Something Wicked This Way Comes

by Claire Delacroix

  “It would be most welcome. I walked to the village and am a bit chilled.”

  “As if there is not enough to manage before the dinner,” Mrs. Bray complained, but Morris indicated the chamber that the servants used.

  “Tea,” Mr. Morris said firmly. “Is seldom any trouble to prepare and is often quite welcome.” He gave Mrs. Bray a look that sent her scurrying and Sophia couldn’t completely suppress her smile.

  Chapter 3

  “She’s here,” Philip said as he laid out a freshly pressed shirt.

  “She is,” Lucien agreed, having no doubt who his friend and valet meant. He was seated at the small writing desk in his bedroom and composing a letter. He felt Philip study him but offered no more detail.

  “You told me she was dead.”

  “I thought she was, on account of her death having been recorded in the parish register.” Lucien signed the missive and folded it.

  “So, they traded places.”

  “Evidently.” Lucien sealed the letter and rose to his feet.

  “And what do you mean to do now?”

  Lucien offered the letter to a wary Philip. “The same as I planned before. You will depart here on the second, with or without me, and deliver this to my solicitor in London.”

  Philip regarded the letter with suspicion, as if it might bite. “What does it say?”

  “I gave her the title to the Emporium. This authorizes its transfer to her.”

  The valet took the letter then, and fingered it before he tucked it into his jacket.

  “Escort her to London, if she intends to go. It will be safer for her in my carriage than to travel alone.”

  “You could go with her.”

  Lucien did not reply. He concentrated upon his cravat, because it allowed him to avoid Philip’s gaze.

  “She looks sad. Lonely.”

  “I expect that is the plight of all those who are alone in the world.”

  “Like you?”

  “I’m not alone. I have you.”

  Philip snorted. “She doesn’t need to be alone. Neither do you.”

  Lucien met his old friend’s gaze steadily. “No one needs to be alone, but there are those who choose comparative solitude because it is safer for everyone else.”

  “Or because they are afraid.”

  Lucien’s fingers froze, then he completed the knot.

  Philip exhaled. “She might be able to help you.”

  “I don’t need any assistance.” Lucien was dismissive of the very notion. “Take her to London and let the past be forgotten.”

  Let him be forgotten.

  “If only it were so easy to forget,” Philip muttered, then brushed the shoulders of Lucien’s coat. He looked at Lucien in the mirror. “You’re wrong. You’re wrong to trust the baron to keep to your wager, whatever it is. The fact that she’s here at this moment is proof of that. Only love can defeat him and his tricks. She can help you.”

  “No.” Lucien turned away from the mirror and met Philip’s gaze. “She will not become involved. I forbid it.”

  Philip’s lips set. “And I remind you that my service as your valet is a convenient ruse. I am a free man, Lucien.”

  “She must remain safe.”

  “But...”

  “I need to know that she’s safe,” Lucien insisted. “I can endure anything if that’s the case.”

  Philip exhaled. “What did you offer in exchange for your seven years of luck?”

  “That is not for you to know.”

  “You’re protecting me, just as you’re protecting her.”

  “Whether I am or not is irrelevant.” Lucien couldn’t quell his concern, but he hid it from Philip. “I will not need you again tonight,” he said, then pivoted to cross the room.

  Two more days and the deception would be done.

  Sophia believed he had never been tempted by her.

  Maybe there was one more legacy he could leave her.

  It might have been a lesson that Sophia’s father died the very night after his much-anticipated elevation to the knighthood. He’d had no opportunity to enjoy what he had earned. He broke his own rule and imbibed a little too much, tripped when alighting from the carriage and hit his head on the cobblestones before the new house. He had only lived in it for a month. He was dead by the time the doctor arrived.

  His passing sent new resolve through his daughter. She would not accept a match she could not endure. She would not accept a half-measure. She would pursue her desires and her dreams, and not care what any person in London thought of her choices. She broke her engagement with the Marquess of Lyndenhurst.

