A Most Peculiar Season Series Boxed Set: Five Full-length Connected Novels by Award-winning and Bestselling Authors

by Michelle Willingham

  “I don’t understand,” she murmured.

  “What don’t you understand?”

  “Lady Caroline. She acted as if she couldn’t see you.”

  He smiled soothingly. “It was dark. She was intent on her grievance. Since I did not want to interrupt, I stepped back a little.”

  The furrow in her brow eased. “Yes,” she said, as if clinging to a lifeline. “That must have been it. She does not mean it, but she can be very self-absorbed. She is very young yet, and I fear Mr Davenport has played with her feelings. I should speak to his mother.”

  Relieved by her acceptance of his explanation, Anton gave her a quizzing look. “I should say nothing if I were you. It is all part of growing up.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I know so.” He could remember his own see-sawing emotions when he was as young as her charge. And the trouble that had caused. Not that he blamed anyone else for what he’d done. He would do the same again should the occasion arise. “I think you handled the situation very well and should say nothing more.” Especially not about the girl ignoring him. After all, she couldn’t have seen him.

  Her shoulders tensed.

  “Your headache?” he asked.

  She gazed up at him, her light eyes full of pain. “I am sorry to be so full of the megrims. It is not like me, I assure you.”

  “Will you not permit me to take you to the healer? I promise you she is very good. I will speak to Lord Orrick first. Obtain his permission.”

  Her eyes widened. “Would you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then yes. If you think she can be of assistance.”

  Satisfaction filled him. A sense he was doing something to protect her. Inside, he smiled wryly. How was he protecting her, when it was he who had caused her harm? But the cold inside him felt a little less chill. A determination to find a way to avoid her death clenched his jaw. He would. He must.

  The bell rang for supper and the guests began to drift into the house.

  “Excuse me, Count. I must accompany Lady Caroline to supper.”

  He bowed. “I will call for you tomorrow at eleven, Miss Lofstrom.”

  “You are leaving?”

  He gazed at her gravely. “I have business that calls me away.”

  She blinked and the worry returned to her eyes, dark shadows amid the softest dove grey. “Of course. Your duties for the King. I beg your pardon. I should not have kept you.” She hurried away.

  Anton cursed. Now why had he reminded her of what he was.

  Another misplaced effort to protect her?

  The next morning, Sybil waited in the drawing room in a fever of anxiety. Anton had lied to her. No matter how hard she tried to believe in what he had said, in her heart she knew he had lied. And she had pretended to believe him because to do otherwise changed everything. No more would she be simply an observer, she would be embroiled in something she did not understand, nor want any part of. Seeing creatures no one else could compared to admitting to seeing them were very different. The path to people thinking she was mad lay before her. What else could they think, when they saw nothing?

  She recalled the place where they had kept her mother and a shudder struck so deeply her bones ached. She could not tell anyone about any of it. She should refuse to go with him today. But how could she? He had sent word to Lord Orrick, who had then questioned her closely about her headache. Thankfully, his lordship had insisted she take Caroline’s abigail along and she had leaped at the offer.

  “What time did the Count say he would call?” Caroline asked, using the question as an excuse to put down the embroidery of a pair of slippers for her Papa’s birthday.

  “He is to come at two,” Sybil said, not looking at the clock. She knew to the second that it wanted only five minutes to the hour.

  Caroline got up and went to gaze down into the street.

  “Come away from the window,” Sybil said, trying not to let her anxiety show. “Any young men passing in the street could look up and ogle.”

  “There is no one in the street,” Caroline said. “Except the Count.” She turned and gave Sybil a triumphant look. “Right on time. And in a closed carriage.”

  The clock struck the hour.

  As calmly as she could, Sybil packed away her needlework, a pillowcase with a torn seam she’d been mending. “Then it seems I should prepare to leave. Please do not come down.”

  As she mounted the stairs, she heard the knock at the front door.

