Lord Merlyn's Magic

by Marcy Stewart

  “Did none of my brothers have sons?”

  Shaking his head, the steward leaned forward, making his chair squeak. “You know Lord Carl married late. He and Lady Carl had a son; I guess that was after you left. But the boy died young of a wasting disease. Their daughter—you remember Louise—is in finishing school. Lord Edmond now, he was married two years before his little bride died; and marriage never appealed to swoony-eyed Seth. And, not that it matters to his succession, Lord Michael’s wife has had three stillbirths but no live children. I guess it’s possible they still have a chance, though Lady Michael is getting on now.”

  “So only Carl stands in his way.”

  “That’s right, my lord.”

  Julian opened his hands helplessly. “What can I do, Calvin? You have no proof. Do you think a magistrate would investigate on the basis of our suspicions?”

  The older man appeared reluctant to answer. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Well … to speak truth, I thought you might use your magic.” When Julian’s eyes narrowed, O’Reilly explained, “I know your family gave you trouble about it, and a lot of the servants were afraid of you; but I never felt like the others did. Seems to me if the good Lord gives you something special, you should use it.”

  “I wish,” Julian said slowly, “you had said that to me then.”

  “I wish I had, too. It’s been on my conscience all these years. But I didn’t want to lose my position. I have a wife and five children. Fear can make you do bad things. I never forgot you, though. That’s why I wrote. You’ve made a life for yourself as a stage-magician, but I’m asking you to use your real magic. You can do something, can’t you?”

  Julian gave him a measuring glance, wondering how far this intelligent man’s patience would stretch. Judging by the eagerness in his eyes, not far. “It’s not possible for me to predict. The ability I have is not always dependable. Ordinarily, I must touch either the person involved or an object that he has touched in order to learn anything, and even then I might see nothing.” He stared at his boots. “And to speak truth, I don’t like to use it.”

  “Oh,” said the other dully, scratching his ear. “Surely you’d be willing for such an important reason. But I thought you could look at him and know what he was going to do next, like a fortune-teller.”

  “No, it’s not like that. Most of what I read has to do with events in the past, though occasionally I catch a glimpse of the future.”

  Suddenly thinking of Abby, he shivered. He would give all not to know—but no, he did not mean that. Don’t think of it.

  Crossing one leg over the other, he continued, “Reading Michael’s intentions would be difficult. I need more than an instant to form a bond, and he knows it. You should have seen how quickly he ended our handshake awhile ago. I know he won’t permit me to touch him for an extended period of time.”

  O’Reilly continued to watch him hopefully. After a long, uncomfortable moment, Julian sighed. “All right, I’ll try, but I think I’ll have more luck with the objects than I would with Michael. What about Edmond’s reins; do you have them? And Seth’s gun?”

  O’Reilly nodded and rose with arthritic painfulness from his chair. He withdrew a key from his pocket, stepped to a wall of cabinets beside the desk, and unlocked one of them. He handed the items to Julian.

  The magician held first the gun, then the reins, for a long time. Try as he would, he could feel only sorrow and loss. “It’s no use,” he said at last. “Perhaps it has been too long since their deaths. Or too many people have touched the objects.”

  The steward struggled to hide his disappointment. “There must be something you can do. Maybe you could speak with Lord Carl.”

  “Yes,” Julian replied slowly. “Perhaps I should.”

  *

  Abby wanted to go home, if only she had a home. Any place would be better than Lady Michael’s sitting room and the maddening strangers within it.

  “Lady Julian is shaking with cold,” Lord Michael said solicitously. “Why don’t you offer your seat to her, my dear?”

  Without looking at her husband, Lady Michael rose immediately from her chair beside the fireplace. “Of course,” she said meekly, her blank eyes finding Abby, then lowering. “Please, sit.”

  “Oh, no, that’s not necessary, thank you. I am perfectly comfortable on the loveseat, and it’s almost as close to the fire as your chair.”

