Chapter 12
March 3, 1847, London, England
Hulda had never lost her appetite more quickly.
Her manners kicked in even as her mind reeled; she nodded to the servants, sipped her soup in utter silence, smiled, and addressed her hosts graciously, always keeping one ear apprised of the conversation. She knew whom to turn to when and the best dinner topics for easy conversation, as well as tricks for turning attention away from her and to the hosting family. She’d been seated between Merritt and Baron von Gayl and, in a piece of luck, nearly as far from William Blightree as she could be. The only person farther from her was Lady Cora, who sat at the end of the table, nearest to Owein, who took his dinner on the floor. Still, despite Hulda’s automatic manners, she could not stop her gaze from shooting down the table between nearly every forced bite of food.
His name might not have been Hogwood, but he was a Hogwood, and Hulda could not talk herself down from that very high limb.
Sudden warmth on her knee startled her; she glanced down to see Merritt’s hand there, then lifted her eyes to meet his. Leaning in closer, he said, “You’re tense as a spring hare.”
Forcing a deep breath to relax her chest, she said, “Nothing I can say here.”
“Gorse End?”
Hulda gave him a look that she hoped read, Please do not speak , and forced her attention onto her uneaten meal. A pity—it looked and smelled wonderful, but she could do little more than pick at it. Were they at Whimbrel House, she might have snuck a few morsels under the table for Owein, but alas, such was not proper, and he had his own elegant dinner to consume.
As the servants delivered the dessert dishes, Lady Helen said, “Miss Larkin, I believe you wanted to peruse the contract as well. I know your role in Owein’s story and his ability to come here was significant.”
Hulda set down her napkin, trying not to glance at the man beside Lady Helen. “Yes, thank you. My apologies, Lady Helen. I’m afraid I’m not feeling well.”
Merritt’s gaze settled on her.
Fortunately, Lady Helen clasped her hands together in utter sympathy. “But of course! You’ve been traveling all day, poor thing. How could I not consider it?”
“You’ve been more than considerate,” Hulda assured her. “And might I add that the dinner was lovely and your home very accommodating.”
“Coming from a housekeeper, that is high praise,” Prince Friedrich said.
Lady Helen beamed. “Thank you.” She waved to the corner, and a pretty maid hurried over. “Anabelle, would you kindly show Miss Larkin to her room?”
“You’re sure it’s no trouble?” Hulda asked, neck growing stiff from the continued effort not to look at Mr. Blightree.
“None at all! None at all. Anabelle will take you.” Lady Helen gestured, Anabelle curtsied, and Hulda gratefully followed the younger woman out of the winter dining room, into the lobby, and then the grand hall, from which they took steps upward, away from the hall with the damaged room and down to where she believed Merritt and Owein were staying, very near the family quarters. She thanked Anabelle, accepted an offer of tea, and slipped into the space.
Cora’s mother referred to the pastry on Owein’s platter as a Genoese fancy, and it looked excellent ... but Owein worried that, should he scoff it down, he’d be retching shortly after. Too much food. His dog stomach could handle a lot—in fact, it was alarming what the canine side of him sometimes found appetizing—but something about all that sugar and pastry cream told him he was about to overdo it. Dogs weren’t meant to eat like people.
Yet another thing to look forward to, in a new body. The first thing he’d do was get the biggest Genoese fancy he could find and devour it. With a human tongue, it would taste amazing, he was sure of it.
A clamor of silverware on porcelain pierced his ear, punctuated by a gasp. Owein turned his attention back to the dinner table. Cora’s sister, Briar, was standing, her shoulders tense, her hands pressed to the table’s edge.
“I cannot possibly go along with this farce any longer.” Her voice was hard as a thrown book.
“Good gracious, Briar!” Lady Helen reached over as though to grasp her sleeve, but since her husband sat between the two, she couldn’t quite reach. “Sit down! What is the meaning of this?”
