by Mia Marlowe
“Yes, I can and, starting now, I will move forward with my life,” Camden said. “My heart is whole and it is yours, if you’ll have it.”
Her eyes glowed warmly at him. “I shall hold you to that.”
Then she stood on tiptoe and kissed him full on the mouth.
In my studies of the stars, I learned that they are vastly distant from earth. Their light must have left its source eons ago, traveling through the silence of the night sky before reaching us. It is entirely possible that the star I view this evening has died hundreds of years ago. Yet now is the only time in which I may view its light, so as far as I know, it still burns hotly.
It is a lesson to be carried into the rest of life as well. The eternal “now” is all anyone has.
~from the journal of Samuel Templeton, Lord Badewyn
Chapter Nineteen
The next day Samuel and Meg parted company with the duke and his consort. Miss LaMotte and His Grace pushed on toward Faencaern Castle, while Meg and Samuel set their faces toward London.
Samuel had hoped never to see the city again in his lifetime, but if Meg was set on going there, he had no choice but to take her. If he refused to help her find the duke’s son, he had no doubt she was stubborn enough to make her own way to London without him.
Still riding double on their poor mount, they headed toward the nearest coaching inn where Samuel sold the nag for even less than it was worth and paid for two fares to the city on the next available coach.
“We must not take a private room when we stop,” Meg insisted, even though they were still ostensibly traveling as husband and wife. “We need to conserve whatever moneys you have for when we reach London. There will be a number of palms waiting to be crossed with coin before we wangle any information out of them.”
She was right, of course, but Samuel didn’t have to like it. He’d hoped to spend every night of their journey with Meg snugged up beside him in bed. Unfortunately, the best he could do while on the road was to sleep sitting up on a bench in each successive inn’s common room with her head on his shoulder.
In the quiet watches of the night, when the fire dwindled and the other travelers served up a symphony of snores, Samuel treasured the warmth of Meg tucked under his protective arm. Her soft inhalations, the occasional mumble in her dreams, were a gift. He wasn’t sure he had a soul, since he wasn’t entirely human, but if he did, he’d have been willing to exchange it for the chance to spend all the rest of his nights on earth with this woman at his side.
When their coach finally dropped them into the middle of the city, they made their way on foot to the seedy part of Cheapside. Even in her current travel-worn and bedraggled state, Meg drew plenty of sidelong glances from the men they passed. There was something about the urgency in her sweet face that called for a second look. However, the lookee-loos averted their eyes when Samuel glowered at each one. He was a powerfully built, tall man, a fact that he’d never considered relevant before. As they pushed through the market, he used his size to advantage to keep them from being accosted by footpads and fishmongers alike. He found himself wishing again that he really was Meg’s husband, that she was rightfully his to protect.
If they’d been at Camden House, it would have been tea time. His stomach rumbled in protest. He and Meg hadn’t eaten since early morning when they’d breakfasted on day old rolls and strong coffee. Amid the unwashed masses, a heavenly fragrance reached out and drew him into a bakery shop.
The old woman behind the counter, who went by the wholly appropriate name of Mrs. Waddle, welcomed them to her shop. She was liberally covered with flour, which in Samuel’s mind boded well for her pastries. And if she was responsible for the beckoning yeasty smell, he was willing to reckon her a goddess.
“Two meat pasties and tea,” he ordered and the woman moved with surprising swiftness to serve them. Meg tucked into her pasty with a look of pure bliss on her face.
“I was going to chide you for the expense, but this is worth every farthing,” she said, sweeping her top lip with her pointed tongue.
Samuel ached to capture that little tongue and suckle it, but this was not the place. Or was it? “I say, Mrs. Waddle, do you know of any rooms for let nearby?”
The baker looked them over, clearly assessing their status based on the quality of their sturdy, albeit travel-rumpled clothing. She gave them a curt nod. “Happens my tenant in the rooms above the shop moved out last week. ’Tis just a bedroom and a sitting room. No kitchen, you understand.” She gave Meg a gimlet-eyed once over. “I might just see my way clear to letting your missus use the kitchen down here, after the shop closes, o’ course. But mind, she’d have to leave the place spotless!”
