Accursed (13 page)

With a tender smile, the maid nodded. “Yes, miss. They’ve only just arrived this morning, but Mr. Farris has asked me to hang them straightaway.”

“Off with you, then,” Tamara said warmly.

She watched Melinda hurry away toward the rear stairs, and then turned in the other direction, following the corridor past the master bedroom that had once been occupied by her parents, and later by her father alone. Other rooms stood empty, ready to receive visitors. William’s quarters were at the opposite end of the house, but that wasn’t her destination.

Tamara reached the door to Ludlow’s quarters and did not hesitate.

Inside, she crossed the outer room and paused at the interior door for only a moment before opening it. Dust motes danced in the brightening daylight. The room was precisely as they had left it subsequent to his murder. The servants had seen to it that the blood had been scoured from the place, the damaged furniture removed, and the broken glass replaced. Even so, the place resonated with the terror of those moments, just as it did with decades of love and laughter. Such things were now intrinsic to the memory of Ludlow Swift.

Tamara turned her back on the bedchamber and went to the writing desk that had belonged to her grandfather. All around her were the mementos of his career as a stage magician. The craft was only now beginning to earn respect. As a gentleman, Ludlow had risked public humiliation because of his passion for illusion and prestidigitation. For magic. But he loved the showmanship of it, and would have given up all of the lands and wealth he had inherited before he quit the stage.

There were items from all around the world in this room, from the smallest artifacts to the largest sculptures. There were tribal masks of North Africa and weapons from the Far East. Some of his tricks were there as well, black boxes that Tamara was still unable to make work.

Someday, she vowed, she would teach herself some of Grandfather’s old tricks, if only to remember him better.

Tamara sat down at the desk. She pulled out a fresh piece of paper and dipped her pen in a bottle of ink, then smiled to herself. All the troubles she had faced trying to write
Underneath
dissipated as she considered her new mission.

She would come back to that story. But she had realized that the way to shatter the obstacles that had been built up in her mind was to stop attempting to ignore the dark truths she had learned over the past few months, and to embrace them instead.

What better way to do that than to write them down?

Ever since the previous day, when Oblis had intimated that some evil was rising, Tamara had been haunted by his words, and by his tone. Sinister, yes, but also curious, as though the demon actually wondered how it would all turn out. She had meant to mention it to William on their carriage ride to the Wintertons’, but their disagreement regarding Sophia had caused her to put it off. She would have to tend to that today. It was probably nothing, but certainly it bore some investigation.

For the moment, however, she wanted to set pen to paper while the creative flame still burned. It had occurred to her that the way to dispel the mental obstruction that had interfered with her writing was, simply, to write from experience.

To the reading public, they would seem like nothing more than the latest outlandish tales from the pen of T. L. Fleet. No one would ever believe that they were true. She would write about the Protector of Albion, about the inheritance of great powers and great responsibilities, and all she need do was change the names, embellish the details.

After a moment’s consideration, Tamara touched pen to parchment, whispered under her breath, and then took her hand away. She dictated, and the pen began to write, to transcribe her words:

There are things in this world that do not belong here—evil things.

Supernatural creatures that are neither myth nor legend. They are, in fact, quite real. These Enemies of Humanity would like to claim the world for themselves. Yet, in every corner of the globe, there are those who stand in their way—mystical guardians who protect the primeval essence of the Earth.

The soul of England—its mystic spirit—is called Albion. Throughout the centuries it has had many champions—brave men and women who fought to maintain our freedom.

For many decades, one man kept Albion’s enemies at bay. Using magic and intelligence, Ludlow Swift protected England from the encroaching darkness.

But change is in the air—

With a deep satisfaction, Tamara sat back and regarded the paper. She read the words again, then frowned at her own error. Quickly she gestured and the pen dipped into the ink again and then flew to the paper, where it scratched out her grandfather’s name.

Yes, wouldn’t William simply love it if I told the tale of our legacy with the family name intact?

She contemplated what name might suffice to take the place of Ludlow’s. Not to mention her own, and William’s.

As she considered the question, there came a knock. Tamara gestured to the pen and it lay down, even as she rose from her chair. She opened the door to discover Farris standing there.

“Good morning, Farris.”

“Good morning, Miss Tamara. I apologize for the intrusion, but Miss Winchell has arrived, in search of Master William.”

Tamara might have been concerned that some crisis had arisen, but since the death of her own father the infuriating trollop had made it her practice to visit Ludlow House whenever the urge took her, always with her lady’s maid in tow.

“Hasn’t William already departed for Threadneedle Street?”

Farris shook his head. “No, Miss Tamara. I’m to drive him shortly. He has gone up to deliver breakfast to the elder Mr. Swift.”

“Ah, I see,” Tamara said. She pulled her robe more tightly around her, perhaps due to the chill in the air that eddied through the house, or perhaps due to the mention of her father.

Farris had done precisely the right thing in coming to fetch her. Had he simply told Sophia where William was, she might have been bold enough to seek him out. And though the Swifts had few secrets from Sophia Winchell, after the horror that led to her father’s demise it would be ill advised for anyone to be in the presence of the demon Oblis unless it was absolutely necessary.

“Well done, Farris. I shall come down right away, and attend to my own breakfast at the same time. Let us see if we cannot distract her until William joins us.”

Farris nodded, and turned to depart.

Tamara considered putting on a more appropriate housecoat, but decided against it. So she put away her scribblings, followed Farris to the stairs, and descended with him. Sophia would be inside already, no doubt, in the sitting room, with her chaperone standing by at the ready to testify to her virtue. And, sure enough, that was exactly where Tamara found her.

