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Moreover, the likelihood that Lord Brand might react with an open mind once he learned that she was of witch Blood born was none to nil.

But more shocking still was the fact that she had even pondered any manner of disclosure.

In the past, such frank revelations had almost inevitably resulted in disaster for witchkind.

Despite the fact that no witch had been burnt in England for three-fourths of a century, many of the Blood still cowered in hiding, some even going so far as to deny their special inheritance.

Not that Miranda blamed them; she had met far too many Quimbys to believe that the world was ready to embrace the practitioners of magic.

With Brand’s attention occupied elsewhere and Quimby effectively quelled, Miranda was left alone to chew on her thoughts.

Unfortunately they were even more difficult to digest than the food.

Like as not, the Marquess’ ancestors had figured among the Inquisitors and Magistrates, the holy zealots who had tried Merlin’s children by fire and water.

His kin might very well have been burners of grimoires, scourges who had driven the faeries from the hills.

How could she even have contemplated conferring her confidence upon a man whose ancestry might cause those martyred souls to cry “shame?”

Far wiser it would be to steel herself against this strange attraction.

Like a bitter potion, Miranda forced herself to remember the stacks of accounts and journals chronicling the near devastation of witchkind.

They awaited her at the Wode, many of them yet to be catalogued.

A grim task it was, one that she feared that she might never be able to complete.

The scale of suffering was so overwhelming that a mere perusal of the opening paragraphs was almost beyond bearing.

Would the name “Chapbrook” appear upon those tattered pages ?

She wondered. But even that bleak possibility proved no talisman against the sound of his voice.

A devastating shiver slipped along the length of her spine and she found herself drowning in the dark of his eyes.

“Miss Wilton, have you succumbed to starvation or is it the taste of that unidentifiable stuff on your fork that has stopped your throat?”

Miranda recalled herself to the present, trying not to melt at Lord Brand’s smile. “My apologies, milord, I must have been woolgathering,” she said stiffly.

Adam’s stomach rumbled in complaint. “That was most cruel; the mention of wool immediately associated itself with the word mutton, which my imagination promptly roasted to a turn. Though I confess, at the moment even an allusion to knitting might cause my mouth to water.” He waited for the dimple to appear in the corner of her mouth, but there was not even a faint trace of humor to be found.

Apprehension had replaced the laughter in her eyes.

He told himself that a mind so Puritanical could not possibly appeal to him.

If the mere mention of a deviation from orthodox thought could so disturb her, then he would do well to give Miss Wilton ample distance.

However, this sensible inner discourse did little to alleviate a strange sense of loss.

“Knitting connecting to yarn leading back to wool . . .”

“And from thence to mutton. Yes, I follow,” she said, her voice distant. “Then your salvation may be at hand, Lord Brand. I believe the sweets have arrived, an apple tart from the look of it and a cake that would seem almost passable by its appearance.”

“And a plum pudding,” Adam commented, taking an experimental taste. “Excellent! Might I recommend the pudding, Miss Wilton?”

“No, thank you, milord,” she said softly. “I suddenly find that I am no longer quite as hungry as I was before.”

. . .

The ladies had withdrawn, but Adam decided to decline the opportunity for cigars and port, preferring to catch a glimpse of Barone’s apparatus.

Locked doors were easily dealt with and Adam slipped quietly into Lady Enderby’s ballroom.

The gilt-topped chairs were so tightly packed that there was barely space for movement.

Yet, Adam noted, a rather substantial distance separated Barone’s impromptu stage from the spectators.

Less than a third of the candles upon the chandeliers were lit.

Either their hostess was practicing economy, or the Frenchman preferred venues that were dimly lit. The latter was the better probability.

Not a soul was in sight, so Adam silently stole to the front of the room, evaluating the conjurer’s props with an expert’s eye. An array of coins, cards and kerchiefs adorned the top of a table draped heavily with black velvet.

“ Arretez, Monseigneur !” A hulking man garbed as a rather garish Arabian scuttled forward to stand before the table, his hands crossed over his chest in a position that made it clear that he was prepared to use more than words if Adam came any closer.

“ C’est tres dangereuse . It is forbidden. A danger.”

