The Curse of Lord Stanstead

by Mia Marlowe

  To her surprise, Paschal was tugging off his red gloves.

  “I thought you only removed your gloves when you play.”

  “I am going to play,” he said with obvious excitement. “Only now instead of the piano, I will play with your hair.”

  He reached out and touched a curl that draped over her shoulder. “Oh, it is as soft as I hoped. I so miss my bunny. I didn’t have him long, you see.”

  Cassie smiled and turned her back to him so he could reach more of her hair. His fingertips grazed her with gentleness. She held her breath. He had such amazingly talented hands and he was so very careful about what he let them come into contact with. She couldn’t decide if she was honored or surprised that he wanted to use them to touch her hair.

  Then his strokes became more sure as he ran his palm from her crown to the ends of her hair at the middle of her back.

  Her scalp prickled unpleasantly.

  “Not so hard, please.”

  “I ask your pardon.” He drew his hand back quickly, then started stroking again, this time with a featherlight touch. “It is so rare that my fingers, they come into contact with anything but hard ivory, I am afraid I get carried away, Miss Cassandra. Oh! I get carried away again. I may call you Cassandra, since we are friends, may I not?”

  Ordinarily she’d call a boy of ten by his given name as a matter of course. “Only if I may also use your Christian name.”

  “Oui, bien sur. I am Andre-Simon, but no one ever calls me that.”

  “You knew what Cassandra meant. What does Andre-Simon mean?”

  “That is a good question. Andre, it is straightforward. It means ‘manly,’ which I always endeavor to be.”

  Cassie tactfully refrained from pointing out that manly boys generally didn’t play with a lady’s hair because it reminded them of a pet rabbit.

  “Simon, now,” he said, pronouncing the name as if it were sea-moan. “That part, it is not so easy. Simon can mean several things. One is to be a good listener.”

  “As a musician, you are that.”

  “Oui. But it can also mean ‘snub-nosed’ which, as one can see, does not suit me at all. Vous regardez. Le voila!” He sniffed in irritation and turned his head so she could look over her shoulder to view his aquiline nose in profile.

  “I take your point. Perhaps when you were given this name as a baby, the noble attributes of your nose were not yet in evidence.”

  “Perhaps,” he allowed. “But that is not the worst meaning of Simon. It is ‘little hyena’—a scavenger and a thoroughly distasteful beast. I would much have preferred Leo—the lion,” he said. “You can see why I do not like that part of my name.”

  He began separating her hair into three strands in preparation for braiding it. As he did so, the spike of a headache drilled into her brain behind her left eye. All the breath whooshed out of her lungs. She’d never had a headache strike quite so quickly and with such force.

  “No, please,” Cassandra said as she rose to her feet. She must have risen too fast because her vision tunneled briefly before expanding to normal once again. “I’m not feeling at all well. I must return to Lord Stanstead’s home.”

  “May I escort you?”

  “No need. The way is well lit and it’s only a couple of lanes over.”

  Darkness had fallen in earnest, but householders in Brighton followed the London custom of lighting a lamp before their doors so the streets were easily navigable by night. She turned and started to trudge up the beach to where salt grass grew. Beyond that, cobbled King’s Road drew the line between nature and man’s improvements upon it. Feeling dizzy, Cassie stumbled as she neared the road, but managed to stay upright.

  “That settles the question,” Paschal said, scurrying to her side as he tugged his red gloves back on. “There is my man with my equipage. You, we will see safely home.”

  Cassandra found she didn’t have the energy to argue and allowed him to lead her to the waiting coach. Perhaps it was the pickled beets or the anchovies that was responsible for this sudden onslaught of malaise. Even more disturbing than the sudden onset of this illness, she had the distinct feeling that she had missed something of grave significance. For the life of her, she couldn’t formulate a coherent thought, much less recall the events on the beach. Disjointed notions swirled above her head like a flock of gulls waiting to descend and pick at her brain. Another wave of weakness came upon her like a sudden swell and washed over her without warning.

