The Heiress Effect (Brothers Sinister #2)(16)

Jane choked back a laugh. But Mr. Marshall was watching her, a quizzical expression on his face.

She swallowed and looked away.

“Miss Fairfield,” Mr. Marshall said, “are you familiar with chameleons?”

“I dare say I was just reading about those,” Jane said officiously, trying to regain her balance. “Those are a species of flower?”

Mr. Marshall didn’t even twitch at that, and that made Jane feel all the more uneasy. He was supposed to smile at her. Better yet, he was supposed to sneer.

“Or maybe it was a hat,” she added.

Not so much as a curl of his lip.

“The chameleon,” Mr. Marshall said, “is a species of lizard. It changes its coloration so that it hides in its surroundings. When it darts across the sand, it is sand-colored. When it slips through the forest, it is tree-colored.”

His eyes were the color of an unforgiving winter sky, and Jane shifted uneasily in her tracks. “What a curious creature.”

“You,” he said, with a small gesture of his hand, “are an anti-chameleon.”

“I am an ant-eating what?”

“An anti-chameleon. The opposite of a chameleon,” he explained. “You change your colors, yes. But when you are in sand, you fashion yourself a bright blue so that the sand knows you are not a part of it. When you are in water, you turn red so that everyone knows you are not liquid. Instead of blending in, you change so that you stand out.”

Jane swallowed hard.

“Well, Sebastian,” Marshall said, turning back to his friend, “what think you of that sort of adaptation? What kind of creature tries to stand out from its surroundings?”

Mr. Malheur frowned and rubbed his forehead as he considered the question. “Poisonous ones,” he finally said. “Butterflies do it all the time. They are brightly colored so that birds cannot confuse them with other creatures. ‘Don’t eat me,’ the color shouts. ‘I’ll make you vomit.’” He frowned as he said this. “But one ought not apply the principles of evolution to human behavior. Individual choice is not the product of evolution.”

And yet the comparison was all too apt. That was precisely what Jane intended, even if she’d never thought of it that way. She did want everyone to notice her—and she wanted them to think her poisonous.

“Well, then, Miss Fairfield. You have it yourself, from Mr. Malheur’s mouth.” He gestured at his friend. “We can conclude nothing.”

“Mr. Cromwell…”

Mr. Marshall held up a hand, cutting her off. That frisson went through her again, tingling at the base of her spine.

“It’s Mr. Marshall,” he said quietly. “But I think you’re clever enough to know that.”

God, she was in dire straits. You’re intelligent enough to remember two syllables was hardly a compliment, but she’d not received any praise at all in months. It left her feeling warm and utterly confused.

“I—I’m not sure—” She took a deep breath, tried to gather the shreds of her charade about her. “Was I mistaken then? I’m so sorry, Mr. Crom—I mean, Mr. Marshwell.”

“I am not going to lie to you,” Mr. Marshall said. “And might I suggest…”

She looked at him, looked up into those eyes like a winter storm. She looked up into a face that should have been ordinary, and Jane felt her whole body come to a standstill. Her heart ceased to beat. Her lungs seized up in her chest. Even her hair felt like a heavy burden. There was nothing but him and his foolish not-even-compliments.

“Might I suggest,” he finally said, “that you don’t need to lie to me, either.”

“I—”

He held up a finger. “Think about it,” he said. “Think carefully, Miss Fairfield. And once you’re done thinking… Well, the two of us might have a very productive conversation.”

She swallowed. “About fashion? You don’t appear to be the sort to care.”

He smiled, just a curl of his lip. “About a great many things. And yes, Miss Fairfield. About fashion. About the colors you wear, and what they are hiding.”

He touched the brim of his hat and gestured to his friend.

“Good day,” he said pleasantly, as if he’d not just uttered a horrendous threat, and he walked off.

“Good God,” she heard Mr. Malheur say as they walked away. “What was that all about?”

If Mr. Marshall answered, the response was swept away in the clop of horse hooves from a passing omnibus.

Chapter Four

The third time Jane met Mr. Marshall was even worse. She scarcely had a chance to speak with him at the Johnsons’ dinner, but she could sense his eyes on her all through the meal. He sat just down the long table from her, close enough to converse with. It didn’t matter what she said to him. It didn’t matter how she said it. He never gave her that freezing look that suggested that he’d been offended.

Instead, he looked…amused.

She felt wrong the entire evening—as if her shift was too small, as if she no longer fit in the armor of her clothing.

When the gentlemen joined the ladies in the library after, she found herself uncertain, constantly aware of him. Her responses were forced, not flowing. She felt like—what was it he had called her?—an anti-chameleon, burning brightly in the middle of the room.