Cursed: A Spellbound Regency Novel

by Lucy Leroux

  In all that time, Matteo only tried to speak to her once, when she was crossing the foyer after the children to take them upstairs early one afternoon. He appeared out of the shadows with that unnatural quiet step of his, startling her into stopping short when she should have continued after her charges.

  “Signorina,” he said, bowing deeper than was required for someone of her station. “I see you and the children have been enjoying the fine weather.”

  Blushing slightly despite herself, Isobel nodded. “It won't last long, I'm afraid,” she said, looking around.

  She hoped one of the Montgomerys would appear, and even found herself wishing for the count's oppressive and disapproving presence. But she was alone as Martin and Amelia made their way up the stairs and Matteo continued to make polite inquiries, mostly about the children and their lessons, which Isobel felt obliged to answer.

  Despite her apprehension, Isobel felt flushed and warm under the young lord's gaze. She avoided looking directly into his eyes, but keeping her focus below his neck just highlighted his broad shoulders and large muscular arms. She idly wondered if Italy had gentleman's sporting clubs like Gentleman Jackson's Pugilism saloon. The width and breadth of his shoulders suggested he spent a lot of time in such pursuits.

  Stop.

  Matteo wasn't a normal man, and she was not at liberty to enjoy his attentions.

  A little movement startled her again, and she looked down to see Amelia creeping close. She smiled down at her charge, marveling at the little girl's bravery. Amelia had shown every sign of being afraid of all adults and Matteo in particular.

  The little girl was a more perceptive child than most, and even though Isobel was fairly certain she didn't have the sight, she knew Amelia could feel Isobel's tension every time their guest appeared.

  The fact that Amelia had come down the stairs to stand with Isobel said a lot about her inner fortitude. She wondered how much of that was due the untimely death of her parents and being uprooted from the only home she had ever known.

  Matteo smiled down at her charge and kneeled down to talk to her. Isobel resisted the urge to pull the child behind her skirts.

  “And how do you like your new governess?” he asked softly after a brief discussion on the virtues of ponies, smiling up at Isobel.

  That single unguarded look confirmed that the shadowy darkness was still there, flickering behind his eyes. In fact, it seemed like that blackness had spread like a halo around his head.

  Amelia was politely answering his questions, but she squeezed Isobel's hand, betraying her discomfort.

  “My lord, I really must continue with this afternoon's lessons,” Isobel said gently, and Matteo straightened up with a wry grin.

  “Of course,” he said, shuffling back a few steps.

  His movement was slower than it had been a minute earlier and for a second she imagined that a flicker of pain crossed his face. He was definitely growing paler.

  “Are you feeling well, my lord?” she asked before she could stop herself.

  Matteo nodded, his expression growing distant. “I'm fine,” he lied quietly, before walking away.

  ****

  Isobel told herself that she didn’t care about what was wrong with Matteo, but his degeneration in the following days was so startling that she couldn’t help being concerned.

  He stopped wandering the grounds, trailing after her and the children. In fact, she no longer saw him much at all, even when the weather turned poor shortly afterward and they were all confined to the house.

  The few times she did see him, he was in such obvious pain that her heart hurt watching him.

  He could no longer walk unaided. The male servants that accompanied the Conte reappeared, helping Matteo from room to room while the house servants whispered like mad about the turn of events.

  “'E was doing so well a few days ago,” Mary said with a moue of dismay as she nibbled on some bread, standing near the kitchen hearth.

  Isobel, who had come to visit Cook and have a cup of tea, nodded as the matronly woman settled her large frame at the table.

  “Aye, but now he's as poorly as when they all arrived,” Cook said with a frown. “Must be one of those repeating diseases where the bad spells come and go. Like consumption.”

  Even though Isobel didn't know of any cases of consumption whose symptoms came and went, she nodded sagely in agreement.

