The Would-Be Witch

by Boucher, Rita

  “As you wish . . . Adam,” she whispered, pleased with the gift, even though she knew that the offer of his name was of no real significance to him, nothing more than social reciprocity. She set her glass on the balustrade. “You have learned the art of illusion well,” she remarked, stroking the petals gently, releasing their sweet scent into the darkness. “Had I not known your methods, I would have sworn that you pulled this from the fabric of the night.”

  “Ah, but you of all people should know that the night has its own magic,” he said. Although lightly spoken, the words acquired a peculiar ring of truth. As her long fingers moved with supple tenderness, caressing the blossom, Adam felt touched by sudden heat. Sensual and fluid, the flowing line of motion led his gaze up the moonlit curve of her arm. In the shadow, the gown’s cunning web of netting had all but disappeared. Her shoulders seemed entirely bare except for the emerald that caught the moon in its heart of green fire.

  Despite the aura of stylishness, there was something elemental and wild about her, the ingenuous charm of a doe, poised on the edge of flight. He picked up his wine, hoping to somehow temper this sudden powerful longing, but found the glass empty and absently put it aside. Much as he tried to resist, he moved toward her, tempted beyond reason. Moonlight silvered her skin and cast a shimmering glow on the silk of her hair. He wanted to pull away those jeweled combs and let the strands cascade like threaded gold through his fingers. His hand seemed to acquire its own will, moving without conscious volition to brush gently against her cheek.

  The flower slipped from Miranda’s hands, fluttering to the stone. A faint whiff of shaving paste blended with the fragrance of freshly starched linen and the warm wine-scented touch of his breath. A sharp stab of desire cut her last tenuous hold on reason. Hesitantly, she put her hand on his shoulder, ignoring the fading echo of the voice within her that was crying fool, besotted fool.

  Her fingers held the sweet scent of flowers. Cradling her chin, he looked into the dark blue depths of her gaze, saw the questions and a single unspoken answer. He gathered her into his arms and she closed her eyes, tilting her head in a gesture that was implicit consent. Just as a kiss seemed to be as certain as sunrise, a cat yowled beneath the shrubbery. Miranda jumped back and he caught her hand to keep her from tumbling over the rail.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head like a swimmer just come to the surface. “I do not have the foggiest notion as to what came over me.”

  As if she were some form of madness or malady. Miranda turned to face the darkness of the garden before he could see the hurt that she could not fully conceal. “There is no need to apologize,” she said in deliberately wry tones. “What nearly happened is as much my fault as your own. One would think that I would have learned my lesson ten years ago.”

  The unspoken comparison acted as a slap in the face. “I am not Hatfill, Miranda.”

  “I know,” she said. “You made no attempt to force yourself upon me, as he did. I came into your arms willingly. Perhaps I was still pretending that you were the man of my dreams, so I was no less responsible than yourself.” Gathering the remnants of her pride, she faced him. “I did not step away, nor did I protest when you touched me, I could have done either, had I chosen. As you say, the night has a magic all its own and the combination with moonlight can be dangerous indeed.”

  He should have been thankful that she was willing to absolve him from blame. However, gratitude was definitely not the emotion that he was feeling. “And you would have let him kiss you, this phantom of yours?”

  “The man of my dreams? Indeed and I would have returned his gesture of affection with equal fervor. That is part and parcel of loving someone,” she said, recalling the times she had come upon her parents holding each other close, kissing and laughing like moonlings. Her heart contracted. That had always been her dream, to share the intimacy of a lifetime of loving. But even that hope had been compromised. Now that sharing of hearts seemed as much beyond her grasp as magic itself.”

  “You speak with an air of authority, Miranda,” Adam asked. “Are you in love, then?”

  “I have hopes,” she whispered, trying to think of Martin, but she could not even visualize his face. She could come to love him, she told herself. He was fond of her, at least. Many a marriage had succeeded with far less.

  “And does he return your affection?” Adam queried.

  “I think so,” she answered, wondering how he had managed to tap into the doubts in her mind.

