“Last night I was burned at the stake.”
“You win,” Gretchen said as Emma struggled against the desperate pull to follow the deer and run wild over the hills. “And … what?”
Penelope shook her head helplessly. “I don’t know. I touched a ring and suddenly I wasn’t myself anymore.”
“You didn’t think to choose to be someone who wasn’t being murdered?” Gretchen asked.
“I didn’t exactly have a choice in the matter, Gretchen,” Penelope replied. “Believe me.”
Gretchen rubbed her ears. “You needn’t tell the truth so loudly.”
Penelope looked at her oddly. “What are you talking about?”
“You don’t hear that buzzing?”
“No,” she said, glancing at Emma. “Do you?” They waited through a long pause, not receiving a reply from either a convenient swarm of honeybees or their cousin. “Emma?”
“Hmm?” Emma forced her attention back to the achingly empty grove and her very boring human self. “Sorry?”
“You ought to pay attention when your cousin tells you she was murdered.”
Emma blinked. “Neither of you look particularly dead.”
She snorted. “Perhaps not, but I did see Margaret’s ghost last night.” She shook her head sadly. “And then I read about it in the newspaper this morning.”
Penelope sank down into the grass, looking tired and perplexed. Gretchen stretched out next to her, staring up into the complicated tangle of oak leaves. Emma was the last to sit, tracing her fingers in the print left by a deer hoof. “Let me see your palms,” she said softly.
“Whatever for?” Penelope asked. “It was my legs the fire burned and I’ve already searched them for burns. It only felt as if it were happening to me.” She shuddered.
“All the same,” Emma insisted. Her cousins stripped off their gloves and held their hands out.
“What the blazes is that?” Gretchen burst out. Penelope snatched up a handful of grass and used it like a handkerchief, trying to rub the mark away.
“Don’t bother,” Emma told her. “It won’t come off. It’s called a witch knot. And at least they’re not glowing.”
“Is this some sort of prank?” Gretchen asked, tilting her hand this way and that. The symbol was so pale, it was barely noticeable. “Because I don’t understand it.”
“Apparently, the Lovegrove sisters were witches. And since it runs in the family, we are too.”
Gretchen broke out laughing. “You’re not serious.”
Penelope smiled. “That’s something out of a gothic novel, Em. Well done. Are we tragic and misunderstood, doomed to wander unloved over the moors?”
“I’d prefer a moldering old castle,” Gretchen put in. “Something with damp, dark dungeons.”
“Unfortunately, I’m serious,” Emma said, rolling a cracked acorn under her fingers. “And I didn’t make it up.”
Gretchen rolled over. “Well, who told you such a ridiculous thing then?”
She squirmed. Both Gretchen and Penelope raised their eyebrows at her.
“Cormac,” she mumbled.
“Cormac?” Gretchen screeched. “That—”
“When did he tell you this?” Penelope interrupted before Gretchen could really get going. She’d happily eviscerate Cormac’s character for the rest of the day, given half a chance.
“Last night,” Emma admitted sheepishly. “When I snuck into his apartments.”
Gretchen sat up slowly. “You snuck into Cormac’s apartments?”
“Yes.”
“Without us?” She pouted. “I thought we agreed he was to be loathed and insulted at every opportunity.”
“He knew about the knot. And my mother’s trinket bottle. About us.”
“About us being witches,” Gretchen returned doubtfully. “I think he’s having a laugh at your expense. And I mean to make him suffer for it. As soon as possible.”
Penelope shook her head. “I think he’s right,” she said. “I relived being burned at the stake as a witch,” she said. “That can’t be a coincidence.”
“And rain inside a carriage is impossible,” Emma added.
“Not if there’s a leak,” Gretchen grumbled. “And I’d like to know what else you did in the carriage.”
“Nothing more interesting than making it rain.”
Gretchen blew out a breath, ruffling the short hair at her temples. “You’re both serious.”
“You did just say you saw a ghost.”
“After drinking whiskey. Which is vile, by the way. And I didn’t see my hand glow.”
