Spellbreaker

CHAPTER 8

Elsie had just prepared herself for another day out and was reaching for the back-door handle when Ogden yanked it from the other side, causing her to shriek.

Hand on her chest, chatelaine bag in her hand, she said, “Mr. Ogden! Are you not at the squire’s today?”

She’d been preparing to set out for the Duke of Kent’s estate, again, while pondering how she could adjust the route to deliver two bids. She’d already prepared a couple of orders in the studio for Nash to pick up.

Ogden looked frustrated. “I am, but not yet. I tell you, Elsie, a stonemason’s job in a town like this one is a leisurely pursuit three hundred and sixty-four days of the year!” He marched past her, a man on a mission, into the studio. Opened a drawer beneath the counter. “Where are my granite tools?”

Brow furrowed, Elsie hurried over to him and checked the drawer. Empty. She checked the one next to it, and the one next to that. “I put them right here.”

“Emmeline!” Ogden bellowed. “I need my granite tools!”

“Is everything all right?” Elsie asked, following Ogden like the tail of a comet.

Ogden searched a cupboard. “Fine.” His head struck the top of the cupboard, and something sharp seasoned his breath. Pulling free, he sighed. “It’s fine, really. Just . . . people.”

Elsie leaned her weight on one leg. “You’ve always been fond of people.”

Ogden snorted. “I won’t give in to rumor, Elsie, but the squire has his hands in all sorts of nefarious affairs, and they bleed all over that house. Emmeline!”

Nefarious affairs?

Her shoulders slackened. “Did the Wright sisters say something?” Perhaps they were saving her the trouble of solving the mystery of the squire, the baron, and the viscount.

Ogden didn’t answer. Emmeline came racing around the corner, wiping her hands on her apron. “Yes, I think I know where they are—”

A knock sounded at the front door.

Setting down her chatelaine, Elsie hurried to the door and found herself face-to-face with the vicar.

“Mr. Harrison, how are you this morning?” Her pulse was beating too quickly for her short run.

The vicar removed his hat. “Quite well, quite well. Thank you. I’ve come to officially commission that tile work. Mr. Ogden and I discussed it some time ago—March, perhaps. For the church.”

He emphasized for the church as though doing so would earn him a discount.

He continued, “Is Mr. Ogden available?”

But Ogden had already vacated the area. Somewhere down the hall, something—many somethings from the sound of it—clattered to the floor. Elsie’s best guess was that Emmeline had knocked something over in the space beneath the stairs.

“He is, unfortunately, preoccupied.” Elsie smiled, falling into the persona of the helpful secretary. She retrieved a ledger from beneath the narrow counter separating herself from the vicar and opened it to the first blank page, glancing once at the clock. Mr. Kelsey would no doubt comment on her tardiness, but he couldn’t keep her under his thumb forever . . . Could he? “Why don’t you tell me about your request, and anything specific you discussed with Mr. Ogden?” She thought she recalled Ogden mentioning a mosaic of sorts for the chapel but didn’t remember any details.

The vicar fumbled through his pockets for a folded piece of paper, opened it, and handed it over. On it was a simple design sketched in pieces. Elsie could not really describe it other than to think it looked very “Ogden.” Dark tiles made a design against white ones, giving an illusion of two almost-circles, one inside the other. There was something familiar about it that she could not put her finger on. It made her fingers itch to touch it.

The vicar proceeded to ramble about his discussions with Ogden. Elsie’s pencil stayed poised to record the relevant information, and she scrawled down numbers in the far-right column, occasionally prying for more information.

“Blue and white,” she repeated.

“Peacock blue. A muted peacock blue, that is. I don’t wish to distract from worship.”

Elsie wrote muted and underlined it. “We’ll be in touch about the timing and cost.”

“We did discuss a budget,” the vicar continued.

“Mr. Ogden has an impeccable memory, I assure you.” The door opened again, and a flash of blond hair caught Elsie’s eye. She glanced up at Abel Nash, but he merely scoured the room once, offered a cheery nod, and departed again, ignoring the deliveries she’d prepared. That addle pate. Did he expect her to hand them to him?

Elsie sighed. “Thank you, Mr. Harrison.”

The vicar left, and Elsie found both Emmeline and Ogden, the latter cursing up a storm, in the hallway, surrounded by an array of boxes and knickknacks pulled from the cupboard below the stairs.

“Are they not in the kitchen?” she asked, and was ignored. “The vicar came by about a mosaic at the chapel. And Nash was here.”

