The Curse of Lord Stanstead

by Mia Marlowe

  Then Garret leaned down and kissed her…on the tip of her nose, completely breaking the romantic spell.

  “Right,” he said brusquely. “If you’re feeling more in control now, it’s time we got back to business. We need to find Bellefonte. He wasn’t in any of the rooms we came through or you’d have known him. How can we get to the upper stories of the house without going back through those rooms with the drugged mist?”

  “If I’m feeling in control?” How could he make this only about subduing her gift? So much more had passed between them. Hadn’t he felt it, too? The backs of her eyes burned. It was a reminder that they needed to don their masks again. She handed Garret his domino and retied her own snugly. “What about you? It seems to me you didn’t show much restraint.”

  “Guilty as charged, but as I recall, you didn’t want me to.”

  She flicked her gaze to the wall sconce and flame leaped to the lamp’s wick, bathing the small butler’s pantry in yellowish light. But before she could think of a suitable retort, the door to the pantry opened. A tall masked fellow in a Turkish costume stood in the doorway. With his baggy trousers and small vest that would not button over his bare chest even if it had any buttons, Cassandra couldn’t decide if he was trying to be a pasha or a djinn who’d escaped from his bottle.

  “I say, an angel of light if ever there was,” the man said, sniffing the musk-laden air of the butler’s pantry appreciatively. Clearly, he recognized that she was no angel. “Is this minion of Satan bothering you?”

  The voice belonged to Roderick Bellefonte. Cassie would have known him anywhere. Now that she’d found him, she must dupe him into believing her a French woman so she could use her new pickpocketing skills.

  Oh, what a muddle the world became once one surrendered a conventional sense of “oughtness.”

  “Oui, monsieur le pasha,” she said in her best French accent, deciding that Roddy would think of himself as a decadent ruler instead of a slave who must grant wishes. “This demon, he is…how you say…bedeviling me. For your help with him, you will find me most appreciative.”

  Then she blinked hard at him. In the center of his silky turban where a jewel should rest, there was a gold object about the size and shape of a pocket watch.

  The Infinitum.

  The treasure she’d come to steal from his trouser pocket was on display above his forehead before God and everybody. Not even the most accomplished pickpocket could hope to lift it from that spot without being caught.

  She ought to have been dismayed, but all she could feel was relief that she no longer had to seduce the Infinitum away from Roderick by fondling the front of his trousers while she picked his pocket. Somehow, she and Garret would have to devise a new plan on the fly.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Many a thief is a better man than many a clergyman,

  And miles nearer to the gate of the kingdom.

  —George MacDonald, novelist, poet, and surprisingly enough, a clergyman

  Garret watched helplessly as Cassandra took Bellefonte’s arm and let him lead her away. Well, he wasn’t completely helpless. Garret was Sending like a fiend, trying to protect her from whatever plans Bellefonte had for her. And, given the tone of the gathering, he didn’t doubt the cur’s intentions were salacious in the extreme.

  Still, he forced himself to follow at a discreet distance.

  “The party is getting a little boisterous, Miss Angel,” Garret overheard Bellefonte say as they wound their way through the dining room and parlor where the orgy was in full swing. The cloying mist was even thicker. Garret’s gut churned at the thought that Cassie’s sexual needs, which were voracious enough even without chemical encouragement, might be further enhanced by the drug again and this time with someone other than him.

  “Why don’t we find someplace where we can become better acquainted?” Bellefonte said.

  Cassie nodded.

  The planned lift Cassandra had practiced with Meg Anthony would have worked best in a crowd, but now they had to lure Roderick to a private place. It was like a claw scraping Garret’s spine to have Cassandra wander off with the man, but it was the only thing that would answer for this new development.

  The option of recovering the Infinitum by stealth was gone. They couldn’t even burgle it unless they waited until Bellefonte fell asleep or passed out from too much drink. Garret didn’t want Cassandra spending that much time in the blackguard’s company. The best they could hope was a theft by force, followed by a clean getaway. Between his Sendings and Cassie’s false French accent, Garret hoped Bellefonte wouldn’t guess their identities beneath their costumes.

