The Perils of Presumption (The Conclave Series Book 1)

by Sarah Sokol

Charlotte squinted at him, wanting to fight back. There was something here, a mystery she wished to prod at, unravel. This was related to whatever happened to Avery, somehow. It must be; the quill couldn't be a coincidence. But she recognized the stubborn look on Ben's face and knew she wouldn't get further by pushing now.

  "Of course," she said, watching the two men pull into the corner. Ben spoke first, pitching his voice so low Charlotte had no hope of eavesdropping.

  Whoever wanted the list had put a spell on a man that they knew might kill him, which meant they were willing to commit murder to get what they wanted. Which meant they probably wanted the list for nefarious reasons. But why? Was their own name on the list, and they wanted it removed?

  "We ought to go back to the ballroom before we're missed," Sophie whispered, tugging at Charlotte's hand. "We have much to discuss, but we don't wish to be here when the constables arrive. You're supposed to be fitting in, remember? Looking for a husband, operating in the shadows, not found standing over corpse."

  "Wait," Charlotte cut off Sophie, pricking up her ears. Lord Hastings was speaking now, and she could just hear the barest murmur of his voice. She turned enough to see him out of the corner of her eye. Reading his lips and listening intently, gripping Sophie's hands, she managed to decipher his next words.

  "Stop by my house tomorrow and we shall go over the particulars. Five of the seven names you gave me are on my list.... and I've a suspicion this Jack Foster fellow is too."

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Blooming Corpse Flower

  Ben stabbed his trowel into the earth once more, turning over the fresh, rich loam and exposing the roots of another weed. Insidious little morning glories. He used his bare fingers to sift through the soil, plucking out every trace of the annoying flowers, and tossing them into a bucket at his side.

  Sitting back on his heels, he wiped a bead of sweat away from his brow and tilted his face up to the sun. He was working shirtless, and it felt good to burn away some of the stress of his paperwork, meetings and correspondence, and just tend to the care of his garden for a while.

  The gardens of the estate were enormous and came equipped with a trio of gardeners; the Price family, a grandfather, father and son. All three sported the same bristling beards, excellent work ethic, and protective instincts of a mother bear.

  And they all went by Price, which was all right with Ben. Kept things simple. The middle one was approaching now, dressed in grubby trousers and a loose shirt unbuttoned around the collar and sleeves. He carried a large pair of shears in one hand and a bundle of dead rose bush clippings in the other, and he saluted Ben with the shears.

  "Hallo, Sir Ben," he called out.

  They never could get the formalities right. Ben pushed to his feet with a grin and returned the salute. "Price. What news from the greenhouse?"

  "Good news, Sir Ben." The man had an unusually broad grin plastered across his face, yellow teeth peeking from his thick beard, and he ambled to a stop in front of Ben, tossing the dead roses into the bucket along with the uprooted weeds. "That strange corpse flower you've been workin' at for nigh on seven years? Looks like we might finally get it bloomin'."

  "What?" Ben felt a fierce surge of triumph at that news. The strange flowers had been imported from overseas, and this was his fifth and final plant. The others had all died. "That's fantastic news, Price. Why didn't you tell me earlier? I've been mucking around in the morning glories all day."

  "Aye, well, somebody needs to get the work done around here," Price said with a good-natured scowl. "Those things have been gettin' in the mint patch for weeks."

  "Yes, well forget that now. Mint we shall always have with us, but the amorphophallus titanum, this I must see." Ben collected his tools and picked up his bucket, gesturing to the glass greenhouse where it glinted through the trees. "Lead the way."

  Price's smile died a quick death and he jutted his chin at something behind Ben. "You've got company, though."

  Ben twisted around and sighed when he saw Oliver's lanky form striding across the lawn. He snatched up his shirt from where it was draped over a garden bench and tugged it back on. "Is it three o'clock already?"

  "Afraid so, Sir Ben. I hope it's still bloomin' when you return."

  "I trust you to keep it that way," Ben said, clapping the man's shoulder with forced cheer. "Until tonight."

