Wizard's Daughter

  23

  That evening at the Branson ball, Nicholas gave Rosalind a brooding look after a particularly exciting waltz that left her dizzy with pleasure. She studied his face a moment, ac­cepted a glass of champagne punch from a passing waiter, drank down a good half glass, and realized the problem. "Ah, I see, you somehow found out about your stepmama's visit to me this afternoon. I dealt with her, Nicholas, you needn't worry. Did you really kick Richard in the ribs with your foot? You really got your leg that high? Please, Nicholas, please teach me how to do that."

  "Unfortunately you cannot do it because of all your petti­coats."

  "I can wear pants. Teach me, Nicholas, perhaps on our honeymoon. What do you think?"

  He pictured her wearing a pair of his trousers and grinned. "We'll see." He stared down at her. "You should have told me she'd had the gall to insult you."

  Rosalind only shrugged. "She didn't overly concern me. I must tell you, though, I had to open all the drawing room windows to air out the vitriol."

  "She tried to warn you away from me, didn't she?"

  "She certainly tried."

  He laughed, marveling at her good humor. It pleased him, most of the time. He wondered if she would laugh when he took her to had. He wouldn't mind her starting out with a laugh, but—since he'd never made love to a woman who was laughing at the same time—he didn't know. He took her glass and drank the rest of the punch. He shook his head. "Two glasses of this stuff and you would leap upon one of the tables and do a dance that would make my eyes cross."

  She leaned up and whispered against his neck, "Would I dance slowly and take off each item of clothing?"

  He pictured her quite clearly on a lovely table in the cor­ner. "I'm thinking of all the ridiculous petticoats you wear, the silk stockings, and don't forget the corset and chemise. There is simply no way you could do it by yourself."

  He gently placed his fingertips over her mouth. "I want you to be serious now. Listen to me; my dear stepmama is a bitch. She sows discontent and sees herself as sorely abused. I don't wish you to see her again."

  Rosalind frowned at him. "How do you know this about her? You haven't seen her in twenty-odd years."

  "She hated me when I was five years old, wanted me dead, but since that didn't happen, she wanted me gone. Why would she change? You have only to look at her sons." He couldn't believe he'd said that. "I have an excellent solic­itor. I asked him to give me complete reports on all my rela­tives. He is right, isn't he?"

  She snagged another glass of champagne off a waiter's tray, saying, "Do you know, I think she was there to convince me her beloved sons had nothing to do with Lorelei's kid­napping, meaning they were no threat to me. I think she is afraid you will kill Richard and Lancelot. She was trying to protect them. She simply doesn't have the talent to go about it smoothly, not like you would have done. Yes, you would be smooth, and you would be deadly."

  "The only reason I didn't kill Richard this time was be­cause he bungled the job so badly. However, if Richard and Lancelot ever attempt to touch you again, I will kill them."

  "You told them that?"

  "Oh, yes, one must be perfectly clear when dealing with villains, particularly young ones, because they lack sense, and experience in the pain of consequences." He eyed the glass that was tilted to her mouth.

  "Am I wedding a tippler, Rosalind?"

  She grinned at him. "Perhaps once you rid me of my ig­norance of wickedness, I will forgo this tasty stuff that makes my head all light, and makes unexpected words pop out of my mouth. Perhaps, my lord, you will ensure that I have no need of it."

  He took the glass from her and set it on a table. He didn't want to dance with her, he wanted to fling her over his shoul­der and run down the stone steps that led into the deep-shadowed gardens. He said, "Waltz with me."

  She grinned up at him as he led her to the dance floor. "I read I was to marry you in the Gazette this morning."

  "Yes, you are well and fairly caught." He sounded inordi­nately pleased with himself. Since she was very pleased with him too, she didn't remark upon it.

  When later she danced with Uncle Ryder, he said, "Dear­est, Willicombe told me about Lady Mountjoy's visit to you this afternoon. He also told me you handled the old bat very well."

  "I thought he was eavesdropping."

  "We have a long line of successful eavesdroppers in the Sherbrooke family. Willicombe is one of the leading lights. Just as Sinjun passed it down to Meggie, I believe Hollis passed it to Willicombe. Hmm, do you eavesdrop well, Rosalind?"