Mrs. Waddle named a sum Samuel thought was a reasonable rent per week and he jumped on it. Pulling a couple of coins from the pouch tucked into his shirt, he paid for the first two weeks. His banknotes were hidden in his boots and another stash of coin was squirreled away in the pocket of his jacket. Meg was even carrying some of it. She’d insisted on dividing up their funds before they’d left Gryffydd.
“That way, nobody sees how much you actually have,” she had explained. “And if someone picks your pocket, they’ll only get away with part of your money, not all of it.”
Her advice had the ring of wisdom, especially since Samuel knew she’d been on the other side of lifting a wallet more than once.
“Follow me then,” Mrs. Waddle said once they finished their tea. The baker disappeared into her kitchen and led them up the back stairs.
“You should have dickered a bit,” Meg whispered.
“The price seemed fair.”
“We won’t know that until we see the place. It may be a regular boar’s nest.”
Samuel doubted that after seeing the tidiness of Mrs. Waddle’s kitchen. The upstairs sitting room was furnished with a pair of wingback chairs that were only slightly threadbare. The small table between them wasn’t a bit worm-eaten. The place smelled strongly of camphor and carbolic soap.
At least it’s clean.
The bed was dressed in fresh-looking linens and hung about with thick curtains that would help keep out the cold once autumn gave way to winter. All in all, the place was a huge step up from the common rooms with which they’d had to make do of late. An honest-to-God bedchamber would be the greatest of sinful pleasures. To lie beside Meg and feel her near him the whole night through was almost more than he dared hope.
Samuel refrained from saying “I told you so” about the rooms. He might not have much experience with women, but he knew enough not to poke the bear. Meg had been as surly as one since they entered the city. He had no idea why.
“Do you know a likely lad who can be depended upon to deliver a message to someone in a certain house in Mayfair?” he asked his new landlady as he handed her the note he’d written at the last coaching inn. He went on to explain that the missive must be put into the hand of Mr. Bernard, the steward at Camden House, and the boy must wait for a reply.
“My grandson, Timmy, can do the deed. He knows Mayfair well enough since he did a stint with the night soil wagon in that part of Town last summer.” Mrs. Trott tucked the note into her apron pocket. “Not much between the ears, poor boy, but my Tim’s dependable as an ox.”
Samuel handed her a coin for the lad and promised Mr. Bernard would reward him similarly at the other end. “Tell him there’s another half-shilling in it for him if he returns with an answer before nightfall.”
The baker snatched up the coin and hurried out of the room to find her grandson, promising speedy service.
“You’re tossing money around far too freely,” Meg cautioned once the door closed behind their new landlady. “What we have has to last till we’ve found His Grace’s son.”
“I don’t intend for it to take that long.” Once they located Camden’s heir, he could turn his attention to ways to best protect Meg. He wondered if she’d be willing to go with him to the Americas, or even New South Wales. Grigori seemed to po
ssess the ability to travel on the strength of thought alone. The fallen angel often disappeared in one part of the castle and reappeared almost instantly in another, but Samuel didn’t think his father’s knack for rapid transport would extend to a trip half way around the globe. If they covered their tracks well enough, Grigori might never find them.
“What was that note about?” Meg asked, dragging him away from thoughts of his future plans.
“His Grace couldn’t remember the full name of the artist who painted his wife’s portrait. I’m sure Mr. Bernard will have record of payment and will be able to tell us the man’s name. It seems reasonable to start the search for the boy by finding the last person the duke’s wife spoke with in life.”
“But I have the child’s name. His full one. Henry George D’Lessip St. James, Lord Harrington—that’s one of his Grace’s lesser titles you know. I should simply go Finding and be done with it. Locating someone whose name is such a mouthful should be easy as pie. I don’t know why you and the duke are so against me using my gift.”