Penelope frowned. “But think about it. My mother’s always making us recite those silly rhymes. Perhaps they’re spells. She was even burning feathers and lavender outside my door last night. It smelled like death. I was too tired to tell her to stop though. That sounds suitably witchy, don’t you think?”
“No offense, but your mother’s always been eccentric, Pen. I mean, she’s an artist, after all.” Gretchen rolled her eyes. “And can you imagine my mother prancing about reciting spells? That’s where your theory falls apart. Rather spectacularly, I might add.”
Emma couldn’t help a chuckle. “The mind does boggle,” she agreed. “Still. Cormac was serious. And he seems to think other Keepers from the Order will be coming for us.”
“Who?”
“A kind of magical policing force.”
Penelope’s eyes widened with recognition. “That’s why,” she murmured, reaching into her reticule and pulling out two narrow iron hairpins set with tiny pearls. She wore one tucked into her curls. “Mother made me promise we’d wear these.”
Gretchen took one, frowning at it. “Iron?”
“She said it would keep us safe. She was most adamant.” Emma slid the pin into her hair. Gretchen did the same with a disgruntled sigh. “Why hair bobs?”
“No one would suspect they were anything but decoration,” Penelope guessed. “You know how my mother is always going on about using society’s own preconceptions against them.”
“They must be magical,” Emma said slowly. “To keep us safe from the Order, I wonder?”
Gretchen glowered. “What do they want with us in the first place? We can’t have broken the rules already. And if they want us so badly, why didn’t Cormac take you away at the ball?”
Penelope smirked. “Because he’s sweet on her.”
Emma stared at her. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Well, he did kiss you.”
“That was months ago. And he’s kissed half the girls in London since then,” she pointed out. “We should go talk to your mother, Pen,” she added, changing the subject away from the very complicated Cormac.
“We’ll go first thing in the morning.”
“Why not right now?” Emma asked.
“Because my mother’s not at home right now,” Penelope said. “She’s helping one of her friends prepare for a ball.”
“And because my mother is having one of her supper parties.” Gretchen grimaced. “And you both told her you’d be there. More importantly, you also promised you’d save me from the tedium since I can’t escape to the library this time.” Her expression hardened. “Anyway, if the Keepers really are after us, like Cormac said, then we’re safer together. We’ll cut through the crowds on Rotten Row right now and then you’ll spend the night.”
“Witches” Emma pointed out. “And murderers. Surely that’s more important than dancing and tea cakes.”
Gretchen didn’t look convinced. “You’d think so, but you know my mother.”
Chapter 14
After a long dinner of turtle soup, roast beef with stewed celery and asparagus, followed by syllabub decorated with fresh violets, the ladies retired to the drawing room. They sat demurely and chatted over champagne. Their daughters flipped through the latest issues of La Belle Assemblee for new dress patterns, wondering when the young men would join them again. There were twenty-four couples in attendance, with their various sons an
d daughters. Friendships were strengthened at such events, and matches considered. Accordingly, Lady Wyndham had invited mostly the parents of single young men and only a few girls so as not to appear too obvious.
Daphne and Lilybeth drifted toward the small card table in the corner that Gretchen, Emma, and Penelope had monopolized for their own purposes. The two girls’ white dresses gleamed like moonlight. Emma’s dark-green ribbons had already begun to unravel from her hem and Gretchen was picking the stitches of her left glove, as she always did when she was bored.
Daphne clucked her tongue. “Gretchen, that hair pin is dreadful. It’s completely lost its shine.”
Gretchen just looked at her steadily. She didn’t blush or cringe, as most girls did when Daphne turned the sharp edge of her tongue on them. Lilybeth cringed beside her, even though she knew for a fact that her every hairpin and jewel was gleaming perfectly. She’d made sure of it.
“Daphne, go away,” Gretchen said plainly and without rancor. Daphne sucked in an offended breath. Gretchen shooed her as though she were a bothersome fly. “Go on.”
“Did you see how Daphne kept touching Cormac’s sleeve?” Penelope whispered, once Daphne and Lilybeth had flounced off.
In fact, Emma had noticed.
“I’m sure I didn’t,” she replied instead.
