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[Dorian Clayborne]

It was called Kirk Park and it was splendourously emerald. It came upon Dorian's perpetually fatigued brain that Kirk Park was meant to be invigorating and he should act according, yet he was unable. He was in an insufferable mood as of late and forced pleasantry if only to appease his sister. Oh he had spent the weeks following the Easter Ball in feckless self-indulgence arguing that his was the worst lot any could afford. It was all bulldust and none had to tell him so. He knew. And as he scuffed the bottom of his newly shined black boots across the gravel that made up the path, he knew that Emma would turn and look at him with a warning.

Which she did as if on cue.

"I wish you would stop sulking..."

The edges of his lips threatened to waver toward the heavens, yet he sustained his composure by nipping at the evergreen with his fingers as they walked past.

"Give me my moments, Emma. I promised you charm and eloquence. So let me wallow now as not to make it obvious to our guest." He spoke naturally at first and slowly his voice decrescendoed into a sharp whisper.

Ah, yes. They were expecting a guest in which Emma had sent a letter to inviting to a stroll through the mall--a one Gwyneth Pritchard--infuriating harpy that she was. Yet Dorian, the foolhardy saint he was, would make strong his oath to remain loyal to Emma's bidding in these situations...however much he abhorred the idea.

"...like being caged with a hyena.." He grumbled under his breath.

"What did you say?!" She craned her head slightly with a glare that reminded him of mother.

He quickly pecked at an adjacent flower showing its blossom to Emma in a slight panic.

"I said 'it looks like a Magnoliopsida..'"

Dorian watched her eyebrow lift angrily. How could he think that Emma, being cooped up in a house all of the time, would not know her botanical flowers. The stare intensified and he felt a small lump begin to swell in his throat. He watched Emma as she wavered and finally gave in to complacency.

"You are moody."


Suddenly the air became stifled with a kind of seriousness that could not be ignored. Dorian had no choice but to follow suit. He strolled up to be at Emma's side and looked further on toward the grassy hill they were descending upon. He plucked a daffodil from its neighboring potted home and idly cleaned it of grassy debris.

There was a time of uncomfortable silence. Emma seemed far off as they walked together. Cacophoneous displacement of gravel was their music. Dorian mused to himself about creating an orchestral suite comprised soully of colliding rocks. They could not deny him his due as a Romantic artist. Or then perhaps he would be laughed at. That certainly would not do.

Looking to Emma once more, Dorian could see that the silence was doing her more worse than good. Conflicts of the heart were terribly gruesome to his way of articulation. Give him a room filled with the ladies of society and he could charm them all. To him, they would all be Helens-- a mass of beautious faces to launch a thousand ships and burn the topless towers of Illium.

Tweaking a stalky leaf on the daffodil, he fought to locate a single subject to extinguish the burning silence.

"Father is doing better."

"That might be a relief for some to know."
Emma retorted. Her tone was a warning. Clearly she did not want to talk about the senior Clayborne.

"I think you should go to him."

"I have no desire to see a man who out of love confines me. And I especially do not wish to converse with someone who finds no fault in this."

"He is your father as well as mine and only trying to love you the only way his battered heart knows how."

"Then my cursed presence in his home is his own fault. Out of love, he would have me unmarried, poor, and interminably ill!"

Oh dear. He seemed to only be exascerbating her current mood. Dorian made a quick resolve to abandon the road of communication with leaping recession. If she couldn't handle conversation, then he would not be obliged to speak at all!

He continued walking along and nodding to the men he knew as they passed. They looked just as bored as he. They came to a pond which rippled in the springtime wind and he took a deep breath in while closing his eyes. Ah! He thought. The Lord certainly does make his presence known in strange times.

"Aren't you going to offer me that flower?"

Emma's voice opened his eyes and he looked at her a moment, considering.

"...No. This is my flower. Pluck another one for yourself."

The right side of his mouth slightly curled up as he watched Emma grow insecure and then realize. She smirked and poked him teasingly. Emma quit her steady pace and walked to the marble seat overlooking the small pond. She sat herself down and wrapped her silk shawl over her arms.

Twirling the white and yellow daffodil between his thumb and forefinger, he approached the pond inquisitively. There was always something about ponds that reminded him of childhood. No doubt, if here were any frogs spotted, he would have to restrain himself from trying to catch them.

"The good Ms. Pritchard should be along soon.."

His jaw clenched a bit and he turned in profile to lay eyes on Emma. Another thing that made him feel like a child, though not in a fond way. It was forcibly brought to his mind why they were here to begin with. He knew Emma was testing him. He knew he should not retort, but hid pride would not abide.

"And did you tell Alecto, daughter of Gaea, to leave her shackles of despair and guilt on Olympus?"

"Dorian, I will not have you--!"

"Tush, Emma, I do not mean it." He said boldly and with authority. He meant it.

[Gwyneth Pritchard]

The two Pritchard sisters had intended to take their perambulations together with the Claybornes, but after the unexpected desertion of Tamsin this morning Gwyneth was left on her own. How could her sister have fallen sick that fast, anyhow? Perhaps Tamsin had done it apurpose purely to leave Gwyneth in despair. She was not at all sure if she was going to be able to be civil to Mr Clayborne, but at the same time she knew that to have a chance of sustaining a friendship with Emma, whom she very much liked, it was necessary to deal with her brother on pleasant terms. Previously, she had thought that it was impossible to allow one person’s excellence to outweigh the defects in their relations.

Those defects were unpardonable, and she did not think that she would ever get along with Clayborne on his own. He had given her multiple excellent reasons to hold him in distaste, and in fact she could not think of one redeeming quality about him. Abominable man! It was purely maddening to know that she could not really tell him what she thought, which was, to wit: he was a perfect brute. But she would tolerate him, or at least she would try her best to do so, because Clayborne was not on his own today.

Reflecting upon this simply put her in an ill humour, one that she did not want to be displaying on her face to Emma, and so she put herself in mind of something else. Tamsin was naturally an easy target, and with her sister not around to defend herself (not that her defenses were terribly convincing in the first place) Gwyneth was free to consider it.

