Lord Merlyn's Magic

by Marcy Stewart

  “Do you know, I am no longer hungry,” she said. “Would you excuse me? I think I’ll make an early night of it.”

  Nina looked up from her dish. “I hope Michael hasn’t upset you. It is only his way.”

  “Er—no, of course not.” Abby could scarcely control her features at the woman’s complacency.

  “I know what will make you feel better. I have a bottle of one of my father’s finest bordeaux in my room. Why don’t we share a glass before you retire?”

  The last thing she wanted was to spend time alone with this strange woman, but there was no graceful way out. “Thank you, Nina,” she said. “That sounds delightful.”

  *

  When Julian rushed into the marquess’s bedchamber, he found the valet serving dishes of salmon to his brother and sister-in-law at a table pulled near the window. The sight of Carl sitting apart from his bed struck him with joy, but he was surprised to see no sign of Michael.

  “He hasn’t been here,” Lord Donberry told him, looking puzzled.

  “Perhaps he changed his mind when he discovered I meant to accompany him. He insisted on seeing you alone, and I find that disturbing.”

  “As do I,” Lady Donberry said. “There’s no denying how much better Carl has become since you’ve joined Michael on every visit.”

  “That’s because I’m tough as old boots,” the marquess said gruffly, “My recovery has nothing to do with Julian stopping Michael from killing me, which I still maintain is a preposterous notion.”

  “Well, whatever the reason for it, I’m glad of your continued recovery.” Julian straightened his waistcoat and glanced at their plates wistfully. “I suppose I’d better leave you to your dinner. I’ve abandoned the ladies downstairs.”

  “Oh, don’t go, m’boy. Stay awhile. Sophia is growing tired of my solitary company anyway.”

  After giving her husband a mild look, she turned to Julian. “He’s absolutely right. The two of us are fighting like cats and dogs. Do stay, dear, and give my tired eyes and ears a rest from his incessant complaining.”

  Lord Donberry slapped his thigh and snorted. “Pull up a chair, Julian, I command it!”

  He complied easily enough. It was good to spend time with his family, or what was left of it. His relationship with Carl had evolved beyond what it had been on the best days of the past. Julian reveled in the ease of their companionship. The old resentments were fading away.

  They chatted for some minutes on matters regarding the estate and the steward’s plans for alternating crops. When the marquess noticed Julian staring longingly at the second remove—roast chicken and stuffing—he ordered the valet to bring another plate.

  “Do you know what I’m thinking would be excellent with this fowl?” Lord Donberry demanded of the servant after he had served Julian. “That little bordeaux Nina sent up from her father’s orchard. ‘D’you remember, Pike? She brought a couple of bottles and we broke one open shortly before I became ill. I haven’t thought of it since. Go fetch the unopened one, won’t you?”

  Pike moved hesitantly toward the anteroom. “In the cellars, is it, my lord?”

  “Well, I would think so unless someone has drunk it already. Where did you put it?”

  The valet’s eyes shifted back and forth. “Don’t know, my lord. Can’t remember.” He puffed out his cheeks. “Guess I was too overset by your sickness.”

  Lord Donberry waved his hand dismissively. “A paltry excuse if ever I heard one. Well, if you don’t find it, bring us a bottle of port.”

  Julian had grown very still. He did not stir when the servant left but kept his gaze fastened on Carl. “You drank the wine before you became ill?”

  The marquess glanced at him and sighed. “Julian, surely you’re not

  thinking—” He shook his head in exasperation. “Sophia, can you account it? Now he believes Nina is in on the plot to do away with me. Dear God! All my brothers are mad!”

  “Not Nina necessarily—” Julian began.

  “I should think not,” the marquess huffed. “The dear lady shared her father’s latest vintage with me to see if I might wish to place an order. She and I sat right there in the sitting room and shared drinks from the same bottle. Now, Lord Suspicious, what make you of that, since she ain’t dead or dying?”

  Julian’s posture slowly relaxed. He gave his brother a look of wry embarrassment, shrugged his shoulders, and forked a bite of chicken into his mouth. Lord and Lady Donberry exchanged amused glances and began to eat.

