The Perils of Presumption (The Conclave Series Book 1)

by Sarah Sokol

  For now, she dropped her head to the desk and let herself weep for all that might have been.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The Last Word

  "Pardon me, Lord Winters!"

  Ben stopped on his way down the narrow hall towards his room, glancing over his shoulder at the smiling full-figured woman approaching him. The innkeeper's wife, a sweet and well-meaning woman who always took too many words to say nothing at all. "Yes, Mrs. Lewis?"

  "I hope you don't mind, there was a gentleman who called for you, and he started to wait out here, but the boys were playing hoop and stick indoors and it got a bit rowdy, so he asked to wait in your room, I do hope you don't find that terribly inconvenient or rude, I did let him in as he seemed to know you quite well, he spoke of you very fondly, you are not angry with me, are you?"

  Ben tipped his hat. "Indeed not, Mrs. Lewis. He was expected. My thanks."

  She opened her mouth, but before she could continue Ben turned and made his escape. A flutter of nerves filled his chest with a tight feeling, and he took a few deep breaths so he wouldn't make an arse of himself before he opened the door into the cramped quarters in which he had been staying.

  It was a simple room, furnished with a tiny wooden dresser, a basin for water, and a bed with a straw mattress. There, reclining upon the faded quilt like a king upon a throne, was Oliver.

  "Good god, man. How far the mighty have fallen," he drawled, bright blue eyes flicking lazily over Ben. "You could set up a tent in that lovely meadow nearby and have more comforts of home. And your cravat has never looked so limp. Why don't you at least send for your valet?"

  "It's temporary," Ben said with a roll of his eyes. "I'll be returning home soon enough."

  "Well." The teasing light left Oliver's gaze and he sat upright. "Sooner might be better than later. The Conclave requires answers, Sutcliffe has yet to be dealt with, and the queen has summoned you."

  He didn't need Oliver to tell him. The stresses waiting for him back in London were never far from Ben's mind. He set down his satchel on the dresser and turned to face his indolent cousin. "Yes. I am aware. Is there talk of insurrection?"

  Though the title of Conclave leader was often referred to as "king," in reality it was much more like a democracy. If all the members decided he was shite, the king could be easily divested of his crown.

  "Not yet. But give it a few days and I'm sure there will be."

  Ben shrugged and crossed his arms. "I'll return before then. I just have one more thing I must do. And on that subject, did you bring it?"

  Oliver rolled to his feet in a graceful cat-like move. He removed a small velvet box from his pocket and held it for a moment. "You're sure about this?"

  "Never been more sure of anything," Ben answered honestly. "Give it over."

  Oliver tossed him the box, and Ben flipped it open. The ring was silver, set with a deep green emerald flashing in the light, surrounded by delicate seed pearls.

  "I must say, it's perfect for her," Oliver commented. "Matches those fine eyes."

  "That's the idea, genius," Ben said. "But yes. It's perfect. I hope it fits."

  "Oh God, I hadn't even thought of that. How awkward if it's too small." Oliver snickered, wandering across the room. "Well, I've completed my tasks as delivery and messenger-boy. I'd ask you to stay for a drink, but I assume the last thing you want is more time with your dear cousin, when you've got that hunk of rock burning a hole in your pocket."

  "Astute as ever. They haven't got any of your brandy swill here anyway. I'll walk you out, shall I?" Ben slipped the box into his pocket and picked up his cane.

  "You know, on anyone else I'd think that was the face of a man going to the hangman's noose," Oliver said as he opened the door.

  Ben stepped through, then turned to lock it behind them. He took a deep breath and tucked the key into his waistcoat pocket. "Nonsense. No reason to be nervous. I'm only handing the woman a knife and my bollocks and hoping she does me the honour of not chopping them off."

  Oliver snorted a laugh, stepping deftly to the side as one of the innkeeper's children came dashing down the hall. "You're not making the prospect of marriage more appealing. I think I shall be a confirmed bachelor."

