Halloween Magic Read online

  He was only joking, but Nicholas’s eyes brightened immediately. “By Jove, you’re right,” he declared.

  “Eh?”

  “You’re right, it is time to go home to Shropshire. In fact, I’ll leave tonight.”

  Oliver gaped at him. “You’re mad!”

  “Maybe, but it’s what I want to do.” Nicholas turned as a hackney coach rattled along the cobbles behind them. “Hey, there, coachman!” he called, waving his cane aloft.

  The coach drew to a standstill, and Nicholas glanced at Oliver. “Why don’t you and Anna come too?”

  “What, now? In the middle of the night?” Oliver was dumbfounded.

  “It isn’t just any night, dear boy, it’s Walpurgis Night,” Nicholas replied with a grin.

  Oliver glanced at the hackney coach. “Your broomstick, I presume?” he observed dryly.

  “Maybe. Look, joking apart, Oliver, I’m sincere in the invitation. There’s nothing I’d like more than to have you and Anna join me at Wychavon. Come whenever you wish, my door’s always open to you.”

  “I—I’ll think about it.”

  “Do that.” With a quick grin, Nicholas stepped into the waiting coach and instructed the driver to take him to his house in Grosvenor Square.

  The whip cracked, and the horse came up to a reluctant trot, leaving an amazed Oliver behind on the pavement.

  * * *

  At that moment in Wychavon, Judith was searching diligently for the seal. She found the yellow thread still wrapped around the reeds, but no sign at all of the precious seal, which she knew was now a very powerful charm. Why wasn’t it here? Could she have dropped it somewhere else on the way to the grove? She didn’t see how that was possible. This was the only likely place.

  She swung her cloak tightly around her shoulders, her hazel eyes glittering furiously. She had to have the seal, for it would give her full control over Nicholas Montacute. She’d have to look again in daylight.

  Trembling with rage, she made her way back toward the manor house, the yellow embroidery silk still in her hand.

  Chapter Three

  The following morning Verity was awakened by the blast of the first May Day horn as the village made ready for the celebrations. The overnight mist had gone, and sunlight poured in through a crack in the cream brocade curtains, revealing an elegantly furnished bedroom with gray-and-cream striped silk on the walls.

  There was a mahogany wardrobe, dressing table, washstand, a comfortable fireside chair, and an oval cheval glass that stood in a corner. A vase of lilacs occupied the hearth, and a large glass-domed clock dominated the mantelpiece between two silver candelabra.

  Suddenly she remembered her freckles and reached hopefully for her hand mirror. But to her dismay there were as many as ever. So much for May Eve dew! She might just as well have remained faithful to Gowland’s lotion. She got out of the silk-canopied bed, and after a quick wash went to the window.

  The garlanded maypole soared against a clear blue sky, its ribbons fluttering gently in the light breeze, and there were boughs of greenery and bunches of flowers everywhere. Trestle tables had been set up, and some men were rolling casks of ale and cider across the grass. More horns began to sound around the village, and a man in a hobby horse pranced on the green. Morris dancers practiced to the music of a fiddle and hurdy-gurdy, and the village women laughed and chattered as they carried food to the tables.

  The sound of hammering drew her attention to a cottage door, where two men were nailing up traditional boughs of hawthorn. When they finished they moved on to the manor house, carrying more hawthorn up through the topiary garden, but when they reached the door the butler came out to wave them off. The men protested, but the butler was adamant, and after a while they carried the hawthorn away again.

  Verity was puzzled. Everyone in Wychavon had hawthorn on May Day, because apart from being a colorful custom, it was supposed to be a good-luck charm to deter witches, and yet Judith Villiers had clearly issued instructions that none was to be fixed to her door. Verity pulled a face, for she didn’t like Judith very much. It was very sad that Admiral Villiers had died so suddenly, but there was something about his widow she simply couldn’t take to.

  The clock on the mantelpiece began to chime behind her, and she turned with a dismayed gasp. She was going to be late for breakfast! She was between maids at the moment, her last one having left to be married and a replacement not having been engaged yet, so she was having to dress herself. It wasn’t the clothes she found difficult, just her hair. With so many long curls, it was a task and a half to pin them up adequately.

