Ways to Be Wicked by Julie Anne Long Page B

with interest as his friend’s chest inflated with a deep inhale; then shrank again with an exhale of exaggerated patience that fluttered his cravat as well as the papers stacked on the corner of Tom’s desk, as he wasn’t very much taller than the desk. Tom patted a hand down over them just in time. He reminded himself to get a paperweight.
    “I built a damned castle for you Tom, in a week. I didn’t complain. I made sure we had costumes for a bunch of bloody damsels. I didn’t complain. And now you’ve gone and—”
    “And they loved it, didn’t they? Our audience? The damsels in distress? The song about lances?”
    The silence was a concession.
    “And you love the sound of coins jingling in your pocket, Gen, am I right?”
    “No, I like quiet pockets, Tom.”
    Tom grinned at this. Such a temper, The General had. Such a gift for sarcasm. But his tone had gone from irate to ironic, and would soon give way to resignation, he knew. So Tom said nothing, just waited for it. Tom could simply exhaust with charm if he so chose.
    “You should have consulted me before you hired her, Tom. You usually do.”
    “I should have,” Tom allowed gently. “And I apologize. But by now, I thought you might have learned to trust my instincts.”
    “Your instincts as a man of business are impeccable, Tom. Your instincts as a
man
get you into duels. And will one day, no doubt, get you killed.”
    The General stared at him with defiance, and when it was clear that Tom could think of nothing glib to say, the defiance metamorphosed into a sort of satisfaction that had nothing of triumph in it.
    “It’s a quarter past the hour, Gen,” Tom said finally. Cruel, he knew, but it was his only remaining line of defense.
    The General jumped and swore and all but bolted from the office.
    Tom sighed, half-smiling, then reached back into his stack of mail.
    He frowned when he touched one letter.
    And then he slowly picked it up, stared down at it. Saw the address upon it, and went very still. Little Swathing, Kent.
    He slit it open.
    We should be pleased to receive you should you call again.
    Cold, formal, polite. But it spoke of pride swallowed, or reservations breached at last, by his own insistent campaign.
    He’d made the journey once a week for months now. But today he’d found the occupants of the little cottage in Kent not at home. And now this.
    Tom held the letter, staring down at it, not unaware of this irony.
    Now that he’d been granted the thing he’d sought out of sheer stubbornness for weeks, he wasn’t certain whether in truth he really wanted it.
    Sylvie had been waiting alone in the dressing room a mere ten minutes or so when the girl called Rose appeared, and Sylvie almost smiled.
So Rose was the least thorny of the flowers in this particular theater,
and like the tactician he no doubt was, The General had decided not to leave Sylvie alone with someone significantly more...challenging, such as Molly, or her sort just yet.
    Rose looked at Sylvie with no particular emotion other than a sort of bemused curiosity, which Sylvie suspected was Rose’s default expression. It was a pity, because Rose had the sort of beauty that could drop men’s jaws—hair and eyes glossy and dark as a crow’s wing, a soft natural flush in her ivory cheeks—but she lacked the sort of fire or self-awareness that would fascinate a man to the exclusion of all else. Someday, no doubt, she would be endlessly indulged by a wealthy elderly man seeking an undemanding mistress.
    Rose wore her beauty as nonchalantly as her costume, as though she knew this, knew it was only temporary, only part of the show.
    “Yer French, then?” Rose asked with barely an inflection to indicate she’d just asked a question, and flung open a large wooden wardrobe. “Truly?”
    Yes. No. Maybe.
“Yes.” It was the simplest answer.
    “Well, I suppose The General wants ye to be a fairy today, same as the rest of us, soooo...ye’ll need a wand...” When Rose