It was called Kirk Park and it was splendourously emerald. It came upon Dorian's perpetually fatigued brain that Kirk Park was meant to be invigorating and he should act according, yet he was unable. He was in an insufferable mood as of late and forced pleasantry if only to appease his sister. Oh he had spent the weeks following the Easter Ball in feckless self-indulgence arguing that his was the worst lot any could afford. It was all bulldust and none had to tell him so. He knew. And as he scuffed the bottom of his newly shined black boots across the gravel that made up the path, he knew that Emma would turn and look at him with a warning.

Which she did as if on cue.

"I wish you would stop sulking..."

The edges of his lips threatened to waver toward the heavens, yet he sustained his composure by nipping at the evergreen with his fingers as they walked past.

"Give me my moments, Emma. I promised you charm and eloquence. So let me wallow now as not to make it obvious to our guest." He spoke naturally at first and slowly his voice decrescendoed into a sharp whisper.

Ah, yes. They were expecting a guest in which Emma had sent a letter to inviting to a stroll through the mall--a one Gwyneth Pritchard--infuriating harpy that she was. Yet Dorian, the foolhardy saint he was, would make strong his oath to remain loyal to Emma's bidding in these situations...however much he abhorred the idea.

"...like being caged with a hyena.." He grumbled under his breath.

"What did you say?!" She craned her head slightly with a glare that reminded him of mother.

He quickly pecked at an adjacent flower showing its blossom to Emma in a slight panic.

"I said 'it looks like a Magnoliopsida..'"

Dorian watched her eyebrow lift angrily. How could he think that Emma, being cooped up in a house all of the time, would not know her botanical flowers. The stare intensified and he felt a small lump begin to swell in his throat. He watched Emma as she wavered and finally gave in to complacency.

"You are moody."


Suddenly the air became stifled with a kind of seriousness that could not be ignored. Dorian had no choice but to follow suit. He strolled up to be at Emma's side and looked further on toward the grassy hill they were descending upon. He plucked a daffodil from its neighboring potted home and idly cleaned it of grassy debris.

There was a time of uncomfortable silence. Emma seemed far off as they walked together. Cacophoneous displacement of gravel was their music. Dorian mused to himself about creating an orchestral suite comprised soully of colliding rocks. They could not deny him his due as a Romantic artist. Or then perhaps he would be laughed at. That certainly would not do.

Looking to Emma once more, Dorian could see that the silence was doing her more worse than good. Conflicts of the heart were terribly gruesome to his way of articulation. Give him a room filled with the ladies of society and he could charm them all. To him, they would all be Helens-- a mass of beautious faces to launch a thousand ships and burn the topless towers of Illium.

Tweaking a stalky leaf on the daffodil, he fought to locate a single subject to extinguish the burning silence.

"Father is doing better."

"That might be a relief for some to know."
Emma retorted. Her tone was a warning. Clearly she did not want to talk about the senior Clayborne.

"I think you should go to him."

"I have no desire to see a man who out of love confines me. And I especially do not wish to converse with someone who finds no fault in this."

"He is your father as well as mine and only trying to love you the only way his battered heart knows how."

"Then my cursed presence in his home is his own fault. Out of love, he would have me unmarried, poor, and interminably ill!"

Oh dear. He seemed to only be exascerbating her current mood. Dorian made a quick resolve to abandon the road of communication with leaping recession. If she couldn't handle conversation, then he would not be obliged to speak at all!

He continued walking along and nodding to the men he knew as they passed. They looked just as bored as he. They came to a pond which rippled in the springtime wind and he took a deep breath in while closing his eyes. Ah! He thought. The Lord certainly does make his presence known in strange times.

"Aren't you going to offer me that flower?"

Emma's voice opened his eyes and he looked at her a moment, considering.

"...No. This is my flower. Pluck another one for yourself."

The right side of his mouth slightly curled up as he watched Emma grow insecure and then realize. She smirked and poked him teasingly. Emma quit her steady pace and walked to the marble seat overlooking the small pond. She sat herself down and wrapped her silk shawl over her arms.

Twirling the white and yellow daffodil between his thumb and forefinger, he approached the pond inquisitively. There was always something about ponds that reminded him of childhood. No doubt, if here were any frogs spotted, he would have to restrain himself from trying to catch them.

"The good Ms. Pritchard should be along soon.."

His jaw clenched a bit and he turned in profile to lay eyes on Emma. Another thing that made him feel like a child, though not in a fond way. It was forcibly brought to his mind why they were here to begin with. He knew Emma was testing him. He knew he should not retort, but hid pride would not abide.

"And did you tell Alecto, daughter of Gaea, to leave her shackles of despair and guilt on Olympus?"

"Dorian, I will not have you--!"

"Tush, Emma, I do not mean it." He said boldly and with authority. He meant it.

The two Pritchard sisters had intended to take their perambulations together with the Claybornes, but after the unexpected desertion of Tamsin this morning Gwyneth was left on her own. How could her sister have fallen sick that fast, anyhow? Perhaps Tamsin had done it apurpose purely to leave Gwyneth in despair. She was not at all sure if she was going to be able to be civil to Mr Clayborne, but at the same time she knew that to have a chance of sustaining a friendship with Emma, whom she very much liked, it was necessary to deal with her brother on pleasant terms. Previously, she had thought that it was impossible to allow one person’s excellence to outweigh the defects in their relations.

Those defects were unpardonable, and she did not think that she would ever get along with Clayborne on his own. He had given her multiple excellent reasons to hold him in distaste, and in fact she could not think of one redeeming quality about him. Abominable man! It was purely maddening to know that she could not really tell him what she thought, which was, to wit: he was a perfect brute. But she would tolerate him, or at least she would try her best to do so, because Clayborne was not on his own today.

Reflecting upon this simply put her in an ill humour, one that she did not want to be displaying on her face to Emma, and so she put herself in mind of something else. Tamsin was naturally an easy target, and with her sister not around to defend herself (not that her defenses were terribly convincing in the first place) Gwyneth was free to consider it.

Naturally it was easy to think well of Sir Vandenberg. He had shown himself a true gentleman at the Easter Ball, when things went straight to hell. - Gwyneth was able to think about all of that rationally now; it almost seemed as if it hadn’t happened. It was so utterly strange to think that there had been a murder that it was easy to put it out of mind. She did remember, however, the judge’s unexpected kindness. Regardless of whether she had cared for his company at that moment in the back-room of the theatre, he had been good to she and her sister.

However, though proving him a gentleman, it certainly did not explain Tamsin’s reaction to the fellow. Gwyneth really could not explain the odd fancy that her sister had taken to the judge. He was…not quite ugly, she wouldn’t go that far. But that goblin smile was miles away from being handsome, or even dashing. That plus his eyebrows (and such eyebrows she had never seen on a man before) made him look positively villainous.

As far as personality went…well, he was kind, and courteous. But he had displayed nothing resembling a sense of humour, and the ability to laugh was indispensable in a man. Beyond that he was a good deal older than Tamsin. It wasn’t December and May, but more like…September and June, perhaps? Certainly it was very common for a younger woman to set up with an older man; they were generally more settled, and also as it happened richer, which probably explained why so many marriages happened that way. Not that this would go anything like that far, for one thing Sir Vandenberg had shown no peculiar return interest that she had seen, and, if he thought about it at all, he probably thought that Tamsin was…well…a little girl. If her sister let him have any inkling that she had such an inclination for his company, she would be setting herself up for humiliation. And considering how Tamsin had behaved in Gwyneth's presence, Gwyneth suspected that her sister might be about to make a very big fool of herself.

Not that Gwyneth would say that to her sister. But Tamsin really was being ridiculous! The attraction made no sense at all to Gwyneth. Perhaps she was reading too much into Tamsin. Maybe it really was just a sudden obsession with fencing? But Tamsin had never shown any undue interest before, plus she reacted much too strongly to Gwyneth’s teasing. Weigh it as she would, Gwyneth could conclude nothing other than that her sister had formed an infatuation with Sir Vandenberg.

Having established that in her mind, she further reflected that she did not approve of the infatuation in the slightest. Sir Vandenberg simply wasn’t good enough for her sister. He might be an excellent fellow, but Tamsin deserved an Adonis, or an Apollo, not the high court judge, Knight Companion of the Bath though he might be. She would have to see what she could do about changing her sister’s mind. She did not have the least idea how at the moment, but she would figure out a way.

Throughout her musings, she had more or less been allowing Mrs Somers to guide her. As it was unthinkable for a woman to go out on her own, and Tamsin was calling upon Sir Vandenberg, Gwyneth had set out for Kirk Park in the company of their housekeeper. Mrs Somers walked rather slowly, being somewhat elderly, and so Gwyneth had plenty of time to think about things. Unfortunately her thoughts rolled back around to the Claybornes, and an uncomfortable atmosphere descended upon her once again.

She did not know how precisely she was going to deal with it. She wished Emma to think well of her, and at the same time if she never saw Emma’s brother again in her entire life it would be too soon. It would be easier if she did not have to speak to him much. What to talk on, so as not to directly exclude him but give him as little opportunity to converse as possible? She could think of a few things, but the problem was, those would bore her as well, and would probably bore Emma. It was a quandary she did not quite know her way out of. She would just have to go without a map.

With Mrs Somers beside her and a little behind her, the servant-woman chunnering slightly to herself, she made her way through Kirk Park. She expected to find the Claybornes by the pond, at least that was where Emma had designated for them to meet. The weather couldn’t do anything other than lift her spirits, for it was a fine day, with a smiling sun in only slightly clouded skies. It really was hard to worry too much. Beyond that, she very much looked forwards to seeing Emma.

Rounding the bend in the path, she saw the two Clayborne siblings where they had said they would be. Emma was seated, while her brother stood; his face was a thunder-cloud, but she ignored it; slipping away from Mrs Somers, she sped up towards Emma, slipping around the trellised arbour to stand in front of her newfound friend. She forgot about Mrs Somers puffing along behind her, and about the other Clayborne, and held out her hands to Emma with her face glowing. “Miss Clayborne!” she said delightedly.

Emma fidgeted with the lace that decorated her shawl. She could not deny that her attitude toward Dorian as of late had been monstrously unregulated. Her patience had been nearly lost on her poor brother and there seemed to be no end in sight. Now looking on through Kirk Park, she meditated on her personal feelings in the silence that was brought on by her mood.

It wasn't all Dorian's fault. Emma traced the lines of the toille in her clothing as she thought of her own frustrations. The tips of her fingers traced the lines of the fabric. She wanted so much to aspire for the dream that was implied by the patterns on her dresses, the stories in her books, and the fantasies she had created herself. But now it was so very real that she was conscious of her own confusion.

As they waited for her newfound friend, Gwyneth Pritchard, Emma Clayborne was introduced to a newer sense of intimidated fear. She was frightened that the life she was denied for so long may possibly be nothing as she expected. She had stood her ground and won a few meters more room. She was frightened and fidgety in these moments of the newfound unknown. She felt as the pilgrims must have felt when they braved the cobalt oceans in search of something bigger than themselves.

Emma concentrated upon the brilliant colors of the day. The azure sky with white billowing clouds decorating the heavens. The emerald dancing green of the park with adornments of a tropical spectrum of flowers.

She felt a flush of clammy heat warm and cool her sickly cheeks and that all too familiar weakness fill her head and she immediately proscribed a hand to press against the back of her bare neck. Baby curls danced behind her ears and just below the rest of her hairline. She silently prayed that Gwyneth would like her and that Dorian would not be so bothersome.

And just as angels come to aid those who pray to them, so too did Gwyneth appear in her field of vision. All fear seemed far away at that moment as Emma rose to a stand. She went to meet Gwyneth placing her hands in her friends feeling the comfort of the entire world in those warm palms. Her smile was bright lighting up her frail and sickly face with an ethereal glow that almost looked becoming.

"Miss Pritchard! How lovely you look on this fine day! How very good of you to meet us here."

