The Duchess War (Brothers Sinister #1)

As they came abreast of the enclosures, Robert could finally read the signs.

THESE ARE ANIMALS, proclaimed one grim placard that graced the goat enclosure. The sign over the pen that held the children read: THESE ARE NOT.

Robert glanced at Sebastian. His cousin was still smiling—he’d always enjoyed stirring matters to boiling—but there was an edge to his smile. Sebastian took a few steps forward until he faced the children.

The children were far more confused than the goats. One small boy had his hands on the middle rail of the fence. He wore only a light coat and thin gloves. If he’d had a cap, it had fallen off. His eyes seemed luminous in the cold of the night; his breath made puffs of cold air.

Sebastian bent down, and the shouts redoubled. “We are not animals!” a woman was saying. “We are not animals!”

They weren’t shouting at Sebastian; nobody chanting recognized him. To their eye, he was just another gentleman taking in the spectacle. Just another reason to hear their own voices. Slowly, Sebastian unwound his scarf from his neck. Without saying a word, he set it around the small boy’s neck. The addition of the oversized scarf made the child look even smaller. Sebastian nodded wordlessly and then turned to go.

“What do you think you’re doing?” a nearby woman screeched. “That’s my son. We don’t need your charity.”

Sebastian kept walking.

“If you listen to that madman lecturing tonight,” the woman yelled at his retreating back, “you stand to lose your immortal soul. We want none of the devil’s teachings here.”

Sebastian didn’t look back; the woman watched him leave, setting her hands on her hips. Her lips pursed; her fingers tapped in impatience. Finally, she turned to her son. “What were you doing, sitting there like a lump, then?” She took hold of one end of Sebastian’s scarf and gave it a yank. “I told you to chant. I want to hear you chant. Try it now: ‘I’m not—’” She stopped mid-sentence, on the verge of pulling off Sebastian’s scarf, as Robert came to stand by her. She looked at his boots, then followed them up his trousers, his waistcoat, until she saw his face.

“Madam,” Robert said, “do you by any chance know the temperature this evening?”

She seemed somewhat startled. “Why, no. But I believe there’s a thermometer mounted at—”

“It’s thirty-five degrees out. Almost freezing and likely to get colder.”

She gave him a sullen look. “If you knew already, why bother asking?”

He took another look at the boy before him. The child’s nose was red and dripping with cold. “You have no right to lecture anyone on the care of animals,” Robert said bitterly. “My cousin least of all.”

She frowned in confusion, and he left, his fists clenched. Behind him, the chants continued. We’re not animals. We’re not animals.

Sebastian was a tease. He could tweak a man to the verge of annoyance and beyond. But he’d never been so thoughtlessly, callously cruel as the woman was with her own child. It chafed at Robert that his cousin was judged in danger of losing his immortal soul, when he wasn’t the one rounding up children, treating them like cattle in order to score points.

He was thankful to leave the crowd behind him. The interior was warmer and drier. When the doors closed behind him, they cut off most of the noise from outside. He found Miss Pursling in one of the back rows, seated next to the aisle alongside her friend. Her hands were clamped around the edge of her seat. He paused next to her.

“Miss Pursling,” he said. “We’ve seats up front, if you and Miss Charingford wish to join us.”

“No, thank you.” Her voice was cool. “I…I do not care for crowds. If I’d known it would be this bad, I wouldn’t have come. If there were any way to leave…”

Her lips pressed together. It was hard to judge the pallor of her skin in the faint light at the back of the room, but he thought she looked a little wan.

“Are you well?” he asked.

“It’s nothing.” She swallowed. “It’s nothing. It’s nothing. I’m nothing.”

“Your pardon?”

She glanced up and then swiftly away. “It’s nothing,” she repeated. “Please stop looking at me.”

He sat down in the row behind her. “There. I’m not looking. You have flowers on your gown.” She did. Real ones at that. Little yellow ones edging her hem, her cuffs.

“It seemed appropriate, in light of Mr. Malheur’s work. He discusses plants, does he not?”

“There is. And yet I seem to recall that he started with snapdragons, not…what are those? Pansies. There’s a missed opportunity on your part.” He glanced sidelong at her and caught a soft smile on her face. “They’re lovely.”

“Ah.” She stared straight ahead.

“There,” he said in satisfaction. “Now you’re breathing properly. You just needed a bit of a distraction for a moment.”

He started to stand.

“Your Grace.”