Betraying Season

by Marissa Doyle

  Lady Keating closed her eyes and looked pained. “Thank you, Doireann, that will be enough.”

  Doireann grinned and winked at Pen.

  In a few moments they drew up to the front door of the house. The building was made up of several parts, some obviously very old, some modern. It was saved from too much architectural chaos by being built of the same gray stone in all its parts, and in the end looked like what it was: a place that had been occupied for a very long time.

  The front façade where they had stopped was probably medieval, a massive, blocky, square tower, though it appeared that the windows had been enlarged and glazed. To its left was a long wing that looked Elizabethan in age, and to the right was another tower, more recent still, and another long wing set perpendicularly to the rest of the house. It was a little jumbled, but Pen decided that she thought it was charming.

  The carriage door opened. Lady Keating climbed out, then nodded to Pen to follow. Pen accepted the hand of the footman who held the door and alighted from the carriage onto the gravel drive, then nearly froze in astonishment. The footman was a footwoman. She wore a footman’s livery coat over a narrow skirt of the same material and trimming, and a powdered footman’s wig. Pen murmured her thanks, trying not to stare.

  At the massive planked front door, a tall woman, stately in black silk and crisp white cap, with a bunch of keys at her waist, stood waiting to greet them. “Good afternoon, your ladyship,” she said, curtseying as they approached. “Welcome home.”

  Doireann pushed past them without a word and disappeared into the house.

  “Thank you. Penelope, my dear, Mrs. Tohill is housekeeper at Bandry Court.” Lady Keating was already untying her bonnet as she crossed the threshold into the hall. Pen followed, smiling a greeting to Mrs. Tohill.

  The entrance hall was high-ceilinged and square. Stone floors and walls revealed the age of this part of the house, but deep, gem-colored Turkish rugs and modern furniture warmed and softened the effect. Pen took it all in appreciatively as she unfastened her cloak. More of Lady Keating’s unerring sense of taste.

  “Miss Leland is a dear friend,” Lady Keating continued to the housekeeper, handing her bonnet over. “I shall expect everyone to take very good care of her, Mrs. Tohill.”

  “Indeed we will, mum.” The housekeeper did not return Pen’s smile, but her manner was gravely courteous.

  “Tea in the library, I think, while our bags are brought in. Miss Leland did not bring a maid, so Niamh should look after her while we’re here.”

  “Very good, mum.” Mrs. Tohill took their cloaks.

  Lady Keating led the way to one of several doors that ringed three sides of the room. It led into a secondary hall that looked to be part of the most recent additions, with a fine staircase and elegant detail to the moldings and woodwork. But as Pen followed Lady Keating up the stairs, she was less aware of the handsome details and more aware of a growing excitement inside her. She was here, Niall wasn’t, and for the next week or two she could live and breathe magic, with Lady Keating’s help. It was going to be wonderful.

  Niall stared out the drawing room window at the street below. He wished he could open it. After a few days of rain, spring had arrived, and the May afternoon was warm and fragrant, even in town. The carriages clattering past the house had their tops down, and their fashionably dressed neighbors stepped out of the other houses on the street to stroll in the soft air. Just as Pen and he had done, not so very long ago.

  Pen. He closed his eyes. Just thinking about her hurt.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” Niall called, not bothering to turn around. It would just be one of the temporary footmen Mother had hired while she was away. Why she’d felt she had to remove all the regular servants he didn’t know. It wasn’t as if any of them would have helped him. They were too loyal to Mother—or too afraid of her.

  The footman backed in, his hands clenched around the handles of a tea tray. He set it down on the sofa table without looking at Niall and left quickly. Good God, what had Mother told them about him? They served him, but treated him like a leper. Perhaps it was just as well, considering his mood.

  He was still fed, his hot water brought for his bath and his clothes brushed and put away, even his mail brought to him. Life was comfortable and almost normal, even, except for one thing: If he ventured anywhere near a door or tried to open a window so much as a crack, an invisible hand closed itself around his throat and threatened to choke him, holding him back as surely as iron chains. He was a prisoner.

