Lord Merlyn's Magic

by Marcy Stewart

  “They won’t be happy,” Francis replied.

  “I know, and I’m sorry for it; but I’ll not abandon her to be caught by Philip Demere.” As Julian charged past his servant, he added under his breath, “Will nothing in this world ever be right again?”

  Chapter 12

  Over the next three days of hard traveling, Abby’s deep silences and her maid’s accusing looks drove Julian to ride outside the coach with Francis. The chill winds and unceasing rain of late autumn satisfied the darkness of his mood. It seemed a fitting punishment for his actions, though looking back he knew he could have done nothing differently.

  He did, however, think Francis might be more understanding. The valet scarcely spoke to him during the whole of the journey. Finally, when they were drawing near to the Donberry border, Julian had had enough. He urged his horse to a trot and motioned for his servant to follow. When they were some distance from the coach, he slowed his mount to a walk.

  “We’re almost home,” he called through a veil of drizzle, then shuddered. What childish yearning had prompted him to name the castle home? Not wanting to think about it, he shifted his weight on the saddle and sent a piercing look to the valet, who appeared to be lost in a stoic daze. “Why don’t you speak your mind, Francis, before we arrive, and I have other things to occupy me besides your ill temper?”

  Francis kept his gaze on the road ahead. “There’s nothing wrong with my temper, milord.”

  “No? This morning you allowed me to tie my own cravat, and you see to what results. You avoid looking or speaking to me and act as if I’ve grown another head. I suppose you’re still angry about Harriet. Well, let me assure you we shall soon return to our former lives.”

  Green eyes regarded him stonily. “You’ve hurt her.”

  “You weary me, Francis. We have been over and over it. There is nothing to be done.”

  “I’m not talking about Miss Harriet, milord.”

  Julian looked at him a moment, water dripping into his eyes. “Oh.” His mount slithered into a patch of mud, and he tugged on the reins, then returned his attention to Francis. “You surprise me. I thought you had no great affection for my wife.”

  The servant shrugged. “At first I believed she was only after your title and wealth. Now I know better. She’s a fine lady.” Better than you deserve, his eyes said. “Fond of you, too, for some reason. Why don’t you tell her the truth?”

  The magician’s jaw tightened. “I haven’t lied to her.”

  “That may be, but you’re letting her think some things that aren’t right. What would you call that, if not lying?”

  “Her safety and well-being are always foremost in my thoughts,” he said evasively. Especially her safety from me. “Not how she perceives my life.”

  Francis’s lips tightened into a thin line. “You could make her feel better if you’d talk. It pains me to watch her. She can’t hide her feelings like Miss Harriet.”

  The weight across Julian’s chest sank a little deeper. “Thank you, Francis. Thank you for telling me what I already know. Did it never occur to you there might be a reason for my silence? Perhaps you don’t understand everything as you seem to think.”

  The valet eyed him speculatively, then grunted. “I’ll tell you what I think. You’re a devil to go on letting her feel like she does when a simple word or two could change all. Milord.”

  Without looking at him again, Francis turned his horse about and rejoined the carriage.

  Julian watched him through narrowed eyes, thinking angrily, Pack your bags and leave, tyrant. But he knew he’d never speak the words. What was worse, Francis knew it, too.

  An hour later, they ascended the final hill leading to Donberry Castle. Julian had continued to ride some distance in front of the carriage. It was necessary to be alone when he saw his birthplace for the first time in ten years.

  And there it was at last; the proud, ancient structure he knew so well, set among a vast expanse of rolling pastureland and clusters of woods with a river shining in the distance. In the early afternoon light, the edifice seemed to float among the hills like an earthbound cloud-castle. No folly this; the castle had been held by the Donberry family for centuries. The crenels and merlons were authentic, and real iron and stone missiles had been thrown more than once through the machicolations. Or so the family legends went. He saw that a black flag waved above one bartizan, the family crest from another.

