Under Your Spell Read online

  Silence pulsed in the room. “Perhaps,” Drake said, and stood up, heading toward the door. Toward air.

  “She didn’t have to do none of those things,” Redding said.

  Drake stopped, gut clenched. “What things?” he asked.

  Redding stood. He shifted his gaze toward the door again. “Well…I’m certain she was a fine, upstanding young miss.”

  “What things?” Drake repeated, and took a step toward the constable.

  The other’s expression darkened. “The old jeweler on Bond Street thinks she come into his shop the day before the fire.”

  Wild thoughts scrambled through Drake’s head. “And?”

  “He was missing a couple of fancy cap pins when she left.”

  Three days passed. Drake hadn’t seen Ella since the night in her garden, that night of sterling ecstasy. But he blocked that from his mind. His sister was dead. Indeed, she had been abducted and tortured. Perhaps not physically, but mentally, emotionally. He was sure of it. Something had happened to her. Something had taken over her mind, had convinced her to leave her home, to forsake both her upbringing and her morals. Indeed, he was half certain the same was happening to him, for it took all his self-control to stay away from Berryhill, to force himself to delve into Sarah’s death, into Sarah’s life. Nevertheless, he had done just that. But there was little to be learned.

  All reports indicated that she had been healthy, and if not happy, at least content. But something had changed. Or someone had changed her.

  “Sir Drake,” said Merry May. He turned his head, coming back to himself, once again hearing the buzz and hum of the crowd that washed around him like brightly colored waves about an immovable boulder. “I didn’t realize you were a fan of the turf.”

  Behind her, horses were being paraded to the post, shod hooves dancing, shiny manes shaking. “I am told one cannot miss the Two Thousand Guineas,” he said. That was indeed what he had been told. Thus he had come, planning to learn what he could about a man named Grey. About a girl with overlarge eyes who had never ceased to send him little gifts accompanied by anecdotes of everyday life, regardless how he failed to reciprocate. But he had seen Ella’s mare tied amid the melee that surrounded the track and could think of nothing but the fact that she was there, that she was close.

  “’Tis all but a national holiday,” May agreed.

  He managed a smile despite his darkling thoughts. “And who are you backing, if I may ask?”

  “Me?” She jerked slightly as if startled. “Gamble? Oh heavens no. I’ll not put my hard-earned coin down on some hapless nag likely to fail in the final furlong.”

  “I take it you’re not an avid horsewoman.”

  “One might say as much.”

  “So you don’t ride?”

  “Very little. And after what happened to Lady Lanshire, I may never do so again.”

  Raising the goblet of champagne he’d purchased from one of the nearby marquees, he took a sip and wished to hell he had a pint of rum instead. Old habits, even those one eschews, died hard, it seemed. He nodded to a passing pair of dowagers dressed in bonnets the size of small sloops, and walking gowns that brushed the earth like street sweepers behind them. He had no idea who they were. Neither did he care, so long as he appeared nonchalant. “What did happen exactly?” he asked.

  She gave him a surprised glance from beneath raised brows. “You mean to say, you haven’t heard?”

  “Just the barest details,” he said. “I’ve been rather busy.” Busy trying to keep himself from her, trying to forget how she felt in his arms. Busy trying to delve into the mystery of Sarah’s death instead of daydreaming about Ella’s eyes and lips and skin like a knobby-kneed lad in short breeches.

  May watched him closely, as if she might ascertain things she should not know. “I had hoped you would be able to enlighten me.”

  “And I thought sure you would have spoken to her.” He took another sip of fine French grape. It tasted like vinegar. Damned Frenchmen.

  “Oh, I spoke to her,” May said. “As much good as it did me.”

  Near the turf track, a booming voice called the start. A dozen horses thundered from their starting positions, but he failed to care.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “She merely said that she fell from her horse.”

  The same story he had been told, then. “But?”

  She gave him a glance from the corner of her whimsical eyes. “Have you not seen her ride, Sir Drake?”

