Courting Magic: A Kat, Incorrigible Novella

by Burgis, Stephanie

  The couples behind and in front of us turned to stare.

  His fair skin flushed bright red. His eyes widened in what looked very much like panic.

  It was quite possibly the first time he’d ever lost control in a public place since he was born. I tried not to enjoy the sight…but I didn’t try too hard.

  After all, I was almost certain that Lucy would have thanked me for it.

  “Shall we discuss our mission instead?” I suggested sweetly, as soon as the other couples had looked away. “We are colleagues, you know. And our first topic of conversation seems to aggravate you terribly.”

  The Marquess opened his mouth, fresh color mantling his cheeks. Then he closed it again and shook his head.

  “They said you were dangerous,” he muttered. “I should have listened.”

  “Oh, yes,” I agreed demurely, and sank into my final curtsy of the set. “I think it’s so important to listen to good advice, don’t you?”

  Even as I savored the expression on his face, though, I watched it turn into sudden alarm. Behind me, I heard a rustle of whispers and gasps sweep through the ballroom.

  I jerked to my feet, almost tripping on my skirts, and swung around, ignoring the line of curtsying ladies on both sides.

  On the other side of the room, a large man in resplendent dress was surrounded by a gaggle of older women, all waving their fans frantically. Something about his profile looked oddly familiar, but I couldn’t place where I had seen it before. I recognized our hostess, though. Even from across the room, I could see the look of glazed shock on her face as she curtsied again and again to the new guest, sinking almost all the way to the ground in her fervor.

  “What’s going on?” I hissed to the Marquess. “Who is he? And why are you worried?”

  The Marquess’s flush had disappeared, and his eyes had the focused look of a hunter.

  “That,” he said, “appears to be the Prince of Wales.”

  “What, here?” I stared. “But surely—”

  “Precisely,” said the Marquess, and started forward with long strides. “I believe our rogue illusionist has arrived.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Alexander fell into step beside me when we were halfway across the room, sliding through the crowd as smoothly as if it were just one more move in the dance.

  “Do you sense anything?” I asked him.

  “He’s still too far away.” Alexander’s eyes were focused unwaveringly on the impressive figure before us. “There’s no chance, is there, that he could be the real Prince of Wales?”

  “At this ball?” The Marquess snorted. “Even I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the mission.”

  I rolled my eyes. “How terribly lowering for you.” The woman I had just brushed past was wearing a string of jewels so bright, they’d nearly blinded me. I wondered what they wore at the truly upper-crust balls. Diamond ball gowns? Shawls made of gold?

  Alexander didn’t turn around, but I saw one corner of his lips quirk upward. “I wouldn’t be here either,” he offered.

  “Wonderful.” I grimaced. “So it would only be me and Mr. Packenham…wait. Where is he?” I turned around. “Shouldn’t he come with us?”

  The Marquess said, “If we take time to hunt him down, we may be too late.”

  The rogue witch had established a solid pattern by now. He appeared in the guise of an important and well-known personage and persuaded someone—a young lady, usually—to step aside with him into a more private location…at which point, he robbed her of all of her valuables and fled, leaving his victim convinced of the wrong man’s identity—and an innocent man publicly embarrassed and accused of theft.

  It was a ruse the illusionist had first practiced in various servants’ halls across the country, during large house parties where it was entirely plausible for the noblemen whose appearance he stole to have wandered into the servants’ quarters. Now he was using his skills in ballrooms instead, and taking far richer pickings from his victims.

  “Mr. Packenham is in the gaming room,” Alexander said, “drinking heavily. I’m not certain how much assistance he would be able to offer even if we did drag him with us.”

  The Marquess’s tone turned to ice. “Watch your tone, Harding. Mr. Packenham is a gentleman and deserves your respect.”

  Alexander raised his eyebrows, his own tone hardening. “Perhaps, my lord, I’m too low-born to understand the true meaning of ‘gentleman’…but I’ve heard stories about Mr. Packenham’s behavior that don’t sound gentlemanly to me.”

