Tod averted his gaze. “Tod is accustomed…he did not think…”
“Did not think? Did not think that my servants continued to observe you, even after you agreed to do my bidding? Did not think that I should object to your telling Donal that Ivy is Fane…or that I would not know that you desire her?”
Tod struggled with a rush of choking fear, fighting the urge to abase himself or creep under the nearest piece of furniture. “Tod did not intend to do it,” he whispered.
“You are not worthy to touch her feet,” Béfind said. “Not as you are now.”
“But as Tod might be again…”
Béfind clucked softly. “Perhaps…if you continue to serve me well.”
Tod’s feet rose above the floor, lifted up by his joy. “Anything, my lady. Only ask, and it will be done.”
Béfind was silent for a long moment, her gaze distant with thought. “What of your master, little hob?” she said at last. “Do you still bear him some loyalty?
“My lady?”
“It seems he has fallen prey to the same affliction as his father.” She shuddered. “Such a horrid creature, with that crow’s plumage and sour face.”
Tod hunched his shoulders. “My lady speaks of the Hardcastle.”
Béfind snorted with derision. “Even in a single meeting I could see that Donal fancies himself in love with her, and she with him…is this not so?”
“Aye, my lady.”
She shook her head. “Poor child. He has been driven mad by the company of mortals. Titania has long desired her grandchild’s return to the Land of the Young; she would be most pleased with the Fane who brings him back.” She held up her hand. “Yes, I know he thinks ill of Tir-na-Nog because of his father. Perhaps he can be persuaded to change his mind.”
“Would my lady tell him who she is and what she plans for her daughter?”
“You do not advise such honesty?”
“My lord does not wish to separate Lady Ivy from the Hardcastle.”
“I see.” Béfind frowned darkly. “It occurs to me that removing Hardcastle from the picture may solve several problems at once.” Her eyes gleamed like Cold Iron. “She took Ivy in with good will, and so I shall not punish her unduly.”
“My lady is gracious.”
“I have always been too soft-hearted.” Béfind struck at a sprite that had pulled her hair while brushing it, and the creature tumbled head over wings across the room. “Tell me…has the female any suitors besides our Donal?”
“My lady would induce her to seek another mate?”
“It might amuse me to work a love charm upon her…or, better yet, on a man for whom she has no liking.” She smiled, showing the edges of her teeth. “Do you know of such a candidate, little hob?”
Tod carefully considered his answer. Now that he had made his decision and cast his lot with Béfind, he wished no ill upon Donal’s lover, especially Fane mischief that would cause Donal pain. If he spoke of Inglesham, there was no telling what Béfind might do.
“You do know,” Béfind accused. “You are concealing something from me.” Her voice deepened, and a thrill of terror drove Tod to his knees. “Speak, hob, or I swear by the Morrigan’s tits that your curse shall bind you for eternity!”
A hideous wailing shrieked in Tod’s ears, a cry of unendurable mourning. In an instant he suffered the torment of endless years separated from Ivy, exiled to a life without purpose, cast out of Donal’s service like a shirt that had grown too worn for wearing. There would be nothing left for him but the final death.
He fell prone upon the cold floor.
“I beg of you, my lady,” he gasped. “Be merciful.”
“Speak!”
Tears pooled beneath Tod’s cheek. “There is a man,” he said, “a mortal lord who would wed the Hardcastle, but she does not favor him.”
“Ah.” Béfind leaned back among her pillows. “This man must be very desperate, very ugly or very blind to choose a female such as Hardcastle.”
“He wishes to seize control of her fortune, my lady.”
“And what would he give to obtain what he desires?”
Tod climbed to his knees. “My lady would save Donal from the humans?”
“If it will turn him toward his father’s people again.”
“This man, Lord Inglesham, gambles at the races. He compels my master to increase his wealth by choosing the horses that will win.”
Béfind started. “A mortal knows of Donal’s abilities?”
“Aye, my lady…but only that he has a gift with animals, not that he is Fane.”