Emma canted her head toward Dorian in hopes that his face would further kindle this sense of happiness. Dorian appeared as if he has seen a ghost--as grave as a Gothic novel he was--which caused her smile to dilute slightly. And then as is he had noticed her suddenly, Dorian quickly regained his composure and urged a polite and agreeable smile to his features as he walked past them toward an elderly looking lady that Emma had not much noticed out of her happiness at seeing Gwyneth.

"It is wonderful to see you."

Emma gave a polite acknowledgment to the elderly lady awaiting to further address her after Gwyneth introduced her. In this moment, Emma could not imagine a world enriched with such wonderful people being a terrible place in any aspect whatsoever.

Dorian groaned a bit in annoyance at the situation. He didn't like waiting for people and least of all women who felt they were too self-important to arrive on time. He leaned his hand against the bark of the willow tree that hovered close to the shore of the pond. It was a very agreeable position until the wind began to curl the willow's limp branches around his arms and neck like a python ready to engulf its prey. This was not so agreeable.

Fortunately, quitting his post near the willow tree marked the appearance of Gwyneth and her escort--an elder lady who seemed to struggle walking. But Dorian's attention could not focus on the elder lady. His eyes were absolutely stagnant upon Gwyneth. His mouth became very dry breath for some reason seemed unattainable. She looked...he could not describe her. It was the daylight. It must have been the daylight. She looked clean and cool like the water in the pond, only...

His lower lip fell agape in confusion. The lump in his throat swelled as he searched her tiny frame--searching for the culprit of this disease in her. She was...beautiful? Suddenly that word had a profound affect on him. He was paralyzed until the thought of beauty sent a chill down his spine. He realized that he was staring at Gwyneth and Emma was looking right at him.

He cleared his throat loudly and averted his eyes to the grass around his shoes. It seemed as if time had stopped in that moment and then everything had begun again but faster as if making up for the time loss. His hands began to shake a bit and he brought them behind his back one holding the other. And for some god awful reason, his heart pumped madly in his chest.

This aggravated him to no end. He suddenly remembered Emma against who still looked on him with a wavering smile. In a panic, he mustered up a polite smile. Had they noticed anything? Dorian never usually struck others with outward emotion. No matter the tumult that writhed in his body, outwardly he appeared to them as placid and dull as a glass of water. He hoped in this moment, this strong attribute would prove strong.

He nodded as kindly as he could, frustrated with Gwyneth already, and annoyed at the entire situation. Walking to the elder lady, he finally took in a breath and smiled charmingly.

"Madam, please take my arm. If not for you than for me."

He still had it in him to remain charismatic. A feeling of relief rushed over him and he thanked the Lord on high that he was not found out. Extending his arm for the woman to take, he almost looked forward to Gwyneth, but caught himself. He bristled a bit out of frustration.

She was even dictating to him where he could look! That malicious harpy! Still....still it is not wise to do that again. Heaven only knows what could happen.

Dorian was frightened in that moment as to what he was feeling. A schoolboy again. A child frightened of the great unknown. He hated it. What exactly was it? He conjured her face in his mind's eye trying to pinpoint what it was. Yet this only seem to imprison his breath again. Best not to think on it..

They had finally made it over to Emma and Gwyneth. Dorian unconsciously clenched and unclenched his jaw tightly as he looked to his sister. The look on Emma's face made him aware of the fact that he was being forced to look at the young Miss Pritchard and the thought nearly made him sick.

///Last Post: Her Majesty's Prison Farringdon Circle
(((OOC:Dorian, I hope you don't mind me making Jeremy your friend)))

Prudence had once more called her unladylike and heartless. She had also threatened to write to her father, but she gave up as soon as Madeline cast her an evil glare. Evil...more like a warning glare. At least that was how she liked to see it. One way or another, it got her where she wanted to go. If it would ever fail to work, though, Madeline would find other methods of having it her way. In spite of her great pride, she would resort to begging if she would see great use in it. But the use would have to be more among the lines of enormous. This was one thing Madeline did not exaggerate-she truly would not give up her pride for just aything. Not even a new dress or a new pair of gloves. Which rated as extremely important objects in her life. But what was the point of possessing those objects if you could not go out and show them?

This kind of thinking was precisely what had caused the argument between Madeline and Prudence. It might have been better to say what argument, because there had been many during their 'alliance', as Madeline liked to call it. Since it certainly was not to be compared to friendship. More like enmity. Earlier today, Madeline had been to the prison again, to visit an old friend of hers that was stuck there. Naturally, Prudence had not come along. Actually, Madeline had never even notified her of this excursion of hers, foremost because the governess would never have allowed it. So why bother asking? Still, Prudence had noticed Madeline's disappearance, and when the young woman came back, questions were asked. Even though she managed to think up of a perfect lie(meeting a friend from a very respectable family), it did not soothe Prudence's nerves.

Just an hour after that, Prudence had another outburst when Madeline came down wearing her newest promenade gown. It really was beautiful, made of silk and satin, colored very lighte beige and made by the lates fashion. It had a hat to go along with it-a nice, feathery hat. She had bought it a few weeks ago, just before the ball. Madeline could not understand Prudence's disagree, because the dress had a high collar and it was not very provocative in Madeline's eyes. However, the governess had her reason. Since, she implied, Madeline had known Ferdinand Mallister, she should wear mourning clothes and not leave the house for at least a day. Outrageous! How dared she ask such a thing from her. No, not ask-Prudence had ordered her! And it espeically bothered her because she had clearly stated her desire to go for a walk in the park.

The fight that had followed was something Madeline rather enjoyed, and Prudence rather did not. After nearly half of an hour of arguing, the Southern Belle was about to march out of the house with or without the governess' approval. But she was saved of having to do such a thing and risking her father being notified of her misbehaviour...by the bell. The doorbell, to be more precise. It chimed, and both of the women spun in it's direction. They listened to the maid open, and after a few seconds, she entered the parlor, where they were located. "There is a gentleman here to see Miss Madeline." was all she said, and it was enough for the young woman to rush to the door. Prudence followed, naturally.

The said gentleman turned out to be Mr. Jeremy Trent, a very handsome guy with dark hair and green eyes. Plus he came from a very rich family. Only that they didn't really adore him-he was the younger son, and he was the black sheep of the family. Not because he did anything truly scandalous-he just loved women, loved mischief and loved being in the centre of attention. And he adored Madeline, while she could certainly say she liked him well enough to know the answer to his question; "Would Miss Madeline be interested for a walk in the park?" Of course she was! Just as she thought of a quick excuse to leave Prudence behind. Oh, joy! It would've been very rude of Prudence to protest, for how could she not trust such a fine young man?

Right now, they were walking along a path, enjoying the scenery and the fresh air. Madeline loved this park for one reason-it reminded her of South Carolina. Not that it could ever reach her home's knee-the air was chillier here and there was a tad more fog-but it was the closest thing she could find. She really missed her father's plantation and all the lovely things she used to do there. Whenever she thought of her sisters having fun, making all those parties and balls, she would feel so extremely envious of them. Normally, she never admitted it. All they knew(from what she had written them), she was having the most perfect time in Lindeboshire, England. It certainly was fine enough with company like Jeremy...and Mikhail. Oh, yes, she remembered Mikhail. The tango...yes, it had been great. Even now, during this walk, people were passing by and staring at her. They recognized her from the newspaper-and she was happy because of that. Needless to say she was very thankful to Mikhail. And she hoped they'd see each other again soon.

"May I ask what thoughts occupy your pretty head, Miss Smith?"; Jeremy asked rather teasingly. With a smirk, Madeline clung to his arm tighter, replying in an equal manner, "Oh, it truly is not appropriate for the public, Mr. Trent." They both laughed and went on walking. It was not too long before they reached a lovely pond. Madeline had been here before, and she had always enjoyed sitting on the marble seat. Which was taken now, she noted, rather displeased. A man and a woman were sitting on it. She was just about to pull Jeremy in another direction, not to intrude on their privacy(actually, she didn't care for their privacy, she merely did not find them interesting enough), when he spoke; "Ah, I have just spotted my friend, Mr. Clayborne. You would not mind if we went over to greet them, Miss Smith?"

"Of course not." Madeline mused, now paying more attention to the other couple. Or where they truly a couple? There was some resemblance between them; maybe they were related? Siblings? The man looked quite older from Jeremy(who was twenty), but the woman looked like she could be his age. Right away, Madeline started regarding her as competition. Which meant that she created a negative picture of her in her mind as well. Not that she was about to show it. She also spotted another woman approaching(onse she recalled from the ball), only to be greeted delightedly by the woman and not so delightedly by the man. Jeremy led her over to them, nodding his head in greeting; "Ah, Dorian! It is very good to see you indeed. You too, lovely Miss Emma." He took Emma's hand and kissed her. The anger that flashed through Madeline's eyes had not escaped him, because soon he turned back to her, casting a smile; "Of course, allow me to introduce you to the most beautiful lady of all I've met," Madeline's gaze changed to approving, "Miss Madeline Smith of South Carolina."

"How do you do." Madeline curtsied with a polite beam on her full lips. In reality, she wished for Emma to fall into the pond, despite the fact she barely knew her and the fact she didn't even love Jeremy. She also wished for Gwyneth to fall into the pond before being introduced to Jeremy. She needed to have everything; and if she couldn't have it, nobody would.

http://www.abfab.co.uk/Thumbnails/SD90718.jpg

Emma rose from the marble seat to meet Gwyneth, linking their hands, and Gwyneth felt, because the connection nearly demanded it, the brief temptation to whirl about in a childish fashion. Instead, she simply held Emma’s hands gently; the other girl’s fingers felt very cold, even through the gloves that both wore, and if it had not been a fresh spring day she would have wondered why Emma was not wearing a muff. A muff would have looked very odd this time of year. Was Emma well? She looked better than she had at the ball; there was a blooming and seemingly healthy colour in her face, but her hands really were very cold! Emma's face looked well, though, and Gwyneth did not know very much about telling such things.

"Thank you! You look lovely yourself. It is good to see you!" she said warmly. And it was perfectly true. Then, however, Emma released Gwyneth’s left hand, and turned towards her brother; Gwyneth was forcibly obliged to do the same. Clayborne was looking at her furiously; he had a grim set to his features that left her again expecting that he might be about to explode in a clap of thunder. Or perhaps he might snarl. Her own smile became slightly fixed at finding him staring at her so intensely – he could at least ignore her, rather than glare so – but after a moment he dropped his gaze, pasted a smile on his face, and walked on past them. Well, maybe he was going to ignore her after all? Surprisingly, she found that idea even more irritating.

Gwyneth realised that she had forgotten Mrs Somers then, though Mrs Somers was not far behind, and she turned along with Emma prepared to give the introduction that was expected, as well as an explanation. They had of course been expecting Tamsin to be with her. She should have explained why her sister could not come from the very first, without needing Clayborne to remind her of it, but she remedied that now. "I am sorry to tell you, Miss Clayborne, but Tamsin has fallen ill and was unable to come with me today. She is in no danger but has been advised to keep to the house."

After Gwyneth had said that, Clayborne had offered his arm to Mrs Somers, and Mrs Somers had taken it. His courtesy towards her had been unexpected, but was not in the least disdained; she was plump, and elderly, and gravity tended to have its way with her. She leaned rather heavily on him; she and Gwyneth had not been travelling terribly fast, but it took very little to wear her out. Then Clayborne and Mrs Somers were there with them, and it was necessary to introduce Mrs Somers to the Claybornes, which Gwyneth set out somewhat uncertainly to do.

Mrs Somers was in point of fact the wife of their steward, Bradley Somers, and she kept house for the Pritchards. Her name was Eugenie, but Gwyneth had never been able to call her by such a familiarity. Mrs Somers had known and cared for the two sisters since they were babes in swaddling. And consequently she couldn’t help but afford Mrs Somers a measure of diffidence and respect, no matter that she placed over Mrs Somers in the eyes of society’s hierarchy. Nor could either Pritchard really give orders; Mrs Somers ran the Pritchard house more or less exactly as she pleased.