  “I can believe every one of them,” I muttered. “But please, let’s forget about him for now.” We were almost to the false Prince’s circle, and I was fighting to find my magical focus with the crowd pressed tightly around me and everyone’s different colognes and perfumes battling it out for supremacy in the stifling heat.

  Oh, no. I gritted my teeth and leaned closer to Alexander, standing on tiptoe to whisper in his ear, “You can’t possibly scent his magic through all this.”

  When he shook his head, I felt a warm hint of stubble brush against my lips. I jerked back so quickly, I stumbled.

  The Marquess caught me. “Are you well, Miss Stephenson?”

  “Of course.” I took a deep breath, intentionally not looking back at Alexander. I was not going to think about how good he had smelled. I just wasn’t. “But we need to find a way to get the wretch free of this crowd, so we can check his scent.”

  “If I can smell it even then, under all of his cologne,” Alexander muttered. “I can smell that even from here. He must have bathed himself in it before he set out tonight.”

  “Probably to mask the scent.” The Marquess’s eyes narrowed as he released my arm. “Perhaps…”

  I narrowed my own eyes, not waiting for his conclusions. Breathe…focus…there!

  There was definitely a thread of witchcraft in the air before us. I could feel it, pulled taut at the edge of my consciousness.

  It would be so easy to snap that thread with my Guardian power, breaking the spell and exposing the so-called ‘Prince’ to the room as an imposter…

  …But the Order would be furious if I did. Our central purpose might be to protect Society from malevolent magic-users, but our secondary purpose, as the Marquess had pointed out, was to keep magic of all sorts well out of sight. My own mother, after she had been exiled from the Order and forbidden to practice her Guardian magic, had shocked her neighbors by practicing her witchcraft in public…but that had been nearly two decades ago.

  I’d only witnessed one unmistakable use of magic in public in all my life, when Lucy had been overpowered by the wild magic in the Roman Baths all those years ago. Most people hadn’t seen any at all. I’d even heard some young gentlemen confidently call magic itself no more than a fairy story imagined by superstitious older generations.

  Thus far, every victim of our illusionist had been willing to be convinced that the thief had merely been a master of disguise. If I unmasked him now and everyone around us saw the illusion drop, the gossip and the horror would be unspeakable.

  The disappointed look I would get from Mr. Gregson would be infinitely worse.

  I sighed. “Here.” I lifted my hands to my throat and turned between my two colleagues. “Shield me a moment, will you?”

  “Why?” demanded the Marquess, frowning.

  Without a word, Alexander moved in front of me, crowding in close until his broad chest and shoulders blocked my face and chest from the crowd behind him. Sighing and muttering to himself, the Marquess moved to complete my cover.

  Closing my eyes, I whispered a quick spell. Light sparkled along my chest and in the corners of my eyes. There. My single strand of pearls had turned into a dazzling diamond-and-emerald necklace, and my tiny paste earrings—which Elissa had called “delicate”—had turned into massive, pear-shaped diamond monstrosities to match. I only wished that I’d thought to wear a ribbon in my hair. I could have turned it into a really tasteless tiara to complete the ensem
ble.

  “What—what—what?” The Marquess blinked rapidly. “Did you just use witchcraft?” he hissed. “In public?”

  “Oh, don’t fuss,” I whispered back, rearranging my suddenly massive-looking necklace. “No one saw me do it, thanks to you two. And Guardians aren’t supposed to sneer at witches anymore, remember? Plenty of us were born with both types of magic. Why not learn to use it?”

  “Because—well, it may not be against the laws of the Order anymore, but it’s not—I mean, it’s hardly what a gentleman or a lady should—”

  “Not bad,” said Alexander over the Marquess’s incoherent protests. He looked at my jewels with an assessing eye. “Did you use a real transformation spell, or only an illusion?”

  “Oh, it’s only an illusion,” I said, “but it should do the trick.” I stepped away from the shield of the two men’s bodies. “My lord, will you perform the introductions?”

  “But—but—!” The Marquess was still sputtering. “If someone notices that your jewelry has changed—”

  “Then they’ll assume I traded jewels with a much more important friend,” I finished for him briskly. “Now, if you could kindly recall our mission for a moment….?”

