Charmed at Christmas (Christmas at Castle Keyvnor Book 1)

by Claire Delacroix

  Having finished with his breakfast, Nicholas shoved his plate away from him and moved his chocolate cup closer. “When we were children, she told me I was ‘bothersome, but tolerable.’”

  “I’d say that’s an accurate assessment of you.” Teddy laughed again.

  It had been so long since he’d heard Teddy laugh, but marriage seemed to change that about his old friend, too. Tall, dark-haired Teddy had always been the most studious of their group, and the most likely to take everything far, far too seriously. “What did you think about her?”

  Nicholas ran his finger across the rim of his chocolate mug, thinking. “Back then, I considered her rigidity and frankness small prices to pay when the alternative was spending the summer alone.”

  Teddy nodded. “And now?”

  He considered this for a moment. “Over the years, I’ve come to think of her like a geometric proof.” When Teddy appeared confused, Nicholas continued, “She begins with the known facts, moves on to a logical deduction, and then arrives at an informed conclusion. She’s the most painstakingly rational person I’ve ever known.”

  And it’s infuriating.

  He did not say this to Teddy, however, for Teddy had returned his attention to his breakfast and the last thing Nicholas wanted was more of his not-so-subtle conjectures.

  “That doesn’t sound so bad,” Teddy mused. “I quite like rational people. I consider myself one, actually.”

  “Perhaps you and Felicity would get along, then.” Maybe Teddy would have better luck with her than he had. “You could talk to her. Convince her to come to London with me.”

  Teddy shook his head. “You’re like a brother to me, Nicholas. All the more reason why I wouldn’t dare interfere in this matter.”

  There was an underlying note to Teddy’s refusal—something that, if he didn’t know Teddy as well as he did, he might have considered akin to sort out your own woman.

  But Felicity wasn’t his. Not in that sense, at least. She was his problem, yes, but not his.

  He sighed. “How do you argue with someone who always thinks they’re right?”

  “You wait until they’re wrong.” Teddy shrugged. “Or, you accept that maybe, they really are always right.”

  He didn’t want to dignify that possibility. “When I was ten, I told Felicity that I thought I saw Uncle Randall’s ghost in his chambers. I know ghosts don’t exist—”

  “You’d be surprised,” Teddy said, making Nicholas start. His logical, erudite friend had never given the occult credence before. “I may have seen one when we were here in October. I’ve learned there’s much more to the supernatural than I’d care to admit.”

  Someday, he’d have to get the full story from Teddy about what exactly happened to him at the castle. He started to ask about it, but Teddy shook his head.

  “Another time. What did Felicity say to your ghost theory?”

  “She said ghosts were not provable by science, and thus they couldn’t exist.” He rolled his eyes when Teddy grinned at him.

  Years ago, he had taken comfort in how certain she sounded when making this declaration. He’d never heard anyone speak with such plain conciseness: arriving at an answer right away, without seeking anyone else’s opinion on the matter. Everyone in his life deferred to someone else. His mother looked to the patronesses of Almack’s to know what was fashionable, while his father blindly followed the Tories in the House of Lords, because that was what Hardings had always done.

  In the following summers, he realized that this bluntness was simply how Felicity spoke, whether or not she had irrefutable evidence to support her claim.

  With that realization, what had been reassuring became vexatious.

  “I think she sounds like a fascinating woman,” Teddy said. “Anyone who can challenge the Duke of Wycliffe and live to tell about it has my vote.”

  Nicholas frowned. “You make me sound like an ogre.”

  “No, just a powerful man.” Teddy’s voice lost its flippancy, becoming grave. “It’s easy to forget what others face when you live like we do. But you said this girl has no family left. Do right by her, Wycliffe.”

  Nicholas’s head jerked up at the use of his title. Teddy never called him Wycliffe—when they’d gone to school together, he hadn’t been the duke.

  “I’m trying to,” he said, suddenly uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation.

  “Do more than try,” Teddy demanded. “Be the man you were when you drafted that Night Watch Bill.”

  “That man was made to look like a fool,” Nicholas reminded him.