  Bellefonte led Cassandra up a staircase, speaking in tones too low to be overheard. Garret dogged them, peering around the corner to take note of which door the pair disappeared into. He reached out with his gift and felt the ragged edges of Bellefonte’s unwarily open mind.

  You’re so tired you could sleep for a week, Garret Sent to him. Damme, if your cock isn’t made of flan. Soft and spongy and no threat to anyone.

  Ordinarily, Garret was confident he could suggest any man out of an erection. But with the inhibition-lowering mist and a temptation like Cassandra in the room, he doubted his skills were equal to the task. He put an ear to the door.

  “What an amusing pocket watch, monsieur. And how odd for you to wear it in your turban instead of a jewel,” he heard Cassie say. “Do you mean to warn me that time, he is fleeting and the day we must seize?”

  “Time is something I have in abundance, sweeting,” Roderick drawled.

  Well, he did with the Infinitum in his possession, didn’t he?

  “But the piece is broken surely,” Cassie insisted. “The minute hand, she is missing.”

  “No, my angel. Nothing is missing. It’s not a watch, you see. Come closer and have a look.”

  Give her the Infinitum, Garret Sent, on the off chance Bellefonte was that stupidly suggestible.

  “No, no,” Bellefonte was saying. “Look, but don’t touch.”

  “I could say the same to you, monsieur. Kindly your hand, remove from ma derrière.”

  Garret’s fingers balled into fists as rage boiled inside him, but he bridled himself, pressing his ear to the door.

  The voices in the room dropped to frantic whispers and he couldn’t make out a thing being said. Cassie could be in trouble. He put a hand on the crystal doorknob and tried to turn it, but it wouldn’t budge. Bellefonte had evidently locked her in with him.

  There was a loud thump and the clatter of a chair toppling over. A strangled cry reached his ear. Strengthened by anger, Garret threw his shoulder into the door. The hinges gave a bit, but not completely. He backed up and charged it again. This time, he crashed through the opening.

  In the middle of the bed, Bellefonte was stretched out on a prone Cassandra, who was kicking and scrabbling, trying to wiggle out from under him. She’d given up the French accent but her voice sounded raspy and wholly unlike her. An impressive string of profanity spouted from her lips, probably learned from Vesta LaMotte. The courtesan was fluent in several languages and the vulgar tongue was one of her favorites.

  Bellefonte’s head whipped toward Garret. “What the devil—”

  “You got that right!” Even so, he felt more like an avenging archangel than a demon. Garret grabbed Bellefonte by the vest and hauled him off Cassandra. Then he slammed the host of the ill-omened party against a wall.

  Bellefonte gave his head a shake as if to clear it and raised his fists in a protective mode. Then Roderick seemed to toss aside any rules of the ring. He picked up the vanity table chair that was lying on its side on the floor and brought it down hard on Garret’s head. It shattered into kindling.

  Stars burst in Garret’s vision, but he struggled to keep his feet. If he went down, the blackguard would be on Cassie again in a heartbeat. Putting all his strength behind the blow, Garret reared back and drove his fist forward into Bellefonte’s jaw. Roderick sank like a felled oak, crashing face
-first onto the faded Turkish carpet.

  Cassandra was still lying on her stomach lengthwise across the bed. Garret hurried to her side.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” she croaked with a hand to her throat. “I think…he was trying to kill me.”

  Her throat was mottled with red. Garret wanted to kick the unconscious man into next week.

  “Did he recognize you?”

  “I don’t think so,” Cassie said. “He was angry when I tried to tell him no. Hurting me made him feel good.”

  “We have to get you out of here,” he said as he helped her up.

  “No, I won’t leave without the Infinitum. Where’s that turban?” She looked around, moving gingerly. “We have to find it.”

