Spellmaker

“Oh no!” she stood immediately, seizing her napkin and coming to the duke’s aid. The spell on his person called to her, but she still wasn’t close enough to read it. “I’m so clumsy. Oh, forgive me.” She needn’t fake her embarrassment.

The duke scooted back, shaking water off his hand. Elsie moved closer. Her initial impressions held out—there was no smell, no sound, and now that she was closer, she didn’t feel the tingle of a rational spell. It had to be physical—

“It’s quite all right. It’s not the first time.” The duke stood.

Now if only he would be so kind as to change his clothes right there in the dining room and allow Elsie a good look at his naked torso.

“Elsie.” Bacchus stood, fingers grazing her elbow.

“I’ve almost got it,” she replied. The others would think she meant the mess, which the servants were now hurrying to clean up. She dared to reach for the duke’s chest with her half-soaked napkin—

Bacchus’s grip tightened, holding her back. Frustrated, she turned to him, but the set of his brow and jaw, like they’d been crafted by a blacksmith, gave her pause.

“Why don’t you change,” the duchess offered. “We’ll wait for you—”

Bacchus’s voice carried over hers. “What spell is on your person?”

The room silenced. Even the servants hushed. Elsie’s lips parted. That’s one way to do it . . .

The duke froze. “Pardon?”

“The spell on your torso,” Bacchus specified. “Is it or is it not the recipient enchantment for a siphoning spell?”

The duke blanched. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Be straight with me, Isaiah,” Bacchus pressed. “She’s a spellbreaker.”

Elsie guiltily set down her napkin.

The duke glanced at his wife, then settled on the tabletop. “It’s not what you think, Bacchus.”

Bacchus tensed. “Explain it to me, then. Explain why I had a hidden spell on my person since my youth, and why you grew ill immediately following its removal.”

The duchess looked shocked. Had she not known? “Isaiah?”

One of the servants gestured to the other, and they quickly exited the room.

Miss Josie looked back and forth between Bacchus and her father. “What’s going on?”

Bacchus merely waited.

The duke sighed. “I was growing frail, and you were such a strong, healthy boy.”

Bacchus’s hold on Elsie tightened.

“Please”—the Duke of Kent lifted a hand—“I did not mean to take it from you. Your father—”

“My father knew?”

The knob in the duke’s throat bobbed. “Your father gave his consent.”

Bacchus glowered. “It was not his to give.”

“Strictly speaking—”

“I thought I had polio.” Bacchus leaned over the table, finally releasing Elsie so he could press both hands against its surface. “For years I thought I had polio. I thought I would lose the use of my legs. I went to countless doctors.”

“Girls,” the duchess murmured, “let’s wait for your father in the parlor, hm?” She hurriedly ushered them to the door. Elsie’s pulse raced, but she didn’t try to join them. She needed to be here. She needed to stand by Bacchus’s side. Her hand strayed to his triceps, her touch featherlight.

Chagrined, the duke repeated, “Your father knew.”

“And so did you,” Bacchus replied darkly. He straightened, seeming to almost double in size. “Who did it? My father was no spellmaker.”

The duke turned away. “I swore that I would not—”

“Who?” Bacchus pressed. “You owe me at least that much.”

The duke’s shoulders slumped so deeply Elsie thought his fingertips might brush the carpet. “Master Enoch Phillips performed it while you slept.”

Elsie gaped. Wasn’t Master Phillips the head of the London Physical Atheneum?

Bacchus said, “I don’t suppose you’ll share whose vitality you’re drinking from now.”

The duke looked ready to cry.

Elsie started as Bacchus’s hand gripped hers, and suddenly she was being pulled away from the table toward the door, barely able to keep up with his long strides. A maid swept by the passageway, and Bacchus barked, “See a carriage pulled around immediately and ensure Miss Camden is taken care of.”

His presence and his baritone emanated both authority and restrained rage, and the maid didn’t hesitate to respond. “O-Of course. Miss Camden.” She curtsied and, abandoning whatever chore she was about, quickly led Elsie to a cushioned bench in the vestibule by the front door. Meanwhile, Bacchus burst up the stairs, taking the steps three at a time.

The maid bolted in the other direction.

Elsie let out a long breath as she lowered herself onto the bench. This was not how she had expected the evening to go. Peering up at the stairs, she longed to follow Bacchus, to see if he was all right. But of course that was silly. He wasn’t all right. Why would he be? The duke’s revelation had made everything a thousandfold worse. Bacchus’s own father had betrayed him.