The Perils of Presumption (The Conclave Series Book 1)

by Sarah Sokol

  Ben choked and laughed. "Perhaps the artists find the subject matter pleasing. But before we change the subject to the impure minds of sculptors, I wish to inquire further about your journey to the country. Kenward mentioned something about a fire?"

  "Oh. Yes, it was a very tumultuous visit." Charlotte reached down to trail her fingertips in the cool water of the fountain. "First Henry's daughter was dying, then she wasn't, and then my stables caught fire. A servant left a lamp burning and it knocked over. But the fire was put out, nobody was seriously injured, and Margaret is fine, so all is well."

  "Henry?" Ben watched Charlotte's features, now serene and untroubled in the moonlight. "Who is Henry?"

  "Pardon me. He's one of my neighbours, a widower. His daughter Margaret has been one of my patients for two years now, poor thing."

  "I see." Ben frowned, imagining a shaggy old grey-browed gentleman to make himself feel better about that statement. "Your... what you... er, you weren't able to help her? With your..." He twiddled his fingers.

  Charlotte exhaled a laugh and shook her head. "Oliver told you. Of course. Well, I have tried, over and over, but I've been unable to help her. Sometimes I think I've managed to push the illness back, but the next time I visit, there it is strong as ever. I've never seen anything like it."

  "Interesting." Ben didn't know anything about her magic, but he trusted her word. "Perhaps it's not a natural illness."

  "You mean, something magical? Are there magical diseases?" Charlotte asked.

  "Indeed, the Purcells were well known for their ability to conjure contagious diseases and instil them within living creatures," Ben said. "The diseases would resist all normal treatments. But such magic has been abolished for many years. And your treatment isn't exactly normal, is it?"

  "Is there a way you can tell?" Charlotte asked. "If you saw the girl, could you see if the disease was of magical origin?"

  "I don't know." Ben had seen a few victims in his youth, but he hadn't been as hardened to the horrible sights as he was now. He had been averting his gaze from the vomiting and pustules, not looking closer. "Perhaps. I'd be willing to try if you wished."

  "I would try anything," Charlotte said. "Thank you. Perhaps you can come with me next time if you are able."

  "Of course." Was it Margaret's plight that put such an achingly tender expression upon Charlotte's face? Or Margaret's father? Damnit. Ben knew he shouldn't, but the question burst from him against his will. "What are Henry's intentions towards you?"

  Charlotte looked startled, then her brows drew together and her lips turned down. "Truth be told, he wishes to marry me. I have refused him, but he continues asking. It makes things quite... awkward."

  A surge of annoyance shot through Ben, and his knuckles tightened their grip on the edge of the fountain. He forced himself to wait for it to fade, taking in deep breaths through his nose. Nobody would benefit from a fit of jealousy, especially not Ben.

  "I see," he managed to choke out. After a few more breaths, the tightness in his chest receded and he looked back up at Charlotte.

  She stared at him, looking understandably alarmed. "Are you all right?"

  "Fine," he said, pushing back upright and straightening his jacket. "So sorry. That does sound awkward. This may be forward of me, but why don't you wish to marry him?"

  Charlotte sighed and moved around the fountain towards the path that led back to the house. "Oh, I don't know. I just don't wish to. I've given it a lot of thought, but I always assumed if I wanted to marry someone, and they asked me, I would be glad. With him I'm just annoyed and wish he would stop."

  "I suppose you should trust your feelings, then." He stepped up to her side and offered his arm.

  "Indeed." She laid her fingers upon his sleeve, and they walked in silence for a few moments more. As they began to approach the back steps, her feet hesitated. "Was there anything else you needed to say?"

  I think I might love you. The words popped into Ben's head, though thankfully he caught them before they escaped his mouth. He felt his whole face flushing scarlet from the tips of his ears to his neck. Good lord, he was ridiculous. Stupid idiot.

  "About the investigation," Charlotte continued with a self-deprecating laugh.

  "Er, I think that's all. Well, one more thing." He cleared his throat, looking away. "Do you think, now that you trust me, and you know we're making progress, you might step back from this whole thing? Allow Oliver and I to handle things? I worry for you, wondering what you and Sophie are getting up to."

