Baker and Jones Ch. 06

"I don't mind," he inclines his head. "In many ways, I imagine we're all collars of God, are we not?"

Her eyes flick up to the white band around his neck, tucked into his black, buttoned shirt. "I suppose you would know." She's quiet for a moment, then adds, "I'd rather not dance, if it's all the same to you, Deacon."

"Simon," he nudges gently.

"Simon," she repeats. "I should take my leave."

She moves to take a step away, but Simon shifts to block her path. It's not threatening, which is a relief, though his insistence is frustrating.

"Might I speak with you some more, Miss Baker?"

She closes her eyes and forces herself to remain calm. "Very well," she looks back at him, attempting to hide her frustration.

"I don't think you're a bad person," he upholds, his face flushing with a kind innocence. "I believe Sister Pullwater has been too harsh with you."

"It's in her nature," Annette dismisses. "If she's too kind for too long, I suspect she might spontaneously combust."

Simon laughs. "She did mention you were clever with your words."

"I'm sure 'clever' is her word for it."

"Not at all," he shakes his head, grinning. "I believe the direct phrasing was, 'belligerent and antagonistic.' However, I could tell she meant to compliment your wit, as I would now like to echo. You look lovely tonight, by the way."

Annette glances down over her outfit, wishing there was some way to loosen the corset further than she had already done. "I'm not quite sure it's within the dress code of the evening's festivities."

"Your's is a beauty that requires no dress code," he flatters, though his face flashes pink a beat later. "Not that I am implying you should remove your clothes."

"Quite forward, don't you think, Deacon? What would God think of such behavior?" She revels in his fretting for a moment longer, enjoying how easy it was to best him in wordplay. "Good evening."

"You're not bad," he continues, halting her departure once more. "Or wicked, or hopeless or any of those horrible misnomers."

"Truly revelatory, Deacon," she grumbles.

"You simply require structure for your life," Simon proscribes. He talks with his hands a great deal, and it's difficult not to watch them rather than his face. "With the right home and right partnership, I truly believe you would gleefully abandon your sinful nature. It was quite true for me once I set out upon my calling."

"And what was your great sin, Deacon?"

He clears his throat. "Tardiness."

Annette chokes back a cackle, burying it behind a serious expression when she realizes he's not joking. "You must have struggled so much," she eeks out.

"What is a man if not his ability to maintain commitments?" He continues, his face contorting importantly. "What deceit was I allowing in my heart by refusing to obey the noble laws of punctuality? It was my calling to the church that truly set my heart right in this matter."

"I'm glad you've returned to the path of righteousness," she says quietly, carefully mocking him. "There have been many who've fallen away from God's grace by arriving late to his call."

He smiles excitedly. "Exactly! And I would be honored if my example could provide inspiration for you with your... ahem... uh..."

"Lesbianism?" Annette offers quietly.

His eyes dart around the room nervously, anxious to ensure no one overheard her. "It can be overcome, I am sure of it, Miss Baker."

"I'll take it under advisement," she rolls her eyes. "Good evening, Deacon."

"Simon," he offers once more.

"Good evening," she strolls away.

Simon finally relents, allowing her to walk away unhindered. She moves without a destination, simply attempting to put a reasonable amount of distance between the two of them with the hopes that it might discourage further interaction. Her head remains on a swivel, trying to relocate Lord Brimwell once more without much success. She grumbles to herself, scanning the scene for Cordelia instead, wondering if she might be able to point Annette back to Brimwell.

"Well, aren't you the perfect scandal for this evening, dear?" A voice whispers from behind her, and an excited flush races through Annette's body.

"Lady Deveroux," she smiles, pushing away the mild tremor of fear at being associated with her outside of the Fleeting Faery. But Samantha had approached her, how could she be faulted for returning the attention?

Annette turns to face her, but Samantha's voice halts her. "Don't turn around," she orders, "I'd rather not spoil the image of you witnessing my dress just yet, dear. I want to savor that moment."

"It would be quite awkward to speak without facing one another, don't you think?"

"Nonsense, appear casual. I am looking away from you as though we know nothing about one another."

"I've been thinking about you," Annette fights the blush on her face unsuccessfully, dropping her voice to a whisper. "Especially at night... in my bed."

"Darling..." Samantha purrs. "You've crossed into my mind in amorous moments as well. You must be quite enraptured, to speak to me in such a way."