Ogden cursed again. “Is he waiting?”

“The vicar or Nash?”

“Nash, damn it.”

“Mr. Ogden.” Emmeline looked uncomfortable, though Elsie didn’t think it was due to the wording of his reprimand.

“No,” Elsie answered. “He left.”

“Of course he did.”

Elsie looked over the mess. “Might your granite tools be misplaced in the studio?”

Ogden paused in his rifling, shoulders drooping. “Do check, Elsie.”

She nodded and returned the way she had come, setting the ledger back on its shelf before rummaging for the tools. She’d searched three-quarters of the studio when Ogden shouted, “Eureka!” from the hallway. He stumbled into the studio a moment later, a heavy leather bag in hand. Elsie would bet a shilling the bag had been in the kitchen the whole time.

“I have details for those chapel tiles in the binder.” He wiped his forehead. “I need you to go to the quarryman and request the stone.”

Elsie swallowed but nodded. That would take her another two hours, most likely. Perhaps Mr. Kelsey wouldn’t detain her long, and she could do it on the way back? But she’d received no telegram regarding the duke’s invitation to dinner, which likely meant she was obligated to go. Maybe she could go to the quarryman’s home after hours and make her apologies.

“Of course,” she managed.

Ogden relaxed. “Thank you. I’ll be back.” He tromped through the studio and out the front door, leaving it ajar in his wake. Elsie shut it. She’d never make it to Kent in decent time. Would Mr. Kelsey hold it against her? But she’d told him she had this job to worry about!

She pressed her forehead to the cool wood of the door. This was some sort of twisted nightmare. Blackmailed by an aspector and invited to dinner by a duke. The latter was unheard of. She was no gentlewoman! Even her finest dress wouldn’t suit their table. Surely the man hadn’t mistaken her for someone of rank, so what was he getting at?

The duke would ask questions. Barrage her with them. He’d judge her. His whole family would judge her—

“Elsie, whatever is the matter?”

Pulling her forehead from the door, Elsie turned to see a very concerned-looking Emmeline standing in the doorway of the studio. Elsie slumped.

“Oh, I wish I could tell you. But on top of it all, I have a dinner invitation.” It would be unbelievably rude to ignore the invitation. The man didn’t actually know her . . . but he was a duke, for heaven’s sake!

Elsie drew a harsh breath through her nose. Look on the bright side. It will provide an opportunity to determine just what spell Mr. Kelsey is hiding on his person. Perhaps he was secretly older than the duke and merely used magic to make himself appear so rugged and masculine. Stupid spellmaker and his stupid rich friends.

Emmeline lit up like a child on Christmas morning. “Dinner invitation? With whom, the vicar?”

Elsie snorted. “You would never believe it.”

Emmeline hurried across the room and grabbed Elsie’s hands. “Do tell me.”

“I have to visit the quarryman.”

“Oh, Elsie, you’ve time to tell me quickly. Please.”

She chewed on the inside of her cheek a moment. “Well, I met this aspector in . . . town . . . and he apparently works for the Duke of Kent—”

“The Duke of Kent!” Emmeline squealed. Elsie might have as well were their positions switched. But gossip involving oneself was nowhere near as interesting as digging into someone else’s business.

“And I’m to come to dinner, and if I say no . . . Who says no to a duke?” Elsie might have cried.

“A duke!” Emmeline had stars in her eyes. “This is absolutely wild!” Emmeline spun about. “Was the man very handsome?”

Elsie flushed. “Handsome? He’s quite old—”

Her friend rolled her eyes. “Not the duke, you ninny. The aspector! What’s his alignment?”

“Uh . . .” Elsie glanced around the studio, if only to take her eyes from Emmeline. “Well, he’s not a bad-looking fellow.”

“This is so exciting. You must go, and you must tell me all about it. You’ll head to the quarry right away, and I’ll rush through my chores so I can do your hair.”

Elsie touched her pinned locks. Emmeline hadn’t done her hair for a long time. Not since Alfred—

Alfred can choke on a rotten tart, she told herself, but it didn’t soothe the sourness in her belly.

She stiffened. “I am certainly not looking for affection, Em.” And Mr. Kelsey would certainly have none for her if she showed up too late to do any of her prison work.

The maid released Elsie’s hands. Of course, Emmeline knew all about Alfred and that nonsense. Elsie needn’t have snapped at her. But her friend’s natural good cheer pushed through. “But it’s not a bad thing, having a reason to fancy up.”