  Our rogue apparently preferred wealthy young ladies as his victims—and now that I’d cast my own illusion spell, I had a set of valuables on offer that looked more than tempting enough to catch a canny thief’s eye.

  “You have met the real Prince of Wales before, haven’t you?” I asked the Marquess.

  He stared at me as if I’d spoken in Spanish. “Of course I’ve met the Prince of Wales. He was a friend of my father’s.”

  “Well, of course he was,” I repeated, and caught Alexander’s eye.

  His lips twitched unmistakably.

  “I’ll stay in the background,” he said, “and follow you out.”

  “That should be entirely satisfactory,” I said, and sailed forward, dragging the stunned Marquess of Lanham with me.

  Fortunately, he seemed to have recovered himself by the time we made it through the crowd of ladies who were flocking around the Prince. They recognized Lord Lanham, too, curtsying and fluttering with new excitement—which, it suddenly occurred to me, might explain a great deal about the stiff-necked Marquess. After all, he couldn’t have been more than two-or three-and-twenty at the absolute oldest, and yet everyone in Society seemed to treat him like a demigod, only because of his title and position. If this had been going on all his life, it was hardly surprising that he didn’t possess a sense of humor.

  But that was a problem to consider later. In the meantime…

  “Your Highness.” The Marquess bowed. “May I present Miss Katherine Stephenson?”

  I sank into a curtsy so deep, it nearly took me to the floor. Belatedly, it occurred to me to hope that Stepmama couldn’t see me. If she thought I was being presented to the real Prince of Wales, she might just swoon…from horror, not excitement. My family always expected the worst from me.

  Of course, if this had been the true Prince of Wales, even I might have been a bit uneasy about the whole affair. I didn’t feel the slightest bit of trepidation about conversing with a magical felon, though, no matter whose appearance he might be wearing.

  “Your Highness,” I murmured, in my most saccharine-sweet voice. “I am deeply honored.”

  “Of course, of course.” The so-called Prince took my hand in a large, rather sweaty grip. “Too charming, my dear,” he murmured as I straightened.

  His gaze was trained exactly where I’d wanted it—on my chest. My false jewelry had done its job. Now, all I had to do was wait for him to suggest that we take a stroll around the room.

  Instead, he let go of my hand and turned to the Marquess. “So, have you heard of Brummell’s latest start?”

  The Marquess tilted his head in polite inquiry, while the group of women rustled closer. The closest, a redheaded woman just a few years older than me, with a perfectly straight nose and shockingly violet-blue eyes, gave a high-pitched giggle as she leaned toward the ‘Prince.’ “Oh, I can hardly wait to hear what the Beau’s said now! He is such a wit!”

  Their words streamed over me like a cold fountain, meaning nothing. I blinked once, then again. The so-called Prince didn’t look back at me or at my necklace.

  Why wasn’t he following his usual pattern?

  Perhaps he knew that the Marquess was familiar enough with the real prince to suspect an imposture. He could be trying to allay suspicion with a bit of plausible-sounding princely gossip before he talked me out of the room. That would make sense, I supposed.

  But if he didn’t act soon, the gong would sound for supper, and then we’d lose our chance entirely. Honestly, what kind of thief was he, to let himself be distracted by an endless discussion of fashion, of all tiresome topics?

  I looked pointedly at the Marquess. He didn’t notice.

  I cleared my throat.

  The conversation abruptly halted.

  The false Prince goggled at me so hard, his eyes positively bulged out like a frog’s. “Did you just clear your throat at us, young lady?”

  “I had a bit of dust in my mouth,” I said, and only barely restrained myself from giving an unladylike shrug.

  The other ladies tittered behind their fans as the ‘Prince’ stared at me in outright disbelief. Even the Marquess looked pale with horror at my breach in etiquette. Apparently, there were some things one didn’t do in public to a prince even if he was an obvious imposter…at least if you were entirely hidebound by convention.

  Well, if Lord Lanham wasn’t going to help organize our mission, I would simply have to manage his part myself.

