The Would-Be Witch

by Boucher, Rita

  “Heaven?” Adam asked.

  “Not quite,” Miranda said. “As far as I can determine, the fields of shadow constitute something of a borderland, a place of dreams where two entirely different realities overlap. Sometimes, souls with unfinished business will wait at the very edge of the Veil, in instances even crossing briefly to our plane of being. They are the Incorporeals, what you might call ‘ghosts.’ As for what is within the Light, I cannot say.”

  “And what happens to those who cannot deny the lure of the Fields, or follow that Light of which you speak?” Adam inquired.

  “The single séance that I attended was conducted by a woman named Gabriella, one of the Elders, close upon the century in age. She was born in the final years of the Great Persecutions; her mother hanged as a sorceress. A talisman of tremendous power was missing, its location known only to my late father. Gabriella attempted to raise his shade. But I suppose with her life so near the end of its course, the attraction of that ultimate harmony was beyond her ability to resist. Her soul left us.”

  Questions crowded Adam’s mind, but the bleak look in Miranda’s eyes forestalled them. She spoke errant nonsense, naturally. Doubtless, there were many plausible reasons for old Gabriella’s death, including her age. Despite every logical explanation that he could produce, he could not keep himself from imagining his mother and father, dwelling together at last in that tranquil light.

  The orchestra was about to begin the next dance and Adam reluctantly returned Miranda to Lady Enderby’s side.

  “The hour grows late, milord,” Lady Enderby said pointedly. “Miss Wilton and I shall soon be leaving.”

  Adam checked his watch and was surprised to find that the midnight hour had passed. Hastily, he made his farewells to his hostess and hurried out to find his carriage. The line of waiting vehicles stretched in front of the Pertwee home extended well beyond Grosvenor Square and around South Audley Street. However, Adam’s was not among them. He kept walking until he came to the mews that backed Upper Grosvenor Street. As instructed, the closed vehicle was waiting in the deserted corner to facilitate a discreet change of costume.

  “Copley?” he called softly, but there was no sign of his coachman. He heard a soft moan from within the carriage and the horses whinnied restlessly. Something was wrong. The door opened and a burly figure emerged.

  “Decided ter quit yer capers early, did yer, Brand?” The man declared. “Should ‘ave enjoyed the dance while yer could still move about, laddie. Cos, when we’re done wiv yer, yer won’t be walkin’ much less prancin’ about, aye lads?”

  Adam whirled at the sound of laughter from behind him. Two more bruisers had materialized from the shadows. Gutmacher's men by the look of them. Desperately, Adam thought of the pistols secreted in the carriage, but there was no way to get to his weapons. All he had was the knife at his belt and his wits. At present though, neither his blade nor his intellect appeared sharp enough to extricate him from a hopeless situation. With no way out, Adam determined to go down fighting. A marmalade cat arched on a fencepost at the end of the alleyway, yowling at the moonlight. For a brief moment, he felt an absurd hope, but the feline streaked away into the darkness.

  “It’s scarcely sporting is it?” Adam said, affecting an air of nonchalance. “Three men, big brawny sons of the Fancy against one man? I would wager that I could take any one of you, two fists against two fists.”

  The one who appeared to be their leader laughed. “A mort-waisted nob like yerself.”

  Adam pulled the knife from his belt and held it up to glitter in the moonlight “I know how to use this, but I’ll throw it aside for a chance at a fair scrap. What have you got to lose, gents, I ask you? Even if I win, do you honestly believe I can take you on, one after another and emerge with a whole hide? What do you say lads, for the sake of sport, eh?”

  “Dunno,” the leader said, shaking his head.

  “C’mon Jack, like ‘ee says, whatcher got ter lose?” his compatriot asked. “Wicked lookin’ blade ‘ee’s got an’ if ‘ee goes ter cuttin’ tain’t my purty mug what’s goin’ in first. I’ll be th’ one ter take 'im on man ter man, iffen yer afeard, tire ‘im out for yer.”

  Jack roared at the insult. “If there be any takin’ ‘is nibs on first, it’ll be me, Fred. Yerself an’ Tom be gettin' yer chances if there’s aught left o’ him when I’m finished.” He spit in his palms and balled up his fists. “Pitch yer knife laddie and say yer last prayers.”

