Bewitched Page 4

  With a moan, Drew sank down on one of the leather armchairs. “I thought about it the whole night,” he said bleakly. “The whole blasted night…”

  Leaning against the edge of his desk, Fox crossed his arms in front of his chest and arched his brow. “And where exactly did you conduct your ponderings?”

  “What? Oh.” Absentmindedly his friend waved a hand through the air. “Here and there. First at White’s, then at Madame Suzette’s, and then at seven or so when I couldn’t sleep because the blasted girl kept snoring so loudly, I rolled out of that bed and just wandered through the streets.”

  Fox felt his eyes widen. He barely suppressed the urge to slap his forehead. “Wandered through the streets? At this hour? Heavens, Drew, have you lost your mind? You could have been robbed or worse.”

  “Piffle. Whoever would want to rob me?”

  Fox rolled his eyes.

  “Anyway …” Drew heaved a sigh. “It is such a ghastly affair. Yesterday I even had to hide behind a tree in Hyde Park!” His head sank back until he stared at the ceiling. “Oooooh, whatever shall I do now?”

  Fox threw a regretful look at his half-finished letter. “Whyever did you have to hide behind a tree?” he asked, resigning himself to his fate.

  “Mrs. Bentham!” Drew groaned at the ceiling.

  “Mrs. Bentham?” Fox frowned. The name seemed to ring a bell, yet—

  “Miss Bourne’s guardian.”

  “Ah.”

  “She is…” Curiously, Drew seemed at a loss for words. “Oooh, Foxy, you don’t know what kind of woman she is!”

  One of Fox’s eyebrows shot up. Indeed. And no wonder that, since he had never made the acquaintance of the lady in question.

  The front door opened, and a little time later Hobbes shuffled into the study holding a tray with two cups and a pot of fresh coffee. “The coffee, thur.”

  “Thank you, Hobbes.” Fox waited until the old man had poured the coffee and left the room before he asked, “So, what about Mrs. Bentham?”

  Another groan of utter desperation reached the ceiling. “She is a Xanthippish, jabbering magpie.”

  Fox tapped his foot on the floor and hoped his friend would come to the point. “Yes?”

  Drew closed his eyes, as apparently he could no longer bear the sight of this cruel world—or at least the sight of Fox’s ceiling. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Because of her, my love for the incomparable Miss Bourne has died and shriveled like a raisin,” he whispered, as if disclosing a terrible secret.

  At his look of utter dejection, Fox had to bite his lip, hard. Andrew Fermont, Esq. was truly incorrigible. Fox seemed to remember that when they had been sixteen, Drew had threatened to jump from a bridge and seek a damp grave in the Thames if Miss Nettie at the baker’s would not answer his lovelorn pleas. Even at that young age, Drew had already achieved a talent for the dramatic.

  “I am sure you will eventually overcome this pain,” Fox remarked drily.

  The other man straightened, surprise registering on his face. “But that’s not the problem.” His soulful brown eyes regarded Fox solemnly.

  “What is it, then?”

  Drew sighed, grimaced, and finally came out with it. “I am engaged to meet them tonight.” Another sigh. “At Lady Worthington’s musicale. And…”

  Egad! Energetically shaking his head, Fox raised his hands. “Oh no. No no no. You cannot possibly—”

  “Foxy, please!” his friend wheedled. “I can’t possibly go! And you wouldn’t want to leave me in the lurch, would you? And I’m sure you’ve got an invitation, too. Please!”

  “Lady Worthington’s musicale?” Indignant, Fox put his hands on his hips. “Are you mad? That’s a musical purgatory!” He glowered at his friend in what he hoped was a suitably frightful expression. Unfortunately, it wasn’t frightful enough. Not for Andrew Fermont.

  “Pleeease!”

  “No no no. Go and ask Cyril if you must!”

  Drew’s bottom lip trembled. “I’ve already asked him. I went to him an hour or so ago, and he sent me to you.” He blinked. “Foxy, he actually threw me out! Can you imagine that?”

  “Oh yes, I can.”

  “Foxy!” Drew stared at him with an utterly crestfallen expression. “We’ve always been such good friends—”

  Fox raked his hand through his hair. “Yes, I was stupid enough to drag you from that blasted bridge,” he muttered darkly.

