by Mia Marlowe
Husband and wife.
It was an empty dream. An impossible wish. But as long as she lay beside Samuel, it was one she couldn’t help wanting.
I’ve convinced Meg that I know what I’m doing, but it’s all a façade. Part of me wants to pour water into the wash basin and call up our future. A darker part of me doesn’t have the courage.
There are some things no one should have to face until they must.
~ from the journal of Samuel Templeton, Lord Badewyn
Chapter Sixteen
The ducal coach slogged into the muddy courtyard and stopped in front of the sorriest excuse for a coaching inn Camden had seen since they left London. He rapped the head of his walking stick on the ceiling to signal a halt. However poor the lodging might be, it was infinitely preferable to spending another night cooped up in his coach with his disgruntled traveling companion.
Fire mages did not enjoy confined spaces for long periods.
Or the damp. Or the abysmal roads and rough fare offered at village taprooms. Or practically anything they’d encountered since he and Vesta had put the lovely hotel in Bath behind them.
She was not one to suffer in silence.
“Why are we stopping? What is this place?” Vesta asked.
“We have reached our destination,” he said. “This humble spot is Gryffydd, the village where the medium Lord Badewyn recommended is reported to live.”
“I can well believe he or she can speak with the dead. One would have to be half in the grave one’s self in order to live in such a God-forsaken place.” She peered through the slit in the coach’s curtains and made a tsking noise. “Weren’t we supposed to be going to Lord Badewyn’s home?”
“We were and we still could,” Camden offered. “But Faencaern Castle is another couple of days away. We might press on, but we’d likely have to spend another night along the way in the coach.”
“Ugh!”
“To spare you some unnecessary travel, shall we see if you can bear this inn for a little while?”
Vesta pursed her lips, somewhat mollified. “Very well. But your footman will have to carry me to the door. The mud would simply ruin my lovely little shoes.”
Pity her lovely little temper is already ruined.
Goodbody, Camden’s footman-turned-valet, hopped down from his perch behind the coach and opened the door for them. Even mud-spattered and thoroughly damp, the corners of his mouth kept quirking up in a suppressed smile. The lad had never been beyond the outskirts of London before and seemed to be having the time of his life, no matter what his circumstance.
Camden climbed out of the coach, gave orders regarding Miss LaMotte and strode with purpose to the inn door, thankful he was wearing knee boots given the poor condition of the grounds. Behind him, Vesta was scolding the footman for letting her train touch the muck. Her voice shot up an octave. Apparently, someone had driven cattle through the place a short while ago. Then Camden heard the scuffle of leather soles on wet stone, a long wail, and finally a squelching thud, followed by vociferous swearing.
He didn’t look back.
Instead he hurried into the low-ceilinged common room of the inn and demanded the two best rooms available.
“Begging your pardon, Your Magnificence,” the innkeeper said, clearly unsure how to greet him appropriately. The man dipped in several quick bows. Even bedraggled by travel, Camden’s meticulously tailored wardrobe announced his high station. “But we only got two rooms, you see, and the one is occupied.”
“Then evict the current tenant and quickly,” he demanded. “I am the Duke of Camden. Unless the Prince Regent is in residence, I yield to no man.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Right away.” The innkeeper started toward the foot of the stairs, but stopped when the door to the common room swung open behind Camden. The man’s eyes grew wide.
Camden turned to see Vesta framed by the opening. She was covered from head to toe in a combination of mud and cow dung. Her bonnet, once the latest bit of frufurrah from Paris, was now beyond salvation. Vesta usually moved in a cloud of jasmine and spice perfume. Instead, a decidedly barnyard-ish odor wafted from her.
Camden swallowed hard. No one could make a scene like an offended fire mage. He hoped she didn’t incinerate the place.
“Camden,” she said with forced sweetness. “Please tell the nice man that I shall require a bath. A hot one.” When the innkeeper stood frozen, apparently dumbfounded by her appearance, she added, “Immediately!” with such force, the man’s feet scarcely hit the treads as he ran up the stairs to do his new guests’ bidding.
