Lord Merlyn's Magic

by Marcy Stewart

  Philip touched the doorknob, hesitated, then turned as if recollecting something further he’d meant to say. But instead of speaking, he lunged a powerful blow into Walters’s eye. The older man fell against the bench and clattered to the floor. The force of his impact jarred the wall, which shook the peg-footed Hepplewhite table and caused a century-old vase to shatter on the tile.

  “Do not speak to me of misfortune!” Philip spat. “You should have stopped her!”

  “Yes,” Walters agreed weakly, holding his eye and wiping the other one, which was watering in sympathy. “I should have.” He struggled to his feet, adding with real regret, “I know that now.”

  But no one heard him; he was alone. There was only the sound of the door closing and Matilda’s worried queries drifting down the stairs to keep him company.

  *

  By mid-afternoon, Abby had decided that England was too long a country. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoying looking out the carriage window at rolling countryside that grew wilder and hillier by the hour, nor that she disliked the villages and towns they skirted; it was only because she had too much time to think about what was going to happen to her. Things had moved so quickly in the past few days. The future, once such a dreary and certain prospect of marriage and continuing subjection, was now a vast unknown.

  Increasingly she found herself thinking of Julian in relation to that future. Theirs was to be a marriage of convenience which would end as soon as he judged her safe. And then what? She tried to imagine how it would feel, not seeing his face, hearing his voice or touching his hand. Despite the faint mistrust she still felt toward him and the frequent irritability of their encounters, she knew it would be a loss she would regret.

  Charlotte Ann was growing tired, too, having been jostled into saying at one point, “If I was a churn of milk, I’d be butter now.” It seemed even the turnpike roads, though better than the ones they used that morning, varied in their maintenance. Hundreds upon hundreds of turnpike trusts had come into being in the past fifty years, and the tolls were intended for the upkeep and repair of each section of road; but it was common knowledge that only half the funds were so used.

  Part of her distress was caused not by the highways, but by the rapid pace they continued to maintain. No more did they pause for meals; only the briefest of stops were allowed, wherein the ladies would hurry inside for a moment while the horses were changed. At such times, Francis would purchase some tidbit to soothe their appetites: bread, apples, cheese. Julian apologized frequently for the inconvenience and promised the return trip would be more leisurely.

  Abby accepted the tediousness of the journey without complaint. She knew Julian believed Philip would follow them. For that reason, and the lesser one of her reputation, it was paramount they have the marriage license as quickly as possible.

  But she couldn’t help wishing England weren’t so long and Scotland so far away. It seemed a shame Fleet Marriages had been prohibited. Now one must go all the way to another country to be married quickly.

  The ladies weren’t the only ones who were tired. Julian looked increasingly weary as the day wore on, as did Francis, when she made so bold as to look at him. But both refused to rest inside the coach, saying the added weight would slow down the carriage.

  Thus, the day passed, and night drew on. They finally stopped at an inn near Stoke. After a plain but filling meal of roast beef, vegetables, and peach tarts, the travelers, who had eaten together at one large table, stumbled off to their respective rooms. Abby fell asleep at once, dreaming of ivory satin wedding gowns, lace, and hands that sparked fire when they touched.

  *

  While she slept, Philip also dreamed. Once again, he and Abigail were on the stage in High Chipping, sitting side by side in the wooden chairs, the audience a mass of laughing and jeering animals all around. Hearing his name called, he looked toward the box seats and saw Harold, a set of bull’s horns above his ears and a ruff of fur beneath his chin, pointing and screaming with hilarity. Beside him sat a faded old spider he thought at first was Harold’s mother, but then saw it was Matilda, her black eyes hard and shiny as obsidian, her face almost unrecognizable floating atop eight spindly, hairy legs. As he watched, she raised one appendage and shook it at him, shouting, “You have lost her! You have lost her!” He turned hurriedly back to Abigail, but she was gone—carried off in the arms of the caped magician, her fingers draped around his neck, her lips pressed to his in a lascivious kiss, her glorious hair streaming across naked shoulders like a wanton’s; and when she lifted her head and glanced back at Philip, her dark eyes glowed with triumph.

