“But where is the earl?” she asked.
Rhys glanced beyond her to the still-open parlor door and lowered his voice. “He was called away,” he murmured. “It’s an unfortunate aspect of being Dewin Mawr, but when a situation arises among the Families he is bound to go at once. This particular incident was most urgent, for it involved one of the sons of The MacQueen and the daughter of a mere mortal laird who wants nothing to do with magic. The daughter is of a different mind, however. She and The MacQueen’s son were handfasted in secret, though the daughter had been promised to another.”
“Oh dear.”
“Aye.” Rhys gave a woeful shake of his head. “Just so. His Lordship will be hard-pressed to keep them from shooting one another. He took two of his cousins who were near at hand, Master Niclas and Master Dyfed, in order to make the task quicker. The earl is determined to return this evening, if possible, and certainly no later than tomorrow.”
“He’s already gone, then?” she asked, her spirits plunging. “But my brother has left the house, and very likely gone to … well, to that woman’s house again.” She blushed just to speak of it. “I can’t let him remain there as he did yesterday. She might do him an injury if …” Sarah could scarce think of the way to say it. “If she keeps using him that way.”
“Very true, miss.” Rhys’s gaze was sympathetic. “I came just as soon as His Lordship was away.” He put a hand into a pocket inside his coat. “He bade me to bring you this”—he set a small vial into her hand—“and said that you must give your brother a few drops every few hours until His Lordship has made his return. Unfortunately, as I said, Mr. Tamony had gone before I arrived.” He pulled out a slender sealed missive as well. “Lord Graymar also asked me to give you this, and said you’re to read it three times before doing anything else today.”
Sarah stepped back and opened the missive, reading the brief contents in but a moment.
My dearest Sarah, it said. Rhys will have explained to you why I’ve gone. Do nothing until I’ve returned, no matter what may transpire. I shall be very angry if you do anything dangerous.
Sarah obediently read it through twice more, then folded the page and put it in her pocket. Looking at Rhys, she said, “I must go and fetch my brother back at once. Will you help me?”
Rhys’s eyebrows rose. “You can’t mean to go to Serafina Daray’s home, Miss Tamony. His Lordship would be extremely displeased if I were to let you undertake so bold an action.”
“Nevertheless,” Sarah replied, “I must make the attempt. Surely she’d not dare harm two members of the same family. I can’t believe she’d risk the rumors. Apart from that, she’d be far too frightened of what the Dewin Mawr would do to her.”
Rhys shook his head. “No, miss, I can’t allow it. I gave Lord Graymar my solemn promise.”
“I see,” she said more gently, reaching out to touch his hand. “I understand, of course. But you must excuse me, please, if I take my leave. I don’t know how long it will take me to discover where Miss Daray lives.”
“It’s a rash and foolish task, miss,” Rhys countered forcefully. “You’d not even be able to get beyond the gates of her town house, for the dwelling is enchanted. No mere mortal could manage the task without the help of an extraordinary dewin.”
“Then I shall stand out front and shout until someone comes to stop me. I must do something, Rhys. Surely you understand, for I can’t think you’d sit on your hands while one of your loved ones was suffering beneath a terrible spell.”
“No, I’d not,” he admitted, and was thoughtful for a moment. “There is one powerful dewin among the Seymours remaining in London, and as she was once allied with the dark Families, she will readily understand the likes of Miss Daray.”
“She?” Sarah repeated.
He nodded and said, “She.”
Desdemona Seymour was not in the best of moods. She was seven months pregnant and what her husband politely called large with child. It was not a description she liked, but she couldn’t deny that it was apt. Her back ached, her feet were swollen, and she’d not enjoyed a good night’s slumber in the past week. Worse than all this, the Dewin Mawr had appeared without warning early in the day and taken her husband off to Scotland, where some ridiculous feud between magic and mere mortals was about to erupt.
