Chapter Two

R ory sat down to dinner that evening with King’s letter in his hand. If he didn’t know better, he’d think King had gone completely mad.

“Why the devil are we eating in the middle of the day?”

Rory looked up as Munro (“It’s a family name,” the man told everyone) Notley stumbled into the dining room. His friend was either still drunk from the night before or had started drinking before dinner.

“Country hours,” Rory said, placing the letter on the tablecloth. “We’re not in Paris any longer.”

“More’s the pity,” Munro said, tugging out a chair and sinking into it. A footman rushed forward to lay a place setting for him. “A fellow doesn’t even have time to dress before he has to change for dinner.”

Rory could see that Notley hadn’t taken much care with his dress. His auburn hair was too long and unbrushed, his coat was wrinkled beyond repair, and he had three days’ growth of beard on his chin.

“I told you to stay in Paris. There’s nothing for you to do here.”

The footmen poured wine and brought in the first course, a white soup. Rory wasn’t hungry, but he didn’t want his cook quitting, so he made a point of tasting it and complimenting it. Notley ate like a starving man, which he very well might be, as Rory hadn’t seen him all day, and this was likely his first meal since last night’s dinner.

“I thought we were traveling to London,” Notley said, finishing his wine and pointing to his glass so the footman refilled it.

“You should go on without me. I’ve had a problem arise.”

Notley raised a brow, and the expression gave him that inherited air of nobility that made him almost socially acceptable. “What problem?”

Munro Notley was not the sort of fellow Rory thought could offer advice on rearing a young child. Rory had met Notley in Venice, where he had certainly lived up to his reputation as Mr. Notorious. He’d caused a brawl between two courtesans, begun a fight in a brothel that had ended in its closure by the Venetian authorities, and won a fortune in a wager against a Prussian prince, who had been so incensed at losing, Notley had to flee in the middle of the night.

Rory had thought it prudent to flee with him, as everyone considered them friends. He wasn’t so certain they were friends. He couldn’t even remember meeting Notley. He barely remembered arriving in Venice. After Harriet’s death, he’d boarded the first ship he found and drunk until he was numb. When he was finally dead enough inside to be able to moderate his drink, he’d discovered he was surrounded by Notley as well as several other Englishmen, and Rory was up to his knees in their ridiculous antics.

They’d traveled to Rome and Brussels and several other cities Rory didn’t remember. In each city, Notley, who had been on the Continent for more than a year, found a group of degenerate nobility, and they drank and whored through the city until it was time to move on to the next. They’d been in Paris almost a month when King and Henry’s letters had reached Rory, and he announced he was returning to England.

The other men in their group had toasted Rory’s triumphant return, but Notley had offered to accompany him. “Why not?” Rory had said, not trusting himself to make the journey alone.

Now, he wondered what the devil he’d been thinking. Lilacfall Abbey was no place for Mr. Notorious. Notley was better at causing problems than solving them, and Rory had more problems than he dared count.

“Is it something in the letter?” Notley asked, gesturing to it with his wine glass. “You’ve been reading and rereading that letter since Paris.”

“I don’t know what to make of it,” Rory said, lifting the paper. “I fear my friend has gone mad.”

“Why is that?”

Rory took a breath. “Because he writes that a witch cursed him and caused him to lose his title.” Rory realized what he’d said and added, “That’s what he thinks, at any rate.” It was what Rory believed too, but he wouldn’t admit that aloud.

Notley ate another spoonful of soup. Rory should have known he would be unfazed. He’d wreaked havoc across the Continent. Why would the mention of a witch discombobulate him?

“What was his title?” Notley asked.

“The Marquess of Kingston. He was the heir of the Duke of Avebury.”

“Ah. I read about the duke.”

“Really?” Rory didn’t think he’d ever seen Notley pick up a newspaper.

“He’s in the Tower for treason.”

“King had nothing to do with that.”

“But the Lords stripped the son of his title too.”

“So it appears.” Rory lifted the letter. “And King’s convinced it’s all because of a witch’s curse.”

“You don’t believe in witches?” Notley said, leaning back so the footman could remove the soup.

Rory looked at the footmen and then at Notley. There was no way in hell he could answer this question honestly. To tell the truth, he’d thought Notley would laugh the whole thing off and they’d be onto another conversation by now. But Notley continually surprised him.

“Believe in witches?” Rory said, hoping his tinny voice didn’t give him away. Yes, he believed in witches. He bloody well believed in them. “I…might. Do you?”

“Of course. I steer clear of them too. You don’t want to anger a witch.”

The spot between Rory’s eyes had begun to throb with pain. He rubbed it and eyed his wine glass. He was still sober, so he hadn’t imagined Notley’s statement.