"Miss Clayborne," Gwyneth said, "This is Mrs Bradley Somers, my companion. Mrs Somers, this is Miss Emma Clayborne and her brother, Captain Dorian Clayborne." That was perhaps slightly impolite, as Dorian’s name should have been the one she said first, but she said it casually, as if it were accidental. She was at least going to make some small concession to what Clayborne deserved. Besides, in her opinion, Emma was decidedly far more valuable than her brother, whether etiquette considered her to be or not.

"Pleasure to meet you, a pleasure," Mrs Somers said affably, when without much chance for either Clayborne to make reply they were accosted by another couple. Gwyneth observed them carefully, as one of them looked familiar; she realised a moment later that she had seen the young woman at the ball. She was the one that Gwyneth had remarked upon for her haughty manner. She still had the same proud and possessive air now, holding onto the young man's arm as if she owned him and perhaps the world into the bargain. Gwyneth also knew something else about her: she was the American girl that had danced the tango and shocked the entire gathering. Gwyneth did not know what to make of her based on that, though, so she determined to judge fairly on whatever she was about to learn of her.

She did not know the young man at all. He was young, and flamboyant, and rather handsome, but beyond that she could say even less of him than of the American girl. Beyond, of course, the fact that he knew and was evidently on friendly terms with Clayborne. That was an automatic mark in his disfavour. Perhaps the fact that he knew Emma might balance that out a little, but she reserved judgement on him as well until after she was introduced.

The American girl – Miss Madeline Smith - had an interesting accent. Gwyneth had, in point of fact, never met with an American at all, much less a Southerner. Miss Smith’s drawl sounded very odd to her ears, although not quite unpleasant. And in fact, she looked very much more reasonable upon a closer inspection than she had at first appeared.

But Gwyneth was still not precisely happy about the appearance of these two. It was…well, she did not know what it was, but she thought she would have preferred it if they had left her and the Claybornes alone. Perhaps it was something about Miss Smith; the younger girl had a perfectly sweet expression, but Gwyneth distrusted it for no reason that she could name. She had seen something flash in Miss Smith's eyes a few moments before, and perhaps it was that.

Nevertheless, she mustered a smile of her own for the two. She could not speak until she was introduced, of course.

It hadn't occurred to Emma that Tamsin was not present until Gwyneth mentioned it. This wasn't because Emma only cared for Gwyneth's presence. On the contrary, she would have been equally elated if not more for both sisters to have attended the mall on such a fine day. However, Emma was too jocund for the presence of one to have noticed the absence of the other.

When Gwyneth told her of Tamsin's ailment, Emma felt ashamed for not noticing and furthermore worried for Tamsin's health. This species of depression made her cheeks flare in indignation for herself.

"Oh, Dear. You must forgive me for not noticing. You simply must give her my consolation upon your return. I do hope that she will be able to recover expeditiously."

She could not help but feel a little self-conscious at her mistake in which she thought horribly visible to the rest of the company. Geeling now for the first time her clammy touch against Gwyneth's healthy palm, Emma subtly withdrew from her guest's grasp which was ultimately more noticeable by a series of introductions to Mrs. Somers.

The odd introduction of Emma before her brother to Mrs. Somers was completely lost on her as she was not fully accustomed to etiquette in the true world. Most of what she knew of polite society stemmed from her voracious appetite for any and all books none of which were comprised soully on proprietary needs. Thus, she bent at the knee slightly with a respectful smile to Mrs. Somers as if there was nothing amiss.

Mrs. Somers was older, but nonetheless beautiful to Emma. She held the quality of years of untenderness growing into the fruition of an elegant spirit. It was blatant that Mrs. Somers was of lower rank in society, but the currency of social hierarchy never did amount to much in Emma's mind. She was reminded of her closest friend, Abby, in that moment. A lady of the house yet so much more to Emma. Perhaps Gwyneth gelt the same toward her Mrs. Somers in which case Emma decidedly loved the young Miss Pritchard evermore.

Emma was about to make a reply when another party interjected. She immediately recognized the man as Mr. Jeremy Trent, an old friend of her brother. Her heart flourished in utter happiness at seeing someone else she had acquaintence with. As Dorian spoke to Mr. Trent, Emma felt a sudden outcropping of confidence. The world cannot be so terrible with such lovely people filling it.

With only slight reservation did Emma allow Mr. Trent to take and kiss her hand. It was only out of fear that he should find it cold and clammy.

"Hello, Mr. Trent. How very good to see you!"

Her happiness was dampened, however, when she caught sight of his female companion's flare. This nearly frightened Emma completely solid. Her once deliberate hand recoiled from Mr. Trent's flatly.

The woman he attended was very beautiful. Her hair came in dark curls that were exquisitely placed exactly where they should. And her eyes, when not filled with unregistered emotion, could quell the rage of an empassioned stallion. Perhaps it was true that she was the most beautiful in all that Mr. Trent has met. When compared to this woman now introduced as "Madeline Smith," Emma was a houndstooth to her toile. Still, tere was something quite off about her.

When Jeremy mentioned she was from South Carolina, and the lady herself had begun to speak with an accent, Emma recognized what was strange. Miss Smith was from America!

Her brow dampened a bit as she peered at her like a caveman would to fire. Emma had never spoken to or least of all seen an American. This perhaps would explain her subtly varied yet equally elegant attire. Rather than admit ignoreance, Emma smiled and spoke up.

"Miss Smith. It is a sincere pleasure. It seems that the Lord has abundantly blessed me today with such fine company and such promising weather. Won't you join us?"

Her deep brown eyes went to Dorian. For some reason she was in dire need of support. Had they become so far removed from each other that he could not sense the urgency she felt but could not emote? Emma felt as if she were losing ground by the second and her confidence again began to wane.

Marie Dargeaux was walking through the park, searching for clues.

So far she had found quite a number of them, but most unfortunately they weren’t clues that would help her solve the murder case. That kind of clue was a special kind of clue, a Clue, whereas these clues were more mundane clues of the sort that let her know who was mad at whom and who had been walking through the park and who was scandalous and that sort of thing. Regular, boring clues. Currently, she knew that Mrs Rodgers was angry with Mrs Jones for throwing a more elegant dinner party for their circle of friends—which was always the case, and Marie didn’t know why Mrs Rodgers even bothered to try, since it was obvious that she would always lose. She also knew that some strange lady suspected the neighbour’s daughter of “being no better than she ought to,” which was a phrase that confused Marie. Of course people were no better than they ought to be. After all, if that was how good they ought to be, how could they be better? It made no sense.

It was dull drudgework walking through the city and collecting these clues, but that was the price of serving the public. It was especially dull because she had sent her deputy off to follow a very suspicious-looking fellow, the kind that might be a Suspect, and now she had no one to talk to. Not that Bradley was very good conversation, being dense about understanding that she was the boss because she was the inspector, but he was better than none. Plus, when he had been with her, she wouldn’t have gotten in trouble if Miss Fitzgerald, the governess, happened on her since she could argue that she wasn’t alone. Miss Fitzgerald probably would have listened to that, and not impeded Marie’s civic duties.

Miss Fitzgerald had been a real problem lately, obstructing the investigation at every turn. It was only thanks to the half sovereign that Marie had gotten off of the icky man, Ferdinand Mallister, that she was able to keep the investigation up in style. Miss Fitzgerald had thrown away the first fabric that Marie had bought to sew herself proper detective’s clothing, which had been a huge drain on expenses. It was only because Marie had been wise enough to bargain for more than she needed that she could afford the replacement fabric. Once the fabric had been converted to garments, she had gotten Bradley to agree to hide the clothes for her in a box in his father’s little garden shed, because she could sneak in there without a key through the loose board, and Miss Fitzgerald couldn’t throw them away because she wouldn’t know about them.

The bribe to make Bradley do it had set her back to only a crown remaining, which had caused a horrible dilemma. She needed two different hats: a black-tasselled red fez and a deerstalker cap. The fez would run almost the full crown, while the deerstalker would only cost about three shillings—but there wouldn’t be enough left to buy the fez. Eventually she had decided to buy the deerstalker and save for the fez, since she had an almost fez she had constructed out of an old red pillbox hat.

It had been the right decision, Marie reflected as she walked through the park. Because now she was properly accoutred as a detective inspector: she was wearing the checked deerstalker, and a matching checked Inverness coat over her day dress. It was still a little bit cool in spring so the extra warmth wasn’t a problem yet, although it wasn’t needed either. Detectoring went much better when one looked like a detective. Marie was about to end this session of detectoring, however. She needed to get back to departmental headquarters before Father did, or she might be in trouble. She was almost out of the park when it happened.

She found a Clue.

Or rather, she overheard one. Miss Hearst was talking to her friend Miss Batherstein, and Marie’s ears latched on to one of the names—Miss Madeline Smith. Marie couldn’t believe her ears. Madeline Smith was a Suspect! This was a Clue of the first class! She began to follow the two of them discreetly, checking her pocket-watch (one of Father’s that she had borrowed, because the department was so low on funds) and stretching her ears to hear everything, remembering it all for transcription to her case book once she got home.

Miss Hearst said to Miss Batherstein, one-forty-five-pee-emm: “I saw her at the Easter Ball, dancing that scandalous, scandalous dance with that awful man.”
Miss Batherstein said to Miss Hearst, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “Was it really so hideous as they say it was?”
Miss Hearst said to Miss Batherstein, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “Oh, my dear Elaina, it was so much worse!”
Miss Batherstein said to Miss Hearst, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “Do tell!”
Miss Hearst said to Miss Batherstein, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “I was shocked, absolutely shocked! The strumpet actually kissed him, right there in front of everyone!”
Miss Batherstein said to Miss Hearst, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “But the dance?”
Miss Hearst said to Miss Batherstein, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “Oh, goodness gracious, it was so horribly indecent. They were so close together, and they touched each other in such indecorous ways… it’s too horrible to relate.”
Miss Batherstein said to Miss Hearst, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “I wonder how she can show her face?”
Miss Hearst said to Miss Batherstein, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “I have no idea. She’s a trollop. She isn’t even with the same man today!”
Miss Batherstein said to Miss Hearst, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “Ooo, you mean that wasn’t him?!”
Miss Hearst said to Miss Batherstein, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “No indeed! The other one was much more brutish. This one at least isn’t touching her.”
Miss Batherstein said to Miss Hearst, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “Was there anything positive about the other one?”
Miss Hearst said to Miss Batherstein, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “Well, he was very graceful, and quite handsome. But such a brute!”
Miss Batherstein said to Miss Hearst, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “A troll?”
Miss Hearst said to Miss Batherstein, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “Indeed!”
Miss Batherstein said to Miss Hearst, one-forty-seven-pee-emm: “A troll for the trollop! How rich!”
One-forty-seven-pee-emm: Miss Hearst giggles.
One-forty-seven-pee-emm: A small pause.
Miss Hearst said to Miss Batherstein, one-forty-seven-pee-emm: “She’s gone over by the pond. We can go back now.”

Marie, already beginning to tire of the arduous work of watching the clock without looking like she was, perked up. The other stuff she hadn’t known, but it fit exactly with the character of the Suspect. It wasn’t surprising. But the information that the Suspect was in the park, and further, by the pond, was enough to cause her to lose all boredom and scurry off to go spy on the Suspect. What suspicious things would she be doing today? It took Marie about minute to arrive behind the rose hedges near the pond and peep out at the Suspect, by which time the Suspect—and the Suspect’s escort, for she actually had one today—had happened across a group of people.

For a moment Marie was almost more interested in them than the Suspect. She recognised the pretty one right away. It was Recluse Sister Number Two, from the big old house where Mr Pritchard had died a few years ago! Jennie, Marie’s friend who lived near there, had told her all about the tragic tale. The Recluse Sisters, seldom seen outside of their home (except that Jennie’s mum said that they went to parties, but what did Jennie’s mum know) were unfortunate ladies who had the unhappy circumstance of watching their father die right before their eyes. This had affected them so much that they now saw death whenever they looked at someone; instead of seeing beauty, they only ever saw the inevitable fading of such beauty that time would bring. This had forced them to become hermit-like in their own home, so as to spare themselves the pain of ever falling in love with someone and seeing his death repeatedly.

