by Amanda Quick
A crafty gleam lit her eyes. “If you need my help so much, sir, let us say triple my current wages for an entire quarter.”
He raised his brows. “Triple your quarterly wages for a week’s work?”
She looked instantly uneasy, no doubt fearful that she had been too bold in her demands. “Well, you did say that you needed my services, sir.”
“True. You drive a hard bargain, Miss Greyson. Perhaps you ought to hear the requirements of your new position before you accept.”
“To be honest, sir, I am not terribly particular at the moment. So long as you will guarantee to pay me three times what Lady Mayfield pays for the quarter and not require me to warm your bed, I will take the post.”
“Done. Now then, all I shall demand of you, Miss Greyson, is that you comply with Lady Ames’s requests to drink her special tea and play cards.”
She pursed her lips. “Is it absolutely necessary to drink the tea?”
“Just a bit of it. Only enough to convince her that you have taken some.”
Emma sighed. “This may sound impertinent, under the circumstances, but would you mind very much explaining what this is about?”
He held her eyes very steadily. “I have reason to believe that Miranda thinks she is performing some experiments on you with her potion.”
“Experiments?” Emma’s hand went to her stomach. She felt queasy all over again. “That dreadful tea is some sort of poison?”
“I assure you, there is no reason to think that it will harm you.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What, exactly, is it supposed to do to me?”
“According to the legend—”
“Legend?”
“Nothing but occult nonsense, I promise you,” he said quickly. “I told you that I was searching for something that had been stolen. That object is an ancient volume from the Garden Temples of a distant island called Vanzagara. It is known to the monks of the temples as the Book of Secrets.”
“Vanzagara.” Emma frowned. “I have heard of it.”
“I’m impressed. Not many people have.”
“My grandmother was very fond of the study of geography.”
“Yes, well, I am conducting my inquiries on behalf of the man who discovered Vanzagara several years ago. He is a very good friend of mine.”
“I see.”
“His name is Lorring. Ignatius Lorring. And he is dying.”
She searched his face and he knew that she sensed the quiet sorrow in him. The knowledge made him uneasy. He would have to be on guard against Emma’s unusually perceptive nature, he thought.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
“Lorring’s last wish is to recover the stolen book and return it to the monks of Vanzagara.” Edison hesitated. “He feels guilty, you see.”
“Why?”
“Because he is the one who discovered the isle and made it known in Europe. It is because of him that outsiders have traveled to Vanzagara. He feels that if it had not been for him, the isle might have remained isolated for many years. No thief would have gone there to steal its greatest treasure.”
“Does he know who stole the book?”
“No. But there are rumors that the thief took the Book of Secrets to Italy and sold it to a man named Farrell Blue. The tales make sense because Blue was one of very few scholars who would have had even a remote chance of deciphering the old language in which the recipes are written.”
“I notice that you refer to this Mr. Blue in the past tense,” Emma said warily. “I assume there is a reason for that?”
“He died in a fire that consumed his villa in Rome.”
“Not exactly an auspicious event. About this business of the occult, sir—”
“As I said, utter rubbish. But according to the legend, the brew is supposed to enable one to predict the turn of a card. It is said it works by enhancing a woman’s natural intuition.”
“A woman’s intuition?”
He nodded. “According to the monks, it is effective only on women, and not on all women, at that. Only a very few females, those who already possess a high degree of natural intuition, are susceptible to its effects.”
Emina grimaced. “Hence the need for experiments?”
“Yes.” Edison clasped his hands behind his back. “Apparently Miranda herself is not susceptible to the brew. Hardly surprising, since it is unlikely to work on anyone. Nevertheless, she obviously believes it will be effective on someone, so it appears that she is conducting tests. Perhaps she seeks an accomplice.”
“Accomplice.” Emma considered the word. “That has a rather nasty ring to it.”
He raised his brows. “You do see the problem, do you not? If she believes that she possesses a potion that would allow her to cheat at cards, the possibilities are unlimited.”
