Ample opportunity had been available for him to enlighten her. Yet he had not. But if humiliation had been his intent, why had he rescued her from her faux pas when he could very well have enjoyed the spectacle of her twisting in the social wind? A puzzle indeed. But no matter. The sooner that her mother accepted that Martin was her fate, the sooner she could leave London and its social snake pit.
Adam was done for the moment with his offering upon the altar of manners. Miss Belgrave had subjected him to a discourse on the present paucity of fashionable company in Town. After suffering several threadbare on-dits about Prinny and surviving a soliloquy on the state of the weather, he finally allowed himself to return to Miss Wilton.
“Well, Mr. Chapbrook,” she said in a whisper that, though sotto voce, contained an edge of steel.
Irony was unmistakable in the arch of her brow and in the distinct emphasis she put upon his surname. Miss Belgrave, he recalled, groaning inwardly. His impulsive charade was over. Certainly, it was well within Miss Wilton’s rights to be affronted at his omission. She would have been the inevitable butt of scorn had she gone about calling him “Mr. Chapbrook.”
“It was not my intent to deceive you, Miss Wilton,” he said in quiet tones echoing her own. There was something discomfiting in her direct blue gaze, as if she were assaying every word for truth. “I was actually going to tell you that I am cursed with the title of Marquess,” he added.
“Cursed?” she asked, seemingly taken aback. “Was this recently done? I have heard of no maledictions registered against any English Marquess. There are some rather old French banes pending, but nothing locally.”
Her earnest expression prompted an appreciative smile, a humorous reaction far beyond his expectation. Miss Wilton would do very well at the card table, Adam decided, for despite the utterly ridiculous nature of her declaration, her demeanor was entirely serious. “The title and all it holds can be a curse in and of itself,” Adam felt compelled to tell her, even though he was convinced that she would not understand. “When I was merely Adam Chapbrook, the penniless heir to a nearly bankrupt estate, no one paid me notice. But now—” He hesitated, waving his hands in a gesture meant to encompass the entirety of the room and its company. “They see only the veneer lent by your lordship, and ignore the man beneath.”
The angry frost in her blue eyes seemed to melt somewhat.
“The Marquess of Brand being a very lofty individual. I see. How very lonely that must be. Yet,” she added with an impish quirk of her lips, “being a Marquess does have its uses. It seems with a title for your whip, you can make the ton prance as neatly as the trained horses at Astley’s. My thanks, milord.”
If Adam had possessed a quizzing glass, he would have used it then and there to test his accuracy of his observations. Surely, the woman could not be so perceptive as to discern how he had brought the other guests to rein by means of a laugh. Yet, there was no denying the quiet amusement now glinting within those wide pools of azure.
Beneath her knowing gaze, he felt hazardously transparent, as if she could somehow see into the very core of him, a sense both strangely exhilarating and somewhat frightening. Only when the footman leaned forward to refill the empty cup did Adam realize that he had drained his goblet completely. However, there was no vintage of sufficient potency to explain this sudden disoriented sensation. Hastily, he cast about for something to say, seizing upon her mention of the famed amphitheater.
“Speaking of Astley’s, I understand that our hostess has prepared some prime amusement for us this evening,” Adam said. “The management of the amphitheater has just imported a conjuror direct from Napoleon’s court. Lady Enderby has convinced Monsieur Barone to favor us with his presence tonight.”
“Do you think that he might be able to transform the soup into something edible? Since we speak of curses, I begin to suspect that one has most definitely been placed on our hostess’ kitchen.” Miranda asked as the footman stepped forward to take her still-brimming bowl. “I would give him credence if he could make it worthy of digestion.”
“That would definitely require a magician,” Adam agreed, eying the next remove as it was revealed. Stringy meat from some poor beast, likely expired in harness, hid shamefully beneath a skimpy layer of sauce. With diminishing hope, he surveyed the other nearby offerings, but they were either unrecognizable or inedible. A salmon, long-parted from the stream, turned a mournful Piscean eye upon him. Miss Wilton wrinkled her nose in eloquent dismay, somehow contriving to make the childish gesture seem delectably charming.
