Dangerous Magic (15 page)

Cecily stood within the doorway, Gerald Minstead behind her, a possessive hand upon her shoulder. “Rafe?” Cecily asked. “Is that Miss Killigrew with you?”

Rafe felt like he rode a ship through a hurricane, the events too fast and furious to understand. React or lose.

He opened his mouth to answer, but Anabel chose this moment to step forward.

Her teeth bared in a satisfied smile as she adjusted her gown. “No, child. It’s Lady Woodville.” Her gaze moved from Cecily to settle upon the glowering face of Mr. Minstead. “Have we interrupted something?”

Cecily sat on a stool drawn up to the scrubbed kitchen worktable. With the room lit only by the damped fire in the stove and the thin light of her candle, the darkness pressed upon her from all sides. This never bothered her. She liked the dark, and Bodliam’s kitchen was always a warm welcoming place, full of the wonderful scents of baking breads and roasting meats, sugary confections and boiling soups. Shadows never changed that.

Attired in a cozy dressing gown and her hair in a night plait over her shoulder, she finally felt able to take a deep breath and relax. She loved the excitement and the thrill of the crowds in Carrisbridge, but when the gaiety was over it was nice to curl up and savor, like candy, each moment of the night. This had been especially true since Gerald had arrived at the Hilliers’.

In front of her sat an opened jar of preserves and a plate of bread, perfect bedtime fare for reminiscing over every soulful look, every clasp of his hand, every lyrical compliment he offered.

But each time she set her mind to memories of Gerald, it persisted on returning to her discovery of Rafe and Lady Woodville, his jacket askew across his shoulders, her breasts nearly spilling from her bodice. Neither one seemed disturbed or dismayed by their untimely interruption, though Rafe shot Cecily a stony, sullen glare hard to interpret. It might have been anger at being caught in the arms of another woman or worry at Cecily’s obvious attempt to tryst with Gerald. She couldn’t tell, though she’d watched him even after he gracefully retreated with Lady Woodville back into the main assembly room. While Cecily observed, barely noticing Gerald’s abandonment of her, Rafe and Lady Woodville parted ways, she to a laughing group of neighbors and he to the dark quiet of the terrace.

Cecily fiddled with the jam knife as she pondered the events of this evening. Should she tell Miss Killigrew what she’d stumbled upon? That might mean revealing her own errant behavior, and heaven only knew what would happen if sneaking away to a secluded room with a gentleman ever got back to Mama. It would make bread and water look like a holiday. But she couldn’t just ignore it and say nothing. That wouldn’t be sporting at all. Miss Killigrew had treated Cecily kindly and had even begun teaching her some words in Cornish. She couldn’t return her friendship by keeping such a horrid secret.

Perhaps she might simply warn Gwenyth. Let her know what sort of woman Anabel Woodville really was. Cecily didn’t think much passed Gwenyth’s sharp, penetrating eyes. She would understand if Cecily dropped a few hints, perhaps some stories Gerald had imparted to her of Anabel’s past outrageous behavior.

Making up her mind to do this the first thing in the morning, she sighed and buried the knife hilt-deep into the preserves, her conscience clear, her stomach grumbling.

“Still up, moppet?”

Cecily whirled around, the knife held out like a sticky, purple weapon as Derek stepped from the shadows, a lit cheroot between his fingers. She blew out a shaky breath. “You nearly scared me to death.”

Derek’s gaze fell to the knife. “Committing murder most foul? One can only hope it’s the esteemed Mr. Minstead.”

Cecily lowered the knife. “It’s jam.” She wiped her finger along the flat of the blade and licked off the residue. “Raspberry.”

“You’ll grow plump as a partridge if you keep up these midnight feasts.” Despite still being dressed for the evening, Derek drew up a stool and joined her at the table. “Enough for two?”

Cecily spread a second piece of bread with jam, handing it over. “You’re out late.”

Derek crushed the cheroot out upon the spotless tabletop before taking the bread. “A vicar’s work is never done.”

His over-bright eyes danced with mischief, and Cecily’s gaze fell to the leather pouch he set next to him upon the table. “No, it would seem not.”

Derek laughed. Leaning over, he tweaked her plait as if she were still a child. “Think of it as charity work, moppet. Alms for the poor.”

Cecily tried to remain stern-faced as she knew both her mother and Edmund would, but Derek’s infectious amusement was catching. Her mouth curled in an indulgent smile. “Were these alms won playing whist or ecarte?”

Derek licked the last of the raspberry jam from a corner of his mouth. “Bezique. Mr. Foster’s soul is now lighter by two hundred guineas.”

