Witchery: A Ghosts of Albion Novel (Ghosts of Albion #2)

Witchery: A Ghosts of Albion Novel (Ghosts of Albion #2) Page 6

The answer seemed obvious. Brother and sister both were troubled by the fight they’d had earlier in the day, but Tamara did not want to be the one to reopen the wound. She was not yet sufficiently calmed to return to their debate without the risk of immediately becoming angry.

William, though

From his manner, she thought his trouble might be something else entirely.

“Father’s condition is not the only reason I must remain behind. And, to be honest, my disapproval of Mr. Haversham was not the only thing that had me on edge before.”

Tamara rested her hand upon the back of her chair. She wished to comfort him, but was still too stung by their earlier exchange to make any such overture.

“Of course,” she said, keeping her tone neutral. “With the wedding approaching, Sophia has every right to want you here in London. Already she is put out that you have not been more involved with the planning. Were you to accompany me— ”

William turned and regarded her grimly. “There is that, yes. But something more, as well. You know that of late I have been spending more time than usual at Threadneedle Street.”

“Swift’s of London is your responsibility, William. You have a great many duties, and they have been heaped upon you just recently. You do your best to attend to them all. I’m certain Sophia will come to realize that.”

“It isn’t just the business of the bank that has kept me long away from the house. Or it is, but not ordinary business, to be sure. I have kept this entirely secret. Of the staff, only Harold and Victoria are aware. Along with the police, of course.”

Tamara touched a hand to her lips.

“The police? Why? What’s happened?”

“There’s a thief, Tam. For weeks we have suffered small losses. Yet the total has begun to accumulate to a tidy sum. We have tried a dozen ways to secure the place and to lay a trap for the perpetrator, and yet this bold thief continues to thwart us, stealing gold and jewels from the vault. With all of the precautions I have taken, I am beginning to think that there might be only one possible answer.”

“Yes, of course,” Tamara said, brows knitted in thought. “Magic.”

“Exactly. I could be wrong, but I cannot discover another explanation. I thought it only the business of the bank until now. But if there is indeed magic involved, then we may have to take a more direct approach to solving this mystery.”

“I can see why it troubles you so,” she said, nodding. “And, of course, that you have no choice but to remain in London for the moment. If it has not been resolved by the time I return from Cornwall, we’ll work together on it then.”

William let out a breath of air, perhaps a fraction of his tension alleviated. “I appreciate your understanding. Our lives have become quite complex of late.”

“Indeed they have.”

“Still, I will worry about you, Tam. Bodicea is formidable, of course, but Farris— stout as he is— is only a man. We have no idea what you will encounter in Cornwall. I wish I could accompany you.”

“You cannot be in two places at once,” Tamara said. “And, truly, I will be fine. But if you really are concerned, and Nigel is unavailable, perhaps I ought to ask ”

She paused, letting the words trail off. Tamara had been about to suggest she invite John Haversham along, but given the row she and William had had, she thought better of it.

Too late, however.

William glared at her. “You amaze me, Tam. Truly, you do. Don’t think I don’t know what you were about to suggest. How could you even consider it? Are we to engage in this duel endlessly? Lord, how tired I am of hearing the name John Haversham.”

Her fingernails scratched the back of the chair as she gripped it.

“Hold your tongue, William, before you say something more that you’ll regret. You lashed out at me for my feelings about Sophia, insisting that she was the woman you loved, that you would marry. Well, perhaps John and I have not quite reached that point as yet, but if I’m to give you the freedom to love as you will, you must do the same for me.”

He let out a sigh of frustration and spun on his heel, turning back to the window. When he spoke again, he did not look at her.

“Be that as it may, you know how disgustingly inappropriate it would be for Haversham to travel with you to Cornwall. This is a conversation we should not even be having.”

The worst part of it all for Tamara was that he was right. For her to travel together with John Haversham to some country village in Cornwall would be scandalous indeed. As independent as she fancied herself, Tamara would not wish to bring such shame upon her family, or to her name.

Still it rankled her, and she would not allow William the satisfaction.

“Why do you hate him so?”

William turned, and his voice had softened. “I don’t hate him, Tam. I simply do not trust him.”

“But why?” she demanded.