  "Aye, sir. Be safe out there," Price cautioned, stooping to pick up the bucket.

  Ben rubbed the dirt off his hands and began buttoning his shirt. "You've got bad bloody timing," he called to his cousin.

  Oliver thrust his hands in his pockets, surveying Ben's dishevelled appearance in disdain. "You did remember, didn't you?"

  "Don't be ridiculous. Of course I did. Time got away from me, that's all."

  "Time does tend to do that," Oliver drawled. "You can't go see an earl looking like that."

  "He's not an earl. He's a suspect." Ben pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and shook it out, wiping the sweat from his face and heading towards Oliver's carriage at the end of the drive.

  "He can be both. At any rate, the earl is a suspect? As of what, last night's doings?" Oliver hastened to catch up.

  "As of him confirming my suspicions. Five of our seven victims are on his list, and possibly a sixth if we're counting our hapless Mr. Foster. He's the only one who knows of the list, so he is the only one who could target them."

  Oliver frowned and nodded. "Possibly, but what of the two not on the list? And anyway, what would be Hastings' motive? He claims he wants to protect those people."

  "And everyone always tells the truth."

  "You must have other reason to think he's our man," Oliver guessed. "You wouldn't blindly accuse anyone, no matter how jealous you are of him."

  Ben jolted to a stop. "I do beg your pardon? I am not jealous. What would I be jealous of? And as it happens, I do have reason. That glyph carved on Foster's tongue."

  "What about it?"

  "That trick Foster did with the ropes, that had black magic written all over it, no preparation, no circle, no clear power source. The glyph on his tongue, not so much. I've seen that sort of thing before; it was Ancient Latin, just like I use in my work. Whoever carved it knew what they were doing. Someone with formal training."

  "I suppose it would have to be airtight, for a single glyph to beat out a Truthspeaking spell cast by two powerful practitioners," Oliver mused as they reached the large Conclave-branded carriage.

  "Exactly." Ben sighed, staring into the dark carriage. "Do we have to?"

  "You know it's good for business. What if we must arrest Hastings, eh? You want to sling him over the back of your horse like a sack of potatoes?" Oliver hopped into the carriage and held the door open, grinning.

  "The idea has its merits," Ben grumbled, but climbed into the stifling carriage.

  As he settled down and the vehicle lurched into motion, Oliver leaned forward and steepled his fingers. "Have you thought it may be time to go public? Reveal the connections between the murders to the constables, make it a war? Enlist the queen's aid before any more die?"

  Ben was shaking his head before Oliver even finished. "We can't. The only ones who would know or care about that list are in the conclave, and it seems the list is connected to the murders somehow. Whoever did this is one of our members, and going public would be like a death knell to the investigation. I don't know about you, but I want to actually catch the scum."

  "Fine, fine." Oliver crossed his arms. "But I don't like it. It's getting too big for us alone."

  "Let's just see how things go with Hastings," Ben said wearily. "Have you narrowed down our list of suspects at all?"

  "There's still Mr. Punch and Sir Lorain. The murder of Avery was only a week after they joined the Conclave. They've been making noises about the Conclave being too old fashioned and stuck in its ways. But I still don't see clear motive there." Oliver looked at Ben hesitantly. "Quite honestly, from an outside perspective, you, dear cousin, wo
uld be the most likely to have done it. You're the only one who's benefited."

  "And we know I didn't, so let's focus on real possibilities, shall we?"

  "Fine." Oliver was silent for a moment, then his lips twisted into a small smile. "You know, there could be merit to what Punch and Lorain have been spouting. We have been a bit stuck in our ways. I've been reading A Study of Theoretical Blood Magic, and there are some rather interesting ideas presented."

  "Blood magic?" Ben straightened, staring at Oliver. "I hope you're joking. That is simply black magic by another name."

  "Perhaps it's more complicated than that," Oliver said, his smile straining around the edges. "Isn't everything, in life? I'll drop off the book sometime. No harm in reading, is there?"

  "There can be plenty of harm in reading." Ben continued studying Oliver, but no hint of what the man was thinking crossed his features. He sat back against the cushions. "I won't let thousands of years of traditions go for a book. But feel free to waste my time if you like."

