Under her spell, p.16
Under Her Spell, page 16
“Why are you listening to such silly tales?”
“Because if they are true, I would not be dismayed.”
Madeleine stared, open-mouthed, at her brother. That was the last thing she had guessed he would say.
“All I ask is that you do not toss him out of your bed before the finale. If he is enamored with you, he might speak to his uncle about us.”
She slapped his face. “How dare you say such a thing to me!”
He stared at her in disbelief. “You struck me!”
“I tried to knock some sense into your head!”
“But you struck me!”
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Both of them needed to come to their senses. But for him to think that she would share Christopher’s bed simply to win them a job in London . . . That hurt her. She had thought her brother cared for her as she cared for him. When had the dream to work in a London theater become more important than each other?
She said that, then added, “Don’t start negotiating our salary yet. Christopher and I are not lovers. Those who are spreading rumors would be wise to listen to the truth.”
“Which is?”
“That I have never been with him behind a locked door.”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly. The only times I lock the door are when I wish to be alone or when I am talking with Estelle Sheffield.”
He sighed as he set down the paintbrush. “You are spending a lot of time with that girl.”
“She is lonely,” she replied, hoping his sigh was not because he was sorry that she could not wrangle an audition for them through Christopher. “And she is happy to have someone near her age with similar interests.”
“Similar interests? What could you two have in common?”
Madeleine longed to blurt out the truth, but Roland did not believe in magic, only illusion. “I told you that I was teaching her some simple tricks. You know I would do nothing to compromise the opportunity we have now, Roland.”
“If I can be as smooth as I was during the audition, Gilbert Birmingham will be eager to hire us.”
“That is exactly right. So you have no need to worry about me doing something wrong.” She flung her hand toward the casket. “Nor do you need to do dangerous stunts because your skill will amaze him.”
“But he is accustomed to London acts—”
“Which are no more skilled than you are.” If she could persuade Roland to believe that, he might set aside the hazardous stunt as their father had.
“Maddy, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what?” She put her hand on his arm.
“I don’t know if I can ever be equal to that performance again. Everything went right during our audition. Everything. What if it is the best performance I shall ever give and Mr. Birmingham did not see it?”
“If you have done it once, you can do it again.”
“I wish I could be so sure of that, but the truth is that I have never been able to achieve such perfection and speed before.”
She ached to tell him that he did not need to worry if he would just take the illusions step-by-familiar-step and allow her to assist him. But Roland was so proud of what he believed he had done. To steal that from him would be cruel, and no matter how tempting that idea was after his comments, she could not. She must never forget her promise to protect him, even though she had not guessed at the time that she would need to protect him from himself. Besides, throwing the truth in his face would drive a wedge between them, and they needed to be a team when they stepped on the stage.
“We must hope for the best,” was all she could say.
“I find hope offers little nourishment for the soul, Maddy.”
“But . . .” Her voice trailed off when she heard footsteps on the stairs to the stage. Turning, she smiled.
Christopher strode toward them with a broad grin. His straw boater was set at a jaunty angle, and his tweed coat matched his dark gray trousers. “I trust I am not interrupting something you wish to keep secret.”
“No, my lord,” Roland replied as he made certain the door on the casket was latched. His words tumbled over each other as he talked faster and faster. “We are making preparations for the finale. You will be astounded, my lord.”
“I am sure I will be.”
Madeleine edged along the stage to where the gun case sat.
“You will see,” her brother continued in the rapid patter that belonged to someone selling fish in a market, “that you were wise to hire The Amazing Nightingales when we leave your guests awed by our legerdemain.”
She picked up the case and slipped it inside her closed parasol.
Christopher began, “I am sure I—”
“What we have planned will be the source of conversation for years to come.”
“I am sure we—”
“Your guests will hardly believe their eyes.”
Christopher said in a tone that suggested he would not be interrupted again, “I am sure we will be impressed by your best illusion. As for now, may I borrow your assistant for a few minutes, Nightingale?”
Madeleine gave her brother no chance to answer. “There is nothing I can do until Roland finishes painting.”
“Shall we walk around the grounds?” Christopher offered his arm.
She put her fingers on it and held the parasol close on the other side. With luck, Roland would be so agog with perfecting the casket that he would not notice the gun case was gone. She struggled not to shiver as she imagined that etched barrel pointed at her.
But she failed to dampen the shudder that raced through her because Christopher asked, “What is wrong?”
“Not here,” she said.
He raised a single brow, but added nothing else as he led her down the steps and away from the stage where Roland was once again wielding the paintbrush.
Walking across the field where the other acts were putting the finishing touches on their equipment, Madeleine said, “Forgive Roland. He always is on edge before an important performance.”
“I had no idea your brother would be nervous about a performance after you have given so many in your travels.”
