The Curse of Lord Stanstead

by Mia Marlowe

  A spreading yew tree dominated the canvas with a rutted road curving around it. The track meandered into the distance. A small stream cavorted alongside.

  “It’s probably very fine,” Garret said, “but if one wants to view the countryside, why not simply go to the country?”

  “Spoken like a man who has the means to do so. Not everyone is so fortunate. Imagine the hackney driver or the poor housemaid who never sees a bit of green. Only think how viewing this painting would nourish their souls.”

  “I imagine the cabby and the maid are more interested in keeping their city jobs so they can nourish their bellies,” Garret said, trying to hide his surprise. Most debutantes wouldn’t give a second thought for those who lived to serve the upper crust. Clearly, her affinity for flames wasn’t the only unique thing about Cassandra Darkin.

  He glanced around at the other art lovers milling before the displays. The ton was definitely on parade. Bedecked with furbelows and flounces, every matron and her daughter might have stepped from a fashion plate. Every gentleman was dressed in elegant simplicity. Brummell himself would have approved.

  “I’d wager all the attendees of this gallery opening have a country seat they can repair to whenever they hanker for a bucolic scene,” he said. “A hefty portion of the national wealth is represented here.”

  “Perhaps.” Cassandra moved to the next pastoral scene on canvas. As she studied it, Garret studied her profile. Her pert nose gave her a mischievous air, but he’d yet to see that side of her. Likely all her energies were focused on controlling her inner flame. He wished he could see what she was like when she wasn’t struggling to tamp down her fire-mage nature.

  “My father says not all titled families are as wealthy as they’d have the world believe. A good many live on credit they cannot hope to repay,” Cassandra remarked.

  “That’s probably true. Your father sounds like a wise man.”

  “He’s a clever man and I suppose you could count that as wise. It’s a rare enterprise he can’t turn to a profit. But while the ton loves money, the making of it is not something Polite Society values.” She was looking distractedly over his shoulder. Then a frown pulled her brows together, and she quickly jerked her gaze back to the landscape. “It’s all about bloodlines and who one’s grandfather was.”

  For a moment, all the candles in the place shimmered a bit brighter.

  Garret sneaked a glance in the direction Cassandra had been looking and saw a handsome couple standing at the head of a long line of paintings of the Kings and Queens of England. The lady was a willowy blonde in pale blue watered silk. The gown was designed to make one think of river nymphs and other scantily clad demigodlings. Garret’s only thought was why Cassie was compelled to look away from her so quickly. Then he recognized the man at the blonde’s side.

  “I say, isn’t that the fellow you were waltzing with at Almack’s when we first met?”

  She studiously did not look in the direction Garret indicated. “I danced with a number of gentlemen that evening. You can’t expect me to remember them all.”

  Garret caught a whiff of smoke emanating from her and decided whoever the gentleman was, Cassandra didn’t need to be in such close proximity to him. For everyone’s sake. “Let’s take a turn down the next hall.”

  Guiding her gently by the elbow, Garret led Cassandra to the adjoining chamber where canvases filled with vases, feathers, and flowers bloomed on the walls. She stopped before a painting, done in blues and burnt orange on a dark background.

  “Oh, this is a Jan van Huysum,” she said excitedly.

  “I take it, from your enthusiasm, the artist must be a close friend of yours.”

  “Of course not, silly.” She shook her head, but a smile lifted her lips all the same. Garret caught himself wishing that smile was directed at him instead of the canvas. “Van Huysum is deceased, but he’s an acknowledged master of still life.”

  “Fitting for a dead man.”

  She gave his shoulder a swat with her fan. He didn’t mind. The gesture seemed more playful than put out. “Are you never serious?” she asked.

  “Not if I can help it. Life is far too absurd to take seriously.”

  “Well, you should try it sometime. It might do you good.”

  “I’ll give it a go now, shall I?” He rubbed his chin as he pored over the canvas. How do I view blobs of paint as if they mean something of importance?