  He had, of course. Had in fact felt her ride. In more ways than one, he thought, then was forced to wrestle his wild memories back into submission lest he careen into another far-flung fantasy that involved her and him and an utter lack of clothing. “Perhaps her mare stumbled,” he said. “It must have been quite dark after the soiree.”

  She canted her head slightly, watching him. “Yes, perhaps the darkness made her tumble from her mount.”

  He ignored her facetious tone, wondering what she knew. What she suspected. “London’s ladies are certainly having their share of trouble of late,” he said.

  The crowd was screaming. A thousand raucous voices cheering for a dozen frantic steeds.

  “How do you mean?” May asked.

  “I heard a young woman was killed in a fire not so many weeks past.” Off to his right, a small boy with a grimy face pressed between a gaggle of young toffs and came out on the far side just tucking something into his ragged jacket. Drake caught his eye for an instant before the grubby urchin nipped into the crowd and was gone.

  “Oh yes.” She shook her head. “Miss Donovan.” Her eyes shadowed at the memory. “A terrible tragedy.”

  Was there subterfuge there, or was he looking to find fault where there was none? “Did you know her well?”

  “No.” She sipped from her own cup. “She was younger than I. Don’t ask by how much,” she added quickly. “And seemed to have different friends.”

  He nodded, took a drink of gall, judging every nuance. “Visiting a friend, wasn’t she?” he asked.

  Perhaps a bit of skepticism shone on her face, but if so, she hid it well. “I believe I did hear something to that effect.”

  “Was the friend hurt, do you know?”

  May canted her head. “She was a bit young for you, wasn’t she, sir?”

  He raised a brow. The crowd roared.

  “Why else the interest?” she asked.

  “I thought the ton survived on gossip alone.”

  She laughed. “That may well be true, but I fear I wasn’t in her immediate circle.”

  “Who was?”

  She shook her head.

  “I heard she was an accomplished equestrian,” he said. “Did she ride with others?” This mincing charade was driving him mad. He longed to be direct. To demand answers: Had she known Lady Lanshire? Had they been friends? Acquaintances? Adversaries?

  “Most probably. Hyde is all but murderous of an afternoon what with the hordes of riders and drivers. Lady Lanshire being as bad as any.”

  He felt his heart lurch at the sound of her name, but kept his voice steady. “She likes her steeds too, I hear. Might the two have known each other? Met in Hyde or elsewhere?”

  “It’s possible,” she said, then glanced over his shoulder. “But you may as well ask her yourself, for it appears as if the doctor couldn’t keep her abed on race day.” She lifted her hand in greeting. Drake turned.

  And she was there, amid the milling crowd. But if the truth be known, it seemed as if the crowd was no more. As if she stood alone in gleaming singularity. She wore a gown of daffodil yellow and carried a frilly parasol. Her hair had been done up in green ribbons that matched the cloth which crossed her chest and held her injured arm in place.

  Their gazes met, and though he knew he was weak, he felt himself pulled across the distance, drawn toward her as if he were steel to her magnet. Or maybe it was vice versa.

  “Sir Drake,” she said. Her voice was cool.

  “Lady
Lanshire,” he responded, but he wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms, to feel her body against his. And suddenly it seemed as if his suspicions of her were beyond ridiculous. Beyond belief. Standing there in her daffodil gown and mint sling, she looked as fresh and innocent as a spring blossom. As young as hope.

  He longed to taste the scent of her. To feel her name on his lips, to read her sonnets in the shade of a spreading oak, and take her into his trembling soul.

  But it was all foolishness. She was no innocent. He knew it. Felt it in his very core. She had been on Gallows Road for no apparent reason, had been inside Grey’s house. Why? And why had her servants lied about her injury? “I heard you were wounded,” he said.

  “This?” She lifted her bandaged arm slightly. “No. I just longed to wear a sling and draw the fleeting attention of the illustrious ton.”

  Her eyes were as wide as a babe’s. Her smile was as bright as sunlight, and he longed to hold her, to shake her and protect her and hear her sigh against his skin. “How did it happen?”

  She glanced at him askance. “You do not believe I simply wished to be noticed?”

