Bewitched Read online

  “And has your ward also received an invitation to accompany the fox to his den?”

  “Quite… so.”

  “Ahh, I see. Excellent. And how delicious that it is Bourne’s niece of all people who will become our cuckoo child!”

  Bentham started. “Y-you know Bourne?”

  Yet, instead of answering, the stranger only stared at him until Bentham squirmed in his seat.

  “More brandy, Mr. Bentham?” he finally enquired with mock solicitude. Before Bentham could answer, the man had snapped his fingers at a nearby footman, who hurried to follow his commands. “One last glass, eh, Mr. Bentham? But you must drink up—fast. Quite fast, dear Mr. Bentham.”

  Against his own wishes, Bentham raised the now-full glass to his lips and tilted it so fast that the brandy nearly drowned him. He coughed, spluttered … and the stranger threw back his head and laughed. “How utterly charming you are, Mr. Bentham!”

  Bentham’s blood ran cold. What sort of devilish powers did this fellow command? “Why?” he finally managed.

  “Why?” The other arched his brow. “What questions you ask! Because we must hasten to return to your house, of course!”

  “My…”

  “Have you forgotten the—shall we say ‘presents’?—your daughter will be required to bring to Rawdon Park? Ah, surely not, when our timing is most fortunate.”

  “Fortu—”

  A malicious gleam lit the hateful, light blue eyes. “Indeed, fortunate. With the ladies of your household gone out shopping for the girls’ stay in the country, we will be quite alone, will we not?”

  Bentham nodded weakly. What other choice did he have? None. The answer echoed in his head in the most dreadful manner, and his very bones quaked with fright. There was no way out.

  Those thin lips curled. “I see we quite agree in this matter.” And in a tone of mock surprise, “Ah, you have finished your brandy. Then let us go.” The stranger rose lithely and quietly. He hardly waited for Bentham to stumble to his feet before striding toward the door.

  His spirits sinking even more with each step he took, Bentham tried to keep up. He barely had time to demand his coat at the front door, and nearly ran into his would-be companion when he lurched down the front stairs, struggling with his coat.

  “Wha—?”

  “My coach,” the stranger said, as he slipped on snow white gloves. Blanc d’innocence virginale. But what a misnomer in this case! There was nothing innocent about this man. “Ah, here it is.”

  It came around the corner like the devil’s own carriage: all in gleaming black, complete with a pitch black team. The tall, bony coachman looked positively ancient. As soon as he had halted the vehicle at the curb in front of them, the carriage door slid soundlessly open. The fine hairs on Bentham’s neck rose.

  The stranger’s lips curved as he gestured toward the door. “After you, Mr. Bentham.”

  Sweating and trembling, Bentham climbed into the hellish coach, and when the door clicked shut behind the stranger, he could not help thinking of the lid of a coffin closing. Heavens, why had he fallen into Lady Margaret’s clutches in the first place? he asked himself, not for the first time. If only he had known then what a terrible price he would have to pay now! But too late, too late. All was in vain now. He drew his hand over his forehead, not caring what damage he did to his gloves.

  All in vain.

  The stranger lounged in his corner of the carriage and watched him silently, with one of these terrible smiles hovering about his lips. Bentham shuddered.

  The other’s smile widened. “Come, come, Mr. Bentham. Surely you can’t be cold? With the winter not yet arrived?”

  Bentham pressed his lips together and huddled deeper into the folds of his coat. What would that beast give Isabella to carry to Rawdon Park? Poor, poor child—if only his path had never crossed Lady Margaret’s!

  But all regrets were in vain, and Bentham hung his head.

  The drive from the club to his house seemed to pass faster than ever before, and in no time at all, the godforsaken carriage came to a smooth halt. “Here we are,” the stranger said as the door swung open. “After you, dear Mr. Bentham.”

  He stumbled out into the street, Lady Margaret’s odious messenger following hard on his heels, now carrying a small leather case Bentham had not noticed before. They stepped up the front stairs and the butler opened the door for them.

  “Good afternoon, sir.”

