Page 1 of The Falconer

Chapter 1

Edinburgh, Scotland, 1844

I’ve memorised their every accusation:Murderess. She did it. She was crouched over her mother’s body, covered in blood.

Behind me, several ladies are gathered close, gowns touching, heads bent as they murmur. A common sight at every ball I’ve attended since coming out of mourning a fortnight ago. Their comments still sting, no matter how often I hear them.

‘I heard her father caught her just after it happened.’

I jerk away from the punch-dispenser. A panel opens on the gold cylindrical device’s side. A metallic arm extends, takes my porcelain cup from under the spout and returns it to the table.

‘You can’t believe her responsible,’ another lady says. She’s standing far enough away that I only just catch her words above the other discussions in the crowded ballroom. ‘My father said she must have witnessed what happened, but surely you don’t think—’

‘Well, my brother was present at her debut last year andhetold me she was completely covered and elbow-deep in . . . Well, I shan’t go on. Too gruesome.’

‘The authorities insist it was an animal attack. Even the Marquess of Douglas said so.’

‘He couldn’t accuse his own daughter, now could he?’ the first replies. ‘He should have sent her to the asylum. Do you know she—’ Her voice dips too low for me to hear the rest.

I grip the fabric of my dress. If not for the thick silk, my nails would have bitten into skin. It’s all I can do to keep myself from pulling out the pistol hidden beneath my petticoats.

You’re fine, I tell myself.You’re not angry. They’re just a bunch of ninnies not worth being upset over.

My body doesn’t listen. I clench my teeth hard, releasing my dress to press my thumb against the quickened pulse at my wrist. One hundred and twenty beats later, it still hasn’t slowed.

‘Well?’ a voice next to me says. ‘Are you going to take some punch or glare at the contraption for the rest of the evening?’ My friend Miss Catherine Stewart regards me with a reassuring smile. As usual, she looks absolutely beautiful in her rose-pink silk gown. Her blonde curls – all perfectly in place – shine from the overhead lights as she leans in, plucks a fresh cup from the table and passes it to me.

My breathing is a bit ragged, audibly so. How utterly annoying that is. I hope she doesn’t notice. ‘Glaring at inanimate objects has become my new favourite pastime,’ I say.

She scrutinises me slowly. ‘Oh? I thought you might be listening to the chatter at the other end of the refreshment table.’

The gaggle of ladies gasp collectively. I wonder what transgression they have made up for me this time – other than the obvious one, of course.

No, best not to think about it. If I do, I might resort to threats of bodily injury; I might even pull out my pistol. And if I do that, I’llreallybe put in the asylum.

I place the cup under the spout and shove the machine’s button much harder than necessary. Steam spurts from the top and punch pours out, filling my cup almost to the brim. I remove the cup and sip.

Dash it all. Not even a hint of whisky yet. Surely someone has sneaked in a flask to save us all from the tedious chatter. Someone always does.

‘No witty rejoinder?’ Catherine asks with a click of her tongue. ‘You must be ill.’

I glance at the gossips. Three young ladies are garbed in near identical white gowns, each decorated with various-coloured ribbons and flowered adornments. I don’t recognise any of them. The one whispering has dark hair pulled back from her face, a single ringlet resting on one shoulder.

Her eyes meet mine. She quickly averts her gaze and whispers to her companions, who glance at me for a moment before turning away. Just long enough for me to see the distress in their features, along with a touch of malice.

‘Just look at them,’ I say. ‘They’re about ready to draw blood, wouldn’t you say?’

Catherine follows my gaze. ‘If my eyes don’t deceive me, her claws have most certainly come out. Did you happen to hear what she said?’

I exhale a bit louder than necessary and try to calm myself. There’s a place for my rage inside me, a hollow I’ve carved to bury it deep. That daily control allows me to feign a pleasant demeanour and an incandescent smile, complete with forced bubbly laughter that’s a touch vapid, even stupid. I can never let the real me show. If I do, they’ll all realise that I’m far worse a woman than they imagine me to be.

With all the poise I can muster, I sample more punch. ‘That I am the very picture of grace,’ I say sarcastically. ‘You know very well what she said.’

‘Wonderful.’ Catherine smooths the front of her gown. ‘I’m off to defend your honour. Expect me triumphant upon my return.’

I step into her path and say bluntly, ‘No. I’d prefer you didn’t.’

During my year in mourning, I’ve apparently forgotten the fine art of the polite insult. The old Aileana Kameron would have sauntered over to that group of ladies and said something amiable and utterly cutting. Now, my first instinct is to reach for one of the two weapons I have with me. Perhaps the solid weight of the blade in my hand would be a comforting thing.

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