The Wrong Girl(12)

"Then what do you want with me? If you mean me no harm, why am I here?"

Langley turned his steely gray gaze on me. "I'd heard you were clever."

I bristled. "Heard from whom?"

"Never mind that. You're here not because of who you are, but what you are."

My heartbeat slowed. My cheeks cooled. I sat very still and stared at Langley, although I didn't really see him. I'd known it all along, but I'd not wanted to admit it—I'd been kidnapped because they thought I was Vi, and Vi could start fires with her mind.

I swallowed hard. Langley was going to be in for a rude shock when he discovered I couldn't set anything alight without matches. And once he did, then what?

"But why do you want someone who can start fires?" I asked.

"To train you."

"Pardon?"

"Jack is going to teach you to use your power at will and control it."

I held up my hands, closed my eyes. My breath seemed unnaturally loud in my ears. "One thing at a time. For what purpose are you training me?"

"You cannot go about setting things ablaze willy nilly. You'll never be able to function in the real world if you don't learn to control it. We're going to help you, Violet. The sooner you see that, the sooner you'll accept your situation here."

"My situation being that I am a prisoner at Frakingham."

"Leaving would be foolish, and I've already established that you're a clever girl."

"Clever people can do foolish things."

He gave a slight nod. "I advise you against trying to leave. I know your father kept you confined to the attic, but you'll have more freedom here."

"He was worried I would set fire to something! And we lacked nothing."

"How do you know? Did you see what he gave your younger sister? Did you?"

His words would have hurt if I really were Lady Violet Jamieson. I knew she loved her father, despite everything. I think she secretly hoped he would remove her from the attic one day and introduce her to Society. She'd been bitterly disappointed after her eighteenth birthday when it became obvious her position, and mine, wouldn't change. She'd been sad—sadder—for weeks.

"That's enough, August," Jack said, his voice ominously low. "We don't want to rile her."

"Let's go downstairs," Sylvia said rather too brightly. "It must be almost dinnertime and I've a grand feast planned for our guest." She beamed at me so hard her cheeks must have ached from the effort.

"A good idea." Jack held out his hand to me, but quickly withdrew it with a glance in Langley's direction.

Langley scowled at him. "I believe Violet has one last question to ask me."

"I do," I said. "Why is Jack going to be the one to train me?"

"Do you care to answer this?" Langley pointed his chin at his nephew.

"Perhaps she shouldn't be overwhelmed just yet," Jack said.

"Come now. I know you're desperate to tell her."

"August. Don't. It's too soon."

"I'm ordering you to tell her!"

Jack stretched his fingers then closed them into fists. "Very well." He turned to me, and I was shocked at the feverish color of his green eyes, the mocking set of his mouth. "We're two of a kind, you and I, Lady Violet. As far as I know, we're the only two fire starters in England. Perhaps the world. I don't know why or 'ow, but we just is. We should join a travelin' sideshow. Or per'aps not travelin'. We could stay put. Make the customers come to us. Fleece 'em of every penny while we set their 'ats on fire."

"That's enough, Jack," Langley warned.

"Be famous, we would," Jack went on, his chest rising and falling with his hard breathing. "So what you fink, Vi?"

"I said, enough!"

"Jack," Sylvia whispered. She hesitantly reached for his hand, but when their fingers touched, she sprang back with a yelp. A spark shot from Jack's fingertip, but Sylvia stamped on it before it could scorch the rug.

I rose out of the chair and stared at Jack. I couldn't take my eyes off him. I'd never witnessed Vi during one of her episodes, my narcolepsy having shielded me from that, and to see actual sparks erupt from his bare skin was incredible. Not frightening, but...curiously thrilling.

It wasn't the only thing that shocked me. His outburst had been unexpected, but not nearly as much as his accent. It had changed from the cultured tones of a gentleman to something altogether different. Something I'd never heard before, but had read about in books. Indeed, some of the characters in Mr. Dickens' novels spoke like that in my head when I read their dialogue. It was only the poor characters, however—laborers, beggars, thieves, murderers and street urchins.

Which category did Jack Langley fit into?