  “My lord, you must tell the other ladies that terribly amusing anecdote you shared with me on the dance floor,” I said firmly. “They will be so enthralled by the hilarity of it!”

  “Ah…?” The Marquess’s pale blue eyes widened with what looked like panic as the other women all turned toward him, rustling with interest.

  I left him to discover his own well-hidden powers of creativity as I sidled closer to the ‘Prince.’

  “I do beg your pardon for my rudeness, Your Highness,” I murmured, batting my eyelashes as rapidly as I could. “Won’t you please forgive me?”

  I’d never tried to bat my eyelashes coquettishly before. It made me feel rather dizzy.

  “Er…” The ‘Prince’ coughed. “Of course, of course. But…” He reached up to tug at his cravat. I could smell his sweat even underneath the overpowering stench of cologne. “I don’t believe I recall your family, Miss…”

  “Stephenson,” I supplied, smiling winningly. “Perhaps we could find some better place to talk? More privately?”

  “I say!” The false Prince’s eyes bulged more alarmingly than ever. “Well, that’s a dashed good notion, I must say.”

  Aha. I knew it! I slipped my hand into his arm…

  Just as the dinner gong sounded behind me.

  “Well, dash it!” The ‘Prince’ let out a hefty sigh that ruffled the net overlay of my gown. “No time for such pleasures after all, my dear—I’m meant to be off now to the Devonshires’ little ‘do.’ I wasn’t meant to be here at all tonight, you know, I only stopped by to try to catch sight of a friend, but now…well, what rotten luck, indeed. Perhaps another time, Miss Stephenson…”

  He tugged his arm away, turning toward the door.

  Discretion be damned.

  The Marquess had been no help, and Mr. Packenham was worse than useless. I was not going to let our mission be ruined simply to save the Order’s sense of propriety! I set my teeth together, sought for that glittering thread of witchcraft in the air…

  …And snapped it.

  “Oh!” The redheaded young lady who’d been closest to the Marquess threw her hands to her face.

  “Mrs. Montrose?”

  “I say, are you quite all right?”

  “Philippa?”

  “I’m fine,” she mumbled from behind her hands. “I just…I
need…” Without uncovering her face, she lurched away and barged through the crowd in the direction of the ladies’ retiring room.

  The man beside me said, “Do you know, I’ve had a second thought. Why should I go to the Devonshires’, after all? Blasted tedious event it’ll be, no doubt, especially when I’ve made such a pleasant discovery here.”

  Turning back to me and seizing my hand between two sweaty palms, the very real and unmagical Prince of Wales gave me a horrifically knowing grin. “What do you say, Miss Stephenson? Shall we go find our spot for a private chat after all?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I was still gaping at His Highness, stunned speechless with horror, when Angeline appeared at my side. My older sister looked torn between fury and unholy amusement.

  “I do beg your pardon, ladies and gentlemen,” she murmured, sweeping an elegant curtsy, “but I’m afraid I absolutely must steal my younger sister for a moment.”

  Thank heavens. I smiled brilliantly. “Well, if you must…” I started to tug my hand free.

  The Prince’s hands tightened around mine, holding me trapped in place as his face crumpled into a petulant scowl, like a three-year-old deprived of a treat. “Oh, come now, surely—”

  I yanked my hand out of his grip with all my strength before he could complete any unrefusable royal requests. “Terribly sorry, Your Highness!” I trilled. As my sister’s hand closed firmly around my elbow, I bobbed a final curtsy in the gaping Prince’s direction, feeling positively lightheaded with relief. “Perhaps another time?”

  For once in my life, I was only too grateful to be carted off by an interfering older sister.

  …But only until she pulled me into the ladies’ retiring room.

  The redheaded witch who’d fled the ballroom before me, Philippa Montrose, was just finishing her repairs in front of the mirror as we arrived. The scent of burnt sugar drifted through the air, and guilt twinged sharply in my chest. I gave her as pleasant a smile as I could—really, I hadn’t meant to snap her perfectly harmless little illusion spell in public—but she turned a dusky pink at the sight of me.