She regarded him for a moment, but his words were genuine. “Is Barbados so exciting?”
“I suppose that depends on your definition of excitement.” It was not a jest. “But I do offer them. My sympathies, that is. I’m sorry the family is not more understanding.”
She pinched the seam of her left glove. “They had little enough coin, and it’s been fifteen years! I can hardly blame them.” She thought she did a good job of making her voice sound light.
They reached the duke’s stone wall, the one that still made Elsie’s wrists itch when she looked at it.
Mr. Kelsey stopped abruptly.
“Miss Camden,” he began, very serious and suddenly rather tall. “I have decided your debt is repaid. Twice over, considering. You have no more need to drag yourself here to ensure my silence. Your secret is forgotten.”
Elsie stared at him for a second. Just like that? “Well, if pity is all it takes, I should have told you my life story sooner!”
He held up a hand. “It is not pity.”
She paused, regarding him. Something stupid and hopeful fluttered in her chest.
“I’d already decided as much before I saw you this morning,” he said. “There is little more I need your services for, besides.”
She flinched at the words before biting the inside of her cheek and forcing her expression to relax. Doesn’t need me. She tried not to dwell on it. She barely knew the man, and yet her chest had grown heavier at the declaration. Frustration—thank the Lord, she could work with frustration—steamed under her skin. Not frustration at Mr. Kelsey, but at herself for feeling hurt, of all things, by his dismissal! She should be glad. She was glad. No more sneaking away to Kent, no more late nights finishing her work, no more shillings spent on cabs. In fact, she’d been mistaken. It wasn’t disappointment that feathered beneath her ribs, just surprise. Surprise and relief. Most definitely.
“All right, then.” She paused to give him a chance to recant. Not that she wanted him to. Blessed freedom! “I don’t suppose you’ll reimburse my expenses to journey here this morning.”
She expected him to refuse, but to her surprise, he reached into his wallet and handed her a few shillings. Plenty to see her back to Brookley.
Elsie felt awkward accepting the money, but it would be more embarrassing to suddenly change her mind, so she put it in her reticule. She found herself at a loss for words at their unexpected parting. She couldn’t thank him—he had blackmailed her, for goodness’ sake! But he’d also been true to his word. But she wouldn’t thank him for that. That was expected of a gentleman.
“I suppose I’ll head home.” She pinched her chatelaine in her hands. “Good day, Mr. Kelsey.”
He nodded. She started down the road, brushing the tangle of her feelings aside. But a new thought rose to mind, and she paused. Turned around.
“If I could ask you a personal question.”
The statement took him aback. He looked less stern when caught by surprise. The softening of his features made him more handsome. Not that she thought him handsome. Hardly.
Before he could respond, she rushed out, “Since we’re being so honest with each other.”
His eyes narrowed. “Very well.”
For a moment she considered tact—surely it was too personal to ask such a question—but the mystery had been weighing on her, and there wasn’t a roundabout way of doing this. If she wanted to know, she would have to be straightforward. “What spells do you wear?” she blurted.
That really took him by surprise. His face opened as though she’d just told him the origin of the universe.
She spread her hands in a sort of apology. “I do have a knack for sensing them.”
He moved stiffly, awkwardly, before deciding to busy his free hand by stroking his beard. “Of course you do.”
She waited. If he didn’t tell her, the suspense would drive her mad.
Turning, Mr. Kelsey leaned against the stone wall. “I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. I trust you to keep my secrets, if only because I already know yours.”
“Yes. Please, remind me again.”
He studied her face. Elsie put a hand on the back of her neck—a rather ineffective attempt to cool an oncoming blush. After a moment, he pushed off the wall, tugged down his waistcoat, and stepped a little closer.
“When I was a youth, I began to exhibit the symptoms of polio.”
Whatever Elsie had expected, it was not that. Her lips parted, but she dared not speak.
