Lord Graymar had worked quickly in keeping his promise, much to Sarah’s displeasure. But he’d not yet managed to close every avenue that had been opened to her, and foremost among her few remaining contacts was Professor Harris Seabolt. Nothing—certainly not a dress fitting—was going to stop her from keeping her appointment with him this afternoon. Especially not now that she needed his opinion on a certain baffling occurrence.
“We do seem to be desirable company,” Lady Tamony remarked, setting aside one piece of paper and picking up another. “The Season hasn’t even truly started yet and we’ve received so many invitations that we can’t possibly accept them all. Yet they keep coming.” She gave a bemused shake of her head. “I scarcely know how to respond, and your father isn’t any help.”
“Papa wants to go to everything,” Sarah said with a laugh. “He’s the most social member of the entire family, next to Philla. If it was up to the two of them,” she went on, casting a teasing smile at her cousin, “we’d spend all of our time dancing and eating and none of it sleeping.”
Lady Tamony sighed. “I don’t recall half these names. Sir Alberic and I never could have had so many acquaintances in England. Here’s an invitation to a musical evening at Lady Pettenborough’s on Friday next, and this one, for the same evening, is for dinner and cards at Mrs. Silverby’s. She’s a friend of your aunt’s, isn’t she?” She looked at her daughter and niece. “Do either of these interest you girls? If not, there are four other invitations for gatherings on the same night, all of the same variety.”
Sarah exchanged glances with Philistia, who looked as nonplussed as Sarah, herself, felt.
“Will there be dancing, do you think, Aunt Caroline?” Philistia asked.
“Not at these sorts of gatherings, dear,” her aunt replied. “But a few evenings engaged in quieter pursuits might make a nice change. Sir Alberic enjoys cards and conversation and Julius will find nothing but balls and dances most trying.”
“Dinner and cards, then,” Sarah said. “Especially if Mrs. Silverby is one of Aunt Speakley’s friends. She’s set her heart on introducing us to her particular acquaintances, after all.”
“Very well,” Lady Tamony said, placing the invitation in a small pile upon the desk and shoving several others aside. “Now, the ball being given by Lady Madden is to be held the following week—”
Philistia uttered an ecstatic trill, causing her aunt to give her a patient look before going on.
“—and your Aunt Speakley declares that we cannot, on any account, miss it. Fortunately, we’ve been granted tickets to attend Almack’s two evenings previous so that Philistia can be given permission to waltz.”
“Oh, Mama, how foolish,” Sarah declared. “It’s 1823, after all. The waltz is no longer such a shocking dance that one must ask permission to participate.”
“Nevertheless,” her mother said, “we will observe the proprieties for Philistia’s sake. You’re old enough to waltz without permission, but Philistia is scarcely past twenty. We’ll take no chances that unpleasant talk will spring up.”
Sarah had a good deal to say about the rumors that London society thrived on, but as Philistia’s eyes had begun to glimmer with happiness at the thought of being given permission to waltz—a dance she’d already enjoyed in nearly every country on the Continent—she wisely held her peace.
“However,” Lady Tamony went on, “there is one function that takes precedent over all others, and that is the Herold ball. Invitations have already been sent and we were fortunate enough to receive an additional invitation to join Lord and Lady Herold for dinner before the ball along with a select few other guests. Your aunt informs me that one of those expected to attend is someone of particular interest to you, Sarah.”
Sarah, whose mind had wandered to her coming appointment with Professor Seabolt, pretended to look interested. “Oh?”
Her mother gave her a knowing look. “Yes, my dear. He is the Earl of Graymar, who you spoke of so often as we journeyed to London. I’ve not heard you mention him of late, but I supposed that was because you didn’t wish to displease Julius. If, however, you still desire an opportunity to speak with the man, a dinner party would be an ideal opportunity, and there’s nothing Julius could do to stop the meeting.”
At the sound of the earl’s name, Sarah’s heart gave a thump. She straightened in her chair and made her tone purposefully light.