“For many reasons, not least of which is that— as we both know— he is an accomplished thief.”

Tamara narrowed her eyes, nostrils flaring. Her skin prickled and a sphere of blue energy began to crackle around her free hand. The way William held her gaze, she did not have to ask him to clarify further.

“You suspect him as the thief who is plaguing the bank.”

“The thought has crossed my mind.”

She raised her hand, magical energy roiling around her fingers. “You would do well to leave me now, William. By the time I return from Cornwall, perhaps the urge to hurt you will have passed.”

He stared at her for a moment, his grave expression revealing nothing. Then he strode from the room, leaving the door hanging open behind him. For a time she stared into the corridor after him, wondering if he would return and knowing that if he did, it would not be to apologize.

Tamara wished she were leaving for Cornwall this very minute, instead of tomorrow. In all her life she had never been more eager to leave Ludlow House.

Tonight, she would rather have been anywhere else in the world.

BETSY PICKED HER WAY through a tangle of tree roots, her thick hide boots keeping her feet safe and unharmed. She had spent many an afternoon amid the trees, and was familiar enough with her surroundings to know how to keep to the path.

Today, she was out in the woods on an errand for her mother, her job to gather the plants and herbs needed for mother’s homemade remedies. Folk from all over came to their door to receive her homespun cures. Her mother’s amazing curative abilities were something Betsy was very proud of. There wasn’t another midwife in the county who was half as talented as Sarah Harper.

Betsy was always more than happy to be sent upon such errands because it meant an entire day free from housework. She would much rather spend that time rambling the woods that surrounded Camelford.

Betsy was no dainty flower. She was as fierce a fighter as any of her five brothers, and had spent as much of her childhood in the woods running and playing with the boys as she had indoors. Even now, almost a young woman, she hated being cooped up inside. Neither was she any good at the sort of tasks as might be assigned to her around the house. She burned her fingers on the lye they used to make soap, and just the other day had cut her thumb as she chopped onions and potatoes for the family’s meager stew.

During her outdoor wanderings, Betsy lost many an hour discovering sweet hidden springs and hollowed-out trees in which to curl up and daydream. On these excursions, she found herself surrounded by curious wildlife, small creatures that watched her every move to determine if she was friend or foe.

Deep in the woods, it was cooler than Betsy had expected. She stopped for a moment by an upturned tree stump to find the woolen cape she had brought along. She had shoved it to the bottom of the coarse burlap bag her mother had given her in which to gather herbs. The cape hadn’t seemed necessary that morning, but she had brought it anyway, just in case. Now she was glad for its warmth as she slipped it over her broad shoulders.

Intent on fastening the cape, she didn’t notice anything amiss until a powerful hand gripped her shoulder and pulled her backward, dragging her away from the stump and her bag.

With a cry of fright and anger, Betsy reached back, trying to get a hold of her assailant, but her hand was batted away. Bones cracked in her shoulder and her left arm fell to her side, useless. Never had she felt such pain. Her vision swam black before her eyes.

Betsy gritted her teeth, refusing to allow unconsciousness to claim her. She fought the blackness and the wave of nausea that came over her.

“No!” she screamed, the word a war cry. She dug her heels in, making it hard for her attacker to continue dragging her backward. She turned her head to the right and sank her teeth into the only exposed bit of flesh she could find: the attacker’s hand. Her assailant shrieked, and stopped midstride, nearly yanking Betsy off her feet.

Betsy used her good arm to elbow her attacker in the gut, and suddenly she was free. Stumbling forward, she tripped on an exposed tree root. She fell forward onto her useless left arm, her forehead slamming into the ground with a sickening thud.

Dazed, she opened her eyes, but all she could see was her attacker, a hideous shape wrapped in a black cloak, its face set in a grotesque rictus.

A demon, she thought, risen from Hell to steal her soul.

“You will not have me!” Betsy cried, having found her voice once again. Using her right arm, she began to drag herself over to the stump.

She grabbed the bag and spilled its contents onto the dirt, grasping for the one thing she knew would save her. Even as the demon came upon her again, standing over her, glaring down with cruel hatred, Betsy thrust the monkshood flowers into her mouth. The little leaves on the stem tasted earthy and bitter, and little bits of dirt still clung to the herb, making it hard for Betsy to force herself to swallow.

