Page 15

“Your presence will cheer her, Mr. Timmons,” Miranda said. “Dominick will show you upstairs.”

The butler eyed Lord Brand dubiously and Miranda answered his silent query with an exasperated look.

“Send Thorpe in, if that will put you at ease, Dominick,” Miranda said. “Mama’s instructions were quite specific and though I do not like it above half, I must have private words with Lord Brand.”

“Meowrrr!” Thorpe announced himself before padding into the room and settling himself before the fire.

“Well,” Miranda said, “it would seem that Mama anticipated the problem. Dominick, please make certain that she does not exhaust herself once more.”

“The Lady, she does what she will, Miranda,” the butler said. “But, as you ask, I will remind her yet again of the great worry that we share. Come, please, Mr. Timmons.”

“Rather familiar fellow, isn’t he?” Lord Brand asked as the door closed behind them. “Do all your servants call you by your given name?”

“Yes, actually, they do,” Miranda answered, pouring herself a glass of wine.

She stared at the ruby liquid, feeling the full measure of her fatigue.

Food was what she wanted, a meal and sleep in that order.

But both would have to wait. She limited herself to a single biscuit, forcing herself to nibble in slow bites between sips of wine instead of wolfing down the whole.

At least in this, she could appear somewhat the lady.

As she gnawed, she surreptitiously observed the Marquess’s reaction.

Firelight flickered across his face, illuminating the stubborn set of his chin, the patronizing lift of his lips that bordered uncomfortably upon a sneer.

What right had he to judge that which he did not understand?

She wished that she could escort him to the door and slam it at his back, but her mother had decreed otherwise.

“Dominick has known me since I was in swaddling clothes. In fact, the members of his tribe have been serving the Wodesbys for nigh above two hundred years now.”

“I have never known Gypsies to serve anyone but themselves,” Lord Brand remarked.

“Perhaps ‘serve’ is the wrong word, milord,” Miranda said, easing herself into a chair and helping herself to another biscuit.

“‘Tis more of a relationship of mutual benefit. Dominick’s people spend winter and fall at our London residence, certainly a more comfortable venue than camping in the open. Come spring, they wander the countryside according to their custom, but every autumn, some of them return to wear the Wodesby livery. Many grandfathers ago, they swore their allegiance to the first Lord Wodesby.” She nodded toward the portrait of a man in a ruff and doublet, his eyes the same blue as her own.

“Their King had been accused of witchcraft and condemned to burn. Lord Wodesby used his considerable influence with the Queen to save him from death.”

Lord Brand studied the portrait. “He was part of Elizabeth’s circle then?”

“One of her most trusted advisors,” Miranda said with pride. “He was her chief astrologer and her Majesty credited him with no small part of the victory over the Spanish Armada. It was then Sir Wodesby was elevated to a Baron.”

“What a fortunate coincidence for your ancestor that England won.”

“There was no happenstance involved, milord,” Miranda said, forcing herself to ignore the acid in his voice.

“That portrait that you see was painted just before the attempted invasion. As you may note, his hair is much the shade of mine and his brow, youthful. However, a second likeness in honor of his ascension to the title hangs at the Wode. Although it was completed barely a month later, it shows his appearance horribly altered. His face is lined, much as that of a man twice his forty years and his hair transformed to a shock of white. The weather sorcery that he wove to bring a storm for Elizabeth was most powerful. A spell of such magnitude exacts a most heavy price.”

Wine spilled over the lip of his glass as Adam set it down.

At this late hour, he had endured more than his fill of this magical madness.

With three swift strides, he stood before Miss Wilton’s chair, intending to tell her just what he thought of the Wodesby family’s outlandish claims. But before he could speak, a small body streaked from the hearth, swiftly interposing itself between Adam and the woman.

Thorpe’s fur rose like a battle flag, his warning hiss giving voice to his disapproval of Adam’s menacing posture and proximity.

“Tell your feline chaperone that I mean no harm,” Adam said, taken slightly aback.

“His judgement is usually most reliable,” Miss Wilton said, clearly amused at the marquess’ startled reaction.

