Love Spell in London

by Shereen Vedam

  Joy nodded. He was taller than he had seemed while lying down, and the sheen on his wood showed several black blemishes, as if he had been in a firefight or two and lived to tell the tale. His jewel pulsed. Joy made the introductions and then realized that she was still in broom form.

  About to change, she reconsidered. Despite her brash claim that she could take this warlock weapon, the outcome depended on his master’s skill. For now, better if Kemp thought her no more than a lowly broom. “Why does your master visit our home?”

  “To retrieve his hellhounds.”

  “He must mean Dewer,” Olivia said. “Whom the mistress–”

  “Took the hounds from.” Joy cut her off. Trust that silly hat to blurt out their play to the opposing team while the game had barely begun. This was delightful news. So, Dewer had returned to Cornwall. Mistress Grace would be thrilled. “Why come for the hounds now, Mr. Kemp?”

  “We are on a secret mission to London, Miss Joy. Terribly hush-hush. Sworn to secrecy.”

  This sounded dodgy. Dewer was half dark fae and known for causing trouble. “What must he do?”

  “Am not a rattlepate, ladies. Can keep a secret.”

  Olivia’s hat tip dipped. “Is it a dangerous mission?”

  “None of us might come out alive.” Kemp’s tone was grave. “Especially the hounds.”

  “Ohhh,” Olivia said, “how terrible.”

  Mistress Grace would not countenance that. Joy, too, had grown fond of those beasts.

  “Cannot say more. Other than a battle’s afoot.”

  Below, the door banged opened and a man strode out.

  “Da boch. Goodbye.” Kemp returned to the carriage.

  The man raised his hand and his staff flew into his grip.

  “Ooh, that warlock is a fine specimen of manhood,” Olivia whispered. “Tall and smartly dressed. No wonder the mistress was smitten at first sight.”

  Joy returned to her sweeping, sending up dust.

  Olivia coughed. “We must tell the mistress about this.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Then she nodded. “Ah, I see. “

  “Exactly.” Joy whisked under the bed. “If we tell her, she would refuse to return the hounds, which might provoke a fight and attract his attention, but not in the right way. We must consider the end game, Olivia.”

  “If we say naught, Farfur and Bartos might die.”

  “Between a rock and a hard place, that is where we are.” Joy swung around and banged into a table. A bottle tipped over and liquid trickled out, slid across the table and dribbled onto her bristles. “Oh, bother! What a mess!”

  “Never mind that spill,” Olivia said. “How are we to save the hounds?”

  As Joy stared at the dust balls clinging wetly to her bristles, an idea blossomed. She twirled upward, transforming into an alder wood staff, topped with a flashing golden jewel. Her light swelled until the room sparkled.

  “You know what to do!” Olivia bounced on the sill.

  “We must cast a love spell,” Joy said, all aquiver.

  Olivia stilled and her tip drooped. “On Dewer?”

  “No!” Joy returned to the windowsill in time to observe the warlock disappear past some bushes. “Casting a love spell on him would be akin to doing a mind spell, which is against the witch’s code. If this battle is to be in Town, we can cast a spell that will do no harm, but might distract everyone from wanting to fight. That should give our hounds a chance to escape their fate. The spell, Olivia, must be on London.”

  Olivia gasped and then said, “On everyone there?”

  Had she not been listening? “Never people, Joy. It will have to be on the clouds. The next time a thunderstorm pelts over London, more than rainwater will fall. I know just the witch who can help me cast this grand spell.”

  HER MOTHER’S HAND HALTED Grace closing her door. The baroness then strode inside and pointing to the open doorway, issued an order to the hellhounds. “Out!”

  Tails down, they retreated to the corridor. She shut the bedroom door on their forlorn faces and confronted Grace. “Have I ever led you astray, child?”

  “No, Mama.” Grace flopped onto her bed and clenched her fists under her bosom. Her lower limbs from knees downward hung over the edge as she stared at the ceiling and pictured Dewer. In his smart black jacket that emphasized his tall trim figure to perfection over form-fitting beige breeches and thigh high boots with the tops folded down just below his knees, he had looked breathtaking. His pristine white cravat though might have been tied too tight as he kept trying to loosen it.

