Uncertain Magic

by Laura Kinsale

  “Gone home to the country, I imagine,” Faelan said.

  “But I thought—the city—” She frowned in consternation. “There must be more people somewhere.”

  He gave her a glance, a blue flash of amusement. “Are you lonely?”

  “Of course not. Only I expected more people.”

  “I fear my company wears thin.”

  Roddy looked down at the pavement. “Not at all, my lord,” she said with shy warmth.

  She was rewarded with the press of his hand on her arm. He stopped and smiled down at her, so close that their frosty breaths mingled. “Careful, little girl. I may be forced to show you to what good use an empty street may be put.”

  It was like a fever, she thought weakly as she raised her eyes to his. Like a sickness, the way he made her heart pound and her limbs shake and her mind forget everything she had been taught in her lifetime. “My lord,” she said faintly, “you may show me anything you like.”

  His hands slid to her waist, drawing her against him. He kissed her, there in full view of the hundreds of blank, staring windows, warmed her cold lips with his heat and delved deep in her mouth for the answering warmth. Roddy lost herself in him. It was cold and he was warm, warm with a fire that passed anything she had ever known. His body was hard beneath the winter clothes. She knew how it would feel against her skin. How firelight would dance on his bare arms and chest and make his eyes seem ice and flame…

  It was her shawl that broke the moment, sliding from her shoulders as she pulled her hand from her muff and lifted her arms to twine around his neck. Roddy herself hardly noticed the chill on her bared skin, but Faelan instantly let her go and retrieved the fringed cashmere. He wrapped her in it once again and resumed their walk with a faint smile playing on his hard lips.

  “Now,” he said, “we shall go and find you more agreeable company.”

  To Roddy’s country-bred legs, the walk through Cavendish Square and across broad, unpaved Oxford Street to the octagonal center of Hanover Square was no great journey. She was glad to keep a brisk pace, for the soft shawl was only moderate protection against the cold. There were more and more people about as they approached the business districts of the city, but beyond Hanover Square, Faelan veered off from the southerly direction in which they had been going and headed west. They came to another great square, and while Roddy politely expressed her admiration for the impressive prospect, Faelan kept his hand firmly under her elbow, steering her without pause toward a particular doorway.

  Messrs. Gunther, read the scrolled sign above the lintel. Confectioners. Posted discreetly beside the door was an advertisement from the Times. “Messrs. Gunther respectfully beg to inform the Nobility and those who honor them with their commands, that they are able to supply CREAM and FRUIT Ices. Also all sorts of Biskets and Cakes, Fine and Common Sugarplums.”

  “Ices!” Roddy said with a shiver as a boy held open the door and the proprietor hurried forward from inside.

  Faelan grinned and pushed her gently through. “I prefer the sugarplums myself.”

  And so he did, Roddy found.

  She watched in astonishment as Monsieur Gunther, recognizing Faelan on the instant, hastened to bring out all sorts of sweets, in jars and stacked on plates and spread across big metal trays. “A cup of chocolate for Mademoiselle?” he asked, and at Faelan’s brief nod the boy scurried to set up a table and a pair of chairs. A moment later Roddy found herself seated in front of a steaming cup of dark, foamy cocoa and a pastry, while Faelan plunked himself down enthusiastically at her side and proceeded to demolish every confection in sight.

  “Long walk,” he said, when she eyed him incredulously. As he finished off an apricot tart, she half expected him to lick his fingers like some mischievous boy, but Gunther was already holding out a snowy napkin.

  Roddy nibbled at an éclair and tried to control a giggle. She loved watching Faelan, the way his dark lashes lowered and his eyebrows drew faintly together as Gunther displayed a new tray and Faelan deliberated on his next choice, and then how one Satan-black brow snapped upward comically when he burned his tongue on the tiny cup of chocolate.

  “Try this,” he offered, holding out a cream cake. “Gunther is incomparable.”

  The hovering proprietor’s expression did not change, but Roddy could feel him swell with pride. It made her want to laugh, to find that the Devil Earl was one of Gunther’s most frequent, and favored, customers. What would her family and all those other doubters think now, if they could see Faelan’s adolescent delight in sugarplums?

