The Would-Be Witch

by Boucher, Rita

  “I still can produce some surprises,” Adam said facetiously. Philippe had always been known more for his sheer physical power and mechanical skills than his wit. Obviously, the possibility that Adam might be a guest had not yet dawned. That might well work to advantage. “Been with Barone long?”

  “But half a year. After our fiasco in Italy, I return to France, travel for a bit with Torrini, keep his automaton in repair. Then I think maybe to perform on my own.” His turban slid precariously as he shook his balding head in gloom. “A mistake! The quickness of hand; I have. The props, I make, but the savoir-faire; non. I lack your finesse. You, you had but to look at the audience, and poof! You know what they wish, they eat from your hand. Me, they pelt with old fruit.” He busied himself under the drapes. “So, I sell what is left of my props. Now, I fashion tricks for Barone, automatons, special compartments. The man pays well and he knows my worth. ”

  “Has he got anything unusual?” Adam asked, slipping behind the cabinet.

  “A few pieces of my handiwork. I have made him a delightful automaton, a ballerina. A marvel!” Philippe bragged, picking up a cage of doves from the corner. “But for the most part, there is little that you have not seen before. Barone is an excellent showman.”

  “Napoleon’s personal conjuror? A mere showman?”

  Philippe gave a humorous bark. “We did perform once for the Emperor.”

  “And the Sight Beyond Sight?” Adam asked. “How is that done?”

  Philippe wagged his finger. “Ah mon ami, even if I knew, I could not say, of that you are aware. An assistant who speaks too much is soon out switching cards on street corners. But in truth, Adam, I say this to you, I cannot tell because I do not know how he does it. The blindfold, I show you.” He took up a large fold of black silk and put it over Adam’s head. “You can see nothing?”

  “Nothing.” Adam confirmed his voice muffled.

  Philippe drew it off. “Sight, he has none. The audience, its members cannot possibly be known to him. Yet, when Madame Barone holds up the objects, he says if it is gold or silver, ruby or diamond, even, often as not, what the item is. Every time, he is correct. I swear to you, it is almost enough to make me believe that the spirits in truth speak to him.”

  “But not quite?” Adam asked, dropping the mask and marking it surreptitiously with dust from the floor before picking it up, folding it.

  “When you have seen, what I have seen?” Philippe gently smoothed the feathers of a bird before placing it in its special compartment. “How can one believe?”

  “Ever try explaining to a woman that you have seen too much to quite believe in anything at all?” Adam asked, picking up a deck and toying absently with the pasteboards.

  “Women? Eh, they are natural believers, les femmes. Distract them with bright colors and smoke and they will never see how they are manipulated,” Philippe said, closing the door of the cage and setting it aside.

  “Not all women are so credulous, at least about illusions,” Adam said, his thoughts returning abruptly to Miss Wilton.

  “Oho! So at last there is a female who sees through you, eh?” Philippe crowed. “Long have I waited for this day.”

  “I was speaking in the abstract,” Adam said.

  “You cannot trick a trickster.” the large man emphasized his point with a dig of the elbow. “Who is this wonder, eh? Part of your act?”

  “You know how I feel about entanglements,” Adam said, rubbing his suddenly sore rib. Abruptly he changed the subject. “I have heard tell that your new master has arranged to contact Lord Pelton at midnight tonight.”

  “So?” Philippe shrugged eloquently. “What of it?”

  “Pelton has been dead these five years past,” Adam said, his tone turning to ice. “His widow is barely one foot out of Fleet.”

  “Then the femme, she is a fool,” Philippe said quietly, opening a hidden catch and replacing a wilted concealed rose with a fresh one. “So that much has not changed, I see. So, you still pursue it still, Adam, this hatred of those who say they speak to the dead? When I think of all the money we could have made! The grief you caused Roselli over that affair with the dead soldier and his pere. After Roselli taught you half your tricks! But no, you could not keep your nose out of it.”

  “I gave Roselli fair warning not to cheat that old man; poor fool, he was so desperate to talk to his lost boy. The medium would have taken his last sou. A fraudster if ever there was one.”

  “Are you not? Are not we all? Beguiling the eyes, lying to the senses? Pah!” He waved a hand in disgust.