“Fool,” Béfind muttered, though Tod did not know if she referred to Donal or the viscount. “How is it that any mortal can compel even a half-blood Fane to do his will?”
“Inglesham knows of Lady Ivy’s former life in the City of Iron. He claims that she killed another mortal, and he would tell those who enforce human law if Donal does not aid him.”
Béfind rose with a curse. Her servants scattered with cries of dismay. “This Inglesham threatens my daughter?”
“Aye. But my lady Béfind is wise. She knows a way to use the Yellow-Hair for her own purposes, and free Donal from his bondage.”
With a swish of her skirts, Béfind strode across the room. “Yes,” she hissed. “I shall use and punish him with one stroke.” She spun to face Tod. “Go. Return to my daughter, but say nothing. When all is arranged, I shall inform you of my will.”
Tod abased himself again. “Tod is my lady’s servant.”
“Yes. And do not forget it, little hob.”
She dismissed him with a flick of her fingers, and Tod walked all the way back to Edgecott, his heart too heavy for flight.
IT WAS A SIMPLE MATTER to learn the location of Viscount Inglesham’s manor, for it lay close to Edgecott and there was no mortal in the county who did not know his name.
Béfind rode alone, leaving her attendants behind. The work that must be done today required no host of sprites or troublesome hobs. No one was better suited to it than Béfind herself.
She rode her silver mare along the winding drive, catching glimpses of the grand house as she passed among hills and stands of oak and elm. For grand the house was…by the standards of men. Inglesham was hardly poor in either land or domicile, yet Béfind had no trouble believing that he desired more wealth than he would ever require in a brief mortal life. Greed was a driving force in human nature, and she meant to exploit that vice to its fullest.
The drive straightened to a wide, tree-lined lane in the last quarter mile, and it was at the final curve that Béfind saw the other rider. He sat quietly on his horse behind a particularly thick copse of elms, his gaze intent on the house.
Béfind chuckled. Ah, son of Hern, she said to herself. What brings you here? Are you also bent on revenge?
As if he sensed her presence, Donal turned his head. His expression, already grim, set in ominous lines. He touched his heels to his bay mount’s flanks and the beast swung about, gliding away into the trees.
Béfind clucked to her mare in mocking regret. “It seems he does not wish to further our acquaintance.”
With a laugh she kicked the mare into a trot, and soon she was at the porticoed entrance of the house. An alert servant opened the door before she could dismount. The man immediately recognized her quality, sent a lesser servant to find a stableboy, and ushered her into a luxuriously appointed drawing room.
“Whom may I say is calling, madame?” he asked with a deeply respectful bow.
She smiled, amused at his stammer and fascinated gaze. “You may tell the viscount that Countess Pavlenkova has urgent business with him.”
The servant backed away, nearly colliding with a table in his haste. “At once, my lady,” he said.
Béfind looked for the chair with the greatest command of the room and assumed an imperious pose. It was a measure of the servant’s obvious infatuation with her that the viscount appeared before she could become annoyed.
“Countess
Pavlenkova,” he said, favoring her with a most charming smile as he straightened from his bow. “It is a very great honor to receive you in my humble home. I but recently learned of your arrival in the neighborhood, or I would have placed myself at your service the very moment your shoes touched English soil.”
Béfind considered her best approach as she studied him. He was a handsome fellow, with his tumbled golden locks and smooth features. Though she knew little of the cost of mortal goods, she guessed that his exquisitely fitted jacket, waistcoat and trousers were far from inexpensive. He was obviously accustomed to beguiling the ladies; with one of his type she might dance around the subject at hand for hours, simply trading compliments and flirting with innuendo and sly glances. But she had no time for such games.
She offered a faint smile and extended her hand.
“I thank you for your welcome, Lord Inglesham,” she said, permitting him to kiss the air above her fingers. “If you knew of my arrival, then perhaps you also heard of my call at Edgecott this morning.”