  She had hardly finished the éclair when he sighed and surveyed the table, where her one lone little cream cake was all that was left of the imposing array. “Are you finished?” he asked, when she made no move to pick up the cream cake.

  Roddy nodded.

  He gave her cream cake a lingering look. “I suppose that’s more than enough,” he said reluctantly. As he stood and offered his arm to Roddy, he glanced at Gunther. “I compliment you on the cream cakes. I rather like those.”

  “Do you indeed, my lord?” Gunther was as pleased as any housewife at the mention. “A little experiment of mine. Adding a bit of aniseed to the dough, and then…”

  Faelan listened gravely to the full account of how the cream cakes had come into existence. When Gunther had finished, Faelan drew Roddy in front of him. “Lady Iveragh,” he said in mock formality, “you have just been introduced to the finest pastrycook in England. See that you remember him.”

  Gunther’s startlement at this oblique wedding announcement was kept rigorously concealed. He made a humble bow. “I beg your forgiveness, Your Ladyship. I’d not had the honor of hearing of His Lordship’s marriage until this moment. Allow me please to extend my most sincere best wishes for your happiness.”

  “Thank you. Your fare was delicious.” Hidden from Faelan, she gave the baker a quick wink. “I believe I’d like to take that last cream cake with me, if you please.”

  “Of course, my lady.” Only the faintest quiver of his lips betrayed him as he wrapped the cake in paper and handed it to Faelan. Her husband gave the small package the same kind of wistful glance that the vendor’s dogs had given the brace of rabbits. Roddy met Gunther’s eye, and a flash of merry understanding passed between them.

  “And perhaps, Gunther,” she added, “you would send round a dozen of them to Banain House.”

  “Immediately, Your Ladyship,” he said.

  Roddy felt an odd little thrill of pleasure at the first domestic order she had placed in her married life.

  She turned to find Faelan’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “You’d best not humor me,” he said. “I’ll eat all twelve of them before dinner.”

  “Thirteen.” She tapped the little package in his hand.

  “Wise of you to offer it, my dear,” he said judiciously. “I’d have had it out of you one way or the other.”

  Gunther held the door open, and Roddy gave him a special smile as she passed. He only nodded, all humility, but he had caught her meaning. He could count on Lady Iveragh’s patronage for the indefinite future. As Roddy slipped her arm in her husband’s and turned down the walk, a new and amazing thought passed through the confectioner’s mind. He stood looking after them.

  Why, I believe she loves him! he mused. And then: Poor child.

  Roddy blocked the baker from her mind.

  The last cream cake was long eaten by the time they reached Pall Mall. There they found a generous portion of the huge populace that Roddy felt through her gift, the bustle of carriages and strolling shoppers. It was a good-humored crowd, easy to bear, and Roddy went wide-eyed along the famous street, more impressed by the elegant shop-windows than by the prince’s new colonnade of Ionic columns that screened the facade of Carlton House. She had little interest in the silk and muslin displays, but the infinite variety of clocks and watches and carved walking sticks and tea caddies and intricately decorated snuffboxes fascinated her.

  Her nose was presse
d as hard as any beggar child’s against a window to look at a large ormolu-and-enamel item that somewhat resembled the turret of a castle—though no castle had ever boasted those gay colors and that gilded peak—when a stranger paused behind her. “Whatever is that?” she asked Faelan, without turning from the window.

  It was not her husband who answered. “A music box, my child,” a new voice said gaily. “And a jolly fantastic one, at that.” As she looked around she found the newcomer’s name in the curious glance of another passerby. His Grace of Stratton.

  Roddy blinked at the first duke she had ever seen, and found herself measured, judged, and labeled in a glance as one of Iveragh’s whores.

  She went scarlet, but Faelan was already introducing her. “Good afternoon, Your Grace,” he said calmly. “May I present my wife, Roderica?”

  It was His Grace’s turn to go scarlet then. He wasn’t nearly as clever at covering his shock as Gunther had been. His double chin jerked and quivered as he choked, “Your—” He caught himself, and after a moment of struggle managed, “—Ladyship! I’m honored.” His corset creaked as he straightened himself and bowed. “Honored indeed. Well, well, Iveragh. This is a sh—a surprise. I daresay you’ve made no announcement. I just now gave my compliments to—” He stumbled, thinking of whores again, and then took another tack entirely. “Lovely music box. Lovely. Perfect wedding gift. Come in, my dear, and you shall have it!”