Desdemona didn’t care about such things. She thought the Great Dewin far too kind and long-suffering toward both mere and magic mortals. In her opinion he needed to utilize less patience and diplomacy and more power and discipline. It would be a simple matter for Malachi to arrive at the place of trouble and knock enough heads together—so to speak—until everyone involved did what he told them to do. But no, he refused to use his powers in the manner that her father, Draceous Caslin, the Great Sorcerer of her native America, so efficiently employed.
And so Malachi had taken along not only Dyfed, whom Desdemona hated being parted from even for a brief time, but also Niclas Seymour, the family’s skilled communicator. Julia, Niclas’s wife, wasn’t bound to be any happier about the matter than Desdemona, but at least she wasn’t suffering an advanced pregnancy or being visited by the mere mortal scribbler Malachi had inconceivably set his sights upon and who presently stood before her insisting that Desdemona must help her rescue her stupid brother, who’d managed to get himself placed under an unbreakable spell. By Serafina Daray, no less, whom Desdemona passionately hated. Serafina had set herself as an adversary shortly after Desdemona and Dyfed had arrived in London. She’d laughed at Desdemona’s American accent and made endless jests at the dinners and parties they’d attended together about the inferiority of anyone from the former Colonies. Desdemona was sensitive about her heritage, especially as she’d been raised to feel a similar disdain for all things English. But Dyfed had found ways to smooth away the fury that had risen up at the other woman’s words. At least until Serafina made the mistake of insinuating that Desdemona’s child would be a useless creature, having been sired by a lesser wizard and birthed by an American.
Desdemona had nearly killed her. Dyfed, unfortunately, had stepped in the way and made Desdemona stop. But at least she’d had a few moments of pleasure in seeing the shock of the other woman as she’d discovered just how powerful and cunning an American could be. Serafina Daray’s alarm had been a beautiful thing, for she’d also learned that she wasn’t the most powerful sorceress in England any longer, and it had left her shaken.
“To be frank, Miss Tamony,” Desdemona said, lowering herself with care into a comfortable chair, “I don’t see why I should lend you my aid. Your brother means nothing to me, and as you and I aren’t related yet, I owe you nothing. Apart from that, Malachi wouldn’t like it, and although that wouldn’t stop me if I wished to deal with Serafina, it’s sufficient to sway me when I’m feeling as weary and unpleasant as I currently am. If you’ve not yet noticed, Miss Tamony, I am expecting.”
“I do apologize, Mrs. Seymour,” Sarah said with feeling. “I didn’t realize.”
“The fault is mine,” Rhys put in. “I failed to mention your condition, madam.”
Desdemona sent him a heated look. Her back ached like the very devil. She wished Dyfed were there to rub it. It would serve Malachi right if she did help his woman. Desdemona had asked him—nicely, even, which hadn’t been easy for her—not to take her husband for this foolish purpose. But Malachi wanted to be done with it quickly so that he could return to Miss Tamony and had insisted that his cousins accompany him. Just thinking of it made Desdemona angry all over again.
“Of course I couldn’t ask you to leave your home,” Sarah said. “Not in your condition. You have every right to be angry with me for intruding on your privacy during so delicate a time.”
Desdemona was trying to move into a more comfortable position but stopped at Sarah’s words and looked at her sharply. “Why shouldn’t I leave the house if I wish?”
Sarah flushed with embarrassment; Rhys looked at the floor as if it suddenly fascinated him.
&nbs
p; “Because of your condition, Mrs. Seymour,” Sarah explained. “I’m sure your husband wouldn’t wish you to leave the safety of your dwelling.”
That was true enough, Desdemona thought unhappily. Dyfed refused to let her leave the house unless he was with her, and he’d given strict instructions that she was to remain home until he returned from his journey with Malachi. It irked her to be treated like a child; more irksome still was the idea of others thinking she was the kind of woman who was ruled by a man. Any man. No matter that it was true.
“I do as I please,” Desdemona declared irritably, shifting on the chair. “And my husband is not here to bid me stay or go, due to the Dewin Mawr’s determination to take him from my side.”
“It’s shocking that Lord Graymar should have done such a thing,” Sarah agreed with sympathy. “Your husband had a far greater duty to remain with you than hare off with his cousin.”