He released her hand with some reluctance and took a seat opposite hers. “I have, Countess. Did you find your visit enjoyable?”
“‘Enjoyable’ is not the word I would employ, Viscount.”
“Indeed?” He raised a finely-shaped brow. “I regret to hear it. Were you perhaps so unfortunate as to meet that vulgar animal doctor Mrs. Hardcastle employs to look after her beasts?”
Béfind tapped her riding crop against the heel of her boot. This mortal was far from discreet in his conversation with a stranger, but that was all to the good. She had no intention of revealing more than he needed to know.
“You might say,” she said, “that Dr. Fleming is the very subject of my visit here today. He…and Mrs. Hardcastle.” She fixed him with her most seductive gaze. “I have come to you to request your assistance in a matter of some delicacy. I hope that you will not object to a serious discussion on such short acquaintance.”
“A serious discussion, Countess?” A frown twitched at the corner of his mouth. “Naturally all my humble resources are at your command, but—”
“Excellent.” She rose, compelling him to stand as well. “Will you be so kind as to escort me to your garden?”
His look of sheer perplexity gave her great satisfaction, but he overcame his bewilderment and offered his arm. The garden to which he led her was modest and somewhat overgrown; it was clear that he preferred to spend his money on his personal pleasures rather than on groundskeepers who would cultivate the beauty of his surroundings.
Yet Béfind found what she sought: a sprawling, unhealthy looking rosebush with a handful of sickly buds. She strolled over to it and cradled a bud in her palm.
“Are you fond of flowers, Countess?” Inglesham asked, coming up behind her.
She laughed. “What lady is not fond of flowers? Alas,” she said, casting an eloquent glance about the garden, “it seems that you are not.”
He gave an apologetic smile. “If I had known you were coming, Countess, I would have filled your arms with blossoms.”
She stroked the bud with the tip of her finger. “Perhaps I can rectify your oversight.”
“Indeed?” He moved closer. “What can I do to please you, Countess?” The back of her neck prickled at the touch of his breath. “Only name it, and I shall fulfill your every wish.”
“That, sir, is a most dangerous promise.” She closed her eyes and called upon her powers. The bud trembled. The rosebush stirred from root-tips to crown. And then it began to grow—branches lengthening, leaves springing from bare twigs, new buds bursting forth in sprays of blushing pink.
Inglesham gasped. Béfind ignored him. She coaxed the little bush to its full glory, feeding it with her own spirit, until the buds unfurled and the entire shrub was a blazing mass of lush blossoms.
“There,” she said. “Did I not tell you that I would correct your negligence?”
He stared at her, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “You…What did you do?”
She stepped back to examine her handiwork. “Surely not even a mortal is as blind as that. Do you not admire my performance?”
“Performance?” The creases in his face deepened and then relaxed. “Of course. It is an illusion.” He clapped his hands with more vigor than sincerity. “Brava, Countess. Your talent is most prodigious. Did you learn it in your mother country?”
Béfind snapped off a blooming branch and thrust it toward Inglesham. “Hold it, Viscount. Smell the flowers, and tell me if it is illusion.”
Gingerly he accepted the branch from her. A moment later he dropped it, blood dripping from his thumb where he had pricked it on a thorn.
“It…it is impossible,” he said. “That bush has not bloomed in years. You made it…but that is…”
“I see that your usual fluency has deserted you,” Béfind said. She flicked her fingers toward the fallen branch, and it flew up into her hand. “Are my small abilities so astonishing, then, when you have seen what Dr. Fleming can do?”
Inglesham felt his way to a bench and abruptly sat down. “Fleming…What has he to do with, with…”
“Did I not say that he was the subject of my visit?” She sauntered to the bench, leaned close to Inglesham and brushed one of the roses across his face. He flinched. “Have you not guessed, my little lord? Did you not already suspect that Donal is more than human?”
His astonishment had clearly reached its limit. “I don’t understand you.”
“Let me make it very plain, then. I know that you have blackmailed Dr. Fleming into aiding your bets at the races because you believe that he has a particular gift with animals. Is that not so?”
