Spellmaker

Bacchus found Elsie immediately upon entering. She stood by the mantel, having a conversation with Lady Lena Scott and one of her sons. Upon seeing him, she said, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve just decided what flowers I would like at the wedding, and I must tell Bacchus while he’s in a pleasant mood.”

It was obviously a rehearsed excuse, but her companions chuckled and let her go. She met him in the corner of the room, out of earshot of the others.

“What’s wrong?” Bacchus asked, lowering his head to hers.

She bit her lip, glanced over her shoulder. “What spell is the duke wearing?”

Bacchus lifted his head, brows drawing together. “Pardon?”

“The spell on the duke. What is it?”

Bacchus shook his head. “The duke doesn’t have . . . ,” but he stopped himself. Elsie of all people would know. “What did you sense?”

“Something strong,” she whispered. “Not a smell or a sound, so it’s rational or physical. I mean, physical spells are visual, but sometimes I just feel them anyway, like with you, but not like a rational spell, of course, just something else deep down—”

He placed a hand on her shoulder, stopping her spiraling explanation. His thoughts swam as he considered. “Are you sure it’s not a temporal spell? He had a temporal aspector here recently, if you recall.”

Temporal aspectors could alter time’s effects on things; they could strip the rust from iron or the wrinkles from skin. But Elsie shook her head. “Temporal spells have a certain . . . flavor, to quote Miss Prescott. It’s not that.”

“Then what—”

Bacchus suddenly felt sick. Enough so that he put his hand out against the wall to steady himself.

Worry flashed across Elsie’s face. “Bacchus?”

The duchess noticed. “Are you quite well?”

Catching himself, Bacchus stood to his full height and straightened his waistcoat. “Of course. If you’ll excuse us a moment.”

The earl’s wife gave them a knowing look, which Bacchus promptly ignored as he ushered Elsie into the hallway. He strode down it, nearly too quick for her to easily keep up, and around the corner.

“Bacchus—” Elsie was growing breathless.

He stopped suddenly, standing in the sliver of shadow between two sconces. “The duke was recently ill.”

She studied his face. “Yes, you mentioned it.”

“He was recently ill immediately following our trip to Ipswich. Extremely ill. His recovery was nothing short of miraculous.”

It took only a moment for Elsie to understand his meaning; he knew when she did, for her face lit with sudden horror.

“Elsie”—he gripped both of her shoulders—“could he be receiving energy from a siphoning spell?”

She worked her mouth. “I . . . I don’t know. I-I’d have to see it to be certain.”

Releasing her, Bacchus stepped back and wiped a hand down his face.

“Bacchus, he’s like a father to you. Do you really suspect he might be the one behind it? The . . . ‘polio’?”

It hadn’t been polio, of course. Bacchus had merely spent a decade thinking it was. Someone had placed the physical siphoning spell on him without his knowledge, hidden beneath a temporal spell he had mistakenly thought was keeping him well. “The timing is suspect, and I don’t know of any other spell he could have that isn’t temporal.” His hand formed a fist, and he pressed it against the wall, resisting the urge to burst through it with his knuckles. “I need to know.”

“I can try getting closer,” she suggested, “but if I can’t see it . . .”

Bacchus let out a long breath. What would he do if his suspicions were true? If the man who had been like family to him for so long had actually been robbing him of his health and vitality since his adolescence?

“Bacchus.” Her voice was soft as smoke, and her hands came up to his face, gentle but firm, cradling his jaw. He looked down, meeting her eyes.

“Be patient,” she pleaded. “Don’t jump to conclusions. Maybe I was wrong.”

“Do you really think you were wrong?”

She didn’t answer. “I’ll figure it out. Get closer if I can. Just . . . distract yourself in the interim, all right?”

Distract myself.

Her hands still lingered on his jaw. They were close together, half a pace apart, the hallway quiet, empty.

His gaze dropped to her lips. He could certainly think of one way to distract himself.

She flushed again, searching his face, then promptly removed her hands, self-consciously touching her mouth as though she’d left food there. Misinterpreting him, likely. She’d done that often, ever since being arrested. Like her confidence was still imprisoned in Oxford.

Damn Merton. She’d made it so much harder to straighten Elsie’s crippled wings.

Sighing, Bacchus straightened. “Do what you can, but don’t risk yourself on my behalf.”

She looked at him apologetically. Fidgeted with the ring on her finger.

He offered his arm. “We’d best head back before they think I’m robbing you of your maidenhood.”

Elsie blushed redder than the carpet.

It was a comely sight, yet Bacchus could not bring himself to smile.

CHAPTER 9