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  The charm. Amy suppressed a sigh. Growing up in the country, she knew a lot about charms: a Shepherd’s Crown placed on a window ledge outside would keep the devil away; the possession of a Fairy Loaf would ensure bread in plenty; a Hag Stone suspended at the entrance door would keep witches away; carrying a horse chestnut would work against rheumatism; and carrying around the forefeet of a mole, cut from the poor animal while still alive, would forever free their bearer from toothache.

  Amy snorted. These were not magic. Not real magic.

  Real magic made getting rid of warts easy. After all, they were just misbehaving bits of flesh. All you had to do was to persuade the warts to, well, drop off. That would leave a tiny scar, of course, but you couldn’t just take things away from a body and not expect any consequences. Still, this was most certainly better than tormenting a hapless animal. For real magic you didn’t need dried bat wings or glibbery toad eyes or things like that. Instead, it was all a matter of skills and talent. And concentration.

  Of course, there was that accident with the portraits and, even worse, the accident with the frog. But that had been years ago, and Coll had been just thirteen and believed he could transform the frog into a prince. After all, you always heard about how it was done the other way around, didn’t you? Amy’s nine-year-old self had found it endlessly entertaining to wade through the ponds on the estate with her horde of cousins hunting frogs. However, the entertainment value of the experiment had rapidly sunk when they later were all covered with sticky blobs of frog remains. Transforming a frog into a prince had turned out to be slightly more complicated than they had thought.

  “You know, you really shouldn’t be here, Miss Amy.” Mrs. Hodges checked on the soup that was boiling over on the fire. She turned and pointed her ladle at Amy. “What if the mistress finds out about it?”

  Amy clasped her hands in her lap and aimed for an innocent expression. “Does Mrs. Bentham ever venture downstairs, Mrs. Hodges?”

  “Well, of course not.”

  “See?” Amy gave the cook a winning smile. “And I just can’t help finding your kitchen so very cozy.” Also, this was the only place in the house where a person could escape Isabella tormenting the fortepiano.

  “But where shall I find a slug?” Ethel spoke up in a wail.

  The poor slug. With real magic it could have been spared its slow and painful death; yet after the Blue Incident, Amy’s uncle had put a spell on her that would prevent her from mouthing any sort of spell or making contact with her family in any way for the foreseeable future. Instead of weaving spells or being led astray by her cousins, she’d been packed off to London to search for a husband. And that was that.

  Amy sighed.

  All because of one regrettable slip of concentration, or rather miscalculation. Could it be helped that she enjoyed testing the scope of her magical talents and putting together new spells? The one that should have turned her room at Three Elms cobalt blue had been an ingenious idea if anybody asked her. And exciting—a cost-effective way of redecoration. By mere accident the spell had gotten slightly out of hand. Careless, Uncle Bourne had called it. Or rather, he had shouted. But really, her spell had done no serious harm: neither had any strangers seen the blue manor house, nor had the effect proved to be long-lasting. By the next morning all traces of blue had already vanished.

  She pursed her lips.

  The vexing thing was that even without the Blue Incident it would have been only a matter of time before she would have been sent off to some fashionable town or other to find a suitable husband. After all, she was of marriageable age, and she well knew it did not do to lose time over such important things as the husband hunt, otherwise one would be considered firmly on the shelf before too long.

  “And I really wouldn’t want to spend the rest of my life as a hedge witch in a quaint cottage at the edge of a good, old English village and be called Nanny Something-or-Other,” Amy muttered to herself. Even though the slug population would have rejoiced over their escape from a horrid death.

  She heaved another sigh.

  Sometimes she wished she had been born a man: then she could have taken a respectable profession and would have neither had to trouble herself with problems of matrimony nor with keeping her magic secret from a doltish husband. Furthermore, she wouldn’t have needed to grant this same doltish husband any liberties with her body, just to secure herself a place in society. To imagine that Mr. Polidori’s hero let the horrid Lord Ruthven marry his sister just so the girl wouldn’t face social ruin! Thus, what the poor thing faced instead was being sucked dry by a vampyre. Marvelous.

  Making a face, Amy reached for a biscuit.

  Sometimes, a quaint cottage sounded awfully appealing. Even if it came complete with an ill-tempered, scarred tomcat!

