Courtship and Curses (17 page)

“Do I?” Parthenope leapt up and went to her bed, burrowing under the counterpane and lifting her mattress with a grunt. “Here. I sneaked some strawberries up to Hester yesterday and got an enormous red smear on the skirt of this muslin because
somebody
was not being a very dainty eater, was he?” She laid a white bundle on Sophie’s lap and gave Hester’s tail a small tug.

“Piddle,” he commented.

“Don’t you dare, or it’s back in your cage with you. Well? I was going to try to clean it myself so Andrews wouldn’t sigh patiently at me—she’s terrifying when she sighs patiently.” Parthenope perched on the edge of her chair, looking expectant. “What are you going to do?”

Sophie took out her handkerchief and shook out the dress. A couple of large red spots, along with some smears, marred its whiteness. “What am I going to
try
to do, you mean? Move the stain from your dress to my handkerchief.”

“Move it? Why not just … you know—make it go away?” Parthenope waved her hand vaguely.

“Because it’s a lot simpler to move it from one place to another than to make it cease to exist. Trust me.” She took a deep breath and rubbed her finger across the red stains, closing her eyes as she did. “
Migrā
,” she murmured.

“Oh!” Parthenope whistled softly. “I can see that magic could be very useful.”

Sophie opened her eyes. The stain was gone … she’d done it!

But wasn’t it pathetic that she should be so excited by such a trifling spell?

“By the pricking of my thumbs!” Hester said, fluttering down from his perch onto Sophie’s knee and scratching gently with his talons at the place where the stain had been.

“You don’t have thumbs, feather face.” Parthenope reached down and forced her hand under him so that he had to hop onto it, then set him back on his perch. “Get back up there and behave yourself. So where’s the stain?”

“Here, for now.” Sophie held up her forefinger. The pad of it was bright red. “And now, here.” She brushed her finger across her handkerchief. It remained unstained. She rubbed it again, a little harder. “Oh, the devil!”

“Umm…” Parthenope looked sympathetic.

“This is what it’s been like!” Sophie balled up her hanky and threw it to the floor. “I never know whether even the smallest bit of magic will work or not. It’s infuriating! I limp when I walk, and I limp when I do magic. I’m useless.”

“No.” Parthenope took her dress and held it up. “My dress is clean. And Norris Underwood is probably halfway to Scotland or somewhere by now because of your magic. Stop being so hard on yourself.”

“You don’t understand.” Sophie pulled herself to her feet and went to stand by the window.

“Maybe I don’t. Or maybe I see my friend chastising herself for no very good reason and want her to stop.”

“Parthenope, listen. If I can’t get my magic to work, someone might die.”

Parthenope snorted. “Now you’re just being dramatic—”

“Am I? Do you remember the statue falling at the Whistons’ ball, when we met?”

“Of course—”

“And Sir Walter’s horse throwing him in Hyde Park?”

“Yes, but what—”

“What do they have to do with my magic? Those weren’t accidents. Someone used magic to make those things happen. And last night, they tried again.” She explained about the railing in their box at the opera and Mr. Patten.

Parthenope listened intently and exclaimed softly when Sophie was through. “So that’s part of what rattled you so badly that night at the Whistons’ ball … and in the park, too! I remember how you went to Sir Walter’s horse.”

“I think he’d been spooked with an illusion. So that’s why I need my magic. If someone’s trying to hurt my father—and the others…”

Parthenope patted her chair. “Get back over here and talk to me. I don’t doubt that you felt magic had been used, somehow, but why should someone be trying to hurt them?”

Sophie sat down. “I don’t know, except that all of them just happen to be members of the War Office.”

“What? All of them?” Parthenope looked at her very intently. “You’re saying that someone is using magic to attempt to hurt members of the War Office, but trying to make it all look accidental?”

Said that way, Sophie wasn’t sure if it sounded even more sinister, or too far-fetched for words. “Well … yes.”

“But why? Unless…” Parthenope’s eyes widened. “Unless it’s the French!”

“We’ve been at war with the French for years. Don’t you think they would have already used their magic to help themselves, if they had it?”

“Oh, stop being so logical. It’s much more interesting if we think it’s them!”