Naturally it was easy to think well of Sir Vandenberg. He had shown himself a true gentleman at the Easter Ball, when things went straight to hell. - Gwyneth was able to think about all of that rationally now; it almost seemed as if it hadn’t happened. It was so utterly strange to think that there had been a murder that it was easy to put it out of mind. She did remember, however, the judge’s unexpected kindness. Regardless of whether she had cared for his company at that moment in the back-room of the theatre, he had been good to she and her sister.

However, though proving him a gentleman, it certainly did not explain Tamsin’s reaction to the fellow. Gwyneth really could not explain the odd fancy that her sister had taken to the judge. He was…not quite ugly, she wouldn’t go that far. But that goblin smile was miles away from being handsome, or even dashing. That plus his eyebrows (and such eyebrows she had never seen on a man before) made him look positively villainous.

As far as personality went…well, he was kind, and courteous. But he had displayed nothing resembling a sense of humour, and the ability to laugh was indispensable in a man. Beyond that he was a good deal older than Tamsin. It wasn’t December and May, but more like…September and June, perhaps? Certainly it was very common for a younger woman to set up with an older man; they were generally more settled, and also as it happened richer, which probably explained why so many marriages happened that way. Not that this would go anything like that far, for one thing Sir Vandenberg had shown no peculiar return interest that she had seen, and, if he thought about it at all, he probably thought that Tamsin was…well…a little girl. If her sister let him have any inkling that she had such an inclination for his company, she would be setting herself up for humiliation. And considering how Tamsin had behaved in Gwyneth's presence, Gwyneth suspected that her sister might be about to make a very big fool of herself.

Not that Gwyneth would say that to her sister. But Tamsin really was being ridiculous! The attraction made no sense at all to Gwyneth. Perhaps she was reading too much into Tamsin. Maybe it really was just a sudden obsession with fencing? But Tamsin had never shown any undue interest before, plus she reacted much too strongly to Gwyneth’s teasing. Weigh it as she would, Gwyneth could conclude nothing other than that her sister had formed an infatuation with Sir Vandenberg.

Having established that in her mind, she further reflected that she did not approve of the infatuation in the slightest. Sir Vandenberg simply wasn’t good enough for her sister. He might be an excellent fellow, but Tamsin deserved an Adonis, or an Apollo, not the high court judge, Knight Companion of the Bath though he might be. She would have to see what she could do about changing her sister’s mind. She did not have the least idea how at the moment, but she would figure out a way.

Throughout her musings, she had more or less been allowing Mrs Somers to guide her. As it was unthinkable for a woman to go out on her own, and Tamsin was calling upon Sir Vandenberg, Gwyneth had set out for Kirk Park in the company of their housekeeper. Mrs Somers walked rather slowly, being somewhat elderly, and so Gwyneth had plenty of time to think about things. Unfortunately her thoughts rolled back around to the Claybornes, and an uncomfortable atmosphere descended upon her once again.

She did not know how precisely she was going to deal with it. She wished Emma to think well of her, and at the same time if she never saw Emma’s brother again in her entire life it would be too soon. It would be easier if she did not have to speak to him much. What to talk on, so as not to directly exclude him but give him as little opportunity to converse as possible? She could think of a few things, but the problem was, those would bore her as well, and would probably bore Emma. It was a quandary she did not quite know her way out of. She would just have to go without a map.

With Mrs Somers beside her and a little behind her, the servant-woman chunnering slightly to herself, she made her way through Kirk Park. She expected to find the Claybornes by the pond, at least that was where Emma had designated for them to meet. The weather couldn’t do anything other than lift her spirits, for it was a fine day, with a smiling sun in only slightly clouded skies. It really was hard to worry too much. Beyond that, she very much looked forwards to seeing Emma.

Rounding the bend in the path, she saw the two Clayborne siblings where they had said they would be. Emma was seated, while her brother stood; his face was a thunder-cloud, but she ignored it; slipping away from Mrs Somers, she sped up towards Emma, slipping around the trellised arbour to stand in front of her newfound friend. She forgot about Mrs Somers puffing along behind her, and about the other Clayborne, and held out her hands to Emma with her face glowing. “Miss Clayborne!” she said delightedly.

[Emma Clayborne]

Emma fidgeted with the lace that decorated her shawl. She could not deny that her attitude toward Dorian as of late had been monstrously unregulated. Her patience had been nearly lost on her poor brother and there seemed to be no end in sight. Now looking on through Kirk Park, she meditated on her personal feelings in the silence that was brought on by her mood.

It wasn't all Dorian's fault. Emma traced the lines of the toille in her clothing as she thought of her own frustrations. The tips of her fingers traced the lines of the fabric. She wanted so much to aspire for the dream that was implied by the patterns on her dresses, the stories in her books, and the fantasies she had created herself. But now it was so very real that she was conscious of her own confusion.

As they waited for her newfound friend, Gwyneth Pritchard, Emma Clayborne was introduced to a newer sense of intimidated fear. She was frightened that the life she was denied for so long may possibly be nothing as she expected. She had stood her ground and won a few meters more room. She was frightened and fidgety in these moments of the newfound unknown. She felt as the pilgrims must have felt when they braved the cobalt oceans in search of something bigger than themselves.

Emma concentrated upon the brilliant colors of the day. The azure sky with white billowing clouds decorating the heavens. The emerald dancing green of the park with adornments of a tropical spectrum of flowers.

She felt a flush of clammy heat warm and cool her sickly cheeks and that all too familiar weakness fill her head and she immediately proscribed a hand to press against the back of her bare neck. Baby curls danced behind her ears and just below the rest of her hairline. She silently prayed that Gwyneth would like her and that Dorian would not be so bothersome.

And just as angels come to aid those who pray to them, so too did Gwyneth appear in her field of vision. All fear seemed far away at that moment as Emma rose to a stand. She went to meet Gwyneth placing her hands in her friends feeling the comfort of the entire world in those warm palms. Her smile was bright lighting up her frail and sickly face with an ethereal glow that almost looked becoming.

"Miss Pritchard! How lovely you look on this fine day! How very good of you to meet us here."

