So Enchanting

by Connie Brockway

  However, it wasn’t his wealth that Amelie admired. Bernard McGowan was a gentleman, the only gentleman in Little Firkin, and, therefore, the only gentleman of Amelie’s acquaintance. In his early thirties, he was handsome and fit, and Amelie had once opined that with his quiet, deferential manner he reminded her of Jane Austen’s Colonel Brandon—though Fanny had some trouble envisioning Colonel Brandon as a stamp collector. Still…

  As they entered the bank, Bernard rose from behind a large, plain desk situated on the other side of a railed partition. His brown hair gleamed with pomade above his serious, intelligent face. His gaze immediately sought Amelie. Fanny suspected that Bernard, too, had recently begun seeing Amelie in a different light, and she perceived that he might have begun a wholly diffident, respectful, and glacially slow courtship of the girl. At least, Fanny assumed it was a courtship. With such a very circumspect fellow, it was hard to tell.

  “Miss Amelie,” he said, coming around the desk. “And Mrs. Walcott. How nice to see you.”

  “It’s been a long time, Mr. McGowan.” Amelie dimpled. “You were gone for weeks.”

  He inclined his head. “I am flattered you noticed.”

  Amelie gave him an arch smile. “It would be hard not to notice. You’re the only one who ever comes to and goes from Little Firkin.”

  “I stand chastised,” he said, tilting his head. “But you are wrong, Miss Amelie. For only this morning Little Firkin is playing host to not one but two gentlemen. From London.”

  He spoke like an uncle bestowing a particularly toothsome candy on a favorite child, and Fanny wondered if Amelie might not resent such treatment from a would-be beau. But Amelie was too excited by the prospect of visitors to notice.

  “I know!” she said. “The lads from that artisan’s guild on their annual pilgrimage?”

  Ever since Lord Collier had had analyzed the clay that lined the banks of Little Firkin’s river, a group of investors had been badgering the residents to sell their property adjacent to it. But since the amount of money each resident would come into upon Amelie’s reaching her majority exceeded anything the investors offered, and selling one’s land ensured that one forfeited one’s share of Colonel Chase’s endowment, no one had taken the gentlemen up on their offer.

  It didn’t stop the guild from coming up here every year with fresh offers, and Fanny was grateful for that. It provided an opportunity to speak to someone new. And they always came for dinner, allowing Amelie and her to dust off their rusty social skills. Well, Fanny amended, it allowed her to dust off rusty skills. It allowed Amelie to develop some.

  “No. Not this time,” Bernard said, smoothing back his hair.

  Amelie’s eyes grew round. “No? Don’t tease me so, Mr. McGowan. Do tell! Who are they then?”

  “‘They,’” said an amused male voice from behind them, “are Lord Grey Sheffield and Lord Hayden Collier.”

  Amelie spun around, and Fanny followed suit. A handsome gentleman in an elegant lounging jacket stood inside the doorway, as well-knit as a young Apollo, his dark gold curls accentuating his hazel eyes, a cleft denting his strong chin. A dimple appeared in his smooth-shaven cheek as he smiled at her.

  In contrast, the tall, broad-shouldered gentleman beside him looked as blasted and heavily muscled as Mars at his smithy. His black hair needed cutting, and his bold-featured, saturnine face stood in need of a shave. The only things pretty about him were his eyes: bright blue-green.

  As pretty as they’d been six years ago, Fanny thought, and just as hard.

  Chapter 7

  Fanny closed her eyes, praying they were deceiving her. The man who’d driven her from society could not be standing here in the company of a young man who simple deduction led her to suppose was Lord Collier’s son. How many Lord Colliers with legal wards named Amelie Chase could there be? She opened her eyes.

  God help her, there he stubbornly remained, still looking like thunder personified, big, broad, and powerful, his tousled black hair shot with charcoal gray, his rough-hewn features bold and arrogant. All he needed was a hammer and a bolt of lightning.

  She had to leave before he recognized her. She’d spent six years re-creating herself. Surely Sheffield’s presence here represented some breach of divine sportsmanship?

  Her heart racing, Fanny slipped to Amelie’s far side, away from where Sheffield loomed.

