The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 158

“Why, Miss Doyle! I’m afraid this is a room for gentlemen only. If you’re lost, perhaps I could escort—”

“Lord Denby, I must speak with you,” I whisper.

“I’m afraid I’m wanted at the tables, my dear,” he answers.

You’re wanted under my boot, you miserable cur. I force a smile that is pure sugar and lower my voice. “It is rather urgent. I’m sure these kind gentlemen will wait. Or should I see if Mr. Fowlson is more receptive to my request?”

“Gentlemen,” he says, turning to the men in his circle, “do spare me a moment. You know how ladies can be when they are insistent.” The gentlemen chuckle at my expense, and it is all I can do not to inflict a painful rash on every one of them.

Lord Denby ushers me through a door into a private library. Ordinarily, I would be comforted by the sight of so many lovely books, but I’m far too angry for comfort tonight, and I suspect the books are rather like the people here—unread and purely decorative.

Lord Denby takes a seat in an overstuffed leather chair beside a chess table and blows out a stream of heavy smoke that makes me cough. “You wished to speak with me, Miss Doyle?”

“I know who you are, Lord Denby. I know you are of the Rakshana, and I know you’re courting my brother.”

He turns his attention to the chessboard, moving pieces for himself and an imaginary opponent. “What of it?”

“I want you to leave my brother alone, please.”

“My dear, I’m afraid that is quite out of my hands.”

“Who ranks higher than you? Tell me and I shall go to—”

“The Rakshana’s ranks are filled by some of the most important and influential men in the world—heads of state and captains of industry. But that isn’t what I meant. I meant that the decision rests in your hands, dear lady,” he says through a puff of smoke. His hand hovers over a piece for a split second before attacking and capturing a pawn in his way and moving swiftly across the board. “You only need to give us the magic and control of the realms, and your brother will be quite safe, I assure you. In fact, he’ll be a great man, a peer, even. He’ll be well looked after. You all shall. Why, I’m sure Lady Denby would host a ball for your debut that would put all the others to shame. The Queen herself would attend.”

“Do you think I’ve come to discuss parties? That I’m a child who can be won over with a new pony? Have you no honor, sir?” I take a deep breath. “The Rakshana was meant to protect the realms and the Order. It was a venerable profession. Now you’re fighting against us. You would bully me and try to corrupt my brother. What have you become?”

Lord Denby knocks off his imaginary opponent’s rook and moves his bishop into position. “The times have changed, Miss Doyle. Gone are the days when a nobleman served as patron to all who worked his land. The Rakshana must change, as well—become less the chivalrous handshake of brotherhood and more the profitable fist of industry. Can you imagine how great our reach would be if we were to have power such as yours at our control? Think like an Englishwoman, Miss Doyle! What could this power do for the empire, for the future sons of England?”

“You’re forgetting: We are not all English, and we are not all men,” I say, insinuating myself into his chess game. I move a pawn forward, taking his bishop unawares. “What of Amar and Kartik and others like them? What of my sex—or of men of Mr. Fowlson’s station? Will any of us sit at your table?”

“Some rule; others are meant to be subjects.” His knight takes my queen, putting my king in danger. “What do you say, Miss Doyle? Your whole future could be arranged to your liking. Everything you could possibly want. Your pick of beaux—my son, perhaps.”

An icy cold presses its thumbs against my ribs. “Did you arrange for Simon and me to meet? Was that all part of your plan?”

“Let us call it a happy coincidence.” Lord Denby attacks my king. “Checkmate, my dear. It’s time I returned to the tables and you to the dance.” He stamps out the last of his cigar. Its cloying smoke lingers as he strides to the door. “Do consider our offer. It is the last time it will be presented. I am sure you’ll do what is in our best interests—and yours.”

I want to throw his fading cigar after him. I want to cry. I press my fingers to my eyes to keep the tears at bay. I’ve been so dreadfully stupid to underestimate the Rakshana’s reach—and to trust Simon Middleton. He never cared for me. He played me like a pawn, and I took the fall willingly.