  Pulling his horse to a stop, he stared until the carriage almost caught up with him. Hearing it creaking behind him, sensing Francis drawing near, he stirred forward again. He had no patience for his valet—his friend’s—condemnation, nor did he desire his sympathy. What he wanted was to be alone. No, rather, he wished to turn around and retreat to the security of Avilion. Perhaps that would settle the hammering in his chest. But he moved on.

  The walls which once surrounded the castle had long since crumbled to an ineffective, though interesting, ruin. Julian and his party moved through the gates without impediment and pulled into a cobblestoned courtyard worthy of the largest inn.

  The magician dismounted, handed his reins to Francis, and moved slowly toward the shallow steps that led to the front door. Before he touched the knocker, he looked back at the carriage and saw Abby watching him from the carriage. Her dark eyes were solemn, her face pale. At the moment, he saw no hurt or resentment in her features, only anxiety. He gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile, but his lips moved like wood.

  With a surge of anger—his anger was not far beneath the surface these days—he clanged the metal ring against the door two times, slowly. It was the family knock, the knock they used when late hours or unexpected arrivals caused one of them to stand upon their own doorstep waiting for admittance. After all these years, he had used it without thinking. Feeling a kind of horror at himself, he lifted his hand to knock a third time, and perhaps a fourth. But the door swung open before he could do so, and a tall, silver-haired butler looked at him inquiringly.

  “Good day to you, Dickens,” the magician said.

  It was difficult not to be amused by the procession of emotions which crossed the butler’s face: aloofness, surprise, then incredulity. “Lord Julian,” he said in an amazed voice. “ ‘Pon my soul!”

  “I suppose you never expected to see me again. You are stouter than I remembered, but you carry it well. But where are your manners, Dickens? I am melting in the rain. Are you not going to admit me?”

  The butler’s face became a study in conflict. “My lord, I …” He looked behind him, as if to find an answer in the hall. “I’m sorry, I don’t know if—”

  “Dickens, my father is dead. It was he who banished me, not my remaining brothers.” When the black-clad servant still wavered, he added, “Even if you refuse me, surely you cannot deny shelter to my wife, who is beyond weariness?” He paused. “And given to swooning, I might add.”

  Dickens peered at the carriage, then came to a decision. “Come in, my lord. You may rest in the hall while I speak with Lord Michael.” His features looked pinched, as if he feared the outcome of such an interview.

  Dread seized Julian. Was he too late? “Shouldn’t you rather consult with Carl? He’s all right, isn’t he?”

  “Lord Donberry is too ill for visitors today. Lord Michael has been acting in his stead.”

  Julian relaxed. After waving for the occupants of the carriage to join him, he turned back to the servant. “To speak truth, I should like to see the steward first. Is he on the premises?”

  “Mr. O’Reilly is in his office, my lord. I will fetch him.”

  While the butler disappeared into the interior, Julian raced down the steps and offered Abby his escort, which she took willingly enough, though she would probably have been happy to accept anyone’s. At this moment she looked woebegone and overawed, her gaze wandering the length and height of the castle in undisguised astonishment. When they crossed the threshold, she stumbled a little, too taken with the dizzying three-storied ceilin
g of the great hall to mind the uneven stones of the floor.

  With her hand gripping his arm, he suddenly saw the castle through her eyes—its vastness, its coldness despite colorful tapestries on the walls, rugs beneath their feet, and a roaring fire in a hearth big enough to roast a horse. Emotions flooded from her into him. He imagined what she imagined. Rushes on the floor. Crude torches projecting from the walls. Crowds of roughly dressed peasants gnawing joints of meat and throwing the bones to the dogs. She was not seeing what was really there—the improvements his father had made, the comfortable furniture groupings, the expensive wooden tables and flowers. Donberry was as homelike as a castle could be, but she was frightened to the quick by her gothic imaginings. He wanted to crush her to him and kiss away every fear. Instead, he led her to a settee near the fire and dropped her arm.

  “Remember your father’s interest in architects and buildings,” he counseled in a low voice. “Donberry is only a pile of stones.”

  She looked at him in surprise. He smiled reassuringly, but she did not respond. He was glad to note, however, that the terror had faded from her eyes.

