The Midnight Witch (34 page)

It is hopeless. I am a dreamer to believe otherwise.

Once again he feels the urge to turn and flee, but it is too late. Charlotte, standing next to Lilith, has spotted Bram and Mangan, and has taken her friend by the hand to hasten across the ballroom floor in their direction. There is no chance of running now. He watches Lilith closely, scrutinizing her expression as she recognizes his face in the crowd. Even so, he cannot read what he sees, cannot be certain if she is pleased or displeased to find him there. He knows her well enough to know she is expert at guarding her true feelings from any onlooker.

“Oh, Mr. Mangan!” Charlotte fizzes with glee. “How wonderful to see you here. All of you. My parents will want to speak to you. They are so very pleased with the sculpture. It is quite the talking point among visitors to our house, you know. And your painting has been attracting interest, Bram. Is that not so, Lilith?”

Bram looks at her, waiting for her answer. Waiting to hear the tone of her voice so that he might discern her mood, her reaction to his being there.

“I was not aware you were acquainted with the Anstruthers,” she says.

“I was fortunate enough to be included on Mangan’s invitation,” he explains, giving a rather uncomfortable bow, feeling faintly ridiculous that he is having to greet so formally someone he has held in his arms and kissed.

Mangan laughs loudly. “Fortune favors the brave!” he declares, stooping to kiss Lilith’s hand. “My dear Lady Lilith. You look … enchanting,” he tells her.

Bram finds himself bridling a little at the joke between them. The shared secret.

Could not Lilith have told me Mangan is a member of her coven? Why did she leave such a thing for me to discover by myself?

Perry bounds into the conversation. “We are on a mission to secure commissions,” he says, causing Charlotte to laugh and comment on the rhyme. The two fall to happy chatter, and Bram envies Perry the ease with which he conducts himself. Mangan has been collared by a pair of elderly ladies with fluttering fans, so that Bram and Lilith are left free to speak. Except that he is so tongue-tied he starts to panic that the moment will pass and she will be snapped up by someone else before he can summon some sensible words.

“Is your brother here?” he asks at last, remembering that he was the reason behind Lilith attending the ball.

“He is.” She scans the room. “There, just in front of the orchestra.”

“He looks very like you. I think I could have picked him out myself.”

“We are alike in some ways, yes.”

She is being unbearably polite and reserved. Bram is about to abandon caution completely and simply ask her if she minds him being there, and to explain that Mangan insisted he come, and to apologize if this is difficult for her in any way, but also to say that it is wonderful to see her, and that she looks utterly divine. But a tall, blond figure comes to stand close to Lilith. A proximity that suggests a familiarity that rankles Bram. He detects a minute alteration in Lilith’s demeanor, which worries him further.

“Oh, Louis, this is Bram Cardale, the artist you have heard me speak of. Mr. Cardale … Viscount Louis Harcourt.”

She does not say “my fiancé” and yet he is. Still. And a witch besides. I cannot tell which of us is more uncomfortable in this situation, Lilith or I. I must not make matters worse.

Awkwardly, he thrusts out his hand. “I am a pupil of Richard Mangan. The sculptor. You will be familiar with his work, of course.”

For one agonizing moment it looks as if the Viscount will not take Bram’s hand, but then he does so, shaking it firmly.

“Isn’t everyone? Excellent stuff. Not that I’m any judge. Not an artistic bone in my body, have I, Lily? You’ve always told me so.”

Bram has to resist grinding his teeth at the use of Lilith’s pet name on this man’s lips.

“You must come to the studio one day,” he says. “I would be happy to explain the pieces there to you.”

“I tried to persuade Lily to take me with her when she accompanied Charlotte for her sittings, but she refused me. Said genius must not be disturbed.”

“I said nothing of the sort.” Lilith colors a little.

“Well, you wouldn’t let me, in any case. I believe you like to keep your little secrets and you didn’t want me joining your bohemian arty group.”

“Now you’re talking nonsense, Louis. Why don’t you go and find someone to pester for a dance? The orchestra is about to play.”

He clutches dramatically at his heart and reels away. “Ah! You have a cruel streak in you, Lilith Montgomery—to speak to your own fiancé in such a way! But I shall not stay where I am not wanted. When you’ve finished talking about art and genius remember that I have the first waltz and a polka booked on your dance card.” So saying he disappears, grinning, into the crowd.

