Page 6

M addening though it was, the deity of Decorum demanded that Miranda speak to Lord Quimby, who was seated on her left.

A few words about fences and foxes were all that was needful to send that elderly Master of the Hounds yapping apace about the woeful state of the Hunt.

No more than a nod or a sympathetic murmur was necessary to keep him on the conversational trail, while her own thoughts were free to wander far afield.

How could she have so lost herself? Had not her ill-fated Season been lesson enough?

What was it about Mr. Chapbrook- no – she recollected ruefully- Lord Brand that had induced her to forget everyone else in the room?

Caused her to lose her hard-won wariness?

The thin, bland-tasting turtle soup might as well have been water and Miranda found herself near to choking as her glance met Brand’s.

Strong as spun steel, yet delicate as Arachne’s gossamer, the strand between them was woven by those brown eyes, rich and dark as earth, ripe with secret promise, ensorcelling .

. . the thought gave Miranda a start. Sorcery?

Was her mother so desperately set against Martin that she would dare to enspell her own daughter?

Miranda cast a look towards Lady Wodesby.

However, the older woman’s attentions were fully directed at Lord Brand’s distinguished-looking uncle.

A compulsion so powerful required tremendous concentration, especially to beguile one born of the Blood.

Therefore, it was scarcely possible that Lord Brand was the focus of intense witchcraft.

If there was a spell working, the source must be within the man.

How else could this untoward attraction be explained?

Brand? Chapbrook? Though neither name brought any immediate magical association, Miranda sought within herself, tracing through the tangled web of relationships within the Seven Covens.

The names and lines of descent of the Families were well known to her.

Indeed, the complexities of kinship were as much a part of her education as the first simple incantations.

Unfortunately, the DeBretts of Mages had been about the only thing that Miranda could conjure, requiring neither talent nor craft, only the gift of an excellent memory.

But try as she might, she could recollect no Brand scion anywhere on the branches of Merlin’s tree.

Surreptitious study revealed nothing more than the skill of an excellent tailor whose handiwork displayed Lord Brand’s physical attributes to advantage.

His fingers were long and well-shaped, but bare of the talisman ring that was as much a part of an adult mage’s attire as smallclothes.

Yet, if there was no sorcery afoot . . . ?

A clammy hand came to rest on her knee, interrupting her jumbled thoughts. Quimby! From the smile on the old satyr’s lips, he knew full well that she would not dare risk yet another scene. But as the crabbed fingers crept slowly up towards her thigh, her father’s voice echoed in her mind.

“The first rule of magic, dear child, is belief. It is far simpler to work a spell in concert with Nature’s intent than against Her. Sometimes, one can even charm a credulous subject without the risk entailed by the use of magic powers.”

Miranda forced a smile, modulating her voice carefully so that only Quimby could hear. It would seem that at least some part of her training might finally be of use. “Your estate is in Devon, Lord Quimby, is it not?”

“Aye, my dear. Perhaps ye’d care t’come and see it one day.” The lord leered, mistaking her composed demeanor for complaisance.

“No doubt you were acquainted with my Great-Aunt Ceres, Lady LeFey.” The hand’s crawling invasion halted as Miranda continued. “She was a notorious beauty they say.” Her lips curled upward, but there was deadly purpose in her eyes as she trapped Lord Quimby with a basilisk gaze.

“L . . . Lady LeFey,” he stuttered. “Your aunt?”

“On Mama’s side, of course. They say I resemble Auntie, not in looks, but in other ways .” Miranda added significantly. “It is quite a reputation to live up to, as one might well imagine.”

Lord Quimby nodded dumbly.

“I doubt the tales could all be true, though. There are so many stories that it is rather difficult to credit them all. And some seem much too absurd to be real.” Miranda went on with a sigh.

“Nonetheless, my Mama vows that they are entirely authentic, especially the anecdote about Lord Ratherton and Aunt Ceres. Mama was but a babe in arms at the time, but she was not the only one that I have heard it from. Apparently Ratherton was a notable rake; one of those disgusting creatures who was not above forcing his attentions when they were unwelcome. Did you know him, Lord Quimby? You are of an age.”

Once more the lord nodded and from his ashen expression, Miranda determined that the rumors about Ratherton were not entirely obscure to the elderly lecher.

