“It is,” she answered, and Ogden’s shoulders slumped. “He just wants to visit before his departure.”
Emmeline looked despondent. “So he’s still leaving?”
Straightening and accepting her own slice of steaming pie, Elsie answered, “Of course he’s leaving. He was only in England for his advancement to mastership, and that is done. Why else would he stay?”
She kept her eyes fixed on the small pool of gravy oozing onto her plate, but she felt Ogden shake his head at Emmeline. Did he know her so well, or was he reading her thoughts? That was how rational magic worked—it affected the mind. Mind reading, telepathy, the dampening or surging of emotions . . . But she would know if Ogden used magic on her, wouldn’t she? One of her abilities as a spellbreaker was to detect magic. Physical spells could be seen, rational spells had a certain feel to them, spiritual spells had a sound, and temporal spells had a smell. She’d been on pins and needles the last week, waiting for the sensation that Ogden was using his magic on her. But it had not yet happened. Either Ogden had refrained from nosing around or he was very adept at hiding his magic, as he’d been for the near decade she’d known him.
Either way, Elsie couldn’t help the tar-thick thought that bubbled up the base of her skull. It was better for Bacchus to leave, not just because it was safer, but also because he’d held her hand. Because she was calling him by his first name.
Because she’d kissed his cheek and could still feel it upon her lips.
Elsie had let him get too close. Any closer, and he was liable to discover whatever it was that turned people away from her, that marked her as forgettable, unwanted, unlovable. Alfred had found it, as had her mother and her father, her siblings. With his spell gone, Ogden would likely discover it soon enough, too.
“Oh, Elsie,” Emmeline said, reaching for her, “I didn’t mean anything by it. I was curious, is all.”
Snapping to attention, Elsie bucked up and pasted on a smile. “Oh no, Emmeline. I’m not bothered at all. I was just thinking about the last novel reader we had, and how it seemed so hopeless for the baron at the end.”
Emmeline nodded. She appeared to believe her, but Elsie wasn’t sure. “Only one left in that story. Oh, it should be here any day now!” Emmeline snatched a teacup and filled it, handing it to Ogden, who added far too much sugar and cream, as usual.
In truth, Elsie had completely forgotten about her novel reader schedule. Was it that time again already?
She pressed the tines of her fork to her pie. It did smell good, which helped unwind the knots in her stomach. The utensil cut easily through the crust—Emmeline had baked it perfectly. Elsie couldn’t remember the last time she’d made a pie herself . . . last summer, perhaps? When Emmeline had rolled her ankle. It had been perfectly edible, but it hadn’t looked or smelled nearly this good.
Elsie slid the morsel into her mouth. The meat was almost too hot, but the buttery flavor eased her tension. She chewed, smiled, and said, “Bless you, Emmeline, this is—”
A firm knock sounded at the front door.
Elsie nearly dropped the fork. The telegram beneath her leg burned like an ember. Had Bacchus meant today? Perhaps the telegram had come yesterday and Emmeline had forgotten about it? Her body knotted up again, muscles straining, bones near to crunching. She touched her hair. He could join them for lunch. That would give her a moment to get her thoughts together . . .
Emmeline, who’d been about to sit down, said, “I’ll answer it,” and hurried from the dining room into the workshop, which occupied the front of the house. Elsie couldn’t see her, but she paused, listening—and then stiffened.
Like a feather across her skin, she felt the birth of a rational spell. But the rune wasn’t directed toward her. No, Ogden had leaned back in his chair, his attention focused on the front of the house. Could he really read a mind from this far away? Or had he cast something else? Elsie was the least experienced with rational spells, so she wouldn’t be able to tell without more practice.
“What are they saying?” she whispered, but Ogden was concentrating, so Elsie stood, tossed her napkin on the table, and went to see for herself. Likely just an order for something chiseled; Elsie had delivered all of Ogden’s finished pieces yesterday, so it wouldn’t be a pickup.
But when Elsie entered the studio, Emmeline glanced back at her with fright in her eyes. Two policemen stood in the doorway, their dark-navy uniforms buttoned up tightly to their chin straps.
“Is that her?” the taller one asked Emmeline, but the maid didn’t answer.
Elsie’s heart lodged into her throat so tightly she could barely talk around it. “Is that who? Might I ask what has given our maid such a fright?”
“Elsie Camden?” the other officer asked.
A chill coursed up her arms, but Elsie stood erect. “I am she.”
The officers glanced at each other before stepping into the house. Only then did Elsie notice there were more beyond the threshold. The taller man lifted a pair of handcuffs. “You’re under arrest for the practice of unregistered spellbreaking. Come with us gently if you’d like to avoid a scene.”
CHAPTER 2
Bacchus Kelsey lifted his eyes to realize everyone was staring at him.
It wasn’t a large party gathered for luncheon, just the family—Isaiah Scott, the Duke of Kent; his wife, Abigail; and his daughters, Ida and Josie. But they all looked at him intently, causing Bacchus to rub his half beard to see if there was food in it.
Fortunately, Duchess Scott clarified their interest before he had to ask. “You’re not even halfway through, dear.”
He glanced down to his plate, to the half-eaten mutton and vegetables staring back up at him. Everyone else’s dishes had already been taken away by the help.
Offering a weak smile, he said, “I suppose I’m lost in thought today.”
Josie perked up. “Not about Miss Camden, is it?”
Duchess Scott frowned. “Josie.”
Bacchus didn’t reply, but she was correct. He had been thinking about Elsie. He’d sent a telegram to Brookley that morning. Brief but to the point. He would have contacted her earlier, but he’d thought it best to wait. Alas, there weren’t any straightforward rules of decorum for how to comfort a lady after she was nearly murdered by her possessed employer. Cuthbert Ogden had still looked unwell when Bacchus had left the hospital in London, and Elsie had appeared little better. She’d told Bacchus everything, and although he believed her, he still struggled to wrap his head around it.
Cuthbert Ogden, behind all the murders and stolen opuses. Except he wasn’t.
So who was?
Bacchus dug his knife into the mutton and finished sawing off the piece he’d been halfheartedly working on for the last couple of minutes. “Just upcoming plans,” he finally said.
“You’re welcome to stay, of course.” The duke leaned his elbows on the table.
“You are very generous, thank you.” Bacchus chewed the mutton, swallowed. Thought. “I should be getting everything arranged this week.” Barbados called to him—he had responsibilities there, friends, employees who depended on him—but he was too anchored in England to want to leave. Anchored by unanswered questions and an unsure future. He didn’t have the same limitations he’d suffered for half his life, for one. That changed things. And then there was the question of how to approach a certain woman—