He gestured toward the double doors leading outside. “Head out this way. There’s work to be done with the tenants.”
“The tenants?” she repeated, but she hurried through the doors and did not slow until her feet were on the stone path that led toward the gardens. “Mr. Kelsey, it must be two in the afternoon by now. I must be getting back to Brookley. I only have so many excuses for my absence, and some of those I need to save for future excursions.”
Bacchus clasped his hands behind his back. “And what would those future excursions be?”
Miss Camden blushed; the extra color in her cheeks had a lovely effect, though her forehead wrinkled with annoyance. “Nothing that concerns you.”
“Then you should not have concerned me in the first place.”
She stomped her foot. Like a child. Bacchus was tempted to laugh.
“You are impossible, Mr. Kelsey.” Lowering her voice, she added, “Were I a registered spellbreaker, I would have charged you a good sum for the work I’ve done. Certainly ample enough to cover any fine for trespassing.”
“But not enough for bail, if I understand correctly.”
She blanched again, but the effect wasn’t as stark this time. Drawing herself up, she said, “It would be easier for me to return tomorrow than to stay much later today. I ask that you be considerate of my predicament. Please.”
The crack in her stubbornness softened him, and he nodded. “Just a brief consultation, then.”
“And how will I work with the tenants without them noticing what I am?”
“It is not their homes that concern me, but their fields.” Few landowners paid to have physical or temporal aspectors bespell their tenants’ homes. If they were built well enough, they didn’t technically need it, although Bacchus had volunteered his time to place fortifications for most of the duke’s tenants. “Perhaps you can pose as a steward.”
She pressed her lips together, considering.
“Ah, Bacchus, there you are!”
Bacchus turned at the sound of the duke’s voice; he came striding down the steps from the ballroom. If his appearance made Miss Camden uncomfortable, she didn’t show it.
The duke’s eyes slid to the spellbreaker for a brief moment before returning to Bacchus. “It looks marvelous, if I may give my uneducated opinion. I’m sure the duchess will approve; thank you for giving in to her whims.”
Bacchus nodded. “It’s the least I could do.”
The duke smiled and turned to Miss Camden. “Surely you will introduce me to this young woman?” He had a glint in his eye that Bacchus didn’t like.
Bacchus cleared his throat. “Of course. Miss Camden, this is Isaiah Scott, the Duke of Kent. Your Grace, this is Miss Elsie Camden.”
Miss Camden executed a well-practiced curtsy.
“My pleasure, Miss Camden.” The duke was grinning now. And of course he would be. Bacchus had made no calls in England save for his ill-fated visit to the Physical Atheneum, and now he had been caught strolling in the gardens with a well-dressed young woman. He could have kicked himself.
“My dear,” the duke continued, “we are at a loss for dinner guests as of late—”
No.
“—and it would be lovely to see a new face at the table.”
Bacchus narrowed his eyes at the duke, but it was clear the man would not be dissuaded. The duchess had threatened matchmaking in her last letters before Bacchus had boarded the ship for Europe, but he hadn’t thought she was serious about it, let alone that she would recruit her husband to the cause. He’d always intended to marry someone from the island, when he found the right one.
“Perhaps tomorrow, if you do not have other plans?” the duke finished.
Miss Camden blushed again. “I-I . . . that is, th-thank you for the offer, but I’m no one of importance—”
“Nonsense. A friend of Bacchus’s is a friend of mine.”
Miss Camden looked arthritic. After a moment almost long enough to be awkward, she nodded with a stiff neck. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
Bacchus remained silent.
The duke was jovial. “Excellent! But I will not interrupt you further.” He nodded to both of them before returning to the house.
A sigh escaped Bacchus’s lips. “I may be able to make your excuses.”
Miss Camden nodded dumbly, but once she came to herself, she said, “Bacchus.”
He eyed her.
She grinned. “The god of the harvest and eternal consumption. Hmm, yes, I think it’s very fitting.”
His expression darkened. “It is not an unusual name.”
She pulled out her chatelaine bag and thumbed through it. She retrieved nothing; perhaps she merely needed something to occupy her hands. “I think it is rather too late for that consultation you requested, Mr. Kelsey. Do send word once you inform the duke of my utter unimportance. Otherwise, I will see you tomorrow morning to pay off my debts.”
