Chain of Gold (The Last Hours #1) - Cassandra Clare Page 0,74

devil,” said Matthew, a glint in his eye. “I shall be at the tavern by midnight. Join me there when you can.”

James excused himself and hurried from the house. The letter in his pocket seemed to beat against his chest like a second heart. Over and over he saw the last line Grace had written:

I shall wait there, and pray that you come. Help me, James. I am in danger.

* * *

Alastair dropped Cordelia off at Anna’s house with a perfunctory pat on the head and a promise to return just before nine o’clock. Since their mother usually served dinner at nine this seemed to Cordelia to be cutting it rather close, but he rattled off in the carriage before she could even ask him where he was going. She couldn’t say she was entirely surprised.

With a sigh, Cordelia turned to face Percy Street, a small side street near Tottenham Court Road. It was made up of long rows of houses of red brick that all looked very much the same. Each had sash windows, white-painted doors, brick chimneys, a shallow set of steps, and a fence about the servants’ entrance made of black wrought iron.

On the stairs in front of No. 30, a girl sat crying. She was a very fashionable girl, in a walking dress of blue foulard with lace trimmings and acres of flounces about the skirt. She wore a headband trimmed with silk roses, and they wobbled as she cried.

Cordelia checked the address she had written down, hoping it would have changed. Alas, definitely No. 30. She sighed, squared her shoulders, and approached.

“Pardon me,” she said, as she reached the steps. The girl was blocking them completely; there was no way to politely edge past. “I’m here to see Anna Lightwood?”

The girl’s head jerked up. She was very pretty: blond and rosy-cheeked, though she’d been crying. “Who are you, then?” she demanded.

“I, ah…” Cordelia peered more closely at the girl. Definitely a mundane: no Marks, no glamour. “I’m her cousin?” It wasn’t quite true, but it seemed the right thing to say.

“Oh.” Some of the suspicion went out of the girl’s face. “I—I am here because—well, because it’s just too, too awful—”

“Might I inquire as to the problem?” Cordelia asked, though she rather dreaded finding out what it was, as it seemed the sort of thing where she might have to come up with a solution.

“Anna,” the girl wept. “I loved her—I love her still! I would have given it all up for her, all of it, polite society and all its rules, just to be with her, but she has thrown me out like a dog on the street!”

“Now, Evangeline,” drawled a voice, and Cordelia looked up to see Anna leaning out of an upstairs window. She was wearing a man’s dressing gown in rich purple-and-gold brocade, and her hair was a cap of loose, short waves. “You can’t say you’ve been thrown out like a dog when you’ve got your mama, two footmen, and a butler coming for you.” She waved. “Hello, Cordelia.”

“Oh, dear,” said Cordelia, and patted Evangeline gently on the shoulder.

“Besides, Evangeline,” said Anna. “You’re to be married Wednesday. To a baronet.”

“I don’t want him!” Evangeline sprang to her feet. “I want you!”

“No,” said Anna. “You want a baronet. Not to live in my messy little flat. Now go on, Evangeline, there’s a good girl.”

Evangeline burst into a fresh spate of tears. “I thought I was the one,” she wept. “After all the other girls—I thought they didn’t mean anything—”

“They didn’t,” Anna said cheerfully. “And neither did you. Do come up, Cordelia, the water’s already boiled.”

Evangeline let out a wail that made Cordelia jump back in fear for her life. She leaped to her feet, her blond curls flying. “I shall not stand for this!” she announced. “I’m coming back in!”

Anna looked alarmed. “Cordelia, please stop her, my landlady hates fusses—”

There was the sound of hoofbeats pounding along the road, growing rapidly louder. A light carriage drawn by two matched grays hurtled up the street; a Junoesque woman in a flared skirt and redingote perched upon the driver’s box seat. She pulled up briskly in front of the house and turned a furious face toward No. 30.

“Evangeline!” she roared. “Get into the carriage this instant!”

The fire went out of Evangeline. “Yes, Mama,” she squeaked, and darted into the carriage.

The plumes on Evangeline’s mother’s hat trembled as she gazed sternly at Anna, perched in her sash window, examining an unlit cigar. “You!” she