He leaned down, picked up a stick from the ground, and began twirling it between his hands. “There was a rainstorm that Saturday night. The hut was old, the roof in poor repair and weakened by the weight of water. Her father and brother were killed by a falling beam.”
“But your nursemaid was saved?” She could not disguise the disbelief in her voice.
He shrugged. “I lost her anyway. She said she couldn’t work with a child who was possessed of the devil. And this from the woman who heard me say my prayers each night.”
Abby visualized a sad little boy struggling to understand why his friend left him, and sympathy pierced her heart. But was the story true?
Hoping to trip him if he were lying, she asked, “What did your family think about your ability?”
He pressed the end of the stick into the dirt and twisted a little hole in the ground. “My father ignored it. My brothers … well. Let us say they weren’t receptive and were glad to see me gone when I grew old enough to depart.”
Though he spoke lightly, Abby sensed the pain behind his words. She paused, then asked, “And your mother?”
The movement of the stick stilled. “She died shortly after I was born.”
“Oh.” Abby was aware of much left unsaid, of old wounds still raw. Of course, he could be fabricating everything to secure her sympathy. She wished she were a prophetess so she could know for sure. She wished she could make up her mind about something.
“If they believed in your ability, I am surprised they did not view it as a special gift, like the biblical Joseph’s talent for visions and interpreting dreams.”
He faced her, his eyes glimmering strangely, reminding her of sunlight on water. “You call it a gift? If such it is, I’d gladly return it. More often than not, it brings trouble. It’s a beastly curse.”
“How can you feel that way? If such a talent exists, it should be helpful.”
“It has not helped me with you,” he said softly. “Not so far, at least.”
She stared at him for a moment. “I know you would like me to say I believe in your visions, but I cannot. However, I am beginning to be certain that you believe them. But can you not admit the possibility that you are wrong about the ones concerning Philip and myself?”
“I have no reason to think so. Occasionally I’ve misinterpreted what I’ve seen, but in every instance, later developments confirm the truth of the visions themselves.”
She stood and brushed the sides of her skirt, smoothing the gathers and fidgeting. Julian grabbed his hat and rose, watching her hopefully.
“I would like you to dismiss marriage from your mind,” she said in deliberate tones. “If you truly want to help, take me to a city far from here. Escort me to London if you can.”
Her heart hammered as she waited. She stole brief glances at his face, but he was no longer looking at her; his attention seemed to be caught by a flock of geese flying overhead.
“I can’t do that, Miss Lyons,” he said finally. “I’m sorry. If you won’t allow me to help you in a manner that will truly be of use to you, I will not contribute to something that may cause you further harm.”
She told herself she had expected as much, but disappointment clanged through her body. Should she accept his offer, then? Could she trust him enough?
Feeling as if she were stepping off a cliff, she said, “If I did believe you—and I’m not saying I do—my grandmother will never approve such a union. She wants me to marry Philip to join the two estates.”
When his face brightened, she closed her heart. He must think she meant to give in. His words gushed into her ears, persuasive words spoken as attractively as the Pied Piper must have piped.
“I believe you are in the right of it; Mrs. Lyons will never accept me. Which means, unfortunately, that should you decide in favor of my offer, we shall have to elope. For your sake, I’m sorry for it.”
Abby planted her feet, piercing him with her eyes. “Elope?”
He sighed. “Whatever you are thinking now, don’t. I have no terrible designs on your virtue. Bring your maid if you wish.”
Her anxiety eased somewhat, but her mind still swam with questions. “If I do this, what will become of me after the marriage is annulled?”
“I travel through many cities on my tours. Once Philip is no longer a threat, you can make your choice of them. I won’t hold you captive, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
His spirits were lifting, she saw. She wished she could say the same, but hers were twirling in a confused mass. She cast him a resentful look and began walking again. They passed the orchard and approached the flagstoned walkway. The unanswered question trembled in the air between them like half-forgotten music.
