The Curse of Lord Stanstead

by Mia Marlowe

  “I’ve had dreams about you.” Desperate, erotic dreams. Dreams that made her wake with a blush of pleasure and the aftershocks of a real physical release. “What’s so terrible about dreaming of me?”

  He shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

  “Pray, enlighten me.”

  Garret sighed deeply and relented. “You know I can Send my thoughts, to most people at any rate. But what you don’t know is that I can also send them a future.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I dream one for them. I don’t mean to do it. It just happens. If something befalls a person in my dreams and I remember the dream in the morning, it will happen to them in real life—at a time when I least expect it.”

  “Then for heaven’s sake, dream something wonderful for me.”

  A loving husband. A happy home. Children stair-stepped around her table. Even though Vesta had told her such things weren’t meant for a fire mage, old dreams died hard. Cassandra still wanted them with all her heart.

  He stood, putting some distance between them, but remained under the arbor. “Don’t you see? I’m not talking about daydreams. I mean the phantoms no one can control. I mean nightmares, Cassie. My felicitous dreams are like clouds. They melt away with no effect, but if something horrible happens in my nightmare to someone real, someone I care about, it will happen to them in the waking world as well. I have no control over it and cannot say when the events will unfold, but they will, as surely as if I willed it by Sending it to them.”

  “Oh.” Cassandra had one recurring nightmare about a wolf from which she was always grateful to wake, glad to escape with nothing more than a pounding heart. “What does His Grace say about it? Surely he’ll—”

  “His Grace,” Garret said in a tone laced with disgust, “promised he’d discover a way to control this…whatever it is, but so far all he has to offer are mental exercises. I should try to control my waking mind and hope for the best in my sleep, he says.”

  “Maybe I can help.” She didn’t see how, but every burden was lighter if two lifted it. She rose and took his hand. “Garret, I need you to—”

  “No! You shouldn’t need me. Don’t you see? I can’t need you.” He pulled away from her. “I can’t let it happen again.” He turned and would have fled from her but she caught his jacket sleeve in her grasp.

  “Garret Sterling, you are a rogue and as solitary as a lynx, but I never thought you a coward until this very moment.”

  He gripped her shoulders and held her fast. “You’re right. I am afraid, but it’s not for myself. It’s for you. You’re not taking this seriously, Cassie. You never take anything seriously. If you knew—”

  “Then help me understand, Garret. What is it you can’t let happen again?”

  “This is the reason I don’t form any lasting associations.” As he looked down at her, his face was lined with despair. “The last time I allowed that to happen…”

  He started to turn away again, but she clung to him. “No. You don’t get to run away from this. Not from me. Now tell me.”

  His gaze bored into her, feral, unblinking, as intense as the wolf in her nightmare. “I was engaged to be married once. Five years ago.”

  Five years ago Cassie had still been in pigtails. Gentlemen often didn’t wed until they were forty or more. Garret wasn’t thirty yet, so it must have been a love match.

  “What happened?” she asked in a whisper.

  “A week after the banns were read, Alice went to the country to prepare for the wedding. We were going to be wed in her home church in Yorkshire, but she fell ill with scarlet fever and was gone before I could reach her.” He ground a fist in his open palm. “And I knew all the time that it was going to happen because I had dreamed the whole damn thing, but I didn’t want to believe it. Until it was too late.”

  “Is that the first time your dreams came true?”

  “No, but it’s the first time I killed someone with them. You see, this is why I’m determined to be, as you say, as solitary as a lynx. My dreams only seem to impact those for whom I have strong feelings. When I was a boy, I dreamed a broken arm for my favorite second cousin. He still has limited use of the limb. And when I was at Eton, my best friend had a driving accident in his curricle that nearly killed him. I should have warned him, but I didn’t. It was all my fault.”

  “Oh, no. I will not allow you to take the blame for these accidents,” she said firmly. “Knowing something is going to happen and causing it to happen are two very different things. Have you ever considered that your dreams are merely prescient?”