So that’s why she was touchy.
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate your gift. But I more fully appreciate how dangerous it is for you and I fear you’d reveal even more than you found. Remember Grigori is still looking for you, and he is uniquely able to sense you in your spirit state,” Samuel said. “Besides, the boy isn’t known by any of those names now. Don’t you need the name he goes by, not necessarily his birth name?”
She sighed. “You’re right. Are you at least planning on having me Find this Alberto fellow?”
“I can do a directed scrying for him if needs be. I’m hoping Mr. Bernard will know where the artist lives and neither of us will need to use our special abilities.”
“But what if I need to use them?” Meg plopped down into one of the wing chairs.
“What do you mean?”
“Honestly, sometimes I feel like I’m about to burst out of my own skin if I don’t go Finding now and then. Don’t you ever feel compelled to get out your scrying bowl?”
Samuel shook his head. He was never driven to use his gift. To be fair, whenever the Power that directed his psychic talents decided he needed to be shown something, a vision would find its way into his mind one way or another. Any shiny or still liquid surface—a mirror, silver platter, even a bowl of clear consommé—might become his window to a distant event. “My gift comes upon me when it wills, not necessarily when I want it to. I can force a scrying, but it’s never the best choice for accuracy.”
“It’s the only choice for me. I have to initiate a Finding these days.” Her face was drawn with tension and tiny beads of perspiration bloomed on her brow. “I never accidently lay my body aside any more, but from time to time, I need to.”
“You mean it used to happen without your conscious will?”
She nodded.
Samuel thought that if he had a soul it would be terrifying to suddenly discover it had slipped away from his body, but to Meg it was simply the way she was made. “Tell me about the first time you went Finding.”
“I thought it was a dream, actually. I couldn’t have been more than four or five, but I’d lost a kitten earlier that day. I laid down that night thinking about that cat and mumbling the name I’d given it under my breath. My spirit suddenly rose up. I Found the cat stuck in a nearby tree and once my essence returned to my body, I wandered away from the camp my uncle had pitched for Cousin Oswald and me. I could see the very tree I thought I’d dreamed across the meadow, so I homed in on it and sure enough, the kitten was mewing on one of the topmost branches. I climbed up and brought it down and waggled it back to camp.” She went silent for a moment and her face fell. “My uncle drowned it in a stream the next day. He said that should teach me not to wander off.”
Anger roiled in Samuel’s belly. If he ever laid eyes on Meg’s uncle, he’d cheerfully strangle the man.
“After that, I used the trick of slipping away from my body to escape Uncle Rowney, if for only a little while.”
“Do you need to escape me?”
“No, never think it.” She put a hand to his chest and then waved the thought away. “It’s just…it’s hard to explain unless you’ve experienced it. There’s such freedom, such lightness of soul when I Find. I need that sensation from time to time to feel normal.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I don’t understand. Not having a soul, I’m not burdened with the need to take it out for exercise.”
“You do, too, have a soul. Who told you otherwise?”
It was one of the first lessons his father had drummed into his head. Samuel was Nephilim and that meant he was different. He was bigger, stronger, and longer-lived than most human males. A descendant of a Watcher, he was gifted with Sight beyond the common. And with those advantages came a few minor disadvantages, like not being able to sire children or possessing an immortal soul.
Meg’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “You know they don’t call Satan the father of lies for nothing. It stands to reason Grigori tells some whoppers, too.” She palmed his cheek. “I know you have a soul. I see it, Samuel, shining behind those gray eyes of yours. And it’s a fine soul, never doubt it.”
She said it with such conviction he was tempted to believe her.
“And you need to Find now?”
“Oh, yes. I’m fair to bursting with it. Please Samuel, don’t try to stop me.
He knelt before her. “Can you at least make it short? And stay close. Inside this house?”
She nodded, a relieved smile lighting her features. “Hold me tight and I’ll be right back.”