  He should have fled after Mother walked in on him and Pen in the library. He should have just walked out of the house, gone back to the stables, saddled a horse, and ridden to Loughglass to see Papa. Mother couldn’t have said a word against that, at least not in front of anyone else. But he hadn’t. He’d gone to his room and spent the next hour pacing, trying to decide what to do next. She’d come to see him there, entering without knocking or calling to him.

  “May I ask,” she said without preamble, leaning against the closed door, “what in the Goddess’s name you were doing down there with Miss Leland?” Her face was even paler than usual, and her eyes glinted like a January sea.

  He’d hesitated. Should he answer and admit what he knew about her plans? But she wasn’t finished.

  “No, I probably don’t want to know. At any rate, nothing did happen, and I’ve managed to save the situation quite well. In some ways, we may even be better off than we were before. She has agreed to come to Bandry Court and work with me . . . no thanks to you, however.” She glared at him.

  “Where is she?” His voice was hoarse.

  “I sent her home to begin packing. We leave for Bandry Court the day after tomorrow.”

  So soon? He resumed his pacing. There wouldn’t be much time to try again, then. Maybe he could slip out this evening to see her. Waiting until they all got to Bandry Court was risky, though it would be much easier to stage a seduction there—

  Mother interrupted his fevered thoughts. “At least, your sister and I will be leaving then. You will not be accompanying us.”

  He froze midstride. “What?”

  “Do you take me for a complete fool? If I had not come into the library in time, you would have ruined all my plans. You’re no rutting animal, like most men, thinking with your—your—” She gestured and curled her lip in distaste. “You knew I need her untouched and pure. So I am forced to conclude that either you are not as disciplined and controlled as I thought you were or you were intentionally trying to corrupt her. In either case, I do not want you within miles of her. You will stay here in town while we go to Bandry Court, and when the deed is done, you will go directly to London to prepare to meet your father.”

  Niall’s mouth felt dry. “Why London? The duke is in Germany. He’s the king of Hanover now, if you recall.”

  “I recall quite well. I also expect that he will be returning to London . . . very shortly.” Her tone was matter-of-fact and brisk, and it chilled Niall to the bone. She meant that the duke would be returning to England after the death of the queen.

  “In the meanwhile, you will not be seeing Miss Leland again. No, don’t protest. Perhaps I should have said that she will not be seeing you. Why would she want to, after all? Ever since she heard all about your escapades on the Continent—”

  “I didn’t have any escapades on the Continent.” But a horrible suspicion was growing inside him. “What did you tell her?”

  “I suppose I must thank your sister for the idea. It seems she’s been dripping poison in Miss Leland’s ears about your dissolute ways for weeks now, just out of sheer mischief.”

  “She’s been . . . about my what?” Dear God, what had Doireann said about him? Was that why Pen had been so cool at the Whelans’ dance before he kissed her?

  “Precisely. At first I wanted to kill her, but in the end she’s done us a great service. Suffice it to say that Miss Leland no longer finds you as attractive as she once di
d. She is helping with a spell to reunite you with your father as a favor to me. Amusing, isn’t it? I think I’ve even thought of a way to get around the relationship issue, so we’ll have the additional power of her being my kin.” Her voice hardened. “I have already said I won’t ask you what your intentions were in the library. But I also want to make it perfectly clear that I will not brook any more interference with my plans. You will stay here, and then you will go to London. In another few weeks, everything will have fallen into place, and you will have forgotten Miss Leland in your new life.”

  She turned on her heel and left the room. When he’d recovered from his shock sufficiently to go after her, he’d found that the door was locked . . . from the outside. It had stayed locked until they’d left; his meals had been brought to him on trays, as if he were ill. Only after Mother and Doir had left was he allowed the freedom of the rest of the house.

  Not that it mattered, particularly. All he had done for the last few days was wander from his room to the library to here, feeling lost. His emotions traveled their own circular route, cycling through boredom, anger at his mother, and a deep sadness.