  “The duke suggested that, too, but my nightmares don’t feel as if I’m peering into the future. They feel the same as when I Send a thought. Intent and energy go forth, even if I’m not in conscious control. When I Send in my sleep, it carries far more power. My waking Sendings can be rebuffed by the target if his or her will is strong enough. Camden is proof of that. But my dreaming ones do more than suggest. They make things happen. I feel it. I know it.”

  “Then you don’t have to worry about me because I can’t hear a word you think toward me.”

  A muscle ticked in his cheek. “I hope you’re right, Cassie.”

  “I’m sure I am. Come.” She slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow. “It’s time to see what sort of costumes His Grace has sent for us to wear this evening. The portmanteaus were delivered right after nuncheon but you were nowhere to be found. I’ve been simply dying to open mine.”

  As if they’d been merely walking companionably through the garden all this time, she started down the pea-gravel path back toward the house.

  Garret listened to her babble about the upcoming masquerade with half an ear. He loved the sound of her voice, whether he was paying attention to the words or not. It rose and dipped musically, full of life and mischief, even though they were facing serious business at Roderick Bellefonte’s masquerade later. Still, when she punctuated a sentence with one of her unique laughs, Garret couldn’t help but smile.

  Even though there was nothing to smile about.

  Garret’s precautions were too late. Though he’d tried not to spend time with her, it hadn’t worked.

  Last night, he’d fallen briefly into an exhausted sleep. And he had dreamed about Cassandra.

  Chapter Twelve

  And many more Destructions played

  In this ghastly masquerade,

  All disguised, even to the eyes,

  Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies.

  —Percy Bysshe Shelley, from “The Masque of Anarchy”

  Later that evening, Garret paced the marble foyer of the Darkin manor house for the better part of half an hour waiting for Cassie to make an appearance. When she finally did, it was well worth the delay.

  As Cassandra floated down the main staircase of the country house, the diaphanous panels of her azure gown fluttered around her form. Shimmering and ethereal, the gown was the perfect foil for the delicately fashioned wings that rose from a clever harness hidden at her shoulders. The feathery contraption seemed ready to lift her from earth with each step. She wore a bejeweled domino that was cut to give her eyes an exotic upward tilt at the outer edges. The Duke of Camden’s costumer had turned her into a winged seraph, as bright and airy as any heaven-born creature could be.

  Garret, by contrast, was dressed in head to toe black with leathery wings drooping from his shoulders. They trailed in ragged tatters on the floor behind him. No doubt casting Cassandra as an angel and him as a demon was Camden’s idea of a joke. His mask was of plain black leather, a stark contrast to Cassie’s elaborate one. Everything about them seemed the exact opposite. But that was fitting. Opposites definitely attracted.

  “I don’t know how you managed it, but you’re even more beautiful than usual,” Garret said. How had he managed to stay away from her as long as he had? When he’d held himself apart from her the world around him had faded to shades of gray. Now the high color on Cassie’s cheeks was enough to fair
ly blind him, but he couldn’t look away. “Absolutely stunning.”

  “You, silver-tongued devil, you. My, but you look positively wicked,” Cassandra said as she alighted on the last step. “Shall I call you Azazel for the evening?”

  “Why not? If memory serves, he was the demon who supposedly instructed mankind on more efficient methods of sinning. That fits.” Now that she was closer, Garret realized the neckline of her bodice was cut tantalizingly low. The mounds of her breasts rose above the lace and tempted him to plunge his hand into the shadowy valley between them. Her lips were rouged a deep red no angel would ever wear. “Perhaps you should be Jezebel for the party. Our costumes seem to have a biblical theme and I, for one, cannot think of a proper female angel name.”

  “You think I’m a Jezebel? But she was a terrible person.” Cassandra turned in a slow circle inviting him to admire her. “Do I look terrible?”

  “Terribly swiveable.”

  She gave an outraged gasp and swatted him with her fan, but the corners of her lips turned up into an impish smile. “Hush. Someone might get the wrong idea about us.”

