by Tracy Sumner
Piper Scott did not cower, even if she’d made a terrific mess of things and likely should. “Humphrey.” She met his gaze but tucked her shaking hands in the folds of her skirt. “I hope you’re well.” She fashioned a wilted curtsey.
“Could be better, Scamp,” he replied and turned with a nod that implied she best follow.
“That nickname”—she stalked after him—“we’ve discussed in the past.”
He snorted. “Grow up, girl, and you’ll not hear it cross my lips again.” His accent, as rough and uncultured as he was, certainly suited the rebuke.
She jerked off her gloves in place of the comment she’d like to make. And she was in deep enough, wasn’t she?
He glanced back as they crossed the shadowed portico and entered the house, the forlorn tilt of his lips possibly counting as amusement, as if he recognized she restrained her vitriol. She couldn’t determine if Humphrey liked her or not, and she’d always believed he enjoyed her uncertainty. And with as many hurdles as she’d made Julian jump, she guessed she couldn’t blame him.
Halting in an entryway bounded by haphazardly placed benches, she gazed up and around. “How extraordinary.” She stood at one end of a spectacular vaulted hall, a curved bay window at the other end spilling sunlight in a swath across marble. A floating staircase climbed the first and second floors, providing an enchanting viewpoint. “I’ve never seen the like in a country home,” she said, thick Savonnerie muffling her step.
“Aye, this place is like a woman in a plain dress hiding a lacy, red chemise underneath.”
Piper lifted her hand to her mouth to suppress the gust of laughter. An inappropriate but correct statement. With the restrained exterior, the interior of Harbingdon was a breathtaking surprise. She fell entirely in love as she turned in a measured circle. “Charming, truly, but stark.” Her echo confirmed the statement.
Humphrey lifted himself from the door. “Ah, it needs a touch, for certain. Other things, like leaky roofs and functioning cook stoves, took the first.”
“So, aside from all your other duties, you are also housekeeper and butler?” Keeping pace as he moved along, she managed to catch sight of an exquisite Adam fireplace holding reign in a brightly lit sitting room. “My, you are busy then.”
He grunted and started up that incredible staircase. She followed without a word, her fingers trailing the flutes of a column as she passed it.
“We have staff. They were instructed, as happens with delicate”—he halted, darting a look over his shoulder—“situations to make themselves scarce.”
She just kept herself from running into him and had to grasp the railing for support. “I’m a delicate situation?”
He sighed and continued, climbing another level. Goodness, they were hiding her in the upper reaches. “Scamp, you’ve never been anything but.”
“I think I’m insulted,” she murmured, which gained a muted grouse in response.
He gestured to a bedchamber at the end of the hall, then turned to leave. The least ceremony imaginable, but what could she expect from Humphrey? As he passed, he ticked off information like a soldier. “Your maid, Minnie, will be up shortly. Bath. Fresh clothing. All the frippery. She’s scrambling now to gather it. She’ll also bring a tray. With the jumble, a proper dinner isn’t on the docket.” He scrubbed his hand over his face at the top of the stair, evidently unimpressed with her latest jumble.
“I appreciate I’m not being housed in the attic.” She pressed her palm against the door. “Nor as far as Gloucestershire.”
Shoulders stiffening, he glanced back, ire showing in eyes so dark they appeared black. His aura flared, golden sparks lighting the muddy edges. “Julian’s had this one ready for a while. Thought you would enjoy the view. It’s the best to be had.”
He left her with that, feeling foolish, petty, and wholly put in her place.
Piper sighed and entered the chamber. Fading sunlight rolled in the window, one note of welcome. The room, no matter the state of any belowstairs, hadn’t been neglected. Subtle shades of yellow and mauve: walls, bedding, and the canopy topping the mahogany tester bed. She toed the carpet. Usually, the ones making it to a bedchamber had been through the paces on the main floor first, but this looked new. Aubusson, unless she missed her guess. Did Julian have funds? She assumed his estates had left him desperate for cash, as was the case with most saddled with centuries of titled obligation.
