Wilful Impropriety (30 page)

“An excellent thought, my lord,” Irene murmured, and she and Simon fell into a discussion of what herbs could best be substituted for those not available in her collection. James, seeing that she sat down at last, allowed himself to fall into a chair by the fire and watch the dying embers fade, one by one.

“I think we have it,” Simon said, and raked his hair back from his weary brow. “James? James?”

“Mmph? Yes.” James roused himself and looked at his triumph ant colleagues. “Wonderful! How shall we go about it?”

“Miss Crawford pointed out that tomorrow night is the full moon,” Simon said. “She has her part down admirably. I will coach you in yours tomorrow during the day, and we will meet at midnight to disrupt his lordship’s spell. Agreed?”

“Certainly,” James said. “Miss Crawford, you look exhausted. Will you not rest?” And he solicitously escorted her to the library door.

Simon, engaged in gathering up his books, did not notice this courtesy, and would not have thought anything of it if he had, but Irene was most flustered. In her haste to return to her room and the two hours of slumber she could yet snatch, she did not see little Elsie with her scuttle and hearth brush. But Elsie saw her, and saw who had taken her to the library door, and vowed she would not speak a word, no, not to anybody. Elsie greatly admired Miss Irene, who was so clever, and knew so many things.

•   •   •

The confederates met at midnight on the next day, and Simon lost no time in stressing to the two spellcasters the difficulty of the spell. “Once you begin, you must continue,” he said. “It is possible—even advisable—to pause and gather your strength along the way, but this is a very powerful spell. If it is broken, the rebounding forces of the wake may do you real harm.”

“Harm?” James said sharply, noting Irene’s flinch.

“You may be crippled,” Simon said. “If you have gone too far in the spell, and then lose your will, it may destroy you both.”

James turned to Irene. “We can find another way,” he said. “I ask too much.”

Irene shook her head. “There is no other way, my lord. It must be done, and it must be done tonight, for who knows when another such opportunity will present itself?”

“I agree,” Simon said, sounding unusually severe. “If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly.”

“We aren’t assassinating the King of Scotland, Simon,” James protested.

“It will take near as much strength of will as that wicked deed did, James, and you must, even before the spell itself, combine your wills. I can tell you how it’s done, but you know I am magick-blank myself. I cannot prepare you for the sensation, having never felt it.”

“Will it be strange?” Irene asked.

“They say it is a peculiar feeling,” Simon said carefully. “And it may take some time, so you should begin the attempt at once. If you are ready, Miss Crawford?”

James was beginning to be truly alarmed, and wished that he had listened to his tutors in the arts magickal. But there were so many other occupations in a university town for a young man with plenty of money!

“If you please, sir,” Irene said, “I brought down The Book. It mentions the combination of wills only in theory, but I thought his lordship might like to read that section.”

James fairly snatched The Book out of her hands and applied himself to the indicated pages, which treated the subject as being between two of the same sex as a matter of course. The scandalous practice of combining will between man and woman would never be treated by the renowned Mrs. Beeton. “It recommends we begin facing each other, and thinking of images that are suggested by a third party,” he said after a moment. “And . . . I must hold your hand. I do apologize for the affront.”

“No apology is needed, my lord,” Irene said, and though she would not admit it, even to herself, her hand trembled with something other than fear as she placed it in his.

The combination took longer than even Simon had feared. Irene found it very difficult to fall into the requisite ease of mind and trust in her partner, whereas James discovered that his mind would wander inconveniently about, without fixing on the images Simon patiently built in their minds. It was hard to picture a tree swaying in the breeze, or a babbling brook, or the motion of waves upon the shore (which Irene had never seen) when Irene’s brow was crinkled, and her mouth so pursed up with intent.

But at last, after many hours, Irene was sufficiently weary, and James sufficiently desperate that the connection was made.