  "So you say. Until you meet the right woman," Ben replied. He wouldn't normally say sanctimonious nonsense like that, but he was feeling on edge.

  Oliver just smiled and shook his head. They made their way out of the madhouse of the inn as quickly as they could and stepped back out into the village. The sun darkened with drifting clouds and Ben squinted upwards.

  "You'd better get going if it's going to rain," he said, turning to Oliver and clasping his shoulder. "Thank you for bringing it. Truly. You may tell them, for better or worse, I'll be returning tomorrow."

  Oliver planted a noisy kiss on Ben's cheek. "She'd be an idiot to say no," he whispered, then pulled back and tipped his top hat. "Until tomorrow, then."

  "Until tomorrow," Ben agreed, wiping off his cheek. "Arse."

  "Nodcock!" Oliver sang out cheerily as he swung up into his horse's saddle.

  Ben had Merlin stabled behind the inn, but he felt too full of nervous energy to ride. Best he show up for a proposal not smelling of horse, he presumed. Though he'd never done it before.

  He strolled down the village street, watching the people milling about, children shouting, and farmers leading mules heavy-laden with goods to trade. It was a happy place. He could picture Charlotte and Sophie as little girls pushing each other and running down the lane.

  The thought of children seized him, and he frowned. Good lord, he hadn't even thought of children. Would Charlotte want them? Would he? Certainly not right away. His cheeks turned red as he realized he didn't even know where to purchase French letters.

  He was getting ahead of himself. First and most importantly came Charlotte and the burning question. Would she say yes? She accepted his kisses eagerly, smiled at him more every day, and he liked the way she teased him, made him laugh. Still, she had grown up strangely isolated for a lady of the ton. She didn't spend hours getting together her trousseau, designing wedding dresses in her mind, dreaming of the perfect man to sweep her off her feet.

  At least, that's what he assumed most ladies were like. But in truth he didn't know. His mother and sister were the only ones he had ever really--

  Oh, good lord. His mother and sister. Ben's feet stilled in the middle of the lane as he had the heart-stopping realization that Charlotte hadn't even met his family yet.

  Rain began pitter-pattering down, gently at first, then drumming his hat and beginning to soak his jacket. Well this was just fantastic. He couldn't propose looking like a drowned rat.

  Turning up his collar against the rain and wind, he forged his way ahead. He tried to avoid the puddles and splashing mud, but even so, by the time he arrived at the Whitcomb estate his trousers were thoroughly coated in grime.

  He stared up at the large house and wondered if Charlotte would be willing to leave it behind and live with him at Windy Oaks. It held a lot of memories for her. It was a wonderful place. He might like to live in the country. Avery had done it.

  There was no putting it off any longer. With his mind still in disarray, buzzing with thoughts as they leapt in and out like a swarm of grasshoppers, he started through the gate and up the gentle drive to the front door.

  As usual, it was not locked, so he let himself in and hung up his hat and coat on the hooks by the door. Stomping a few times and wringing himself out as well as he could, he began to wander, looking for Charlotte.

  He peeked into the sitting room where they had first met - no sign of her there. He could hear someone moving about upstairs, but Charlotte still walked slowly with a limp. Those were not her footsteps.

  There. No light was coming from Avery's study, but he heard a tiny, barely-audible sniffle from within. Immediately all thoughts of nerves, children, houses, families, and doubts fled his mind, and he strode down the hallway.

  A
s he burst into the study he took in the sight of his beloved, curled up in the leather chair behind the desk, head buried in her arms, weeping as if her heart would break. His own heart broke with her, and he cleared the space between them in a single stride, sinking down to one knee and wrapping his arms around her.

  She gave a startled gasp, peeping up at him through reddened eyes, then immediately turned into him and nestled her face against his shoulder. She clung to him, and he to her, taking comfort in the solid feeling of her in his arms. This was real. This was sure.

  He was sure.

  "Are you all right? What happened?" he asked after a minute, pressing kisses against her hair.

