The Curse of Lord Stanstead

by Mia Marlowe

  “Poison is a woman’s weapon.” The small voice came from the far corner. The girl it belonged to took a handkerchief from her sleeve and dusted the side table. “His Grace would never stoop to such methods.”

  “Thank you, Miss Anthony. Your support is roundly appreciated.” Then Camden frowned at her. “Confound it. Will you cease your infernal cleaning?”

  “Yes, Your Grace, of course.” Stricken, she shoved the cloth back into her sleeve and dropped a stiff curtsy. “I’m ever so sorry, I’m sure.”

  If Sterling took Camden’s rank too lightly, Meg Anthony was all but undone by it. The duke forced what he hoped was a welcoming smile to his lips. “Please have a seat, my dear.”

  Her pale eyebrows shot skyward. “Oh, I couldn’t. T’wouldn’t be proper.”

  “Nonsense,” Camden said. “If I order you to be seated, you may be assured that makes it proper, but I’d rather not give that order. I want you to realize your own worth and take your seat by right.”

  “An order within the Order isn’t the ‘done’ thing, you know,” Sterling drawled. “However, if His Grace asks us all to stand on our heads, you’d be correct in assuming he expects us to do it posthaste and with a smile on our faces, Meg.”

  “She is Miss Anthony to you, Sterling,” said Camden. “You may not address her so informally while the pair of you bide here.”

  Garret shrugged and looked away. The younger man made a virtue out of seeming not to care about anyone or anything, though Camden knew better. Garret was afraid to care and as long as that attitude continued, Camden feared he couldn’t help him. The duke stifled the urge to swear.

  He’d persuaded Meg Anthony that with enough tutelage, she might adopt a lady’s persona so she could move smoothly in the circles he planned for her. If he ever hoped to convince her that her special gift made her fit to be considered a lady, Camden had to act the gentleman in her presence. And see that the rest of his household did, too.

  “If you please, Miss Anthony.” Camden indicated the wing chair opposite Garret Sterling. To his relief, she crossed the room and perched on the edge of the chair. Her knuckles whitened when she laced her fingers on her lap, but at least she was seated. “Now then, Bernard, where are we on the matter of the ASP?”

  “Nothing more has been discovered about how those holding the item intend to smuggle it into the country.” His steward leafed through the weekly reports from other members of the far-flung Order. “Our Watcher at Brighton thought he had a lead, but it turned out to be a false alarm.”

  “Are we certain this ASP even exists?” Sterling asked.

  “It does,” Camden said. “My French counterpart assures me of it.”

  Bonaparte languished on the Isle of Elba, but that didn’t mean there still weren’t those on the Continent who wished the English Crown ill. Now that military measures had failed, Britain’s enemies had turned to other, less easily defended methods, specifically, arcane weapons of a psychic bent. Camden and his Order had already intercepted three such objects en route to the court of their mad king. The duke still wondered if perhaps one had sneaked in beneath their notice and was responsible for George III’s periodic descents into lunacy.

  “If only we knew what the ASP is, perhaps I could find it for you,” Miss Anthony said.

  “No doubt you could, but the one thing we do know is that it is not an actual snake. You’d have found it otherwise. No, ASP is code for something we may safely assume is quite lethal. And according to all the intelligence we’ve gathered, the next metaphysical attack is going to be directed at the Prince Regent, not His Majesty.”

  Camden stopped pacing for a moment, his gaze caught by the portrait of his wife above the mantel. Mercedes had sat for it during the weeks when she first discovered she was increasing with their child. The artist had captured the glow of impending motherhood as it softened her already lovely features. At night in his solitary bed, Camden fancied he could still feel her silken skin under his fingertips. A shadow passed over his heart and he jerked his gaze away from the painting.

  “Oh, and Miss Anthony,” he went on, hoping no one had noticed his momentary distraction. “His Royal Highness wishes me to convey his thanks to you for discovering the whereabouts of his diamond studs. They were exactly where you said they’d be.”

  Meg ducked her head in shy acknowledgement.

  The door to the parlor burst open and Vesta LaMotte swept in. Bedecked with ropes of matched pearls and swathed in a red velvet wrap trimmed with ermine, she was a glittering feast on neatly shod feet.

