The Cauldron Effect, page 32
She smothered a deprecating laugh and turned away to regain her composure. She was becoming paranoid if she envisioned warlocks lurking behind every bush and balcony door.
THE YOUNG LADY RETREATED toward the railing and gazed across the lantern-lit garden, leaving Hugh with a startlingly strident desire to chase.
He stepped up to the railing where the numerous lanterns sprinkled across the garden shone a golden glow that rivaled the half-moon’s rays. The faintest hint of a flowery scent captivated him. Expecting to see the garden in bloom, he found only expertly trimmed green heather along the railing. Everywhere else, naught but elaborately shaped boxwood structured the formal garden.
He inched closer to confirm his companion drew him like a nectar-laden bloom. Her scent was clean, enticingly musky and ethereal, like a newly aired sitting room with a secreted vase filled with freshly cut gardenias.
An enchantress, she belonged inside, surrounded by beaus vying for a place on her dance card. “You will miss much of the dancing if you linger here.”
She traced her gloved hand along the railing, deep in thought as if something genuinely troubled her.
“Do you not care to dance?”
“I love it,” she said with a bubbly laugh, the first hint of light emotion. Her reddish-brown eyes sparkled as if the thought brought her joy.
Intoxicated by her Madeira eyes, he imagined leading her out onto the dance floor and enjoying the experience. How peculiar. He hated to dance. “Then why do you hide from the music?”
“Why do you?” she countered, with a tilt of her chin. An eminently kissable chin.
He squashed an impulse to smile in approval of her impudence and settled for honesty. “My mother is inside.”
She laughed.
A delightful sound. He could listen to it all night. “Have your parents never terrified you?” he countered.
Her laughter died and he mourned its departure.
“Both my parents are gone,” she murmured.
“My sincere condolences.”
She shook her head. “It is not necessary. My mother died long ago. My father more recently but I am past grieving.”
Hugh thought of his father. “I doubt one ever stops...grieving.”
She gave him a keen look that said she noticed the pause. Thankfully, she did not pursue the too-intimate conversational direction.
“To answer your earlier question, sir, I was never alarmed by either of my parents. I miss them. They always made me feel secure and well-loved.” She gave him a tentative look. “Not so, yours?”
There was no easy way to explain a warlock’s upbringing. While young human children were often sent off to boarding school for months at a time, they usually reunited with their family for holidays and special occasions. Not so with warlocks.
He couldn’t find words to explain that sense of abandonment he had lived with since he turned seven.
Seeing she still waited for a response, Hugh settled for a banal account. “I’ve been separated from my family since I was a child.”
“My sincere condolences.”
Though she impudently mimicked his earlier commiseration, the words were accompanied with such a gentle smile he could not be angry.
“There is a bright spot to an unhappy childhood,” she added.
He gave a harsh bark at that outrageously optimistic outlook. “Name one.”
“Considering your experience, I am certain you would ensure your children are never in doubt of your or their mother’s love for them.”
Hugh was momentarily struck mute that she could so easily voice his deepest desire. He recovered from his shock and switched topics. “Now you’ve uncovered my secret, will you share yours? What made you flee the ballroom?”
She leaned closer bringing that enchanting scent and whispered, “I hide from the Prince Regent.”
He recoiled. Had he advertently stumbled across, and become interested in, one of the prince’s mistresses? Immediately following that horror was a profound sinking in his chest that this captivating young lady was spoken for. “I beg your pardon?”
“He invited me to this ball. I came because...well, I thought he intended to help me with a particular problem I have. Instead...”
“Instead?”
“I overheard a matron speaking to another that he intends to marry me off to an earl.”
Hugh’s thoughts whirled at this new and alarmingly relevant detail. There must be several other earls at the ball. She couldn’t be referring to him. Yet, his mother, standing beside the prince, had seemed so ecstatic. Now he knew why. This must be one of his mother’s new protégés. “Who are you?”