  A whiff of smelling salts, and I’ll be right as rain, she told herself as the streets of Brighton blurred by the coach window. Then she decided a headache powder chased by a tumbler of whisky would be needed. As Paschal’s equipage drew near the Stanstead town house, she wondered if there was another doctor in Brighton besides Dr. Tallywood, whom she could ask Lady Easton to summon.

  In the end, she had no say in the matter at all. She lost consciousness as Paschal’s coach came to a halt. Mr. Clive had to come out and carry her from the carriage up to her bedchamber.

  Lady Easton, who was normally the most unflappable of persons, fretted with panic in his wake.

  …

  Rain fell in a persistent patter as Garret’s uncle was lowered into his grave. Gathered around the ornate casket, his cousins all sniffled into their damp handkerchiefs. One actually sobbed, unable to maintain the usual British reserve. Another whispered loudly to her hovering husband that she feared she might faint over the unexpected death of her father.

  And her meal ticket, Garret thought uncharitably.

  He’d been given such a cold welcome by his cousins, he’d neglected to tell them that nothing would change for them. He intended to continue their support at the present levels, pending his meeting with Lord Stanstead’s solicitors. But he decided it wouldn’t hurt his grasping relations to stew in their own juices for a while.

  The vicar intoned the final prayer at the tempo of a double-quick march as the rain became more determined. Even under the canopy of black umbrellas, the gravesite was decidedly soggy. At the last amen, the sparse crowd turned away and squelched to their waiting carriages.

  When Garret returned to Stanstead Heath, he found the senior partners of Goldsmith and Phyffe waiting for him.

  “We apologize for arriving on the same day as his lordship’s funeral.” Mr. Goldsmith’s jowls and protruding jaw gave him the pugnacious expression of a bulldog, which Garret found fitting for a lawyer. “However, Lord Stanstead left strict instructions that we were to deliver our report to you as quickly as humanly possible following his demise. Thus, we have canceled all our other appointments to come right away. We will, of course, wait a few days on your pleasure if you wish, until you feel able to lay aside your grief enough to discuss business.”

  “I don’t believe my uncle would have favored a delay.” Garret’s heart had become like stone. Though his grief at his uncle’s deathbed had been genuine, it was hard to grieve long for the man who’d been so cold when he’d been orphaned as a boy. Life in the public school he’d been abandoned to had been very much like being raised by wolves.

  He led the lawyers to his uncle’s study.

  My study, he reminded himself.

  Garret settled into the earl’s leather desk chair and, with some trepidation, steeled himself to listen to Goldsmith and Phyffe. For all he knew, Stanstead Heath was mortgaged to the rafters.

  However, after a quarter of an hour, Garret discovered that not only was the earldom a model of solvency, he was actually swimming in lard. Stanstead’s land produced a handsome income, and the estate was gainfully invested in shipping and canal companies as well. After years of getting by on the modest inheritance he’d received from his father, and a bit of psychically enhanced luck at the gaming tables, Garret was astounded to learn that he was suddenly one of the wealthiest men in England.

  Now maybe Cassandra would consent to marry him. He’d certainly be able to keep her in style. But after their last testy conversation on the subject of marriage, he rea
lized she wasn’t the sort who wanted to be “kept.”

  Unlike his cousins.

  “Well, that settles it,” he told the solicitors. “Double my cousins’ level of support immediately. The old gentleman was something of a skinflint with his daughters and their husbands, wasn’t he?”

  “Not to speak ill of the dead, but I concur. Your uncle was quite…frugal.” Phyffe closed the last ledger and replaced it in his satchel. Judging from his thin face and starveling build, Mr. Phyffe was on the parsimonious side himself. “According to your wishes, my lord, the increase will be forthcoming on the next quarter’s allowances for Lady Mary, Lady Martha, and Lady Margaret.”

  “And now, if there’s nothing else, gentlemen, I must bid you good day.” Garret stood. “I’m expected in Brighton as soon as our business is concluded here and need to arrange to travel tomorrow.”

  “Ah, yes. I understand the Prince Regent is most anxious to hear the young prodigy playing there,” Goldsmith said.