There was also Captain Clayborne, someone that Marie hadn’t yet worked up the courage to talk to (he was a Captain, and therefore almost like a king—certainly he was heaps more important and talented than her, so it might be a while before she did), and another man that Marie didn’t know but immediately dubbed Mr Fox, because he was so very smarmy. And there was another woman, whose back was to Marie. Who could that be? At the very moment that Marie wondered, the woman turned to look at the Suspect, and Marie’s mouth fell open.

It was the Captured Princess! Marie and Jennie had seen her in the window of Captain Clayborne’s house a couple of times, but neither of them had ever seen her on the street. They had decided that the only reason for her to never come out that made sense was that she was prevented from coming out. That naturally led to a discussion of possible reasons for such restraints being placed on her, and they had logicked it out that the only explanation for it was that she was a princess that Captain Clayborne had captured while on foreign duty in India, and she was being held here because they couldn’t put her in a prison and so they had put her in the house and told Captain Clayborne, him being the finest gentleman of the realm (next to Father of course, but the Queen probably didn’t know about Father), to make sure she had everything she wanted—except that she couldn’t leave the house. Marie’s mind raced. Why had that changed today?

Wouldn’t Jennie be so jealous that she wasn’t here! Marie resolved to note every detail of the Captured Princess’ appearance, so that she could recount it for Jennie since she couldn’t be here. Marie tried to think of way to go approach the group to talk to them, but she didn’t know any of them except for the Suspect, which was no kind of help at all. She was forced to stay behind the hedge, only watching with bated breath. She would learn something amazing here today, that was for sure.

(OOC: For reverence, an Inverness coat looks like this although Marie's is checked, so as to match her deerstalker.)

((OOC: No prob! I enjoy the unexpected))

Dear God! He was being forced to look at her! In all time, he had never been so uncomfortable in looking at any woman as he was in this moment. But his Word was his alone and he had promised Emma upon that virtue to not only acknowledge Gwyneth but also to be cordial. Swallowing hard, Dorian did his best to paint a polite disposition. His eyes drifted to her face avoiding those effervescent eyes and running along the flush of her cheeks, the indentationi of her warm-colored lips, eyebrows, ears, chin. They were all but plain features showing true to their definitions. Ears to hear as his would be used, nose to smell, eyes to see, lips to speak...kiss, cheeks to caress...NO! He shunned these digressions in such a tumultuous shock. Dorian was not quite sure what was happening to him. He hated Gwyneth, did he not?!

Thankfully, Dorian's expression was trained on boredom or irritation, which ever a person's impression may be.

"Welcome Miss Pritchard." He said flatly as if distracted.
"So good of you to come."

Dorian felt relieved in that moment that he did not stress his words any more than needed. His mind was playing tricks on him that made him feel much like an ass, a buffoon, a coxcomb, and all of the myriad of tragically comic characters in the books that he had read. It was now up to Gwyneth to speak introductions. He casually turned his attentions to Emma and Mrs. Somers. Anyone but her for all the choirs of angels!

"This is Mrs Bradley Somers, my companion. Mrs Somers, this is Miss Emma Clayborne and her brother, Captain Dorian Clayborne."

It was as if a lightning bolt had struck him--which most would be quite surprised--when Miss Pritchard kindly gave him the fuel to breach whatever syndrome he was falling under. She had hoped he wouldn't have noticed the subtle dig, but the foolish cow was wrong! Gwyneth had introduced Emma before him. Normally, the order of introduction made no effect upon him, yet because she did so, Dorian understood the vague disrespect.

His eyes shot directly to Gwyneth's eyes in that moment, locking with them deliberately yet letting no foul distemper pass through the concentration. Gwyneths' eyes were filled with something...some quality beyong his grasp. They were dark, mysterious and...yes...yes beautiful. They had a tendency to encapsulate the view surrounding its spheres. His mouth grew dry even through his disdain.

OH! Confounded Confusion! His brain was filled with a potent concoction of longing and anger that raised the heart rate and collapsed the lungs. This woman was trying to kill him! But no, Dorian was above this petty game! He was a man and such a definition dictates callousness. He was a Captain of a dragoon for Christ's sake!

Clearing his throat yet again, he resolved himself to affect indifference and placidity. It could not have come at a better time when his name was called out by a familiar male voice. Turning slightly, he recognized Jeremy Trent--an old friend of the family. His father and the senior Clayborne were close friends growing up and it was only natural that their sons be tender to one another. Of course, Trent was much younger than Dorian which did not allow for any serious closeness but that of the fondness of seeing each other more often than not. Dorian kindly asked Mrs. Somers' permission to break away which she kindly gave. Once broken away from Mrs. Somers, Dorian went to Jeremy.

"Jeremy, sir!" Dorian said smiling. His tone was friendly with a hint of relief. Extending his hand outward to Jeremy they shook hands and Dorian patted his arm tenderly. Jeremy Trent was never needed so much for a person's salvation as he was now in Dorian's situation. For that, Dorian was forever indebted on some level.

His attention was brought to his young female escort--a one Madeline Smith. She seemed familiar to him though he did not know from where or when. It could not be possible that he knew an American woman. Whatever this familiarity, Dorian assured himself that Madeline was a very honest form of beauty. Not this horrible hodgepodge of wavering emotions he was feeling for Gwyneth. Certainly not. Who could find tender moments with a woman that made someone feel like they were going into shock!? At that moment, he envied Jeremy, for being in the company of an exotic beauty like Madeline. Miss Smith was a woman that he had seen, spoken to, and flirted with countless of times. Except that each time she held a different name.

Extending his hand to Madeline, he kissed the top of her hand lightly and curved the left side of his mouth upward which always tended to make him look like a mischevious boy.

"A great pleasure, Miss Smith. Tell me, have I not seen you before? You are familiar to me for some reason."

An inquisitive, vexed crease formed on his brow as he searched her face. He bit the inside of his lip a bit in thought before turning toward Emma who was looking at him already. It was a specific look, a look that transmitted dire purpose yet was created soully for brother and sister to understand. Dorian had completely forgotten about his sister's unsure nature.

Taking in a breath, he withdrew his hand from Madeline's and spoke up confidently for now the time of introduction was at hand and rested upon his shoulders.

"Mr. Jeremy Trent...Miss Smith...I don't believe that you have met..."

His eyes flicked toward Miss Pritchard, arching a brow.

"Miss Gwyneth Pritchard and Mrs. Somers." He looked back to Trent.

"They are our newfound friends." Dorian said with a bit of a mental jerk when he said "friends".

He extended his hand outward for Emma to take in which she did with very little hesitation.

"Join us for a walk?" he asked Jeremy and Miss Smith.

It would be a great relief to have others along with them. Dorian looked to Emma with a comforting smile that hopefully would put her mind at ease. She could not help but be what she was. Jittery and fatigued. The least that Dorian could do would be to try and ease that stress a bit out of love for her. He laughed in his throat a moment before looking back to the rest of the company.

As Dorian and Emma greeted Jeremy, Madeline allowed her eyes to casually(but carefully) trail over the others. Next to Gwyneth stood an elderly woman the Southern Belle had not taken notice of before; actually, she had not even seen her. Well, not that she really spiked her curiosity. Due to her age, she certainly represented no competition, and, to Madeline, she looked like nothing more but a poor maid. Plus she appeared plain. Why, she thought, if any man who could have me was to look at her, he'd be pronounced officially crazy! Well...in Madeline's eyes, any man who ever looked at any other woman but her when she was around was officially crazy. Next came Gwyneth. Madeline remembered her from the ball, but she had not ever talked with her. She wasn't really interested to do so now, for Gwyneth she saw as competition. The only thing she wanted to do with her was to push her into the pond. Really.

After finishing eying them, she moved over to the Claybornes. Emma-the woman whose hand Jeremy had kissed earlier-seemed incredibly shy and without a trace of self-confidence. Of course, Madeline was satisfied when, after noticing her angry look, she moved her hand away in fright. Still, she thought of it as weird. If another woman would look at her with anger...why, Madeline would deliberately continue doing what she was doing! Another trait of hers-she was a very spiteful person. Dorian Clayborne-from vicinity, he appeared more handsome than from further away. He also appeared very relieved to be moved away from Gwyneth and the maid. This irked Madeline's curiosity-why? Of course, she was here...But that could only cause him joy, not relief...Unless he really hated Gwyneth. Or he was just repulsed by the fat maid.

It was then that Dorian took her hand and planted a gentle kiss on it. Madeline smiled a polite grin, and her eyes glittered a bit; just because she would not allow Jeremy flirt with other women didn't mean she couldn't allow herself a tad of flirtation with another man. Actually, this was no flirting! She was merely being polite! And Jeremy would not mind-he was quite a Don Juan himself. If he thought she didn't know of his little affair with Dinone Setter, he was very wrong! But that was, of course, only because she had refused to go to the ball with him. Otherwise, she reassured herself, it would not have happened. Naturally. She made interest appear in her eyes as Dorian spoke; "A great pleasure, Miss Smith. Tell me, have I not seen you before? You are familiar to me for some reason."

Her eyebrows raised slightly. Of course, that was just to make it look as if she was thinking. She knew where he'd seen her! At the ball...or in the Gazzette. Now she had to think of an apt way to let him know about that. Madeline was not ashamed of the tango-on the contrary, she was very proud of it and very glad it had happened. Still, she knew it would not be very tactful to merely blurt out: "Oh, yes, I danced the tango at the ball a couple of weeks ago..." Definitely not. On the other hand, a more subtle variety could actually work. Batting her long eyelashes, Madeline replied swiftly; "The ball, perhaps?" Then she added, "If you have been there..." She didn't really recall seeing him. But she had been so preoccupied with Mikhail she had not paid much attention to others. Except for Mallister. Late Mallister. What a shame. She only wished she had danced just one dance with him before he was killed.

When introduced to Gwyneth and her maid, Madeline merely nodded with a half-smile. Then her attention shifted back to Dorian Clayborne, who spoke again; "Join us for a walk?" His sister seemed to agree with him on that subject as well. Madeline wanted to join them for a walk, because evidently they were going to discuss the ball; the tango and maybe the murder. Surely the murder. Both topics were extremely interesting to her. But Jeremy had to agree too. Looking at him with the corner of her emerald eyes, she gave him a sort of a pleading look. But it was not entirely pleading. It was the sort of a pleading look which was just a mask-behind it, there was clearly commanding. Jeremy noticed that, and smirked at her, slowly nodding his head; "Of course."

Even though a tad angry because of his playing of dilemma, Madeline couldn't help but admit it was what she liked at him. There were too many men running around this world that would simply bow to her every wish acting more like servants than like free man. Jeremy was not one of them. And Madeline appreciated that. In her eyes, a real man needed to be independent and strong, but he also needed to respect a lady. And to know how to respect her. As they went along, walking, she decided to intiate the murder topic. The tango had already been mentioned in a way. Putting on her best 'tragic face' expression, as she called it(she had plenty of names for expression she usually acted out), she voiced; "Speaking of the ball...what a terrible tragedy, that murder that had occured!"

It slipped her mind that the others might have come here with the desire to talk about something else. Not that it would have ever mattered to her. What mattered was that she wanted to talk about the ball, the tango and the murder. And she was going to do so. Oh, she was pretty sure the men would not mind it; for Jeremy she could say 100%, for Dorian...about 80%. What man would dare risk her disliking him by opposing her? None. Well, Jeremy would oppose her, but in a mocking way. In the end, he would give in. As anyone would. For Emma, Gwyneth and the maid she, frankly, didn't give a damn.

Although Gwyneth had already decided that she would rather not be in Miss Smith’s company, she still watched the other young woman with interest and curiousity. Her knowledge of Americans extended to the romantic ideal presented in novels, and man-talk in public houses of “American spirit.” That was considered by some to be completely invented, which she suspected was the actual case; people tended to be people no matter where you were. Others said that Americans were crude and unpolished. The “American spirit” was generally considered a positive character, however. Verne was particularly lyrical, although not precisely serious, when discussing American unshakeable determination and inventiveness.

