced and enticed him to an act that would be regarded as audacious even in private. As he had left the box for the refreshments that even now lay discarded on the floor outside, he had dwelled upon it, berating himself, but finding no true remorse for the action.
His work still focused his mind, kept him singularly purposeful. But when he was with her, or in expectation of being so, he had struggled with the flourishing thoughts that had come with an increase in physical intimacy with her -- struggled with the thoughts and increasingly with the actions. It was just as he had told himself -- one step, no matter how small, inevitably led to another, more sure, more confident, until your pace was so quick, your desire to continue so strong as to be virtually unstoppable. With or without augmentation, he was moving with fervent haste in a direction that, unless checked or rerouted, could lead to their undoing.
And in more ways than one.
Lord Duncan's appearance this night proved that.
Holmes had warned her of the dangers of association with him, of those that would use the knowledge of their intimate relationship for their own ends, villains and those with grudges, all of it putting her in danger. He had not, however, foreseen the likes of Lord Duncan…men and, indeed, women without a criminal background per se, but with their own agenda, resentments, or who were merely crazed. They were harder still to legislate for, anticipate, and it only confirmed his correctness in being concerned at the start. And now that concern was heightened, shaking him somewhat. Not something easily done.
He had allowed himself to become too comfortable in her company, too unconcerned for the implications being involved with him would have for her. Now they were at least partially publicly known of as a couple, the possibility of similar unexpected occurrences would always loom, and sporadic as their meetings still were, he would not frequently be there to provide a bulwark or interfere as was the case tonight.
His eyes turned to the stage once more. It had been just over two years exactly since he had first encountered Helen Thurlow, and there had been many crossroads in that time. Some had taken them closer, some had parted them.
He found himself standing at another of those intersections yet again. His brow creased as the friction between Carmen and José increased upon the stage, the path of their relationship becoming ever more obvious to all.
This would require considerable thought, perhaps conversation with others.
A tightness settled upon his chest, unalleviated until a hand touched his knee, and he found to his surprise that she was watching him, having turned a little in her chair.
"You are distracted," she murmured in concern. "It is unlike you to be so unengaged by the music. Are you still dwelling upon the fracas?"
"That…" he agreed, "and other things." His hand slipped over hers. "There have been a number of distractions before me this evening."
She smiled gently at his careful flattery. "Perhaps we should exchange seats?"
"A temporary measure at best," he answered before adding quietly after a moment, "and I have no real wish to change our situation."
Helen cocked her head a little, discerning something else behind his words. "Sherlock?"
He shook his head, disinclined to answer and for the first time in the longest time completely disinclined to think, wanting to push the future away. Intent only on the now.
A stimulant for the mind is just that when that is all one has upon one's mind. But mingle it with other natural stimulants -- anger, affection, attraction -- as he had tonight and it stirs the blood in ways that do not occur when alone in the privacy of one's rooms. Then, it augments the stimuli, the temptation…the desire.
Reaching towards her, he drew her, chair and all, further back into the dark with him. And as she watched him wonderingly, he lowered his head to place one soft slow kiss on the curve of her neck and shoulder. A second followed, and a third, the trail moving upwards over the skin of her throat, as satin smooth to him as her dress.
By the time he reached her jaw-line, she was trembling in his hands, her gloved fingers grasping the chair in an effort to keep herself upright, and with a soft moan hidden by the swell of the music, her lips merged with his, each surge of her blood intensifying with every brush of their lips. His body tensed as her arms wrapped around his neck, but carried by his actions, she melted into his arms, content to lose herself utterly in him.
Their kisses to this point had been warm and passionate but chaste. All except one.
There were moments since he had begun to court Helen when he had privately envied the swaggering attitude of Jake Maidstone, even if Maidstone never existed outside of his own imaginings in that one case in the Haymarket, the French harlot by his side. Maidstone had bravado, the freedom of his passions, and the absolute mastery of his own desires...knowing what he wanted and taking it. Now, Holmes allowed that part of him to surface once more. His hands snaking up her back, he pulled her tight to him, one hand cradling her head gently as he deepened the kiss.
A dozen fireworks exploded in her brain at the resurgence of a sensation she had not experienced for almost a year. A sensation which had never wholly left her memory. With a low moan and relying on that memory of the stolen, scandalous kiss for her response, she yielded to him.
The moment lingered, languid and hazed in a heat that clouded the senses, their coming together in counterpoint with the fragmenting of the relationship on the stage behind them.
At length, regretfully, his hands slid to her arms and with a slow inhalation, he drew her back from him, his irregular breaths filling the air around them. Silently, he brushed her cheek with his fingertips, his eyes dark from the effects of the moment, a tightness about his jaw that became acceptance and finally a determined sort of contentment.
A rather dazed and drunken shine in her half-lidded eyes, Helen missed the tension in his expression this time, her breath coming rapidly. The sound of the opera drifted back to her dimly, like approaching voices down a tunnel. Normally, missing such an awaited production would have aggrieved her utterly, but at that moment, she found she did not have the remotest regret.
Her eyes never left him, watching him avidly as he rose again to adjust her chair once more towards the stage before this time placing his chair alongside of her. Taking a seat beside her, he slipped his arm around her shoulders and drew her close as he settled back to take in what remained of the opera.
Still silent, no more words required, for now.
Authors' Note: Greetings! First of all, we hope you have enjoyed this chapter and we would like to thank each and every one of you all again for reading our little tale, and a huge Merci to all that have left comments. We do truly love hearing from you and knowing your thoughts (and we really like replying to you too...what can I say, we're chatterbugs!). Doing a quick tally, it looks like we have about five chapters to go on this little story...and what does that mean? Well, here's a tiny hint -- there will be a lunch date in Pall Mall across from a club for very anti-social men, red-headed men will be an inconvienience, a detective may or may not be dying, and all leading to a finale of sorts for this story. Intregued?
Right, I just want to mention again -- yes again -- that we've taken one teeny tiny liberty and made Holmes hazel eyed. Yes, I know he has grey eyes. And if you really want the not so long explanation why...I refer you all to what Mr. Brett's eye colour is. It was a dedication to him. There, now no sending us emails. :D
The next chapter has been drafted and is being edited, and we are hoping to get back on a schedule of sorts...so...2 weeks? We are alternating with writing our Snape story (which is loads of fun, though now taking a rather dark turn...eeep!). So hugs to all! -- Aeryn and Lfire