  ~*~

  That afternoon, when Isabella’s torment of the fortepiano had ceased and Amy had slipped back upstairs so her absence wouldn’t be noted, the young ladies in the Bentham household received a call. From Lord Munthorpe, no less!

  The beaming Mrs. Bentham sat enthroned in an armchair, while Amy and Isabella shared one of the butter-colored settees. The other was occupied by Lord Munthorpe. Isabella poured tea and the Scottish earl told them all about the sheep that merrily bounced about his lands up north. “We also have Scottish Blackfaces, of course.”

  “Blackfaces?” Amy took a sip of thin tea.

  Lord Munthorpe beamed at her. “On account of them having black faces, Miss Bourne.”

  “Ah.”

  Isabella trilled a laugh. “I am astonished you don’t know these things, my dear Amelia.” She shot Amy a look that was supposedly full of honeyed sweetness. “After all, you must have lived in the country all your life, isn’t that so?” The way she pronounced “country” made it sound like a contagious disease. Which, Amy thought, was a bit daft considering she wanted to impress Lord Munthorpe so badly.

  “Yes, it is quite true,” Mrs. Bentham chirped in, using what she probably thought a sympathetic voice. “Poor Amelia has whiled away her days in the depths of the country and has unfortunately not been blessed with a suitable Town education. I have found, my lord, that it is only in London that one finds the best tutors, drawing masters, and music masters. Don’t you think so?”

  “Er…” After a moment of perplexed contemplation, Lord Munthorpe made a dive for a plate of sandwiches. “I can’t really say,” he mumbled apologetically.

  Mrs. Bentham nodded sagely just as there was a knock on the door. It was flung open with flourish, and the butler announced, “Mr. Fermont.”

  Amy vaguely remembered the man who entered the room from last night. With his curly blond hair and soulful brown eyes, he reminded her of an overlarge puppy dog. Daylight did not dim this—if anything, it even strengthened this first impression.

  “Mr. Fermont, what a lovely surprise!” Mrs. Bentham enthused in syrupy tones.

  “Mrs. Bentham.” The man inclined his head. “Miss Bentham. And”—he turned toward Amy, his face lighting up to compete with the autumn sun outside— “Miss Bourne. Enchanted.” A dimple appeared in his cheek and he bowed to her. Then his gaze fell on the other gentleman who currently occupied the Benthams’ drawing room. “Munthorpe.” The smile dimmed; the dimple disappeared.

  “Fermont.”

  The men eyed each other with similar expressions of glowering suspicion.

  “Won’t you take a seat, Mr. Fermont?” From her armchair throne, Mrs. Bentham gave him a kind smile. Or it would have been a kind smile if her eyes hadn’t glittered like a mad ferret’s—a mad ferret about to strike and drag its prey off to the wedding altar.

  Amy allowed herself a momentary lapse to roll her eyes. Mrs. Bentham, she had garnered very quickly after her arrival in London, was hell-bent on securing a betrothal for her daughter before even Christmas, before the new year would begin and see Isabella turn twenty-five—almost an old maid. Thus, while Mr. Bentham had welcomed her as the niece of an old and dear friend, his wife a
nd daughter had regarded her as very unwelcome competition from the first. Hence their desperate efforts to belittle Amy in the eyes of eligible young men who were supposed to vie for Isabella’s attention.

  Mr. Fermont gingerly sat down on the settee next to Lord Munthorpe, but made sure to keep as much distance between them as possible. The harmless puppy dog all at once looked sullen and ready to bite off the good earl’s nose.

  Folding her hands in her lap, Amy twiddled her thumbs. Indeed, it seemed to her that all of London was filled with the strangest people. She had found it amusing at first, she had to admit. Amusing and exciting. The smells and sounds of the big city, the endless clatter of hooves out in the streets, walking through Hyde Park in the afternoon, when fashionable gentlemen and ladies bloomed there like exotic flowers. She had enjoyed the shopping tours, too. Indeed, she had been awed by the amount on display, so much more than could be found in Mr. Clarke’s general store or at Miss Lettie’s millinery and haberdashery back at home. Yes, she had it found all very exciting. But now, after nearly three weeks of hustle and bustle, she longed for the quietude of her uncle’s library, craved burying her nose in his old books once more. And she would very much have liked to figure out why her last experiment had turned into the Blue Incident. But most of all she yearned for behaving like herself again and not being forced to act like a twittering dimwit just so she wouldn’t frighten the gentlemen witless by any display of female intellect.