  "I do like," Oliver replied.

  "Do you think we ought to stop by and check on Lady Whitcomb and Lady Kenward?"

  "What? Why?"

  "To see how she's getting on after last night." Ben refused to blush and steadfastly stared out the window. "Quite a harrowing thing, seeing someone die for the first time."

  "Perhaps it's not the first time," Oliver remarked, examining his fingernails. "She seemed quite fine to me, but of course, who am I to stand in the way of young love?"

  "It's not--" Ben clamped his mouth shut, refusing to protest. It would just add fuel to the fire with Oliver's teasing. "We are her friends, you idiot."

  "Isn't that what I said?" Oliver lifted his brows, all innocence, then rapped the side of the carriage and called to the driver. "Stop by Lord and Lady Kenward's on our way to the Earl of Denby's, if you please."

  Ben lapsed into thoughtful silence for the rest of the drive, considering Oliver's words. Perhaps it was worth speaking to those two young bucks, Punch and Lorain, but his gut told him they weren't the culprits. There was no way two inexperienced fellows like that could escape Ben's notice a whole year. He'd had them followed the first few weeks after Avery's murder, and the reports had seemed so harmless, he had moved them low on the suspect list.

  Then again, perhaps they would be worth a second look. He resolved, once he got home, to send out a few messages to check in on the fellows again. Better safe than look a fool for missing something obvious.

  When they arrived at the Kenward townhouse, they made their way up to the front door side by side, and Ben rapped firmly. He refused to get nervous. It wasn't supportable to get sweaty every time he saw Charlotte, now that he was going to be seeing her more often like this.

  The door swung open to reveal a young butler, a man with light brown hair slicked back from his forehead and a formal posture.

  "Here to see Lady Whitcomb and Kenward, if they're about." Oliver flipped a card between his fingers towards the butler.

  The butler took the card and examined it, then looked up and gave his own polite smile in return. "I'm sorry to say the ladies are out."

  "What? Out?" Ben stepped forward, frowning. Why on earth would they be out? Shouldn't they be staying in their rooms resting after a harrowing experience? "Where did they go?"

  The butler's smile went cold, and he tucked the card into his pocket. "I assure you, I will inform them that you called, my lord."

  "That's enough," Oliver muttered with an eyeroll and an apologetic smile to the butler. "Thank you, we'll be on our way then."

  Ben turned and made his way back down the sidewalk, disgruntled and ready to launch into a rant. "Idiotic woman. If that isn't completely typical."

  "You're being rather harsh, don't you think?" Oliver cut him off. "Why do you turn into such a brute whenever Charlotte is the subject at hand?"

  Ben stopped, turning to face Oliver and opening his mouth, before closing it again and sighing. "I don't know," he was forced to admit.

  "You like her." Oliver studied Ben for a long moment. "A lot. I was teasing about the young love before, but really, Ben. Do you want her?"

  Ben let out a breath in what he hoped would pass for a carefree chuckle. "She hates me, so what good would that do anyone?"

  Oliver studied him, amusement warring with compassion in his gaze. "Believe it or not, the hatred is a good thing."

  "I don't see how."

  "It means you get under her skin. Just trust me." Oliver gestured to the carriage once more. "Now, it sounds like she's perfectly fine, and if you don't mind me saying, I'm beginning to think she can take care of herself. We, on the other hand, are running late for an important meeting with the earl."

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Foul Fish Fiasco

  "Now, what exactly is it you need us to do?" Sophie leaned forward in the shadowed interior of the carriage, gripping Hollis' hand in both of her own.

  Charlotte smiled. "I need to get into the earl's office. I highly doubt he would receive us there, so I have two ideas. Either we all go in, I claim to be ill and go searching for a chamber pot, or you two go in and I attempt to sneak around the back. But given how poorly that went before, I think the chamber pot route would be better."

  "I really don't think any of this is a good idea," Hollis interjected. "Just to attempt a voice of reason. Not that either of you would listen."

