Lord Merlyn's Magic

by Marcy Stewart

  “I cannot pretend to know what amuses people I don’t know well.” She took a bite of her roll and chewed it with nervous haste. Why was she here? What had possessed her to run away with this man? She wanted to go home.

  A cool look came into his eyes. “Be careful. You will choke.”

  The bread in her mouth seemed to be expanding rather than growing smaller. Pushing the wad into her cheek with her tongue, she asked carefully, “Is that a prediction, or only your opinion?”

  When she heard his sharp intake of breath, she glanced upward, then looked away hurriedly.

  “Perhaps we have made a mistake,” he said.

  Abby thought so, too, but did not want to hear him say it. Her heart began to spiral downward. “Oh?” She made her voice sound very disinterested. “What makes you say so?”

  “Can you ask? We don’t get on well together, that’s apparent. I tell you, Miss Lyons, if I could relieve myself of these visions …” He drained his tankard and smacked it on the table. “Perhaps I should have called out Demere and dispensed with all this.”

  Although she didn’t care about the magician at all, his words were crushing her like heavy blows. She washed down the roll with a sip of ale and grimaced. “Well, why didn’t you?”

  “I suppose the only reason is that I’m not a violent man.”

  Perhaps that meant he was a coward as well. “Are you not? I am glad to hear it. I wish the same could be said for Philip.”

  His lashes dropped, and she saw a rush of color flow back into his cheeks. “It is Philip’s violence that is at the heart of all our actions, is it not? We should not be quarreling.” He popped an egg into his mouth, chewed once or twice, and swallowed. “Tell me about yourself. What were your parents like?”

  She felt a little off-balance by his change of mood. “Don’t you already know?”

  “Pardon me? Oh, I see. I’m not omnipotent, Miss Lyons.”

  “Well, then … I suppose there is not much to say. My parents were gentle, good people. We lived comfortably, though my father was not wealthy. Grandmother insisted his portion be cut off when he refused to marry the woman she wanted him to marry, who later married someone else and became Philip’s mother. But Grandpapa sent us funds secretly, and my father also earned a small income from writing biographies of famous architects. We rented a succession of houses as I grew up, all of them in Kent. There were books and friends and outings …” She trailed away, remembering.

  “It sounds very different from life with your grandmother.”

  “Yes.” Her face darkened. “My parents died of influenza within weeks of one another when I was sixteen. I had nowhere to turn but to my grandparents. As you say, life was very different then. Oh, at first it was all right because Grandpapa was still alive and, while he seldom resisted Grandmother’s will, at least he was kind to me. But after he died, things became worse. She has always tried to direct every decision in my life.”

  “Including your choice of marriage partners,” he said.

  “Yes.” His unspoken sympathy soothed her ruffled feelings a little. She ate in silence awhile and glanced at Charlotte Ann and Francis, who were talking sporadically and quietly as they ate. The maid was darting shy looks at the valet between bites, looks he either didn’t notice or ignored. Suddenly, feeling Abby’s gaze, he lifted his eyes and gave her a cool, measuring stare.

  Abby turned away quickly. “What of your parents?” she chattered, bewildered and cut to the bone by Francis’s dislike. “Was your mother gifted with second sight? I have heard such things run in Gypsy families.”

  Julian waited as the innkeeper entered with a pitcher of ale and refilled the men’s tankards, then asked their host to bring Abby water or milk as she did not like the brew. After swallowing several times, the magician set down the mug. His face was as carefully composed as a mask.

  “She was a fortune-teller but without any particular talent, according to the stories I’ve heard. Like many who earn their living in that manner, she was astute—sensitive, I suppose you’d say—at reading reactions from her clients. You understand my meaning, don’t you?”

  He affected hauteur, lifting his chin, raising his eyebrows, and speaking loftily, “Lady Claudia enters the Gypsy tent, looking around with regal condescension at the rough furniture, pressing a perfumed handkerchief to her nose. She whisks the handkerchief across the proffered chair, seats herself, then crosses the fortune-teller’s palm with silver. The prophetess begins: ‘I see a long journey ahead,’ and Lady Claudia’s eyes become surprised, even forbidding; then Lady Fortune quickly amends, ‘But that is someone near to you. A tall, handsome stranger shall enter your life.’ And when Lady Claudia’s eyes sparkle, Lady Fortune is off and running.”