It was time to shoot the bolt home. “Perhaps you can confirm if it was all invention, milord? Mama claims that his lordship dared to lay an unwelcome hand on Aunt Ceres. Auntie laid a curse for the insult and part of him just shriveled away, the legend goes. For some reason, Mama never said which piece, though.” Miranda tapped her cheek thoughtfully as she paused to let her words take effect.

Suddenly, her thigh was unencumbered. “I always wondered if it was the trespassing fingers that were affected. Were Lord Ratherton’s digits in any way unusual, milord? ”

Lord Quimby shook his head and stared down at his hands, both of which were now trembling visibly upon the table.

“I thought it a fabrication,” Miranda said, her voice as frothy as new-poured ale. “But then one can scarcely go and ask Ratherton’s children or grandchildren. That would be intolerably rude.”

“Ain’t none,” Quimby said, his voice shaking. “Ratherton died without issue, for all that he’d had a quiversful born on the wrong side of the blanket before he offended LeFey. Wife left him, said that he couldn’t . . .” He halted, recalling the company.

“How very sad, but entirely coincidental, I am sure,” Miranda said, schooling her expression to the proper mixture of innocence and regret. “Still it is a most curious tale, do you not think so?”

Lord Quimby did not answer. He was staring downward as if his gaze could somehow pierce through the table linen.

His chair was precariously close to tipping him into the lap of the lady on his left.

It was all Miranda could do to keep from bursting into laughter, but she had already made that error once.

Rarely did she ever make the same mistake twice.

Having thus secured her left flank, Miranda returned to the conundrum of Lord Brand.

Had her judgement failed, she wondered? So much for her vaunted powers of discernment.

Never before had she given her confidence so quickly, but then, no man had ever clouded her senses with such dispatch.

Sadly, Miranda was reluctantly forced to allow that Lord Brand’s omission of his identity had likely been deliberate.

How could she have been so foolish as to forget Society’s spiteful diversions?

If she had made the error of addressing him as “Mr. Chapbrook” within range of Honoria Belgrave’s ear . . . Miranda suppressed a shudder.

Ample opportunity had been available for him to enlighten her.

Yet he had not. But if humiliation had been his intent, why had he rescued her from her faux pas when he could very well have enjoyed the spectacle of her twisting in the social wind?

A puzzle indeed. But no matter. The sooner that her mother accepted that Martin was her fate, the sooner she could leave London and its social snake pit.

Adam was done for the moment with his offering upon the altar of manners.

Miss Belgrave had subjected him to a discourse on the present paucity of fashionable company in Town.

After suffering several threadbare on-dits about Prinny and surviving a soliloquy on the state of the weather, he finally allowed himself to return to Miss Wilton.

“Well, Mr . Chapbrook ,” she said in a whisper that, though sotto voce, contained an edge of steel.

Irony was unmistakable in the arch of her brow and in the distinct emphasis she put upon his surname.

Miss Belgrave, he recalled, groaning inwardly.

His impulsive charade was over. Certainly, it was well within Miss Wilton’s rights to be affronted at his omission.

She would have been the inevitable butt of scorn had she gone about calling him “Mr. Chapbrook.”

“It was not my intent to deceive you, Miss Wilton,” he said in quiet tones echoing her own. There was something discomfiting in her direct blue gaze, as if she were assaying every word for truth. “I was actually going to tell you that I am cursed with the title of Marquess,” he added.

“Cursed?” she asked, seemingly taken aback. “Was this recently done? I have heard of no maledictions registered against any English Marquess. There are some rather old French banes pending, but nothing locally.”

Her earnest expression prompted an appreciative smile, a humorous reaction far beyond his expectation.

Miss Wilton would do very well at the card table, Adam decided, for despite the utterly ridiculous nature of her declaration, her demeanor was entirely serious.

“The title and all it holds can be a curse in and of itself,” Adam felt compelled to tell her, even though he was convinced that she would not understand.

“When I was merely Adam Chapbrook, the penniless heir to a nearly bankrupt estate, no one paid me notice. But now—” He hesitated, waving his hands in a gesture meant to encompass the entirety of the room and its company.

“They see only the veneer lent by your lordship , and ignore the man beneath.”