“I’m certain he’s perfectly respectable,” she answered, crossing her hands in her lap in hopes it would distract from the color heating her cheeks.
“Oh, I’m sure. Perhaps, I will stay and have a bite. You can’t grudge a man for eating at a fine restaurant.”
“But it won’t be with me.”
“Oh, no, I prefer stimulating conversation while I eat. Our repartee is far too banal. Luckily, I’m the most witty and clever person I know.”
Emmeline rolled her eyes as he chuckled at his own joke. The steamer slowed before the restaurant with a dying hiss. Emmeline hazarded a glance and was surprised to find the opulent space sandwiched between a boot shop and a clothier. Before Perkins could reach the door, Nadir stepped out and gave Emmeline a hand out of the steamer. Rain dotted the shoulders of her cloak as she darted for the door. Her hand tightened on her reticule as the room spread before her. Nadir fell into step behind her without even an acknowledgment of the lush interior. With a wink, Nadir spoke to the host and headed off to a table near the window. Gathering her strength into a straight spine and noble baring, Emmeline gave the name Bisclavret.
As the waiter turned and motioned for her to follow, Emmeline’s heart beat off rhythm with each step. Soaring green columns wrapped in golden vines held up a ceiling done up in gaudy gold and colors far brighter than any cathedral’s stained glass. Cherubs and scandalously attractive caryatids stared down from the molding. Electric bulbs dangled from the ceiling, illuminating the mirrors lining the walls until it was nearly impossible for Emmeline to tell where the dining room truly ended. The room hummed with life, the smell of perfume and meat hanging heavy under a cloud of smoke. Taking a breath, Emmeline focused on how the Cafe Royal reminded her of the Dorothy with people from every strata of life mingling over bread and wine with only an arm’s length between tables to separate them.
Walking past Nadir Talbot, he caught her eye and gave her a slight bob of his head over his menu. She ignored him, but as they reached a table with only one other occupant, everyone else in the room fell away. A head of curly brown hair was all she could see above the menu. His hands were weather worn and knotted with muscle and veins, large for his stature. Even as the waiter pulled out the chair for her, Silas Bisclavret never raised his gaze. Holding her menu low, Emmeline stared at where she imagined his eyes to be. She wanted to say something, but with each passing second he didn’t acknowledge her, the air seeped from her lungs.
“Really, Madeline, is that anyway to greet an old friend?”
He dropped his menu to reveal handsome features cut with vulpine angles that gave his toffee eyes a sharp edge. His face appeared stern but far from cruel, but upon seeing Emmeline’s face, his thick, shapely eyebrows nearly shot into his hair in surprise.
“I am not Madeline,” Emmeline replied, her voice flat.
“I can see that, Emmeline.” Flinching at his use of her Christian name, she watched as he seemed to turn her name over in his mouth. His eyes softened as he blinked, his gaze running over her features with something akin to tenderness. “You look so much like your mother.”
Emmeline stiffened. “Only in coloring. My mother was half a foot taller and the most beautiful woman in Oxford.”
“In England,” he corrected.
In his voice, there was a hint of an accent Emmeline couldn’t place. It was a hint of a French softness mixed with a twang that spoke of America. Anger flared in her breast at his blatant familiarity. She had never met him, of that she was certain, but he spoke as if he and her mother had been close or that he had any right to lay claim to her memory. When the waiter came to their table, Mr. Bisclavret fired off an order for a feast fit for royalty while Emmeline stewed in silence.
The moment the waiter was out of earshot, Emmeline hissed, “I’m nothing like her, but you would know that if you actually knew her or me. What I would like to know is who exactly you are and why you have written to my mother.”
Silas released a dry laugh. “You speak quite forcefully for a woman your age. I didn’t realize Madeline needed a guard dog. She fought her own battles long before you came along.”
“I’m more of a church grim. My mother passed away two Samhain’s ago in a fire. But you would know that if you were as close as you think.”
He opened his mouth, his brows sinking as he hung his head. Fiddling with his cuff link, he looked back at Emmeline. For a brief moment, she swore she saw a glint of moisture in his eyes. Her mind reeled against the burning behind her own lids. Not here, not now.