It happened in the space between seconds. All of a moment, Irene was atrociously aware of his lordship’s body. He had broad shoulders, and she could feel them straining against his coat. His dark hair touched the back of her neck in a soft caress. Most shocking of all, the long legs she had observed now gave her a view of the top of her own head. It must be simple to be so lordly, when one was so tall!

James could also feel every inch of Irene’s skin as if it were his own, and it moved him no less. Her left boot was too loose for her little foot, and stuffed with cloth to make it fit. The pins in her hair pricked his scalp. Her corset pressed uncomfortably against her—

“Ahem!” James said. “It
is
most peculiar, isn’t it?”

Irene nodded, her eyes very wide.

“It is late,” Simon said urgently. “Or early, I should say, and the moon will soon set.”

James lifted his chin. “Very well. At your leisure, madam. On a count of three?”

Irene crumpled the dried dandelion roots in her left hand as James scattered the salt with his right. And so they were committed.

There is a school of thought, much favored by the gloomy-minded, that posits that if anything can go wrong, it will, at the worst possible time. Irene was inclined to follow it, while James was diametrically opposed to any approach to life so lacking in hope, yet they both gasped in unison as the door opened and the Marquess of Chumley made his entrance.

Flora was on his arm, clad only in her nightgown, and her face was beautiful, but as blank as that of a statue, with no animating spark to give it vivacity. The Marquess paused, and laughed harshly as he assessed the spell in progress.

“What’s this? I had thought to find sport, and instead I find meddlers! Stop,” he told James and Irene.

James gritted his teeth against the words that rose within him, for anything he said would interrupt the spell and unleash the devastating wake against he and Irene both. Though he would take harm and face death to save his sister, he would not condemn Irene to that fate. Irene, who felt much the same, began her part of the chant, pronouncing every word with a tranquility she was very far from possessing. There was no way out for them but through.

“You must stop,” Simon said, over her sweet, low voice. “Come, man, they have begun, and will not cease—you are already undone. Let Lady Flora go and you may yet have time to flee.”

“If they stop now, they may yet live,” Lord Chumley said. “But if they do not, the same cannot be said for Lady Flora.” And with no further warning, he placed his strong white hands about Flora’s throat and began to squeeze.

Irene and James watched in horror as Flora, still as empty-eyed and smiling as a doll, began to turn red, then blue. It seemed that after all these years of dramatic threat, Flora Wittingham really might simply die.

“You devil!” Simon shouted, and threw himself at the Marquess. He was tossed back by a crackling wave of blue sparks, rolling to land with a thud against the unforgiving stones of the mantel. Lord Chumley, the white aura nearly solid around him, laughed as he returned his attentions to Flora’s slender throat.

Irene’s grip strengthened on James’s hand, and he did not leap to his friend’s aid as he longed to do. Instead, he turned his attention to her—her hand, warm in his—her breath, fast but even—her heart, pumping steadily in her breast. He felt her will as if it were his own, hard and strong, while his own warm easiness flowed between them. They united, simply and fully, and as James chanted the Greek words, he felt as if he spoke them with Irene’s soft lips. A dark glory rose in both of them, and with the last of their strength, they turned it outward, to the evil fog that clouded Flora’s mind.

The spell left them, as gently as dandelion seeds wafting on the breeze, and they fell into each other as they sank to the floor, replete.

And defenseless.

Lord Chumley’s eyes glittered as he unceremoniously thrust Flora from him and began to gather his power for a thrust at the pair, nearly senseless in the aftermath of their spell. The white aura glowed, his hands moved confidently through the motions of the death spell—and he staggered, falling forward against the mantel.

Flora, once released of her bondage, had assessed the situation at once, and, strengthened by her indignation and the righteous horror she felt at the scene enacted before her appalled eyes, had caught up the nearest likely weapon.
Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Magickal Management
cracked sharply across the back of Lord Chumley’s head.

