"Despite all the centuries of mortal time you've spent in my realm," Comlan softly chided, smile turning wry, "you seem to contemplate violating its rules with remarkable ease."
"Ach, now. Don't you be raggin' on me about them rules again." Having moved very little as the much taller man brushed past, an unrepentant Dooley tilted back a head of carroty hair whose brightness was barely dulled by its liberal sprinkling of gray. He sent his master a baleful glare—albeit one they both knew held only the empty menace of a toothless dragon. "Seems as you forget how rightly I know the glee with which your kind flouts any sech bonds."
"In our own sphere, mayhap." The quietness of Comlan's words lent more impact to the gentle warning that followed. "But never the laws governing contact with the human world."
Comlan would gladly have left humans to handle their own sorry affairs but for the promise given a human friend. And, although those knowing the capricious nature of fairykind might have expected otherwise, the king of the Tuatha De Danann kept his oaths. Indeed, it was precisely because the deed was unexpected that he held his word so dear.
"So what rule is it that I've shattered?" Dooley defensively demanded, bushy brows furrowed.
"'Tis not what you have broken but rather the manner of feats you would have me perform to hasten our return."
The seemingly older man shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot but held still a tongue he realized ought to have been kept from blathering in the first instance.
"No." Comlan's fondness for Dooley led him to take pity on the man and answer the initial question while motioning him into the smaller of two drawing rooms. "I haven't warned the 'dark colleen,' as you called her."
Comlan had been surprised when Amy firmly claimed herself to be no beauty during their first meeting within his sister's fairy ring, but after a few hours amidst London's Society he'd come to understand why. The value others in her sphere placed on fair coloring and fragile form could only leave the dark and softly curved Amy uncertain of her own attractions. However, he saw her from a completely different point of view. Golden-haired beauties, willow slender and of surpassing loveliness abounded in his realm. For him Amy's ebony hair, solemn gray eyes and alluring curves held a far more powerful appeal.
The sound of Dooley clearing his throat jerked Comlan from an absent reverie utterly foreign to him. Somehow the human maid had crept into his mind as no female of any making had ever before during his lengthy existence.
Aware of his companion's curiosity, Comlan gave a half-smile full of self-derision. He settled into a comfortably overstuffed chair and motioning Dooley to another while picking up where he'd left off.
"The world Amethyst lives in is very different from my realm or even the one in which you were born."
Dooley's eyes skeptically narrowed.
"Truly." Comlan's smile deepened. "They are governed by a rigid code of conduct with rules decreed for everything… even how to properly hold your hands while eating with any of a wide array of different utensils, one for each of many courses—"
Horrified by the prospect of a place burdened with such tight restraints, Dooley interrupted. "But what's that to do with our purpose here?"
"Short of breaking the few rules I must uphold by using my powers to unmask lurking dangers and expose a vile plot, there's only one way to rid our old and valued friend of threatening schemes."
Comlan allowed his eyes to briefly close while a remembered scene of sadness flitted through his thoughts—merry Patrick dying at the end of a long, content life. With the mercurial shift in moods natural to him, a further memory sent a flashing grin across his handsome face. That old rogue had weakly offered a final bargain in exchange for Comlan's promise to watch over his "Darlin' Daffy."
"What way?" Never patient, Dooley again demanded an answer.
"We must become a part of the dark maid's world." Well aware of how unwelcome this prospect would be to Dooley, Comlan's grin deepened. "Once that's done I'll try to lead her down a necessary path of discovery."
Although barred from intervening in human affairs unless asked by one of their number, Patrick hadn't needed to strike a bargain to win Comlan's protection for his wife. Daffy was a delightfully unique woman. Comlan enjoyed her company and had gladly agreed to guard her against danger of any making. And during all the mortal years since Patrick's passing, it had been a simple enough chore until…
"And then can we be shut of this place?" Dooley asked, not bothering to hide his fervent wish for that moment to arrive as soon as possible.