  The marquess did not accept the news well.

  Charles, meanwhile, descended into madness.

  Sophia knew her brother was gambling. She knew he was unchecked without their father to control the purse strings. She knew he was deaf to her entreaties. Lucien had vanished, so she could not appeal to him and his influence over her brother. She feared the result of Charles’ recklessness.

  When she heard the commotion in the foyer that October morning, Sophia expected little good. The bell had rung and Fawcett had answered, but clearly something unusual transpired. There were murmurs and the scuffle of boots, then a moan that was evocative of Charles’ voice.

  Sophia abandoned her tea and stood. Miss Findlay had gone to visit a cousin in Northumberland, so Sophia was alone.

  The front door was open, offering a view of the rain falling steadily beyond. A damp breeze wafted into the house. Lucien carried Charles into the foyer and she was fiercely glad to see that he was yet loyal to her brother. Charles was unconscious, but not apparently injured. Sophia could smell the brandy upon him. He was drunk but not otherwise injured, much to her relief.

  She took a moment to savor the sight of her beloved. Lucien’s boots were wet and raindrops glistened in his dark hair. His cravat was yet perfectly tied and his expression was slightly impatient. Her brother, taller and broader than most, was cast over his shoulder, limp as a sack of flour. Lucien was so handsome—black hair and blue eyes, chiseled features and a perfect aquiline nose—that Sophia’s heart clenched with the awareness that their single kiss would be their last.

  His gaze swept over her coolly, as if she were no more interesting than a shop girl, then returned to Fawcett, the butler. He arched a brow, his impatience growing.

  And no wonder. Fawcett was fluttering, as he was wont to do when things went deeply awry. Fawcett called for Charles’ valet and tried, unsuccessfully to take the burden of his lord and master.

  Lucien, to his credit, didn’t facilitate this transfer. He eyed the stairs, looking for all the world ready to carry Charles wherever he needed to be.

  Sophia knew she should retreat into the dining room. She knew she should pretend not to have seen her brother so indisposed.

  She also knew that she was even less inclined to do as she should than ever.

  “You had best put him in the drawing room,” she said, her voice crisp with command.

  Fawcett jumped and his mouth worked in silence that she should witness this unfortunate incident. “But Miss Sophia, surely his lordship should be taken to his bedchamber.”

  “I doubt you will get him up those stairs,” Sophia replied. “The drawing room will be infinitely easier.”

  “Thank God for practical women,” Lucien muttered and their gazes met for a moment that sent heat surging through Sophia. She felt again that seductive sense that they could be as one.

  If Lucien had wanted her.

  Before Fawcett could protest, Sophia opened the door to the drawing room, and Lucien carried Charles there. Fawcett sputtered until Sophia directed him to fetch a tonic for Charles, then he disappeared. At her gesture, Lucien settled Charles on a settee. Sophia unfastened her brother’s cravat and loosed his jacket, keenly aware that this was the first time she had been with Lucien since he had rejected her.

  “What has happened?” she asked him.

  His eyes flashed and his
lips tightened. “The tale is his to tell.”

  Sophia might have been irritated that he wouldn’t even speak to her any more, but his grim tone sent terror through her. “Charles?” She patted his cheek. “Charles, what have you done?”

  Her brother groaned and his ginger lashes fluttered. “Oh, Soph,” he murmured when he saw her, his words sluggish. “I lost.”

  Her heart clenched, but she forced a smile for him. “Papa always advised you to choose your vice. Drink or gamble, but not both together.”

  “To be fair, he began drinking only after he had gambled,” Lucien contributed.

  “Because he lost?” Sophia guessed.

  “Lost.” Charles winced. “Lost all of it,” he murmured, shaking his head.

  “All of it?” Sophia echoed, feeling a little dizzy.

  “It took him a fortnight.”

  Sophia stood up, her legs unsteady. “Since our father’s death,” she whispered then gave Charles a shake.

  “No,” Lucien said, his voice hard. “Since you broke your engagement with Lyndenhurst.”