  “Lord Hayden,” Bernard said, shaking the younger man’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I am Bernard McGowan, and I owe your father a debt of gratitude, for he has entrusted my bank with a portion of Miss Chase’s inheritance. He mentioned you in one of his letters.”

  She’d been right. Hayden was Amelie’s guardian’s son.

  Bernard released Lord Hayden’s hand and smiled at Sheffield. “And Lord Sheffield. It’s an honor, sir. Even in Edinburgh we hear of your exploits.”

  Now, while everyone was otherwise engaged, she could mutter something about an errand and disappear. “Amelie,” she whispered. “Amelie, we must go. Now.”

  She tugged on Amelie’s hand, but the girl wouldn’t budge. She was too busy staring at the young blond lordling with the sort of starry-eyed vacuousness that would make a rabbit look intelligent. Her eyes glowed, her cheeks glowed, her hair glowed… God help her, the girl looked like she’d been dipped in Balmain’s luminous paint.

  “Amelie. Amelie,” Fanny hissed.

  Bernard heard her. “Ah, excuse me! Mrs. Walcott, allow me to introduce Lord Greyson Sheffield and Lord Hayden Collier.”

  There was no help for it. She stepped forward like a soldier being brought before a firing squad, forcing herself to meet Lord Sheffield’s arctic gaze and…and…the world fell away, time stopped, and her heartbeat slowed in her chest to a single tolling beat.

  She tried to look away but she was caught, held motionless in a blue-green gaze while around her the world continued spinning. Dimly, she heard others speaking, but she couldn’t have repeated a word of what they said.

  Time protracted and the chill assessment in his eyes thawed, leaving behind confusion. Vaguely, she noticed him frowning and tugging his shirt cuff up and laying his fingertips against the inside of his bare wrist. His gaze never left hers, and the world kept receding until it felt as though only the pair of them remained, time splitting and channeling around them. It was uncanny, unnerving…spellbinding.

  Finally, he shook his head slightly, like a swimmer upon emerging from deep water, and so, broke eye contact. At once and with dizzying swiftness, the world telescoped back into focus, her heart thundered into action, and she released her breath, unaware she’d even been holding it.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Walcott.”

  The young man, Hayden, appeared at the periphery of her vision. Gratefully, she turned to him.

  “Forgive my uncle,” he said, casting an exasperated glance at Grey Sheffield. Uncle? Uncle! “We’d hoped by now that he’d mastered a few of the more rudimentary social skills. It appears our hopes were premature.”

  Greyson Sheffield was related to Lord Collier? God, Fanny decided, must be rolling on his celestial floor, overcome with hilarity at his jest.

  Sheffield’s smile was vulpine. “I warned you earlier that I was a lost cause. A tiger doesn’t change his stripes, Hayden.” He inclined his head toward Fanny. “Or her stripes, as the case may be.”

  Was he taunting her? He had to be, but his gaze seemed merely quizzical. She didn’t trust that impression. Not for an instant. “Mrs. Walcott, did you say?” he asked mildly.

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm,” he said. “You look most familiar. We haven’t met before, have we?”

  Could he really not know her? But then, why should he? His effect on her life had been far greater than hers on his. He’d likely forgotten her the moment he’d walked out the door in Mayfair. Besides, it had been more than six years ago, and she was no longer a girl, and certainly no longer that girl.

  “Have we?” he pressed, cocking his head.
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  She shook her head.

  “No,” he said. “Of course not.” He looked at Amelie. “So, you are the witch, are you?”

  Amelie’s eyes grew round, Bernard started, and Lord Hayden made a tight, disapproving sound.

  “Grey, that was surely uncalled-for,” the young man said.

  Sheffield made an impatient gesture. “But that is why we’re here, Hayden. To see to the continued health of the town’s witch. Besides, judging from the demonstration outside, it appears that Miss Chase has rather embraced the role. Tell me, Miss Chase, are you a witch?”

  Fanny’s protective instincts flew to the forefront, overcoming her desire to fade into the background. Her impulse wasn’t the only one; Bernard’s cheeks puffed out and Hayden flushed.

  “See here, Grey,” Hayden said. “You might speak to your music-hall charlatans in such a way, but this is an innocent young lady.” He turned, flustered, toward Amelie. “My uncle is a barrister whose work for the Crown brings him into contact with very low company. I am afraid he has forgotten—”

  “No, sir,” Amelie broke in quietly, her dignity in no way compromised by her trembling lower lip. “I am not a witch.”