  Cassandra seemed intent on helping him. “Just look at that composition. How on earth did he do it?”

  “One brush stroke at a time?”

  She shook her head again. “You don’t see the difficulty, do you? This is a painting of the impossible. Most of those flowers do not bloom at the same time of year. The artist could never have had the actual arrangement before him as we see it now. It must have taken him years to assemble all the blossoms at different stages.”

  Garret squinted at the brass plate mounted beneath the painting. It proclaimed the work as merely Vase with Flowers.

  “Well, he certainly didn’t waste any time on the title of the piece.”

  Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Have you no soul? If you did, a painting this magnificent ought to speak to it.”

  “It does speak to me.” Garret gazed at the canvas with half-closed eyes. “It says ‘bovine.’”

  “Bovine?” Cassie repeated loudly enough to turn several heads in their direction. She lowered her voice. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t you see it?” Garret asked, pleased that he’d noticed something she hadn’t. “There seems to be a cow’s face among the flowers.”

  “What? Where?”

  “There.” He lifted his hand to point, but she grasped his wrist and pulled it down.

  “If you touch the painting, the docent will ask us to leave.”

  “Very well. Stand here and let your eyes half close.” He positioned her directly before the painting and stood behind her. Her hair smelled of lilacs and rainwater. Garret clasped his hands behind his back. He was far more tempted to touch her than the painting. Whether she was willing to accept his help or not, he was fast coming to need to be with her. That boded neither of them any good. Garret was scrupulous about not needing anyone. It placed them in too much danger. So instead of inhaling her sweet scent, he refocused on the painting. “Anyone with a little imagination can plainly see the daisy is Bossy’s left eye, the wilted rose is her nose and that leaf jutting out to the left…”

  “The one with the bee on it?”

  “Just so. That’s the cow’s ear.”

  Cassie stood immobile for a moment. Then her shoulders began to shake. She started to giggle. “You’re right. I hadn’t noticed it before, but now it’s all I can see. There’s a cow’s face, or at least an odd representation of one, among the blooms.”

  It pleased Garret more than it should have that she was willing to indulge in this flight of fancy with him. “I’ll bet you were the sort to imagine dragons in the clouds when you were a little girl.”

  “Oh, no. I saw bunnies and angels in the clouds.”

  This time her smile was aimed at him and it nearly turned his knees to water. Garret leaned a shoulder against the paneled wall to hide his surprising reaction to her. Who knew the lady had such a devastating smile? It was as powerful as her fire magic. He’d have to redouble his efforts not to become too attached to her. A smile like that would certainly find its way into his dangerous dreams.

  “The dragons of my childhood were all in the haymow,” Cassandra went on to explain. “The topmost loft door in the barn opened out from my princess tower. In addition to possessing a vivid imagination, I excelled in playing the damsel in distress.”

  A dark cloud seemed to pass behind her eyes. Or maybe it was a haymow dragon.

  “Well, you’re certainly not a helpless maiden any longer.”

  “Thank you for reminding me.” She squared her shoulders. If she were a porcupine, all her quills would be fully extended. “What girl doesn’t
live to have her mistakes thrown in her face?”

  “I didn’t mean that.” When it came to sensual experience, he was the last one to throw stones. Frankly, Cassandra was more interesting to him because she wasn’t a virgin. God save him from the typical simpering debutante. “I only meant you are no longer helpless. Truth be told, you’re likely the most powerful person in this building.”

  Her shoulders relaxed. “Being able to do something terrible isn’t power. Especially if I don’t have control over it. I know the duke refers to this fire-mage business as a gift, but it’s not one I’m in full possession of and until I am, it feels more as if the power holds me, than I it.”

  Garret wished he could help her with that, but each Extraordinaire had to fight his or her own battle to subdue the psychic energy coursing through them. He was in total control of his ability to Send thoughts. Waiting for his dreams to come true, most often to disastrous results when he was least prepared for them, was another story altogether.