“I cannot make a decision now. How shall I get word to you?”
“I’ll call again tomorrow.”
The afternoon was a deceptively peaceful backdrop for the turbulence of her emotions until a persistent tapping intruded. Following the sound, Abby lifted her gaze to the upper story of the house. Matilda’s angry face was pressed against the bedroom window, her cane beating a summons on the glass.
“That may not be possible,” Abby said miserably.
Julian’s glance followed hers. A bright smile broke across his face, and he nodded and lifted his hand in a jaunty wave. “Do as I do,” he commanded between his teeth.
“She will be incensed,” Abby said, but she obeyed, raising her hand and smiling. When the tapping became even more imperious, she again followed his lead, grinning and waving with added enthusiasm. “If we don’t stop, she will slay me,” Abby declared, but her giggles were genuine.
His eyes danced as he led her onward. “I hope not. I like hearing you laugh.” A few seconds later they climbed the front steps. “Don’t worry about reaching me,” he said quickly. “I’ll contact you somehow.”
He opened the door to find Walters hovering near it, his eyes worried. “Your gloves, my lord,” the butler said immediately. “Redmond has gone to the stable for your horse.”
“Er, thank you.” Julian gave Abby a look of heavy irony. “I believe I must take my leave of you, Miss Lyons,” he said.
While he hurriedly pulled on his gloves, she stood nearby, her head beginning to fill with the significance of the last half-hour. Her life was never going to be the same, no matter what she decided. The dreadful tedium of the past few years was finally drawing to a close.
Her grandmother could never force her to marry Philip now, even if she decided this stranger’s offer was too risky to take. He could not know that he had given her a breath of hope, enough to restore some remnants of her confidence. She could do anything. Become a governess. Marry a nobleman. Sing opera on the stage. The entire world was open to her.
The wonder and the joy of it bubbled inside her like a geyser. Julian sensed it, his eyes reflecting her delight as he bowed over her hand and she sank into a curtsey.
“Until next time,” he whispered.
When Walters closed the door behind him, Abby continued to stare at the carved panels as if she could conjure Julian’s image from them. The butler cleared his throat and glanced toward the stairs.
As if on cue, an indignant voice shouted, “Abigail!”
*
Julian wearily entered his room at the Iron Flagon and tossed his gloves and hat on the bed. Francis had a roaring fire going in the hearth, and the magician was glad for it. He sat in the wooden rocker and held his hands toward the blaze.
There was a knock at the door and Francis entered. With the ease of a man who knows he is more friend than servant, he dropped several pieces of correspondence onto his master’s lap and settled into the companion chair, then fixed his green gaze on Julian and waited.
The magician snorted. Francis was a man who kept his own counsel, except when he wanted to offer unneeded advice. Beyond a doubt, he was burning with curiosity but would go up in flames before asking. Well, perhaps a little torture was in order. After the frustration of the past weeks,
Julian felt like roasting something over the coals.
“Has Uncle Georgio’s troupe moved on?”
“All gone, milord. He said the take was better than what they would have received in Steeping.”
“Good. Perhaps I’ve not made enemies then.”
“Too bad all that effort was wasted.”
Julian’s lips quirked. He darted a look at Francis, then glanced at the mail and leaned back leisurely. “What’s all this?”
“Cards and letters, milord,” Francis answered stiffly.
“I can see that. Who are they from? Who knows we are here? Harry couldn’t have written already, could she?”
“ ‘Tis not my place to read your mail.”
Julian lifted a brow irritably and began to thumb through the calling cards and invitations. “Lady Anna Wentworth. The Reverend Whitley Moore. Mister George Strongfellow. Who are these people?”
“Locals, milord. The word’s out. Everyone of them has daughters eager to meet the marquess’s son. Been a procession of them all afternoon in the public rooms downstairs. Some are staying for dinner.”