“I mean to point out how absolutely absurd and unfeeling this entire affair has become!” Her voice pitched high on the last few words. “It is one thing to insist we abstain from any sort of amour when courting because we’re merely horses for breeding—”
“Briar!” Lady Helen snapped.
Cora merely placed a hand over her mouth.
“—but to insist my sister, your daughter —betroth herself to a dog ? How much further could we possibly take this?”
Owein. Merritt’s voice popped into his head, though Merritt hadn’t turned toward him. Perhaps you should step out.
Owein didn’t.
Still seated, Prince Friedrich said, “You’ve made your stance on the situation very clear. You embarrass yourself with this outburst.”
Briar’s husband, the baron, took on a queer shade of gray. Was he flushing?
“And yet it seems no one in this room has heard me.” Briar spun toward Cora. “Surely you realize the insensibility of all this!”
Cora, soft-spoken even in quiet moments, didn’t answer. Her eyes watered. Owein took a step forward, wanting to comfort her, but Merritt heard him—he put out a hand, warning him to stay.
Stay , like a good dog.
Owein didn’t want to be a dog anymore.
“Mr. Fernsby.” Briar wheeled on Merritt. “You are a sensible man.”
Lady Helen left her seat and came around Prince Friedrich’s chair, snatching Briar as though to physically make her sit down.
Briar was undaunted. “A sensible man with American ideals of freedom .” She spat that last word at her mother, successfully stilling her attempts to quell her outburst. “You must see how hurtful this is to my sister.”
“Briar,” Cora protested meekly, but no one seemed to hear.
“I ...” Merritt’s gaze shifted from Briar to Cora to her parents. “I’m not sure—”
“You needn’t answer her,” Prince Friedrich said with a calm coldness, slicing into his Genoese fancy. “She is acting the part of a child.”
Briar whirled on him. “How dare you cite immaturity for my reasonings when you married for love.”
Her father had nothing to say to that.
Owein barked, gaining the attention of every person in the dining room, even the servants trying to disappear into its corners. I’m not a dog! he shouted. I didn’t choose this body! Can’t you understand? I haven’t been a real person for over two hundred years. If it makes this family happy, why is it such a terrible thing? I’m a human first! Why can’t you see that?
But of course, they couldn’t hear him. They weren’t communionists or psychometrists. Only Merritt’s expression dipped with the weight of sympathy. To everyone else, he was just a worked-up mutt.
Seething, Briar turned her attention back to her mother. “I will address Victoria herself if I must.”
With that, she stormed from the table.
Hulda inspected her bedchamber with the eye of a woman who’d specialized in them the past fifteen years. It was a very commendable room, with copper fixtures and a large west-facing window, heavy brocade draperies pulled aside. Her two bags were already set on a trunk at the foot of what was perhaps the plushest bed she’d ever seen in her life, complete with four tall posts and a dozen ornately embroidered pillows. A soft fire crackled in the hearth, making the room smell a little earthy and, oddly enough, a little rosy. Hulda crossed to it and gently set two quarter logs atop it. Then she closed the curtains to block the chill from the window; it was already dark outside, so leaving them open was no benefit to her.
Next, she paced. Her reasonable side sewed half-spun excuses for why it was perfectly natural for Mr. Blightree to be presiding over these proceedings. Few necromancers alive could successfully execute an entire body transition, so it made sense that a family connection existed between the two who could. All was well, the reasonable voice insisted, but her experienced side reminded her that reason hadn’t protected her from Mr. Hogwood and Mr. Baillie. The first had nearly killed her, and well, she supposed the second nearly had, too.
Well. She’d sort this out swiftly, then.
Anabelle returned with a tea tray, which she set on a little breakfasting table near the bed. Hulda took a few sips, but her stomach was still too tight to hold much, so she left it to cool and crossed to the small mirror on a side table above a pitcher and washbasin. Cleaned her glasses. “I still have an exorcism to perform,” she murmured, rubbing at the scalp under her pins. She sighed, considering propriety. Surely she could just put her hair up in a simple knot. She really could not tolerate the pinching in addition with the fraying of her nerves, so she carefully removed the pins, feeling minutely better once they were free. She’d just begun to run a comb through the locks when a soft knock sounded at her door. She nearly feigned sleeping to avoid answering, but the rhythm was familiar, so she crossed to the door and carefully opened it.