“How old are you, child?”
“Eighteen.”
“You’re so much more grown up than I pictured you,” he said more to the aether than to her. “I often wondered what you would look like. Your mother told me you shared her gifts. That you loved purple and walked through the woods like a nymph.”
“How do you know me?” Emmeline replied, the tremble in her voice masked only by a cutting edge.
“I have known you all of your life. Your mother wrote to me often.”
“And why would she tell you anything about me? Who are you?”
He opened his mouth to speak only to release a laugh. “If you’re anything like her, you won’t believe me, sha.”
“Try me.”
Silas drew in a breath and held it as he locked eyes with Emmeline. “Archibald Jardine isn’t your father. I am.”
Stillness fell over Emmeline’s mind like a veil. The man watched her as if she might bolt or hit him or both. For all his severity and measured control, a hint of weary fear welled in his eyes. She shouldn’t believe it. She should hit him or leave, but she almost wanted to believe it. Archibald Jardine had been a faceless presence only surfacing in her mother’s album of photographs or the wedding portrait her mother had tucked away in the attic by the time Emmeline had been old enough to explore. That was the first time she had seen his face and asked her mother who he was. He looked nothing like her. Archibald Jardine had been a man with features so bland she couldn’t find herself in them, and her mother gave up so little about him she never thought of him as a parent. He felt more like a past tenant than her mother’s husband or her parent. He had been twenty years her mother’s senior. Would a man old enough to be her father have loved her? Would he have been cruel or cold? When her mother never took another husband despite the interest she received, Emmeline assumed the worst. Thankfully, fortune afforded her mother an early widowhood with one healthy child and an even healthier coffer.
Emmeline could feel the pallor draining her features, but before she could control her tongue, she said, “Prove it. How did you meet her?”
“You believe me?” He narrowed his gaze, his Cajun accent sharpening.
“I don’t know yet. That’s why I asked.”
“I met your mother when she came with her family to Paris on holiday. I was there on business, and we met outside the opera. She had the most beautiful dark hair. It caught the light beneath her hat, and when she turned, I realized I had found the most beautiful woman on earth. I went up to her and she asked if she knew me, I can still see the way she studied my face, as if she had always sensed some part of me. I said, ‘No, but you should.’”
Emmeline smiled despite herself. There was something about him that called to her, too. It was a crinkle of his cheek or the flicker of fleeting emotions coming so fast they couldn’t find footing in his features. She had seen it in herself when she put on her ribbons and smiled at the vanity table.
“If you loved her, then why didn’t you marry her?”
“We were too young. Besides, she was wealthy and I wasn’t yet. By the time I had enough for her family to even consider me anything but beneath her, she had been married off to Archibald Jardine. She sent me a letter to tell me of the news. We stayed in contact, and eventually, I married as well.”
Her owl eyes softened at the resignation in his voice. “But what about me? How did that happen?”
“My wife died only hours after the b
irth of our third child. My wife and I loved each other very much, but it was different than it was with Madeline. When Felicite died, I felt lost. For a time, I left my children with my family and traveled. I went to England looking for Madeline even though I knew the risks. But I was so lonely, and I thought old Jardine would have made her a widow by then. When I arrived in Oxford, I wrote, asking permission to see her, even if only for tea.” Silas’s eyes drifted, fading to a manor in Oxford nearly two decades earlier. “To my surprise, she agreed to have me come to the house. Jardine was gone on a trip to some city up north, and your mother was alone.”
“So you and my mother had an affair while my fa— her husband was gone?”
Silas blenched at the word. “Please don’t think less of her for it.”
“I don’t.”
Locking eyes from across the table, a knowing look passed between them. Electric silence clouded the air at the table as the waiter poured them each a glass of wine. Emmeline’s skin prickled at the surge of energy. Since she had stopped doing readings, she noticed how the energy bottled on days when she didn’t use her magic until she could hardly stand it. Her scalp crawled, and some nights she could scarcely sleep unless she let her guard down and watched the shadowed creatures meander through the houses below her window or cross the street, heedless of anyone else’s presence. Other nights, she played with fire and prayed for sleep.
