by Gaelen Foley
As he approached the table, Azrael could see through the window to where Jenkins and his driver Paulson were waiting for him by the carriage. The writer did not appear to have noticed it, blind, deaf, and dumb to the world in his literary absorption.
Lord Tobias Guilfoyle, it seemed, was off somewhere among the fairies.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Azrael greeted him, eyeing the figures and sketches and notes arrayed around the table amid a haphazard collection of pencils, papers, journals, and books.
Lord Toby glanced up at the interruption, still mouthing the phrasing of a sentence to himself, intense concentration behind his smudged spectacles.
“I don’t wish to intrude,” Azrael said ever so politely and, somehow, without a trace of mirth, “but aren’t you the famous author, Lord Tobias Guilfoyle?”
The young man’s eyes suddenly widened, and he came fully alert, gasping, jolting backward in his chair so that his coffee splashed on the margin of one of his papers. “Oh God! Have you come to kill me? I-I know who you are! Please! I won’t tell anyone, I swear!”
Azrael arched an eyebrow, quite startled. He gave the lad a moment to regroup.
“Er, rather an odd greeting for an admirer of your work. But no. No murders scheduled today, my lord. I merely wondered if you would be so good as to autograph my copy of your book.” He laid it gently on the table before him.
Toby stared at the Collection, finally recognized it, and then glanced nervously at Azrael, as if he suspected this was a trick.
And a rather transparent one, at that.
Which, of course, it was.
“I particularly enjoyed the chapter on castle ghosts,” Azrael said, lifting his chin and hoping the fellow calmed down. Because, really, this was just embarrassing.
“Er, th-thank you,” Toby stammered, looking so out of sorts that Azrael picked up the lad’s quill pen and handed it to him, then opened the book to the title page.
Toby took the quill, as if only just then remembering what it was used for.
Azrael hid his bemusement as the author dipped the tip into his little inkpot. The pen shook in his hand as he tapped away an excess droplet. Then Toby glanced up at him dazedly. “T-to whom should I make it out, Your Grace?”
“Why, to Rivenwood, of course.” Azrael narrowed his eyes. “But as you said, you already know who I am.” He sat down slowly in the chair next to Toby. “Indeed, you know much more than that.”
Toby gulped. While he bowed his curly head and dutifully jotted down a brief inscription along with his autograph, Azrael searched his brain for what could’ve possibly attracted a beauty like Serena to this yellow-bellied quiz.
Guilfoyle was an interesting fellow, to be sure, but not your ordinary fare for a smoldering vixen like Serena—or any diamond of the first water, for that matter. He was nothing in particular to look at, disheveled and slightly gawky; he was not especially rich, and, as a younger son, held a mere courtesy title.
He was not even a very practical man, and not at all suited to taking good care of a wife, if he was off halfway across the Realm chasing fairies.
And yet this creature was her favorite.
Damn, but she was an interesting girl. Maybe she had thought she would protect him, take care of him.
That, at least, Azrael could see.
“Thank you,” he said when the author had finished his inscription.
He left the book open so the ink could dry on the signature, and drummed his fingers on the table, pinning the writer in his stare.
“Do you know why I am here?” he asked softly.
Toby managed a grim nod. “I…can imagine.”
“I am not going to harm you, so do please relax. Frankly, I am not the one you have to worry about.” Azrael scanned Toby’s artless face. “I came merely to warn you that if certain tales of Owlswick were to appear in any published edition of Volume Two, your life will be forfeit.”
“Well, I figured that much out myself!” Toby whispered, leaning closer, and looking rather stricken. “Believe me, I never discussed it with anyone since I came back from that horrible place. There was only one person I told—in strictest privacy!”
“Yes. We have a mutual acquaintance, Lord Toby. Don’t worry,” Azrael said as fresh terror flooded into the lad’s eyes. “I mean her no harm whatsoever.”
The relieved slump of Toby’s shoulders at this assurance suggested that he believed him, but he still looked spooked.
