Madam Skeeter's High Society Papers, No. 26
Rarely, my dear readers, am I ever proven wrong. Did I not promise that an evening at the opera would be full of surprises? Though even I can admit that much of the evening's delicious tension rested on a certain… shall we say, confrontation… that occurred during a very Floral afternoon. A writer such as myself could not possibly comment about the impropriety and admitted violence of certain actions, thrilling and deserved though they might have been. No, like everyone else, I must simply frown, stifle a giggle, and say, "Oh, yes, well… let us hope it does not happen again."
The opera itself was divine, and a winning choice for a season with an unmatched selection of eager Ladies and reluctant Lords — Marriage hangs in the air like a friendly spider, ready to draw us into her web. Even the Queen herself was seen laughing and smiling on more than one occasion, though she was understandably outshone by our favorite Diamond, whose brilliance glimmered even in the stuffy orchestral air. She certainly seemed to enjoy the evening more than a certain Sapphire, who appeared to disappear between the acts…
Hermione woke like a ghoul unearthing itself from fresh dirt. Her mouth thick, her head pounding, she could only squint up at Lisette and wish for a swift death.
Lisette raised an eyebrow and handed her a glass. "Drink this," she said, the soft words booming in Hermione's ears. "Fast enough that you do not taste it."
Knowing better than to ask questions, Hermione heaved herself up onto an elbow, put the glass to her mouth, and imagined water. The slimy, slippery substance slid down her throat and caught on her front teeth, but she swallowed regardless, resisting the urge to vomit.
Lisette watched, impassive. "Well done," she said, once the glass was empty, and traded it for a glass of water. "I did wonder," she said on her way over to the curtains, "how long it would be until you overindulged."
"Lisette." Hermione's tongue was too large for her mouth. She forced down a few mouthfuls of water, trying to eliminate the taste of the mystery concoction. "You exaggerate."
Lisette gave a loud snort and wrenched open a curtain. Thankfully, a steady rain was falling, and the grim grey sky was a soothing sight. "Do I? You could barely stand up straight by the end of the evening."
"Yes, but." Wincing, Hermione put down the glass and tried to sit up. Her headache was abating a little, and her stomach was untangling itself. "I can remember everything, and I did not… make a fool of myself."
Another snort, and another curtain. Hermione caught a glimpse of a very wet sparrow huddled on the windowsill. "A fine standard for a young lady to hold herself to."
"Lisette." Hermione gave her a hard look. "I once caught you crawling through the kitchen in the middle of the night, in a state of undress, with breath that could overwhelm a badger."
Lisette spun around, her eyes flashing. "That," she snapped. "Was one night."
"Two nights," Hermione countered. "Same café, same man, but two different nights."
Lisette sucked in a breath between her teeth. "Ungrateful child." She tossed a handful of Hermione's laundry over her shoulder. "Perhaps I should not even tell you to check your tea tray. Perhaps I should let you languish and turn to liquid."
"Tea tray?" Hermione repeated. She slid out of bed, hitting the floor with a thud, and shakily made her way over to the dresser where Lisette had left said tray. It was overtaken by an enormous bouquet of honeysuckle and jasmine. Their divine scent played about Hermione's nose, and to her surprise, her stomach did not turn.
"There is a note," Lisette told her, with obvious reluctance. "Read it, or do not read it. See if it makes a difference to me."
Hermione's unsteady hands fumbled at the piece of paper tucked between the stems. She stared down at the now familiar handwriting, and had to read it several times before her heart returned to its normal location.
Sloane Square, 4 o'clock.
We will meet; and there we may rehearse most obscenely and courageously.
—H
The air seemed to have gone out of the room. Hermione fumbled her way into the nearest chair and wondered what on earth was happening to her.
Four o'clock found her stepping onto the careful stones of Sloane Square, rain thudding cheerfully onto her umbrella. The weather was mild, just a faint chill in the summer air, and she felt it on her bare neck as she turned, her gaze landing on the Duke.
"Well met," he said, his voice raised above the rain. He was half a dozen paces away, and did not close the distance between them. On the contrary, he seemed poised. Waiting. Different and yet the same from the night before, when the damp, close air of the opera had blurred his edges.
"Your glasses are wet," she replied. "And how are your ribs?"
"Still intact, somehow." His hand twitched. Out of impatience, she realized. "Our target lies in this direction, Miss Granger."
That was enough for her. She finally walked over to him, smiling at the impatience that still riddled his frame. "Hermione," she corrected him. "As you continue to insist."
"Yes, Hermione." The Duke's mouth twisted, just for a moment, and she caught a faint, tangy scent that had nothing to do with their surroundings and probably everything to do with the soap he had used to shave. His eyes were very green under the trees. "How is your head?"
She huffed, ignoring her own blush. "Fine, thank you, though I resent your implication."
"No implication," he replied, leading them in the direction of the next road. And his face was so without guile that she almost believed him. "Merely observation."