  He’d lost his lovely, lively Pen. She hated him now, if Mother was to be believed, and there was no way he’d be able to regain her. Even if he were to see her in London sometime after this awful business was finished, she would avoid him . . . and would eventually find someone else to fall in love with and marry. He lay abed at night, not sleeping but remembering her in all her moods, from merry and teasing to shy and unsure to ardent as she had been in his arms. . . .

  But it was no good remembering any of it now. Niall rose stiffly from his seat by the window and poured himself a cup of tea from the tray the footman had brought, wishing that he had a bit of the whiskey that the pub keeper had once offered him to put in it. Anything to numb the pain.

  A knock on the front door made him nearly drop his cup.

  For a second, his heart leapt. Could it be Pen? But no—she was with Mother and Doireann at Bandry Court. And besides, she was lost to him. There was no way she would come to visit him now, even if she were back in town.

  He heard one of the footmen cross the hall to the door and jumped up from the sofa. Even if it weren’t Pen, it would be nice to see and talk to another human being, even the Enniskeans. Well, maybe not them. But somebody.

  As he opened the drawing room door, he heard the footman say to the unseen caller, “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Keating is not seeing anyone right now,” and begin to shut the door.

  “Yes I am,” Niall called loudly. The footman at the door paused and glanced back in surprise. Another of the new hires appeared from the dining room and started toward him.

  “Devil take it, am I not even allowed a caller to relieve the boredom?” he snapped at the man.

  The footman paused and looked at him, forehead furrowed. “But Lady Keating’s orders were—”

  Niall did some fast thinking. Maybe he could bluff and bully his way through this. “Lady Keating’s orders were that I not go out. But why can’t someone come to see me?”

  “But, sir—”

  “Who’s there?” he shouted.

  “Sir,” the footman said anxiously.

  “Damn it, who’s there?” He pushed past the second footman and strode to the door. The first one stepped in front of him, preventing his leaving, but at least he could see the visitor, a tall, thin, red-haired young man who somehow looked familiar.

  “You don’t know me . . . that is, we—it’s Eamon Doherty, Mr. Keating. We met a week or so ago,” the man replied, craning his neck to see over the footman’s arm. “I’ve . . . er, I’ve come to return your hat.” He held up a black beaver hat that Niall recognized as his own.

  His hat? How had this man ended up with his hat? Then he remembered. This must be that Doherty, the one Pen had rescued from the constables and who had repaid her by trying to kiss her. Niall wasn’t sure whether to laugh or let the footman slam the door in his face . . . or step forward and punch him in the nose for daring to touch his Pen. But having someone to talk to who knew Pen—however tenuous, not to mention obnoxious, the link—would be a relief. Besides, he wanted his hat back.

  “Let him in,” he barked at the footman. “Good God, man! If you want to stand in the doorway and watch us talk, you can. But you know there’s no way I can leave.”

  The first and second footmen exchanged frightened glances. Niall understood; they knew that the house had been enchanted so that he couldn’t leave. But they were terrified of Lady Keating.

  “Have some pity. Mr. Doherty’s harmless,” he said, more softly. “You may check his pockets before he leaves if it makes you feel better. I won’t try to send out any messages with him. I just want to talk to another human being before I go mad.”

  The first footman gripped the door and looked stubborn, but the second one met his eyes. “Ye’re not fibbing? Ye won’t leave?”

  “How can I?” Niall spread his hands and shrugged.

  “’Tis true enough.” The footman looked at him a moment longer then turned to the door. “Let’s let him see his caller, then, Jemmy. But, sir, ye must leave the drawin’ room door open an’ let us watch ye from out here, just in case.”

  “That’s fair enough.” Niall nodded his thanks.

  “But Lady Keating said . . .” The first footman now looked frightened as well as stubborn.

  “She won’t be knowin’ if we don’t tell, will she?” The second footman addressed his question to both Niall and his colleague.