“Well, milord, it appears that I am doomed,” she said with a sigh. “If I expire of starvation before the evening is over, please tell my Mama that I blame her for my untimely end and fully intend to haunt her for it. It is she who dragged me here, against my will.”
“Come, come, Miss Wilton,” Adam said, trying to recall when he had last smiled so much. “Think of it this way; our conversation will not be much curtailed by the need for chewing. However, if you do achieve the state of wraithdom tonight, you might have a few words with the Monsieur. He claims to speak to the spirits more often than Brummel consults with his tailor.”
Miranda’ snort could not quite be entirely contained. “And this Barone fellow has the audacity to claim to be Napoleon’s conjuror?”
“So Astley says,” he told her, delighted by her tone of skepticism. Women, for the most part, tended to be of the gullible sort, ready to believe in the fabricators of fairy tales who shrouded their illusions in mysticism. “Although his appearances in London have been few, Barone has already developed quite a formidable reputation. I look forward to seeing his skill.”
“Would this ‘conjurer’s’ talents by any chance extend to loaves and fishes? A fruit compote?” she asked mournfully.
“Nothing so pedestrian I am sure Miss Wilton, are you back to your stomach again?” And a most admirable stomach it was, he noted, flat and firm with no trace of corsets. A curious pendant of Celtic design dangled from the column of her throat, the single emerald dipping into the modest décolletage of her gown as she spoke. “Recall that you are a sophisticated lady.”
“Yes, yes, I remember, nectar and ambrosia. An excellent idea, milord. As soon as dinner is ended, I shall remove myself to the garden and partake of the flowers as if I were a bee or butterfly. For that is my only hope if the sweet course fails me,” Miranda said. “Surely, no chef could so thoroughly ruin an entire meal. But until then, I pray that you provide me some distraction, or I might just chew up the linen. Tell me more about this Barone. What else does he do, other than babble with the beyond?”
“He claims to be a reader of minds, as well as a conjuror.”
“Do I detect doubt in your voice, milord?”
“You do indeed, Miss Wilton,” Adam said. “I take it that you share my skepticism?”
Miranda nodded, lifting her fork and rearranging her food upon the plate in order to avoid his scrutiny. She had already slipped up by taking his talk of the curse at face value, and even conversing of a trumpery conjuror’s magic might cause her to blunder if she didn’t take care. Among her folk, such weighty affairs were naught to jest about, but for a brief moment she had forgotten that he was not of the Blood. Never before had that happened with an Outsider, not even with Martin. Unfortunately, she could not explain to Lord Brand why her disbelief went well past mere incredulity. To do so would be to risk his scorn, for to him, the reason would seem entirely preposterous.
Barone was a fraud, of that she had no doubt in the least. No true Reader would willingly walk among minds, his or her own thoughts exposed to their chaos. To suffer that unspeakable intimacy, to risk breaking the fragile bond between body and soul for the sake of mere amusement, a few pieces of gold? The notion would be laughable were it not already obscene beyond measure, a mockery of the Gift that could ultimately destroy both the Reader and the Read, if used so lightly. Besides, France’s Chief Mage was a distant cousin on her father’s side.
“He is quite adept, although I have not yet discovered how he performs his mental feats,” Adam agreed. “But I shall. I am something of a professional skeptic, you see. In fact, I’ve done quite a bit of study on the fine art of chicanery.”
“Have you, milord?” Miranda asked, racked by sudden uneasiness. “Toward what end?”
“The exposure of fraud, Miss Wilton,” he said, his voice hardening. “It is my aim to unmask those who prey on the credulity of innocent people, to lay bare the perfidy of the ones who sell counterfeit cures and sham hopes with promises of false magic.”
“You describe many a mountebank, sir, and more than a few physicians, I fear,” Miranda said, making a feeble effort at levity.
