Enchanting the Beast, page 1
Copyright © 2009 by Kathryne Kennedy
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Cover art by Judy York
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Originally published in 2009 by Love Spell, a division of Dorchester Publishing Group.
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
About the Author
Back Cover
Prologue
Long ago a great wizard was born with magic in his very blood. He lived for thousands of years and went by many names, but the one we know best is Merlin.
Merlin passed his magic down through his offspring, and the power made his children rulers. Some inherited more magic than others, and eventually titles reflected their gifts. In Britain, kings and queens held the strongest power. After the royals, dukes had the greatest magical abilities in that they could change matter. Marquesses could cast spells and illusions and transfer objects but not change them. Earls mastered illusions, while viscounts dabbled in charms and potions. Barons had a magical gift, which could be as simple as making flowers grow or as complicated as seeing into the future.
And then there were the baronets. Part man, part animal, the shape-shifters were Merlin’s greatest enchantment…and eventually his greatest bane. For out of all mankind, they were immune to his magic.
Merlin created thirteen magical relics from the gems of the earth, a focus for some of his greatest spells. After Merlin’s disappearance, his children tried to find the relics, since these items held the only magic stronger than their own. The relics proved to be elusive until his children discovered that the shape-shifters they so despised could sniff out the power of a relic.
Over the centuries the relics faded to legend. But the most powerful of Merlin’s descendants did not forget, and shape-shifters became the secret spies of many rulers.
One
London, 1861
Where magic has never died…
Lady Philomena Radcliff closed her eyes and called to the spirit of the late Lord Stanhope. She tried to ignore the excited breaths of the ladies within the séance circle, which she could clearly hear over the muted strains of ballroom music coming from behind the closed drawing room door.
“Lord Stanhope,” Phil said, with as much theatrical brilliance as a stage performer. She spread her hands flat on the mahogany table. “Your wife wishes to speak with you one last time. Is your spirit still in this house?”
The withdrawing room smelled of candle wax and the clashing perfumes of the assembled ladies: Lady Stanhope, Lady Montreve, and their two daughters. And unfortunately, their daughters’ silly young friends, who started to giggle as the silence lengthened.
It appeared that the late Lord Stanhope had chosen not to linger in the physical world.
Which didn’t make one whit of difference to Phil. Lady Stanhope had paid her for some peace of mind and she would give it to her regardless. When Phil had been orphaned at a young age, she’d used her magical gift to support herself, quickly discovering that half of her job consisted of her theatrical ability to convince her audience. If the spirit she called made an appearance, she just considered it a bonus.
Her primary concern was to relieve the suffering of those that tragedy had left behind.
She opened her eyes. “We must combine our efforts. Lady Montreve, will you douse the candles? Thank you. Now, clasp your neighbor’s hand and concentrate on the late Lord Stanhope. Use your will to call him to us.”
Lady Montreve’s skirts swished and her hoops crackled as she took her seat again next to Phil. Her gloved hands trembled beneath Philomena’s fingers, matching the rhythm of Lady Stanhope’s grip on Phil’s other hand. She gave both of the ladies a reassuring squeeze.
The ballroom orchestra finished its tune, and despite the multitude of guests in the other room, a quiet descended on the mansion. The fire crackled in the hearth, and the wind made a soft keening noise outside the glass windows. Phil lowered her voice to a husky whisper. “Keep concentrating, ladies. I can feel your will rising, calling out to Lord—”
The drawing room door burst open and the shadow of a large man loomed on the threshold. The circle of hands broke. Lady Stanhope gasped, Lady Montreve stifled a scream, and the other girls collapsed into a fit of giggles.
Philomena suppressed her urge to admonish them like a doddering governess and forced a smile instead. “If you don’t mind, sir, we were in the middle of—”
“I’m quite aware of what’s going on in this room, madam. If you will excuse the interruption, I would like to join you.” He closed the door behind him, shutting out the light from the outer room, allowing the soft glow of the fireplace to highlight his features. The giggles abruptly died, and soft sighs of admiration issued from the mouths of several young girls.
Philomena could hardly blame them. She had never seen such a striking young man. Dark hair liberally streaked with blond fell in waves past broad shoulders that strained his old-fashioned evening coat. The firelight reflected glints of gold in his large dark eyes and played across the angular planes of his face, outlining high cheekbones. Even white teeth flashed as he performed a courtly bow.
Phil’s stomach flipped and her hands broke out in a sweat inside her gloves. She struggled to hide her reaction before anyone noticed. Heavens, she was old enough to be his…well, older sister perhaps. But still, too old to be making a fool of herself by gawking at the beautiful young man.
Lady Stanhope recovered first. “I don’t remember the pleasure of an introduction, sir.”
