The Cauldron Effect, page 34
“Complete with green and black markings and an orange belly.” Benson then gave a credible croak.
Hugh couldn’t restrain his laughter. On his abacus, he moved several smaller beads to join the two large ones at center beam.
Benson whistled then and pointed at Hugh’s spell that still showed the townhouse steps. “What can that be about?”
Outside, Miss Bryght and her maid were seated inside the carriage while Lady Flint hurried down the townhouse steps. Behind her came her lady’s maid. Both looked dressed for travel. She couldn’t possibly think Hugh would permit her to accompany Miss Bryght and himself on this journey? He received an urgent call from Atalie confirming what his spell had just revealed.
Hugh sped out of the dining room and toward the front doors. “I have to stop her.”
Chapter 6
Atalie didn’t give the rude Welsh corgi who patrolled this garden a backward glance. Experience had proven that Bastard’s leash could not extend to the birch tree. Her long tail rose in defiance as she sauntered toward the gate, scaled it and gracefully set down on the other side.
She paused beside the front steps to observe the groom assist a tall slender lady and then a shorter, plump female enter the carriage.
About to join the women to listen in on their conversation, she paused because the front door burst open and two more women, one large and elderly, the other gaunt and aged, descended the stairs.
Atalie retreated beside the steps with a disapproving growl. Surely the Deserter wasn’t planning to join them? The master would never willingly travel with his mother. Atalie settled on the cool early morning pavement relishing the upcoming drama. Should be almost as much fun as watching Bastard choke trying to reach the birch tree.
The elderly matron and her maid entered the carriage, taking what should have been Atalie’s seat.
Atalie flicked her tail with annoyance. She sent a mental message with an urgent overlay. They’re leaving.
The garden gate suddenly swung open behind her, followed by Bastard’s excited barks.
She screeched in outrage and raced toward the safest location in sight. With no thought but safety, she dove through the open carriage door.
Instead of closing the door, the Deserter tut-tutted, before rudely using her booted foot to shove Atalie aside. Then she pushed the carriage door open wider and called out. “Come in, Caden. Quick.”
Apparently needing no further inducement, nails clicking on wood, Bastard scrambled to get inside.
Atalie climbed the nearest lady’s skirts until she reached the shoulder area and hid behind the woman’s head.
The short plump woman seated beside Atalie’s perch shrieked even though Atalie had not touched her. To the taller woman’s credit, she neither fainted nor shouted in alarm. Sensible.
“Caden, sit!” the Deserter said and then pointed to the Shrieker. “You, be silent.”
Bastard sat and with an audible gulp, the Shrieker shut up.
Atalie peeked around the tall woman’s tresses. Claws poised for action, she gauged the distance to Bastard’s back and then through the open door. Two leaps at most, and if lucky, she might get a satisfying scratch across Bastard’s hindquarters on her way out.
The footman shut the door.
Atalie grumbled and retreated behind her perch’s head.
The tall lady reached for her, making soothing noises.
Atalie growled low in her throat, warning her perch not to attempt to dislodge her. For added measure, she dug her claws into the lady’s bountiful curls, skimming the delicate skin of her neck.
The extended hand was quickly withdrawn.
Sensible and wise. Atalie began to like this one.
The Deserter gave a satisfied nod and used her parasol to rap on the roof.
In a clatter of wheels and jangling harnesses, the carriage lurched forward. Atalie hung on to keep her place.
She then eyed Bastard’s twitching ears and lolling red tongue. From the floor, he returned her suspicious gaze with inquisitive brown eyes.
“Move one inch closer,” she warned, “and you’ll be mice meat.”
INSIDE THE FLINT CARRIAGE, Mary again tentatively reached for the frightened feline that had found refuge on her shoulders. This time the creature allowed her to pet its chin, going so far as to shift for a better scratch. Despite its fearful entrance, its warmth across Mary’s upper back was comforting. As if she had found a friend for this uncertain journey.