  Abby giggled, then caught herself. If she were not careful, he would disarm her with his charming manner. Trying to dampen the humor in her voice, she said, “It sounds a talent in itself.”

  “I was told she was one of the best,” he said, smiling. “My father was certainly impressed by her. One day in late summer, my mother and the others in her group—mostly family members—made so bold as to encamp on the marquess’s property. Father charged to the camp in a lather, determined to run them off for their trespass. And then my mother swayed from her wagon to meet him. She said they were doing him a favor by making use of the land. Told him he had more than any one man needed, and that God would punish him if he didn’t share. If not charmed by her words, he was by her, and before many moments passed, he was ensconced in her parlour on wheels, having his palm read. The rest, as they say, is history.”

  Abby thought she heard an undercurrent of bittersweetness in his tone. “Was it very difficult for them to be married?” she ventured, then colored brightly. “I mean—they were, uh—,” she floundered hopelessly.

  “Married?” he interjected quickly. “Yes, they were. I see you hold the general opinion of Gypsies—that they are immoral creatures.”

  “Pray forgive me. It was not my intention to imply—that is, I mean …”

  She could think of nothing more to say. There seemed no way to redeem the graceless meanderings of her tongue. She may not trust him, but that was no reason to disparage his family.

  Fortunately, the innkeeper entered the room carrying a glass of milk which he placed before Abby. “Fresh from the cow,” he announced, and departed.

  “Drink your milk,” Julian said briskly. “We should leave soon.”

  Abby choked down a few sips and set the glass on the table. The lump in her throat made further drinking impossible. Julian was proving to be a thoughtful, if prickly, companion. He had made certain she and Charlotte Ann were comfortable in the coach while he rode outside for hours. He noticed she didn’t like the ale and had ordered another drink without her asking. And, unless he were a monstrous liar, he was willing to marry and provide for her, a woman who could mean nothing to him. And by way of thanks, she had almost accused him of being a bastard. As though it would have made any difference if he were.

  To her chagrin, tears filled her eyes. She looked down, pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, and pretended to cough, wiping her eyes rapidly.

  Julian reached across the table and touched her hand. “Please don’t. You haven’t offended me, Abby. Have I your permission to call you that? Am I being overly familiar?”

  Momentarily distracted, she sniffed. “I would be hap-happy for you to do so.” She looked at their linked hands and edged hers back. “Will this not make you—”

  “Read your mind? Tell your fortune?” He laughed softly. “Not unless I concentrate. Do you imagine every time I touch someone I’m flooded with visions? I’d be a raving lunatic.”

  “Oh,” she said in a tiny voice, then allowed her hand to drift toward his as though unaware of its actions. He responded at once, closing his fingers over hers in a strongly protective gesture. Immediately, she felt comforted. Cherished. And curiously bereft. There was also a sensation of excitement, or something like; she didn�
��t know what else to call it. Holding his hand was pleasant in the extreme. And it was almost shockingly intimate. Again, she drew back, half-afraid this time.

  “Are you—are you doing that?” she asked.

  Slowly he lifted his gaze from her hand, and she was stunned to see that despite what he had said, his eyes were black. While she watched, fascinated and more than a little afraid, his pupils returned to normal size. It was only then that he spoke, barely moving his lips as he did, appearing to be caught in a spell of some kind.

  “That never happened before.”

  “What never happened before?” she whispered.

  “I wasn’t trying. My mind wasn’t receptive, but I received a flood of emotions from you. Sorrow, regret, fear. And something else …” He looked into the distance, thinking. “Something essentially you. That core of strength I sensed at the performance, perhaps.”

  Absurdly pleased by his final comment, she said, “I also felt a number of things that are foreign to me. It was … pleasant. A surge of power, of confidence. I thought I was imagining it. Or that perhaps you were sending me a message …” She felt suddenly joyful. Had he been telling the truth all along?

