“Are you certain, Sophia?” he asked. “You don’t think I’ll disturb him?”
She pressed his hands and swallowed hard. “I’m afraid we’re past worrying about disturbances.”
He flinched. “Do not say so.”
“Pray God I’m wrong,” she said, her breath catching on a sob, “but I fear I’m going to lose him.”
He pulled her into another embrace. After a moment she broke away and patted his arm. “Allow me to prepare him for your visit. Be careful not to betray your shock when you see him.”
While she disappeared into the bedroom, he waited impatiently, ignoring the irritated glances of the valet. Less than a minute later, a weak, masculine voice called his name. He hurried forward. And was nearly undone despite Sophia’s warning.
His brother Carl had been the tallest and strongest one of them all. Now his body scarcely lifted the bedcovers. His skin, deathly pale, hung loosely over his bones; his eyes were lifeless sapphires buried in rock. Yet he smiled at the sight of his youngest brother, and one hand struggled from the covers to reach toward him.
Julian clasped it immediately and sat on the edge of the bed. In a rush of affection, he brought the hand to his chest. The years dissolved. He saw Carl leading him on his first pony. Teaching him to play whist. Defending him against his other brothers. And then, unbidden: forcing him into his father’s study, believing he had murdered Christine, trusting Michael instead of him.
He dismissed the thought, concentrated instead on his brother’s hand and what it might reveal. To his relief, a vision seemed to be forthcoming. His heart began to race. Carl, Sophia, and the familiar old furnishings of the room faded until he could see only darkness. In the center of the darkness, a hazy light dawned; forms moved and took shape. He watched the images for an unknown length of time.
Gradually he became aware that Carl was speaking to him, had been calling his name repeatedly in a breathless voice. Swallowing his disappointment—for he’d only received forebodings of death, concerns for Sophia, and nothing about Michael—he released Carl’s hand, which had begun to flutter in his like a butterfly seeking freedom.
“Still as fey as ever,” Lord Donberry whispered, his alarm fading now that Julian had finished.
“I’m sorry.” He considered fabricating an explanation, but decided against it. “There was a small hope I’d find the reason for your illness.”
“And did you?” Sophia asked anxiously, sitting on the edge of her chair.
“No. He is too full of love for you to think of anything else.”
To his dismay, she buried her face in her handkerchief and wept.
Lord Donberry laughed weakly. “There, there, darling. It’s a good thing for me he said so. What if he’d found I was thinking of some old love or one of my mistresses? Then you would have real cause for weeping.”
Her shoulders shook, but she did not lift her head. “You have no old loves or mistresses,” she mumbled into the cloth. “You have never loved anyone but me.”
Lifting his shoulders in a tiny shrug, the marquess winked at his brother. “She is never wrong.” Suddenly, his face twisted in pain. When the spasm passed, he took several shallow breaths. “Thank God you’re here, Julian. If anything happens to me, I want you to help Sophia. Michael is not capable. He grows … he grows more erratic with every passing day.”
Julian spoke carefully “I have no wish to upset you, but I must ask the question. Do you think Michael played any part in Seth’s or Edmond’s deaths?”
Blotches of color appeared on the marquess’s cheeks. “I’ve heard the rumours. I’m also aware there are those who think my sickness is attributable to him. I refuse to entertain such notions. I know he’s unstable, but his violent tendencies have never run toward the family.” He stopped as another wave of pain assaulted him, then gasped, “I can’t believe it of him now.”
Lady Donberry stroked her husband’s arm, her face mirroring his pain. “Do not forget Nina, my love.”
“He has never hurt her,” the marquess rasped.
“Perhaps not physically, but the poor woman is so browbeaten she’s afraid to venture from her room.”
Lord Donberry moved his head on the pillow. “I don’t wish to discuss Michael. My youngest… and dearest… brother is here at last.” He extended his hand a second time, and Julian again seized it. The marquess laughed faintly. “Promise not to tell my fortune anymore. You frighten me when you do. Always did. For a long time, I thought you were the mad one, not Michael. Time has proved otherwise.” He moistened his lips, and his eyes became damp. “I beg God every night He will forgive me for believing the wrong brother so long ago. I beg that you will. Have you … have you come to forgive me before I die, Julian?”
“You are not going to die,” the magician said fiercely. “I won’t let you.”
“When you are as old as I am you’ll realize how very little control we have over our destiny.”
“You’re not old, Carl. But to answer your question, of course I forgive you.” He loosened his brother’s hand and lowered it to the blankets. “But I must know something.” Unwilling to tire his brother further, he hesitated. Yet there might not be another opportunity. “If you—if you came to believe me after Christine’s death … why did you never contact me?”
Lord Donberry lowered his lashes. When he looked at Julian again, his eyes were haunted with guilt. “Because in matters dealing with Father, I lacked courage. Sophia and I had to live here with him. Had we gone against his wishes …”
“He would have made life difficult,” Julian finished.
“Impossible is a better word,” added Lady Donberry.
The magician sat quietly a moment, wishing his brother had communicated with him anyway. How different the past ten years would have been. How free of bitterness.
