Spellmaker

CHAPTER 5

Elsie came home to an empty house, unsure if Ogden was still looking for stolen opuses or attending to other business. At first, she assumed Emmeline was simply running errands, but when the maid did not return by nightfall, it became clear she must have left to stay with family or friends. And so Elsie locked up the dark stonemasonry shop and put herself in bed, pretending to sleep and doing a very poor job of it.

She was engaged. To Bacchus Kelsey. Engaged to be married.

And he hadn’t even proposed.

We’ll sort it out, Elsie, he’d said as the carriage pulled down Brookley’s high street, his Bajan accent soft. I promise.

But he’d seemed tense, so wrapped in thoughts they were suffocating him. Elsie didn’t know what she’d wanted him to feel, to say. That he was relieved? That he was actually madly in love with her? That made her laugh.

How funny it was, to have a man who had once nearly thrown her into prison sacrifice his happiness to keep her out of it.

Tears stung her vision, and she blinked them away. His happiness. Oh, she wanted Bacchus to be happy. So desperately. She recalled the utter glee that had encompassed him after she pulled that siphoning spell from his chest. How it had buoyed her. Made her feel wanted and important. She wanted him to be like that always.

But this arrangement had practically put the spell back onto him, hadn’t it? Elsie would eat up his time, his energy, his money, as any unwanted spouse would.

Rolling over, Elsie pressed her face into her pillow and moaned. How blissful this engagement would have been if it had come about differently. If she’d never been arrested and he’d stayed in England for the want of her and they’d courted in the way a man and a woman were supposed to, without secrets and murderers looming in the background. Yes, Elsie was willing to admit that in that other, perfect scenario, it would be joy keeping her awake. Excitement.

“You’ll have to make the best of it,” she said into the pillow. “Make him regret it as little as possible. Be the best forced spouse you can be.”

And the magistrate might yet lose interest. For all they knew, Bacchus could be let off the hook.

It bothered her how much that thought seared, like she’d swallowed a hot poker.

God help her, she’d be miserable if he stayed, and miserable if he left. The most logical thing to do was to prepare for the pain now. The worst thing about tragedy was being surprised by it. She simply wouldn’t let it catch her unawares this time. Not like it had with her family, with Alfred, or with the mysterious American man she’d thought, however briefly, was her long-lost father.

A sore lump formed in her throat, and stubborn tears pushed their way onto her pillowcase. She’d tried very hard not to think on that the last two weeks. The worst of it was how excited she’d been upon receiving a telegram from the Halls, the family with whom her parents had abandoned her. They’d reported that someone had finally come looking for her. She’d cashed out her entire bank account and fled for Juniper Down immediately, only to realize the man was not her kin. He wasn’t even English. And he thought she’d written a mass of articles to toy with him for a reason she had been unable to surmise.

That horrible disappointment had been followed by the revelation that the Cowls—or, rather, Master Lily Merton—had been using her for years, something that had filled her with shadows that were too poisonous to bear.

She heard the snap of the bolt in the back door and sat up, quickly wiping her eyes. The door opened, closed, followed by familiar footsteps. Too heavy to be Emmeline’s.

Grabbing her night-robe, Elsie pushed her arms into its sleeves and hurried into the hall.

“Ogden?” she called.

A candle lit at the bottom of the stairs, illuminating Ogden’s face. Relief etched his features. “He did it. You’re back.”

She nodded. “As are you. We need to talk.”

He ascended the steps. “Anywhere is fine. Emmeline’s not due back until morning.”

She stepped aside to let him pass, then followed him into his bedroom, where she perched on the trunk at the edge of his bed. “What did you find?”

“The place she hid the opuses,” he answered. Elsie perked up, but he held out a hand, staying her. “It was empty. She’s been there. I didn’t find her, but I returned to the Spiritual Atheneum in London on my way back. Picked some brains. Apparently she’s officially retired and moved from the city, though no one seems to know where.”