“So it’s true, then?” he whispered, eyeing Azrael warily. “All of it? Satanic rites in the barrow? Contact with demons? The curse?”
Azrael stared coldly at him.
Toby dropped his gaze. “Never mind.”
“I shall want to read a copy of the full manuscript before it goes to print. Merely to ensure you haven’t said anything foolish.”
Toby furrowed his brow, but it seemed he did not dare protest. “If you insist.”
“Good. I am glad we understand each other.” Azrael paused. “You are a fine writer,” he told the lad rather awkwardly, feeling a bit bad about scaring him. “I quite enjoyed your first effort.”
“Er, thank you, Your Grace.” Toby looked at Azrael like he did not know what to make of him.
The feeling was mutual, to be sure.
“I did not know you and Lady Serena were acquainted.” Toby hesitated. “How is she?”
Azrael dropped his gaze to the table, suppressing a wistful sigh. I wish I knew.
He just shook his head. Then he frowned, skimming the lad with a probing glance. What has a fellow like you got that I don’t have, that you should have grown so close to her?
“What is it, Your Grace?” Toby asked, squirming at Azrael’s predatory stare.
“Tell me,” Azrael said abruptly, “what did she see in you?”
Toby lifted his eyebrows. “Dashed if I know.” Then he frowned. “Rather personal question, don’t you think?”
“Humor me. Given what you know about me and my family, I think it’s only fair.”
Toby’s sigh conceded this.
“Why did you jilt her?” Azrael asked, leaning back in his chair. The ink on his inscription was dry by now, but he still didn’t budge. “Fancied you could do better?”
“What? God no.”
“Then was it all of this unpleasantness with Owlswick that put you off her as a bride? Or fear of some supposed curse? She said you’re superstitious. Or did you simply jilt her to get your parents’ money?”
“She told you all this?” Toby exclaimed, coloring.
The lad was clearly embarrassed, but at least he’d calmed down as he realized Azrael had no intention of murdering him there in the coffee shop.
“Well?” Azrael prompted.
Toby took off his glasses and rubbed one of the lenses with his handkerchief. “I suppose it was a combination of all those things. But above all, I couldn’t marry Serena because I…” He faltered. “I knew she’d regret it within a fortnight.”
Azrael arched a brow.
Toby shook his head. “She doesn’t love me.”
“She seemed very loyal.”
“Loyal, yes. Fiercely so. It’s that stubborn streak of hers. But the thing of it is, well, she dotes on me as if I were a child or some helpless lapdog—and maybe, to some degree, I am. But deep down, I know Serena better than she thinks. What a ridiculous match, honestly.”
“Yet you courted her.”
“Of course I did! Who wouldn’t? I was in love with her for years. I never thought she’d actually pick me, though. It was safer to admire from afar, I suppose.”
This was an amusing fellow, Azrael decided. In a sea of dandies and coxcombs, his humility was refreshing. “I see.”
“Once I realized she was partial to me, believe me, I was terrified. I knew I could never make her happy, not really—look at me.”
“And why do you say that?”
“We couldn’t be more different. Serena is bold and glamorous and willful and strong, and
I, well, I’m none of those things. I’m just a scribbler and a dreamer. But I will always care for her, and I would never put anything in a book that could harm her in any way.”
Toby frowned, silent for a moment. “I didn’t want to hurt her. I do hope she knows that. It’s just, with the doubts I’d been keeping to myself about our alliance, once I discovered all this about her family’s past, I knew the time had come to make a choice about whether she and I really had a future together or not. My parents turned out to be completely against it—and at the end of the day, a goddess like Serena does not belong with a bookworm like me.”
“Then how did you gain such a place of affection in her heart?” Azrael asked in a murmur, leaning closer.
He needed this information.
Toby seemed to search for a response. “Serena doesn’t let many people very close to her. Her beauty has made her a target at times. Men would prey on her, and women frequently despise her when they don’t even know her. As a result, she’s learned to be rather guarded. And she doesn’t take any nonsense from anyone, believe me.
