The Curse of Lord Stanstead

by Mia Marlowe

  “You mean like a blood rite, Your Grace?” Meg Anthony asked, then looked around shyly as if she hadn’t meant to speak her thought aloud. “I’ve been studying, you see, and blood is considered spiritual currency in some traditions. Like voodoo, for example.”

  “And Christianity for another,” the duke said approvingly, “However, in this case, the sacrifice is measured in years, not blood. Someone else’s years.”

  “Don’t look at me,” Vesta said with a wink. “I know I make holding time at bay look easy, but it’s not. I doubt I can spare a minute.”

  “I can.” Garret strode forward, hand extended. “Take it from me. However much she needs.”

  “Thank you, Lord Stanstead. Your liberality with your life force does you credit, but that would only be transferring the problem, not solving it,” the duke said. “Actually, I had in mind that we would all offer a portion of our remaining time to Miss Darkin. If we each contributed ten years, or however many we might be moved to give,” he said with a deferential nod to Vesta, “we should be able to return her to within a decade or so of her correct age.”

  “I can’t allow that.” Every eye turned to Cassandra, leaning on a silver-headed cane at the foot of the spiral stairs. She looked so frail, Garret’s chest constricted smartly. “There’s no need for any of you to give up something so precious and irreplaceable for me. I can’t accept it. I won’t.”

  Garret tried to reason with her, but she remained adamant. “Just because I’ve been the victim of a time thief doesn’t give me license to become one.”

  “You wouldn’t be stealing if the years are freely given and—”

  “Begging your pardon, my lord,” Mr. Bernard interrupted, “but aren’t you forgetting the most obvious donor? The time thief himself is resting comfortably in the vault, but there is no court on earth to which he may be made to answer. I put it to you that justice should be administered by the Order of the M.U.S.E. The donor of years for Miss Darkin should be the one who stole them in the first place—Andre-Simon Paschal.”

  “Capital suggestion,” the duke said.

  His boyish face crumpling, Paschal crowded the bars. “Miss Darkin, don’t let them hurt me. I didn’t mean it. Please. You must believe me. I didn’t do it on purpose.”

  “Yes, you did,” Cassandra said.

  “All right. I did, but you must understand I was in a difficult spot. You gave me no choice.”

  Cassie shook her head. “One always has choices.”

  “In fact,” the Duke of Camden said, “you have a choice now, Paschal. As you know, we are a band of psychically gifted individuals. You obviously are, too. I respect all who are burdened with unusual power. Because of that, I am prepared to offer you a place among the Order of the M.U.S.E. under certain conditions.”

  “Will I be allowed to go free?” the boy asked with pathetic eagerness.

  “Perhaps. After you’ve proven yourself trustworthy,” the duke held up a hand to forestall Paschal’s childish circular dance. “We will have to proceed in small steps. First, you will be assigned a psychic bodyguard of sorts, once I procure one who is up to the challenge.”

  Garret realized the duke meant he’d have to find an Extraordinaire who could subdue the time thief if necessary without suffering any ill effects. It might take several lifetimes to fill that position. But Paschal obviously didn’t understand, for his face lit up like a boy at Christmas.

  “I accept,” he said. “When do we start?”

  “We start now, if you agree to the rest of my terms,” His Grace said.

  A wary look stole over Paschal’s face. Garret was reminded that they were not dealing with a child. They were dealing with a very old entity, one that had probably seen or practiced every confidence game in the book.

  “What terms?” Paschal wanted to know.

  “You did harm to Miss Darkin,” Camden said. “You must make amends.”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “You did not, in point of fact.”

  “Well, I’m saying so now,” the time thief huffed. “I’m sorry it was you, Miss Darkin. You’re the only one who ever treated me like a friend.”

  “I forgive you, Andre-Simon,” Cassie said softly.

  “Very well. If Miss Darkin is satisfied with your apology, I am satisfied,” the duke said. “Now you must return what you took.”

  Paschal extended his hands palm upward and shrugged. “That I cannot do. My gift only works one way.”

  “Fortunately, I have a device that is able to reverse the flow. If you are willing, we can make an attempt for you to give back the years.”

  “If he’s not willing,” Garret said through clenched teeth, “I’ll hold the little bastard down and we’ll take them back.”

  Cassandra put a quaking hand on his chest. “No, Garret. We won’t. I won’t participate if he is unwilling. I know what it feels like to have your life force drained against your will. I would not wish it on anyone.” She turned back to the boy in the cell. “But if you offer my years back, my life back, I will accept.”

