The cauldron effect, p.33
The Cauldron Effect, page 33
LATER THAT NIGHT, WHILE Miss Bryght was no doubt snug under warm covers, getting her beauty sleep, Hugh tossed and turned. This was partly due to imagining her fast asleep, beside him. First her gardenia scent invaded his space. Then she snuggled up next to him as if she belonged there. Her legs entangling with his, arms wrapping him close, lips brushing his neck and whispering his name.
Shortly after three in the morning, deaf to his cat-familiar’s yawning protests, he set Atalie aside and abandoned all attempts to rest and leaped out of his bed.
Once dressed, he and Atalie sped downstairs to the cold, silent breakfast parlor. Hugh didn’t bother to wake the staff – no point disturbing the household because he was restless.
The prince had ordered them to set off on their journey this morning. Why the rush, he couldn’t imagine. Yet, a royal order had been issued so Hugh had to comply. His valet had packed a trunk last night so all that remained to accomplish this morning was to eat breakfast and await Miss Bryght’s arrival.
He lit the formal dining room with a few white balls that he set to float near the frescoed ceiling. They threw a gentle glow over the heavily carved mahogany dining table, chairs and sideboard. Nothing too startling for sleep-roughened eyes.
Hugh then contemplated what to whip up for breakfast when his neck prickled. He glanced around the room for the source of his unease and above the cold, dark hearth, he spotted a portrait of his father. The old man watched him with patent disapproval.
“Too little, too late, sir.” A swish of a forefinger, and a white sheet covered that unsolicited overseer.
He took his seat and with a curl of his finger, silently drew a long side table across the room until it came to rest to Hugh’s left. Atalie immediately leaped on top of it where a plate held a portion of rabbit he’d filched from the kitchen larder for her.
For himself, he created two platters with steaming Bara Lawr and crisply fried Selsig Morgannwg. The sweet bread and Welsh cheese sausages were his favorites but his mother’s cook never made them right. Her bread was always too sweet and the cheese in the sausages too sharp. He also suspected that she secretly substituted onions for the leeks in the Selsig Morgannwg despite him giving her a receipt with clear directions.
As they ate, the meal took on the semblance of the Last Supper.
I don’t think this trip will end well, Atalie.
His familiar glanced up from her breakfast, a pink tongue flicking out to lick her lips. Then we not go.
We have to. A young woman’s life depends on it.
Atalie’s eyes were narrowed as she studied him. You like this one.
A statement, not a question.
More to the point, she does not like me.
Then she is a fool. Atalie returned to her meal, the matter apparently closed to her way of thinking.
If only life were that simple. I like you, you don’t like me, so I will like someone else. That didn’t work when the person who didn’t like you insisted on slipping under the covers with you at night.
A knock on the front doors startled him.
Hugh checked the clock on the mantle. Four-thirty. Three more hours before Miss Bryght was due, so not her. Scraping footsteps suggested a servant went to answer. Surprisingly quickly, considering the time of day.
With a wave, Hugh cast a spell to see the entryway in time to spot Benson stride in. A bit early for a morning call. He hadn’t told Benson yet of what occurred last night so he wouldn’t be aware that Hugh planned to leave London forthwith. Had he found out some other way?
Hugh sent his voice to the entry. “I’m in the dining room.”
The young footman jumped and looked around with wide, startled eyes.
Benson merely nodded and headed down the corridor.
Soon footsteps echoed on the wooden floorboards until they halted outside the dining room door. Then all sound ceased.
Since Hugh had learned of Benson bypassing him to go directly to the Council, their conversations had become stilted. It would not be easy for him to re-earn Hugh’s trust.
The knock finally came, quiet and respectful. Good.
“Come.”
Benson entered and shut the door before striding up to stand before Hugh. A tall young man, he was slender, wore spectacles and a well-crafted dark coat, trousers, and a plain waistcoat. Surprisingly, the clothes were of human construction, but the exquisite stitchery suggested they must have cost a good sum.
