The Would-Be Witch

by Boucher, Rita

  . . .

  Miranda’s eyes swept the room, meeting their stares defiantly. Her great-grandmama Wodesby had gone to the stake with her spine stiff and her head held high, she reminded herself. Though the circumstances differed, as Merlin’s descendant, she could do no less than endure with dignity. These men and women could do her no physical harm, but they had caused her great pain in the past. She was older now, and mayhap a bit wiser. By Hecate, they would not have the satisfaction of seeing her cringe this time.

  As she and Lady Enderby made their greetings, Miranda felt a presence behind her. Suddenly, the room grew warmer, the candles seemed to shine with a brighter glow. There was no need to turn to know that Lord Brand had arrived. She turned to find him looking at her and, unbelievable as it might seem, a smiling Brummel was with him.

  “I hope that you will recall the dance that I was promised,” Brummel pretended to remind her as he gave his greeting.

  “Of course, Mr. Brummel,” Miranda said, deeply touched, knowing full well no such promise had occurred. It was too much to hope that he had not yet seen that scurrilous caricature of himself in Humphrey’s window. The Beau was perverse enough to put the blame on a fellow victim, and coupled with his antipathy toward her family, his magnanimity was wholly unexpected.

  “Brazen it out, my girl,” Brummel whispered as he made his bow. “‘Tis the only course.”

  Lord Brand bowed and Miranda forced herself to smile, aware that every eye in the room was upon them. “Good evening, Miss Wilton,” he said, a shade too loudly.

  His brown eyes were as hard as the earth in winter and Miranda felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. No doubt, Lord Brand had seen the drawing and resented being drawn into the sphere of ridicule. “Well met, milord.” Miranda modulated her next words carefully so that they were inaudible beneath the strains of music. “I am sorry, milord. My mother is quite distressed that you have met with such malice due to your association with our family.”

  “I take it that you have heard?” Lord Brand asked.

  “And seen. There are those who dare to name themselves as friends who were quick to purchase copies and send them round.” Miranda inclined her head graciously and smiled as if she had been told something particularly pleasant. “I think that your friend Brummel gives good advice, milord. There is no choice but to put the best face on things.”

  “Perhaps you ought to curtail your social activities until your Mama is on her feet once again, or until your brother returns?” Lord Brand asked, inclining his head significantly toward Lady Enderby, who had gone off to titter in a corner with one of her cronies. “That woman is worse than no support at all.”

  “I will not run and hide as I did when I was a green girl, Lord Brand,” Miranda said, taking the arm that he offered, her chin lifting as the hum swelled beneath the music. “After all, I am told that it is no longer fashionable to burn witches, so what do I have to fear?”

  “But you are not a witch, Miss Wilton,” Adam said, observing her reaction carefully. There was a glitter in the corner of her eye that was suspiciously like a tear and when she spoke there was a definite catch in her throat.

  “Do you often go about reminding people of their infirmities?” she said with forced brightness.

  Uncle Lawrie had obviously been close to the mark. “I am sorry if I have pained you in any way,” Adam said honestly. “But as far as I can see, you lack nothing other than common sense. There are no witches, any more than there are elves or fairies or demons.” He felt her stiffen. “Remember Miss Wilton, we tread the boards tonight. Act as if you are enjoying yourself and I shall pretend that I am utterly enchanted.”

  “‘Enchanted’ is a dangerous term, under the circumstances,” Miss Wilton said, molding her lips into an expression of pleasure as he walked her onto the floor. It took no special magical sense to realize that every gaze was fixed upon them. “I hope that you will not have to strain your acting abilities too much to feign enjoyment of my company.”

  “A poor turn of phrase on my part,” Adam apologized, looking into the depths of her eyes and seeing the pain that she was trying so desperately to hide. “As long as I keep my sights on you, Miss Wilton, the pleasure is entirely mine and quite real.”

  Her short laugh was one of disbelief. “Well while your sights are trained, milord, would you be kind enough to inform me if you see any signs of coal dust upon me? I had thought that I removed all the traces and I asked Lady Enderby, but I would not put it past her to deny seeing anything only to laugh about it behind my back.”