“Unfortunately, there is sometimes scarcely a noticeable difference between the two,” Lord Brand said the corner of his mouth rising with a rueful quirk. “But I must admit ‘tis not the quacks that irk me so much as those who purport to practice magic and claim congress with the spirits. The manner in which those necromancers trade upon emotion and sully all that is sacred is absolutely beyond sufferance.”
Miranda took shelter in silence, although she knew that it was a flimsy haven at best. It was sheer chance that Lord Brand did not already know who she was. An accidental glance in Quimby’s direction sent the old roué cringing to the farthest corner of his chair. Seemingly, the only selection was betwixt Scylla and Charybdis. Brand would either fear her for her heritage or mock her as a liar.
“I am sorry, Miss Wilton,” he apologized, obviously misinterpreting her sudden withdrawal. “‘Tis a most reprehensible tendency of mine, this inclination to preach. No wonder there have been so many Chapbrooks who decided to take the collar and surplice.”
“A family of priests and ministers?” Miranda took a sip of wine, but found it nearly impossible to swallow.
“By the score. How else could we Chapbrooks possibly atone for the regiment of rogues that we set loose upon an unsuspecting world? Luckily, I was never bound for the Church since I am a heathen at heart, holding to no religious credo. But then, there is not much in this world to put faith in these days, is there?”
Four glasses of wine upon an empty stomach. Though Adam knew that he was not even upon the borderline of tipsiness, it was still the only explanation that he could muster for letting his tongue slip its reins. Although he had never made any protestations of public piety, neither had he ever before made the error of any candid professions of doubt. Until now, of course . . . Only Uncle Lawrie was aware of his beliefs, or rather the lack of them.
Miss Wilton absently picked up her fork, convincing Adam beyond doubt that he had passed well beyond the pale of acceptability. When she actually took a bite of Lady Enderby’s mysterious meat dish, he became absolutely certain that his heretical statements had driven her into shock. No other explanation would suffice for the politely shut expression where moments before she had been an illuminated book, the sudden silence, followed by this suicidal abuse of her palate.
Succumbing to cowardly impulse, Adam used the excuse of the next course’s arrival to return to Miss Belgrave. Perhaps while she prattled, he might think of some way to resurrect the corpse of enjoyable repartee?
Brand’s words had indeed affected Miranda, she felt an unexplainable sense of loss. He believed in nothing, neither Above nor Below. How could she entertain the hope that a self-confessed skeptic, a man closed to all belief would even attempt to understand that real magic might exist?
Moreover, the likelihood that Lord Brand might react with an open mind once he learned that she was of witch Blood born was none to nil. But more shocking still was the fact that she had even pondered any manner of disclosure. In the past, such frank revelations had almost inevitably resulted in disaster for witchkind. Despite the fact that no witch had been burnt in England for three-fourths of a century, many of the Blood still cowered in hiding, some even going so far as to deny their special inheritance. Not that Miranda blamed them; she had met far too many Quimbys to believe that the world was ready to embrace the practitioners of magic.
With Brand’s attention occupied elsewhere and Quimby effectively quelled, Miranda was left alone to chew on her thoughts. Unfortunately they were even more difficult to digest than the food. Like as not, the Marquess’ ancestors had figured among the Inquisitors and Magistrates, the holy zealots who had tried Merlin’s children by fire and water. His kin might very well have been burners of grimoires, scourges who had driven the faeries from the hills. How could she even have contemplated conferring her confidence upon a man whose ancestry might cause those martyred souls to cry “shame?”
Far wiser it would be to steel herself against this strange attraction. Like a bitter potion, Miranda forced herself to remember the stacks of accounts and journals chronicling the near devastation of witchkind. They awaited her at the Wode, many of them yet to be catalogued. A grim task it was, one that she feared that she might never be able to complete. The scale of suffering was so overwhelming that a mere perusal of the opening paragraphs was almost beyond bearing. Would the name “Chapbrook” appear upon those tattered pages? She wondered. But even that bleak possibility proved no talisman against the sound of his voice. A devastating shiver slipped along the length of her spine and she found herself drowning in the dark of his eyes.