The marchioness saw his distress. “Carl did what he could. Who do you think arranged matters for your first performances as a magician? Didn’t you think it odd so many houses were willing to book an unknown young performer?”
Julian’s expression lightened dramatically. “You? You booked them for me, Carl?”
Smiling crookedly, Lord Donberry said, “Don’t make too much of it. You must be good at what you do; otherwise, no amount of wrangling could have procured the bookings that followed. I only opened the door.”
Julian could think of no words that would express his feelings without maudlin sentimentality. He locked gazes with the marquess and smiled. Somewhere within his heart, gaping old wounds began to knit together.
He shifted his weight slightly on the bed, taking care not to unsettle his brother. “The last few moments alone have made my journey worthwhile; but I’ve come for another reason, and that is to help you. I know you don’t want to discuss Michael’s hand in your illness, so we will leave him out of the discussion. Yet I understand your symptoms could be attributed to poison. Can you think of something only you have drunk, or eaten, that might have caused your illness?”
“No, there is nothing. You sound like my wife.” He turned his head weakly. “Did you ask Julian to come? Speak truth, now; I won’t be angry.”
Lady Donberry denied doing so. “Though I wish I had, long ago,” she added. “Had Julian been part of our lives, perhaps none of this would have happened.”
“It was Calvin O’Reilly who wrote,” Julian said.
The marquess grunted. “I should have known. When I first became ill, he asked me the same question. We went over the list of things I ate and came up with nothing that only I ingested.”
“Nevertheless, it would be wise if Sophia monitors everything you eat or drink from this time forward.”
“That I will do,” she said, her eyes wide and worried.
Lord Donberry made a dissenting motion with his hands. “You should know the physician says my disease could be caused by a number of things.”
“Dr. Stalworthy does not know everything,” Lady Donberry pronounced. She rose and straightened the fro
nt of her skirt. “You are growing weaker every moment, dearest. We should leave him for a while, Julian. He will never rest so long as you are here.”
Julian stood and reluctantly took his leave. The marchioness accompanied him to the anteroom, her control slipping as soon as the bedroom door closed behind them. “What think you, Julian? Do you suppose there is any chance he will recover?”
Whatever he might have said was lost as sounds of a dispute in the corridor brought them both to the hall door. Julian was surprised to find Charlotte Ann arguing with the footman and valet much as he had done a half-hour before. When she saw him, her solemn eyes brightened.
“Oh, milord, she’s gone. Lady Abby’s gone, and expecting me to join her. I wish you’d bring her back because I can’t, and no good is going to come from two females on their own without money.” After a brief, conscience-stricken pause, she added, “Or without much money.”
Julian bid the curious marchioness adieu and hurried Charlotte Ann toward the stairs. After learning Abby’s direction, he ordered the maid to return to her room and ran for the stables, shouting for a gig to be brought. He watched the stableboy shuffle off to do his bidding, then impatiently began to assist.
When he finally set off, he had to set a slower pace than he liked, because the gig had an annoying tendency to become bogged in the mud that streaked the gravel road. But it was all right; with a clanging of emotions, he saw Abby’s hooded figure in the watery distance. She would not get away, no matter how determined her step, nor how wrathful her heart.
Her escape struck him with compassion and regret. What had he done now to cause her to run away from him? He longed to hold her until their uncanny rapport filled them both with mutual understanding. But it was impossible.
Hearing his approach, she turned suddenly. Her mouth formed an angry circle of surprise, and to his exasperation she began to run. For an instant he imagined riding alongside her, reaching down and scooping her up like a knight rescuing a maiden. Their bodies would melt together on the seat and …
Ridiculous. The gig would overtip and land them in the mud.
When he was within ten paces of her fleeing figure, he pulled the horse to a stop, jumped from the gig and ran after her. She was no match for him with her shorter legs and narrow gown. When he caught her, he tried to spin her around to face him; but to his shock, she fought like a hell-cat, her fists pounding his shoulders and chest rapidly yet harmlessly, her face contorting into a mask of frustrated rage.
“Release me at once!” she screamed. “Do not touch me, you devil!”
He dropped his hands and stepped back. She froze for an instant as though not believing her good fortune, then spun about and resumed running. For several seconds he watched in bafflement. When he caught her the second time, she dragged her arms downward, trying to slide from his grip. She nearly succeeded in plunging them both into the mud, but he caught his balance in time and pulled her back onto the road.
“Stop it, Abby!” he cried.
“Unhand me and I will!”
“I’ll release you if you promise to stand and tell me what has disturbed you enough to run off like a child!” Water drained into his eyes. “And in the rain, too. Have you lost your senses?”
“No! I have become sane for the first time in my life!” She glared at him with undisguised hatred, her body shaking with rage. Her gaze dropped scornfully to the hands clutching her arms. In a calmer, chilly voice she said, “If you were anything of the gentleman you’ve claimed to be, you would let me go. Since you are not, you have my word I will not run—for the present time, at least. But I give you fair warning I will not stay with you at the castle.”
He pounced upon the only part of her speech that made sense to him. “Do you mind the castle so much, then? I did not realize. We can remove to an inn. There is a small one nearby.”
“It is not the castle which bothers me; it’s the people within it.”