She gave him a sloppy curtsy and again saw herself out, not so much as allowing him a chance to demand another hour’s work or to offer the use of a carriage. Not that he was feeling particularly charitable at the moment.
He turned back toward the house, working out how he would explain the situation to the duke without betraying Miss Camden’s trust. He did not think her a particularly trustworthy individual, but he had made a promise, and he would keep it.
However, he had a sinking feeling that the duke would merely cajole him and that the man’s mind, set, would be impossible to change.
CHAPTER 8
Elsie had just prepared herself for another day out and was reaching for the back-door handle when Ogden yanked it from the other side, causing her to shriek.
Hand on her chest, chatelaine bag in her hand, she said, “Mr. Ogden! Are you not at the squire’s today?”
She’d been preparing to set out for the Duke of Kent’s estate, again, while pondering how she could adjust the route to deliver two bids. She’d already prepared a couple of orders in the studio for Nash to pick up.
Ogden looked frustrated. “I am, but not yet. I tell you, Elsie, a stonemason’s job in a town like this one is a leisurely pursuit three hundred and sixty-four days of the year!” He marched past her, a man on a mission, into the studio. Opened a drawer beneath the counter. “Where are my granite tools?”
Brow furrowed, Elsie hurried over to him and checked the drawer. Empty. She checked the one next to it, and the one next to that. “I put them right here.”
“Emmeline!” Ogden bellowed. “I need my granite tools!”
“Is everything all right?” Elsie asked, following Ogden like the tail of a comet.
Ogden searched a cupboard. “Fine.” His head struck the top of the cupboard, and something sharp seasoned his breath. Pulling free, he sighed. “It’s fine, really. Just . . . people.”
Elsie leaned her weight on one leg. “You’ve always been fond of people.”
Ogden snorted. “I won’t give in to rumor, Elsie, but the squire has his hands in all sorts of nefarious affairs, and they bleed all over that house. Emmeline!”
Nefarious affairs?
Her shoulders slackened. “Did the Wright sisters say something?” Perhaps they were saving her the trouble of solving the mystery of the squire, the baron, and the viscount.
Ogden didn’t answer. Emmeline came racing around the corner, wiping her hands on her apron. “Yes, I think I know where they are—”
A knock sounded at the front door.
Setting down her chatelaine, Elsie hurried to the door and found herself face-to-face with the vicar.
“Mr. Harrison, how are you this morning?” Her pulse was beating too quickly for her short run.
The vicar removed his hat. “Quite well, quite well. Thank you. I’ve come to officially commission that tile work. Mr. Ogden and I discussed it some time ago—March, perhaps. For the church.”
He emphasized for the church as though doing so would earn him a discount.
He continued, “Is Mr
. Ogden available?”
But Ogden had already vacated the area. Somewhere down the hall, something—many somethings from the sound of it—clattered to the floor. Elsie’s best guess was that Emmeline had knocked something over in the space beneath the stairs.
“He is, unfortunately, preoccupied.” Elsie smiled, falling into the persona of the helpful secretary. She retrieved a ledger from beneath the narrow counter separating herself from the vicar and opened it to the first blank page, glancing once at the clock. Mr. Kelsey would no doubt comment on her tardiness, but he couldn’t keep her under his thumb forever . . . Could he? “Why don’t you tell me about your request, and anything specific you discussed with Mr. Ogden?” She thought she recalled Ogden mentioning a mosaic of sorts for the chapel but didn’t remember any details.
The vicar fumbled through his pockets for a folded piece of paper, opened it, and handed it over. On it was a simple design sketched in pieces. Elsie could not really describe it other than to think it looked very “Ogden.” Dark tiles made a design against white ones, giving an illusion of two almost-circles, one inside the other. There was something familiar about it that she could not put her finger on. It made her fingers itch to touch it.
The vicar proceeded to ramble about his discussions with Ogden. Elsie’s pencil stayed poised to record the relevant information, and she scrawled down numbers in the far-right column, occasionally prying for more information.
