A Star Shall Fall

She hesitated for only the most fleeting of instants; had the dance oriented him away from her at that moment, he would have missed it. “I enjoy reading.”

As many plain young ladies did, their time unoccupied by the demands of flirtation and social intrigue. “Novels?”

Her answering look was sharp, before she moved to change places with the lady of the neighbouring couple. By the time they were rejoined, the careful mask was back. “Sometimes. Also history, philosophy, translations of classical works—”

Galen realised his mistake. He should have detected it sooner; Cynthia knew him, and knew where his priorities would be in courting. “I apologise, Miss Northwood. Were it not at our estate in Essex, I would show you my own library, and you would see I’m of your mind. These days, I must make do with a circulating library.” It was the only way he could get new books; his father firmly condemned the expense of purchasing them.

“Make do?” She laughed. “They are a wonderful institution, for if I purchased every book I wished to read, my father would put me on bread and water to make up the expense.”

Not just the refuge of a plain girl who could get nothing better; she had actual passion for learning. Vauxhall is a terrible place for her, Galen thought. It advertised every good quality she did not possess, while hiding those she did. She would do much better in another context.

The dance was ending, which was a good thing for them both. Their inattention had caused their steps to degenerate, his as well as hers. “Miss Northwood,” he said as he made his final bow, “have you been to see the curiosities of the British Museum?”

“I thought it wasn’t open to the public yet.”

He smiled. “It isn’t, but they can be persuaded to admit the occasional select visitor. I would be delighted to arrange a small party.” Cynthia would help, he was sure. And for the chance of snaring such wealth, his father would not begrudge the expense.

Having uttered those words, he saw that the smile Miss Northwood had offered upon meeting him was a false thing, her attempt at the coquetry expected of a marriageable young woman. This was the real Miss Northwood, and the frank honesty of this smile was much more charming. “Mr. St. Clair, I would walk barefoot to Bloomsbury for the chance.”

As they approached the edge of the crowd, Galen saw Cynthia raise an inquisitive eyebrow. He nodded at her, gratitude warming his heart. There may be other prospects. Nothing is certain yet. But thank you, beloved sister—this is a very good place to start.

THE ONYX HALL, LONDON

11 March 1758

There were two elf-knights at the chamber door, members of the Onyx Guard, but it was the valet Irrith couldn’t get past. “Lord Galen is occupied,” he said.

Irrith scowled ferociously. The servant didn’t so much as blink. He was faerie-blooded, that was obvious; it showed in the set of his eyes. Clearly he’d seen enough of fae to be less than impressed with the scowl of one slender sprite.

She had nothing to bribe him with, either. Flirtation was out of the question; Irrith was not Carline, in inclination or skill. She had to resort to something like the honest truth. “It has to do with the Dragon.”

The word was practically a magic key, opening doors throughout the Onyx Hall. But not this door, it seemed. “Very good, ma’am,” the servant said with a bow. “If you would care to leave your message with me—”

“I would not. Listen, nocky boy; I have a question for the Prince, and until I get an answer—”

The door suddenly swung farther open, revealing Lord Galen, in a state of half-dress. His shirtsleeves billowed silk-white out of his unbuttoned waistcoat, and his wig was missing. Irrith fought not to goggle. He looked very different without its carefully styled curls—somehow both older and younger, and definitely less foppish.

Galen ran one self-conscious hand over his cropped scalp, as if only just now realizing that perhaps it did not do to meet a lady at his door with his head so very bare. His hair was chestnut brown, darker than her own. “Dame Irrith. Come in.”

He did not say, So I don’t have to listen to you and my man argue forever. Irrith didn’t much care why he let her in; she obeyed with speed, slipping past the servant, and even restraining herself from smirking at him.