The Perils of Presumption (The Conclave Series Book 1)

by Sarah Sokol

  "We thought you might know," Ben said, watching Hastings. "He was about to take them out the door with him."

  "Petty thief wouldn't sneak into a place like this for a few coins." Sutcliffe was watching Hastings too.

  "It'd have to be more than a few," Hastings agreed with a bland smile. "Can't think what he could've been after."

  Ben crouched down to gaze into the thief's bleary eyes. "Suppose we should try and get some answers, then."

  "He's going to scream bloody murder," Oliver inserted. "Maybe we shouldn't take the gag out."

  "Nonsense." Ben lowered his brows as far as they would go and frowned at the man. "If you stay quiet and answer our questions, you won't find yourself gutted in a Whitechapel alleyway. Fair?"

  The man's eyes moved back and forth before he gave a low moan and a nod.

  Ben tugged the handkerchief from between the man's broken, black teeth, leaving the thief spitting and panting for air.

  "Come on, then." Ben rolled the man over to his back and prodded at a particularly nasty bruise on his collarbone. "You know what we want. Tell us why you're here."

  The thief remained silent, glaring up at Ben, gaze never straying.

  Ben sighed and prodded the bruise deeper, grinding his fist into it, feeling the give of probably a cracked bone. "Tell us who sent you. Just a name."

  Other than another low groan of pain and saliva sputtering through gritted teeth, the thief remained silent.

  "Well. That's disappointing." Ben straightened up and spun his cane in his grip. "Never fear. I believe one or two gentlemen here can manage a Circle of Truthspeaking."

  At those words, the man's eyes went wide. He muttered three words under his breath, so low Ben couldn't quite catch them, and abruptly the ropes burst free of his body, snapping into four segments.

  The thief scrambled to his feet with a wild look in his deep blue eyes and dove for the gap between Ben and Hastings. The ropes behind him twisted, curled up, tensing and writhing, before each segment darted across the floor, slithering snake-like to each gentleman's leg. Ben glanced down to find the length of rope winding around his ankle, attempting to drag his feet out from under him. He staggered, lost his balance and tumbled over, cursing.

  "Animation," Hastings bit out before turning and lunging for the thief.

  The ragged fellow was surprisingly deft for how squat his form was, and he managed to slip from Hastings' grip. Oliver ran to intercept the escaping man, his rope chasing at his heels, skimming the surface of the carpet in sinuous movements. Sutcliffe wrangled the length of rope away from his throat as best he could.

  Ben sucked in a breath as the rope wiggled its way up near his groin and tightened, cutting off the circulation in his leg while the remaining length worked towards his throat. It grasped, scraping over the buttons of his vest. Ben fumbled into his coat pocket and tugged the angelica free, crushing the dry root as well as he could. With a flick of his wrist, just as the rope curled its way around his throat, he flung the handful of crushed herbs up into the air.

  "Prohibere vita."

  There was a popping sound, a crackle of arcane energy that fizzed over Ben's arms and made his hair stand on end. The ropes fell limp and lifeless to the carpet. Ben rolled over, grabbing for his cane. He had a few spells stored inside, maybe something to stop the thief in his tracks, but Oliver got there first.

  Moving so quickly he was almost a blur, Oliver locked his elbow around the man's neck and thrust his knee between his thighs. One push of his knee upwards had the fellow howling in pain, but Oliver clamped his free hand over the man's nose and mouth, dampening the sound.

  Momentarily incapacitated, the man gave only a token struggle as Oliver dragged him back to the centre of the room, tossed his body to the floor, then leaned down and cracked his knuckles across the man's face once, twice, and a third time.

  With the third blow, the thief's body went limp, another trickle of fresh blood joining the stickier flow from his nose. Oliver stayed stooped over the man, checking his breathing before straightening and glancing at Ben.

  "Unconscious," he said, straightening out his hand with a grimace.

  The four gentlemen were quiet for a moment, staring at the pieces of shredded rope on the floor, the wheezing body of the man, and each other. Hastings was the first to break the silence, applauding wildly.