Elsie’s lungs twisted in an unexpected way. Lily Merton must have decided Elsie wasn’t necessary anymore. It shouldn’t have bothered her—she wanted nothing to do with the murderer—and yet it did.

“I’ll be returning soon to try to locate her, keep tabs on her. Someone must know something.” He set the candle down and plopped onto his bed, landing hard enough to shake the trunk pressed against its foot. “She’s being smart—she knows I could overpower her mind if I found her.”

Elsie stiffened. “Could you?”

He hesitated, peering at her with severe turquoise eyes. “Yes, I could.”

Elsie licked her lips, considering.

“Does that bother you?”

“Does what?”

“What I am,” he clarified. “What I can do.”

She shook her head, then paused. “It doesn’t bother me. I’m just . . . not used to it.” I just don’t know if you’ve ever used it on me.

She knew he had, in service to Merton, but she had to believe he wouldn’t do it intentionally. He’d claimed that their interactions were genuine, that Merton had controlled him only on occasion. She needed to believe that. She needed to believe in something.

“I wonder,” Ogden went on, “if she’s hired new thugs, or if she’s choosing to lie low. Perhaps it’s over. Perhaps she really has retired.”

Elsie gave him an incredulous look that he merely nodded at. People had been murdered, their opuses stolen. A woman did not go through such extensive efforts merely to give up in the end. “The question is,” Elsie said aloud, “what is the end?”

“I don’t know.” He rubbed his hands together. “If she has all those opuses . . . she’s the most powerful person in England, if not the world.”

Elsie hugged herself, cold in a way that radiated from the inside out, much like she’d been in prison.

As though sensing her thought—and perhaps he had—Ogden asked, “How did he get you out? What did he have to pay?”

The lump in her throat returned, and she swallowed it down. “Not money,” she murmured.

And she told him everything, from the moment the guard unlocked her cell to the moment Bacchus dropped her off in Brookley, promising to contact her soon. Everything but the worry and worthlessness gnawing on her insides.

Ogden leaned back. “Interesting.”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

He shrugged. “He’s not a bad choice, Elsie. He’s titled, wealthy, and virile.”

Elsie’s cheeks heated. “Did you say virile?”

Ogden smirked. “It’s hard not to notice.”

She covered her face with her hands, hiding her embarrassment.

Until another realization hit her, making her stomach drop.

“Oh no,” she whispered.

Ogden tensed. “What? What’s wrong?”

Slowly, she dropped her hands from her face and lifted her eyes. “If I marry him . . .”

Ogden leaned closer.

“My name will be Elsie Kelsey,” she finished, mortified.

Oh, how the Wright sisters would love that.

“I knew you fancied him!” Emmeline chimed as she picked up the breakfast dishes. Elsie had cooked that morning, early, thanks to her insomnia, but Emmeline had returned home just in time to lend a hand with the morning chores. “How exciting, Elsie! Right out of a storybook. Engaged to a master aspector, and yourself a spellbreaker! The perfect pair. Oh, you’re moving up in the world, and so elegantly!”

Elsie brushed crumbs from the table into her hand. “I don’t think being arrested is elegant, Em. Prison most certainly is not.” She peered out the window. She’d used her enchanted pencil to write to Bacchus that morning, before sunup, after mulling over her options all night long. She needed to know what Merton was aiming for, what she wanted, and why she wanted it, and Bacchus knew three people who might have answers—the Duke and Duchess of Kent and Duchess Morris, a fellow spiritual aspector who’d appeared quite friendly with Merton when Elsie had spied them together on a shopping excursion. Duchess Morris was also a contemptible woman who had put a curse on the Duke of Kent’s fields and hired physical and temporal aspectors to make herself more attractive. Elsie knew—she’d unraveled both the curse and the glamour on the woman’s nose. Although there was a slim chance the woman might recognize her, Elsie thought it middling. Duchess Morris wasn’t the sort to pay attention to those she thought beneath her.