“Fortunes are won and lost in the games played in the homes of the ton,” Emma whispered. “Thousands and thousands of pounds are dropped in the card rooms at balls every week.”
“Indeed.”
“This is amazing.” She shot him a quick, assessing look. “But you said that the elixir is only a single legend from that ancient book you mentioned. Why are you searching for it?”
“If I can find the person who possesses the recipe for the elixir, I may well have found the thief who stole the book.”
“Yes, I see. But if the elixir does not work—”
“Understand me well. I have no doubt but that the brew itself is useless. Nevertheless, people have been known to risk a great deal in order to obtain something that they believe to be valuable. Men have died because of this damned recipe. The last one was an apothecary in London.”
Her eyes widened in alarm. “Did he die because he drank the brew?”
He shook his head. “I believe that he was murdered by his client, the person to whom he sold some of the special herbs required to make the stuff.”
She frowned. “You know the ingredients of the recipe?”
“No. But I do know that it originated on the Isle of Vanzagara. The herbs that grow there are rare and unique to the island. Lorring alerted the handful of apothecaries in London who stock Vanzagarian herbs. He asked them to notify him if anyone attempted to purchase some.”
“I see. One of them sent word that he had sold some of the rare herbs?”
“Yes. Lorring is so ill that he can no longer leave his home. So I went to see the apothecary as soon as the message arrived. But I was too late. He had been stabbed. He lived only long enough to tell me that whoever had purchased the herbs was planning to attend Ware’s house party.”
“My God.” A fresh wave of alarm shot through Emma. “Do you believe Miranda murdered the poor man?”
“If she is the one who possesses the recipe, I must assume that it is entirely possible that she killed the apothecary. And, perhaps, others as well. But do not fret, Miss Greyson. You will be safe so long as you play the innocent.”
“I am actually rather good at that,” Emma muttered. “It is a requirement in my profession.”
He gave her an odd smile. “Do you know, until I made your acquaintance, I had no notion that paid companions were so clever and resourceful.”
“It is a demanding career, I assure you, sir.”
“I believe it.” He paused meaningfully. “If you are satisfied with the description of your new duties, there is just one more thing I would like to have plain between us.”
“What is that?”
“If you ever do find your way into my bed, Miss Greyson, it will not be because I have paid you to do so.”
Chapter Seven
The following evening, before he dressed for dinner, Edison lit a candle and set it on the floor. He sat down in front of the taper, legs folded into the correct position, and contemplated the flame. He had long ago discarded most Vanza rituals. But once in a while, when he needed to look deep into his own thoughts, he used the candle. Meditation with the aid of specially scented and colored candles was an ancient practice on Vanzagar
a. The monks used it in the temples, and every Vanza master taught his students how to use the flame to focus their concentration.
Traditionally each student received his first candles from his master. The particular scent and color of the tapers were unique to that particular master. There was an ancient Vanzagarian saying, To know the master, look at the student’s candles. It was customary for the student to use the master’s candles until he had achieved the Third Circle. At that time he concocted his own meditation tapers, creating them with his personal choice of fragrance and color.
Edison had received his first candles from Ignatius Lorring. They had been a rich, dark purple. He would never forget the exotic scent. Almost as exotic as Emma’s scent. Where the devil had that thought come from? he wondered. Irritated by his own lack of concentration, he focused again on the flame.
At about the time he would have been expected to craft his own candles, he had stepped outside the Circle. He had never got around to creating his own personal tapers. On the infrequent occasions when he elected to meditate, he used any ordinary household candle that came to hand. Common sense told him it was not the scent or the color that enabled one to sink into that quiet place where truth existed. It was willpower and concentration.
He gazed deep into the flame. Methodically he went through the process of stilling his body so that his mind could focus more clearly. The cloak of stillness settled on him. The flame flared more brightly, until he could see into its heart. He looked into the depths while he allowed his thoughts to chart their own course. After a while they took shape and substance.