  "Bravo, bravissimo! Encore!" He laughed and strode to the thief, nudging him with his toe. "I say, Stoneworth, I had no idea you were a bloody pugilist. Well struck."

  "Stand back," Ben warned the earl. "That was black magic."

  Hastings shrugged and stepped back a pace. "Keep your hat on, old bean. Think I don't know it when I see it?"

  "We've probably got a few minutes before he wakes, but not long," Sutcliffe said.

  Ben fished the pouch of salt out of his pocket and dumped a small portion into each of their palms. "Hastings, Oliver, you build the circle. Sutcliffe, you and I will take care of the rest."

  Sutcliffe executed a half-bow of assent and accepted his share of the salt. Oliver and Hastings began to move around the man, dropping a thin line of the coarse crystals in a three-foot radius around his body. As they moved, they chanted the words of binding, and Ben felt that familiar arcane sizzle in the air, as if the atmosphere had turned to lightning.

  As they finished, Ben and Sutcliffe stepped in, sprinkling a second line of salt just outside the first one. The familiar words sprung to their lips, and they worked in tandem. "Vita vero, in hoc circulo, vita vero."

  This circle took longer, and the thief began stirring by the time they closed it. The arcane hum was stronger now, the two circles joining to create a strange sort of metaphysical harmony. The barriers were put to the test as the thief's eyes blinked open again, and once more he instinctively dove for escape. This time, as his body reached the barrier, he let out a low, hoarse cry of pain, body convulsing and twisting, fingers contorted. Finally, gritting his teeth, he stumbled back away from the line of salt and slumped to the ground in the centre of the circle. His whole body shook in tremors, and when he raised his head again, his cheeks were streaked with tears.

  "P-please," he whispered, the blood pooling on his lips bubbling with the word. "I ain't... hurtin' n-nobody..."

  "Good lord," Oliver murmured. "He's terrified."

  "Now why on earth would that be?" Hastings replied. "You've only pounded him into the floor. Twice. Oh, and Winters with the threats of gutting, of course. Suppose none of you ever heard the whole bit about 'catching more flies with honey'?"

  "Tell us your name," Ben said, stooping down to the edge of the circle. He kept the compassion from showing on his face as much as he could, though the man really did look pathetic. He probably hadn't fully deserved the beating Oliver had doled out.

  "Jack F-Foster," the man garbled from between blood-soaked teeth. It looked as if the answer was being torn from him against his will - which it likely was. Truthspeaking spells were ruthless and would wrench the answers from even the most motivated liars.

  "And what did you come here for tonight?" Ben continued, determined to be as relentless as the spell itself.

  "T-to take 'at toff's coat," Foster continued in a panicked whimper, pointing his chin to Hastings. "Was s'pposed to be in-and-out, easy does it."

  "How did you come to learn black magic?" Ben inquired.

  "Is that really what we're interested in at the moment?" Hastings asked indignantly. "Just tell us who hired you, old boy. Who sent you here?"

  "I... I c-" The words barely began to form in Foster's throat before he gave a choked gasp, and a rush of blood spilled from between his lips. His body convulsed, seizing up, trembling and shuddering as he thrashed back and forth on the soft carpet.

  "What's happening?" Ben scowled, his toe hovering over the line of salt. "Shall I break the circle?"

  "Didn't think I punched him that hard." Oliver joined Ben at his side.

  "It is the spell at work," Sutcliffe said with a shake o
f his head. "Give it time. It will pry the truth from his chest."

  The door behind them burst open to reveal a familiar honey-haired woman, rushing forward across the room.

  "Charlotte?" Ben could only say as she advanced. "What in the bloody hell are you doing here?"

  "You killed him! Why did you kill him?"

  "What? He's not-" Ben twisted, looking back at the thief.

  The man's body fell still and silent to the carpet.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Secret of Persuasion

  Charlotte watched the man's body collapse to the carpet.

  Perhaps it wasn't too late. "Break the circle," she demanded, staring past Ben's shoulder.

  Those lines of salt were creating some sort of field of energy, she could feel it lifting the hairs on the nape of her neck.

  "No, Lottie wait!" Sophie stumbled into the room after Charlotte, then froze, gaping at the scene before them.