  She hurried to the dressing table, hastily doing what she could to achieve some semblance of style, but then settling for tucking everything up beneath a lace day bonnet. It wasn’t an elegant coiffure, but would have to do. Next she stepped out of her nightgown and into a neat cherry-and-cream-spotted lawn gown, but before going down she returned to the wardrobe for the seal, concerning which she intended to consult with her uncle. Should she send it to the castle, or to London, where Nicholas had been for so long?

  There were no strange green lights this time, nor any whiff of herb smoke, but just as she was about to slip it into her gown pocket, she had a vision of Nicholas himself. He was seated in a fast-moving traveling carriage, and his eyes were closed, but suddenly they opened and he seemed to look directly at her and smile. She was so startled she almost dropped the seal, then the gong echoed through the house, and the image vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.

  She drew a long breath to steady herself, for the illusion had been so vivid it had seemed real. Then she told herself off crossly. This was all nonsense, just as the green lights and scent of herbs had been last night! For some reason she was allowing her imagination to run away with her, and it just wouldn’t do. Taking another deep breath, she hurried from the room.

  The dining room was at the front of the house directly below her bedroom, and her uncle was standing before the long-case clock, comparing its time with that of his fob watch. He was a stout, balding, rosy-cheeked man, and wore a maroon paisley dressing gown over a shirt and nankeen legwear. The tassel on his cap trembled as he pocketed the watch and turned to eye her.

  “You’re a little late, miss,” he said reprovingly.

  “I’m sorry, Uncle,” she replied, hurrying over to kiss his cheek.

  He smiled fondly. “How are you this morning? In fine fettle for the festivities?” He drew her chair out attentively.

  “Oh, yes, I love May Day!” she said, sitting down and arranging her skirts.

  The window stood slightly open, and the fragrance of wallflowers and peonies drifted into the room. Sparrows chirped in the lilacs, and beyond the high wall were the sounds on the green.

  Joshua sat opposite her, and glanced out. “Well, at least the weather’s fine this year, last year was one long deluge, as I recall. If this keeps up, we’ll soon be able to have breakfast in the summerhouse.”

  “And strawberries,” she added with relish, thinking of the plump fruit ripening in the greenhouse.

  He nodded. “Strawberries for breakfast are very civilized. Actually, I examined the greenhouse a short while ago. I believe the first fruit will be ready tomorrow.”

  “How very precise,” she said with a smile.

  “Strawberries should be consumed at the perfect moment. Oh, by the way, talking of tomorrow, I have to leave for Ludlow first thing.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “But it’s Sunday tomorrow.”

  “There’s a magistrates’ meeting in the afternoon, and a banquet in the evening. I shall stay at the Feathers, and return on Monday.”

  “From which I take it you intend to overindulge,” she said tartly.

  “I merely do not wish to travel back late at night,” he replied firmly, then said no more because the door from the kitchens opened and two maids came in, one with two plates of scrambled eggs and bacon, the other with warm bread rolls and a coffeepot.

  It w
as several minutes before Verity placed the seal on the table in front of her uncle. “I found this on the green,” she said, prudently omitting to say it had been the middle of the night at the time.

  He scowled as he recognized the double-headed phoenix. “Montacute’s? What in the devil was it doing on the green?”

  “I really don’t know. The thing is, what should I do with it?”

  “I can’t see any problem, you simply send it to the castle,” he replied, reaching for a roll and breaking it so that crumbs cascaded over the table.

  “Yes, but Lord Montacute is in London, and has been for some time. It’s just that the seal is clearly quite valuable, so I wondered if it had been stolen from the castle. Maybe we should send it to him in London?”

  “If there’d been a robbery at the castle, we’d have heard about it. No, I suspect Montacute dropped it himself when he was here.”

  “A fob seal, maybe, but one for use on a desk.”

  He shrugged. “No matter what its purpose, the fellow’s managed without it all these months, so I hardly think it’s vital to his existence. Send it to the castle, and have done with it.”

  “Why do you dislike Lord Montacute so much?” she asked bluntly.