  Hurled into wakefulness, Philip sat up on the straw-filled tick, the blood pounding in his ears like a raging river. It was some moments before he oriented himself in the dark and recognized the humble room he’d rented, the sleeping, snorting, stinking bodies of the other men he’d had to share it with sprawled in little hillocks across the floor. They had been forced together because a prizefight in the district had oversold the rooms.

  It would be a wonder did he not catch fleas or lice. A haystack would have been better, but he had been so tired and hungry that he’d been unable to resist the smell of singed pork as he passed the inn.

  He thought back over the day’s events; the persistent journey on horseback, though he was not so sure speed was of the essence-—if the magician went through with his promise to marry Abigail and had taken her all the way across the border, speed was unimportant because he couldn’t possibly catch them—and the confrontations that had brought him here, beginning with Matilda and ending with the owner of the Pendragon.

  Cyril Tankersley had not wanted to tell him the charlatan’s direction, of course. It was not the sort of information a responsible businessman meted out, particularly to someone who looked as hostile and dishevelled as Philip.

  “Even if I knew his address, which I’m not saying I do, what do you want it for?” Tankersley had asked him, leaning back in a large wing chair that looked as if it belonged in someone’s parlour; but it was in the businessman’s office near the dressing rooms. The office was as plumply overstuffed and furnished as its owner, whose gold buttons strained between the edges of his vest and threatened to pop at any moment.

  “You must have it. How else could you book his services?” When Tankersley started rambling about referral agencies, Philip thought rapidly. “He owes me a gambling debt.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” the other pronounced. “You’re only saying that. Lord Merlyn didn’t have a chance to form any bets. He was in and out of town like a bolt of lightning.”

  “How do you know? I might have known him before.”

  Tankersley squinted at him shrewdly. “Are you saying that little mentalism act was set up in advance? That he owes you for taking part? For weeks I’ve wondered how he did it.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s it,” Philip said, his fists itching to slam the self-satisfied smirk off the round face in front of him, but restraining himself, knowing he’d get nothing that way.

  “Well, well, well,” the owner said, heaving himself from the chair and moving to a cabinet behind him. “Another mystery explained. How disappointing.” He bent, retrieved a file from the cabinet, straightened with a groan, and began leafing through the pages. “I must say I’m a little surprised at you, Demere. I wouldn’t dream you’d be interested in doing something like that. I suppose times are hard all over, what?”

  He pulled a sheet from the file, wrote something on a piece of letterhead paper from the desk, replaced his copy, and dropped the folder on the tabletop. Before he handed the sheet over, he contemplated it, pursing his lips and looking suspiciously at Philip.

  “Are you certain you’re not shamming me? The more I think on it, the more I remember how angry you looked onstage that night. It was most convincing. If you were acting, you could give Kemble competition.”

  Philip had no more patience to stretch. He leaned across the desk, snatched the note from the man’s hand
, and dashed from the room. Tankersley’s outraged cries followed him through the halls and to the very threshold of the back door, which Philip slammed.

  Then he had ridden off on Pegasus, heading all day for an address in Warwickshire, near Coventry. And having nearly reached his destination, he’d paused here for the night. A mistake, admittedly, but there was no hurry unless Donberry had lied to Abigail and taken her directly to his home. Either way, the girl would no longer be the innocent he’d counted on. He gritted his teeth, visualizing the scenes that might be taking place at this very moment. His nightmare was mild in comparison to what he now imagined.

  But it couldn’t be helped. He had no hope of catching them in time. His only sensible option had been to go to Donberry’s home—the home of Lord Merlyn, rather. Philip grinned in the darkness. It was fortunate Matilda’s butler had told him of the dual identities. If he had gone to the marquess’s home in Donberry, there would doubtless be many servants to protect the man. And had the devil not been in residence, they would never have told Philip his direction. No, this was the best way. He would arrive at Lord Merlyn’s estate tomorrow. It should give him time to plan his course of action.