  “It's such pity,” Mary continued. “E's such a 'andsome strapping man. I do hope 'e recovers quickly so 'e can enjoy the rest of 'is visit, riding and 'unting with the Master. 'E does seat a horse so well,” she gushed.

  Cook tsked. “If he does improve, you'd best stay out of his way. Stop peeking at him from behind your lashes. You know very well he only has eyes for one young lady here, one more appropriate to his station.”

  Isobel blushed as the two women turned to her with knowing grins. “I'm afraid you overstate the case,” she said. “His lordship has not expressed an interest beyond seeing me added to the guests for dinner. He is probably just bored and desires to converse with someone nearer his own age. And he's stopped asking for that as well, come to think of it.”

  Cook scoffed. “Only because he's too unwell to come down to dinner. Takes a tray in his room these days. His interest is as clear as day, or at least it was when he was well. Since he's taken a turn, he's withdrawn a bit but that's pro'lly just because he's ill. Must do something to a man's pride to have his sweetheart see him brought so low.”

  Isobel's eyes widened in alarm, and she nearly choked on her tea. “I'm not his sweetheart,” she said earnestly.

  “Not yet,” Mary replied in a sing-song voice before continuing to wax poetic on the width and breadth of Matteo's shoulders.

  Cook let the foolish maid go on and on, so Isobel hurriedly finished her tea before excusing herself and taking the rear stairs back up to her room.

  Things were not going well if even Cook believed Matteo was her sweetheart. If all the servants were of one mind, what were the members of the household thinking? Lady Montgomery probably wasn't concerned, but Sir Clarence and the Conte were probably irritated with her right now.

  She could only hope that Matteo recovered and this visit ended quickly. She didn't want to jeopardize her position here, and Sir Clarence did not strike her as an understanding person. In truth, if something untoward happened, she was sure the blame would rest on her.

  Lost in her thoughts, she was passing the family's private parlor on her way to the third-floor servant stairs. A loud thud inside the room startled her. Alarmed, she hurried to the doorway and saw Matteo, alone, sprawled on the floor. Instinct rushed her to his side. Hovering over him, she was torn between kneeling to help him and running for assistance.

  Then he looked up.

  His eyes were pitch black, a sharp contrast to his pale face. All the color he had gained in the last week was gone. His face was starkly etched with lines of pain and grief etched on either side of his mouth.

  Despite her intention to remain aloof, she dropped to her knees at his side. “Let me help, you my lord.”

  “No,” he said in a thin raspy voice, waving her away.

  She ignored him and helped him to his seat with a firm hand. “Should I call the servants? Perhaps find the count's footman? Or the Conte himself?”

  He shook his head. “Just go,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut as he put a hand to his chest and winced.

  Isobel wanted to wince in empathy too as he rocked back in his seat. Her hand was rising of its own accord to stroke his brow, but the flare-up of black in his aura stopped her short. Heart pounding, she retreated a step and he looked back up at her.

  “Leave!” he yelled, making her jump.

  She nodded weakly and turned on her heel, nearly crashing into the Conte, who'd appeared out of nowhere. The old man shot her another one of his disapproving stares before dismissing her with an irritated wave. Forced to walk around him, she
hurriedly made her way out of the room.

  Chapter 5

  Isobel hadn't seen their handsome houseguest for days, but her nights were filled with troubling dreams of him.

  She couldn't forget his eyes the last time she'd seen him. Or the pain that had been obvious in his voice. Distracted and still exhausted from lack of sleep, she went down to the kitchen for another cup of tea after morning lessons.

  The stable master, John, was visiting the kitchen, as well. He was still wrapped in his thick woolen coat and muffler, sipping on a large steaming cup next to the table where Mary and Sarah, Lady Montgomery's ladies maid, were chattering like magpies.

  “Did you hear? Another girl's gone missing!” Sarah said, her wide round face flushed.

  Isobel stopped short, half-way to the tea kettle.