Camden gave Vesta a slight bow from the neck. Perhaps he’d misjudged her. “I must confess, I am impressed, my dear. Most women would be livid if they found themselves in your state.”
“Oh, shut it, Edward.”
After the innkeeper hemmed and hawed through his efforts to dislodge Samuel and Meg from their room, Samuel ordered Meg to stay put, pushed past him and headed downstairs.
“Where’s the pompous ass who thinks he can have us turned out of our chamber without so much as a by-your-leave?” he thundered.
He stopped short when he spotted the Duke of Camden at the foot of the stairs.
“The pompous ass you’re looking for would be me, I believe,” His Grace said with unruffled dignity. Samuel descended the rest of way and shook the duke’s extended hand. Others might have felt sheepish over calling a peer of the realm an ass, but Samuel had dealt with a fallen angel all his life. A mere duke didn’t cow him.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace.”
“Badewyn, it is good to see you. If I’d known you were here, I wouldn’t have demanded your room. What’s it been? Ten years? You haven’t aged a day. Miss LaMotte will be trying to winkle out your secret.”
The duke indicated the muck-caked lady at his side. She stared off into space, obviously either bored by the conversation or off her game over her unseemly condition.
“I’ve no explanation for my appearance, but I certainly can’t claim righteous living,” Samuel joked. It was recorded in ancient texts that Nephilim were known for aging well and reportedly lived full lives into their nineties and beyond, as hale and hearty as any thirty year old. If they were allowed to do so. In Samuel’s family, Grigori hastened the end of one Lord Badewyn to make room for the next so he could restart his Grand Cycle with alarming regularity. Samuel’s older half-brothers never survived the death of their wives by more than a few years.
“I’m surprised you found Gryffydd on your own,” he said. “It’s not on the usual routes from London.”
“We didn’t travel directly from Town. Before heading north into Wales, Miss LaMotte and I visited Bath. The waters are quite sublime.”
“At this point, any water would be sublime,” the lady grumbled.
“At any rate,” the duke went on as if Miss LaMotte hadn’t spoken, “according to our driver, Gryffydd seemed to be a good way point between Bath and your stronghold.”
Samuel gave Camden’s traveling companion a bow, which she answered with an injured sniff. Apparently Wales was not welcoming her in the manner to which she was accustomed. He remembered meeting her at Camden House all those years ago. Without a coating of mud, Miss LaMotte had been a vivacious dinner companion, possessed of a sharp mind and witty observations. She was also a courtesan, if memory served.
“This village where your medium lives happened to be only a little out of the way,” Camden said. “I trust Miss Anthony’s visit to Faencaern Castle hasn’t been an imposition.”
“No, I wouldn’t call it that,” Samuel said. “For reasons I’m not at liberty to explain on the moment, she’s not at the castle. She’s here with me.”
“Miss Anthony is here?” Miss LaMotte suddenly perked up at the mention of Meg. “I shall join her immediately. Camden, be a dear, and tell the innkeeper to find me in Miss Anthony’s room as soon as my bath is ready.”
The lady lifted her soiled skirts and slogged up the stairs. Samuel usher
ed His Grace to a booth in the corner. After the innkeeper’s wife brought them ale and crusty bread, Samuel explained why he had secreted the duke’s ward away in this remote village. It took a while to explain his unique familial legacy, but Camden sat quietly through the entire account, interrupting only if he needed further clarification. Samuel was grateful the duke didn’t seem shocked at learning he was a Naphil. Only Camden’s whitened knuckles betrayed his agitation over Grigori’s plans for his ward.
“Staying in the same chamber with Meg—I mean Miss Anthony—has the appearance of impropriety, but trust me. It’s the only way I can protect her from Grigori’s Watching abilities. As long as she’s near me, he shouldn’t be able to see her.”
“What about now? She isn’t near you on the moment.”
“Grigori is a creature of the night. He would be most likely to hunt for Meg in his scrying bowl then.”