Sophia glanced up quickly at her approach, only to be crestfallen at the sight of her host.

“William is not at home then?” Sophia demanded.

“Good morning to you, as well, Sophia,” Tamara said archly.

“Yes, good morning,” the other woman said.

“My brother will be down shortly. He hasn’t yet completed his morning regimen, I’m afraid.”

Sophia raised an eyebrow. “Nor have you, it seems.”

Tamara smiled, showing more teeth than necessary. “I have a more relaxed approach to such things. In fact, I was only now about to have my breakfast. Please join me, won’t you? For a cup of tea, at least.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, a moment during which burning embers would have frozen in the frosty air between them. Then Sophia stood.

“I’d be delighted.”

Delighted to leave your watchdog in the sitting room,
Tamara thought, noting that Sophia made no attempt to bring her maid into the breakfast parlor. And the old woman offered no protest. Either she possessed little sense of propriety herself or she was paid well enough not to notice the liberties Sophia took.

The kippers were cold. Tamara was used to that, of course. She might have demanded a fresh batch be fried for her, but she never liked to trouble anyone about such trivial things. And, in fact, she had come to like them cold.

She sat at the mahogany table with a plate of bacon and kippers, ignoring the oatmeal that was coagulating in a tureen on the buffet, and sipped from a cup of coffee. Martha saw to it that there was warm coffee in the breakfast parlor for as long as it took Tamara to wander downstairs in the morning.

Sophia wanted tea and seemed entirely put out to have to fix her own. She chose the Indian blend, which Tamara had never liked. As she prepared her cup, she glanced over at the table.

“You really ought not to sully yourself with the company of John Haversham.”

Tamara blinked twice, then turned to stare at her.

“Pardon me?”

“Please, Tamara, don’t feign ignorance with me. My cousin John is as amiable a companion as one might find. He is an artist and a philosopher, and women find such things irresistible. Yet if he is enlightened, then he is an enlightened rogue. A true scoundrel, whose reputation is so unsavory that to appear in public with him might be enough to besmirch even
your
reputation.”

The words were insulting enough, but it was the tone that almost pulled Tamara out of her chair and across the room with the urge to slap Sophia across the face. For several moments she breathed through her nostrils, not daring to open her mouth for fear of what rebuttal might issue from it.

“I thank you for your concern,” Tamara finally said, wondering if her disdain was as evident in her manner as she hoped. “Nevertheless, I find your scandalous relation quite charming, and intend to accompany him to an art exhibit this evening. Provided I have the appropriate chaperone, I am certain a single excursion won’t be enough to entirely dismantle my social standing.”

Sophia sniffed. “Or so you hope. Well, I did warn you.”

“And it was so thoughtful of you,” Tamara cooed.

Sophia carried her teacup and saucer across the room and went to sit in the chair opposite her hostess. Tamara tapped her right foot twice and slipped her left hand beneath the table, contorting her fingers into a bizarre arrangement.

“Caveo,”
she muttered.

The chair in which Sophia had intended to sit slid backward half a foot. Young Miss Winchell’s slim derrière narrowly missed the edge of the seat, and she plopped onto the floor, spilling tea all over her cashmere shawl and spotting her bodice and wide skirts.

Tamara allowed herself a tiny smirk while Sophia was out of sight beneath the level of the tabletop. She heard the woman curse in a very unladylike fashion. Sophia’s hands gripped the top of the table, and she hauled herself upward, her eyes ablaze with fury and humiliation.

“How
dare
you, Tamara Swift?” she demanded.

“How dare I? Why, I haven’t moved from my chair, dear Sophia. Are you feeling all right? It isn’t like you to be so ungainly.”

The woman’s face turned a deep shade of purple.

“I know exactly what you’re capable of,” Sophia whispered through gritted teeth.

Tamara met her gaze without blinking. “Darling, trust me, you have
no
idea. Perhaps you’ll consider minding your own business in future.”

Sophia sputtered. At any moment William would appear, and Tamara both dreaded and relished the idea of his arrival in the midst of this repartee. One day, perhaps, he would see Sophia as the bitter, belligerent cow that she was. Until then, however, he would continue to blame Tamara for any and all friction between the two. Tamara was resigned, yet seeing the expression on Sophia’s face was worth any recrimination that might be forthcoming from William.

Before either of them could speak another word, Farris entered the breakfast parlor and cleared his throat. Sophia fumed, breathing heavily even as she snatched up a lace napkin and began to dab at the tea stains on her clothing.

Tamara daintily sipped her coffee and raised an eyebrow, looking toward the entrance.

“Yes, Farris?”

“Miss Tamara, you have another visitor. A gentleman caller. If you’ll pardon my presumption, given his comportment I suspect he arrives with unpleasant news.”

Unpleasant news.
Tamara didn’t like the sound of that. Given what her life had become, she had acquired a new definition of
unpleasant news.
It was with some trepidation that she went out to greet her mysterious guest.

T
roubled by the demon’s words, William descended the stairs carrying a tray that bore the remains of his father’s breakfast. Oblis’s breakfast. It irked him terribly that the demon could so easily unsettle him. But the fiend’s suggestion that he bring Sophia into that room—into the presence of such evil—festered in his mind, no doubt as Oblis had intended.

Yet what of his other ravings? What of that supposed conversation with William’s father? And his intimations that some new breed of darkness was on the rise.

William decided to discuss his concerns with Tamara, and straightaway. The demon was, in all likelihood, only toying with him, but if there was any truth to what Oblis had said, it was their duty to seek out this nascent evil, and quash it before it could present a real threat to Albion.