But the older man only raised his brow. “Make them disappear into thin air? Nay.” His eyes narrowed. “But on second thought, there might be something…” He closed his eyes for a moment. An expression of intense concentration appeared on his face as he muttered a few words. The air inside the hackney started to tingle. And then, with an audible
puff
, the tingles were gone. “So,” Bourne said in satisfied tones and opened his eyes. “That should do the trick.”
Whatever magic he had wrought made the coach pick up speed. In no time at all they had reached Oxford Street and, after that, Holles Street and Cavendish Square. Fox climbed out of the hackney after Bourne. “Wait for us,” he told the driver, before he followed the other to the front door of the Benthams’ house.
As Bourne looked up at the facade of the building, his face darkened. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I trusted you. I
trusted
you!” he hissed. “And look how you’ve repaid my friendship.” He made an abrupt movement with his hand, and the front door sprang open. Grimly he went inside, followed closely by Fox.
A footman came running. “Sirs, what—”
“Bring us to your master,” Bourne growled. Now that they had finally reached their destination, his anger seemed to burst forth. The footman goggled at their crumpled clothes, before he belatedly remembered his training.
“If you would wait in the hall, sirs,” he said, businesslike. “Mr. Bentham is keeping company, but I can inquire whether he will be free to see you.”
“How fortunate that he is in. Then you can take us with you straightaway.”
“Er, no, sir, I’m afraid I must insist, sir—” His words ended on a squeak as Bourne had grabbed the unfortunate footman by the collar.
“Take. Us. To. Your. Master.
Now
!” He released the footman, and whatever the servant had seen in Bourne’s eyes was enough to make him hastily comply.
They were led to the dining room, where, as it turned out, the Benthams were giving a dinner for Lord Munthorpe. At their entrance, all color leached from Bentham’s face. He scrambled to his feet, crumpled his napkin between his fingers, and made an attempt at a smile. “B-Bourne. And Stapleton.” One of his hands rose and fumbled with his necktie as if it had suddenly become too tight. “W-What a surprise.”
His wife, by contrast, looking them up and down, wrinkled her nose. “How… unconventional.”
Bourne didn’t spare her a glance, but kept his eyes trained on his erstwhile friend. “Spare me the playacting. Did you do it or not?”
Mrs. Bentham trilled a laugh. “Why, my dear Mr. Bourne. From the way you talk, one could be led to assume you’ve come straight from Bedlam!” She batted her lashes. “You talk in riddles.”
“Like an oracle, indeed!” her daughter chimed in. “How is dear Amelia, Mr. Bourne?”
For the first time, Bourne looked at Miss Bentham, his expression thunderous enough to make her shrink back on her seat. “My niece,” he forced out between gritted teeth, “is
dying
. So tell me, Bentham”—his attention swiveled back to the father—“why did you do it?”
“Do what?” Bentham still held on to his bluster. “I am of course very sorry that Amelia is poorly, but I fail to see—”
“Bosh!” Fox’s patience snapped. He stepped up to the table and slapped his hands flat on the surface. “You helped Lady Margaret to take revenge on my brother, and Amy was the pawn you used—and sacrificed.”
“I—”
“It was you who gave us the potion, was it not?”
“Potion?” Munthorpe, who had been following the exchange with a flabbergasted expression, spluttered, “What potion?”
Fox glanced at him, at dear old Munty, so fond of his sheep. Suddenly he felt pity for him, because of all the women of London, Munthorpe had developed an affection for a vicious little viper. “A love potion,” he said more calmly—and when Munthorpe’s eyes widened with disbelief: “Yes, I know. It’s hardly believable, but I assure you it’s true.”
Isabella Bentham burst out laughing. “Oh, this is delicious, is it not, my lord, Truly, Mr. Stapleton, we are so very sorry to hear about dear Amelia, but it seems that the grief must have befuddled your brains.”
Yet Munthorpe didn’t join in her laughter. “A… a love potion?” He frowned. “Whatever for?”
“Indeed,” Bentham choked out, his face now flushed with color. Bourne still stared at him as a basilisk would at a rabbit. “This is a m-most fa-fantastical tale! Ha ha!” Surreptitiously he tugged at his cravat. “Love potions! ‘Tis preposterous!”
“Why did you do it?” Bourne repeated. “You must have run into debts—but with that Lady Margaret of all persons?” His eyes narrowed. “Back at university, there were rumors that you gambled more than was healthy…”
Beads of sweat glistened on Bentham’s forehead. Weakly he sank back onto his chair. His wife threw him a disgusted look and stood, brimming with determination.
