Lord Merlyn's Magic

by Marcy Stewart

  “Please, Miss Lyons. Wait.”

  She stopped. The teasing look had fallen from his face. He looked suddenly vulnerable, and something within her responded despite herself. Still, he must be playing a game with her. She tensed and moved her eyes back and forth, searching for a means of escape.

  He released her. “I won’t force you to stay, but I beg you to remain a few moments. Allow me to begin again. I thought bringing the sideshow was a romantic way to be introduced, that rescuing your reticule might make you regard me in a kindly light. I hoped you would become interested in Julian Donberry, for I feared our initial contact might prejudice you against me. Will you let me explain?”

  “You brought the circus to town in order to meet me?” asked Abby, who had absorbed little beyond that statement.

  He looked sheepish. “Well, some of the performers are my relatives, and they were touring nearby anyway. Knowing what I do about your interest in such matters, I was certain you would attend.”

  She stared at him in disbelief. “I have never heard such nonsense. And what does any of it have to do with your proposing marriage?”

  “I am trying to explain, Miss Lyons.” He paused, calming himself. When he noted her furious eyes, he continued hurriedly, “I should begin by telling you my real name is Julian Donberry. I’m the fifth son of the Marquess of Donberry. Lord Merlyn is the stage name I have assumed to avoid embarrassing my family. That is also the reason I wear the domino when I am associated with my role.”

  “Your father is a marquess, and yet you have relatives in the circus?” she asked scornfully. His story was as full of holes as a beehive.

  “My mother was a Gypsy.” His eyes bored into hers as if daring her to say something about that.

  Knowing how tender one could feel toward one’s mother, she chose not to dispute him. What she doubted was the story about his father, whom she suspected had probably been a clown.

  “Why would a marquess’s son need to work as a magician?” she challenged.

  “I had to earn my living somehow. My family and I are … estranged.”

  She could almost hear Philip saying, How convenient. Evidently, he had been right about Lord Merlyn all along. Disappointment flooded her. “I daresay your taking to the stage has not improved your estrangement any,” she snapped.

  He eyed her warily. “To speak the truth, I’m not sure that they know. I left home over ten years ago and have never been back. Very few people know that Lord Merlyn is really Julian Donberry.”

  “And yet you have told me, a stranger.” Was there no end to his lies?

  “Yes, I have told you.” He sighed. “There is a reason.” A hopelessness came into his voice, as if he knew she would not believe him but had to go on anyway. “This is difficult. I’m a little afraid you will think I’m mad.”

  “Oh, I do not think it,” she said with a humorless little laugh.

  He gave her the briefest of glances through his lashes, then dropped his gaze to the brim of his hat. He turned it restlessly in his hands and took a quick breath.

  “For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a certain … ability.”

  For the first time, Abby noted the shadows beneath his eyes. There was a haunted quality in his expression, too, that plowed through her skepticism and made her feel more sympathetic. She would have to guard against it.

  “An ability that allows you to find lost necklaces?” she asked, her fingers clutching at her locket.

  “Among other things.” He saw the necklace and smiled.

  His claim excited her, but she was not to be won over so easily. Philip had told her she was childish enough to believe anything. “I have heard it said that such accomplishments can be … staged.”

  A slight edge came into his voice. “How do you think I knew about your locket? Do you imagine I sent my servant to your house and had him hide it before I even knew you or suspected you would attend the performance?”

  “There is no reason to be sarcastic. I have not said I don’t believe you.” After an instant, she added, “I have not said I do, either.”

  He gave the wagon wheel a bitter look. “Well, you wouldn’t be the first who did not.”

  Her chin rose, and she regarded him thoughtfully through her lashes. “If you are who and what you say, there is an easy way to resolve this. Tell me what I am thinking.”

  His eyes hardened to stone. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  She gave him a skeptical look. “I thought not.”

  “Allow me to explain how it does work.”

  “Oh, pray do; I shall not stop you.”

  He inhaled quickly. “I cannot guess your thoughts. Occasionally I have dreams that warn me of future events, and sometimes vague feelings. But ordinarily, I must touch a person or something he or she owns before I can sense anything. Even then I often receive jumbled images—bits and pieces of the day’s activities that are meaningless. Sometimes I get absolutely nothing.” His gaze fastened on hers. “And, now and then, I catch a glimpse of that person’s future.”

  Pressure began to build inside Abby’s head. She could not mistake his meaning. “Is that why you’ve come? You saw something in my future when you held my hand on the stage?”

  He nodded slowly.

  She swallowed. Even though she knew he was probably lying, a superstitious chill swept across the back of her neck. “Something … terrible?”

  A burst of laughter and applause came from the other side of the wagon. A mime ran around the corner, saw them, and brushed past Abby to enter the caravan without comment. The magician put on his hat, tilted his head, and offered an arm. “Walk with me awhile?”

  Abby displayed a token hesitation, but nothing would have prevented her from hearing the rest of his story now. Even if it was untrue, she had to know how it came out. She accepted his escort, and they began to pace along the outside edge of the wagons.

  As he spoke, he kept his gaze centered on the path ahead. “I saw two different futures. One was when I touched you. The other was from Demere.”