  “But you are not certain?” Adam asked, knowing that he had no right to question her so closely.

  “I should never have come out here,” Miranda said, closing the matter before he could dig more deeply “But the temptation to get away from the ton’s eternal surveillance was beyond resisting. Now, I must go back before my absence is remarked.”

  “They are far too busy with Hatfill,” Adam said.

  “And when they are done picking his bones, they will move back to the main course with additional relish, sauced now with the spice of speculation. There are many who think that Hatfill has been cursed, even though he chose his own bane by making Ruby Simms his wife. Now they will wonder if this incident is part of Wodesby’s revenge as well.”

  “I had not thought of that,” Adam murmured guiltily.

  Miranda softened. “As you said, it was no more than the cad deserved and I must confess, in my accounts the spectacle was well worth what it may cost me during this short stay in Town. ‘Tis time beyond memory since I have enjoyed so hearty a laugh. Still, there will be more than enough on my plate tonight without the question of virtue being added to my portion.”

  “‘Short stay?’ You and your mother are expecting to leave London?” he asked.

  “We were only planning a brief visit, until Mother made the promise of Wodesby protection,” Miranda told him. “However, once Damien returns and we can leave your safety in his hands, I see no reason to remain.”

  “And you can return to the man of your dreams? A fellow who might view you with affection?” Adam asked, wondering at the angry edge to his voice.

  “I fail to see what affair it is of yours,” she snapped. “It is fortunate indeed that Thorpe stopped us before matters progressed from shame to blame.”

  “You wish to claim that the cat that we heard was Thorpe?” Adam asked.

  “He is mostly here for your sake, to be where I cannot,” Miranda said with a shrug. “However, it would not be the first time that he has kept me from making a fool of myself.”

  “I do not need your protection, Miranda, nor that of your mother, your brother or any of your daft kinsmen,” Adam said, his lips tightening to an angry line. “And you can call off the damned cat too!”

  “You do not mean to tell me that you actually credit that you are being followed by a feline,” Miranda shot back, a sparkle of challenge in her eye. “To acknowledge such unusual abilities in a cat would almost require that you believe in the supernatural.”

  “I believe in nothing!” Adam protested.

  “Ah, yes, a pity that. But you go well beyond lack of faith,” Miranda accused. “You go about like a Grand Inquisitor, seeking out the heretics who deny your anti-metaphysical creed. Is that your aim tonight? Is Barone the victim chosen to be burned on your stake of Reason?”

  “You confuse the matter. Lady Pelton is the victim in this case,” Adam said. “Having seen Barone, would you dare deny that the man is a fraud? Or would you claim that he has this nebulous talent that you define as ‘magic?’”

  Miranda shifted uncomfortably. “No, there is no reason to believe that he is a mage. But what harm does he do? I have met Lady Pelton and she strikes me as a woman to be pitied. Why should she be denied comfort? She loved her husband dearly.”

  “Then let him lay buried!” Adam said vehemently. “Let her cry and mourn so that she may go on living. But as long as men like Barone feed upon the corpse of her love, she will be forever half in the grave with Pelton. Just as my—" He stoppe
d himself. “You go in first and I will follow later,” Adam suggested smoothly. “We had best not be seen returning together.”

  Never before had Miranda witnessed such remarkable control. It was as if he had suddenly donned a mask of ceremony. Raw emotion was buried beneath a civilized veneer in a cat’s wink. Whatever lay hidden beyond the verge of revelation must have been painful indeed. She wished that there was some comfort that she could offer him, something that she could say to mend fences between them, but his stony expression precluded any further conversation. There was nothing she could do but leave him staring out into the shadowed garden.

  No more than the length of a quadrille and a country set were required for Miranda’s prediction to come to pass. Rumor did a rapid dance round the room. Lady Jersey swore that she had seen a cat run under the refreshment table just prior to Hatfill’s escapade. Reports were rife that Hatfill had been seeking revenge on his old feline nemesis. No matter that Adam told them that Hatfill had merely been chasing after a lost coin. Stories of sorcery were far more to the taste of the ton than arid actuality. Even Hatfill himself began to subscribe to the fabrication. Better to be thought a stalwart champion, confronting an uncanny foe, than a blundering clumsy fool, seeking a lost sovereign.