“But behind that sophisticated, fashionable exterior, she has a soft, whimsical side that few people ever get to see. Those of us she does take under her wing, she dotes on most tenderly, nurtures and protects.”
The words sank into Azrael’s love-starved soul as he sat there listening.
“In truth, I think she felt sorry for me, since I can be…I don’t know. Not very worldly. But no man wants a wife who sees him, how ever affectionately, as an object of pity.”
Azrael nodded, pondering. “Yes, but how did you make her pick you?”
Toby shrugged. “I simply respected her intelligence. She’s much cleverer than most of her admirers realize. All they see is that glorious body and beautiful face, not the sharp mind behind it. Although,” he added, “her adventurous streak does occasionally overcome her better sense and lead her into trouble.”
Azrael’s lips twisted as he recalled her dangling off the trellis. “Yes, I noticed that.”
“How is she, anyway?” Toby asked with a slight wince. “Not that I flatter myself to imagine she’s pining over me. God knows she has no shortage of devotees. But asking as a friend, is she all right?”
Azrael thought about it, then shrugged and shook his head, dismayed to realize he did not know the answer to that question either.
“I dare not approach her myself to ask,” Toby said. “I doubt she wants to see me, but I’m worried about her. Dumping all that dark, frightening information on her, and then leaving her to deal with it alone? Not that I had much choice. It would have been unseemly to continue attending her after we’d agreed to end our courtship. If she hates me now, I honestly couldn’t blame her, though.” He hesitated. “I feel I abandoned her when she needed me most.”
As did I, thought Azrael. Chastened by the realization, he lowered his gaze.
“I-I didn’t want to,” Toby stammered, “but—propriety.”
“Right,” Azrael murmured. Fortunately, some of us don’t have to bother about such things.
With that, he reached for his signed book and shut it.
Perhaps it was time to swallow his pride, ignore Serena’s claim that they were not friends, and check on the lady himself.
After so keenly disappointing her about helping her find her natural father, it was the least that he could do.
“As well as you know her customs,” Azrael said evenly, taking care to keep the emotion out of his voice, “where do you suppose she’ll be tonight?”
“Tonight, I’ve no idea, but I wager I know where she’ll be tomorrow evening—at Richmond House, for Their Graces’ essential Bonfire Night celebration.” A wistful sigh escaped the lad. “She always did love the fireworks.”
# # #
And so, the next night, Azrael dutifully went to the Bonfire Ball—against his better judgment, to be sure.
Loner that he was, he received invitations to most things because of his rank, so even he knew that those who missed a ball hosted by the Duke and Duchess of Richmond did so at their peril.
If, after all, the blasted Battle of Waterloo could break out in the middle of one of Her Grace’s soirees, as it so famously had in Brussels, anything might happen.
Thus, any event the Richmonds gave was sure to be a crush.
This rule applied in spades whenever fireworks were involved, as they were every year on the fifth of November, for the duke’s majestic palace sat right on the bank of the Thames and had an excellent view of the annual display.
Richmond House, moreover, built with the flowery splendor of the style a hundred years ago, lay just a stone’s throw up the road from Parliament, where the misguided Guy Fawkes and company had attempted to overthrow the government back when Shakespeare had been penning his plays.
Well, they continued paying dearly for it to this day, Azrael mused as he sauntered along through the mansion, following the flow of aristocratic guests now pouring out onto crowded Whitehall to view the raucous nighttime parade passing by.
The long, noisy, torch-lit procession of revelers, some in costumes, some with faces blackened with soot to resemble gunpowder, was slowly winding its way from St. James’s Park toward the riverbank, carrying their captive, the effigy of poor old Guy, to be tossed upon a raging bonfire.
It was a rough and riotous occasion, which, in itself, quite entertained the crème de la crème. Once a year, even the ladies had a perfectly patriotic excuse to be indecorous, joining in the ruthless chants of “Burn him, burn him!”