  She turned to face him, not understanding. “What has one to do with the other? He only wished to wed me for Father’s fortune. Charles’ choice is not my fault!”

  “But now Lyndenhurst has claimed your father’s fortune in another way.”

  Sophia caught her breath. “Charles lost it all to Lyndenhurst?”

  Lucien nodded, his eyes narrowed. “Every shilling.”

  Sophia could not believe it. “But how could one man be so lucky as to win it all?”

  “No,” Lucien corrected, his voice harsh. “The question is how one man could be unlucky enough to lose it all.”

  She met his gaze, seeing her own dislike for Lyndenhurst mirrored there. “Lyndenhurst cheated?”

  Lucien shrugged. “It cannot be proven, and to be sure, Charles could have halted the game at any moment. Instead, he was seduced by his victories and wagered more each time.”

  “Until it all hung in the balance.”

  Lucien nodded grimly.

  Sophia sat down hard. “He lost it all to Lyndenhurst.” She poked Charles, more than a little frustrated with his irresponsibility. “Were you so determined to be rid of your legacy as that?”

  “I wanted more, more for you and for Elizabeth.” Charles closed his eyes then, as if there was no reason why he shouldn’t indulge in sleep.

  But Father was not alive to set Charles’ errors to rights.

  Sophia clenched her fists. She would have no dowry. They would have no home. Charles had no fortune and he would not be able to wed his beloved. And St. Maurice, her sanctuary, was lost to a man who would plant it in sugar and ruin it utterly.

  Lyndenhurst had won.

  And the Brisbanes were ruined.

  What would she do?

  To her surprise, Lucien dropped to one knee before her and took her hand in his. When he met her gaze, his own eyes blazed sapphire. “He was cheated, and I will see justice done. I will retrieve every shilling for you, Sophia, no matter what the cost.”

  He gave Sophia no opportunity to ask what he would do, much less to remind him of his promise to his grandmother.

  He was gone, and she was alone as she had never been before.

  The music awakened Sophia again.

  Her room was illuminated by the moonlight that slanted through the window. It was a harpsichord she heard, for the sound of the instrument was unmistakable. Although the tune was being played very quickly, it was vaguely familiar.

  Who was the inconsiderate—if talented—guest?

  The music had first echoed through the castle after Lucien’s arrival the night before. She remembered the pianoforte in the house he had inherited from his grandmother. Did he play? She had never heard him do so, but something about the music reminded her of the strange glitter that was now in his eyes.

  It made her shiver.

  She wouldn’t sleep again, not with the recollection of Charles’ loss so fresh in her thoughts. She fingered the deed again, still amazed that Lucien had given it to her. She fought a persistent sense that there was more to the tale than he had confessed to her.

  As well as a dawning conviction that he had not changed, much less that she had misjudged him. He had kept his word, which meant that the Lucien she had loved was alive and well.

  If disguised.

  Sophia could have no quibble with that, given her own disguise.

  The music grew in volume and tempo. Who played with such abandon? She rose on impulse and donned a robe, then left her room. The servants’ quarters were quiet. She passed like a wraith along the empty corridor and down the stairs, following the sound of the music. It grew steadily louder until she stood outside a door near the library where she taught the girls. Even this corridor was in darkness, though there was a glow within the room from which the music emanated.

  She touched the door with her fingertips and it swung open to reveal a lit candle on the mantel. Its golden light only partly illuminated the room and Sophia entered cautiously. The room was as cold as midwinter.

  There was no one seated at the harpsichord, although there was an empty glass on top of it. She smelled rum. There was something else beside the glass, a cloth bundle bound with cord. Sophia stared in astonishment when she came around the instrument. The keys moved with no fingers upon them.

  The music grew impossibly louder. Sophia leaned closer and reached for the cloth bundle.

  As soon as her fingers closed around it, the music stopped.

  The candle burned out.

  The cold faded and she was left, standing in darkness beside the silent instrument, a bundle of cloth in her hand. It was warm.