  “Coal dust?” Adam inquired.

  “For some reason, Thorpe took it in his head to roll in the ash bin. He was in quite a pother this evening, put dirty paw prints all over the Aubusson rug. It was wholly unlike him, but then he was rather upset.” Miss Wilton said. “I nearly did not recognize him. Why he would do such a thing, I cannot fathom.”

  “Perhaps he needed a disguise?” Adam bit his tongue, but not before the words had slipped out.

  “A cat? In disguise? How droll, milord,” Miss Wilton could not resist the opportunity to tweak him. “Why not a little false beard? Or mayhap a wig?”

  She was smiling naturally now and the stiff feeling between them ebbed away. “A tricorne?” Adam suggested, “instead of the fine beaver hat that he usually wears? And if Thorpe goes to Almack's, I would suggest he might try breeches.”

  “Or else the Patronesses might bar his entry, as they did Wellington’s,” Miss Wilton agreed solemnly, her eyes beginning to twinkle. “So did Thorpe put any black marks upon my person?” His gaze made her shiver as it swept her from her slippers to the pins upon her head.

  “You are perfect, Miss Wilton,” he whispered. “Entirely perfect.”

  The band struck up the opening air of a waltz.

  “I know the steps, in theory, but I’ve never waltzed before,” she whispered. “The dance had not yet become popular during my Season, but I have obtained permission from the doyennes of Almack's. As my mother said, there is no need to tempt the Fates that are not yet aligned against us.”

  “Then let us put theory into practice, Miss Wilton. Follow where I lead.” Adam took her into his arms, holding her as close as the bounds of propriety allowed.

  Miranda stared up into his eyes, trying to read his intent, following the gentle pressure of his hands as he guided her steps. But this was not a recalcitrant Damien, forced to drag his sister about at a dancing master’s command. The marquess led with authority, surprising her with his agility and grace. Within a minute or two, she had picked up the rhythm.

  “You have it now,” he said encouragingly. “Keep your mind off your feet and look at me. Pretend that I am someone else, the man of your dreams. Imagine that my arms are his and I shall whisper adoring words in your ears, as he would no doubt do if he had this opportunity.”

  Obediently, Miranda tried to conjure up Martin's face, but somehow, that was impossible. Try as she might, she could not imagine Allworth whirling her about the room or holding her so close. The tip of her ear tickled as Lord Brand whispered nonsensical nothings, tidbits of gossip about the arbiters of society, making them appear foolish and capricious, causing her to stifle her laughter more than once. Never could she picture Allworth making light of those who ate and spat out reputations for their supper.

  “You are allowing them to vex you again,” he said.

  “And I thought I was masking it so well.” She forced a smile.

  “You are not betraying your feelings by so much as a hair,” Lord Brand reassured her quietly as they moved in tandem across the floor. “But I feel the tension in your spine, in the way your hand touches my shoulder.”

  “They are watching, like jackals on the prowl. Waiting for me to stumble, to make a mistake so that they can pounce upon me and tear me to shreds,” she whispered.

  “Perhaps you might care to borrow a trick of mine, Miss Wilton? When circumstances threatened to overwhelm me, I would imagine that I was
in a vision of my own creation,” Lord Brand suggested. “I would dream that what I thought was negative was positive. That the boy who was bullying me could somehow become my friend.”

  “And . . .?”

  “Mostly, I got beaten into the dirt,” he admitted. “But I did not let them see my fear, and on rare occasions, my dream came true. I will not let them touch you or allow you to stumble. Tonight, pretend I am your champion.”

  “My champion . . .” Miranda echoed softly, trying once more to conjure the dim shade of Martin, but he faded into the recesses of her mind. Although she had known him for most of her life, she could not recall if he had once walked into her sleeping hours. But she had dreamed, only last night . . . Miranda nearly missed a step as she recalled disturbing visions lost in the waking and realized that the man of her dreams wore Lord Brand’s face, even though she had known him for less than a week.