  She was quiet for another few moments, dragging in deep breaths and collecting herself. Then she lifted her face, tugged out her handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her little red nose.

  "Nothing happened," she said finally, giving him a watery smile. "I'm being stupid, that's all. I just can't stop thinking it was all my fault."

  "Oh." Ben stroked his fingers over her cheeks, drying away the tears as well as he could. "Then yes, you are being stupid. There are many people at fault in the world for many things, but you are perfect."

  Charlotte choked out a laugh and smacked his shoulder. "Now you're being stupid. Nobody is perfect."

  "I happen to be England's foremost leading expert on the concept of perfection, and I can tell you on good authority that--" Ben was cut off most pleasantly by Charlotte flinging her arms around his neck and kissing him.

  His surprise soon turned to a rush of affection and desire, and he wound his fingers up into her hair, anchoring her firmly against him. Her lips were so soft, and he nibbled at her lower one, tasting its shape, suckling it gently before releasing. He wanted to explore her. His tongue swept against the parted curve of her lips, and she whimpered against him.

  Her kisses were essential. As soon as she stopped kissing him, he was going to ask her to marry him. But he didn't want her ever to stop. He kept one hand in her hair, the other sweeping down to the small of her back, anchoring her hips against his. He groaned at the contact, daring to slide his hand down a little further, giving a squeeze to her lush, rounded backside.

  "I heard the front door open, so I brought some tea and c-- Oh! My goodness gracious me!"

  Ben heard what sounded like glasses shattering, tea splashing, and pulled back from Charlotte just in time to feel a mighty thwack across his shoulder as Agatha wielded the tea tray like a cricket bat.

  "Ow!" he exclaimed, reeling back and holding up his arms protectively. "For God's sake, woman--"

  "You scoundrel! Corrupting our lady! I saw your foul hand on her private parts, you swine," Agatha howled, hauling back with the tea tray for another strike.

  "Agatha! Stop this at once," Charlotte laughed, shocked and pink-cheeked. Ben was glad she was amused, but his shoulder was definitely going to bruise.

  "I will not stop! Not until this man proposes," Agatha said shrilly. She held the tea tray back in a threatening position, her cheeks wobbling with outrage as she glared at Ben. Her next words were more a demand than a question. "Will you be a gentleman and uphold your honour, sir?"

  Ben rubbed his shoulder. He had to choose his words carefully to escape another pummelling. "Er... No. I am not going to propose to uphold my honour as a gentleman," he started. "But!" he added hastily as Agatha drew back the tea tray higher still. "But I will propose because... I love Charlotte."

  "Oh." The exclamation escaped Charlotte in a quiet puff of air.

  Ben tried his best to ignore Agatha as he sank back down to one knee and fished into his pocket, hoping to all that was holy the ring was still there. His fingers clasped the velvet box and he withdrew it, and Charlotte's face flooded with colour.

  Was that an expression of joyous delight? Horrified shock? He could not tell, but he blundered ahead. "Charlotte. I... I love you, and I just can't... not. Will you? Er... marry me?"

  Charlotte was silent for a long moment, one hand pressed to her collarbone, her eyes flicking between him and Agatha. She leaned down and dropped her voice to a murmur. "You know, you really don't have to do this. I'll hold her off while you make a run for it."

  Ben grinned despite the furious beating of his heart. "Unnecessary, love. Do me a favour and put me out of my misery, will you?"

  Her eyes shining with tears once more, she nodded, sinking down to his level, ignoring the ring and wrapping her arms around him tightly once more. "I will," she whispered in his ear.

  "Oh, wonderful!" The tray clattered to the ground to join the rest of the tea things as Agatha clasped her hands together at her chest. Her smile beamed across her face, all trace of her former ire vanished. "I have always wanted to bake a wedding cake!"

  Epilogue

  Theodora Purcell was seeing things again.