  “Grace, why do you hesitate to relinquish the hellhounds?” her mother asked with concern.

  Because giving them up means surrendering Dewer, too. Also, it would mean saying goodbye to the hounds. Forever. She was now so attached to Farfur and Bartos, the idea of relinquishing them was physically painful.

  The moment of silence stretched and her mother strolled to the window and picked up Grace’s conical black witch’s hat. Holding it by the brim, she dusted it with her elbow sleeve and then blew on it. The hat instantly transformed into a pretty blue bonnet, rounded at the top to hug Grace’s head and trimmed with bluebells. “This will go nicely with your traveling gown.”

  “Thank you, Mama.”

  “Grace, I only have your best interests at heart.”

  “I know.” Grace’s throat clogged with all the words she dared not speak. How could she confess that her pulse had soared whenever Dewer’s dark gaze settled on her, and especially when his eyes sparked with desire. Or that when he had absently petted Farfur, her heart had melted for both the lonely hound and lonelier warlock.

  Setting the bonnet back on the windowsill, her mother returned to the bedside and sat beside her. “Grace, those hellhounds limit your choices. Flirting with that warlock in order to keep them is unwise.”

  A hot blush swept over Grace’s cheeks. She turned toward her mother and, resting her face on her fist, she trailed a forefinger along the stitching of the bed cover. “Were my desires so obvious?” Had Dewer noticed? She hoped so.

  Glancing at her mother, Grace pondered asking about a matter prodding her. The question, however, might inflame the baroness just as she seemed to be calming down. Still, Grace wanted to know the answer and her mother had taught her to freely ask questions, however inappropriate, saying that was preferable to making incorrect assumptions.

  “Mama.” She sat up and took her mother’s hand and kissed the back of it to show she meant no harm with her probing. “Do you love Papa and does he love you? I mean passionately and thoroughly, as if nothing else mattered more?”

  “What a foolish question, Grace. Of course, I love your father. I would not have agreed to marry him otherwise. I will have you know that I was as sought after in my youth as you were during your first Season. None of my other suitors held a light to the fervor in your papa’s eyes. When he looked at me, I felt as if no other woman existed.”

  “Does he still love you like that? As much as he treasures his dams and his fish and his scientific studies?”

  Her mother chuckled. “Apparently more so, even after all these years of marriage. His latest missive said that if I did not join him in London posthaste, he would return to fetch me. That, despite being so worried about his silly sick fish, that he has been earning censures from his fellow lords for shirking his parliamentary duties while tending to his ailing trout.”

  “I want to be loved like that,” Grace said.

  “You will be. You already are, if your many suitors are to be believed. What does any of this have to do with you keeping the hellhounds?”

  “Dewer is capable of feeling such deep love.”

  Her mother jumped up and backed away. Arms akimbo, she stared at Grace with wide worried eyes. Then she pointed to Grace’s blue bonnet and it turned back to its normal appearance of a black conical witch’s hat. “Grace, you had better not be setting your cap for this warlock. Have you forgotten that he is enamored
with your cousin?”

  “He has had long enough to recover from that painful involvement.”

  “Are you saying you kept those hellhounds all these months because you formed an unfortunate attachment to that half fae/half warlock downstairs? Grace Elizabeth Adair, have you lost your sound mind? You do not even know him.”

  Grace hugged her knees. “Mama, I know he is capable of showing affection to animals.” He had petted Farfur, even if it had only been for a brief moment. That showed promise. “And of experiencing deep hurt.”

  He was no longer in love with the Coven Protectress. Of that she was certain. He would not have been capable of looking at her with such desire as he had when she entered the drawing room earlier if his heart were still entangled elsewhere.

  “I forbid it.” Her mother slashed the air with her arms. “You will put him out of your mind this instant. Do I make myself clear?”

  She met her mother’s anxious gaze with a scoffing look that she hoped spoke volumes about such a dictatorial order.