They watch him go, then Lilith raises her gaze to meet his and gives a faltering smile.

“I am sorry,” she says. “That was … difficult. I should have…”

“Told him? Yes, you should.” The words come out sounding far harsher than he intended.

Lilith frowns and briefly closes her eyes. He opens his mouth to take it back, to say he is sorry, but he is drowned out by the opening bars of a Strauss waltz.

He puts his hand on her arm. “Lilith … I had to come. Mangan wanted me here. And … I wanted to see you so very much. You look exquisite, my love.”

She opens her mouth to reply, but Louis reappears, bounding from the milling crowd.

“Our dance, I believe,” he says, offering Lilith his arm. She lets him lead her away, glancing back at Bram too briefly for him to be able to read her mood.

The music increases in volume. The hosts take to the floor amid much applause, and somehow, in all the excitement, Lilith melts into the crowd and is gone. When Bram sees her next, Viscount Harcourt is holding her tightly to him as they waltz expertly around the ballroom.

*   *   *

From his vantage point in the gallery overlooking the ballroom, Nicholas Stricklend has a useful view of everyone in whom he has an interest. His position also has the advantage of removing him from the hurly-burly of the revelries in which most of the guests are engaged. He does not enjoy social gatherings of any sort, but particularly dislikes those that involve such large numbers of people, all galloping about, quaffing poor champagne, and attempting to outdo one another in the weight of their jewels, the elaborateness of their gowns, and the volume of their laughter. The resulting fug of human heat turns his stomach. That the Anstruthers’ ballroom boasts a minstrel’s gallery is a bonus indeed. Better still, they have seen fit not to fill it with minstrels, but to position the orchestra below. With the dancing underway the gallery has all but emptied, which suits Stricklend very well.

He notices the earl of Winchester, who is not dancing, but watching his son with an attention bordering on obsession. As well he might. For his own part, Stricklend is pleased that the Yulemass prophecy has opened up another avenue to obtaining the Elixir—one that need not rely on anything so crude as the abduction and torture of the new Head Witch of the Lazarus Coven.

He can see Lilith Montgomery being whirled about the room to the accompaniment of Strauss’s oompah in what he decides is a proprietorial manner by the young Viscount Harcourt. While Stricklend does not choose to partake of friendships of any sort which involve physical contact, he has spent many years observing those who do. And all that he has learned brings him to the conclusion that the viscount is smitten, but the duke’s daughter is not. There is a stiffness about her back and shoulders, a tension in the way she carries her head, a lack of softening toward her dance partner that are at odds with the seemingly sincere smile she bestows upon him. The viscount, in contrast, grips her about the waist as if she might try to fly from his arms, and never for one instant takes his disconcertingly penetrating gaze from her face. He does detect, however, a certain affection on Lady Lilith’s part, but it appears to be something born of family ties, and of duty, rather than passion. It is however, he is quietly confident, an attachment that will be sufficient for his needs. The girl trusts the young man, that much is clear. Indeed, she apparently trusts most of the assembled company. Or else she merely finds safety in being in a crowd. How could anything untoward, let alone anything threatening, possibly happen to her here, in this dazzling place, surrounded by all these sparkling people? On his arrival Stricklend observed her guardian spirits waiting with laudable patience and loyalty at the entrance to the house. He was not surprised to see the dashing Cavaliers who always accompany her, but the hulking Goth is a new addition to her personal guard, and the second he spotted Stricklend he sent a burst of particularly unpleasant will in his direction as he passed.

As he watches the Lazarus witch dance, he catches something in her movement, a subtle inclining of the head, a sweeping glance in a particular direction, a focus in one part of the room. It does not take him long to find the object of her attention—a tall, good-looking man in ill-fitting clothes. He has the hair and eyes of a poet, but there is a line to his mouth that is full, yet quite severe, quite basic. What can such a girl as Lilith Montgomery, blessed in so many ways, want with a nonentity such as this? And yet, there is a strength about him, an intensity that does draw the eye.