The view was indeed breathtaking, overlooking a vast lawn centered by a fetching stone fountain, clusters of trees and shrubs dotting the expanse willy-nilly as far as one could see. Formal gardens spanned the western border, looking overgrown and untended. She pressed her fingertips to glass with a sudden burst of longing.
She had never been invited to tend a garden.
Dropping her gloves to the ledge, she rested her brow on the cool pane.
Unshakable loneliness, a boon companion since her first night in Gloucestershire, pulsed through her with as steady a rhythm as her heart. Tears again threatened. With a very American oath, she ran a knuckle beneath each eye when she wanted to weep, throw herself on the bed and let the English half of her succumb like a vapid fool.
But Minnie, the maid, could not arrive to find her mistress beset by misery the likes of which would send her running for her master. Piper’s gift, her wretched familial situation, her exile from society, were her misfortunes to manage. Humphrey was right. She needed to grow up, take responsibility, accept what was and what was not.
Because her hopes too often focused on the not.
Julian, an absurd desire, the biggest not.
It was no wonder he found her exasperating to the point of banishment. Her grandfather’s murder had sent them fleeing in a state of panic. That the earl’s dying words claimed the intended target was the healer, ah, well. Julian had no choice but try to find a place far from London where she’d be safe. Although their separation hadn’t mattered one whit to him. He was occupied with his title, a seat in the House of Lords, managing the League.
Lady Coswell, she thought blackly.
Fine. Piper now had a purpose, too. Her research.
A cardinal dropped to a branch near the window, and she tapped the glass to get his attention. Julian had agreed to be her partner. Promised with a handshake, a binding contract for a man with honor.
And Julian was a man with tremendous honor.
This time, she must separate her feelings from the endeavor.
The word partner had many meanings, and the potential to flare like alcohol tossed on an open flame. Attaching herself to the wrong one would drive Julian back in his rabbit hole. But this time, he needed her. The dark crescents beneath his eyes and slumped set of his shoulders said more than he ever would.
She’d always needed him. It was part of the troublesome groove she’d dug for herself. One she could not escape.
Piper exhaled, clouding the glass but not her resolve.
Scamp, Yank, Scandalous Scott.
For once, she planned to do something aside from living up to her hideous reputation.
Chapter 5
I am—yet what I am none cares or knows.
~John Clare
Lyon, France
Sidonie paced the length of the cavernous dining room in her family’s estate, her skirt tangling around her legs with each step. Her breath came so rapidly black edged her sight. She clutched her throbbing head and studied the crude paintings on the wall through muted perception, the plush carpet her bare feet sank into providing no comfort.
Everything was a grotesque blur, a moonlight-and-shadow nightmare.
Nothing could ease the chill. Not the roaring fire in the hearth, or the fur cloak wrapped around her. The frost was bone-deep. Unrelenting and merciless. The visions arrived without any promise of containment. Ghastly, with sharp teeth and glowing eyes, they nipped at her in vicious little bites. She was unable to sleep more than an hour at a time. Unable to eat. Her life had ground to a halt while her contemporaries ma
rried and had children, things she had once longed for.
Desired.
Her former friends and lovers feared her after the tragic incident at the theatre. She would never be allowed to return to French society. That horrible night, the crimson wash beneath her feet, spiraled through her mind. She halted in the middle of the room, her shout echoing off the castle’s stone walls.
She drew a soothing breath that did little to soothe. The scent of spices—ginger, cardamom, thyme, turmeric—stung her nose. Putain d'enfer, those had not helped.
Opium, absinthe, prayers.
Her only hope for a future without the visions was the girl.
The healer. The granddaughter.
A whisper floated through her mind. Piper.
