Wilful Impropriety (29 page)

“It is an ancient pile of rock,” said James, Viscount Northcliff, as he swung down from the Rabton family carriage. “But it’s home. Take the brown trunk up to Mr. Young’s room, would you, Bains? There’s a good chap. Be careful, it’s four-fifths books.”

“You said I would find time to study,” Simon protested mildly, still staring up at the impressive bulk of Rabton Hall.

James slung an arm over his shoulder and hustled him through the oak doors. “A ruse, old boy. A damnable lie, be it known. We’re here to wench and carouse our way to the hell they reserve for bad scholars.”

“You’re teasing me,” Simon said, blinking his large gray eyes behind his spectacles. “You are, aren’t you?”

James laughed and let his friend go. “Couldn’t let you molder in the stacks all hols, Simon. It’s Christmas! But there’ll be time for your books, never fear. Ah, Caldwell, very good, where might I find Pater?”

“In his study, my lord, with his lordship of Chumley,” the butler supplied.

“Oh, what a bore. And Flora?”

“In the yellow room, my lord.”

“Excellent. We’ll go pay our respects, Simon, and I will show you a few things around the place, and then you may spend as long as you like with your books before dinner. Do remember to dress for it, won’t you?”

James was a good-humored man of twenty, and if selfish considerations of wanting male company his own age for Christmas had prompted him to extend an invitation to Simon, he had been at least equally moved by concern for the wellbeing of his studious friend, who had grown pale and thin during a trying term. The bounty of his father’s table, James thought, was just the thing to improve Simon’s health, and being removed from the allure of the Cambridge libraries was certain to cheer his spirits.

Accordingly, as he entered the yellow room, he kept a close eye on his friend, and was startled to note a sudden flush in the sallow cheek as Simon beheld Flora for the first time, wearing her prettiest pink frock and sitting in a chair near the fire.

“Flora, may I introduce Mr. Simon Young? Simon, this is Lady Flora Wittingham, my sister.”

Simon murmured something inaudible about the pleasure.

“Mr. Young, how do you do?” Flora asked, distractedly offering her hand. James, who thought his sister pretty enough, but inclined to fretting and an excess of sensibility, really saw her radiant beauty in this moment, and felt pity for his friend. But Flora did not notice Simon’s condition, releasing his hand at once and turning to her brother. “Have you heard, Jamie? I am to be married.”

James observed the color draining out of Simon’s face and moved at once to cover his friend’s embarrassment. “Really?” he said, almost at random. “Jolly good show! To whom?”

“To the Marquess of Chumley. He is with Papa now, discussing the terms of the marriage settlement.”

“To Chumley!” James ejaculated. “Well, that is certainly—I mean to say that—”

“Is it not wonderful?” Flora breathed. “I vow, I am the happiest woman alive. Oh! Here he comes now! My darling lord, have you met my brother Jamie?”

“Chumley,” James said, nodding.

“Northcliff,” the Marquess returned, equally coolly.

“And this is—” Flora paused.

“Mr. Young,” James said, startled again. Flora was a scatterwit, but not an unmannerly one, and once introduced to someone, she had never before neglected to commit their name to memory. He was embarrassed for his friend, and worried for his sister, who instead of apologizing for her slip was gazing at her intended with something very like worship in her eyes.

Simon’s own eyes were filled with something closer to despair, and though James had intended to take his friend on a tour of the portrait gallery, and point out the rare books in the library, he did not prevent Simon from making his excuses and slipping away.

The mystery only deepened over dinner, where Flora’s conversation was all of her wedding plans and the happiness the engagement had given her, while Chumley smirked into his soup and smiled at James with what he thought was an almost insolent air.

James begged off shortly after Simon did, and took himself to his room, sending away his valet before that gentleman could do more than remove his boots, and preparing himself to think through the problem.