She’d start in Kent, of course. Bacchus was close to the Scotts, even shared their roof. And she’d conjured the perfect excuse to talk to Duchess Morris. As a new spellbreaker, she would be required to interview aspectors in all four disciplines. If she could get Duchess Morris to participate, she could segue into questions about her friendship with Merton.

It was as good a plan as any. She just didn’t want to do it alone. Bacchus knew the woman better than she did, and if he helped her, she’d be more likely to get through the front door. Plus, she simply wanted him there.

The kitchen clean, Elsie brushed off her hands and hurried up the stairs, to where the green pencil rested against a piece of parchment. The top of the page read, in her handwriting, She-who-will-not-be-named has supposedly retired and left London without a trace. I have to find her, Bacchus. I need your help. I know it’s wrong of me to ask when you’ve already done so much, but if she’s a friend of the duke’s, perhaps he and the duchess could answer some questions.

She hadn’t signed her name. She doubted Bacchus was sharing magicked pencils with a large number of desperate women. Or at least she hoped not.

To her relief, new handwriting had been scrawled under her own, capital letters with small flourishes that made them remarkably handsome. Of course I will help you. It works out well. The duchess wants to have you for tea.

That was it. Chewing on her lip, Elsie wrote, Why?

The pencil wrenched from her grip seconds later, eliciting a startled chuckle from her. It tilted and scrawled, Because she wants to help plan the wedding.

Elsie’s stomach clenched. Of course the Scotts would know about the engagement. Seeing the word wedding written out so plainly made it feel monumentally real.

When she didn’t reply right away, Bacchus added, Her cousin Mrs. Abrams is visiting and insists on lending a hand. “Six daughters married,” she says. Over and over. And over.

Elsie smiled and took the pencil from his invisible grip. I will endeavor to rescue you.

Bacchus waited only a breath before writing, I’ll send a carriage within the hour.

Mrs. Abrams was a severe woman with meticulously curled auburn hair that parted right at the center of her head in the straightest line Elsie had ever beheld. It oddly matched the duchess’s morning room, the chairs and piano of which were all stained cherrywood. The walls were white with simple embellishments around their edges. A painted picture of the estate from a distance hung over a white fireplace, and a rose-colored rug with a fish-scale pattern lay underfoot. Elsie perched, back rigid, on a blush-pink sofa beside Bacchus, while Mrs. Abrams and the duchess occupied a pale-green settee to Elsie’s left. A tea tray lay on the table between them, the tea already served, Elsie’s teacup cradled in her lap. She’d drunk enough to ensure her nerves would not cause the remainder to spill. Her stomach wouldn’t handle any more.

“And it’s my understanding you’re employed?” Mrs. Abrams asked. Her eyes were especially large and seemed to bulge from their sockets, watching Elsie without blinking. She said the word employed like it had a sour taste to it.

“Yes, I work for a stonemason.” She ached to look anywhere else, but sensed it would be considered rude if she averted her gaze.

The duchess smiled. “It’s good for a woman to have a disposition of responsibility, especially going into a marriage.” Her gaze shifted to Bacchus. “I really am so happy for you. I must admit my husband is a seer. He remarked on this very possibility the night we had you for dinner, Miss Camden.”

An itch rose in Elsie’s throat; she sipped some tea to soothe it before leaning forward and safely depositing the cup and saucer on the table before her. “Yes, well, the duke is very, um, perceptive.”

The duchess was, of course, referring to the night Elsie had actually been invited to dinner, not the afternoon she’d barged in screaming warnings, after which Abel Nash had emerged from his hiding place behind the curtains and attempted to snuff Bacchus. But they needn’t bring that up.

“He is,” Bacchus agreed simply. He opened his mouth to say more when Mrs. Abrams barreled in.

“Now, for the wedding. It’s good that May is behind us. A very unlucky month to get married.”

“Now, Alison,” the duchess chided softly.

“It is!” She set down her saucer. “My daughter—I’ve seen all six of them married, you know, and to good husbands—”

Elsie and Bacchus exchanged a look that had a restrained smile pinching Elsie’s cheeks.