  Dropping her arms to her side, her mother approached closer and spoke in a more conciliatory tone. “Grace, you can have any man you want. Why do you want this damaged one?”

  “I do not know if I want him, Mama.” Lie. She wanted Dewer. She shivered and a hum echoed as she finally admitted that truth to herself. Seeing him again had cemented her initial spike of desire eleven months and four long days ago.

  She did want him. Inexplicably. Irrationally. Irrevocably. Every glance into his sorrowful eyes captivated her soul. She could hardly admit that to her mother. The baroness hated Dewer. That had been patently obvious downstairs.

  Convincing her mother to accept a possibility of her daughter and Dewer as a match might prove as difficult as convincing Dewer that he could love Grace as much, or hopefully more, than he ever had the Coven Protectress. “All I ask for is a chance to discover if he could be the right man for me.”

  “He is not!”

  “I cannot be told that, Mama. I must see it for myself.”

  “You sound as if you are in love with the idea of falling in love. That is a childish whim you cannot afford to advance. Grace, he could hurt you as deeply as you say he has been hurt.” She sat on the bed. “Dearest, how can you even consider a relationship with this man? His mother is a dark fae. She tried to kill Merryn. She did kill Merryn’s brother and her parents.”

  “Dewer is not his mother,” Grace said in a quiet voice. “You cannot punish him for her murderous character.”

  “Blood is blood.” The baroness’s voice was hard. “I will never countenance that creature becoming a part of our family. We must cancel this travel arrangement. I shall tell him so this instant and send him on his way.” She marched to the door. “We will settle for the public coach to reach London.”

  Grace jumped off the bed and sprinted to bar the door, arms outstretched. She could not believe her kind-hearted mother was being so cruelly judgmental. “Now you sound like the Warlock Council that outlawed him from their society as a babe in arms simply because his mother was a dark fae. Which did naught but deliver him into that evil creature’s clutches.”

  Her mother stood with her arms crossed. “How can I do aught else, Grace? Your proposal puts not only yourself, but all of your sisters, your father, grandmother, and all the witches in Callington in jeopardy. Step aside.”

  Grace shrugged off that dire claim of danger. They had successfully withstood an attack by Queen Eolonde before and could do so again. Besides, after the sound rousting that evil fae received in Callington during her last campaign, Grace doubted Eolonde would have the audacity to set foot on witch territory again.

  Convincing her mother of that, however, might be too difficult. Grace tried another tactic. “Have you considered, Mama, that after enduring close confinement with Mr. Dewer during a three-day long journey to London, I might come to despise him as much as you do?”

  Or we could be given a rare prospect of Dewer that no one has ever witnessed. Not even his precious Merryn.

  Her mother’s gaze wavered.

  Seeing that first chink in her mother’s armor, Grace displayed a meek countenance. Taking gentle hold of the baroness’s elbows, she drew closer. “Also, Mama, you would have time to prove to me beyond a shadow that this warlock is unworthy of my consideration.”

  Her mother’s tense shoulders dropped. “You, child, more than any of my other children, have your papa’s way about you when you want something.”

  Grace flashed her most winsome smile. “We do need to travel to London, and his vehicle seems sturdily built. Besides which, grandmamma is less likely to complain all the way to London in Mr. Dewer’s coach than she would in a public one.”

  The baroness released a heavy sigh as if that last argument held the most weight. “Perhaps once you see that your precious hellhounds are safe in Mr. Dewer’s hands, you will finally agree to release them into his custody.”

  “Yes!” Grace shouted in exhilaration, and gave her mother a sound kiss on her cheek. Though she had every intention of not only retaining ownership of both hellhounds, but to also lay her claim on their delicious master.

  Her mother gently stroked her check. “Grace, you have always had an exceptional ability to feel another’s pain. That is what makes you an extraordinary healer, but dearest, you must learn to pull back before a flame burns you.”

  “Mama, all I ask is a chance to exercise that lesson.”