  “A third has gone missing?” Isobel said, a sinking feeling in her stomach. She took the cup Cook offered her and sat next to the maids with a nod of acknowledgment at John. “Who is it this time?”

  John straightened importantly. “A scullery maid for the Hendersons. Janet. Not considered reliable.”

  The Hendersons were minor country gentry, with a small estate in the neighborhood. They didn't have as large a staff as the Montgomerys, who were the most prominent family in the area. The fact that one of their few maids had gone missing was troubling. Her absence would have been noticed. Even if she had been unreliable.

  “What the devil is going on?” Isobel muttered, forgetting herself.

  But only Sarah raised her eyebrows. The others just nodded or shrugged in agreement.

  John shook his head. “Except for Lottie, the missing women are not the most dependable sort. Might not have been missed under normal circumstances. Makes you wonder.”

  Isobel silently agreed that the circumstances were suspicious. If someone was luring away young women, perhaps to sell, they would have picked ones just like those who'd gone missing. Except for the baker's daughter, whose disappearance couldn't be explained away so easily.

  If a kidnapping ring was operating in the neighborhood, she had to believe they would have been more careful. All of the girls going missing in such a small and relatively isolated area like this simply called too much attention to the disappearances. Hunting young vulnerable women would have been easier in a city.

  Unless something else was going on. Throat tight, Isobel forced herself to swallow her tea as the others speculated, sometimes wildly, on the fate of the disappeared. Sarah's idea that the girls had been transported to the Colonies to become courtesans was by far the most entertaining.

  But sadly not the most likely, Isobel thought before Mary distracted her.

  “I'll be up to 'elp ye dress at quarter to seven Miss,” she said.

  “To dress? For dinner?”

  “Didn't you tell her?” Cook asked, scowling at Sarah. Her features smoothed and she smiled. “You've been asked to join the family for dinner again. It seems his lordship is feeling better. Had a turn last night. Woke up fit as a fiddle this morning, even went riding.”

  Isobel could feel the color draining from her face. “Is that right?” she asked, breathlessly.

  Was it possible?

  Of course it was. She'd seen the darkness seeping into Matteo's aura herself. She'd tried to ignore what that had meant, but the unsettled feeling in the pit of her stomach had been there from the moment she had seen him. And her current tension had been a constant companion since she'd learned of the missing baker's daughter.

  The coincidence between the missing girl and the man’s dramatic recovery was too great. She'd been hoping she was wrong, but she couldn't keep lying to herself. Matteo was responsible for the disappearances.

  And if he was, those girls were dead.

  “Are you all right?” John was standing in front of her, his hand on her shoulder.

  Startled, Isobel suppressed a shudder. “I'm fine,” she lied.

  Cook pushed John out the way. “You're as pale as a sheet gel. Do you feel ill?”

  Isobel took a shaky breath. “Er, yes. I think so. Maybe I've caught Amelia's cold.”

  The little girl, used to the milder climate of the south, had been suffering from a small cold all week. Isobel never got sick from those sorts of minor complaints, but it was too convenient excuse to ignore.

  “That's a pity. Why don't you head upstairs to your bed, and I'll send up a toddy. Maybe you'll feel better in time for dinner,” Cook said, as Isobel rose unsteadily from the table.

  “I don't think I'm going to be able to dine with the family,” Isobel said slowly, “Would one of you please convey my regrets?”

  Cook clucked her tongue. “Mary will inform the Master,” she said. “It's such a shame, you falling ill just when your suitor is better.”

  “He's not her suitor,” John scowled, and Isobel shot him a grateful smile.

  “No, he's not,” she agreed before taking her leave.

  The children's afternoon lesson was going to be canceled.

  ****

  Isobel sighed with relief as the dinner hour came and went. No one had questioned her 'illness'.

  She'd been in bed since mid-afternoon, truly exhausted in both body and mind. The afternoon's revelation had been difficult to stomach, but she knew the truth now.

