Bewitched

by Sandra Schwab

  “‘What a nice little plan you hatched out there. A nice little potion that you had us given, then some nice little attacks on the children, first on the heir, then on the spare—’”

  “Both children broke through the ice?” Colin Bourne cut in, leaning forward.

  Fox opened his eyes. “No, only Philip, the younger one.”

  “Have there been any other incidents?” the other pressed.

  “No, no, not at all. Well, Richard fell down the stairs a few weeks before, but—”

  Colin Bourne jumped up. “He fell down the stairs?”

  With a wave of his hand, Fox brushed it aside. “Don’t all little boys at one time or another? Now look here, about this potion, she said he had it given to us. It wasn’t him, though.”

  Devlin glanced from Fox to his brother and back again. “So who was it?”

  Colin opened his mouth, then shut it again. “Hmm…” He cocked his head to the side. “When did you, you know, fall in love with Amy?”

  “Well, I suppose… it must have been…” Fox pursed his lips. “The Worthington musicale. Yes, I believe that must have been it. I remember now: Drew asked me to go and to keep Amy company. I wasn’t keen on the thought, but after the musicale…” He shrugged. “I was in love.”

  “Then you must have drunk something there.” Both brothers looked at him expectantly.

  “Well… just punch. It tasted a little bit funny, if I remember correctly, but what would you expect at a Worthington musicale?” Again he shrugged. “They couldn’t have put it into the punch, could they? Else all of the guests would have been affected. Besides, Amy’s guardian himself gave us the glasses.”

  “Mr. Bentham?”

  “Indeed. His daughter accompanied Amy to Rawdon Park. Now, come to think of it, they weren’t fast friends, which made it a bit odd. And Amy herself asked my brother to send Miss Bentham home after a week or two. Actually—”

  “It was right after your nephew had fallen down the stairs.” Colin Bourne finished the sentence for him.

  “Bentham, father’s friend?” Devlin swore.

  His brother nodded. “And there was more than one attack. These things never happen in twos, but in threes, so there must be one trap left. Which might just be the thing that is slowly killing Amy right now.”

  The three men stared atone another. Anger flashed in their eyes, darkened their faces. Their hands clenched into fists.

  “Bentham!” Fox spat. “I’ll ride to London and wring his traitorous neck!”

  An unpleasant smile played around Devlin’s lips. “Oh yes, we will all ride to London tomorrow and pay this smart chap a little visit.”

  ~*~

  In the end it was Amy’s uncle who rode to London with Fox, for his sons had told him about their worries after all. Grimly he had listened to them; then he had questioned Fox about what exactly Amy had said and done. Finally, he strode into Amy’s room to examine her once more. “Hell and damnation,” he swore when he returned.

  His wife followed on his heels, her expression murderous. “Your friend Bentham, you said? The same Bentham to whom you sent our niece? The same Bentham who was supposed to introduce her into society?”

  “Mary.” He raised his arms. “I—”

  “Don’t you ‘Mary’ me! You sent her into a family who were unscrupulous enough to embroil her in some dastardly intrigue!”

  “I have known Bentham since our days at university. He always seemed an honorable man.”

  “An honorable man!” She snorted. “That’s what they said about Brutus, too.”

  Bourne sighed and ran a weary hand through his hair. “I know. Believe me, I know. And I deeply regret—” He took a deep breath. “We will see to Bentham. And we will get the truth out of his daughter. As to Amy…” He looked over his wife’s shoulder at the door to her room, and his expression turned bleak.

  Fox’s heart thudded once, twice. “Will you be able to save her?” he pressed, his voice hoarse. “Now that you know?” God, if only he had come earlier. If only he hadn’t let his damnable pride dictate his actions.

  If only…

  If only I had loved her more.

  Fox squeezed his eyes tightly shut. He felt like crying again. Howling. A shudder ran through his body. He should have known she would never be capable of the devilry and betrayal of which he had accused her. He should have listened to what his heart had been telling him.

  “We will need to bring her to Rawdon Park, won’t we?” Colin Bourne said.

  Fox’s eyes shot open. “Rawdon Park?” he gasped. “Surely you jest! The journey could kill her!”