  In truth, he longed to believe every foolish syllable that slipped from her irresistible lips, but he could ill afford to. “How could any fail to notice you?” he asked.

  She was silent for a moment and he almost winced, for his tone was entirely wrong, too adoring, too smitten. Too honest.

  Their gazes held for an instant, and then she laughed, almost as if it were an afterthought. As if it were forced. “Flattery, Sir Drake?” she said.

  He stifled explanations, apologies, quivering pleas. “What happened?” he asked again.

  “This? ’Twas nothing but a silly accident. I fear I fell from my horse.”

  “I was with you,” he reminded her and took a wee step closer, because he was weak, because he could not help himself. “Saw you safely to your door.”

  She raised her gaze to his, her eyes filled with laughter, with challenge. “But it was such a lovely night. I decided on a ride.”

  “After…” Memories of their time together stormed through his mind, leaving him momentarily breathless. “In the dark?”

  “Quite.”

  “Where to?”

  She glanced at the parasol she held in one hand, then lifted her eyes to give him a coquettish glance through her lashes. “Surely you’re not jealous.”

  She was drawing him in. He could feel the inexorable tug at his very soul. “Should I be?”

  “Absolutely not,” she said, and smiled. “You knew at the outset that I had no intentions of being either monogamous or serious.”

  He felt his stomach twist. Was she implying that she had gone to another man? Could it be true? The idea threw him off balance, tilting him toward insanity. “Ahh, of course.” He kept his tone carefully light. “The irresistible miller’s son.”

  “Just so.”

  “I suspect…” he began, but suddenly a thought gnawed at him. He felt his skin go cold, felt his expression freeze. “Was it he?” he asked.

  “I fear I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, and turned dismissively toward the track.

  But he grabbed her hale arm, turning her back toward him. “Did he do this to you?”

  Her irresistible lips had parted ever so slightly. “Whatever are you talking about?”

  His words were pulled from between gritted teeth. “Did he hurt you?”

  She blinked, face flushed, eyes devouring her magical face. “Would you care?” she breathed.

  More than he could bear. More than he could admit, even to himself. The idea gnawed at him. Consumed him. His teeth hurt with his anger. “Give me his name,” he said.

  She laughed, but the sound was breathless. “Why ever would I do that?” she asked.

  He held her gaze, unable to look away, to release her. “So that I might kill him.”

  Her brows lowered a fraction of an inch over her intoxicating eyes. “Tell me, sir, are you always so prone to violence?”

  “What happened?” he asked.

  Her lips parted again as if she wished to say something she would not, then: “’Twas a fall,” she said flatly. “Nothing more.”

  “Do you care for him?” The words came out unbidden.

  “Who?”

  “The miller’s son.” His voice sounded guttural, like a part of the earth, as base as any drunken captain he had ever despised. “Do you care so much for him that you would protect him even after this? Would lie for him?”

  She stared at him, unspeaking for a moment, expression unreadable. Then she reached up and touched his face with blistering tenderness. The feel of skin against skin was almost his undoing. Her velvet gaze seared him. “I swear to you, he did me no harm,” she vowed.

  He tried to resist her, to remember why he had come, but her touch was magic, and he found that his eyes had fallen closed beneath her silken caress. “Come to my bed,” he said, and opened his eyes.

  She smiled a little. “I cannot.”

  He wasn’t above begging, above groveling. Indeed, perhaps there was nothing he would not do, and in that moment he thought he saw a bit of his own insanity in her eyes. But she was stronger.

  “I cannot,” she repeated, and drawing away, stepped quickly into the boisterous crowd.

  It took every grain of his self-control to remain where he was. Indeed, he managed to turn away, but leaving her behind felt like hell had come to greet him. He tried to remember Sarah, to recall why he had come. For justice. For revenge. Lady Lanshire was somehow involved with his sister’s death. He knew it, but every time his mind bent toward her, his thoughts slipped away. He could think of nothing but how she felt beneath him, around him.

  Nevertheless, he spent the day trying to learn what he could of Grey, of Sarah, but he found that he was ever searching for her. Hopelessly scanning the crowd until he felt he would go mad with the loss of her.