  “We don’t mean to laugh at you,” Sophia said. “But the very idea of Nina—well, it is too ludicrous to contemplate. She is so quiet and gentle and gracious. Her concern for Carl has been touching. Since he’s been ill, she has even made a special soup for him from time to time. And before you become excited again, yes, she partakes of the soup and even offers it to me. Of course, I don’t eat it, for the soup has leeks in it, and I can’t abide leeks.”

  Julian nodded and smiled faintly. The meat seemed to grow larger and drier as he chewed. He washed it down with several swallows from his water glass and replaced the crystal goblet on the table with exaggerated care.

  He had left the women together in the dining room.

  There was nothing to worry about. But he needed to see Abby. He needed to see her immediately.

  “Excuse me,” he mumbled, and bumped the table in his hurry to exit, startling Lord and Lady Donberry.

  *

  While Julian conversed with Lord Donberry in the west wing, Abby gazed at Nina’s room with interest. It was her second visit, but the first time she had been too weary from traveling to notice anything. Now she saw that framed needlework covered the walls from floor to ceiling, breathing life into the pale stone. Brilliant Turkish rugs were layered over the carpet, and dried flowers nestled into every corner. Ceramic children laughed and fished and posed coyly on the dresser and chiffonier. If there were more patterns and hues than met Abby’s taste, she could not deny the room was homelike and cheerful.

  “Your bedchamber is charming,” she said. “Is all the needlework your own?”

  Nina emerged from her dressing room carrying the bottle of wine and two glasses. “Yes,” she said proudly. “All of it. Michael thinks it’s too much, but it suits me. His room is much simpler. He has no liking for clutter.”

  She motioned toward a round table flanked by two chairs near the fire. Abby followed and seated herself. “I hope the bordeaux hasn’t gone flat,” Nina continued, “I opened it last night and stored it on the windowsill, which is almost as chilly as the cellar. I trust you’ll like it.”

  “I’m sure I will, though I confess I’ve not drunk much wine in my life and am no expert.” While Nina filled their glasses, Abby eyed the tablecloth which had been embroidered in overlapping vines and rosebuds. “This must have taken forever to stitch!” she exclaimed.

  Nina lifted her glass and pressed it to her cheek. “I’ve discovered that anything meaningful takes time,” she said, and sipped. She watched Abby carefully over the edge of her goblet. “Have you found it so?”

  Abby started to drink, then paused, reflecting. “I suppose.” She recalled the long years at her grandmother’s house, the interminable, endless days. “But sometimes I think everything takes time, even the bad things.”

  “Yes.” A dry smile stretched Nina’s lips. Abby had the sudden notion that every gesture the lady made was little, as if she tried to attract less notice that way. What a sad mouse of a woman she was. But she was speaking again, and Abby forced herself to attend the soft words. “Everything does take time. Even you seem to be taking a lot of time before trying my papa’s bordeaux.”

  Abby glanced at the sparkling, clear liquid and laughed. “Forgive me; you are wanting my opinion.” She brought the glass to her lips. But when a brief knock at the door startled her, she lowered it untouched and turned curiously.

  Nina’s maid, a plump, nervous woman of middle age, burst into the room. A spasm of annoyance wrinkled Nina’s b
row. “What is it, Delia?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, my lady, but there’s a messenger from your sister. Her birthing time is come, and she wants you.”

  The lady looked at Abby and sighed. “Tell the man—no, wait. I’ll speak with him.” She stood and patted her hair. “Please stay, Abby, and drink your wine. I’ll not be tending my sister; I don’t think Michael can spare me tonight. I shall return as soon as I tell the messenger.” She excused herself and left.

  Abby waited until the door was closed, then set her glass back on the table. It was a shame she didn’t enjoy the taste of wine; she’d only accepted Nina’s invitation as an act of kindness. And now she had been left alone.

  She stirred from the chair and began examining the needlepoint pictures in more detail. Each design was of a floral nature and looked excruciatingly intricate. Nina must have the patience of a spider.

