by Mia Marlowe
Pascal stepped away from the door and gave a sweeping bow. Rowney Jackson toddled back and helped his elderly nephew to his feet. The pair shuffled out of the cell with as much speed as they could muster. Pascal made no attempt to leave with them.
“Do not contemplate escape, Mr. Jackson,” the duke warned. “At the top of the stairs, there is a pair of able-bodied footmen waiting to escort you to the magistrate.”
“It’ll be a mercy,” Rowney muttered.
“That’ll be all, Bernard.” As his steward left the underground chamber, Camden turned back to Pascal. “I notice you did not escape through the same shaft the Jacksons came down. I suspect it would be a challenging climb but one of your youth could have managed it.”
“In truth, I did, Your Grace. Your garden is lovely by starlight, but then I began thinking that running off at the first opportunity would be a poor way to prove I deserve your trust. And so I voluntarily returned to this cell.” Pascal gripped the bars and leaned his soulful face between them. “I have lived for centuries—always alone, constantly moving about and having to reinvent myself. My life may have been long, but it has been without meaning. Full membership in your Order, doing something useful, something…good, would give me a measure of purpose I have heretofore lacked.”
“I thought we’d agreed that you could not become a full-fledged Extraordinaire until I found a companion, a guardian of sorts, for you. Someone who was not only immune to your time theft, but who would also ensure you did not begin stealing time from others again.”
“We did, Your Grace, but I doubt you can find such a one.” Pascal looked sadder than a dog that had just piddled on the carpet. “Haven’t I proven to you that I can be trusted, even without such an overseer?”
“Perhaps.” An inkling of an idea bloomed in Camden’s brain. “But changing your situation will require the consent of the entire Order. I will summon them tonight.”
It gave Camden great pleasure to survey the bevy of unique individuals gathered in his parlor. Most were psychically gifted. All were precious to him.
Lounging on the fainting couch, there was his beloved Vesta, his fire mage, all-consuming lover and since they had taken secret vows over a Scottish anvil after leaving Faencaern Castle, his unacknowledged duchess. He’d have been pleased to shout their union from the rooftops, but Vesta insisted on concealing the marriage for his sake. Ever the vivacious charmer, she chatted animatedly with Lady Westfall.
Lord Westfall’s viscountess possessed no special gift but she was privy to the Order’s business on account of her marriage. Lord Westfall no longer heard the thoughts of others all the time. He was now in full possession of his gift, being able to selectively listen in on the minds around him. Camden was glad for him. Relaxed and finally at ease in his own skin, Westfall was almost unrecognizable as the high-strung fellow Camden had arranged to have released from Bedlam into his charge last spring.
Cozy on the settee, Lord and Lady Stanstead were deep in conversation with Gaston LeGrand, the water mage who leaned against the fireplace mantle. Camden still remembered how tentative Cassandra, now Lady Stanstead, had been about joining the Order after her future husband had all but abducted her from Almack’s. Since then, the pair had worked together to protect the Crown’s interests and had been instrumental in capturing Pascal before he could harm the Prince Regent. Thus far, LeGrand hadn’t used his facility with water in service to the English royal family, but his help to Camden and other members of the Order had been invaluable.
Lastly, there was Meg Anthony.
No, Camden corrected himself. Lady Badewyn.
He was still concerned over the risks she ran when she used her gift of Finding, but he’d be forever indebted to her and her new husband for bringing his lost son back to him. He and young Henry had many lost years to make up, but Camden had hope that they could. The lad had his mother’s sweetness along with her eyes.
As for the way Meg courted death each time she slipped away from her body, Camden finally agreed it was her life to hazard. She should be allowed to run the risk of Finding if she deemed it necessary. And she’d brought her devoted Lord Badewyn and his valuable distant vision into the Order as well.
Along with the problem of what, if anything, Camden and his friends could do for Samuel’s father, Grigori, now that he’d foresworn the continuation of his “Grand Cycle.” The fallen angel stood in the far corner of the room. He reminded Camden of a pike hanging motionless in the shadows, watching the smaller fish dart in sunlit waters.
Still dangerous.
But he gave his word, Camden reminded himself. Millennia had passed since anyone had trusted Grigori. He was still a ruined creature, beyond redemption, yet there was a craving for something good and decent in him, the desire to find himself on the side of right once more. The chance to be proven dependable was not one the fallen angel would give up lightly.
Camden was betting a great deal on his belief, but then so was Grigori’s son and new daughter-in-law.
The door to the parlor swung open and Pascal entered, flanked by the footman James and Mr. Bernard. He was wearing his gloves, as usual. When he was a concert pianist, Pascal’s admirers once believed the red gloves a dandified accessory. The fact that even then, he wore them to protect others gave Camden hope that the fellow would live up to his promises now.
“Well, I must say, life above ground certainly has its charms. Good evening, ladies.” Pascal smiled at each of the feminine members of the Order. His gaze lingered on Lady Stanstead. “Cassandra. Forgive the familiar address, but I was so in hopes we would meet again. You were always kind to me. I like to think I may count on your support at this time.”
“That very much depends on whether your incarceration has changed you,” Lord Stanstead said, taking his wife’s hand possessively.