It took only a moment for the demon to realize what she had done. It let out a terrific howl of anger and snatched her up by a fistful of her clothing.

The demon took flight, carrying her high above the trees, soaring across the night sky. Perhaps it thought to still take her soul, but Betsy smiled to herself as the dizziness of flight enveloped her.

It was too late. The poison had begun its work, and its effects were irreversible. The demon would be denied.

Her throat began to swell and her breathing grew labored. As Betsy’s vision blurred, she blinked back tears of terror and pain. Her body grew numb, each breath bringing her closer to death. The creature howled in disappointment. She gazed blankly down at the village below, at the woods and the craggy tors atop the hills, at the moors in the distance.

She wondered if she could have seen the ocean from here.

As she breathed her last, she felt the demon let her go.

Betsy felt as though her soul were flying as the ground rushed up toward her.

On the morning of her journey, Tamara rose before the sun had even begun its trajectory across the sky. She breakfasted before either William or Sophia had lifted an eyelid, and packed her valise and trunk within half an hour of that. Tamara hated fighting with William, but she did not think she would be willing to concede anything to him this morning, not while she still felt so angry.

Now she stood in the front hall surveying her handiwork. Normally her lady’s maid, Martha, would have seen to the packing of her things for the journey, but Tamara had not asked for her assistance. As alone as she felt, it seemed only right and a kind of melancholy comfort to attend to the task herself. It had also afforded her the opportunity to practice a bit of magic. It required no great supernatural strength to cause her clothing, even the heavy dresses, to fly from the wardrobe to her bed.

But to fold them neatly and arrange them in her trunk that required meticulous attention, great skill, and tremendous effort. Many lesser magicians— those not gifted with the vast power available to the Protectors of Albion— were wont to think that great magic must be brutal or at the very least ostentatious. But Tamara had begun to realize that in truth, sometimes the greatest magic came with nuance and subtlety.

This was excellent practice.

She actually had giggled as she worked, directing the toiletries and fancy lace-and-cotton undergarments through the air like little inanimate birds. She felt a bit like a symphony conductor, waving her arms around in time to some unheard musical score while she directed the flow of floating traffic.

“Mistress Tamara ?”

She turned in time to see Farris coming through the sitting room door, carrying a small valise under each arm. He looked tired, his eyes rimmed in the coal of a sleepless night.

“Yes, Farris?”

“I wondered, miss, if this would be sufficient?” He lifted the valises a bit to display them. “It’s only that I wasn’t sure how long we’ll be gone.”

Tamara shook her head.

“Nor am I, Farris, but I think we can find a laundress wherever we venture, so long as we stay within the realms of humanity. I’m not sure how fairies launder their clothing, though.”

This seemed to satisfy the butler, who had taken on so many roles for the Swift household. Tamara did not know what they would do without the stout and stalwart man if he ever decided to leave them. Farris seemed ever unfazed by the horrors they encountered. He acted as much like a defender of Albion as the ghosts or the Protectors themselves.

Tamara smiled at him and he gave her a polite nod, then went out the front door and toward the carriage house where the stable boy was already preparing the horses for their long journey.

She sighed and walked over to her own valise. Hoisting the bag with both hands, she managed to half carry, half drag the heavy case across the threshold and outside. It would have been proper for her to wait for one of the servants to take her bag, but more than ever Tamara wished to thwart propriety with her every action, large or small.

Once she stepped into the sunlight, she felt better. She didn’t understand the magic, or the science, that made a beautiful day such a balm on a wounded soul, but it was. She stopped, setting the valise down on the marble steps, and soaked up as much sunlight as her fair skin could bear.

She wished that her mind could be as untroubled as her body, which was quite happy to remain motionless in the middle of the front drive. But her thoughts would not give her a moment’s peace.

Could John Haversham really be the thief?

She knew that he had no qualms about stealing something in the name of the Algernon Club. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to believe that John was some kind of petty burglar who stole just for monetary gain. It went against everything she had ascertained about the man’s character. John was charming, intelligent, and compassionate, and not a little proud.