"Yes," she exhales, trying to push away the smile gracing her lips.

"Your owner is quite the talk of the evening," Samantha reports, shifting to a less treacherous topic. "I daresay her appearance has caused a bit of a stir."

"She's not well-liked by her fellow gentry, is she?"

"Fellow?" Samantha giggles.

"She's nobility, is she not?"

Samantha laughs again, slightly louder. "Oh, you're serious," she realizes after a moment. "No, no she's not nobility."

"She said her father was Lord Hastings. This is his party, isn't it?"

"Her father might be Lord Hastings, but her mother... not quite so distinguished," Samantha recounts. "The worst kept secret of the family. Everyone knows."

"She's illegitimate," Annette summarizes.

"Unfortunate bastard," Samantha confirms, "In the truest sense of the word."

"How did she get invited, then?"

"Everyone knows, dear," she explains, a mild insistence in her voice.

Annette furrows her brow, "All the more reason to keep her at a distance, I would think."

Samantha's light and cascading laugh sounds out once again. "I do adore the ways your mind is so detached from these games, Annie. Your innocence is delightful. She's invited by anyone who dislikes Lord Hastings, like an unfavorable party trick."

Annette finally catches sight of Cordelia herself and is surprised to find her carefully moving around the dance floor with an unknown man. She's less surprised to find that Cordelia is leading.

"Who's she dancing with?" Annette asks, a little suspicious.

"Her brother," Samantha replies sweetly. "Well, half-brother."

"I didn't realize she had siblings."

"That's Martin," Samantha points subtly at the dance partner, "the youngest. He's sweet and free-spirited, and has no issue in associating with her."

"Clearly," Annette watches as Martin allows Cordelia to dip him.

Samantha carefully points at another man on the sidelines across from them, frowning as he watches the spectacle unfold. "And there's the older brother, Alistair. He finds Cordelia quite repugnant, though mostly because she presents a threat to his inheritance. And of course because of her general manners."

"How does she threaten his inheritance?" Annette scowls.

"She's the oldest of the bunch."

"I thought that women couldn't inherit?"

"She's arrived in that same tuxedo to every event she's been invited to for the last five years," Samantha explains, her voice clearly enjoying the gossip at hand. "I think everyone is worried she might declare herself a twice-born man and muscle in."

"They'd allow that?"

"Certainly not, though no one is enthusiastic to test it. Alistair least of all."

The song completes and Cordelia takes a hearty bow, laughing and smiling alongside Martin, who seems to be thoroughly enjoying himself. She gazes about the room and eventually sees Annette, waving to her and excitedly strolling towards her. Annette panics briefly, worried about her association with Samantha, only to realize that Samantha had already slipped away back into the crowd.

"Annette," Cordelia chirps happily. "I'd like you to meet my brother."

"Good evening," Annette curtsies politely.

Martin shares Cordelia's dark hair, and it flows above his head in a glorious swoop. His face wears prominent laugh lines, and he walks like a man without any cares in the world.

"Lovely to meet you," he flashes a marvelous grin. "Wonderful to meet the woman tasked with keeping my horrendous sister functional."

"It takes great patience," Annette smiles back.

"I can't make it too easy on her, can I?" Cordelia jokes, tucking her hands into her pockets and rocking across the balls of her feet.

"You're a talented dancer," Annette says to Martin.

"You must've been watching some other sorry fool," his eyes light up, "I am simply adept at following." He gently bumps his shoulder against Cordelia.

"How are the fish, Annette?" Cordelia ignores him.

"I've been distracted by the task of discovering your pedigree," she deflects.

"And?"

"I have a better understanding why some find the question humorous."

Cordelia's brows lower seriously. "And do you share their humor?"

"I'm sure the joke soars entirely over my person," Annette inclines her head. "I've lost track of Lord Brimwell."

"Lord Brimwell?" Martin furrows his brow, though his grin remains. "Whatever could you want with that surly gent?"

"Miss Jones has tasked me with enquiring his opinions of fish."

Martin laughs, a few loud barks that fill the space around them. "Is this what your work has devolved into, 'Delia? Are you retiring from murders and moving on to tabloid research?"

"You would be the first to know if I had," Cordelia springs back. Her head swivels around, scanning the crowd. "He's retreated to the hor d'oeuvres table, Miss Baker."

"And am I to simply stroll up, gather his attention, and proudly ask, 'What might be your opinions on fish, my Lord?'" Annette folds her arms across her chest and shifts her weight off of her injured ankle.