  Teddy shook his head. “That man had integrity. I almost lost Claire because I was too cowardly to fight for her. Don’t make the same mistake.”

  “It’s hardly the same thing,” Nicholas protested, yet Teddy’s features kept that serious cast. “Fine, I’ll do my best.”

  As he rode back to Tetbery, Teddy’s words kept repeating in his mind. “Do right by her, Wycliffe.”

  Chapter 6

  After an early breakfast, Felicity took Mallory to her laboratory in the secret chamber behind Randall’s old study. Thanks to the second Earl of Tetbery, who had been convinced assassins were after him, the estate had many clandestine passageways and chambers. While these passages hadn’t saved the earl—who really did have assassins after him, surprisingly—they served her purposes well.

  This room in particular had always been Felicity’s safe space, long before it had become her laboratory. Margaret had understood early on that her peculiar ward needed a place she could be unequivocally herself, free from the judging eyes of others.

  Felicity had never had to explain herself to Margaret. The countess had simply known, in that instinctively perceptive way she had, what she needed. They were as close as any mother and daughter could be—closer, even, than Felicity had been with her blood mother, who she barely remembered.

  As for Randall, he had been wonderful too. Felicity did not remember much about the earl, other than how his booming laughter had filled up a room, and how his voice had made Margaret’s eyes dance with happiness. He’d died when she was seven.

  Too long ago to make him viable for resurrection.

  Felicity sighed. So many people at Margaret’s funeral had told her the countess had “gone to a better place.” As if there was anything after death but the degradation of the body. As if Margaret would be reunited with Randall on some higher plane.

  She did not agree. In the past, she’d attended church every Sunday because it made Margaret happy—not because she believed in the scriptures. It was unwise to trust anything that could not be proved by science. Early alchemists had mixed their work with theology, unable to explain otherwise what they achieved.

  Felicity knew better. Science was the true faith—alchemy was an extension of that. There wasn’t a great beyond waiting for Margaret. Once her body passed the point Felicity could no longer reanimate it, there’d be nothing.

  And she wouldn’t—she couldn’t—allow Margaret to stay in eternal blackness.

  But she was running out of time.

  Frowning, Felicity pushed away the copy of Albertus Magnus’s De Mineralibus she’d been reading. Legend claimed that Magnus had possessed the Philosopher’s Stone, and passed it to Thomas Aquinas, but Felicity couldn’t find anything in either man’s writings to indicate this was true.

  “This place feels different.” Mallory sat atop a three-legged wooden stool, next to the long slab table Felicity used for her experiments. The table was currently cluttered with test tubes, various glassware full of clear, black, or amber-colored liquid, and dried plants she’d gathered from the beach.

  “How so?” Felicity asked, though she knew she wouldn’t like the answer.

  If it wasn’t for Mallory’s gift, she wouldn’t have brought her to the laboratory again, fearing she’d react the same way Tressa had to her new pursuits.

  Maybe, just maybe, Mallory might see the answer to her current problem in one of her visions, and all
of Felicity’s attempts at recreating the Philosopher’s Stone wouldn’t be for naught.

  “Are you having a vision?” Hope sprang in her voice—an almost foreign emotion to her these past six months.

  Because without Margaret, Felicity had no hope. Nicholas would take her to London, and find her someone dramatically unsuitable on the marriage mart.

  “Everything feels…darker. But no, I haven’t seen anything.”

  “Try, then.” Felicity’s demand came out sharper than she’d meant it to, too ripe with all her concerns.

  Mallory’s brows rose. She didn’t need to say anything for Felicity to realize she’d sounded irritable.

  Well, that was progress in understanding people’s reactions, at least.

  “I meant, would you be so kind as to try? It is very important.” She set down the pear-shaped crucible she’d been filling with mercury to heat over the burner. That was the beginning of the process to make sophick mercury, as dictated by the great alchemist Eirenaeus Philalethes.

  “Of course.” Mallory set her hand down on the table, her forehead wrinkling as she concentrated.

  For a minute, nothing happened. Felicity’s stomach plummeted.

