Matthew of course recognized the music as A Mighty Fortress Is Our God. He smiled also, his lips oiled by the rum, and pretended not to notice all the bad notes. It was indeed time for the introduction. No matter how homely Pandora was, Matthew was bound and determined to be the grandest escort the poor girl had ever had. Nay, he would be the King of all Escorts! He would kiss her hand and bow before her, and to blazes with Berry Grigsby and Ashton McCaggers, may they both be happy in his attic tomb of grisly curiosities. So there.
But yes, he would be the greatest escort ever to escort anyone. Ever. To the Sword of Damocles Ball. He wished he might have another jolt of Sir Richard, but now Prisskitt had him by the elbow and was pulling him to his doom. Or…meaning to say…room.
Matthew did not consider himself to be so superficial as he now found in the next moment that he was. For upon being pulled—escorted by the elbow, so to speak—into the music room and seeing the young woman who sat playing the intricately-etched Italian spinet he felt suddenly weak in the knees, not because of the assault of off-key notes but because…
…because if this vision was indeed Pandora Prisskitt, he was just about to be introduced to the most beautiful woman in the world.
It was amazing, how mangled notes could be healed by the smile of a violet-eyed goddess. Her lustrous sable-brown hair was done up in what Matthew presumed was the latest Charles Town fashion, its curly ringlets arranged about her shoulders and decorated with green ribbons. She wore a sea-green gown and a choker of perfect white pearls, probably worth the packet boat Matthew had rolled in on. Her face was fit to make any artist into a master of beauty, if such could be captured on canvas. Which Matthew doubted, for Pandora’s serene loveliness would have unsettled the hand that held the brush and made the otherworldly into the commonplace, for her mouth, her cheekbones, the curve of her nose, the small dimples in her cheeks, the sleek arcs of her eyebrows and the violet coloring of the eyes…all would be too much for a brush to match. Matthew thought even Michelangelo might cry for his lack of talent in assigning the young woman’s features to the body of an angel. Indeed, he thought as he staggered a bit beneath her steady gaze and the heavy presence of Sir Richard, she might be the most beautiful woman who had ever lived. Yes, she was that much. And another glass of this rum and he would be surely undone, and what might issue from his mouth would not be the refinements of an escort from New York but the gibbering of the orphan boy he used to be.
“Mr. Matthew Corbett,” said Prisskitt, “meet my daughter Pandora.”
And the vision had risen from her seat at the spinet and offered him her soft hand. Opening a Chinese fan before her face she had batted her eyes at him, lowered her head and said in a voice as sweet as the honey crust on a cinnamon cake, “I am so enchanted, Mr. Corbett.”
In the two days to come before the ball, Matthew was the one who found himself enchanted by Pandora’s manners and presence. He did find it odd, however, that such a creature should be lacking for a local escort, but an afternoon’s ride along the river with Pandora’s father had cleared up the mystery. It seemed that Pandora was so beautiful she had no suitors. “Too striking for the local men!” said Sedgeworth. “Can you fathom that! Yes, it’s true! My daughter absolutely loves to attend the social events…and you do know it’s important for a young woman of her status to be seen at these gatherings…but, Matthew—may I call you Matthew, as I feel I know you so well?—she is never asked by anyone! That’s why I was forced to hire you. Yes, forced to hire a young gent all the way from New York, because no man in this town will ask my daughter to anything! And it’s a shame on them, Matthew! Oh, I don’t understand this younger generation! Well…I mean…you are of the younger generation, but…of course…you’re a sophisticated sort, aren’t you? Listen to me prattling on! Why don’t we retire to the shaded porch, have us another glass—or two—of Sir Richard and relax as Pandora plays us a few hymns. Would that suit you, Matthew?”
“Oh, yes sir!” said the sophisticated sort, who didn’t realize the power of the Southern sun upon his noggin. “I am well-suited for a stirring hymn!”
“Indeed you are, my boy,” Prisskitt had replied, as he’d turned his horse back toward the stable. “Indeed you are.”
One of the tapers in a silver candelabra to Matthew’s left spat sparks, as above his head the breeze through the open garden door made the sword of Damocles sway back and forth…back and forth…
“Death,” said Matthew, “can have many definitions as applied to the human condition, sir. For instance, there is the death of an idea. Or the death of hope. Do you agree that someone can be said to die of shame?”
“Of shame? What are you goin’ on about? Either a man dies or he don’t!”
“Precisely so, but there can be the death of the spirit as well as of the body…may I call you Mr. Muldoon?”
“Reckon. What’s your name?”
“Matthew Corbett, at your service.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“The same.”
“Now listen here!” Muldoon roared again, the beast taking up its vengeful burden. “What are we gonna fight with?”
And here was the question that needed answering. Matthew had realized that Magnus Muldoon was the real reason no young man of Charles Town offered to squire the lady Prisskitt to any of these socials. No young man of Charles Town wished to wind up in the graveyard or laughed out of town for refusing this monster’s challenge. A glance at the dandies and dames in this dignified dungeon told Matthew that there were a few too many grinning faces and glinting teeth for a civilized gathering. He had no doubt that several gents had been laid onto the banquet table for worms due to Muldoon and his fixation on the angel of the room, but probably many more had run for their lives. Matthew had seen in Muldoon’s eyes that the man expected him to run…no…really, wanted him to. For the beast was not a born killer, it was just that he was somewhat bewitched by the awesome beauty of Pandora Prisskitt. And who was it who once said there was no such thing as witches?
Matthew had not desired to be the center of the evening’s entertainment, but he stepped up to the task.
“My weapon of choice,” he said firmly, “is a comb.”
Muldoon cupped a hand behind one of his ears, which was hidden by his matted mane and might well be plugged by a thumb’s-length of wax. “Must be goin’ deef. Thought you said your weapon of choice is a comb.”
“You heard correctly. A comb it is.”
Magnus Muldoon shook his head as if he’d already been axed in the brainpan. “A comb. For the hair?”
“Exactly so. And I prefer to have satisfaction right now, at this moment.” Matthew reached into a pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew his own simple wooden comb, and then he surveyed the onlookers. “Might one of you have a comb Mr. Muldoon and I can use in our—”
“You’re crazy!” It was still a growl, but somewhat weakened. “How can a comb be a weapon in a duel?”
“I think you’re about to find out, sir. Ah, thank you!” An older gentleman with a shock of white hair had brought a tortoise-shell comb also from his waistcoat and offered it to Matthew. “I will be glad to pay for the comb,” said the problem-solver, realizing the fate of one of these implements.