Stricklend searches the throng for another who is necessary to his plans. At last he sees the tall, angular figure of the seventh duke of Radnor, glass of champagne in hand, already a little unsteady on his feet and evidently more interested in drinking than waltzing. Frederick Robert Wellington Montgomery can pass muster at the glance, but will fall woefully short of the mark under closer inspection. His skin has about it the fragility of one whose health is compromised. His jet-black hair is not fashionably floppy, but lackluster and lank. His eyes are at once restless and weary. If Stricklend were given to pity he might feel some for this somewhat pathetic creature, for his lot in life was not of his choosing. But a stronger young man would rise to the challenges of being born into witchery, necromancy, and aristocracy. Freddie Montgomery is weak, and Stricklend can find not the smallest iota of sympathy for one who had so much given him, and fell to weakness. Still, his flaws will prove useful to the Sentinels, and for that the permanent private secretary finds himself grudgingly grateful.

He checks his pocket watch and then turns toward the main entrance to the ballroom. At precisely fifteen minutes past ten, a strikingly glamorous young woman with a winning smile and an appealing swagger to her hips enters the room. She looks up at the gallery and sees him. Stricklend tucks the gold watch back into his waistcoat pocket and gives her a single but definite nod. She returns the gesture, and scours the room, taking out her fan, which she works coquettishly beneath her dark eyes. At length she finds her target and sashays between the guests until she stands directly behind Freddie. Stricklend watches as the woman taps him lightly on the shoulder. The young man turns, sees her, takes in the risqué loveliness of her, and smiles back. Within moments she has him laughing and stroking the back of her hand. Seconds later the pair thread their way, arm in arm, through the throng, and leave the ballroom together.

Satisfied, Stricklend adjusts his jacket minutely and quits the gallery, taking the ornate spiral staircase which descends to the dance floor. The waltz comes to an end, amid much gloved clapping, and is quickly followed by a minuet. Ladies study their dance cards. Men hurry this way and that looking for their partners. As Lilith turns about in search of her brother, as Stricklend knew she would, he moves forward and presents himself with a low bow.

“Lady Lilith, Lord Frederick has asked me to tell you he has had to step out for a moment, and so regrets he will not be able to partner you for the second dance as he promised.”

Lilith regards the stranger before her with puzzlement.

“Had to step out? Step out where?”

“Oh, not from the ball entirely. He promised you will see him shortly.”

“Oh. I see.”

“In his absence, might I perhaps prevail upon you for this dance myself?”

“Forgive me, sir, but do I know you?”

“It is I who am at fault. My name is Nicholas Stricklend, and I have the honor to be permanent private secretary to the minister for foreign affairs. A dull title, I understand, but there it is.”

“And how do you come to know my brother?”

Stricklend pauses and does his best to arrange his features into what he hopes is a gentle smile. The lie he is about to present is distasteful to him not because it is a falsehood, but because it paints him as having a weakness, and a weakness of a variety that he finds particularly repugnant.

“Let us say your brother and I, we share a predilection for adventures of a singular and, some might say, moribund nature.” He watches her face with interest as she processes this information.

“I have no wish to associate with anyone who leads my brother into the destructive pastimes that are destroying his health and his mind. Will you kindly tell me where he has gone?”

“All in good time. Let us talk while we dance.”

“I will not dance with you, sir.” Lilith turns on her heel, but Stricklend calls her back, his voice still soft, his demeanor, should anyone observe it, friendly.

“Dance with me, Lady Lilith, or you will never see your brother alive again.”

18.

I struggle to take in what I am being told. There is something so very frightening about this stranger, I knew it the moment he spoke my name. I knew it before he uttered those terrifying words. I have no choice but to let him take my hand and lead me onto the dance floor. As we step this way and that, following the music that I scarcely hear, instinctively avoiding other dancing couples as we glide about, we must appear, for all the world, a perfectly respectable and undistinguished pair of dancers. This Stricklend is probably ten years my senior with a strong, fearsome energy about him. A dark, dark energy. I contemplate calling my guardians. I know they would come quickly to my side. But what manner of confrontation do I imagine I could instigate here, in the ballroom, among all these people? No, I must let him speak. He wants something from me, and Freddie is in great danger. I have no alternative but to play his abhorrent game and listen to what he has to say.