Chapter Thirteen
The Council building itself was an ornate gothic structure in the heart of Westminster with a spectacular view of the Thames.
The Agency inhabited a squat structure that had been constructed hastily over an ancient alleyway.
The utilitarian addition to the main building was a bit of an eyesore, but some of the offices did provide glimpses of the river.
Richard and Darcy waited for half an hour in the director’s outer chamber before being admitted to his office. Cranston was a tall man in his early fifties, athletic, and quick to smile. “Darcy, Fitzwilliam.” He shook their hands while peering behind them. “You did not bring the vivomancer?”
Darcy stiffened. “We were not sure of her safety.”
Cranston frowned as he motioned them to the chairs opposite his desk. Richard took the far seat where he would not be in the director’s line of sight. “Surely the Council building is the safest place for her. Is she really so timid a creature?”
Darcy bristled. “Not in the least. I am loath to bring her into danger.” From the corner of his eye, he noticed Richard casting a discreet truth field over the room. Fortunately, Cranston’s attention was on Darcy.
Cranston made a placating motion. “Understandable given Wickham’s actions, but we are now on our guard. She should be perfectly safe here. It is her duty to serve Britain…although women do not perceive duty and honor as we do.”
Darcy had never disliked the director before, but today every one of the man’s utterances made his skin crawl. “I assure you that she has a strong sense of honor—”
“Then is it a matter of ability? It is a shame she was not trained here—”
“She is exceedingly powerful.”
Cranston shook his head. “I do not understand where the problem lies. If circumstances arise where she cannot protect herself, the Council’s mancers will do so. You know we need her skills to defeat the necromancer.”
Darcy leaned forward in his chair. “Before I bring Miss Elizabeth to the Council, I must know who is aware of her identity as a vivomancer.”
“Hmm?” Cranston furrowed his brow at the abrupt change of subject.
“I relayed her secret to Richard with the request that you keep it in the utmost confidence—”
“Yes.” Cranston looked down at his desk and shuffled some papers. “I do not comprehend the necessity of such a stipulation. Plenty of people have been known as vivomancers throughout history. It is a position of honor. This Bennet woman should be eager to claim the title—”
“That is not your concern!” Darcy thundered. “I expected you to honor my request. Did you do so?”
Cranston wet his lips. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
Darcy was not reassured, but when he slid his eyes to Richard, his cousin gave a slight nod. Cranston was speaking the truth as he understood it. Of course, his idea of “utmost confidence” might not be the same as Darcy’s.
“Who did you tell?”
“I do not understand how that is relevant—”
“Somehow the necromancer learned that Elizabeth was a vivomancer and sent Wickham to abduct her,” Darcy said in a low voice. “I know that I did not tell him. Nor did Richard.”
Cranston colored. “And you believe I did? I would never violate a trust! I am a man of my word!”
Richard nodded again. Darcy relaxed slightly. But Cranston’s denial did not completely exclude him from suspicion.
“You do not practice necromancy?”
“Of course not!” Cranston’s face was practically purple.
“Truth,” Richard said.
“And you are not working with the necromancer?”
Cranston shot to his feet. “How dare you—!”
Darcy stood and faced him. “Answer the question! Do you work with the necromancer?”
“No.”
Richard cleared his throat. “Truth.”
Darcy slumped back into his chair. Cranston was not the blackguard they were seeking.
“You have been truth-reading me the whole time?” Cranston snarled at Richard.
Richard gave the man a conciliatory shrug, but Darcy was unapologetic. “The necromancer learned about Elizabeth’s vivomancy somehow. You are an obvious source.”
Cranston pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “And you believed I might be the necromancer?”
“It is likely to be someone affiliated with the Council,” Richard noted. “Her life was not in danger until the Council knew her identity.”
Cranston fell back into his chair. “I suspected we had a leak…I thought one of the staff might…but they did not know about Miss Bennet….”
“Did you inform everyone on the Council about Elizabeth’s vivomancy?” Darcy inquired.
“Of course not. We could never maintain secrecy if so many people knew.” Cranston rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I told Sir Lloyd….”
Darcy nodded. The leader of the Council was at least 80 years of age, too old to be the necromancer.
“And Lady Farha….”
“The necromancer is definitely male, but perhaps she is lending him assistance?”
Richard and Cranston both shook their heads. “Her son was killed on the peninsula by one of Napoleon’s necromancers. She hates them,” the director said.