  "Oh, yes, very well. Don't you remember, Uncle Ryder? If there was anything you ever wished to know about what was going on at Brandon House, what Jane was feeling at any particular moment, you asked me. If I didn't know it, I knew which door to listen at to find out what you wanted to know."

  Ryder laughed and swung her around the floor. Nicholas looked up from his conversation with Grayson, just arrived at the bail, at the sound of her bright laughter.

  Grayson said, "Her laugh is nearly as magic as her voice. I imagine my father is questioning her about your step­mother's visit."

  "And she will tell him everything?"

  "Oh, no. She will pick and choose. She's quite good at it. Since she loves my father, she has no wish to overly distress him. Don't get me wrong, if a problem grabs her by the heels, she'll always go to my father or mother for advice. Come to think of it, I suppose I tend to trust both of them myself."

  Nicholas said without thinking, "I've wondered what that would be like, having a father and mother one loved and ad­mired and trusted."

  "Oh, yes, and it is a pity you did not, but you had your grandfather."

  "Yes—I did have my grandfather, didn't I? Ah, I see Miss Kilbourne on the other side of the room and she is waving at you. You never told me how your reading went at her literary salon."

  "My head was nearly so big by the time I left, it was a good thing I was riding King because I couldn't have stuffed my head through a carriage door."

  "Worshipped to the point of nausea?"

  Grayson nodded. He was studiously avoiding looking at Lorelei. As a young lady, she could not detach herself from her mother and come to him. He said, "I read your announce­ment in the newspaper this morning. Well done. Now, I be­lieve I shall ask Alice Grand to waltz," and he strolled off.

  Nicholas was pleased with the wedding announcement he'd written; it had been effective. He'd been congratulated a good three dozen times since he'd arrived at the Branson town house. Soon she would be his wife and—and then what?

  Nicholas normally did not meddle, but when he chanced to look at Lorelei Kilbourne again, he saw she was staring piteously at Grayson waltzing with Alice Grand, a buxom young lady with a ready laugh and a heavy wit that could fell an ox. He found himself walking to Lady Ramey, and asking her if he could have the pleasure.

  Some five minutes later, after laborious conversation with Lady Ramey, the orchestra started up another waltz and he led Lorelei to the dance floor.

  She was a good dancer, fitting to his style with ease and grace. He looked down at her, saw the misery in her eyes, knew to his boots that he should keep his mouth shut, and said, "What happened?"

  She said without hesitation, "I don't know. Do you know?"

  "Only that something is amiss, at least from Grayson's point of view."

  "Would you find out what, my lord? I haven't much expe­rience with gentlemen and find I'm at a loss to explain what is wrong with him."

  Such an innocent, Nicholas thought, charming and quite pretty, really. He saw tears pooling in her eyes. What was a poor man to do? He cursed to himself and gave up. "I will try to find out, Miss Kilbourne."

  Her soft mouth firmed. "Since I was kidnapped in the place of your damned betrothed, you could call me Lorelei, you know."

  A touch of vinegar, he thought, and was pleased. He nod­ded. "Lorelei."

  Nicholas knew he shouldn't interfere, only a fool interfered between a man and a woma
n, but yet, here he was wending his way through the gloomy exhibit hails of the British Museum in search of Grayson. He finally found him handing over a glass case, a look of near reverence on his face. "What is it?"

  Grayson jerked up, blinked in surprise, and motioned him over. "Look at this, Nicholas. The card claims it is the scepter used by a long-ago king of Persia."

  Nicholas studied the ancient gold scepter, noted the empty holes on its hilt where precious gems had once been embedded. "It says it is from the time of King Darius. Do you think it was his?"

  "No. It belonged to someone of greater magnitude—I think it belonged to a wizard. Cannot you feel the power of it, the magic—sort of like a vibration deep in your gut?"

  Nicholas automatically shook his head. There was no way he would admit to such things as vibrations, but the damned thing seemed to glow and pulse in its ill-polished glass case. He could very nearly feel it, warm in his hand. "How long has it been here?"

  "I don't know. I discovered it last week and find that I keep coming back to it. Even the director doesn't know ex­actly when it arrived here and who brought it. He checked and told me there weren't any records. Now, isn't that strange? It's as if it suddenly appeared. What are you doing here, Nicholas?"