Comlan slowly nodded but, despite a lingering ache of loss for the sister who'd chosen to shed fairy powers and share a brief human lifetime with her love, other vivid memories weakened his anticipation to share Dooley's goal: The unforgettable feeling of Amy's soft body melting against him as they gracefully spun through a waltz, the gentle touch of beguiling dove gray eyes, the sweet fragrance of her dusky cloud of silken curls… Much as he wished it were not true, these things lingered in his mind and left him more reluctant to leave the mortal world than he'd ever thought possible.
Chapter 3
"What's put you into such a pet this morning?"
Again the softly rounded speaker, Beatrice by name but fondly dubbed Beattie by her charge, smoothed a silver-backed brush through the thick dark hair of a younger woman seated on the backless chair facing her delicate, white dressing table.
"I haven't recovered from the strain of last night," Amy responded, absently staring into a large oval mirror framed by elegant scrollwork and fastened to the table's back.
"Hah! Dancing the night away all togged out in fine silks is a strain?" Falling into their common pattern of teasing give-and-take, Beattie's pleasant face adopted a feigned expression of reproach. "I daresay next you'll be telling me what a troubled life you lead. Well, don't you think it."
Meeting the reflected gaze of her lifelong ally beneath a starched cap riding atop neatly coiled brown hair, Amy's frowning lips curled upward in a reluctant smile. Her maid had a positive loathing for self-pity in any form and never permitted Amy to stay discouraged for long.
While carefully rolling Amy's hair into a tidy snood at her nape Beatrice chided, "I've known you almost since the day you were born and far too well to fall for such humbug. So what is it that's brought on these blue-devils, hmm? Don't tell me you've allowed the buffoonish Mr. Orville Bennett to disturb you…" Beattie paused and moved far enough to the side to meet Amy's eyes directly. "You haven't, have you? Not after we agreed that nary a single one of his actions or opinions are worthy of your concern."
"I, ah…" Amy stopped before truly starting, gaze dropping to tightly interlaced fingers folded in her lap. Having shared every secret with Beattie since toddlerhood, Amy struggled for feasible words to explain both a scene she didn't completely understand herself and her resolve to foil Orville's threat no matter what rules might have to be broken.
Sensing Amy's confusion, the last sparks of humor faded from Beatrice's eyes. She moved back to stand behind the one who was once charge, now mistress, and always friend. Hands settling on the slender shoulders below, she silently waited for the young woman to continue.
"The answer is no." Amy looked up and promptly muddied her bold statement by adding, "But yes, too."
Beattie said nothing yet the disgusted expression Amy could see in the mirror made her response quite clear.
"Beattie, I swear it's true." Amy hurried to defend her claim's contradictory messages with a rational explanation. "I do find Orville's company more than trying but that's only a minor irritation compared to…"
When Amy paused again, a rarely impatient Beatrice prodded her onward. "Then, my girl, what is it that has you so upset?"
Knowing her practical maid would find it difficult to believe the answer, Amy took a deep breath and hoped for the best. "Do you remember the dream I told you about after my return from Ireland?"
"Tch." Beatrice was annoyed by this abrupt— and foolish—shift in subj
ect. "A bit of twaddle, if I don't mistake, about a handsome king and a fairy castle… or some other such fanciful nonsense."
Amy had expected Beattie's skepticism but still it irritated her. "Wasn't it me who called the dream nonsense in the first place?"
Beatrice slowly nodded, a slight frown wrinkling her forehead. This talk of fairy tales when added to the heat of Amy's quarrelsome responses left her to uncomfortably wonder if this woman who'd grown from a beloved child were unaccountably reverting to immature ways. It was a horrible prospect for someone as sharp-witted as her little lambie!
Twisting around on her chair, Amy faced the woman taking several steps to the rear and flatly stated, "I met him again last night."
"Met who? Your fantasy king?" Disbelief lent a hollow echo to Beattie's words.
"The Duchess of Melton introduced all of her guests to Comlan, the Lord of Doncaully. But it was him."