“—she married May 27 despite my telling her not to, and she lost her first child!”

Elsie quickly sobered. “Oh my, that’s terrible.”

“Should have listened to me.” Mrs. Abrams’s curls bounced as she shook her head, and Elsie decided she did not especially like this woman, let alone want her to play any part in their wedding plans. But she would not voice such a thing here. What she needed was to segue the conversation to Merton.

Mrs. Abrams didn’t give her a chance. “It really is a quaint match, isn’t it? A spellmaker and a spellbreaker, ha! And you met before Master Kelsey’s mastership?”

Bacchus answered, “We did.”

“Good, good. That will smooth over any questioning from the peerage.” She nodded and sipped her tea.

Elsie stifled a frown. Had the woman just pointed out their class difference, right in front of her?

“As for the wedding party,” the woman went on, completely ignorant of the apologetic expression on the duchess’s face, “how many are we to expect? There are some large chapels in London, but travel is expensive and will take away from the gifts. I’m sure you will need gifts.” She looked pointedly at Elsie, which made Elsie’s neck heat. “Are your parents close by, Miss Camden? I assume they are also employed.”

The warmth crept over Elsie’s jaw. “Th-They are not, Mrs. Abrams.” She considered saying they were dead, which could be true for all she knew, just to kill the conversation.

“Not? Oh.” She nodded. “Then why are you working? Debts, perhaps.”

Bacchus’s low voice was stern when he said, “Elsie is free of any such things, Mrs. Abrams. Her parents are no longer a part of her life.”

“No longer a part . . . ?” Mrs. Abrams looked at the duchess in bewilderment.

“Oh, the details are not so important, are they?” the duchess said, awkwardly trying to smooth things over.

“How so?” Mrs. Abrams protested. “Were you disowned, Miss Camden?”

The flush inched up Elsie’s cheeks. “I was not particularly owned to begin with. If you must know, I became separated from them at a young age. Which is why I am employed. I care for myself just fine.”

“Well.” She leaned into the settee’s backrest. “That is quite a shock. Your discovery of magic is the only thing that will spare you from the worst of gossip.”

Now the duchess flushed. “There will hardly be gossip—”

“There will always be gossip, Abigail—”

“Mrs. Abrams.” Bacchus’s tone was forceful now; he surprised Elsie by reaching over and taking her hand. The warmth of his fingers sent shocks up her arm and had her blushing for an entirely new reason. “I am grateful for your willingness to assist, but I believe we will have a very small wedding party that will not require much in the way of management. My own parents have passed, and I have no siblings to speak of, so the transaction will be a simple matter. I’m sure your skills would be put to good use elsewhere.”

Oh, Elsie could kiss him.

Mrs. Abrams clucked her tongue. “A marriage is a transaction, Master Kelsey. A wedding is not. My second youngest—of six, mind you—had a small wedding, yet it was still the talk of the town. There is the choir to consider, and flowers and guests’ attire must be in line with—”

“I hardly think what the guests wear is important,” Elsie sputtered.

Mrs. Abrams shot her a sharp look for being interrupted. “It matters a great deal. I would not want to wear the same color as the bride, for instance.”

Bacchus set his saucer down. “Then it is fortunate that you will not be invited.”

The room seemed to freeze. Elsie held her breath as both a sob and a laugh warred in her throat. She realized she was squeezing Bacchus’s hand, but could not seem to convince her fingers to loosen. Bacchus watched Mrs. Abrams with a lowered brow, his green eyes sharp. Mrs. Abrams’s eyes seemed to bulge further. The duchess’s mouth was a limp O, but she was the first to regain her composure.

“Alison,” she said shakily, “remember how I wanted your thoughts on the geraniums? They’re just on the east side of the house. Could I meet you there?”

“You most certainly shall.” Mrs. Abrams stood sharply, sticking her nose up in the air. She gave a final hard look to Elsie and Bacchus before turning her back on them and leaving out the door. Given her dignified, self-righteous manner, she likely thought she was being excused so the duchess could reprimand her guests.