Sure enough, Merritt stood outside. His presence was a relief.
“Might I come in?” he asked.
Propriety said no , but she certainly wasn’t going to relay her revelation out in the hallway, and goodness, she was old enough not to get into trouble, and foreign enough that no one here would care to gossip about it. So she opened the door wide enough for him to slip through, then shut it.
She tugged the comb through another chunk of hair. “Are you aware—”
“You’re beautiful.”
The compliment caught her off guard. She nearly dropped the comb as she gaped at his blue-eyed gaze drifting over her unbound hair. He’d seen it down before, once or twice, surely. When he reached for it, she held very still. It wasn’t the most elegant ... that is, she’d just unpinned it. There were unnatural kinks throughout, and she hadn’t tamed all the knots—
He ran his fingers through it, causing a shiver to course over her scalp.
Biting back a habitual dismissal, she managed, “Th-Thank you.”
He smiled as he twisted the end of a lock around his fingers. “You know, the Leiningens are far more trusting of us than they should be.”
She set the comb on a table. “What makes you say that?”
He tilted his head toward the wall the bed was pressed against. In the flickering candlelight, Hulda hadn’t discerned the narrow door there.
“That, my dear”—a roguish grin overtook his face—“leads to my room.”
Clearing her throat, Hulda squared her shoulders. “I hate to disappoint you, but I’ve had easy access to your bedroom for a great deal of our acquaintance. That door is nothing alarming.”
“Hmm. If only Owein were still in the walls.”
Now she did warm—surely Merritt referred to that time, before they ever courted, when a mischievous boy spirit in the walls had thought it would be humorous to split their bedrooms during the night and fuse their beds together. Owein had been playing matchmaker before either of them knew what they wanted.
Merritt reached forward and clasped her hand. “I don’t suppose you’re ill—”
“No.” She pulled him away from the door, closer to the hearth.
“Which means you’re either uneasy about the mention of Gorse End or you foresaw the incredibly awkward dinner discussion that followed your departure.”
She turned. “Awkward? What happened?”
“Briar giving everyone an earful on how very against the match she is.” He slid his hands into his pockets. “Owein and Cora, I mean. As far as I know, we still have her approval.”
Hulda rolled her eyes. “Heaven forbid. Owein is not too hurt, is he?”
Merritt shook his head. “He seems fine. Was willing to stay behind with Cora, anyway, when I wanted to come up. He’s been staying in my company most of the time. Hopefully this means he’s adjusting well.”
“Hopefully.” She wrung her hands.
Merritt crossed to her. “So. Gorse End.”
Pulling her hands apart, she answered, “Did you know William Blightree is related to Silas Hogwood?”
He paused. “Not until tonight, but I suppose it makes sense.”
Hulda paced to the window and back. “We’re sharing a house with a Hogwood.”
Merritt chuckled, completely disarming her. “Hulda, Blightree is one of the most amiable fellows I’ve ever met. In this case, bloodlines don’t mean anything.”
“But his alliance might be to Silas Hogwood—”
“Who is dead.” He enunciated each syllable, then softly grasped her upper arms. “And Blightree is employed by the Crown. Perhaps that’s why he’s the appointed heir. After the mess with Silas, I’m sure they’re on high alert.”
“ Someone tried to kill you,” she pointed out, jabbing a finger at him. “Why could it not be a relative—”
“Yes, I suppose he’s the most obvious suspect of all.” He squeezed her arms. She did not like how calmly he was taking this. “Believe me, Hulda. It’s never the most obvious person. That would make for a very boring story.”
She frowned. “Baillie was connected to Hogwood.”