  He offered his arm and she took it so he could lead her to the next long hallway filled with artwork. When he covered her hand with his, a strange sensation burned in his chest. He sneaked a glance down at her, but her attention was fully occupied by the next set of paintings. Cassandra couldn’t be causing that unusual warmth inside him.

  At least, not with her fire mage power.

  “Vesta wouldn’t have allowed this outing if she didn’t feel you were up to it,” he said. “Give yourself some credit. You’re doing quite well.”

  She chuckled. “If by well, you mean I haven’t immolated anyone, then yes. Things are definitely looking up.” Then she sobered. “Oh, dear. I spoke too soon. There’s Lady Waldgren and her clutch of fellow gossips.”

  The be-turbaned matron was holding court before a large canvas that featured a rather porcine lady dressed in an unfortunate shade of puce. Lady Waldgren said something and the entire group cackled like a flock of crows.

  Cassie stopped in her tracks. “She despises me, and I have no idea why.”

  “You’re young, lovely, and your father is simply swimming in lard. That’s probably reason enough for the old witch.” As he watched, Lady Waldgren cast a waspish glance in Cassandra’s direction. Her friends followed suit.

  Now that’s something I can fix.

  Garret Sent Lady Waldgren and her friends the suggestion that Miss Darkin was far and away the most fascinating debutante of the Season, a true Original and therefore, entirely worthy not only of their notice, but their unabashed fawning acclaim. The expressions on all their faces softened and they nearly tripped over each other in their haste to surround Cassandra.

  “I say, Miss Darkin, we’d so enjoy hearing your opinion on the portrait of Lady Mapleton,” Lady Waldgren said. “Don’t you think it would have been better if the artist had flattered her a bit instead of rendering such a starkly accurate likeness?”

  Cassandra left Garret’s side. He followed and stopped a few paces behind as she stood before the Mapleton canvas for half a minute.

  “Well?” Lady Waldgren said.

  “I’ve never met Lady Mapleton,” Cassie said cautiously. “This is a good likeness of her, you say?”

  “Painfully so.”

  “Hmm…” Cassandra cocked her head at the canvas, clearly weighing her words. “Art is about truth, first and foremost. Therefore, I believe the artist is correct in giving a lifelike representation of the lady. Otherwise, we’d miss the details that show who she really is. She has kind eyes, doesn’t she? You can see right through them to her equally kind soul. Even though I don’t know the lady, this painting makes me wish I did.”

  As one, Lady Waldgren and her sycophants turned back to consider the portrait. They made small sounds of agreement and then hustled Cassandra to the next painting, clamoring for her opinion of that one, too.

  Garret followed, ready to loose another directed thought should Cassandra need that kind of support. Fortunately, once Lady Waldgren’s set formed a judgment about someone, they tended to cling to it, so Cassie quickly earned a reputation for discernment and good taste without his help.

  After another hour with the gossips, Garret could tell she was beginning to flag because candles she passed either burned erratically high or guttered to nothing. With charmingly worded apologies to Lady Waldgren and company, he extricated Cassandra from the center of their group and escorted her away. He Sent a quick thought to Lady Easton that wherever she was, she should make her way back to the main entrance to join them.

  As he and Cassandra retraced their steps through the museum, he broadcast the idea that Cassie was a stunner to everyone in the place. Sure enough, heads turned as they passed. More than once he overheard a frantic whisper demanding to know who she was. Fortunately, Lady Waldgren and her friends were on their heels and were only too happy to share what they knew of the fascinating Miss Darkin.

  The servant at the door retrieved their outer garments. As Garret helped Cassandra on with her pelisse, she sighed contentedly.

  “Someone’s happy.”

  “The museum is still standing and not a bit singed. That’s cause for rejoicing, isn’t—” She stopped in midsentence, staring across the room. The man from Almack’s was staring back at her.

  “Who is that?”

  “No one,” Cassie said and cast her gaze to the polished marble floor.

  Garret knew better but he wasn’t about to argue the point. Not when he smelled smoke emanating from her. Lady Easton bustled up to join them.

