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Wodesby’s chant changed again to a grieving ululation, and a new image came to Adam’s mind.

Miranda was staring into a mirror. The rounded walls suggested a turret and behind her was a window, framing a reflected ribbon of moonlit water.

Her brocade walking dress was soiled and her bonnet was gone.

There was a cut upon her forehead. “She is hurt,” Adam murmured, raising his free hand as if to touch her.

In turn she lifted her fingers to touch the wound and he saw the dull surface of metal.

“He has her chained!” the marquess roared.

“The bastard has her in manacles. I will kill him. I swear it!” The emerald plunged downward and his hand came banging down upon the table.

Adam opened his eyes.

“You must love her very much indeed, Brand, to see her in the present,” Damien said softly, shifting the jewel aside. “Greenwich. But where? We shall have to find a map with more detail.”

As the two men searched through the scattered topographical sketches, Lawrence rushed into the room.

“I have some news, Adam,” he said. “Though it may do us little good. Had a private word with the porter at White’s.

It cost me ten pounds, but old Charlie wouldn’t keep his post there if he was one to talk free and cheap.

But I gave him a tenner and the man did sing for me.

Gave me pause, I tell you, to realize how much he knows about the members, more familiar with our foibles than those of his own kin, I’d wager.

If Ropwell has Miranda, Adam, we must find her at once.

Peculiar fellow, very jealous of his late wife.

Challenged men just for looking at the woman. ”

“Uncle,” Adam said rising impatiently to his feet. “You have run the fox to ground. To the kill, if you please.”

“Forgive an old man’s tendency to wag on, m’boy,” Lawrence said. “According to Charlie, Lord Ropwell owns better than a dozen properties between here and Kent, every one of them mortgaged to the hilt. Unfortunately, Charlie did not know the whereabouts of all of them.”

“Any of his land in Greenwich?” Damien asked, dumping his pile of maps on the table.

“As a matter of fact, that was one of the few that Charlie recollected,” Lawrence said, brightening visibly. “Ropwell does own a Gothic monstrosity that his father built on the bank of the Thames, not far from David Garrick’s villa.”

“That has to be it. Thames view and Gothic tower, complete with manacles,” Adam said, casting Wodesby a grim look. “Are you with me? You can come so long as you recollect that Ropwell’s neck is mine.”

“Aye,” Damien said, sweeping his sister’s emerald into his pocket. “Much as it galls me, I shall cede you Ropwell; you have earned his throat.”

“I will join you,” Lawrence offered, following them to the front door.

“No, you will be needed here, Mr. Timmons,” Damien said, touching the older man lightly upon the shoulder.

“I have found my cards!” Lady Wodesby cried excitedly from the top of the stair.

“Someone must keep her out of mischief and make certain that she does not come galloping after us,” the Mage added, with the barest suspicion of a smile. “I gladly cede that task to you, sir, and wish you joy of it.” He hurried out the door.

“They were in my sewing bag, if you would believe. Those sly pusses knew how much I detest needlework,” Lady Wodesby said, waving the cards in triumph as she descended.

“I would not have looked there for a phoenix age, had not the finder’s feeling possessed me.

Perhaps if Lord Brand will consent, I will read for him and we may thereby gain some clue as to Miranda’s whereabouts.

” She stared at the pair of backs hurrying down the front stair. “But where do they go, Lawrie?”

“They have found Miranda,” Lawrence said, putting his arm around Lady Wodesby’s waist. As two horses emerged from the stables, Angel shot through the door, loping off after them.

“And now, my dear, they are going to bring her home so we may celebrate. For unless I mistake the matter, your son has just given us his blessing.”

. . .

Ropwell took a long, hard pull at the contents of his silver flask and sighed as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “My finger still hurts,” he whined. “You must have took a pint out of me; enough to write a bloody Magna Carta.”

“But the contract is all signed and quite legal,” Miranda hastened to assure him. Ropwell had rapidly progressed well beyond the bosky stage. She had to get free, before he lost consciousness. “My brother will have naught to quibble about when he comes. Now shall we get on with it?”

“Want some?” he offered.

“Very gracious of you, I am sure,” Miranda said. “But I cannot conduct a séance three sheets to the wind. Now if you will undo my fetters.”

“Dunno,” he eyed her suspiciously. “How do I know you won’t turn on me?”