A few seconds after she left, the duchess chuckled. “You do have a sharpness about you, Bacchus.”

Elsie released the breath she’d been holding. “Thank you,” she whispered. When Bacchus’s eyes slid to hers, her chest warmed, and she looked away.

“I didn’t think she’d be so bold,” the duchess went on. “You both have my sincerest apologies.”

“No matter,” Bacchus said. His hand remained entwined with Elsie’s. He must have forgotten he put it there. Would it be awkward to pull away? Elsie didn’t want to, but if Bacchus were doing it for mere show, well . . . half of their audience had departed.

Letting herself enjoy the touch of his palm a little longer, Elsie chose to get to the point. “I was curious, Duchess Scott, about one of our acquaintances. I, er, read about her retirement and was sad to see her go.”

“Oh?” The duchess smoothed her skirts. “Oh! You must mean Master Merton.”

Elsie nodded. “She was very kind to me when we met. I had been hoping to learn something more about her background.”

The duchess shook her head. “Honestly, I don’t know much. My husband was familiar with her these last couple of years, but we only really got to know her after Ida’s promising test with the drops.”

Elsie deflated. One dead end.

“I was quite surprised by her leaving. She had taken such an interest in Ida’s education . . . granted I didn’t think Ida wanted to go the spellmaking route, but she was a little disappointed to lose the attention.” She smiled. “I would give you her address so you could write, but I heard she’s left London for the country.”

Bacchus asked, “Do you know where in the country?”

But the duchess shook her head. “I’m not sure at all.” She looked over the teacups. “Here, let me get this taken care of, and we can talk of the wedding in earnest.” She stood and moved to the bellpull on the nearby wall.

Bacchus leaned in close. “I’ll contact Duchess Morris today and set up an appointment.”

Elsie nodded, resisting the urge to turn. He was close enough that their noses might brush, but she wanted to make this as comfortable for him as possible. At that thought, she carefully removed her hand from his grasp and settled it in her lap. “Thank you.”

They spoke nothing more on the matter.

Later that night, Bacchus used the magicked pencils to inform Elsie he would be picking her up in the morning to call on Duchess Morris. She woke early and waited by the window for a full forty-five minutes so she didn’t miss the stately black victoria carriage when it drove into town and pulled up beside the stonemasonry shop. Stringing her reticule over her wrist, she made sure to secure her hat and smooth her skirt before stepping out the front door. Bacchus was only a few paces away, coming up to retrieve her. Gentlemanly of him.

He offered her a soft smile—“Miss Camden”—and his arm.

She was struck by the formality, but took his arm, allowing him to guide her to the carriage. It was only as she stepped into it that she noticed Miss Alexandra Wright, one of the nosy daughters of the local banker, trotting down the lane from the direction of the saddler. Her eyes were round and curious, her attention directed at Bacchus.

Elsie sighed and stepped up into the two-seater vehicle, wishing it were a closed carriage so she could hide from the town’s greatest gossip, but it was not meant to be. Bacchus stepped up after her and took up the reins of two fine-looking hackneys. Elsie ignored the younger Miss Wright as they pulled past her, but she felt the other woman’s stare. All of Brookley would be talking by this evening.

In truth, she wouldn’t have minded the gossip, were everything playing out the way a normal courtship should. She was hardly ashamed of being seen with an enormous, handsome, master spellmaker. It mattered not a whit to her that his skin was deeply suntanned and his hair was long. Indeed, she liked the way the essence of him colored outside the lines, so to speak. Loved to see it rankle prim busybodies like Alexandra Wright.

It was just that, when Bacchus found a way to untangle himself from her mess and sailed home, leaving her behind in England, the gossips would know all about it. Their snickers, whispers, and rumors would only be an infection to Elsie’s broken heart, and she dreaded that.

As they pulled out of town, angling westward, Elsie buried the unpleasant thoughts and focused on the present. “I didn’t know you could drive.”