“Very well, but if tales of this cozy arrangement reach London, it will mean ruin for her,” Camden said. “Ordinarily, I would insist you marry the girl, but so long as your uncle is a threat to any lady you take to wife, we can’t have that.”
Samuel nodded. “And if things were different, I would have married her already.”
Camden regarded him thoughtfully. “Is that so? I trust she shared the unfortunate circumstances of her upbringing with you.”
“I know she’s not wellborn, if that’s what you mean. It doesn’t matter. I love her.” It felt good to say it aloud. “I would marry her in a heartbeat if I could protect her from my father afterward.”
“And you don’t care that Polite Society would say you had married beneath you?”
“What Society? I am Society—polite or otherwise—as far as this part of Wales is concerned. There are only one or two other titled gentlemen within several days ride from Faencaern Castle. Besides, with a fallen angel for a father, the ton holds no terrors for me.”
“I suppose it shouldn’t for me either.” Pensive, Camden templed his hands before him and his gaze flicked upward as though he could see through the rough timbered ceiling to the floor above. Samuel wondered if the duke was thinking about Miss LaMotte. The arbitresses of correct behavior would have a field day with a peer who married a “bird of paradise.” Then Camden shook off his wool-gathering. “Where is this medium you are so keen on?”
Samuel stood. “I can take you to her now if you like.”
“No.” Camden indicated he should sit with an imperious gesture. The duke might try to present himself as an even-handed, almost democratic soul, but there were times when his ducal coronet showed in his manners with all its glittering weight. “After traveling all this way, Vesta would have my head if I went to the medium without her.”
Then Camden leaned forward, his face expectant. “You believe she really can speak with the dead?”
“I have Seen it,” Samuel explained. “In my Watchings, there are countless disembodied beings flocking around her home. If she cannot hear them, why would they come?”
“Why indeed?” The duke leaned back and exhaled noisily. Samuel got the sense that he was deeply conflicted over seeking out the medium, even though he’d been most adamant about finding one.
“It is not my place to remind you of this, Your Grace, but you’re planning to dabble in things better left untouched. Holy writ warns against it,” Samuel said. “There is only one time recorded in scripture when someone consulted a medium…and the outcome was not at all what the seeker hoped.”
“You speak of when King Saul sought out the Witch of Endor,” the duke said. “Don’t look so surprised. I, too, have studied scripture. Saul hoped for advice on how to confound his enemies, but instead he was told that he and his sons would die on the next day.”
“Then you know your session with the departed might not go well,” Samuel warned.
“Not knowing will go worse. I’ve tried everything else. There is no other way to answer my questions,” Camden explained.
“And if you don’t like the answers?”
“At least I’ll know the truth. It’s supposed to set one free.”
Samuel wondered about that. The truth hadn’t helped him. He could shout his father’s evil intentions toward Meg from the rooftop and it wouldn’t dissuade Grigori one jot. A Fallen One knew no shame. He couldn’t be bullied. He wouldn’t be stopped. Samuel was only forestalling the inevitable by trying to keep her hidden.
Some truths simply wouldn’t let you get around them.
Having Vesta appear at her door nearly knocked Meg’s stockings off. Seeing the fire mage in such bedraggled state was even more of a surprise. Vesta had never been less well turned-out, but she still carried herself with vivacious grace.
“There you are, lovie! Don’t fret. I’m not about to hug you. Heaven only knows what foulness is clinging to my person.” Vesta looked down at herself and shook her head. Then she met Meg’s gaze and grinned. “But on the bright side, this means Camden owes me a new ensemble and I was getting tired of this one, in any case. Believe me, my mantua-maker is not cheap. Tell me, darling, how have you enjoyed Wales? More specifically, how have you enjoyed that dashing young man I saw down in the common room?”
Meg felt all the color drain from her face. “You mean Lord Badewyn?”
“Who else? Honestly, I’d forgotten how very handsome he is or I might have come to Wales with you in the first place.” Vesta waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, don’t pull such a face. I’m only having a bit of fun with you. Besides, he seems to be taken already.”
Meg crooked an inquisitive brow.