  Abby waited, her eyes never wavering from his face. She found it frightening that he remembered her name and Philip’s after so brief an acquaintance weeks ago.

  “When I shook Demere’s hand, I saw a series of images. I watched the two of you on your wedding day, then on later occasions.” The magician’s unencumbered hand rolled into a fist. “I must be brutally frank. I saw him hurting you. Many times. Even after you were in a delicate condition. During childbirth, you … died.”

  If he was making this up, he was a monster. “What—what happened to the baby?”

  “Also dead. I observed your funeral, then watched Demere return to his house. Things began to decay after that; the estate deteriorated, as did Demere, until he put a pistol to his head.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment. Her own misgivings about Philip had never gone this far. It was an impossibly bad future. She would humor the magician, play along until his awful prophecies were finished and she could banish him from her life forever.

  “You said you saw two futures. Hopefully the other is better, for I do not like this one.”

  “Nor do I,” he said, dropping his gaze. “In the second future, the one I read when I touched you, we were wed.”

  There was a brief silence while a rush of anger swept from Abby’s head to her toes. What was he about? Did he think she was an heiress? If so, he had been faulty in his research, for she had nothing. Or was this simply an unusual approach to seduce foolish young ladies?

  “That is very interesting.” Her voice sounded falsely enthusiastic, even to her ears. “Now, when you saw this second future … was it more satisfactory?”

  Hearing the disbelief behind her words, he gave her a searching look. “You have to understand something. I can never see my own future except when it is in relationship to someone else’s, if I am involved in some way. I saw you being married through the perspective of my own eyes. This ring was on your finger.” He raised his
little finger to display a ring of gold filigree. “After that, the images became vague.”

  “But you believe my marrying you would provide a brighter future for me.”

  He began to speak rapidly. “It could hardly be worse. I assure you I will never harm you. I know it’s unusual for strangers to wed, but not unheard of. What I am proposing is a marriage in name only, one that we may annul later, once the danger to you is past.”

  She was so incensed she could hardly breathe. Releasing his arm, she stepped away from him. “Do you think I am a complete imbecile?”

  His face was a study in shock, as if he had not considered the possibility she would not believe every word he said. “I beg your pardon?”

  “How can you imagine I would accept such a story?”

  “But, your locket is surely some proof—”

  “I’ll thank you not to speak of my jewelry again. No, I don’t know how you did it, but I am certain you could find a way. You are an excellent magician; that much I will admit.”

  “Thank you for your kind words.” Tugging the hat off his head, he came to stand only inches away from her. Using the hat to punctuate his speech, he said curtly, “If I’ve failed to convince you of the truth, perhaps you will be so kind as to explain why you think I have made this unusual offer?”

  In his wrath, the blue of his eyes had intensified. Abby felt as if he were shining a light into her soul. “I—I don’t know. The only thing I am certain of is that gentlemen do not propose marriage to strange ladies!”

  She heard her words and blushed. To dispel the sudden spark of humor in his eyes, she blurted, “Not that I am … oh, you understand my meaning. If you truly had these visions as you said, why should marriage be necessary? I was already considering rejecting Philip’s proposal. Now that you have told me of your premonitions, even though I’m not sure of their accuracy, I shall take them as confirmation. I won’t marry him. There. Now you may go; you have done your duty.”

  “So, he has already made an offer.” Shadows came into his eyes. “It’s not so simple. I believe the futures I saw were the only two possibilities. If you don’t wed me, somehow you will, either by your own decision or by force, marry him.”

  “You are trying to frighten me. It would be simpler for me to go to a city where I can find a position and start a new life. I am penniless, you should know. Not an heiress. If you had thought to receive a fortune by marrying, you have made a grave mistake in asking me.”

  Ribbons of color rushed into his cheeks. “I am not interested in marrying an heiress. If I were, I could have done so a dozen times by now—”

  “And it is remarkably gentlemanly of you to mention it,” someone cried, and Abby looked astonished when she discovered it was herself.

  For an instant he appeared as if he might ignite, but he called upon something calm within himself and continued in a softer voice, “The evidence of my life argues against your leaving on your own. If such were a possibility, I should have seen it when I touched your hand. No, I cannot help thinking therein would lie disaster. Demere would find you, and the other future I foresaw would come to pass.”

  His tone softened her anger a little, but she shook her head stubbornly. “Even if what you say is true, I cannot understand your willingness to do this. Surely mine isn’t the first bad future you’ve foreseen. Do you make a practice of rescuing people?”

  “I am not so generous,” he said quietly. A starling landed near their feet, and he watched it solemnly as it pecked at the ground and flew away. “I no longer allow myself to know more than anyone else.” He gave her a sideways glance. “You and Demere were the first exceptions to that in years.

  “Even then, even after I read your companion’s future, I might have done nothing, though I was in horror for you. But when I touched you, everything changed because I was involved. The visions are just as strong as they were that first night, and they won’t go away. I see them every time I close my eyes.”

  He passed a hand across his face. “If you won’t allow me to help, I shall go mad.”