  Adam’s house key went sailing into the darkness with a satisfying clatter. He palmed his knife, secreting it in his belt as he slipped out of his jacket. Used now, it would surely be as much as his life if they came against him all at once, but later, if he succeeded in whittling down the odds, it might come in handy.

  . . .

  Miranda waited with Lady Enderby for their carriage to be brought round.

  “I cannot understand what is keeping Tom Coachman,” Lady Enderby fumed.

  “‘Tis Lord Brand’s absence that troubles me,” Miranda murmured. “He had promised to meet us here in disguise.”

  “Well, we shall just have to leave without him,” Lady Enderby sniffed.

  A marmalade figure sailed up the marble steps, hissing when it reached Miranda’s feet.

  “Filthy creature!” Lady Enderby exclaimed, drawing back her skirts. “Get back, Miranda, before it soils your gown.”

  Unheeding, Miranda bent down, listening to Thorpe’s labored rumblings. “Go back and help him as best you can,” she said softly. “I am on my way.”

  Thorpe streaked off and Miranda turned to follow.

  “Miranda,” Lady Enderby demanded. “Where are you going?”

  “I believe that is my mother’s cat,” Miranda called back over her shoulder. “She will be dreadfully upset to hear that he has gotten loose and is roaming about. I must fetch him back before he gets lost in London.”

  Before Lady Enderby could demand that she stop, Miranda had raced toward the lounging group of coachmen. “A guinea to the man who gets that cat,” she called, pointing after the rapidly vanishing Thorpe. Immediately, the men detached themselves from the walls and fences, following after the golden feline.

  Even hampered by her skirts, Miranda was well ahead of the pack as they rounded South Audley and she nearly lost them as she ran into the mews. The marquess stood over a burly shadow stretched out on the ground as two other men advanced toward him menacingly.

  “Adam!” Miranda exclaimed, aghast at the blood dripping from his lip.

  “Well, well wot ‘ave we ‘ere?” Fred gave a low long whistle. “Prime goods! Belong to you, Brand? Gutmacher dinnent say nuthin’ bout ‘er.”

  “Leave here at once, I warn you,” Miranda demanded. “Or else you will be sorry.”

  “Miranda,” Adam groaned. “Run!”

  “Nonsense,” Miranda said, reaching into her reticule. “I am here to protect you, milord.”

  “Queer in the attic,” Tom said with a leer, advancing on her, “but when a Bedlam wench ‘as yer looks luvie, what’s in th’ brainbox don’t count much, do it?”

  A yowling ball of fur flew through the air and he fell to the ground beneath the weight of a hissing, spitting cannonball. Adam launched himself at the other man.

  “Oh dear,” said Miranda, sliding her pistol back into the reticule. With no clear target, the weapon was too dangerous to use.

  The sound of a dozen running pairs of feet echoed down the alleyway. It was the coachmen. “There he is!” Miranda called to them, pointing to the writhing mass of clawing cat. “Get him.”

  At that cry, Jack raised his head, and seeing the brightly liveried throng heading his way, he staggered up and out in the direction of Park Street. With a herculean effort, Tom pulled Thorpe loose and stumbled to his feet, running as fast as his bowlegs could carry him. As for Fred, he took one look at the pointing surging mob and vaulted a garden gate to melt into the shadows.

  “Poor, poor puss,” Miranda said, lifting Thorpe
gently from the hands of an enterprising coachman and placing him on the cushions of Adam’s waiting vehicle. She untied the marquess’ man and left him massaging his aching muscles while she returned to the milling crowd. “Milord, I have promised a guinea for the first to reach my dear kitty.”

  Adam snorted, wiping ineffectually at the blood on his lip. “Dear kitty, my eye. A ten-pound tiger!”

  “We will see to your eye in a moment,” Miranda said in an undertone. “However, if you would be so kind as to give a coin to this fellow who wears Lord MacLean’s livery, for I believe he came in first; it would be much appreciated. In fact, I think that each of these fine fellows deserves at least a half-crown for their trouble. I shall gladly pay you back, sir, if you would take care of it for me now,” she added sweetly.