As soon as he gathered her close, her eyes rolled back in her head, her body stiffened and then went slack as an empty sack. Between one breath and the next, she was gone.
The black reaches of space are cold, my father says. I wish I was. It would be easier to say no to Meg and mean it.
~ from the journal of Samuel Templeton, Lord Badewyn
Chapter Twenty
“And you haven’t seen Miss Anthony for how long?” the Duke of Camden said with a frown.
“Not for the better part of a fortnight,” Grigori admitted. As long as she stayed close to his son, whatever power shielded Samuel from his father’s distant gaze seemed to cover Meg Anthony as well. It was deucedly inconvenient that the girl’s guardian had turned up at Faencaern Castle looking for her just now. “I am frankly dismayed that Lord Badewyn chose this path and regret the scandal this debacle is sure to cause.”
The lie came as naturally to his lips as breathing. He was upset that Samuel had done something as unexpected as running off with the girl, but had no regret about the ensuing scandal whatsoever. Even the threat of scandal was powerful leverage in the duke’s world. Grigori would use whatever came to hand to advance his plans.
Like a wolf who’d selected the weakling of the flock to be culled, Grigori had fixated on Meg Anthony. Not having any extended family, she was perfect for his purposes. Who would miss her after she died giving birth to his child? He hadn’t counted on the duke actually being interested in the ward he’d shuffled off to Wales. But, no matter. The Grand Cycle was upon him. Once his current son reached a certain age, Grigori was almost pathologically driven to sire another. He’d been so sure Samuel would simply marry the girl and things would go as he planned.
Perhaps they still could.
“I shall insist Lord Badewyn do the right thing by Miss Anthony as soon as they are found,” he assured the duke. With the full weight of the girl’s powerful guardian behind the match, a hurried marriage would surely be in the offing.
And then Grigori could take Samuel’s place in the girl’s bed at will.
“Perhaps his lordship has already done the right thing,” Miss LaMotte said as she poured out tea for both the men. The woman was grace in motion, her languid movements as she stirred the tea strangely sensual. If he weren’t so obsessed with possessing Miss Anthony, Grigori thought the duke’s consort might make for a pleasant d
iversion.
“Faencaern Castle is not so far from Scotland. A wedding is as close as the nearest blacksmith over the border,” Miss LaMotte went on. “There’s every chance that Miss Anthony has already been made Lady Badewyn and we are all fretting over nothing.”
Grigori frowned into his tea. He’d tracked a trail to Scotland already. It had proven false. If Samuel had taken her north, he’d been very clever about his route. He was about to tell his unwelcome guests as much when a vision began to form in the creamy center of his teacup. Grigori peered at the image and the world around him faded away.
All he could see was Meg, floating free of her body as she’d done before in the great hall. Her long hair undulated in a non-existent breeze. Samuel was nowhere to be seen. Grigori reasoned that his son couldn’t follow her when she was in her spirit form and hence offered her no protection. He searched the image for some clue to her location. Based on the rafters behind her, she was in an attic, but the attic in question could be in Cornwall or Cork for all he knew. Then she floated upward, passed through the broken tiles of the roof, and was silhouetted before a spiky forest of chimneys.
A city.
She turned and in the distance behind her, the dome of St. Paul rose above the lesser buildings surrounding it.
London.
“Not such a clever girl after all,” he muttered. Still, she’d breed. He felt sure of it. And with her unusual ability to shed her body and flit about, what a unique offspring she’d produce for him. The vision faded into nothing more than swirling milk in his tea.
“I beg your pardon,” the duke said.
“Oh, it’s nothing. I don’t wish to speak ill of Miss Anthony, but it is a pity she was so easily persuaded to abscond with my nephew. I don’t blame you for her lack of judgment, of course, Your Grace. I understand she hasn’t been under your protection long.” Grigori took a sip of the tea, pleased with the thought that he’d soon see Meg in the flesh instead of his cup. “Please avail yourself of the comforts of Faencaern for as long as you like. I shall leave orders that your every whim is to be indulged.”