"I'll leave the task to your interpretation-,"

"Inform him you are seeking out new fishing destinations for your owner," Martin interrupts helpfully. "He'll likely go on for some time once you do."

"Is it better or worse for him to know that my owner is the notorious Cordelia Jones?" She smiles back, appreciative.

"Certainly worse," Martin nods.

"I do believe it could add a desirable additional challenge to the task, Annette," Cordelia offers, only for Martin to wave her comment away.

"Inform Lord Brimwell that you're a roundabout ask from Sir Penton."

"Martin!" Cordelia complains.

"Sir Penton?" Annette pips up.

Matron turns to Cordelia, "Must everything be some grand trial for you and yours, dear Sister?"

"What is life but a challenge?"

Martin scoffs playfully. "Simply imply the name Sir Penton, Miss Baker, I'm sure that Brimwell will be most enthusiastic to share his thoughts afterwards."

"Why, thank you, Lord Hastings," Annette cutsies, directing a proud smile at Cordelia. "I'll be off, then."

Without waiting for another word, Annette drifts through the crowd, carefully maneuvering her way around the edge of the dance floor as another song begins and draws guests into its center. She passes beyond a seemingly endless amount of gossip, hushed negotiation, and restrained flirtations, and is amazed at how similar it feels to some church crowds. Everyone knew that everyone was feeling a specific way, but no one was allowed to voice their true thoughts. In the church however, the mask worn to hide oneself was piety, whereas here it was propriety.

She successfully weaves her way over to Lord Brimwell, watching him for a moment as he shovels a plate of canape into his mouth with gusto. He hunches over the food and eats quickly, with the air of a man attempting to consume as much as possible before his wife might inevitably scold him for such gluttony. She takes a breath and steels her courage, slowly striding up to him with a warm and fake smile upon her face.

"Pardon me," she chips. "Lord Brimwell?"

"Yes?" He straightens his back, turning to face her with crumbs around his mouth. He scowls upon noticing her collar. "What do you want?"

"Apologies for the interruption, my Lord," she inclines her head deferentially. "I have been told you are the man to speak to regarding locating a suitable destination for fishing for my owner. You've come with high praise for your distinguished expertise on the subject."

"Oh," his face softens. His ears peek up, "Fishing, did you say?"

"Indeed, my Lord," she nods again, keeping her polite smile in place. She lowers her voice and leans in slightly, "Sir Penton is quite interested to know where the best spots might be."

"You've been sent by Sir Penton?" His interest piques once more. "I didn't realize he had acquired a new collar."

"I shouldn't say, my Lord," she feigns courtesy.

"Well then," he clears his throat, looking as though to prepare a grand and highly educated lecture on the subject. When he speaks again, his voice is proud and confident. "Do be sure to inform him not to waste his time upon the Fennes river - even upstream it has become vile and riddled with all manners of distasteful persons. However, the tributary into Lake Pelgar is very active this season."

"Active with what sort, my Lord?" She asks, unsure of what information in particular she should be gleaning. "Might it be filled with... flatfish?" She guesses.

"Oh, not in the slightest. If Sir Penton is seeking flatfish he would be best informed to visit the upper mill race around Brinchester and Avet."

"Apologies for my lack of understanding."

"Not at all," he shakes his head knowingly. "I'd not expect an unspecialized collar to know the ins and outs of sport fishing. Lake Pelgar is best known for a steady supply of Bass."

"Oh, very good, my Lord."

Lord Brimwell continues excitedly, quickly building up steam. "Do be sure to report to him likewise that both Straton Hull and Embar-upon-Dow are really overfished this season, and he'll likely not find much joys in either. However, there's a lovely hidden spot around Turnbull that also has wonderful quail hunting as well. A true hidden gem, to be sure."

"Indeed?" She tilts her head, trying to seem interested. "I'll be sure to pass along that recommendation without a doubt." She thinks quickly, trying to deduce what information Cordelia might specifically want her to extract. She scrambles to consider their connections and timidly asks, "Does Trentchton Hall have much fishing? With you being so keen I imagine it must be well supplied."

Lord Brimwells face sullens and quickly takes on a sour expression. For a moment, Annette feels fearful to have committed an unknown error, but he simply says, "It will once more, if I am to have any reasonability in this world."

"My Lord?"

