House of Stone

by R. L. King

  “This way, sir,” the usher said instantly when Stone announced his name. The young man handed him a program and led him to a pew in the second row on the bride’s side. The front row was empty, left open for the bridesmaids. “Here we are.” The few others already seated in the row—mostly older couples Stone didn’t recognize along with a few longtime staff members—glanced at him with curiosity.

  “In the front?” Stone asked, tilting his head.

  “Yes, sir. Miss Desmond left clear instructions. She says you’re family.”

  A twinge ran through Stone—I could have been family, if things had gone differently—but said nothing and took his seat at the end of the row. Glancing behind him at the other guests, he recognized only a few: some old friends of William Desmond’s, mostly. The rest, he supposed, were friends or relatives of Imogen’s mother, who had died before she and Stone met. Five rows back, he spotted Eddie Monkton and Arthur Ward, seated next to each other. They caught Stone looking and both smiled understandingly. They’d both spent a lot of time with Stone and Imogen when the two of them had been together, and they, more than anyone but Imogen herself, knew how hard this day would be for him.

  The church was beautiful, decorated in a simple and elegant style in the manner of a couple who were comfortable enough with themselves, each other, and their circumstances to avoid anything resembling ostentation. Stone knew Imogen had grown up surrounded by immense wealth, but William Desmond had never treated it as anything special. As austere and draconian as he’d been with his apprentices, Desmond had loved his daughter dearly and provided her with every advantage she would need to succeed—but he’d also instilled in her both a deep sense of duty and compassion and a spine of pure steel. Stone had never worried about anyone taking advantage of Imogen Desmond, because she was both bright enough and determined enough to shut them down the instant she got a whiff of duplicity.

  Stone bowed his head for a moment, a sudden twinge of grief slicing through him. Desmond should have been here, walking down the aisle with Imogen, and then seated in this very spot to see his only daughter get married. True, he’d made no secret of the fact that he’d have preferred the groom to be Stone, but that ship had sailed many years ago and he’d come to gracious terms with it, just as Stone himself had.

  Stone could almost picture him sitting there, every line of his steel-gray hair and his formal suit perfect, casting the occasional gently askance glance at Stone’s futile attempts to force his own unruly spikes to settle down. Desmond had never lowered himself to joking, but his opinion of Stone’s tonsorial defiance had been a long source of good-natured ribbing between them.

  A fanfare shook Stone from his melancholy, and he stood with the rest of the guests to direct his attention to the rear of the church. As the doors opened and Imogen appeared on the arm of Kerrick, Desmond’s estate steward and longtime dear friend of the family, his breath caught.

  Her white dress was not elaborate or showy, but it suited her so perfectly Stone wondered if she’d broken with her usual practical ways and had it custom-designed. Bold yet conservative, the dress managed to combine an old-world sophistication with a more modern sense of style. Imogen was small and slight of frame, but the way she stood there, pausing a moment to let her glittering gaze roam over the assembled guests, made her look as if she was ready to take on the world and claim it for her own. For just a second, her gaze met Stone’s and they locked; he thought he saw the tiniest of impish, wistful smiles before her attention moved on and she began the procession toward Clifford, who, according to British custom, did not face her.

  Stone couldn’t help it—he switched to magical sight as he followed her progress toward the altar. Her strong blue aura blazed so brightly it seemed to light up the space around her, leaving little trails in her wake as she made her slow, steady approach. If he had any doubt of her happiness, that sight drove it away.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, gripping the well-worn wood of the pew in front of him, overcome as he rarely was with a jumble of emotions: love, pride, happiness. Surprisingly, he felt no jealousy, no resentment. He could never truly love her if he objected to her clear and unmistakable pleasure at this day. Her face could lie, but her aura couldn’t.