  "Who the devil are these... women?"

  Charlotte darted a glance over at the strange man who spoke, glowering at him with a face so thunderous it would put Ben to shame. "I am Lady Charlotte Whitcomb, and I insist you break this circle so that I may tend that man before it's too late."

  The other gentlemen just stood staring, but Oliver stepped forward. He shot Charlotte a keen glance and smudged his toe through the first line of salt.

  "Here now," Hastings protested. "What if he's faking it? That's what I'd do."

  "He's not faking it," Charlotte assured the dandy with a cutting glance, stepping closer. She couldn't be sure of that, but she was surer than anyone else was, and that was real blood pouring from the man's nose and mouth. There was still a shimmer in the air, the second circle unbroken. She glanced at Oliver.

  He sighed and smudged his toe through that one too. "Carry on. Gentlemen, I happen to know Lady Whitcomb is quite accomplished with medicinal herbs, smelling salts, that sort of thing. Give her room, see if she can bring the fellow around."

  Charlotte sensed the energy of the barriers vanishing, leaving the room as swiftly as they had filled it. She burst forward, hearing the stranger say something about "highly unusual," before pushing their voices out of her awareness. She focused on the man, placing her fingertips against his temple.

  Darkness, silence, residual warmth. She closed her eyes, plunging into the man's skull and chasing the faintly glowing golden spark, trying to grasp it with the vines of her power.

  The tendrils wrapped around the last bit of life, but it was too late. The light melted from her grasp and she gasped, thrust from his body by the absolute darkness. Her head pounded, pain slicing at the backs of her eyes.

  Her shoulders slumped and she clutched at her forehead, willing the throbbing to recede. As she took a few deep breaths and the blinding pain finally began to lessen, she became aware of another sharp pain in her knee.

  Frowning, she shifted her knee away and fumbled her fingers down, over the man's sunken belly and hip, into his pocket. Pulling the object out, careful to block the view of it from the room with her body, she peeped down as she pretended to keep massaging her head.

  It was a quill. A long, dark feather with a dull gleam, carved to the tip that had been digging into her knee. There were intricate glyphs carved up the shaft of the quill, and some of them looked familiar. The voices behind her started coming back into focus and she hastily tucked the quill down her bodice, hoping it would stay trapped in her undergarments long enough for her to get somewhere private. If only this gown had sleeves, or pockets.

  She jumped as she felt soft fingers soothing up and down her back, and Sophie's voice from behind her.

  "Oh, dear. Is he..."

  "Dead," Charlotte bit out, pushing to her feet and turning to face her friend.

  "Oh, dear," Sophie repeated. "You look pale. Are you all right?"

  "I am well." Charlotte glanced around the room to find Hastings, Ben and Oliver staring at her. "Where did that strange man go?"

  "'That strange man,'" Ben said as he stalked towards her, "is the Duke of Sutcliffe. And he has gone to smooth the way with a constable so that we do not all get arrested for murder."

  "Perhaps you should be arrested for murder," Charlotte said, planting her hands on her hips. Her cheeks burned with indignation when Ben brushed her aside, ignoring her completely and bending over the body himself.

  "It might be amusing for a time, but I have it on good authority that the wine in prison is vile. Absolutely no terroir," Hastings drawled as he tugged an embroidered handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the sweat on his upper lip. His eyes flashed appreciatively at Charlotte. "And if it makes any difference to you, we didn't actually kill him. But I do so adore a bloodthirsty woman."

  Stepping back, she tried to subtly tuck the edge of the dark feather below her neckline and raised her chin. "I saw it myself. You surrounded him with those circles, and he wouldn't speak and so your spell killed him."

  Sophie stepped up to her side, face pink with distress and embarrassment, but her voice bold as she locked arms with Charlotte. "That's right. I saw it too."

  "Just how long were you watching?" Oliver demanded from behind Hastings.

  "Long enough." Charlotte glanced back to where Ben was patting over the man, searching his body thoroughly. "I thought I could perhaps bring him back... He never answered the question. But he was just a thief. How could you kill him?"

  Oliver shook his head before she even finished speaking. "We didn't. Truthspeaking may be painful, but it would pry the truth out long before it would kill someone. It wasn't us."