"Your Grace," she said, brittle. "Where are we going?"
"Nowhere your charming maid cannot follow," he said, and to her astonishment, he shot a wink over his shoulder at Lisette.
Brilliant, thought Hermione. I am never going to hear the end of that.
"I assume she is standing in for the delightful Ms. Randolph," the Duke said, taking Hermione's hand as he led her across the empty road. "Is our favorite shadow indisposed?"
"Yes," Hermione replied. "Luna's callers took precedence, as her father is not home today."
"Callers?" the Duke repeated, with just the flash of a frown.
"Indeed. She is quite popular." Hermione jumped over a puddle, then smiled, imagining Ms. Randolph's reaction to such an indecorous move. "Where now?"
It was a tea shop. A small, cozy tea shop with pale blue walls and white tables scattered across a tasteful, tiled floor. The handful of patrons openly stared at Hermione and the Duke, but she ignored them, too busy trying to understand what was happening.
A tea shop, she thought, sinking down into her chair. Why a tea shop?
Bemused, Hermione watched as a pot of tea and a set of cups appeared at their table, followed by several trays of sumptuous cakes, pastries, and sandwiches., and when there came a final moment of calm, she looked up at the Duke, expecting some sort of explanation.
He was buttering a piece of bread, totally unconcerned. It took several moments of long, pressing silence before he met her gaze, rain droplets still clinging to his glass lenses. It made his eyes glitter. "Is there a problem, Miss Granger?"
Hermione looked at him for another few moments, trying to figure out how to say what she wanted to say, given that they were in public. "Usually," she settled on, "when one attends a meal with another person, one is engaged in conversation. For instance, we might discuss the weather, or the upcoming races, or even what on earth I am supposed to make of this."
The Duke cocked his head to one side, and something like mischief flashed in his eyes. "Well, the weather is dismal, the Queen's horse will win, and what can I say, I was hungry."
Hermione looked at him some more. Then, slowly, she reached for an éclair. The Duke watched her over the rim of his teacup, far too smug for her liking.
They ate in silence for several minutes, Hermione steadily making her way through the wide selection of delectable pastry. It was some of the best she had ever tasted, at least on this side of the Channel. "I must admit," she said, at length. "This is the best meal I have had in weeks."
"Careful, Miss Granger." The Duke's voice was low. "You are insulting the meat pie."
She had to smile at that. "I would never. That pie was a godsend."
"I am glad to hear it." He shot her a glance. "Just as I am glad to see you in better spirits."
"Hard not to be," Hermione replied, "now that I am no longer squeezed into a dress that is several sizes too small. Thankfully, Ms. Randolph was too preoccupied with Luna this morning to worry about my appearance."
"You have something else to wear to the Rosiers', then?"
She grinned, unable to stop herself. "My new dress arrives this evening."
Another glance, just over the rim of his teacup. A flash of green among the blue. "And have you continued ploughing away at Jacobsen's new theories?"
For a moment, she could only look at him, bemused. "I told you about that?"
"Oh yes." The Duke polished off his bread and butter. "At length. And with surprising volume. I think even the soprano heard you from the wings."
Hermione shook her head, feeling a flush of embarrassment. "No, I— I have not had the chance—"
"Are you full?" he asked her abruptly. He had that look about him again — impatience.
Hermione glanced down at her plate. Truthfully, she could spend the rest of the afternoon here and be quite content. "I suppose," she said. "Though I wouldn't mind another sandwich—"
"Excellent." To her surprise, the Duke stood up and offered her his hand. In this lighting, the line of his shoulders was especially sharp. "Shall we?"
He led her out of the shop, around the corner, and down the road. The rain had eased off into a dull mist that snaked and seethed around the towering buildings. Now that they were away from the Square, the street became somewhat darker, less polished. Hermione cast a look about them, shooting Lisette a meaningful glance. Lisette just shrugged back at her — she, too, had no idea what was going on.
Please, Hermione thought, let this be something normal.
A few minutes later, the Duke halted in front of a mundane brick house and knocked at a battered, faded wooden door. Above it, an equally faded wooden sign read, Ollivander's Curiosities.
"Your Grace," Hermione tried. "May I ask what we—?"
But her words were drowned by the door creaking open to reveal a short, thin man with eons of wispy white hair. It surrounded his pale, wrinkled face like a cloud, and even seemed to grow out of his ears. "Your Grace," he wheezed, a bony hand braced on the door as he dipped his head. "And your guest, I presume?"
"Indeed, Ollivander," the Duke replied, ignoring Hermione poking him in the back. "I trust this is still an acceptable time?"
"Of course, of course. Come in." With that, Ollivander held open the door and beckoned them inside.
