Under Your Spell

by Lois Greiman

  “No.”

  Was he lying? Was there fear in his eyes? Could Jasper Reeves feel fear? Could he feel any emotion known to humankind? She turned to face him, fingers stiff against the reins. “Is Maddy in danger?”

  Their gazes met. “There is always danger.”

  Those words were his mantra, had been for as long as Ella could recall, but he had always delivered the caveat with a dispassionate nonchalance. Something was different now.

  “She is a Chausette,” he said, as if to explain his strangeness. “It is my job to keep her safe.”

  “Until it is no longer useful to do so.” She touched a lantern that hung on a peg set in a heavy timber. It blazed to light, filling the globe with a ball of flame that echoed her emotions. Stupid. She knew better than to allow her feeling free rein, especially when Jasper was near. Speaking a single word, she calmed the flame. The light flickered down grudgingly.

  “And what of you?” he asked, shifting his shrewd gaze from the lantern. “Are you well?” He didn’t defend himself, didn’t explain.

  She gritted her teeth against his cool arrogance, then schooled her expression into something more serene and turned toward him. “Of course. I am well and happy.”

  Silence for a moment, then: “It’s not like you to take unnecessary risks, Josette.”

  Opening Silk’s stall door, Ella led the mare inside and turned to remove her tack. Jasper made no move to help with the saddle. “And you see Drake as an unnecessary risk?” she asked.

  “You could answer that better than I.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “And?”

  “And what?” She was being childish. She knew it.

  But he didn’t rise to the bait. Never had. “Who is he?”

  She shrugged. “He’s a military man.”

  “Whom did he serve under?”

  “Leave it be.” She said the words abruptly and with more force than she had intended.

  He stared at her, eyes flat, face expressionless. “You’re losing your objectivity,” he said.

  “It’s none of your concern what I lose.”

  “We’ve invested—”

  “I know what you’ve invested in me,” she snapped. She also knew he had saved her—from La Hopital, from Verrill, who had taken her whispered admissions and used them against her. She believes she can become another, he had told them, tone almost mournful, almost caring. It breaks my heart to leave her here, but I believe my beloved wife is possessed. Dr. Frank’s eyes had lit with fanatical joy. But Ella pulled her mind from those dark thoughts just as she pulled the saddle from Silk’s back. The flame flared inside the lantern globe.

  Silence hissed in the little stable for a moment before he spoke again. “I came to tell you that Shaleena will be handling Elizabeth’s case.”

  An imaged flashed in her mind. Darkness. Just darkness, nothing else. For a moment she felt the panic of it, but she pushed it away, calmed herself. “Are you asking for my approval?”

  He didn’t comment. “I just ask that you be cautious.”

  “Careful, Reeves,” she said, glancing sideways as she slipped the bit from Silk’s mouth, “or I’ll think you care about something other than the program.”

  “I believe you know better than that.”

  Did she? She had thought so, but suddenly she wasn’t so sure. Something niggled at her mind.

  “What is Maddy working on?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that.” His pat answer.

  “I could find out if I wished.”

  “But why would you wish to?”

  She laughed at his tone, ultra controlled. “I’d simply like to see you squirm. Just once.”

  “You’re flip tonight.”

  “Perhaps I’m just happy. Perhaps you haven’t seen me happy before.”

  There was a pause. “Did Verrill make you happy?”

  She turned toward him, temper flaring with the flame. Firelight danced on the rough-timbered walls, setting his face in sharp relief but leaving his thoughts a mystery. Reeves was the master of manipulation. She had learned that early on. “Tell me,” she said, “how he died?”

  His expression was remote, untouchable. She could change her appearance, but he could hide his very soul. If he had one. “I believe he fell from his horse.”

  “Which horse?”

  “I’m not certain.”

  She watched him over Silk’s glossy back. The mare munched rhythmically at a bundle of golden rye left by Winslow. “If for no other reason, that one statement would tell me you were lying.”