She wondered if Miss Smith had that “American spirit,” and if she did, whether it was in fact simply incivility or if it was really at all like the novels. Studying her, to pass the time until she was introduced – until which time, of course, by necessity she was shuffled to the background – Gwyneth tried to put together some sort of picture of the American girl’s character. Miss Smith had evidently caught her in her study, because their eyes crossed for a split second. Gwyneth realised that the observation had been mutual, and her mouth quirked upwards in a slight grin before she caught the look in Miss Smith’s eyes. She looked…Challenging? Yes, Gwyneth thought it was a challenge, but over what? Surely not the men? Mr Trent was practically glued to her, and who in their right mind would want Mr Clayborne?

She decided that she had been mistaken and continued her catalogue. Miss Smith was bold, possibly even brassy. She had good fashion sense; she was arrayed to her best advantage in a lovely white dress. That advantage was considerable as she had an excellent figure and a very pretty face. She was also seemingly intent that others should recognise it. Gwyneth was fairly certain that Miss Smith had not been very pleased with Mr Trent until said fellow had praised her.

Well, that was perhaps not the most flattering portrait. Gwyneth glanced at Emma, wondering what her friend thought of this American, when Emma greeted Miss Smith warmly – yet perhaps with slight hesitance. Yes, there was definitely the same note of uncertainty about Emma that Gwyneth had marked at the ball. Emma had even drawn back just a little from the American girl’s gaze. Gwyneth wondered suddenly if Emma had seen the same challenge there, and if in fact she had not been mistaken. Her impression of Emma’s upswing of shyness strengthened with the glance that she intercepted between Emma and Mr Clayborne. Although she understood the reason for it, Emma’s choice of object was incomprehensible to Gwyneth. Whyever would anyone look to Dorian Clayborne for support?

He had jumped at the appearance of Mr Trent and Miss Smith as an opportunity to get away from her, she was sure of it. That had been exactly the sort of thing he had done at the ball, so it fit his character. Besides, he had a really disagreeable look on his face. Which was of course always disagreeable, but it was particularly so at the moment. In fact it was more irritating than when he had been glaring. He had just kissed Miss Smith’s hand, and he was smiling like…like…a conceited jackanapes. She nearly growled.

She endeavoured to be reasonable. Dorian Clayborne as a brother was probably a good deal more palatable towards Emma than he was to her, and at the least he did seem to be very devoted to his sister. Except of course when he was pulling and prodding her around without so much as a jot of concern for her feelings, as when they had left the Easter Ball so precipitantly. Gwyneth was nearly certain that Emma had not wanted to leave just then. Dorian’s action had probably come out for the best, because then Emma had not been there for what had happened later, which Gwyneth resolutely refused to think about, but it was still unpardonable. After all he could have had no conception of what was going to happen, and therefore his motives had been purely selfish. And of course he had shot Gwyneth, there was always that. There was always that.

Since she could not bring herself to think well of him – he was wholly composed of faults - she tried very hard to temper her features into something resembling good humour, and thought she succeeded rather well. Besides, it was actually a good thing that Miss Smith had happened upon them, perhaps she and Mr Trent could take Mr Clayborne off between them – Clayborne certainly seemed fascinated by the American – and leave she and Emma to themselves. Gwyneth told herself that would be the best possible outcome as Clayborne introduced them to Miss Smith and Mr Trent. She smiled at Miss Smith and Mr Trent, an expression that actually had some friendly intentions in it. “How do you do, Mr Trent; Miss Smith.”

In response, Miss Smith didn’t even say how-do-you-do, but gave a mere nod and treated Gwyneth as if she was just…part of the scenery, of no consequence at all. And Mr Trent was too besotted to really spare a glance Gwyneth’s way. Relegated in such a way to the background, along with Emma, Gwyneth rebelled at once by way of regarding Miss Smith in a very ill-natured light. “American spirit” indeed, it decidedly was simply incivility and crudeness! And Mr Clayborne was clearly happy about it, oh, it could not have gone more the way he wanted if he and Miss Smith had planned it out between them!

The American girl was batting her eyelashes at him. And that drawling accent was just…there was something in the sound that would probably make the most commonplace sentence sound flirtatious. And yes, it was commonplace words that Miss Smith was saying, but it was definitely all calculated to entrap Clayborne’s interest. Naturally Gwyneth would not have cared two peas except that Miss Smith had been so uncivil to her, and therefore it was not to be borne! She did not wish to have Clayborne’s interest fixed upon her – of course – but it was equally insupportable that Miss Smith would be drawing him in with eyelashes and voice. The minx! And they were going to walk with them, oh yes, and they were going to have a delightful time ignoring her and, as it might happen, Emma as well.

For an angry instant she was determined that she would make certain they could not ignore her, she was determined to unsheathe the sharp side of her tongue and fillet both of them at every opening the conversation offered. But right afterwards, she realised with a trace of self-reproach that it would be unforgiveably catty. And unfair to Emma. What sort of thing was this, to be so set on baiting Mr Clayborne and Miss Smith that she had been about to focus completely on that? She could deal gracefully with being part of the background. To do otherwise would be unforgiveable self-importance.

She darted a secret smile at Emma, and stayed next to her friend’s other side, separated from the rest of the walking-party. Clayborne had taken Emma’s arm, and there was of course no third fellow there to offer Gwyneth one, and so she felt perfectly free to link arms with Emma’s free one. Perhaps they were both in the background now but they could converse perfectly well for all that. Mrs Somers was not coming with them for their turn about the park; she had taken a grateful rest upon the marble seat and waved them on, brooking no argument.

Since it had occurred to her earlier, she was about to inquire whether Emma had ever read Jules Verne. She liked the French author, and if any of them had read ‘From the Earth to the Moon’ it would be very apropos, because he did discuss Americans and then she could bring that up with the American girl, to whom she had decided to be pleasant in a sort of penance. But then Miss Smith came up with a different topic, one far less palatable. With an air of sadness that seemed to Gwyneth to be affected, the American said, ”Speaking of the ball….what a terrible tragedy, that murder that occurred!”

Gwyneth had seen the man, or the thing that had been a man, at the theatre, for herself, and it was nothing that she would ever want to discuss with anyone and particularly not this company. She did not care to talk about it and she was quite certain that Emma would not either; that was…no, it was just not something to be chattered about as if it were the weather! Even if Miss Smith had put on a face of distress – which she did not think was sincere. Whether discussed with lugubrious faces or obscene interest, it was not fit material for conversation. Probably Mr Trent and Mr Clayborne would be fascinated by it but she did not ever want to think about it again. She had nearly succeeded in blotting it out of her memory before that moment, in avoiding the thought until it didn’t seem real anymore. But she did have a vivid memory and when forced to it like this it rose up before her.

With her aversion clear in her countenance, she spoke up very suddenly and flatly. “Yes. Yes, it was a horrible thing. Let us not speak of it, please.”

It had not gone unnoticed that Dorian's attention upon the American lingered a bit too long to be considered sociable toward Gwyneth. This, in her, created a sensation of worry. What exactly was he planning? He surely couldn't think that he could ignore Gwyneth. Afterall, she was their invited company. Not these drop-ins who had created such a wake in the tension of the entire mood. The attention made Emma feel a bit disconcerted and almost upset.

The comforting feeling of Dorian's strong arm on hers as it became tangled with his caused her episode to sink further into that unknown region of her heart where it belonged. She could not gather the definite causes of her tempered afflictions. Emma never could. It was not as if she did not wish to be able to roar like a lioness, or pronounce her ideas without shriveling. Yet it was part of her illness that inhibited her true boldness. Though she never told Dorian for fear that he would worry for her, Emma surmised that her final death would be the day she was able to finally be unagreeable.

A muted smile creased her paled lips--a smile formed from her own private thoughts--until she felt an arm wrap 'round her opposite free arm. She quickly turned, startled at this newcoming introduction. It was Gwyneth's arm! Oh, how amazing. She felt the amazing happiness overwhelm her. The presence of this honest gesture meant so much to Emma that she almost felt as if she were to cry. She even felt the sting in the corners of her eyes as if to create the alien tears. Yet she merely beckoned Gwyneth closer with a nudge to her arm.

How euphoric! How wonderful! She was amazed at the feeling of lucidity that passed through in that moment. That redemption was so complete. She thought of the park at that moment. How serene it truly was. It was a nice park to look at from the outside. She imagined all of the men and women who had walked past and never truly understood its absolute meaning. Emma illustrated in her mind all of the men who had lost their pair of gloves along the walk or how many they have fetched for a lady. How many desperate woes sung to the evergreens or how many loves rejoiced. Emma realized that not only did this park belong to so many Romantic, quixotic, or even devastated notions that comprised others, it also belonged to her. This was her park and she had every chance available to walk through it and find a new and personal meaning.

Looking toward Miss Smith, she smiled unabashedly. Emma was lucky. She had every amount of love afforded to a single woman. Friendship and familial love surrounded her. Unfortunately, she could not say the same for the young American. How civilized it was to try and divide such love equally between the party. But Emma knew that love could not be dispensed in such a democratic fashion. Kindred were monarchic in governance. The feeling of one correllated soully with a soul other.

Giving attention to Gwyneth in that moment, she was moved to speak about how absolutely stunning the grounds looked during this time of day when the American spoke up. This bewildered her a bit, but nonetheless Emma turned her attention accordingly.

"Speaking of the ball...what a terrible tragedy, that murder that had occured!"

MURDER?! Emma was unawares of what Miss Smith spoke, which caused her brow to crease in such a way that made her feel quite inadequate. Her eyes bolted to Dorian for meaning. He did not turn her way. This hesitation could only mean one thing. That a murder had occurred presumably at the ball. But she had not seen any action that could prelude such an event whilst she attended. Looking further on toward the grounds and at nothing in particular, her logical mind swerved and swayed beyond reproach. She felt the sinking feeling begin to creep up along her person.

What could this mean? Surely Dorian knew of this. He was a man of all gossip. It was to him an assigned duty to know the foibles of the city. Yet why had he not bestowed said information to her? Her logic told her that it was because of the weakened state she was in at the ball, yet her pride swelled at being wronged in such a manner. Did he think that I could not digest such information? How dare he keep such a thing from me?!

“Yes. Yes, it was a horrible thing. Let us not speak of it, please.”

The silence had been tempered by her admirable friend, Gwyneth. She had attempted to bridge the seas surrouding Scylla and Charybdis and Emma admired her for it. But at this strange moment, Emma felt powerful and entitled enough to dive through those waters to the very cores of the monsters.

Hindered by the laws of propriety and being a noble and upstanding woman, Emma was forced to remain silent about such a thing concerning her brother which was irritating in the fact that she usually could tell him everything. Heaving a frustrated sigh, she chose to simply stare on ahead trying to affect normality. Yet all she could think of were the questions a "murder" commanded a naive person to ask.

Marie watched intently, waiting for the Suspect to exhibit Suspicious Behaviour.

Before the Suspect could, however, Marie discovered something else. Captain Clayborne and Mr Fox evidently knew each other on a first name basis. Also, Captain Clayborne thought that he knew the Suspect from somewhere. Marie’s eyebrows rose. She wouldn’t have thought Captain Clayborne was the sort to associate with someone so low and ill-bred as the Suspect—indeed, the Suspect was also the Succubus, and a particularly vile one at that. Paying sharper attention to Captain Clayborne, in case he really did know the Suspect and was guilty by association—although she hoped it was simply the remnant of some spell that the Succubus had cast on him before, allowing him to be innocent by virtue of being only a man and unable to resist that sort of thing—she noticed some odd behaviour of his.