  “I never claimed to perform wonders,” Adam said.

  “But did you ever go before an audience and say, Mesdames and Messieurs, I am a charlatan. What you will see, it is falsehood?” Philippe asked, his voice shaking in anger. “This dirty part of the business has never been to my liking, that you know, but still I think it does some good. How much is it worth to ease the soul, eh? A chance for a grieving old man to say what he left unsaid during his son’s lifetime; a few comforting words to help ease a widow’s pain; what harm does it do, Adam? I ask you.”

  Adam sighed. “We have been round and round this argument before, my friend and it is far too complex a subject to reprise now. Suffice it to say that I have not changed my feelings. In fact, in the normal course of things, I would give Barone no warning before I strike.” Adam fanned the ordered deck, presenting the cards face up, shuffled, reshuffled and showed them again, the sequence unchanged. “But since we are old comrades, I will allow you to alert your master. Tell Barone to leave Lady Pelton be and to keep his tricks confined to Astley’s. It will go hard with him if I hear word of any séances. And be assured Philippe, I will know.”

  “But if not Barone another, perhaps less kind, maybe more greedy fraudeur, would pluck your widow. Besides, what could you do to stop him, eh? Challenge him to the duel?” Philippe clucked and shook his head.

  Adam smacked the cards to the table with a thud that caused the doves to coo in alarm. “A duel? In a manner of speaking, I suppose one might call it that. If Barone plays his spirit games with Lady Pelton, I will reveal him for the charlatan that he is. I will not interfere, and he may fool the public with impunity on Astley’s stage in a legitimate fashion. However, if he begins to ply the necromancer’s lay and claim to raise the dead, I will ruin him.”

  “Ah, you always were a great talker, mon ami. For that the audiences loved you. But you talk to Philippe Rubelle now, and so, I will warn you. Barone has much money. He has many friends, powerful friends who would make certain that an unknown magician like Adam Chapbrook would vanish. Poof!” He snapped his fingers. “Any chains that will bind you this time will land you at the bottom of the Thames pour tojours; forever! Comprends tu? So stop with this nonsense.” Philippe said, clapping Adam on the shoulder with a friendly paw. “Now, I will go and tell Barone that another act precedes him, yes? He will not be pleased that the Lady Enderby did not say so, but I tell him you will be an aperitif to whet the appetite of the audience. Who knows? Maybe Barone will like you and we will once again work together, eh? Bring your equipage and I will move our box back to give you room.”

  Adam grasped Philippe’s arm. “I am quite serious, my friend. Tell Barone that the Marquess of Brand will hound him if he so much as crosses Lady Pelton’s threshold. Your snug job will disappear and you will be back on street corners fleecing the flats at Three Cards or Find the Lady.”

  Philippe guffawed. “Ah, Adam, Adam! You are the noblest of liars. A carnival performer, a second-rate conjuror who never had more than the price of a baguette in his pocket. . . The Marquess of Brand! If you are Brand, then I am the King of France!”

  “I was not second-rate!” Adam said, pulling a gold piece from behind Philippe’s turban and flipping it to him as the sound of footsteps began to herald the arrival of the audience. “Keep the guinea, you may soon have need of it.”

  “Stupide! You did not bother to lock the door!” Hastily, the man covered th
e exposed part of the table.

  “Relax, Philippe,” Adam said as he saw his uncle peering into the room. “There is no need to act as if your mistress’s husband is knocking at the bedchamber. My uncle knows more than he would wish to about the accoutrements of conjuring.”

  “I thought this was where you had likely disappeared to, Adam,” Lawrence’s voice echoed in the ballroom. Cautiously, he made his way through the maze of chairs. “Lord Enderby wished to talk to you about your political views. I suspect you are about to be asked to take your seat in Parliament, Lord Brand.”

  Philippe’s eyes bulged at the use of the title.

  Adam chuckled softly. “Remember, Your Majesty, that comfortable employment for French monarchs is rather scarce these days.” As he went to secure a seat in the front row beside his uncle the Marquess whistled The Marseillaise.