Mr. Kelsey glanced away. “My father brought me here, as there are no master temporal aspectors on the island. The spell you sensed is one that slows the spread of the disease.” He looked uncomfortable, but his voice remained even. “It will not hold forever, of course. Spells cannot stop time, only impede its effects. In truth, the reason I’ve come here is not merely to test for my mastership, but to obtain a spell that will help me once the disease spreads.”
“I see.” Her gaze dropped to his torso. As a youth . . . How long had the spell been there? Ten years? Fifteen? Aspecting could do a lot for one’s health, especially if one had the money to afford it. But it couldn’t cure something as severe as polio. Just as it couldn’t stop aging. Only slow it.
“My condolences.”
“I will not subjugate you to unwanted sympathies if you will return the favor.”
She nodded. “Of course.” Paused. “And what of the other?”
“Pardon?”
“The other spell.”
His brow knit together. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Her hands went to her hips. “Really, Bacchus. And here I thought we were being friends.”
He took another step toward her, almost close enough for discomfort. Close enough for her to smell the temporal spell beneath his clothes. “What do you mean?” he asked again.
She gawked at him. “But I know I felt it . . .”
Confusion glimmered in his eyes.
She rolled her lips together. Swallowed. Lifted a gloved hand. “May I?”
It took him a moment to understand, but he nodded.
And so Elsie, after checking the street for onlookers, reached forward and splayed her hand against his chest, just over his diaphragm.
Well, that’s . . . firm, she thought, ignoring the warmth creeping up her neck. There was the temporal spell, its scent like a sunlit forest floor. But there was a layer under it. A tightly knitted spell that made her think of the runes sown in the fields. Nestled away, out of sight. Just as before, she couldn’t see, hear, smell, or feel it, but she sensed it in a way she couldn’t describe. Whatever it was, it was powerful, to call to her in such a way. To conceal its alignment.
She took her hand away. “You can’t feel that?”
He shook his head and sighed. Had he been holding his breath?
“There are two spells on your person, Bacchus Kelsey.” She met his gaze. “One layered under the other. I cannot decipher what the first is without removing the temporal spell, but I am sure as a gun that it is there.”
Mr. Kelsey lifted a hand and placed it where Elsie’s had just been. “You must be mistaken.”
“I am not.”
But he shook his head. “There is no other spell on me. It would have interfered with the temporal spell.” He sounded like he doubted his own words.
“The aspector who slowed the polio wouldn’t have sensed it. Have you never worked with a spellbreaker before?” She lowered her voice. “A legal one, I mean?”
“No.” He sounded almost defensive. Or simply confused. “No, I haven’t.”
She rubbed her hands together. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not—” But he turned away, not finishing the statement. He rubbed his eyes. “You are untrained.”
She folded her arms. “You determined that by my wildly unsuccessful work, did you?”
He clutched his books. “I’ll . . . look into it. Thank you, Miss Camden.”
The words might as well hav
e been a whip, the way they snapped through the air. Elsie stepped back as though she could avoid their sharpness. He really didn’t know. The temporal spell was of such a sensitive nature . . . perhaps she shouldn’t have told him of the second, not in his moment of vulnerability. But it was too late to do anything about it now.
Unsure what else to do, Elsie nodded, and Bacchus Kelsey turned for the estate, disappearing behind its wall.
CHAPTER 13
He did not believe Elsie Camden had lied to him.
But he also did not want to trust her.
Bacchus stood in his bedroom, looking out the window at the grounds below. He did not spend a lot of time in this space; he used it merely for sleeping—something he needed too much of lately, thanks to the stunted polio. There were always things in need of doing, tasks in need of completing. Standing still was bad enough. Soon he would be forced to sit still.
But here he was, pensive, staring out the window like an invalid, lost in his own thoughts.
He still remembered the day his father had brought him to Master Pierrelo. He’d been almost seventeen, already taller than his father. They had just returned from his mother’s funeral in Portugal. His father had made sure she was comfortable all her years, but he’d never truly involved her in Bacchus’s life, outside a single visit and a handful of letters. Whether or not she wanted to be part of Bacchus’s life, he wasn’t sure; but as a bastard, he would have lived a more affluent life with his father than his mother. Regardless, Bacchus had been sick from the loss of his mother, the travel over the sea, and the onset of his disease.