  Arms akimbo, Mrs. Bourne answered briskly, “Then we have to make sure that it doesn’t.” The next moment, though, her cool facade cracked and her expression registered terrible worry and fear. “If we don’t take her, she will die anyway. But if she joined with the land, the land itself might heal her. We have to hope.” She swallowed. Tears welled in her eyes. “And pray,” she added on a whisper.

  Thus, a little time later, Bourne and Fox were on the road to London. They kept to the turnpike, which had been cleared of snow, and changed the horses every hour.

  “I would have thought that sorcerers used other means of travel,” Fox commented. Looking over to Bourne, he wondered what exactly the man was capable of. After all, he had witnessed what the niece could do and had seen one of the sons handle a ball of blue fire.

  But the other only snorted. “Flying carpets and such?” He shook his head and his expression was grim. “Nay. Though God knows how much I would wish for one!”

  They fell quiet once more, and indeed most of the trip they spent in silence, giving Fox enough time for regrets and bitter self-recriminations. Why, oh why hadn’t he come earlier? Why hadn’t he listened to his brother? To Drew? Even his man, Hobbes, had been able to perceive where Fox had gone wrong. Only Fox himself hadn’t seen it. Instead he had stubbornly clung to his pride and nursed the feeling of having been wronged. Not only because she had kept things from him; no, mostly because she was other.

  Arrogant, arrogant fool!

  With a pang he remembered their first afternoon at Rawdon Park, when he had told her the truth about his birth. She hadn’t held it against him. Instead, she had been loving and understanding. And he? He had promised to love her forever—whatever might happen.

  How quick he had been to discard his vow! Yes, they had both been under the influence of that blasted potion, but that hadn’t stopped her from risking her life to keep his family safe. What an utter heel he had been!

  Fox groaned.

  Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,

  So haggard and so woe-begone?

  ~*~

  Dusk had already fallen when they reached the outskirts of London. They left the horses at the stables in the City and took a hackney into Town. Their progress was slow, for High Holborn was crammed with carts and carriages—indeed, half of London appeared to be out on the streets that evening. Fox clenched his hands into fists. “Damn those fools! Hey, driver!” He opened the window and leaned outside. “Can’t you drive faster?” Frustrated he sank back onto the seat. “Can’t you do something?” he asked Bourne.

  But the older man only raised his brow. “Make them disappear into thin air? Nay.” His eyes narrowed. “But on second thought, there might be something…” He closed his eyes for a moment. An expression of intense concentration appeared on his face as he muttered a few words. The air inside the hackney started to tingle. And then, with an audible puff, the tingles were gone. “So,” Bourne said in satisfied tones and opened his eyes. “That should do the trick.”

  Whatever magic he had wrought made the coach pick up speed. In no time at all they had reached Oxford Street and, after that, Holles Street and Cavendish Square. Fox climbed out of the hackney after Bourne. “Wait for us,” he told the driver, before he followed the other to the front door of the Benthams’ house.

  As Bourne looked up at the facade of the building, his face
darkened. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I trusted you. I trusted you!” he hissed. “And look how you’ve repaid my friendship.” He made an abrupt movement with his hand, and the front door sprang open. Grimly he went inside, followed closely by Fox.

  A footman came running. “Sirs, what—”

  “Bring us to your master,” Bourne growled. Now that they had finally reached their destination, his anger seemed to burst forth. The footman goggled at their crumpled clothes, before he belatedly remembered his training.

  “If you would wait in the hall, sirs,” he said, businesslike. “Mr. Bentham is keeping company, but I can inquire whether he will be free to see you.”

  “How fortunate that he is in. Then you can take us with you straightaway.”

  “Er, no, sir, I’m afraid I must insist, sir—” His words ended on a squeak as Bourne had grabbed the unfortunate footman by the collar.

  “Take. Us. To. Your. Master. Now!” He released the footman, and whatever the servant had seen in Bourne’s eyes was enough to make him hastily comply.

  They were led to the dining room, where, as it turned out, the Benthams were giving a dinner for Lord Munthorpe. At their entrance, all color leached from Bentham’s face. He scrambled to his feet, crumpled his napkin between his fingers, and made an attempt at a smile. “B-Bourne. And Stapleton.” One of his hands rose and fumbled with his necktie as if it had suddenly become too tight. “W-What a surprise.”