Emma canted her head toward Dorian in hopes that his face would further kindle this sense of happiness. Dorian appeared as if he has seen a ghost--as grave as a Gothic novel he was--which caused her smile to dilute slightly. And then as is he had noticed her suddenly, Dorian quickly regained his composure and urged a polite and agreeable smile to his features as he walked past them toward an elderly looking lady that Emma had not much noticed out of her happiness at seeing Gwyneth.

"It is wonderful to see you."

Emma gave a polite acknowledgment to the elderly lady awaiting to further address her after Gwyneth introduced her. In this moment, Emma could not imagine a world enriched with such wonderful people being a terrible place in any aspect whatsoever.

[Dorian Clayborne]

Dorian groaned a bit in annoyance at the situation. He didn't like waiting for people and least of all women who felt they were too self-important to arrive on time. He leaned his hand against the bark of the willow tree that hovered close to the shore of the pond. It was a very agreeable position until the wind began to curl the willow's limp branches around his arms and neck like a python ready to engulf its prey. This was not so agreeable.

Fortunately, quitting his post near the willow tree marked the appearance of Gwyneth and her escort--an elder lady who seemed to struggle walking. But Dorian's attention could not focus on the elder lady. His eyes were absolutely stagnant upon Gwyneth. His mouth became very dry breath for some reason seemed unattainable. She looked...he could not describe her. It was the daylight. It must have been the daylight. She looked clean and cool like the water in the pond, only...

His lower lip fell agape in confusion. The lump in his throat swelled as he searched her tiny frame--searching for the culprit of this disease in her. She was...beautiful? Suddenly that word had a profound affect on him. He was paralyzed until the thought of beauty sent a chill down his spine. He realized that he was staring at Gwyneth and Emma was looking right at him.

He cleared his throat loudly and averted his eyes to the grass around his shoes. It seemed as if time had stopped in that moment and then everything had begun again but faster as if making up for the time loss. His hands began to shake a bit and he brought them behind his back one holding the other. And for some god awful reason, his heart pumped madly in his chest.

This aggravated him to no end. He suddenly remembered Emma against who still looked on him with a wavering smile. In a panic, he mustered up a polite smile. Had they noticed anything? Dorian never usually struck others with outward emotion. No matter the tumult that writhed in his body, outwardly he appeared to them as placid and dull as a glass of water. He hoped in this moment, this strong attribute would prove strong.

He nodded as kindly as he could, frustrated with Gwyneth already, and annoyed at the entire situation. Walking to the elder lady, he finally took in a breath and smiled charmingly.

"Madam, please take my arm. If not for you than for me."

He still had it in him to remain charismatic. A feeling of relief rushed over him and he thanked the Lord on high that he was not found out. Extending his arm for the woman to take, he almost looked forward to Gwyneth, but caught himself. He bristled a bit out of frustration.

She was even dictating to him where he could look! That malicious harpy! Still....still it is not wise to do that again. Heaven only knows what could happen.

Dorian was frightened in that moment as to what he was feeling. A schoolboy again. A child frightened of the great unknown. He hated it. What exactly was it? He conjured her face in his mind's eye trying to pinpoint what it was. Yet this only seem to imprison his breath again. Best not to think on it..

They had finally made it over to Emma and Gwyneth. Dorian unconsciously clenched and unclenched his jaw tightly as he looked to his sister. The look on Emma's face made him aware of the fact that he was being forced to look at the young Miss Pritchard and the thought nearly made him sick.

[Madeline Smith]

///Last Post: Her Majesty's Prison Farringdon Circle
(((OOC:Dorian, I hope you don't mind me making Jeremy your friend)))

Prudence had once more called her unladylike and heartless. She had also threatened to write to her father, but she gave up as soon as Madeline cast her an evil glare. Evil...more like a warning glare. At least that was how she liked to see it. One way or another, it got her where she wanted to go. If it would ever fail to work, though, Madeline would find other methods of having it her way. In spite of her great pride, she would resort to begging if she would see great use in it. But the use would have to be more among the lines of enormous. This was one thing Madeline did not exaggerate-she truly would not give up her pride for just aything. Not even a new dress or a new pair of gloves. Which rated as extremely important objects in her life. But what was the point of possessing those objects if you could not go out and show them?

This kind of thinking was precisely what had caused the argument between Madeline and Prudence. It might have been better to say what argument, because there had been many during their 'alliance', as Madeline liked to call it. Since it certainly was not to be compared to friendship. More like enmity. Earlier today, Madeline had been to the prison again, to visit an old friend of hers that was stuck there. Naturally, Prudence had not come along. Actually, Madeline had never even notified her of this excursion of hers, foremost because the governess would never have allowed it. So why bother asking? Still, Prudence had noticed Madeline's disappearance, and when the young woman came back, questions were asked. Even though she managed to think up of a perfect lie(meeting a friend from a very respectable family), it did not soothe Prudence's nerves.

Just an hour after that, Prudence had another outburst when Madeline came down wearing her newest promenade gown. It really was beautiful, made of silk and satin, colored very lighte beige and made by the lates fashion. It had a hat to go along with it-a nice, feathery hat. She had bought it a few weeks ago, just before the ball. Madeline could not understand Prudence's disagree, because the dress had a high collar and it was not very provocative in Madeline's eyes. However, the governess had her reason. Since, she implied, Madeline had known Ferdinand Mallister, she should wear mourning clothes and not leave the house for at least a day. Outrageous! How dared she ask such a thing from her. No, not ask-Prudence had ordered her! And it espeically bothered her because she had clearly stated her desire to go for a walk in the park.

The fight that had followed was something Madeline rather enjoyed, and Prudence rather did not. After nearly half of an hour of arguing, the Southern Belle was about to march out of the house with or without the governess' approval. But she was saved of having to do such a thing and risking her father being notified of her misbehaviour...by the bell. The doorbell, to be more precise. It chimed, and both of the women spun in it's direction. They listened to the maid open, and after a few seconds, she entered the parlor, where they were located. "There is a gentleman here to see Miss Madeline." was all she said, and it was enough for the young woman to rush to the door. Prudence followed, naturally.