  Despondently, Felicity lifted up the glass again.

  Mallory’s eyes turned to that cloudy gray that always signaled a vision. Felicity held her breath, not daring to move until Mallory’s eyes returned to normal again.

  “What did you see?”

  Mallory blinked, shaking her head as if to clear it. “Hand me some foolscap.”

  Felicity moved to the cabinet against the back wall, pulling out the second drawer from the bottom and removing some paper. She selected a quill and ink pot from atop the cabinet, passing all three materials to Mallory.

  Lips pursed, Mallory dipped the quill in the ink and began to draw a circle, then a box around it, then a triangle around the box, and then another circle around all that. She held the paper up to Felicity. “Does this mean anything to you?”

  Felicity nodded. “It’s the alchemical symbol for the Philosopher’s Stone. That represents the four base elements together—fire, earth, air, and water.”

  “I thought that was but a myth,” Mallory said.

  “I thought so too.” Felicity’s cheeks flushed, and her heart beat fast, as it always did when she got to talk about alchemy. “But it isn’t. Mallory, I’ve created one: a real Philosopher’s Stone.”

  Mallory’s jaw dropped. “You can turn any element into gold?”

  “Er, no.” Felicity grimaced. “I’ve only managed to get the stone through the White Phase, transmuting the elements into silver.”

  Mallory grinned. “That’s still a massive accomplishment.”

  “I suppose.” Felicity sighed. If she had different goals, she’d be proud of her achievement—only a few alchemists had ever made it this far.

  But still, it felt good to hear the approval in Mallory’s voice.

  If only she’d feel the same when Felicity explained what she really needed.

  “Did you see anything else? Perhaps an experiment to bring the stone into its final transmutation? There would be a red coloring on the surface of the molten material.”

  Mallory shook her head. “No. Just the symbol.”

  “Blast it all,” Felicity cursed, with such vehemence that the crucible shook in her hand, splashing a bit of mercury onto the counter.

  “What’s wrong?” The confusion on Mallory’s face shifted into concern.

  That was the last thing Felicity needed—one more person being concerned about her wellbeing. It never ended well.

  “It’s nothing. Just spilled the mercury.” Felicity grabbed a cloth, frowning. Of all the things to spill. Mercury was a devil to clean up—it beaded and rolled around when it was exposed to air.

  She’d probably spend a quarter of an hour chasing it down.

  Mallory watched her suspiciously. “Something is bothering you, and it’s a lot more than spilled mercury.”

  Felicity was saved from a response by the door to her laboratory shifting open. She jumped in front of the table, trying to hide her experiments—until Tressa Teague popped into view, greeting her and Mallory.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Felicity turned back around to face the table. Heating the mercury could wait until after Tressa left. In the meantime, she’d work on crushing the milk thistle she’d gathered from the estate’s gardens with her mortar and pestle. It wouldn’t help with the stone—not directly—but it would strengthen Margaret’s liver when she was brought back.

  If she were brought back.

  Felicity ground the pestle into the ceramic mortar harder, taking out her frustrations on the milk thistle.

  Tressa slipped behind her, looking over her shoulder. “Milk thistle?”

  “Aye.” Felicity did not offer more information.

  Tressa’s gaze traveled pointedly to the symbol Mallory had sketched. “So you’re still going through with this, Fieldsy.”

  She’d long ago grown to accept she’d always be Fieldsy to Tressa. The nickname did not irk her as Nicholas’s insistence on calling her Lissie did—because Tressa, unlike Nicholas, cared about her.

  “What choice do I have, Tressa? Especially with Nicholas back.”

  Tressa opened her mouth to object, but then stopped, her brows crinkling. “The Duke of Wycliffe is back? Why?”

  “For the wedding at the castle,” Mallory said. “My betrothed will be at the wedding, too.”

  “Your betrothed?” Tressa blinked. “When did that happen?”

  “Recently,” Mallory said, with a tentative smile.

  “You shall like marriage,” Tressa said, with the utmost confidence. “Provided it is with the right man.”

  There was bitterness in her voice then, making Felicity wonder if Tressa was fighting with her beau, Matthew Kent.