The air hung thick with dust and the tang of old paper. Breathless, Hermione could only stare up at the heavy, half-broken chandelier hovering above their heads as she ascended the steep, dusty stairs, the Duke a mere step behind her. She heard Lisette's quiet cough of disapproval, but ignored it. This was far too frightening, far too odd, and far too exciting for her to do anything other than commit each glorious moment to memory.
"Here, Miss," came Ollivander's directive, and Hermione followed it, stepping out onto the first landing. A series of winding rooms blossomed before her, shining in a rich, golden wood that burned with the reflected light of oil lamps. The air swirled thick with something musty and heavy, and Hermione's mouth fell open as she took in the sight before her.
The walls were crammed with books, and the open space of every room was dominated by treasures and curios that were at once alien and entirely familiar. Everywhere she looked, something new sprouted before her gaze — here, a twist of Corinthian marble; here, a fresco of Justinian I; here, a knee-high mummy with the painted mask of a black cat. On and on it went, tumbling out before her in a vast, overwhelming array. Corners overflowed with paintings; there was a landscape that looked suspiciously like a Turner, and a handful of unfinished sketches carrying the echoes of Rembrandt. Dizzy, Hermione turned on the spot, drinking it all in with a haste and an urgency that made her fingers tingle and her mind swim.
"Mr. Ollivander," the Duke said, "is somewhat of a collector, specializing in treasures from the near and the far." Something in his voice shifted, becoming low, self-conscious. "I thought you might like the opportunity to explore his life's work."
"Yes," Hermione breathed, wondering if maybe she'd hit her head on something in the tea shop and was imagining this whole thing. "Yes, I would."
She heard a soft movement behind her, and turned to meet Ollivander's bright blue gaze. He was sort of smiling at her, and she felt an instant kinship with him — like her, he looked at the mysteries of the world and saw only infinite possibility. "My dear," he said. "Take your time, and I am happy to answer any of your questions."
From there, time seemed to melt. Hours passed as Hermione wandered from room to room, peppering Ollivander with questions. He filled her mind with worlds unseen, twisting together stories of the unknown. She heard of Greek hills, Egyptian sand, Ottoman tea, New World spices. She heard of mummies, of hidden treasure, of manuscripts smuggled under shirts and onto boats. She heard of artists murmuring together in clandestine cafés, political leaders slipping across borders in the dead of night, Ollivander himself sneaking into tombs and back rooms, and once, quite memorably, having to run out of the Russian palace while pursued by the Imperial Guard.
It was overwhelming, intoxicating. Hermione felt as if she were traveling around half the world without taking a single step. This was better than any museum, and almost, she had to admit, better than any book.
Eventually, they found themselves back near the landing, and Hermione grazed a finger over the mummified mask of the black cat. Lisette was slumped in a nearby armchair, half-asleep. Outside, the blue of the evening gleamed through the clouds, creating an illusion of clear skies even as a light rain began to fall. "What do you do with all of these?" she said to Ollivander. "All of your treasures?"
"On occasion, I find myself in a position where I am approached by a client looking to procure a certain object. Other times, if necessary, I sell something." He let out a little sigh. "But I take great satisfaction from just keeping them here, on display, with the odd visit from someone like you, Miss Granger."
"I see." Hermione looked around a bit more, and noticed a thin doorway leading to a cramped, small office where a handful of candles were burning on the crowded desk. "Mr. Ollivander, I wonder if you might fetch me a cup of tea?"
"Certainly, my dear." He turned and vanished into his own collection, and she slipped into the office, making no more noise than a cat.
The tiny office was just as cramped as the rest of the flat, floor-to-ceiling bookcases stuffed with books and strange objects. On the floor, towers of old newspapers huddled together and slowly turned yellow. She counted ten different magnifying glasses, two empty bottles of liquor, a dull plaque claiming membership to some Royal Society, and a scattered deck of cards. The desk itself was tiny and practically groaning under the weight of innumerable papers and thick-spined books. The Duke was seated, in his shirtsleeves, hunched over the desk with his hands in his hair, which now was reaching great new heights from hours of nervous attention. His nose hovered a few inches above a massive ledger, and the tip of his short, crude quill bounced on the corner of the page, building a splotch of black.
"My goodness," said Hermione in a low voice. "You do know how to have fun."
The Duke made a strangled attempt at a laugh.
"What are you doing?" Hermione went on, approaching his side. She could see that the ledger was cramped with writing, sums upon sums upon sums.
"Ollivander and I have an arrangement," the Duke muttered, shoving his hand through his hair again. "A system of favors."
"Ah." Hermione leaned forward to get a better look, not noticing the way the Duke stiffened. His shoulder was mere inches from her chest. "And you end up stuck with the books, I suppose?"
"On occasion." The candles shone brilliantly in his glasses. "Either his handwriting is worsening with age, or he truly is trying to spite me."
"Come now," she replied. She slipped off her gloves, stuffed them into her hidden pocket, and reached for a spare, brittle quill. "This one is quite simple."