“I recall, during my Season, when Lord Hatfill tried to corner me in the garden, Thorpe was similarly on the spot. His lordship claimed that it was the roses that had shredded his legs so. A foolish claim on his part, since there was not a rosebush in the entire garden. However, I am no longer an inexperienced child, Thorpe, so you may sheath your claws and return to your place at the fire. The Merlin knows you deserve it after your efforts this evening. I can deal with Lord Brand.”

His furry pelt grew smooth once more. However, Thorpe settled himself firmly at Miss Wilton’s feet.

“It would seem that Thorpe does not entirely trust your ability to ‘deal with me,’ Miss Wilton,” Adam said, groaning inwardly as he realized the implications of his words. “Not that I actually believe that Thorpe has the capacity to-”

“I know, I know!” she said, jumping to her feet, exasperation in her expression.

“You believe in nothing, in nobody but yourself, sir. You alone have the keys to all truths and there are no things in Heaven or Earth that cannot be explained by your prosaic natural philosophy. Miracles could happen all around you, but you would not see them. Or worse still, you would make those wonders into commonplaces and ridicule us all for seeing rainbows instead of a chance result of lighting conditions. How empty your world must be, sir; a place without faith or magic, where man dwells entirely alone. I pity an existence so sterile.”

Horrified by her loss of control, Miranda went to the hearth and leaned against the mantel, staring into heart of the flames.

There was no explanation for her outburst but weariness, she decided.

Times beyond count she had faced ridicule, considering it an irksome but inevitable consequence of the Wodesby name.

Derision was infinitely preferable to the fear and persecution that resulted from ignorance, she had told herself.

But before, pride had always proven an adequate defense, shielding her from the flogging of the ton’s scorn.

Never had she felt this need to lash back.

“I am sorry, milord,” she said, subdued by the force of her own rudeness.

“‘Tis a poor excuse, but I am bone-tired and much as I hate to admit it, more than a trifle overset. I had no right to say those things, especially since I have no real knowledge of you, or your motivations.”

“All the more remarkable then, that you have come uncomfortably close to the mark, Miss Wilton,” Adam said softly.

Her head leaned against the marble of the mantle and he cursed himself for a boor.

Only a blind man could have missed the obvious signs of exhaustion.

She could barely keep her lids from drooping.

From the longing looks that she had directed toward the biscuits, it was simple to deduce that she was famished as well as frazzled.

He walked to the tray, picked up the plate and went to her side, silently proffering the biscuits.

“A peace offering, milord?” she asked.

“Call it a temporary truce. If you have not eaten since you set out for Town, you must be more than half starved,” Adam ventured, encouraged by the hint of a smile lurking in the corner of her mouth. “I must confess that I found Lady Enderby’s repast less than satisfying.”

“I am ravenous, milord,” she admitted, taking a handful of biscuits.

“and I fear that I am beyond nectar and ambrosia, in fact beyond this light fare. Shall we repair to the kitchen and see what we can find in the pantry? Difficult conversations are usually easier on a full stomach,” Miss Wilton declared.

“But first, I had promised to locate a book for my mother.” She picked up a branch of candles and walked to the shelves on the far wall.

Adam followed. Leather bound books covered the walls from floor to ceiling. “The Constitution of Honorius! ” Adam exclaimed as he took up a volume at random.

“You are acquainted with it?” she asked in surprise.

“One of the first grimoires ever printed,” Adam said, opening the pages reverently, scarcely able to credit that so ancient a copy existed. “They are quite rare.”

“And utterly useless as a guide to conjuring,” Miss Wilton remarked as she scanned the upper shelves for the book she sought.

“Some of the suggestions for calling up spirits would be rather laughable were they not so gruesome. Still, it is a curiosity. The Seal of Solomon. ” She handed him a bound packet of parchment.

“Now, here is a grimoire with some meat to it. Unfortunately, so much was garbled when the book was transcribed. In fact, that is a common problem with most printed grimoires, especially popular works such as Le Veritable Dragon Rouge . So much of our tradition is oral in nature, handed down from parent to child over generations. In a proper spell, every word, each intonation is vital; a muddled formula gets no results.”

Adam did not even attempt to challenge her statement, so awed was he by the beauty of the illuminated manuscript, with its carefully drawn seals and pentagrams. “By Jove,” he exhaled sharply. “Have you any idea how valuable this is, Miss Wilton? This must be at least three centuries old.”