Sophie stared at her incredulously. “Is that what you think this is? Something ‘interesting’ for us to think about? My father was nearly killed by whoever is doing this, and so were three other men, and there isn’t anyone but us who knows what’s really going on.” She reached up and rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s just coincidence—”

“It can’t be—what about the magic you felt? And I’m not being frivolous. Who else hates the War Department as much as the French?”

“The Russians and the Austrians, because we’re the only ones who never knuckled under to Napoléon? No, don’t take that seriously—but maybe there’s some other reason someone hates Papa and these men, and the War Office part is accidental. Maybe it’s someone who wanted to work for them and was turned away or lost his position.”

“I suppose that’s possible, though I’m not convinced. Hmmph.” Parthenope looked thoughtful. “There’s no way to tell where the magic might have come from? Like being able to figure out the direction from which a gun was fired?”

“It doesn’t work that way.”

“Drat.” Parthenope drummed her fingers on her knee, brows knit. “Sophie—you haven’t done any kind of magic yourself those times, have you?”

“No—I told you, I can barely do any magic these days. Why?”

“Maybe that’s for the best,” Parthenope said slowly. “The last thing you want to do is draw the attention of the person who is doing this onto yourself. I don’t know how many people out there can actually do magic, but it can’t be that many. And if whoever it is knows you can, I’m willing to wager that War Office members won’t be the only ones in danger.”

*   *   *

Sophie wasn’t sure she could face driving with Lord Woodbridge that afternoon, but Parthenope threatened all manner of dire consequences if she did not. Which was how she found herself beside him at five, trotting smoothly down South Audley Street.

Lord Woodbridge drove his curricle and pair with a quiet precision that she found pleasing. It was very unlike the showiness of some young men she’d observed who tried to demonstrate their skill by flicking flies off the backs of their horses with their whips or taking corners far too quickly whilst talking far too much.

In fact, he was being rather quiet, which suited her well enough while they still drove on the street. But once they entered the park, surely they would have to talk. After overhearing him last night, what could she possibly say? Perhaps,
So tell me, Lord Woodbridge—do you truly think I’m the loveliest girl in London?
Or, maybe,
Do you truly intend to ask me to marry you?

Very well, she knew she was being silly. After all, he had no idea she’d heard him say those things and more. All she had to do was pretend she had no idea.

Ha.

“Your cane is very handsome,” he observed. “Is it new?”

Sophie looked down and realized she was gripping the handle rather tightly. She forced her hands to relax and held it up: It was one of the black-lacquered ones enlivened with Egyptian decorations picked out in red, gold, and blue. “Yes. Isn’t it wonderful? Amélie made it for me.”

“Amélie—?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Madame Carswell, I mean. Our guest.”

“Ah, yes.” He drove in silence for a moment. “She’s French, isn’t she?”

Sophie frowned. “Well, I suppose she is, if only by birth. Her family was French, but she has lived much of her life in India and married a dear friend of my father’s out there. She still has family in France and in Belgium whom she’d hoped to have a chance to visit, though now with the war back on … perhaps she might still be able to visit Brussels, though.”

“But for now she is staying with you.”

“Yes, and I’m so glad she is. She’s been such a—a friend to me.”

“Does it … has it been awkward at all—her nationality, that is, and your father’s position in the War Office—”

“Only when we’re forced to deal with bigoted bullies,” she interrupted. “Amélie was married to Papa’s friend for over twenty years. She is an Englishwoman now, despite her French accent.”

“Of course. I would never suggest otherwise,” he said quickly.

“Thank you.” Sophie fell silent. She’d been perhaps a little too vehement in Amélie’s defense, but his questions had made her uncomfortable. Why wouldn’t everyone just accept Amélie as who she was—a lovely, warm, perceptive person?

To her relief, he broke her silence. “Oh, there’s Lady Cowper, in the barouche over there. Have you been introduced?”

“Not yet.” Sophie regarded the approaching carriage. “We go to Almack’s next week—I presume she’ll be there, as one of the Lady Patronesses. Oh, isn’t that Lord Palmerston with her?”

“They’re, er, very good friends,” he said, turning slightly pink.

“Oh.” Oh! Sophie realized what he must mean and felt herself blush as well.

Lord Woodbridge cleared his throat. “Odd he’s out driving, after the news from his office.”