  Bentham gave him his coat and gloves. “We will be in the study and don’t want to be disturbed under any circumstances.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  The stranger stepped over the threshold, shrugged out of his coat, and gave it to the butler. An icy shiver ran down Bentham’s spine, just as if he had let the devil itself into his home. He felt drops of sweat rolling down the side of his face. “I gather my wife and the girls are still out?”

  “Indeed, they are, sir.”

  “Excellent,” he mumbled.

  The stranger gestured. “Shall we?” The hateful smooth voice was tinged with a trace of impatience now. Not a good sign. Not a good sign at all.

  Bentham hurried ahead toward the study. Oh, if only this were all a bad dream! Yet no, he heard the man’s steps behind him. The stranger was here, in Bentham’s own house. Dear God… dear God…

  Bentham pushed the study door open. He tried to infuse his voice with determination and failed miserably. “H-here we are.”

  The stranger brushed past him into the room. “Close the door, will you?” he said coldly, and put his case down on Bentham’s desk.

  Obediently—for what choice did he have?—Bentham shut the door, then ventured to the side table. “Drinks?”

  The man shot him a withering glance. “I should think you’ve already had enough of those, Mr. Bentham. What use would you be with your wits all addled? Sit.”

  Heat surged into Bentham’s face. So it had come to this? He was to be ordered around like a servant in his own home? At the thought, Bentham rallied. “Now look here—”

  “Sit.”

  Commanded in a such a dreadful voice, Bentham felt his legs fold all by themselves. Shaken, he sank down on a chair.

  A thin smile lifted the stranger’s lips. “That’s better.” He turned. With a flip of his fingers, he flicked the clasps of his case open and took out a small wooden box, which he opened as well. It was laid out in what looked like black velvet, and three small apothecary’s glasses rested in three depressions. “Your daughter will bring these items to Rawdon Park. It is of the utmost importance that she plant them in the correct places, so you had better instruct her well. And make sure that the lids are not opened until she reaches the Stapleton place!”

  “The first”—the man turned with a glass in his hand, and Bentham wrinkled his nose as he caught sight of the contents: a wrinkled brown blob with spiky things sticking out of it—“is a bullock’s heart pierced with nails and thorns.” Almost lovingly, the stranger trailed a finger down the glass. “A simple country charm, but add to it a little spell…” His eyes widened. “Most wonderfully effective.”

  Spell? Bentham thought, his wits scattering like a flock of birds before a sparrow hawk. Surely this could not be true! Who had ever heard of such a thing?

  Vague memories stirred, of half-formed rumors at university-about Bourne, of all people! Of course, Bentham hadn’t given a fig’s end to such tales. Preposterous!

  But this… this…

  And yet, didn’t the stranger seem to know Bourne? Dear heavens, in what wickedness had he become embroiled?

  “It will have to be hidden somewhere among the stairs in the house,” the other continued. “Rawdon Park is an old building, or so I’ve heard, and it should not be difficult to find a dark spot, a nook or cranny on the stairs.” He threw Bentham a look, who hurried to nod.

  “On… on the stairs.”

  “Exactly.” Carefully, the glass was put back and the second brought forth for Bentham’s inspection. Murky water s
wirled inside, and amidst the water swam a fat, black worm that looked almost like a leech. “This…” The stranger tapped the glass, and immediately the worm swam toward him. As it reached the glass, it opened its eyes.

  Bentham shrank back in his chair. They were enormous, these eyes, and they seemed to grow until they looked almost human.

  The stranger chuckled softly. “Such a beauty. Tell your daughter to let it loose in the lake.” He looked into the glass and his voice rose and fell in a hypnotic singsong. “Such a beautiful, beautiful lake Rawdon Park has. With ducks and water lilies and golden fish. Such a lovely, lovely place for our little beauty here. So much space to grow large and strong.”

  “It will grow?” Bentham asked in horrid fascination.

  “Oh yes.” The stranger turned to him. “Quite large. It would be better if your daughter stayed away from the lake after she has planted our little present there.” He shook the glass slightly, and the thing inside closed its eyes and became a small, innocent-looking worm again. “Now to the third…” The glass was put back and then the last one was presented to Bentham.

  “A shriveled plant?” Bentham frowned.