“Meaning me, of course. What’s wrong, Abby?” His voice softened as he dropped his hold on her. “What has happened? I know you have been upset for several days now, and much of that is my fault. But you haven’t tried to run away before. What has changed?”
His tone gentled her somewhat, but her eyes continued to move with restless, despairing energy. “What has changed?” she asked hollowly. “Only everything.”
He looked at her sadly. “Everything, Abby?”
She turned and moved a few paces away, startling him into thinking she intended flight again. But she only crossed her arms and gazed at the sodden fields. He had the impression she did not see them, that she was far away in some terrible landscape of her own.
“I trusted you more than I ever trusted anyone,” she said finally, her voice breaking on a sob. “And now I’ve found that trust was misplaced. What is more, you know the reason for it and are pretending ignorance.”
Beneath the indignation, the brittleness of her words, he sensed a vast emptiness and loss. Julian felt a gulf open inside his chest. The pain of it was deep, far deeper than the megrim tearing through his forehead.
“This is about Harriet and Colleen, isn’t it?” he asked quietly. His question brought a startled look from her, a look she quickly masked. Taking this as confirmation, he nodded. “I have done you an injustice. I’ve let you think Harry is my mistress, and Colleen my child.” She shot him a vicious glance, and he flinched. “I had my reasons for doing so, but I can see nothing justifies the hurt I’ve caused you.”
He approached tentatively, but she shifted away and he stopped. “Colleen is not my child, Abby. She is Michael’s.”
Instead of greeting this news with surprise and relief as he’d hoped, she looked at him with disdain. When she spoke, her words were heavy with contempt.
“How do you know?”
He felt the blood drain from his cheeks. The hammers in his head pounded with greater fierceness. Rain dripped down his face like tears.
“And what is the meaning of that question?” he asked coldly.
“You know perfectly well that I am referring to … oh, I cannot say it.” She covered her face with her hands, then lowered them angrily. “Don’t bother pretending you don’t know. I am referring of course to the ungodly manner in which you … you and your brother … carried on with Harriet.”
For a long space of time he regarded her silently. Something in his face startled her, but still she did not speak, nor did he. And then, with surprising suddenness, he turned and began walking back to the gig.
After an instant’s pause, she ran after him.
“You have nothing to say to that, do you?” she hurled, breathless in her attempt to match his steps. “Now your easy explanations have ceased!”
“There is nothing I can say,” he replied angrily. “You have been listening to Michael, with whom you’ve been acquainted for only two hours and already know to be a murderous liar. Anyone willing to accept the word of a stranger over that of someone she’s known much longer and has, one would hope, more reason to trust—anyone like that is beyond hearing reason.
“But it does not matter,” he added with growing venom. “Such has happened to me before, and with those who have more cause than you to trust me. Michael has a way about him of inspiring belief. No matter how mad his ravings, there is always the ring of truth to what he says. And when I try to justify myself, I sound like a naughty child offering pathetic excuses.”
They had reached the gig. He started to climb aboard, then looked at her inquiringly. She appeared to debate a moment, then put out her hand. He assisted her to the seat and joined her.
“I’m willing to listen to your justifications,” she said in a small voice.
He turned the gig about and drove awhile before answering.
When his words came, they were clipped and spoken without emotion.
“I’ve known Harry all my life. All of us have. Her father was the village vicar. She and I were close in age, but our paths crossed infrequently; Harry was a rathe
r gawky-looking girl and attracted no one’s notice. Yet on several occasions we had interesting conversations. She made an excellent audience for my magic tricks, and I taught her a few illusions. That was how things stood when I was thrown out. I neither heard nor thought about her again until three years later, when she came to me backstage after a performance seeking help.”
He pushed a lock of wet hair from his eyes. “When she told me what had happened to her, I could not refuse to offer my assistance. She was destitute. And like me, a victim of Michael.”
A frown etched little lines beneath his eyes. “She was not a woman of loose morals, Abby. As she matured into a beauty, my brother became attracted. She had no interest in a married man and spurned his attentions. Michael was furious. He forced himself upon her. To make a bad matter worse, after it became apparent she was increasing, her father threw her from the house in shame.
“Harry sought help from Michael, but he laughed and denied siring the child. After she threatened to go to his wife, he relented and arranged for one of the footmen to marry her. Harry felt she had no choice; she married. But her new husband was disgusted with what he called damaged goods. He ran off with the small settlement Michael gave them. When Harry made a fresh appeal to my brother, he had her removed from the castle forcibly.
“She drifted about after that, trying to find a position that would allow her to keep the child with her. It was only by chance she saw my lithograph and attended the performance. When I saw Colleen, I realized at once the babe was part of my family. I could not deny Harry what she needed to exist.
“Eventually she was able to earn her wages by serving as my assistant. It has been a fortunate arrangement for us both.”
He clamped his lips together, darted the briefest glance at her, then turned his attention back to the road.
They were drawing closer to the castle, but the horse was very slow in the rain. The saturated animal put one hoof in front of the other in apparent misery. Abby rested her eyes on the beast, looking as miserable as he did.
Lord Merlyn's Magic Page 19