Still, they lacked the special touch that gave a warlock’s clothes a sense of mystery, a subtle link to other worlds. Most humans wouldn’t notice the variation in cloth and style of cut. Another warlock couldn’t mistake it. A warlock’s clothes marked his identity.
Leaving Benson to await Hugh’s acknowledgement, he wondered, Why did his man of business buy mundane clothes?
It was a foreign concept, spending money on things instead of conjuring what he needed. Of course, humans did it all the time, but a warlock? If one had to conserve one’s strength, if one’s magic were limited, perhaps it was a thoughtful, frugal way of saving one’s talent for when it would be most needed.
Hugh was about to embark on a long, tiring journey. If something unexpected arose, it might be wise to be at his best and not squander away his magic.
Benson bowed. “My lord, good morning.”
Hugh sat back to finish his steaming cup of hot chocolate and reflected on the mystery that was Benson. Then he glanced at his cup in surprise. His hands were heating it without even thinking about the magic he expended. Consciously, he stopped warming the cup and simply held it. Finally, he nodded to Benson. “News?”
“Nothing good, my lord.” He approached closer. Brave. None of Benson’s usual cavalier manner was in evidence. Sensible.
“Proceed,” Hugh said.
“A dissident sect of warlocks is on the move to stop Viscount Bryght completing his work, my lord. The Council believes they are prepared to kill him, if need be.”
So, Benson had again spoken with the Council without first gaining Hugh’s permission. The beads on Hugh’s mental abacus remained at the starting point.
Benson’s hungry gaze seemed fixated on the leftover bara lawr. He pulled out a chair and began to sit.
“Stand.” The word was a barely veiled threat.
His back end not quite touching the cushion, Benson paused and then straightened.
“Did I ask you to check with the Council?”
“I thought you would want to know the latest news, sir.”
“When I wish to know something, I will ask you for it.”
A pure white mouse took that tension-filled moment to stick his head out of Benson’s jacket. He then climbed onto his master’s shoulder and then leaped onto Atalie’s side table.
Nails clicking on the wooden surface, Pedr, Benson’s familiar, scurried over to where Atalie lay stretched out beside her empty plate. Standing on two tiny hind legs, he sniffed the air and squeaked.
Atalie sat up and they touched noses in formal greeting.
Benson had yet to make direct eye contact with Hugh, seemingly more interested in the aromatic food than his employer’s steaming temper. He stood, shuffling his feet and then blurted, “Both Viscount Bryght and his sister are thought to be in mortal danger.”
“That is not news.” Was that drool Benson wiped off the side of his mouth?
“A witch is following Viscount Bryght. The Council believes she will adequately ensure his safety.” Benson’s studious brown gaze finally left the table and met Hugh’s. “They wish you to watch over his sister in her brother’s absence. While they, too, want this mural stopped, they have decreed that no human must be harmed in the process.”
Hugh nodded. Finally, something sensible coming out of the Council chamber.
“My lord, I would like to accompany you to Maidford. That is the residence of Miss Bryght.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Benson gave a gusty sigh and clasped his hands behind his back before straightening his shoulders. “How can I help you, if you will not trust me?”
“Where does your allegiance lie, Benson?”
“With the Council.”
“There is your answer then. You’re dismissed.”
They maintained eye contact – Hugh’s gaze remained uncompromising while Benson looked stubborn and frustrated.
Then as if coming to a decision, Benson’s shoulder dropped. “My allegiance is with the Council Chair, my lord.”
“So, you’ve said.”
“My allegiance is with the Council Chair, who is also my father.”
That news set Hugh back. Roland Marsh was Benson’s sire?
Atalie mewed. A side-glance revealed her watching him with large pleading eyes. I wish to offer Pedr cheesy sausage.
Hugh sighed, releasing his bunched-up tension. She was always a step ahead in these personal matters. He obligingly cut a small piece and offered it to her.
She carried it over to the mouse and laid it before him.