The instant Bains departed, however, he was replaced, by a small young woman of about seventeen. He vaguely recognized her as one of the upper servants. Elda, was that her name? No, Irene. He was almost sure she was lady’s maid to Flora.

James hoped he would not have to gently ward off a clumsy attempt at seduction. Irene’s eyes were pretty, but her skin was marred by freckles. Her mouth, too, was wide and mobile, not the tiny pout James thought he favored.

Then the girl opened her mouth, and if her appearance had surprised James, what she had to say stunned him entirely. “I am Irene Crawford, my lord, your sister’s maid. I beg you forgive me this intrusion, but I must tell you that the Marquess of Chumley cast a spell to break your sister’s will and force her to accept his proposal, which he made in her chambers last night before dinner. I saw the white aura, my lord. The Marquess is an evil magician and no true gentleman, and he has ensnared your sister’s heart by unnatural means.”

The pretty eyes were passionate, the freckled skin flushed with anger, and the wide mouth bit off each word with little white teeth.

James, as if in a daze, thought that Irene Crawford might have some looks after all. Then the true import of her speech struck him, and he stiffened. “You accuse a gentleman of base and illegal magick, and with no proof other than your word,” he said.

Irene held herself very still. “I do, my lord.”

“Knowing that if I take umbrage at this insult to my father’s guest, you risk being turned out of this house without reference, without hope of future employment, and with no funds to ease your passage.”

Irene bit her lip. “Yes, my lord.”

James let out a short laugh and collapsed into a chair. “Thank God for you, Irene Crawford,” he said.

“My lord?”

“I would that one in a hundred had your insight and honesty. I would that one in a thousand did! Flora’s letters said nothing of favoring this guest—rather the opposite—yet now she fawns upon him. The Marquess of Chumley is the subject of more than a few whispers among the clubs. I suspected something underhanded, but my own magickal talents are meager, and I could not discern the cause.”

“No, my lord,” Irene said unthinking, still dizzy with the relief that she was not to be turned out into the night.

James’s black brows lifted. He was unaccustomed to contradiction, especially from servants. “No?”

Well, Irene thought, she had come this far, and he had named her honest and insightful. She could do no less than honestly tell him the results of that insight. “No, my lord. I have a . . . knack for adjudging magickal talent, and I sense that you have great potential in the art, yet to be applied.”

“Ah,” James said. “So I am not untalented, merely lazy. Well, you may be right—Simon certainly thinks so, though he helps me with my cantrips all the same, the good fellow. But Flora, Irene. What are we to do? She has consented, she appears happy and well content with the match, and Pater will certainly never dissolve it upon a suspicion.”

Irene refrained from pointing out that his “we” presumed a great deal, and said only, “No mere suspicion, my lord. I know what I saw.”

“Pater is unlikely to accept the knowledge supplied to him by—forgive me—a lady’s maid.”

Irene smiled ironically. “That is what I am, my lord. What is there to forgive?”

James felt unaccountably discomfited by this calm reply, but reapplied himself to the problem at hand. “I suppose I could claim that I witnessed the white aura myself,” said he.

“If it came to court, my lord, you would be discredited by the barrister’s truth incantation,” Irene said.

“If it came to court, Pater would be furious and Flora humiliated,” said James. “But I’d rather that than see her married to a seducer who employs foul magicks, by Jove. You are right, however. Any barrister would discredit my statement directly. Would you testify, then, Irene?”

“I would,” Irene said, though her heart quivered at the thought. A lady’s maid who testified against the will of her employer would be unlikely to find another position in service. It would be the factories or the fields for her then, or the workhouse.

James saw her shudder and divined its cause. “That must remain a last resort,” he said. “I would rather not haul you in front of the magistrate, if it can be at all avoided. What if there were a counterspell that could break this enchantment?”

Irene frowned, and James had the half-conscious desire to smooth the wrinkle in her brow with his finger. “I do not know of any, my lord.”