“Mary.”
“Cunnington?”
“Bryght. Mary Bryght.”
His racing pulse slowed at her answer, and then leaped in further distress as that surname registered. “Bryght? Are you perchance related to Marcus Bryght? The artist?”
“Do you know my brother?”
Hugh groaned and staggered back. He was such a fool! “Why are you here?” He did not care that the words came out accusing.
She glanced at him in distress and then her eyes narrowed. “First, tell me who you are, sir.”
Hugh nodded thinking introductions were overdue. If he had insisted on a proper presentation at the start, he would not have become so mesmerized.
He gave an exaggerated bow. “Hugh Renfrew Price, Fourth Earl of Flint, at your service.”
Her eyes widened.
He’d guessed correctly. Like some medieval subjects who had no say in their lives, they were to be paired up by their liege lord. The prince was securing warlock allegiance as a means to squash any opposition to his foolish plans for a mural.
The Council would string Hugh up if, instead of destroying the Wyhcan historical records, he instead married the irritant artist’s sister. He couldn’t believe his mother had involved herself in the prince’s reckless schemes.
As if on cue, the door behind him burst open and his mother, the regent and several others invaded their sheltered oasis.
“There you two are,” His Royal Highness said, sounding slightly out of breath. “I’ve been searching everywhere.”
The regent’s gaze flew between Hugh and Miss Bryght in quick appraisal and then he shooed everyone who’d accompanied him back out the door. Despite her vocal protests, the exodus included Lady Flint. Only one circumspect gentleman was permitted to remain to guard the prince.
Mary rose from her courtesy as Hugh gave the regent a tight-lipped bow.
“Introductions no longer necessary?” the prince asked, dabbing his brow.
“Introductions, no, sir,” Hugh replied in a curt voice. “Intentions, most definitely, yes.”
“Like that, is it? I’ll not have it. You must both get along for you will be in each other’s company for a long while.”
Hugh’s blood pressure rocketed like a Guy Fawkes fireworks display. He should have sensed the snare when Benson arranged the meeting with the regent at the Cunnington ball. With a silent curse, he shoved all the beads on his Benson abacus away from the friend beam and back toward their starting places.
“Staring at the door will not hasten your departure, my lord.” The prince’s smug smile sent goose shivers racing up Hugh’s arm. “To achieve that, all you need do is accede to my wishes.”
“I refuse to marry his lordship,” Miss Bryght blurted.
Her words perfectly mirrored Hugh view. So why did they feel so offensive?
“Marry?” The regent seemed genuinely flummoxed.
Hugh’s tight-wound tension eased, allowing for easier breathing.
“Lady Flint intimated that felicitations would soon be in order,” Mary said, “since you had brought me here specifically to meet her son.”
“Indeed, I did, my dear. Lady Flint...”
“I’ve no intention of marrying anyone.” Hugh cut in to slay this misunderstanding fast and clean. Trust his interfering mother to plant such a preposterous idea in the prince’s mind.
“Now that seems highly inconsiderate, my lord.” The regent’s censure took Hugh back to ten years of age when he had approached Spencer in his study to declare that he planned to run away. Back then, being homesick had made his behavior tolerable. At one and twenty, he squirmed at how churlish he came across.
But I have a right to chart my own path.
“Sir, you are a peer of the realm.” His Royal Highness sounded affronted. “With your title come responsibilities, one of which is to produce a legitimate heir from good stock.”
Then he grimaced as if he, too, felt the pinch of obligatory marriage. When Hugh would have spoken, however, the prince held up a hand to command silence. “Marriage must wait. I am sure you will choose the right woman when the time comes.”
“I may choose?”
“Of course. This is not the dark ages.”
The fierce grip that had clamped onto Hugh’s throat ever since Miss Bryght first mentioned this possibility, finally released its hold.
“Oh, thank heavens,” she said with a breathtaking smile that matched his feelings and then sent them spinning. “I’ve been so worried.”