  He sat straight and tall during the ceremony, continuing to watch with magical sight as Imogen and Clifford exchanged their vows. Mostly he focused on her, but now and then shifted his attention to Clifford Blakeley. Imogen’s fiancé had always struck Stone as an unremarkable man, kindly and bland with his dark-blond hair, round, pleasant face, and conservative style of dress that bordered on frumpy. Today, though, as he stood facing Imogen in his beautifully tailored tuxedo, it wasn’t only his aura that radiated joy. He looked like a man who couldn’t quite believe he was where he was, and doing what he was doing. As he and Imogen held hands and spoke their promises to each other, his gaze never left her eyes. It was as if he’d forgotten about everyone else in the church, creating a bubble around himself and Imogen.

  Stone wasn’t the type to tear up at weddings, and this one was no exception, but as the vicar at last pronounced the two of them husband and wife and they kissed, he once again tightened his grip on the pew and blinked away a persistent prickle behind his eyes. Good for you, Imogen, love. I hope he makes you as happy as you’ve always deserved to be. If there was indeed some sort of afterlife, he could almost picture William Desmond watching from there, his eyes shining with pride at his daughter.

  Eddie and Ward caught up with him as he filed out of the church with the rest of the guests. “All right, Stone?” Eddie asked softly.

  He nodded, putting on a cheerful smile. “Fine. Lovely ceremony, wasn’t it?”

  “Indeed,” Ward said, eyeing Stone with a sideways glance indicating that neither he nor Eddie was fooled. He looked back over his shoulder at the wedding party as they filed out along with the photographer to take advantage of the beautiful summer evening with some photos on the grounds.

  “We were startin’ to worry you might not show,” Eddie said. “Bit late, weren’t you?”

  “Yes. I was—dealing with some issues back at the house. Ian turned up, so I was giving him the tour and we lost track of time.”

  “Oh, ’e’s finally come ’round, then? Does that mean we might finally get to meet ’im?”

  “We’ll see. I’m not sure how long he’s staying.” Ever since he’d told Eddie and Ward about Ian, they’d been teasing him about whether he’d at last succumbed to madness and the boy was merely a figment of his imagination.

  “Right,” Ward said, amused.

  “Sod off,” Stone muttered, chuckling. “You’ll be at the reception, I assume?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Eddie said. “We’ll see you there. You’d better save me a dance, though. I didn’t get all done up in this penguin suit for nothin’.” His grin nearly split his face as he and Ward waved and headed off toward their respective cars.

  Stone had farther to walk, and he didn’t move at his usual quick pace. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t told his friends about the day’s discovery. He knew he would eventually, since he planned to enlist their help in exploring and cataloging what might be down there. Eddie’s position as keeper of the massive London magical library, as well as curator of the soon-to-be-opened magic resource center at Caventhorne made him, along with longtime arcane researcher Ward, ideal candidates to assist him. Besides, other than Verity, they were the only people who knew anything about Stone’s sordid family history.

  The reception was held at a small, elegant venue a short distance outside the town proper. Stone wondered why they hadn’t chosen one of the offerings at the Cathedral itself, but thought he knew: Imogen was an intensely private person, and he’d gotten the impression Clifford was too, so they might have considered the Cathedral’s facilities too “commercial.”

  The location they’d chosen looked to Stone as if it might have been a private manor house at some point. It was a lovely, two-story home about the same
size as his place in Surrey but in much better repair, surrounded by manicured grounds and meandering, fairylike paths. Stone drove through the gates and surrendered his keys to the uniformed valet at the door. He took in the circular driveway with a fountain at its center and the twinkling lights along the paths, just beginning to come on as twilight fell, as he mounted the front steps along with several other chattering guests.

  He didn’t clearly remember too many details of the reception itself. Despite his preoccupation with the discovery back at his own house, he pulled his “charming” act around him like a cloak and circulated with a glass of wine in hand, chatting with various guests before retiring to one side to talk shop with Ward and Eddie while they waited for Imogen and Clifford to arrive. He’d informed Imogen of Verity’s last-minute no-show as soon as he’d found out about it, and the planner had hastily rearranged the table settings so he wouldn’t be seated next to an empty spot. Fortunately, she’d also been kind enough to seat Ward and Eddie at the same table, so at least he didn’t have to spend the evening making small talk. That, especially tonight, would have been pure hell.