Julian groaned. “If they knew this marquess’s son had performed as a magician here weeks ago, they would hang me by my toenails. We’ll dine in the room tonight.” He threw the cards in the fire, then glanced sideways at the valet. With a little smile he leaned back again and closed his eyes.
The silence stretched. Francis made a humming noise in the back of his throat, as if scratching an itch. Julian’s smile widened.
“One of the young ladies is broader than two cows tied together,” the valet commented.
The magician coughed. “Unfortunate girl.”
“Another one of ‘em is quite comely, if you don’t mind she has no front teeth.”
“In some societies, that is considered an advantage,” Julian said without expression.
“Yes, milord. But you should see her mother.”
“Lovely, is she?”
“Like the wrong end of a monkey.”
Without moving his head, Julian slid his gaze toward his servant. “Francis, I do not believe you are very respectful toward the fairer sex.”
The servant appeared to consider this. “No, milord, I suppose I am not.”
Julian leaned forward and threw an errant piece of bark onto the flames. “You’re not going to ask me how it went this afternoon, are you?”
“Ask how what went?”
“Hah. Mister Unconcerned. Well, to answer your unasked question, I have not been accepted. Not yet, anyway.”
Francis sniffed. “I’m sure that will change.”
The magician darted a sharp look his way. He thought he detected a cynical note, but the valet was a picture of innocence. A moment later Francis slipped out the door, murmuring something about seeing to their dinner.
Julian rose, stretched, removed his waistcoat, and loosened his cravat. The bed looked inviting. There was time for a nap before dinner. Surely this afternoon had changed things. Perhaps now he could close his eyes for five minutes without seeing confused images of brutality and death. He pulled off his boots and stretched across the counterpane.
As he settled into the contours of the mattress, the disturbing encounters with Abigail Lyons began to file through his mind. She had proved to be as strong as his initial impression of her. She looked soft but was no one’s fool. Unfortunately, she now suspected him of half-a-dozen things. Maybe he had handled matters badly, but he had approached her the only way he knew how. He had told her the truth, or at least as much of it as she needed to know. Once she thought it over, she would come around. She must.
She continued to compel his thoughts as she had from the moment he first saw her in the audience. Her dark eyes flamed with life; they expressed every emotion that drifted through her mind. With the amusement of distance, he recalled her excitement this afternoon, her skepticism, and even her wrath. One would always know where he stood with her.
He caught himself wondering if her hair felt as thick and soft as it looked. He could probably encircle her waist with his hands. Before his thoughts wandered farther afield, he commanded himself to sleep.
When Francis returned a half-hour later, he found Julian sitting up in bed with his back pressed against the headboard. The valet paused, then set the dinner tray on the bedside table. He filled one of the goblets with wine and passed it to his master. The magician downed several sips, spilling only a little on the bedspread.
“The bad dream again?” Francis asked gruffly.
“No.” Julian turned shattered eyes to his. “Something new, Francis.”
*
By the following afternoon, Matilda’s wrath had not diminished, and she was moved to pour some of it upon her visitor. Raking Philip’s neat figure from head to toe with scornful eyes, she pounded her cane on the floor with one hand and squeezed her coverlet with the other.
“You’ll lose her, you impudent young whelp, if you don’t stop scaring her to death. I said she’s like a withering vine, didn’t I? Don’t respond to being told what to do and when to do it.”
Philip’s fists opened and closed reflexively. “I’m expecting a favorable answer any day now. You know I’ve taken your advice, Matilda; I’ve been very careful with her.”
The old lady turned her head to look out the window. The afternoon light fell full on her face, highlighting a wattled neck and lined cheeks.
“Well, that’s as may be,” she said in a softer voice. “But I watched her walking with that feller yesterday, and she didn’t stand off from him like a reed as she does with you. Hung on his every word.”
