The Twelfth Enchantment

and impose upon him to speak to me, I know he will love me.”

“What has caused all this fuss?” asked Lucy, astonished.

“You do not know?” This lady seemed as confused by Lucy’s surprise as Lucy had been by the lady’s ardor. “You have not read it, then?” She held out her book.

Lucy took the book and examined it and discovered it to be the newly published volume of the poem Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. “He told me he thought it was remarkable. I see you think so too.”

“He told you,” the young lady repeated. “You know Lord Byron?”

“I know him well,” she answered, implying much if saying little.

“He will see you?” the lady asked.

“I believe so,” Lucy answered.

“Will you bring me inside with you?”

Lucy smiled indulgently. “It is not for me to invite strangers into his house.”

“You are wicked not to share him,” she answered.

“Would you share him?”

“I imagine not.”

Lucy pushed past the girls and rang the bell. In a moment, a fatigued-looking servant answered.

“Please tell Lord Byron that Miss Lucy Derrick desires a word. I am unlike these other ladies in that he knows me.”

The serving man appeared skeptical, but agreed to relay the message. He returned and allowed Lucy and Mr. Blake inside. They had remained in a sitting room for nearly an hour when Lord Byron at last appeared in a dressing gown, his hair looking quite wild. In one hand he held a goblet of wine which he swirled carelessly. He took another step, and Lucy observed his movements were stiff and controlled, like that of a drunkard attempting to disguise his impairment.

“Ah, Miss Derrick. You’ve come to call, and you’ve brought me an old tradesman. How thoughtful.”

Lucy felt shame wash over her. Mr. Blake’s expression did not change, but she could not endure that she had brought him here to be so thoughtlessly insulted. Byron was his own man and lived by his own rules, but he had never before been rude to her without cause.

Lucy took a breath to steady herself. Perhaps it was simply her imagination. Perhaps he was not being so cruel as it appeared or his drunkenness only seemed to her like rudeness. “Mr. Blake has been kind enough to attend me. I must ask something of you, Lord Byron.”

“Must you now?” he asked. He began to pace leisurely about the room. “You know, since we last spoke, the first portion of my poem has been published. It has proved very popular with the ladies.”

“I observed that,” Lucy said. The anger began to build inside her. He had no cause to speak to her this way. No cause, and after all the things he had declared. It was unforgivable.

“Yes, I have two or three of them upstairs just now, and there is an endless stream of new ones at the door. Some prettier than others, so one must be careful to choose wisely.”

Lucy’s cheeks burned with indignation. She might have, from time to time, allowed herself to believe that Byron was a more honorable man than her experience suggested. She may have, on occasion, indulged in the fantasy that he would reform and ask her to marry him. She had known these thoughts were flights of the imagination, and yet they had seemed close enough to reality that they had been worth indulging in. But even if she had not deceived herself, and she had never taken Byron for anything but what he so clearly was, this behavior would have been unforgivable. “I wish to know why you would speak to me in this fashion. Are you under another curse that makes you act so?”

He laughed theatrically, throwing back his head. “A curse? No. It is but literary success that makes me act as I do. I am free now to treat all as I like and as they deserve, and that includes you, though you would believe you are owed something out of the common way.”

“What have I done to deserve this rudeness?”

Byron coughed out something like a laugh. “What have you done? I asked you to come to me. I begged you, and you did not come. Do you think I beg others? You ignored me when I wanted you because it was not convenient for Lucy Derrick—the great Lucy Derrick—to call upon a mere mortal such as Lord Byron. I saved your life. I took blows for you—blows to the face—but does that impress you? Does that instill in you any sense of obligation? No, you are too busy with your gods and spirits and monsters to trouble yourself with me.”

“You must understand the difficulties of a young lady in my circumstances—”

“The devil take your circumstances!” he cried, and flung his goblet against the wall. The glass shattered, and the wine sprayed out like blood. He went to the mantel above the fireplace and swept away all the pottery in a wild, angry thrust, sending a wave of ragged pieces washing across the floor. “The devil take you. Do you think the ladies who queue up at my house trouble themselves about their reputations? No, but Lucy Derrick will not be moved by love.”

Lucy was too astonished even to speak. Could it be that he really thought this so? Could he really not understand what motivated her? How self-absorbed, how childish he must be to condemn her. It was horribly shameful that this drama must play out before Mr. Blake, and Lucy dared a glance at him, but he only continued to smile blankly.

“I’d thought better of you, Lord Byron,” she said quietly.

“Oho! I’ve disappointed you, have I? Tell me, why did you come here today? Did you wish to see me, to spend time with me, as I begged you to? I think not. Or rather, did you wish to ask me to take you somewhere, accompany you on another of your adventures?”

“That is why I came,” said Lucy, her voice betraying her uncertainty.

“That is why you came,” he echoed. “You wished more from me. After all I have done, what have I received in return? Nothing!”

“Lord Byron—” Lucy began.

He would not let her speak. “Nothing!” he cried again. “I have done and done and done for you, and you have only trifled with my feelings. Those women who come to my house ask for nothing in return. I cannot imagine why I should not enjoy their company rather than enduring yours.”

Lucy’s face was now set hard. “Because you claim to care for me. Because a gentleman ought to aid a lady he cares for without demanding she turn whore in compensation.”

“It is a convenient arrangement for you, I’ll wager.”

Lucy turned to Mr. Blake. “Come sir, let us go.”

Mr. Blake rose and smiled at Byron, but it was a chilling smile.

They left the house, Lucy tense with rage. Could she have been so wrong about Byron? Had she allowed herself to misunderstand his beauty as goodness? She did not know. She only knew that now, other than Mr. Blake, she was utterly without allies in London.

31

MR. BLAKE WAS A REMARKABLE MAN. THERE WAS NO DENYING that. He saw things and knew things that no ordinary man could see or know, but he was old and eccentric and, Lucy believed, somewhat unpredictable. She would hate to ask a man of his age to accompany her on a dangerous adventure, and all the more so when she could not know if she might rely upon him. All of which meant that she now did not know how to proceed. Mr. Blake said Lucy’s father wanted her to seek pages of the Mutus Liber at Harrington, her childhood home, but she could not go alone. She had not the money to travel, and she could not ask Mr. Blake, who was poor, to help her in that regard.

That night, after Lucy had picked at her dinner of roast chicken and parsnips, she sat by the fire with Mr. Blake. Mrs. Blake had gone to bed, and now Lucy sat with the engraver opposite her, also with his side to the fire. Across the room, Mrs. Emmett sat with her head slumped, snoring noisily.

Lucy stared at the flames while Mr. Blake told her about the curious mythology that spread throughout his