Elsie folded her arms. “I own nothing fancy enough for a duke’s table.”

“I think you’re fancy.” She beamed.

Elsie smiled. Considered. Sighed. “You’re right, I might as well make the best of it.” Maybe a few well-placed words would embarrass Mr. Kelsey right out of their spoken contract. “Would you . . . keep an eye out for any messengers or telegrams?” Though it was unlikely at this late hour, she still prayed for a cancellation.

“You’re expecting something from Juniper Down?”

The name of the place where she’d last seen her family hit her chest like a blow. Time had softened that wound, but it still sat there, a faded memory that made Elsie feel small. She was in a strange state of mind this afternoon, like she had a bad head cold that made her sensitive to everything around her. “Something like that,” she muttered.

Emmeline nodded. Elsie accepted her chatelaine bag, found a good hat to place on her head, and ventured out into the streets for the quarryman.

She thought up her excuses as she went.

No cancellation arrived from the duke’s residence, so Elsie found herself in her best dress at Seven Oaks that evening.

Wasn’t this everything she hated? Everything she stood against? The wealthy snacking on crumpets in the comfort of their mansions while the poor boiled down cabbage for their supper? In the workhouse, it had been easier to count the days she didn’t have cabbage than the days she did.

God bless Cuthbert Ogden.

She gradually stepped out of the carriage as though immersing in bathwater that was too hot. The Duke of Kent’s estate had done that growing trick again. It had surely doubled in size since yesterday. Perhaps Mr. Kelsey had done some incredible spell to make it loom. To intimidate her. To punish her for accepting the dinner invitation.

But it wasn’t very well her fault, now was it?

She should have said no. She should have sent a telegram directly to the duke himself and told him exactly what she thought of him, his society, and his mistreatment of his servants. Then again, her work with his bloody aspector wasn’t finished, and such a communication would make any future meetings, however accidental, incredibly awkward. Elsie did not enjoy feeling awkward.

“Is it the right place, miss?” her cab driver asked behind her, likely wondering at her hesitation. It was difficult to mistake any other place in Kent for Seven Oaks, surely. But Elsie couldn’t find her voice, so she nodded dumbly. The driver lingered a moment longer before whistling out the side of his mouth and whipping his horses’ reins. Then he was gone, and she stood alone at Seven Oaks, unescorted. But she was nearly old enough to be a spinster, wasn’t she? Just a few more years to go. And what uptight totty one-lung would think her worthy of gossip, anyway?

She wound her fingers together, the lace of her gloves chafing. She was in her maroon dress, the one she wore to church on the days she cared, and Emmeline had pinned her hair meticulously in the back and curled the shorter pieces in the front. Her hat sat like a resting bird atop it all, complete with feathers. She wore no jewelry—what she owned was not real in chain or stone, and she was certain the duke and his family would notice and judge her for it. The collar of the dress was high, besides.

It looked like the mansion was baring its teeth at her.

“Miss Camden?”

Elsie started, seeing for the first time a footman approaching her. A well-groomed footman, to be sure, but too young to be the butler. She offered a timid smile, and Elsie wondered how well the man was treated. Had the Cowls indeed been mistaken, or were the duke and duchess merely excellent at keeping up appearances? “I came out to see if you’d arrived, miss. Mr. Kelsey was worried you’d gotten lost.”

I’m sure he was, she thought. Would the spellmaker punish her for her inability to show up to work today? What if he used the dinner to publicly announce her secret? Or perhaps he would insist they skip the dinner so Elsie could prowl the tenants’ land in her nicest vestments?

She considered running all the way back to Brookley. The sun was setting; maybe she’d make it by morning. Now that would be a good bit of gossip: Elsie Camden stumbling into town a ready mess, her finest dress ripped at the hems. She could practically hear the story in the Wright sisters’ voices.

She plastered on a smile. “I did get a bit turned around, thank you.”

The footman nodded and gestured toward the monstrous house. Elsie’s legs felt so stiff she almost wondered if she’d gotten stuck in one of Mr. Kelsey’s spells again. But she managed to follow the man clear to the entrance, where a second footman held open the door.

It struck her again that the servants certainly looked healthy enough. That was good. To think Elsie might have become a maid herself had she stayed in the workhouse. Not at an establishment like this, of course. Somewhere more cramped, danker. Aristocrats didn’t hire from workhouses.