  But what was she supposed to do? She couldn't stay in bed indefinitely. The Garibaldis were scheduled to stay on for another week at least. How could she look Matteo in the eye and not reveal what she knew about him? How could she look at him at all without screaming?

  Maybe it was time for her grandmother to die...again. Surely Sir Clarence wouldn't begrudge her a visit home to bury her grandmother? When he had questioned her about her background, she had been vague about her relations. He would have no idea the woman had passed long ago.

  A sick relative probably wouldn't win her any sympathy, but if one had passed away suddenly he would be extremely hardhearted to refuse her leave.

  She would have to send herself a letter somehow. If she suddenly received word of a dead relative without getting a missive addressed to her, then there was little hope of getting away and keeping her position. The downstairs footman collected the post from the nearby village of Ford every morning. She would need to get down there before he left.

  Formulating a plan, Isobel drifted to sleep.

  ****

  At first, the dream was sensual. She was standing in a darkened room with Matteo, who held her in a passionate embrace. Her body was pressed against his while his long-fingered patrician hands moved over her body. In her fantasy, Matteo was well and whole—and she was enjoying the touch of his gloved hands with an indecent amount of enthusiasm.

  But soon the soft caress became hard and threatening. The air in her lungs expelled violently as her chest was compressed with an arm tightening around her like a vise. Gasping for breath, she flailed wildly. Something was shoved into her mouth and covered with something rough.

  Certain she was being smothered to death, her eyes flew open as she clutched at the hand on her face. In the darkness of her room, she couldn't make out anything but a large hulking form bent over her.

  Terror flooded her body like mercury coursing through her veins. Panicked, she clawed at the hand covering her mouth in order to plead with Matteo for her life.

  The realization it was not him came as movement from the shadows caught her attention. The massive hand over her mouth was strong and calloused, the hand of a laborer or a servant.

  She tried to scream, but it was muffled by the gag that had been shoved into her mouth as she was hauled out of bed. Lashing out with all her strength, she kicked and screamed anyway, trying to get her assailant to release her.

  “Help me. This one's a hellcat,” her attacker hissed, and she nearly froze in surprise.

  The man had spoken in Italian.

  More muffled noises came as the second man stepped from the shadows to join the first, crossing a shaft
of moonlight as he did so. He was shorter and thinner than the first and she recognized him as the older servant that served Matteo in his illness. Which meant that the one holding her was the muscular, blunt-featured one.

  She doubled her efforts, a terrified whimper escaping her as she fought with all her strength, but it was useless. The second man took hold of her legs while the first held her arms and tied them together. They dragged her to the door and spirited her down the steps of the servant's staircase.

  They moved with practiced speed and stealth—a realization that made her heart sink. She doubted anyone had heard her muffled cries for help. Despite her struggles, she was soon out of doors, the cold night air seeping through her thin lawn nightgown with icy fingers. Tears welled in her eyes as she was unceremoniously dumped into the count's waiting carriage and locked inside. The two men climbed onto the driver's box, and the conveyance sped away.

  The carriage lantern was unlit and the curtains were drawn. In the dim interior, she could only make out the faint outline of the benches though the moonlight filtering through the covered windows. Isobel tried to sit up, but the violent rocking of the interior and her bound hands made it nearly impossible. Twisting she wormed and crawled until she was sitting up, using her legs to brace herself against the bench. With her hands tied in front of her, she lifted stiff fingers to her mouth to pull at the hastily tied gag.

  It took some effort to pull the cloth binding off. Coughing and spitting, she yanked at the gag until it came off in her hands. She couldn't be sure in the darkness, but the object in her hands resembled a man's cravat.

  Oh, God.

  Was this what had happened to the others? Had they been snatched from their very beds to feed the beast?

  In spite of what she knew, it was hard to acknowledge that she was referring to Matteo. Unable to process what was happening, her thoughts skittered over what had transpired to bring her to this point, kidnapped and being taken to him in the dead of night. And her mind threatened to freeze and go dark over what would happen next.