Bacchus’s mouth twitched into a smirk. “Did you presume I was too backward to acquire such a skill, or too refined to take up the reins?” He’d slipped into his Bajan accent.

Elsie smiled, relaxing into the bench a bit. “Is it possible to think you both?”

He slowed the victoria and moved it to the side of the road as a wagon passed, then encouraged the horses back into a trot. “You’re welcome to take the reins yourself.”

“Am I really?”

He glanced at her. “If you want to.”

She smiled and looked ahead. “Perhaps on the way back. I’ll consider this a driving lesson. Ogden doesn’t own any vehicles.”

“The duke has plenty.”

Her mind flashed to the carriage house she’d broken into in London. She’d disenchanted one of the carriages at the direction of the Cowls, or rather Merton. The note had indicated she would be saving the lives of poverty-stricken poachers; instead the disenchanted coach had allowed for the kidnapping of Master Alma Digby. Likely her opus was sitting in a trunk in Merton’s hideaway, wherever it was.

Mirth fled her.

After a moment, Bacchus noticed. “Elsie? Are you concerned? I wrote ahead to Duchess Morris. It would be more proper to wait for her response, but she’ll welcome anything that makes her feel important.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose she would.” She tugged on her gloves, pulling them tight over her fingers. “I was thinking on how to best approach this. Keep it official sounding at the start, of course.”

“Ask her about spiritual aspection before spellbreaking,” Bacchus suggested. “Make her think she’s the center of the room. She’ll be more pliable that way.”

Elsie nodded. “She does seem to be a center-of-the-universe sort of person.”

Bacchus smiled. It felt so natural, so wonderful, to banter with him. So long as they stayed away from the subject of their impending wedding. If she could just cut that out of their story, she could talk to Bacchus forever.

“I shall start with, ‘Why did you choose spiritual aspection when you obviously favor spells of a physical nature?’” she teased.

He chuckled. “I would love to see her reaction to that.”

“But alas, I would love to stay in her sitting room for longer than two minutes.” Elsie sighed, her good humor wilting. “In truth, I was pondering over Master Merton.”

They drove in silence another few seconds. “Her mistakes are not yours, Elsie.”

The words warmed her, or at least the sentiment did. “So you’ve said.”

“You were ignorant.”

“I was a pawn,” she corrected. “A very well-played one. But that doesn’t undo what I did.”

“Elsie—”

“It doesn’t matter now.” She tried to smile and kept her eyes ahead. “What’s done is done, and we must do our best to fix what we can. I doubt Duchess Morris will know where Merton is hiding, but perhaps she can help us understand her. Ogden is still searching, but he’s found nothing useful yet.”

Bacchus nodded. “He informed me about what happened at Juniper Down.”

Her stomach pinched, and the edge of the opus spell tucked in her bodice poked her as the victoria went over a bump.

“With the American?”

“Yes. He showed me his sketch, even.”

The charcoal drawing of the stranger who’d pointed a gun at her head. For a brief moment, she’d searched the man’s features, looking for anything familiar. Anything that might mark him as her father, and then the truth had become clear.

She hadn’t really spoken with anyone about that. Hadn’t written about it in a journal, hadn’t screamed it to the sky. Everything with the Cowls, with Ogden and Merton, with Nash, had unfurled so quickly. Her life had been jerked in a different direction, and she’d barely had a chance to mourn. “I thought he was my father. I mentioned that, didn’t I? And why I went . . . or did Ogden tell you? I got a notice from a family in Juniper Down that someone was looking for me. I thought it was my father, come back for me after all these years. It wasn’t.”

Bacchus’s hold on the reins slackened. “Elsie, I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine—”

She shrugged and managed a strangled laugh. “Well, that’s life for you, isn’t it? It would make a very good novel, I think.”

The silence that fell between them was awkward. The overcast sky loosed a few drops onto the carriage roof, but perhaps saw that Elsie was miserable enough and held off the rest of its impending torrent.