  However he gained her, whether married or ruined, he meant to have Abigail. Wives became widows very easily. And women who lost their virtue could regain it, after a fashion; after proper repentance and punishment.

  Abigail would be his wife yet. She belonged to him.

  *

  On the following morning, Julian awoke only when the sun was high enough to shine forcefully through the window shade of his second-story bedroom at the Green Turtle. He sat up in some confusion, ruffling his hair and yawning, his gaze raking the room’s whitewashed walls, its hunting tapestries and sturdily built furnishings, the popping fire in the fireplace, and the man sitting in the chair beside it.

  “Francis,” Julian said, sounding surprised. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly a quarter-past eight, milord,” the servant replied.

  “A quarter-past—” Julian hurriedly put his feet to the floor. Throwing off his nightshirt, he poured water from the pitcher into the basin and began washing. “This water is ice-cold. Why did you not awaken me?”

  “Milord gave no such instructions last night.”

  “Do I normally give that kind of instruction when we travel? It has always been our custom to leave shortly after daybreak, has it not?”

  “Milord is on his way to be married. Things change.”

  A smile creased the lather on the magician’s face. “Yes. Speaking of weddings, where is Abby? Has she awakened, do you know?”

  “She and her maid have breakfasted and are walking in the gardens at the back of the inn, milord.”

  Julian paused in his shaving to give the valet a curious look. “Milord, milord, milord. Why so formal?” The reflected Francis neither answered nor returned his gaze but continued staring straight ahead, his face impassive. “All right, Francis, what is wrong? Something has been bothering you for days.”

  There was a brief hesitation as the valet fought some inner battle. He took breath to speak, thought better of it and paused, then opened his mouth once more, his green eyes sparking to life.

  “Have you told her about Miss Harriet?” Francis blurted at last.

  The magician did not answer immediately but bent to rinse the remaining soap from his face, dried himself with the towel, and moved to the clothespress where the valet had neatly laid his clothing. Pulling on his shirt, he said, “No, I haven’t. What would you have me say?”

  Francis looked at him as if he had lost his senses. “You could start with what’s between you two.”

  “Oh?” His voice was cool. “And what is that, precisely?”

  “I don’t know,” Francis said resentfully. “You tell me. Many’s the night I’ve heard her crying through the walls, and the next morning her eyes are all puffy and red. ‘Tis nothing I’ve done to cause it.”

  Julian dropped his gaze. “It’s not what you think, Francis. I’ve never promised her anything.”

  Francis struggled for control but could not disguise his bitterness. “She deserves better.” His jaw moved angrily. “ ‘Tis too easy for you. Women watch you playing Lord Magic onstage and drop at your feet. Well, you can’t treat Miss Harriet like that. Not after all that’s happened.”

  Understanding dawned in the magician’s eyes. “You’re right; she does deserve better. I’m sorry, old man; all this time I’ve thought you had no patience for women. I didn’t know how you felt. I was aware you’re fond of her, of course, but—”

  “Don’t know what you mean,” Francis said rapidly, anger melting into embarrassment. Keeping his eyes averted from his master’s, he reached out and straightened milord’s collar over the fold of his cravat. “She’s too far above the likes of me.”

  “I’m not so certain. You won’t know unless you try.”

  Francis narrowed his eyes. “Now you’re making sport of me and trying to rid yourself of Miss Harriet all at once.” He pushed Julian’s fingers away from the cravat and began tying it himself. For someone who could pull noodles through a sieve, the magician was woefully inept at tying knots. “I just thought your betrothed should be told, that’s all.”

  “It has crossed my mind to do so, but how much does Abby truly need to know? I’ve told you our marriage is only one of convenience and will be ended shortly.”

  As he said the words, he felt a rift in the regions of his heart. Not to have those furious dark eyes tearing into him anymore? What kind of dull existence would that be?