"Simple," the Duke repeated, surrendering her the ledger and dropping his quill. He leaned back in his chair, pushed his glasses up his forehead, and rubbed his eyes. "Says the woman who plays with economic theory for fun."
"After Jacobsen," she replied, scribbling away, "this is light entertainment."
"You frighten me," he told her. "Perhaps I should smuggle you into my club one evening. The Chancellor of the Exchequer takes his dinner there and he could do with a word or two."
"You flatter me," she sighed, refusing to smile, "by assuming I would use words, and not a cricket bat."
"Even better. That miserable old goat does owe me a few shillings."
"What delightful insight," she said to the ledger, "as to how our government is run."
"Your cynicism is refreshing." A pause. Then: "I did not ask, yesterday." He looked right at her, and she met his gaze, held it. "About your reception at home, after the events at Kew."
Hermione took a slow breath. Thought back to Ms. Randolph's seething fury, quiet and withheld at the gardens, but deafening and relentless behind the closed door of Lovegood Manor. Her face, red and blotchy with anger, mere inches from Hermione's own, spittle foaming at her horsey teeth. Lord Devon bursting into the room, pulling Ms. Randolph away from Hermione, and demanding to know what had happened. Lisette, her face pale and panicked, shoving Hermione into a bathtub, doing her best to scrub the pond out of Hermione's hair. Hermione had gone to the opera with damp hair braided into submission, her ears ringing with rebuke. "Volcanic," she settled on. "Terrible at first, but eventually settling into cool ash."
He was still looking at her. "Did she strike you?"
"No." Though Hermione had been quite convinced of that eventuality the day before. "She knows my father would hear of it, which would not bode well for her."
The Duke nodded and dropped his gaze once again. Hermione went back to her sums, her quill crackling into the damp air.
Moments later, the silence was broken by Mr. Ollivander, who appeared in the doorway with her cup of tea. "Here you are, dear. I see you have come to the Duke's rescue."
"It seems to be a habit," she replied, sipping at her tea. The china was mismatched and cracked. "Though perhaps your books are less frightening than a cluster of eligible ladies."
"I will concede that," said the Duke. He shook his head and stood up, reaching for his jacket. "We should be on our way."
Ollivander gave a little bow. "Of course, of course." He twinkled at Hermione. "It has been a pleasure meeting you, my dear."
"Likewise," she replied. She looked the old man in the eye. "This has been a most necessary and diverting afternoon. I do hope you will allow me to come again."
"Anytime," Ollivander assured her, and soon, she, the Duke, and Lisette were descending the old, dusty steps and stepping into the cool, humid air of the street.
"Well, Mademoiselle," Lisette managed through a yawn. "I hope you had fun."
Hermione considered this, taking her gloves out of her pocket. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I suppose I did."
"A ringing endorsement." The Duke shot her a look before stepping to the side of the road and waving at something. "Your carriage, Miss Granger."
She could not hide her surprise, and the Duke noticed. "I slipped away," he said, as her carriage rolled up before them, "while you were neck-deep in ancient Greece, I believe."
Something was twisting in Hermione's stomach. "Yes, well," she managed. "That was very kind of you, Your Grace. And wholly unnecessary."
"Was it?" the Duke replied, opening the door before the driver had a chance. He looked right at her, and in spite of herself, Hermione shivered. "Good to know," the Duke added.
Hermione dropped her gaze and curtsied, suddenly desperate to leave, to disappear entirely, to melt into the street and never resurface. She stepped toward the carriage, and then, to her continued surprise, the Duke offered her his hand. Hermione took it before she remembered that her own hand was bare.
His palm was warm, smooth. Edged with callouses. No more than a fleeting, burning, glancing touch, and then it was gone. She sat down on her seat, gripping her gloves hard enough that her knuckles turned white.
"Lisette," the Duke said as she curtsied to him. "I appreciate your stalwart patience on this dismal afternoon."
"Not at all, Your Grace." Lisette's smile was small, until she slid into her own seat and shot Hermione a fierce, pointed look.
The Duke snapped the door shut and nodded at the driver. "Until tomorrow," he said, his voice flat behind the glass, and Hermione looked away, her cheeks burning. With that, the driver stirred the horses into motion, and soon, the Duke was gone.
"It was very kind of him," Lisette was saying as she braided, "that is all I am saying."
"You have said that twice already, Lisette, and it hardly bears repeating." Hermione picked up a loose hair pin and spun it in her fingers, aching for a quill and a bit of paper. Her father had sent over a fresh book on algebra the night before, and her mind was still churning through some of the proofs.
"I cannot decide," Lisette went on, "whether his kindness bothers you because it was genuine, or because you wish it were not so."
"Honestly, Lisette, you say the strangest things." Hermione glanced across the room, where Mattie was in the middle of doing Luna's hair. She watched as an artful, golden length of hair was pulled through another loop and pinned behind itself. Luna herself was distracted, smiling down at a scrap of paper. It had to be a letter, though from this distance, Hermione could not tell if it was written in Cadogan's hand.