  Shapes, faces in the mist, monstrous and demonic, they curled up out of the black smoke. They rushed towards her, crashing over her like the waves of the sea, and she gave a wordless shriek, voice lost to the howling winds. Where she imagined her hand would be involuntarily squeezed, seeking the ghost of her husband's fingers as if she could still feel them.

  They drifted together in an astral sea of smoke, shadow and horror. At first time had passed slowly, then it lost meaning all together. There was no sense of self, no physicality, no skin to sag and age, no bodily function, no mobility.

  Only the perpetual, deathless existence of mind. The timeless consciousness that could not be escaped.

  The immutable loneliness.

  Theodora knew Cecil was near. She could feel him like a burning flame in her mind. It was only her love for him that kept her from going mad. It allowed her to remember. That, and the burning rage festering within. When all she could do was feel, she stoked her emotions like a furnace, remembering the circle of practitioners who had doomed her to this fate.

  She remembered every face in perfect clarity. She repeated their names over and over in her mind. She swore to herself again and again, with each waking moment of her eternity, that she would make them pay. They would all burn, their insides would boil, their brains would melt, and they would beg for mercy before the end.

  But mercy would not come.

  Theodora's eyeless sight caught something. Something, a flashing green light. It was shining, a tiny, flickering, weak beacon through the thick fog shrouding her.

  That was new. That was different.

  Nothing new or different ever happened. She tried to exert her will, strained to move towards it, but she could not. She could only watch and wait as she slowly drifted towards the light.

  It blinked again, going out, and her formless self stopped, hovering once more. She cursed, long and vehement in her head. Come back. Come back, you filthy bloody light. Come back and save us.

  As if conjured by her will, the light resumed its flickering. She drifted, Cecil with her, close by her side. They swirled towards it like water down a drain, and the closer they got, the more the mists began to clear.

  There. Surrounding the green light, barely visible, yet becoming clearer with each passing moment. Faces, figures. Women. A group of women, holding hands. Their eyes were closed, and they were chanting. Swaying.

  The chanting drew Theodora in, further and further, until the green light was a bright, vibrant almost-blinding presence, driving away the mists.

  These faces were not disappearing. They were growing more solid, more real with each passing moment. Theodora felt a heavy weight abruptly dragging at her, pulling her down, down towards the light.

  Cecil, she shrieked wordlessly, but she could not hold him, could not grasp him, and found herself ripped away, his flame growing pale and cold the further she was pulled from him.

  No, no, take me back. Cecil, come with me, she wailed, but it was too late, the pull was too strong. The chanting grew louder, filling her ears, as her body grew heavier and heavier, and pain ripped through her.

  Then her ears rang with a single high-
pitched bell tone, and her body formed around her. A physical, real body, full of agony and the impossible pleasure of sensation. Long black hair brushed her pale shoulders, and her blue eyes burned red in her skull. She slammed to the wooden floor of the humble cottage, and looked up at the stunned faces of the women surrounding her.

  There were candles flickering all around. She was in the centre of a spell. The women were in long white gowns, dark hair falling about their shoulders.

  One of them stepped forward, a woman with a proud face, too strong to be beautiful. "Theodora Purcell. We command you, in the name of the Coven, to divulge the secrets of the astral plane, and instruct us in the ways of blood magic."

  Theodora pushed herself upright, staggering under the weight of her own body. Yes. The power was still there. Lashing up in a thicket of angry thorns and vines that surged through her fingers, spreading to find purchase, sinking their hooks into each of the women in the circle.

  Through gritted teeth, her voice hoarse and unpractised, she growled low. "What... have you... done?"

  About The Author

  Sarah Sokol

  https://voiceofsokol.com/

  Sarah Sokol is a Pacific Northwest author and Audible narrator who writes paranormal, romance and fantasy fiction; her first published work was Death Tally, an urban fantasy-romance.

  She is happy to use her childhood experiences of cultural isolation and the exploration of nature to infuse unique characters, perspectives and stories into real-life situations.