“And he was nervous before each one.” She smiled. “Some people are anxious before. Others pay the price afterwards.”
“And you?”
“During the whole performance.”
“Then may I say that the greatest illusion performed by The Amazing Nightingales is your tranquil presence on the stage?”
She was pleased at his compliment, but she could not allow herself to become lost in honeyed words and warm gazes. Opening her parasol, she drew out the gun case. She held it out to him. “Roland and I are grateful that you have told us to act as if your home is our home, but we will not be needing this.”
“Why do you have this?” He raised the lid on the case and frowned. “The gun belonged to my late brother.”
“Roland borrowed it for our performance, but we will not need it.”
“Does he agree?”
“He will come to.”
Christopher smiled and nodded. “I suspect you will be able to persuade him to do whatever you wish.” He ran the back of his fingers along her cheek. “You do with me.”
“Christopher—”
“No, I do not want to talk about what has been. I want to think only of now.”
She was tempted to tell him that was an overly simple way to live, but arguing would drive them apart again so she smiled in return.
“I heard your brother call you ‘Maddy.’ Is it a nickname?”
“From our childhoods.” She chuckled. “Not always spoken kindly, but I called him ‘Roly-Poly-Moly’ when he riled me. You know how siblings are.”
“I have heard, but my brother was almost grown when I was born.”
“Then you missed a lot of the fun of growing up. On the other hand, you must have had everything else you wanted.”
“Are you saying I am spoiled?”
“That is not the word I would have chosen.”
He threw back his head and laughed hard. Putting up one hand to hold his straw hat in place, he kept laughing until tears glistened at the corners of his eyes. He regained control of himself enough to say, “By George, Maddy Nightingale, you are a she-devil with words. Any man would be a fool to joust his vocabulary with you.”
“Thank you . . . I think.”
“Exactly! You think. Something few women I have met are willing to let a man believe they do.”
“Don’t be absurd. Of course, women think. They have brains just as men do.”
“Not just like men’s, I would venture, because you look at matters differently than we do.”
“You mean, the correct way?”
Again he laughed, then kissed her lightly. He said something, but she did not comprehend a single word. She was too caught up in the thrilling sensations of his swift kiss.
“I can understand why your brother wants you as his assistant, Maddy,” he said as he cupped her chin and leaned toward her until she could not see anything but his sparkling eyes. “I doubt many men pay any attention to your brother’s illusions when they can admire you instead.”
“It is an assistant’s job to draw attention.”
“And you do it well.” He brought her face up toward his. “But you want more, don’t you? You want to be the illusionist yourself, don’t you? You want to be the one who creates the magic that binds an audience under its spell.”
“Is it so obvious?”
“Only since I have come to know both of you.”
“Don’t tell Roland.”
“Why?”
She drew away. “He has very traditional ideas. Amidst them is the notion that only men should be prestidigitators.”
“Would you like me to speak to him on your behalf?”
“No!”
“But if someone else suggests that he allow you to do a few illusions—”
“I am his assistant, and that is the way it has to be.” She did not want to admit that she feared going hungry again. He would not understand that, for she doubted an earl ever felt true hunger pangs.
He looked down at the gun case. “You speak your mind openly to me, but you hesitate to confront your brother. Are you frightened of him?”
“What?”
“Has he struck you or threatened you so you are scared to show him the tricks you can do?”
She smiled and shook her head. “I have never been frightened of Roland. Frightened for him when he tries a new trick for the first time, but my brother cares as much about me as I do about him.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes!” She had to believe that was true.
“Then I don’t understand then why you have not spoken to him about what you want to do.”
“As I told you. He is very traditional.” She knew she had to smile, so she did. “Christopher, we are not all like you, willing to flout Society’s rules.”
“Your brother may be traditional, but you are not. You—”
A scream came from behind her. She whirled and looked up. One of the aerialists tumbled toward the ground.
Her motion was spontaneous. As instinctive as breathing. She raised her hand and whispered the words Saza had warned her never to allow anyone else to hear.
As if out of nowhere, the trapeze dropped toward the falling man. He reached out and grabbed it. Slowly it lowered him. The moment his feet touched earth, he released the trapeze. It hung inches above his head while he collapsed to the ground, clutching tufts of grass.
Madeleine hung back while other performers rushed forward to discover how he was. She took a deep breath to steady herself and pressed her hands against her gown to hide how they trembled. Had Christopher heard her speak the spell? Had anyone else? No one looked in her direction. They were focused only on the man who had been falling. Maybe she had been lucky. She could not have allowed the man to be hurt or killed, but if she had been heard and understood . . . No, she would not think about what had not happened.
Something was shoved in her hands. The gun case! Christopher ran to the aerialists. Stuffing the case into her parasol, she went in pursuit. People stepped aside when they realized the earl was pushing past them. Madeleine slipped through in his wake.