"Child, you're delirious." Beatrice studied her charge with growing concern. Never in all her born days would she have thought her sweet Amethyst a candidate for Bedlam, but now…
"Ask either of my parents," Amy stubbornly insisted. Though Beattie was officially her maid, she'd entered the Danton household as nanny. And as such Beattie had had an important hand in Amy's upbringing. Being fonder of this woman part foster-mother, part friend than almost anyone else in her life made winning Beattie's understanding all the more important. "They'll tell you about the man, the Irish lord we met."
"Man." Beatrice latched onto the word. "A 'man' I don't doubt you met, but a fantasy king…" She firmly shook her head.
"But it's true, I tell you," Amy earnestly argued. "The figure in my dream was a golden-haired Comlan with emerald green eyes—just like the one I danced with last evening."
"Come, lambkin," Beatrice urged, voice sinking into the dulcet tones employed in managing a willful child such as Amy had once been—and feared had become again. "Return to your bed. Lie down." Taking the young woman's hand, Beattie gently tugged in an effort to compel obedience. "I'll see that the doctor is summoned. He'll have some nice potion to ease you through this fever."
"You may just as well dose me with laudanum yourself," Amy immediately argued. Eyes flashing, she stubbornly added, "And I don't have a fever."
"Now, lambkin—"
. "Don't 'lambkin' me." Amy cut Beattie off, remembering just how long her companion had used that term either to calm an obtuse little girl or comfort wounded feelings. And clearly it was in the former role Beattie spoke now. "It's plain you think that if I'm not ill, then I must have gone mad. I swear that neither is true."
"Of course, lambkin, of course." Beattie's soothing tone perversely sent a warm flash of amusement through Amy.
"Hush, you old fraud." Grinning, Amy stood up and turned her back to Beattie while pointing to a line of still unfastened buttons. "Help me finish dressing or I'll be even later for breakfast and no doubt my parents are already annoyed with me."
Clearly, Amy silently admitted, this wasn't the time to mention her willingness to risk social ruin in order to frustrate pompous Orville's plan. No, not this one morning out of every week when her mother expected the entire family to meet at the breakfast table—punctually.
Beatrice complied though again shaking her head and clicking her tongue in mock disgust.
The atmosphere surrounding those gathered at the elegant breakfast table of One Ealsingham Court was remarkably stilted for a closely related group. Each having their own secrets and their own objectives—often at cross-purposes with those of the others—a father, mother, son and daughter-in-law uncomfortably waited for one last family member to fill an empty chair.
A dignified Lord Farley sat at the head of the white damask covered table laid with delicate china and gleaming silver, very much the Viscount Wyfirth, but it was his wife who presided from the other end with all the inbred assurance of a spotless pedigree. Lady Cornelia never forgot that her father had been the grandson of a duke; neither did she allow others to forget it. And, of course, no one dared mention that her father had been the youngest of the youngest in a sizeable second generation and reduced to merely serving as the rector of a small village church.
Few knew that under an assiduously preserved shell of pride. Lady Cornelia still privately shivered at the image of what humble circumstances she might have found herself in had she not snared as mate the heir to the local manor. That bleak, too well remembered prospect further reinforced her intention to ensure that her children contract advantageous marital alliances. It was a task almost complete, a task that—pray God—would be finished with Amethyst's marriage at the end of this Season.
When the door from the central hall opened, Lady Cornelia looked up to find the subject of her thoughts entering the informal dining room. As Amethyst settled into a straight-backed chair, Lady Cornelia daintily rang a small crystal bell summoning their maid, Maddy, to bring her tardy daughter fresh tea.
"I truly am sorry to be late, Mother," Amy solemnly assured the older woman while a maid with the beauty required to serve in the front of the house poured amber liquid into a nearly translucent teacup. Anxious to ease a lingering tension, Amy searched for words to fill the awkward silence and fell back on the reserve of small talk every debutante was trained to master. "Your new dress is most becoming. You were right to insist Madame Bertrille use that shade of blue.- It suits you perfectly."