  His wife, by contrast, looking them up and down, wrinkled her nose. “How… unconventional.”

  Bourne didn’t spare her a glance, but kept his eyes trained on his erstwhile friend. “Spare me the playacting. Did you do it or not?”

  Mrs. Bentham trilled a laugh. “Why, my dear Mr. Bourne. From the way you talk, one could be led to assume you’ve come straight from Bedlam!” She batted her lashes. “You talk in riddles.”

  “Like an oracle, indeed!” her daughter chimed in. “How is dear Amelia, Mr. Bourne?”

  For the first time, Bourne looked at Miss Bentham, his expression thunderous enough to make her shrink back on her seat. “My niece,” he forced out between gritted teeth, “is dying. So tell me, Bentham”—his attention swiveled back to the father—“why did you do it?”

  “Do what?” Bentham still held on to his bluster. “I am of course very sorry that Amelia is poorly, but I fail to see—”

  “Bosh!” Fox’s patience snapped. He stepped up to the table and slapped his hands flat on the surface. “You helped Lady Margaret to take revenge on my brother, and Amy was the pawn you used—and sacrificed.”

  “I—”

  “It was you who gave us the potion, was it not?”

  “Potion?” Munthorpe, who had been following the exchange with a flabbergasted expression, spluttered, “What potion?”

  Fox glanced at him, at dear old Munty, so fond of his sheep. Suddenly he felt pity for him, because of all the women of London, Munthorpe had developed an affection for a vicious little viper. “A love potion,” he said more calmly—and when Munthorpe’s eyes widened with disbelief: “Yes, I know. It’s hardly believable, but I assure you it’s true.”

  Isabella Bentham burst out laughing. “Oh, this is delicious, is it not, my lord, Truly, Mr. Stapleton, we are so very sorry to hear about dear Amelia, but it seems that the grief must have befuddled your brains.”

  Yet Munthorpe didn’t join in her laughter. “A… a love potion?” He frowned. “Whatever for?”

  “Indeed,” Bentham choked out, his face now flushed with color. Bourne still stared at him as a basilisk would at a rabbit. “This is a m-most fa-fantastical tale! Ha ha!” Surreptitiously he tugged at his cravat. “Love potions! ‘Tis preposterous!”

  “Why did you do it?” Bourne repeated. “You must have run into debts—but with that Lady Margaret of all persons?” His eyes narrowed. “Back at university, there were rumors that you gambled more than was healthy…”

  Beads of sweat glistened on Bentham’s forehead. Weakly he sank back onto his chair. His wife threw him a disgusted look and stood, brimming with determination.

  “Really, gentlemen, this is a most unusual way to talk in another’s house. To come here and throw about ludicrous accusations—no, this will not do. We must ask you to leave now. Gregory!” she called to the footman in the hallway. “Please escort these two gentlemen to the door!”

  The next moment, the door to the dining room banged shut, apparently with no help from anyone, making the people around the table start violently. With a yelp, Mrs. Bentham fell back on her chair.

  Bourne didn’t even blink an eye. “I don’t think so,” he said. “It appears we both should have listened more carefully to the rumors at university.”

  The door handle rattled as somebody outside tried to open the door in vain. And as realization dawned in Bentham’s eyes, his face turned a sickly gray. “So he was right,” he muttered. “You are of the same ilk. Sorcerer, warlock.”

  Bourne’s gaze sharpened. “What are you talking about?”

  “He knew you! Lady Margaret’s man, he knew you!” Bentham gave a hysterical laugh. “To imagine: the virtuous Bourne—a sorcerer!” Giggling, he twisted the napkin between his fingers.

  Bourne threw a questioning glance at Fox.

  “He is right,” Fox said slowly, only now remembering those strange bits of conversation in the drawing room of Rawdon Park. “It would seem that Lady Margaret’s sorcerer knew you. Young, blond-haired fellow? He appeared delighted that he had been given the chance to take revenge on you.”

  “Samuel Lovell…” Losing some of his color, Bourne shook his head. “He doesn’t seem possible. And Amy killed him you say?”

  “She killed—” Bentham choked out. “Lord, what sort of girl is your niece? To imagine she lived under our roof all this time!”

