“No, Elsie.” He reached over and ran a thumb over her knee. “You’re not.”
She didn’t believe him, but she managed a tight smile, glad the carriage was dim enough not to reveal the heat that raced across her skin from his touch. He only meant to comfort, she knew, but he pulled away, and the vehicle felt colder for it. Then the rain started in earnest, and she was content with listening to its uneven patterns until they reached Duchess Matilda Morris’s estate.
CHAPTER 6
“It’s rather unexpected,” Duchess Morris said as her maid handed her a cup of tea, “but I am formally trained, of course. I know the atheneums do a poor job at upholding the bounds of propriety.”
Duchess Morris’s parlor was large and bright, full windows letting in gray, rain-choked light. On one wall hung an enormous portrait of the duchess herself, and on the opposite wall hung a markedly smaller portrait of an older man Elsie assumed to be her husband. The floor and fireplace were marble, the drapes and carpets navy, the ceiling painted with fleur-de-lis. Duchess Morris sat in an elaborate armchair, while Elsie and Bacchus occupied a stiff velvet sofa. Elsie had worn her best dress today, but it didn’t feel fancy enough in this posh house.
At the mention of propriety, Duchess Morris’s eyes raked between Elsie and Bacchus, even dropping down to Elsie’s hand. All the temporal and physical runes lending to her beauty, some of which Elsie had jarred loose some days prior, were firmly back in place. “Are you overseeing her training, Master Kelsey? Does this mean you’re secretly a spellbreaker?”
Secretly a spellbreaker hit a little too close to home and stoked Elsie’s nerves.
Bacchus, thankfully, smoothly accepted his tea—Elsie refused hers, worried she’d fumble it—and answered, “Not exactly. Miss Camden is my fiancée.”
My fiancée. The words washed over her like an autumn breeze.
“Is that so?” Duchess Morris perked up, examining Elsie again. “Why, what an interesting pair.”
Elsie wanted to demand what she meant by that, but thought it best to hold her tongue. So far, Duchess Morris had not recognized her as the clumsy woman in the millinery, and she needed to stay on her good side if she was to uncover any information about Master Merton.
“I was fortunate,” Elsie said, tasting the falsehoods in her mouth, “to have an aspector so close by during my time of discovery.” Granted, she worked for an aspector, but Duchess Morris didn’t know that.
“I imagine so. To think, waking up one day and . . . magic!” She chortled. “To not have to work with it day in and day out from youth up. How lucky you are, Miss Camden.”
Elsie forced herself not to grit her teeth. “Very lucky, indeed.”
“But, Master Kelsey”—she turned her attention to Bacchus—“I don’t know how you tolerate Kent. I hear the place is falling apart with rot.”
Elsie could feel Bacchus tense beside her. After all, it had likely been Duchess Morris who had placed the rot curses on the Duke of Kent’s fields—curses Elsie had since unraveled. She placed a hand on Bacchus’s forearm and answered on his behalf. “Oh, it’s a modest place, for sure. Very cozy. Though I am rather stunned by your own estate, Duchess Morris. It’s so . . . fashionable. I would love a tour if you have time for it.”
Duchess Morris smiled. “I might be able to arrange one. You have good taste, Miss Camden. Now”—she set down her tea—“what questions do you have for me?”
Elsie went through the interrogation she’d rehearsed that morning, questions she thought would sound official and scholarly, pertinent to a spellbreaker. She started with simple ones, about the spiritual discipline and its effects, then went personal. Why had Duchess Morris chosen that discipline? How had magic affected her life? And then brought it back around—when had Duchess Morris needed a spellbreaker, and how efficient were they?
“I don’t often hire them. I’m essentially retired from magic. A lady of my stature doesn’t work.” She twisted a dark curl around her index finger and released it. Bacchus had once said Duchess Morris had burned out, which meant she’d reached the peak of her learnable spells and could no longer progress, but Elsie knew better than to mention it. “But on occasion a hired hand will make a mistake. The usual.”
Or you need to change the shape of your nose, she thought. Feeling the duchess at ease, Elsie tried, “If you’ll excuse the interjection, Duchess Morris, something about you is very familiar. You’re not the kind of woman who can be mistaken for anyone else.”
She seemed pleased by the assertion. “Is that so?”
“Yes.” She glanced to Bacchus. “Is it . . . Are you chummy with Master Merton, by chance?”
Her face lit up. “I am! How did you know?”
Bacchus said, “Master Merton has dined with the Duke and Duchess of Kent on numerous occasions.”
Duchess Morris rolled her eyes. “Oh, I’m not surprised. She’s all about recruitment, especially for women, for whatever reason. She’ll go just about anywhere. She doesn’t have an estate or family of her own to attend to, so she has the time.”
Elsie squeezed Bacchus’s arm, as if to say, I know, she’s ridiculous. Just wait it out a little longer.
Picking through the duchess’s words, Elsie grabbed on to what felt most useful. “No estate? Has she not been in her mastership for some time?”
“Oh, yes. Shortly before I earned mine.” Duchess Morris again toyed with her hair. “But she has no natural inheritance. She’s not even English, you know.”
Elsie started. “She’s not?” She looked English, sounded English.
“Oh yes.” She waved a bored hand, as though the conversation had lost her interest now that the focus had drifted from her. “Fled Russia with her parents during that war. They died off somehow, and she wound up in a workhouse somewhere around here. She mentioned it once a long time ago, in school.”
Elsie’s mind was racing enough to kick up dust. Russia? Did Duchess Morris mean the Crimean War? Merton was certainly old enough; she had to be nearing sixty. She would have been . . . what, Emmeline’s age when that happened?
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” Bacchus said, covering for Elsie’s silent stupor.
“Oh, yes.” Elsie nodded. “That is tragic.”
Duchess Morris shrugged. “It was a long time ago. She never talks of it anymore. You know how some people are, bringing up their sad stories over and over again for attention. Not Lily.”
Pressing her luck, Elsie asked, “Do you remember how she made it to the atheneum? Workhouses . . . are hard to leave behind.” She knew from experience. And spellmaking was expensive, besides.
The duchess sighed. “The only way poor riffraff can, Miss Camden. She made the sponsorship lottery.”
Bacchus said, “And you took her under your wing. How very kind of you, to reach out to someone so below your station.”
A surprising shock of sadness flashed across Duchess Morris’s face. “Oh, of course. There was a time when . . .” She sat up straighter in her chair. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. Do you have any more questions for me?”
“Oh please, Duchess Morris.” Elsie clamped her hands together in the folds of her skirt. “I would love to hear your tale of charity.” Tell us everything you can, please.
The duchess pursed her lips and studied Elsie. For a moment, Elsie worried she had gone too far. But the kind words must have had the intended effect, for Duchess Morris’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. “It was so long ago. Let’s just say my fool father took it into his head to humble the entirety of his family.” She sniffed. “So I suppose Lily and I took each other under wing, until I made my match.” She gestured weakly to the portrait of the duke on the wall. “Lily is a good person. Quite the Christian, donating to peace efforts and, I don’t know, feeding the poor or some nonsense. Always was dedicated to her sponsor more than anyone else. She even supported him financially, in his old age. Very distraught when he passed on. I haven’t seen Lily since . . .”