Cranston worried the cuff of his jacket as he mused. “I do not believe I told anyone else.”
Richard nodded to Darcy. Cranston was telling the truth as he knew it. Darcy slouched into his chair. How had the necromancer learned Elizabeth’s identity if not from the Council? They could visit Sir Lloyd and Lady Farha. Perhaps they had told someone….
Cranston snapped his fingers. “There was someone else! But surely he would not—” The man’s eyes darted to Richard.
“Who is it?” Darcy demanded.
“I am sure it is nothing. I believed we were alone when I related the information to Sir Lloyd and Lady Farha. Afterward I spied him outside the door. But he is a Council member in good standing—!”
“Who do you mean?” Darcy asked impatiently.
“He is a peer of the realm!”
Darcy surged to his feet and stared down at Cranston. “Who. Did. You. Tell?”
Cranston’s eyes fixed on Richard. “Your father. The Earl of Matlock.”
Richard started so violently that he almost tipped over his chair.
A black pit opened in Darcy’s stomach. He had been prepared for anything—anything except hearing the name of a relative. No, surely it meant nothing.
Richard stared at Cranston in a daze.
“It means little,” Darcy said hastily. “Possibly Uncle Walter passed the information along to the wrong person. Surely if he were practicing necromancy, you would know.”
“Of course.” Cranston bobbed his head in agreement.
Richard said nothing for a long moment. Then he spoke slowly with an odd detachment in his voice. “My father has been from home frequently as of late. I do not always know why he travels or who he associates with.”
Darcy regarded him sharply. “Where has he gone?”
“I do not always know, although….” Richard’s head jerked in Darcy’s direction. “Good Lord! He was in Bedfordshire when you were! He was visiting Viscount Waring. I thought nothing of it at the time.” Darcy’s cousin was as white as a sheet.
“But-But, your father is a member. He supports the Council!” Cranston asserted.
“Certainly. In most things.” Richard shook his head. “However, in private—particularly when he is in his cups—he berates the Council and their narrow-minded views of acceptable magic. Particularly after Edward’s…I never paid much heed.”
“He still blames them for his son’s death,” Cranston murmured. “And he was among the Council members who voted against arresting the necromancer’s followers on Darcy’s list.”
Richard swore.
“But the earl is a terramancer, not a necromancer,” Darcy said.
Cranston cast an eye at the wall of books on one side of his office. “John Barnabas wrote in the 1700s that any mancer could turn into a necromancer with the proper rituals and…sacrifices.”
“What sort of sacrifices—? No, I do not want to know.” Darcy uttered several oaths.
“It is possible your father found such a ritual,” Cranston said. “He always was curious about the darker sides of magic—ideas that others shied away from.”
Darcy’s eyes widened. “When I first encountered the necromancer, he was urging his followers to abandon their fear of dark magic.”
Richard shook his head. “I do not want to believe it, but if there is any chance my father is the blackguard we seek, we are in deep trouble.”
Darcy jumped to his feet. “And I left Elizabeth at his house!”
***
Elizabeth descended to breakfast at Matlock House alone.
Jane was suffering from a minor cold; Elizabeth had alleviated the symptoms to the best of her ability and arranged to send a tray to her sister’s room.
William and his cousin had departed for the Council building early that morning.
At the breakfast table, Elizabeth encountered Lady Margaret, who was excessively chatty—perhaps endeavoring to compensate for her husband’s rudeness the previous evening.
Elizabeth was halfway through her toast and coffee when the earl joined them, red-eyed and sluggish from the wine he had consumed the night before.
Perhaps his sore head also accounted for why he glowered at Elizabeth, or perhaps it was simply his presumption that she was chasing after his nephew.
Explaining how his nephew was actually chasing her would not likely improve the man’s mood.
Eventually, even Lady Margaret’s cheerful chatter faltered in the face of her husband’s ill humor, and the table fell silent.
As soon as she could, Elizabeth excused herself.
Escaping the house would be preferable, but she had promised William not to venture out alone.
She could only hope that he and his cousin would return soon.
As she ascended the stairs, Elizabeth considered whether it was warm enough to read in the garden, which would surely be safe enough enclosed by walls.
She had reached the top step when she became aware of an unsettling sensation—as if ice were sliding down her spine.
Something was profoundly wrong, and it was magical in origin.
Her flesh crawled. What could possibly create this creepy, out-of-joint feeling?