“What sort of curse was placed on him?” Notley asked.

“Does it matter? We were thirteen, and even if I believed in witches, how could she cause the Duke of Avebury to commit treason? He made that decision all on his own.”

“Oh, no.”

Rory looked up at Notley, who was eyeing him with concern. “What is it?”

“You’re cursed too. You said we were thirteen . Not King. We .”

“We were all cursed,” Rory admitted. “But as I explained, how could a curse be responsible for the duke’s actions or…” He trailed off, not wanting to state the obvious—the curse had killed Harriet and his son. “It has to be coincidence,” he said, trying to convince himself.

“What is the—”

Notley’s words were drowned out by a loud crash and then a scream. The dining room door flung open and a child in a white nightgown ran inside and slammed the door closed again.

His child .

Rory stood. “What is—”

The door opened again, and Mrs. Mann and the maid Mary stumbled inside. Both were dripping wet. Frances ran to the table, snatched Notley’s fork, and brandished it. “Stay back.”

“I say! That’s my fork.”

“Now listen—” Mary began, scolding Frances. Mrs. Mann, having seen Rory, touched her arm. Both women suddenly straightened and then curtseyed.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Mrs. Mann said. “Miss Frances seems to have slipped away from us.”

“Don’t come any closer!” Frances yelled, pointing the fork at the housekeeper. Notley surreptitiously put his hand over his knife and drew it off the table so it wouldn’t be visible.

“Now, Miss Frances,” Mary said in a tone that was far too sweet. “You must take a bath. Once you are clean, you may climb into bed, and I will read you a story from the Bible.”

“I hate the Bible!”

Even Notley raised his brows at that statement.

“I don’t want a story, and I will not take a bath.” Frances stamped one of her small feet.

Rory cleared his throat before his staff tried to negotiate with the child further. She turned and looked up at him. “Not you again.”

“Yes, me again.” Rory tried to look stern, but it was difficult not to laugh when the child scowled and pointed the fork at him. “This is my house, and if you are to live here, you must do as Mrs. Mann says.”

“I don’t want to live here. I want to go back to Grandmama’s house.”

Rory wanted her to go back to the Dowlings’ house as well, but that wasn’t an option. “Your grandmama wants you to visit Lilacfall Abbey for a little while. I’m sure she told you to behave while you are here.”

“I don’t care what she says,” Frances said. “I hate her, and I hate you.”

Notley raised a hand to summon a footman. “I will need more wine,” he said. “Much more.”

Rory was at the end of his patience. He wasn’t about to stand here while a child screamed at him and threatened him with eating implements. He’d endured that from her mother, and he wouldn’t live like that again. He moved forward, and Frances moved back. She turned her head from side to side, probably looking for an escape, but Mrs. Mann and Mary were standing in front of one door, and the butler was in front of the other. Meanwhile, Rory advanced until the child had backed herself into a corner.

He held out a hand. “Give me the fork.”

“No.” Frances shook her head.

Rory reached for it, and she lunged.

“Ow!” he said, but he grasped the fork with one hand and her arm with the other. Then he swung her up and tucked her under his arm, tossing the fork on the ground where she couldn’t reach it. She kicked and screamed, but Rory held her tightly so most of her kicks didn’t land. She was surprisingly light, and though he hadn’t ever before carried a child like a parcel, it worked quite well. “Lead me to the nursery, Mrs. Mann,” he said.

“Yes, my lord.” She hurried away, and he followed, Frances demanding to be put down the entire way. The nursery was in the wing opposite that of his bedchamber. He remembered it now from when he’d first purchased the house. It had been bare, a chamber of white walls and moldering draperies. When Mrs. Mann opened the door, he was pleasantly surprised to find it painted yellow, with white and yellow curtains and an assortment of dolls and toys. A small table with child-size chairs had been laid with a plate, cup, and saucer. A small bed had been made with a pink, fluffy blanket over the top of the sheets. In the center of the room, a small tub sat near the hearth.

For a moment, Rory was stunned. How had Mrs. Mann managed all of this in just a few short hours? And then he realized she hadn’t. Harriet had done this when she’d been enceinte with Frances. A sliver of pain so slight he almost didn’t register it shot through him. It was gone in an instant, and Rory gritted his teeth, intent on keeping it that way.

“Is that the bath you want her in?” he asked, though the question was quite superfluous.

“Yes, my lord. I can take it from here, my lord.”