  He said nothing in his defense. So like him. She felt the anger rise, the anger they had trained out of her. “Why did you kill him?” she asked.

  “You’re making insupportable assumptions.”

  “Why—”

  “Would you have preferred that he lived, Josette? Would you prefer that he found you? That he told others who you were again? What you were capable of? That you were possessed?”

  She felt herself wince.

  “He wasn’t planning to bring you home, you know. Not while you yet lived. Your inheritance was too great a temptation.”

  She searched for words, for denials, but there was none.

  “There are similarities between him and Drake,” he said, voice softening. “Whether you see them or not.”

  She blinked. “Are you threatening me?” she asked.

  He paused for an instant. “No.”

  Her movements stopped. Silk raised her head. “Are you threatening him?” she asked.

  There was an eternity of silence. “What do you know of him?”

  “Damn you!” she hissed, and he raised his brows the slightest degree, calling attention to her outburst.

  “Passion is a conduit for disaster, Josette. You know that.”

  “What would you know of passion?”

  “Nothing.” His tone was absolutely level. She could threaten his life and it would not change. Indeed, she could most likely kill him, and make no impression whatsoever. “But I know you were passionate for your late husband.”

  It was true. She had adored him. Had all but worshipped him. So handsome. So witty. So much in love. “And so you had him killed,” she intoned.

  Again, he did not deign to defend himself, but there was no need, for she was being unfair. Verrill had not loved her. Indeed, he had loved none but himself. That much he had made ultimately clear. And if he hadn’t died…then what? Would he have found her? Would he have taken her back…to Dr. Frank? A chill coursed through her, but she steeled herself against it.

  “Why did you come here, Reeves?”

  “As I said, Shaleena has taken the case, but time is running short. I wanted to make certain you’ve gotten no glimpses into the situation.”

  He was all business. Talk of death made no impact on him whatsoever.

  “No,” she said.

  He stared at her. His skin was dark, his hair the same. Where did he hail from? What was his history? Perhaps, at one time, she had been infatuated with him. But that was before she had realized he was heartless. Or maybe…because of it.

  “Nothing?” he asked.

  “I told you—”

  “We are talking about a child’s life,” he reminded her. “I have no feelings, of course, but I know you would feel badly if you thought you had allowed another to suffer.”

  She closed her eyes, shutting out the guilt, the horror. “I’m no longer a Chausette,” she hissed.

  “Her mother hasn’t eaten since the girl was—”

  “Leave me be!” she snapped, jerking toward him. “Can’t you see I’m no longer—” She shook her head. “Leave me be,” she repeated.

  He nodded slowly. “I’ll send Shaleena to the child’s room,” he said. “Maybe she will discern something,” he said, and turned away.

  An image flashed in her mind. She squeezed her hands into tightly knotted fists. “Darkness,” she said.

  He faced her again, silent, eyes gleami
ng in the uncertain light.

  She tried to hold the image at bay, but it came again. Darkness so deep there was nothing. “I see blackness.”

  “What do you hear?”

  She closed her eyes. “Nothing.”

  “Smells?”

  She planned to repeat herself, but she halted, lips parted, breathing through them. “Earth. Soil. It’s damp.”

  Silk nudged her with her nose, pushing her out of the darkness, back into the light. She set a trembling hand on the crest of the mare’s sturdy neck, steadying herself.

  “I’ll tell Shaleena,” Reeves said. He was closer now, only a few feet away. Had more time passed than seemed obvious? She could never be certain.

  “It may not even be she,” Ella warned.

  He nodded, giving nothing away, but reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. “Dry your eyes,” he said.

  Until that moment she hadn’t realized she was crying. She touched it to her face, renewed her composure, and handed back the lace kerchief.

  “Keep it,” he said, and smiled dryly. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

  Chapter 13

  Drury Lane was humming with activity. Every gentleman’s boots were polished to a ridiculous sheen. Every deb giggled behind her fan, and every chaperone scowled dire consequences at any who would disturb her ward.

