Spellbreaker

CHAPTER 13

He did not believe Elsie Camden had lied to him.

But he also did not want to trust her.

Bacchus stood in his bedroom, looking out the window at the grounds below. He did not spend a lot of time in this space; he used it merely for sleeping—something he needed too much of lately, thanks to the stunted polio. There were always things in need of doing, tasks in need of completing. Standing still was bad enough. Soon he would be forced to sit still.

But here he was, pensive, staring out the window like an invalid, lost in his own thoughts.

He still remembered the day his father had brought him to Master Pierrelo. He’d been almost seventeen, already taller than his father. They had just returned from his mother’s funeral in Portugal. His father had made sure she was comfortable all her years, but he’d never truly involved her in Bacchus’s life, outside a single visit and a handful of letters. Whether or not she wanted to be part of Bacchus’s life, he wasn’t sure; but as a bastard, he would have lived a more affluent life with his father than his mother. Regardless, Bacchus had been sick from the loss of his mother, the travel over the sea, and the onset of his disease.

He remembered everything the temporal aspector had said. Remembered the spell warming his skin. This is not a cure, Master Pierrelo had cautioned. Only more time.

Bacchus had taken that warning to heart. He’d researched, studied, and worked until he had a plan in place. A plan that revolved around a spell he had not yet obtained. A spell that might help him move his legs once paralysis set in. If not, it would be an extension of his hands, allowing him to work without ever needing to stand.

If pity would have swayed the physical assembly, Bacchus might have shared his story with them. But men determined to be uncaring were never persuaded otherwise.

He touched his chest. He could still feel the prints of Miss Camden’s fingers there. He hadn’t thought her touch would affect him, yet the pressure of her hand lingered like she’d cast her own spell. In that brief moment, he had seen more of her than she usually revealed—sadness limning her eyes, frustration creasing her brow. But the certainty with which she’d declared the existence of another spell, one he had no recollection of, had dissipated any tender feelings.

He didn’t know how large the rune was, but Miss Camden insisted on its presence. How long had she known? Had she learned of it that first night, when he’d caught her discharging his spell? During the re-enchanting of the wall? Or perhaps at Isaiah’s dinner, when he’d escorted her into the dining room. Perhaps he’d let his guard down, allowing the lighting and her sharp blue eyes to put him at ease—

Had she told him about the spell to torture him, let him stew in worry as revenge for making her work? Did she mean to continue her employment? But he didn’t blooming pay her, damn it.

And truthfully, she didn’t seem like that kind of woman. Though she masked it well, Bacchus suspected she genuinely cared about people, despite her . . . illegal tendencies.

No, he did not believe she’d lied. He only wished she had.

He took to the narrow writing desk in the corner. Readied a pen. Wrote briskly, scratching the paper, ignoring the few places where the ink bled. Shaking the message dry, he folded it over and scrawled Master Jacques Pierrelo on the back. Although she had told him the master wouldn’t have sensed the first spell, the man might know something.

Someone had to know something.

Letter in hand, Bacchus charged for the door. He pulled it open, finding a startled footman on the other side.

The servant bowed. “My apologies, Mr. Kelsey, but you’re needed in the drawing room.”

He huffed. “What for?”

The man twisted in discomfort. “Perhaps you’d best see for yourself.”

Eyeing the servant and hating the way every single Englishman danced around his intent, Bacchus nodded, pocketed the note, and strode toward the drawing room. The manor was huge, but the room wasn’t far. He reached it and opened the door. The duke paced before the pianoforte, obviously disgruntled about something. The duchess had her back to him. A constable stood erect near the other entrance.

“What is this?” Bacchus asked, shutting the door behind him.

Isaiah said, “He only means to question you, Bacchus.”

Bacchus turned toward the constable. “What has happened?” They found out about Elsie. His stomach tightened. He’d made a promise to her, and he intended to keep it . . . that, and the thought of the woman behind bars filled him with dread.