  Afternoon waned. Evening set in, and still he knew nothing. Nothing but the fact that he was obsessed.

  Grinding his teeth, he left the track behind and headed for his mount, but the mob had begun to disband, making the journey difficult, and when he passed a scarlet marquee, he realized with jolting clarity that his feet had brought him to Ella’s mare. Even in the deepening darkness, he recognized the dark barb, felt himself drawn toward it, reeled in, and then he heard her mistress’s laughter. Or maybe he only felt it in his soul, for he was bewitched. He had heard of such things in his homeland. Had never doubted that this magic existed. But he had not thought that it would capture him. And yet when he saw Ella there in the darkness, standing beneath a leaning oak, half hidden behind a hansom cab, he could not despise her. Even though she was with another.

  Her back was to him. The shadows were deep. Yet he recognized her, her laughter, her essence, her dark draw on the very core of him. He felt it in the deepest part of him.

  Passing on the far side of a bevy of departing carriages, he eased closer until naught but a single mount separated him from them.

  “Mr. Sutter,” she was saying. “I think this is highly improper.”

  “Surely you are quite wrong.” The bastard she was with was leaning toward her, his mouth inches from her ear. “’Tis our duty as members of the rollicking ton to be quite scandalous.”

  “Is it?”

  “Certainly,” he said, and kissed her neck.

  She tilted her head back and moaned. And it was that sound, that tiny sighing noise that made Drake wish to commit murder. To tear Harrison Sutter limb from limb before dragging Ella to the darkest part of the world and making her his alone.

  Indeed, he stepped forward to do just that, but reason found him, stopped him. He closed his eyes against the insanity, clenched his hands into fists, and turned silently into the night.

  Chapter 23

  Ella felt Drake leave, felt her gut twist with agony as he turned away. Was that how he had made Sarah feel? Had she given him her soul, only to have
it torn and shredded? Had she felt as if her very heart was clawed from her chest only to be used and sacrificed?

  After her battle with Bixby, Ella had been abed for some days, had been afforded long hours with naught but her thoughts to keep her company. Yet she had been obsessed with memories of him. His touch, his voice, his scent.

  It was that obsession that made her realize the truth; he had bewitched her, just as he had bewitched Sarah.

  “My lady?”

  She turned back toward Sutter, barely able to see him for the strength of Drake’s presence. He had been so close. Wanting her, calling to her with his dark, unmistakable allure. But she would not succumb. Not now that she recognized him for what he was.

  “Yes?” she murmured, and searched the shadows past Sutter’s shoulder. Perhaps he wasn’t truly gone. Perhaps he would yet come for her, take her, force her to be his alone.

  “Then let’s away,” Sutter said.

  She focused. What had she said to him exactly? What had she implied while Drake stood just out of reach? Things she did not mean, that much was certain. But she would not be used again. Would not be cheated and wounded and left alone to struggle with demons she could not defeat. She would wrest herself from Drake’s dark spell no matter what the cost.

  Still, it was wrong to hurt another to do so. And she could not mend wrong with wrong. Sutter was a good man, a gentle soul. And if she did not love him, did not yearn for him, was that so bad? She had told herself, told others, that that was what she longed for. That that was just the kind of man she hoped would sire her child.

  “Mr. Sutter,” she said softly, but he interrupted her with a finger on her lips.

  “Shh, my love. Not here. Come home with me. We shall speak there. We shall read poetry by the fire and share a thousand thoughts.”

  Thoughts. Gentleness. It should be what she wanted. Indeed, she had been certain that she longed for just that, but now…“Is that what you want from me? Poetry?”

  “Wordsworth is calling,” he said, skimming his knuckles across her cheek. “And if there is more…” He cupped her face with his palm. It felt soft and gentle against her skin. “Then so be it,” he whispered, but she felt nothing. Nothing but impatience, but regret. Did that mean she was ruined for other men? That she would never be satisfied without Drake’s hands on her, without his dark magic whispering in her ear? Would she never learn? Was she doomed to repeat her sins, her foolishness?