The footman wound Elsie through a few halls, past more servants, and up a set of stairs to a spacious drawing room. The gilded paintings seemed to dance in the candlelight, the furniture was fine and brightly colored, and the biggest bouquet she’d ever seen sat in a porcelain vase on a low table.

She tried to act as though the casual display of wealth didn’t affect her.

She didn’t know the four women in the room, all dressed in finery save one, whose dress seemed about on par with her own. The oldest, a willowy woman who wore her years well, acknowledged her first. Her neck glittered with sapphires.

Elsie felt sorely out of place. Her eyes jumped between chairs and sofas, trying to find somewhere she could sit quietly and unobtrusively until the food was served—

“You must be Elsie Camden!” The willowy woman approached her, arms outstretched, a brilliant smile lighting her face. “Dear, forgive the nature of our introduction. Men can be so nonplussed.” She took Elsie’s hands like they were long-lost friends.

Elsie’s jaw dropped. This was a noblewoman, was it not? But she was so . . . nice.

The woman took advantage of Elsie’s bafflement and subtly looked her over. Elsie flushed, sure the woman was measuring up her attire, but to her surprise, she said, “And you’re on the taller side. That’s good.”

Elsie’s jaw snapped back into place. Why is taller good? But the answer came to her before she could speak, nearly choking her. The stranger was referring to her height relative to that of Mr. Kelsey.

The woman swept right over her voiceless stutter. “My name is Abigail Scott. The duke is my husband.”

Elsie was holding hands with a duchess.

“This”—the duchess released her and gestured to two women, both younger than Elsie, the first about sixteen—“is my daughter Ida and my daughter Josie.” Josie looked barely Ida’s junior. “And this is Master Lily Merton, whom I also invited to dine with us tonight.”

Master Merton, who looked to be a little older than Ogden, scuttled up to her. She was titled in the way of spellmaking, but she didn’t look like the standard well-to-do lady. She was short and plump, with a round face that looked like it perpetually smiled. Her hair was curled and a little old fashioned, her dress violet, modest, and simple, which made Elsie feel less out of place. “My dear, it is excellent to meet you. I hope you don’t mind the intrusion. The duchess’s family is a dear one, and Miss Ida is showing so much promise in aspecting!”

Elsie blinked and turned toward the older daughter. “You’re an apprentice?”

But Ida shook her head. “Not yet. Perhaps. But I do show promise.”

Master Merton nodded vigorously. “I just have to convince her to join the spiritual alignment!”

Ida smiled shyly. Though Elsie didn’t know the girl, she hoped she’d take the opportunity to study aspecting. There were so few women in the field, especially in Europe. Only the privileged who showed natural talent could try their hand at it, along with a sprinkling of the sponsored poor, who were often discovered only when spellmaking professors held recruiting events and didn’t charge a family their firstborn child to participate. That left many potential aspectors turned away. Back to the cabbage fields.

Had Elsie been anything but a spellbreaker, she’d never have amounted to anything. The Cowls certainly would never have found use for her.

“I’m sure you will succeed,” she tried, and Master Merton’s eyes gleamed with pleasure. “I think it a very good profession for a young lady.”

“Quite possibly,” the duchess echoed. She perked at footsteps in the hall. “Here we are. My dear Miss Camden, Mr. Kelsey will escort you. And Master Merton, I would be honored to have you on my left.”

“What a pleasure, my lady,” Master Merton enthused, clapping her hands. Her good cheer was such that Elsie couldn’t help but smile, too. “Oh, we have so much to talk about!”

The door on the near side of the room opened, revealing Mr. Kelsey. He held it for the duke, who noticed Elsie and grinned before shifting his attention to Master Merton and offering her a thorough welcome.

Mr. Kelsey approached Elsie as soon as he walked in. He looked a little irritated, but the lines in his tanned forehead smoothed themselves as he approached her. Goodness, it was easy to forget how large he was when not comparing him to normal-sized people. His eyes dropped to her skirt and back up, lingering, and Elsie couldn’t tell whether he approved or disapproved.

Not that it mattered. Indeed, it most certainly did not. Elsie had merely straightened her posture because her corset was pinching.

A duke, a duchess, their daughters, and a master aspector. Mr. Kelsey was the only thing bridging the gaping class barrier between Elsie and the rest, and even that bridge felt insurmountable.

Elsie spoke first, quietly. “I could not get away this morning. It all went to pot, giving me barely any chance to breathe. I will try my best tomorrow.”

Mr. Kelsey considered a moment before offering an arm. “Fair enough.”