  But that was entirely natural, she told herself. Once Mama’s prophecy came to pass, things would sort themselves out and she would be free of Lord Brand, free to return to her life at the Wode, to marry Martin, to work in the library. Suddenly, the emptiness of that vision stretched ahead of her like a long, endless tunnel.

  With all the force of her imagination, she concentrated on Lord Brand’s face, pretending for this instant, that she was his dream as he was hers. Weaving a false spell, she substituted affection for the emotion in his eyes that was certainly pity; doubt and cynicism gave way to respect; and his light formal touch was transformed into the genuine tenderness of a lover’s hand. Although she knew that no spell of hers would ever work upon another, mortal or mage, Miranda succeeded in bewitching herself.

  With enormous effort, Adam kept himself from pulling her closer, from allowing his hand to stray to the fine spider web of filmy filigree that held the green silk gown tantalizingly suspended. Instead, he concentrated upon putting at her ease. Slowly, the tension seeped away until she was supple in his arms. Every smile became a victory and each butterfly flutter of her fingers set his heart to pounding. Within the space of seconds, Adam came to regret his rash proposal, growing jealous of the unknown phantom that he had asked her to conjure. He wanted the look in those sapphire depths to be for him, the throaty chuckles that tickled softly at his ear to be his by right.

  . . .

  They whirled in each other’s arms, each unaware of the spells that they were weaving for themselves, the magic no less powerful for being available to ordinary mortals. From his place behind the doors to the terrace, Thorpe absently licked the last bit of coal-color from his paws, wondering what The Lady would think of this turn of events.

  . . .

  The music stopped, shattering the enchantment, but Adam’s thoughts were still awhirl. While Brummel claimed Miss Wilton’s hand for a country dance, Adam went to the refreshment table, eager to find something wet to ease the sudden tightness in his throat. He eyed her as he drank, barely tasting the liquid, watching as she gracefully wove her way through the complex patterns, till the end of the set.

  “Pretty armful, ain’t she?” declared the slurred voice behind him, as the dancers were making their final bows. “Y’know, I had a bit of a sabbat with the young Wodesby witch myself,” Lord Hatfill added with a lascivious grin.

  Thoughts of pistols, rapiers and bare knuckles raced through Adam’s mind, but since any choice of weapon would mean certain scandal, he dismissed the possibility of a duel. Still, Lord Hatfill’s foul mouth would have to be silenced by some method. The only acceptable challenge was a contest of wits. An unfair bout, Adam knew, since the drunken lecher was quite obviously an unarmed opponent.

  “I’d be wary of getting on the wrong side of the Wodesby clan,” Adam lowered his voice confidentially. “Gillray, the cartoonist did, this very afternoon. They say it was a cat that ripped him to pieces.”

  Hatfill’s red proboscis turned stark white. “Never tell me so,” he whispered. “Not a marmalade, was it?”

  Thorpe you busy devil. Adam quelled the nonsensical thought immediately. “Aye,” he told Hatfill, “so I would take care what I say about the Wodesbys, you can never tell who, or what might be listening.” As that thought sank into the man’s sodden brain, Adam dropped the gold piece that he had palmed, sending it rolling beneath the table. “I say Hatfill, you had best see to your guinea. Your purse must have come undone.” Under pretext of bending for a better view, the marquess firmly hooked the lace edge of the cloth to one of Hatfill’s buttons. “I think it went over there,” he said, pointing to the far end of the table.

  As the cloth and its contents started to shift slowly towards the edge, Adam picked up his glass and strolled casually towards Miss Wilton.

  It was well worth a marigold to convince Hatfill that it was not worth his while to malign her. Well, in truth, worth a bit more than the coin when the first cascade of glass proceeded to shatter upon the floor. Adam promised himself that he would find some way to make good the damage to Lady Pertwee. The orgeat, however, was no loss, Adam thought as he placed the remnants on the tray of an open-mouthed footman. The stuff was nearly as insipid as the bath water that they served at Almack’s. In exchange for the orgeat he plucked up two glasses of wine.