“We’re all connected in one way or another.” He shrugged. “You do make a good point. I just ... He’s like a jolly grandpa. Might as well be ol’ Saint Nick. Baillie was a scrub and a lobcock from the beginning.”
She frowned. “No need to be crude.”
He paused a moment. “I suppose that was. Sorry.”
Hulda bit her lip. Considered. “It’s just ... in the past, I have told myself similar rationalizations, and then ended up in a prison cell or facedown in the dirt.” She thought, momentarily, of the collapsed room, but Blightree wouldn’t— shouldn’t —have the spells to do something of the sort.
Even so, she desperately wanted to look at his pedigree.
“If I were writing this book,” he said, gesturing to the room around them, “I think I would set up Blightree as a sort of diversion, to draw the reader’s eye away from the true culprit, if we’ve even met him yet. Or her.”
“This isn’t a storybook,” Hulda protested.
He squeezed her arms. “I will help you look into it. Tomorrow. It’s late, and you still have a ghost to discipline.” He lifted one hand and ran it through her hair again. It was a simple brown, not dark or light, but it took on a bit of an auburn glow in the firelight.
“I think that door is quite alarming,” he continued, his voice husky in a way that set the nerves in Hulda’s arms and torso alight. “You might not use it, but I find it very tempting.”
He gingerly pinched the arms of her glasses, slid them off her face, and set them beside that washbasin. Her pulse sped beneath his touch. Would it always speed like this, or would she someday get used to such words, such caresses, such attention?
She supposed that didn’t matter at the moment. When Merritt turned back, she readily met him, touching her lips to his and sighing softly at the warm contact and blissful spark it ignited, one that started in her mouth and sizzled all the way down to her hips.
Merritt tilted his head and claimed her, sliding both hands into her hair, pulling her closer. She grasped fistfuls of his vest, feeling his own quick heartbeat beneath her knuckles. The smell of his petitgrain had become so familiar it felt like coming home, and despite her worries over balancing her future life with him and her allegiance to BIKER, the thought of coming home to him always was nothing short of blissful.
Where have you been all my life? she wondered as she tugged at his lower lip. But had duty not forced them between the same walls, would she ever have considered him? Or he her?
He was certainly considering her now, the way his palms slowly draped down her neck, her shoulders, her back—and suddenly grabbed her elbows and yanked her away.
She choked on a breath, the room tilting for a moment blurrily, as he’d removed her glasses. Protest launched up her throat—
“Owein, I didn’t hear you.” He cleared his throat, and the blur of him shifted until Hulda felt him press her wire spectacles into her hands. “You’re welcome to knock.”
Fire burned beneath Hulda’s skin as she practically smashed her glasses onto her face and whirled toward the door—the one that connected her room to Merritt’s—just as Owein sealed up a melted hole with magic. She hadn’t heard a thing—he must have spoken to Merritt while they were ... occupied.
Oh good heavens. She pulled her loose hair back. There wasn’t a lock in existence that could keep that boy from barging in where he wasn’t wanted!
While she bristled, however, Merritt’s stance softened. “Of course you can stay in my room tonight.”
All the humiliation and aggravation fled her instantly. “Are you sleeping poorly still?”
A soft, almost imperceptible whine escaped him.
“He says he just feels it coming tonight,” Merritt murmured, then, quieter, “He slept well last night, but ...”
“Of course.” She smiled. Smoothed her hair again. “Nothing could keep a door from being tantalizing more than the presence of an apperceptive canine.”
Merritt smirked. “I love it when you speak dictionary to me.” He kissed her chastely on the lips before burying a hand in his pocket and heading toward the door. Looking down at the dog, he said, “I can’t wait for you to have thumbs again, old man.”
Owein’s tail wagged as Merritt opened the door. Merritt passed her an apologetic yet impish look before slipping into his own quarters. She really ought to lock that door.
A thorough examination of the ethics of the door would have to wait, however. She had a spirit to exorcise.