  Roderick’s outlandish headgear had come off at some point during his struggle with Cassandra. Fortunately, her mask had remained intact. After several minutes of frantic searching, they discovered the turban had been kicked under the bed.

  Cassie removed the object from the turban and ran her fingertips over its face. “Do you think it was damaged in the scuffle?” she rasped.

  “We can only hope. The world would be a better place without it. Come.” Garret took the beastly thing from her and tucked it into his pocket. “Can you walk?”

  She slanted him a look and rolled her eyes.

  “Good. In that case, can you manage a little fire to cover our escape?”

  “In my sleep,” she said, but then her face drew taut with concern. “But I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

  “We’ll make sure you don’t.” Garret hustled her down the stairs where the party rolled on in riotous excess. “Start the fire in the kitchen and I’ll Send the thought to everyone that they must clear out of the house right now. Just like at Almack’s, you and I will escape in the general confusion.”

  “You can do that?” she asked in amazement. “Send to many minds at once?”

  “In my sleep.”

  …

  Sir Cornelius and Lady Harriet weren’t at all happy when their darling daughter Cassandra and her illustrious guests departed shortly after they broke their fasts the next morning without a satisfactory explanation about why their visit to the country was being cut short. Two days later, Garret and Cassandra delivered the Infinitum to the Duke of Camden at his posh London townhome. His Grace, it must be noted, was not especially happy either.

  “Well, Sterling, this business was not up to your usual standards,” the duke said in clipped tones. He handed the metaphysically charged object off to Bernard. The steward bowed and bustled away to seal it in the duke’s warded vault with the other relics of an offensive psychic bent.

  Garret hitched his leg over the arm of the wing chair, mostly because he knew it would further irritate Camden. “And yet, the Infinitum is now under your control, just as you wished. I don’t see that you have cause for complaint.”

  “I’m not the only one. Lord Bellefonte is complaining that someone set fire to the dower house on his country estate during his son’s masquerade. The conflagration damaged the structure beyond repair before it miraculously burned itself out. However, I understand it very nearly killed his son and heir, Roderick.”

  “But Roderick wasn’t injured, was he?” Cassandra asked, concern tenting her brows above her dark eyes. Smoke could damage a body as surely as flames. It didn’t surprise Garret that Cassie worried about Bellefonte. It was in her nature to consider the welfare of others, but it irritated him, nonetheless.

  “Yes, yes, he’s fine. I understand he has a lump on his jaw the size of a goose egg, and is still coughing a good deal, but he’ll make do.” The duke waved away her concerns. “The dower house will never be the same, but no person suffered lasting harm from the fire. However, the whole affair has caused quite a stir.”

  “It’s all my fault,” Cassie said dejectedly.

  “No, it’s not.” Garret sat up straight. “The fault is mine. I was the lead operative on this benighted recovery effort.” He glared up at the duke as if daring Camden to challenge him. “Miss Darkin deserves no blame.”

  “Of that, I am quite certain.” The duke scowled back at him. “Don’t mistake me. I am pleased that the item was collected and is no longer a threat to the Prince Regent. And it is beyond fortuitous that it isn’t still in the hands of the Bellefonte family, who would undoubtedly be seduced by its power and be led to commit ungovernable actions sooner or later. But by these events, Sterling, you have endangered the entire Order.”

  “How so?”

  “You made us visible.” The duke began his habitual pacing of the room. “Anyone who is attuned to things of a psychic bent realizes something out of the ordinary occurred at Roderick Bellefonte’s masquerade. And by anyone, I mean those who do not share our objectives.”

  Garret had never considered that there might be a shadowy counterpart to the Order of the M.U.S.E whose goals were diametrically opposed to Camden’s. But it was reasonable to suppose there must be a formidable mind behind the concerted effort to poison the royal family by means of psychically charged relics.

  “Have our names been mentioned in connection with the incident?” Cassandra asked, her voice still ragged about the edges from Roderick’s rough handling.