  “Andre-Simon Paschal is the toast of Europe,” Phyffe added, “and will no doubt conquer this Isle as well.”

  “What did you say?” Garret’s gaze cut to Mr. Phyffe sharply.

  “A metaphor only, my lord,” the solicitor backtracked. “Of course, no one will overrun Britain so long as there beats a single English heart.”

  “No, I meant about the pianist. What did you say his name is?”

  “Paschal. Andre-Simon Paschal,” Mr. Phyffe said. “I understand he’s only a child of ten.”

  “No, he’s more than that,” Garret said. Andre-Simon Paschal. The ASP. “He’s much more.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  But to that second circle of sad Hell,

  Where in the gust, the whirlwind, and the flaw

  Of rain and hail-stones, lovers need not tell

  Their sorrows—pale were the sweet lips I saw,

  Pale were the lips I kiss’d, and fair the form

  I floated with, about that melancholy storm.

  —John Keats from “On a Dream”

  Lady Easton dipped a cloth in cool water, twisted out the excess liquid, and placed the wet muslin on Cassandra’s pale forehead. The girl’s eyes moved under her closed lids, but she didn’t open them. Miss Darkin was trapped in unnatural sleep. She’d not stirred since Paschal and his servant had brought her home the night before.

  Dr. Tallywood, who regrettably was the only doctor available, had wanted to cup Cassandra to draw out evil humors. Lady Easton did not trust the man who had allowed Lord Stanstead to die so horribly and whose treatments had probably added to the misery of his final days. She had asked Dr. Tallywood to wait to see if Miss Darkin’s youth and natural good health would prevail.

  With protestations that he could not be held to account if his remedy was not allowed to proceed, the doctor had finally stormed out. But he threatened to return the following evening.

  Lady Easton expected him to reappear at any moment.

  “Come, girl,” Lady Easton murmured. “Open your eyes, or I shan’t be able to hold off that quack when he comes again.”

  Cassandra mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “Garret, come back,” and then sank into oblivion.

  “Never fear. Mr. Sterling will return for you,” Lady Easton said softly.

  The duke’s sister had no special gift like the rest of the members of the Order, but she was the practical sort who realized that the Bard had been right. There were more things in heaven and earth than most people dreamed. Cassandra’s soul had gone wandering who-knew-where. She might be able to follow the sound of a familiar voice home, so Lady Easton made it a point to keep talking to the girl.

  “Of course, your Mr. Sterling was quite puffed up about himself when he was only a commoner. Well-favored gentlemen are prone to that failing,” Lady Easton said with an indulgent smile. “There will be no living with him now that he’s Lord Stanstead.”

  “No living without him either,” Cassandra whispered as her eyes fluttered open. The whites were crisscrossed with angry red veins, but at least she seemed sensible of herself and her surroundings.

  “Oh, welcome back, Miss Darkin.” The girl had tried, and failed, to persuade Lady Easton to call her Cassandra. The duke’s sister felt a measure of formality would help them all remember her role as the arbiter of social niceties. But she’d winked often enough at the irregularities in the relationship between Miss Darkin and Sterling, she supposed she really ought to bow to the girl’s request and speak to her informally. Especially now.

  “Careful, Cassandra,” she warned when the girl tried to sit up. “Don’t overtax yourself.”

  Miss Darkin ignored her, managed to prop herself upright, and knuckled her eyes. The tender skin beneath them was as dark as a bruise. “How long have I been ill?”

  “A night and a day. How do you feel, dear?”

  “As if I’ve been trampled by a coach and six.” She rotated her shoulders and stretched her arms. “All my joints ache something fierce.”

  Lady Easton tugged on the bellpull to summon Mr. Clive. “You must be hungry. Shall I have some soup sent up?”

  “That would be lovely.” Cassandra touched her palm to her forehead. “And maybe a headache powder in a draught.”

  “Of course.” Lady Easton plumped the pillows behind the girl to make her more comfortable. She wished her dear departed husband had given her children before he’d made a widow of her. She’d have loved to have someone to mother. She supposed the young members of her brother’s Order would have to do. “I don’t want you to worry about anything except getting better.”