Elsie took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

At the same time Bacchus said, “The duchess is beside herself—”

They both paused. The steady sound of the horses’ hooves cushioned them.

Bacchus recovered first. “What I mean is, I told the duke and duchess about the . . . engagement, of course. Their testimonies helped . . . with the magistrate.”

Elsie nodded. “Kind of them.”

“The duchess is beside herself with excitement.” He sighed. “She turned into a schoolmarm on me today as I was leaving.”

Elsie tried to imagine the refined Duchess of Kent in a black dress, a ruler tight in her hand. It made her smile. “Oh?”

“It’s only that”—he paused—“Elsie, I don’t want to sound insensitive—”

“I know you mean well, Bacchus. You always do.” She was tempted to touch his knee, perhaps his hand, but didn’t, and her lack of courage made her heart ache.

“She reminded me that an engagement dinner is traditionally thrown by the bride’s family.” Now Bacchus kept his eyes ahead, though the road was straight for a ways. “I had to inform her that that was not possible, in our case.”

Elsie said nothing.

“And so she insists on throwing it herself.”

“That’s . . . very kind of her. Although I don’t find it necessary.”

Bacchus leaned back against the bench. “Perhaps not, but it is tradition. That, and I would not be surprised if the magistrate were scrutinizing us.” He stopped talking abruptly and winced, but Elsie wasn’t sure if it was a reaction to what he’d said or the swaying of the victoria.

But it was a reminder. Their story wasn’t watertight, and the law was watching to ensure they carried through on the engagement. Bacchus either had to marry her or send her off to the gallows.

“If you don’t object,” Bacchus said after a moment, “I would like to post it in the paper as well.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

And then she laughed.

It was a strained, stupid laugh, and she snapped her mouth shut over it. Some of the pressure between her ribs alleviated, at least, even if she sounded a fool.

Bacchus glanced at her, the overcast sky making his eyes look like the sea. “You’ll have to explain the joke to me.”

She shook her head. Wished for a fan, but she hadn’t brought one. “I don’t know. I just . . . an announcement in the paper. It’s so official, isn’t it? Not at all like I’d thought.”

He was ruminating on that, Elsie could tell. She’d learned Bacchus got a certain stoic look to his eyes when he was thinking. “And how did you expect it would be?”

Elsie bit the inside of her cheek. Grabbed the bench on either side of her legs. “I don’t know. I didn’t think I’d ever marry . . . Well, except I almost did, once.”

“Almost?”

She shrunk, embarrassed. “That is . . . I thought I was going to be married before. To another fellow.”

He perked. “Oh? Who?”

“No one.” Alfred’s face popped into her head, grinning, but the grin melted into a sneer. She laughed again, but this time, it hurt. “Funny. The day I thought he was going to propose, he left me. Found a nice, wealthy widow to occupy his time. They’re married now. I saw them in town the other day.”

“Elsie . . .”

“I’m just a carousel of pity, aren’t I?” She straightened, smoothed her dress, adjusted her hat. “You’ll have to forgive me, Bacchus. Three days in a stone cell leaves a woman with too much time to think, and I haven’t quite recovered yet.” She cleared her throat. “I know your parents are deceased, but your mother’s family . . . will they be attending?” Bacchus had told her his parents weren’t married, that he was a bastard, but she wasn’t sure of his relationship with his mother.

“No. I hardly knew my mother. In truth, I’m not sure what Algarve relatives I even have.”

“Oh.” She rolled her lips together. “I really am making a mess of things, aren’t I?”

“No, Elsie.” He reached over and ran a thumb over her knee. “You’re not.”

She didn’t believe him, but she managed a tight smile, glad the carriage was dim enough not to reveal the heat that raced across her skin from his touch. He only meant to comfort, she knew, but he pulled away, and the vehicle felt colder for it. Then the rain started in earnest, and she was content with listening to its uneven patterns until they reached Duchess Matilda Morris’s estate.