  Charlotte smiled up at him, and her fingers tightened to squeeze his arm. "Yes. I could do that."

  Ben blinked in astonishment. As Charlotte released him and continued up the steps to the door, he stared after her, and in that moment, he could've been knocked over by a feather.

  Either he had gone mad, the world was ending, or Lady Charlotte Whitcomb had just been agreeable.

  All possibilities equally likely.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Archbishop’s Asylum for Fatherless Children

  "We're not stepping back from this situation." Charlotte pushed upright from her chair, ignoring the pins that scattered from her bangs, and began pacing in restless circles around the small bedroom. She hadn't had a chance to discuss her discoveries with Sophie the night before, but at last they were alone.

  "Definitely not, but sit down, dear," Sophie reminded her. "Fashionably late is different than just plain late."

  Charlotte cast herself down into the chair once more, submitting herself to Sophie's attentions. "And anyway, I don't feel bad for lying to Ben. He lied to me, after all. Now we are even."

  "And that's definitely the way relationships work," Sophie agreed with serene smile.

  "Besides, if Avery was killed by someone in the Conclave, how can we know Ben is safe? What if he's in danger? I couldn't forgive myself if I just went back to the country and a week later he was killed."

  "It's been an entire year since he took power," Sophie pointed out. "Surely if he were in danger because of his status, something would've already happened."

  Charlotte frowned, toying with the various colours of silken ribbons piled up on the polished mahogany vanity. "True. But then why was Avery killed if not for power? And all those murders of commoners being somehow connected... I just don't understand. It's lovely that Ben shared the progress of the investigation with me, but I don't think it has enlightened me that much. Quite annoying."

  "I suspect there are still things about which Ben is keeping you in the dark," Sophie said with a nod. "Men are always doing things like that. 'Oh we'll tell her just enough to keep her out of trouble.' And it always turns out to be just enough to get us into trouble, instead."

  "Indeed." Charlotte tugged at the neckline of her yellow gown, trying to hide some of her décolletage. "Once they accept we are insatiably curious and rampant troublemakers, everything will be much better."

  "Yes. Do stop tugging at that, you're going to rip it, Lottie."

  Charlotte groaned and released it with a sigh. "If I wear it too high I'll be labelled a prude, and too low I'll be called a strumpet. I do wish we could just be like gentlemen; pull on our coats and be done with it."

  Sophie snorted. "Don't let Holly hear you say that. He's always going on to me about how bloody long his valet takes to tie a cravat."

  "It's just such massive importance placed on such inconsequential things."

  "Perhaps so, but it is the way things are. If you wish to join the ranks, you wear the uniform. And the neckline of your gown is perfect." Sophie plucked up the pins once more and thrust them with brutal efficiency into the braids wound around Charlotte's head, then began teasing at the little curls dangling around her neck and temples.

  "Do you suppose those rumours Lady Grayson was spreading will make things uncomfortable for me here?" Charlotte met Sophie's eyes in the vanity mirror.

  "My circle won't let that spiteful hag besmirch you, Lottie. I promise."

  "
Isn't Lady Grayson part of your circle?" Charlotte tilted her head forward as Sophie fastened a silver leaf necklace at the back of her neck.

  "Certainly not anymore." Sophie huffed and shook her head. "I invited her because she's a widow, I felt sorry for her. But just because you go through hard times doesn't mean you have to turn into a great gossipy windbag."

  "And you would never be a gossip or a windbag."

  "Certainly not."

  Charlotte turned in the chair to face her friend, shaking her head and hiding a smile. "Do you suppose you could break your no-gossiping rule to help me tonight? We're listening for word of anyone who might have been acting strangely the past year."

  "Anyone in the Conclave, you mean," Sophie clarified as she squeezed her feet into her trim white shoes and began doing up the buttons. They were in a new fashion, with exceedingly high heels, and Charlotte was certain Sophie was going to fall before the night was out. The shoes did compliment her dress wonderfully, though. She was resplendent in a crimson ball gown, her brunette waves caught with careless grace into a topknot.

  "Yes." Charlotte followed her, tottering briefly on her own heels before managing to find her balance.

