Belmary House 4

by Cassidy Cayman

  “Ashford would kill you,” she said, unable to help it.

  His face brightened. “I’d truly like to give him the chance to try. His spellbook hasn’t been working for any of my people. They can touch it and read it, but that’s all. It might have happened when Ariana gave her special permission for all and sundry to have at it, perhaps she somehow rendered it impotent, only an old book, as she’d said.” He shrugged. “Ashford could probably reverse that.”

  “He’d never do that, and you know it,” she said, done with her cutesy act to get him to do what she wanted. He repulsed her.

  “He might be compelled to. Let’s wait and see if he comes looking for you, shall we? Then we’ll see who’s right.” With that he held out his arm, and gestured toward the door. “It’s time.”

  Her heart nearly stopped beating at his chilling words. For the first time she wished Ashford would stay away. She believed in him fully, but he wasn’t nearly as skilled as a witch who practiced regularly. He hated it, and could barely light a candle if she wasn’t in the room. She couldn’t let Ashford anywhere near this madman, even if he did manage to find her before she was done away with.

  She shakily managed to keep up with Nick as he all but dragged her through halls and down stairs until they reached the entrance to a grand ballroom. Someone thrust a heavy staff into her hand, a sceptre with a jeweled griffon atop it. These people were all insane. How had her daughter got caught up with them? And how could she manage to fool them long enough to let Thomas escape?

  The poorly tuned violin being played from within the ballroom stopped, and Nick pushed her ahead of him. Heads turned and she heard gasps, the sounds of people scrambling to get to their feet or fall to their knees. Murmurs wafted past her as she trudged heavily down a long aisle toward a raised dais. She wanted to laugh when she saw the heavily carved chair on it — a throne. Several people rushed forward to help her into it, then bowed their way backwards off the dais. She sat alone, Nick a few feet to her right, in a chair lower down.

  She scanned the room, maybe forty or fifty people, most of them looking angry or shocked, some with tears streaming down their faces, perhaps grateful to see her alive. She hated tricking them. Finally she saw Thomas, in the back, between two huge men. She furrowed her brows in question and he shook his head.

  It was over, then. He hadn’t been able to talk to anyone. As soon as she was done giving her speech, he’d no longer be needed to keep her in line. She prayed he could keep convincing them he was on their side, and still get away somehow.

  She knew there was no hope for herself. She’d be spirited away and hidden where she couldn’t make trouble, perhaps kept alive for a while as bait for Ashford. She’d never felt so hopeless. Looking out over the sea of faces, she started to cry.

  Chapter 27

  Ashford knew charging into Madame Celine’s shop and demanding answers wouldn’t get him anywhere. The opinionated Miss Lawson didn’t think so either. And yet, he did it anyway. He could feel time slipping away from him as if it was a palpable entity, draining away as surely as his health. He knew if he tried a scrying spell it might be the last piece of magic he ever did. He needed a break from it, possibly never use it again, so all he was left with were his wits, his ability to intimidate people, and as a last resort, his gun.

  As expected, she’d refused to tell him anything, having the audacity to pretend she didn’t recognize Miss Lawson, though the girl had been with Matilda only the other day. The woman was going to be a tough nut to crack, and with a deep, beleaguered sigh, he summoned all his waning abilities. He felt stiff and creaky, and his insides churned, but by using his remaining strength to concentrate on Matilda, he managed to make the garish decorations in her shop rattle and shake.

  He knew his eyes looked empty and mad after his display, and he rested them on Madame Celine, hoping it had done the trick to scare her into cooperating with them. He reached behind him and grabbed Miss Lawson’s arm to keep from falling over, and the dear girl stood steady and firm to keep him propped up.

  “I need a meeting with Sir Amos at once,” he repeated for the third time, but this time she was convinced he was serious. Thankfully, because there was nothing left in him to do more.

  “I- I’ll see what I can do,” she stammered. “If you’ll come back tomorrow at this time, I’m certain I can have a messenger here to take you to him.”