  Miss Darkin massaged her temples. “I’d be better if I could only remember. There’s something niggling at me…something important that I discovered right before I took ill. I have to get it back.”

  “I’m sure it will come to you. But for now, a little rest will do you a world of good.” Lady Easton crossed over to the window and pulled down the sash. “It’s likely to be a boisterous evening in the Prince Regent’s park. I don’t want you disturbed by the noise of his carousing later.”

  “His Royal Highness is in Brighton?”

  “Yes, he arrived earlier than expected, but Paschal is prepared to perform in his honor and—”

  “That’s it.” Cassandra’s eyes went wide. “Paschal! No, he can’t be allowed to—” She threw back the bedclothes and began climbing out of the canopy bed. “I have to stop him.”

  “No, dear, you’re not going anywhere.” Lady Easton attempted to keep Cassandra in the bed, but the girl fought her. “I can’t answer for it if you push yourself too soon after your illness.”

  “No one will blame you. It can’t be helped. There’s no one else to handle this.” Cassandra shook her off and rose under her own steam. She wobbled a bit, but then she straightened. “We were wrong, you see. The ASP isn’t a psychic relic. It’s a person. It’s Paschal. Andre-Simon Paschal. We can’t let that boy near the Prince Regent.”

  Lady Easton folded her arms across her chest and shot Cassandra her best high-handed glare. “Miss Darkin, you are not fully recovered. I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to leave this house.”

  Suddenly the cold fireplace erupted into a roaring blaze and every candle in the room flared high. Steam rose from the water in the ewer on the commode as it started to boil. Cassandra’s amber eyes burned with an eerie inner light.

  “You can’t stop me.”

  Lady Easton stumbled back a pace. She’d never seen a fire mage angry before. Her brother had warned her that Miss Darkin was an elemental of enormous power. She wasn’t to be trifled with, he’d said.

  Well, neither was Lady Easton. “I meant,” she said testily, “I cannot allow you to leave this house in your night rail.”

  Cassandra looked down at herself and laughed. All the flames in the room died down. “You’re right, but I can’t wait for your maid Nellie. If you value the life and health of your future king, you’ll help me into something more appropriate. Wi
thout delay.”

  …

  Cassie felt as if a million pins were jabbing her joints, but she had to move quickly. Lady Easton served admirably as her abigail and she dressed in record time. Her ensemble wouldn’t garner any notice in the tabloids’ fashion sections, but at least she was decently covered. Counting on her bonnet to hide a multitude of unstylish sins, Cassandra refused to take time to do anything with her hair, which hung down her back in a thick, loose braid.

  She couldn’t wait for the duke’s coach to be brought around, either. Not when her own two legs could let her cut across the grassy park to the Pavilion in a trice. She hoisted her narrow column gown’s hem and, legs churning, didn’t stop sprinting until she reached the pleasure house’s door.

  A carriage with the royal crest emblazoned on its sides was parked under the portico. The footmen and driver lounged near the equipage, which meant the Prince Regent was already inside.

  “Is Paschal here yet?” she demanded breathlessly.

  The driver shook his head. “I hear tell the more important the person he’s playing for, the more he likes to make ’em wait. His Royal Highness won’t appreciate that much, I’m thinkin’, but you never can tell with royals, can you? Or them musician types either, come to that.”

  While the prince’s men were nervous about the irregularity of the pianist’s late arrival, Cassandra was relieved beyond measure. She needed only to wait at the door to intercept Paschal. Beethoven reputedly refused to use the servants’ entrance any time he performed in a private house, claiming his genius erased all class distinctions. Paschal would undoubtedly pattern himself after the worthy German’s example and enter through the same door as the prince.

  She only had a few moments’ wait before the pianist’s carriage approached. However, since the Prince Regent’s coach was taking up the available space directly before the door, Paschal’s was obliged to stop some distance away. Her heart lodged in her throat, she hurried across the neatly manicured lawn to meet it.