“There’s no use speaking of it,” Desdemona said, though she was a little mollified. “Malachi is given to doing as he pleases, which is his right as the Great Sorcerer.”
“That’s true,” Sarah said with a nod. “Still, I’m sure you’ll be grateful when your husband has come home. I am sorry for bothering you, Mrs. Seymour,” she said again, and began to back toward the door. “We’ll leave you in peace.”
Desdemona eyed her knowingly. “You still mean to make a try at gaining entrance to Serafina’s dwelling, do you not? It’s impossible for a mere mortal.”
“I must at least try,” Sarah told her. “It seems unsisterly to let my brother languish beneath her spell, even if I can’t break it. Julius would do everything in his power to rescue me if our positions were reversed.”
Desdemona sighed. Mere mortals were so foolish about such things. “I’d better go with you, then,” she said, sounding very put-upon. She struggled to lift her girth from the chair.
Sarah hurried across the room to help her. “Oh no, Mrs. Seymour, I really don’t think it a good idea. I never should have asked you to help us, and certainly not to face a sorceress of Serafina Daray’s powers.”
With an effort Desdemona gained her feet, swaying until both Sarah and Rhys, who had joined them, steadied her.
“And why not?” she asked, her tone filled with immediate insult. “Do you imagine, by some unfathomable chance, that her powers could possibly exceed my own?” The measure of her wrath made the room shake and the windowpanes rattle.
“Not at all,” Sarah assured her quickly. “I know that they do not.”
“Good,” Desdemona said, her anger fading as quickly as it had begun. The room about them settled. “As it happens, you’ve come just as I decided that I want to take some air. I’ve been in the house all day, and some exercise will do me good. But we’ll take my carriage. It’s been enchanted for comfort, and I won’t sit in some wretchedly unpleasant hack.”
Morcar Cadmaran lowered the paper he’d been reading and stared at his butler, who stood at the doorway of the breakfast parlor.
“What did you say, Stoton?”
“A Miss Philistia Tamony to see you, my lord,” the butler repeated. “She says it’s urgent that she speak with you.”
“God in heaven,” Morcar muttered. “Was she accompanied by another woman?” he asked, hoping that the lovely cousin might have come, as well. Or even Lady Tamony, who was not only still very attractive, despite her years, but also disarmingly witty.
“No, my lord. There was a maid, but she bid her wait in the hall. She wishes to speak with you alone. I’ve taken her to the blue parlor.”
Morcar felt a surge of irritation. What did the silly chit think she was about, visiting a man of his standing in broad daylight with no one more than a maid to accompany her? Anyone seeing her might suppose they were carrying on an affair—and would disapprove, as she was a virginal unmarried female and he a nobleman who would know better than to meet her when anyone might see. If and when Morcar did relieve the little fool of her maidenhead it would be in a far more private setting.
“Hellfire and damnation,” he muttered, pushing aside the late breakfast he’d been eating and rising from his chair. “I’ll have to get rid of her as quickly as I can. What a tiresome way to start the day.”
Morcar had composed himself by the time Stoton opened the parlor doors for him. Philistia Tamony gave a start at his appearance, jumping up from the chair in which she’d been sitting and staring at him as if he were a wolf come to eat her.
Entering the room, Morcar forced a smile upon his lips and said, “Miss Tamony, what a delightful and unlooked-for surprise. You look very fine today. I hope you’ve not come because something is amiss? Shall I have Stoton bring tea?”
She looked rather more charming than she had the day before, Morcar thought as he moved toward her. She was wearing a gown made in the latest style, composed of various shades of purple and coupled with a bonnet of pale violet. It suited her well and gave her plain face a dose of much-needed color. She put him in mind of a tiny, delicate flower that needed picking.
“No, thank you,” she said in a small voice, still staring at him from large brown eyes. “I only just finished my breakfast before coming. I’m sorry to have arrived without an invitation, but something’s happened and I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Indeed?” he remarked curiously.
She nodded and looked past him to where Stoton yet stood, awaiting instructions. Morcar made a dismissive motion and the servant bowed and departed, shutting the doors behind him.