“And the poor will get how much of that bounty?”

He reached for another piece of bread. “If you consider myself, then the answer would be the entire lot.”

Cecily had to laugh.

Honoria may think her second son a dismal failure and a rackety scoundrel, but Cecily felt closer to him than any other soul. During his sporadic visits home, he never criticized her weight or chided her about her friends. Never talked down to her or about her to others as if she were invisible, and never ever sermonized—despite his ordination. For all this she could overlook his casual kindness and his more disreputable antics.

She thought back to her problem with Rafe and Lady Woodville. A worldly, sophisticated man who spent most of his time in London would surely know how to deal with such a sensitive issue. “Have you ever had a dilemma, Derek?” she asked. “Something you think you should do, but aren’t sure how to go about it without hurting someone?”

He arched an eyebrow in curiosity. “Should I be wearing my vicar hat?”

“I caught Rafe and Lady Woodville tonight.”

Derek opened his mouth to comment, but she rolled over his intended interruption without pausing.

“Should I tell Gwenyth or keep it to myself? I mean it could have been nothing and then I’ll feel awful if they get into a huge row and never speak to each other again. And I suppose it’s really none of my business. But if I keep it to myself…” She ran out of breath. “You see? A dilemma.”

Derek leaned back, hands crossed on his chest, a look of astonishment upon his face. “Rafe? And Anabel Woodville? Apparently thirteen years did little to teach him anything where that little hussy is concerned.”

“Should I tell Miss Killigrew what I saw? I mean I didn’t actually see anything. They were together and the room was dark and Lady Woodville seemed to imply that—”

“Yes, she would,” Derek sneered, “especially now that little brother has returned so much more worthy of her notice.”

Cecily frowned. “What do you mean worthy?”

Derek snapped open a thin enameled case and removed another cheroot. Lighting it from the candle between them, he drew in a long breath of air. “Rafe left us a penniless lieutenant with naught but a tiny portion to set him up in life.” He exhaled a steady stream of smoke. “Hardly marriage material for someone with aspirations like the incomparable Anabel. But he’s back, and apparently with a grand fortune. Anabel’s tired of playing unpaid companion to her mother. She wants to marry again, and with Rafe, she sees her chance. She won’t let a little thing like a betrothal to some peasant woman keep her from her goal.”

Cecily bit her lip. “But if Lady Woodville is only after Rafe for his wealth, then we should warn him. Let him know what she’s up to.”

Derek’s features clouded in anger, his mouth a grim line. “Do you think he’d believe us? Hardly. More likely he’d assume we were trying to create trouble.” He took another drag upon his cheroot. “Your brother Rafe showed us how he truly felt when he abandoned us all those years ago. Well, if he can turn his back on us with never a word, then good riddance, I say. Let him get himself out of his own mess. If he’s idiotic enough to entangle himself with the likes of Anabel Woodville, he deserves anything he gets.”

Cecily didn’t understand Derek’s uncompromising anger. Uncertain in the face of this new side to her brother, she stirred nervously upon her stool. “But what about Miss Killigrew?”

Derek’s eyes gleamed devilish red in the flickering light of the candle. “Never fear, moppet. I’ll take care of Miss Killigrew.”

Rafe watched the road beyond Bodliam’s main gates from the protection of a shadowed stand of trees, ears pricked for any sign of an approaching horse and rider.

Earlier in the evening as he paced the dark terraces outside the assembly rooms in Carrisbridge, he’d fought to make sense of the confused emotions Anabel’s actions stirred within him. So caught up in his inner conversation, he’d never heard the footman approach to hand him a sealed, unmarked billet. Alone again, he’d read the note twice through before crumpling it in his fist and shoving it into his pocket.

They’d found him.

The man in Kerrow. Again in Exeter. And finally here at Bodliam. Obviously sent with orders to watch, but not to hinder. He should have realized the Foreign Office knew his identity all along, but clouded by arrogance and his own misfortune, he’d underestimated them. Now he shuddered, wondering what they wanted. Nothing they asked had ever been easy. And though they rewarded him handsomely for his work, the price he paid always seemed far greater.

A rustle of leaves to his right was his only warning. Sliding his dagger halfway out of its sheath, he backed deeper into the cover of the trees and waited. A shadow separated itself from the darker woods, the footfalls light but steady. Easing his way parallel to the lone figure, Rafe drew his dagger out. Silent as death, he crept up behind, never allowing his steps to be heard, not even a whisper of a breath to alert the intruder to his approach. Rafe reached around the man’s neck, pulling him close. Without hesitation, his other hand pressed the blade against the man’s exposed throat.