  High-stepping horses, coats glistening, carried away the phaetons and broughams and vis-a-vis, leaving their illustrious owners behind. Matrons and dowagers gossiped among themselves, dressed in sheer muslins and pale flowing gowns supposedly reminiscent of ancient Roman days.

  Ella scanned the crowd. It was all but giddy tonight, geared up for a much-lauded performance of Hamlet. As for Ella, she was as carefully groomed as the rest of the ton. She had prodded her hair into a relatively becoming style and embellished it with tiny seed pearls. Her high-waisted gown of lawn was embroidered and beribboned. Sage green to bring out the color of her eyes, it flowed from its tiny capped sleeves to her slippers in a cascading shower. The reticule that dangled from her gloved wrist was small and beaded, a silly contraption able to house little more than the requisite handkerchief, although, if rumor were true, the men were more likely to weep than the women; Lenstra, an Italian girl of some fame, was to play Hamlet, after all, and the sight of her supposedly flawless legs in pantaloons was said to move many a man to tears.

  Ella didn’t particularly care for either women’s legs or Hamlet, but she would act the part of the smitten patron of the arts. She would laugh when the others laughed, cry when they cried, for she was determined to forget the dark thoughts that had haunted her since the previous night. Her time on Gallows Road had been disturbing enough. Why had Sarah gone there? Why hadn’t her potion protected her? And where was the potion now? It would not have been easily destroyed.

  Roth’s attack had also been troublesome, of course, but not nearly so upsetting as her time with Drake. She could, it seemed, handle violence more easily than desire. Especially the ragged need brought on by the lieutenant’s dark presence.

  But for now she would forget it all: Roth, Sarah, Jasper, even Drake. Tonight she would be normal.

  Ella sat beside Merry May in the box Lord Gershwin kept in his mistress’s name. His wife and four children had their own seats across the auditorium and seemed nonplussed by May’s presence. Such was the way of the ton, too elegant to notice indiscretions…unless it suited their moods, which were fickle and wayward and far too mercurial to allow them to sit quietly through a five-hour performance.

  No one was more relieved than Ella when the audience was allowed to wander into the lobby during intermission, for the theater was stifling and airless.

  “Lady Lanshire.”

  She turned. Harrison Sutter was making his way through the crowd toward her. “How are you enjoying the play? Lenstra does a dashing Hamlet, doesn’t she? It makes one feel rather sentimental, don’t you think?”

  “Honestly, I couldn’t hear her very well over the snoring,” Ella said, and he tilted his head at her.

  “Don’t tell me someone actually fell asleep during her moving performance.”

  It was then that Ella felt the hot burn of attention focused on her. She glanced to the right and saw Drake watching her. Dark-eyed and silent, he nodded. She returned his brief acknowledgment and turned away, feeling her heart race in her chest. She had searched her soul the night before and found it raw, rubbed bare, worn out. Years of spying and conniving had used her up, and she could do no more. She must, for her own good, for her very life, distance herself from those things that stole her peace. From Les Chausettes. From danger. From men who made her hands tremble and her blood run hot. She needed peace, longed for a child, not the foolish longing for a man who would betray her.

  She refused to glance toward Drake again. True, she did not know him well. Indeed, she hardly knew him at all, but he shook her to the core. And she could not afford to be shaken. She wanted calm. Needed quiet. Thus she turned to Sutter with a mischievous, if carefully construed, smile.

  “Actually, the snores were my own,” she said.

  Sutter started as if surprised, then laughed. The sound was soothing, his expressions pleasant. She smiled though she still felt Drake’s hot attention sear her.

  “I am not about to believe such a charming lady as yourself to be guilty of snoring,” Sutter said. Madeline was right; he had a perfect nose. His teeth were nearly as flawless, his fair hair swept back and just graying over his temples. Not a man she would notice at first glance, but he was appealing in an easy way. A mild way. The kind of way that she should find attractive.