“Please sit and be comfortable, Miss Tamony,” Morcar invited pleasantly. “You know it’s very true that you shouldn’t have come without a proper escort. Your cousin or Lady Tamony at the least. Society can be cruel to young ladies who step across certain invisible boundaries, though perhaps, having been out of England so often, you were not aware.”
Her cheeks flushed and she looked so painfully contrite that even Morcar’s wicked heart softened a bit.
“I do know, my lord, which makes my coming even more unforgivable. I’m sure you think me a terrible creature for doing anything so bold and unseemly. But please believe me when I say, Lord Llew, that I should never wish to give you a disgust or … or a dislike of me.”
“That would be impossible,” he said reassuringly, amused at her concern over losing his good opinion. She clearly held him in awe, perhaps had even fallen a little in love with him. But he was used to such emotion from young maidens enjoying their first Seasons in London, especially those who were plain and in want of a rich, titled husband. “I hope you consider me a friend, for I certainly regard you as one. It was only as a friend that I spoke of the matter to you. Now we must put it behind us and be comfortable. Shall we?”
The blush deepened and the look in the eyes changed from fear to pleasure. Yes, he thought, she had certainly become infatuated with him. The thought of taking her maidenhead was growing more appealing by the moment. And, really, she looked very pretty with that sparkle in her gaze.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said. “It would be an honor to have you as a friend.”
“Then it’s settled. Now, what is it that’s brought you to me this morning, when so charming a young lady ought to be out shopping and enjoying the sights of London?”
“Oh,” she said, as if just remembering the cause of her visit. Turning, she picked up a drawstring purse and began to open it. “It’s the strangest thing, my lord. I suppose it has to do with the supernatural, and I really should have shown it to my cousin Sarah, for she’s an expert on such matters. But something told me that it was better to bring it to you. Is this not odd?” She pulled something solid and rectangular from the purse and held it out to him. “It’s the book you recommended to me yesterday at Hookham’s, my lord. Do you remember? The Fortunes of Nigel, volume one, by Sir Walter Scott. But look.” She pointed to the cover. “The title on the cover has changed, but the book within is still The Fortunes of Nigel. Is that not odd? And look at the little symbols at the bottom. They don�
��t make any sense at all.”
Morcar leaned forward to take the book, frowning as he read the title. The Life of St. Justin. There was no author listed, but beneath the English words was a line written in the ancient text, which translated to read, All become one or all will fail. Flipping the book open, he saw that what the girl said was true. It was still The Fortunes of Nigel, by Scott.
“Very odd,” he murmured, looking at the cover once more. “The Life of St. Justin. I wonder how that could have come to be there. Perhaps it and the symbols were a mistake of the printer, and we simply didn’t look closely enough at the cover to make certain of it. On the spine, as you see, the title remains The Fortunes of Nigel, volume one. It would be a simple mistake to make.”
The rate of his heartbeat had increased, and his thoughts begun to race. It was a sign from the Guardians. The use of the ancient tongue made it certain. But why had they sent it through a mere mortal? Especially one such as Philistia Tamony, who had no magic or any real understanding of it, as the cousin did?
But perhaps, he thought suddenly, she did understand. Perhaps she was a sympathetic. Her cousin was, and Malachi was likely making the most of Sarah Tamony’s knowledge in his quest for the cythraul. Perhaps Morcar could do the same with the young woman sitting before him.
“What do you make of this occurrence, Miss Tamony?” he asked slowly, looking up at her.
Her expression grew shy again, and she hesitated before she spoke. “I think that, perhaps”—her gloved hands folded and unfolded nervously—“there’s a bit of magic involved, my lord. And that, perhaps, you might think so, too.”
“And why would you think such things?” he asked, considering her with interest.
If it was possible, she turned more brightly red. “Because I think you may possess magic, my lord,” she whispered. “Sarah says you do, and if I didn’t believe her before, I do now.”
Morcar set the book aside on a nearby table and settled more comfortably into his chair. Tenting his fingers beneath his chin, he regarded her soberly.
Touch of Desire Page 25