Lady Flint’s maid sat beside her mistress. Neither woman seemed perturbed by the cat’s surprising entrance. However, beside Mary, her maid, Joan, still quivered.
Mary, too, had a lingering concern. “Your ladyship, should we not return the cat to your townhouse? Felines normally do not travel well.”
“Yes, please.” Joan sat squished against the side of the carriage, attempting to put as much distance between herself and the animal.
Lady Flint looked from Joan to Mary and then out the window. “No, Atalie stays.”
The answer surprised Mary but it was so firm that arguing seemed futile. She changed her focus to the dog at her feet. The short-tailed, red, low-bodied animal had upright ears that gave his face a foxy look. With his entrance, he had added a clogging aroma of muggy dog to his mistress’s heavy perfume. Tail whacking the floorboards, Caden returned Mary’s regard with a happy grin and drooled on her right boot.
Mary shifted her foot out of range and with a resigned sigh, glanced back at Lady Flint. Last night, the regent had informed her ladyship that Mary had been summoned to perform an important research role. The events of this morning, however, suggested that Lady Flint might not have abandoned her plans for matching Mary with her son.
Was that why she had requested this early morning departure? Her ladyship joining Mary on the journey had been an even bigger shock. What was Lady Flint up to?
“It seems to be a fine day for travel,” Mary said, hoping to draw her out.
Lady Flint gave a distracted grunt. Her gaze was fixed out the window suggesting she watched for who followed. Her son? He likely meant to ride that big handsome black stallion that a servant had led out just as the carriage pulled away.
Not that Mary was in any rush to see him again. Lord Flint had been in a foul mood after he learned he was to be Mary’s escort to Scotland. She had been left in no doubt that he found the assignment distasteful. Seeing his displeasure, she had dreaded the idea of spending days in his company within a closed carriage.
Given the option, Lady Flint was definitely the better traveling companion. Now Mary had the added opportunity to purge her ladyship of any misguided matrimonial plans.
Also, she could be a useful source of information. She was the mother of a warlock, after all. At one time, she had been the wife of one. Already, questions teemed, but would her ladyship be open to a conversation on the subject in front of servants?
The cat took that moment to kick out its hind legs and settle more comfortably along Mary’s back and along the carriage cushion.
Mary absently reached up to pet her. Atalie inclined her head for a scratch behind her ears. The soft pliant fur and her increasingly loud purrs calmed Mary’s strung-up nerves.
Deciding to further test the lay of the land, Mary said, “You seem fond of animals, your ladyship.”
Lady Flint broke her stare out the window to glance at her dog. “I didn’t used to be. At one point, I thought Hugh might...it doesn’t matter. Over the years, I have grown fond of dogs, especially my Caden.” She then glanced at the cat and a smile softened the tension on her face. “As for Atalie, she belongs to Hugh.”
Mary immediately removed her hand from the cat. She would never have imagined the austere, confident young warlock from last night owning a cat. A lion, or a lynx, perhaps, but a little black kitty?
Where once she’d been pleased by the feline’s company, her warm heavy presence suddenly grew oppressive, as if Flint himself lounged across Mary’s shoulders.
She sat as stiff and rigid as Joan. After a while, the cat began to purr again. As Mary’s reasoning overcame her trepidation about being so intimately near his lordship’s personal pet, the tension in her shoulders dissipated.
This trip was meant to uncover truths about Wyhcans and their ways.
Scientific discovery is not for the meek, my girl, her father used to say.
A village rumor said witches kept cats as familiars, yet Rose did not own one. Neither had there been a cat with the warlock who attacked her in Maidford.
She took out a little book she had tucked into her reticule to aid her in her research. Using a short pencil that once belonged to Marcus, Mary wrote her first question: Is Atalie Lord Flint’s familiar?
Next question: Do all Wyhcans keep familiars?