  Adam moaned as he picked up his soiled jacket and pulled out his purse to count out the coins.

  As the last of the coachman pulled his forelock and gave his thanks, Miranda gave him a message. “Tell Lady Enderby that Lord Brand and I will be along shortly. It appears that his lordship got into a bit of an altercation.”

  “This is entirely improper,” Adam muttered as his coachman lit the carriage lights, “not to mention dangerous.”

  “Why don’t you take a walk while I put your master to rights?” Miranda suggested to the man who was moving awkwardly about. “It will take the prickles out of your legs.”

  “But beggin’ your pardon, Miss, what if those bruisers return?” the servant asked.

  “We will be well protected, go on with you,” Miranda said, pulling her handkerchief from her reticule.

  Making sure that his pistols were easily accessible beneath the seat, the marquess nodded his permission and the coachman walked slowly out toward South Audley Street.

  “Hold this, please” Miranda demanded, pushing her reticule toward him. “I will need both hands to tend you.”

  Adam’s arm dropped at the unexpected weight. “What do you have in here, lead?” he asked.

  “No, iron, actually,” Miranda commented, gently wiping at the blood at the corner of his mouth. “Iron shot is proof against magic as well as violence offered by ruffians of the more common sort, such as the individuals we encountered this evening.”

  Adam’s eyes went wide as he pulled the brace of petite pistols from the dainty carry-all. “No wonder you had no room for your purse.”

  “They are not very accurate over a distance,” Miranda said, touching the bridge of his nose delicately. It was not broken, but it would puff before the night was done. “Nonetheless, I can shoot the heart of an ace at twenty paces, so they will do well enough if our friends take a notion to return. Do you think that they intend to come back?”

  Adam shook his head, speechless with astonishment.

  “I concur,” Miranda said. “However, one ought to be prepared for all eventualities, do you not think so?” Without waiting for an answer, she held up her hand. “Watch my finger with your eyes, Adam,” she commanded. “It may seem odd, but over the years my family has found the method excellent for determining if there has been damage to vision. I wish to see if you can follow the motion.” She moved her fingers randomly, observing as he tracked their progress. Satisfied, she gave a sigh. “You seem to be walking well, if a bit unsteadily. Do you feel as if anything was broken?”

  “You had best be getting back to Lady Enderby,” Adam said, trying to martial his thoughts despite her nearness.

  “I must first determine if you have taken any injury. If you going to cut up stiff about my being unaccompanied, you have forgotten that Thorpe is present,” Miranda said, glancing significantly at the cat dozing upon the seat by the open door of the carriage.

  “The extraordinary Thorpe,” Adam said, wincing as he shook his head.

  “Ah, so at last you admit that Thorpe is no ordinary cat,” Miranda said, holding Adam’s chin steady as she dabbed away the last of the blood.

  Adam enjoyed the soft sensation of her skin upon his and considered feigning another ache or two for the continued pleasure of her examination. However, bare shreds remained of Miranda’s reputation and although she seemed willing to whistle her name to the wind, he was not, her feline attendant notwithstanding. “Your mother’s animal is more intelligent than most,” Adam said, turning the subject resolutely from magic. “And it is quite obvious that you need someone to watch out for you, especially since you have this absurd tendency to place yourself in danger.”

  “With a brace of pistols in my purse and a dozen men at my heels? And you dare to call me absurd? I saved your wretched neck, milord, though you are too chuckleheaded to admit it. If anyone was at risk, it was Thorpe.” She stroked the resting cat affectionately.

  “And what of wandering into gardens with amorous men?” Adam asked, drawing closer to her. “Is he asleep?”

  “The poor dear is exhausted,” Miranda declared. “I doubt if a bomb could shock him into wakefulness.”

  “Shall we find out?” Adam asked, setting the reticule and its contents on the floor of the coach. Giving way to an impulse that had been building all evening, he swept her into his arms, ignoring the soreness as his lips pressed against hers. Hungrily, he tasted her, the salty tang of his blood mingling with the sweetness of her mouth. Pulse pounding; his craving grew until existence was reduced to a maelstrom of sensation. Pain retreated as pleasure invaded, velvety darkness dimming the faint light of the coach lamp. Even the smells of the alleyway were overwhelmed by the delicate fragrance of jasmine. But mingled within the tangle of sensuality was a curious sense of tenderness.