Pascal’s smile no longer reached his eyes. “How could it not? Am I right, Lord Westfall? Didn’t your time in Bedlam, which was no doubt worse than my cell in His Grace’s souterrain, change you?”
“It did,” Westfall admitted. “But not for the better.”
“Well, one of the things my imprisonment has taught me is that anything is preferable to being shut away. Because of that, I am willing to submit to His Grace’s conditions for my release. I promise faithfully that I will no longer siphon so much as a minute from anyone…” The time thief arched a sly brow. “Unless, of course, the Order deems it necessary.”
“Which, rest assured, it will not. Civilized society has other ways of dealing with those who would harm the royals besides sucking the life out of them,” Camden said.
“There are those who might argue that Newgate prison or transportation to New South Wales amount to the same thing,” LeGrand muttered. The comment made Camden wonder about the water mage’s past, but decided that warranted a discussion at another time.
“The other requirement was that we find a guardian suitable for you,” the duke went on, “Someone to make certain you are living up to your part of the bargain.”
“And this is my cue.” A bare hand extended, the fallen angel strode toward the time thief. “I am Grigori Templeton. Take off your glove.”
Camden nodded when Pascal looked askance at him. “Do as he says.”
When Grigori took Pascal’s hand, the time thief’s jaw sagged. Camden sensed a transfer of raw power between the two. It was like watching a pair of Titans meet, measuring each other’s strength in their grip. Pascal was first to try to pull back.
“My God,” the time thief said as his knees buckled slightly.
“Not quite,” the Fallen One said with a chuckle, “though I was once on rather familiar terms with Him.” Then all traces of levity drained from his features. “The will to endure is all that binds a fallen angel to earth. What you feel in my handshake is the weight of my years in exile. Should you break your word to His Grace, I will deposit all of them into your soul. At that point, I’ll have exhausted myself so thoroughly, I’ll have no will left. I wi
ll no longer be able to fight the downward pull that is ever upon me and will tumble into the abyss.” He tightened his grip on Pascal’s fingers. “If that happens, rest assured, I will take you with me.”
When Grigori released the time thief’s hand, Pascal massaged his knuckles as Grigori continued, “You will accept me as your companion and I will take you as my charge. You are an old soul, I’m told. I suspect we’ll find much in common. When we are not being of service to the duke’s Order, we will travel the world. Contrary to Solomon’s opinion, there are still a few new things under the sun for such as we.”
“I accept your offer and will bear you company, Mr. Templeton,” Pascal said.
“Good,” Camden said. “Before you joined us this evening, the Order voted to allow you both full membership if this agreement between you was reached. Now, on to other busi—”
A burst of raw psychic energy cracked over Camden. A hazy impression descended upon him. It was too indistinct for him to describe. More a sensation of loathing and malice than anything. Something malevolent had wakened from a long sleep and had bent its eye toward the English court. The object which contained the evil intent flashed a warning toward him and he sank into blackness.
When he came to himself, he found that someone had carried him to the fainting couch and his lovely Vesta was pressing a perfumed handkerchief to his forehead.
“Oh, my dear Edward,” she said, “what is it?”
He sat up. “It appears the psychic lull we have been enjoying is at an end. Someone has been searching for the Honours of Scotland.”
“Ah, yes, the royal jewels,” Samuel said. “After the Acts of Union in 1707, the crown, scepter, and sword no longer had a ceremonial role to play. Someone hid them away so well, their location remains a mystery. Never say the Honours have a psychic bent.”
“I don’t know. As far as I can tell, they are still missing,” Camden said. “But the people who are looking for them have stumbled upon something else, a set of bagpipes from the time of Robert the Bruce with a decidedly dark inclination toward our king.”
“What are we to do about it, Your Grace?” Grigori asked.
“Do? Why, we go to Scotland, of course. If my read on the situation is correct, this is a task of such herculean proportions it calls for the entire Order. Mr. Bernard, see to the travel arrangements at once.”
The Order planned its strategy into the wee hours of the morning. Once the meeting broke up for the night, Samuel and Meg retreated to their chamber in Camden House. He closed the door behind him and threw the bolt. “I wish I could lock out the world as easily.”
He took her into his arms. She melted into them with the rightness of a homecoming. “Now that Grigori is no longer a threat to us, I’d hoped we’d have a bit of peace together.”
“We will. But as long as we serve the Order, we’ll just have to have it in small bits,” Meg said. “You know, I never thought myself worthy of love. Either because my gift made me a freak, or because without it, I wasn’t special enough for someone to love.”
“You’re more than special enough for me, with or without your gift. I’ll love you till the last star falls.” He nuzzled her neck. As he breathed in her fresh scent, it was as if he took her in, too. “Before you came to Faencaern, I had convinced myself I was a hollow husk. A hybrid freak. A Naphil. I had no love to give. No soul.”
“You know that’s not true.” She palmed his cheeks.
He nodded. “You taught me different. You gave me a new version of myself. Now I’m returning the gift. I’m not as much as you deserve, but all that I am, or ever will be, is yours.”
“You’re all I’ll ever want.” Her smile turned wicked. “And I want you right now.”