The decision to bring Emma Greyson into the tangled mystery of the missing book might well prove to be a serious mistake. But after examining it, he was satisfied that his logic was sound. If Lady Ames was the thief and if she had convinced herself that Emma was susceptible to the elixir, then Emma was already ensnared in the web. She might well be in peril at some point in the future, although he doubted that she was in any immediate danger. After all, if he was correct in his conclusions, Miranda needed Emma. She could hardly afford to harm her at this juncture.
By employing Emma to help him in his inquiries here at Ware Castle, he would be in a better position to keep an eye on her, Edison thought.
The flame burned more brightly. Edison allowed himself to be drawn deeper into it, to the place where some truths burned hottest. Here nothing was ever completely clear. At best he could catch only fleeting glimpses of inner knowledge. Shards of the old rage and pain he had felt as a young man still burned here. So did the abiding loneliness. Here, too, was the source of the unrelenting determination that could have transformed him into a Grand Master of Vanza had he chosen that path. Instead, he had used it to build his financial empire.
He looked past the old truths and concentrated on searching out the flickering glow of the new one that he sensed was there. He watched closely for a long while. After a time he saw it flare up for an instant, just long enough for him to be certain of it. A second later it vanished back into the heart of the fire. But he had seen enough to know that he must acknowledge its presence, even though he had the uneasy feeling that it would haunt him.
Here was the truth in the flame, he thought. He had not employed Emma Greyson merely because he thought she could be useful to him this week. He had not taken her on as a temporary assistant because he wanted to protect her or because he wanted to help her out financially. What he had done was take advantage of the opportunity to draw her closer to him. Such a motivation was most unusual for him. Possibly dangerous. He realized that he did not want to look any deeper into the flame.
“You have won again, Miss Greyson.” Delicia Beaumont snapped her painted fan. “I vow, it is most unfair. That makes three times in a row that you have selected the correct card from the pack.”
There were other rumblings of discontent from the small circle of ladies who had agreed to participate in Miranda’s newest game. Emma glanced surreptitiously at the elegant group. She had been aware of the growing irritation of her companions for some time now. It was one thing to tolerate a little nobody in their midst so long as she had the good sense to lose when they played their games; quite another when she habitually won. Only Miranda seemed content with Emma’s streak of good luck.
Gowned in a striking black-and-gold-striped evening dress, Lady Ames held court at the card table. Many of the ladies in the circle gathered around her had continued to drink champagne and brandy after dinner. By the time the men finished their port and came to join them for the dancing, most would be quite drunk.
Emma had stuck to tea, steeling herself when Miranda insisted that she try some more of the special blend. This time she had sipped much more cautiously. The result was that the dizziness was not so strong and she did not feel nearly as ill as she had yesterday. Nevertheless, the sensation she was experiencing was decidedly unpleasant. It was as if her brain were filled with a dark, roiling fog.
“Another round,” Miranda said cheerfully as she shuffled the cards. “Let us see if anyone can beat Miss Greyson.”
Delicia rose abruptly. “I’ve had enough of this ridiculous game. I am going to take some fresh air.” She glanced around the circle. “Does anyone else care to join me?”
“I will.”
“So will I.”
“It is really quite boring when one person wins every time,” Cordelia Page said very pointedly. She got to her feet with a flounce. “I do hope the dancing begins soon.”
Amid a rustle of satin, silk, and muslin skirts, the women departed for the terrace.
Miranda smiled benignly at Emma. “I fear they do not lose well, Miss Greyson. It is certainly not your fault that you are enjoying a bit of good luck tonight, is it?”
The unhealthy excitement in Miranda’s eyes worried Emma. In keeping with her employment agreement with Edison, she had promised to participate in Miranda’s games. But enough was enough, at least for now. It was time to lose. Besides, she did not think it would be a good idea for Miranda to grow too confident of the effects of her nasty brew.
“One more round and then I believe I shall go up to my room,” Emma said.
Displeasure lit Miranda’s expression for an instant, but it was quickly suppressed.