A smile came unbidden to her lips. It wasn’t just the sun that warmed her. Thinking about John, no matter how well she policed the thoughts, brought a wet, warm, delicious feeling to the place between her legs. It embarrassed her to realize how entirely unhinged she became at the mere thought of him, but the wantonness he inspired could not be denied.

“Penny for your thoughts,” a voice said, startling her from her reverie. “And should you really be carrying such a heavy burden by yourself, Miss Swift?”

She looked up to find John Haversham standing beside her, pointing at the large valise that sat at her feet.

Heat rose and she felt her cheeks flush. He’d appeared as though summoned by her imaginings, and for a moment her fantasies seemed to merge with reality. But he was no fantasy, no illusion. Tamara took a deep breath, and hoped he could not read the emotions she knew her eyes must reveal.

“My goodness, was I really so distracted that I missed your arrival, John?”

He smiled, and her heart leaped. She liked the way his teeth sat crookedly in his wide-lipped mouth. It was enough to prove to her that he wasn’t nearly as perfect as he first appeared.

“You were quite easy to startle, Tamara. You were in another world altogether.”

She liked it when he was gentle with her, when he kept his ribbing at a minimum and his sharp tongue blunted. She didn’t really mind the verbal sparring they usually engaged in, but the lovelorn woman inside of her yearned desperately to hear his honeyed adorations and passionate proclamations of love.

“And I think you’re in danger of going there again,” John added with a grin.

She put her girlish musings away then, and laughed.

“I suppose I had, hadn’t I?” She let her words fall, then smiled up at him.

He picked up the heavy valise, and easily swung it over his shoulder.

“Where does this monster go?”

She pointed to the carriage house, then followed him as he began the short walk to the small, stone building.

“What brings you to Ludlow House so early in the day?” she asked, as she tried to keep pace with him, and failed miserably.

He slowed his gait and she quickly caught up to him. When he glanced at her she saw regret in his eyes.

“Business, I’m sorry to say. For the club.”

She was surprised that anyone from the Algernon Club had business with her. She found the majority of the members to be misogynists who would rather stare at her bosom than engage her brain.

“Indeed? And the nature of this business?”

They reached the carriage house, where he set the valise down beside the open stable door and turned to appraise her.

“It has come to our attention— ” he began.

She raised an eyebrow, and interrupted him.

“Don’t you find it loathsome, delivering messages for that lot of effete codgers?”

He ignored her subtle jibe at his middling status in the Algernon Club, and continued.

“As I was saying, Tamara, it has come to our attention that you are harboring a wanted fugitive— ”

“Excuse me? A fugitive at Ludlow House? You must be joking. Where ever would I hide someone without my entire household staff, let alone William and the ghosts, discovering the person’s whereabouts?” Tamara demanded.

She would not allow anyone— not even John— to accuse her in her own home.

“As you like, Tamara,” John replied, returning her cold tone. “But I came today as much as friend to you as messenger. Lord Blackheath has been approached by a member from the north, with an appeal from the ruling council of Stronghold. They demand that the sprite Serena appear before them, and have asked our assistance. We know you have the sprite somewhere on your property— ”

He paused as Farris came through the stable door, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hat askew.

“Pardon me, miss,” Farris said. “But I think Master William will be wanting a word with you before we go.”

She groaned under her breath, and nodded.

“I’ll be up to the house in a moment, Farris. Please tell William that I was just seeing a guest out.”

She took John’s arm, guiding him away from the carriage house— and the empty stable— that at that very moment housed his missing fugitive. Serena had told them all the tale of her encounter with Giselle Ravenswood and the rest of the ruling council of Stronghold. The way the fairies treated sprites was horrid, but that did not worry Tamara overmuch. What concerned her was that they had forbidden Serena to seek aid from herself and William and now were using influence to try to retrieve Serena instead of simply coming down to London and attempting to capture her themselves.

Most fairies, as Tamara understood it, enjoyed contact with humans, and sometimes became fascinated and even enamored with them. But they preferred to encounter humans in the wild and avoided cities whenever possible.

Still, if the Council of Stronghold considered Serena a fugitive and were angry that she’d dared come to the Protectors of Albion for help, Tamara knew she could expect a very chilly reception when she arrived in Cornwall.