  As if she had taken it from another.

  Sophia shivered involuntarily and straightened. Then she felt it in the darkness, confirming her suspicions of what she held. She knew the charm for what it, as much from the cord wrapped around it as the heat it shouldn’t have had. She hadn’t seen such a charm since leaving the islands, and had only glimpsed one there once, but the cold dread it awakened in her told her all she needed to know.

  In that moment, she knew what Lucien had done.

  To keep his word to her.

  “C. P. E. Bach,” Lucien murmured and she spun to find him leaning in the doorway. He had shed his jacket and his cravat was loosened. His dark hair was tousled, as if he had shoved his fingers through it, and he looked less forbidding than he had before. His eyes didn’t seem as icy and there was a familiar curve to his wry smile. “His favorite.” He shrugged and cast his jacket over a chair. “I’m sure he’s delighted to have found a harpsichord here. The pianoforte is always a compromise.”

  “Who is your loa?” Sophia asked bluntly. She saw that Lucien meant to pretend he didn’t understand, but she deliberately placed the charm on the instrument. Lucien’s gaze lingered on it and his lips tightened. She didn’t know all the spirits the slaves invoked, but she knew enough of Vodou to recognize its presence.

  And its tools. Charms like this one bound the spirit to the man, and were made during the ritual of invocation. Its presence told her much of what she needed to know.

  That Lucien had made such a wager to keep his word to her was something she’d have to think about later.

  When his presence wasn’t making her heart flutter.

  He heaved a sigh and looked suddenly very tired. “Baron Samedi, of course.”

  Sophia looked to the seat then back to Lucien as she fought her horror. Even she knew that Baron Samedi was one of the most powerful loas. “Not him,” she whispered.

  “Who else?” Lucien raised his brows. “The loa of death and resurrection, lover of rum and debauchery. No one else could have given me such luck at gambling.” He pushed a hand through his hair again. “I quickly learned that I was my father’s son.”

  He had done this for her.

  And he had known what he was doing. This was the man she remembered, the man whose honor was unshakable, the man who prot
ected those he loved.

  Sophia gripped the edge of the harpsichord, feeling Lucien’s survey as surely as a touch. “Did you see him?”

  She shook her head. “Just the keys moving.”

  Lucien sauntered closer. “He means to intrigue you, Sophia,” he murmured, apparently unaware that he was the one who succeeded in that endeavor. His voice was so low and seductive, the sound of her name like an incantation. “He means to fascinate you and draw you close, so that he might take a toll from you, as well.” He paused in front of her, his gaze searching. “Do not be deceived, my Sophia.”

  She was keenly aware that she wore only a chemise and a robe, and that Lucien was so close, so potent, so male. His gaze was fixed upon her and she had to drop her own, even as she felt herself flush in awareness. Her lips burned in recollection of that kiss and she thought she heard him catch his breath. The moonlight fell through the window, making the room look silvery.

  She could have been in a dream.

  Her dream.

  “Were you deceived by him?” she asked.

  His tone turned harsh. “I knew what I was doing.”

  “What did you offer him?”

  Lucien’s eyes narrowed and he was forbidding once more. “Go to bed, Sophia.”

  Sophia knew that he was trying to protect her. She picked up the charm again, sensing how he disliked her touching it. She didn’t like touching it either, but she knew that her doing so diminished its power.

  She held it before him. “You’re bound together,” she whispered, knowing there would be items inside the charm to secure the bond. Earthy tokens to bind soul to spirit. Some of Lucien’s hair might be included, or even his blood, soil from the place the ritual had been performed, feathers from the chicken, maybe the blood of the chicken or some of the rum spilled on the ground. “I want to break the bond.”

  “Don’t try.”

  “I owe you thanks for the Emporium. This would be my gratitude.”

  “No!” His eyes glimmered. “Put it down, Sophia.”

  She played with it more deliberately instead, understanding why he had changed. “It wasn’t your responsibility to undo Charles’ folly...”