  Once in her room, she carefully put on her spencer and a bonnet over her cap. A moment’s glance at her reflection assured her she looked as modest and drab as a lady’s companion should. She went slowly down the stairs, her heart thudding loudly as she steeled herself to meet the Count’s dark gaze.

  Only to discover Jean, Caroline’s maid, sitting stiffly on a chair. Alone.

  Sybil frowned. “I thought the Count had arrived?”

  The girl got up. “He has, miss. Sent his footman to knock on the door and bid us step out to the carriage whenever we are ready.”

  How very strange.

  The butler opened the door with a bow.

  A liveried footman stood on the bottom step. A carriage with its blinds drawn down waited at the curb. The footman rushed forward to offer his arm. “Miss Lofstrom?”

  She acknowledged the fact with a brief nod.

  “This way, miss. The Count awaits you in the carriage.” The man lowered his voice. “Had a bit of a tumble off his horse, miss. Hurt his ankle.”

  Oh, that explained the reason for the footman. She grabbed at the feeble straw. “We could go another day.”

  “Nonsense,” said a deep dark voice from the shadows in the carriage. “I assure you, I am perfectly well, just a minor inconvenience.”

  No escape.

  The footman helped her up the step and inside. A gloved hand reached out and helped her to sit. My it was dark inside. She could barely make out Anton’s shape on the opposite seat.

  Jean hurried in after her.

  Sybil reached for the blind covering the window intending to raise it up.

  Count Grazki caught her hand. “Leave it.”

  She frowned at his peremptory tone.

  “Please, Miss Lofstrom,” he amended. “My healer friend said that it would be better for your headache if you keep light to a minimum.”

  Light did seem to make her headache worse, though she hadn’t realized it before. “Very well.”

  The footman closed the door and the vehicle rocked as he climbed up.

  The Count banged twice on the roof. The carriage lurched into motion with a creak.

  The maid shrank into one corner and Sybil felt very much like shrinking into the other. She straightened her shoulders.

  “Brave girl,” the Count said.

  She cast him a sharp look. ‘Why should I be afraid?”

  “You should not be.” He lapsed into silence.

  Their journey did not take very long and whether he was constrained by the presence of the maid or something else, he made no further comments. And nor did she.

  What she wanted to say could not possibly addressed in front of the maid. Indeed, the issue of what he was likely thinking couldn’t be addressed at all, unless something happened to cause her to reconsider.

  The journey concluded without event or conversation. His footman opened the door and let down the steps. She blinked in the dazzle of lamps lit as if it was midnight not two in the afternoon. She stepped down into the courtyard. A courtyard with a roof, thus the need for lamplight. It had the appearance of a galleried inn, yet behind the railings their were bright shop windows rather than a tavern’s public rooms.

  He followed her down and she noticed he was limping, very slightly.

  “Where are we?” she asked slowly turning and finding a similar view on three of its four sides. Only the faintest glimmer of daylight showed at the end of the long, dark passageway through which they must have entered from the street.
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br />   “A court off Bond Street,” the Count said.

  She gazed around her at the covered parade of shops in delight. There were jewellers and dress shops and milliners and a tobacconist. In the corner, a sign bearing a mortar and pestle signified an apothecary shop. She glanced up at Count Grazki. “Why have I never heard of this place?”

  “It is exclusive to King Vlad’s subjects, those in exile. It is a small piece of home.” He sounded defensive.

  But as she looked closer she could see that the language advertising the shop’s wares were not in English. “Your King is exceedingly thoughtful.”

  If anything he looked even more uncomfortable.

  Jean stepped down, looking around her with amazement.

  When Anton turned his gaze on her she shrank back. “You may wait in the carriage.”

  “Yes sir.” Jean turned and scrambled back inside. The footman closed the door.

  “You didn’t need her did you?” Anton asked. “The shop is small and the owner is wary of those not from our country.”

  “Then it is good of her to see me.”

  “She does it as a favour to me.” He gestured to the store. “This way.”

