"My
familiar," she corrected, just as Beezle twitched and snorted in his sleep. "Isn't a familiar supposed to protect a witch?"
"Joyous, the only thing that sluggish weasel will protect is his bedtime. You just cannot seem to concentrate—"
"Wait!" Joy stood, suddenly hopeful. "I have an idea!" She rushed over to a small battered Larkin desk, opened it, and rummaged through until she found what she sought. "Here!" She spun around holding a piece of paper, a pen with a small black box of pen points, and a squat jar of India ink. "I'll write the incantation down first. Then I can see it, on the paper in black and white. You'll see, I know I'll be able to concentrate then, I know it. Please . . . just give me one more chance."
Her aunt watched her for a long, decisive moment
"Please," Joy whispered, lowering her eyes and holding her breath while her mind chanted a litany:
Give me one last chance, please . . . please . . .please . . . .
The MacLean raised her chin. "One more time."
A smile bright enough to outshine the candle flame filled Joy's pale face. Her green eyes flashed with eagerness, and she hastened to the table, sat down on a stool, and dipped the pen tip into the ink. Smiling, she looked up.
Joyous Fiona MacQuarrie was ready.
But
England
wasn't.
Fair is foul, and foul is fair:
Hover through the fog and filthy air.
—Macbeth,
William Shakespeare
Chapter 2
London
, December 1813
An elegant black carriage clattered over the damp, cobbled streets, its driver seemingly oblivious to the thick fog that hovered over the city. Past a ragman's cart in front of
Green
Park
, past a watchman with a gin-sotted whore clutched in one hammy fist, past the plodding sedan chairs and rickety hackneys that filled the streets; the driver sped as heedless of the crowded streets as he was of the inclement weather. The vehicle whipped in a flash of raven black around a corner where a lamplighter was raising his hooked flambeau and lighting the last of the iron street lamps on St. James'. Quicker than a pig's whisker the carriage stopped, and a green-liveried footman had the gold and green crested door open before the frothing four-horse team had settled to a standstill.
Alec Castlemaine, Duke of Belmore, had arrived at his club.
As his champagne polished boot hit the curb, a nearby shop clock struck five. It was Wednesday and, when in town, the Duke of Belmore could be seen in front of White's at exactly
every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
It was ritual. It was routine. It was the way of the Duke of Belmore. In fact only last season Lord Alvaney had quipped that he knew his watch had stopped when it read
as Belmore entered the club. The Haston Bakery turned its sign and locked its door when the black carriage rattled past, and many a wager had been recorded in Boodle's betting book on Belmore's town schedule. It was as predictable as English tea.
And today the Earl of Downe and Viscount Seymour accompanied Belmore. Richard Lennox, Earl of
Downe, was a tall, handsome man with blond hair and dark eyes, a biting wit, and of late, a sharp acid view of the world; Neil Herndon, Viscount Seymour was shorter and leaner with hair as bright as a new copper ha'penny. Downe had once said that
Seymour
was so nervous and fidgety he could make a dead man twitch.
The three men had been boon companions for nearly twenty of their twenty-eight years, and yet neither Downe nor Seymour really understood what made Alec Castlemaine tick. It was one of the few things on which the two agreed.
They knew Alec could throw a deadly right cross with what looked like no more effort than it took to swat a fly. They knew that there wasn't a horse alive that Alec could not control with the casual skill of the Devil himself. And they knew that whenever Alec desired something, he went after it and won it with what seemed to be determined ease. The Duke of Belmore had but to snap his fingers and the world jumped.
Many women had tried and failed to win the heart of Alec Castlemaine. All they had received for their efforts, no matter how valiant, was the ducal glare. Richard and Neil were the two people closest to Belmore, and even they could not elicit from him anything more than a cool friendship.
Shortly after they met at
Eton
, the Earl of Downe had taken up the challenge of goading some emotional reaction out of Belmore, and over the years Downe had done his best to crack his friend's icy facade.
This evening was no different.
Alec spoke to the carriage driver and then turned, only to find his path blocked by a rather remarkable-looking old woman no bigger than a ten-year-old boy. Her huge dilapidated red straw bonnet looked twice as big as her gray head, and her ragged gray velvet dress and a blue shawl hung loose from her narrow shoulders. She carried a wicker basket filled with fresh flowers, and in one gnarled hand she held up a small but perfect nosegay of English ivy and fresh violets.
" 'Ave a lovely posy fer yer lady, yer Lordship."
"Your Grace," he corrected in an icy tone that had been known to freeze many an unfortunate man in his boots.
The old woman, however, did not move. She just peered up at him out of crinkled gray eyes.
He moved to step around her, but the sweet, fresh scent of the flowers stopped him. He paused for a silent, thoughtful moment, then took the posy and tossed the crone a coin, figuring he'd give the flowers to Juliet tonight at the Linleys' ball. He started to move toward the door when he felt a bony hand clutch his arm.
"Fer 'nother shilling, Yer Grace, I'll tell ye yer fortune."