Elsie eyed him, hesitant to lift her hand. “Fair enough? Just like that? No jabs or threats?”

“If you meant to go back on your word, you would not have come.”

She frowned and took his arm as the duke led the duchess toward the dining room, Master Merton beside them. As she watched them, she felt the bulk of Mr. Kelsey’s muscular arm against hers. Who would win if he were to arm wrestle Ogden?

Heat crept up her neck, but she ignored it, loosening her grip to keep her focus where she needed it. “I merely wished to try the elegant food that is sure to grace the duke’s—”

Spells.

Two of them. The first she’d noticed before—a forestlike scent that almost but not quite blended with his usual fragrance of newly cut wood and oranges. It was on Mr. Kelsey’s person, right there on his torso. But another spell lay beneath it, calm and muted, barely noticeable. She couldn’t identify it; the first enchantment was too pungent. But there were certainly two.

The second spell was so powerful that she couldn’t detect it with her usual senses—she simply felt its existence, not unlike the sensation one got when being watched. The only reason she’d noticed it now was because she stood so close to him.

Why? And why were there two?

“—table,” she finished, barely recalling what they’d been discussing. God help her, she needed to know what those spells were, but short of seducing Mr. Kelsey out of his clothing, she didn’t think she’d be able to pin it down.

Now she really needed to distract herself, for her errant thoughts were making her blaze like the bloody hearth. Elsie tucked the notion of secret spells into the back of her mind and thought very hard about snow.

Mr. Kelsey led her toward the door, and the sisters followed after them. Were this a real dinner party, there would have been two gentlemen to escort them. But it wasn’t, and the duke had already proved himself unusual by inviting her to dine with them in the first place.

On the taller side. She nearly snorted. And yet the banter had eased her nerves.

The dining room, of course, was as grand as the drawing room, though a little less busy in its décor. The table was not terribly large, and Elsie wondered if it had leaves to extend it, or if this was the smaller of two dining rooms. The duke sat on one end and the duchess on the other. Master Merton sat in the esteemed seat to the duchess’s left, and Bacchus sat to her right, with Elsie beside him. Across from Elsie sat Ida, and beside her, Josie.

Footmen brought out the first course. Elsie didn’t know what it was, but it smelled wonderful.

Cabbage, she reminded herself. Everyone else is eating cabbage.

“Bacchus tells me you’re from Brookley,” chirped the duke. “I’ve passed through the place. It has a certain charm to it.”

Elsie nodded, unsure how she felt about her personal information being shared. But of course Mr. Kelsey would have needed to relinquish something. “It does, Your Grace. I am very fortunate to be there.” She mentally kicked herself. If she admitted to her history in the workhouse, she’d surely be ousted from the table.

The duchess added, “He’s very tight-lipped about you.”

It took Elsie a second to realize she meant Bacchus, about her. She swallowed, suppressing relief. “Well, that is, we’re really just acquaintances.”

The duchess gave the duke a look that Elsie did not like. A knowing look.

Mr. Kelsey said, “Miss Camden has impeccable taste in ballrooms,” and lifted his spoon to his mouth. Elsie watched to see if he’d dribble anything into his beard, but he proved quite adept at eating with facial hair. How irritating.

“Is that so?” asked the duchess.

“Master Merton,” Elsie began, her appetite starting to slip away from her, “when did you first notice potential in Miss Ida?”

“Oh, I wasn’t even the first to notice! That was Master Thompson.” Because aspecting did not have a feminine title for women, Elsie was unsure at first if Master Thompson was male or female. “He went to university with the duke’s brother,” the aspector continued, “as did Mr. Kelsey’s father, if I remember correctly?”

Mr. Kelsey nodded, more interested in his soup than the conversation. Elsie envied him his silence. As the newcomer to the table, she wouldn’t be allowed much of it.

“He just had a hunch, apparently. Like drawn to like, I suppose,” Master Merton prattled on. “I was there when he tested her. A dozen drops in her hand lit up like the sun!”

Miss Ida blushed.

“How interesting,” Elsie said. “I admit I know little of magic myself”—do not look at Mr. Kelsey—“but my employer is an aspector. Not nearly at your level, of course.”

“Is he?” the duchess asked.

Stop talking about your personal life!

Elsie nodded. “And Miss Josie”—what’s something refined young women do?—“do you . . . sing?”

