“I met Miss Camden at a market in London shortly after my arrival,” he said, adopting the story he had used with the duke and duchess. His mind spun as he attempted to piece together a believable tale that would not result in Elsie’s broken neck. “I’ve been courting her.” The duke and his family could confirm that, as they already believed it to be true. Indeed, they’d encouraged him.
“Is that so?” The magistrate returned his cup again to the tray. “A master aspector and a stonemason’s employee?”
“I did not have the master title when we met,” he pressed. “In fact, I was with her when she detected her first spell. We were both confused. It wasn’t until later that I suggested it might be a rune. She didn’t believe me, of course.”
Lord Astley leaned back in his chair, studying Bacchus for an uncomfortable moment. “And you believe you know her well enough, and you’ve been in her company long enough, to vouch for her innocence? I find it hard to swallow, Master Kelsey, if you’ll forgive my bluntness. Your record is clear, and I believe you have the fellowship of the Duke of Kent, but it’s my job to ensure criminals pay their fare and the innocent find their mercy. It’s difficult to mete out justice when all of it is ‘he said this, she said that’ . . . but we must persist in pursuing credible claims.”
Bacchus’s palms began to sweat. “You must understand that I am an excellent character witness. And that I have no reason to lie to you.”
He had every reason to lie.
“Her accuser may have just as much clout as you do, Master Kelsey, if not more. I find it unlikely that you’ve been so attached to Miss Camden as to witness—”
“We are engaged to be married, you understand.” His pulse raced quick enough to make him dizzy, but he held his sure countenance, his confident posture. If a blossoming courtship wasn’t believable enough, Bacchus would take it further. “Of course I would spend a great deal of time with her. The wedding is mere weeks away.”
Lord Astley paused. Rubbed his chin. Stared at Bacchus as though he could peel away his skin and look into his soul. Bacchus forced himself to stare right back. He’d meant what he’d said to Elsie. He would demolish the entire castle if he had to. What was an audacious lie in comparison to that?
Lord Astley chuckled.
Bacchus stiffened. “Is the matter of a woman’s life humorous to you?”
But the magistrate shook his head. “No, no, not at all. I do not enjoy handing out sentences of guilt. I would be a terrible magistrate if I did. But I do like you, Master Kelsey. And strangely enough, I find myself wanting to believe you.”
A trickle of relief ran down his spine, but Bacchus dared not drop his guard.
“If you deliver your testimony and character witness, and the testimonies of at least three other persons whose statements support yours, I will let her go,” he said. “She’ll have to register, of course, and receive the necessary training.”
A hard sigh escaped him. He could get three witnesses easily. The duke’s family made four, Mr. Ogden made five, and perhaps even the maid, Miss Pratt, would be willing to testify. “Thank you, Lord Astley. Truly.”
“I am not unreasonable,” he said as he stood, and Bacchus followed his lead and rose from the settee. “Tired and busy, but not unreasonable. One of the servants is waiting in the hall and will show you to the door.”
Bacchus bowed. “Of course. Thank you.” He started for the exit.
“And, Master Kelsey,” Lord Astley called, retrieving his teacup once more.
Bacchus paused.
“Do invite me to the wedding,” he said, narrow eyes peering over the dish in his hand. “The nuptials between two who have fallen so quickly in love would be very interesting to witness.”
Bacchus heard the intonation between words, the kindly veiled threat, the hint that his story was not as watertight as he had hoped. Elsie was not entirely out of danger. Not yet.
Bacchus nodded and stepped out into the hallway.
He found his own way to the door.
CHAPTER 4
Cuthbert knew he needn’t travel far from London to find Merton’s stolen opuses; he’d been able to make the trip from there to St. Katharine Docks in one night. The problem was, his memory stalled somewhere between cutting clay for future projects in his studio and finding himself on the docks with Elsie. In between, he recalled nothing but a handful of impressions: running through the dark, feeling stone beneath his hands, experiencing the confinement of a cold, starless place. A spiritual aspector could not erase his memory—only a rational magician could do that. But she could most definitely make it hard for him to recall what he had been doing, especially in the shadows of night.
Cuthbert had mulled over the puzzle pieces almost constantly this last week. He’d filled up an entire sketchbook with half-finished charcoal drawings. He’d even dreamed about his escape, and while he of all people knew dreams couldn’t be trusted, he’d sketched the dreams first thing upon waking, even before using the water closet. And so he was fairly certain Merton had guided him to a cemetery, sepulcher, or crypt, although that didn’t narrow things enough, given there were a multitude of them in London.
Were Merton here, he could rip the information from her mind himself. She couldn’t manipulate him again without touching him, and he was constantly on guard. A deep, damaged part of him wanted to seize her every thought, force her into a puppetlike state, rip apart her secrets and sorrows and drown her in them. Make her suffer as he had suffered. And yet, when he thought of Merton, he thought of Elsie, and that made him tuck away his anger and his hatred and focus on the task at hand. Because she was in prison, yes, but it was more than that. Despite being tied in with Merton from the start, Elsie made him want to do better, be better. She was the closest thing to a daughter he’d ever had. She’d been with him longer than Emmeline, and as a child, no less. She’d unknowingly brought bondage to him, but in the end, she’d also been his salvation.
She’d been a pawn, too. Cuthbert couldn’t dwell on vengeance until she’d had her liberation as well.
Merton’s London townhouse was the first place he went after seeing Elsie, and the space was entirely empty, without even a skeleton staff or housekeeper to look after it. She wasn’t to be found at the Spiritual Atheneum, either. Cuthbert didn’t want to give himself away by asking after her, so he broke his rules and dived into the minds of anyone who might know, pushing past goals and desires, complaints and crudeness, searching for any mark of his enemy. No one had seen her since the dinner at Kent just before his liberation.
Cuthbert could only hope it meant Merton saw him as a threat and sought to save her own hide, not that she was moving on to another portion of whatever mad plan she wanted to unfurl. How many spells did one person need? And what did she intend to do with them all?
Rubbing a hand down his face, Cuthbert dropped onto a bench in Burgess Park, considering. Thanks to a decade of church hopping, he knew which cathedrals and the like had crypts. Which had cemeteries large enough to hide away Merton’s secrets. Were it Cuthbert, he wouldn’t stow away his treasures at a large or frequently visited place, not where they could be discovered. It had to be something out of the way, but not so out of the way that he couldn’t retrieve them swiftly.
Closing his eyes, he replayed the night of his escape in his head. He was sure he hadn’t gone north, not at first. Would he find his way better if he mimicked the conditions of that night? If he searched in the dark, instead of the light?
Light. He’d been moving toward the light, hadn’t he? The moon rose in the east . . .