Penelope snorted. “Right.”
“I told you he wasn’t interested in me.”
“Then why did he keep staring at you?”
“He’s a Keeper,” she replied. “He was probably trying to figure out how to lock us all up before the tea is served.” She snuck another glance at the window, wishing she could see more than just the reflection of the candles and the glowing glass globes of the lamps. As always, Aunt Cora had lit every beeswax candle she could find, just to prove she could afford it.
“I think the hairpins are working,” Penelope assured her. “Anyway, no one would dare interrupt an Aunt Cora soiree, not even scary magical knight-types.” Aunt Cora believed in the social graces of polite society and she expected her guests to do the same. The only ones who ever gave her trouble were her own family.
“No one’s coming for us,” Gretchen agreed. “Shame, really. I tied a small dagger above my knee, just in case. It took forever to secure it properly. Stocking ribbons aren’t very practical.”
“I’ll remember that.” Emma couldn’t help a smile.
“I couldn’t find anything about Keepers or ghosts in father’s library,” Gretchen added.
“Me neither,” Penelope said. “Though I did notice all sorts of strange things I’d never seen before. Iron trinkets and the like. Even the potpourri Maman makes isn’t like other potpourri. It’s full of salt, for one thing.” She tapped her left palm. “And this strange symbol. It’s embroidered everywhere, now that I know what I’m looking at. I tried to see her palm as well for the knot, but she was wearing gloves this morning. And the only reason she let me come here at all is because she seems determined to keep me in crowds of people.”
“Are we sure the Keepers are all that nasty?” Gretchen wondered.
Emma remembered the starkness in Cormac’s eyes. “Yes.”
“Well, I reckon they bleed like any other man. Oh Lord,” she added, taking a fortifying sip of champagne. “Here comes my mother. Perhaps they could come take us away right now.”
The cousins pasted identically innocent smiles on their faces as Lady Wyndham sailed gracefully in their direction. Only they could see the martial glint in her eye. It was nearly as sharp as the prisms shooting off the many ropes of diamonds around her neck. “You three ought to be mingling.”
Gretchen rested her chin on her hand wearily. “I’ll need some cake first to give me the strength. Why can’t we sit around and drink port and tell bawdy stories like the men do?”
“Do not disgrace me,” her mother said. “Many of these ladies have perfectly suitable sons.”
“I’ll need sweet ices and black coffee as well as that cake,” Gretchen muttered.
“Aunt Cora, what lovely gloves,” Penelope interrupted hastily before a proper row could ensue.
“Thank you.” Aunt Cora was briefly distracted, though still clearly dubious.
“I adore the embroidery,” Penelope continued. Since she was the only one who appreciated needlework, and did her own without whining about it, Aunt Cora was mollified. Her elbow-length gloves were edged with embroidery in a pale orange, to better match the striking tangerine walls of the drawing room. Black basalt urns decorated the tables and crowned the carved mantelpiece. “May I see them?” Penelope pressed. “I should dearly love to duplicate those doves.”
“I suppose,” Aunt Cora sniffed, reaching for the ribbon that secured her gloves. Emma leaned forward slightly to get a better look. It was clear Penelope was trying to see if their aunt had her own witch knot. Half the women in London could have them and they’d never know it beneath all those gloves.
The men chose that precise moment to rejoin the party, led by Gretchen’s father. They certainly looked cheerful, with eyes slightly too bright. Cormac glanced at Emma but he chose to sit with Daphne and Lilybeth. The dove-gray of Cormac’s waistcoat was arresting against the black of his jacket and his hair. Emma tried to pretend he clashed horribly with the tangerine walls. He didn’t.
Lady Cora promptly forgot her gloves and turned a welcoming smile on the others. Within minutes the housekeeper had brought in a cart laden with tea, coffee, seedcakes, and jellies. Footmen circled with yet more glasses of champagne and claret.
“Now what?” Gretchen groaned when her mother came their way again. “I’ll never get any cake.”
“I’ve just had word that the opera singer’s carriage broke a wheel and so she will be late. Penelope, you will favor us with your playing in the meantime.” It was not a request. Penelope’s talent at the pianoforte was already talked about.