  Chapter 3

  Adam stifled a yawn. Despite his familiarity with the conjuror’s bag of tricks, raving descriptions of Barone’s talent had served to build Adam’s anticipation to an unusual peak. However, the Frenchman’s skills had been grossly over-stated. His presentation was better than average, but he made more than one clumsy slip in the execution of tricks that were clearly well-worn routines. Not that the audience had noticed, naturally, since the man was quite talented at misdirection and patter.

  Philippe’s automaton made a charming appearance, delighting the ladies with its charm and the gentlemen with its realistic, but scantily clad, anatomy. However, Barone’s minute hesitations and maladroit slips soon made the business on stage pall for a connoisseur of the art. Instead, Adam amused himself by observing the woman seated next to him. Unlike the performer onstage, she utterly defied his expectations.

  Almost every face in the room wore the same expression of open-mouthed wonder, inhaling in a chorus of gasps as Barone produced doves and coins from seemingly nowhere, made instruments play apparently untouched and faultlessly predicted which card their charming hostess would take from the deck. However, Miss Wilton did not react in unison with the crowd around her. Even though Uncle Lawrie, who sat near her mother, was transfixed, Miss Wilton refused to be taken in. In fact, she was a spectator of the type that was a magician’s worst nightmare.

  Her keen gaze swept the stage, refusing to be directed by Barone’s skilled diversions. The sardonic crinkle in the corners of her eyes as the magician reached into a hidden pocket, the cynical upturn of her lip as the Frenchman palmed a card, served to convince Adam that she was viewing the performance with a true aficionado’s awareness. In her concentration, she had inadvertently gravitated closer to him and he could smell her perfume, a jasmine scent that was somehow both light and intoxicating. So intent was he upon her, that he nearly missed the sight of Barone fumbling a simple pass. Her brow rose in sheer disbelief. Adam’s eyes met hers in mutual amusement.

  “Napoleon’s conjuror, indeed,” he whispered.

  “If so, Wellington cannot fail,” she replied, her smile faltering as she reminded herself of their conversation at dinner. Physical attraction, Miranda acknowledged, that was all it was, a powerful natural force to be sure, but certainly nothing magical. Other than that, there could be no common ground between them. Not for the first time, Miranda felt a terrible loneliness. She had one foot in two worlds, but was part of neither. Her heritage gave her glimpses of untold marvels, a power that illuminated mind and heart.

  For her, there could never be contentment in the illusions that lent awe to the lives of everyday mortals. But more tragically, never would she know the joy of true magic. Was this how Lucifer had felt down in the depths, knowing that Heaven was above him, but forever beyond his reach? Automatically, she applauded as Barone slid aside the disguised door in the tabletop and let loose a flight of doves. Madame Barone made her entrance.

  “En maintenant, Mesdames and Messieurs. Nous presentons Sight Beyond Sight,” Madame Barone announced. “A remarkable demonstration of the cerebral skill.”

  It took no reader of minds to sense Miss Wilton’s withdrawal. She shifted in her seat, firmly reestablishing the space between them. Though her eyes were focused upon the stage, her mind was clearly some place where he could not follow. There was sorrow in her eyes, a deepened blue darkness that he recognized as pain.

  “Milord Brand?”

  Adam was shaken from his musings. Barone’s wife stood before him, black silk shining in her hand. A quick glance revealed his dusty fingerprints at its edge. It would seem that the blindfold was not the key to the trick.

  “You will be kind enough to verify zat through ze mask, you cannot see?” she asked, venom in her look.

  Barone’s eyes gleamed with wicked amusement. Who better to ask for the seal of sanction than Britain’s premiere skeptic? In the wing of the improvised stage, Philippe gave an apologetic shrug. It would seem that his message had been passed on, Adam thought, as he tried the mask on to the titters of the audience. The challenge had been offered and the duel begun. “It is quite blinding,” Adam admitted, drawing off the sack but he did not return it. Instead, he walked up to Barone. “If the Monsieur will permit?”

  Surprisingly, the performer made no protest. In fact, there was a definite smugness about him as Adam placed the mask. Adam leaned closer, on the pretext of adjusting the fabric. “Philippe gave my warning,” he said in precise undertones. “Do you go to Lady Pelton’s?”