Inglesham sputtered. “Blackmail? I have no idea what you are talking a—”
“You weary me, Viscount. I see that I shall have to provide additional proof of my sincerity.”
Béfind spun lightly on her toes, stared at the rosebush and thought of death. In seconds the shrub had shriveled to a blackened stalk, and then that, too, disintegrated into ash as if it had burned up from within.
She turned back to Inglesham. “What I did to that unfortunate plant,” she said, “I can do to other mortal things. Would you care to experience personal evidence of my power?”
Inglesham’s face had gone gray. “You killed it.”
“Yes. But it was already dying, so you have not lost too much…yet.”
“What are you?”
“I am not human.” She smiled gently. “And neither is Donal Fleming. But that is not so great a revelation, is it?”
The viscount covered his eyes with his hand. “You and Fleming…”
“Are the same…or nearly. He is a halfling, for his mother was mortal.” She sat on the bench, amused when Inglesham scooted aside so as not to touch her. “We are of the Fane, whom you mortals have called the ‘Fair Folk,’ among other epithets.”
“F-fairies?”
She rolled her eyes. “Such a horrid word.”
The viscount plumbed the depths of his soul and found a scrap of courage. “Why are you here?”
“I think it is time for that serious discussion.” She tore an inch from the hem of her silk gown and fashioned several fat pillows, which she arranged about herself. Inglesham only stared. “Let me begin by explaining your situation in words even a mortal can comprehend. You are a man constantly in need of money. You desire to wed Cordelia Hardcastle for her fortune.”
A narrow, sly look came over Inglesham’s face. “You know a great deal about me, Countess. Or should I still call you that, my lady?”
“It will do.” She rested her hand on his thigh. “I can almost admire your low human cunning in manipulating one of the Fane, even though you did not know what he was. However, he is one of my race, and therefore it is my intention to protect him…both from you and from that creature he believes he loves.”
“Cordelia?”
“Yes. Most unfortunate. While we Fane are not averse to dallying with mortals on o
ccasion, what you humans call ‘love’ is quite another matter. I would free Donal of this debilitating sickness.”
“Sickness,” Inglesham repeated with a snort. “Cordelia believes she loves him.”
“But she does not know what he is. Such knowledge might be enough to repel her—your race is hardly known for accepting what it does not understand—but I haven’t time to wait for the situation to take its natural course.” She tightened her fingers on his leg. “And that, my dear viscount, is where you may be of service to me.”
“How, Countess?”
She reached inside her bodice and withdrew a tiny crystal vial, radiant with its own inner light. “You want Mrs. Hardcastle. I want Donal. The best means to achieve both our aims is to see that Cordelia finds a new object for her devotion…you. This potion is the means by which you shall win her love.”
Inglesham regarded the vial with suspicion. “You wish me to drug her?”
“Oh, this is nothing so crude as what you call a ‘drug,’ Viscount. Its workings are subtle, but a certain crudity is required to initiate its effects. Here, take it.”
He obeyed, holding the vial between his thumb and forefinger. “A love potion?” he asked.
“In a manner of speaking.” She ran her fingers up his leg, pausing just short of his bulging male member. “First you must contrive to get Hardcastle alone, where you will not be disturbed. Then you pour the contents of this vial evenly into two glasses of wine or some other beverage strong enough to conceal its mild flavor. You must both drink; a few swallows should be sufficient.”
Inglesham gazed hungrily into her eyes. “And then?”
“For the potion to begin its work, you must then lie with the woman you would bind to you.”
“Lie with Cordelia?” He laughed. “Not her. Not before marriage. She might as well be wearing armor under her skirts.”
“Are you so certain that Donal has not already enjoyed her favors?”
His upper lip drew back from his teeth. “I have no magic to entice her.”
Béfind withdrew her hand from his leg. “Do you think so little of your seductive abilities?” She clucked sadly. “Perhaps I have chosen the wrong man.”
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