  Or kill him, he thought sourly. He shrugged and agreed, then still gripping Miss Lawson’s arm, strode out of the shop. He made it to the alley a few doors down and collapsed against the wall.

  Miss Lawson felt his forehead and looked worriedly at him. “You look like a melted candle,” she said in her unsympathetic voice. He’d only known her a day, but felt this was as caring as she got. “I’m surprised you agreed to that. Back at the house you were so hell-bent on not waiting another moment.”

  He shook off her attempt to wipe his brow with her handkerchief. “I’m not waiting,” he said. “I’m going to follow her and see who she meets.” He nodded to the end of the alley. “Go peek around that corner and tell me if you can see the back door. I’ll watch for her to come out the front.”

  She nodded, a glimmer of respect in her eyes, which he appreciated. Any bit of encouragement helped, as he felt weaker than a kitten and as if he could throw up at any moment. Without a thought for the current lord’s fine clothes, he slid to the ground to rest while he kept his eyes carefully trained on Madame Celine’s shop entrance.

  He dozed off for a bit, not caring that he was a peer of the realm, passed out in an alley. Miss Lawson’s hiss jerked him awake and he pushed himself up, moving as fast as he could toward her. Sure enough, Madame Celine was slinking out the back of her shop, clad in a hooded cloak that only served to draw more attention to her at this time of day. He started to move along behind her, keeping to the shadows of the filthy back division between houses, but Miss Lawson grabbed his hand.

  “Wait,” she said, digging in her reticule and pulling out a small but lethal looking folding knife which she expertly snapped open. “Take this with you.”

  “I have my firearm,” he told her. “You’ll be unescorted on your way back to Belmary House. You should keep it.”

  She patted at her skirts and pulled out another knife, smiling up at him. “You can never be too careful in London,” she said.

  “Too right,” he agreed, gratefully pocketing the one she gave him. He had to go, Madame Celine was almost at the end of the alley.

  “Don’t forget about Thomas,” she said, making one of her odd angry faces.

  “Of course not,” he said, shocked she would think it. “I’m quite fond of the lad. I’ll bring them both back before you know it,” he assured her.

  Or never return, he added silently. He would be damned if he left this time without Matilda and his loyal assistant. He squeezed her shoulder, something Matilda did to him when she felt he needed bracing, and then turned and stealthily trotted after Madame Celine.

  He was sweating profusely and nearly spent by the time she stopped at a seedy looking tavern. A look through the grimy windows showed it was full of working class sorts eating and drinking. He was dressed rather too well to not be noticed, but he saw that she was going up a flight of stairs and he couldn’t risk losing her. He quickly found his way to the back and when he was certain there was no way for her to leave the premises without coming back down, he took off his neck cloth and jacket and folded them up under his arm and went in.

  When he glimpsed his reflection in the foggy, cracked mirror that hung in the entrance he realized he had nothing to worry about. He looked in sad disrepair, like Miss Lawson had said, a melted candle, and his hair was matted and stuck to his head in spots, sticking up in others, with a smudge of soot near his brow from having to repeatedly wipe away the sweat that poured off him from exerting his overtaxed body.

  He crammed himself into a short hallway that probably led out to the kitchen, and tried to blend into the woodwork. A
fter an eternity of waiting and getting scolded by a serving maid for being in her way, a man came down the stairs in a hurry, clearly upset. Madame Celine nipped at his heels, arguing with him about something. At the bottom of the stairs, she flailed her arms and shook her finger in his face, and it looked like he finally relented, nodding irritably and pushing her away.

  The man headed toward the front door and Ashford flung himself out before he was seen, flying to the nearest alley to see which direction the man went. He wasn’t especially big, and under normal circumstances, Ashford felt he could have subdued him, but in his current situation, he didn’t dare try. He’d have to follow him and hope the man led him to wherever Matilda and Thomas were. And hope he didn’t collapse on the way.