  Something about Oliver's steady blue eyes meeting hers, the kind but firm tilt of his lips, made Charlotte believe him. And it did make sense. Why bother asking him questions if they were just going to let him die before getting the answers?

  The adrenaline rush had faded, the immediate danger was gone, and Charlotte felt a little foolish. Now she was the one hurling unfounded accusations. She was spared from having to reply by Lord Hastings.

  "What say you, Winters? Anything on our thief? A nice neat note from his employer explaining the situation?"

  Ben rose to his feet and turned to face them, the grim look on his face a strange contrast to the way his hair stuck straight up like a schoolboy's. "No notes. Just a glyph, carved under the tongue. Looks as if whoever sent him didn't want him to talk."

  "Damn." Hastings glanced around the room, hesitating. "Winters, that favour you asked of me the other day... You remember?"

  "Of course." Ben glanced up at the earl.

  "I suspect this may be... related."

  "Obviously. But how? Did you check what I asked?"

  "Yes, and-"

  "Just one blasted moment here." Charlotte's eye darted between the two men, and she moved away from Sophie to plant herself directly between them. "Enough of the mysterious speaking in code. I have witnessed you interrogating a man to death. If I am to keep my mouth shut, I deserve answers too."

  Hastings levelled his hazel eyes at Charlotte, and she met his gaze. A lady wasn't supposed to do this unless to proposition a gentleman, but these were hardly normal society circumstances.

  "Tell me what list you are speaking of," Charlotte repeated, not looking away. She put as much force and will into the words as she could. "Or I will run out into that ballroom and expose this man's murder to the ton."

  "It will be the scandal of the season," Sophie inserted helpfully. "Even if you didn't do it, the Conclave will be under scrutiny."

  Hastings was silent for a long moment before breaking into a laugh that didn't seem quite as amused so much as it was startled. "How can I refuse, when you have blackmailed me so well?"

  "Charlotte..." Ben began to protest, but seemed to think better of it, clamping his lips shut and pulling out his notebook instead. "Very well, Hastings. Proceed. Why do you think this is related?"

  "First, to satisfy our esteemed lady's curiosity." Hastings bowed to Charlotte with a sardonic glance. "The list i
s no great secret. Everyone in the Conclave has been nagging me endlessly about it ever since I returned. It contains the names of every black magic practitioner I could find throughout the city, whom I have deemed harmless."

  "Others have asked about it?" Oliver lifted his brows. "Ben, you getting that down?"

  "Yes, continue." Ben kept his annoyed gaze fixed on his notebook.

  "Well, there may or may not be several... rumours flying around as to the location of the list." Hastings gave his impression of a tragic look. "It is such a trial, belonging to an organization in which you can trust no one. Isn't it, Winters?"

  Charlotte blinked at that. "But I thought the Conclave was a tightly-knit fellowship."

  "What is magic, my dear Lady Whitcomb?" Hastings asked. His lips quirked in an ambivalent smile, but his eyes held a mocking edge. "Power. And when a human encounters power, what happens?"

  "They become nodcocks," Oliver proclaimed with a grin.

  "Eloquently spoken." Hastings' smirk grew a hint of genuine amusement. "At any rate, I thought considering recent events, I ought to take some protective measures. I put into place a few whispers that I kept the list in various locations, and one of those locations was a secret pocket in my coat. All nonsense, of course. As if I'd just leave information like that lying about in a coat room."

  "Did you trace who received which rumour?" Ben asked.

  "No point. I murmur it in one page boy's ear, and it takes on a life of its own," Hastings replied. "The grace, beauty, and downfall of the gossip mill."

  "So, you think this thief's employer heard the rumour." Charlotte bit her lower lip. "What would they want with it?"

  "Ah. Well, this relates to a question my esteemed colleague Lord Winters asked me in confidence," Hastings said apologetically. "As to what someone could do with such a list in the abstract? Well, I leave that for your capable mind to conjure."

  Ben darted a glance at Charlotte. "Would you mind if Hastings and I had an aside? It's a separate matter that doesn't concern you, I assure you."