The said gentleman turned out to be Mr. Jeremy Trent, a very handsome guy with dark hair and green eyes. Plus he came from a very rich family. Only that they didn't really adore him-he was the younger son, and he was the black sheep of the family. Not because he did anything truly scandalous-he just loved women, loved mischief and loved being in the centre of attention. And he adored Madeline, while she could certainly say she liked him well enough to know the answer to his question; "Would Miss Madeline be interested for a walk in the park?" Of course she was! Just as she thought of a quick excuse to leave Prudence behind. Oh, joy! It would've been very rude of Prudence to protest, for how could she not trust such a fine young man?

Right now, they were walking along a path, enjoying the scenery and the fresh air. Madeline loved this park for one reason-it reminded her of South Carolina. Not that it could ever reach her home's knee-the air was chillier here and there was a tad more fog-but it was the closest thing she could find. She really missed her father's plantation and all the lovely things she used to do there. Whenever she thought of her sisters having fun, making all those parties and balls, she would feel so extremely envious of them. Normally, she never admitted it. All they knew(from what she had written them), she was having the most perfect time in Lindeboshire, England. It certainly was fine enough with company like Jeremy...and Mikhail. Oh, yes, she remembered Mikhail. The tango...yes, it had been great. Even now, during this walk, people were passing by and staring at her. They recognized her from the newspaper-and she was happy because of that. Needless to say she was very thankful to Mikhail. And she hoped they'd see each other again soon.

"May I ask what thoughts occupy your pretty head, Miss Smith?"; Jeremy asked rather teasingly. With a smirk, Madeline clung to his arm tighter, replying in an equal manner, "Oh, it truly is not appropriate for the public, Mr. Trent." They both laughed and went on walking. It was not too long before they reached a lovely pond. Madeline had been here before, and she had always enjoyed sitting on the marble seat. Which was taken now, she noted, rather displeased. A man and a woman were sitting on it. She was just about to pull Jeremy in another direction, not to intrude on their privacy(actually, she didn't care for their privacy, she merely did not find them interesting enough), when he spoke; "Ah, I have just spotted my friend, Mr. Clayborne. You would not mind if we went over to greet them, Miss Smith?"

"Of course not." Madeline mused, now paying more attention to the other couple. Or where they truly a couple? There was some resemblance between them; maybe they were related? Siblings? The man looked quite older from Jeremy(who was twenty), but the woman looked like she could be his age. Right away, Madeline started regarding her as competition. Which meant that she created a negative picture of her in her mind as well. Not that she was about to show it. She also spotted another woman approaching(onse she recalled from the ball), only to be greeted delightedly by the woman and not so delightedly by the man. Jeremy led her over to them, nodding his head in greeting; "Ah, Dorian! It is very good to see you indeed. You too, lovely Miss Emma." He took Emma's hand and kissed her. The anger that flashed through Madeline's eyes had not escaped him, because soon he turned back to her, casting a smile; "Of course, allow me to introduce you to the most beautiful lady of all I've met," Madeline's gaze changed to approving, "Miss Madeline Smith of South Carolina."

"How do you do." Madeline curtsied with a polite beam on her full lips. In reality, she wished for Emma to fall into the pond, despite the fact she barely knew her and the fact she didn't even love Jeremy. She also wished for Gwyneth to fall into the pond before being introduced to Jeremy. She needed to have everything; and if she couldn't have it, nobody would.

http://www.abfab.co.uk/Thumbnails/SD90718.jpg

[Gwyneth Pritchard]

Emma rose from the marble seat to meet Gwyneth, linking their hands, and Gwyneth felt, because the connection nearly demanded it, the brief temptation to whirl about in a childish fashion. Instead, she simply held Emma’s hands gently; the other girl’s fingers felt very cold, even through the gloves that both wore, and if it had not been a fresh spring day she would have wondered why Emma was not wearing a muff. A muff would have looked very odd this time of year. Was Emma well? She looked better than she had at the ball; there was a blooming and seemingly healthy colour in her face, but her hands really were very cold! Emma's face looked well, though, and Gwyneth did not know very much about telling such things.

"Thank you! You look lovely yourself. It is good to see you!" she said warmly. And it was perfectly true. Then, however, Emma released Gwyneth’s left hand, and turned towards her brother; Gwyneth was forcibly obliged to do the same. Clayborne was looking at her furiously; he had a grim set to his features that left her again expecting that he might be about to explode in a clap of thunder. Or perhaps he might snarl. Her own smile became slightly fixed at finding him staring at her so intensely – he could at least ignore her, rather than glare so – but after a moment he dropped his gaze, pasted a smile on his face, and walked on past them. Well, maybe he was going to ignore her after all? Surprisingly, she found that idea even more irritating.

Gwyneth realised that she had forgotten Mrs Somers then, though Mrs Somers was not far behind, and she turned along with Emma prepared to give the introduction that was expected, as well as an explanation. They had of course been expecting Tamsin to be with her. She should have explained why her sister could not come from the very first, without needing Clayborne to remind her of it, but she remedied that now. "I am sorry to tell you, Miss Clayborne, but Tamsin has fallen ill and was unable to come with me today. She is in no danger but has been advised to keep to the house."

After Gwyneth had said that, Clayborne had offered his arm to Mrs Somers, and Mrs Somers had taken it. His courtesy towards her had been unexpected, but was not in the least disdained; she was plump, and elderly, and gravity tended to have its way with her. She leaned rather heavily on him; she and Gwyneth had not been travelling terribly fast, but it took very little to wear her out. Then Clayborne and Mrs Somers were there with them, and it was necessary to introduce Mrs Somers to the Claybornes, which Gwyneth set out somewhat uncertainly to do.

Mrs Somers was in point of fact the wife of their steward, Bradley Somers, and she kept house for the Pritchards. Her name was Eugenie, but Gwyneth had never been able to call her by such a familiarity. Mrs Somers had known and cared for the two sisters since they were babes in swaddling. And consequently she couldn’t help but afford Mrs Somers a measure of diffidence and respect, no matter that she placed over Mrs Somers in the eyes of society’s hierarchy. Nor could either Pritchard really give orders; Mrs Somers ran the Pritchard house more or less exactly as she pleased.