  Imogen, Clifford, and the rest of the wedding entourage arrived before long, taking their seats at the head table as the dinner service began. Stone managed to keep his mind on the event, forcing himself not to continue his speculations about what was going on back at the house. He focused on listening to the speeches and enjoying the excellent meal, and tried not to think too hard about anything else. He could get back to what was happening at the house after this was over. He owed Imogen his attention tonight.

  Speaking of Imogen, he hadn’t noticed her leaving the head table, but now she was crossing the room and heading in his direction. Her smile wreathed her face as she approached, and her gaze was locked on him. There was no doubt as to her destination.

  “Alastair,” she said warmly when she reached him. “I’m so glad you came.”

  Stone rose and took her in. She looked even more radiantly beautiful up close. She’d removed her veil and her carefully coiffed, chestnut-brown hair had become ever so slightly disarranged, which in Stone’s mind made her look even more appealing. More like her usual self, an irresistible combination of playful and serious, eyes sparkling with mirth. Clifford stood behind her, his expression more serene but no less heartfelt, obviously content to bask in his new wife’s joy.

  “I did say you couldn’t keep me away,” he murmured. He took her hands and gave them a gentle squeeze. “I’m so happy for both of you. It was a lovely ceremony, and you know you both have my best wishes.”

  She rose on tiptoe and planted a chaste, soft kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Alastair.”

  Stone offered his hand to Clifford. “You’re a lucky man, Blakeley.”

  His smile widened, faint crinkles of laugh lines appearing around his eyes. “Believe me, I know it. Imogen is one of a kind.”

  “Oh, you two.” Imogen laughed and ducked her gaze. “You’re talking about me as if I’m some kind of prize hunting trophy or something.”

  “No, no.” Stone shook his head, taking her hand again. “That sells you short. What you are is an amazing woman, a dear friend, and a lovely bride. All I meant was that Clifford is lucky he met you, and lucky he gets to spend the rest of his life with you. I couldn’t be happier.”

  She shot him a quick glance, but then smiled. “You’re such a dear, Alastair, and you always will be.” Apologetically, she gestured back at the group of tables. “We need to—keep going, do the mingling thing. But I hope we can talk later.”

  “Absolutely. Save me a dance?”

  “Of course.”

  As they made their way along the narrow aisles toward the next table, Stone shifted to magical sight and watched not Imogen’s aura, but Clifford’s. Its steady, placid blue still flashed with happiness, but showed no hint of resentment or jealousy. Stone wouldn’t have blamed him if it had—Clifford knew about the relationship the two of them had shared, and how close they’d come to marrying all those years ago.

  But it didn’t, and Stone relaxed. He hadn’t wanted to admit it, not at first, but Imogen and Clifford did make a lovely and well-matched couple.

  He didn’t get his dance with Imogen until much later in the evening. Sitting back with Eddie, Ward, and the others he’d met at his table, he watched the reception progress through the toasts, the cutting of the cake, and Imogen and Clifford’s first dance. Bittersweet melancholy stabbed him again as he thought about how she wouldn’t have a dance with Desmond, picturing her tiny, white-clad form held protectively in her broad-shouldered, elegant father’s arms.

  “Stone?” Arthur was looking at him with concern.

  Stone waved him off. The first dance was finishing now, Imogen and Clifford lingering a moment in the center of the floor before Clifford leaned in to kiss her and moved off to dance with his elderly mother. Stone rose smoothly and approached Imogen.

  “May I have this dance?” he asked softly.

  She turned from where she’d been watching Clifford depart, and a smile lit up her face. “Of course.”

  He’d deliberately gone easy on the champagne and stayed away from the bar, and not only because he’d have to drive home later that evening. He offered her his hand and they swung into a waltz as all around them couples moved onto the floor.