After a long conversation about music, the second course arrived, and Elsie found she had a bit more appetite. Ida mentioned the opus thefts, which instantly engaged Elsie’s attention, but the conversation was quashed by the duchess. “Let’s not speak of terrible things we have no control over,” she said firmly. Elsie wondered if the prospect of her eldest becoming an aspector made the duchess uneasy, what with the news in the papers of late.

The duke instead chatted about dog breeds, and Master Merton conversed enthusiastically. Elsie was content to merely listen until the third course arrived, and she once again became a topic of interest.

“You mentioned working for an aspector?” the duke asked.

Elsie clamped her hands together under the table. “I . . . yes. A novice, really. He’s an artist—”

“He does very well for himself,” Mr. Kelsey interjected, his voice smooth and confident. “As does Miss Camden.”

She paused at the compliment. But what did Mr. Kelsey know? Either way, it was a delicate attempt to bolster her standing, and for that she was grateful.

“But of course.” The duchess nodded. “Remind me how you two met?”

Mr. Kelsey said, “I would have had to tell you the first time to remind you, Your Grace.”

The duchess swatted her hand in the air. “I’ve told you about formality, Bacchus.”

Josie said, “But we’re dining,” referring to the formal occasion.

The duchess gave her youngest daughter a pointed look, and Josie dropped her attention to her meal.

“Just in the market.” Elsie tried to recall what she’d told Emmeline. “I was . . . having some trouble with a door. Mr. Kelsey graciously aided me.”

His lips quirked at the near truth.

“Oh yes.” Master Merton nodded enthusiastically. “The days are getting hotter and more humid. The wood swells right up! But you know a spell for that, don’t you, Mr. Kelsey?”

Mr. Kelsey set down his fork. “I do, but I’ll not be enchanting another’s door. More often than not, a firm push will do well enough.”

“So pragmatic,” the duchess chimed. She dotted her lips with a napkin. “All that talk of music. Josie, you’ll play for us after dinner, yes?”

“Of course!” she replied.

“I—” Elsie began, but her mind proved stubborn in fathoming an excuse. She could stay up a little later tonight to finish her work for Ogden, couldn’t she? No doubt he’d have a list for her after another long day at the squire’s. He had seemed so harried earlier. Not like himself.

“Miss Camden is not local, and it grows late,” Mr. Kelsey said. Elsie wasn’t sure if she should bless him or be offended that he wanted her gone so quickly. “It’d be best if she departed.” Then, catching himself, he added, “but I would enjoy your music, Miss Josie.”

Josie grinned.

“Oh dear, yes. I’m sure your escort is waiting,” said the duchess.

Elsie forbade her cheeks to blush. They nearly listened. “Yes, she’ll be here any moment.” And she’d be charged a premium if the driver had to wait. With all the cabs she’d been hiring, Elsie would be going to the poorhouse soon.

The rest of the meal went smoothly, with Master Merton talking of the excitement of aspecting and the Spiritual Atheneum in London. When the last plates were taken away, Mr. Kelsey forsook his port to escort Elsie to her imagined chauffeur.

The cab wasn’t there.

“I did ask him to return at eleven.” Elsie stood in the gap in the stone wall, wringing her hands. Her voice might have been a touch defensive.

Mr. Kelsey regarded her in a way that made her warm. “You handled yourself well.”

She straightened. “I’m no scullery maid.” Not anymore. “I know etiquette well enough.” Thanks to Ogden and her novel readers. She softened quickly. “Thank you, for protecting my privacy.”

“It’s not difficult; the duke and duchess know their etiquette as well. I have other plans for tomorrow, but we’ll go to the tenants’ land on Thursday. I have a suspicion of some curses.”

“Curses?” Spiritual spells.

“I could very well be wrong.” He rubbed his half beard. “I’ll get you a carriage.”

“Like I said before, it would be best if I do not arrive home in a duke’s carriage.”

“You must have very determined eavesdroppers at home if it concerns you.” He stifled a yawn. Either he was used to turning in early, or Elsie’s conversation was dull.

Obviously it was the former.

They returned to the house, where Elsie waited in the vestibule while Mr. Kelsey obtained the carriage. Elsie wondered how many the duke owned.

When it came around, Mr. Kelsey escorted Elsie to the door, even offering a hand to help her in. His hands were large but not unwieldly. Warm.

She pulled hers free the moment she had her balance.

“Until Thursday.” He nodded and shut the carriage door.

The horses jerked forward, and Elsie gripped the seat to remain upright. Something crinkled under her hand. A piece of paper had been left on the cushion.

She picked it up, just making out the bird-foot seal in the moonlight.

The Cowls.