  “So sorry to be late,” Vesta said as she breezed around the room. “It’s deucedly difficult to pry myself away from the theater.”

  Though she was a good ten years his senior, Garret Sterling leaped to his feet to give her gloved hand the homage that was beauty’s due. Vesta granted him a voluptuous smile. When Meg Anthony rose respectfully, she was astonished when Vesta clasped her hands and kissed the air by both her cheeks.

  When Vesta finally turned to Camden, he saw that her artfully rouged lips were poised to call him “Edward,” but she changed her mind at the last moment. Instead, she sank in a curtsy worthy of an operatic diva and rose slowly, allowing her gaze to travel the length of his body with possessive boldness. He roused to her, despite himself.

  “Good evening, Your Grace,” she said with a naughty twinkle in her eyes. “You’re looking remarkably…fit.”

  “Down, girl,” Sterling said. “You’ll be drooling on the rug in a moment. If you were a spaniel, His Grace would have to smack your bum with a newspaper.”

  “Oh, you wicked man.” She turned on Sterling and flicked her fan at him, but her smile widened. “How did you know a little smack on the bum is just what I need?”

  Garret Sterling laughed but Meg Anthony looked as if her eyes might pop right out of her head. Camden needed to redirect the focus of the meeting and quickly.

  “Vesta, I asked you here this evening because I believe there is someone in London who possesses the same ability you enjoy.”

  “Only one ability? Impossible, Camden.” Vesta draped herself over the settee, allowing far more of her sweetly turned ankles to show than she ought. “You know perfectly well that I possess many gifts.”

  Camden set his mouth in a reproving line. A few lucky men of wealth and distinction had succeeded Camden as Vesta’s protector, but he hadn’t been her lover in years. Not since he’d conceived of the Order and set its operation in motion. In light of the critical work they did together, it wouldn’t be appropriate for them to continue their white-hot liaison.

  Besides, Vesta LaMotte could so possess a man’s mind that he was good for nothing but slavering after her. Camden would not allow himself to be ruled by his passions.

  “I meant there is a neophyte fire mage on the loose,” he said. “We need your help.”

  “Well, you might have said so plainly before I shocked poor Miss Anthony, yet again.” Vesta flicked her fan in the direction of the cold candelabra on the Broadwood grand pianoforte and flames instantly danced on every wick. Miss Anthony flinched at the display of power.

  “Honestly, my dear, you’re as nervous as a cat.” Vesta pursed her generous lips. “We ought to find a man for you. Or better yet, two!”

  Miss Anthony blushed to the tips of her ears. “Do you know the name of the new mage, Your Grace?”

  “No, but I’ve narrowed down the releases of power to the home of Sir Cornelius Darkin.”

  “You said a neophyte, Camden. So the power is new to the bearer. Does the gentleman have children?” Vesta asked.

  “He does. Two daughters. Both unmarried, though one is recently engaged,” Camden said. “But the fire mage might as easily be one of their household staff.” He shot an approving look at the former lady’s maid. “Miss Anthony is proof that the aristocracy has no monopoly on this sort of power. The essence is unmistakably feminine, though.”

  “Oh, lovely,” Vesta said. “I do so adore it when another wo
man comes into her own.”

  “I doubt the young lady sees it that way. I suspect she’s bewildered by her ability. Likely afraid of it,” Camden said. “Each time she releases power, the field is stronger and more erratic.”

  Before Camden finished speaking, a glowing ball of warmth flooded his chest. More psychic energy had radiated into the universe. The duke closed his eyes and reached out with his mind, trying to discern the identity of the new mage. He gasped and clutched his chest. Raw waves of force surged through him, licking at his limbs and caressing his skin in hot lashes.

  The new mage was formidable. If she wasn’t taught to harness her gift, London might see another fire like the one that nearly destroyed it in 1666.

  A wall of flames descended on Camden’s vision, searing everything with wavering heat. He held his breath. His skin prickled. If the mage tried to protect herself from his psychic probing, Camden might well emerge from this vision with watery blisters and fresh burns.