  Charlotte Ann rushed to sit beside her, intent on preventing anyone else from doing so, namely him. He gave the maid a faintly reproachful look, but he’d not planned on joining Abby. It was far too dangerous.

  In the center back of the room was a wide, stone staircase that separated halfway up and led to the two wings of the castle. As he moved to speak with Francis, he heard someone descending the stairs behind him with a quiet, unhesitating step. He knew that sound as surely as if he’d heard it yesterday. Blood pounded in his temples. Something in his face caused Francis to respond with a forward movement, but Julian shook his head slightly. He forced his features into a calm mask, turned and walked a few paces toward the steps.

  “Hello, Michael,” he said.

  Lord Michael paused and looked at him. Puzzlement passed across his face, then a flare of recognition. The faint pink in his cheeks drained away, leaving his skin sallow and slack. Then, with a recovery the magician could only admire, he smiled tightly.

  “Why, hello, Julian. What an unexpected pleasure.” He descended the remaining stairs and shook his brother’s hand, releasing his grip almost immediately. “You’ve changed since I saw you last.”

  “Have I? You look precisely the same.” And it was true. Michael had been a man when Julian left but had aged well. With a rush of shock, Julian realized how much alike they now appeared. Save for his brother’s lighter hair and heavier frame, he could almost be looking into a mirror.

  “To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit after all this time? Not that I’m unhappy to see you, of course.” Lord Michael’s features took on a solemn cast. “You know we have lost Father. Is that why you’ve come?”

  “Yes, partly. I thought a visit to my remaining brothers was long overdue.”

  “So it is, so it is. Then you must have heard the terrible news about Seth and Edmond as well. Such tragedies. Our family has been living under a cloud these past two years.” His glacial blue eyes warmed with interest. “As a matter of curiosity, who told you?” When Julian shifted uncomfortably, he added, “Was it Carl?”

  Julian inclined his head noncommittally.

  “Ah, I thought so. Alas, now poor Carl has taken ill, too. You see it’s as I said. We live under a cloud. But such things often happen in families. People go on happily enough for many years, then tragedy strikes again and again.” He clasped his hands together loudly, then looked at the group nestled around the fire. “And you have brought friends with you, I see.”

  Julian followed him to the others and performed introductions.

  “So, you are married,” Lord Michael said, viewing Abby with sharp speculation. “This is a new development, for I had not heard of it.” He turned with evident embarrassment to Julian. “You’ll forgive me, I hope. Father informed us of your whereabouts and activities from time to time.”

  “Yes, so I’ve been told.”

  Lord Michael’s gaze lingered on Julian’s face searchingly, then wandered back to Abby. “But how charming she is, how lovely. Would you allow me to escort you to my wife’s chamber, Lady Julian? I am certain she will be delighted to meet you. Or would you rather rest first?”

  In a strained voice, Abby said, “I should like to meet her.” It was apparent she was afraid to say otherwise.

  “Good, good. And will you join us, Julian?”

  “I regret I must delay seeing Nina; I need to speak with my servant regarding the horses.”

  “Ah, yes, it’s Francis, isn’t it? I remember you. Well, come then, Lady Julian. To be truthful, I’m glad my brother doesn’t join us. Nina is often overcome if several visitors attend her at once. Another time, then, Julian.”

  The magician squared his shoulders and took a quick breath. “Do I understand you will permit us to remain a few days?”

  “My brother,” said Lord Michael with a large smile, “I can think of nothing that would please me more.”

  *

  “Lord Seth was the first,” Calvin O’Reilly said to Julian a short while later in the small, dark room that was the steward’s office. “Happened well over a year ago. Shot by his own pistol while he was cleaning it. Least that’s what was put about.”

  “But you think otherwise,” Julian said, staring intently at the short, ginger-haired man sitting behind a desk crowded with maps and books. Incomprehensibly, there were several boxes of earth on the desk top as well.

  O’Reilly snorted. “Who wouldn’t? Lord Seth scarcely ever handled a gun in his life, let alone cleaned one. Only thing he ever touched was his paintbrushes. Except for his women, that is. He handled plenty of them.”