  He reached for Roddy’s arm. Faelan moved at the same time, an odd, sudden move that he stopped before it was completed. Jealous, the duke thought, catching the significance before Roddy did. By God, he doesn’t even want me to touch her!

  To the duke, Faelan’s unexpected possessiveness was even more of a shock than his marriage. The peculiar devil, what’s he care? Never did so before. Damned money-match, bound to be. Girl with funds and in trouble—no bloody reason to get on his high horse over her. Pretty chit, in an odd sort of way. The duke smiled at Roddy. Try my own luck, after she drops the brat.

  “Your Grace,” Roddy said, moving toward Faelan and just out of the duke’s reach. “I couldn’t possibly allow you to do such a thing.” She stared at him, to let the double meaning of that sink in, and then added, “It’s far too generous of you.”

  “Far too generous,” Faelan repeated coolly, tucking her hand into the comforting crook of his arm. She stood as close as she could easily manage without appearing to hide behind him. He added, “If you’ll excuse us, I’m afraid we have an appointment with Mr. Skipworth.”

  “Skipworth?” The duke glanced toward the shop and saw the sign. Blake and Skipworth. Jewelers and Watchmakers. “Ah, yes—of course. Do go on. I’m only in town for a sennight, myself, and not time for a bit of pleasure in it. Give your mother my devoted service. Good day, Your Ladyship. Honored. Most honored.”

  He walked away thinking: Oh, Liza, Liza, Liza, this business will sink you! And then, with a hint of malice: What devilish luck, that I should be the one to tell it!

  Roddy supposed that Liza was the duchess, and turned her attention to the more pleasant prospect of visiting the jeweler. The duke’s disagreeable reaction to Faelan’s marriage seemed better forgotten.

  The head salesman of Blake and Skipworth, who had witnessed with interest the attention of the Duke of Stratton to the shop-window, hurried forward to greet Roddy and Faelan. Though the salesman did not recognize Faelan, any acquaintance with His Grace the Duke was reference enough. When Faelan gave the man a glance and asked in a quiet, authoritative voice for Mr. Skipworth, the young man did not even hesitate, but dispatched an underling on the instant to fetch Mr. Skipworth from his office in the back.

  “Her Ladyship would like to look at music boxes,” Faelan said to the tall, angular gentleman who appeared from the depths of the shop with a skeptical lift to his white brows.

  The words “Her Ladyship” worked magic with the doubting Mr. Skipworth, and Roddy and Faelan were ushered into the private room without delay.

  “I believe you were interested in the one displayed in the window,” the salesman reminded her. “I’ll bring it directly.”

  “And some others,” Faelan said placidly. “Less…gaudy, perhaps.”

  “I understand completely, my lord.” Mr. Skipworth nodded wisely. “We’ll be happy to show you a wide variety.”

  “Gaudy, Faelan?” Roddy demanded when the jeweler had gone to hasten his salesman. “Unique, I should say.”

  Faelan lifted one eyebrow. “Gaudy,” he repeated firmly.

  “Unique,” Roddy replied with spirit.

  He only smiled, and stood back to allow the salesman past with his weighty burden.

  The turret-cum-music was a wonder. It played “God Save the King” in the keys of A and C, and when the music began, six little doors around the tower popped open to reveal tiny figures of dancing lions and unicorns, just like on the Great Seal of England, that spun clockwise in A and counterclockwise in C. The seventh door opened to extend a snuffbox mounted on a golden foot: a tiny human foot, with four perfect toes and one large, misshapen one.

  It was certainly unique.

  Faelan watched the demonstration without comment. Since he had suggested it, Roddy listened politely to the other, smaller boxes put forward for her approval, but she had already made her choice. When Faelan picked up a delicate sandalwood box that opened to play a pretty contredanse and display only an empty bed of red satin, she thought that he was teasing her.

  “No, no, that one isn’t gaudy enough,” she cried. “I like a great deal of color.”

  He set the sandalwood box down.

  “I like this one,” she pressed, winding the key of the turret again.