“Very well, Miss Greyson, one more round.” Miranda selected three cards seemingly at random from the pack, studied them for a moment, and put them facedown on the table. “Go ahead. See if you can guess the cards.”
Emma touched the first card. Through the gently whirling mist that filled her brain she could see a four of clubs as clearly as a sunrise.
“A king of hearts, I believe,” she said blandly.
Miranda frowned and turned over the card. “You guessed wrong, Miss Greyson. Swan, pour Miss Greyson another cup of tea.”
Swan started forward with the pot.
“No, thank you,” Emma said. “I don’t want any more tea.”
“Rubbish. Of course you do.” Miranda gave the footman an angry, impatient look. “I told you to pour Miss Greyson some more tea. Do it now, Swan.”
Swan flashed Emma a pleading glance. She did not need any of the tea or her own intuition to realize that the poor man was caught in a difficult situation.
She gave him an understanding smile. “Why not? I believe I will take some more tea, after all. Thank you, Swan.”
Gratitude flashed in his eyes. The teapot in his hand trembled slightly as he poured the tea. When he finished and stepped back, Emma reached for the cup. She pretended to lose her grip on the delicate handle. The cup slipped from her fingers and fell to the carpet.
“Oh dear,” Emma murmured. “Now look what I’ve done.”
Miranda looked ready to explode. “Fetch the maid, Swan.”
“Yes, madam.” Swan fled toward the hall.
“I believe I splashed some tea on my gown.” Emma rose. “Please excuse me, Lady Ames. As it happens, I am ready to retire for the evening anyway.”
There was a hard glint i
n Miranda’s eyes. “But, Miss Greyson, the night is young.”
“As you know, I do not go out into Society very often. I am not accustomed to its hours.” Emma gave her a sugary smile. “I doubt that anyone will notice my absence.”
“You are wrong, Miss Greyson. I will notice.” Miranda leaned forward slightly. A hot intensity radiated from her. “I wish to play another game.”
A familiar electricity sparked through Emma. She felt the hair on the nape of her neck stir. A prickly sensation made her palms tingle.
I am afraid, she thought, stunned by the sharp premonition of danger. Mortally afraid. For no obvious reason. Damn the woman. I will not let her do this to me.
Miranda watched her the way a cat watches a mouse. Another frisson of fear and warning sizzled through Emma. What is wrong with me? It is not as though she is holding a gun to my head. With a fierce effort of will, Emma collected her nerves and the skirts of her uninspired gray gown.
“Good night, Lady Ames. I have had enough of cards for this evening.”
She did not dare glance back over her shoulder to see how Miranda had taken the dismissal. She forced herself to walk sedately away from the card table. En route to the staircase she paused near the open door of the ballroom to check on her other employer. A large number of people had gathered inside the spacious chamber. In addition to Ware’s houseguests, many members of the local gentry had been invited tonight.
Chilton Crane had not come downstairs all day, much to Emma’s relief. He had sent word to his host that he was nursing a headache. She glanced around and saw Letty standing with a small group on the other side of the room. She was attired in a heavily flounced satin gown that was cut so low at the neckline that it barely contained her breasts. There was yet another glass of champagne in her gloved hand. Her laughter was growing louder by the minute. She would no doubt be calling for her tonic in the morning, Emma thought. She would certainly not be needing the services of her companion tonight.
Grateful to be free for a while from the demands of both of her employers, Emma started up the staircase. Of the two careers she was pursuing this week, she feared her duties for Edison would prove to be the most onerous. If it were not for the fact that she had accepted his offer of employment, she would not have taken another drop of Miranda’s obnoxious tea. All the ridiculous talk about a missing book and occult elixirs had given her some serious second thoughts about her new employer. She wondered uneasily if he was mad as a March hare. But even if that proved true, he was a very rich mad hare, she reminded herself as she climbed the stairs. And if she lasted the week in his employ, she would have triple her usual quarterly wages to show for it. The thought of the money made her more inclined to view Edison Stokes as clear-witted and eminently sane.