  Paschal had skittered away from the bars when Garret threatened him. Now he stepped closer and addressed the duke. “And afterward I’ll be free?”

  “To be a member of the Order, yes. You will no longer be alone. You will be part of our group and with training, I hope you will learn to better control your ability so you are not a danger to others. Once I have secured your bodyguard we will see how much freedom you will be allowed. As a show of good faith, I will have a harpsichord delivered to your cell tomorrow.”

  “Well, then. Since I perceive Your Grace to be a man of honor, unlike others I could mention”—Paschal’s gaze cut sharply to Garret, and then back to the duke—“I accept.”

  The duke took charge, giving orders for Paschal to bring a chair to the edge of his cell and extend his left arm—“The one closest to your heart”—through the bars. Taking care not to touch the boy’s bare hand, Garret and Westfall affixed a clamp over his arm, which prevented him from withdrawing. A chair was strategically placed on the other side of the bars for Cassandra. Then His Grace carefully removed the Infinitum from its glass case. He made a few adjustments on the stem and then held it out for Cassie.

  “Take it and place it in Paschal’s open palm, covering it with your own,” the duke instructed. “No matter what happens, do not remove it until I say so. We will only be allowed one attempt at this.”

  “Hold a moment.” Garret pulled the duke aside and whispered to him. “What do you mean ‘no matter what happens’? Don’t you know what this thing will do?”

  “Not precisely, no. As with most things of a psychic bent, there are variables one cannot predict,” the duke said softly enough that the others couldn’t hear. “But I have hope. This is her best chance. Her only chance.”

  “Then give me a moment.”

  Garret turned back to Cassie who was speaking to Paschal in soothing tones, encouraging him not to fear, as if he really was the child he appeared and not many times older than she. Garret knelt before her.

  “I love you, Cassandra Darkin.” He kissed her right hand. “And I’m counting on you marrying me after this is over. Please say you will.”

  “You can wait till then for my answer, can’t you?” She bent and kissed him on the forehead. Then she gave him a tremulous smile. “I’ll see you after.”

  He nodded, unable to trust his voice. He almost stopped Camden from advancing toward her, holding the Infinitum gingerly in his gloved hand. Garret would rather have her as she was than risk losing her entirely, but it wasn’t his decision to make.

  It was Cassie’s.

  She gripped the Infinitum tightly. Then she laid it in Paschal’s waiting palm and covered it with her own.

  Nothing happened.

  She looked askance at the duke. “Is this supposed to—”

  Her words were cut off by a scream. Her own. She and Paschal shrieked in chorus as a field of blue light emanating from the Infinitum env
eloped them. The boy thrashed in his cell and Garret had no doubt that if he’d not been restrained he’d have yanked his hand back through the bars. Lightning flashes in miniature leaped from Paschal’s chest to Cassandra’s.

  “Stop it now,” Garret growled. “It’s killing her.”

  “No, it’s not,” the duke said. “Look.”

  The gray was disappearing from her hair. Color was returning to her cheeks.

  “Hold on, Cassie.”

  She didn’t answer, but she did stop screaming. The same could not be said for Paschal. But the pitch of his shrieks had changed. It was no longer the frightened scream of a little boy. His howling had the depth and power of a man’s larynx and lungs.

  Paschal appeared to be a gangly youth in the first flush of manhood. His chest and thighs had filled out and every seam in his clothing strained to the breaking point.

  “My arm. It’s cutting my arm off!”

  Paschal’s left arm was swollen as the clamp used to hold the boy pinched off all circulation in his man-sized extremity.

  “Swear you will not let go until His Grace gives the word,” Garret demanded as the blue field still crackled around them.

  “I swear, for the love of God, I swear. Mercy, I beg you.”

  Garret reached into the blue. He couldn’t tell if it was searing heat or burning cold that assaulted his flesh. Either way it was excruciating, but Garret didn’t pull back until he’d freed Paschal’s arm from the clamp.

  Paschal flashed his teeth at Garret in a feral grin but true to his word, he didn’t draw back.

  “Only a few more moments,” the duke said. “Release on my mark. One. Two. Three. Release.”

  Cassie yanked her hand away. Paschal let the Infinitum drop to the stone floor. The casement on the relic cracked and several springs and wires flew out of it as if under pressure. The blue field sparked and fizzed and then winked out entirely.

  “Did it work?” Cassandra put a tentative hand to her cheek.

  “Oh, yes, love. It worked.” Garret pulled her to her feet and she came up with the sprightliness of youth instead of the stiffness of extreme age. “You have always been beautiful. Young, old, it doesn’t matter. But you’ve never been more beautiful to me than right this moment.”

