Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
M r. Egan Stoke sat, waiting impatiently for the old man to finish his consultation in the far corner of the room. He was not comfortable in this house. He felt . . . odd. Like something unseen was nibbling at him. Wilmot Hagan spoke quietly while his underling nodded and scribbled notes. The old man must have cast a shielding spell, for Egan could not hear even a syllable of their conversation.
Totally unnecessary, as it happened, for he found himself utterly distracted by the shouting. Somewhere in this dank and dreary house, grown men were screaming at each other. Angry, vicious shouts, indistinct, and soon followed by thuds and crashes and other assorted sounds of mortal combat.
Unnerving. Although Egan, of course, did not allow his unease to show. The old man finished his conversation. The servant bowed his way out of the room. Hagan stood a moment, staring out of the window before turning to approach the desk where Egan waited. The old man leaned heavily upon a walking stick as he came.
Egan stared at the ebony piece, twisted and knotty like an actual stick. “Is that a shillelagh?”
Hagan laughed softly, though it was not a pleasant sound. “Now, what would you know of the old Irish fighting sticks? Ah,” he said, sinking into his leather chair. “Yes. You have Irish blood on your mother’s side, do you not?”
Egan did not care to discuss his mother. “I’ve seen them with ball joints on the end, like that, before. But I never saw one covered with pewter carvings.”
“Silver, my boy. Silver. Now, you did not come to speak of my walking stick, did you? As I recall, you came to me with news of a golden bauble and offered to find out more.” The old man tilted his head. “Is my memory faulty?”
“No, sir.” Egan hid his irritation. “As I told you, my information was good. The Night Market was indeed where I thought it would be. I did as you suggested and went for a good look around. Got a lot of questions answered.”
“And my nephew? He is still with them?”
“He is.”
“And the bauble is still with him?”
“Yes,” he answered sourly.
The old warlock took no notice of his tone. “And this couple, these bakers he has attached himself to? You looked into them?”
“I did.” Egan shook his head. “I don’t think they are the couple you are looking for. It’s just the woman right now, as the husband is injured. But they are peasant stock, the pair of them. From up in the moors north of York. I heard it from several different sources, as the husband is laid up there with their eldest son, recovering.”
“What of the other merchants, those that travel with the Night Market? Are there any others of the right age or circumstance?”
Egan shook his head. “These are not the sort of folk you described, sir. These market people are not quality.” He refrained from remarking that the Hagans barely qualified as such. Their bloodline might be old, but their magic was distasteful, and what other house of either magical or blue blood would tolerate the questionable state of this house or the sort of ruckus he’d heard earlier?
“You saw or heard of no one with any notable depth of magic?”
Egan paused. “Well, there is the one.”
The old man stilled. “Which one?”
“The girl. The girl that runs the Night Market.”
“What of her?”
“She’s the one with the depth of magic, as you put it. Powerful, she is. And your nephew seems to be taken with her. Of course, that’s likely as much about her looks as her magic. But even his damned bauble defends her.”
The hand gripping the bulbed end of the walking stick suddenly stretched out as if in a spasm, then gripped it tight again. “The bauble defended her, you said?” The question came out quietly.
Egan knew enough to be nervous. “Yes.”
“From . . . you?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“How did it defend her, pray tell?”
He swallowed. “It threw itself between her and my magic. Devoured the flames in a moment.” He braced himself, but Hagan was not looking at him. His gaze had gone unfocused.
“A girl. A girl, you say.” He sat quietly for a moment. “How old?” he asked, suddenly sharp.
Egan made a face. “Young. Certainly of an age to be presented to Society, was she of good ton .”
“Good heavens,” the old man said. “A girl.” He seemed excited. Leaning back, he ran a gaze over Egan. “You are a fool, young Master Stoke. But you have done me a good turn, and so I shall reward you. You shall have the introduction you were looking for. My wife will make sure you are introduced to the marquess’s most eligible daughter. After that, it will be up to you.”
“All I need is the chance. Thank you, sir.” Egan stood, eager to leave.
“Not so quickly, my boy. Sit down. I want you to tell me everything you know about this girl.”