  “That is a line worthy of your melodrama with Hilda on the stage,” she said, alarmed and rattled by the past moments.

  He appeared stung beyond the limits of his endurance. “God save me, I had not dreamed I was proposing to a shrew!”

  “Do not trouble yourself, my lord,” she said, her voice trembling. “This shrew will not hold you to it!”

  The heat of their words throbbed in the air between them. Whirling around, Abby strode away and plunged into the crowd. She thought he might follow, but he did not.

  Chapter 4

  During the next days, Abby sank lower and lower into a morass of gloom. She relived the scene behind the wagons with Lord Merlyn—Lord Julian—repeatedly in her mind. There were a dozen ways she could have acted differently, and every scenario had a better outcome.

  She had been foolish to throw away a chance to leave Sharonfield. Had she spoken with more civility, perhaps she could have persuaded the magician to take her to another city without marrying her. She would like to go to London. There were many opportunities there. Perhaps she could become a zookeeper. She had always wanted to see the bears.

  But she had reacted with more wrath than she knew she possessed. She had never spoken so freely and angrily to anyone in her life. It had been … exhilarating.

  Of course, her initial suspicions had probably been correct. He must be either insane or a trickster of some kind. Perhaps he sold young Englishwomen to Arabian sheikhs. Why he would go to such lengths to deceive her, however, she could not imagine.

  She should not have been so hasty. Surely, he was not so bad as Philip. But now her opportunity was gone. Her spirits fell a little darker every day.

  On the third afternoon following her encounter with the magician, Abby returned from a long, dismal walk to find Walters in a disturbed mood. She was eager for any diversion and felt an immediate stirring of interest.

  “There is a visitor for you in the parlour, miss,” he said in formal tones, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “He’s already been up to see your grandmother, and she’s all in a dither. Wouldn’t take himself off ‘til he visited you, too. According to him, he’s a friend of your mother’s family. Says he’s the son of the Marquess of Donberry.”

  Her depression lifted at once. She was surprised to feel an almost affectionate burst of humour at Lord Julian’s fiction about knowing her mother. Was he incapable of telling the truth? Though if he did, he would not be received here.

  After Walters helped her remove her cloak and bonnet, he ushered her into the parlour. The magician rose to his feet immediately, a beseeching expression on his face. She smiled more warmly than she had intended and pretended to be meeting him for the first time.

  As soon as Walters introduced them and moved out of sight, Julian suggested they stroll about the grounds for a while.

  “Of course,” she heard herself say. In her relief to see him again—well, not to see him precisely, it was merely the opportunity of escape he represented-—her mind had gone shockingly blank. Had he asked her to leap across the garden on her hands, she wouldn’t have had the presence of mind to refuse.

  She turned and led the way past a disapproving Walters, who had stationed himself against the wall outside the parlour. Moving stiffly, he distributed hats and coats and held the door for them while they exited.

  The outside air was sharp with the smell of burning leaves; the shadows were growing long and the temperature falling. Abby did not feel the cold, would not have felt it even if she’d left her cloak inside.

  Now that they were alone, she drew breath to speak, but the magician said quickly, “A moment, please,” then offered his arm and escorted her down the stairs and along the narrow, flagstoned pathway that led past the orchards. When they were some distance from the house, he started to speak, then paused as a lad carrying a bucket and a rake crossed their path.

  “Is there a place where we can talk priva
tely?”

  Swallowing her impatience, Abby nodded and led him to the back garden, where stone benches were placed among a profusion of goatsbeard, cornflowers, kiss-me-quicks, and Welsh poppies. They sat on a bench allowing a prospect of both the house and the apple trees.

  He removed his hat and placed it on the bench between them. “Thank you for seeing me. I was afraid you might have me thrown out head-first.”

  Intent upon remaining inoffensive this time, she folded her hands in her lap and appeared to contemplate them. “Upon reflection, I believe I spoke too harshly to you the other day.”

  He cleared his throat. “Yes. I rather thought so too, if you’ll forgive my saying so. I hoped you would see reason after a few days.”

  Turning her head slowly to look at him, she said, “You were rather rude yourself. No one has ever called me a shrew before.”

  He chuckled. “I have not come to fight with you again, Miss Lyons. I do apologize for that unfortunate remark.”

  Her wrath, so easily called forth of late, eased. She glanced back at her hands. “Why have you come?”

  “I’m here to renew my offer one final time. If you refuse me again, I shall go away, I promise. But please—allow me to speak first.”

  In her most world-weary voice, she granted him permission to speak; but she could not restrain the spark of hope that flew into her eyes.

  He must have seen it, for his smile was dazzling. She had to look away from it to catch her breath. “I can understand your distrust concerning my ability. Most people who learn of it either regard me as a charlatan or a lunatic. I have even been accused of practicing the devil’s arts.”

  “The devil’s—surely you jest?”

  “I wish I could say so.” His expression turned grim. “The first time it happened, I was three or four years old. I had a vision of the roof collapsing on my nursemaid’s home. When she said she planned to join her family at the cottage on her off-day, I made a terrible row. To satisfy me, she stayed. Not because she believed me, mind.”