“I could kill you right here, and no one would ever know,” Rafe whispered. “Your death would be one more minor story in the London papers, though I’m sure the Duke would contrive it to be a glorious end in battle and not the hedgerow gutting it will be.”

Instead of quaking with fear, the man gave a bark of humorless laughter. “Do you think so? It’s more likely my uncle would say good riddance to bad rubbish.” When Rafe didn’t immediately remove the knife, the man spoke again, this time the humor gone from his voice. “Don’t be a fool, Fleming. It’s not as if I alone know your secret. Deveraux was the one who initiated the contact with you in the first place. If I don’t come back, he’ll know where to begin looking.”

Rafe lowered his dagger, allowing Colonel Adrian DeWinter to turn and face him. “What do you want from me?”

DeWinter stepped into the dim light of the sickle moon. His face remained obscured, but Rafe noted the pinned sleeve across his chest. “Dear God, man! Your arm—”

A low rumble of laughter met his shock. “Is missing? Yes, I know. You’re not the first to inform me of its disappearance. Bothersome, but not fatal as it turns out.”

DeWinter’s disability had startled him, but Rafe recovered quickly. He’d not be thrown off by the man’s flippant attitude. He knew from experience that DeWinter’s easy charm hid a strong will and an autocratic manner. And when roused, the man fought like a lion. Rafe doubted the loss of an arm would change that. Even so, he refused to be drawn back in to the Foreign Office’s web. “I’m through working for you. Castlereigh and the Duke need to find a new man to play their game. Desperate men come cheap these days. It shouldn’t be hard.”

DeWinter leaned against the bole of an old oak, unperturbed by Rafe’s determination. “But you were one of the best. And setting yourself up in style takes money. Swiverton Park won’t be cheap to run.”

Rafe seethed. How long had they been following him? And why on earth would they spare such time for so minor a cog in their machine? “You’ve done your homework, but you forget. I come home a wealthy nabob, not a disgraced lieutenant. I can simply find a suitable bride with a suitable marriage portion if I have need of additional income.”

“And what of Miss Killigrew?”

Rafe gritted his teeth, biting back the incautious words that sprang to mind. Instead, he shrugged, matching DeWinter’s nonchalance. “Accept defeat, DeWinter. I’ve finished fetching and carrying for the Foreign Office and its agents. Captain Fleming of the
Cormorant
is no more.”

Before DeWinter could reply, Rafe spun away, leaving him behind. Hurrying through the trees toward the house, he knew DeWinter wouldn’t follow. The man’s work with his uncle, the Duke of Deveraux and Viscount Castlereigh was well-known. What was not common knowledge were his more covert activities within that same organization. Rafe knew DeWinter wouldn’t risk questions over his arrival in Upper Yewford. He’d melt away and turn up back in London, hopefully reconciled to Rafe’s refusal.

He thought back on the few times he’d witnessed for himself DeWinter’s single-minded determination in the face of a challenge. And knew in his heart that this escape was not an end, but only a postponement of their next meeting.

The moon threw long silver shadows across the park as Gwenyth watched the lone figure of a man from the window of her bedroom.

As she stood there, he turned and looked up toward her lighted window. Raising a hand, he beckoned her down. He didn’t wait for her answer. Instead he set off down the path, leading to the lake and the sanctuary of the grotto.

Gwenyth threw a dressing gown over her nightrail, fumbling with the elaborate ribbons. She cast a searching look around the room for the matching slippers, but came up empty. No matter. She was used to walking in bare feet, and the dew would only ruin the delicate fabric.

Leaving her room, she used the back staircase to avoid passing Lord and Lady Brampton’s private apartments. She had no worries they could stop her, but they might delay her with questions. She didn’t want Rafe to think she ignored his summons. It was obvious he wanted to speak with her in private, and she definitely needed to speak with him.

There had been little time for them to be alone in the past few days and none since he’d disappeared from the ball in Carrisbridge earlier this evening. He’d offered no explanation for his abandonment, but Gwenyth hardly needed one. She hadn’t needed to draw on her gifts to read his mood as he withdrew. She need only see Anabel Woodville’s look of smug self-satisfaction.

Night transformed the grounds around the house. Inviting, shaded walkways became gloomy and shrouded, the hedges leaning across the path like hunched, expectant beasts. Never being of a fanciful nature—she was far too practical to fear monsters in the shadows—she hurried on, uncaring. She worried more over what to say to Rafe once she found him.