“John, there’s a message I would like you to carry back to Lord Blackheath. Remind him that William and I are the Protectors of Albion, and that the Algernon Club’s directors have vowed to aid us in our duties. We do not now, nor shall we ever, answer to any but England herself.”

“Tamara,” John said reasonably, “a little bit of cooperation— ”

“Shush.”

He smiled. “I don’t know if you’ve got the sprite here or not. But I told Lord Blackheath that you would never surrender her if she were.”

She led him toward the end of the drive, careful to keep a steady hand on his arm. Tamara could feel the taut muscles moving under the thin fabric of his frock coat as they walked.

“Let us say only that if she were in my care, I would return her to Stronghold personally, and stand with her against those who condemned her unjustly.”

John raised an eyebrow and glanced back at the carriage, laden with bags and prepared for travel.

“I see.”

“I’m taking a trip to Cornwall this afternoon, John, and am unsure of when I will return. Bodicea will accompany me, and of course Farris, but I would be thrilled if you would decide to come along, as well.”

Blinking in surprise, he pulled himself away from her grasp, letting her know the answer to the question even before he spoke.

“You already know my stance on the nature of our relationship, Tamara. I don’t think anyone would find it appropriate if I were to travel with you,” he said, almost primly. There was a hint of amusement behind his words, though, when he added, “Especially not your brother.”

“My brother doesn’t like you now, John, and I’ve no doubt he would hate you after that,” Tamara said quietly.

John regarded her curiously, but did not immediately reply.

“Your brother has more than that reason to despise me.”

There was a faraway look in his eyes. The chill in his voice shocked Tamara to the core. It was as if she were looking at another man entirely.

Someone cold and empty.

Then, as though a cloud had passed from across his features, his eyes lit up again and he smiled. “Well, then, I’d best be going. I don’t think I’ll get any further cooperation here today.” The usual flirtatious baritone of his voice had returned.

Tamara watched him walk briskly down the drive to where his own carriage awaited.

There was something strange about him today.

SWIFT’S OF LONDON WAS HOUSED in an imposing stone building. As a small child, William had been frightened of the place anytime he went to visit his father there. Its huge Doric columns supported giant marble lions that roared down at passersby from the roof’s uppermost reaches. Such was London’s atmosphere that the building’s once pale gray exterior had become coated with so much dirt and coal smoke residue that it was almost black.

No longer a child, William found the building’s stern façade more charming than frightening, and was proud that his family’s bank had such a prestigious address on Threadneedle Street. He relished his position in society and found that he wanted nothing more than to settle down into matrimony with Sophia and grow old.

It was simply not to be.

William ascended the high marble stairs that led to the door, taking them one at a time. Savoring the pleasant warmth of the day, he paused for a moment. Once inside, he made his way quickly through the bank, waving a bright good morning to his employees but not stopping to pass the time with them.

Reaching the door to his office he turned to survey the bank once more, enjoying the industrious chatter and bustle of the workday. In this office, he was the center of that busy hive, and though he had not chosen this profession, he had come to appreciate elements of his responsibilities at Swift’s.

William closed the door and crossed the room, taking a seat behind the heavy mahogany desk. The dark wood and thick glass, the marble and the brass, made the place a masculine stronghold. He was comfortable here. His true love and joy was architecture, a vocation he had been forced to surrender when Oblis had possessed his father. With Henry Swift unable to attend to the needs of the family business, William had stepped in. He found it challenging work, but it was not his passion.

A knock came on the door.

“Enter,” William called.

The door swung inward to admit his assistant, Harold Ramsey. They had attended university together, but Ramsey had almost cherubic features and a ready smile that gave him the appearance of being several years younger than William.

“Good morning, William.”

“And to you.”

Harold stood in the doorway, a sheaf of papers in his hand and a curious expression on his face.

“There’s a Mr. Stephen Roberts to see you. Shall I send him in?”

“Please,” William replied, standing up and brushing off his trousers. He had expected Roberts at eleven. The man was early. This was a positive sign. He liked those in his employ to be punctual.

Harold closed the door behind him, giving William a few moments to collect himself. He looked around the room to make sure everything was in its place, and nodded, satisfied that all was as it should be.

When another knock came on the door, William called once more for Ramsey to enter. Harold ushered into the room a tall man with imposing features and an intelligent light in his eyes.