  “No,” he said, crushing her hopes a little. “I can’t do that. At least, I never could before.” He swallowed. “Can you?”

  She looked at him incredulously. “Of course not!”

  “But … it did happen.”

  “Yes,” she agreed.

  As one, their eyes fell to the table where lay their right hands, inches apart. His hand began to move toward hers. At the same moment, Abby reached for his.

  “The horses are changed, milord,” declared the coachman from the threshold.

  Abby and Julian jumped. With a faintly guilty expression, the magician said, “Thank you, Bugbee. Have you eaten? Yes? Then we should be off.”

  With a hearty scraping of chairs, the diners filed from the room, Francis pausing to settle with the innkeeper. Moments later, they were on their way again.

  Chapter 6

  That same morning, summoned by a frantic message from Matilda Lyons, Philip rode to Sharonfield without eating breakfast, attending his toilet, or even paying his morning duty visit to his mother, who seldom stirred from the east wing of their house. When he arrived at Sharonfield, he sprang from his horse and flung open the door without knocking. Walters, who had heard the approach of hoofbeats and had only just unlocked the latch, was forced to jump out of the way to avoid being squashed.

  Philip hastened toward the stairs, ready to bound up the steps three at a time, when he saw a sight that stopped his blood.

  Matilda. Out of her bedroom.

  Clothed in her usual white nightgown, robe and mob cap, she stood at the head of the stairs with one trembling hand gripping the rail. Jane, her fingers clutching the old lady’s other arm in a firm clasp, hovered closely. Both women were ashen-faced.

  “Have you found her?” Philip demanded.

  “She is gone,” Matilda answered, the life drained from her voice. “Gone, Philip.”

  “But where? How?”

  She turned slowly. “Come to my room. I can’t go downstairs, can’t stand any longer.”

  Philip raced upstairs, walked impatiently beside Matilda for a moment, then scooped her in his arms and hurried to the bedroom where he laid her on the settee. The lady was not too upset to appreciate this almost-forgotten pleasure, and her eyes twinkled a moment before going flat and dead again.

  “The note is on the bed,” she said.

  Philip immediately crossed the room and snatched the letter. After scanning the brief message, the color ebbed from his cheeks, then flowed back like a tide. He crumpled the note and threw it on the coverlet.

  Matilda craned her neck to look at him. “You see it’s as I said. She has run away with that marquess’s son. You’ve lost her, Philip.”

  He clenched his fists and marched to the window. “How can she think of marrying a man she’s only just met? Is she mad? He won’t wed her, not a woman so easily lured. Anything at all could happen to her.”

  “I know it! I know it well!” Matilda cried, stirred by the force of his anger. “After all my plans, all my work. Dear God in heaven, how could she betray me this way? And my maid, a viper in my own bosom whom I’ve fed for years, helped her and ran off, too! The idiot slattern!”

  “The maid?” His gaze fell on Jane, who had stationed herself in the usual place beside the fire.

  With a cowed look, the servant declared, “Not me, sir!”

  “No, I can see that,” he said. “It was the other one. But you have rooms together in the attic, do you not? What do you know about this?”

  “Nothing!” Jane sputtered, looking back and forth from her mistress to Mr. Demere, who were both staring at her as though she were an insect. “I don’t know a thing!”

  Philip drew closer. “You’ve shared attic space for years, and she didn’t confide in you? You heard no sounds of packing, didn’t see clothes strewn about?”

  Jane shook her head frantically, tears bubbling to her eyes. “I didn’t, sir. Most often I sleep in Mistress Matilda’s dressing room in case she has need of me during the night. I was here all day and night yesterday.”

  “ ‘Tis true, Philip,” Matilda said. “Leave her alone; I believe her.”

  Philip was not so certain. He continued to glare at Jane, who was too intimidated to look away for fear he would think her guilty. Jane could hardly bear it, returning a stare so full of wrath. She was used to her mistress’s fleeting rages and crankiness, but this was a different order altogether. Mr. Demere’s anger was much more intense and dangerous. Worst of all, it was undeserved.