“Miss Wilton, have you succumbed to starvation or is it the taste of that unidentifiable stuff on your fork that has stopped your throat?”
Miranda recalled herself to the present, trying not to melt at Lord Brand’s smile. “My apologies, milord, I must have been woolgathering,” she said stiffly.
Adam’s stomach rumbled in complaint. “That was most cruel; the mention of wool immediately associated itself with the word mutton, which my imagination promptly roasted to a turn. Though I confess, at the moment even an allusion to knitting might cause my mouth to water.” He waited for the dimple to appear in the corner of her mouth, but there was not even a faint trace of humor to be found. Apprehension had replaced the laughter in her eyes. He told himself that a mind so Puritanical could not possibly appeal to him. If the mere mention of a deviation from orthodox thought could so disturb her, then he would do well to give Miss Wilton ample distance. However, this sensible inner discourse did little to alleviate a strange sense of loss. “Knitting connecting to yarn leading back to wool . . .”
“And from thence to mutton. Yes, I follow,” she said, her voice distant. “Then your salvation may be at hand, Lord Brand. I believe the sweets have arrived, an apple tart from the look of it and a cake that would seem almost passable by its appearance.”
“And a plum pudding,” Adam commented, taking an experimental taste. “Excellent! Might I recommend the pudding, Miss Wilton?”
“No, thank you, milord,” she said softly. “I suddenly find that I am no longer quite as hungry as I was before.”
. . .
The ladies had withdrawn, but Adam decided to decline the opportunity for cigars and port, preferring to catch a glimpse of Barone’s apparatus. Locked doors were easily dealt with and Adam slipped quietly into Lady Enderby’s ballroom. The gilt-topped chairs were so tightly packed that there was barely space for movement. Yet, Adam noted, a rather substantial distance separated Barone’s impromptu stage from the spectators. Less than a third of the candles upon the chandeliers were lit. Either their hostess was practicing economy, or the Frenchman preferred venues that were dimly lit. The latter was the better probability.
Not a soul was in sight, so Adam silently stole to the front of the room, evaluating the conjurer’s props with an expert’s eye. An array of coins, cards and kerchiefs adorned the top of a table draped heavily with black velvet.
“Arretez, Monseigneur!” A hulking man garbed as a rather garish Arabian scuttled forward to stand before the table, his hands crossed over his chest in a position that made it clear that he was prepared to use more than words if Adam came any closer. “C’est tres dangereuse. It is forbidden. A danger.”
“One must not meddle with the forces of magic, eh?” Adam replied, his eyes narrowing as he searched the man’s face. “Philippe? Philippe Rubelle? Is that you beneath the face paint?”
“Adam, mon ami?” The man’s face split into a grin. “Incroyable! I was mistaking you for a gentilhomme. Never did I think to see you again this side of Hell. Always I was wondering why the body was never found. They lock you in shackles, they put fire to the hut, but all they find after is the chains, nothing more. If they did not believe you Le Diable’s disciple before, they did after. And all because you refuse a Comtessa’s favors. Was there ever such a fool?”
“I have always preferred to be the one who does the choosing, Philippe, nor did I care to be another bagatelle on the lady’s chain of Lotharios.”
Philippe laughed. “Me, I have never been so discriminating. To be the kept man of some wealthy femme would suit me well, but I have yet to find one who would desire to keep me. But you? You seem to have done adequately for yourself, Adam, despite your strange ways.” He shrugged philosophically, surveying his friend’s attire from his patent pumps to his elegantly arranged necklinen. “An interesting notion, to perform in evening clothes, but the fit, it is too close. Where do you put the pockets? Not an inch to spare on that evening coat and those trousers, to that I would swear.” He rolled his eyes heavenward as he gave the seam of Adam’s jacket an experimental tug. “C’est impossible! To conceal so much as a chick under that second skin would take real magic.”
The Would-Be Witch Page 4