Item: Captain Clayborne noticed that the Captured Princess was looking at him, and took his hand away from the Suspect.
Item: Captain Clayborne was not sure he liked Recluse Sister Number Two.
Item: Captain Clayborne was either unaware of the Suspect’s guilt, or under her spell, or in collusion with her; he invited her to walk with them.
Item: Captain Clayborne thought that the Captured Princess would be happy about it, because he smiled at her afterwards.
Item: Captain Clayborne wanted the Captured Princess to be happy, because he laughed in that same way that Father laughed when he looked at D.I. Marie G. Dargeaux sometimes.

Conclusion: Captain Clayborne cares about the Captured Princess.

Marie wasn’t sure how items two and three supported her conclusion, but what was sure was that it was true. She was quite positive. She also needed to keep an eye on Captain Clayborne, because item three had too many possibilities in it, and she needed to rule them out until only one remained. It was much less likely that he would be under the Suspect’s spell, however, since if he cared for the Captured Princess it might prevent him from being under it. But then again, it might not. You never knew how powerful a Succubus she might really be. Then the Suspect spoke up herself, and Marie focused the deductive power of every spare neuron not required for normal operation of her body on the horrible woman.

Item: The Suspect was at the Ball. That was where the second murder occurred. Curiouser and curiouser.
Item: The Suspect had cast a spell on Mr Fox, and he was hopelessly lost under it.
Item: Thus, she was able to make him do what she wanted, and they were going to walk with Captain Clayborne and the rest.
Item: The Suspect had a mobile face, like an actress—or the Succubus that she was.
Item: The Suspect wanted to talk about the murder!

Conclusion: The Suspect is definitely guilty.

Marie, reluctantly, added a mental addendum that more information was needed to determine how guilty the Suspect was. After all, she hadn’t confessed yet, and Marie hadn’t found the murder weapon in her possession—which was a gun. And the second one had been a knife of some sort; Marie had found that out by hanging around the door of the Rose Cottage while the inspectors were in there for the second autopsy and hearing it. She would need to find those in order to ascertain guilt. Or the Suspect would need to confess, which might happen here. Marie nearly hopped up and down, before she realised that they were starting on their walk and had to start following them in order to keep in hearing distance; fortunately, the hedge paralleled the path for a good ways, and it would be easy to do without making them suspicious.

But then, the Recluse Sister asked that they not talk about the murder, ruining Marie’s plans. No, no, no! What was she doing?! Do speak on it! Marie silently urged the Suspect, following them discreetly. Speak on it! Confess your guilt! Confess! And then, because it wasn’t kind to the Recluse Sister, she added a mental apology in that direction, Sorry, Recluse Sister. But the Suspect had to be allowed to talk in order to get a confession from her, and this was the perfect opportunity! Marie followed along behind the hedge, thankful that there were no dead leaves to step on and make noises crunching; she was able to hear without being seen or heard.

It was a moment that was pure fulfillment. Dorian felt as if he had completed a major obstacle. He had understood his sister's inherent need for protection and acted as he should. His place in this small society was validated for a moment. And he should have noticed in that moment that it would be short-lived, but how could he have known what the American would utter from her unpredictably abrasive American sentiment?

The moment that the topic of the murder had been introduced into the tranquil air of the garden, he felt a slight tug on the arm that encircled Emma's. An uncommon exclamation of alarm filled his mind completely separate from his noxious feelings toward Gwyneth. It was evident that he knew about the murders and equally evident was it that he had hidden it from Emma.

He felt a tingle of guilt utterly dampen the back of his neck and his heart pulsated its erratic rhythm throughout the core of his body. He was in trouble. Of course he had heard about the murder and was utterly satisfied and perhaps justified in wisking his sister away from a overtly hostile situation even if the cause was from an unthreathing revolt from Pritchard sisters that catalyzed his convictions to leave. Given the circumstances of Emma's impending illness, it would only further dampen her spirits to be illuminated of such dastardly events. They were morbid and of a sentiment quite unknown to her naive nature. How could one introduce the ideas of murder to one so pure in sweetness and light?

Dorian noticed Emma's quick, startled turn toward her wayward brother, but could not bring himself to meet her eyes. How could he justify his silence with a medium of only silence and eye contact to articulate meaning. A civil glance uncaught by their company would still do no justice to the voluminous amount of both expectation and explanation. Instead, he pursed his lips in an attempt to silence her from any amount of vocalization she was expecting him to adhere to.

What an abosolutely inviable situation he was in. The only true friend that he had was now questionable given the topic.

“Yes. Yes, it was a horrible thing. Let us not speak of it, please.”

His eyes then could not help but turn toward Gwyneth in shock. His brows creased in queue of complete thought. He was incredulous as to this newfound confederacy formed between the most unlikely of pairings. Gwyneth no more wished to speak of this topic than he did for reasons apparant. The collected image of Gwyneth was both weighed heavy laced with relief and appreciation for changing the subject combined with the noxious feeling threatening his composure. He could look on her no more and so instead of turning to the full representation of his ally in her eyes, Dorian resulted in staring at Emma's arm in which he encircled with such care.

"I agree. It is a terrible tragedy that must be ruminated upon yet not meant to spoil such a fine day. I find myself engrossed upon the beauty of both the park as well as the superior quality of the ladies in my presence. I am truly....blessed."

Dorian felt the sickness dwell at the base of his throat as he utter the word blessed yet tried to move on nominally. This was truly not a blessed state that he was in. Yet there was always the damnable politeness to uphold. He would tell Emma everything. But not while propriety and, more importantly, Gwyneth were present.

"Yes. Yes, it was a horrible thing. Let us not speak of it, please.”

Hmph! Madeline barely restrained herself from screaming "weakling" into her face. Really! She found it relatively tolerable when women felt sick upon encountering something terrible...why, even she herself, although she would not admit it, was not completely indifferent to disgusting sights. But when somebody did not wish to discuss such an interesting topic, such a juicy gossip, such an interesting thing; that was what made her feel truly unnerved. Upon seeing this...this...ah, she had forgotten her name. Actually she had never even bothered to remember it. Anyway, she had believed that Miss Pritchard was not a fainting ninny. She was not sure why; but she was usually very quick and very good at judging people. One more reason for her to be mad with Gwyneth. Madeline could not bare with the fact she had been mistaken. And she was not going to.

Oh, yes, she had always been like that. With an extremely high opinion of herself and her thoughts. Nobody was allowed to exceed her. Again, this was to be blamed on her father. Whenever Madeline would say something, it would be held in a higher regard than her sisters' words. When they would argue, Madeline would be right, when they would fight, Madeline would always win. The reason Gregory had loved Madeline more than his other children was because she resembled her mother. She was the spitting image of Clementine, and since he missed his late wife so much, it was no wonder Madeline got special treatment. She had seen that very early, and she had learned how to use it properly; how to always be in favor. Furhtermore, she had always enjoyed rubbing it into the face of her sisters; that was another one of her traits. When she was better than others(in her eyes, this was always) they needed to be very much aware of it.

If somebody proved her wrong, they paid. They paid handsomely.

Madeline was not about to say 'weakling' into Gwyneth's face. Not so plainly and so simply. Why, she was no simpleton...even though she was obviously going to have to talk to one. That fact nearly made her lips curl into a disdainful smile. Naturally, she held that back, and, with a perfect, polite smile turned to Gwyneth. Within seconds, she had her words carefully planned. They were going to hurt, oh yes they were. And they would be a part of such carful manipulation that, in the end, they were going to talk about the murder. Uncinsciously, Madeline was helping Marie. Had she known that, she would've most likely changed the topic. But maybe even not, because Madeline placed herself before everybody else; and right now she wished to speak about that unfortunate event. Of coruse, the only reasons he truly found it that unfortunate was the fact it had been Mallister that had died.

So, she was just about to speak, when Dorian voiced first. Madeline was not really surprised to see him agreeing with this woman. Naturally, he could not have said 'No, plainling, we are going to talk about what Miss Smith wants'. That would've ruined his reputation as a gentleman. Providing he had that reputation. She did not really know, and she did not care at all. Maybe a bit. She was not the one to rely on reputations to form opinions of people. At least she believed she was not. Well, the fact Dorian agreed with Gwyneth simply meant he was going to have to be manipulated as well. Piece of cake. Unless...her eyes flew to Emma. Oh, good, she had not said a thing. Although she did not see why, Dorian seemed to be deeply devoted to Emma. Her openly objecting this topic would not have been good.

With a grin, Madeline spoke; "Why, Miss Pritchard, you cannot possibly be one of those weaklings that faint upon hearing the word 'murder'! Really, I truly never had that image of you in my mind." This was calling her a weakling in a very indirect way. Subtle, as a matter of fact. Because it was said very lightly, as a joke. It was not a joke in reality, though, and that much should have been clear to Gwyneth. Now, here came the tricky part. Madeline pretended she had not heard a thing of what Dorian had said, because she'd been preoccupied with answering Gwyneth. And then she went along, her voice becoming a tad sadder; "I knew that man, Mr. Ferdinand Mallister...what a genlteman he was! Very charming indeed..."

Beside her, Emma shifted and let out a breath, and Gwyneth glanced over; Emma’s forehead was drawn into a pattern of lines - she couldn’t read it. The only thing she was sure of was that, contrary to what she would have expected of anyone in the city, the murder was news to Emma. There was surprise and startlement in Emma’s eyes and in that sudden twitch that she had given. Surely her brother knew. A glance in his direction served to secure her in that information. He looked uneasy, and was looking anywhere but at his sister. For whatever reason, he hadn’t told Emma about it, but had rather protected her from the knowledge.

She glanced between Emma and her brother again, and caught Clayborne looking at her again. Gwyneth would have thought that the murder would be right up his alley, considering his violent nature, but instead she discovered that instead, for the moment, there was a curious understanding between them. There was even a sort of gratitude in Clayborne’s eyes, in an instant before he decided to fix his stare on Emma’s arm instead, apparently still unable to meet his sister’s eyes.

The reclusive girl hadn’t heard anything about it before; she didn’t know what they were talking about, and Gwyneth’s own feelings were strengthened by that realisation. She would not be the instrument of such ill news, she wasn’t the Gazette. In her mind she was sure that Emma could deal with hearing about it; it was only words, not as if Mallister was right before them. But it was still a hideous thing, one which didn’t bear thinking about. It made her sick to remember it. If the American girl would insist on pushing them into the subject, Gwyneth was determined that she wouldn’t say a word about it, no matter if it meant that she kept her mouth shut during the whole walk. Let Miss Smith have a monopoly on bad taste.

Her eyes flicked towards the American girl with that thought, and she caught only half-disguised contempt in Miss Smith’s eyes, directed towards her. The American chit, look down on her? What sort of woman – no, what sort of human being found such fascination in the evisceration and mutilation of a man? If the creature had a heart at all, it was such a shrivelled and discoloured thing as to be less than half a soul. Gwyneth’s chin lifted, but she was distracted by Clayborne before she spoke what was in her mind. Which was probably a good thing, as it was not completely polite.

“I agree. It is a terrible tragedy that must be ruminated upon yet not meant to spoil such a fine day. I find myself engrossed upon the beauty of both the park as well as the superior quality of the ladies in my presence. I am truly....blessed.” He sounded to Gwyneth faintly confused, but regardless of the form he was still supporting her words. She would have preferred a different ally, but in a pinch she would take Clayborne over no-one. She smiled slightly in gratitude at him, a silent and grudging thank-you for backing her up.

But seeing the little cupid’s-bow smile playing at Miss Smith’s lips, Gwyneth unconsciously drew herself up. The American was not going to let it rest. She was going to insist on pushing them into the subject, as Gwyneth had thought she might before. She stared back at the other girl coolly, with no return smile. Grinning an unmistakeable challenge, the American drawled, “Why, Miss Pritchard, you cannot possibly be one of those weaklings that faint upon hearing the word 'murder'! Really, I truly never had that image of you in my mind.” Quickly afterwards, she added, “I knew that man, Mr. Ferdinand Mallister...what a gentleman he was! Very charming indeed...”