Unbidden memories from the last ball floated to the surface of Hermione's mind. She remembered Luna's sudden cold manner, the way she had turned and left when Hermione expressed her surprise at Luna's choice of dance partner. True, Luna had been her usual self at the gardens and the opera, but still, Hermione had no idea what to make of Luna's sudden reluctance towards Cadogan. Had something happened between them? Had Cadogan passed some sort of insult? It was almost impossible to imagine such an intelligent, deferential gentleman such as himself making a mistake of that kind. Surely, if something like that had happened, Luna or even the Duke would have told Hermione about it. And Cadogan had seemed so disappointed by Luna's absence, even if he did his best to hide it. He must care for her quite deeply — what else could explain such a reaction?
What on earth did Lord Crawley have to offer that Cadogan did not? He was good-looking enough, Hermione supposed, but much more boring, as far as she could tell. Crawley did not have Cadogan's ingenuity, his creativity, and certainly not his sense of humor. No, Crawley was much more reserved, with a quiet amiability that was pleasant but not memorable. What was Luna doing, toying with Cadogan's emotions? Hermione never would have imagined her capable of playing such games for the sake of amusement or enjoyment, but perhaps she was. Perhaps that was how she thought of the season — a game, rather than a test of endurance. But was that not a cold, callous, unfeeling outlook? Could sunny, delightful, caring Luna really be so heartless?"
Lisette had evidently followed Hermione's gaze. "I do not know," she said in a low murmur, "what that girl means, by trifling about with the Earl as she does."
"I know," Hermione murmured in reply, not letting an ounce of emotion show on her face, just in case Luna looked their way. "A part of me wonders if she realizes she is doing it."
"If she is not careful," Lisette went on, separating a new section of Hermione's hair. "She is going to lose him. He is a sensitive man, but a clever one. He will not entertain heartbreak for long."
"I cannot think why she would wish to deter him." Hermione spun the pin again. "He is a gentleman of the highest order. Any woman with a half-decent brain would accept him."
"Yes, but…" Lisette met her gaze in the mirror. "Do you know if Luna even wishes to marry?"
Hermione blinked, taken aback. "No," she said, surprised by her own ignorance. "I never asked her, and she has never mentioned it."
Lisette clucked her tongue. "Then it is possible that, even if she truly has feelings for him, she is trying to spare him heartache by encouraging him to turn his affection elsewhere."
"Wouldn't she just tell him, if that were the case?" Hermione let out a huff. This was all getting far more complicated than she ever could have imagined. "And if she had feelings for him, what would be the point of denying him and herself the greatest happiness?"
Lisette shrugged, moving on to the next small braid. "You know her far better than I. If you are confused, then I am confused."
Hermione glanced at Luna again. "She has told me very little. But she did seem insulted when I implied that her attachment to Cadogan was a given."
"Then she would not be the first woman who disliked other people making assumptions about her."
"I suppose." Hermione's attention drifted back to her own hair. "What on earth are you trying to do, exactly?"
Lisette was tugging at the left side of Hermione's head, her lips pursed in concentration. "A half-coronet," she replied. "The braid will wrap around the back of your head, join with the other braids, then wrap into a large bun up here." She tapped the back of Hermione's head. "It will be quite heavy, I'm afraid."
"Delightful," Hermione replied. "I am assuming this is to match my new dress?"
"Of course." Lisette seemed surprised. "Have you not seen it yet, Mademoiselle?"
"No," Hermione confessed. "In truth, I wanted to spare myself any possible disappointment. Judging by Luna's dresses, Madam D'Amboise does fine work, but I do worry that my expectations will not hold against reality."
Lisette grinned suddenly. "I do not think," she said, "you will have to worry about that."
And she was correct.
As Hermione stepped out from behind the screen, Luna let out a squeal and started clapping like a lunatic. Lisette was beaming, and even Mattie grinned and squeezed Lisette's elbow. But Ms. Randolph's face became a blank mask of horror, and all the color drained away from her cheeks.
"Hermione!" gasped Luna. "You look wonderful!"
"Like a true woman," Lisette added, unruffled by Ms. Randolph's glare. "Just wait until the Duke sees you."
"Quiet!" snapped Ms. Randolph. She looked ready to throttle something. "How— I must— why— why did that woman think that this would be suitable attire for—?"
"I can hardly see anything inappropriate about this dress, Ms. Randolph." Luna gave Hermione an overly careful, scrutinizing look. Hermione swallowed a laugh. "Her hem line, her straps, her neckline — all are within fashionable requirements. In fact, her dress is in the same silhouette as mine. The only real difference is the color."
"The color," spat Ms. Randolph, "is the least of our concern—"
"Why is it a concern at all?" countered Lisette, much to Hermione's delight. "It suits her."