  "You are ignoring Lorelei because you're afraid she could be hurt again."

  Grayson Sherbrooke stared at the big man who was two inches taller than he, built like his uncle Douglas and his cousins, James and Jason. And he had the look of Uncle Douglas, dark and swarthy and dangerous, at least until he smiled. It didn't occur to Grayson to tell him to mind his own business. He said simply, "I promised her father I would not see her again. He told me he would be very happy if I weren't to tell Lorelei why, and I haven't, but there you have it. You guessed it immediately."

  "I am many things, but not blind. To be honest, I am very surprised Lorelei hasn't figured it out as well."

  "She is innocent. However, I agree with Lord Ramey be­cause I don't want to have to worry about her. Once all this is resolved, then we will see."

  "You know, from Lorelei's description of the crest she saw on the carriage door, I knew it belonged to my father, and now to my half brothers, so I had my proof. I spoke to Richard."

  "I heard you smashed your foot into his middle, chopped his neck, fighting moves he'd never seen before. Well done. Too bad you didn't kill the blighter."

  "If he or Lancelot ever tries anything else, they know I will kill them. I don't believe they're that stupid. They won't do anything more. Should you like me to speak to Lord Ramey? Assure him there is no more danger to his daughter?"

  Grayson looked away from him, down at the scepter again. "You are remarkably naive, Nicholas, given your ex­periences of the last dozen or so years. I met Richard and Lancelot Vail, remember? At Drury Lane. The danger is not over. They will not stop. It simply isn't in their nature. Richard was raised to believe himself the rightful Earl of Mountjoy. I heard one of my friends say Richard even used the title Viscount Ashborough once your father became the earl. He did not, however, ever call himself the Earl of Mountjoy upon your father's death. He couldn't go that far. Probably because he knew he'd be laughed at.

  "As for Lancelot, I believe his innate viciousness pro­vides sufficient motive to kill you. He's more dangerous than his brother."

  "Perhaps," Nicholas said after a moment, "if this scepter did belong to a powerful wizard, he visited the Pale."

  "It is certainly possible," Grayson said. "I've thought it odd how the Paie appears like another world, or in another dimension, and we are the ones beyond the pale."

  "Beyond the pale," Nicholas repeated slowly, "beyond the fortress, the designated safe place, the sanctuary where all is civilized, and to be outside of it means danger, savagery, and death."

  Grayson nodded. "But Sarimund's Pale isn't a civilized place at all. Tibers try to kill the red Lasis, and the Dragons kill whatever animal displeases them. As for the wizards on Mount Olyvan, they reside within the Pale, keep a balance of sorts, and yet there is no safety there. It is a place of vio­lence and magic. It is all very strange."

  Nicholas said. "Perhaps you are right, Grayson, perhaps the Pale is a metaphor, for the earth perhaps, where chaos reigns given the least opportunity and where men kill each other with keen abandon." They were silent a moment. Nicholas laid his hand on Grayson's arm. "Believe this, Grayson, if Richard and Lancelot try to do anything more, I will kill them. They know this and they believe me."

  "Not if I kill them first," Grayson said, his voice utterly emotionless.

  Nicholas nodded and left Grayson to stare once again at the scepter in the glass case.

  As for Nicholas, he was shaking his head at Grayson's words. He was naive? Grayson was wrong in this. He'd dealt with countless villains. He suddenly saw Richard Vail's face in his mind's eye, a face filled with black malice, unspoken rage, the satisfying physical pain that Nicholas had inflicted on him, and something more—it was determination; a prom­ise of violence? Revenge? Retribution? As for Lancelot, Nicholas believed that since he'd met the pretty butler at the Vail town house he now understood Lancelot very well.

  He cursed, then turned to call to the young boy holding Clyde's reins. Clyde nickered when he saw him, then butted the boy's arm. The boy's face split into a big grin, showing a space between his two-front teeth. "Oh, my, guv, wot splen­did words I 'eard ye string together. This 'ere big boy sure likes the sugar cubes ye left for 'im. I gives 'im jest one at a time, so's not to overload 'is belly. Aye, me and the big bad boy understands each other."

  Nicholas was thoughtful as he rode through Russell Square and slowly made his way through heavy traffic to­ward Fleet Street, where his solicitor kept his sparse offices.