  Unheeding, the woman continued to stand in front of her. When Abby thought she detected a brief, pleading spark in the lady’s eyes, she said in exasperation, “Oh, very well,” and exchanged places. She darted a resentful look in Lord Michael’s direction. He appeared to misinterpret it, for he smiled graciously and inclined his head.

  It had not taken long to sense the order of things here. In his treatment of his wife, Lord Michael reminded her sharply of Philip; only Michael was much worse. According to Julian, his brother had committed murder, perhaps more than once. It was possible he had even killed members of his own family.

  She had been afraid to come, afraid to leave the relative safety of Avilion and throw herself into this hornet’s nest. But Julian had been certain he could protect her, that she was in no danger. Now she wished for the hundredth time that she had left him for parts unknown. It would have been a safer course. But the force of his will had persuaded her, just as Philip’s so often had.

  And now, observing Lord and Lady Michael, she understood the futility of constantly subjugating oneself beneath the desires of another. Lord Michael’s wife, Nina, had been a beautiful woman—could still be beautiful, did her features have any spark of life in them at all—but had faded into a mouse. Brown hair, gray eyes, an elegant figure within an expensive rose silk gown, but no soul, no will of her own.

  Abby surreptitiously looked for bruises on her arms but saw none. Perhaps all her bruises were hidden, if not beneath her gown, then under her bones. The deeper ones, she knew, were more painful.

  Her ire grew by the moment. The fear she had felt in Lord Michael’s presence had almost completely gone, to be replaced with increasing wrath. He was like a magnet drawing her disappointment and rage. How different was Michael from Julian, really? And how different was Julian from Philip? She could trust no one. Not any longer.

  It would be a happy day when she walked from all their lives forever. The only person she would regret not seeing again was Colleen, who in only an hour had utterly charmed her. It was unconscionable the child’s father had been unwilling to marry her mother.

  And why hadn’t he? she wondered, staring into the flames and trying to attend Lord Michael’s patter. Julian had married her, a stranger, to rescue her from a terrible fate—or so he’d said, though she couldn’t think of any other reason why he would have done so. Why, then, had he not wed the woman who carried his child? It seemed alien to his character to behave in such a manner.

  But then, perhaps he had no character worth mentioning. Perhaps he acted only on whims, like a weather vane spinning in a gale.

  One corner of her mind cried, How can you think so about Julian? She tried to stifle it.

  “Lady Julian, you are tired,” Lord Michael said in an amused voice. “I have asked you twice how it was you and my brother met, and both times you have only stared at me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Abby said, stirring to attention. “We met at one of his performances.”

  He laughed toward the ceiling. “How like Julian. I’ll warrant your parents were horrified at having a magician calling on their daughter. I’m sure it was necessary for him to give his true name before they allowed him to pay his addresses to you.”

  An inner prompting cautioned her to tell no more than was needful. She shrugged her shoulders delicately and smiled. Turning to Nina, who sat with her hands folded in her lap, she asked, “How did you meet Lord Michael?”

  The lady glanced at Abby, then back at her hands. “I—”

  “She is the daughter of a squire in northeast Donberry,” Lord Michael interrupted. “He
r father visited here frequently to seek the expert advice of our steward on farming. Because of those visits, he has a thriving vineyard now. As time passed, it was natural to invite him to dine with us, and our fathers became friends. Soon the families were exchanging visits, and so we met.”

  Abby spared him the briefest of looks, then directed another question to Nina. “What things do you do to occupy your time?”

  “Nina does fine needlework, don’t you, dear? Do notice the crewel-work on the dining chair cushions tonight, and you’ll see her handiwork.”

  “I look forward to it,” Abby snapped. “Perhaps tonight, Nina, you will explain how you stitched them. Unless, of course, your husband knows that as well.”

  The room fell silent. Mindful of her rudeness yet glad of it, Abby kept her attention on the other woman. Nina did not lift her eyes, but her interlaced fingers tightened until the knuckles turned white.

  Lord Michael laughed suddenly. “I am reproved!” he cried. “Julian has found a spirited wife, I see. How I envy him! But alas, dear lady, Nina does not often join us at table. She is far too retiring to enjoy company, and prefers her meals served in her rooms.”