Sophie sat up straighter. “From the War Office? What news?”

He didn’t speak for a moment, but drove in silence wearing a slight frown. “I’m sorry. That was clumsy of me,” he finally said. “I forgot that you were there—”

“Please—what happened?”

He sighed. “Sir Walter Benning—you remember, from the park—”

“Yes, of course! Go on!”

“I’m afraid he”—he looked at her from the corners of his eyes, as if to gauge what she might do—“he died this morning.”

“Oh.” Sophie swallowed. He covered her right hand with his left for just a moment, a quick reassuring pressure. Sophie remembered the strawberry stains on her fingers and was grateful for her gloves.

“What happened?” she asked, after a moment. Good God, please let it not be another accident.

“He was stricken at his home this morning—his valet was helping him on with his boots, and he just collapsed. They said he’d not been quite right since his fall, so perhaps it isn’t such a surprise—is there something wrong?”

Sophie realized that she was gripping her cane again. She made her hands relax. “Do—do you remember once when I asked you if it didn’t seem odd that three War Office ministers had been in near-fatal accidents recently?”

“Did you?” He thought a moment. “Yes, I remember. Coming back from our ride in the park that day, after Sir Walter’s accident.”

“What would you say if I told you that there had been another incident … and now poor Sir Walter on top of that?”

He continued to look straight ahead, but she could sense his interest. “What was the other incident?”

“A colleague of my father’s came to visit our box at the opera last night. As he leaned against the railing, it broke beneath his weight—and no, he is not in the least a large man. He didn’t actually fall—we were able to grab him in time and pull him back. But it was a near thing.”

“What a fright for you. And for him too, I suppose, but I can’t see how a railing breaking at the King’s Theatre could be anything but an accident—an unfortunate one, but still an acc—”

“It wasn’t an accident,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “None of them were. They were quite deliberately caused.”

“How can you know that?” He sounded politely incredulous.

“Could you—just for the sake of discussion—accept that they were?”

He looked at her, frowning, for a few seconds, then nodded. “Very well, for the sake of discussion. In which case, who do you think is responsible for these … intentional accidents?”

“That’s what I want to know. Who could bear such a grudge against the War Office that he would try to murder its members—and why?”

“The logical answer would have to be the French, of course,” he answered promptly, just as Parthenope had.

“Yes, but—” But she certainly couldn’t repeat the conversation she’d had with Parthenope about the French using magic. “Besides the French, is there anyone else who might wish to hurt the War Office?”

“Well, there are the Americans, though we’re theoretically at peace now. Then there are Turks and the Barbary States, who are in a constant state of semi-war with our navy in the Mediterranean. That’s it for any possible active belligerents, for now. And then there are the Allies.”

“
The Allies?
”

“Quite. Just because we joined with them to defeat Bonaparte doesn’t mean that we like or trust each other. The Russian czar is insanely jealous of our navy and resents our holdings in India—I’ve a feeling he thinks Asia should be his exclusive playground. The Prussians also envy our commercial wealth—their treasury is, for all intents and purposes, empty. And the Austrians dislike us on principle, if only because they are a Catholic nation and we are a Protestant one.”

“Oh!” She sat back against the seat. “So it
could
be anyone, really.”

They drove in silence for a moment. Then Lord Woodbridge took a deep breath. “Lady Sophie, if you know of some threat to the government—though I can’t imagine what or how—shouldn’t you speak to your father about it? Tell him what you know?”

She had been afraid he would say that. “What if I tell him and he doesn’t believe me? What then?”

“
I’ll
believe you.”

“You can’t know that—”

“Very well. I’ll trust that you believe it, and do what I can to help.”

He spoke with such surety, such confidence, that it was very tempting to tell him about all of it—the magic … and her. But she couldn’t, not yet.

Soon, perhaps?

Chapter

11

Sophie
knew that Almack’s Assembly Rooms were regarded as the social heart of fashionable London. It was the most exclusive venue in town, ruled by seven despotic society women who didn’t hesitate to deny admission to anyone they disapproved of, no matter how wealthy or wellborn. To be approved by them for a voucher to purchase tickets to the Wednesday evening subscription balls meant that one
mattered
. She knew all this—Aunt Isabel had drilled it into her—but now that she was here, she knew something else as well.