  But she didn’t get a chance to ask about that, because then Mallory said, “I saw him, the Duke of Wycliffe. In one of my visions, I mean. When I embraced Felicity yesterday, I saw her kissing him.”

  “Really?” Tressa’s lips curved mischievously. Like Felicity, she knew about Mallory’s visions—but unlike Felicity, she did not have a need for them. “You know, I always did wonder why he followed her around like a puppy.”

  “Puppies are cute,” Felicity said through gritted teeth. “Nicholas is not cute.”

  No, he was just all hard muscle, with golden-brown hair that looked like it truly had been gifted by the gods. Felicity ground the pestle harder into the mortar, until the pestle scraped the bowl.

  “From your reaction, I’m guessing that vision was a little too close to reality for you?” Tressa watched her, that cunning tilt to her mouth becoming a full-fledged smile. “It is not the worst thing in the world, Fieldsy. In fact, being kissed is quite delightful, and it’s a precursor to many other delightful things.”

  “I do not want to be delighted,” Felicity said stubbornly, as Mallory leaned forward with rapt interest. “I want to be left alone to carry out my life’s work.”

  She felt the weight of the stares of both girls and quickly amended that proclamation. “Er, excepting you two, of course.”

  “And Margaret.” Tressa said this quietly, her eyes darkening with something Felicity had long ago learned was her I’m worried deeply about you but you won’t listen to me anyhow expression.

  “And Margaret,” she echoed.

  Mallory’s gaze flicked between them. “I thought the Countess of Tetbery passed.”

  “She did.” Felicity set down the pestle, finally. The milk thistle was now nothing more than powder. Instead, she busied herself with putting back the glassware she’d used recently onto the shelves behind the table, since it meant she could keep her back to both girls, and not see their expressions of disapproval.

  “I’ll explain it all later.” But she didn’t intend to do so. Not unless Mallory had another vision about the laboratory.

  “What does Nicholas want?” Tressa a
sked.

  “He wants me to go to London with him.” She pronounced the city’s name as though it were the vilest place in England—to her, it was, because it wasn’t Bocka Morrow. “He says I should be introduced to society. As if society is going to approve of me.”

  Tressa frowned. “That sounds dreadful. We won’t let it happen, of course. You can’t leave us, Fieldsy. I won’t stand for it.”

  “Thank you.” For the first time since Nicholas had arrived, Felicity felt a little more at ease. Her friend might not be able to fight Felicity’s battles anymore, but having Tressa in her corner still reassured her.

  Tressa nodded swiftly. “Always. But why would he want you to go to London, anyhow?”

  “Because it’s expected,” Mallory said. “Because we have one duty as women: to marry well.”

  “Balderdash,” Tressa bit out. “We deserve more. We deserve happiness.”

  “Which I’ll never have,” Felicity pointed out, “if he succeeds with his plan.”

  “You might find someone suitable in London,” Mallory said.

  “I highly doubt that.” With her back turned to place another group of herbs on the shelf, Felicity did not notice the wistfulness to Mallory’s words. Until Tressa tapped her on the shoulder, whispering that Mallory was concerned about her own impending marriage.

  “Oh.” She nodded, sending Tressa a grateful smile. She had not known—she never knew, when it came to other people’s emotions. Or her own emotions, lately. “Mallory, it will be fine. I am sure your family has picked out a very nice man.”

  Mallory smiled. “Thank you.”

  And for a moment, Felicity felt like she’d accomplished something almost as important as the progression into the Red Phase for her stone: she’d managed to make her friend happy.

  Chapter 7

  Nicholas had walked through the garden twice with no sign of Felicity. He was just about to admit defeat when he saw her. Not Felicity, but her closest confidante.

  Tressa Teague.

  He was certain it was her. It had to be—those long legs, that lanky frame, and that head of stick straight blond hair, as if lifted from his memories and given only the slight alterations of the past six years. It was the way she walked that spoke most to him: determined, lengthy strides, swift yet graceful, chin always up and eyes always searching for trouble to fall into headfirst.