  With every whisper and stare, Miranda’s chin rose marginally. Each speculative glance was squarely met and it was usually the furtively seeking eyes that fell first. She had a backbone of steel, Adam thought in admiration. But by the time he claimed his second dance, it was obvious to him that the talk was taking its toll upon her. “I fear that I have done you a terrible wrong, Miranda,” he said as they came together in the pattern. “I fully intend to make a complete public admission.”

  Miranda smiled wearily as they clasped hands and paced the floor in stately measures. “They will not believe you or will claim that I have put some spell on you to cause you to take the blame. And even if they did place credence in your confession, it would be no less of a scandal for you to have contrived to humiliate Hatfill for my sake. I want no duels conducted in my name. Besides, it is just as well if people believe that I have magical powers at present. With Mama incapacitated and Damien in transit, it may be only the Wodesby mystique that stands between you and disaster.”

  “Miranda . . .”

  She sighed, turning to face him as he bowed. “Yes, yes, I am well aware; you place no faith in witchery. Nonetheless, there is naught that you can do to untwine this tangle, Adam. So leave it be.” She curtsied, rubbing the side of her neck unconsciously as they parted in the figure, changing partners momentarily.

  Adam paid only cursory attention to the new lady at his side. His eyes were fixed upon Miranda as she went through the motions of the dance. Clearly, her partner had said something, for her eyes flashed anger and flags of color flushed her cheeks.

  “What did he say?” Adam asked when she returned to his side at the end of the set, “If he dared to give you insult. . .” To his surprise, her lower lip began to tremble.

  “You are a kind man, Adam Chapbrook,” she said, trying to blink back an incipient tear. “And I thank you for the gift of your indignation, but my battles must be my own.”

  “Kindness has naught to do with it,” Adam said, touched by her gallant effort, but even the armor of her pride appeared to have its chinks. “Who will protect my protector but me? Why not excuse yourself from Lady Pelton’s spirit soiree and go home?”

  Miranda looked at him in surprise. “Do you forget that it is only my nodding acquaintance with demonic company that gains you entry? If I do not accompany you, I sincerely doubt that Lady Enderby will consent to have you along.”

  “Beelzebub and I will contrive, somehow,” Adam said with an impish look that quickly faded. “However, I am more concerned about you. Participating in this nonsense will only add fuel to the blaze of hellfire about you.”

  He was willing to give up access to Lady Pelton’s séance for her sake. The notion left her feeling oddly buoyant and suddenly, the murmurs and the mockery did not seem to matter nearly as much. “There is scarcely anything left to be said. I am neither ashamed of my family, Adam, nor do I deny what they are. My only regret is that I lack their gifts. Besides, I really must go with you and Lady Enderby if only to make sure that you are well—"

  “Do not dare say ‘protected,’ Miranda,” Adam warned with half a grin. “I do not wish to hear any more of that foolishness. The time is already late and by the time we arrive at Lady Pelton’s it will be bare hours before the cock crows.”

  “I have long left the nursery set,” Miranda said with a laugh, “so you need not fear that I will nod off before the spirits come calling. The darkness before dawn is the best part of the night, and actually the most propitious time for delving beyond the Veil.”

  “Barone wants the participants to be weary is what applies in this instance, I suspect,” Adam said, as he took her arm and led her toward the newly laid refreshment table. “The better to perpetrate his frauds. That is the usual way of it. Anything that will make the victim more readily gullible is a tool of the trade.”

  “I take it then, that you have been to a number of these?” Miranda asked.