  The connecting door smacked open suddenly, making her jump. To her dismay, Lord Michael entered the chamber.

  He beamed when he saw her. “Bless me if it isn’t Abigail! I thought I heard voices. But where is my wife? Don’t tell me I’ve caught you snooping in here all by yourself.”

  “She invited me in and was called away for a moment,” Abby said uncomfortably. “But I should be going.”

  He stepped into her path, blocking her exit. “Nonsense. If she’s returning, she’ll be disappointed if you leave. Please stay. I won’t hurt you. You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

  The expression in his eyes seemed to beg her to say yes. She struggled to keep her features composed. “No, no. But I had better depart. I’m growing tired.”

  “Surely you jest; you look too fresh and beautiful to be tired.” He moved toward her, but when she stepped back, he veered and paced to the fireplace. “Remain awhile. Talk with me. I don’t want to be alone.” His voice softened, and he stared at the floor. “Things happen to people when they are alone.”

  Abby’s heart skipped a beat. His fear drifted toward her like smoke. Why was he afraid of being alone? Had he seen something? She had never been fanciful before coming to this castle which she could not make herself like, but now it was easy to imagine ghosts lurking around every corner.

  “What sort of things happen?” she whispered, swallowing.

  He looked past her to the window and the darkness beyond it. “Terrible things. Voices. Sometimes there are noises that can’t be explained. Have you heard them?”

  She saw at once their imaginings were of two different orders; hers were born of reading too many florid romances; his must be traced to some darker, deeper source. Her fear melted into sympathy. He sensed it and shuddered as if to throw his delusions and her pity from him. When his gaze fell upon the table, his face brightened.

  “You were having a glass of wine with Nina. Is this the famous bordeaux her father keeps boasting about?”

  She smiled faintly. “I believe so.”

  “Well, you are fortunate indeed, for I’ve not been accounted worthy enough to try it yet.” He walked jauntily to the table. “But I shall now.”

  He lifted one of the glasses and swallowed rapidly. “Not a bad little wine. A trifle sweet for my taste.” He refilled the glass and began to sip. “Won’t you join me?”

  Still drawn by a compassion she’d not suspected she could feel for this man, Abby reluctantly approached the table. But then the glass fell from his hand and shattered to pieces on the carpet between them. His face twisted in agony, and he clutched his arms to his stomach. Bending double, he began to retch violently.

  Abby froze. His suffering was so intense, she could not think.

  He lifted desperate, wild eyes to hers. One hand clawed at his throat. “Can’t—breathe!” he wheezed. “Help … me.” He fell first to his knees, then to his side, gagging and choking.

  Suddenly coming to her senses, she fled into the corridor, screaming for help. Julian appeared from nowhere and gripped her arms. “It’s Michael!” she gasped. “I think he’s dying!”

  “Are you all right?” he demanded. When she nodded numbly, he released her and ran into the room. She did not follow him. The sounds of Michael’s agony could be heard in the hall, and that was bad enough. She stumbled to the head of the stairs and saw servants approaching.

  Behind them came Nina, who looked up at her expressionlessly. When Abby threw her a glance of inestimable pity, the lady’s face colored with anxiety. She approached the stairs and began to mount them faster and faster, her eyes never wavering from Abby’s.

  “Who—who drank?” she asked when she reached the top.

  Abby started to answer, then could not when Nina’s words took on a horrible meaning in her mind. The moment stretched ominously. Her compassion drained away to be replaced by a white-hot anger.

  “Michael,” she said icily. “Michael drank the wine.” Even when Nina’s face stretched into a mask of horror, Abby felt no pity. “Did you kill the others, too?”

  Nina moved past her as if caught in a dream, then stumbled to her bedroom with Abby trailing after. Several servants had crowded into the room to assist Julian. One or two observed in mute helplessness. Seeing Nina, they moved aside, but she did not enter. A footman exited past them, evidently running for the physician.

  When Abby reached the doorway, she saw Julian holding Michael and calling his name. She wanted to go to him, to comfort him, but knew he would not thank her for it, not now. When she could no longer bear to look, she turned to Nina.