  “Is there a right idea?” He’d never had a more unconventional relationship with any woman. No one would believe the number of times he’d been with Cassie in her boudoir without actually swiving the lady. He could scarcely believe it himself.

  “I have my mother convinced that we’re simply friends.”

  “For that to be believable”—he lowered his voice in case there was someone lurking behind a doorway—“you’d have to convince her I’d been accidently gelded. No man could see you like this and not want you.”

  Cassandra dimpled with pleasure and, despite the heavenly effect, she was still as tempting as Original Sin. Instead of a halo, her hair was dressed in an intricate twist of braids. Holding her coiffure in place, bejeweled pins sparkled in her dark tresses like stars in the night sky. The style bared her nape in such a way that Garret ached to suckle that tender spot. Then he’d pick every star from her hair and let it fall in waves past her shoulders. Her gown was devised so that it molded to her curves with every movement. With an imagination as lively as his, she might as well be naked.

  “Enough compliments,” she said. “You’ll turn my head and I need to keep focused this evening.”

  “Very well. Where have you stashed the pocket watch you’ll use for a decoy?” he asked, ready to change the subject for the sake of his crowded trousers.

  “The costumer has sewn a clever little pocket by my right hip, just so.” She drew out the watch for a moment and then slipped it back into its hiding place. “It’s exactly what’s needed. And I simply adore these wings.” She craned her neck to look over her shoulder admiringly at them. “Don’t you think they make me look angelic?”

  Evidently, she wasn’t as opposed to compliments as she let on.

  “You look divine,” he said as he helped her into a matching pelisse, careful not to cover the spot from which her wings extended. Actually, she looked like sin on a plate, but he wasn’t about to burst her bubble. Cassie believed she looked like an angel. Garret would play along until later this night. One way or another, he was determined to learn the location of her bedchamber. It was high time he visited her again.

  Maybe she didn’t require his assistance. There hadn’t been any unexplained fires of late. She must have learned better control without him, but even if she didn’t need him, he needed her. Since the damage was done and he’d already had one of his damnable dreams, he was determined to spend more time with her. If he never let her out of his sight, maybe he’d be in a position to interfere when his evil dream started to manifest itself.

  He had the sinking feeling that it surely would, if only he knew when.

  Garret escorted her to the duke’s coach and handed her in. He climbed in after her, settling on the opposite squab lest their wings become entangled. Then he rapped on the coach’s ceiling to signal to the driver that they were ready to move on.

  “It’s not so very far to the Dower House, you know,” Cassandra said, her voice disembodied in the darkness of the coach. “We could actually walk from here, but then I’d risk ruining these cunning little slippers the duke sent. He really does think of everything, doesn’t he?”

  “He’s a wonder,” Garret said flatly. In fact, since the duke knew about Garret’s ability to project a future for someone from his dreams, he wondered why Camden hadn’t realized that having Garret spend so much time with Cassandra would put her at risk. Of course, to be fair, Garret hadn’t considered it either when the duke asked if he’d be willing to assist a neophyte fire mage with some necessary loveplay. After losing his fiancée, Garret hadn’t thought it likely he’d care enough about anyone for them to push from his waking world into his treacherous dreams.

  Then Cassandra had burst into his life. And his heart.

  “When I was young,” Cassie went on, “Daphne and I used to climb the stone wall that separates our land from the Bellefonte’s and visit the dowager sometimes. She was a sweet old lady who always had biscuits and tea ready for us.”

  “I suppose your Roderick was at those teas as well.”

  “Not often. Boys don’t appreciate fine china or the need to learn how to hold one’s pinkie just so.” He couldn’t see her expression in the dimness but he heard the frown in her voice when she went on. “And he’s not my Roderick.”

  “I stand corrected.”

  “But his grandmother always encouraged us girls in proper behavior. Not in an unpleasant way, of course. Instead, the dowager always made a point of complimenting us when we got it right. It made Daphne and me want to turn backflips to please her.” Cassandra sighed. “I was so sad when she died last year.”