Azrael presumed this was as close as many of them ever got to mingling with the commoners. An exciting novelty to many of them, no doubt.
Inside Richmond House, the celebrations were lavish but rather more genteel. In the huge dining room, the traditional foods of the occasion were on offer: sausages cooked over a great bonfire carefully tended by servants in the garden; baked potatoes passed around like small, edible grenades in honor of the night; the scrumptious, sticky Parkin cakes flavored with ginger and treacle; mugs of soup to warm the belly while guests stood outside enjoying the festivities.
A German brass band played on the terrace overlooking the green that sloped down to the river, where Bonfire Night would culminate later in an eruption of fireworks.
There would be rockets and stars and spinning wheels with glittering spangles that changed color as they flew. It was sure to be an occasion of dazzling brilliance, and from the terrace of Richmond House, the guests would be able to see everything.
The night was cold, though, and people were well bundled up. Serena had tucked her hands into a small fur muff before stepping outside, Azrael noted.
He still had not managed to procure a moment alone with her so he could ask how she was doing, per Lord Toby’s concern about her, and his own.
The problem was, of course, her pesky throng of admirers.
If only she weren’t so damn beautiful, but she took after her mother in her irresistible appeal to the male race. She was continuously surrounded by attentive gents—and giving Azrael the coy you don’t exist treatment, to boot.
They had made brief eye contact, however, so at least the minx knew he was there. She had sent him the barest of nods and the shadow of a smile, the sassy sparks in her eyes outshining any fireworks with ease.
He detected that she seemed distracted, though, and got the feeling she was up to some new mischief once again.
That girl. He shook his head to himself but kept a wary distance, watching for his opportunity to approach her.
He knew he had to be discreet, but his motives were pure.
There would be no keeping her alone in a bedchamber for nearly an hour tonight, alas. He merely wondered how she was, and thought himself a considerate chap for caring enough to ask.
Frankly, he cared to an alarming degree.
Idiot.
When she joined the herd of the Richmonds’ guests spilling out onto the crowded avenue to watch the procession, Azrael followed
.
He had taken one of the toffee-coated apples on a stick so he wouldn’t have to talk much, and savored the sweet and tangy treat as much as any child of six would. But well before he reached the mansion’s wide doorway, he realized he needn’t have been concerned.
No one could hear himself think in such a clamor, let alone hold much of a conversation. Noise filled the air, along with the stink of burning pitch smoke from the revelers’ countless torches.
All the while, the aggressive, military-style drumming of some martial band drove the marchers on, rat-a-tat-tatting as the parade inched by, and the crowd accompanied the rhythm by shouting “hey!” along with the beat every few measures.
Azrael just chewed, leaning idly in the doorway. Personally, he had always found it strangely ominous to watch the gleeful mob taking their hay-stuffed prisoner to his execution.
Truth was, he had always felt a little sorry for the Guy, secretly. He had absolutely no doubt that someone with a far more twisty mind had likely put the poor patsy up to his crime in the first place.
Someone like my dear old dad, he mused cynically. He took another thoughtful bite of his toffee apple and chewed it slowly, watching the parade pass, but ever keeping a vigilant eye on the fair, nay, luscious Lady Serena.
All of a sudden, a low, sly, sniveling voice startled Azrael with a question at his ear: “Beautiful, isn’t she?”
CHAPTER 6
Drawn In
It was a familiar voice, but one he hadn’t heard in a long time. Azrael whipped around to find that his former guardian had come lurking up behind him.
“Lord Stiver,” he blurted out.
In fact, it wasn’t just the earl but several more of his father’s cronies from the old days that he found now subtly surrounding him.
“Your Grace.”
They offered him respectful nods as they stepped out onto the few stairs in front of the mansion, hemming him in; Azrael stood on the threshold of the house with his back pressed against the open doorframe.
Neither in nor out.