  “Please take Miss Darkin to the duke’s coach,” he said. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  Lady Easton linked elbows with Cassandra and breezed out, chattering happily about the collection of Constable canvases she’d enjoyed. Garret turned back to face the man from Almack’s and loosed his final directed thought of the day.

  Before Garret donned his garrick, everyone around the man had moved away from him, giving him a wide berth.

  “I say,” Lady Waldgren skittered up and said to the servant at the door next to Garret. “I do believe Mr. Bellefonte has stepped in…well, for want of a more delicate way to put it…in dung of some kind and tracked it into the museum. The worst of it is, he doesn’t seem to realize it. Dear me, what a set of cast-iron nostrils the man must have.”

  “That’s just the way of it, isn’t it, my lady?” Garret said as he popped his hat on his head. “Those who offend are often the last to know.”

  Chapter Six

  Fell her kirtle to her feet,

  While she held the goblet sweet.

  —John Keats, from “The Realm of Fancy”

  True to her initial intentions, Cassandra continued to lock her door each night. Garret presented himself each evening shortly after she retired. He knocked politely, requesting admittance, but she always sent him away with a flea in his ear. It wasn’t his fault. She liked Garret very much. He was amusing, courtly when it suited him, and smolderingly attractive, but Cassie couldn’t give in to the temptation to accept his help to corral her unwieldy gift.

  Taking Garret as her lover would be an admission that her life had changed. She had changed. Forever.

  But each day her sessions with Vesta grew more difficult. Cassandra was restive and irritable. She felt as if her favorite cologne had been replaced with ash, for she smelled soot wherever she went and realized with frustration that it was her own scent. Sparks flared at the edges of her vision as she moved about the duke’s great house. Finally, one evening the candelabra at the center of the dining table tumbled over for no apparent reason during the soup course. Lady Easton had happened to mention that she’d attended a piano recital at Lady Loring’s the night before, where the engagement of Mr. Roderick Bellefonte and Lady Sylvia had been officially announced.

  That most likely has something to do with it, Cassandra thought ruefully.

  Garret Sterling’s quick reflexes kept the flames from spreading when the white linen tablecloth caught, but Cassandra was ashamed in any case. T
he other residents of Camden House, Miss Meg Anthony, Lord Westfall and the duke’s sister Lady Easton were unfailingly polite to her. No one even suggested that the fire was her doing.

  Though Cassie was a difficult student, Vesta was trying to help her. The Duke of Camden had provided for her every need and she had repaid him by nearly setting his dining room ablaze. For the sake of the household’s safety, she couldn’t deny she needed help any longer.

  That evening, when Garret knocked on her door, she opened it a crack.

  “May I come in?” he asked.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any avoiding it.” She felt hot all over, as if steam might leak out her ears at any moment. She used to think she was just easily embarrassed and flushed for no good reason. Now she realized it had been a minor manifestation of her gift—and not a very convenient one.

  “You needn’t be so Friday-faced about this.” He strode to the center of the room, removing his jacket as he went. His shoulders were as broad as a smith’s. If she had to take a lover, she could have done much worse than Garret Sterling. The heat in her cheeks traveled downward to make her nipples ache. She looked forward to what he had to offer.

  “I’ve yet to leave a lady unsatisfied.”

  Why did he have to ruin things by speaking?

  “Be still, my heart,” she said. “What woman doesn’t live to hear a man tout his past conquests?”

  “I only meant, I’ll do my best to help you.”

  “Has it occurred to you that I do not want your help?”

  “If that were true, your door would still be locked. You need my help, whether you want it or not. We may not have much between us, Cassandra, but let us have honesty.”

  She shut the door and locked it due to force of habit. Then she walked over to him. “Very well. I accept your help. Though in all honesty, I don’t see how—”

  “Shh!” He put a finger to her lips. “Vesta said it would be best if I did the talking.”

  “How very convenient.”

  “Ask her, if you like.” He stared at her intently. “You didn’t hear a word I Sent you, did you?”