  “No, she won’t. She’s got her mind on more important things right now,” Niall promptly replied.

  “Well . . .”

  “I would, of course, be quite willing to show my appreciation in more material terms,” Niall added, raising an eyebrow.

  The first footman stared at him a moment longer, obviously calculating what sum he might be able to extract from Niall, then dropped his arm. “All right, then. But we’ll be watching ye, sir. Ye can come in,” he said to Doherty, stepping aside and bowing slightly.

  “You may give my hat to him, Mr. Doherty,” Niall said, nodding at the footman. “And might we have another cup and more tea in the drawing room? Or perhaps something stronger?”

  Doherty handed the hat to the footman with a suspicious glance. Niall gestured him into the drawing room and followed him in, leaving the door open, as promised. The second footman stationed himself across the hall from the door, out of earshot but where he could watch both of them, and the first footman disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

  “Thank you for the return of my hat, Mr. Doherty. I trust it proved useful to you?” Niall asked after they’d both sat down.

  Doherty glowered at him for a moment, then relented. “You know, then? She told you? You know what she is?” His voice caught slightly on the “she.”

  So he wasn’t the only one losing sleep over Penelope Leland. “She told me about it after the fact, yes,” Niall responded, watching him.

  “She . . . I had no idea she was capable of that. The sheer, raw power of it! My nose was broken—broken, mind you—and she healed it. Do you know what it takes to heal a broken bone by magic?”

  “I can guess.”

  “You can guess,” Doherty mimicked bitterly. “You’ve no power, so you have no idea. When she healed me, she was like a bonfire burning six inches from my eyes. It took my breath away for hours after. It still . . .”

  Niall remembered the feeling of her as he held her in his arms and they kissed on the library sofa. “Yes, she would have been like that.”

  Doherty glanced up at him and flushed a dull red. The first footman returned with another tray containing both tea and a decanter of amber liquid, and they remained silent while he set it down and retreated from the room to join his colleague on watch in the hall.

  Niall ignored the teapot and poured them both a few fingers of whiskey. He handed one glass to Doherty. “Your opinion of Miss Leland seems to have improved of late.
She had given me to think that she was not as well respected by you as she might have been,” he observed.

  Doherty flushed again. “Can’t a man make a mistake?”

  Niall smiled, but it felt twisted on his face. “They can, and often do.”

  Doherty stared at the glass in his hand, then took a gulp. “She’s gone, you know,” he said after a few moments. “She hasn’t been in tutorials.”

  “I know. She went to the country with my mother and sister.”

  “That’s what Dr. Carrighar said.” He paused. “So why aren’t you there with her?”

  None of your damned business. “I wasn’t invited.”

  “No?” Doherty leaned forward and refilled his glass from the decanter. “Well, then. So much the better for me,” he said softly, sitting back against the green damask-covered chair.

  “Don’t be so sure, Mr. Doherty,” Niall snapped, resisting the urge to get up and clout him. “When I last saw her after you waylaid her in the drawing room, she seemed about ready to put a death curse on you.”

  Doherty choked on his whiskey. “She—she told you that too?” he gasped.

  Niall watched with secret satisfaction as he groped for his handkerchief and wiped his chin with it. “Yes. And I might add that I would not have blamed her if she had.”

  Doherty seemed to deflate. “I—I couldn’t help myself. She was so damned magnificent when she—”

  “Is everything all right, sir?” One of the footmen, the suspicious one, had come to the door. He looked at Doherty curiously.

  “Fine, thank you.” Niall waved a negligent hand. “He just swallowed the wrong way.” He winked at the footman as if to comment on Doherty’s ability to hold his liquor. The footman grinned and returned to his spot, nudging his colleague and whispering.

  Doherty gave him a sour look as he put his handkerchief away. “So if she came to you, why weren’t you invited to the country with them? When do the banns get read?”

  There was no way to evade such a direct question. Niall tried not to let his voice shake. “There won’t be any banns. My mother has seen to that.”