Gwyneth wholly ignored the second statement, seizing onto the insult that she very easily recognised in the other girl’s words. Her answer came back quickly, with a tinge of sharpness to it. She might have softened her words, but her temper won out, and though her tone was nearly gracious, her words carried just as much or more contempt and challenge as the American’s had before. “And you had not seemed to be one of those women who are regardless of the opinions of others, Miss Smith. I truly never had that image of you in my mind. I never thought that you would be the sort to indulge in the selfish satisfaction of a morbid interest without paying heed to the sensibilities of your companions. Such women really cannot lay claim to much breeding can they? I am so glad that I never thought that of you!”

Gwyneth smiled at Miss Smith, as though her words were perfectly sincere instead of a very thinly, if really at all, veiled insult.

Most unfortunately, to Marie’s way of thinking, Captain Clayborne concurred with the Recluse Sister about not wanting to talk about the murder. Marie morosely thought that his remark, changing the subject to the uninteresting focus of the beauty of the park and the ladies that he was with, would be the end of all useful information. After this, it would be a dreary conversation; probably they would talk about how nice it was that the grass was green with new spring growth, how clear the air was, &c &c. Not that the grass wasn’t always green in the spring and the air always clear… Marie sometimes wondered why adults bothered to tell each other about it. She never bothered to tell her deputy that the grass was nice and green. He could see that for himself, otherwise he was an idiot, and it always happened in the spring so it wasn’t anything special.

But Marie’s gloomy predictions of forthcoming boredom were not fulfilled; the Succubus took it upon herself to disagree with Captain Clayborne. She did it by insulting the Recluse Sister. The succubus called the Sister a weakling, and she had a laughing and light tone in her voice but of course it was really just an insult. The men wouldn’t pick up on that, though; they were dense about that sort of thing. Marie had seen it before, where women could have an entire conversation of insults and the men with them thought everything was going fine. It seemed that the ability of men to pick up on that went further down the more beautiful the women with them were. It wasn’t, of course, an absolute rule that men were like that, but it was a very good guideline. Marie wondered if the Captain would realise that Miss Smith had also implied that he was a weakling too, though, if not to his face.

She didn’t have time to find out, though, because Miss Smith added that she thought Mr Ferdinand Mallister was a charming gentleman. Mr Ferdinand Mallister. The name, obviously, was the name of the second murder victim. And the Succubus had known him! Her rank as a Suspect jumped up another couple of notches; Marie knew very well that murders were most often committed by acquaintances of the victim. She had been told that from a constable down at the yard—well, she had overheard it, since she’d been hiding behind the wall listening to the man talk to one of his fellow coppers. Marie exulted inwardly, hugging herself with joy. She had known that the Succubus would entrap herself if she were let to talk about the murder!

But then the name registered. Ferdinand Mallister. Marie’s hands flew to her face. She knew Ferdinand Mallister! Well, not knew him, but had met him—or at least, she had met Mr Ferdinand, and father had called him Mallister just before beating him… it had to be the same man! Marie’s shock at learning the identity of the murdered man—and the secondary upset at being reminded of the demon—caused her to lose her focus on stalking the group and eavesdropping on everything they said; she did not hear a word of what the Recluse Sister said. Marie was barely able keep her legs moving to tail them. That man, that awful man, was the one that was dead? He’d been murdered, disembowelled and all sorts of other hideous things done to him (Marie had not yet ascertained the true extent of the damage—she was working from rumour since she hadn’t found a way into the basement of the Rose Cottage yet)?

And then what the Succubus had actually said about Mr Mallister dawned on Marie, and her mouth fell open in still greater shock. Ferdinand Mallister, a charming gentleman?! The man was a demon—Father said so, and so it must be true—and besides that he’d been abominably rude. He’d called her a whore! And he’d been drunk at the same time, and he tried to buy her! Father said he did, even though Mallister had only offered coin to sit on his lap. But Father was always right, so that meant Mallister had tried to buy her. Like a slave! Of course, the Succubus came from America, where everyone was backwards and they had only gotten rid of slavery not very long ago and some people were still slaves in all but name anyway, so she probably wouldn’t think that was bad, but Marie was educated and knew better. Anyone civilised (which didn’t included the Succubus) would know that it was bad.

Hearing the Succubus tell such abominable lies about the character of Mallister, praising him as a charming gentleman, was not to be borne. The poor people with her should be alerted to the true nature of the man. Otherwise, they might be sucked into the Succubus’ disgusting web of untruth. She ran ahead to where a cross-path created a break in the hedge and burst out to stand blocking the advance of the five adults, her fists planted firmly on her fists and her chin up to stare defiantly at the Succubus.

“He was not! He was not a charming gentleman at all! He was a horrible demon and he called perfectly respectable ladies whores and he was drunk in public and he was really a terrible person. I knew you were from a barbaric land the first time I met you, but really! What kind of beastly men are you used to that you would think that he was a charming gentleman!?”

A little girl amidst socialites, that was how she felt. Emma absently withdrew her hand from Dorian's arm and conjured her 'kerchief from the pocket of her dress. She dabbed the lacy material across her forehead in little precise spots and then positioned it to the back of her neck. The situation was becoming more and more heated and it was not the weather's fault. Her anxiety was plain upon her face as her eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. Yet there was nothing that she could think of to do that would ameliorate this tension.

Not to mention the fact that she was trying desperately to impress a disposition of indifference to the newly administered news. How could he not have told her that there was a murderer on the loose in the exact place where they had just been? Emma was not at all interested in the gory details in the fashion that Madeline seemed to be; however, affection seemed a powerful enough bond between siblings that honesty wihtout censorship would have been paramount. Emma felt betrayed and downtrodden. She felt....no, no more upon her feelings. She couldn't, at this juncture, be selfish. Especially when the social circle was becoming and increasing war zone.

She watched the tete a tete between the two ladies become aggressively charged and fought for a way to change the subject. But what could she speak of? Gossip! That seemed to be appealing to the American and Gwyneth, if their friendly bond was as she thought, would be more than willing to speak to Emma about anything. But what did Emma know about the gossip of the town, her own brother would not tell her the truth!!

Her breathing became shallow and her cheeks drained of color as she heard Gwyneth retort rather abruptly and rudely back to Madeline. Alarm brimmed throughout her body and her blood seemed to stop flowing. She swallowed hard and wracked her mind for a feasible sentence. Anything! Say something!!

"I was reading about--"

“He was not! He was not a charming gentleman at all! He was a horrible demon and he called perfectly respectable ladies whores and he was drunk in public and he was really a terrible person. I knew you were from a barbaric land the first time I met you, but really! What kind of beastly men are you used to that you would think that he was a charming gentleman!?”

Her less than authoritative, wavering voice was creaked to a halt by a seemingly younger and yet more powerful one. Turning to find its source in front of her, she was bewildered to see a small child. Her shock was matched by relief in finding an accomplice in breaking the verbal battle, but then the meaning of the words began to sink in.

Emma held strong to Gwyneth's arm, now relying more on her than anyone else. How strange, it was the first time in so long that she actually saw a child. She was beautiful. Emma traced the lines her hair made in the shadows. This little child was incredibly articulate which incited Emma's love beyond that of her physical beauty. Emma's weakness could not smudge out the formulating smile that affixed to her mouth and eyes.

And then she thought of the most perfect solution to the coming war. It was only how to perform this before any one else spoke up that was the problem.

*Edited*
Dorian's trespass against his sister could wait. He watched with masculine amusement as the women turned polite conversation into something aggressive and cold. He felt Emma's arm leave him to take her handkerchief, and part of him was epically desolated at the breach between them, but this part would have to wait. The least he could do now was to make good on his promise to take part in this social gathering.

His eyes bolted from one of those feminine angels to the other, a look of interested excitement. There was something so strange about seeing combative women at work. Something perverse and sordid about it. Perhaps it was the fact that they were not allowed these liberties that they assumed. The feeling could be equated to watching a dog walk on its hind legs. Strange yet completely consuming.

The look that had been offered by Gwyneth before seemed to make his Adam's apple doubly increase in size to the point that he verged suffocation. Dorian felt an incessant need to keep looking at her long after she had parted eyes with him. He indulged it for a moment with a sober expression, and then looked to Madeline. He felt that a stout drink was needed to cure him of whatever demon was cowering inside of him. Perhaps Madeline would enjoy his company much better if he were more direct. He had heard that directness turned to virtue on the voyage over to the Americas and politeness was archaic.

The lump in his throat relaxed a bit and he smiled to Emma. This was a mistake, for he realized she was in utter toil at the tension being bred between the two women. A cultural clash was evident and Dorian had not seen past his own interests in the brewing animosity to realize that this day would not be saved if this was endured. He watched as the tension that fell over her expression concentrated in her lips as if she were to speak. She had an idea on how to quit this avenue of discussion. But how?

She had spoken up and was immediately cut off by a young excited voice. He looked over quickly to see a little girl. She had spoken with the force and verve of one much older and wiser. His brows furrowed a bit in curiosity and he looked to his sister for recognition that this was actually happening.

Emma looked shocked and then a conclusion came over her. Dorian strangely understood his sister without the use of communication. This would be the savior to their discourse. Dorian was compelled to speak. He broke away from formation and went to the little girl, peering down at her from his regular vantage point. She was very adorable and he could not help but crease the side of his lips that made a boyish little smile appear. Surely, even in America, it was against the rules of polite society to discuss murder when an innocent was around. It didn't matter even that the child was attempting to weigh in on the discussion. All speech on the topic would have to be haulted. And if this wasn't enough, Dorian would make damn sure something would stop the conversation from growing.

"What a beautiful cherubic surprise.." He said without moving his eyes from the little girl. He bent down to a half-kneel before the little girl as if he were in prayer to this little angel and tilted his head to the side.

"What is your name, little girl? It must be Muriel, because you look like an Angel."

He smiled sweetly, for the first time provoking a smile wide enough to show his teeth. It was an unheard of smile for Dorian in that he usually showed only partial insight to his feelings. But when children were around, he could not sustain such affront. Especially those who would speak the truth. He held those in highest regard. Extending his hand outward toward Gwyneth, he motioned for her to join him. Behind the political guise of getting her away from Madeline, Dorian could not hide from himself a sense that he truly wanted her to share with him this experience with the child. Perhaps she would not find him so revolting and bestial. Who would know for sure except for Gwyneth?

Looking to the men and women in the party, he realized his expression and allowed it to slowly fade back to an original slight crease, the swelling of his Adam's apple firmly taking hold of his throat yet again. Dorian cursed in the back of his mind.

(OOC: Ok, I nabbed the next post, since nobody was. :) )

Captain Clayborne approached her, and for a moment, Marie wondered if maybe she hadn’t gone too far. If he were under the spell of the Succubus totally, he might either strike her, if he had been made piggish by the Succubus in the manner that Mr Mallister had been piggish, or he might just make her go away. Which wouldn’t work, of course, since she would just go back to following them stealthily. Although it might be difficult to find a polite way around whatever Captain Clayborne asked her to do… but then again, as Miss Fitzgerald was fond of telling her, where there was a will, there was a way. Marie was excellent at finding loopholes around direct commands from adults. But it turned out that all he was going to do was stand in front of her and look down on her, smiling slightly. Marie regarded him in turn, and she detected something she didn’t like on his face.

He looked down at her, and his expression was that particular look that adults had, the one where they were so sure that they were superior that they didn’t even think to themselves that they were superior. They just knew it and you could tell that they did by the way they looked at you. Marie drew herself up even more; since her chin was already up and her fists previously planted on her hips, she was forced to do it by making her back ramrod straight and pulling her shoulders back to puff out her chest and assume a posture of near-military proportions. What gave him the right to look at her like that even if, by virtue of being a Captain, he was superior to her? She stared right back at him, having to tilt her chin back since he was so much taller than her.