  “Yes, so you’ve said, but I’ve seen the way you look at her.” Francis held out his master’s silver-embroidered waistcoat. “When you’re not shouting at her, you treat her like she’s made of eggshells.”

  Julian shrugged into the vest. “She has been through much. She deserves kindness.”

  “Miss Harriet has been through a lot, too.”

  “No one knows that better than I,” he said reproachfully, accepting the servant’s assistance into a blue superfine frock coat.

  “Yet you’re marrying a stranger. One that latched onto you quick as a hawk swallows a rat.”

  Julian’s eyes became frigid, and Francis stepped back a pace.

  “Sorry, milord. Poor choice of words.” He reached for the hairbrush, but the magician took it from his hand. Francis watched him comb his hair for a few quiet moments, then added, “What I can’t fathom is that even though you’re getting married, you’re still having bad dreams. I know you had another one last night. Was it that new one, the one you had the other day and won’t tell me about?”

  Julian’s stomach muscles clenched together. As much to convince himself as Francis, he said, “I just—I keep seeing her in danger, that’s all. The wedding alone won’t save her; it only provides me with a means of helping her without causing scandal. Demere is a determined man. We shall have to wait and see what transpires.”

  He dropped his eyes, unwilling for Francis to see the lies within them.

  “Well, if he strikes, he’s likely to find you too weary to fight back, resting no more than you do,” growled the valet. “ ‘Tis why I let you sleep late this morning, if the truth be known.”

  Julian clapped him on the back and led him to the door. “You’re a good servant and an even better friend, but we had best get on our way.” Forcing heartiness into his tone, he added, “Tomorrow is my wedding day!”

  *

  While Julian and Abby made their way north, Philip ate bacon and stale bread in a coffeehouse in Coventry. He gave little thought to the food or the noisy crowd of dirty farmers surrounding him. His mind was given over to the success of so easily finding the magician’s residence, if the words of an old man with leathered skin and pouches under his eyes proved correct.

  “Oyer, the wizard’s ‘ouse,” the old man had wheezed. Uninvited, he had come to sit opposite Philip, and his nose dripped like a drainage spout. “ ‘Ee keeps to ‘isself about five
miles out. Nice place; uster live out that way mesel’ afore I ran off to me life in the infantry.” And then he launched into tales of old glory. Philip silenced him with a bottle of gin and stood. But while he pulled on his overcoat, the old-timer sneezed directly in his face, an action that disgusted him so much he seized the bottle and crashed it against the wall. He left in a hurry after that; the looks on the farmers’ faces were none too friendly.

  Now he reined Pegasus off the main road onto the private lane that led to several estates, including Donberry’s. When he arrived at the one with Avilion Place worked in iron at the top of the entrance gate, he peered through the bars and saw a Georgian house half-hidden behind spreading oaks. There was no gatehouse, but many trees; a virtual forest between the stone wall and the manicured garden surrounding the manse. Ample places to hide, if he could get past that gate and its lock.

  He studied the grounds for a few moments; then, fearful someone would see him lurking about, moved on. About a mile down the lane, the trees thickened on either side. Philip led Pegasus deep into a thicket, tied the horse’s reins around a tree trunk—he knew he could not trust the stupid beast to stay put—and retraced his steps.

  Coming again to the walls of Avilion Place, he judged himself well away from the house and beside Donberry’s forest. Taking a great leap, he tried to surmount the wall, but though he dug his fingers and boots into the stone, he could not hold on. Sliding down with bloody fingernails, bruised shins, and muttered curses, he looked around for something to stand on. There was nothing, but there were trees. He saw an oak farther down that hung over the wall and headed for it. In less than a minute he’d climbed the tree and dropped over the side.

  Except for the fussing of meadow pippits and starlings, it was quiet in the woods. He would have to be quiet as well, for this was no wild forest but a well-groomed stand of trees; Donberry must have an army of gardeners to keep the undergrowth clear.

  Philip felt another stab of envy. The villain possessed not only Abigail, but wealth, too. But not for long. Shortly, he would have nothing.