  The baroness nodded. “You are a grown woman and my most sensible daughter. At some point I must trust you to make your own decisions. Well, if we are to leave in Dewer’s company, we had better get ready or his lordship-to-be will leave without us.” Still looking concerned, her mother pulled out of her hold and opened the door. At her curt nod, the two hounds rushed inside and the baroness left.

  “We are going to London with your master.” Grace gave both Farfur and Bartos a fond ruffle and then skipped over to the window. A flick of her wrist and her hat returned to the pretty blue bonnet her mother had crafted. About to start packing, she noticed a flare-up in the distance, near her mother’s rose garden.

  Farfur rose to rest his front paws on the windowsill beside her and look out. Bartos joined her and whined.

  A shiver spun up Grace’s back. That fire had the gleam of dark fae magic and she could think of only one reason for its presence on witch property. She pushed the windows open wider. “We should check on that disturbance.” In case, against all sane actions, a certain fae queen had come to call.

  Grace tied on her bonnet. While she was transformed, it would protect her, acting as a shield against a magical attack. When she reached for her staff, it was missing from the side of the hearth where it normally rested. “Confound it! Where has that infernal staff gone?”

  Well, she was not about to go into battle, merely scout out possible threats. Her mother was a shout away.

  She sent a mental call for her recalcitrant staff to join her and, in case her worries were for naught and all was indeed well, she twitched her portmanteau out from under the bed. A wave set her clothing swooping from her trunks into that traveling bag. Satisfied with her contingency plan, she transformed and leapt to the windowsill in her feline form.

  Using the vines clinging to the outside walls, she scrambled below. Once close to the ground, she bounded onto the gravel and the hellhounds landed on either side of her. Together, they raced toward the rose arbor.

  PULSE HAMMERING A WARNING, Dewer strode into a secluded rose garden full of shifting shadows despite it being broad daylight. Somewhere in this unnatural shade, a dark fae queen lurked.

  “Bore da, Mother,” he greeted in his native Welsh, though little good had occurred this morning. He instantly thought of Miss Adair but mentally shook his head in rejection. She was a witch, so not for him.

  “What are you doing back in Callington, Devil?” The sibilant whisper was designed to send horror slithering up a human’s back, but Dewer had grown up with this voice croon
ing in his ears. Along with that insufferable nickname.

  Any other parent might call her child darling or simply, boy. His mother preferred a term of endearment that everyone else on Earth reserved for the most reviled of serpents. A derivative of Dewer’s first name, Devlin. Explained why he always thought of himself as Dewer.

  The shadows coalesced into a dozen hellhounds, their red eyes glowing and fangs drooling. They crouched beside droopy rose bushes and observed him with dispassionate stares that warned they would as soon devour him as a juicy bovine.

  So, she was here to taunt him with what he wanted most. Staff clenched, he steeled himself to not snatch up one of those lethal hounds. They could be found in the thousands in the underworld, roaming in packs and often conscripted to obey a demon or dark fae. Since Dewer was only half fae, he needed his mother to gift him one before he could control a hellhound. A fact she used often to her advantage.

  “I do not need your help,” he said.

  “Yet, you are prepared to plead with theses witches who scorn you in order to retrieve your two hounds?”

  A blistering breeze swept past his shoulder like a flamethrower spraying Greek fire. He patted down a stray glow charring his new coat.

  Straight ahead, a rose bush burst into flames and shot upward before the fire settled into a throne two feet above the blackened bush. Below it, burning branches dripped flakes of ashes. Excellent. One more item to add to Lady Mandell’s growing list of Dewer misdemeanors. Now he’d destroyed her droopy roses.

  A slender woman appeared seated on that blazing throne, as ethereally beautiful now as in her portrait holding a babe in arms that hung in Dewer’s study in Wales. A picture painted over two decades ago.

  With hair of flames and skin smooth and white as alabaster, Queen Eolonde, exiled from the Welsh fae clan, Y Tylwyth Teg, reviled by Wyhcans and feared by humans, surveyed her son with deadly fondness. “Or is it a particular buxom witch that draws your interest?”

  Dewer’s neck hairs tingled and nervous sweat trickled down his back. This was dangerous conversational territory.