“Really, gentlemen, this is a most unusual way to talk in another’s house. To come here and throw about ludicrous accusations—no, this will not do. We must ask you to leave now. Gregory!” she called to the footman in the hallway. “Please escort these two gentlemen to the door!”
The next moment, the door to the dining room banged shut, apparently with no help from anyone, making the people around the table start violently. With a yelp, Mrs. Bentham fell back on her chair.
Bourne didn’t even blink an eye. “I don’t think so,” he said. “It appears we both should have listened more carefully to the rumors at university.”
The door handle rattled as somebody outside tried to open the door in vain. And as realization dawned in Bentham’s eyes, his face turned a sickly gray. “So he was right,” he muttered. “You are of the same ilk. Sorcerer, warlock.”
Bourne’s gaze sharpened. “What are you talking about?”
“He knew you! Lady Margaret’s man, he knew you!” Bentham gave a hysterical laugh. “To imagine: the virtuous Bourne—a sorcerer!” Giggling, he twisted the napkin between his fingers.
Bourne threw a questioning glance at Fox.
“He is right,” Fox said slowly, only now remembering those strange bits of conversation in the drawing room of Rawdon Park. “It would seem that Lady Margaret’s sorcerer knew you. Young, blond-haired fellow? He appeared delighted that he had been given the chance to take revenge on you.”
“Samuel Lovell…” Losing some of his color, Bourne shook his head. “He doesn’t seem possible. And Amy killed him you say?”
“She killed—” Bentham choked out. “Lord, what sort of girl is your niece? To imagine she lived under our roof all this time!”
“A killeress,” Miss Bentham breathed. “How awful!” She grabbed Lord Munthorpe’s arm.
“You!” Bourne turned on Bentham. “You used my niece to infiltrate Lord Rawdon’s family, didn’t you? So a few nice magical toys could be planted on Rawdon’s estate.”
“On Rawdon’s estate?” Munthorpe echoed, getting more confused by the second. “Miss Bourne did…? And killed…? But… but…”
“Oh, my niece didn’t know anything about those charms. That potion had made her so besotted with Stapleton, she couldn’t think straight; otherwise she might have noticed earlier that something was amiss and that his family was in danger.”
“Really, Mr. Bourne,” Mrs. Bentham rallied once more. “Do you see how you contradict yourself? First you accuse my poor husband of using your niece, as you put it, and then you go on to say that she couldn’t possibly have done whatever ghastly things you are talking about. Even though she has killed some poor man, apparently.”
Fox shook his head. Drew had been right all along to avoid this woman at all costs. “Ah,” he said, “but Amy did not travel to Rawdon Park alone, did she? Your daughter accompanied her.”
Munthorpe gaped. “You mean to suggest…” Very slowly he turned his head to look at the object of his devotion. “What exactly have you done?” he whispered.
“Nothing!” Isabella Bentham snapped and tossed her head back. “I did nothing wrong.”
Munthorpe regarded her as if he had never seen her before. “Your friend is
dying
. Does this not affect you?”
Sullenly, she shrugged. “She has never been my friend,” she scoffed. “And you heard what they said. What she did.”
“My niece is dying because she tried to protect the Stapletons from the evil charms
you
have planted at Rawdon Park!” Bourne hissed.
“I see,” Munthorpe said slowly. “I see.” His face haggard, he stood. “I believe it is best if I now leave.”
“Oh, but you can’t!” Miss Bentham raised her eyes to his. “Not in the middle of dinner.”
“Shush, my dear,” her mother tried to appease her. “After all, these two gentlemen have managed to ruin the evening anyway. But there will be other dinners, other—”
“Now, this is where you are wrong.” With jerky movements Munthorpe smoothed nonexistent wrinkles in his suit. “I am afraid I will not return to this house.”
“What!” Mrs. Bentham cried. “How can you? When you are practically engaged to my daughter?”
Munthorpe’s jaw hardened. “I am not yet engaged to her—which I consider fortunate indeed, for I now believe we would not have suited at all.”
“Not suited?” Isabella Bentham screeched. “How dare you? If you walk off now, the whole of London will believe you the most dishonorable of men!”
“Then I choose to be dishonorable,” he answered, his back already turned on her. “Stapleton. Bourne.” He nodded at them. “I am very sorry about Miss Bourne’s affliction. If there’s anything I can do…”
Fox shook his head. “I’m afraid there isn’t. But thank you.”