  His friend blinked, momentary confusion replacing dejection. “A bridge? Which bridge?”

  Fox narrowed his eyes at him. “At Eton,” he said testily. “Or has there been more than one?”

  “Er…”

  He groaned. “Venice! You wanted to jump into the Canal Grande!”

  Drew gave him a sheepish smile. “Exactly.”

  Fox exhaled noisily.

  His friend raised his brows.

  “Drew—”

  “Sebastian?”

  Fox scowled at him. “You wily little—”

  The other man batted his lashes.

  Fox sighed. “All right. You win. I will go in your stead. But I swear, when I next meet our dear Lord Stafford, I’m going to call him out. Or better, even: run him through with the nearest pointy object at hand!”

  Chapter Three

  Lady Worthington lived in a picturesque cottage just outside of Kensington, three tollgates down the Bath Road. Earlier that day, Mr. Bentham’s footman had been sent to the stables to secure a pair of horses for the evening’s journey. The interior of the Bentham carriage was small, and Mrs. Bentham’s overpowering perfume made it seem even more cramped. All the way to Hyde Park Corner, Amy felt as if she might perish on the spot, smothered by the scent of roses and surely a hundred other flowers besides. Mors florea—a cruel fate indeed, her uncle had bestowed on her. Amy sighed. And all because of a little bit of cobalt blue.

  The elegant houses of Mayfair rushed past, accompanied by the walls of Green Park on the other side. Yet when the carriage rolled through the tollgate that marked the beginning of the great Bath Road, the scenery abruptly changed from that of city to village in the blink of an eye.

  Mrs. Bentham pursed her lips. “How inconsiderate of Lady Worthington to live so far outside town. If only we aren’t held up and robbed…”

  Amy looked out of the carriage window and rolled her eyes. Truly, there was no need for Mrs. Bentham to worry: as soon as any highwayman harebrained enough to stop the Bentham coach opened the carriage door, a cloud of perfume would overpower the poor man and he would be dead to the world for at least a day.

  The light of faint lanterns glinted on the signs above the inns at the side of the road. Trees flourished in front of them, their branches beginning to show golden leaves, slipping out of their gay, green summer dresses. A sparkle of water on the other side, and for one moment the ghostly reflections of the village pond skittered through the interior of the carriage. Soon after, the houses fell away on each side and left darkness in their wake-the darkness of greenery, of meadows and gardens-while the din of the town died away.

  A sharp shard of pain sliced Amy’s heart. This was what she missed most: the hurly-burly freedom of country air, the whisperings of the elms in the grove, the sweet, musty scent of rain-saturated earth, the raucous sounds of boyish laughter.

  Her heart grew heavier when the carriage rolled through another tollgate and entered Kensington. Mrs. Bentham and her daughter gossiped about the illustrious personages who met at Kensington Palace. Even more fodder for talk offered the gates of Holland House past the third and last tollgate. “…not a house any genteel lady should ever enter!” Mrs. Bentham concluded with satisfied self-righteousness.

  Amy threw a longing look back at the gates. Perhaps she could bolt from the carriage and seek asylum at the home of the unconventional Lady Holland?

  The coach left the turnpike and turned right onto a potholed side street. And then, illuminated by a myriad of tiny fairy lights, Worthington Cottage rose from the ground i
n front of them. With a low, thatched roof and gothic windows, it huddled among a few trees on a small hill, like a faithful little dog waiting for the return of its master.

  Through the bushes, light from the conservatory streamed onto the driveway and fell upon the statue that graced the green round in front of the entrance—a young man of creamy white stone, standing a little bashfully on a low pillar, with long, flowing limbs, a ripple of muscle in arm, belly, and thigh. The light showed the expanse of his stony white skin in loving detail. His sensuous lips turned upward, as if in secret mirth over the spectator. A naughty, naked youth guarding the entrance to the home of an old, sharp-nosed, and sharp-eyed woman. Yet, curiously, he seemed a fit companion for Lady Worthington, who greeted them dressed in gay pink silk—Aurora, Goddess of the Dawn, at her dowager house.