"I agree," added Luna, flashing Hermione a smile. "After all, a Sapphire should look like a sapphire, shouldn't she?"
To her surprise, when she stepped out of the carriage and onto yet another gravel driveway, Hermione had to swallow a wave of nerves.
Luna noticed, of course. "Don't be silly," she said. "You have nothing to worry about."
"Of course I do, Luna." Hermione tried to take a breath. "I am showing up in a dress that screams at people to look at me."
Luna hummed, straightening her gloves. The feather in her hair — white, of course — bobbed gently. "It is not so terrible, if you do not meet their eye."
Hermione shot her a frown. "Pardon?"
"Look past them. Behind them. Or at a point on the wall." Luna smiled. "Find something utterly mundane, and fixate upon it. If you distract yourself, their attention means nothing, because you are not there to receive it."
Suddenly, some of Luna's behavior — floating on a cloud, Lisette had called it — made much more sense. "Does it work?" she found herself asking, her voice hushed.
"It does." Luna linked her arm with Hermione's. "Come, let's go in."
Just as Hermione had feared, people did indeed turn to stare at her as she and Luna passed through the scattered crowds around the exterior of Rosier Manor. It was a bleak, dull building with little character or forethought, so its guests stood out in stark, unrelieving contrast. She heard, but tried to ignore, the wave of whispers that spread among the guests, traveling from ear to ear before it crashed and broke at her feet. Her heart was thundering painfully fast in her chest, but Luna's advice did have some merit to it — looking at the hedges, the front steps, the imposing front door made the collective attention, the collective shock, easier to bear.
Her dress was sleeveless, and the straps were made of intricately braided beads in a rich shade of lapis that offset the deep, supple blue satin. The beads trailed along her décolleté, met in a sharp point, then shattered across her skirts, where they would catch and wink in the light. Her skirts themselves were staggered, giving her a small train, and were layered in subtly different shades of deep blue. The final layer, a dark turquoise, showed only when she turned or gathered her skirts to one side. Hermione had never seen anything like this dress before, and it made her feel untouchable.
The color was perhaps the most daring thing about this dress. It was almost unheard of for a woman to wear such a dark shade during the summer, but Hermione loved the way this blue made her skin glow with warmth. She was sure this was part of what drove the gossip through the crowd — a woman with dark skin wearing a dark dress was not a common sight in London society.
As she and Luna reached the top of the steps, Lord Devon, who was a few paces behind them, spoke up for the first time since their arrival. "To the right, ladies. This house is a goddamn maze. If you're not careful, you will go missing for a week."
Upon entering, Hermione saw that Luna's father was quite correct. For all its exterior mundanity, inside the house was sprawling, counterintuitive, hunched in on itself like it was guarding a secret. The walls were panelled and painted in a dark near-black, with matching steely-grey fixtures, and she fought off a shiver of foreboding. Nothing about this residence was welcoming, an impression that was confirmed by its occupants.
"Lord Devon." Earl Rosier gave him a cursory, unimpressed look, and his attention merely flickered over Hermione and Luna. Behind him, his tall, thin wife loomed like a shade, her hooded eyes betraying not even an ounce of emotion. "My wife, Lady Rosier."
"Charmed," Lord Devon replied. "And this is—"
"My son is already in the ballroom," Lord Rosier went on. "He is quite popular, you see, among a… certain crowd." His reptilian gaze, cool and uninterested, once again grazed over Hermione and Luna. "Enjoy yourselves."
With that, Lord Devon steered them out of the room. Hermione, trembling with repressed anger, barely took stock of where they were going.
"I forgot to mention," Luna breathed. "The Rosiers are intolerable, in more ways than one."
"That much," Hermione gritted out, "is clear."
"Take care this evening, ladies." Lord Devon glanced over his shoulder as they passed two closed doors, a massive stuffed bear, and a seething, dark portrait. He looked quite sinister in the dim, cold light of the hall. "Perhaps you should…" He glanced around at the guests, some of whom Hermione did not recognize at all. They looked almost foreign, with olive skin, dark eyes, and haughty chins. "Stick together."
"Come." Luna took Hermione's hand. "We could do with a glass of wine."
"Or three," Hermione muttered, but she allowed herself to be steered away.
Even though Luna had admitted that she had never before set foot in the Rosiers' residence, she moved through the jumbled, identical rooms with a surety that was at once impressive and worrying. She seemed to know exactly where she was going, dodging clusters of young ladies and mothers alike, ignoring furtive looks from would-be suitors and the leers of ineligible men.
Then, a hand on Hermione's arm.
"Katie!" Hermione let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding. She immediately latched onto Katie's arm and pulled her along, both of them following in Luna's wake. "Thank goodness, I almost—"
"Hermione—" Katie was staring at her, agape. "You look—"
"Yes, yes, I know. It is a new dress." There was no time for this. "Katie, you must do me a favor, I shall not ask you again—"
"Of course—"
"If Lord Crawley appears," Hermione said in an undertone, "distract him."