  “It looks like it, does it not? It has to be planted in the gardens, in a dark forgotten corner, where it can grow roots undetected.”

  But what harm could a shriveled plant do? Bentham leaned forward. “And then?”

  The other ran his gaze over the plant in the glass. “Now that, my dear Mr. Bentham, is something you really do not want to know.”

  Chapter Six

  It was, Amy mused, quite amazing how quickly time passed when one was having fun. She thoroughly enjoyed choosing presents for the members of Sebastian’s family and she never tired of having him tell her about them. There was his brother Richard, the current Earl of Rawdon: “Truly, you’ll have never met anybody so suited to country life than good old Richard,” Sebastian said with a crooked grin. “There’s nothing he likes better than roaming the Rawdon lands with his dogs all tumbling around his heels. I daresay, I can’t even remember the last time I saw his boots not caked in mud. Can you imagine?” He glanced down at his own polished boots and gave an exaggerated shudder.

  Laughing, Amy gave him a sharp nudge with her elbow. “Oh, stop it, Mr. Stapleton! I swear if you continue in this fashion you will make me believe you are the vainest peacock.”

  “And you can’t stand vain peacocks?”

  “Oh, I absolutely detest them,” she said blithely. “If you continue, I fear I will have to break our engagement immediately and create a dreadful scene in poor Mr. Williams’s shop.” She bestowed a beaming smile on the tobacconist, who did his best to hide his amusement over their banter. “You would be terribly scandalized, Mr. Williams, would you not?”

  “Oh, dreadfully so, miss.” He even managed to keep a straight face.

  “See?” Amy turned and batted her lashes at Sebastian, who gave a rueful sigh.

  “Pity. We will take the tabac de neroli, Mr. Williams.” Turning his attention back to Amy, he tugged at the frills of her bonnet and smiled. “You will be most glad, my dear, to hear that I have never polished my boots with champagne. Does that not appease you?”

  “I will have to think about it.” And with that she turned her back on him and took the package the tobacconist held out. “Thank you, Mr. Williams. Do you approve of Mr. Stapleton’s choice? Is this good snuff?”

  “One of the most esteemed French snuffs,” he assured her.

  “Marvelous.” And what Amy considered even more important: it had a nice brownish color and didn’t sport any of the strange hues she had seen this past half hour while the shopkeeper had opened box after box of tobacco for them. How anybody could stand to put violet or even yellow snuff up their noses was truly beyond her. “Thank you, Mr. Williams.” She paid him and marched out of the shop.

  Sebastian easily caught up with her. “Now who has scandalized the poor chap?” he whispered into her ear. His breath stirred the hairs that curled around it and delicately tickled her neck. A frisson of excitement made her spine arch, and she gasped.

  “Oh.”

  The next moment, she felt her cheeks flame and hardly dared to look at him.

  He had become very still. “‘Oh,’ indeed,” he finally said. When she glanced at him, she caught the most curious expression on his face before his lips curved into a smile. A rather worrisome smile. “What a delightful discovery.” A bit of teeth showed.

  Oh yes, definitely a dangerous smile, she thought. She would have liked to take a step back, but somehow he had taken hold of her elbow. And judging from his firm grip, she would have to wrestle it from him, and wouldn’t that look most decidedly odd? So she only stared at him, wide eyed, as anxiety warred with excitement within her.

  As if he sensed the turmoil, his smile gentled. “Truly delightful,” he repeated, and trailed a finger down her cheek. “What do you say—shall we repeat the experiment?”

  “I…”

  But he was already bending down and, instinctively, she laid her head to the side. Rather as if he were a vampyre like the horrible Lord Ruthven! The thought made her giggle.

  “I’m glad you find this amusing.” She heard his voice above her and then—oh, the most extraordinary feeling!—he softly blew against her neck.

  “Oh!” She shivered.

  His head came a little closer. “You like this,” he whispered. “Don’t you?”

  This time she actually moaned. Mortified, she clasped her hand to her mouth. Her cheeks burned. Heck, her whole body burned with embarrassment.