  “Dozens,” Adam replied bitterly. “My first meeting with the mystics occurred at the age of eight, directly after my mother’s death. That was the beginning of what was to become a regular parade of charlatans. My mother, you see, had made a pact with my father. If either one of them were to pass on first, the other would attempt to contact the soul of the living survivor. Between them, they chose a phrase and if either received those words from beyond the grave, it would provide absolute proof that the afterlife existed; but the pretenders never guessed the message. That did not stop Papa though, it was always going to be the next oracle of the netherworld, or when he or she failed, the one after that.”

  As they made their way through the throng, Miranda mulled over what she had heard. Now she began to understand his antagonism to things magical. In Adam’s wistful voice she had caught a glimpse of a disillusioned little boy, missing his mother, longing for that gentle touch from the beyond. She imagined what her life would have been if her mother had become so dangerously obsessed with the Light beyond the Veil when her father had died so tragically. It was clear that the late Lord Brand had ignored the here and now when his young son had needed him desperately.

  “I soon found that they were all frauds,” Adam said, handing her a filled glass. With a glacial glare that made Brummel’s frosty stare appear warm, the marquess routed two young sprigs from a quiet nook. “Then father sent me off to Eton and foiling the fakery of spiritualists became a hobby of mine. I actually discovered that some of the methods that I had learned from those frauds were quite useful. More than one first form bully was foiled without the need of resort to fists.”

  “Sometimes, the very illusion of power can be as frightening as the reality,” Miranda ventured. “I take it that you used their credulity as a weapon?”

  Adam nodded.

  “Then how did you differ from those cheats that you so disdained?” Miranda asked. “Were you not gulling your enemies by playing to their fears of a power you do not believe exists?”

  “Surely, the difference is obvious,” Adam said, his brows knitting. “The ends—"

  Miranda broke in. “In this case, being your physical safety, your status in the school, justified the means, the chicanery you so deplore,” she concluded, a smile lurking. “As long as you feel that the goals are laudable, it seems, you will not eschew methods you might deem questionable when employed by others.”

  Her barely suppressed humor irked him. “Do you call me a hypocrite, Miranda?”

  “I would not dare,” Miranda said. “‘Tis merely a matter of interest. I must confess that witches regularly must resort to such stratagems. Oftentimes, people’s problems can be solved without the use of true Power. A pinch of powder, a puff or two of smoke for effect and a little common sense will solve nine troubles out of ten.”<
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  “And what would one of your proper witches do with a question such as ‘Uncle Ned, where did you put the teapot, before you stuck your spoon in the wall?’” Adam asked.

  “Arrange to raise Uncle Ned’s spirit of course,” Miranda replied in an undertone, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “There are ways of projecting the voice to make it appear as if the sound is coming from elsewhere. And Uncle Ned, crusty old badger that he was, would reply ‘leave me be, ye blatherin’ ninny. Got better things t’be about than lookin’ fer yer damned kettle. Look to it yerself, daft fool, iffen yer want ter find it.”’

  “And what if it was a truly important matter?” Adam asked, hard put to keep from grinning at her masterful re-creation of a disembodied old codger.

  Miranda’s expression grew serious. “Once, only once, can I recall a matter important enough to truly seek in the beyond,” she said, a frisson of remembrance fluttering down her spine. “To disturb a soul’s rest one must call on the deepest of magic. ‘Tis not a task to be heedlessly undertaken, I assure you. No witch in my acquaintance would pierce the Veil for mere lucre, not with the risk so high.”

  “Risk?” Adam asked. Her hand had grown cold, trembling in his palm and though her countenance was outwardly calm, there was ominous memory swimming in those azure depths, like a soldier recalling a distant battlefield.

  “The valley where the shadows of death dwell is anathema to the living. Few souls wish to be disturbed over something as trivial as Uncle Ned’s kettle or someone wondering if Auntie Maude really did end up in everlasting torment. An angry spirit can be a powerful threat to the living who seek them.” Miranda said, wondering why she was bothering to explain when he would only mock. “Moreover, from what the journals tell me, the Elysian fields are almost indescribable in their beauty. They say that there is a matchless sense of peace and beyond the horizon, a beckoning Light. The temptation to dwell there forever or go explore that Light is almost impossible to resist.”