  “That’s good, because I daresay there’re a number of tutors who would be unnerved to learn they haven’t been teaching Latin conjugations but dire incantations.” At Amelie’s look of confusion, Sheffield went on. “‘Amo, amas, amat…’?”

  The unexpected quip surprised Fanny. He’d sounded amused, almost friendly, and humor and kindness were characteristics she hadn’t expected of him. She wasn’t sure she liked finding them. He’d once swept into her life, shattered it, exposed it to be tarnished and tawdry, and then left her to pick up the pieces. She didn’t want him to have any qualities she could admire.

  She studied him as he continued speaking to Amelie. He looked older, she decided with uncharitable pleasure. The seams lining his lean cheeks were deeper, the crinkles at the corners of his exotic-colored eyes more marked.

  Her pleasure faded. Being older should have made him less formidable. It hadn’t worked that way. If anything, the additional years only made him seem more dangerous. Certainly more virile.

  Even at their first meeting, he’d exuded more rough masculinity than any man she’d ever seen, and now that quality was magnified. He looked hungry. He looked predatory. In short, he looked more now that which he was in fact: dangerous. In spite of the humor.

  “Sometimes I tweak a few noses.” Amelie’s admission caught Fanny’s attention.

  “Of course she does,” Hayden interjected gruffly. “How could she resist taking to task those ignorant enough to think she’s a…a witch? I can barely say it, it’s so preposterous.”

  “Thank you.” Amelie’s shining eyes lifted Hayden atop a very tall pedestal. “As Fanny always says, ‘There’s no sense arguing with popular opinion, so one might as well have a bit of fun with it.’”

  Please be quiet, Amelie, Fanny silently begged.

  “Does she?” Lord Sheffield murmured.

  “Oh, Fan doesn’t encourage me, of course,” Amelie said loyally. “I can behave quite naughtily without outside inspiration.”

  Hayden laughed as if Amelie had just made the wittiest remark imaginable. Amelie blushed, dimpled, lowered her eyes, glanced up through her lashes at the chuckling lordling, and blushed even deeper.

  Oh, dear, thought Fanny. She should have realized what would happen the moment she’d laid eyes on Lord Hayden’s strapping young figure, but she’d been too caught up in her own concerns to pay the girl and boy much heed. Would happen? Had happened. Amelie—dear, cloistered, inexperienced, and superlatively vulnerable Amelie—had taken one look at the golden youth and succumbed to a prodigious case of calf’s love.

  And Lord Hayden? His chest was puffed up and his eyes equaled Amelie’s for brilliance. He had to be, what? Twenty? Twenty-one? Old enough to have known his share of debutantes, shopgirls, lascivious ladies, and manipulating mamas. Someone—Fanny darted an accusing glare at Sheffield—should have taught him by now that it wasn’t nice to flirt with susceptible young girls.

  But then, Fanny thought unhappily, he was just a young man, and young men did so love to be heroes. For him, Amelie probably represented the quintessential princess in a tower (or in this case, a town) guarded by a dragon (or in this case, 217 resident dragons) and thus needed rescuing. By a hero. Him.

  “Lord Sheffield, what did you mean when you said you were here to look after my continued health?” Amelie tore her gaze away from Lord Hayden long enough to ask.

  Grey Sheffield smiled pleasantly. In response, Fanny’s nerves quivered a warning.

  “Your guardian, who, despite the inexplicable posturing of this pup, is Lord Collier, not his son here,” he said, “has received an anonymous letter asking for immediate assistance, as someone was trying to—well, why be shy?—kill you.”

  Fanny’s concern about Sheffield’s recognizing her vanished with his words. “What letter? Do you have it with you? Let me see it,” she demanded, sticking out her hand as Amelie gasped.

  “I don’t have the letter with me,” he replied, regarding her closely. Let him. “I have already spoken to the postmaster and he claims he does not recall it and that people often post their own mail and toss it in the mailbag without his knowing. It simply said, ‘Come quick. Someone is trying to kill our witch.’”

  Fanny frowned, more troubled than frightened.

  “But,” Amelie said, “why would anyone want to kill me?”