Sidonie snaked her fingers through her hair and yanked the snarled strands until her scalp tingled. Desperation drove her to recall the latest vision—when she never wanted to step into that world again—and examine it for clues to the healer’s location. Sliding to the floor, she let the images carry her away as if they were a river and she flotsam. Flames, smoke, chaos. A girl, no, now a woman, dropping to her knees on a brick path. Strong arms encircling her, offering protection. The force of emotion—fondness, exasperation, attraction—flowing between the two was deep-seated. A compelling force when joined, they would pose a test if challenged as one.
But there was danger in their joining as well. She lifted her head. A vulnerability. She would have to strike when they were at their weakest.
Sidonie’s men had failed three years ago, finding the earl when she wanted the girl. Killing him in their stupidity and getting killed themselves, which had sent the healer into hiding. Even if he had lived, the earl’s knowledge was useless. Had he not proven this at their first meeting, when Sidonie was little more than a child? Her father believed the earl could cure her madness, but his chronology proved to be simply the scribbles of a man fascinated with the occult. He’d been fascinated with her, a true dreamer he’d called her, a curse that had consumed her entire, miserable life.
She’d not wanted to know what she was—she’d only wanted to rid herself of her curse.
She wanted the dreams afforded others in their thoughtless indulgence. Lovers, family, a future. When all given to her was death, destruction, and terror. Blood dribbling down the steps of a Roman theatre while the world watched. While he, the man she had once thought would be hers, watched.
She groaned and dug her nails into her scalp. Another vision intruded, this one bringing the scent of pine, earth, woodsmoke. A forest set around a shimmering lake. Stones the color of fresh cream. Protection, unease, yearning. Love. Heart thudding, she stood on unsteady legs.
The healer was no longer in London. The man was with her, a protective force, but their vulnerability, the crack in the façade, remained.
With a sudden mental tug, the vision was yanked from her mind.
A theft.
Someone else close to the girl with considerable skill. Someone expendable should they stand in her way as death was becoming commonplace. Everyone was expendable. Even the healer, should it come to that.
The vision had been clear, and even with the interruption, she’d seen enough. She could identify the trees. The lake. Those milky-white stones. She would remember enough this night or another soon to get close to the girl.
Or, expendable herself, she would die trying.
Finn gasped and yanked himself from the dream. A bead of sweat tracked his cheek, and he dashed it away. His breath shot from his lungs as if he’d taken the stairs at Harbingdon at full speed. Kicking at the damp counterpane, he palmed his stomach and swallowed past the queasiness. Damn. He could feel the woman’s desperation, her madness, thrumming through his mind like hammer blows. Whispers with a cat’s-claw bite.
The stench of spice and decay pushed him over the brink.
Stumbling to the washstand, he heaved until his body had no more to give.
Sliding to the floor, he dropped his head to his knee, throat working. His heart continued its staggering rhythm as he struggled for control, struggled to gather the memory. Bracing his palms on the worn planks, he focused on the woman as if she sat close enough for him to trail his finger across her skin.
Julian’s advice whispered through his mind: gather the details.
Heavily accented speech. French. Tapestries on the wall. A castle. Jewels on her fingers and strung around her neck. A fur cloak. Wealth. Terror and desperation—and a willingness to harm. To destroy without thought, without guilt, without concession. He watched a river of blood washing down stone steps and knew killing was not beyond this woman.
The most disturbing element she’d left him with was a chilling sense of awareness. He squeezed his eyes shut and shoved aside his dread. She’d been rummaging through his mind like one would a drawer for a stray sock. What if he’d inadvertently provided a clue to their location, to Piper?
Thank God he’d managed to block her, but he needed Piper’s assistance to get stronger. Which, in turn, would protect her. Protect the League.
The endgame was to steal thoughts, not give them away.
Peeling himself from the floor, Finn stumbled from the room, preparing for a discussion with Julian neither of them was going to enjoy.
Chapter 6
How little do they see what is, who frame their hasty judgments upon that which seems.
~Robert Southey
“Crack of sparrows, miss!”
Piper stuck her head beneath the feather pillow, praying for mercy and more sleep, but the curtains were thrown wide, and the window opened with a screech. The smell of rain and gardenias circled, a welcome reminder she was no longer waking to the soot and stink of London. Or the wretched seclusion of Gloucestershire.