“One must not meddle with the forces of magic, eh?” Adam replied, his eyes narrowing as he searched the man’s face. “Philippe? Philippe Rubelle? Is that you beneath the face paint?”

“Adam, mon ami ?” The man’s face split into a grin.

“ Incroyable ! I was mistaking you for a gentilhomme . Never did I think to see you again this side of Hell. Always I was wondering why the body was never found. They lock you in shackles, they put fire to the hut, but all they find after is the chains, nothing more. If they did not believe you Le Diable’s disciple before, they did after.

And all because you refuse a Comtessa’s favors. Was there ever such a fool?”

“I have always preferred to be the one who does the choosing, Philippe, nor did I care to be another bagatelle on the lady’s chain of Lotharios.”

Philippe laughed. “Me, I have never been so discriminating. To be the kept man of some wealthy femme would suit me well, but I have yet to find one who would desire to keep me. But you? You seem to have done adequately for yourself, Adam, despite your strange ways.” He shrugged philosophically, surveying his friend’s attire from his patent pumps to his elegantly arranged necklinen.

“An interesting notion, to perform in evening clothes, but the fit, it is too close. Where do you put the pockets? Not an inch to spare on that evening coat and those trousers, to that I would swear.” He rolled his eyes heavenward as he gave the seam of Adam’s jacket an experimental tug.

“ C’est impossible ! To conceal so much as a chick under that second skin would take real magic. ”

“I still can produce some surprises,” Adam said facetiously. Philippe had always been known more for his sheer physical power and mechanical skills than his wit. Obviously, the possibility that Adam might be a guest had not yet dawned. That might well work to advantage. “Been with Barone long?”

“But half a year. After our fiasco in Italy, I return to France, travel for a bit with Torrini, keep his automaton in repair. Then I think maybe to perform on my own.” His turban slid precariously as he shook his balding head in gloom.

“A mistake! The quickness of hand; I have. The props, I make, but the savoir-faire; non . I lack your finesse . You, you had but to look at the audience, and poof! You know what they wish, they eat from your hand. Me, they pelt with old fruit.” He busied himself under the drapes.

“So, I sell what is left of my props. Now, I fashion tricks for Barone, automatons, special compartments. The man pays well and he knows my worth. ”

“Has he got anything unusual?” Adam asked, slipping behind the cabinet.

“A few pieces of my handiwork. I have made him a delightful automaton, a ballerina. A marvel!” Philippe bragged, picking up a cage of doves from the corner. “But for the most part, there is little that you have not seen before. Barone is an excellent showman.”

“Napoleon’s personal conjuror? A mere showman?”

Philippe gave a humorous bark. “We did perform once for the Emperor.”

“And the Sight Beyond Sight?” Adam asked. “How is that done?”

Philippe wagged his finger. “Ah mon ami , even if I knew, I could not say, of that you are aware. An assistant who speaks too much is soon out switching cards on street corners. But in truth, Adam, I say this to you, I cannot tell because I do not know how he does it. The blindfold, I show you.” He took up a large fold of black silk and put it over Adam’s head. “You can see nothing?”

“Nothing.” Adam confirmed his voice muffled.

Philippe drew it off. “Sight, he has none. The audience, its members cannot possibly be known to him. Yet, when Madame Barone holds up the objects, he says if it is gold or silver, ruby or diamond, even, often as not, what the item is. Every time, he is correct. I swear to you, it is almost enough to make me believe that the spirits in truth speak to him.”

“But not quite?” Adam asked, dropping the mask and marking it surreptitiously with dust from the floor before picking it up, folding it.

“When you have seen, what I have seen?” Philippe gently smoothed the feathers of a bird before placing it in its special compartment. “How can one believe?”

“Ever try explaining to a woman that you have seen too much to quite believe in anything at all?” Adam asked, picking up a deck and toying absently with the pasteboards.

“Women? Eh, they are natural believers, les femme s. Distract them with bright colors and smoke and they will never see how they are manipulated,” Philippe said, closing the door of the cage and setting it aside.

“Not all women are so credulous, at least about illusions,” Adam said, his thoughts returning abruptly to Miss Wilton.

“Oho! So at last there is a female who sees through you, eh?” Philippe crowed. “Long have I waited for this day.”

“I was speaking in the abstract,” Adam said.