  He rose abruptly. “I think it’s time we left now; you’ll have no wish to tire her. And I’m certain you’ll want to rest before dinner. Allow me to escort you to your room.”

  Abby took her leave as graciously as she could and followed him into the wide corridor. To her discomfort, he bundled her arm into his and set a slow pace.

  “Dear Lady Julian. Do you have a Christian name of your own, by the by, and may I address you as such?”

  “You may call me Abigail.”

  “You sound eager to do away with your beloved’s name. Has the romance worn thin so quickly?”

  She made no reply but could not disguise the blush on her cheeks.

  “Alas, have I hit upon a tender spot? Forgive me. I suspected Julian was unworthy of so lovely a lady. And, from the looks of things, yours was a hasty wedding. If you’d had more time, you wouldn’t have made such a mistake.”

  At her questioning look, he grinned. “How did I know? Why, your ring, of course. Julian has not troubled to supply you with a proper wedding band, and you are forced to wear the childhood ring his mother left him. I couldn’t help noticing you’ve had to wrap a ribbon around the band to keep it from falling off. My brother is such a romantic.”

  She glanced at the ring, then slowly lowered her hand until it was hidden among her skirts. “I have only told you my given name as you asked. You are making too much of a small matter.”

  “Oh? Perhaps I’ve misunderstood. Shall I have a single bed chamber prepared for the newlyweds, rather than an adjoining suite?”

  “No!” she cried. “That is, I mean … the suite will be more suitable.”

  He gave her a sympathetic look and patted her arm. “Say no more, my dear. I understand these things perfectly. Before marriage, one’s prospective partner can seem the embodiment of every romantic dream ever envisioned. Afterwards, the faults, the misunderstandings, the deceptions—all these steal away the attractiveness of that idealized person. I know what you are enduring. I’ve gone through the same disappointment myself.”

  “I have not said—”

  “It was not necessary; I see it in your eyes. He has disillusioned you. No, do not protest. You are still loyal, and I find that admirable. But if ever you need a shoulder to lean upon, I am here.”

  She stared up at him, appalled. In the dimming light, his eyes—eyes so like, yet unlike, Julian’s—glimmered with brittle concern.

  “I meant that in the most respectable way, of course,” he added. “You have misinterpreted my words as something unseemly, though I must say the thought is diverting. It would not be the first time Julian and I … How shall I phrase it? To offend you would devastate me. Allow me to say it would not be the first occasion when my brother and I have shared the same … interests. How does Harriet and her little daughter, by the way?”

  She could not mistake his meaning. Abby jerked her arm from his and stepped backward. She glanced frantically at the bedroom doors bordering the corridor and bumped into a table behind her.

  His face lengthened. “What, did he not tell you about Harriet? Doesn’t she still live in her little cottage behind—what is it called now, it is something fanciful; ah, yes—Avilion?”

  “Where—which one is my room?” she asked in a strangled voice. He had better tell her soon, for she was going to be sick.

  “You seemed shocked, yet you must have known about Harriet; he would never expel her from that cottage. Not with the child. Not he.”

  He began to breathe rapidly, a sudden storm of rage building within him. But the swiftness with which he calmed himself frightened her more than his wrath had done. Within seconds, he smiled briefly and touched his cravat as though checking for wrinkles.

  “I perceive Julian has lied to you. Forgive me for being the one to tell you.”

  Abby’s mind began to move again. “A moment,” she said, pressing her arms against her stomach. “If you—if you and he …” Her mouth worked soundlessly. “Which one of you is Colleen’s father?”

  A startled light came into his eyes, then disappeared. Slowly, a smile spread across his face. “Oh, my dear.” His voice dripped with concern. “I would tell you if I could, but … who can say?”

  Dark spots floated before Abby’s eyes. “Dear God.” She turned her back to him. “Why did neither of you marry her?”

  “My sweet Abigail, it was impossible. I was already married, and so was Harriet, to some ne’er-do-well who ran off to sea.” With lively interest, he studied her face a moment longer. “Otherwise, I’m certain Julian would have wed her. He was quite mad about the girl.”