  “You know why,” he replied, applying himself to his breakfast in a way which precluded further discussion.

  “I don’t know anything of the kind, Uncle, so I wish you wouldn’t keep saying that.”

  “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, I deeply resent his interference over that highwayman fellow.”

  Verity sighed and fell silent. Relations between the two men had never been all that warm because they were politically opposed. Then, as fellow magistrates, they’d differed bitterly over the sentencing of a highwayman, but last autumn her uncle’s attitude toward Nicholas had suddenly changed for the worse. The highwayman had long since ceased to have anything to do with it, there was something else, but no matter how hard she tried to find out what it was, she got nowhere.

  She sipped her coffee, her thoughts returning to Nicholas’s prolonged absence. Clearly Wychavon was far too dull a place for a gentleman of his standing, only London was good enough now. She wished it were otherwise, for no matter what her uncle’s opinion of him might be, she found the ninth Lord Montacute uncomfortably to her liking. She always had. Maybe it was his devastating smile. Yes, it probably was....

  Joshua interrupted her musings. “What time shall we join the jollifications on the green?” he asked, helping himself to more bacon from the platter the maid had left on the table.

  “I don’t really mind,” Verity replied watching him in concern. “Uncle, you really should remember your dyspepsia. Dr. Rogers said—”

  “Plaque take Dr. Rogers,” he interrupted.

  “Nevertheless—” She broke off as he pointedly ate a whole rasher. “Oh, on your own head be it,” she murmured resignedly. He never seemed to learn that his digestive system wasn’t what it had been, and that the number of nights he spent in discomfort was increasing because he refused to eat sensibly. His philosophy appeared to be “never be confined to two rashers if six were there for the taking.”

  He finished his plate and then mopped his lips with his napkin. “By Gad, that was a splendid start to the day,” he declared.

  “Let’s see if you still think the same tonight.”

  “Oh, fiddlesticks,” he muttered, then he sat back and eyed her. “We’ll sally forth at about two, hmm?”

  “Whatever you wish.”

  “Actually, what I wish is that this afternoon you take the trouble to be kind to poor Mrs. Villiers. I happen to know she intends to participate a little, which I think is very brave of her so soon after her tragic loss.”

  “Brave? Some might say it’s disrespectful,” Verity replied uncharitably.

  He frowned. “Come now, Verity, that’s hardly Christian.”

  “I just don’t care for her, Uncle, and I’d much rather not speak to her, if you don’t mind.”

  “But I do mind, miss. She’s a charming woman, and all that’s suitable for a young chit like you to be seen with.”

  “She’s decidedly strange,” Verity replied flatly, thinking that whenever she encountered Judith Villiers she was reminded of stepping out of sunshine into shadow.

  “Strange? In what way?”

  “Well, even you have to admit that it isn’t many a young woman who’s found naked in a garden in the middle of a Halloween thunderstorm, claiming to have lost her memory.”

  “Amnesia is a medical fact, my dear,” Joshua replied patiently.

  “Maybe so, but those who are thus afflicted don’t usually rush into marriage, least of all with old admirals almost three times their age.”

  “What has age got to do with it?” Joshua asked a little huffily. “Admiral Villiers fell in love with her, and she with him.”

  “And after a few weeks of wedded bliss he conveniently fell from his horse and drowned, leaving everything to her. What on earth possessed him to go riding to the oak grove anyway? He never rode at all because of his arthritis, yet suddenly he galloped off like a twenty-year-old. I thought it strange then, and I still do,” Verity said, not meeting his eyes because she knew she was shocking him.

  “And you must have thought the same, even if you aren’t shabby enough to say it. Well, I am shabby enough. I don’t believe she ever lost her memory, and I don’t believe she’s in the least grief stricken. She’s an adventuress, no more and no less.”

  “I’m ashamed of you, miss.”

  Verity’s jaw set stubbornly.

  He cleared his throat. “Perhaps we’d better change the subject.”

  “Yes, perhaps we had.”

  “But I still want you to speak civilly to Mrs. Villiers this afternoon.”

  It was an instruction, and she knew it. “Yes, Uncle,” she replied resignedly.