  He had a moment of terror when the man climbed into a hansom cab, and he raced after it, knowing all would be lost if the horse moved into a less crowded area and he ran out of steam to keep up. He dodged through the foot traffic and made his way around the cab. Charging ahead of it, he spied several men unloading small barrels off a cart near the closest intersection. If the cab managed to get past that intersection, it would be free of the congestion and would work up to a brisk trot he couldn’t hope to keep up with. He already puffed like a creaky bellows.

  He ducked around the cart, still ahead of the cab for now, and heaved one of the barrels into the street. It rolled unsteadily for a few feet then disappointingly came to a stop. The workers were about to return for a new load, and the cab was easing closer and closer, gliding along unhindered through the traffic. He had to hinder it. He jumped into the cart and ducked low enough not to be seen from the ground, and in his desperation began shoving them out one by one until five or six barrels bounced and rolled merrily, successfully blocking the way.

  The cab driver shouted, the men unloading the cart turned around and swore, pedestrians ran every which way to avoid shying horses and flying barrels. Coughing until he thought he’d lose a lung from all the dust he’d stirred up, Ashford used the mass confusion to scurry up ahead to the intersection, where he hid beside a fruit stall. He dug for some coins and tossed them at the vendor, begging the woman to pretend he wasn’t there. When she saw the number of coins, she perked up and ostentatiously whistled a tune, blatantly ignoring him.

  He prayed the man would abandon the cab so he could more easily follow him on foot, but after far too short of a time to recover his breath, the cab had made its way through the mess and his quarry was still inside it, looking harried. Ashford saw him pound on the roof to get the driver to go faster and he waited to see if they would go straight or turn.

  They turned off the main thoroughfare onto the much quieter side street and Ashford saw his chance, a foolhardy and insane chance, but he was out of options. Every second he tarried, the cab got further and further away from him, and with it, his chances of finding Matilda.

  He glanced up at the fruit vendor as if she might wish him luck and tore after the hansom, leaping onto the back of it and clinging for dear life, thinking he’d surely topple it with his weight. It swayed but stayed upright and as the driver turned to try and beat him from the thing, he used every last ounce of strength to swing himself up.

  “I really am sorry,” he said, shoving him to the ground and whipping the horse to go its fastest away from the scene of his crime.

  With a glance back he saw the driver was dazed enough to not be hollering yet, but he was already staggering to his feet. There were far fewer people on this street but the few who were pointed and gaped at him, trying to decide if they should do something. He didn’t give them enough time to make up their minds, and forcing the horse to its limits, turned the nearest corner to be out of their sight, and at the end of that lane, turned again.

  His passenger pounded on the roof and bellowed up to him. “I say, what’s going on? Can you manage this cab or not?”

  “Sorry, sir, had a bit of trouble there, but all’s well now.”

  His heart pounded and he could have leaned over and heaved, but he felt invigorated, on his way to Matilda at last. He slowed the horse to a more reasonable pace, sure no one would catch him now.

  “And you’re going the wrong way,” the man yelled. “I told you we’re going south, out of town.”

  Ah, that was helpful. He decided to let him think he was a reckless ninny. It would be that much easier when they reached their destination. “I shall correct it at once, sir,” he said.

  He opened the hatch a crack to get a better look at the person who very well might have been a part of Thomas’ abduction, might have had a hand in keeping his Matilda from returning to Belmary House when she’d gone to meet Sir Amos. One thing he did know was that this person was only a lackey, and not worth wasting his energy on. He’d save that for Sir Amos. The long journey to the outskirts of town would give him time to rejuvenate before he had to face these new foes.

  For the first time in his life he wished he had one of the disgusting energy bars Matilda loved so much.