“You’re far more sensible than I expected for someone your age,” he said, taking a sip of wine.
“I don’t know whether I should take that as a compliment or a slight.”
“Take it however you would like. I’m glad you are loyal to your mother.”
Raising her eyes to the mirror behind Bisclavret’s head, Emmeline found Nadir watching them between bites. His brow cocked as if waiting for further direction, but she gave him an imperceivable shake of her head. As Silas Bisclavret absently swirled his wine, she wondered if he had noticed the dandy spying on them from near the window.
“It’s less a matter of loyalty and more an understanding of those sort of matters,” Emmeline began, keeping her tone casual in case the people on either side of them could hear over the din. “It’s the stuff of novels, isn’t it? Two people with history, both married but alone, finding comfort in one another. One could hardly fault you.” When his eyes widened, she continued with her voice breaking against her will, “I have found propriety to be a cage I am no longer willing to stay in. I have learned my place, and it isn’t there.”
Silas opened his mouth to speak but stopped himself with a shake of his head. “You sound too much like your mother. I have no right to tell you how to live but know you may not feel that way in a few years’ time.”
How often had Aunt Eliza said the same while thrusting her ideal of womanhood in her face? “I understand your concern, father, but after her affair with you and her husband’s death, my mama lived the way she saw fit, no matter how unconventional others might have found it. She was revered.”
He snorted. “Of course she was. She was the rich widow of a baron and a medium to boot. Anyway, it was far more than—” He made an airy gesture with his hand. “I don’t want you to think this was something we hadn’t discussed. You’re mother and I had known each other for years before all that. We were friends, and when I arrived, we spent a week becoming reacquainted.” His brows knit as the waiter placed their soup in front of them. Staring thoughtfully at the dish, he lowered his voice and said, “Your mother desperately wanted a child. Archibald Jardine hadn’t been able to give her one in the years they had been married, and I showed up at the right time. She trusted me and I had the right lineage for what she wanted.”
“You have a gift, like we do?” Emmeline asked, passing a hand over the unrelenting itch on her arm.
“A gift, a curse. It all depends on how you look at it.”
Emmeline laughed. “Isn’t that the truth. If I don’t pay attention, I start seeing spirits and creatures everywhere. It can be maddening, especially when they are persistent.” Surfacing from her meal, she found Silas watching her with narrowed eyes. “I’m a medium, like my mother. What is your gift?”
“Can you promise to keep this quiet? Between us and no one else.”
Leaning in closer, Emmeline frowned and nodded. Magic in England was certainly not something discussed over most dinner tables, but it was nothing to be ashamed of, especially in the presence of another practioner. Her stomach knotted. Perhaps he was involved with bone-conjuring or some other graveyard magic that others shunned, or maybe America wasn’t nearly as liberal as its motherland in its treatment of the magically gifted.
His warm smile faltered. “What I am— What we are is forbidden within the boundaries of the British Isles and has been for a long time. In Louisiana, we’re feared, but we’re also revered as protectors of the bayous and forests. I keep my people safe from humans and supernatural creatures alike. They call me the Rougarou. Have you heard that word before, Emmeline?”
She shook her head.
“The French call us loup-garou.”
The breath caught in Emmeline’s throat. Wolf. The word repeated in time with her pounding pulse. Wolf. The cunning creature who haunted her childhood fairytales and ate naughty children. The beast who tore livestock and travelers limb from limb. The man sitting across from her, calling himself her father was a wolf. His face remained firmly impassive as her mouth fell open and her breath came in ragged spurts. Her limbs locked as a primal panic surged through her, tangling around her heart and mind in a nimbus that blocked out all else. Picking up her spoon as if nothing were amiss, Emmeline tried to ignore the tinkle of her hand trembling against the porcelain dish. But how could he be a beast? In his neat grey suit and perfectly knotted red tie, he appeared the picture of civility. His face had seemed so kind, so warm, yet as she stared longer, she wondered if those caramel eyes had been crafted to soften as they did to gain sympathy. All the stories said he was a trap for wayward, unsuspecting children to wander into. An open maw threatening to swallow her whole.
