Lachlan waited a beat. When Thomas refused to answer, Lachlan dipped his chin in curt acknowledgement, disappointment clear in his small frown. ‘One thing is certain. Accusing a woman of witchcraft is a dangerous thing no’ matter what the laws say abou’ it. If any man made such a claim abou’ my family, it would no’ end well for them.’ His expression could have been carved from stone and left no doubt: Lachlan’s vow to protect Rowan and her nieces still held true.
Tucking the list of Viscount Beachley’s servants into his pocket, Thomas stood and nodded. ‘My sister is arranging an invitation to Lady Langley’s country estate for a house party. Your niece is included, as am I. In such close quarters, secrets won’t be easy to keep.’
‘The perfect setting for investigating a murder.’ Lachlan narrowed his gaze. ‘Which is the only mystery you need to solve.’
‘Are you certain you still wish for my help?’
Standing, Lachlan tucked his hands in his pockets. ‘Are you certain you still want to help?’
And that was the sticking point. He should walk away. This was far more than a murder investigation. If he found the answers he sought – and despite Lachlan’s warning, he knew he could not let the mystery of Miss Clio Blair remain unanswered – it might threaten his only remaining friendship and destroy the life of an intriguing woman… who might also be a witch. But discovering Miss Blair’s secrets was quickly becoming an obsession. A need, not a want. He was determined to find Viscount Beachley’s killer. But he was equally committed to revealing the truth about Clio Blair, no matter the consequences.
‘Tell your niece to be at Viscount Beachley’s house tomorrow morning, ten o’clock sharp. I’ll not wait for her if she is late.’
Lachlan nodded. ‘Remember what I said, Thomas.’
He returned the man’s frank stare. ‘I remember everything you’ve said, Lachlan.’
Turning, he walked out of Superintendent MacDougal’s office, his shoulder blades hitching as if a pistol were aimed at his back.
Clio was the silliest witch in all the covens. She left Sir Robin at home, a rare occurrence that strained nerves already twanging with anxiety. But after her ridiculous display with Grey outside of the tea shop, she thought it wise to minimise her occult accruement. It might also help to put Viscount Beachley’s staff at ease. Sir Robin could have a certain effect on people. It would hardly help her cause if he was shouting,Murderer, or,Bastardduring questioning.
I don’t understand how anyone isn’t charmed by him.
Feeling the absence of her familiar most acutely, she cursed herself for letting Grey provoke her anger. In her need to verbally decimate him at Gunter’s, her powers had slipped free unbidden. Which was unacceptable.
The first and most important lesson she learned when her magic first manifested at seven was toalwaysmaintain control. Anything less was irresponsible at best and deadly at worst. A witch without control was a witch who didn’t deserve her magic. Yet whenever she was with the infuriating man, it was like touching a live wire that scrambled her concentration.
The heat shield at Gunter’s had been minimal at best, but strong enough to dissolve the rain into mist and certainly noticeable. And more importantly, unintentional. It caught Grey’s attention which exceeded carelessness. Her slip was dangerous.
Stupid, arrogant witch!
Aunt Rowan would have had a fit of apoplexy had Clio told her about it the night before. So instead of admitting her failures to her aunt, she had kept her whispered confession to Ellie and Helena as they huddled on Clio’s bed to gossip before bidding each other goodnight. Her sister and cousin responded exactly as Clio knew they would: with unwavering support. It was one more reason why the three women were irrevocably intertwined.
‘He deserved far worse than a heat shield. You should have used your witchfire to burn off his eyebrows!’ Helena was the most bloodthirsty of the three. Her copper hair shone in the wavering candlelight.
Ellie’s eyes grew wide. ‘What if he discovers your powers? Would he report you?’
‘To whom? The magistrate? Uncle Lachlan? The House of Lords? He would sound like a mad fool.’ But Clio’s argument was weak, and they all knew it.
‘Did anyone else notice?’ Helena’s grey eyes darkened with her mood.
‘I’ve no idea. The street was crowded. Perhaps.’
Ophelia scampered out of Ellie’s pocket. Her sister was sitting cross-legged on Clio’s bed. The simple cotton nightgown Ellie wore created the perfect hammock as it stretched over her knees. Ophelia circled three times before curling into a comfortable ferret ball in the centre of Ellie’s skirt and chittered happily.
‘I just can’t believe you lost control. You are always so careful. We all are.’ Ellie’s voice was troubled. Her pink lips formed a perfect circle as she sucked in a whoosh of air. ‘You don’t think this is…? No. Never mind.’
‘What are you talking about, Ellie?’ Helena ran her hand down her fox’s back. Hamlet’s rich copper coat perfectly matched Helena’s hair. She was sitting opposite Ellie at the foot of Clio’s bed. Her fox stretched next to her leg, his gaze on the ferret. They were infatuated with one another. It was the inspiration for their names. Aunt Rowan had suggested Romeo and Juliet, but Helena had strong opinions about Romeo being a milksop, and Ellie always thought Hamlet and Ophelia needed a second chance to find their happy ending.
Ellie’s gaze bounced from Helena to Clio. ‘A spirit match.’ She mouthed the last two words as though voicing them would lend power to the syllables, like a spell.
Clio had rolled her eyes the night before, and she did so again as she briskly walked the few blocks from her house to Viscount Beachley’s. But in the grey morning light, every cell in her body hardened into a protective shell at the very thought. Ellie’s suggestion was impossible. Clio had been quick to point that out the night before.
‘There is no such thing as a spirit match. In all the lore, a person would have to be willing to accept every part of the witch to be atrue spirit match, and no man is willing to do that. Our powers are too threatening. They would either use our gifts for their own advantage or force us to reject our magic. We know this. We all saw it happen to our mothers. Those teachings are just silly superstitions. Fairy tales.’
‘Our entire existence could be summed up as silly superstitions.’ Helena’s dry sense of humour wasn’t always funny.
‘What are the signs?’ Ellie was speaking to herself. A habit the others barely noticed any more. ‘He provokes your magic.’