Rory ignored the protest, marched to the tub, and deposited the child on her bottom in the water. She screamed as though she’d been burned. He stared at her and attempted not to cover his ears. What the devil? The tub held less than three inches of water, as what had been there had obviously been splashed on Mrs. Mann and Mary, and what remained was probably cold by now. The child was not burning. Instead of covering his ears at her screams, he clamped his hands on Frances’s nightgown-clad shoulders and held her in place. Her face was bright red as she continued to scream, but at least she wasn’t fighting him. “Mrs. Mann,” he said. “Soap?”

“Yes, my lord.” She lifted it, but he shook his head when she held it out to him.

“Wash her face and hands. I’m afraid the rest of her will have to wait until she can behave.”

Mrs. Mann did as she was told. Then she fetched a towel, and Rory pulled Frances up and wrapped her in it. She finally ceased screaming.

Perhaps he should not have forced her into the bath. But then, what did he know about children or the raising of them? His parents had left that task to their servants, and if Rory had dared oppose his nanny, he would have been subjected to far worse treatment than Frances had endured just now.

Rory sat the child in front of the fire. “I am leaving now so Mary can dress you in a dry nightgown. But if I hear another scream from you or see you outside of this nursery again tonight, you will be sorry. Do you understand?”

She crossed her arms and glared up at him, her small face red and blotchy, and her hair sticking to her head like a wet dog’s.

“Do you understand?” he repeated.

“I understand,” she said, her tone implying she understood far more than what he’d conveyed.

“Good.” Rory turned on his heel and marched to the door. It occurred to him then that he should probably bid her goodnight. His father had never bidden him goodnight, but then, his father had probably never set foot in the nursery. He turned and looked back at her sitting and scowling at the fire. “Goodnight, Frances,” he said.

She sniffed and looked away, her dismissal reminding him very much of her mother’s.

*

Rory didn’t go back to the dining room. He wasn’t hungry anyway. Instead, he went to his own chamber, pulled out a piece of parchment, and tried to begin a letter to King. He made it as far as the salutation and then scratched his head, not knowing what he should say. He didn’t know what he should do. He could give King money. Surely King would appreciate that. But how did a few hundred or even a few thousand pounds solve the problem of King’s lowered circumstances? How did that solve the problem King wanted solved—that of the witch?

Rory dropped his quill and put his head in his hands. He did not want to think about the witch. He’d tried very hard to put that night out of his mind. Everyone always thought he was the brave one, the one who wasn’t afraid of anything. But Rory had been afraid that night. He’d been absolutely terrified. Of course, like the other boys, he’d said he didn’t believe in witches or curses.

The truth was that he did.

In fact, he knew witches were real. As a young child, he and his brothers had a nanny who was very kind. Miss Fiona was gentle with the boys, even though they were every bit as wild as Frances when their parents were not nearby. But she spoke softly to the children and hugged them when they were injured. More than once, Rory had seen her cast some sort of spell over the nursery. When his brothers had asked her about it, she said it was intended to give them rest and good dreams.

Unfortunately, a few weeks later his mother had seen the nanny do the same and promptly dismissed the woman. Rory could still remember his mother railing about witches and the dark arts. Miss Fiona had protested that she was a white witch and would never harm the children. Rory could have told her it didn’t matter. His mother had very particular ideas, and once she made up her mind, nothing could change it. The duchess told the nanny she was fortunate the duke didn’t involve the church. She would say nothing to the bishop if Miss Fiona left quietly.

Rory never saw her again.

Before the next nanny arrived—a stern woman who never smiled and had the habit of grabbing Rory by the ear when he misbehaved—his mother sat the children down and told them about the evils of witchcraft and how, when her grandmother was alive, witches had been burned at the stake.

Rory, who hadn’t yet learned to keep his mouth shut, said, “But surely those were bad witches, Mama. Miss Fiona was a good witch.”

“There’s no such thing!” his mother retorted, her brown eyes blazing. “Do you want to go to hell, Emory? Do you want to burn in eternal fire?”

Rory had shaken his head. No, he did not want to burn in eternal fire. He’d burned his hand once on a hot grate, and it had hurt for weeks.

“Then keep clear of witches!”

If only Rory had heeded his mother’s advice when he and his friends hatched the plan to steal the whiskey from the witch who lived near St. Andrew’s Preparatory for Boys. He hadn’t wanted to be part of the prank, but he also hadn’t been able to say no. He’d been angry, so angry, at that age. He’d been expelled from Harrow and Tonbridge and Eton and sent to Scotland to rot away. At least, that was how he’d seen it at almost fourteen. His parents had told the headmaster he had free rein, as long as he kept Lord Emory under control. Free rein meant Rory was beaten every other day for the smallest infractions. Even when he tried to be good—which, admittedly, was not often—he was beaten for some unintentional slight. So what did he care if he was caught sneaking out to steal from a witch? He would be with Henry and King, and those were the only people in the world he could count on.