“Mr. Finn is headed to the mercantile and asked me to wake you as you arrived with a valise packed with scraps of paper and not much else. It’s sitting at the end of the bed when you want to attend to it. I don’t know what to do with that clutter.” Piper heard the clunk of a washbasin being filled. “Not the first odd arrival here, I tell you. Nor the last. I’m not belittling, mind you, as I was one of those arrivals a few short months ago.”
Piper peeked from beneath the pillow to see a stout woman nearly the same age as she, standing arms akimbo, expectation—for what Piper had no idea—stamped across her rubicund face. As Piper stared, her aura flared, a mix of colors not unlike a tattered quilt. She looked sturdy and fearsome, while Piper felt like a wilted flower. She’d fallen into an exhausted slumber the previous evening, missing the promised arrival of dinner, a chance to bathe, and her first encounter with her maid.
“Minnie?” Piper asked and laid the pillow aside.
“That’s me,” the woman replied, moving to the bed. “Mr. Julian doesn’t like anything formal unless we’ve a guest who requires, but if you don’t like using my Christian name, what with your upbringing, Miss Dunbar will do in a pinch.” Minnie straightened the counterpane, a nervous movement that made Piper wonder if this encounter was unsettling to them both. “Though no one in my life ever called me Miss Dunbar.”
Piper clutched the sheet to her chest. Out of necessity and fatigue, she had slept in her chemise and drawers. “Clothing, perhaps? A fresh set?”
“Ah, that dunce Humphrey! Showed you nothing, did he? Telling us to stay away when you arrived and then doing a piss-poor job. Men shouldn’t be given certain duties, but here, we’re all topsy-turvy. You’ll find that out quick enough. Not one soul I’ve yet to meet trained proper for any position they hold.” She darted a glance over her shoulder, staring down the wardrobe doors as they popped open with a dull click. “Mr. Julian had this filled for you months ago.”
Piper collapsed against the headboard with a gasp of delight. What a wonderful addition to her readings Minnie would have been! “So, this is your parlor trick?” she asked. “Fascinating! I’ve never seen the like, though I read of this gift in my grandfather’s papers. You can move objects with you
r mind, am I right? You must let me record your aura and what changes occur during the process.”
Minnie turned to Piper, her cheeks blazing. “I figured I’d get it out there, because sometimes, foolish woman that I am, I shift things without thinking.” She tapped her temple with a stubby finger. “I’ve had people faint, truthfully, over nothing more than a floating saltshaker. Can you believe that would upset anyone in this cruel world? Mr. Julian calls it influencing a physical”—she pulled at her lower lip—“system without a physical interaction. Now isn’t that fancy? When my ma just called it misfortune.”
Fancy. And terribly keen. Piper scooted higher in the bed, wishing anything connected to Julian did not interest her so. “That sounds like him,” she said, the words holding a tartness she’d hoped to conceal.
Minnie halted in place. Piper instantly recognized the look and the aura framing it.
Bother. Julian had gained another devotee.
“M’lady, Harbingdon be the first place in my life I’ve felt safe revealing my wee talent. Why, I was being forced into an asylum when Mr. Julian offered to employ me instead. Those with a true gift, not the swindlers at high-flying séances and such, don’t find the mystical world all that entertaining. It’s an awful heavy burden.” She gave the counterpane another tug. “I was brought up in a special place, my ma a lightskirt, to put it plainly, but I’m not suited for that employ as you can see.” She executed a little sidestep, the cage crinoline beneath her mauve skirt giving a rattle of protest. “Assumed I was daft because such peculiar things happened around me. So, a lady’s maid I be.”
Piper blinked, appalled and enchanted.
Minnie, the mind-shifting daughter of a prostitute, was Julian’s idea of a proper companion for the most wretched excuse for a lady in England. Her smile bloomed. This relationship might actually work out.