  She took his arm and while his gait might seem a little hesitant, his arm was strong. A bell tinkled above their heads as they entered the shop. The sharp smell of medicine and earthy scent of herbs filled her nostrils. Shelves containing porcelain jars and glass bottles filled the walls on either side of the room and behind a short wooden counter, where a young woman stood awaiting their pleasure. She was beautiful. Tall. Exotic. High cheekbones, dark eyes slightly tilted as if from the orient. She wore a dark navy blue high-necked gown covered by a pristine white apron. Her gaze observed Sybil intently.

  “Good afternoon,” Sybil said. The air around the woman seemed to shimmer like looking through a blur of tears. Sybil blinked and the odd wavering disappeared. The headache must be affecting her vision.

  “Good afternoon, miss,” the woman dipped a slight curtsey, but her gaze shifted to the Count with a slight lift of her brows.

  He was frowning, deeply. “Miss Ester, this is Miss Lofstrom of whom I spoke.”

  “I have been expecting you,” Miss Ester said, with a slight lisp and an accent much like that of Count Grazki. On her it had a softer sound. “Please, Miss Lofstrom, take a seat.” She pointed to a windsor chair against the wall.

  Sybil sat down as she was bid and Miss Ester picked up a three legged stool and placed it in front of her. “Tell me where you feel the most pain.”

  “Here.” She touched her temples.

  “May I,” the woman said, reaching out with her fingertips spread wide.

  Sybil glanced at Count Grazki. Something had happened when they walked in here. If he had been uncomfortable before, now there was anger in the depths of his eyes. His shoulders were tense. His hands opened and closed at his sides. He nodded tersely.

  The touch from the Healer’s elegant fingers was like butterfly wings and so brief as to be negligible.

  Sybil blinked.

  The headache remained. Miss Ester’s expression held concern. She glanced back at the Count. “I will prepare some powders. To ease the pain, you understand. I think, Miss Lofstrom, you will feel better in a week or so if you follow directions. Please be so good as to wait.”

  Grazki bowed. “I thank you.”

  Miss Ester rose and disappeared through the open door behind the counter and closed it behind her.

  “She didn’t sound too hopeful.” Sybil said.

  His face was an expressionless mask. “Excuse me a moment, Miss Lofstrom.” He stepped around the counter and followed the woman through the door and banged it shut.

  Sybil wondered if she should follow too. He was clearly not pleased about something and she did not like the idea of him discussing her illness with another out of her hearing.

  Cold fury gripped Anton. “What did the devil did you think you were doing?”

  Ester looked up from her mortar and pestle. “She’s the one you spoke of.” She glared at him, her eyes glowing. “Isn’t she? Does the King know?”

  He got a grip on his temper. “You know what his order would be.”

  “To protect us.”

  He glared at her, and glanced over his shoulder. He lowered his voice. “Would you have me kill an innocent?”

  Agony filled her gaze. She pounded harder. “Innocence is in the eye of the beholder.”

  A truth. Anger turned to ice. Freezing his veins. He locked his eyes with hers, holding her gaze. “I pay the toll for innocence most willingly. This is different.”

  A sound on the other side of the door attracted his attention. Footsteps moving around in the shop. Moving away from the door.

  Ester left off grinding the herbs. “Do you want to end up imprisoned for the rest of your life? What Sergai has planned for you is not pleasant.”

  Afraid for him. It warmed a corner of his soul. “Credit me with some sense. I must understand what we are dealing with.”

  She picked up a cloth and wiped her hands, then poured a liquid from a small vial into the mortar. She mixed the concoction. “The mess you left in her mind was the work of an amateur. So many jagged edges. How much time did you erase?”

  He drew close to her, reached out. “Ester.”

  She shot him a sharp glance. “Don’t.”

  He drew back, held himself tight, hating she could no longer bear the touch of any man, but it was not his place to speak of it. “Apologies. I erased five minutes, Miss Ester. Not a second more. And I am good at what I do. You know it.”