And then, suddenly, he half-knelt in front of her. Marie watched him fiercely. Was he going to try and pretend that she couldn’t understand anything and that she ought to be somewhere else, sewing or something? That was usually what happened when grown-ups brought themselves down to her height. They thought she was cute, but stupid, which was why they lowered themselves to her height. They thought she couldn’t handle being treated as an adult.
Captain Clayborne brought his actions squarely into this category in her mind with his next words: “What a beautiful cherubim surprise.”
Marie scowled, but he just grinned widely and asked, “What is your name, little girl? It must be Muriel, because you look like an Angel.”
He was making fun of her! What, did he think that she was stupid and wouldn’t catch on? And besides, he was changing the subject! This had been going to be a nice interrogation about where everyone was on the night of the Easter Ball and what they thought of Mr Mallister and the like, and then he went and changed the subject to angels? Frowning very severely at the Captain, trying her very hardest to emulate Miss Fitzgerald’s best governess-frown, Marie took him to task about his teasing. But politely, since she was a lady.

“Are you making fun of me? If you are it’s not very nice. If you weren’t then thank you, but my name isn’t Muriel. It’s Marie Garcelle Dargeaux, and I don’t look like an angel.” Marie readjusted her deerstalker to call attention to it, since it was really unforgivable of him to have not noticed that she was a detective. That had been the whole point of dressing like a detective inspector, after all. If she wanted to go plainclothes then she wouldn’t have worn the coat and hat, would she have? She generously corrected his misunderstanding for him. “I look like a detective inspector, which is what I am. I’ve got the badge and everything. Angels have halos and wear robes. And they shine. And the ones my size are usually fat, stupid-looking little babies, especially cherubim. So I couldn’t be an angel.” Something occurred to her then, and she stared at him suspiciously. “Say, you weren’t trying to say I was fat, were you? Or stupid-looking?”

Marie gazed at Captain Clayborne, but dismissed the possibility that he was insulting her. His smile was too nice for that, and besides, the Captured Princess, standing a little behind him now, was smiling too. Being an elegant and royal person, she wouldn’t smile if Captain Clayborne was being a boor. Having absolved the Captain of any nefarious motivations, Marie then continued on her normal prattling at lighting speed. She didn’t allow the Captain to get a word in edgewise, changing the subject back to one that was connected to the previous one—well, at least in her mind. “My deputy was here earlier but I sent him off to follow a Suspect. I am very close to solving the murder case you know. I think that if I could just examine the bodies, I would have a much better idea of who did it. I don’t suppose you would be willing to speak to Father and persuade him to let me examine them, do you? I already saw one. It was very horrible. Poor Mr Bullworth.”

Contemplating the sight of Mr Bullworth for all of a tenth of a second, Marie decided that the subject was probably too grim for the Captured Princess and the Recluse Sister, being ladies of delicate society as they were. It was fine for her and the Captain to talk about dead people, since the Captain was in the business of killing people and Marie was in the business of finding out who killed them, but the others were probably too sensitive. She leaned closer to the Captain and whispered so that the others wouldn’t hear and be offended, “But we probably shouldn’t talk about that right now; it’s upsetting to civilians. I will give you my card and we can talk about it later.”

Resuming her normal tone of voice, she stood back upright, noticing as she did that Captain Clayborne was no longer smiling quite so widely. She wondered why briefly, but queried about another subject altogether. It was best to keep the public calm while there was a killer about, even if it meant talking about less interesting things. She asked, “Who was Muriel anyway? What kind of angel was she?”

“He was not! He was not a charming gentleman at all! He was a horrible demon and he called perfectly respectable ladies whores and he was drunk in public and he was really a terrible person. I knew you were from a barbaric land the first time I met you, but really! What kind of beastly men are you used to that you would think that he was a charming gentleman!?” At first, Madeline was not certain she knew the voice, even though it surely sounded familiar to her. Her eyebrows up at their fullest height, she turned around to face the speaker. Whoever they were, she knew one-they were not going to be favored by her. When Madeline had an opinion, nobody was allowed to counter it. This was not about the fact she had ever cared about Mallister so much she was not going to let anyone offend him. This was something completely different-her stubborn pride that always put her ahead of other people in her eyes. She was used to being the mistress and having her whims obeyed with full respect.

When her emerald orbs landed on the little girl, she recognized her instantly, and anger flashed in her eyes. That girl...what was her name...Mira? Marianne? Marie? Yes, Marie, that was it. She had been at the first murder site. Oh, Madeline remembered her well now. Right now, the girl appeared innocent enough. But even if she grew not to hate her, Madeline would always see Marie as someone who'd offended the South, and all that she believed in. And that was not something Madeline Smith could ever find in her heart to forgive. Even though Marie was just a child, Madeline did not see it as below her to argue for her views with her. She was going to fight with anyone who opposed heruntil she broke them. Like horses. Other people were mostly like horses to her. Especially those she disliked. Hmph, she thought, the difference between Marie and a horse? The horse was a higher being.

“What a beautiful cherubim surprise.” Just as she was about to speak, sending the girl off to her reightful place, Dorian interrupted her. Madeline's face took on a cynical expression when she heeded the words. Beautiful surprise? More likely a piece of an old rag on the road. When he added more compliments to those, the Southern Belle barely withheld a snort. Muriel? Madeline would've named such an ugly duckling ... Brunda or some other horrible name. If she ever had a daughter, she would name her either Clementine or Catherine. Her opinions of names changed rather quickly, though. Last year, she was confident her baby would be named Deborah...actually, that name sounded pretty good even now, she thought. Oh, well. Not that her husband(once she found him) was ever going to have a say in it. She would choose in due time...she had to get pregnant first. And that was not something she liked the sound of, for pregnancy made you fat.

When the description of the 'investigation' reached her ears, Madeline could not help herself-she laughed. She laughed out loud. Investigation? Suspects? Investigator? Detective? This girl was obviously not just ugly-she was insane! Really, her father ought to use his governess for something else than screwing her, she thought to herself. Even though in reality, she never would've let Prudence tell her what to do. But Marie was not her, so it made no difference in thoughts; "Listen to this dear child." Sarcasam was NOT audible in her words or seen on her face, "She is playing a detective! How sweet indeed! Why, you must tell us the details, even though we are mere civillians! Who has been murdered...a fly?" This clearly showed Marie she was not paying any attention to her words and that she didn't take her for serious at all. It also sounded and looked perfectly normal-she was talking to a child like she should have talked with children.

Madeline was very proud of herself indeed.

And, in a way, even though she would not admit it to herself, thankful to marie. Now they HAD to talk about the murder. She'd had it her way again...thanks to her enemy. How defeating for the little girl

Her shot fell on deaf ears, which was perfectly maddening. Gwyneth had intended to see that sly smile of Miss Smith’s falter, and to perhaps push her over the edge right into open blunder. But it seemed that either Miss Smith was too preoccupied with her own thoughts to hear Gwyneth’s words or that she was too dull to understand them. Gwyneth leaned towards the first, though the second would have been vastly the preferable for her own sense of self-satisfaction. Unfortunately, the fair and honest part of Gwyneth’s mind obliged her to recognise that Miss Smith was intelligent enough to pick up on her meaning. However, it was not at all impossible that she was too self-absorbed to catch on.

After first the indirect slight of disregard that had been given her in collusion with Clayborne, and then the direct affront in the American’s words, Gwyneth’s dander was up. She was now set against Miss Smith in every way, and she would oppose her will to the other woman’s with all her energy. Whatever Miss Smith wanted, she did not want. A weakling, was she…? Well, they should soon see about that. When Gwyneth really pitted herself against something, she usually got her own way.

Of course, the primary difficulty for her in this instance was that she was unable to concentrate on her goal with single-minded intent. She also had to consider her friend, who still occupied the part of her thoughts that were not angrily disposed. From everything she had observed up until now, Emma disliked tension or argument. Those thoughts were brought to the forefront of her mind when Emma leaned on her more heavily, holding onto her for support, and her faint voice intervened, ”I was reading about--”

But they were not to hear what Emma had been reading about, though Gwyneth half-turned, changing her features to calm curiousity for the sake of her friend’s feelings. A rustling in the hedge ahead of them alerted her briefly to another arrival before a small individual appeared out of the hedge, standing like Horatius at the bridge in the center of the path. Defiance was in every line of the girl’s diminutive figure. Gwyneth’s eyebrows lifted, and then rose to her hairline at the tirade that broke from a childish mouth. “He was not! He was not a charming gentleman at all! He was a horrible demon and he called perfectly respectable ladies whores and he was drunk in public and he was really a terrible person. I knew you were from a barbaric land the first time I met you, but really! What kind of beastly men are you used to that you would think that he was a charming gentleman!?”

From the corner of her eye, Gwyneth saw a returning smile lurk on her friend’s lips. The truly strange interruption had really altered the situation, forcing Gwyneth to divert her attention, away from Miss Smith and the conflict that would have turned socially vicious, into a wholly new mental path. The curious figure of the girl was amusing, though doubtless Marie would have hated to know Gwyneth’s thoughts. The girl could be no more than ten years old, and dressed in what looked like a man’s Inverness coat and a deerstalker. She looked purely ridiculous, and her outburst had been in kind with her outlandish garb. A half-grin quirked at Gwyneth’s mouth, though she suppressed any further demonstration of her inner thoughts. She remembered being a child too recently to humiliate the girl by laughing at her. At least not aloud.

Clayborne left the small knot of people and went on to the diminutive figure, dropping down to one knee to face her. Marie was not far away from the others, and it was easy for them to hear what he said to the child. ”What a beautiful cherubic surprise. What is your name, little girl? It must be Muriel, because you look like an Angel.” It was a blatant attempt to change the subject and one that clearly did not suit the girl, as a black scowl crossed her face. He had to have missed the first shadow to fall on her features, for he turned his head halfway, smiling brightly, to include the others behind him in his vision. And then he reached out his hand and gestured.

Naturally, he was motioning to Emma, to call her over to his side. Yes, that was patently obvious, because a second later – surely as soon as he recalled to himself that Gwyneth was standing arm-in-arm with Emma – the smile faded away as quickly as it appeared. Gwyneth eyed him flatly, but took a step forward regardless, drawing Emma forward without withdrawing her support from the other girl. She pointedly turned her back to Madeline with that first motion, and another few steps brought them forward.

In the meantime, the girl that Gwyneth had mentally dubbed Horatia (even though she announced herself to be Marie Garcelle Dargeaux) was talking. And talking. And talking. In the flow of words, the reason for the deerstalker and Inverness coat became clear, as did some of the workings of the thoroughly strange and convoluted mind underneath the cap. The monologue nearly broke through Gwyneth’s determination not to laugh at the girl, but she kept her face grimly solemn. After all, it was not difficult to keep from smiling when Clayborne was around. Although…it really was going to be something to hear Clayborne’s response to all of that, though; she was going to enjoy watching him try to handle it.

A laugh sounded behind her, and she turned her head halfway, dismissively. It was not difficult to recognise Miss Smith’s voice. The American said in a sweet, musical voice, ”Listen to this dear child. She is playing a detective! How sweet indeed! Why, you must tell us the details, even though we are mere civilians! Who has been murdered…a fly?” Of course, the American girl was making fun of Horatia. Although her voice held no hint of mockery, the words were clear enough, no matter how ordinary they might sound. For another thing, Gwyneth had heard enough from the American to know that anything coming from her mouth was not to be trusted to be kindly inspired.

Consequently, although Gwyneth was equally as amused at Horatia’s rigmarole, she was determined to act in opposition to Miss Smith. The way to do that was to speak to Horatia as if she took her entirely seriously, as she saw it – not to mention getting the subject off of the murder again. She broke in with an air of quiet finality nearly as soon as the American was finished speaking. “It’s not our business to go poking into police matters, really, Miss Smith. I daresay that Miss Dargeaux will tell us nothing of her investigation, and I believe she would be right to do so.”

Now, if Clayborne would only be a halfway decent man for once and answer Horatia’s question about Muriel, the subject would be firmly put back on track.

Emma felt a cool breeze lift the soft curls tickling the back of her neck and she breathed a thankful sigh at the opening of this new avenue of discourse. Her faint eyes lifted slowly with a bit of effort up toward the heavens as the sun glinted down upon her with sudden interruptions by