  Miss Wilton’s laughter served to banish the last of Adam’s regrets. He no longer cared that he had just used superstition as a tool to manipulate a man. Lady Pertwee’s broken glass was a small sacrifice and even the eminently edible refreshments that slid into the shards of oblivion were accounted well lost for the sight of Miss Wilton’s face. It was like seeing her once again for the very first time, but as she truly ought to be. Gone was the wariness, the air of constant worry that had hung about her like a cloud ever since their initial encounter in Lady Enderby’s drawing room. Tears of mirth slid down her face as Hatfill emerged triumphant from beneath the table, clutching the guinea like a grotesque child with the Christmas plum.

  Chapter 7

  With both glasses balanced carefully in one hand, Adam touched Miss Wilton’s shoulder with the other, urging her silently towards the terrace. All eyes were focused on Lord Hatfill, so it was highly unlikely that anyone would notice them slipping outside. She hesitated for a second, then nodded as the mocking crowd moved in for the kill.

  “Like vultures, aren’t they?” Adam commented, as they stepped into the evening. “Give them a piece of fresh carrion and they will quickly abandon the old corpse for the new.”

  “How very mean of spirit I must be,” Miss Wilton said, leaning against the balustrade as she held her side. “I was laughing along with the rest of them at the poor man.”

  “I would reserve my pity for someone more deserving than Lord Hatfill,” Adam said, producing the glasses with a flourish. “He would not have hesitated to sully your name, if he could.”

  She shuddered, the last wisps of laughter fading like smoke. “He was looking to do more than that,” she said softly, her hand trembling as she took the glass. “But then, I am no longer a green girl as I was years ago.”

  He cursed himself for inadvertently bringing up the recollection. Nearly a decade had passed, yet the fear was obviously still strong. No wonder she was so guarded and apprehensive. “Should have offered Hatfill a ten-paced walk at dawn,” Adam murmured, running an angry hand through his hair.

  Miss Wilton’s eyes widened in astonished realization. “You did it,” she guessed. “You primed him for the spill. But why, milord?”

  Adam lifted his shoulders in a chagrinned gesture of admission. “A desire for justice, I suppose, if only in a small measure. Let him recall what it feels like to be the butt of scorn and mockery. Perhaps it will teach him to keep his foul mouth shut.”

  “He was talking about me, I take it.”

  Miss Wilton spoke quietly, but there was a distinct tremor in her voice. Adam cursed himself once again for not changing the subject. “Not you,” he lied, setting his glass aside, “but the Wodesbys, witches. It was more a general sort of slur, but he has been taught his lesson.”<
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  She took a sip of wine. “No need to paint it with whitewash, milord. I thank you for playing the role of Chaucer’s ‘parfit gentil’ knight. But if you mean to avenge every innuendo against me or mine thusly, there will not be a whole piece of glass left in all of London before long,” she said, attempting a smile. “It has never been easy to be what we are. A hundred years ago, I could have lost my life because of Hatfill’s smears. Too many of my forebears did. I account myself lucky that mere words are all that I must stomach.”

  “Words have a power all their own,” Adam said, moved by her forlorn effort at gallantry. Plainly, from the pain in her eyes, her declaration was little more than a whistle in the dark. “I would not like to see you hurt any further, Miss Wilton.”

  “Miranda,” she said, vouchsafing her name. He had earned that right and she wanted to hear him say it in the dark warmth of the night.

  “Miranda,” he said it slowly, as if testing the syllables on his tongue. “And you must call me Adam.”

  “Adam,” she agreed. He was more correct than he knew. Words did indeed have intrinsic power, especially names. His had a texture, a flavor that felt eminently right. She recalled her mother’s cautionary advice. A name, freely gifted, is a mighty force to conjure with.

  Pronounced by him, “Miranda” became almost like a piece of Mozart, a mixture of loneliness and recognition, the grandeur of the heights and a view of the abyss. As the music of her name faded into the shadow, she felt a depthless void within her and knew that she had been caught within an enchantment of her own making.

  The marquess reached covertly behind him and plucked a hothouse flower from the pot by the door. Misdirecting her attention with a wave of his left hand, he made the blossom appear in his right, as if from the ether itself. “For you, Miranda” he said, presenting the delicate bloom with a flourish