  She looked him up and down, taking in his formal suit. “You look so handsome tonight. I know I’ve said it before, but you should dress up more. It really does suit you.”

  He chuckled. “Nobody’s supposed to be looking at me, or any of the rest of us blokes. You’re the star attraction tonight, love, and you look stunning as always.”

  She ducked her gaze. “You always did know the right thing to say.”

  “You wouldn’t think so if you knew how many responses I consider and don’t say.” He nodded toward Clifford and his mother, a spry old woman in a conservative gold dress. “You two look so good together. I was watching your auras during the ceremony, and if I ever had any doubt—which I didn’t—I don’t anymore. He obviously worships the ground you walk on.”

  “Yes—I suppose I’ll have to break him of that, won’t I?” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’s not so bad, really. I still do too, and you’ve put up with me all these years.”

  “Alastair—” She squeezed his hands, then glanced away.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Moggy…”

  Her gaze shifted back. “It really is nothing. Just a bit…overwhelmed. I’m so happy today, and I’m so glad you’re happy for me. I know it shouldn’t mean so much to me—not after all these years—but…well, it does.”

  Stone barely noticed the other dancers, and heard the music only enough to lead the dance with a confidence born of many years of instruction in his youth. “Listen,” he said softly. “I know you can’t read auras, but please, if you’ve never believed anything I’ve said before, believe this: I love you, Imogen. I will always love you, until the day I die. Possibly after that.”

  When she started to reply, he squeezed her hand again. “I don’t mean that in a romantic way—I know we’ve moved beyond that a long time ago. But you’ve got to know you’re one of the dearest people in my life, and I would do anything for you. I mean that. And because of that, I want nothing more than for you to be happy for the rest of your life. I can see Clifford makes you happy. I see it in the way you look at him, and the way he looks at you.” He swallowed. “I see it in ways you can’t.”

  She met his gaze and held it, then pulled him into a hug, burying her head in his shoulder. “Thank you, Alastair. I couldn’t ask for a better friend.”

  Stone wasn’t so sure about that, but he was sure he meant every word he’d said. “Come on now,” he said, chuckling and gently breaking the hug. “People will talk. You don’t want Clifford challenging me to a duel or anything, do you?”

  She laughed. “I don’t think he’d win a duel with
you. Maybe a round of golf.”

  “I wouldn’t have a chance. Perhaps we’d better—”

  He stopped, feeling the sudden buzz of his phone inside his breast pocket.

  “What is it?” Imogen asked. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, no—I thought I’d turned this bloody thing off. Let me just—” He pulled it out and glanced at the display, freezing an instant before thumbing the button to shut it off.

  The familiar number was Ian’s.

  Why would Ian call him now? His son knew where he’d be, and that he wouldn’t want to be interrupted, unless—

  Imogen must have noticed something change on his face. “Alastair?”

  The song was ending now. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I need to take this. Will you excuse me for a moment?”

  “Of course. Is everything all right?”

  “I’m sure it is,” he said with a certainty he didn’t feel. He leaned in to kiss the top of her head, smiled, and hurried off to a quiet corner of the hall, already hitting the button to answer the call.

  “Hello, Ian. Is something wrong? Why are you—”

  “Dad, please.” Ian cut him off, speaking fast, voice shaking.

  A cold bolt of dread froze Stone in place. “Ian. What’s wrong? Calm down and tell me.”

  He heard a couple of deep, shuddering breaths. “Dad. You have to come back. I’m in London. Something’s wrong at the house.”

  5

  By early that evening, Ian had already begun to regret promising his father he’d remain at the Surrey house instead of going into London to hit up some clubs.

  After Stone had departed for Kent, taking the little black convertible he kept covered in the garage for the rare occasions when he’d need to drive somewhere, Aubrey had done his best to entertain Ian for the afternoon and early evening.

  He’d started by giving a more elaborate tour of the grounds, driving Ian around the wild, mostly forested acreage on a little vehicle that looked like something halfway between a golf cart and a tiny gardener’s pickup truck.