He remembered everything the temporal aspector had said. Remembered the spell warming his skin. This is not a cure, Master Pierrelo had cautioned. Only more time.
Bacchus had taken that warning to heart. He’d researched, studied, and worked until he had a plan in place. A plan that revolved around a spell he had not yet obtained. A spell that might help him move his legs once paralysis set in. If not, it would be an extension of his hands, allowing him to work without ever needing to stand.
If pity would have swayed the physical assembly, Bacchus might have shared his story with them. But men determined to be uncaring were never persuaded otherwise.
He touched his chest. He could still feel the prints of Miss Camden’s fingers there. He hadn’t thought her touch would affect him, yet the pressure of her hand lingered like she’d cast her own spell. In that brief moment, he had seen more of her than she usually revealed—sadness limning her eyes, frustration creasing her brow. But the certainty with which she’d declared the existence of another spell, one he had no recollection of, had dissipated any tender feelings.
He didn’t know how large the rune was, but Miss Camden insisted on its presence. How long had she known? Had she learned of it that first night, when he’d caught her discharging his spell? During the re-enchanting of the wall? Or perhaps at Isaiah’s dinner, when he’d escorted her into the dining room. Perhaps he’d let his guard down, allowing the lighting and her sharp blue eyes to put him at ease—
Had she told him about the spell to torture him, let him stew in worry as revenge for making her work? Did she mean to continue her employment? But he didn’t blooming pay her, damn it.
And truthfully, she didn’t seem like that kind of woman. Though she masked it well, Bacchus suspected she genuinely cared about people, despite her . . . illegal tendencies.
No, he did not believe she’d lied. He only wished she had.
He took to the narrow writing desk in the corner. Readied a pen. Wrote briskly, scratching the paper, ignoring the few places where the ink bled. Shaking the message dry, he folded it over and scrawled Master Jacques Pierrelo on the back. Although she had told him the master wouldn’t have sensed the first spell, the man might know something.
Someone had to know something.
Letter in hand, Bacchus charged for the door. He pulled it open, finding a startled footman on the other side.
The servant bowed. “My apologies, Mr. Kelsey, but you’re needed in the drawing room.”
He huffed. “What for?”
The man twisted in discomfort. “Perhaps you’d best see for yourself.”
Eyeing the servant and hating the way every single Englishman danced around his intent, Bacchus nodded, pocketed the note, and strode toward the drawing room. The manor was huge, but the room wasn’t far. He reached it and opened the door. The duke paced before the pianoforte, obviously disgruntled about something. The duchess had her back to him. A constable stood erect near the other entrance.
“What is this?” Bacchus asked, shutting the door behind him.
Isaiah said, “He only means to question you, Bacchus.”
Bacchus turned toward the constable. “What has happened?” They found out about Elsie. His stomach tightened. He’d made a promise to her, and he intended to keep it . . . that, and the thought of the woman behind bars filled him with dread.
“Please sit down, Mr. Kelsey.” The constable, a short, rounded man in full uniform, gestured to one of the chairs. Bacchus selected one that allowed him to see all three people in the room. He took his time, trying to think of excuses for both himself and Miss Camden, ones that wouldn’t immediately convict her.
The constable pulled out a pad of paper and a pencil. “What is your relationship to Felton Shaw?”
“Felton Shaw?” He repeated the foreign name, trying to hide the relief lightening his shoulders. “I don’t . . . Wait.” Wasn’t that the name of the man Bacchus had lost the opus to at the auction three days ago? “A gentleman in his forties, brown hair cut short? Wealthy?”
The constable nodded.
“I am barely acquainted with him.” What was this about? “He attended an auction at Christie’s Auction House this past Wednesday. Wore a gray suit. We bid on the same opus. He won.”