  They were led into the conservatory, which already buzzed with numerous voices. Two blazing candelabra flanked a midnight black grand piano. The light of the candles was reflected in the panes of glass, which the night had transformed into shimmering dark mirrors. The potted plants had been pushed to the walls in order to make room for the rows of chairs set up in front of the grand piano for the eager audience

  Lord Munthorpe approached the Bentham party, his fair Celtic skin flushed below his dark hair—if from the heat of too many people in the conservatory or from the excitement of meeting them again, Amy couldn’t say. Isabella put a proprietary hand on his arm and, with little persuasion, made him talk about sheep. They drifted away, soon followed by Mr. Bentham, who disappeared to God knows where, so Amy remained behind with Mrs. Bentham.

  Like a sturdy flagship, Mrs. Bentham parted the crowd in search of some acquaintance or other. Soon she had spotted Lady Westerley, and the two women proceeded to exchange the news of the past few days. In hushed tones they talked about Henry Boothby, whom Lady Westerley declared to have been already stubborn and ill-mannered as a child. It left Amy to wonder what stubbornness had to do with “splewing” one’s brains all over a wall. “Ill-mannered,” though, she perfectly agreed with: After all, he didn’t have to clean up the mess he had created. Though surely, people of her own class usually never cleaned up after their own messes. But of course some messes cleaned up all by themselves. Like houses covered in cobalt blue.

  Amy scratched her nose.

  “Don’t tell me you’re bored, Miss Bourne?”

  Her head snapped around. Blue-gray eyes regarded her intently beneath arched cinnamon brows.

  Her own eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Mr."—Carrot—“Stapleton.”

  “Miss Bourne.” He inclined his head, and the candlelight ran a fiery path over his hair. When he straightened, she noticed how his dark brown coat accentuated the breadth of his shoulders. A golden floral pattern gleamed on the black waistcoat beneath.

  Very stylish.

  Apparently disinterested, he gazed over the crowd while his fingers drummed a noiseless tattoo against his thigh.

  Stylish, but sadly as cold and as odious as an old fish.

  “A nice crowd tonight, is it not?” she remarked pointedly.

  He turned his attention back on her, frowning. “I understand you were to meet Mr. Fermont. May I offer you his apologies? Unfortunately, he is … indisposed tonight.” His lips curved into a charming smile. Charming, but careless. A smile one might bestow on a small child.

  Amy’s nostrils flared. Under the hem of her long dress her satin slipper tapped the floor. If he meant to impress her with all of his freckled, carroty glory, he’d failed miserably.

  “He asked me to come in his stead. To make up for the loss. So…” He gestured with his hand. “Shall we take a seat?”

  “Why not?” Other than the fact that, while his waltzing technique might be divine, he was as cold as a fish and apparently also a stiff bore.

  They chose a pair of plush-covered chairs and sat down. Leaning his arm on the back of the chair in front of her, he turned toward her. “I understand I am to explain the music to you.”

  “Indeed.” She clasped her hands in her lap and valiantly suppressed the urge to twiddle her thumbs.

  “You don’t normally like music?” His was a polite, bland voice. They might have been talking about the weather.

  “The opposite is the case, I assure you.”

  “Ah.” He nodded knowingly.

  Oh yes. How could she have forgotten? Carroty hair, cold as a fish, a stiff bore, and on top of that he was a Mr. Know-It-All-Magic-Doesn’t-Exist. Splendid.

  Once again Amy was left to wonder what exactly she had done to deserve this. True, turning Three Elms blue was a serious offense—what if somebody had paid a visit that afternoon? Or what if one of the villagers had happened to pass by the house? Cobalt blue manor houses were rather difficult to explain away. But still, being forced to mingle with obnoxious people in a city that reeked with dirt seemed too harsh a sentence. The quaint cottage and the ill-tempered, scarred tomcat all at once appeared very appealing indeed.

  “But you don’t play the fortepiano yourself?” The voice of the horrid Mr. Carrothead cut into her reveries.

  Now she did twiddle her thumbs. “No, I’m afraid not. I never had the opportunity.”

  The buzz around them increased as people chose seats, and chairs scraped over the floor.

  “What a pity.” He moved on his seat. “Then your family does not own a fortepiano?” When he leaned back, the sleeve of his coat slipped up and revealed a small strip of skin above the white glove.