  Garret picked her up and twirled her around.

  “What about me?” a bass voice asked.

  It was Paschal. He’d grown to match Garret’s height at over six feet. His hair was still mostly dark, but silver glinted at his temples.

  “Well, you’ve aged a bit, but I must say you wear it well,” Vesta said, sashaying a little closer to his cell. “If you weren’t such a desperately dangerous man, I’d be tempted to join you in there.”

  “Miss Darkin seems to have lost about sixty years, but Paschal has only gained twenty-five or thirty,” Lord Westfall pointed out. “How do you account for that, Your Grace?”

  “Hmm. As a time thief, he has no doubt built up a tolerance for it,” Camden suggested. “Evidently, he could absorb the loss of all those years without aging as much as a normal person might.”

  “I don’t want to age another day without you, Cassie,” Garret said. He still didn’t have control over his dreams, but at least it had been proven that the outcomes weren’t immutable. As long as he kept Cassie by his side, he could keep her safe. “Your Grace, I need to borrow your coach.”

  “Of course, but may I ask why?” the duke said.

  “If this lady gives me the answer I want, we’re off to Gretna Green before the sun sets another time. Well, Cassie?”

  She stood on tiptoe to kiss him. “Call for the coach and four. You and I have a journey ahead of us.”

  Garret picked her up and headed for the spiral stairs. “One that will last, love, till we draw our last breaths. And, please God, may that happen to us together, for I don’t want to live a day without you.”

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  Author’s Notes

  There are many things clamoring for our time, so it makes me happy that you chose to spend some of yours with me and the folks who live in The Curse of Lord Stanstead. Thank you. I hope you enjoyed your visit with Order of the M.U.S.E. set in my imaginary psychic Regency, and will want to return to us often.

  Despite the special abilities my characters possess, The Curse of Lord Stanstead is about finding love, unconditional and unchanging in a changing world. The distance from one heart to another is a perilous journey, but Cassie and Garret think it’s worth the trip.

  I try to make the history in my books as accurate as possible. The madness of King George III is documented fact. In my fiction, His Majesty’s sickness was the catalyst for the Duke of Camden to found his Order. He suspected the king went mad after coming into contact with a malevolent psychic relic. Camden didn’t want any more damage done to the House of Hanover.

  But what was the real cause of George’s lunacy? Theories abound, from despondency over losing the American Colonies, to porphyria, but recent scholars suggest that since his malady was episodic in nature, the king may have been bipolar. When he was in the manic phase of his illness, he was known to write rambling sentences of 400 words or more. (I can hear my long-suffering editor groaning!) Despite his infirmity, George III reigned for sixty years and was judged a “successful” king in that he increased the popularity of the monarchy and brought opposing views in Parliament together in sympathy for him.

  I’d love to hear from you anytime. For more about me and my books, please visit www.miamarlowe.com. And let me extend a special invitation for you to join my newsletter. That way, you’ll be notified when the next M.U.S.E. book comes out!

  Happy Reading,

  Mia

  Acknowledgments

  The Curse of Lord Stanstead couldn’t have come into being without the contributions of many people. I’d like to thank a few here:

  Erin Molta, my editor. She pored over the manuscript and poked and prodded until the story was the best it could be. I’m thankful for her grasp of story-telling hot buttons, “spot-on” good taste and—above all—her stamina! It’s an honor to work with her.

  Kelley York, my cover artist. She deftly captured the flavor of the M.U.S.E. series.

  Natasha Kern. No author could have a better agent or a better friend. She always keeps me on track by taking the long view when I’m deep in my “book head.”

  Ashlyn Chase and Marcy Weinbeck, my critique partner and my beta reader. Whether I need an “atta girl” or a swift kick in the pants, these two never fail to deliver.

  My husband, the love of my life. Any man who can romance the same woman for as many years as we’ve been together is definitely hero material!

  YOU, dear reader. Thank you for investing a few hours of your life in my book. It means the world to me. Truly.

  About the Author

  Mia Marlowe didn’t intend on making things up for a living, but she says it’s the best job she ever had. Her work was featured in the Best of 2010 issue of PEOPLE magazine. One of her books is on display at the Museum of London Docklands next to Johnny Depp memorabilia. The RITA nominated author has over 20 books in print with more on the way! Mia loves art, music, history, and travel. Good thing about the travel because she’s lived in 9 different states, 4 different time zones. For more, visit www.miamarlowe.com.

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