  “You miss her.” Garret had kept himself solitary for so long, he’d almost forgotten what it was like to have someone whom he wished to make proud of him. His uncle the earl didn’t count. The old curmudgeon was never pleased by anything. He envied Cassandra’s ability to form attachments to the people around her. Of course, the threat of his nightmares had made him avoid those sorts of entanglements. But his feelings for Cassandra had taken him unawares. She was like a clever pickpocket who had stolen his heart instead of his wallet.

  “I never knew either of my grandmothers,” she said. “They were both gone before I was born, so I guess you could say I borrowed Roddy’s.”

  Just the man’s name on her lips, the intimate diminutive she used, made Garret’s gut burn. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know Bellefonte had been her first. When he had started working with Cassie it hadn’t mattered. Now the thought of someone else being with her made a red haze descend on his vision. He had to focus on their task at hand if he was going to make it through the evening without laying Bellefonte out good and proper.

  “If everyone is wearing masks, how will you know Bellefonte?” he asked.

  “People always pretend not to know each other at masquerades, but I know Roderick’s voice. I’ll recognize him when he speaks.”

  “Then you ought to disguise yours,” Garret advised. “Once Bellefonte realizes he’s been robbed and starts thinking, we don’t want your name at the top of his list. Can you manage a credible French accent?”

  “Mais oui, monsieur,” she fired back in flawless French. “Bien sur.”

  “Good. It’s a more nasal language than English. That should help alter your voice a bit.”

  Speaking French in addition to the feathery mask would make it harder for Roderick to discover her true identity. Garret would Send furiously to all and sundry to keep anyone from recognizing them. But if Bellefonte danced with her, had his hands on her narrow waist, caught a whiff of her perfume or looked into her deep eyes for any length of time, Garret doubted her angelic disguise would hold.

  The coach rolled under a stone arch that marked the entry to the Bellefonte estate. At a fork in the long drive, they turned away from the main manor house. The much smaller dower house sheltered at the end of the lane beneath a spre
ading oak.

  “Stay close to me tonight,” Garret said.

  “Of course.” The coach rolled to a stop before the main door to the vine-covered dower house. “Be ready to accept the pass as soon as I have the Infinitum.”

  Meg Anthony had cautioned Cassandra about keeping the item on her person once it had been pinched.

  “Hand the bloomin’ thing off as soon as you can. That way, if the mark realizes he’s been robbed and confronts you, you can honestly say you don’t have it,” Meg had advised. “Be sure to sound a little outraged over being accused. That might throw ’im off.”

  A little outrage is poor cover when something as dear as the Infinitum goes missing, Garret thought as he handed Cassandra down from the coach.

  The door to the dower house was thrown wide open and in fact, looked as if it had been half torn off its hinges. Light blazed from the windows on the ground floor, but only shadows passed behind the curtained ones on the first and second stories. Badly played music and raucous laughter blasted out at them, followed by the sour smell of alcohol.

  “The dowager Lady Bellefonte always hosted the most elegant gatherings.” Cassie walked haltingly up to the door and might have stopped altogether if Garret hadn’t been leading her. “This does not bode well.”

  “Didn’t you say Bellefonte was throwing this party to celebrate the demise of his bachelorhood?” Garret said. “He wants to make sure it has a good send-off, evidently. And I highly doubt his intended is on the guest list.”

  Once inside, no butler greeted them to take their wraps or their invitation, common protocol to make sure no one who wasn’t invited weaseled their way into a costumed ton event. But this was not an assembly destined for an approving write-up in society tabloids. Instead, Cassie found herself immersed in an orgy fit to make Dionysus blush.

  Why had Roderick thought she’d fit into this sort of gathering? When she’d lost her virtue to him, she had obviously lost all his respect, as well. It was going to be hard to pretend to be civil when she encountered him, even if he didn’t know who she was beneath her disguise.