“Blue and white,” she repeated.
“Peacock blue. A muted peacock blue, that is. I don’t wish to distract from worship.”
Elsie wrote muted and underlined it. “We’ll be in touch about the timing and cost.”
“We did discuss a budget,” the vicar continued.
“Mr. Ogden has an impeccable memory, I assure you.” The door opened again, and a flash of blond hair caught Elsie’s eye. She glanced up at Abel Nash, but he merely scoured the room once, offered a cheery nod, and departed again, ignoring the deliveries she’d prepared. That addle pate. Did he expect her to hand them to him?
Elsie sighed. “Thank you, Mr. Harrison.”
The vicar left, and Elsie found both Emmeline and Ogden, the latter cursing up a storm, in the hallway, surrounded by an array of boxes and knickknacks pulled from the cupboard below the stairs.
“Are they not in the kitchen?” she asked, and was ignored. “The vicar came by about a mosaic at the chapel. And Nash was here.”
Ogden cursed again. “Is he waiting?”
“The vicar or Nash?”
“Nash, damn it.”
“Mr. Ogden.” Emmeline looked uncomfortable, though Elsie didn’t think it was due to the wording of his reprimand.
“No,” Elsie answered. “He left.”
“Of course he did.”
Elsie looked over the mess. “Might your granite tools be misplaced in the studio?”
Ogden paused in his rifling, shoulders drooping. “Do check, Elsie.”
She nodded and returned the way she had come, setting the ledger back on its shelf before rummaging for the tools. She’d searched three-quarters of the studio when Ogden shouted, “Eureka!” from the hallway. He stumbled into the studio a moment later, a heavy leather bag in hand. Elsie would bet a shilling the bag had been in the kitchen the whole time.
“I have details for those chapel tiles in the binder.” He wiped his forehead. “I need you to go to the quarryman and request the stone.”
Elsie swallowed but nodded. That would take her another two hours, most likely. Perhaps Mr. Kelsey wouldn’t detain her long, and she could do it on the way back? But she’d received no telegram regarding the duke’s invitation to dinner, which likely meant she was obligated to go. Maybe she could go to the quarryman’s home after hours and make her apologies.
“Of course,” she managed.
Ogden relaxed. “Thank you. I’ll be back.” He tromped through the studio and out the front door, leaving it ajar in his wake. Elsie shut it. She’d never make it to Kent in decent time. Would Mr. Kelsey hold it against her? But she’d told him she had this job to worry about!
She pressed her forehead to the cool wood of the door. This was some sort of twisted nightmare. Blackmailed by an aspector and invited to dinner by a duke. The latter was unheard of. She was no gentlewoman! Even her finest dress wouldn’t suit their table. Surely the man hadn’t mistaken her for someone of rank, so what was he getting at?
The duke would ask questions. Barrage her with them. He’d judge her. His whole family would judge her—
“Elsie, whatever is the matter?”
Pulling her forehead from the door, Elsie turned to see a very concerned-looking Emmeline standing in the doorway of the studio. Elsie slumped.
“Oh, I wish I could tell you. But on top of it all, I have a dinner invitation.” It would be unbelievably rude to ignore the invitation. The man didn’t actually know her . . . but he was a duke, for heaven’s sake!
Elsie drew a harsh breath through her nose. Look on the bright side. It will provide an opportunity to determine just what spell Mr. Kelsey is hiding on his person. Perhaps he was secretly older than the duke and merely used magic to make himself appear so rugged and masculine. Stupid spellmaker and his stupid rich friends.
Emmeline lit up like a child on Christmas morning. “Dinner invitation? With whom, the vicar?”
Elsie snorted. “You would never believe it.”
Emmeline hurried across the room and grabbed Elsie’s hands. “Do tell me.”
“I have to visit the quarryman.”
“Oh, Elsie, you’ve time to tell me quickly. Please.”
She chewed on the inside of her cheek a moment. “Well, I met this aspector in . . . town . . . and he apparently works for the Duke of Kent—”
“The Duke of Kent!” Emmeline squealed. Elsie might have as well were their positions switched. But gossip involving oneself was nowhere near as interesting as digging into someone else’s business.