  ***

  He drove for so long he wondered what the original driver had been offered to take the man this far from town. When a thump on the roof finally signalled he should stop, he snapped to attention. He was at the gate of a long winding drive, at the end of which he saw a huge manor house in the distance. It made Belmary House look like a modest town home, and he wondered how many people — witches, he reminded himself— Sir Amos had under his command. Now he knew why Kostya wanted nothing to do with it, someone always went afoul of humanity, either started out bad or went bad, and caused untold troubles for regular and magic folk alike. And yet, Ashford couldn’t see himself leaving these sorts to their business, turning a blind eye to their shenanigans. As much as he didn’t want to be a part of it, he was.

  As his passenger reached up to pay him, Ashford took note of the small amount of money and at the same time he felt some odd sensation brush up against him. It almost felt like something scrabbled at his skin, but slipped off before it could take hold. The scoundrel was trying to hex him!

  So that was how he’d convinced a London driver to take him all the way out to this godforsaken country manor, the poor man hadn’t been aware of what he was doing. And now he was trying to keep him from realizing the distance he had to return. For some reason this offended Ashford more than it should have and he wanted to give the louse a quick pop in the nose on behalf of the real driver and his beleaguered horse.

  He made it look like he was returning to London and pulled the cab off the road a short way away from the house. He had no idea what to do with it, and after a quick inspection, decided it would take too much time to unhitch the horse and hide it deeper in the trees, and anyone passing would surely stop and inspect an abandoned hansom. Getting back up onto the driver’s perch, he ambled along until he found a place off road where he thought the cab wouldn’t get stuck unless it began to pour rain, and drove the whole monstrosity into the trees. He tied the horse and groaned when he jogged back to the lane and saw that it was nowhere near hidden.

  “It’s getting dark,” he muttered. “It will have to do.”

  He’d never felt so ridiculous in his life, leaving behind the confused horse and the vehicle that looked compact on London roads, and yet as big as a cathedral stuck halfway between those spindly birches.

  All this hard work made him have to pause before he started back toward the house. What he wouldn’t have given for a week’s worth of sleep.

  “You’ll sleep when you’re dead,” he told himself bracingly. “Or when you’ve got Matilda and Thomas out of that witches den.”

  Keeping inside the tree line, he made his way around the back of the manor, climbed a stone wall and shimmied down the thick ivy on the other side. He could see the back of the house, but barely. No one had got around to lighting any of the lamps yet in the outer courtyard, but he could see one long bank of windows at the end of the house that glowed like a beacon. A meeting perhaps? It had to be a large one. Before his confidence wavered, he
forged onward through the darkening gardens, toward the lighted windows.

  It turned out to be a huge, magnificent ballroom, but set up something like a church, with seating on two sides of a long carpeted aisle. He took in the people he might have to go up against, most of them men, but a few surly looking women as well, and some of them were aged and had tears streaming down their cheeks. Some looked angry, and others, as confused as he felt.

  He followed their gazes, and to his shock saw Matilda in an outlandishly extravagant gown, holding a sceptre, much like in his dream. It nearly knocked the wind out of him and he staggered a few steps back from the window, cracking a few twigs in the process.

  He quickly realized it hadn’t been him who’d stepped on the twigs and whirled to face a determined looking youth who tried to hex him, but fortunately he was as slow-witted as his passenger had been and it slid past him. The fact that his hex didn’t drop Ashford to the ground alarmed him and gave Ashford the second he needed to draw his gun.

  “You know what this is, correct?” he said to his would-be assailant.

  He turned to run but Ashford snaked out his arm and grabbed him, trying not to show how weak he felt. He had the gun, that would keep this person from trying anything untoward. He shoved him ahead of him toward the windows.

  “Where are you keeping her? Where will she go after this - this, whatever this is?”

  “What do you want with Queen Ariana?” he countered, either bravely or stupidly, considering Ashford had the gun pressed into his back.

  “That isn’t Queen Ariana. She means nothing to you lot.” He dug his fingers into the young man’s shoulder. “She does however, mean quite a bit to me, and I mean to take her from here. Can we do this quietly or not?”