  “Exactly,” Sheffield declared approvingly. “Behold, Hayden. A young lady who cuts to the chase. How rare.” He sat down on the railed partition dividing the bank’s single room, swinging his leg casually. “So, what do you suppose this is all about then?”

  “I haven’t any idea,” Amelie replied. Her eyes widened. “Do you suppose I am in danger? Have you come to take me out of Little Firkin?”

  “Good heavens, no,” Sheffield said. “Only your guardian has that power, and he is not currently in Great Britain, nor will he be back for some time. I am here as Collier’s representative simply to assess the situation and make recommendations. Of course, if I felt you were in imminent danger, I would be forced to act, but I see that is not the case.”

  “Grey”—Hayden’s voice held a warning tone—“do you think this is the proper place for this conversation?” He didn’t look in Bernard’s direction, but everyone—including Bernard—understood the implication. Well aware he was de trop, the bank owner had made a politic retreat to his desk, where he was now busily tidying and retidying a stack of papers, his gaze averted, his ear tips rosy with embarrassment.

  “Why?” Sheffield looked around. “Might as well get to the bottom of this as soon as possible. And Mr. McGowan is bound to have some insight. What say you to this situation, McGowan? You seem a reasonable man.”

  Bernard looked up, pretending he’d just caught his name. “Eh?”

  “Miss Chase. Do you believe her to be in physical danger? Because of being a witch and all?”

  The way Sheffield said it made it sound absurd. Fanny could not disagree. First of all, why would someone want to hurt Amelie? She was worth a fortune to everyone in town only alive. Second, why would anyone want to hurt Amelie? She was as nice and agreeable a young lady as anyone might wish for. And finally, a note warning that someone wanted to hurt Amelie meant that more than one person knew about it. A secret conspiracy? In Little Firkin? Where a dog couldn’t pass gas in the middle of the night without its being noted and argued about for the next month? It made no sense.

  Poor Bernard cleared his throat, visibly disconcerted, and Fanny’s heart went out to him. He might be a little stodgy and his stamp-collecting mania a little peculiar, but then, she and Amelie might be considered peculiar, too. No, Amelie could do worse than Bernard for a husband. Besides, Bernard had the additional recommendation of not only being aware of Amelie’s history, but of always having treated her as though he weren’t. Now S
heffield was forcing him to acknowledge what they’d all long since silently agreed to ignore. Damn the man.

  “If Miss Chase is in danger, this is the first I have heard of it,” he now said. “As far as Miss Chase being, er, atypical, that is the witless gossip of the ignorant.”

  “Hear, hear,” Sheffield said, dropping lightly to his feet. He brushed his hands together. “Well, that’s that then. No sense hanging about because of someone’s notion of a prank.”

  “But…but…what if it isn’t a prank?” Hayden hastily interjected. “That makes as little sense as a threat against her. What would be the object of such a prank, and who was its target? The postmaster? My father?”

  The boy had a point.

  “We should investigate,” Hayden concluded.

  The lad had positioned himself at Amelie’s side, visually aligning himself with her. Amelie accepted his championship, her lashes fluttering like sheets on a clothesline. The girl’s initial distress had faded. She gave every appearance of settling in nicely to her new role as damsel in distress.

  “We? Oh, all right then.” Sheffield sighed. “Has anyone threatened your life, Miss Chase? By either word or action?”

  “No.”

  “And there has been nothing of a remotely suspicious nature which has in any fashion endangered you?”

  Amelie did not answer at once, and he pounced on her hesitation. “I see there has been. Would you be so kind as to tell us what that was?”

  “It’s hardly worth mentioning.”

  “Indulge me. I am here as your guardian’s representative. If you are in danger, it is my duty to see you are removed from it.”

  “You are Lord Collier’s representative? But I thought Lord Hayden…” Amelie blushed again.

  Hayden, displeased at having his shining armor brusquely repossessed by his uncle, moved closer. Fanny could empathize. Hayden’s looks were better suited to silvery armor than Sheffield’s, who would look more natural in, say, dented black.

  “The decision of whether action is required may rest with my uncle,” Hayden said in a tight voice, “but that does not preclude my concern in this matter. Rest assured, Miss Chase, I will not hesitate to act on your behalf and in your best interest should the need arise.”