Every step was more difficult than the one before it. She had thrown so much of herself into that spell, and now she was sapped. She should sit and recover. She should, but she had to make sure The Flying Stewarts were all right.
The aerialist who had fallen was still on the ground. It was Oscar, the shorter and thinner of the brothers. He stared about him as if he could not believe his good fortune. Slowly he stood, and a spontaneous burst of applause came from the crowd.
He threw his arms around his brother. “Thank you. You saved my life.”
“But I did nothing!” Calvin’s face turned bright red, revealing he was embarrassed to have to state that in front of everyone.
Her respect for Calvin rose. He could have taken credit for the rescue. In fact, she wished he had because that would keep others from asking questions.
“You loosened the trapeze enough so it reached down to where I was.” Stepping back, Oscar asked in awe, “How did you know exactly how far to lower it?”
“I did not lower it!”
“You must have!”
“I swear, Oscar. I did nothing. I could not have undone it fast enough. You tied those knots yourself. You know how long it takes to undo them.”
“Then . . .” His face grew gray again. “Who did it?”
A buzz, like a swarm of agitated bees, raced through the gathered crowd. Madeleine pretended to be as amazed as everyone else. When Christopher began to examine the ropes, she edged away. She needed to flee before someone started asking her questions. The walk to the house seemed to be a dozen leagues, and her legs felt heavier with each step. The parasol with the gun case inside slapped against her leg, goading her on. She must avoid Roland, too, because she did not want him to discover she had taken the gun. Bother! She had not asked Christopher to arrange it so that Roland could not take another gun from the Sheffield Priory armory. She must do that.
Later.
Now she must regain her strength by freeing what was left of her magic so it could recover.
Only pride kept Madeleine from crawling up the stairs. Her knees threatened to fold, so she gripped the banister and hauled herself from one riser to the next as if climbing a mountain.
She breathed a sigh of relief when she reached her door. She swung it open and threw herself forward toward the divan, but halted when she saw Estelle, a vision in pale pink organdy, rising from a chair by the window.
“I am ready for another lesson,” the girl said.
For a moment, Madeleine considered having the lesson, then she asked Estelle to leave, saying that she was unwell. Estelle left, saying she hoped Madeleine felt better soon. Madeleine put her parasol and the gun case into her bedroom cupboard, then locked her door. She would explain all of this to Estelle when the girl was ready to learn the cost of her gift. She hoped the girl would listen closely and heed her. If she did not, the high cost could become terrible, because the uncontrolled magic could consume her.
Madeleine sat on the bed and freed what remained of her magic. Sagging against the pillows, she waited for it to regain its strength, so she could regain her own.
Chapter Thirteen
MADELEINE PAGED through a book in the grand library that was filled with more volumes than she guessed existed beyond the fabled libraries at Oxford or Cambridge. She found a slim book about Egyptian magic and planned to stay in the library out of everyone’s way as Christopher’s guests began to arrive for the Jubilee Faire. Roland had left at first light to work on the casket for the illusion that he still insisted, despite her protests, they would perform for the finale. He said nothing about the gun she had taken from the stage almost a week ago. He was too focused on the hidden door. It did not always release as quickly as he hoped.
She was glad Roland was busy, so he did not take note of the glamorous women and elegant men stepping out of grand carriages. Once he saw them, he would be even more determined to show off for Christopher’s guests.
“And that is what it is,” she whispered to herself. “Showing off and risking everything we have worked so hard for. He needs to be reasonable.”
But she had failed to convince Roland to listen to her. He was as headstrong as she was, but also shortsighted. Maybe if she spoke with him calmly and explained her opinions again, he would give them some credence.
She glanced up at the sound of footfalls. They paused in the doorway, then entered the library. Glad she had found a quiet corner, she waited for whoever had come in to leave. She must determine how to persuade Roland that they would impress those attending the Jubilee Faire far more by doing their usual tricks with flare than making a muddle of a new one.
But her mind wandered to Christopher. How would he react when he saw her on stage again? Before, he had been a fascinating stranger. Now he was . . . She was unsure what he was, but knew what she wanted him to be. No matter how much she denied herself—and him—she wanted him to be her lover.
As the footsteps came closer, she silenced that thought. She was glad she had when a shadow eased across the floor toward her.
“Ah, here is where you have been hiding,” said Christopher as he followed his shadow to where she sat.
She savored the sight of him. Dressed in a dark coat that was the perfect foil for his blond hair, he leaned one hand on the back of the chair and smiled down at her. She gazed up at him, lost once more in the green mysteries of his eyes. When he bent to kiss her, she draped one arm over his shoulder, holding him close as his tongue led hers in a merry dance. She slanted toward him, wanting to feel him against her.