"Miss Clayborne," Gwyneth said, "This is Mrs Bradley Somers, my companion. Mrs Somers, this is Miss Emma Clayborne and her brother, Captain Dorian Clayborne." That was perhaps slightly impolite, as Dorian’s name should have been the one she said first, but she said it casually, as if it were accidental. She was at least going to make some small concession to what Clayborne deserved. Besides, in her opinion, Emma was decidedly far more valuable than her brother, whether etiquette considered her to be or not.

"Pleasure to meet you, a pleasure," Mrs Somers said affably, when without much chance for either Clayborne to make reply they were accosted by another couple. Gwyneth observed them carefully, as one of them looked familiar; she realised a moment later that she had seen the young woman at the ball. She was the one that Gwyneth had remarked upon for her haughty manner. She still had the same proud and possessive air now, holding onto the young man's arm as if she owned him and perhaps the world into the bargain. Gwyneth also knew something else about her: she was the American girl that had danced the tango and shocked the entire gathering. Gwyneth did not know what to make of her based on that, though, so she determined to judge fairly on whatever she was about to learn of her.

She did not know the young man at all. He was young, and flamboyant, and rather handsome, but beyond that she could say even less of him than of the American girl. Beyond, of course, the fact that he knew and was evidently on friendly terms with Clayborne. That was an automatic mark in his disfavour. Perhaps the fact that he knew Emma might balance that out a little, but she reserved judgement on him as well until after she was introduced.

The American girl – Miss Madeline Smith - had an interesting accent. Gwyneth had, in point of fact, never met with an American at all, much less a Southerner. Miss Smith’s drawl sounded very odd to her ears, although not quite unpleasant. And in fact, she looked very much more reasonable upon a closer inspection than she had at first appeared.

But Gwyneth was still not precisely happy about the appearance of these two. It was…well, she did not know what it was, but she thought she would have preferred it if they had left her and the Claybornes alone. Perhaps it was something about Miss Smith; the younger girl had a perfectly sweet expression, but Gwyneth distrusted it for no reason that she could name. She had seen something flash in Miss Smith's eyes a few moments before, and perhaps it was that.

Nevertheless, she mustered a smile of her own for the two. She could not speak until she was introduced, of course.

[Emma Clayborne]

It hadn't occurred to Emma that Tamsin was not present until Gwyneth mentioned it. This wasn't because Emma only cared for Gwyneth's presence. On the contrary, she would have been equally elated if not more for both sisters to have attended the mall on such a fine day. However, Emma was too jocund for the presence of one to have noticed the absence of the other.

When Gwyneth told her of Tamsin's ailment, Emma felt ashamed for not noticing and furthermore worried for Tamsin's health. This species of depression made her cheeks flare in indignation for herself.

"Oh, Dear. You must forgive me for not noticing. You simply must give her my consolation upon your return. I do hope that she will be able to recover expeditiously."

She could not help but feel a little self-conscious at her mistake in which she thought horribly visible to the rest of the company. Geeling now for the first time her clammy touch against Gwyneth's healthy palm, Emma subtly withdrew from her guest's grasp which was ultimately more noticeable by a series of introductions to Mrs. Somers.

The odd introduction of Emma before her brother to Mrs. Somers was completely lost on her as she was not fully accustomed to etiquette in the true world. Most of what she knew of polite society stemmed from her voracious appetite for any and all books none of which were comprised soully on proprietary needs. Thus, she bent at the knee slightly with a respectful smile to Mrs. Somers as if there was nothing amiss.

Mrs. Somers was older, but nonetheless beautiful to Emma. She held the quality of years of untenderness growing into the fruition of an elegant spirit. It was blatant that Mrs. Somers was of lower rank in society, but the currency of social hierarchy never did amount to much in Emma's mind. She was reminded of her closest friend, Abby, in that moment. A lady of the house yet so much more to Emma. Perhaps Gwyneth gelt the same toward her Mrs. Somers in which case Emma decidedly loved the young Miss Pritchard evermore.

Emma was about to make a reply when another party interjected. She immediately recognized the man as Mr. Jeremy Trent, an old friend of her brother. Her heart flourished in utter happiness at seeing someone else she had acquaintence with. As Dorian spoke to Mr. Trent, Emma felt a sudden outcropping of confidence. The world cannot be so terrible with such lovely people filling it.

With only slight reservation did Emma allow Mr. Trent to take and kiss her hand. It was only out of fear that he should find it cold and clammy.

"Hello, Mr. Trent. How very good to see you!"

Her happiness was dampened, however, when she caught sight of his female companion's flare. This nearly frightened Emma completely solid. Her once deliberate hand recoiled from Mr. Trent's flatly.

The woman he attended was very beautiful. Her hair came in dark curls that were exquisitely placed exactly where they should. And her eyes, when not filled with unregistered emotion, could quell the rage of an empassioned stallion. Perhaps it was true that she was the most beautiful in all that Mr. Trent has met. When compared to this woman now introduced as "Madeline Smith," Emma was a houndstooth to her toile. Still, tere was something quite off about her.

When Jeremy mentioned she was from South Carolina, and the lady herself had begun to speak with an accent, Emma recognized what was strange. Miss Smith was from America!

Her brow dampened a bit as she peered at her like a caveman would to fire. Emma had never spoken to or least of all seen an American. This perhaps would explain her subtly varied yet equally elegant attire. Rather than admit ignoreance, Emma smiled and spoke up.

"Miss Smith. It is a sincere pleasure. It seems that the Lord has abundantly blessed me today with such fine company and such promising weather. Won't you join us?"

Her deep brown eyes went to Dorian. For some reason she was in dire need of support. Had they become so far removed from each other that he could not sense the urgency she felt but could not emote? Emma felt as if she were losing ground by the second and her confidence again began to wane.

[Jean-Luc Dargeaux]

Marie Dargeaux was walking through the park, searching for clues.