“By you, of course. I could tell at first sight that he cares for you. Absolutely. He looked ready to tackle a bear when he came down the stairs, bellowing for all he was worth,” Vesta said. “But more to the point, do you care for him?”
“With all my heart.”
“Well, then. This trip to the hinterlands hasn’t been in vain, has it?”
Meg wrung her hands. “There are some problems.”
“Good heavens, when is there not? You know what the Bard says. ‘The course of true love never did run smooth.’”
Meg didn’t know who the Bard fellow might be, but he’d hit the nail bang on the head.
A soft rap on the door interrupted them. It was the innkeeper’s rosy-cheeked, and at the moment, wheezing and out-of-breath, wife. Even if she’d pressed a number of her offspring into service with her, hauling enough water up the stairs for a bath was no light duty. Meg had done it many times when she’d worked as a lady’s maid. Her back ached in sympathy with the woman.
“Beggin’ your pardon, miss,” the innkeeper’s wife said with a deferential curtsy. “Your bath is ready. Will you be wanting me to wash your dress? Reckon it will take a week.”
Meg didn’t doubt it. The gown was of such gossamer fabric it would need special treatment. The woman would have to remove all the buttons and furbelows and then pick apart the lining so when she laid the fabric out, it would have a chance to dry evenly. The innkeeper’s wife might even have to take the gored skirt portion apart at the seams because there was no guarantee it would shrink uniformly. Then she’d have to sew it all back together and reattach all the embellishments.
Vesta’s complicated wardrobe made Meg appreciate her simple bombazine afresh.
“You may have the gown. Try to launder it, if you wish,” the fire mage told the innkeeper’s wife. Lip curled in distaste, Vesta looked down at her ruined gown. “My advice is to burn it. How you’ll ever get the smell out of it is beyond me. Now lead me to that bath and you and I shall be friends forever.”
The woman seemed taken aback by this declaration, but her flushed cheeks showed she was pleased beyond knowing. The little village of Gryffydd had never seen such a fashionable lady as Vesta LaMotte and likely never would again. The gown was finer than anything the woman had ever owned. She’d try to save the gown, Meg suspected. It would become a family heirloom, probably saved for the innkeeper’s daughters’ weddings.
&
nbsp; Once it was properly aired, of course.
“If you’d be pleased to follow me,” the woman said shyly.
“And you come, too, Meg.” Vesta crooked a finger at her. “While I bathe, you can tell me everything that’s happened since you arrived in Wales.” She shot a meaningful glance at the string bed. “And I do mean everything.”
Regard not them that have familiar spirits, neither seek after wizards, to be defiled by them.
~Leviticus 19:31, King James Bible
Chapter Seventeen
Vesta’s toilette took longer than Camden anticipated, but when she appeared, floating down the humble staircase with all the grace of one being presented at Court, he decided she was worth the wait. A breath of her perfume preceded her, beguiling and sweet. The bath had sweetened her temper, too, for the deep cleft that had been etched between her brows was gone.
“It seems the sun does shine in this remote country,” Vesta said as she took Camden’s arm. Keeping to the grassy edge of the lane, they left the inn with Meg and Lord Badewyn. Mellow light filtered through the limbs of a spreading oak. The forest surrounding the hamlet was filled with birdsong. “I’m inclined to think Gryffydd picturesque instead of hopelessly bucolic. Come, Edward. Give us a smile. I know your face works that way. I’ve seen it.”
He forced the corners of his lips upward.
“Not bad, but perhaps you’ll do better after this business is done.”
“It’s not exactly business.”
Vesta chuckled. “Everything is business with you, Camden. Perhaps that’s your trouble. However, I shall make it my mission to disabuse you of the notion. A daily dose of fun should do the trick.”
“Sometimes, one has to take life seriously.”
“Granted. But not all the time and certainly not when I’m on your arm.” Vesta’s smile was contagious. She seemed to intuit that he was on pins over finally meeting with the medium, and was doing her best to keep their conversation lively and light. “So smile, Edward. I mean it.”
