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“Oh, my goodness!” It was Effie, her gray pompadour wobbling with shock. Cordelia and James sprang apart; James’s expression was composed, but Cordelia was sure she was blushing scarlet.
“Effie,” James said. “The door was closed.”
“Well, I’m sure,” Effie snapped. “I thought you meant to keep out a draft. Besides, there’s someone at the front door.” She snorted. “Married folk, carrying on like this. Well, I never, in all my born days, I haven’t. Humph!”
She stalked off. James turned to Cordelia—he looked a mess, flushed and disheveled, his mouth red from kisses. “Daisy—don’t go—I’ll get rid of whoever it is, you can wait upstairs—”
But she was already backing away, shaking her head. She had held everything she felt for James locked away for so long, and now she had opened that door just a crack and already waves of emotion were battering at her.
“I need to tell you something,” he said, his voice shaking. “To show you something.”
“It’s too much,” she whispered. “Too much right now—I can’t—” His face fell. She sucked in a breath; she so desperately wanted to tell him she would wait for him upstairs, she so desperately wanted him, it felt like a sort of insanity. Her whole body screamed at her: Be with him, touch him, let him love you.
But upstairs waiting was where she had been when she had seen him with Grace. She could not relive that experience. And she could not trust her body. She knew that well enough.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “At the party—we’ll talk then.”
He only nodded; Cordelia caught up her skirts and ran from the room, nearly knocking down a very surprised-looking Jesse Blackthorn in the entryway as she fled the house.
“Jesse,” James said. “I, ah—well. Hello. I hadn’t been expecting you.”
Jesse only raised his eyebrows. James had hung back for several moments before leaving the study, composing himself. He could still feel Cordelia in his arms, still smell the scent of her spice and jasmine perfume. He felt exhausted, wrung through with layers of emotion: fear, then anger, then desperation, then desire. And hope, dashed quickly. Hope wore out the soul, more than any other feeling.
He let the control Jem had taught him take over, before he left the study and strode down the hall to find Jesse looking bemused in the foyer. Effie had taken herself off to continue her hysterics elsewhere, which was probably all to the good. Jesse was wrapped in the new olive-green coat Anna had helped him choose, and in his hand, he clutched a sheaf of yellowing parchment sheets bound in fragile leather. James recognized them immediately: Tatiana’s notes from Chiswick House.
“Is this a bad time?” Jesse said.
Yes, James thought, but it wasn’t as if he was going to be able to get Cordelia back now. And Jesse looked intensely worried. James felt suddenly cold, and not only from the night air. “Is Lucie all right?”
“Yes,” Jesse said. “This isn’t about her.”
James smiled. “Aren’t you supposed to stay in the Institute at night?”
Jesse said, “Aren’t you?”
“I only came to fetch some cuff links,” James said.
“Well, I came to talk to you,” said Jesse, “where we could not be overheard. About my mother’s papers.”
“Oh!” said Effie, who had, it seemed, not vanished in hysterics after all, but rather come up behind James with little warning. And was staring past him, at Jesse. “Good evening, sir.”
Was Effie… blushing? Certainly James had never seen her look like that before. She was close to twittering. “I’m so sorry, sir, I only ran to fetch you a towel for the snow in your hair. I should have taken your coat and scarf first—of course—lose track of my own head next. Such a lovely coat, too, and so suitable for such a handsome young man.”
As Jesse handed over the coat and scarf, Effie clutched them to her like treasures. She gazed at Jesse, who looked back with mounting puzzlement.
“Effie,” James said. “Perhaps some tea?”
“Oh! Yes, of course. I’ll lay it on in the drawing room, and build up the fire there as well.” She bustled off, still clutching Jesse’s coat.
“She seems nice,” Jesse said as James led him down the hall to the drawing room. James thought to himself that Effie had never before demonstrated the slightest interest in any of his visitors. It seemed she liked the look of Jesse. After all, Effie must like the look of someone. Didn’t everybody?
In the drawing room, they settled into armchairs, Jesse still clutching the sheaf of old papers; they gave off a sooty, sour smell, like embers and rot.
“I’ve been going through them,” he said, without preamble. His expression was grim. “All of them. They took a little decrypting, but it wasn’t much of a code. The key was my father’s name—Rupert.”
“I’m guessing from your expression that you didn’t much like what you found,” said James.
“I always knew my mother was bitter,” Jesse said. “I assumed that she’d struck out at you purely because of her hatred of your parents. But it seems you’ve been central to Belial’s plans—to Belial and my mother’s plans—all along.”