A multitude of other puzzles followed on the heels of that one. Were only cats used as familiars or could another animal serve the same purpose? What were familiars used for? Did animals relate to the Wyhcans’ working of magic? Had the first Wyhcans who arrived on Earth brought animals with them or had they made use of the creatures present in the new world?
She sat back and looked at her first full page of script. She felt sure that gaining the answers to such questions would help flesh out her brother’s painting.
HUGH RACED TOWARD THE front door of his house.
“Wait,” Benson called.
He ignored him. If his mother thought there was any chance he would be stuck for two weeks with...
“My lord!” Benson leaped ahead with magical speed and planted his back against the front door.
The slender young footman who’d let Benson in gave them both a startled look that seemed layered with guilt before he wisely turned tail and sprinted away. Probably involved in his mother’s conspiracy.
She must have been responsible for bringing Miss Bryght here ahead of time and then absconding with her. No doubt she had gained the servants’ help in orchestrating this entire early morning flight. Why? He barely phrased the word before the answer became blindingly clear.
He should have guessed his stubborn parent would not give up on her meddling in his life. She still hoped to match Miss Bryght with him. Well, he refused to have any part of her ill-conceived machinations. If he ever decided to bed the fair Miss Bryght, it would not be on the say-so of his mother.
Hugh focused on Benson who still effectively blocked the front doors. Outside, the carriage wheels turned as if the vehicle was moving off. “Get out of my way!”
“Think, Hugh,” Benson said in a rush, apparently forgetting proper peer-employee formality. “What warlock would dare attack a carriage with another warlock’s parent aboard? Peregrine may harbor ill intentions toward the Bryghts but I’ll wager he wouldn’t dare attack you or a member of your family.” He paused to take a much-needed gasp of air, before adding. “Aside from you, your mother might be the best protection Miss Bryght could hope to have on this journey. Better even than myself.”
On the verge of tossing Benson across the room, Hugh paused to consider his words. There was logic there. Did villains behave logically? “What about my father? Renfrew did not hesitate to kill him.”
“That was a fair, legal duel. With witnesses. Your mother is human. Attacking her would be an entirely different matter, garnering Council condemnation. Peregrine would be ostracized.”
Which was exactly what Marsh had threatened to do to Hugh if he failed in his mission. A credible threat that should make any warlock quake, possibly even a madman. With a defeated sigh, Hugh accepted Benson’s argument. “You speak wisely.”
Benson lowered his arms, looking vastly relieved and a little surprised his advice was followed.
Hugh studied Benson and re-calculated the points on his abacus, adding a larger bead for quick thinking. Then a new idea occurred, one that could solve a problem he’d reluctantly planned to shelve while on this journey with Miss Bryght.
If he could get Benson to work out how his father had really died, then when Hugh returned from Scotland, he could finally force Renfrew to pay for that murder. For Hugh was convinced his father’s duel with Renfrew had been part of a well-planned murder plot.
Challenging Renfrew would, of course, result in another duel. Hugh’s mentor, Spencer, had wisely advised that if Hugh discovered how Renfrew had cheated the last time, then Hugh’s chances of surviving a duel with the man would rise.
At Hugh’s continued silence, Benson said, “Is there something else on your mind, my lord?”
Back to “my lord.” Unfortunate. He needed a friend for this work, not a servant. Deciding the abacus score was high enough, Hugh said, “You may call me Hugh. In private.”
While Benson tried vainly to hide his pleasure at that singular sanction, Hugh stepped away and raised his hand. With a pointed finger, he drew a wide circle above his head that encompassed the entire entryway.
A few of the servants who had crept up to watch the interplay between master and man of business, immediately scattered, yelping as if they’d been pinched.
A barrier descended from above, bringing with it a distinct but low hum meant to shut out all outside listeners.
Benson, positioned inside the circle, looked about him with overt admiration. “This must be serious.”
“Not for Council ears.” Hugh gave Benson a hard look. “Not even your father’s.”