“Lord Graymar? How interesting. Of course I should like nothing better than meeting him. How odd that we should be invited to the same gathering as someone of his stature.”
And now her heart began to do something altogether different, racing at the thought of seeing him again. She had relived their hours together over and again since leaving Pembrokeshire and had wondered if, or when, she might see him once more. She’d listened for any hint that the Earl of Graymar had returned to London, for surely Aunt Speakley would know of it the moment he came to Town. If he had agreed to attend the Herold ball, along with the dinner beforehand, then surely he must be at Mervaille.
“Shall I reply that we’ll attend, then?” Lady Tamony inquired.
“It sounds as if it would be terribly entertaining,” Sarah said. “Perhaps you should, Mama.”
“But you’ll not overset His Lordship, will you, Sarah?” Philistia asked, looking at her with a worried expression. “Someone at the table will be sure to bring up the subject of your books, and considering all the letters you’ve exchanged with Lord Graymar and the feelings he’s expressed …”
Sarah had been careful not to tell her cousin about her adventures in Lord Graymar’s company on the night when she’d gone to Glain Tarran. She’d told Philistia, when she’d asked the following morning, that nothing had happened and that her journey to the Earl of Graymar’s ancestral estate had been entirely uneventful. They’d not spoken of the matter since.
“I feel certain that nothing I do could surprise the Earl of Graymar,” Sarah replied truthfully, “but I give you my promise that I’ll be on my best behavior when meeting him.”
A scratch came at the door and Annie, the downstairs maid they’d hired after arriving in London, entered the parlor bearing a small silver tray. Lady Tamony looked at her askance, clearly expecting another invitation, but the maid curtsied and hurried to Sarah, instead.
“This was just delivered for you, miss,” Annie said, bobbing another quick curtsy as Sarah took the sealed note.
“Thank you, Annie,” she said, and the maid departed. Frowning, Sarah examined the inelegantly scrawled address on the missive before breaking the seal. The words within had been just as hastily written.
Miss Tamony, it began. Forgive, please, this late notice regarding our intended meeting of this afternoon. I’m afraid that matters have arisen which make it impossible for me to keep this appointment with you, and I find that my calendar is such that I shall also be unable to reschedule it for another time in either the near or distant future. I also regret to inform you that the meeting of the Society for the Study of the Mystical and Supernatural at which you were scheduled to speak has been canceled. I believe there may, in fact, be no meetings of the Society at all this Season, and thus we must permanently postpone the lecture to which you had so kindly offered to treat us. Please accept my deepest regrets for this unfortunate turn of events, and my sincerest thanks for your understanding. I remain, your servant, Harris Seabolt.
“What is it, Sarah?” Philistia asked. “You look as if you’ve received some bad news.”
“No, not at all,” Sarah said quickly, folding the missive and stuffing it inside her sleeve. “It’s merely from my publisher, Mr. Stafford, regarding our meeting tomorrow afternoon. He wished to remind me to bring the notes I’ve made for the next book.” She smiled at both her cousin and mother. “That’s all. Is Aunt Speakley coming today, Mama? I thought she had promised to help you sort out our many invitations.”
“Yes, she should be here soon,” Lady Tamony said, her attention diverted to the piles on
her desk.
“Excellent,” Sarah murmured, though her thoughts weren’t really on her beloved aunt at all. They were firmly fixed on a certain diabolical earl who was beginning to make Sarah very angry indeed.
He must be in London, then, she thought silently. And he must have visited with Professor Seabolt quite recently, for the professor had undergone a rapid change of heart to have written to her in such a manner.
The parlor door opened once more and Julius entered, looking very handsome in the new dark green jacket that Weston had only just made for him. He was dressed for riding and shook his head when Philistia offered to pour him a cup of tea.
“No, thank you, Phil,” he said. “I’m just going out to try the new mare Father bought at Tattersalls. I only stepped in to find out whether Sarah still means to visit with Professor Seabolt this afternoon.”