At her heartfelt words, his happiness soured. He understood his justified thrill at the reprieve from being trapped into marriage with a human, albeit a diamond of the race, but why was she so relieved? Any woman would be thrilled at the opportunity to marry him, or so his mother kept insisting.
The prince’s gaze had settled thoughtfully on Hugh, perhaps wondering at his subject’s sudden silence after having mounted such a vocal defense.
“Indeed,” Hugh replied in a dour tone, wanting to move off this troublesome topic. “We are all vastly grateful at this welcome news, sir.”
“Good, good,” the prince said, though that light of speculation didn’t fade enough for Hugh’s peace of mind. “Now that misunderstanding is set aside, let us discuss why I have brought you two together.”
His Royal Highness glanced at the door where his guard stood watch and then urged his two companions to move along the railing. “You are aware of the mural I’ve commissioned?”
Hugh nodded and prepared to launch into an explanation of why this was a terrible plan when Miss Bryght spoke.
“My brother has asked me to assist him by researching Wyhcan history, Your Highness.”
“He did what?” Hugh said, thinking, And you agreed? Most genteel women would be affronted if their family expected them to work, let alone deliberately put themselves in danger’s path for a painting.
His intrigued gaze lingered on the woman who not only wasn’t angling for a marriage but apparently was also up for an adventure. Who are you Mary Bryght?
“You will not be aware of this, Flint,” the prince said with a fond smile at the lady, “but her brother affirms our Miss Bryght is an excellent amateur historian. While she performs this task, her brother is on his way to Switzerland where he plans to study the area where your ancestors arrived.”
“Ancestors?” Miss Bryght looked at Hugh wide-eyed. Her misty blue gaze was marred by ripples of doubts and fears.
He wanted to shout that like any human, warlocks, too, had feelings and wants and fears. Instead, he swallowed a keen disappointment at her prejudiced reaction. She was not so different from other humans after all.
Finally, he understood why the Warlock Council wanted to stop this mural, even at the cost of destroying the last link to their past. Humans were incapable of accepting his kind. Instinctively, fears would grow and panic would stir, even in the mildest heart. Too soon, witch-hunts would once more be resurrected in the name of safety, security and religious zeal.
“Ah, yes, my dear,” the regent said, “his lordship is not only a peer of the realm but a warlock who is high in their Council, now his father has passed away.”
At continued silence from both his companions, the regent said, “Yes, so you understand why I have brought you together.”
“I do not.” Hugh wished he were anywhere but here. He was not looking forward to passing on Miss Bryght’s research plans to the Council. They might next decide that she had to be dealt with and Hugh wanted no part of that idiocy.
“Then let me elucidate,” the prince said. “I wish you to escort Miss Bryght on her journey to Scotland.”
“Scotland?” She asked in surprise. “I understood from my brother that the...lore witch... resided in Cornwall.”
“She did, until she was called away to the north on an urgent matter. As we do not have time to await her return, you must follow her. It may well be a dangerous journey so I’m engaging his lordship to act as your escort and guardian.”
The regent gave Hugh a stern look that spoke volumes. “You will safeguard Miss Bryght and ensure no harm comes to her or her work. Are my intentions clear now, my lord?”
Hugh held his tongue, seeing the warning in His Royal Highness’s gaze. The prince must suspect the Warlock Council disapproved of his painting and was using Hugh to ensure the success of the very thing the Council had ordered Hugh to stop.
His loyalty to the crown was being tested, as the Warlock Council had challenged his allegiance to them.
Whatever action he took, his life, his estates and his dreams of one day enjoying a contented, peaceful family life would end with this journey.
He glanced at Miss Bryght as fiery regret tunneled into his heart. By the end of their collaboration, her negative opinion of warlocks would become cemented and instead of learning to understand his people better, perhaps even coming to care for him, she would instead loath him for betraying her and her brother.
“I understand perfectly, sir.”