  “…just talked about the superiority of a Town education,” Isabella warbled. “And we all agreed—didn’t we, my lord?—that the best tutors are to be had here in London.”

  “Ah.” Mr. Fermont shifted on the settee and threw a quick look at Lord Munthorpe. The earl mumbled something and hastened to stuff the rest of his sandwich into his mouth. Fermont looked down at his own cup of tea, which a footman had brought in. He cleared his throat. “Tutors,” he said, and raised his gaze back to Isabella. “For drawing, and dancing, and… and music…” His lips lifted a little in a somewhat desperate smile, but no dimple showed.

  “Indeed.” Isabella nodded.

  Mrs. Bentham’s frilly cap bobbed with pleasure. “And for French and needlework too, of course. With dear Isabella we were lucky enough to get a French governess. Now she speaks the language like a native, and I swear her stitches are the tiniest in all of London.” She beamed at the two gentlemen, who appeared suitably impressed by such accomplishments.

  Demurely, Isabella bowed her head. “Oh, Mother,” she murmured in a pretense of protest. “Surely such praise is too much…”

  “Surely not!” Mrs. Bentham insisted, and looked at the gentlemen on her settee as if giving them their cue.

  “Ah,” they said, almost in unison.

  Just barely, Amy resisted the urge to slap her hands onto her face and groan. She wondered whether her uncle had thought up all of this as a rather devious punishment, magicking her into a third-rate farce instead of sending her to London proper.

  A little frantically, Mr. Fermont’s eyes swiveled to her. “And you, Miss Bourne? Do you paint and sing and dance? Well, obviously, I already know you can dance, but—”

  “Amelia?” Mrs. Bentham cut in, her voice much less syrupy than before. “I am afraid the poor dear grew up in the most shocking wilderness, as I have already told Lord Munthorpe. It is rather sad, Mr. Fermont.”

  The tops of his ears turned a glowing pink. “Is that so? Oh, well… I didn’t know…” His voice trailed away. He shot a helpless gaze at Lord Munthorpe, who reached for another sandwich.

  Amy frowned. All right, so she had been sent in exile to London, was not allowed to speak any spells or to communicate with her cousins in any way, and was obliged to pretend she didn’t know left from right, but she would be damned before she sat another minute listening quietly to Mrs. Bentham’s veiled slights. She forced her lips to lift in a cheerful smile. “Actually, I grew up in the Midlands—not quite an absolute wilderness, I should say.”

  Mrs. Bentham’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “A nest of disquiet and riot. Very shocking, if you ask me. Don’t you think so too, my lord, Mr. Fermont?” The latter opened his mouth, yet was interrupted. “Of course,” Mrs. Bentham continued, “I expect it is quite natural for a young girl to be attached to her home, wherever that is.” She leaned slightly forward, which apparently worried Lord Munthorpe so much he grabbed yet another sandwich in defense. “But imagine our shock when we found out that the poor dear couldn’t even paint a vase of flowers!”

  “Er…” Mr. Fermont looked from Mrs. Bentham to Amy.

  A third-rate farce indeed! Amy wondered how she was ever supposed to find a husband when Mrs. Bentham was so fond of listing her deficiencies to every man in the vicinity. “Yes, fruit bowls are quite beyond me, too,” she muttered darkly.

  “Our Amelia doesn’t even find enjoyment in the fortepiano,” Isabella fluted.

  By now, the whole of Mr. Fermont’s ears glowed rosily. “Er… don’t you?”

  Amy gave him a bland smile. “No.” For how could she learn when Matthew was almost always glued to the keys and the fortepiano had the unfortunate habit of snapping at everybody else—one of Mattie’s charming little tricks to ensure nobody would touch his beloved instrument. And her uncle had never found out, because all those years ago the music master had left the house in such a hurry and with squashed fingers, and had never been seen or heard from again.

  Mrs. Bentham nodded sagely. “Yes, it is quite sad,” she confided to the gentlemen. “But of course we will do our utmost to help little Amelia brave the foreign seas of genteel society.”