  The steward pursed his lips. “I wouldn’t have suspected Lord Michael if it hadn’t been for the other things he’d done. There were all those times with the servants. You remember from when you were here. And then that little maid …” He dropped his gaze and pushed one of the boxes absently with his fingers. His knuckles were swollen and arthritic. “I never believed you had anything to do with that girl’s death.”

  Julian swallowed. “It’s good to hear you say so, Calvin. Even now.”

  “Yes, well, I was too afraid in those days to speak up. Lord Donberry was a powerful man, though he changed mightily after you left.”

  “Did he?” Julian asked in dispassionate tones.

  “He did, my lord. I’m thinking he knew what was what, but a more stubborn man has never been found. Couldn’t admit it to himself or anyone else that he’d made a mistake. And then, he always had something against you. None of us could understand it.”

  The magician shifted uncomfortably and returned to the subject at hand. “What happened to Edmond?”

  “His reins broke and he fell off his saddle!” exclaimed O’Reilly with indignation. “You remember what a horseman he was, don’t you? A fine soldier, too. For him to fall off his beast and crack his skull on the fence … Well. Seemed unfair, somehow, though he died instantly and didn’t suffer.”

  “It sounds like a terrible accident.”

  “If it weren’t for my suspecting Lord Michael, I’d have thought so, too. But there I was, mourning Lord Edmond—don’t mind telling you he was always my favorite of you boys, a real man’s man he was—and next thing I know, I’m looking over his saddle and gear, just wondering. That’s when I found his reins had shallow cuts in several places, as if somebody was taking no chances he’d come out of his morning jumps alive.”

  Julian rubbed his temples; he was getting a devilish headache. “Do you suspect Michael of my father’s death, too?”

  “I’m not so sure about that. Lord Donberry had a heart seizure about, oh … two or three years ago. Afterwards he was an invalid, lying abed all the time. Those were bitter days, I must say. He was not a good patient. Looked like it was going to go on that way forever. But after the two boys died, the old man took a downward slide. Still, he was as stubborn about dying as he was ever
ything else, and it surprised me when he finally did go. Peaceful, it was; in his sleep. Lord Michael was fairly done up for a while, so I can’t say I suspect him there.

  “It’s Lord Carl that I’m worried about. Guess I should call him Donberry now, though there’s not been enough time for the title to be his officially. Anyway, one minute he’s hale and hearty; the next, sick as a dying dog. He’s been that way since the funeral.”

  “Is there a chance grief has made him ill?”

  “Not a bit of it. He and your sire were never close, leastways not after you left. Lord Carl always knew him for what he was.”

  Once again Julian wished he hadn’t come. O’Reilly was dealing in speculation and had little proof. Even Edmond’s cut reins could be caused by the natural deterioration of leather. And though it wouldn’t surprise him if Michael had turned his murderous impulses toward his own family, Julian found himself oddly reluctant to believe it. As he pondered, his gaze fell to the desk top, where O’Reilly continued to fiddle with the boxes of soil.

  The steward saw him. “Soil samples,” he explained. “From our east and west fields. I plan to send them off to the Board of Agriculture for their recommendations. I’ve been studying Thaer’s work and Humphry Davy’s, too. We’ve been using compost, lime, and marl. Wheat production’s up to an average of twenty-two bushels an acre, but I’m hoping to do better.”

  “You’ve always been an excellent steward,” Julian said, his eyes glazing.

  Bristling with pleasure, O’Reilly waved his hand modestly. “I can’t claim the estate saw all that in profits. We had a blasted invasion of rats get to the grain, but the problem’s controlled now. Got rid of the ugly creatures, I did.”

  Sensing the man was ready to explain more on the subject, Julian blinked and added quickly, “Why have you asked me to come? What do you think I can do?”

  O’Reilly looked at him as if he were a simpleton. “I’m hoping you’ll stop Lord Michael before he becomes the new marquess.”

  Stunned, Julian stared back. That was it, of course. Michael and his twisted plans. He meant to have the title and all that went with it. Unless, of course—