Brimwell pauses and glances around the room with a disgruntled look. When he returns his focus to her, he speaks as though deciding that he has employed enough restraint in his speech up until this moment, and has finally found a suitably unimportant enough vessel with which to speak freely. "My property has been spoilt by an unlawful attempt to split it half ways with a railroad. The matter has been recently resolved, however, and I am enthusiastic for my land to be properly restored."

"I am sorry to hear that it has been wronged so," Annette nods, carefully noting his reaction and considering it against the letter she and Cordelia had read. She wonders if he could be the Brimwell who had actually written it.

"Nonetheless, I hope my recommendations for Sir Penton serve him well," Brimwell nods. "Good evening."

"Good evening," she curtsies, allowing him to walk away, canapes in tow. She works her way back through the crowd, seeking after Cordelia to report back her success. Cordelia, however, has once again disappeared into the crowd, and Annette is only able to find Martin. She slowly strides towards him, assuming he would know where she had departed to.

"Lord Hastings," she greets, bowing slightly. "Have you seen where Miss Jones has gone off to?"

Martin turns, smiling. "She was horribly secretive in revealing her destination."

"A common quirk of hers," Annette sighs. "Thank you for the help, by the way. Your advice for dealing with Lord Brimwell was quite effective."

"Oh, he's the worst, isn't he?" Martin smirks.

"He was pleasant enough."

"But do you see the way he eats canapes?" The brother grimaces. "Ghastly in the highest order."

Annette hides her frown; Brimwell's manners seemed rushed, but not particularly distasteful. "I'll defer to your judgment."

"I'm quite serious, if you continue to-,"

"Lord Hastings," a voice interrupts, "Good to see you once again. Please pass my compliments along to your mother for arranging such a lovely gala."

Annette turns and feels her heart skip and face flush brightly. Samantha steps closer, smiling at Martin with her usual radiance and flicking her eyes mischievously over to Annette. Annette's mouth grows dry as she gazes over Samantha's dress; it's a long, silky scarlet ballgown that shimmers with every glint of light that grazes over it. The sleeves fall to her wrists as though to imply modesty, despite the fact that at first glance, the dress is entirely shoulderless. A closer look reveals that the dress does in fact have typical shoulder straps, but they are made with a sheer fabric that is scandalously close to Samantha's skin tone. A dashing ruby necklace dangles from a golden chain.

"I'll be sure to send along your regards, Lady Deveroux," Martin nods cordially, kissing her extended hand.

"Who's your new collar?" She asks, her eyes drinking up Annette's enraptured response and pretending unfamiliarity.

"Not mine," Martin replies. "But my sisters'."

"She belongs to Miss Jones? I wasn't aware the detective was doing so well for herself," Samantha remarks, allowing her gaze to linger on Annette's lips.

"A pleasure to meet you," Annette utters at last, stumbling into a nervous curtsy, while her heart dances rapidly in her chest.

"She's quite well," Martin declares, a twinge of defensiveness in his voice. It's sweet to see his protectiveness of Cordelia's reputation. "And Miss Baker is a well-regarded addition into her household."

"Well, I'm sure she is," Samantha agrees.

"How is the Rear Admiral?" He asks, launching into polite conversation.

"Well enough," the noblewoman grabs a drink from a passing waiter, taking a comfortable sip of champagne. "I'm not sure where he's run off to this evening," she adds, watching for Annette's reaction to the detail. "Though he's often away for far longer than I should like at a ball. Who is a married woman to dance with otherwise?"

"Rear Admiral?" Annette asks, wondering if Samantha was actually implying what Annette thought she was implying.

"Her husband, Miss Baker," Martin supplies. "He's been recently promoted, as I am sure has been thoroughly exciting for his estate."

"Indeed," Samantha agrees. She flashes a surprised frown a moment later and throws a hand to her abdomen. "Apologies."

"Are you alright?"

"I'm sure it's-," she interrupts herself, wincing.

"Lady Deveroux?"

"Lord Hastings," Samantha straightens her back, putting on a brave face. "Would you be so kind as to allow me to borrow your sister's collar for a moment? I'm afraid I'm having my... ahem... womanly difficulties."

Martin's face grows pale and he coughs out, "Y-yes, of course. M-miss Baker, if you'd be so kind as to assist with..."

"At once, Lord Hastings, I shall take care of it," Annette saves him. Martin looks relieved and quickly makes his departure. "Marvelous how effective that ploy is," she muses after he steps away.