It took a moment, but then a flicker of recognition passed over Katie's features. "It is no trouble," she replied. "Quite honestly, you could ask me to charge Bonaparte himself, and I'd say yes, so long as you were wearing this dress—"
"Do not be ridiculous," Hermione sniffed. "You would go just for a chance to kick him in the balls."
"That is true," Katie conceded, but then they drew to a halt. Luna had found the refreshment table.
"There we are!" Luna passed a glass of wine to Hermione, and beamed at Katie. "Oh, hello! I had not realized you joined our parade!"
"Any port in a storm," Katie quipped, stealing Hermione's glass and taking a healthy sip. "You look lovely tonight, Luna."
"Thank you, but we both know I have nothing on Hermione." Luna twinkled and passed Hermione a fresh glass.
"You both are ridiculous," Hermione replied. At least the wine was good.
"Are we?" said Katie. "Perhaps. But I shall reserve my final judgment until I see the Duke's reaction. What do you think, Luna?"
Hermione looked from Katie to Luna. "What does the Duke have to do with anything?"
"Hermione," said Luna, patting her on the arm as one would a senile aunt, "he nearly fainted when he saw you at the opera."
"Because my dress left nothing to the imagination and he is a man with a fully functioning pair of eyes! You cannot possibly—"
"Oh," said Katie, "but we can possibly."
"This," Hermione seethed, "is ridiculous."
"Good evening, ladies," came a friendly, unfortunately familiar voice.
Hermione paused to wince before she turned and smiled at— "Lord Crawley. A pleasure."
"Likewise." He bowed, and all three of them curtsied in return. "Lady Lovegood, I wonder—"
"Lord Crawley!" Katie blurted. "I hear you hail from Yorkshire."
He gave her a look of blank surprise. "Well, yes, that is where—"
"Well," said Katie, closing the distance between them, "my brother is looking to purchase land in that area, and since my mother's family—" She guided Lord Crawley to the side, spewing details about her great uncle, and shot Hermione a wink.
Hermione winked back, even as Luna frowned, but did not have time to relish her victory.
"Well, Prongs." Cadogan looked even more vibrant than usual this evening, a splash of royal blue among the drab grey. He smiled at Luna. "It seems we are late to the party."
"Then we must try to make up for lost time." The Duke stepped up beside him, and something in Hermione quivered at the sight of him — he was dressed in a simple, sleek charcoal, and his glasses gleamed in the low light. He took her in with a languid glance, and she noticed how his gaze hooked along the lines of her dress. "Miss Granger. Very well met, indeed."
"Good evening to you both," said Luna, and Hermione was pleased to see her smiling. "Though I wish it were under more colorful circumstances."
"Indeed," returned Cadogan. "One walks through the door, and all of summer seems to melt away, does it not?"
"How are you, Miss Granger?" The Duke's voice was low, an undercurrent to Cadogan and Luna's breathless chatter.
She tried for a breath and nearly made it. "I am well, Your Grace."
"Is not the truth," he said, capturing her hand, "the truth?" He pressed a brief kiss to her gloved knuckle. "Though perhaps I must declare this an understatement, because you look…" His pause hung like a rock in the air between them. "Very well."
Hermione looked at him for a moment, then figured it out. "You are drunk."
A beat. Then two. "No," the Duke said. "Merely overserved."
"How convenient." She tried for anger and only managed a smile. She could see it now in Cadogan as well — the flush along his cheeks, the looseness of his body. "Do you at least have a good reason?"
"An excellent one," the Duke replied. "Celebration."
Luna, who had apparently caught on to his and Hermione's conversation, piped up: "What were you celebrating?"
"A successful business venture," said the Duke. He clapped a hand on Cadogan's shoulder. "Cadogan here has been most obliging."
"Oh!" Luna beamed at them both. "Do you mean to say that you will be joining Lord Cadogan in his greenhouse business?"
"Not exactly," said Cadogan. "No, my Lady, this is something quite different—"
"There is a match," said the Duke in a hushed tone. "On Monday next."
"A match?" Hermione repeated with a frown. "What do you mean?"
"A boxing match." Cadogan really was blushing now. "Wood versus Flint."
"Wood." Hermione looked to the Duke. "As in your friend who—?"
"Exactly!" There was a feverish glint in his eyes. "Odds are in Wood's favor, but he needed money to front the pot, so—"
"Are you talking," hissed Hermione, "of gambling?!"
"Of course!" The Duke was completely unruffled.
Hermione anxiously glanced around, seeing if anyone had overheard them. "That," she snapped, "is entirely inappropriate and in very bad taste—"
"I believe I've been summoned." None other than Lord Malfoy appeared next to the Duke, smirking like a diabolical cat. "Do tell me what I am interrupting."
"Piss off, Ferret," said the Duke, without missing a beat. "Go and bother someone else."
