by Mia Marlowe
“This is not the first time you’ve thought about it in my presence. I saw it in your mind briefly that first night at Lord Albemarle’s party. The same night I saw an image of your Emilia.” He stroked her cheek and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “She’s a beautiful child. But then she would be with you as her—”
“Hold now.” She wiggled out of his arms. “You let me believe the Duke of Camden’s sources of information led to you knowing about my daughter.”
“No, I merely implied it. You came to that conclusion on your own.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “What about your devotion to truth?”
“What I said about His Grace’s resources was true. It just wasn’t relevant to the subject at the time,” he said with such an earnest expression she was tempted to believe him, but she held herself back. The man had just admitted to deception, after all. “I’m sorry if you feel deceived. That was not my intention.”
It was exactly his intention. “Why did you come here today? Really?”
“You invited me to see your orchids.”
He seemed genuinely surprised by her growing outrage. An innocent unjustly accused. Well, Satan could masquerade as an angel of light, too.
“No, you said you came for me, Pierce,” she corrected. “But that’s not right either, is it? What did you really hope to accomplish?”
“But I did come for you, Honora.”
“Stop calling me that.” He was trying to change her back into someone she no longer was. Her cheeks heated and not with embarrassment. She was angrier than she’d been since her father had slammed the door on her for the final time. “My name is Nora.”
“Not to me,” he murmured, then raised his voice. “All right, if you must know, the Duke of Camden is concerned about the psychic properties inherent in that Trust Powder. He wants to know Lord Albemarle’s intentions for it. How does he plan to use it?”
She forced herself to think of anything other than Benedick’s plans to influence the Prince Regent to a policy that would lead to a return to war with France. “So you came here with the express purpose of spying on my mind.”
“No, I—”
“The truth, Pierce. It’s all you have,” she parroted. “Remember?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “I came to spy.”
He came to invade her. To violate her. She felt like retching, but she swallowed back the rising bile. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how his betrayal affected her. “Leave now.”
“But that’s not all I came to do.”
“I know. You also came to lose your virginity. Very well. Mission accomplished all around.” She trembled with rage. The man had used her on several levels. If he didn’t leave soon, she’d fly at him, nails bared. “Now get out.”
He bowed correctly to her, as correctly as a naked man could bow, and strode to the door. He closed it behind him softly. She waited with an ear to the oak for his retreating footfalls, for some indication that he was retrieving his discarded wardrobe from the stairs and landings and by the back door, but she heard nothing.
He was still standing on the other side of the door.
“Go away, Westfall,” she said.
“Not until I tell you.”
Silence stretched between them for the space of ten heartbeats.
“What?” she asked in exasperation, trying to keep her mind blank, determined not to think anything she didn’t want him to know.
“I never expected this to happen.”
“Then let’s just say you experienced extreme good luck and leave it at that,” she said crossly.
“You’re right about one thing. I did hope to learn how Lord Albemarle will use the Pulvis Fides, because if he intends to harm the royal family, I’ll try to stop him somehow.”
“You are mad, Westfall, if you believe I won’t tell him that.”
“I won’t blame you if you do,” he said. “But there’s something else at work here. Something I don’t understand. The truth is, I think I love you, Honora.”
He walked away then, but she didn’t move until she heard the heavy front door close with a thud. Then she slid to the floor with her knees tucked to her chin and her back to the oak.
Westfall didn’t love her. The man was half mad and she just happened to have been the first woman he’d ever lain with. If he’d lost his virginity to a doxy in Whitechapel, he’d have told her the same thing.
He thinks he loves me. How ridiculous.
Her chest constricted. She needed someone to love her. Wanted it with a fierceness that threatened to suck all the air from her lungs.
But she didn’t deserve it.
Love is a right puzzle box of an emotion. What engineer can unravel its mysteries? It is a surging tempest of wants and needs and desires. No captain can pilot its waves with surety of reaching safe harbor. Yet I’m told that saints pray to love more completely rather than to be loved in return.