So far she had found quite a number of them, but most unfortunately they weren’t clues that would help her solve the murder case. That kind of clue was a special kind of clue, a Clue, whereas these clues were more mundane clues of the sort that let her know who was mad at whom and who had been walking through the park and who was scandalous and that sort of thing. Regular, boring clues. Currently, she knew that Mrs Rodgers was angry with Mrs Jones for throwing a more elegant dinner party for their circle of friends—which was always the case, and Marie didn’t know why Mrs Rodgers even bothered to try, since it was obvious that she would always lose. She also knew that some strange lady suspected the neighbour’s daughter of “being no better than she ought to,” which was a phrase that confused Marie. Of course people were no better than they ought to be. After all, if that was how good they ought to be, how could they be better? It made no sense.

It was dull drudgework walking through the city and collecting these clues, but that was the price of serving the public. It was especially dull because she had sent her deputy off to follow a very suspicious-looking fellow, the kind that might be a Suspect, and now she had no one to talk to. Not that Bradley was very good conversation, being dense about understanding that she was the boss because she was the inspector, but he was better than none. Plus, when he had been with her, she wouldn’t have gotten in trouble if Miss Fitzgerald, the governess, happened on her since she could argue that she wasn’t alone. Miss Fitzgerald probably would have listened to that, and not impeded Marie’s civic duties.

Miss Fitzgerald had been a real problem lately, obstructing the investigation at every turn. It was only thanks to the half sovereign that Marie had gotten off of the icky man, Ferdinand Mallister, that she was able to keep the investigation up in style. Miss Fitzgerald had thrown away the first fabric that Marie had bought to sew herself proper detective’s clothing, which had been a huge drain on expenses. It was only because Marie had been wise enough to bargain for more than she needed that she could afford the replacement fabric. Once the fabric had been converted to garments, she had gotten Bradley to agree to hide the clothes for her in a box in his father’s little garden shed, because she could sneak in there without a key through the loose board, and Miss Fitzgerald couldn’t throw them away because she wouldn’t know about them.

The bribe to make Bradley do it had set her back to only a crown remaining, which had caused a horrible dilemma. She needed two different hats: a black-tasselled red fez and a deerstalker cap. The fez would run almost the full crown, while the deerstalker would only cost about three shillings—but there wouldn’t be enough left to buy the fez. Eventually she had decided to buy the deerstalker and save for the fez, since she had an almost fez she had constructed out of an old red pillbox hat.

It had been the right decision, Marie reflected as she walked through the park. Because now she was properly accoutred as a detective inspector: she was wearing the checked deerstalker, and a matching checked Inverness coat over her day dress. It was still a little bit cool in spring so the extra warmth wasn’t a problem yet, although it wasn’t needed either. Detectoring went much better when one looked like a detective. Marie was about to end this session of detectoring, however. She needed to get back to departmental headquarters before Father did, or she might be in trouble. She was almost out of the park when it happened.

She found a Clue.

Or rather, she overheard one. Miss Hearst was talking to her friend Miss Batherstein, and Marie’s ears latched on to one of the names—Miss Madeline Smith. Marie couldn’t believe her ears. Madeline Smith was a Suspect! This was a Clue of the first class! She began to follow the two of them discreetly, checking her pocket-watch (one of Father’s that she had borrowed, because the department was so low on funds) and stretching her ears to hear everything, remembering it all for transcription to her case book once she got home.

Miss Hearst said to Miss Batherstein, one-forty-five-pee-emm: “I saw her at the Easter Ball, dancing that scandalous, scandalous dance with that awful man.”
Miss Batherstein said to Miss Hearst, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “Was it really so hideous as they say it was?”
Miss Hearst said to Miss Batherstein, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “Oh, my dear Elaina, it was so much worse!”
Miss Batherstein said to Miss Hearst, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “Do tell!”
Miss Hearst said to Miss Batherstein, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “I was shocked, absolutely shocked! The strumpet actually kissed him, right there in front of everyone!”
Miss Batherstein said to Miss Hearst, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “But the dance?”
Miss Hearst said to Miss Batherstein, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “Oh, goodness gracious, it was so horribly indecent. They were so close together, and they touched each other in such indecorous ways… it’s too horrible to relate.”
Miss Batherstein said to Miss Hearst, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “I wonder how she can show her face?”
Miss Hearst said to Miss Batherstein, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “I have no idea. She’s a trollop. She isn’t even with the same man today!”
Miss Batherstein said to Miss Hearst, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “Ooo, you mean that wasn’t him?!”
Miss Hearst said to Miss Batherstein, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “No indeed! The other one was much more brutish. This one at least isn’t touching her.”
Miss Batherstein said to Miss Hearst, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “Was there anything positive about the other one?”
Miss Hearst said to Miss Batherstein, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “Well, he was very graceful, and quite handsome. But such a brute!”
Miss Batherstein said to Miss Hearst, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “A troll?”
Miss Hearst said to Miss Batherstein, one-forty-six-pee-emm: “Indeed!”
Miss Batherstein said to Miss Hearst, one-forty-seven-pee-emm: “A troll for the trollop! How rich!”
One-forty-seven-pee-emm: Miss Hearst giggles.
One-forty-seven-pee-emm: A small pause.
Miss Hearst said to Miss Batherstein, one-forty-seven-pee-emm: “She’s gone over by the pond. We can go back now.”

Marie, already beginning to tire of the arduous work of watching the clock without looking like she was, perked up. The other stuff she hadn’t known, but it fit exactly with the character of the Suspect. It wasn’t surprising. But the information that the Suspect was in the park, and further, by the pond, was enough to cause her to lose all boredom and scurry off to go spy on the Suspect. What suspicious things would she be doing today? It took Marie about minute to arrive behind the rose hedges near the pond and peep out at the Suspect, by which time the Suspect—and the Suspect’s escort, for she actually had one today—had happened across a group of people.