Uninterested in such foolishness, Alec shook her off, but Viscount Seymour—who was known to be the most superstitious young man on English soil—stopped him.
"It's bad luck to pass her by, Belmore."
The Earl of Downe leaned casually back against the door of the club, effectively blocking the entrance and resting his good arm on his injured one, which he wore in a sling. After eyeing Alec he reached into his pocket and tossed the hag a half crown."Best to listen to her," Downe said with a cynical smile. "Don't want to bring any bad luck down on the esteemed Belmore name."
Alec gave his friend a cool look, crossed his arms, and stood there as if he did not give a brass farthing about all the idiotic things the woman said. But even he had trouble looking bored when the woman started prattling on about his love life. Downe, however, was doing a poor job of repressing his mirth, and Neil appeared to be hanging on the hag's every word.
"Ye won't be marryin' the girl ye think ye will, Yer Grace."
Foolish woman, Alec thought. The announcement was to hit the papers the next morning. Lady Juliet Elizabeth Spencer, daughter of the Earl and Countess of Worth, would wed Alec Gerald Castlemaine, Duke of Belmore. He had made his marriage proposal. Lady Juliet had accepted it, and the business details of their marriage were being negotiated at that very moment. After that, Alec's courtship ordeal would end.
"Who will he marry?"
Seymour
asked, glancing back and forth between Alec and the old woman with a worried expression.
"The next girl ye meet," she said with an odd glint in her eyes. She held up one finger and added, "She'll 'ave some surprises fer ye, that she will."
"I am not going to listen to any more of this." Alec pushed past Richard, who was laughing, and jerked open the door. Yet over his shoulder he heard the woman's parting words.
"Ye'll ne'er be bored again, Yer Grace! Ne'er again."
Striding across the parquet floor of the foyer, his boots making a series of sharp clicks, Alec pulled off his calfskin gloves with a distinct snap and handed them and his hat to Burke, the majordomo of the club, who in turn handed them to one of the ten footmen waiting to take the patrons' coats to the valet room where it would be dried and cleaned.
"Good evening, Your Grace," Burke said, helping Alec out of his greatcoat and handing it to the next footman. "And how are you?"
"He's annoyed," quipped Downe, who shrugged his coat off his injured arm and allowed Burke to remove the other.
"I see." Burke replied in a tone that said he never saw anything, but said the proper thing anyway because that was his job. He took the other men's garments, according them the same fastidious treatment all the club's aristocratic members received.
"Somehow I don't think you do," Downe said quietly, trying to follow Alec as he strode with athletic ease up the Florentine marble staircase to the main salon.
Seymour
caught up with Downe. Eyeing Alec's broad back he whispered, "What do you think he's going to do about Lady Juliet?"
Downe stopped and looked at
Seymour
as if he had left his mind along with his coat at the club's entrance. "What the devil are you talking about?"
"The announcement. You know as well as I what a stickler he is for propriety. What's he going to do when the wedding does not take place, especially after his plans have been plastered all over the newspapers?"
"Don't be more of an ass than you already are."
"You heard the old woman. She said Belmore wasn't going to marry Juliet. I tell you I've had a bad feeling about that match ever since yesterday when Alec told us the arrangements had been made.
Something is not right. I can feel it."
Seymour
paused and tapped his fist against his lean chest. "Right here." He gave Downe a look of pure conviction.
"You need to stop eating that pickled eel."
Grumbling, the viscount continued up the stairs, stopping when they reached the rose marble columns at the top. He turned and faced his friend. "I don't give a fig if you believe me or not. You wait and see. Whenever I have this feeling something odd happens."
"No girl, let alone one as intelligent as Juliet Spencer, is going to let the Duke of Belmore slip through her fingers. Trust me, Seymour, what that old woman said was folly," Downe said as the two men entered the grand salon, where Alec sat at his usual table, a steward at his side watching while he tasted a vintage wine.
One quick but subtle nod of approval by the Duke of Belmore and the steward discreetly disappeared.
To those who chanced a look at him, Alec epitomized the English aristocracy. His coat was cut of gray superfine, and the breadth of his shoulders had nothing to do with padding. His stark white cravat was tied with casual elegance that bespoke the precise hand of the best valet on English soil, and his buff breeches clung to the hard thighs of an expert horseman and the long legs of a man whose stature matched the quality of his breeding.
As usual, his square jaw was set, which hinted at a stubborn English nature. His face was handsome, his cheekbones Norman-high, and his nose hawkish. His lips quirked into a hard sensual line that said this man had no softness in his life; his was a heart untouched. His hair, though it had once been black, was now generously streaked with silver gray, a fact that had nothing to do with age but instead with the strength of the Castlemaine blood.
For the last seven generations, the Dukes of Belmore had gray hair before they were thirty. Also, all of them had married in their twenty-eighth year, a Belmore tradition, and sired their first child—always male and the heir—with great dispatch. It had been said that fate seemed to cater to the Belmore Dukes. And Alec, it seemed, was no different.