  When Camden came to himself, he found Vesta had left her comfortable seat and taken position under his arm, supporting him on one side while Sterling propped him up on the other. It was always thus when he discerned the awakening of a new power. The raw bursts of energy from an untrained psychic sometimes rendered him unconscious, but at least his sensitivity gave him ample warning when another Sensory Extraordinaire arrived within his sphere of influence.

  “Careful, Your Grace.” Sterling eased Camden into the wing chair he’d vacated. Camden drew a shaky breath, testing the air for remnants of smoke and heat.

  Vesta knelt by his knee. “What did you see?”

  “It’s not so much a question of seeing as feeling.” When searching for a new Extraordinaire, Camden completely opened himself to the psychic tantrums of the newly empowered. It was rather like standing by while a toddler played with a lightning bolt. He couldn’t interfere fast enough to bring the young fire mage into his fold.

  This time however, two names were imprinted on his consciousness. Either both the Darkin sisters were fire mages or one had been very near the other when she’d released her gift.

  “Daphne.” Camden sipped air in short gulps. “Or Cassandra. I can’t be sure, but it’s definitely one of the two sisters.”

  “Daphne Darkin. Cassandra Darkin,” Meg Anthony repeated. Her eyes rolled back in her head and her entire body went rigid. She trembled for the space of several heartbeats. Then her eyelids fluttered closed and she slumped in her chair. After a moment, Meg blinked twice and sat up straight. She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her handkerchief where a small amount of foam had gathered.

  “Both the Darkin sisters are at Almack’s this evening,” she said in a whisper.

  “Bloody hell,” Camden said wearily, forgetting his resolve not to swear before Miss Anthony. “I haven’t a voucher. You’ll have to go, Sterling.”

  “What makes you think I have a voucher?”

  “I’m sure you haven’t, but I also know not being invited has never kept you from going anywhere you wished. Use your gift. Gain entry and find out which of the Darkin sisters is our new fire mage.”

  “How am I supposed to do that? Upset her and see if she immolates me?”

  “I wouldn’t advise it,” Vesta said in all seriousness. “If she’s new, as Camden says, it means she’s only recently lost her virginity. And the fact that she’s expressing her gift without training means she’s less than pleased about her situation.”

  “Hmph! Then my money is on the newly engaged one,” Sterling said. “She wouldn’t be the first bride-to-be to anticipate her nuptials. Or be less than pleased with her betrothed’s bed skills.”

  Vesta frowned at him. “Tread warily. It could be either young lady. If she’s manifesting, she’s angry. She likely won’t be charmed by your rakish manners, Mr. Sterling. At least”—she allowed herself a small smile—“not until she learns how she can use a man of your talents to help put the fire out.”

  “That still leaves me wondering which sister we need,” Sterling said.

  “Take Westfall with you,” Camden suggested.

  “Westfall? What possible good could he do?” Sterling said. “It’s only been a few days since he was released from Bedlam.”

  “And in that short time,” Camden said, “he’s applied himself with diligence to the mental exercises I assigned him. Something you’d do well to emulate. He’s made remarkable progress.” If Sterling was a universal dispenser of unwanted thoughts, Westfall was a human receiver of the secrets rattling around in other people’s heads. “Viscount Westfall still hasn’t learned how to filter out the silent chatter going on in the minds around him. However, he might be able to focus well enough to hear something of use. I believe he’ll be a help to you in identifying our new mage.”

  Sterling rolled his eyes. “All right. Where is he? In a straitjacket someplace, I hope?”

  “Lord Westfall is not restrained. He’s in the conservatory, Mr. Sterling. Plants are restful, he says.” Bernard replaced his quill and stood. “Shall I fetch him for you, sir?”

  “Yes, Mr. Bernard, do,” Meg said as a delayed tremor rolled over her frame. She seemed to forget the fact that it wasn’t her place to give orders. Then she turned haunted eyes toward Garret. “And please, Mr. Sterling, whatever you do, you must hurry.”

  Chapter Two

  Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns…

  —Homer, “The Odyssey”

  “Have I any reason to hope you can adopt an expression that makes you appear less constipated?” Garret asked Pierce Langdon, Viscount Westfall as they mounted the long staircase leading up to Almack’s assembly room.