  “Not directly. It seems your disguises held. The young Mr. Bellefonte is noising it about town that a couple of thieves, a man and a French woman, set upon him. They beat and robbed him during the event at the dower house and absconded with a ‘treasured family heirloom.’”

  Garret snorted. “Treasured family heirloom, my foot. The blighter valued it so much he used it as part of his costume. Did Bellefonte give descriptions of the thieves?”

  “According to my source at White’s, he waxed poetic about the woman,” Camden said, “but he had little to say about the man, except that the rogue didn’t fight fair.”

  Garret chuckled and raised his hands in mock surrender. “He’s the one who was tossing around chairs.”

  The duke inclined his head toward Cassandra. “Using an accent was inspired, my dear. However, I can hardly credit the next allegation. Bellefonte claimed the female thief swore like a common seaman. Evidently, he found it titillating in the extreme.”

  Cassandra had the grace to blush. Garret thought her use of profanity was brilliant, too. No one would associate it with Miss Darkin, the ton’s darling debutante.

  “At any rate, however sloppily, the task was accomplished.” The duke ceased prowling the perimeter of the room for a moment before resuming his circuit. “The two of you have earned a bit of a rest.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Cassandra said, her eager face betraying a desire to redeem herself in the eyes of her powerful sponsor. “Please, Your Grace, I wish to be useful.”

  “You will be of no use without time to recuperate. When one tosses power into the universe, one’s resources can become depleted without one realizing it,” Camden said. “Consider yourselves on hiatus for the next sennight. Miss Darkin, you have received half a dozen invitations to teas and soirees, but I have taken the liberty of crafting polite refusals on your behalf for the time being.”

  “But—”

  “I will brook no argument, Miss Darkin. Besides, even if you didn’t deserve a respite, your body does. You can’t very well show yourself in public until those bruises fade. Bellefonte might recognize his handiwork.”

  She put a hand to her throat reflexively, checking to see if her fichu was still in place. Beneath the filmy scarf, her tender skin was awash in purplish yellow. Garret wished he’d taken the time to inflict more damage on Bellefonte for daring to hurt her.

  “So, help yourself to my library,” the duke suggested. “Catch up on your correspondence.”

  “Perhaps I could train more with Miss LaMotte,” Cassie ventured.

  “She assures me you have mastered most of what she has to teach you. All you want is time and experience. For the next week, I advise you to find a calm center inside yourself which makes i
t easy for you to set aside your gift.” The duke smiled indulgently at her, then turned a stern face to Garret. “However, in your case, Sterling, I expect you have allowed the mental exercises I assigned you to go by the wayside. A week of regular and vigorous training will establish better mental habits. Lord knows you can use them.”

  Garret could use a night in an opium den or a fifth of Scotch. Anything to make sure he wouldn’t dream about Cassie again. Once had been dangerous enough.

  “Westfall has been kind enough to offer to assist you in this endeavor, and I advise you to take him up on it. He’s shown remarkable growth in his ability to shield his conscious mind at will,” the duke said. “Perhaps his experience will help you learn to shield your dreaming one.”

  “There it is,” Garret said, hands in the air. “The dangling carrot that keeps the donkey trotting. Only trouble is, the poor beast can never reach it.”

  “While I appreciate any metaphor that compares you to a jackass,” His Grace said with a droll smile, “you are wrong to spurn my help. Do you, or do you not wish to learn control over this aspect of your psychic powers?”

  Garret glanced at Cassie, willing himself not to call up the horrific image from his nightmare of her, but failing miserably. If there was a ghost of a chance he could learn to direct a future dream to counteract the events of the last one before it came to pass in real life, he had to try.

  Garret rose and gave the duke a sardonic bow. “Once again, Your Grace, thy will be done.”

  As he turned and strode out of the room, he heard the duke mutter after him. “That’s just the trouble. It has to be your will, Sterling, or it will never work.”

  Chapter Fifteen