A tight smile was Lady Cornelia's response to both the apology and compliment. She questioned the sincerity of Amethyst's regrets—little more than a perfunctory expression and lacking any sort of excuse. As for her morning gown, Lady Cornelia knew perfectly well how flattering this latest style was for her and the appropriateness of its deeper tone for a matron. She took pride in carefully observing all the niceties of Society, intent on impressing the small circle of great hostesses reigning at its peak with hope of one day being accepted as a member of that lofty few. To achieve her goal it was important that her children be seen as shining examples of the finest amongst their class, and she would fight to prevent the tarnishing of that glowing image.
Amy was relieved when Louvisa responded to her wordless plea by shrugging aside the informal dining room's unsettling gloom to cheerfully inquire, "What did you think of Mr. Stanville's shocking actions?"
Grateful for the rescue but having no vague idea what misdeed Lovey meant, Amy smiled and murmured a noncommittal answer.
Lovey's dimples peeked when, despite Lady Cornelia's forbidding frown, she conspiratorially whispered, "I think he had best intend to make a match with the naive Miss DeAmbrough after leading her onto the dance floor four times!"
Silent laughter warmed the gray of Amy's eyes as her amiable friend dove deeper into a humorous review of all the previous evening's details. It proved once again that Lovey was a human sponge able to soak up an amazing volume of gossip in a few brief hours. After repeating the Season's first ripple of scandal, Lovey continued with frivolous talk of who'd worn what and talked with whom. Amy's smile widened into a grin while like a merry brook, Lovey effortlessly babbled on and on unconcerned by her table companions lack of participation until…
"And didn't Isobel make a perfect cake of herself, fawning all over the Irish lord?" Louvisa blithely allowed idle chatter to flow into a new subject, oblivious to either the frowns earned from two men or her mother-in-law's positive glare. "I thought she might do you some harm, Amy, after he danced with you but no one else."
Despite the others' heavy disapproval, the giggling Lovey's words startled Amy into asking, "Only me?"
"Only you—" Lovey instantly confirmed, setting fair curls to bouncing with an emphatic nod.
That thrilling fact seemed to contain some magic spell for Amy felt as if she'd suddenly been transported back to the ballroom dance floor and into the devastating Irishman's arms. Flustered to discover that even the memory of him could shake her heart and steal her breath, Amy closed her eyes tightly hoping to block unsettling sensations only to find th
at action increased their potency. Struggling to restore calm, she concentrated on the waiting hard-boiled egg while Lovey's bright chatter continued.
"Only you," Lovey repeated. "Although it's not as if Isobel permitted Lord Comlan to escape her clutches for a single moment after your waltz ended."
Lady Cornelia had heard enough of foolish prattle. Particularly as Louvisa's words clearly had the unfortunate effect of reminding Amethyst of an unsuitable stranger when her attention should be focused to better purpose on a more appropriate potential groom.
"I was pleased to see you dancing so gracefully with Orville, Amethyst." Lady Cornelia adroitly shifted the conversation to this infinitely preferable subject. "He seemed most animated in your company… a good sign, don't you think?"
Reluctantly glancing up from the egg carefully perched on its cup in the center of her plate, Amy met her mother's direct gaze. She couldn't possibly mention the threatened injuries to her toes avoided only with great care. Nor would she confess the disgusting gist of Orville's animated words to this woman who would no doubt welcome them, even work to see him succeed. Instead, Amy frustrated her mother by merely nodding while returning her attention to the cracking of an egg.
"Garnet…" Lady Cornelia's chill gaze moved on to her only son. "Pray tell me you have finished your… collaboration with the Lancet."
Amy surreptitiously watched the sunlight falling through one of this east-facing room's long windows ripple over dark hair as Garnet wryly dipped his head toward his inquisitor. She shared her favorite—not to mention only—brother's amusement over their mother's unwillingness to sully her tongue with the word work.
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