  Magic. No other explanation was possible for this total bombardment of the senses, this feeling of utter defenselessness. Undone by a kiss that had seemed to plumb the depths of her being, Miranda tried to understand the nature of a spell that could produce such a welter of sensations. The feel of his fingers upon hers seemed to sap the strength from her bones and the touch of his lips caused an explosion of contradictory reactions, cold and hot, light and darkness as her consciousness seemed to shatter and rebuild itself. In the space of a few seconds, her whole world had spun loose of its secure moorings. Yet, that did not frighten her as much as the knowledge that this moment would have to end.

  A deep, steady purr penetrated the periphery of Adam’s awareness. Reluctantly, he pulled away from Miranda’s softness to find a pair of sleepy green eyes staring steadily. “Your chaperone seems to be suggesting that we return to Lady Enderby,” he said, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. “I must seem an ungrateful cur. You saved my life and I have the audacity to chide you for it. Thank you, Miranda.”

  Thank you.

  Was that the meaning of his kiss, then? Nothing more than a gesture of gratitude? Miranda’s soaring feelings plummeted earthward as she reached forlornly for some feather of dignity. He could not be allowed to see the plucked remnants of her pride. In desperation she took recourse in the prosaic. “How did you know what Thorpe said?” she asked.

  “The language of chaperones is a universal tongue,” Adam said, striving to match her composed manner even as he attempted to reconcile this detached female with the passionate Miranda that he had held in his arms barely a moment before. But no sign of that woman remained, save a slight flush on her cheeks. However, that might just as well have been the token of mortification as the remnants of desire.

  Perhaps she was more of a sorceress than she believed. Never before had he so lost control of himself, especially with a woman. Her mere presence was enough to cause him to out-Caliban Shakespeare's fictional barbarian. Even now, he wanted to slam the carriage door on that infernal feline, pull Miranda back into his arms and kiss her until her cool air of composure melted. Without incantation or charm, she had managed to transform him into a blundering savage.

  Chapter 8

  Due to the extreme congestion of traffic at the Pertwee Ball, Adam was able to don his disguise and join Lady Enderby well before her carriage finally appeared.

  Althou
gh they arrived at Pelton House at the appointed hour, several heavy applications of the knocker were required before the door finally creaked open.

  “I am sorry, ladies. . . sir.” The out of breath butler apologized

  “Lady Pelton tells me that most of the staff gave notice some time ago.” Lady Enderby conveyed the gossip with a disdainful sniff and a tone that did not even pretend to be a discreet whisper. “Precious little loyalty in the serving class these days.”

  “Wouldn’t say that. Servants need to live, same as the rest of us, Lady Enderby. Can’t keep staff if ye don’t pay ‘em,” The old man beside her commented in a creaking voice, thumping with the tip of his cane for emphasis. He handed the butler an old-fashioned tricorne, but kept on his gloves. “At my age, hands are forever cold,” he explained.

  Miranda watched Adam’s performance with admiration. His hobble, unfortunately, was better than half-real and the broken blood vessels on his nose added measurably to the illusion of age. With the addition of a wig, waxy wrinkles and a mildly puffing eye, his own uncle would be hard put to recognize him. However, his illusion had as much to do with his demeanor as his costume. His voice, walk, carriage and deportment were entirely in keeping with the character that he had adopted.

  “You would do credit to Drury Lane, milord,” Miranda said quietly, as the butler went up to announce their arrival. “A pity you feel need to use your skills to cozen an old woman.”

  “Quite right, my dear,” Lady Enderby said.

  “‘Tis not I who does the cozening,” Adam said with quiet vehemence. “Take a look about you, Miranda. Not too long ago, this was considered one of the finest homes in London.

  Miranda obeyed, scanning the dimly lit marbled hall. Signs of genteel decay were obvious. Careful scrubbing had not fully eliminated the outlines of missing picture frames and the few bits of bric-a-brac were painstakingly set about to cover the gaps where larger items had once been displayed.