“And that was the end of your acquaintance?”
“No. I spoke to him after the auction about purchasing a spell from the opus. He seemed interested until I named a master spell. Then he dismissed me somewhat forcibly and left.”
“You did not follow him?”
Bacchus narrowed his eyes. “No. And my servant did not, either.”
The constable nodded, eyes on his paper. “Your servant’s name?”
He didn’t like the way the man asked his questions, as if he were insinuating guilt. Cooperate, Bacchus. The duke will protect Rainer. “Rainer Moor. What is this about? Has Mr. Shaw filed a complaint against me?”
“Mr. Shaw is in hospital in serious condition.” The constable finally looked up. “He was stabbed last night, after his home was broken into. Robbed.”
Bacchus stiffened.
“Among the items taken was the Bennett opus. The only other witness is suffering from a head injury he will likely not recuperate from.”
The duchess slumped, covering her face with her hands.
“That is . . . terrible,” Bacchus managed.
The constable agreed with a dip of his head. “You were seen having a confrontation with him at the auction house.”
“I would not call it a confrontation.”
“Where were you last night, Mr. Kelsey? Between the hours of one and three a.m.?”
“Sleeping.” He let the obviousness of the statement leak into his tone.
“Where?”
“In my bedroom. Until midnight, I was sharing some Madeira with the duke in his study.” Though truthfully he didn’t care for the drink—he preferred rum. “Before that, I dined with the Scott family and listened to Miss Josie practice the pianoforte.”
The duke interjected, “Just as I told you.”
The constable nodded. “You have excellent character witnesses, Mr. Kelsey.” He made a small gesture toward the duke and duchess. “If I have more questions, I will return. I recommend not leaving the country anytime soon.”
Bacchus relaxed, but only slightly. “I do not plan to.” Not until he had the spell he needed.
He wonder
ed, briefly, if he’d be the one hospitalized had he won the auction.
“And your servant?”
“Rainer sleeps with the other servants in the household. There will be many witnesses to his presence here.”
The constable glanced at the duke. “Your Grace, if you would take me downstairs, so I might inquire?”
“Yes, of course.” The Duke of Kent crossed the room quickly, gesturing to the door behind the constable. “Right this way.” Then, in the hallway, likely to the butler, “No need, I’ll escort him myself.”
A long breath passed through Bacchus’s lips. He leaned back in the chair. “I take it the stolen goods have not been recovered.”
The duchess shook her head, distressed. “No. Oh, my dear, I hate it when my husband stays up late with his drink, but I am so glad he did it last night.”
Bacchus nodded. Isaiah Scott had made the offer upon noticing Bacchus’s distracted state. He’d been mulling over Elsie Camden—and her declaration of a second spell—ever since her dismissal.
“First Alma Digby goes missing, and now this.” The duchess dotted her eyes with the knuckle of her index finger. “Not to mention Baron Halsey and Viscount Byron! Oh, their poor wives . . . I think I’ll walk the gardens. Would you care to join me?”
Bacchus stood. “I might see how Rainer is faring, if that’s all right.”
“Yes, of course.” She waved him away.
Nodding his respects, Bacchus left the room, heading for the servants’ hall.
Less than half an hour later, the constable departed, having crossed Rainer’s name off his list.
Elsie could not seem to finish her latest novel reader. Sometimes the words blurred together. Sometimes her imagination floated to other things. Sometimes she pictured the baron as an Algarve man, and that threw off the imagery she’d worked up in her head for the tale.
Even here, sitting in a small chapel with the story tucked into a hymnal, she could not read. And so she listened to an unfamiliar preacher speak on pride, and occasionally turned to admire the stained-glass windows. She should be happy, now that things were back to normal. The last week had been nothing but normal. No sneaking off to Kent, no surreptitious notes from the Cowls. She might not hear from them for months. Even Ogden had finished up his work with the squire and was home more. Elsie liked having him home. Liked the subtle feeling of family that snuggled up against the walls of the stonemasonry shop.
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