  Immediately, Sebastian straightened. “Oh my dear…” He peered into her face and a rueful expression flitted across his features. His grip on her elbow eased, and his hand slid down her arm to catch her fingers. “I am so very sorry,” he murmured. “I simply couldn’t resist, but I swear I’ve never wanted to embarrass you.” He pressed her hand. In a droll voice he added, “In your divine beauty you are too enchanting for this mere mortal.”

  At this she burst out laughing, as he had probably intended.

  In a gesture that was by now dearly familiar, he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Shall we proceed? How do you fancy going to Gray’s on Sackville Street? There we might find a more delightful snuffbox than the papermaché one from the tobacconist.”

  At Thomas Gray’s they not only found a snuffbox for the Earl of Rawdon—Amy persuaded Sebastian to buy a box whose lid was lavishly decorated with a scene from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream—but also pearl earrings for the earl’s wife, Mirabella. “Belle,” Sebastian told Amy, while he bought the matching necklace for the earrings, “comes from an Irish family-and she looks it! All black hair, pale Celtic skin, and green eyes.”

  “But I thought… Aren’t all Irish red-haired? Like you?” Amy batted her lashes at him. Yet just as she looked up, a shadow seemed to pass across his face. Surprised, she turned fully toward him. “Sebastian?”

  His expression cleared so fast that she wondered whether the darkness she had spotted had existed only in her imagination in the first place. He wrinkled his nose at her. “Bah, Miss Bourne, how shocking. I daresay, you have never been to Ireland in your life.”

  “Indeed I have not.”

  He took their purchases and opened the door for her. “A toy shop now?” he suggested. “So my brother’s offspring will love us forever and ever. And a book for Sybilla, I think.”

  “Your mother?”

  “The dowager countess,” he confirmed.

  She had raised her sons to appreciate the finer things in life: books and music.

  “Though Richard must have driven her to bouts of madness,” Sebastian told Amy. “He took after the old earl in loving to frolic and rollick across the outdoors—much to the old man’s delight. Can you imagine? Even in the depths of winter, when the air was so chilling it gnawed to the marrow of your bones, the two would sojourn across the estate.” For a moment he stared into the distance, as if he could glimpse
ghosts of the past.

  Amy saw his eyes darken and wondered what it might mean. “And you?”

  He started a little. “I…” He threw her a glance, then shrugged, one corner of his mouth lifting in a lopsided smile. “Why, I had sense enough to stay inside. Have you ever visited the Fens?” When she shook her head, he went on, “There is nowhere such an expanse of sky as in the Fens. A giant dome of blue or gray, it crushes a mere human.” He gave a little shudder. “Truly, you feel as small as a fly. Rather disconcerting, if you must know.”

  “So you stayed inside,” she said.

  “And so I stayed inside while Richard, much to mother’s dismay, always managed to get mud on his books.” Grinning, he winked at her. “Same as his boots.”

  Amy raised her brows. “You, of course, were always a model of good behavior, I assume?”

  “Oh, absolutely!” His eyes twinkled merrily. “Though I freely admit to not sharing my mother’s admiration for the current crop of poets.”

  “Foh, Mr. Stapleton!” Amy exclaimed in mock dismay. “How can one not like the verses of Keats, or Shelley, or Wordsworth? ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud,’” she began in dramatic tones. Yet as the magic of the poem and her yearning for the fields and meadows of Warwickshire quickly caught up with her, her voice softened:

  “‘That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

  When all at once I saw a crowd,

  A host, of golden daffodils;

  Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

  Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.’”

  Amy sighed. A light touch on her hand made her look up. Sebastian searched her face, and once more he trailed a gentle finger down her cheek.

  “Ah, Miss Bourne, I must admit the words of the current crop of poets sound much sweeter coming from your lovely lips.” His own lips quirked.

  Homesickness forgotten, Amy chuckled and thumped his arm. “That was a truly terrible attempt at flattery!”

  “My rusty skills only need a little exercise,” he replied drolly.

  “Exercise, what fudge! Now it’s time to exercise your feet, Mr. Stapleton, so we can walk to that toy shop you’ve mentioned.” She took his arm. “And while we proceed you may tell me more about your family,” she said grandly.