“Nor I, but Simon may. He cannot apply them, but there’s not a fellow in our college that can match him for magickal theory. If he could turn up such a spell, would you help me cast it?”

Irene’s face flooded with color and James, realizing his error, sprang to his feet. “I do apologize. It was very improper of me to ask, I beg your pardon.” Asking a woman to join him in magickal undertakings! He castigated himself most bitterly for the lapse.

But Irene recovered her composure and lifted her stubborn chin. “No, my lord, you need not apologize. You are moved by concern for your sister. I should be glad to help you and Mr. Young in any way I can.”

“You are sure?” James asked anxiously. He could not see any other course of action that might free Flora from the clutches of Chumley.

“Quite sure,” said Irene. “Although I beg your discretion.”

“Of course,” James said. “Let’s see. Shall we all three meet tomorrow evening in the library? No one goes there.”

Irene considered it. The housemaids most certainly entered the library to dust the rows of unopened books, and Mrs. Framble to make certain they did, but that was during the daylight hours, when there was more light to see to their duties. The great fire would be banked after dinner, and the room should remain empty until the dawn, when little Elsie would arrive to set it burning again. “Late evening, my lord?” she suggested.

“Yes, shall we say midnight?”

“A proper hour for countering foul magick,” Irene said, with approval.

James, who had not known that, smiled rather foolishly and bid her a gracious goodnight.

Irene, as she hurried up the back stairs to her narrow bed, reflected that his young lordship was really very handsome when he smiled. It made his eyes look particularly bright.

•   •   •

Mr. Simon Young, Irene discovered, was more than willing to assist the Viscount and herself—he was positively eager.

“Cad,” he was muttering to himself as he rummaged through musty tomes, energetically marking pages with scraps torn from a piece of parchment resting in his lap. “Bounder. Rake. Despoiler of innocence.”

“Simon,” James said sharply, standing as Irene came hesitatingly into the room. “This is Miss Crawford, of whom I spoke.”

“What? Oh, yes, charmed,” Simon said, rising and nodding at Irene. “So you’ve a strong talent, James says?”

“I suppose so, sir.”

Simon smiled at her. “Suppose you recite Faulkner’s Apprehension of Skill for me?”

Irene obeyed, and Simon whistled as the golden bar solidified in the air, until it seemed nearly tangible. “A talent indeed, Miss Crawford! Well, I’ve found several things that might help. Take a look at this.”

Irene looked over his shoulder, very aware that she was in a room late at night with two gentlemen, but his lordship was leaning against the mantel, some distance away, and this scholarly Mr. Young surely had no harm in him.

To her dismay, however, the cantrip to which Simon pointed was all in Greek letters. “I cannot read this, sir,” she said.

“Oh, of course. Well, let’s see, in the Roman alphabet, it would be something like this.” He began to sketch out the transliteration on another parchment scrap, and Irene watched with interest. “Now, as to the meaning . . . this piece is unclear, but I think the author meant the fourth quadrant, and this must mean ‘by moonshine,’ although the quarter of the moon is not defined.”

“Mrs. Beeton says that for cleaning a room befouled with magick of ill intent, the full moon is best,” Irene said timidly. “Would that apply in this case?”

“It agrees with Solomon’s Scroll,” Simon said, checking a reference and scribbling something else on the translation. “Hah! There, much better balanced among the humors. Who is this Mrs. Beeton? I have not read her work, but she seems like a sensible scholar.”

James laughed, but even when Irene, blushing furiously, revealed that the Beeton in question was but a writing woman who had made a collection of household magicks, Simon would brook no delay until The Book was fetched down from Irene’s room for him.

“This is a most wonderful work!” he exclaimed. “See here, James, where the ingredients are listed aforehand? And the language is most clear and accurate. By Nimue, I wish that all magickal works were organized upon such principles.”

“Perhaps we can apply them to the spell to
save my sister
,” James suggested, and was, despite the circumstances, highly amused when both of his companions turned identical startled faces toward him.