Alas, I am no saint.
~from the secret journal of Pierce Langdon, Viscount Westfall
Chapter Eleven
When the Duke of Camden signaled to Mr. Bernard, the steward rapped a small gavel on the escritoire at which he sat. “This meeting of the Order of the M.U.S.E. will please come to order.”
Westfall had been slumped in his seat, elbow on the settee’s arm, chin in his hand, concentrating on keeping his mental shield erected. Now he sat upright as the others took their places. They’d been chatting with the newcomer, a fellow by the name of Gaston LeGrand.
His surname was a misnomer. There was nothing the least grand about him. The Frenchman was small and wiry, built close to the ground. But that, too, was misleading, because he wasn’t an earth mage. The newest member of the Order had an affinity for water and could bend it to his will in the same way Vesta and Lady Stanstead controlled fire.
Westfall wasn’t as concerned about the fellow’s psychic gift as he was his nationality. His Grace had explained that LeGrand’s mother had been an Englishwoman, but the man’s surname was definitely French.
And didn’t His Grace claim most of England’s troubles came from that part of the world?
Still, it wasn’t his place to decide who was welcomed into the Order. If the duke trusted LeGrand, Westfall should, too. However, he promised himself a peek into the fellow’s mind later, just to make sure.
“Vesta isn’t here yet,” Stanstead said. “We can’t start without her.”
“When is she ever on time?” the duke said with an ignoble snort. “Perhaps if Miss LaMotte misses a few important things, she’ll make room in her oh-so-busy schedule for—”
“Oh, good!” her familiar voice called out. “You’re all here.”
The courtesan breezed into the duke’s study, a cloud of flowery scent wafting in her wake. She was dressed in pale green silk with layers of petal-like epaulets on her white shoulders. Westfall decided the gown was designed to make a man wish to pluck them off one by one—sort of a haute couture version of “She loves me, She loves me not.” He wished it was Honora in that gown. And when he got to the last petal he hoped the answer would be the right one.
The thought surprised him. Before lying with Honora, he’d never been one for such flights of fancy. He shot an accusing glare at Stanstead, in case the idea had come from that quarter, but the earl wasn’t even looking at Vesta.
I’m becoming a hopeless nit, he thought sullenly. Outstanding.
“I, for one, cannot wait to hear Lord Westfall’s report.” Vesta perched in the chair usually reserved for His Grace and leaned toward Westfall expectantly.
He scanned the circle of eager faces. Since his mental shield was drawn up as tight as he could make it, he got no sense of what they were really thinking. Without that input, they were like caricatures of themselves, two dimensional renderings of the real people. Still, it was easier to concentrate in a group if he kept himself boxed in.
“When Miss Anthony searched Lord Albemarle’s home for the Fides Pulvis, sh
e found several powdery substances,” he began with a nod in Meg’s direction. “I learned from Lady Nora that the one we seek is in the silver snuffbox.”
It was like a betrayal to share what he’d heard in her mind, but he had little choice. The Order demanded the information and didn’t care how it was acquired. At least he wasn’t giving away any of Honora’s secrets. They didn’t need to know about her daughter or how much she suffered to keep her safe.
“I suspected as much,” Camden said, “but it is good to have confirmation.”
“Good? How is this good?” Vesta said, glancing over her shoulder at the duke with unexpected waspishness. “The man is likely to have it on his person at all times except when he retires for the night. When will we be able to relieve him of it without resorting to burglary?”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself, Vesta,” Camden said with a deceptively calm tone. Westfall suspected the duke meant to infuriate rather than placate her but without lowering his shield he couldn’t be sure. “Rushing headlong is always your strong suit.”
“As yours is dithering for the sake of it.”