Again, a flash of those even white teeth. Good heavens, were those dimples?
“I’m Sir Nicodemus Wulfson, Baronet of Grimspell castle.”
Soft gasps accompanied his words and several of the younger ladies actually looked frightened. All baronets were shifters and immune to all magic. The aristocracy hated that “the animals” could see through the spells crafted to maintain their superior social status.
“I don’t think…” Lady Stanhope began, ready to deny the gentleman’s request.
Phil quickly stood. “It would be a pleasure for you to join us, Sir Nicodemus.”
He turned those large, glittering eyes on her in surprise, his predatory gaze sweeping over her from head to foot. Phil felt heat rise in her cheeks. As usual, she’d dressed in the artistic style, eschewing the corsets and crinolines of her peers. Most of her friends were followers of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, but few of them had the daring to wear their medieval-style dresses out in public.
He surprised her with a sudden smile of approval. “Thank you, Lady…?”
“Philomena Radcliff.”
“The ghost-hunter,” he acknowledged. “I’ve heard a great deal about you. It’s a pleasure.”
The Adonis stepped forward and took her hand, sweeping his lips across the top of her glove. Thank heavens for that layer of material, for he surely would have burnt her skin with the heat of his mouth. Phil quickly snatched back her hand and resumed her seat at the table, trying to ignore the flutter in her stomach. Lady Stanhope’s older daughter eyed her with shrewd speculation, her lovely little mouth twisted with disdain.
Phil leveled a gaze on the girl that quickly made her look away. She wished she knew what it was about the young man that made her feel so unusual.
The screech of wooden legs over marble made them all turn to watch Sir Nicodemus drag a chair over to the table and squeeze between Philomena and Lady Stanhope. He sat with stealthy grace.
He looked up and flashed that brilliant smile again, taking in the entire circle of women. “I’ve always wanted to experience one of these table-turnings. It’s gracious of you to allow me to join you.” Despite his apparent lack of social standing a few of the youngest girls leaned forward and licked their lips.
Philomena pressed her lips together to prevent the same reaction. It was all well and good for young debutantes to react to him, but she had to be at least ten years his senior and it would only make her look like a complete fool. The man had too much charisma for his own good, but perhaps he need
But Phil’s sense of justice could not allow her to shun him. So when Lady Stanhope hesitated to link her hand with the baronet’s, Philomena hid her fear of the way she might react to his touch and slapped her gloved palm over his with forced bravado.
Tiny shivers traveled from his hand through her body. She’d been correct. His touch flustered her more than the caress of his gaze. For a moment Sir Nicodemus stared at their clasped hands, his dark brows raised in surprise. Then he turned and glanced at her, that wolfish grin back on his face.
Phil closed her eyes. Heaven help her if he set his mind on exploring that instant chemistry between them. “Now concentrate, ladies…and gentleman. Lord Stanhope, we summon your spirit, please come to us.” A soft tapping sounded at the window, most likely a tree branch in the wind, but Phil grasped at it. “Lord Stanhope! Is that you?”
Sir Nicodemus made a small sound of derision, but she could feel the rest of the circle tense with excitement.
Phil opened her eyes, fully prepared to cast an unfocused gaze at the corner of the room where she would pretend Lord Stanhope stood. His wife only wanted to tell him that she loved him. She hadn’t had a chance to do so before he died. Who was she to deny the lady that satisfaction?
But Philomena caught a movement from the fireplace and her gaze met that of Tup. The young boy sat atop the mantel, his bare feet hanging over the edge, the glow of the fire shining through them. His brown hair was a mess as usual, his face so dirty that his hazel eyes stood out in startling contrast. Really, such a ragtag street urchin! Phil’s heart squeezed a bit and warmth flowed through her.
“Tup,” she whispered, trying to rise but anchored to her chair by the grip of Lady Stanhope and Sir Nicodemus.
“What’s a tup?” murmured one of the girls.
“The ghost-hunter’s spirit guide,” Lady Montreve snapped.
Phil was vaguely aware of the shock that rippled around the table, including that of Sir Nicodemus. She could feel him watching her, like a predator studies his prey, waiting for the perfect moment to leap. But she ignored them all, intent on seeing Tup’s ghost again. He wasn’t strong enough to stay long in the material world.
The only thing she’d ever regretted about not marrying was that she would never have her own child. And then Tup had followed her home one day.
“I come to tell ye to stop that,” he said, his large eyes blinking with sadness.
“What do you mean?” Phil asked.
“Cor, don’t ye fathom that the man passed over into hell? And he likes it there.”