  When he pulled Clyde sharply to the side to avoid a dray filled with beer kegs, and felt the stinging slap of hot air against his cheek as the bullet flew by, he thought, Hell, Grayson was right.

  24

  "I tell you I'm not a murderer! I did not try to shoot you nor did I hire anyone." Suddenly Richard's angry flush died. He gave Nicholas a superior sneer as he flicked a piece of lint off his coat sleeve. "Believe me, if I'd wanted you dead, dear brother, I would do it myself."

  Nicholas couldn't say why, but he simply knew in his gut that Richard was telling the truth. This time. It both galled him and worried him. There were so many unknowns plagu­ing him right now, he hated adding another. "Where is Lancelot?"

  "What? Now you believe my younger brother tried to kill you? Well, he didn't. He's visiting a friend near Folkestone, left early this morning." -

  Now that could be a meaty lie. "Give me Lancelot's des­tination and his friend's name."

  Richard Vail gave it, his sneer intensifying. "It seems to me you have more enemies than a man should have. You've only been in England, what, two months?"

  "About that, yes," Nicholas said as he jotted the informa­tion into the small book he carried in his vest pocket. He looked at his half brother. "I didn't see your pretty young butler at the front door."

  Richard shrugged. "He is also Lance's valet. I believe he accompanied him to Folkestone."

  There was a rush of silks at the drawing room door and a strident voice boomed out. "What are you doing here? You leave him alone, you no-account barbarian!"

  Nicholas turned to see a plump little woman, beautifully gowned in violet, every uncovered inch of her sporting jew­els, actually run into the drawing room, her fist waving at him. He recognized her voice and her eyes, eyes both un­compromising and hard, eyes that had scared him to death when he'd been five years old. However, he wasn't a small boy anymore.

  On her heels was a fat gentleman, barely two inches taller than she was. Nicholas had seen him gambling at White's a couple of times. Was this his dear stepmama's lover, Alfred Lemming, whom Rosalind had mentioned to him?

  He waited until she was very close before he arched a black brow and said mildly, "I believed only my betrothed was a no-account."

  "She is, m
ore no-account than you are, sir. At least your antecedents are known, more's the pity. What are you doing here? Don't you dare try to murder my son again!"

  "Someone tried to kill him," Richard said to his mother. "A gun shot right past his ear. A pity whoever it was did not succeed. I told him I had nothing at all to do with it. I was at my club, my friends will vouch for that. So now he is ques­tioning me about Lance."

  "You were nearly shot?" said Lady Mountjoy, blatant dis­appointment in those hard eyes of hers. She looked him up and down. "So you are Nicholas Vail. You look even more like the old earl than you do your father, and those two were nearly twins."

  "I suppose you must also say that about Richard," Nicholas said.

  "Perhaps. I told that impertinent girl you wish to wed that you would likely pass on your grandfather's insanity, but it was for naught. The chit exhibited no understanding of the human brain." Miranda, Lady Mountjoy, looked from him to Richard and back again, and frowned. They were even dressed similarly this morning, and everyone in the drawing room knew they looked clearly like brothers, unlike her pre­cious Lancelot.

  "Tell me, ma'am, where is my third half brother, Aubrey?"

  "Ah, so now you think he's a murderer? Well, Aubrey isn't in London," Lady Mountjoy said, and sighed. "He is at Oxford. Aubrey is a scholar, if you must know, studious from his earliest years, always surrounded by his books."

  Richard said, "Aubrey wouldn't know which end of a gun to use, so forget about him."

  Miranda thought about the thick violent red hair that cov­ered his scholar's head—Aubrey's hair was almost the exact color of that little hussy who would take precedence over her if she indeed married Nicholas, and that was surely a re­volting prospect.

  Miranda pictured Aubrey in her mind. How she hated that his shoulders were stooped, that he had to wear glasses be­cause he'd surely read every book at Oxford. Ah, how she'd begged him to let Richard take him to his private boxing sa­lon, straighten his back, get his chin to go up, to show pride in his heritage, perhaps give him a dollop of aggression. How could a man stand up for himself if his shoulders were round as a bowl? His father hadn't been any help, he'd sim­ply clouted the boy whenever he chanced to say something clever or quote from an ancient Greek philosopher. Ah, but she wasn't about to tell this interloper any of that.