  "No indeed," Sophie proclaimed. "So just try and be helpful, love. We shall be sure to keep Lord Hastings occupied, and convince him that you truly do desperately need the chamber pot. But I really think I ought to come with you, Lottie, just in case."

  "In case what?"

  "Well in case he's got some sort of traps, or something."

  "Traps? It's not a dungeon, it's an office. I'm just going to pop in, have a quick peek around to see if I can find the list, and pop back out again."

  "You saw what happened to the last person who tried to take it!"

  "That wasn't because of Hastings." Charlotte rolled her eyes. "Anyway, I used to live with Avery. If any of us three are equipped at all against Conclave tricks, it would be me. So, can we all just shut it and focus?"

  "Yes. Yes, all right. If I think Hastings may be about to find you or go looking for you, I will play God Save the Queen on the pianoforte as loud as possible," Sophie said, and began climbing out of the carriage.

  "And if there is no pianoforte, you can be assured she will sing it. Top of her lungs," Hollis told Charlotte with a pat on her hand, and followed his wife outside.

  In no way reassured, Charlotte emerged into the warm summer sunshine and drew in a deep, steadying breath. Everyone was out and about today, and she noticed two ladies strolling past and giving her a pointed look. She would probably be laughed at for being abandoned in the middle of a dance by Lord Hastings, and now showing up at his front door.

  She would have to get him back for that one.

  The three friends made their way through the front gate and up the narrow walk to the front door, which swung open to reveal the same ancient butler from before, who bowed and led them into the sitting room. The decorations were all quite modest, with the dark leather furniture and moody paintings giving it a bachelor's den feeling.

  "I shall fetch Lord Hastings," the butler rasped, turning to leave the room. "Tea will be in shortly."

  "I do beg your pardon," Charlotte blurted before he could get too far. She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. "Could you please show me to the ladies'? I find myself needing a washroom. Urgently."

  "Oh dear." Sophie's face was a picture of compassion, and she rubbed her palm up and down Charlotte's back. "Do you think it was that awful fish from the ball last night? I was so certain it smelled off."

  "Oh, don't mention fish," Charlotte moaned, clamping her hand over her mouth.

  The butler turned pale and averted his gaze from Charlotte. "Yes, of course, my lady. Ah, follow me."

  Charlotte bobbed her head, keeping her f
ingers pressed to her lips as she hurried after the butler. They made their way down the narrow hallway to the back of the house, and Charlotte darted glances this way and that. To the right, another hallway branched off, and she thought she heard a murmur of Hastings' voice down that way. She had no time to examine the area further as they arrived before the door of a tiny washroom.

  "Beg pardon for the humble nature of--"

  "This will do fine," Charlotte cut him off. She knew this was the height of bad manners, but she was trying to sell her story, and hopefully the butler wouldn't be the spiteful sort and spread tales of her indignities in the earl's washroom. "Thank you. There is no need to wait for me, I shall find my own way back to the sitting room."

  "Very well, my lady." He executed a perfect bow and spun on his heel, pacing back down the hallway to where Charlotte suspected the earl's office was.

  Charlotte ducked inside the washroom, taking a glance around. It was nicely outfitted with a flushing toilet and wash basin in pristine white porcelain. The walls were adorned with paintings of delicate miniature roses and baby's breath.

  Leaning against the door, Charlotte pressed her ear to it. There were the butler's footsteps, fading. Then a long pause, and two sets of footsteps returning. Murmured voices of Hastings and the butler. The footsteps faded once more, and after sixty full seconds of silence, Charlotte burst into action.

  Opening the door, she peeked out, ensuring no prying servants were lying in wait. Seeing the coast was clear, she crept out from the washroom, carefully closing the door behind her, and peered around the corner, down the hallway. Hastings' office door still stood ajar. Excellent. She wouldn't have to try climbing in through a window.

  Moving as quietly as possible, gathering her skirts so they didn't rustle on the floor, she began tiptoeing down the hall. Just another few steps and she would be safely out of sight.

  The front doorbell rang. She froze and glanced down the long hallway to see the butler, stepping into view to answer the door.