  "Very well then." Sophie surveyed Charlotte with a once-over, and an approving gleam entered her eyes. "You look absolutely ravishingly devastating, Lottie. If Lord Winters was smitten before, now he will be incomprehensibly and irrevocably in love with you."

  Charlotte didn't respond, but turned away to rummage for her matching silk reticule, because this time she simply could not hold back her beaming grin.

  However, when they alighted from their carriage and made it past the initial crush into the main ballroom, Ben was nowhere to be seen. It was a public ball, a charity event for the Archbishop's Asylum for Fatherless Children, so it was more crowded than private parties tended to be. Perhaps Ben had rejected the invitation for fear of so many people. Charlotte tilted up on her tiptoes to peer through the red uniforms of the officers milling about trying to secure dances for the first set.

  "Oh, there's Lord Stoneworth," Sophie cried. "Glorious to have spotted him right off. Hollis, escort us to him, would you?"

  "Right away, dear." Hollis offered his right arm to his wife, his left to Charlotte, and the three promenaded across to where Lord Stoneworth was engaged in speaking with a small snub-nosed man. Hollis waited for an appropriate moment of laughter between the two before stepping into view.

  Oliver brightened at the sight of them. "Hallo, you lot. I say, what a glittering bunch of jewels you look. I shall have to tell Ben what he missed."

  "Your flattery is not needed, but appreciated," Sophie replied. "Where is that stodgy old bowl of porridge tonight?"

  Oliver guffawed aloud. "Bowl of porridge, I shall have to remember that one. He's on crown business tonight, I'm afraid, and I shall have to depart soon to join him. Perhaps you will allow me to secure a dance with each of you fine ladies before I leave?"

  Charlotte performed an elaborate courtesy. "I would be delighted."

  Sophie followed suit with a demure, "Thank you," and soon thereafter the musicians struck up a rousing polka.

  Charlotte was asked to dance by a handsome young officer in the same set and was able to lose herself in the pleasant twirling and swirling, the rhythm of the music and the energy of the room around her.

  When the polka was complete, Charlotte barely had a chance to catch her breath before Oliver approached her to claim his quadrille. Though she enjoyed the pleasant company, she couldn't help but let her eyes stray around the crowded room, draped in colourful purple and white silks, the arching ceilings lit by chandeliers.

  She could glimpse, through the large glass doors into the back gardens, the occasional hint of bare flesh, hear the whispered giggle of a secret assignation. It seemed as if nearly everyone in London was hiding something.

  A scrap of crimson caught the corner of her eye as she twirled to clap in the next move of the dance, and she frowned when she spotted Sophie limping heavily to the corner. Hollis was at her side, looking concerned and offering his arm, which Sophie reluctantly accepted.

  "You know, Charlotte, my ego is quite sturdy. If you'd rather be elsewhere, just say the word," Oliver murmured as he swept up to her side and gripped her waist for their next turn.

  "I think Sophie may be injured," Charlotte whispered back.

  Oliver's gaze sharpened and he nodded, making a quick, graceful move that twirled them completely out of their set, and into the side-lines. They slipped to the corner where Sophie leaned against the wall.

  "Are you all right?" Charlotte asked.

  "It's these silly shoes," Sophie said, waving her hand. "Nothing at all to worry about, a simple blister I am sure."

  "A moment, I will fetch you two some refreshments, perhaps something to dull the pain." Oliver gave a polite smile and bow before skating away into the crowd.

  Charlotte turned back to Sophie, leaning in to brush her fingertips against the other woman's shoulder. "You should let me help," she whispered.

  Sophie lifted her brows. "Are you certain? It is all right, just a blister. I shall have to sit out the dancing, that's all."

  "I wish to keep you dancing," Charlotte assured her with a warm smile. "Come now. I can't bear to see you in pain."

  "But I can't take my shoe off in the middle of the room."

  "It will be nothing like that. Nobody will notice."

  Charlotte closed her eyes before Sophie could argue further. She let a tendril of her green vines slip out of her fingertips, down, down through Sophie to surround the wounded foot. She gently repaired the torn skin, pushing at it to toughen it so no blister could occur again tonight. As she opened her eyes and withdrew, her arm was seized by a firm male grip, and she found herself spun around to face the worried blue eyes of Oliver.