  “Very laudable indeed,” Lord Munthorpe mumbled, and gazed forlornly at the empty sandwich plate. “I… er… must go, I’m afraid. I… um…”

  “But I hope you will you come to Lady Worthington’s musicale on Friday night, my lord?” Mrs. Bentham pierced him with a look.

  “Er… I… um…”

  “Oh, you must come, my lord.” Isabella clapped her hands. “It will be the musical entertainment of the month, I am sure. You cannot want to miss that.” She batted her lashes at him.

  “Er. . .” He turned this way and that, but did not find much help in Mr. Fermont, who just stared at him glumly. “Well, I say … perhaps I should—”

  “How very good of you, my lord.” Mrs. Bentham beamed her approval. “I am certain it would give my daughter great pleasure to discuss the music with you.”

  Amy wrinkled her nose. No, this was not a third-rate farce. It was a fourth- or fifth-rate one: Grandchildren-Craving Woman Throws Daughter at Hapless Rich Nobleman.

  “Er… ”

  “So, this is settled then. And you, Mr. Fermont?” Mrs. Bentham turned on her second unfortunate victim. “I hope we will see you there, too.”

  “I…” Mr. Fermont glanced at Amy, and something like pain flickered across his face. “I… well…”

  “Oh, but you must come.” Mrs. Bentham watched him intently. “Perhaps you could help to explain the music to our dear Amelia.” After all, he wasn’t an earl with land and sheep in abundance. These were plainly reserved for Isabella alone.

  “I…”

  “I absolutely insist, Mr. Fermont. Shouldn’t we all help Amelia to settle into the genteel world?”

  Mr. Fermont threw Amy another desperate look. Finally, he bowed his head. “Quite so, madam,” the gentle swain said, resigning himself to his utterly ghastly fate. Amy nearly snorted, finding his lack of enthusiasm far from flattering.

  Mrs. Bentham, though, had no such reservations. “How delightful!” she exclaimed. “And will your friends come, too?”

  “My friends?” He raised his head. His blond eyebrows drew together in puzzlement. “They… Probably.”

  “Good, then.” With a strange smile, Mrs. Bentham leaned back in her chair. Perhaps Amy would have noticed the peculiarity of it had she not been secretly amused by the two visitors, who both used the momentary pause for a hasty retreat. Characters in a fifth-rate farce indeed!r />
  ~*~

  Two days later, Fox was just penning a letter to his nephew, Baron Bradenell, age nine, when there was a knock at the front door. Frowning, he glanced at the clock on the sideboard. Not yet ten in the morning: Whoever would want to call on him at such an unholy hour? Irritated, he rubbed his forehead. “Hobbes!”

  “C-coming, thur,” came the lisping reply from the entryway of his apartment.

  “The door!”

  “Thur?” Hobbes shuffled into the study-cum-library. The trusty valet, his cheeks hollow, his tufty hair carefully combed across his balding head, looked as if he had been born at the dawn of the last century. The breath rattled in his chest, giving the impression he was about to perish on the spot. Fox had inherited him from his father—his real father—and had repeatedly tried to send Hobbes into retirement ever since. Yet whenever the subject was brought up, the old man would look at him like a wounded doe, and Fox just couldn’t bring himself to settle a pension on Hobbes and send him packing.

  At moments like these, though, the prospect was tempting. “The door!”

  Hobbes blinked. “Sh-shall I shut it, thur?”

  The knocks at the front door took on a frantic quality. Soon, the whole floor would be awake.

  Fox stood. “Never mind.” He sighed. “I’ll get it myself.” He pushed past the bewildered valet and stomped through the small entrance hall. Wrenching the door open, he snarled, “What?”

  “Oh God, Foxy, I’m in such a jam!” A rumpled, bleary-eyed Drew swept inside, bringing with him the smell of cold smoke and a much-too-long night. “You’ve got to help me! Good day, Hobbes.”

  “M-mithter Fermont.”

  Once again, Fox marveled how his valet could radiate disapproval even though his expression never changed. With a hand on Drew’s shoulder, Fox steered his friend toward the study. “We’ll need a pot of coffee, Hobbes. Strong coffee.”

  “Yeth, I quite underthtand, thur.” And the old man was on the way to the kitchens downstairs.