Which of course made her think of the last time she was very close to him. Her body flushed, and her heat in addition to his was nigh unbearable.
She’d been forward. Very forward. How reckless she’d been! And yet Bacchus hadn’t seemed put off by it. Quite the opposite, in fact . . .
What would happen if she were to be forward a second time?
But Emmeline chatted about the views in Aylesbury, and her familiar, cheerful voice was a stark reminder that Elsie and Bacchus were not alone in the room. For the better, of course. Yet Elsie found herself wanting to reach over and touch his knee, just to see how he would react. To pull on his fingers and coax his arm around her. To feel his beard against her mouth, because she liked the idea of him having unchristian thoughts about her.
But then she thought of Ogden, of Merton, of Master Phillips, and the awareness of her own selfishness crashed down on her, banishing the heat beneath her skin so thoroughly she shivered.
Bacchus glanced at her, and his arm did come around her shoulders. He pressed his fingers and palm into her upper arm, and a splendid warmth emanated from them—too strong to merely be from the contact. It was a novice temperature spell. To keep her comfortable.
Of all the things that had happened the last few days, this was the one that made her want to weep.
Finding her voice, she asked Emmeline, “Did you visit Waddesdon Manor on this last trip home?” The manor was a local house often opened up for tour to the public. Emmeline talked about it often enough that Elsie felt she’d taken a tour herself.
She shook her head. “No, there was so much to do at the house. But you should come by sometime, Elsie, and take the tour with me. I might know enough to give it myself.” She grinned.
The candlelight held, and so the three of them talked quietly for a while longer, Elsie listening for Ogden despite his admonition not to wait up. Bacchus fell asleep first, his head against the backrest. Elsie studied his face in his slumber as Emmeline caught her up on the events of the novel readers she’d failed to read. Bacchus looked younger, peaceful, beautiful in repose, and had Emmeline not been there, Elsie might have had the courage to whisper the truth of her feelings to him, and let him think he’d dreamed the entire thing.
Ogden did not return home until a quarter past ten the next morning. Fortunately, Elsie was hale enough to take the stairs down on her own.
It was obvious he had not slept; dark circles rimmed his eyes, and there was a hunch to his shoulders that betrayed his age. His overall presence was haggard, though that might have been due to the thick disappointment dripping off him like undercooked caramel.
“The entire place is under heavy guard.” His voice was twenty years too old. “But there will be an estate sale. Four days. The opus will be on display on the first day only.” He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes. “The question remains when it will happen. None of the men standing watch appeared to know, either. I . . . I couldn’t get inside. Too many people.”
Elsie set a light hand on Ogden’s shoulder, relieved when he didn’t shrug it off. “Then we’ll wait. I’ll send a message to Irene. She has the best chance of finding out first, what with Bacchus staying here instead of London.”
Ogden nodded. He seemed like a man at a funeral for a loved one. “I’m going to go rest.”
“Breakfast?” Elsie offered.
But he waved it away and dragged himself up the stairs.
Wednesday, the question arose of whether or not Elsie and Bacchus’s wedding date should be postponed, given the turn of events. It was only ten days away. Bacchus gave a firm no, saying he didn’t want to allow Merton that power over them. But Elsie also heard what he didn’t say: better to keep Elsie from the noose. Invitations had already been mailed, and Lord Astley, the magistrate who’d overseen her case, had received one. He’d already sent his confirmation that he would be in attendance.
Bacchus had claimed he would have courted her regardless of their unique situation. But how? Would he have started showing up at the stonemasonry shop more often? Invited her to more dinners at Seven Oaks? Or would he have sailed home and mulled it over longer, not seeking her out until his next trip to England?
Where would Elsie be right now, had the justice system not forced his hand? Certainly not standing on a stool in a cream-colored gown while the seamstress measured her hem. Elsie pressed her palm against her stomach. Remember how he kisses you. He doesn’t not want this.
Chewing on her lip, Elsie dared to look in the nearby mirror. The dress wasn’t quite finished, but all the important bits were there. The sleeves, the collar, the gathers in the skirt. Three kinds of lace trim were spread over Emmeline’s lap, and her friend touched each one gingerly, reverently. Elsie hoped she’d be in that chair when Emmeline found someone worthy of her. In truth, she dared to hope her friend’s eye had already been turned to a certain family member of hers.
“You can choose,” Elsie offered, turning a smidge when the dressmaker indicated. “I like all of them.”
Beaming, Emmeline picked up the center strip. “This one will be perfect.”
She prayed Bacchus thought so, too.
Thursday, Reggie returned. He had copies of all the newspapers their articles had been printed in, and though Elsie knew exactly what the articles said, she looked them over anyway, trying to imagine what Quinn Raven’s reaction would be when and if he saw them. She wondered if Reggie could pull in a few favors and get the articles published more than once.
With Elsie occupied, Reggie handed the last paper under his arm to Ogden, whose sleeves were rolled up from pottery work, a few flecks of gray clay clinging to his dark arm hair. “Wasn’t sure if you saw this one.”
Ogden unfurled the paper. The headline font was large enough that when Elsie glanced up, she could easily read it from where she sat at the dining table. Master Enoch Phillips Found Guilty of Opus Thefts, Murders.
Her mouth went dry.
Sighing, Bacchus rubbed his beard. “At least there should be no more, not if Merton wants him to be her scapegoat. The stonemasonry shop should be safe.”
He said nothing about moving out, for which Elsie was grateful. Not only did she feel safer with him there, but she’d come to depend on his steady presence, their late-night talks, his astute nature. He made her feel seen in a way she’d never been seen before.
But this wasn’t right. They couldn’t let Merton get away with it.
“What if it was Ogden behind bars?” She felt the chill of her Oxford cell on her skin, and shivered at the sensation. “Master Phillips . . . he was terrifying, and he was made to do some awful things, but it wasn’t him. I saw him fight it. This isn’t right.”
Ogden lowered the paper. “What would you have us do, Elsie?”
She worried her lip, thinking as Reggie took a seat beside her. “I’ll write to Irene. Perhaps she can bring me to see him before the sentencing. If she says there’s a spell on him, they’ll listen to her. We can prove he was used.”
Bacchus considered. “He would make a powerful ally.”
“I’ll do it now.” She stood, pushing her chair back.
“Careful how you word it,” Ogden warned.
Elsie cast him her best attempt at a withering look. “Really? Ten years of hiding what I am, and you think I’ll make a mistake now?”
Ogden’s lip quirked. He waved, gesturing for her to proceed. “See if she’s heard about the estate, please,” he said, quieter.
Elsie nodded, but she knew Irene would have nothing for her. The spellbreaker had promised to contact them the moment she found out, and thus far, no messages had arrived at the house.