“Yes, I do,” Sarah told him. “I’ve only to wait for Madame Duget’s arrival and stand still for a few measurements. Then I’ll be off.”
Julius nodded. “I’ll take you, then, if you don’t mind. One of the curators at the museum told me that the professor keeps a collection of fine Celtic artifacts that he allows visitors to view upon request. I should like to make an appointment for a viewing; then I’ll leave you to your interview.”
“I’m sure that would be fine,” she said. “It would be nice to have your company, Jules.” And helpful, as well, she thought as he departed. Professor Seabolt would find it difficult to send her away if her large and compelling brother was with her, and he’d certainly not be able to explain that he’d canceled their arranged meeting because Lord Graymar had asked him to. Julius’s interest in Celtic history would give Sarah the time she needed to charm the good professor into at least answering a few of her inquiries. And far more important, he would be able to give her an opinion on her journal and the strange writing that had appeared within. She only needed a few moments of the professor’s time, and she would have them.
“Surely you jest, Malachi,” Niclas said in disbelief, gaping at his cousin. In one hand, held above a small table bearing two piles of various cards and papers, was an elegantly addressed invitation. “Dinner and cards at Mrs. Silverby’s? You?”
Malachi, sitting behind a much larger desk, finished signing the last of the papers that Niclas had earlier put before him before replying, “Yes, me. And why not? I spend a great many evenings with such entertainment.”
“I know you do,” Niclas said, “but usually in far more exalted company. You must have some acquaintance to receive invitations from her, but do you know who Mrs. Silverby is?”
“The widowed sister of Sir Benjamin Lott,” Malachi said. “Her father was Squire Lott and her mother was the third daughter of Sir John Talfrest, who was known for brewing an excellent beer in his cellar, thereby endearing himself to every neighbor within riding distance of his otherwise humble manor. I can only pray that Mrs. Silverby has managed to get her hands on the recipe and serves some of it at her party.”
Niclas stared at him in silence, causing Malachi to add, “Don’t be a snob, dear cousin.”
“Me?” Niclas’s tone was filled with insult and disbelief.
“Well, it doesn’t sound as if you approve of me having dinner at Mrs. Silverby’s,” Malachi said, standing from the desk and surveying the neat piles he’d left. “There, that’s everything, I think. Gad, what a lot of business there is to attend to when one has been away from Town so many weeks. I don’t know how I’d manage it without your excellent aid, Niclas. But, then, organization is one of your gifts.”
“I don’t mind you having dinner at Mrs. Silverby’s,” Niclas insisted, slowly placing the invitation in the “accept” pile. “I’m simply surprised, because—well, you’d be the last to deny that you’ve always been particular about the company you keep.”
With a sigh, Malachi strode around the massive desk. “So I’ve been told of late,” he said, sitting in a chair opposite Niclas’s. “Are there many other invitations to reply to?”
Niclas shuffled through the items on his lap. “About ten, but you’ve already filled your calendar for the next several weeks, almost up until the Herold ball.”
“Yes, the Herold ball,” Malachi murmured, tenting his fingers together thoughtfully. “And the dinner beforehand. It should make for an interesting evening.”
“And that’s another thing that’s not like you, Cousin,” Niclas said, eyeing Lord Graymar with suspicion. “I went to great lengths, at your insistence, to dissuade Miss Tamony from continuing in her quest to meet with you or anyone in our family, and yet you accept the Herold dinner invitation knowing full well that she’ll be there.”
Malachi lifted one shoulder in a light shrug. “You and Julia will be there as well, and also our cousin Dyfed and his sweet, darling wife. Perhaps I merely wished to spend an evening in the company of my loved ones.”
The words only served to make Niclas look more curious. “You’ve been in company with us part of nearly each day since returning to London, and with Dyfed and Desdemona, as well, though that isn’t quite the same thing.”
“Heavens, no,” Malachi agreed with a laugh.
