The Heiress Effect (Brothers Sinister #2)

Emily

He folded the paper carefully. She was considering. He could guess what that meant. The Law Tripos would be administered in a few months, and after that, he’d be gone. He needed proximity, not consideration.

If he were another man, he would march up to her uncle’s house and demand to see her.

He suspected that if he tried, he’d be shot. Or thrown in gaol and accused of some horrendous crime. Nobody would believe him when he said he just wanted to talk to her.

She’d been a bright spot in his day. And now…

He started back toward town.

He was beginning to get angry. Not at her, at a fate that taunted him with something so lovely, and then just as it seemed to be within his reach, snatched it away. Fate was cruel.

He passed through the gates of his college in a black study.

By now, most of his classmates were used to him. If they were the sort to make remarks, they rarely did it around him. He made his way across the green, scowling at the ground.

“Ho, Batty!” a man called.

Anjan almost didn’t stop. He took three strides.

“Batty, where are you going?”

Ah, yes. Batty was him. He halted. Before he looked around, he found his smile. Even now, he could put it on his face with so little effort. It wouldn’t do to scowl at a man just for being friendly. And George Lirington was one of the good ones—one of the people who talked to Anjan, who had first invited him to play cricket. He had even talked his father into finding Anjan a position.

“Batty,” Lirington said, “where were you today? We needed a bowler. We were desperate without you.”

“Lirington,” Anjan spoke as pleasantly as he could. “You look as if you’ve just come from the cricket field. Did they have you bowling, then?”

“Yes, which is why we lost.”

His friend smiled, and began to describe the game in detail, acting out the most important points. Anjan was Batty because Bhattacharya had too many syllables. He’d told one man his first name; the fellow had blinked, and then had immediately dubbed him John. That’s who they thought he was: John Batty. These well-meaning English boys had taken his name as easily, and with as much jovial friendship, as their fathers had taken his country.

And Emily had called him Bhattacharya. He’d fallen a little bit in love with her the moment she’d said his name as if it had value.

His fist clenched, but he kept on smiling.

Oliver didn’t think of Jane much. In the last week of January, he managed to keep his thoughts of her to a minimum—a few wistful imaginings at night, wondering what might have happened between them if matters had been different. If she’d had no need to drive suitors away. If she’d been a legitimate daughter of a well-respected family. If he’d been able to court her.

Court. Ha. He didn’t think about anything so sedate as courting her. His thoughts ran darker and deeper, starting from their kiss and ending against stone walls and thick trees. His thoughts ran far ahead of his sensibilities, until he had to take the problem in hand to solve it. But after, when sanity returned…

He still couldn’t imagine Jane in plain white and demure pearls. So he made himself give up that fantasy.

In February, he scarcely thought of Jane at all. He didn’t have time to think of her. Parliament was sitting once more. The queen herself addressed the nation’s lawmakers and urged them to extend the franchise. The work began in earnest. Oliver hashed out his plan with Minnie, his brother’s wife, who had a head for strategy; between them, they planned a series of dinners. Working men from all over the country were brought in by train. Oliver gave short two-day courses on etiquette and the workings of politics. The men then ate with dukes and duchesses, barons and baronesses. Members of Parliament sat down for an hour with bakers.

The message was clear: These are reasonable, rational men. Why should they not vote?

He very assiduously did not think of Jane in those moments. He didn’t want to contrast her with the pallid, smiling wives he encountered, women who never made a single faux pas, who would blush if they heard the word “fuchsine,” and would certainly never don a glove of that color, let alone a gown.