  "What are you doing?" he hissed. He clutched two glasses of champagne in his free hand as he glared at her. "I told you not to do that in public."

  "What? How could you tell?" Charlotte glanced around to see if anyone was within earshot and was surprised to see that Duke Sutcliffe was standing just behind Oliver. She courtesied low, feeling Sophie mirroring her movements. "Oh, a pleasure to see you again, Your Grace."

  "I could tell because Sutcliffe was decent enough to point it out," Oliver said. "You must remember there are those with more than the five senses, here."

  "Oh." Charlotte swallowed hard, gazing up into the flinty expression of Sutcliffe. "I do beg your pardon."

  "Make no apologies, my lady, but that of a dance with me." Sutcliffe's face remained taciturn, but he performed a perfect bow. As he did, Charlotte noticed a surprising number of grey hairs in his mane. He must have seen a hard life or at least be somewhat older than he looked, to have salt and pepper like that.

  "Thank you, it would be an honour," Charlotte mumbled, wishing she had a moment to think up an excuse.

  There was no time for more words with Sophie or more cautioning glances from Oliver before the lively mazurka struck up. Charlotte felt something like trepidation building in her chest as she was led to the dance floor by the imposing duke.

  At first, the rigours of the dance did not allow further conversation, for which Charlotte was glad. It was difficult to ignore the icy presence of Sutcliffe and his perpetual frowns, and the man walked with an arrogant swagger she found distasteful. She was beginning to wish she had refused despite a lack of excuse and stayed with Sophie when he finally broke the silence.

  "I enjoyed Lady Kenward's soirée. Please extend my gratitude for the invitation."

  His words were stiff, but impeccably well-mannered, so Charlotte smiled determinedly. "Of course, we were honoured by your attendance."

  "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation with Winters at supper. He mentioned you were a doctor?"

  Charlotte had to execute a succession of hops before she could respond. "Oh, well sort of. Yes, as Lord Stoneworth mentioned before, I am a bit of an herbalist."

/>   "Indeed? Yet I did not see you administering herbs to your friend a few moments ago," Sutcliffe's dark gaze pinned on hers, intelligent and curious. For a moment it reminded her of Ben. "And I felt a surge of magical energy, something I haven't felt before."

  Charlotte flushed pink. It seemed, though Sutcliffe was quiet and taciturn, he did not lack wit. "You have caught me out, then, Your Grace. Yes, I have some measure of healing skill."

  "As far as I know, healing is not something the arcane has ever been able to accomplish, unless the affliction was magical in origin. Has Lady Kenward been cursed, then?"

  Charlotte was grateful that the dance took her away down the line of ladies at that moment so she could consider how to respond. It seemed as if Sutcliffe already knew just enough of her story to think the worst. She couldn't have the Conclave thinking she was a black magic practitioner, casting shame on Avery's memory or any shadow of doubt on the investigation into his murder.

  Better to come clean in as vague terms as possible. They joined up once more and she took a deep breath, meeting his expectant gaze. "Indeed, I have a small healing gift, but I have not studied the arcane arts. Perhaps it is simply a blessing from God."

  "I see. Just something you were born with, then."

  Something about his eyes made Charlotte uneasy. "Ben knows of it, of course," she blurted. "Lord Winters, that is. He is working with me to learn more about it, and perhaps how others could study it."

  All lies, of course, but perhaps it would help convince Sutcliffe she wasn't some evil practitioner.

  "Interesting. I will have to ask him what discoveries he has made so far," Sutcliffe mused, expression still stoic. As the final notes of the dance played, he sketched a polite bow and offered his arm. "Will you take a turn about the room with me before I return you to your friends? I am fascinated by you, Lady Whitcomb."

  A small hint of suspicion began to bloom in the very back of her mind. Why was Sutcliffe so interested in her, in all this? Was he protective of the Conclave, or was he trying to glean information about her? Paranoia surged in her mind, but either way, she knew she had to follow this through. It was what she came here for, after all. Questioning Conclave members. Sutcliffe wasn't the only one who could probe.