The group gave a collective gasp. Even for Vesta, who could always be counted upon to say something outrageous, the remark was beyond the pale. No one addressed a peer of the realm in such a disrespectful way. Something dangerous flashed in the duke’s eyes. If Vesta had been a man, His Grace would have called her out for it, even if he had contributed to the verbal sparring.
Vesta refused to be cowed by his dark scowl.
“His Grace is right,” Stanstead said in an attempt to smooth things over. “We shouldn’t rush matters. First we need to consider how Albemarle intends to use the Trust Powder.”
Fortunately, before Honora had thrown Westfall out, her mind had provided the answer. She’d tried mightily not to think of it, but such powder-keg thoughts weren’t easy to keep at bay. “He intends to influence the Prince Regent over a question to be decided at the next Concert of Europe in Aix-la-Chappell,” Pierce said. “Albemarle wants His Royal Highness to refuse to support the withdrawal of the Allies’ troops from France.”
“But the withdrawal, it has always been part of the peace agreement. The French countryside, she is just settling now,” LeGrand said, gesturing wildly with his hands. If he’d been handcuffed, Westfall suspected he’d be struck dumb. “If the troops, they do not withdraw, it will be like the poking of a hornet’s nest. There will be war again.”
Westfall nodded. “I know. And so does Lord Albemarle.”
“Why on earth would he want war?” Lady Stanstead asked.
“Albemarle is working on our enemies’ behalf. No doubt the French hope for a different outcome if hostilities resume,” the duke said. “Treasonous. Absolutely treasonous.”
“The baron may not be motivated by politics, Camden.” This time, Vesta didn’t sound as if she were disagreeing solely to be disagreeable. “Wars are expensive propositions. Fortunes are made in such ways if one is situated to take advantage of the event. What do we know about Albemarle’s finances?”
The duke shot a searching look at his steward. Bernard opened the dossier on Albemarle and glanced through the pages.
“He seems as sound as a pound on paper,” Mr. Bernard said. “Lord Albemarle has no excessive debt. If anything, he’s been a lender more often than a borrower. I see nothing here that indicates he’s invested in armaments or essential commodities or anything which would be necessary to the nation should war with France recommence.”
“And there’s nothing in Albemarle’s life that indicates a predilection for aggression for its own sake. He’s a sybarite, a bon vivant,” Vesta said. “He’d sooner launch a new poet on Society than interrupt the peaceful conclusion to old hostilities. War is a messy business. It might interfere with Albemarle’s calendar of salons and dinner parties.”
Silence settled on the group as they considered Vesta’s well-taken point.
“What if using the Fides Pulvis to influence His Royal Highness wasn’t Albemarle’s idea?” Westfall said, almost to himself.
“Wait. Didn’t you just say using the Fides Pulvis to undermine the peace treaty was his intention?” Lady Stanstead asked.
“I did, but what if he were being coerced somehow?”
“Is he?” Vesta lifted one brow in a shrewd expression.
“I got the sense that was the case,” Westfall said, “but I didn’t learn any of the particulars.”
It would have meant lowering his shield and letting Honora’s mind wash over him while he quizzed her on the subject. She wouldn’t have liked that one bit. It still made little sense, but what Honora liked mattered to him more than anything else.
“No matter his motivation, the fact remains that this Lord Albemarle, he means to do mischief with his Powder of the Trust,” LeGrand said. “It is not our place to understand why. That is of no import. It is our duty only to stop him, no?”
The water mage had a valid point, but it irked Westfall that the newcomer should have been the one to make it. Pierce had been a silent party to Order meetings for months before he’d felt emboldened to speak out at one.
“Well put, LeGrand,” the duke said. “Miss Anthony, would you please locate Lord Albemarle for us?”
“Certainly, Your Grace.”
The Finder closed her eyes and slipped into the trance that would enable her to search for Lord Albemarle. Westfall held his breath as her spirit slipped from her body and went winging over the chimneys of London. While her mind roamed free, the shell that usually housed it sat still as death in the Duke of Camden’s palatial home.
