‘I need the addresses of his staff. Have any of them remained at the house?’
Lachlan frowned. ‘We spoke with them already.’
‘I want to speak with them again.’
‘A skeleton staff remains until the new viscount takes over the residence. Beachley’s cousin will inherit the title and property. He’s already applying pressure for us to move things along as swiftly as possible.’
A greedy relative waiting in the wings to inherit. Brilliant.
‘I’ll start with the remaining staff, then.’
Lachlan took a quill, dipped it in ink, and made a list of names. ‘Here.’ He handed the parchment to Thomas, who flicked his gaze over it. ‘When shall I tell Clio to meet you at Viscount Beachley’s?’
Thomas hesitated, unsure of how to broach the question burning in his mind. Because it defied logic. A woman could not create sparks from her hand, cause streetlamps to spontaneously light, or cast an invisible shield against the rain. And yet he saw it all with his own eyes. Parts of him might be irrevocably broken, but there was nothing wrong with his vision.
The echo of an old conversation tickled Thomas’ memory.
‘Didn’t you once tell me you came to London because of some bad business in your village in Scotland?’
Lachlan’s body hardened, and Thomas didn’t miss the way he shifted in his chair, readying for a fight. ‘Aye. But what does this have to do with meeting Clio at Viscount Beachley’s?’
Thomas forged ahead even when his survival instincts were screaming for him to retreat. ‘I remember now. It was after the battle of Balaclava. What a nightmare that was. Funny what men will share when they’re soaking in cheap spirits and convinced their death will arrive on the morrow. Do you recall what you said?’
Lachlan slowly shook his head. ‘No.’
‘I almost didn’t remember myself. Confessions made when staring at the abyss are uncomfortably honest, don’t you think?’
‘I would no’ trust anything I’ve said after too many drams of whisky. Scotsmen love to tell a tale, and we’re no’ above embellishing.’
‘You told me you fell in love with a woman in your village. You said she had bewitched you. That she held the power of the earth in her hands, and she was an all-powerful sorceress. One of her sisters was murdered, and the other died before her thirtieth year. Both women left daughters she took on as her own. You swore to always protect this witch and her nieces. Such an odd term of endearment. Witch.’
Lachlan pressed his lips together, his eyes flashing dangerously. Thomas knew how deadly his friend could be. He was reasonably certain he wouldn’t attack Thomas, but one could never tell. ‘It was a long time ago. I barely remember the conversation I had with my secretary this morning.’ His voice was strained.
‘You said your only regret if you died in Balaclava would be not fulfilling your promise to her. What was her name?’ Thomas asked, though he knew Lachlan wouldn’t answer. ‘Women are named after flowers, but rarely trees. Rowan, wasn’t it?’
The small smile creating creases on either side of Lachlan’s mouth held no humour. ‘What does this story have to do with Clio?’
‘Aunt Rowan.’
Lachlan’s brow drew down in a question.
‘On the first day we met, Miss Blair told you her Aunt Rowan didn’t need her at the apothecary until later. Strange for two women you know to share such an unusual name.’
‘Strange indeed.’ Lachlan leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his solid weight. ‘Are you asking me if Clio’s aunt is a witch? According to the law, witches are no’ real, Thomas. Nothing more than superstition.’
‘I’m not asking what the law thinks. I’m asking what you think. Do you think witches are real?’ Thomas’ chest was tight, his ribs frozen as he waited.
‘I think only a foolish man pretends to know the mysteries of the universe.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question.’ He couldn’t voice his real question.Is Clio a witch?Because it was madness. As impossible as sparks flying from a woman’s fingers, or rain sizzling into steam on a cold London street.
‘Some answers can only be found when you’re ready.’
Thomas shook his head. ‘You sound like a bloody mystic yourself, Lachlan.’
His friend merely shrugged, then leaned forward. ‘Why are you asking me these questions? It’s a strange thing to be wondering abou’. Witches and magic.’
This was his opportunity to put forward his suspicions. But he couldn’t do it. He would sound like a madman. Or worse. He might be proven right. And then what?