“Why, the contract, of course,” Miranda said, pointing to the document on the table. “We have made a bargain. But as you well know my powers are diminished by cold iron. If you wish me to raise the spirit of your wife, I must be freed.”

Grumbling, Ropwell wove his way to the mantle, picking up the key and returning to unlock the shackles.

Miranda suppressed a shudder. She had toyed with the idea of knocking him unconscious and picking his pockets.

If she had misjudged and accidentally killed him, she might have condemned herself to a slow, excruciating death.

Rubbing slowly at her wrist, she seated herself at the table.

She had delayed as much as possible, and now, she would risk all on a single throw of the bones.

“Well, get on with it then,” Ropwell said roughly. “Night’s almost gone.”

Softly, she began an incantation, the slowest and most rhythmic she could remember.

Like a lullaby, it was, the ancient words of the spirit chant were as soothing as a balm.

Ropwell’s eyes grew heavier, the lids flickering.

“Rest spirit,” the Celtic rhyme begged. “Make your peace, oh restless one, and return ye to your source.” With her focus narrowly directed, Miranda did not notice the fingers of grey fog that rose from the Thames below, or the three figures in the moonlight making their way to the castle gate.

. . .

Damien waved his arm, and muttered a spell. “Try it, Brand. The lock is unbound and should open easily enough now,” he declared with a superior smile.

Obediently, Adam gave the gate a shove, but it held fast. He cast Lord Wodesby a look of exasperation. “Bolted tight as Farmer George’s purse.”

Damien dismounted hastily. “Iron,” he grumbled. “The lock is made of iron. We will have to find another way in.”

“I think not,” Adam said, pulling a thin wire from his belt and giving it an expert twist. “A lucky thing that I always carry my own magic. More than once, this little talisman has saved my hide.”

“I have never heard of a talisman that can work against iron,” Damien said, watching with interest as Brand began to work.

“Doesn’t matter if the lock is iron, brass or steel if you can work this charm,” Adam said, carefully manipulating the mechanism.

“A pick-lock can outdo magic, Wodesby, in the hands of an expert.” He heard a satisfying click and with a mocking bow, pulled the gate wide open.

“You might do well for a few lessons from Dominick’s father, Master Mage. Shall we proceed?”

Damien gave a tight-lipped nod. As they entered the cobbled courtyard, he tried to set aside a sensation of acute discomfort. Being bested by an Outsider was both strange and humiliating. But the Mage’s pique soon gave way to a definite feeling of foreboding. Angel whined softly.

“Keep your hound quiet, or bid her stay and wait,” Adam whispered, looking down at the mastiff in irritation.

“She is warning us, Brand,” Damien said softly, sending his thoughts seeking. “Something wicked is abroad here tonight.”

“Aye we know that already, Ropwell. He is here, Wodesby. Miranda is with him. Somehow, I know her presence. Is that part of your magic?” he asked as he picked open the lock to the kitchen door.

“Any sorcery between the two of you is none of my doing,” Damien said, handing Brand Miranda’s emerald. “Take this, the seeking spell is still upon the jewel. If she is here, as you say, this will help lead you to her.”

As soon as Adam took the necklace, the chain began to sway. He turned, letting the movement guide him toward the stairway.

Damien looked up at into the well of darkness, his uneasiness increasing.

The presence that he sensed was more than mundane evil, the banal depravity that was as much a part of humanity as the smell of the sewer.

Sheer malevolence was prowling at the portals, waiting for something, someone to bid it enter.

. . .

“‘Come spirit come and seek ye your rest. Find ye judgement and justice and rise to the Light.’” Miranda’s sing-song ended as Ropwell’s head sank to the table.

Just in time, her hand caught him, pillowing him against the shock that might well have woken him.

She tiptoed to the door only to find the key gone.

The room grew chill and a wind from the Thames blew up to rattle the window panes loudly, causing the candles to shudder.

“You were trying to trick me.”

Miranda’s hand flew to her mouth. Ropwell was wide awake. His bloodshot eyes stared at her balefully. “You fell asleep,” she said, trying to sound indignant.

“No more of your witch’s lies!” he roared, crossing the room and grabbing her by the wrists. “Bring me Felicity now, or you’ll share her fate. And by the time I’ve done with you, you’ll be wishing for the Thames, I vow.”

“Jaames,” a voice called softly. “Jaames . . .”

“Felicity?” Ropwell let Miranda drop to the ground and went toward the window.