Philip’s eyes blazed, and Matilda shrunk into herself for a moment, then cackled. “You’re a sight, boy! Would that I was Abigail’s age. Full of starch, I was. You’re the kind of man I always wanted, a man of strength and strong emotion. Not like that velvet-eyed Winston I married. Yes, you and I would’ve suited very well.”
Ignoring the revolting images her words produced, he demanded, “Who is this man?”
“I’ve told you, he’s Lord Julian Donberry, the son of the Marquess of Donberry and a friend on her mother’s side of the family.”
“And you believed that story?”
“No, I didn’t believe his story, not right away,” she said harshly, then lifted a frilly handkerchief to her lips and dabbed at the corners of her mouth. “I had Jane take a note to Lady Anna this morning. The old crone-face has been in Society and knows a lot of people, as you know. And sure enough, she recognized the name. Said she already knew he was in town. Guess she still has hopes for those three homely daughters of hers. All of ‘em had their Seasons so long ago nobody remembers. Ha!”
“Lady Anna knew the name, but I daresay she doesn’t know what he looks like. He could be an impostor.”
Giving him a mockingly flirtatious glance, she said, “You’re a suspicious feller, Philip. I like that in a man.”
He sprang to his feet and walked rapidly to the serving table, bringing Jane to wakefulness in her fireside chair. Pouring a glass of Matilda’s sherry, he downed it, frowning at the cloying taste. “He’ll leave her alone, if he knows what is good for him. Where is Abigail now?”
“I told her to take a walk. Thought it would give me a chance to tell you how the land lies.”
Matilda watched him carefully, the humor dying from her face. Despite her enjoyment of Philip’s fiery personality, she sometimes suspected his surface anger went far deeper, that he controlled it with the most tenuous of reins. At such times her conscience would nag at her and bring to mind the naive face of her granddaughter. Would Abigail be able to handle this man?
“You know, Philip,” she said carefully, “I should like to think you’re going to be good to the girl not only now, but later, after you are wed. She don’t have town polish. Don’t know anything, really.”
“I know she doesn’t.” He clinked the glass back on the table and paced to the window. “Naturally I’ll be good to her. What do you think? I lov
e her.”
Satisfied, Matilda breathed in deeply. “Well, if that’s the way you feel, you had best get her agreement. Her birthday is next month. I can’t keep the solicitor from her then. Once she finds out this place is hers, she won’t have to wed you, and then nothing we do or say will make her, silly chit that she is. If I were her, though …”
She winked at him, the wrinkles fanning from her eye like folds in a curtain. Philip made a feeble attempt to smile, then, declaring his intention of finding Abigail, took his leave.
When she was alone except for the nodding Jane, Matilda stared at the brown-splotched hands folded over her blanket. The knuckles were swollen and twisted, the purple veins raised like snakes over crumpled tissue. These weren’t her hands. Her hands were white and soft with enough flesh to hide the bones. They had smoothed away her son Andrew’s hurts, but not often enough. She had left him to the governess, never knowing she would live far beyond the burying of him.
But they would have had more time together if Andrew had not distanced himself. It was not her fault he could not sense the grandeur of her vision.
If only he hadn’t married that woman, Abigail’s mother. By so doing, he had lost the chance to unite Prosings and Sharonfield in his generation. He could just as easily have married Audrey Prosings, but no, he would not; therefore, Audrey became Vincent Demere’s wife.
Now Matilda had one final chance with Audrey’s son and her granddaughter. She would not accept defeat, not this time. Her existence depended on it.
If only Winston hadn’t paid that last cruel trick on her. Willing the estate to his granddaughter, a thing he could do because there were no male relatives to inherit. Dear God! He must be laughing in his grave.
But if she could double the size of Sharonfield before Abigail found out about her inheritance, all would be well. Philip had promised to christen the new holding Lyon-Demere, and that was something of worth to live through the centuries. She’d make her mark yet, as would Abigail. When the girl had her own children, she would forget her nonsense about Philip. She would learn about family pride and tradition then, once she held that first infant in her strong, young hands.
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