He needed them to like him because he had no one else. And that was why he hadn’t said anything about how witches were real when they decided to go. He’d just acted like he didn’t believe in witches too, like nothing scared him. He’d relived that night so many times over the years. If he had just pretended to think the whole idea was idiotic, maybe the others would have gone along.

Maybe they wouldn’t have been cursed.

And now here he was, all these years later, at thirty years of age, recalling the curse as though the witch had spoken it yesterday. He could still hear the witch’s voice, ringing out between the flashes of lightning and rumble of thunder that night.

Take tooth of giant; seize nail ofdragon.

Unite with holy water in thisflagon.

Hear me now, oh great lords ofnight.

Give me my revenge; ease myplight.

These three lads have taken what’smine.

At the age of thirty, repay them inkind.

Pilfer, purloin, and pinch what it is they lovebest.

And then and only then will I find my eternalrest.

He’d thought of the curse on his thirtieth birthday, when he was brought word that there had been a horrible accident. He’d rushed to the village where the bodies of his wife and children had been taken, the words repay them in kind ringing in his ears as though the words had been spoken that very moment.

And when he’d looked at the broken, lifeless forms of his wife and infant son, all Rory could think was pilfer, purloin, and pinch what it is they love best .

But he hadn’t loved them best, had he? He’d tried to love Harriet. He’d wanted to meet his son. If he’d been with them, if they’d been living at Lilacfall Abbey, as they should have been, not traveling from London, they would still be alive. If he hadn’t asked Harriet to come, to try just one more time to repair their marriage, she might still be alive.

Curse or no curse, her death, and that of his son, was on Rory’s conscience. He was to blame.

*

Frances was leaving. She hated this place, and she hated the man everyone said was her father. He couldn’t be her father. Her father was a king in a faraway kingdom. She was a lost princess, and the king and queen were searching for her. They wanted her to come home.

Even as Frances tiptoed about the room so as not to wake the sleeping maid, she could picture her mother—the queen—in her mind. Her mother had beautiful golden hair. Sometimes she would allow Frances to brush it or play with it. Her golden hair fell to her waist and shone in the firelight. Her mother had blue eyes, so clear and light. She had a small nose that wrinkled when she laughed. She didn’t laugh often enough, but when she did, the whole room seemed to brighten as though the sun had come out on a cloudy day.

Frances had a little brother too, a baby prince, who was so perfect. He had tiny fingers and toes and big eyes that stared at her so intently. She had loved her Mama and her baby brother.

But then Frances had been taken away. There had been the accident—no, she wouldn’t think of that. She was a princess who had been stolen away from her kingdom. She’d begged her grandmother and grandfather to send her back, but they had only told her to hush over and over again.

Finally, they too had sent her away. To her father—that was what they said. But the harsh, cruel man here at Lilacfall Abbey was not her father. He was not the king. He was a cruel prince, and she must escape him. She must find a way to go home, back to her rightful kingdom. Her mother would be waiting for her there. Her mother and her baby brother.

She lifted her boots and the pillowcase where she had stowed everything in the world she needed or cared about and tiptoed out of the room. The maid snorted quietly, and Frances paused. Then her soft snoring continued.

Frances closed the door with a soft snick and stopped to slide her feet into her boots. She looked left then right, trying to remember how to escape the dungeon where the cruel prince had imprisoned her. When he carried her to the tower where she’d lived a thousand years, he’d walked up a winding staircase. She moved along the corridor until she found it, then made her way silently down.

She passed a room where the door was open a sliver and light poured out. The red-haired man who had been at the table at dinner—one of the cruel prince’s knights—sat in a chair in the room staring at an empty glass. She tiptoed away, unnoticed. At the door to the castle, she had a bit of trouble with the latch, but she finally managed it and slid outside into the cool evening. The night air was mild, not too cold, but the hour was late and the sky very, very dark.

Frances was afraid of the dark. In the dark, her chest felt tight, and her heart raced. She had been thrust into the dark the night her mother had been stolen away from her, and Frances had not been able to escape, no matter how she screamed and pounded. Standing outside the cruel prince’s castle, she stared into the dark and wondered what sort of monsters might be out there. Would the prince have a dragon guarding the gate to the castle? What about giants or pixies?

Once morning dawned, monsters were chased away by the sunlight. She would have to wait until the sun came out, and then she could set out in search of her rightful kingdom. In the meantime, she could hide in the gazebo on the front lawn. She’d hidden there earlier today after she’d run from the cruel prince. She could rest on the benches and hide if a giant stomped nearby.

Frances ran to the gazebo and sidled inside, creeping under a bench and pulling her knees to her chest, using the hem of her nightgown to dry her tears.