  Interest sharpened in Ester’s eyes. Always the scientist. Always the healer. “I have never seen a mind as delicate as hers. But it is also strong, which is why it took brute force to cleanse it.”

  “Can you help her?”

  “I already did.” She put her hands on her hips. “This tonic will also help if she takes it every day for a week. But Anton, she sees us. You know what that means. Are you not just—”

  “Prolonging the issue? I don’t know, but I feel I have to make some attempt to find a way—”

  “It is against the law.”

  He turned away, then swung back. “So what will you do? Tell Vlad?”

  “I should,” she said in a low voice, avoiding his gaze, staring down at the potion in the stone bowl. “For your sake as well as for our people...”

  “She hasn’t done anything. She sees us, but she never says a word. How is it even possible? How many more like her are out there?”

  She lifted her eyes to meet his gaze, her face softening. “There was something. In one of the texts. A very old volume so out-dated that its covers haven’t been lifted for years. A footnote directing the reader to another text.”

  His heart picked up speed. “What did it say?”

  She frowned. “Reports of humans who can see through shadows are unfounded. See the Ancient Book of Law.”

  “Did you?”

  She shook her head. “Only the King’s Librarian has access to the words of the Old Ones. Also, they are written in Coda.”

  They’d been written in a language known to and passed on to a chosen few. He cursed. “I have to go to the Librarian after all.”

  “Or a healer who once studied beneath him.”

  “Are you telling me you can read Coda?”

  She grimaced. “A little.”

  “Will you?”

  She hesitated. Poured the tonic into a small green glass vial and corked it, while the deep furrow in her brow said she was considering his request and the dangers it held.

  He remained silent. And not very hopeful. And if she refused? Would he abandon any thoughts of helping Sybil Lofstrom?

  His gut churned.

  “I will look at the book,” Ester said tightly. “And relay the information to you as soon as I can, but it may take quite some time. Whatever the outcome, either you tell Vlad before the next Council or I will speak out.” She braced her hands on the wood
en table at which she had been working. “And no matter what, you will say nothing about my helping you.”

  He bowed. “Be it so. Upon my honour.”

  She made a sound in her throat. Derision at the thought he might have any honour left? After all, he had become the opposite of what she was. She healed. He killed without thought. She held out the vial. “Night and morning, before first and last meal.”

  “Thank you, Healer Ester.”

  “May the gods keep you, Anton.”

  A formal blessing for which he was grateful. There were few in his life who cared enough to wish him well. And that was as it should be.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  PANIC GRIPPED SYBIL with razor-sharp claws. Close the window. Something will come in.

  What? She reasoned. What could possible fly in through the window? A bat? She shuddered. More likely a moth, if she forced herself to be sensible. And only while the candle remained lit.

  Close it.

  What was this sense of dread? Never had she slept with the window closed, winter or summer. She always slept sounder with fresh air.

  Not since the night of the Breckonbridge ball.

  Her headaches had begun that night. The tonic she had received from the healer Count Grazki had recommended had lessened it considerably.

  Close it. Was it her mother’s voice she could hear in her head? Sybil would not succumb to the fear of what she could see and tell other people. If her mother had said nothing, Sybil’s father would not have talked to the doctors about his fear for her sanity. And when he died suddenly, his relatives would not have locked her away when she warned them about the Others. Being inside that horrible place, without light, without hope, had robbed her mother of reason. Sybil was sure of it. She would not succumb to her mother’s mistake.

  She turned back her sheets determined to resist being afraid.

  A sound behind her made her gasp, spin around.

  A figure stood on the sill, a long black cloak swirling around him. Anton? How? Why? She backed away, her heart rattling furiously in her chest. She couldn’t breathe.

  Lithe and powerful, he stepped down, his face lit by candlelight, hard planes of bone-white skin, full lips firm, deep shadowed hollows hiding his eyes, making it impossible to read his expression. As he stepped into the light she saw concern in those dark eyes that gleamed gold at their centres.