“Have a seat.” Hugh pointed to the table, and with a careless finger movement, he set before the magically thrifty young man, plate and cutlery. “Eat.”
Benson sat and served himself.
One would think his father never fed him. Hugh swallowed an errant smile. “Why the different surnames?”
“Marsh wanted to keep my identity hidden. Thought our connection would be too dangerous for me. Which is absurd since I was tested at birth and my magic was found to be weak.” He shrugged in a nonchalant manner.
Hugh wasn’t fooled. For any warlock boy, that judgment would have been akin to a sword thrust. That also explained the human clothes.
“Nevertheless,” Benson continued, “Marsh thought someone might still want to harm me, if naught else than as a throw-down of the gauntlet against his position as head of the Council. So, he adopted me out. That should have been the end of the matter.”
“It wasn’t.”
Benson shook his head. Now that he’d begun to spill his secrets, they tumbled out like marbles.
Hugh found the information fascinating, particularly since it was likely unauthorized spillage. A sign that Benson had begun to trust Hugh.
“Perhaps he grew sentimental in his old age, but when it came time for me to be mentored, my father took me back into his household as a lesser apprentice.”
Listening to the ingenious plan, Hugh was impressed, by Roland Marsh’s wish to have his son near him. Most warlocks prized power above everything else. Yet, here was a Council Head scheming, despite the boy’s weak magical prowess, to not only keep his boy safe but also close enough to form a relationship.
He began to like the old rogue. It explained why Hugh’s father had been Marsh’s greatest ally. Too bad his father hadn’t been as inventive.
Benson’s steadfast allegiance to his father, even at the risk of alienating his new, powerful employer, now made sense. Hugh’s respect for Benson inched up. He did not yet trust him, but he might be worth befriending. Mentally, Hugh moved two large beads on his abacus toward the central friend beam.
Outside Hugh’s townhouse, hoofs pounded on cobblestone and carriage wheels creaked. He cast another spell so both he and Benson could view this new and unexpected visitor.
While he’d been breakfasting, the sun had risen. Light glinted off windowpanes and roadway puddles, painting the lonely street and shuttered row houses in shades of orange. A post chaise had drawn up and the tiger, a young lad riding at the back of the carriage, jumped off and ran around. He then pulled down the steps so two women could descend.
First Miss Bryght alighted; looking fresh and well rested.
Hugh sat up, straightened his waistcoat and adjusted his jacket. A quick check assured that every hair on his head was in its proper place.
Following Miss Bryght was a shorter, fulsome young woman with a sallow complexion. Her wide-eyed gaze, showing fear thinly masked as interest, flitted along the deserted street.
“The tall beauty is Miss Bryght,” Benson said. “My father showed a sketch. What is she doing here?”
Hugh rephrased that to, What is she doing here so early?
Last night, under moonlight and lantern glow, she had captured his admiration. This morning, dressed in a lush satin-trimmed, sage-green cloak that perfectly complemented her blond hair, she eclipsed her maid and outshone the sunrise.
His normally agile mind slowed to a turtle’s pace. He swallowed a lump blocking his airway and said the only thing he could think of. “She’s two hours early.”
“Why is she here at all, my lord?”
The question ignited his thoughts and he gave a quick summary of what had transpired last night, all the while tracking the post chaise as it moved off and his carriage draw up. He had ordered his vehicle to be ready for seven this morning. He checked the clock. Barely five.
Even more curious, instead of coming up the steps to knock on the front door, the two young ladies moved up to Hugh’s carriage and stood to discuss something in whispers.
He turned to Atalie. Find out what she is up to.
With an eager “meow,” Atalie hurried toward a window that overlooked the side yard.
With a flick of his finger, Hugh folded back the shutters and pushed open the glass panel.
From the sill, she leaped onto a tree branch outside.
Shortly, Caden took to barking. That, too, concerned Hugh. Normally, neither his mother nor her pet stirred from bed until well after noon. He scraped back his chair and stood to investigate.