“And I’m to come to dinner, and if I say no . . . Who says no to a duke?” Elsie might have cried.
“A duke!” Emmeline had stars in her eyes. “This is absolutely wild!” Emmeline spun about. “Was the man very handsome?”
Elsie flushed. “Handsome? He’s quite old—”
Her friend rolled her eyes. “Not the duke, you ninny. The aspector! What’s his alignment?”
“Uh . . .” Elsie glanced around the studio, if only to take her eyes from Emmeline. “Well, he’s not a bad-looking fellow.”
“This is so exciting. You must go, and you must tell me all about it. You’ll head to the quarry right away, and I’ll rush through my chores so I can do your hair.”
Elsie touched her pinned locks. Emmeline hadn’t done her hair for a long time. Not since Alfred—
Alfred can choke on a rotten tart, she told herself, but it didn’t soothe the sourness in her belly.
She stiffened. “I am certainly not looking for affection, Em.” And Mr. Kelsey would certainly have none for her if she showed up too late to do any of her prison work.
The maid released Elsie’s hands. Of course, Emmeline knew all about Alfred and that nonsense. Elsie needn’t have snapped at her. But her friend’s natural good cheer pushed through. “But it’s not a bad thing, having a reason to fancy up.”
Elsie folded her arms. “I own nothing fancy enough for a duke’s table.”
“I think you’re fancy.” She beamed.
Elsie smiled. Considered. Sighed. “You’re right, I might as well make the best of it.” Maybe a few well-placed words would embarrass Mr. Kelsey right out of their spoken contract. “Would you . . . keep an eye out for any messengers or telegrams?” Though it was unlikely at this late hour, she still prayed for a cancellation.
“You’re expecting something from Juniper Down?”
The name of the place where she’d last seen her family hit her chest like a blow. Time had softened that wound, but it still sat there, a faded memory that made Elsie feel small. She wa
s in a strange state of mind this afternoon, like she had a bad head cold that made her sensitive to everything around her. “Something like that,” she muttered.
Emmeline nodded. Elsie accepted her chatelaine bag, found a good hat to place on her head, and ventured out into the streets for the quarryman.
She thought up her excuses as she went.
No cancellation arrived from the duke’s residence, so Elsie found herself in her best dress at Seven Oaks that evening.
Wasn’t this everything she hated? Everything she stood against? The wealthy snacking on crumpets in the comfort of their mansions while the poor boiled down cabbage for their supper? In the workhouse, it had been easier to count the days she didn’t have cabbage than the days she did.
God bless Cuthbert Ogden.
She gradually stepped out of the carriage as though immersing in bathwater that was too hot. The Duke of Kent’s estate had done that growing trick again. It had surely doubled in size since yesterday. Perhaps Mr. Kelsey had done some incredible spell to make it loom. To intimidate her. To punish her for accepting the dinner invitation.
But it wasn’t very well her fault, now was it?
She should have said no. She should have sent a telegram directly to the duke himself and told him exactly what she thought of him, his society, and his mistreatment of his servants. Then again, her work with his bloody aspector wasn’t finished, and such a communication would make any future meetings, however accidental, incredibly awkward. Elsie did not enjoy feeling awkward.
“Is it the right place, miss?” her cab driver asked behind her, likely wondering at her hesitation. It was difficult to mistake any other place in Kent for Seven Oaks, surely. But Elsie couldn’t find her voice, so she nodded dumbly. The driver lingered a moment longer before whistling out the side of his mouth and whipping his horses’ reins. Then he was gone, and she stood alone at Seven Oaks, unescorted. But she was nearly old enough to be a spinster, wasn’t she? Just a few more years to go. And what uptight totty one-lung would think her worthy of gossip, anyway?
She wound her fingers together, the lace of her gloves chafing. She was in her maroon dress, the one she wore to church on the days she cared, and Emmeline had pinned her hair meticulously in the back and curled the shorter pieces in the front. Her hat sat like a resting bird atop it all, complete with feathers. She wore no jewelry—what she owned was not real in chain or stone, and she was certain the duke and his family would notice and judge her for it. The collar of the dress was high, besides.
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