His new friend continued to survey the descending dome before meeting Hugh’s gaze with a serious expression. “Whatever you’re about to ask of me, my father might be able to help. If it is something terrible, I would refuse to do it anyway and if it isn’t terrible, my father isn’t involved.” He shook his head. “That didn’t come out correctly. What I mean to say is, I would swear on my honor that my father would never betray you.”
Hugh considered his words and came to the disturbing conclusion that if he must trust Benson, that included his judgment about others.
“If it helps,” Benson added, “I would only consult him if I thought it absolutely necessary and if he could be of help. First and foremost, I work for you, my lord.”
“Then prove it. Find out how my father was killed.”
The request left his man of business speechless. Finally, he said, “The duel...”
“Was fixed. My father would never have lost a legitimate fight against Renfrew. He could have beaten him with one eye closed and both hands bound.”
“The Council...”
“I do not trust. This is your opportunity to show me I can trust you.”
BEHIND MARY, ATALIE tensed, and although her sharp claws were withdrawn, one paw dug into Mary’s right shoulder.
Sensing trouble, Mary paused in her concentrated writing and looked up. Beside her, Joan had leaned closer as if to check on her mistress’s writing. Mary snapped shut her book and put it away.
Looking disappointed, Joan sat back.
Atalie’s paws relaxed their grip on Mary’s shoulder.
What a helpful cat. No wonder Lord Flint was attached to her. Mary raised her finger to reward the watchful feline with a scratch, which Atalie accepted with a contented purr.
Time would soon arise, though, when the subject of Wyhcans and magic must be broached openly with Lady Flint. Considering Joan’s jittery reaction to the cat, however, Mary was unsure how the girl would take to talk of witches and warlocks.
Lady Flint was still looking out the window, as if searching for a follower. Her son? Then a suspicious thought reared. Was he unaware that his mother had decided to accompany them? Was that why they rushed away so quickly?
She switched her study to Lady Flint’s bone-thin pinch-faced, lady’s maid but she appeared unruffled by their speedy departure. Surely, she wouldn’t seem so calm if she had been helping her mistress to dupe the master of the house. Watching the elderly woman, Mary’s curiosity sped in a new direction.
Had the topic of Wyhcans been freely discussed in the Flint household? Was her ladyship’s maid aware that Lord Flint was a warlock? Did she know if Atalie was his familiar? Was Lady Flint a witch? Did witches have familiars, too?
Mary had a hundred questions, not least of which was information about her ladyship’s mysteriously handsome and debonair son.
She shivered at the fact that, last night, she had spent an inordinate amount of time alone with a warlock. He had not seemed the least bit like the one who attacked her in Maidford, but neither had he seemed tame.
The other warlock’s voice had hissed like a snake, spiking her every nerve ending into high alert and while in his presence, she had sensed evil in the air.
Lord Flint’s tones had also shot her guard up, but in an entirely different manner.
Since childhood, because her father’s work took him to foreign places, leaving Mary and Marcus without protection, he had encouraged both his children to be independent and taught them how to physically defend themselves when confronted. Mary had, therefore, grown up a confident and self-assured young lady. However, when Hugh Renfrew Price approached, her normal self-composure vanished.
Had that been a warlock trick? Did a warlock’s magic reside in words spoken in a spell or merely in their tone of voice, the timbre of their words? Mary prided herself on her objective thinking. The very idea of someone else controlling her thoughts and reactions repelled her. It also brought up another troubling concern. How could she hope to work with Lord Flint if, while in his presence, she never knew if her judgments were her own?
Last night, none of her thoughts had seemed the least familiar or comforting. Like a moth drawn to a flame, she had even contemplated moving closer to him despite not even knowing his name. Then he’d inched nearer, bringing his enticingly musky scent into her sphere and sent her pulse racing.
Feeling hot and bothered at that memory, she shifted in her seat.
Atalie stopped purring and growled.
Still a little unsure about Atalie’s responses, Mary subdued her restlessness. She did, after all, belong to a warlock.
With a soft moan, Joan cringed further away.