Malfoy sighed dramatically. "No, I do not think I will. You owe me a favor, Potter, and it is your fault that I enjoy Miss Granger's company."
Hermione could only stare at the occupants of their little cluster, wondering when this had become her life. "You flatter me, sir," she said, dry as a bone. "The Duke was discussing his and Cadogan's investment in a local gambling pot for a boxing match."
For a moment, Malfoy just looked at her. She realized he was thinking quickly. "Actually," he said, turning to Cadogan, "that sounds quite good, who's fighting?"
"Wood and Flint," Cadogan replied, ignoring Hermione's glare. "Good odds, low risk."
"Perfect. When is it?"
"Monday, four o'clock. The warehouse behind the Dog and Horse, out in Bethnal Green."
"Charming," said Malfoy, raising an eyebrow. "Though I suppose one does not attend these events for the atmosphere."
"Pray tell," said Hermione, "why, exactly, does one attend them?"
"Entertainment," said Malfoy. "Not to mention the attraction of winning a handsome sum."
"But there must be more to it," she pressed, "than the simple lure of gambling?"
"Of course," said the Duke. He met her gaze. "One sees the grim detail of battle, the struggle and triumph of an ordinary man. One feels as if they, too, are in the ring, only a pair of hands and a hair's breadth away from loss or victory. It is intoxicating, riveting. An exhilaration borne of the unknown, unmatched by anything else on this earth."
A ringing silence followed this short speech. Then:
"My word, Potter," said Malfoy. "You have gone soft."
"He is right, though," said Cadogan. "He described the experience exactly."
"Odds favor Wood, do they not?" said Malfoy. At Cadogan's nod, he added, "That is unsurprising. He is a good fighter, quick on his feet."
The Duke smirked. "I believe that is the first time I've heard you pay someone a compliment, Lord Malfoy."
"Given that you make a habit of avoiding my good graces, Potter, that is entirely possible." Malfoy took a glass of wine. "Christ. My wife is glaring at me. Do excuse me, gentlemen, ladies. I shall be in touch regarding next Monday." With a final nod, he slid away, slipping through the crowd in an echo of his nickname.
"He was taller than I had expected," said Luna, and then Hermione realized that they had made no introductions. Luna only knew who Malfoy was from Hermione's — highly edited — recount of the other night. "And perhaps with thinner hair."
The Duke shot her a sudden smile. "My thoughts exactly, my Lady."
Then, someone stepped into their little circle. Someone with irritation in the line of their shoulders. "Lady Lovegood," said Lord Crawley. "Good evening."
Luna smiled at him. "Good evening, my Lord."
Hermione bit the inside of her cheek and glanced over her shoulder. Katie was standing alone in a nearby corner, looking worried and apologetic. "Sorry!" she mouthed, and Hermione dismissed it with a wave of her hand. Katie had done her best, after all.
Cadogan was staring at Crawley like he had been clubbed over the head. Crawley seemed not to notice. In fact, he ignored the Duke and the Earl entirely. "I was wondering," he went on, "if I might beg the honor of a dance with you."
"Certainly, my Lord." Luna did not see the way Cadogan's face fell. "Shall we proceed to the ballroom? The music must be starting soon."
Finally, Crawley seemed to smile. "Splendid." He offered Luna his arm. She took it, and they made their way into the next room.
Cadogan watched their departure with a clenched jaw and a flash of hurt in his eyes. Hermione glanced at him, then looked away, unable to bear it.
A light rustle of skirts announced Katie's arrival. "I am sorry," she whispered to Hermione. "I did try my best, but he was determined."
"You did a wonderful job, Katie," Hermione assured her. "Besides, Lord Crawley is a man with a mission." She cleared her throat, getting the men's attention. "Gentlemen, may I introduce my good friend, Miss Bell?"
The Duke gave her a nod, and Cadogan managed a smile. "A pleasure," said Cadogan. "I believe I know your brother, Lucas."
"Indeed, my Lord." Katie smiled at him in return. "He has spoken of you most favorably." She closed the distance between them. "In fact, he has some outrageous stories about a certain public house in Belgravia."
Cadogan's smile grew, and Hermione felt a warm nudge of appreciation for Katie. She'd handled that beautifully.
As Cadogan and Katie drew themselves into conversation, Hermione inched closer to the Duke. "Perhaps," she murmured, "we should take it upon ourselves to keep your dear friend in close company this evening."
"Yes," he said at once. "And we should do so in one location." He shook his head. "This house is a beast."
"A fair pronouncement. Besides, I believe we have earned a break from dancing."
"And yet you displayed none of this levity when I had a fresh injury." But a smile was playing about in the corner of his mouth. "I meant what I said, earlier."
Her heart gave a thud. "Your Grace?"
The Duke looked right at her, his emerald eyes glowing with mirth and something else, something she could not name. "You look exceedingly well in that dress."
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