“Good. I plan to love you from here to Scotland and back.”
“All through my childhood, I was on the move. I hated traveling and slogging to and from Wales did nothing to change my opinion,” she said.
“That sounds like a challenge.” He hefted her up with his arms under her bum. She bent down to kiss him.
“Nothing you can’t handle. As long as you love me, I’ll go wherever you take me.”
“Right now,” he said as he strode across the room, “I’m taking you to bed.”
“My favorite place.”
He laid her down to sink into the luxurious feather tick. “Mine too. As long as we’re in it together.
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Author’s Note
I’ve always been fascinated by the cryptic scripture verses that deal with beings called Nephilim. There are only a few passages and all of them are sunk deep in antiquity. Before the Flood, the biblical writer tells us that the “sons of God” went in to the “daughters of men” and sired children on them. I have no idea what that really means. For the purposes of this book, I have decided that “sons of God” refers to some of the angels who rebelled against God by following Lucifer.
I’m usually a stickler for historical accuracy, but I’m the first to admit, I really don’t know in this case. You are welcome to endorse a different interpretation. My dad, for example, would say the Nephilim might have been ancient aliens. (Clearly, he needs more channels on his satellite TV package!) Anyway, I hope you enjoy a love/hate relationship with my fallen angel Grigori and his doomed love for his human wife.
A few of you may be skeptical that the Duke of Camden would actually marry Vesta LaMotte, his off-again-on-again mistress. Such a misalliance is not without precedence. Consider Charles James Fox, second son of a baron and speaker of the House of Commons, who secretly wed Elizabeth Armistead, former mistress of the Prince of Wales. They made the marriage public after seven years, but she was never fully accepted by polite society. Fox could not have cared less what anyone thought about his private life. And neither does the Duke of Camden.
If you enjoyed Vesta and Camden’s romance, which arcs through the entire Order of the MUSE series, be sure to visit http://www.miamarlowe.com. I’ve posted a love scene between them that didn’t make the final manuscript.
Samuel and Meg are two of my favorites, probably because they both feel unworthy of love. What they don’t realize, at first, is that no one is worthy. No one can be. Love is a gift we can’t deserve. It’s a grace. When it comes to us, we should grasp it with both hands. And a thankful heart.
Wishing you love in all its unexpected glory,
Mia
Acknowledgments
Writing is a solitary activity, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t have lots of help with The Lost Soul of Lord Badewyn. I need to thank a few of the special people who also have their hand in this story:
Erin Molta, my editor. She never gives up and never stops nudging and prodding until the story is as good as it can be. She has an amazing sense of story and hones in on the details that make a book better.
Louisa Maggio, my cover designer. She did a terrific job of capturing the essence of not only this book, but the entire Order of the M.U.S.E. series. And thank you to Amanda Faris, my copy editor. Any errors that slipped through her grammar gauntlet are my fault.
Natasha Kern, my wonderful agent. She handles all the nuts and bolts of business so I can spend my days playing with imaginary people. I don’t know what I’d do without her!
Ashlyn Chase and Marcy Weinbeck, my critique partner and my beta reader. Not only do I count on their feedback, I’d be lost without their friendship. You two are the best!
My husband, my friend, the love of my life. Anyone who can romance the same woman for almost 40 years is definitely hero material!
And last, but not least, I want to thank YOU, dear reader. You invested some of your hard earned money in my story and more importantly, a few hours of your life. I’m thrilled we�
�ve shared this story together. Thanks for bringing your imagination along for the ride. It means the world to me. Truly.
About the Author
Mia Marlowe didn’t intend on making things up for a living, but she says it’s the best job she ever had. Her work was featured in the Best of 2010 issue of PEOPLE magazine. One of her books is on display at the Museum of London Docklands next to Johnny Depp memorabilia. The RITA nominated author has over 20 books in print with more on the way! Mia loves art, music, history, and travel. Good thing about the travel because she’s lived in 9 different states, 4 different time zones. For more, visit www.miamarlowe.com.
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Also by Mia Marlowe
The Curse of Lord Stanstead
an Order of the M.U.S.E. novel
Wherever Cassandra Darkin goes, fire is sure to follow. It’s not until she’s swept into the arms of a handsome, infuriating stranger that Cassandra Darkin learns she’s a fire mage—and that her gift comes with blazing desires. With his pretenatural ability to influence the thoughts of others, Garrett Sterling is sent to gather Cassandra for the Order of the M.U.SE. But Garrett’s gift has a dark side…and the moment he begins to care too much for Cassandra, he knows he will doom her to an inescapable fate.
The Madness of Lord Westfall
an Order of the M.U.S.E. novel
Pierce Langdon, Viscount Westfall, is mad. So they say. But he actually has a psychic gift. He hears people’s thoughts, and uses his ability in service to the Order of the M.U.S.E. Now he’s investigating a plot against the Crown, and the Lady Nora Claremont, a sultry courtesan, seems to be at the center of it. If he wasn’t mad before, Nora may drive him to it. Pierce knows just what she wants and what she’s thinking. What Nora wants is Pierce...and what she’s thinking could expose her as a traitor to the crown.