“Please sit down, Mr. Kelsey.” The constable, a short, rounded man in full uniform, gestured to one of the chairs. Bacchus selected one that allowed him to see all three people in the room. He took his time, trying to think of excuses for both himself and Miss Camden, ones that wouldn’t immediately convict her.

The constable pulled out a pad of paper and a pencil. “What is your relationship to Felton Shaw?”

“Felton Shaw?” He repeated the foreign name, trying to hide the relief lightening his shoulders. “I don’t . . . Wait.” Wasn’t that the name of the man Bacchus had lost the opus to at the auction three days ago? “A gentleman in his forties, brown hair cut short? Wealthy?”

The constable nodded.

“I am barely acquainted with him.” What was this about? “He attended an auction at Christie’s Auction House this past Wednesday. Wore a gray suit. We bid on the same opus. He won.”

“And that was the end of your acquaintance?”

“No. I spoke to him after the auction about purchasing a spell from the opus. He seemed interested until I named a master spell. Then he dismissed me somewhat forcibly and left.”

“You did not follow him?”

Bacchus narrowed his eyes. “No. And my servant did not, either.”

The constable nodded, eyes on his paper. “Your servant’s name?”

He didn’t like the way the man asked his questions, as if he were insinuating guilt. Cooperate, Bacchus. The duke will protect Rainer. “Rainer Moor. What is this about? Has Mr. Shaw filed a complaint against me?”

“Mr. Shaw is in hospital in serious condition.” The constable finally looked up. “He was stabbed last night, after his home was broken into. Robbed.”

Bacchus stiffened.

“Among the items taken was the Bennett opus. The only other witness is suffering from a head injury he will likely not recuperate from.”

The duchess slumped, covering her face with her hands.

“That is . . . terrible,” Bacchus managed.

The constable agreed with a dip of his head. “You were seen having a confrontation with him at the auction house.”

“I would not call it a confrontation.”

“Where were you last night, Mr. Kelsey? Between the hours of one and three a.m.?”

“Sleeping.” He let the obviousness of the statement leak into his tone.

“Where?”

“In my bedroom. Until midnight, I was sharing some Madeira with the duke in his study.” Though truthfully he didn’t care for the drink—he preferred rum. “Before that, I dined with the Scott family and listened to Miss Josie practice the pianoforte.”

The duke interjected, “Just as I told you.”

The constable nodded. “You have excellent character witnesses, Mr. Kelsey.” He made a small gesture toward the duke and duchess. “If I have more questions, I will return. I recommend not leaving the country anytime soon.”

Bacchus relaxed, but only slightly. “I do not plan to.” Not until he had the spell he needed.

He wondered, briefly, if he’d be the one hospitalized had he won the auction.

“And your servant?”

“Rainer sleeps with the other servants in the household. There will be many witnesses to his presence here.”

The constable glanced at the duke. “Your Grace, if you would take me downstairs, so I might inquire?”

“Yes, of course.” The Duke of Kent crossed the room quickly, gesturing to the door behind the constable. “Right this way.” Then, in the hallway, likely to the butler, “No need, I’ll escort him myself.”

A long breath passed through Bacchus’s lips. He leaned back in the chair. “I take it the stolen goods have not been recovered.”

The duchess shook her head, distressed. “No. Oh, my dear, I hate it when my husband stays up late with his drink, but I am so glad he did it last night.”

Bacchus nodded. Isaiah Scott had made the offer upon noticing Bacchus’s distracted state. He’d been mulling over Elsie Camden—and her declaration of a second spell—ever since her dismissal.

“First Alma Digby goes missing, and now this.” The duchess dotted her eyes with the knuckle of her index finger. “Not to mention Baron Halsey and Viscount Byron! Oh, their poor wives . . . I think I’ll walk the gardens. Would you care to join me?”

Bacchus stood. “I might see how Rainer is faring, if that’s all right.”

“Yes, of course.” She waved him away.