Benson followed him to the window. On the grounds below, as Caden continued to ferociously bark, Atalie ambled across the side yard toward the front of the house where the carriage awaited.
“I’m surprised your neighbors do not complain about that infernal racket,” Benson said. “Is he difficult to train?”
“He is my mother’s responsibility.” As an afterthought, Hugh added, “When not in Atalie’s presence, the dog is surprisingly well-behaved.”
Benson whistled as he peered into the yard. “That’s a Welsh corgi. Legend says they’re a gift from the fae.”
“Legend is an imaginative fool. Don’t mention that in front of Atalie. She’s already jealous of Caden because I let slip that just before it was time to pick a familiar, I had wanted a dog. I had even drawn a picture of one to show my parents. At seven years, the drawing was not exceptional but I recall it looked a bit like Caden.”
“Perhaps that’s why your mother favors the breed.”
Hugh snorted at that unlikely supposition. “She’s not known for her sentimentality.” He turned from the garden to face Benson. “Tell me more of what this rogue warlock sect has been up to.”
“One of them confronted Miss Bryght at Maidford. A warlock named Gavin Peregrine.”
“He did what?” Hugh asked swinging Benson around to face him.
Benson backed away holding up his hands. “She was unharmed.”
At the young man’s worried expression, Hugh realized he loomed with hands raised, as if, in the villain’s absence, he meant to throttle Benson. He forced himself to back away. The idea of anyone attacking Miss Bryght roiled his blood as hotly as if someone had attacked Atalie. He unclenched his jaw and reminded himself that Benson was just the messenger.
No wonder Miss Bryght had looked so frightened last night after being told he was a warlock. All the fears humans normally felt at hearing about witchcraft must have become amplified during that frightening encounter.
Any meager hope he nurtured of assuaging her fears about Wyhcans crumpled and died. However, if a warlock had assaulted her, why was she here now, ready to work with another Wyhcan? She had seemed neither imprudent nor irrational.
“What did the warlock do?” he asked in a calmer tone.
“We’re not absolutely sure. A Fishguard witch’s scrying suggests the villain froze her movements.”
Hugh sucked in his breath. “He used mind magic? On a human?” He paused and then added, “And it worked?”
“All too well. The Council suspects a demon must have been involved. During the encounter, Peregrine warned her that if her brother did not refuse the royal commission, there would be terrible consequences.”
Hugh shook his head in disbelief, both about the demon involvement and the lady’s response to the threat. “So, instead of retreating to safety as any sensible woman would when faced with a supernatural threat, she’s here, ready to assist her brother. A mark of courage or folly?”
“You must ask her that one, my lord. If I may be so bold,” Benson gave him a studied glance, “you seem to be particularly taken with this young lady.”
“Do not overstep.”
“I would never dream of it. After all, you never probe about my romantic tribulations with Elsa.” He sounded miffed rather than pleased.
“There’s nothing romantic about my relationship with Miss Bryght.” Warlocks rarely mated with humans because the races, crudely put, were not equals. Elsa was a witch and likely more powerful than his man of business, yet Benson didn’t seem to mind that.
“Now you’ve brought up the subject,” Hugh said, “why do you pursue a witch? Wouldn’t a human be a better match?”
His question could cause offense but Hugh was curious about the answer.
Benson, walking back to the dining table, showed no ill feelings. “Though she has not yet accepted me, I believe Elsa to be my perfect mate. Only a matter of time before she sees the wisdom of my suit.”
“How so?” Hugh joined him at the table. Reclaiming his seat, he picked up his cup of hot chocolate. It was cold. He hesitated but then left the drink un-warmed and set the cup back on the table.
“Witches detest what they term ‘power mad warlocks.’ I do not fit that description but compared to a human, I’m a step up. As for me, having lived with my father these many years, I am at peace with who I am and most importantly, I know how to avoid being turned into a toad with a blink.”
“He didn’t.” Hugh tried not to grin.