Oh, dear. That meant that the man was as close to a demon as they came. No wonder using magic to summon a spirit was frowned upon. But since magical power was based on rank, only a royal could do that, or possibly a duke. Granted, ghosts would sometimes answer the call of a loved one… “But then why would he answer Lady Stanhope’s call, Tup?”
Lady Stanhope gasped. Was Sir Nicodemus actually growling?
They couldn’t hear Tup, of course, just Philomena’s part of the conversation. She told herself to be more careful with her words.
“Not her call,” the boy answered impatiently. “Hers.” And he nodded at Lady Montreve.
Phil turned and stared at the lady, who refused to meet her gaze. But even in the weak glow of the firelight she could see the dark stain of color flooding the pretty woman’s cheeks. Was that why Lady Montreve had come this evening? To see her lover one last time? Philomena glanced at Lady Stanhope. Did she know her husband had been having an affair with her friend? Was that the real reason she’d called the séance, to find out the truth of it?
Tup’s eyes widened. “Crikey, I’m too late.” And he disappeared.
Phil slowly turned her head. Lord Stanhope’s specter materialized beside Phil’s assistant, Sarah, and floated toward their table.
“Reginald, is that you?” his wife cried.
But Lord Stanhope only had eyes for Lady Montreve. He circled the table until he stood behind the pretty woman. “Did you call me back for one more round, you doxy? Missing me already, eh?” He leaned forward, his face so close to the back of the lady’s neck that Phil could see the tiny hairs on her skin move. “Don’t think I don’t know it’s my money you’re missing. But I learned some things in hell, my dear. And when I heard your call I decided I shouldn’t have to wait to try them on you.”
Lady Montreve shuddered. “I shouldn’t have come. I didn’t think it was possible…” The young girl sitting next to her recoiled.
“Don’t break the circle,” Philomena warned. “It’s her only protection.” She felt Sir Nicodemus’s grip tighten but the young girl—Phil wished she could remember her name—on the other side of Lady Montreve was trying to twist her hand from the woman’s grasp.
Phil saw Lord Stanhope’s arm disappear into his lover’s skirts. Lady Montreve screamed.
“What’s happening?” Lady Stanhope cried.
“Stop it!” Philomena shouted.
Lord Stanhope ignored them all, his black grin twisted into a leer of sadistic pleasure. The young girl pulled her hand free from Lady Montreve’s grasp. The circle was broken. Philomena didn’t have a choice. “Let go of my hand,” she told Sir Nicodemus. Bless him, he didn’t ask questions or argue; he just released his grip.
Phil really didn’t want to do this—oh, how she didn’t want to do this. She took a deep breath and stepped into Lord Stanhope’s black shadow and opened her soul to his. For one horrendous moment the man’s spirit melded with hers. Shafts of burning cold swept through her veins. His twisted sense of pleasure shook her body with an evil joy that made her squirm with shame.
She tried to send his soul back then, demanding that he return to the other side. He laughed at her. Phil strengthened her will, fighting with everything she had. Convulsions shook her body and then the world went black.
***
When Philomena opened her eyes she squinted at the glare of light. Every candle in Lady Stanhope’s drawing room must have been lit, including the gas and fairylights. Sarah leaned over her, that blunt face and those glossy black eyes reflecting her concern. “You’re well, then?”
At a nod, her assistant retreated and Phil sat up, her head swimming for a moment. She clutched her temples, realizing with dismay that her hair had come undone and lay about her shoulders. She must have looked as bad as she felt. How long would it take before the taint of that man’s evil left her soul?
“That was quite a performance,” Sir Nicodemus drawled.
Philomena winced. “Can you lower your voice, please? My head aches.” She glanced around the ostentatious room, with its silk-papered walls and gilt edging. She avoided his gaze. “Where is everyone?”
“Lady Stanhope left your payment on the table,” he answered. Phil’s eyes went to the thick stack of banknotes. More than enough to keep up her household for the next few months, with some left over for luxuries.
“Lady Montreve has probably retired to the country,” he continued. “The gaggle of young girls are likely swooning over the experience to their beaux in the ballroom…and Lady Stanhope asked you to leave as quickly as you are able.”
Phil nodded, and winced again. Well, she couldn’t exactly blame either lady. They had certainly gotten more than they’d bargained for with this séance.
Sir Nicodemus held out his hand to help her rise. Philomena ignored the appendage and managed to wobble to her feet unaided. “Sarah, will you fetch the coach?”
Her assistant slid from the room, and the baronet raised a brow. “I see you have no prejudice against my kind. You should suit admirably.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your maid. She’s a were, is she not?”
Bright lights danced in Phil’s vision. “How did you know?”
He shrugged those broad shoulders and Phil desperately tried not to admire them. Oh botheration, why hadn’t the young man just left with all the others? She felt enough out of sorts without having to hide her attraction to him.