  Faelan glanced at Mr. Skipworth, and the jeweler withdrew with a silent nod, certain that he had sold his musical prize. When “God Save the King” had played through twice, once in A and once in C, Faelan reached over and snapped the center door shut. The music stopped.

  “Roddy,” he said quietly. “I fear this unique object may come with a high price.”

  She gave him the smile that she always gave her father when she wanted some special trinket. “Oh!” she said in a teasing tone. “Can we not afford it, my lord?”

  “You can.” He met her eyes with a level gaze. “To my great and eternal embarrassment…I cannot.”

  All her joy—her thoughtless, childish mischief—vanished on the instant. She stared at him. “My lord…” Her voice faltered and faded, unequal to the magnitude of the mistake she had made.

  In the fraught silence, he smiled faintly and brushed her cheek with a gentle fist. “It wouldn’t be a gift, you see,” he said softly.

  She turned away and snatched up the sandalwood box. “This is the one I want!” She opened it and held it up and stood listening to the metallic tune while the satin went to a scarlet blur of shame and remorse. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so stupid.”

  He took her shoulders and drew her back against him. “Don’t cry, my love. It isn’t worth tears.”

  She shook her head and turned into his arms, holding the music box tight between them. “I c-can’t help it. You’ve been so g-good to me, and I—”

  “Hush.” He lifted her chin and brushed moisture from beneath her eye with his thumb. “One more teardrop and I’ll go into hock to buy that damned monstrosity.”

  Roddy giggled wetly. “It is awful, isn’t it?”

  “Ungodly,” he said with feeling.

  She sniffed and took the handkerchief he offered. When Mr. Skipworth came back into the room a few minutes later, she held up the sandalwood box with a tremulous smile. “Isn’t it lovely?” The tears threatened to spill over again. “Oh, my,” she exclaimed. “I think I’m going to c-cry!”

  Mr. Skipworth thought he was, too, when he saw which of the two boxes she had chosen. But he rallied and called her a person of exceptional sensibility, and asked the salesman to usher her back out into the showroom while Mr. Skipworth “conversed” with His Lordship. Roddy went, clutc
hing her prize, and paused at the door. When Faelan looked up, she thought her heart would burst at the tender smile he gave her. “I shall treasure it always,” she said fiercely. “Forever.”

  Faelan and Mr. Skipworth’s “conversation” took somewhat longer than Roddy had expected. She was still waiting ten minutes later, glancing desultorily over some bracelets the salesman had brought out, when another customer came into the shop.

  Roddy might not even have looked up, but the woman entered with her mind obsessed by Faelan.

  Roddy’s breath stopped in her throat. She dropped the bracelet she was holding and turned…to confront her husband’s mistress.

  Liza.

  The face and the name from the duke’s memory came together, and with them the certain knowledge of who she was. It was in Liza’s mind clearly, and it had been in the duke’s too, though Roddy had not understood the image at the time.

  She was different from Roddy, opposite in everything, older, wiser, full-bodied: a dark burgundy to Roddy’s clear spring water. As she entered the shop her sable-brown eyes were looking for Faelan, thoughts hard behind dark velvet. She knew of his marriage—the duke had told her—and she was burning.

  Just at that moment the door to the private room opened, and Faelan stepped out with Mr. Skipworth.

  “Iveragh!” Liza cried, going forward past Roddy as if she weren’t there, although Liza knew perfectly well that the slender girl—the veriest schoolroom chit, Liza thought viciously—was certain to be Faelan’s bride. “How glad I am to find you still here! Stratton, that old rogue, has just been telling me the wildest tales—”

  Faelan took her outstretched hand and brushed it with his lips. “Mrs. Northfield,” he said. “I hadn’t expected you to be in the city at this season.”

  “The admiral is on shore leave,” she answered with magnificent nonchalance. “But are you married indeed, my lord? And this is your bride—what a lovely child!”

  Roddy stood miserably, damning her gift. It was all so subtle, so delicate. She would never have known without her talent. They carried it off in flawless style, Faelan and his mistress, introductions all around and the most civilized of conversation. It made Roddy sick inside. He was perfect. No slip, no seams, no single clue that he felt anything more for Liza Northfield than he would for a passing acquaintance.