Nodding his respects, Bacchus left the room, heading for the servants’ hall.

Less than half an hour later, the constable departed, having crossed Rainer’s name off his list.

Elsie could not seem to finish her latest novel reader. Sometimes the words blurred together. Sometimes her imagination floated to other things. Sometimes she pictured the baron as an Algarve man, and that threw off the imagery she’d worked up in her head for the tale.

Even here, sitting in a small chapel with the story tucked into a hymnal, she could not read. And so she listened to an unfamiliar preacher speak on pride, and occasionally turned to admire the stained-glass windows. She should be happy, now that things were back to normal. The last week had been nothing but normal. No sneaking off to Kent, no surreptitious notes from the Cowls. She might not hear from them for months. Even Ogden had finished up his work with the squire and was home more. Elsie liked having him home. Liked the subtle feeling of family that snuggled up against the walls of the stonemasonry shop.

And yet she was unsettled.

Ogden had taken them to Dulwich today. The church was small, but there was a spiritual aspector present regardless, one so young he had to be an intermediate magician, at best. He couldn’t even grow a beard yet, Elsie was sure. Then again, the baron in The Curse of the Ruby certainly didn’t have one.

At least she needn’t worry about unwanted blessing spells.

She shut her hymnal and set it on her knees. Ogden was tracing crooked stars on his leg. Emmeline looked ready to fall asleep, the quartz-tipped pin stuck through her collar.

Elsie pinched her, causing her to choke on a little gasp, then handed her the hymnal. Usually, Elsie gushed about the story to Emmeline at night, once their hair was unpinned and their dresses put away, but she simply couldn’t concentrate this week. Poor Emmeline had been pining to know what happened next. She couldn’t read terribly well, but she could read well enough. When she looked down at the sneaky novel reader, she smiled and turned back to its first page.

She’d gotten to page 7 by the time the sermon ended and the congregation filed out. There were a good deal of gentlemen and ladies present, wearing their ultrafine clothing, waving themselves with cloth fans, though it wasn’t even June yet. Ogden had found an old comrade or some such to chat with, and Emmeline remained perched on her seat, engrossed in the magazine, so Elsie pushed past all the well-to-dos, out into the early-afternoon sunlight.

Stretching her arms overhead, she started down the street, wanting to stretch her legs before being sausaged back into the cab. She heard chatter around her about a recent ball, a hunting party, and a vote for something. Oddly enough, Elsie didn’t want to hear the gossip today. And so she strolled to the edge of the street, where it opened onto a small park. She circled the park, admiring the trees, before heading back. Most likely, neither Ogden nor Emmeline had noticed her absence yet.

A plump woman on the other side of the road tripped on a raised cobblestone, spilling the stack of books, papers, and ledgers in her arms. Quickly crossing, Elsie hurried over to help.

“Oh, thank you, dear,” the woman said as Elsie handed her a parchment scrawled with diagrams.

Elsie paused. “Master Merton?”

Master Lily Merton glanced up. “Oh! What are the chances, us running into each other again! Only this time I’m the one tripping.”

Elsie handed her a ledger. “You should have a manservant with you to carry these things.”

“Oh, no, I can’t stand the sound of people while I work, even bustling servants. Emma, would you hand me that?” She pointed to a fallen pencil.

“Elsie,” Elsie gently corrected, snatching up the pencil.

“Oh goodness, I knew that.” She stood, and Elsie helped her, ensuring nothing else tumbled off the stack. “Well, it’s still nice to run into a familiar face!”

“Are you not from Dulwich?” Elsie asked.

The older woman shook her head. “No, not at all.” She frowned. “Oh, my dear Miss . . . it was Camden, right?”

Elsie nodded.

Master Merton let out a breath that made her cheeks sag. “The atheneum just let go three of its acolytes. We’ve such a mess on our hands.” Leaning forward, she added, “And that is putting it mildly.”

“The atheneum terminated their contracts?” Elsie asked, unable to quell her curiosity.