At the distraction, his will failed him. The spell broke. And the wake washed over him in a rushing wave, all light and fury. It was so cacophonous a noise that the Earl of Rabton, turning over in his massive bed, dreamed of the Russian guns at Balaclava, and Mrs. Framble, drowsing, hoped that washing day would not bring thunder, and little Elsie, carrying her scuttle along the hallway, squeaked and ran swiftly to the library door.

But what a tableau revealed itself to her wondering gaze. There were Miss Irene and his young lordship, leaning upon each other as they strove to rise and regain their wits. There was her ladyship, hurrying to Mr. Young’s side as he sat up and put a hand to his poor head. There was The Book, which she had often seen Miss Irene consult, pages ruffled and spine cracked, ignobly discarded on the floor.

And there were the remains of Cyril, Marquess of Chumley. His spiritual part had been consigned to the Great Judge, and though earthly residents may anticipate the outcome of that courtroom, naught but the Lord of Heaven can proclaim the final sentence. But the fate of the corporeal body may be more easily ascertained, and that of Lord Chumley was nothing but a flurry of white ash, even now drifting down to settle on the library hearth rug.

Elsie saw Lady Flora in her nightgown bending anxiously over a young man, saw Miss Irene near swooning against the Viscount Northcliff, and vowed once more that not a single breath of what she had seen would pass her lips. Then, quiet as the church mouse she resembled, she withdrew from the gap in the library door, and nearly from our story.

“Jamie,” Flora said. “Jamie, did I dream? I had such hor rible nightmares, I thought that he—That I—” Here she had to struggle to hold back her tears, but hold them back she did, while Simon patted the air above her shoulder with awkward tenderness.

James knelt by his sister, and explained what had happened. Her gasps and cries soon modulated to an icy silence, and she stared at the dust of the late Marquess with real hatred. “Well, then, I am glad I did it,” she said. “The white aura! What a detestable beast! And Irene, I am so grateful to you. You are a true friend.”

Irene, hovering on the edge of the little group, could only duck her head and murmur that the lady was too kind. The ash on the floor was beginning to bother her, lying as it did in the uncannily accurate shape of a man.

“No, no, it was a wonderful spell, how clever of you and Jamie to think of it!”

“It was Simon’s spell,” James said, seeing that his friend would not. “He turned it up, and he and Irene perfected it. I did hardly a thing.”

Flora gave Simon a smile of melting adoration. “Oh, Mr. Young! I am so very grateful that you came to my aid.”

“You’re welcome, Lady Flora,” Simon said. Emboldened by this new ability to complete a sentence in her presence, he courageously offered Flora a deep bow.

“Gracious, it’s nearly dawn!” James exclaimed. “You had better go back to your room before the household rises, Flora. Simon, how’s your head? Shall I call for a physician?”

“I’m quite well, and shall bid you my own farewells. Miss Crawford. Lady Flora.”

“Mr. Young,” Flora said, and swept into her very best curtsey, so that she quite robbed Simon of the ability to speak again.

James waved them out and blinked at Irene where she was methodically sweeping up the remnants of the late Marquess of Chumley. “Lord, Irene, you don’t need to do that.”

“Someone must, my lord. Do you want me to leave it for little Elsie, when the ash has been ground into the carpet?”

James had not the least idea who little Elsie might be, but the picture of Irene clearing away the dust of this enemy offended him in a way he could not voice. “I want you to stop and listen to me,” he said. “And you, Irene, what do you want?”

Irene stood and stared at the tips of her boots, hurt. After what they had shared—what they had felt—should she be paid off with a few half-crowns and a kind word? Well, of course she should, and she knew it well, but her heart rebelled within her. She would not take his money.

“Nothing, my lord,” she said, and slid into her voice a hint of surprise at the mere suggestion.

“Irene,” James said, and some catch in his voice made her lift her eyes to his. “I mean it most sincerely. Please tell me your dearest wish, and I give you my oath that I shall make it come true.”