  “Had I known snoring was a crime, I would have tried to be more stealthy about it,” Ella said.

  “I take it you don’t care for our much lauded Lenstra.”

  “On the contrary, I’m sure she’s quite marvelous,” she countered. “I am simply overtired.”

  “Did you get abed late?”

  “I fear I didn’t sleep well.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  Ella fanned herself, then eyed him over the top of the silly thing’s lacy edge. Was he making a proposition? Did she care? He was attractive enough, certainly, but where Drake was dark and alluring and intense—

  She halted her wayward thoughts with a silent curse. What was it about Drake that drew her? She did not want dark, alluring, or intense. She wanted pale and average and boring. An easy man. A man like Sutter.

  “Might you be able to suggest something to help me sleep?” she asked.

  “Apparently nothing so good as a Shakespearean play,” he quipped, and she laughed.

  Drake’s focus sharpened. She could sense his attention like a sunbeam on the back of her neck. Could all but feel his heated thoughts. He wanted her. He’d made no pretense. And his attentions would not be pale or obvious or boring, but as bold and breathtaking as a midnight storm.

  “My lady?” Sutter said again.

  She drew smoothly back to the conversation, but cursed herself soundly for her straying thoughts. “I’m sorry,” she said, and grinned just a little. “I believe I fell asleep for an instant.”

  He laughed and bowed. “Touché,” he said. “As I was saying, they’ve called for the second act to begin. But here…” He handed her a blanket.

  She raised her brows.

  “I brought it to soften my seat. But perhaps you can make better use of it.” He moved away with the flow of the crowd, then grinned over his shoulder. “As a pillow.”

  The final scene ended. The audience sat in momentary silence, roused themselves, then burst to their feet, applauding wildly. Ella dabbed her damp brow with her handkerchief and rose on the wave though she failed to share their enthusiasm. Surely there was enough sadness in the world without enacting it on the stage. There was loss and loneliness and betrayal, but she clapped with the others, still clutching the handkerchief Jasper had given her on the previous night.

  Maybe the acting had b
een spectacular. Judging from the applause, that was the case, but why did people want to see misery? Surely there was enough to be had in everyday life. Or did these privileged few not feel it? Did they not know the bite of fear? Of hunger? The terror of a mother alone, afraid, clutching her child’s night rail, eyes glassy, refusing food, refusing…

  The musty smell of earth and stale water was overpowering suddenly, filling her nostrils, her head. The darkness was complete, pressing in, blurring her senses. But there was something else. The sound of footsteps. They were coming closer, approaching with slow, heavy tread. She could feel the terror in her very bones. Could…

  “No!” she rasped, and jerked away in anguish.

  “Can you walk?” rumbled a voice.

  She glanced up and came to with a start. Sir Drake was holding her elbow in a steady grasp. The musty smell receded slowly. People laughed and gossiped as they streamed out of the theater in confusing waves of every imaginable color. The night was lit with golden orbs that glowed from the street corners. Carriages were jockeying for position, blocking the cobbled length of Catherine Street. A dark brougham stood directly in front of her. She glanced about, searching for her bearings.

  “Get in,” Drake ordered.

  He was standing very close, eyes intense as he stared down at her.

  “Where—”

  “Get in,” he said again. Their gazes clashed.

  What had she done? How much did he know? she wondered. She had vowed never to allow another to know of her gifts, her curse. But Drake was already ushering her up through the open door of a rented carriage. She acquiesced like one in a trance, settling onto the padded seat, smoothing her dress primly over her legs, coming gradually back to herself. “I could surely have hired my own cab, sir,” she said.

  He didn’t respond, but watched her with dark, knowing eyes that bored into her very soul.

  She refrained from clearing her throat. From fidgeting like a frightened child. “Or are you hoping to take advantage of me?” she asked, trying to act coquettish.