Chapter 5
A house spirit could usually be summoned from the kitchen hearth, so Llyn Gwel Annwn, a Welsh water goddess, aimed her arrival in Mayfair, London, to that hub of the home she visited. Since a human had incarcerated her brother, albeit at her father’s instigation, Llyn normally avoided going to places where members of that race congregated. If her message had been for one of them instead of a warlock, she would never have agreed to deliver it. The only bright spot was that, at this time of the night, most humans would be asleep.
Settling into a bowl of water on a wooden table, she rose to the surface and called out, “Hello, hello, hello. Is anyone here?”
A peeled potato dropped into the water and her view splintered. Llyn shook herself, gave a huff of annoyance and moved to a water-filled bucket by the hearth. “House! Speak to me. I’ve important news.”
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” Harriet, the Flint house spirit, asked from inside the hearth as she coaxed coal flames to evenly heat a pot hung there.
Llyn reached up to the rim of the bucket so she could look around. The room was busy. A slender footman hurried out of the room with a bundle of steaming bread hidden under his coat. The cook ran to drop a handful of chopped onion into the stew pot. By the table with the bowl of water, a scullery maid, head bowed in concentration, flicked her little knife with speed as she worked on a pile of potatoes.
She was the human who had assaulted Llyn. The next potato the female human dropped into the bowl sprayed water high enough to wet the side of her face. That’ll teach you to splash a goddess.
The girl cried out.
The cook hurried over and gave a sharp whack on the back of the girl’s head. “Shush! Or ye’ll wake the master.”
“Stop harassing my people,” Harriet said to Llyn. “That girl has work to do. We’ve no time for your petty grievances.”
Llyn, stung by the censure, let it pass in lieu of more curious matters. “It’s three in the morning. Why is everyone rushing and whispering? Don’t humans usually sleep through this delightful part of the day?”
“The mistress is leaving soon, and we must ready provisions for a lengthy journey,” Harriet leaned the flames out of the cook’s way as she stirred the contents of the boiling stew. “We’ve much to do with little time to spare.”
“But why now? Why does she not leave later? And why do you all work in silence?”
“Why, why, why. If you’re so fond of that question, why not simply say who you are, why you’ve come and then leave. I’ve no patience for chit-chat this morning.”
Llyn smoothed her agitated surface. Goddesses were not known for hurrying. “Very well. I’m Llyn, goddess extraordinaire of the blue waters of Snowdon, here to warn the resident warlock to be on his guard. A water demon is after his lady love.”
“Then you’ve come in vain.” Harriet sounded unimpressed at being blessed by Llyn’s presence. “He’s had mistresses aplenty. Ardent ladies of the ton pursue him. Alas, he has no lady love. Even if he did, he wouldn’t listen to advise from me. All he does is complain about the cook’s meals, avoids the mistress as if she has the plague and cast spells on my rooms so I can’t go in to do a proper airing.”
She gave a disdainful sniff. “So why should I warn his royal warlockness about anything? And why do you care?”
“Now who’s full of whys?” Annoyed by the negative attitude, Llyn sent a spray into the hearth.
Harriet hissed and flared.
“You seem full of petty grievances, too,” Llyn added, still smarting from that earlier insult.
“I’ve no time for this.”
“Then make time, my dear. Because I sense that what harms him will break your mistress’s heart.” As she spoke, a shiver agitated the bucket of water.
Disturbed by the unexpected sensation, Llyn sped back to Snowdon. She arrived by her stream still troubled.
Her friend, Dewi, a sheep, looked up from the grass he was chewing beside the stream. “Did you warn him?”
She twirled in the clear water, refreshing herself. “I did my best, little one. Now it is up to those whom he lives with to help him or not.”
She barely waited for his, “Thank you!” before sinking into the depths for a well-earned nap. That unexpected bit of foreshadowing at the end had upset her equilibrium. Portents were normally her father’s purview.