“They’re with the bobbies now,” she said, using the nickname for the police force. Again lowering her voice, she added, “Suspected of having stolen or lost opuses. A few of them have been missing for some time. Now the rest of us, the elderly included, are having to step up and fill their spaces. I’ve been to two churches already today, and I have a paper I need to finish.” She jerked her chin toward her abundant research. “I feel it in my hips already and it isn’t even luncheon. Pah!”

“I’m terribly sorry.” Elsie glanced at the ledgers. “The atheneum is missing opuses?” It was her understanding the spellbooks were kept locked away behind secret doors, so even the sneakiest thieves couldn’t find them.

Master Merton shook her head, her short curls dancing around her ears. “Don’t repeat that, please.”

“But there’s been a lot of activity with opuses lately.” Elsie matched the aspector’s volume. “I’ve heard of . . . murders.”

Master Merton nodded, grim. “Oh yes. It’s not related, of course. A couple of our foolhardy acolytes decided to cause some trouble or tripped their way into it.” She clicked her tongue. “I don’t like reading or hearing the news, my dear. It’s too dreadful. How can a person be cheerful when bogged down with all of that?”

Elsie’s stomach tightened. “Of course. Where are you headed? Let me help you.”

“Oh no, I’m just down this way, really. I imagine you need to get back to your family.”

A pang hit her chest. “I do.”

The smile returned. Cheerfulness did suit Master Merton better than worry. “Thank you, dear. Pass my regards to the duke’s family for me.”

I don’t think I’ll be seeing them again. But she nodded.

When she returned to the church, Ogden and Emmeline were waiting outside for her, Ogden checking his silver pocket watch.

“Sorry,” Elsie said upon reaching them, “I went for a stroll and had to gather a library’s worth of material for an acquaintance who’d dropped it.”

Ogden nodded. “Fair enough. I’m eager for luncheon. Shall we?”

He offered his arms to Emmeline and Elsie. Pinching a smile, Elsie took his left and let her employer lead them toward a cab for hire. Family, Master Merton had called them. They were, in a sense. But truth be told, were Emmeline to procure another position, or get married, she’d have no real reason to keep in touch—Emmeline had her own family. Three sisters and both parents. Even Ogden had relations. No children, and his parents were deceased, but he had a smattering of nieces and nephews he saw at Christmastime. Sometimes with Elsie in tow, sometimes without. Because while Ogden really was like a father to her, he wasn’t her father. He and his family had no true obligation to her.

The ride home was uneventful, especially since Emmeline had now thoroughly engrossed herself in the novel reader and did not come up for air until they arrived in Brookley. Only once they were inside did Emmeline hand the story back and grab her apron.

Elsie watched her, bemused. “What are you smiling about?”

The maid giggled. “There’s kissing.”

Elsie blinked and opened the magazine, trying to guess what page Emmeline had left off on. Kissing? How scandalous!

Her ears heated, which was, of course, foolish. She’d been kissed before, though that had been some time ago.

Horse hooves sounded outside, but Elsie didn’t pay them much mind. She tucked the novel reader away and grabbed a second apron. “Let me help you. I’m famished.” And need to occupy myself.

“Just cold cuts and potatoes, I think.” Emmeline had a peeler in her hand. “Could you set water on the stove?”

Elsie grabbed a pot and filled it at the pump sink, set it on the stove, and stoked the fire. “I might eat them raw at this point.”

Emmeline snickered. “Won’t take too long, not if I cut them extra small.”

A knock sounded on the front door.

“Emmeline!” Ogden yelled from upstairs. He always went straight upstairs after church. He hated his formal attire.

“I’ll get it.” Taking off her apron and wiping her hands on it, Elsie hurried to the studio. It was Sunday, so the front door was locked, but on occasion a visitor still popped by. Ogden might have invited someone for tea. Elsie stashed the apron under the counter before coming around to unbolt the door.

Bacchus Kelsey stood on the other side.