  Chapter 13

  When Abby reached her bedchamber at last, she closed the door on Lord Michael’s profuse and insincere apologies. Leaning her back against the heavy oak door, she stared sightlessly into space.

  Charlotte Ann looked up from her unpacking and shivered at her mistress’s expression. “Lady Abby? Are you all right?”

  Abby stepped to the center of the room. She plunged her fingers into her hair and clenched her scalp so tightly hairpins began to fall. A moment later, she dropped her hands, and several dark curls unwound and fell to her shoulders. Her wild eyes gazed uncomprehendingly at the large-scale furnishings, then focused on Charlotte Ann for the first time.

  “I am leaving this terrible house.” She sniffed and dashed tears from her eyes. “Do you go with me?”

  The maid blanched. “Leaving? Do you mean now?”

  “Yes. Immediately.”

  “But it’s raining! And we have no horses, or money, or—”

  “We have our legs to carry us, and the public road is no more than a mile away. Something will come along. As to money …” She stalked to the door which she hoped led to Julian’s bedchamber and knocked. When no answer was forthcoming, she slipped into the room and began searching through drawers, mumbling to herself and flinging undergarments and handkerchiefs and cravats in all directions until she found a small money bag. While the maid observed in horror, she removed several pound notes and sovereigns.

  “I’ll pay him back when I find employment,” she said. “If you’ll fetch paper and pen, I’ll tell him so.”

  Charlotte Ann brought the required items. Abby scribbled a few lines and folded the note into the bag. As she did, Julian’s ring came into her line of vision. She yanked until the ring came off, then tried to unwind the narrow ribbon which had tightened it to her finger. The task proved too painstaking for her mood, and, heaving an impatient sigh, she bundled ribbon and ring together in the bag.

  “Now. Let us depart.”

  “But—your clothes. I’ll need time to pack them again.”

  “I don’t care about that.” She raised her chin, which was wobbling so much she could hardly talk. “My gowns are old and ugly anyway. Or so I’ve been told.”

  “Well … I
’d like to have mine,” said the maid, who knew what it was to be cold in winter.

  “Very well. You stay and pack. As for myself, I refuse to linger another moment in this wicked castle. Words cannot describe how evil this place is, and its people.” She stalked toward the door, then turned suddenly. “You do want to come with me, don’t you? I can’t promise a position, so I’ll understand if you wish to remain.”

  Charlotte Ann looked as if she were seeing a dark pit opening at her feet. She gazed into Abby’s dark, troubled eyes and said brokenly, “I should have known it would turn out like this. God is punishing me for running away.” She swallowed and wrung her hands. “What would I do here? I’ll come.”

  “Good. It’s probably for the best we’re leaving separately. I’ll tell the butler I mean to stroll the grounds before dinner. You take only what’s necessary for you and hide the bag beneath your cloak. When you’re ready, inform the butler you intend to fetch me. I’ll be waiting at that little farmhouse where the road meets the drive.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Charlotte Ann said weakly. But her thoughts were spinning in another direction.

  *

  Neither the footman nor Carl’s personal servant wanted to admit Julian to his brother’s chamber. Finally, it was Lord Donberry’s wife who heard the disturbance in the sitting room and came to investigate. Her expression was outraged until she became aware of the magician’s identity. As recognition dawned, she pushed the servants aside and embraced him.

  A smile was on her face when she pulled back, but tears floated in her eyes. “Dear, dear Julian,” she whispered. “How glad I am you’re here. You’re precisely what Carl needs.”

  He looked at her with a mixture of emotions. How well he remembered Lady Donberry’s plump face and form, her generous spirit and ready laugh. Her hair was almost completely gray now, but few lines marked the piquant features that had captured Carl so long ago.

  He had felt close to her in those days. Yet after he was so ignominiously exiled, she had never written, never attempted to mend the rift between the brothers. Seeing her brave and sorrowful face now, though, he could not find it in his heart to feel resentful.