“I am very sorry to hear it.” Munthorpe inclined his head once more, then walked out of the room with brisk strides. For him, the door yielded easily.
Mrs. Bentham shot to her feet. “You!
You
! This is all your fault!” She glowered at Fox and Bourne. “How dare you walk in here and—”
“How dare
you
?” Bourne hissed, leaning forward. “How dare you use my niece in your foul play? How dare you sit here, so self-righteous after you’ve brought death to Rawdon Park?”
Her mouth opened and closed like a stranded fish’s.
“W-What do you want?” Bentham asked wearily. “I had no choice, if you must know. They threatened me, I—”
“Be quiet!” Bourne thundered. “Save your pitiful excuses. I want to know what your daughter carried to Rawdon’s estate. There was something for the stairs, something for the lake—and what else?”
Bentham muttered something unintelligible.
“What?”
“A plant,” he muttered.
“A plant?” Bourne’s face turned ashen. “Oh dear God,” he whispered.
Fox’s stomach gave a lurch. He didn’t know what bothered Amy’s uncle about this, but whatever it was, it was bad. When he thought of Amy, lying pale and still in her bed, then looked at the sullen faces of the Bentham family before him, he felt an overpowering urge to throttle the lot of them. “And what exactly did you do with it?” he barked at Isabella Bentham.
She shot him a spiteful glance. “Why should I tell you?”
“She was to plant it in the garden,” Bentham said quickly. “Now look here, Bourne, I am really sorry about—”
“Where in the garden?” Bourne growled.
Bentham cleared his throat. “Uhm. Isabella, dear?”
But the girl only shrugged.
Bentham’s lips trembled, then lifted into a grimace of a smile. “T-Tell them, my dear.”
“Doesn’t one corner of green look like any other?”
Bourne took a deep breath. “Very well.” He turned toward Fox. “I believe our job here is done.”
Yet before they had reached the door, Bentham spoke up one last time—rather unwisely. “I am profoundly sorry, my dear chap. I can assure you we had the greatest affection for little Amelia, and it truly pains me that-But who could have foreseen it? I had no choice in the matter, my hands were bound, I—”
Bourne stopped. “Do not exert yourself, Bentham.” His eyes glittering, he looked over his shoulder in a manner that made a cold shiver slither down Fox’s spine. Darkness seemed to assemble in the corners of the room. “I see you’ve drunk wine tonight? I hope you’ve enjoyed it. For from now on, all wine you drink will be bitter and all food you eat will turn to dust. Your fortune will run through your fingers like water, faster than you can count the days. I curse this house for seven-score years. All that you’ve gained through your greed will crumble and wither.” He gave Bentham a terrible smile. “Good evening, my friend.”
And with that, he and Fox finally left.
~*~
They took the hackney to Albany next. They paid the driver on Piccadilly Street and entered Albany from the front, through the mansion itself, then down the steps to the Rope Walk at the back of the house. Yet for once the sight of the lit windows to the left and right failed to lift Fox’s heart. In silence they walked to his block and up the stairs. Just as he had inserted the key into the door of his apartment, it was flung open with flourish.
“G-good evening, thur,” Hobbes said.
Dumbfounded, Fox stared at him, then blinked once, twice—for surely he must be seeing ghosts.
“W-Won’t you come in, thur?” The old man stepped aside. “Shall I thend for thomething to eat?”
“But… but…” Fox spluttered, “you were gone!”
The old man eyed him. “Yeth, thur,” he said mildly. “But tho were you, were you not? In Warwickshire, I believe?” He looked past his employer to Amy’s uncle.
Still flabbergasted, Fox showed Bourne into hallway of the apartment, where Hobbes took their coats and hats. “But how did you know?” Fox asked, relief swamping him. Thank heavens Hobbes was back! He had missed the old chap, with his peculiar ways.
“L-Lord Thtafford wath kind enough to inform m-me of your de-departure, thur.”
“Ah,” Fox said. And, more feelingly, “That devil!”
Chapter Eighteen
They spent the night at Fox’s rooms in Albany. Fox had insisted that Bourne should take the bed while he slept in one of the leather armchairs in his study. The next morning they were on the road again, only this time their destination was the Fen District. A steady drizzle of snow slowed them down that day, and thus it was late in the evening before they finally reached Rawdon Park.
“Sebastian!” his sister-in-law greeted him on the stairs. She tugged at his shoulder to make him lean down so she could press a kiss on his icy cold cheek. “We received a message from Warwickshire last night,” she whispered. “Poor Amy! It’s dreadful!”