  “Have I any reason to hope you’ll refrain from mentally undressing every woman you see?” Westfall countered. “Honestly, Sterling, your mind is as untidy as a boar’s nest.”

  Garret scoffed. The man was a walking sermon. He would have been annoyed by his upright companion if he hadn’t thought there was entertainment potential in baiting him. “Never say you don’t wonder what’s beneath a woman’s silk and lace, or I’ll suspect you’re a secret molly.”

  “I don’t prefer men.” The viscount’s face flushed with sudden color. “Of course I wonder what’s beneath a lady’s silk, but a gentleman doesn’t allow his mind to wallow in such speculations.”

  “Therein lies your error,” Garret said. “You’re under the mistaken impression that I’m a gentleman.”

  They passed a couple on the wide staircase. For the pure cussedness of it, Garret imagined the shapely woman in nothing but her stockings. The pale globes of her bum undulated as she climbed the steps. He Sent the image directly into Westfall’s pitiably open mind.

  The viscount glared at him. “Swine.”

  “If you haven’t the wit to come up with that on your own, you might at least say thank you.” Garret shrugged. “If you don’t like what you see, look the other way.”

  “It’s not as simple as that,” Westfall said through clenched teeth. “I cannot look the other way. Everything that tumbles through the minds around me comes screaming through mine.” He glanced over his shoulder and smiled shyly at the woman behind them. “For your information,” he whispered, “she possesses an imagination as randy as yours. I don’t see the charm myself, but apparently, the two of us are also compelling in naught but our stockings.”

  “It’s the knee britches,” Garret said with a chuckle. “Sets a woman’s fancy aflutter. The patronesses insist upon them because trousers don’t reveal nearly so much of what’s on a man’s mind.”

  “Would that I had to rely on conjecture to determine another’s mental state.”

  Westfall’s tone was so unexpectedly bitter, Garret turned to face him. “You don’t like people much, do you?”

  “Can you blame me? I know what they’re thinking, after all.” The viscount tugged down his waistcoat and brushed an imagined speck of lint from his lapel.

  He’s a meticulous sort who likes control, Garret r
ealized. To be constantly bombarded by the minds of others, awash in their unbridled lusts and emotions, privy to their secret machinations—Westfall’s psychic ability must be a unique brand of hell for a fastidious man like him. Little wonder he teetered on the edge of madness.

  Garret didn’t often spare a thought for the feelings of others, but he was surprisingly sorry for Westfall.

  “Save your pity,” the viscount muttered, despite the fact that Garret had not offered a word of compassion. The thought alone must have been enough. “I wasn’t mad when my family consigned me to Bedlam. Despite two years of dubious treatments, I still wasn’t mad when the duke managed to have me released to his charge.” He met Garret’s gaze with steely determination in his gray eyes. “Hearing voices does not necessarily mean one is completely dotty.”

  “Only slightly dotty, then. I’m relieved to hear it.” Garret handed a pair of shillings to Mr. Willis, Almack’s venerable porter. Along with the coin, he loosed a mental suggestion that he was actually presenting two of the pressed metal vouchers that guaranteed entrance into Polite Society’s Holy of Holies.

  The porter accepted the illusion that he’d seen two vouchers, handed back the shillings, and waved them on.

  “So long as I’m sane enough to distinguish my own thoughts from those around me, I consider myself of sound mind.” Westfall pushed open the door. Music, underscored with the drone of myriad conversations, assaulted them. He staggered back a pace, his already pallid complexion blanching further.

  “Are you all right, man?” Garret asked.

  Westfall’s Adam’s apple bobbed once and he squared his shoulders. “I shall be. It’s been a while since I was in the presence of so many minds.”

  “Yes, well, fortunately this is the cream of society, so there’s not much going on in most of them.”

  “On the contrary, you’d be surprised at how busy a small mind can be. That matron in the corner, for instance, is cataloging everyone’s attire with as much urgency as a squirrel gathering nuts for winter.” A furrow deepened between Westfall’s sandy brows. “We need to be quick about this, though. I don’t know how long I can bear it.”