  “And since it’s sunny today, please be so good as to remember your parasol, or I’ll be obliged to pay for even more Gowland’s lotion than I already do.”

  She colored. “Yes, Uncle.”

  He sighed. “Well, given your lack of charity toward poor Mrs. Villiers, I’m almost disinclined to tell you my good news.”

  “Good news?” She looked at him.

  “I think it so. It’s time you were married off, miss, and since it’s clear you’ll never find a husband in a backwater like Wychavon, I decided some months ago to do something about it.” He sat back for dramatic effect. “I’ve planned it all with infinite care, and can now tell you that at the beginning of June we are to remove to London for the Season,” he announced.

  It was a bolt out of the blue, and she could only stare at him.

  Chapter Four

  The announcement left Verity thunderstruck. “Go to London for the—the Season?” she repeated incredulously.

  “That’s what I said,” he murmured, pleased with the impact his news had had.

  “But, isn’t that a little grand for someone like me?”

  He chuckled. “Grand? Certainly not. My dear Verity, you have expectations, what with the sum your parents left you and my estate too, therefore a proper husband must be found, someone whose fortune matches or preferably exceeds your own. So the Season seems the obvious thing. It isn’t beyond my means, or contacts,” he added.

  She lowered her eyes, for any mention of her parents always upset her. They had died in a fire five years ago, and she still missed them terribly. That was why she was equally upset when her uncle spoke of the fortune she would inherit when he passed on too. He was all she had now, and because she loved him so much, she didn’t like being reminded of his mortality.

  Joshua leaned across to pat her hand. “Don’t be sad, my dear, for we must be practical. You do have expectations, and it’s up to me to see that the right thing’s done about it. Or maybe you’d rather not go to London, hmm?” This last was said in a teasing tone.

  Her eyes flew to his. “Of course I want to go!”
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br />   “I thought so. It’s settled then, which is as well, since I’ve, er, anticipated somewhat.”

  “Anticipated? What do you mean?”

  “I’ve leased the Dover Street house of my good friend, Lady Sichester.”

  Lady Sichester was more than just his friend. It was Verity’s suspicion that he and her ladyship had once been closer than they should have been, but it was no more than a suspicion. She looked at him. “Doesn’t Lady Sichester require the house herself?”

  “Not this year. She and her daughter Amabel left for Geneva last week. For her ladyship’s health, I, er, believe.” He cleared his throat, and fidgeted with his cup.

  Verity looked curiously at him. “Is something wrong, Uncle?”

  “Eh? Oh, no, nothing at all. Now where was I? Ah, yes, the house in Dover Street. What will you think of a Mayfair address, hmm? Very superior. And we’ll have all the furnishings, servants, etcetera, to say nothing of Amabel’s French maid for you.”

  “The maid hasn’t gone with Amabel?” she asked in surprise.

  “Er, no, I understand not.”

  “Why?”

  “I have no idea. Anyway, when I decided on this a few months ago, I successfully entreated Amabel to choose a suitable wardrobe for you. She’s a very fashionable young woman, and, so I’m told, is exactly the same size as you. I’m therefore delighted to tell you that a bang-up-to-the-mark set of togs and accessories awaits your arrival. I’m assured you’ll be fit for Carlton House itself.”

  Verity didn’t know what to say. Delight rendered her speechless.

  He smiled fondly. “It would appear I’ve done something to please you greatly, miss.”

  “Oh, yes!” Suddenly she got up and rushed around the table to hug him. “Thank you, oh, thank you!”

  * * *

  After breakfast she went to the kitchens to discuss the evening meal with the cook, but on the way encountered her old nurse, Martha Cansford, whose advice concerning freckles had proved so unrewarding.

  Martha had a crooked back and straggly gray hair which she always tugged back into a tight bun beneath a crisply starched mobcap. She was a spry seventy-year-old who’d never married because the only man she’d ever loved had been a soldier who died at the battle of Bunker Hill in far-off America. Gifted with herbs and potions, she was the village wisewoman, turned to in preference to Dr. Rogers, whose charges were beyond the purse of most local people.