Penelope crossed the room to the pianoforte, where two candles had already been lit on either side of the sheet music. She’d play for her aunt, but she’d choose her own music. These insipid songs would not do. She needed something with more fire. Her first selection had lumps forming in more than one throat, moody tragic passion trembling on every note. The second piece woke the inebriated old duke snoring in a gilded chair near the back door. He spilled his drink all over his silk pantaloons.
Since the ladies were all smiling, Lady Wyndham accepted her husband’s hand to lead the first impromptu dance. There was, of course, nothing impromptu about it, but the innocent deception added to the mystique. Everyone would politely pretend the floor hadn’t already been cleared to make space for the quadrille.
Cormac stood up with Daphne and a young man whose name Emma had forgotten led Lilybeth to the floor. At the end of the country dance, Daphne smirked at Emma over her shoulder.
Penelope’s eyes narrowed before her fingers hit the keys again. Music swelled through the room, soft as water.
“She’s playing a waltz.” Gretchen grinned behind her plate of biscuits. “Mother will have fits.”
Most of the young ladies of their acquaintance wouldn’t be allowed to dance the waltz. It was considered risqué, to be held so close in a gentleman’s arms. On the other hand, a hostess knew when a small scandal elevated the reputation of her soirees. Lady Cora inclined her head just barely, and couples began to gather.
“I didn’t know my mother had it in her,” Gretchen said with surprised approval. She closed her eyes briefly. “She’s diabolical,” she added as a gentleman, obviously prodded by Lady Wyndham, approached Gretchen. He bowed over her hand. “Oh, very well,” Gretchen said, dragging him onto the floor. His new shoes slid on the perfectly polished parquet floor and she had to steady him.
“I say, your cousin is enthusiastic.” The young gentleman had sidled up so quietly Emma didn’t notice him until he was practically pressed to her side. His breath was pickled in brandy and he kept staring at her cleavage through his monocle. “Fancy a dance?”
Sh
e gritted her teeth. “No, thank you.”
“Come on, what’s the harm? Especially when the very proper Lady Wyndham approved it.”
The very proper Lady Wyndham was also watching them carefully. She widened her eyes at Emma. Emma pretended not to notice. When her aunt set her glass down, Emma knew she was doomed. She couldn’t turn down the dance if her aunt interfered. It would be considered rude. Though, for some reason, her companion’s perusal of her décolletage wasn’t held to the same standard.
“I…”
“I’m afraid Lady Emma promised this dance to me,” Cormac cut in smoothly, claiming her hand and twirling her away before the other gentleman had a chance to protest. His palm was warm and gentle on her lower back. She felt the heat of it through his gloves and her thin dress. She had to hold onto his shoulders as the room spun around her. She’d never actually danced the waltz before. What if she trod on his foot?
Wait. It would serve him right.
She really must remember that.
“That one was a Keeper,” he told her.
“So are you,” she felt compelled to point out.
“Yes, but he’s drunk and not very good. Your hairpin will keep him befuddled for now.”
She nearly froze, but he kept his arms around her, leading her through the dance. She could smell his sandalwood soap. “Why doesn’t it work on you?”
“I already know what I know,” he said quietly. “Anyway, they only work on a single Keeper at a time. It would never hide you from an entire unit.”
“Then why haven’t they come yet?”
His smile was crooked. “Because they’ve been distracted by a murder and opened gates to the Underworld. But you’re being watched, even now. That opera singer’s carriage wheel was no accident.”
Emma frowned. “What do you mean?”
“She’s not known to us. She could be a warlock, or someone you’ve hired to help you escape.”
Emma grew cold, glancing again at the windows. “That’s who’s been watching me this whole time. The Order.”
“Of course. You’re wise to stay among other people. But I wouldn’t let your guard down just yet.” His voice was a whisper tickling her ear. She felt it in her knees. She hadn’t noticed but he’d circled them around to the doors that opened into the garden. In the whirl of couples, he tugged her outside into the privacy of the shadowy patio.
The Secret Witch Page 9