  “Why me?” Abby asked furiously, keeping her voice low so the servants could not hear. “Why did you want to kill me?”

  Lady Michael did not answer for a long time. She watched her husband with eyes as dead as the glass eyes in a doll’s face. “I’ll tell you because it doesn’t matter now,” she whispered hoarsely. “He can’t live. I put more arsenic in the bottle than I did with Carl. Three grains. I was afraid last time that I might die myself and used too little. But I’ve built up more tolerance now.”

  Abby had no idea what she was talking about. “Why did you try to poison me?” she repeated.

  “Things take time,” Nina murmured woodenly. “I made them look like accidents. I did it for Michael. He deserves to be the marquess; he deserves everything.”

  A servant ran between them carrying a basin of water and fresh towels. Swallowing her distaste for the bizarre conversation, Abby said, “I understand that the others stood in Michael’s way of the title. But what threat was I?”

  “You made Michael unhappy. And Julian was a thorn in his flesh. He was always afraid of Julian, even in the old days when your husband was a boy. If I hadn’t made it look like Julian killed the girl and got him banished, Michael would have fallen to pieces. Everything was all right after that. But Julian came back, didn’t he? Your husband came back. And Michael started slipping away from me again.”

  The childlike recitation chilled Abby as much as the words themselves. “I still don’t understand.”

  “With you dead, Julian might go away. Especially if everyone thought he’d killed you. I had to make him leave. I would have killed him, but you were easier. I thought you were easier.” Her voice grew petulant. “But you wouldn’t drink!”

  The noises within the room were growing quieter. Stricken into silence, Abby waited beside Nina. The monstrousness of the woman was beyond her understanding. She could not think about it now, would have to sort it out later.

  A sudden cry chilled her soul.

  “He’s gone!” Julian called, his voice full of anguish and disbelief. “Michael’s gone!”

  Abby watched him pull his brother to his chest. She closed her eyes.

  There was a soft stirring by her side. Abby turned and saw a flash of color disappearing around the corner. Nina was running toward the stairs. Did she mean to escape? Abby followed, fury rushing through her veins.

  Seconds later, she heard a sound, an unforgettable, unmistakable sound. A sound she knew would haunt her dreams forever.

  She ran to
the balcony and looked down. Nina lay like a broken toy at the bottom of the stairs.

  Chapter 15

  By midnight, the castle grew quiet. A few servants still padded through dimly lit halls tending to duties that were as necessary as they were distasteful. Behind closed doors, others eased into restless slumber.

  Abby had no desire for sleep or dreams. How could she, knowing two bodies lay enshrouded in the candlelit chapel below?

  Hours before, she had dismissed Charlotte Ann to her attic quarters. Now, careless of wrinkling her new gown, Abby sat alone beside her bedroom fireplace, a quilt wrapped around her shoulders. Occasionally she moved to add a log to the fire, then nestled into the blanket again. There was some comfort to be derived from the heat and the mesmerizing rhythm of the flames.

  Try as she might, she could not banish the horrible events of the past hours from her mind. She wanted to see Julian, longed to console him. She was haunted by the memory of his devastated face as he held Lord Michael’s body.

  After leaving Michael, he had only spoken with her briefly before going to sit with Lord Donberry. As far as she knew, he was with him still.

  Her gaze drifted to the connecting door. Perhaps he had come back and was in his room now. No doubt he’d find sleep as impossible as she did. In that event, he might welcome conversation. But she didn’t want to disturb him.

  She tossed the blanket aside and walked softly to the door.

  Turning the knob slowly, she pushed the door open a crack. In the firelit room beyond, shadows leapt along the walls and within the embrasures. The bedspread was pulled taut. No one sat disconsolate and alone in the dark corners.

  Sighing, she began to pull the door closed. Before it shut entirely, she heard a noise in the corridor, and Julian entered. Feeling a rush of shame—was she intruding where she was not wanted?—she closed the door and leaned against it, breathing quickly. Almost immediately, he opened it again, nearly causing her to stumble into his arms.

  “Come in, Abby. I’m glad you’re awake.”