The others around him murmured softly to one another about inconsequential things. They had no idea Miss Anthony risked staying away from her body too long each time she embarked on one of her quests for His Grace.
But Pierce knew.
He watched her intently, hoping for the twitch beneath her closed eyelids that showed she had returned. Her cheeks paled. Her lips turned blue.
Still, the others chattered on as if a life didn’t hang in the balance. More than once, Westfall had been on the verge of warning His Grace what was involved in the Finder’s psychic searches, but it wasn’t his secret to tell. When he’d confronted Meg Anthony about it, she’d begged him to keep his knowledge to himself.
“Please don’t peach on me, my lord. Finding is all I can do for His Grace,” she’d told him. “Leastwise, all that’s respectable.”
She was right about that. Once, Meg Anthony had tutored Lady Stanstead on the fine art of pickpocketing when the Order’s business had called for it. No doubt, she had a number of other nefarious skills in her bag of tricks. But Meg had yet to master the task His Grace had set for her to accomplish—being able to pass for a wellborn lady.
As seconds stretched into minutes and she still hadn’t returned, Westfall wished he’d ignored Meg’s pleading and told His Grace about the danger she was in each time she was ordered to “fetch” something.
“She’s been out a long time,” Stanstead finally said.
“Longer than usual,” His Grace allowed, and stopped his habitual circuiting of the room. He crossed over and reached out a hand, intending to give Miss Anthony’s shoulder a shake.
“No!” Westfall was on his feet and batting Camden’s hand away before he considered the impropriety of swatting a duke as if he were a toddler reaching for a candle flame. “Don’t touch her. If she’s on her way back, you may interfere with her return.”
“On her way back?”
“Her spirit leaves her body when she does this for you,” Westfall said testily. Concern for her safety made keeping her secret fade into insignificance.
“I had no idea,” the duke said with a frown. “I thought her ability was akin to mine when I sense the presence of another Extraordinaire.”
Camden suffered vivid visions when he encountered a new psychic to be brought into the M.U.S.E. fold. He had even been physically injured by events that occurred in his visions when he
made use of his psychic sensitivity. But the hurts had been minor, and his spirit remained firmly attached to his body at all times.
“Why would she risk such a thing?” Camden asked, aghast.
“She’d do anything for a scrap of praise from your lips,” Westfall said. He didn’t need the duke’s approval, but he’d dare quite a bit for Camden’s sake as well. After all, without His Grace’s intervention, he’d still be at the mercy of that quack in Bedlam.
One way or another, everyone in the Order was beholden to the duke. It was not an obligation His Grace ever trumpeted or used as a means of coercion, but the sense of indebtedness was there nonetheless.
Meg Anthony suddenly gasped for breath, and everyone began talking at once.
“Oh, you wicked, wicked girl.” Vesta nearly hugged the stuffing out of her. “You scared the life out of us.”
Westfall stifled the urge to correct Vesta. Meg was the only one whose life had been in danger.
The duke planted his feet before her. “Now that I am aware of the risks you run when you embark on a Finding mission for us, Miss Anthony, you will do no more of them until we can discover a way to mitigate the danger to you. Is that understood?”
“But Your Grace—”
“No arguments.” He stopped her with a raised hand. “You are far too valuable to the Order to expose yourself to such danger.” Westfall had never heard the duke raise his voice, but he was shouting now. “I forbid it, do you hear?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The world trembled when a peer of the realm thundered like that. Meg Anthony greeted the words with a shaky smile. Then she shot a reproving look in Westfall’s direction. He couldn’t find it in him to feel sorry he’d betrayed her. She shouldn’t take such chances. “I won’t Find again until you give me leave.”
Camden nodded curtly and tugged down his waistcoat, a sure sign he was still miffed. “Yes, well, see that you don’t. Now tell us what you learned while your soul went kiting about all over London.”