  “A killeress,” Miss Bentham breathed. “How awful!” She grabbed Lord Munthorpe’s arm.

  “You!” Bourne turned on Bentham. “You used my niece to infiltrate Lord Rawdon’s family, didn’t you? So a few nice magical toys could be planted on Rawdon’s estate.”

  “On Rawdon’s estate?” Munthorpe echoed, getting more confused by the second. “Miss Bourne did…? And killed…? But… but…”

  “Oh, my niece didn’t know anything about those charms. That potion had made her so besotted with Stapleton, she couldn’t think straight; otherwise she might have noticed earlier that something was amiss and that his family was in danger.”

  “Really, Mr. Bourne,” Mrs. Bentham rallied once more. “Do you see how you contradict yourself? First you accuse my poor husband of using your niece, as you put it, and then you go on to say that she couldn’t possibly have done whatever ghastly things you are talking about. Even though she has killed some poor man, apparently.”

  Fox shook his head. Drew had been right all along to avoid this woman at all costs. “Ah,” he said, “but Amy did not travel to Rawdon Park alone, did she? Your daughter accompanied her.”

  Munthorpe gaped. “You mean to suggest…” Very slowly he turned his head to look at the object of his devotion. “What exactly have you done?” he whispered.

  “Nothing!” Isabella Bentham snapped and tossed her head back. “I did nothing wrong.”

  Munthorpe regarded her as if he had never seen her before. “Your friend is dying. Does this not affect you?”

  Sullenly, she shrugged. “She has never been my friend,” she scoffed. “And you heard what they said. What she did.”

  “My niece is dying because she tried to protect the Stapletons from the evil charms you have planted at Rawdon Park!” Bourne hissed.

  “I see,” Munthorpe said slowly. “I see.” His face haggard, he stood. “I believe it is best if I now leave.”

  “Oh, but you can’t!” Miss Bentham raised her eyes to his. “Not in the middle of dinner.”

  “Shush, my dear,” her mother tried to appease her. “After all, these two gentlemen have managed to ruin the evening anyway. But there will be other di
nners, other—”

  “Now, this is where you are wrong.” With jerky movements Munthorpe smoothed nonexistent wrinkles in his suit. “I am afraid I will not return to this house.”

  “What!” Mrs. Bentham cried. “How can you? When you are practically engaged to my daughter?”

  Munthorpe’s jaw hardened. “I am not yet engaged to her—which I consider fortunate indeed, for I now believe we would not have suited at all.”

  “Not suited?” Isabella Bentham screeched. “How dare you? If you walk off now, the whole of London will believe you the most dishonorable of men!”

  “Then I choose to be dishonorable,” he answered, his back already turned on her. “Stapleton. Bourne.” He nodded at them. “I am very sorry about Miss Bourne’s affliction. If there’s anything I can do…”

  Fox shook his head. “I’m afraid there isn’t. But thank you.”

  “I am very sorry to hear it.” Munthorpe inclined his head once more, then walked out of the room with brisk strides. For him, the door yielded easily.

  Mrs. Bentham shot to her feet. “You! You! This is all your fault!” She glowered at Fox and Bourne. “How dare you walk in here and—”

  “How dare you?” Bourne hissed, leaning forward. “How dare you use my niece in your foul play? How dare you sit here, so self-righteous after you’ve brought death to Rawdon Park?”

  Her mouth opened and closed like a stranded fish’s.

  “W-What do you want?” Bentham asked wearily. “I had no choice, if you must know. They threatened me, I—”

  “Be quiet!” Bourne thundered. “Save your pitiful excuses. I want to know what your daughter carried to Rawdon’s estate. There was something for the stairs, something for the lake—and what else?”

  Bentham muttered something unintelligible.

  “What?”

  “A plant,” he muttered.

  “A plant?” Bourne’s face turned ashen. “Oh dear God,” he whispered.

  Fox’s stomach gave a lurch. He didn’t know what bothered Amy’s uncle about this, but whatever it was, it was bad. When he thought of Amy, lying pale and still in her bed, then looked at the sullen faces of the Bentham family before him, he felt an overpowering urge to throttle the lot of them. “And what exactly did you do with it?” he barked at Isabella Bentham.