For a moment Marie was almost more interested in them than the Suspect. She recognised the pretty one right away. It was Recluse Sister Number Two, from the big old house where Mr Pritchard had died a few years ago! Jennie, Marie’s friend who lived near there, had told her all about the tragic tale. The Recluse Sisters, seldom seen outside of their home (except that Jennie’s mum said that they went to parties, but what did Jennie’s mum know) were unfortunate ladies who had the unhappy circumstance of watching their father die right before their eyes. This had affected them so much that they now saw death whenever they looked at someone; instead of seeing beauty, they only ever saw the inevitable fading of such beauty that time would bring. This had forced them to become hermit-like in their own home, so as to spare themselves the pain of ever falling in love with someone and seeing his death repeatedly.

There was also Captain Clayborne, someone that Marie hadn’t yet worked up the courage to talk to (he was a Captain, and therefore almost like a king—certainly he was heaps more important and talented than her, so it might be a while before she did), and another man that Marie didn’t know but immediately dubbed Mr Fox, because he was so very smarmy. And there was another woman, whose back was to Marie. Who could that be? At the very moment that Marie wondered, the woman turned to look at the Suspect, and Marie’s mouth fell open.

It was the Captured Princess! Marie and Jennie had seen her in the window of Captain Clayborne’s house a couple of times, but neither of them had ever seen her on the street. They had decided that the only reason for her to never come out that made sense was that she was prevented from coming out. That naturally led to a discussion of possible reasons for such restraints being placed on her, and they had logicked it out that the only explanation for it was that she was a princess that Captain Clayborne had captured while on foreign duty in India, and she was being held here because they couldn’t put her in a prison and so they had put her in the house and told Captain Clayborne, him being the finest gentleman of the realm (next to Father of course, but the Queen probably didn’t know about Father), to make sure she had everything she wanted—except that she couldn’t leave the house. Marie’s mind raced. Why had that changed today?

Wouldn’t Jennie be so jealous that she wasn’t here! Marie resolved to note every detail of the Captured Princess’ appearance, so that she could recount it for Jennie since she couldn’t be here. Marie tried to think of way to go approach the group to talk to them, but she didn’t know any of them except for the Suspect, which was no kind of help at all. She was forced to stay behind the hedge, only watching with bated breath. She would learn something amazing here today, that was for sure.

(OOC: For reverence, an Inverness coat looks like this although Marie's is checked, so as to match her deerstalker.)

[Dorian Clayborne]

((OOC: No prob! I enjoy the unexpected))

Dear God! He was being forced to look at her! In all time, he had never been so uncomfortable in looking at any woman as he was in this moment. But his Word was his alone and he had promised Emma upon that virtue to not only acknowledge Gwyneth but also to be cordial. Swallowing hard, Dorian did his best to paint a polite disposition. His eyes drifted to her face avoiding those effervescent eyes and running along the flush of her cheeks, the indentationi of her warm-colored lips, eyebrows, ears, chin. They were all but plain features showing true to their definitions. Ears to hear as his would be used, nose to smell, eyes to see, lips to speak...kiss, cheeks to caress...NO! He shunned these digressions in such a tumultuous shock. Dorian was not quite sure what was happening to him. He hated Gwyneth, did he not?!

Thankfully, Dorian's expression was trained on boredom or irritation, which ever a person's impression may be.

"Welcome Miss Pritchard." He said flatly as if distracted.
"So good of you to come."

Dorian felt relieved in that moment that he did not stress his words any more than needed. His mind was playing tricks on him that made him feel much like an ass, a buffoon, a coxcomb, and all of the myriad of tragically comic characters in the books that he had read. It was now up to Gwyneth to speak introductions. He casually turned his attentions to Emma and Mrs. Somers. Anyone but her for all the choirs of angels!

"This is Mrs Bradley Somers, my companion. Mrs Somers, this is Miss Emma Clayborne and her brother, Captain Dorian Clayborne."

It was as if a lightning bolt had struck him--which most would be quite surprised--when Miss Pritchard kindly gave him the fuel to breach whatever syndrome he was falling under. She had hoped he wouldn't have noticed the subtle dig, but the foolish cow was wrong! Gwyneth had introduced Emma before him. Normally, the order of introduction made no effect upon him, yet because she did so, Dorian understood the vague disrespect.

His eyes shot directly to Gwyneth's eyes in that moment, locking with them deliberately yet letting no foul distemper pass through the concentration. Gwyneths' eyes were filled with something...some quality beyong his grasp. They were dark, mysterious and...yes...yes beautiful. They had a tendency to encapsulate the view surrounding its spheres. His mouth grew dry even through his disdain.

OH! Confounded Confusion! His brain was filled with a potent concoction of longing and anger that raised the heart rate and collapsed the lungs. This woman was trying to kill him! But no, Dorian was above this petty game! He was a man and such a definition dictates callousness. He was a Captain of a dragoon for Christ's sake!

Clearing his throat yet again, he resolved himself to affect indifference and placidity. It could not have come at a better time when his name was called out by a familiar male voice. Turning slightly, he recognized Jeremy Trent--an old friend of the family. His father and the senior Clayborne were close friends growing up and it was only natural that their sons be tender to one another. Of course, Trent was much younger than Dorian which did not allow for any serious closeness but that of the fondness of seeing each other more often than not. Dorian kindly asked Mrs. Somers' permission to break away which she kindly gave. Once broken away from Mrs. Somers, Dorian went to Jeremy.

"Jeremy, sir!" Dorian said smiling. His tone was friendly with a hint of relief. Extending his hand outward to Jeremy they shook hands and Dorian patted his arm tenderly. Jeremy Trent was never needed so much for a person's salvation as he was now in Dorian's situation. For that, Dorian was forever indebted on some level.

His attention was brought to his young female escort--a one Madeline Smith. She seemed familiar to him though he did not know from where or when. It could not be possible that he knew an American woman. Whatever this familiarity, Dorian assured himself that Madeline was a very honest form of beauty. Not this horrible hodgepodge of wavering emotions he was feeling for Gwyneth. Certainly not. Who could find tender moments with a woman that made someone feel like they were going into shock!? At that moment, he envied Jeremy, for being in the company of an exotic beauty like Madeline. Miss Smith was a woman that he had seen, spoken to, and flirted with countless of times. Except that each time she held a different name.

Extending his hand to Madeline, he kissed the top of her hand lightly and curved the left side of his mouth upward which always tended to make him look like a mischevious boy.

