The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3)

The Sweet Far Thing (Gemma Doyle #3) Page 212

Anger surges past the constraints of shame. “My reputation,” I say coolly. “Is that all I am?”

“A woman’s reputation is her worth, Gemma.”

I flip a page hard and it tears slightly. “It’s wrong.”

Tom lifts the stopper from a crystal decanter and pours a splash into a tumbler. “It is the way it is. You may hate me for saying so, but there is the truth. Do you not remember that this is how our mother died? She would still be here and Father would be well and none of this would ever have happened if she had simply lived according to the time-trusted codes of society.”

“Perhaps it proved impossible. Perhaps she could not fit within so tight a corset.”

Perhaps I am the same.

“One does not have to like the rules, Gemma. But one does need to adhere to them. That is what makes civilization. Do you think that I agree with every rule at Bethlem Hospital or with every decision made by my superiors? Do you think I would not rather do as I please?” He takes a sip of the spirits, making a grimace as he swallows. “I had no control over Mother, but I do over you. I won’t allow you to follow the same path.”

“You won’t allow it?” I scoff. “I don’t see that you’ve a say in my life.”

“You’re wrong on that score. With Father ill, it falls to me to be your guardian, and I intend to take my position very seriously indeed.”

A new fear takes root in me. All this time, I’ve been worried about what the Order, the Rakshana, and the creatures of the Winterlands could do to me. I’d forgotten the very real dangers I face here, in my own world.

“You will not be returning to Spence. The Spence Academy for Young Ladies has obviously been a grave mistake. You’ll stay here until your debut.”

“But I’ve friends there….”

Tom turns on me. “Miss Bradshaw, the penniless liar, and Miss Worthington, who is of questionable virtue. A fine lot of friends. You shall meet the right sort of girls here.”

I’m on my feet. “The right sort? I’ve met plenty of them, and I can tell you they are as shallow as your teacup. And as for my friends, you don’t know them, and I’ll thank you not to speak about them.”

“I’ll thank you to lower your voice,” Tom hisses, glancing toward the door.

Yes, wouldn’t want the servants knowing our business. Wouldn’t want them to know I’ve a mind and a mouth to voice it.

“Do you care so little about your own family, then? Do you not care that Miss Bradshaw made a fool of me—and you—by her deceit?”

“Her deceit! You were only interested in her once you heard she had a fortune.”

Tom pours another splash of spirits. “A man in my position has to think of such things.”

“She thought the world of you, and you treated her shabbily! Is it only ladies such as I, those with privilege, who require protecting, Thomas?”

His eyes widen. “And you would take her part against me, your own blood?”

Blood is thicker than water. That’s what they say. But in truth, most things are.

Tom’s narrow shoulders sag. “Believe it or not, Gemma, I do care about your welfare,” he says.

“If you mean that, Thomas, send me back to Spence.”

He swallows his drink. “No. I shall follow Lord Denby’s sound advice, and you shall remain here, where I might watch over you.”

I toss the book aside. “Lord Denby! I knew it! This is the Rakshana’s doing, isn’t it? They mean to control me yet.”

Tom points an accusing finger. “This is exactly the sort of behavior I mean. Listen to yourself—you’re prattling on about things that make no sense at all!”

“Do you deny that you’ve joined the Rakshana? If so, tell me the name of your gentlemen’s club.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything about it. It is a gentlemen’s club, and you are not a gentleman, though I’ve no doubt you’d wear trousers if you could.”

I let his barb pass. “But you wear the Rakshana’s pin!” I point to the skull-and-sword insignia on his lapel.

“Gemma,” Tom growls, “it is a pin! There is nothing malevolent about it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Tom twirls his tumbler and the beveled glass catches the light, sending spectrums of color dancing on the wall. “You may believe me or not, but it is the truth.”

“What is the name of your club, then?”

My brother loses his snide smile. “Now, see here, Gemma. That is my affair.”