“Emmeline, do you understand what I’m saying?” he asked, his voice rumbling softly.
The words hitched in her throat, making her sound far younger than she felt. “You’re a— a werewolf. But my mother would never…” With a monster. “I have to go. Thank you for dinner, Mr. Bisclavret, but I must go.”
Emmeline lurched back as her father reached for her, knocking her chair to the ground with a clatter. Before he could shake off his napkin and stand, she grabbed her cloak and bolted for the door. Bisclavret called behind her, but she refused to stop until she hit the cold, thick air of the street. Her lungs convulsed as she wandered blindly with only the bricks beneath her palm to guide her. A strong hand grasped her wrist, but as Emmeline turned to swing, Nadir Talbot caught her other hand before it collided with his face.
“What in heaven’s name happened? Are you all right?” he asked, lowering his voice upon seeing her reddened eyes and the trails of moisture down her pale freckled cheeks.
“No! He— that man claims he’s my father. He can’t be. He just can’t. He—”
Emmeline yelped as Silas Bisclavret appeared behind Nadir’s shoulder. Nadir Talbot whipped around with his walking stick held aloft as if ready for a fight. Pushing Emmeline behind him, he waited for the other man to approach. Instead, Silas stood a few feet away, watching with his hands neatly tucked behind his back. The crowd drifted between them with wary glances at the dark-skinned man with the walking stick rather than the actual predator.
“Emmeline, I know you’re afraid, but you must know none of those old stories are true.”
“Sir, the lady obviously does not want to speak to you. Please leave before you cause a scene,” Nadir commanded, “or I will cause one for you.”
Even standing several inches shorter than Nadir, who wasn’t overly large himself, Silas Bisclavret retained a quiet majesty Emmeline feared would never bow to such insolence. Eying the glint of steel peeking
out from the handle of Nadir’s cane, he slowly turned his attention turned to his daughter and pulled a card from his breast pocket. “Very well. Here’s where I’m staying should you change your mind.”
Emmeline edged past Nadir, she tried to snatch the calling card from his hand, but Silas held it tight.
“If you doubt what I have told you, ask your mother. I’m certain she would be willing to clear it up. After all, the dead tell no lies.” Lines crinkled the corners of his eyes as he cast his gaze low. “I hope we meet again, sha. I don’t want to misplace two children.”
Releasing the card, Silas Bisclavret bowed to Emmeline and headed into the restaurant without looking back. The moment the door closed behind him, Nadir turned to Emmeline, who stood staring with wide eyes and an unhealthy pallor. Her hands shook as she stuffed the card into her reticule. Licking his lips, Nadir straightened but kept his arm wound tightly around Emmeline’s for fear she would swoon.
“Miss Jardine, you don’t look well. Would you like me to bring you home?”
Snapping to her senses, Emmeline shook her head. “No, thank you, Mr. Talbot. You have already done so much for me today. I can find my way home. You have your dinner waiting.”
“I left more than enough for my bill when you ran out. It would make me feel better to give you a lift home.”
Taking his warm hand in hers, Nadir’s arm tightened around her waist. As he tidied her shawl and led her down the street to his steamer, Emmeline wondered if Nadir Talbot was as nice as he seemed or if he, too, was a wolf in disguise.
Chapter Five
Family Secrets
Shutting the door behind her, Emmeline threw the locks in place and searched for something she could use to secure the door. Her eyes fell upon the ugly wooden chair tucked in the corner of the parlor. Emmeline shoved it under the doorknob before checking that every window had been locked tight. Her stomach churned and her pulse pounded in her temples as she caught a glimpse of Nadir Talbot’s grey steamer chugging away from her building and wished she had invited him to stay. Silas Bisclavret, if that was his real name, knew where she lived. He had written to her, and he could show up at any moment and… She wasn’t certain what a werewolf did, but she assumed it had to involve tricking her into being eaten. Emmeline cursed herself for being rude to Immanuel Winter. If she had been civil, she could have asked him to come over and bewitch her windows and door as he had done in his flat. She had glimpsed the sigils drawn in blood and oil smudged on every entrance until the house pulsed with enough magic to keep intruders away.
The Wolf Witch Page 4