“I grant you,” Niclas continued thoughtfully, “that it’s because of your nieces and nephews that you’ve come to see Julia and me, on the main, but you’ve had enough of their parents’ society to be growing weary of it.”
“I believe it would be impossible to grow weary of being in company with your beautiful wife,” Malachi countered. “Now, you, cfender, are quite another matter …”
Niclas’s enormous intellect, famous among both mere and magic mortals, was working so perfectly that Malachi could almost see the wheels turning behind his cousin’s eyes.
“You’re already well acquainted with the other guests, most especially Lord Herold,” he went on, “but you’ve gone to such lengths to avoid being in company with Miss Tamony, despite your admiration for Sir Alberic …” He fell silent for a moment before at last focusing his blue-eyed gaze on Lord Graymar.
“You accepted the invitation specifically because of the Tamonys,” Niclas stated. “Why?”
Malachi shifted uncomfortably beneath his cousin’s basilisk stare. He’d not told anyone about the night when Sarah Tamony had trespassed on his lands, and had forbidden Rhys to do so. Malachi hadn’t yet come to any understanding about what had happened that night and didn’t want to suffer anyone else’s opinion until he did. Certainly not Niclas’s. Some Seymours were far too prescient for their own good.
She had been constantly in Malachi’s thoughts since they parted ways in the early-morning hours near the village inn. He’d not been able to escape her even in his dreams, which were so vivid that his body reacted when he simply thought of them. He had followed on her family’s heels as they’d made their way to London, shortly after Saint David’s Day. And once he’d achieved Mervaille, Malachi had used every bit of influence and power he possessed to know all that both she and her family did. Every outing undertaken, shop visited, order given, conversation held, and invitation received—he knew all of it.
His actions—and his obvious obsession—both surprised and alarmed Malachi. Never before had he been so bedeviled by a female. But this was magic, as he was constantly forced to remind himself, and could be neither avoided nor denied. Whatever the fates had in store for him regarding Sarah Tamony, Malachi could only accept and prepare for it. At the moment, most of his waking hours were occupied in finding a way to see her again without making too much of a spectacle of himself. Thus far he’d managed to secure invitations to nearly every event that the famous Miss Tamony had also been invited to, and now had only to decide which to accept or reject.
“I wished to meet the famous Miss Tamony,” he said at last, offering a meager half lie. Niclas would see even through that but would likely make something entirely different out of it. “I’ve heard of little else since coming to Town, and well before that, as you know. But it’s far worse now, with one and
all speaking of having had a glimpse of her. She’s yet to attend a single evening’s amusement, yet every shop she’s entered has become a shrine, and every street she’s walked down a pilgrimage that must be taken. Helen of Troy appearing stark naked in the middle of St. James’s could scarcely have caused such a fuss.”
Niclas should have laughed at that last bit, at the very least, Malachi thought with a measure of discomfit. But he was still staring at Malachi in that direct and penetrating manner.
“I know you haven’t had a change of heart about her book,” Niclas murmured. “You’ve managed to put a stop to every interview the woman had. Even Professor Seabolt agreed to put her off, and if anyone loves to speak of the supernatural, it’s him. Perhaps—” He pursed his lips and was thoughtful. “Perhaps it’s because Dyfed and Desdemona will be present at the dinner as well, and you wish to make certain Miss Tamony doesn’t interrogate them there? You don’t wish to harm Miss Tamony, I know, or put her beneath a spell. You’ve already said you don’t.”
“It’s not for that,” Malachi answered honestly. “I haven’t any fears regarding Dyfed or his lovely bride. Desdemona and I are in complete accord regarding the dangerous nature of Miss Tamony’s writings.” In point of fact, Desdemona, having been born a Caslin, was closer in nature to the dark Families than those aligned with the Seymours.
Her ideas about how to deal with troublesome mere mortals were much more forceful than Malachi’s. Fortunately, she had given him her allegiance when she’d married his cousin Dyfed and was bound to obey Malachi’s strictures about not using magic to deal with Sarah Tamony.
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