  “Mind your business, Monseigneur,” although his reply was muffled his anger was clear. “And I will mind mine.”

  “Then be damned, Barone,” Adam said, his fingers tightening the drawstring ruthlessly. “You will soon be back to performing for pigs and fishwives on Market Day.” He leaned closer as if to examine his handiwork even though he was certain that there was no way that the conjurer could twist his head in order to see. “I will give you ten minutes to think it over. If you change your mind, use the name Beelzebub in your patter.”

  “I’ll see you in Hell first, Monseigneur.”

  “Doubtless, Barone, you will be one of many who will be there to greet me,” Adam said before reluctantly returning to his seat. No switch of mask had been contemplated, it would seem. The solution to the swindle was obviously elsewhere, but what was it? Madame went among the audience, as individual after individual pulled out some item. Barone stood well away from his table of shams, beyond any touch or whisper from a concealed confederate.

  Miss Wilton’s attention had returned to the stage. Her face was a study in concentration. She too, it appeared was trying to discern Barone’s method. Her eyes ricocheted from the magician to his wife searching for some sign, some means of communication.

  The minutes ticked away as baubles were proffered and correctly identified, one after another. Collusion with members of the audience was unlikely. Luminaries of the ton such as Lord Alvanley, the Princess de Lieven and Mrs. Drummond-Burrel were hardly the type of individuals who would cooperate with a common showman’s deception.

  “What am I holding in my hand, Monsieur?” Madame Barone’s interrogative was delivered in a monotone drone.

  Barone hesitated dramatically, his head tilted upward as if listening for a spirit voice. “Ah, gold, they tell me. Holy gold. A gold crucifix, Madame.”

  It was extremely well-done and maddening beyond measure. Under less pressing circumstances, Adam would have simply chosen the expedient of attending several of Barone’s performances. Usually, it took no more than two or three observations to unravel the most complex of tricks. But there was no time for such lengthy maneuvers, not if he wished to prevent tonight’s séance.

  As the ten minute limit passed without Beelzebub being invoked, Adam focused on Barone and his wife, examining every possibility, but try as he might their technique was beyond his detection. He castigated himself for not examining the mask more closely. Had he missed a hidden seam, perhaps? Somehow, Adam had to get his hands on that mask again.

  His heightened senses detected a sudden shift. Miss Wilton was no longer leaning forward.
She was now sitting back in her chair, her expression composed and satisfied. She knew. Adam was prepared to swear upon it. Somehow, Miss Wilton had identified the technique that the Barones were using.

  “How?” He leaned toward her and whispered the single word.

  She understood exactly what he meant. “You look too much. Listen,” she commanded. “Hear what he hears.”

  Obediently, Adam closed his eyes, auditing only with his ears.

  “Ask the spirits what they see,” Madame said.

  “They say silver, with . . . a jewel . . . yes! . . . yes! an emerald.”

  The audience whispered excitedly, another success. Footsteps clicked on the floor, then Madame’s lackluster tones droned. “What is seen for you now in my left hand? Then tell what I hold in my right.”

  “Silver . . .” he replied, without hesitation, “in the left hand silver. And gold . . . a gold snuffbox in the right.”

  The gasps of the audience were like a goad to Adam, forcing his eyes open. Increasing complexity in a trick was a sure sign that Barone was building to his finale. There was no time to waste. “I surrender, Miss Wilton. Please give me a clue.”

  “Key words, milord. ‘Hold’ always means gold. ‘See’ is inevitably silver,” she explained, her eyes shining with excitement. “Their code is fairly intricate, indicating any number of objects and their descriptions in a few words. Various names for spirits correspond with certain jewels. For instance, the sapphire necklace she has in her hand now; I would wager thirty guineas that she uses ‘fairy’ and ‘hold’ her phrase.”

  “Can the fairies tell you what I am holding here?” Madame Barone asked.

  “Thirty guineas, Miss Wilton,” Adam said, wanting to embrace her then and there, but he put aside that appealing thought for the future. It was time to tend to the business at hand.

  Lord Brand rose to his feet.

  “Madame,” he called, digging into his pocket. “I have an object for your husband to identify.