  But why was she surprised? She often took the blame for a lot of things she hadn’t done. Her mistress loved to accuse her of misplacing fans and handkerchiefs and medicine bottles when it was herself who had knocked them beneath the bed or behind the table. Even Walters, who had known her for decades and ought to be her friend but wasn’t, laid blame on her. Or expected her to do even more work than she already did, as if she were a lazy miss who leaned on her elbows and dreamed of handsome dukes all day. Like this morning. Telling her she had better clean cook’s mess, because Charlotte Ann wouldn’t be down.

  Philip saw the change in her face and loomed closer. Jane bit her lip, debating. Would Walters protect her if their positions were reversed? He would not.

  “Sir, you could ask the butler,” she said. “Maybe he knows something. He said Charlotte Ann wouldn’t be working this morning.”

  Philip turned and dashed from the chamber. Walters, who had been sitting on a bench in the hall doing nothing, stood and watched him run down the stairs with a feeling of impending doom.

  “What can you tell me about this disaster?” Philip demanded, when he had planted himself no more than a foot’s span away. “Do you know where they are? If you have any knowledge at all, you had better say so, and quickly.”

  Lifting his chin and wishing he were taller, Walters assumed his most disdainful pose. “It was the mistress who received the note … sir. Why would you think I know anything?”

  “Why?” Philip grabbed the butler by his lapels and lifted. “Because you told the maid the other one wasn’t coming down this morning. I’d be interested in how you knew that.”

  Walters’s thoughts slid rapidly as his feet left the floor. He cursed himself for that morning’s slip, but then, how could he have known Jane would betray him? And now, if he didn’t tell this madman what he knew, he would doubtless be beaten.

  Surely it wouldn’t matter if he told. Miss Lyons had been on the road for hours; Demere would never catch her, even if he chanced upon the route they took. Therefore, a broken nose would serve no purpose at all.

  He began to speak.

  When he was no more than halfway finished, having come to the part about his mental anguish over divided loyalties, Philip raised his hand in a halting gesture. “Hold. You’re telling me Donberry is the magician who
performed in town weeks ago?” When Walters nodded rapidly, Philip’s cheeks reddened. “I knew it all the time! I knew there was something between them!” He began to pace. “After he whispered to her at the end of the program, Abigail said she didn’t understand what he said, but it’s obvious she did. She—she lied to me. Probably has been seeing him on the sly all along. It’s unthinkable!”

  He paced a few seconds longer. “But then, why would he make an appearance here under his true name—if true it is—if his intentions were not honorable?”

  Philip stared at the butler without seeing him. Walters had slunk back to the bench and huddled there, hoping to be forgotten. Now, willing to appear helpful, he shrugged expressively. Philip ignored him, whirled around and began pacing again.

  “He must think she’s an heiress. In that case, it’s as Abigail expressed in her note; he means to marry her after all, and they must be headed for Scotland.” He became aware of Walters again and stopped. “What time did you see them in the kitchen?”

  “Close on one, sir.”

  Philip slapped his fist against his hand. “Too long. But…” His face sharpened. “Tell your mistress I am going after them and that I intend to bring Abigail back. Oh, and send a message to my mother that I’ll be gone awhile. I can’t say how long.” He started for the door, then turned back. “Is there a pistol in the house?”

  Walters face betrayed his shock. “Well, I—”

  “You’d do best to speak truth. If I have to ask Matilda …”

  The butler bowed. “There is the set of dueling pistols old Mr. Lyons owned.” When Philip made an impatient gesture, Walters entered the parlour and returned a moment later carrying an embossed case. Two pistols lay inside, nestled on a bed of red velvet. Philip examined the case for powder and balls, found it well-equipped with both as well as cleaning equipment, tucked the case under his arm, then swept by the butler, heading for the door.

  Relief at being let off so easily loosened the servant’s tongue. “I am terrible sorry, sir. So sorry for your misfortune.”