He pushed past the first row of garbed members, ignoring the murmur of protests around him.
The woman was oddly ethereal, kneeling as she was, candlelight illuminating her face. She was looking up at the leader, an expression of solemn wonder on her face, her green eyes clear and guileless.
“Do you submit to the Society of the Mercaii?”
Again, she hesitated, then shook her head as if to clear it.
The leader bent forward, whispered something he couldn’t hear.
When she didn’t answer, the leader bent forward again. This time, his voice was louder. “Say: I surrender myself to the Society of the Mercaii.”
She closed her eyes, her head dropping forward.
Montgomery took another step toward her, knowing he couldn’t let the game play out to its conclusion.
The crowd around him pressed closer, evidently eager to see the rest. The men behind the leader parted, revealing a table draped with a white cloth.
He placed his hand against the pistol tucked into his jacket. A four-year-old habit of never going anywhere unarmed would prove helpful tonight. Reaching into his robe, he grabbed the handle of the mirror. If nothing else, the damn thing would serve as a second weapon.
Glancing at the woman, then the door, he calculated the distance. From what he’d seen of the British, they weren’t an overly confrontational sort. A Fairfax man knew when to fight and when to walk away.
He had to save the woman, but damned if it made him happy.
Veronica found it difficult to sit upright, let alone kneel. She was forced to look up, and the position made her dizzy. The flame atop the candle she held was surrounded by a bright white halo.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have taken the drink they’d given her.
“It’ll take away the chill of the evening,” someone said, when she’d entered the house.
“I don’t drink spirits, sir,” she’d replied.
He’d smiled. “It isn’t spirits, my dear, just something to warm you.”
The man had been so kind and handsome, with blue eyes reminding her of a summer sky in Scotland. She’d not wanted to appear rude, so she’d taken the cup and finished it.
Had it contained spirits? Would that explain her sudden wish to sleep?
The members of the Society clustered around her. She wished they’d tell her what she needed to know. A happenstance, to have overheard a soft-voiced discussion at the tobacconists, when she’d gone to get Uncle Bertrand’s favorite tobacco. Against all rules of decorum, she’d addressed the man before he left the shop.
“We should be happy to have you in the Society,” he said, smiling. “We’re having another meeting the first Tuesday of next month. Would you be able to attend?”
“I will, thank you.” He’d given her the address, and she’d memorized it. She had no privacy at Uncle Bertrand’s house.
The days had passed too slowly until tonight, when she’d waited until everyone was asleep before creeping down the servants’ stairs and out the kitchen door. She’d made her way to a busy street, where she’d hired a carriage, behavior shocking enough to warrant punishment.
Now, she looked up at the leader of the Society, the same man she’d met at the tobacconist’s, and congratulated herself on being there. He would tell her everything she needed to know.
If she weren’t so very tired, she would ask him.
He took the candle from her, her palms missing its warmth immediately. She was icy inside, like a snowy winter night in Scotland. Would they give her a blanket if she asked? The words formed, then sat on her lips, falling into nothingness before being voiced.
She raised her hand, then stopped, fascinated by her fingers. All she had to do was think, and her fingers moved. She raised them in front of her face and wiggled each one, feeling the most absurd wish to giggle.
A lady didn’t giggle in the middle of company.
“Stand.”
He’d given her an order, and she would have obeyed, but her legs wouldn’t support her. She waved her fingers, instead. The men on either side of her helped her stand, then moved the bench out of the way. She smiled her thanks, amazed when her lips felt numb.