"A great pleasure, Miss Smith. Tell me, have I not seen you before? You are familiar to me for some reason."

An inquisitive, vexed crease formed on his brow as he searched her face. He bit the inside of his lip a bit in thought before turning toward Emma who was looking at him already. It was a specific look, a look that transmitted dire purpose yet was created soully for brother and sister to understand. Dorian had completely forgotten about his sister's unsure nature.

Taking in a breath, he withdrew his hand from Madeline's and spoke up confidently for now the time of introduction was at hand and rested upon his shoulders.

"Mr. Jeremy Trent...Miss Smith...I don't believe that you have met..."

His eyes flicked toward Miss Pritchard, arching a brow.

"Miss Gwyneth Pritchard and Mrs. Somers." He looked back to Trent.

"They are our newfound friends." Dorian said with a bit of a mental jerk when he said "friends".

He extended his hand outward for Emma to take in which she did with very little hesitation.

"Join us for a walk?" he asked Jeremy and Miss Smith.

It would be a great relief to have others along with them. Dorian looked to Emma with a comforting smile that hopefully would put her mind at ease. She could not help but be what she was. Jittery and fatigued. The least that Dorian could do would be to try and ease that stress a bit out of love for her. He laughed in his throat a moment before looking back to the rest of the company.

[Madeline Smith]

As Dorian and Emma greeted Jeremy, Madeline allowed her eyes to casually(but carefully) trail over the others. Next to Gwyneth stood an elderly woman the Southern Belle had not taken notice of before; actually, she had not even seen her. Well, not that she really spiked her curiosity. Due to her age, she certainly represented no competition, and, to Madeline, she looked like nothing more but a poor maid. Plus she appeared plain. Why, she thought, if any man who could have me was to look at her, he'd be pronounced officially crazy! Well...in Madeline's eyes, any man who ever looked at any other woman but her when she was around was officially crazy. Next came Gwyneth. Madeline remembered her from the ball, but she had not ever talked with her. She wasn't really interested to do so now, for Gwyneth she saw as competition. The only thing she wanted to do with her was to push her into the pond. Really.

After finishing eying them, she moved over to the Claybornes. Emma-the woman whose hand Jeremy had kissed earlier-seemed incredibly shy and without a trace of self-confidence. Of course, Madeline was satisfied when, after noticing her angry look, she moved her hand away in fright. Still, she thought of it as weird. If another woman would look at her with anger...why, Madeline would deliberately continue doing what she was doing! Another trait of hers-she was a very spiteful person. Dorian Clayborne-from vicinity, he appeared more handsome than from further away. He also appeared very relieved to be moved away from Gwyneth and the maid. This irked Madeline's curiosity-why? Of course, she was here...But that could only cause him joy, not relief...Unless he really hated Gwyneth. Or he was just repulsed by the fat maid.

It was then that Dorian took her hand and planted a gentle kiss on it. Madeline smiled a polite grin, and her eyes glittered a bit; just because she would not allow Jeremy flirt with other women didn't mean she couldn't allow herself a tad of flirtation with another man. Actually, this was no flirting! She was merely being polite! And Jeremy would not mind-he was quite a Don Juan himself. If he thought she didn't know of his little affair with Dinone Setter, he was very wrong! But that was, of course, only because she had refused to go to the ball with him. Otherwise, she reassured herself, it would not have happened. Naturally. She made interest appear in her eyes as Dorian spoke; "A great pleasure, Miss Smith. Tell me, have I not seen you before? You are familiar to me for some reason."

Her eyebrows raised slightly. Of course, that was just to make it look as if she was thinking. She knew where he'd seen her! At the ball...or in the Gazzette. Now she had to think of an apt way to let him know about that. Madeline was not ashamed of the tango-on the contrary, she was very proud of it and very glad it had happened. Still, she knew it would not be very tactful to merely blurt out: "Oh, yes, I danced the tango at the ball a couple of weeks ago..." Definitely not. On the other hand, a more subtle variety could actually work. Batting her long eyelashes, Madeline replied swiftly; "The ball, perhaps?" Then she added, "If you have been there..." She didn't really recall seeing him. But she had been so preoccupied with Mikhail she had not paid much attention to others. Except for Mallister. Late Mallister. What a shame. She only wished she had danced just one dance with him before he was killed.

When introduced to Gwyneth and her maid, Madeline merely nodded with a half-smile. Then her attention shifted back to Dorian Clayborne, who spoke again; "Join us for a walk?" His sister seemed to agree with him on that subject as well. Madeline wanted to join them for a walk, because evidently they were going to discuss the ball; the tango and maybe the murder. Surely the murder. Both topics were extremely interesting to her. But Jeremy had to agree too. Looking at him with the corner of her emerald eyes, she gave him a sort of a pleading look. But it was not entirely pleading. It was the sort of a pleading look which was just a mask-behind it, there was clearly commanding. Jeremy noticed that, and smirked at her, slowly nodding his head; "Of course."

Even though a tad angry because of his playing of dilemma, Madeline couldn't help but admit it was what she liked at him. There were too many men running around this world that would simply bow to her every wish acting more like servants than like free man. Jeremy was not one of them. And Madeline appreciated that. In her eyes, a real man needed to be independent and strong, but he also needed to respect a lady. And to know how to respect her. As they went along, walking, she decided to intiate the murder topic. The tango had already been mentioned in a way. Putting on her best 'tragic face' expression, as she called it(she had plenty of names for expression she usually acted out), she voiced; "Speaking of the ball...what a terrible tragedy, that murder that had occured!"

It slipped her mind that the others might have come here with the desire to talk about something else. Not that it would have ever mattered to her. What mattered was that she wanted to talk about the ball, the tango and the murder. And she was going to do so. Oh, she was pretty sure the men would not mind it; for Jeremy she could say 100%, for Dorian...about 80%. What man would dare risk her disliking him by opposing her? None. Well, Jeremy would oppose her, but in a mocking way. In the end, he would give in. As anyone would. For Emma, Gwyneth and the maid she, frankly, didn't give a damn.