  He had, Amy discovered, freckles even on his forearms. Spots of cinnamon between coppery hair. Again it intrigued her, this contrast between attributes of maleness and the cheeky splatter of cinnamon dust. As if there were mischievous depths to that stiff, formal, probably even slightly bored man.

  She shook her head and forcefully dragged her attention back to the conversation. “A fortepiano? No, it’s not that. The instrument was just always"—snapping at everybody besides my cousin—“otherwise occupied.”

  Once more, her companion gave a sage nod of his head. Cinnamon splatter or not, he was certainly most irritating! “I quite understand.”

  Amy gave him an arch look. “I seriously doubt that, Mr. Stapleton.”

  ~*~

  In a discreet corner of the room, Mr. Bentham clutched his glass of brandy more tightly as he saw Mr. Stapleton, like a ripe apple falling into his lap, step up to Miss Bourne. Bentham’s hand shook, and quickly he downed the contents of his glass. He welcomed the burn of alcohol in his belly, the explosion of soothing heat.

  Yes, the Fox was stepping up to the bait in the trap. But, he reminded himself, the bait was the niece of an old friend, and his responsibility for the time being. Was all of this right? Bourne had trusted him to look after her, to introduce her into London society, to secure a husband, and thus, happiness for her—which Bentham would do, he supposed, in a manner of speaking. Though of course, with Lady Margaret involved, there could be no happy ending for the girl.

  But it couldn’t be helped. Should he sacrifice his own daughter? Sacrifice Isabella’s happiness? Impossible!

  “Ah, Mr. Bentham.”

  A mere whisper only, yet the sound of the eerily familiar voice made Bentham start. His insides quaked. Too late now for a retreat.

  “I see the fish has caught the worm,” the stranger said in his smooth, pleasant voice.

  “I didn’t…” Bentham desperately wished for another glass of brandy. He wiped his hand over his upper lip. “It wasn’t…wasn’t planned. It’s an accident, really,” he mumbled.

  A smile curved the other man’s mouth. “An accident? Surely not! I would rather call it a twist of fate.” He turned toward Bentham, his movements fluid and graceful. Over a rapier he would be a lethal opponent. Indeed, Bentham suspected the man would thrust his weapon into another’s heart with a smile on his lips. “And since Fortuna seems well-disposed toward us,” the hateful, smooth voice continued, “we should make sure the fish is truly hooked ere the evening is over.�
� He produced a small phial filled with white powder. “Put a bit of this in their drinks, and the game will run its appropriate course.”

  The phial nearly slipped through Bentham’s damp fingers. “I—”

  But again, the stranger had already disappeared.

  Helplessly, Bentham stared at the white powder. It wasn’t poison, he was sure of it. Lady Margaret’s mind worked differently. When she administered a death blow, literally or not, she would want to see recognition flare in the eyes of her enemy.

  Bentham shivered. Not poison then, but what else? Whatever it was…

  He slipped the phial inside his coat, where it seemed to burn through cloth and skin. Sweat formed on his forehead, trickled down his back. He still could recognize the fire of a bad conscience. And yet, what were his alternatives?

  He closed his eyes as the first notes of the fortepiano drifted through the room.

  No, it couldn’t be helped.

  ~*~

  Though music was the food of love, Lady Worthington’s musicale was poison to every finer sentiment.

  A faint, niggling headache had started to build behind Fox’s temples while the old lady gave her recitations. But, of course, a gentleman would not rub his temple, even if ever so discreetly. No, a gentleman sat and suffered in silence.

  Not even Miss Bourne’s loveliness could outshine this musical fiasco. And she was lovely, he admitted grudgingly, in the way of a plump, golden partridge. Twice now, however, he had received the impression that she was silently laughing at him, mocking him.

  Impertinent chit. Who did she think she was? A little nobody dragged from the depths of the country and without any polish or style. Why, she couldn’t even play the fortepiano! The most basic of female accomplishments! He shuddered to think what would have happened if poor, deluded Drew had decided to marry the chit. Not only would she have pecked the poor chap to death with her sharp retorts, no, she also would have been a disaster as a hostess. Surely she would have turned Drew’s dinner parties into scandalous, ridiculous affairs, and thus become fodder for the gossipmongers. In all likelihood, she would have ordered her guests around like servants in the manner of that horrid dragon Lady Holland. How fortunate that Drew had seen the light of reason in time!