Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Lucien found Miss Martin in the conservatory, led there by the indomitable Mrs. Hastings. The black crepe of the housekeeper's gown gave an irritating rustle that set Lucien's teeth on edge.
Set between a pair of rooms on the upmost level, the conservatory wielded a view of the city.
Nothing dangerous lurked within it, only a slender young woman with her raven-dark hair curled up in an elegant chignon and pearl earrings dangling from her ears.
In the years since their disastrous first meeting, Lucien had begun to think of her as cold and frigid.
It was somewhat disconcerting to come face-to-face with her again and realize how lovely she was.
Younger than he'd remembered, too. Dangerously attractive, with that full, stubborn mouth that drew a man to think of kisses, and the tiny beauty mark on her cheek.
She sat on a white wrought iron chair, at a similar setting, and sipped a steaming cup of tea as she peered through the glass walls of the conservatory.
She didn't seem to have noticed his arrival.
Before he could look his fill—assess her, in truth—Mrs. Hastings cleared her throat. "Madam," she said, "his lordship has come to take tea with you."
As if either of them intended anything so civilized.
He'd sworn to serve as her Shield Companion, which meant he was bound to protect her with his life and his power.
Bound to obey her too, which would leave him at a distinct disadvantage.
If he tried to break his oath, his own power would consume him and leave him little more than the shattered hulk they already thought him to be.
Cold sweat dampened the back of his neck at the thought of being under her command.
Lord Rathbourne had taught him what being under another's control meant, but what choice did he have? To rot in Bedlam?
The moment Miss Martin's blue eyes locked on him, he felt a jolt all the way through his body.
They were very nearly violet eyes, in this setting, with rain dampening the windows, and her lavender gown bringing out the highlights in her irises.
He could remember the first time he'd ever seen her, at a gathering several years ago.
She'd taken his breath away, for a moment, and he'd had to meet her, begging an introduction from his friend, Wetherby.
She'd been cool then, and very nearly discourteous, though Lucien hadn't understood what he'd done at the time.
Still didn't know, in fact. For some strange reason, she'd taken an instant dislike to him, and they'd never moved past that fact.
Now, it was his turn to dislike her.
He needed a means to balance the bond and gain some sense of control.
"Thank you," she said to Mrs. Hastings. "Would you care to take a seat, my lord? We have matters to discuss."
My lord. How strange, but then, technically, he was the Earl of Rathbourne now. His cousin, Robert, had been fighting to have him declared non compos mentis in the courts, the last he'd been aware. Evidently, the case must have stalled, which was something he would have to see to.
"Do we?" Lucien crossed his arms. "I have to admit, I'm surprised to be offered the honor of being your Shield. You're the last person I ever expected to free me from that hellhole, and there are dozens of men who would kill for an opportunity like this."
"And you're not one of them. I know." A flicker of dark lashes obscured her pretty eyes. "This was your father's doing, not mine. Drake insisted."
"He's not my father."
"Your sire insisted," she corrected.
And it was widely rumored that she was his sire's mistress. Perhaps that was why she did not care for him. "Do you always dance to his tune?"
"Drake has earned my respect and my trust, so when he asks me for a favor, I am always pleased to help him."
"My, how this one must have rubbed you the wrong way." Lucien prowled around the room.
"I've had easier missions to contend with, yes." Her eyes narrowed. "Why are you staring at me like that?”
That earned a faint smile from him. He'd give her this, she certainly didn't back down. "Perhaps I'm simply admiring the scenery." It gave him an idea, a way to haul the reins of power out of her hands and into his. "You need me for something."
"Perhaps you should sit and take some tea. We'll discuss matters."
"Unless it's got brandy in it, I'm not interested."
"Somewhat early for hard spirits," she countered, pouring him a cup of steaming brown liquid. "Perhaps lemon would suffice."
In another woman, he would have admired the gall of her.
Instead, he sat and watched, rubbing his thumbs over the pleat of his trousers.
Touching something helped to anchor him, to stop the overriding morass of sensation that constantly made his mind drift these days, until he wondered if he were truly going mad.
A tabby cat wended its way through her legs, its tail trailing her lavender skirts across the paved floors. Setting her cup on the tea service, Miss Martin reached down and scratched under his chin, eliciting a throaty purr. "Shall we cut to the point, Rathbourne?"
He arched a brow and waited.
"What do you know of the Blade of Altarrh?"
"It's one of three relics." Every sorcerer worth his salt knew that.
"They were created by the Prime himself, his ex-wife, Morgana, and friend, the Earl of Tremayne.
" His mind shied from the memory of what the blade had been created for, and somehow he managed not to lose himself to the sudden narrowing of the room.
Focus on the facts. "They were created in an attempt to summon and control a Greater Demon. "
"It's missing."
Lucien's fingers tightened on the arm of the chair. He breathed out a half-laugh. "Missing?" Suddenly his mind was supplying pieces of the puzzle. "You want my help in finding it."
"Your talents in scrying would be of tremendous assistance," she concurred. "Few have the depths of your ability."
If he could manage to control them. He hadn't wielded his power in over a year. The backlash caused from trying to halt the demon he'd summoned at the bequest of his so-called father... It had scarred more than his body. "Why haven't you used the Prime's pet seer?"
"The relic was removed from a locked and warded case, in the heart of the Prime's mansion. Drake laid the wards himself. There were no signs of a break in to the manor, no strangers sighted in the vicinity—"
"Someone on the inside then." It all made sense now. "Which is why you're using me. How many others are working the case?"
"Only us."
Lucien started. There were men and women available within the order who dabbled in darker arts than he did. Sorcerers called the Sicarii, who policed the occult world, though few knew their true identities. "The Prime is playing his cards very closely to his chest."
At this, Miss Martin stood, crossing restlessly to the windows, looking toward a ruddy glow in the east. "You've been incarcerated for a long time. I forget what little you would know of the world. Come here."
A simple enough request. Lucien unfolded his long length and crossed toward her. For a second, he wondered how brazen she was, leaving him at her back like this, but a glint of those brilliant blue eyes in the window reassured him that she was not quite as trusting as she seemed.
"Yes?" He stopped directly behind her. The spill of her elegant, swagged bustle kept him at a proper distance.
Close enough, however, for her to turn her head slightly, her shoulders stiffening as she sensed his proximity, his threat. "Do you see that?"
Following her finger, he focused on the ruddy glow hidden behind cloudbank.
Sucking in a sharp breath, he stepped forward, forgetting himself.
Miss Martin stumbled against the window, her fingers splayed on the glass, and his reflexes being what they were, he found himself holding onto her waist, chivalry not quite as dead as the rest of him.
"The Dawn Star," he whispered. The feel of her tightly bound waist flexed beneath his fingers, the press of whalebone giving some hint of her stays. Despite that, he could sense the heat of her body, the sweetly curved line of her hips.
"Rathbourne," her voice warned.
"How long has it been in the skies?"
"The red comet appeared two days ago."
Little wonder the Prime was so nervous; the comet signified a change of the guard, whether he willed it or not.
It had hung in the skies during the end of the reign of three previous Prime's, reappearing every thirty years, or so.
Ascension was coming, a new Prime to sit on that carved ebony chair the duke maintained.
"No wonder the bastard's using us. Ascension is coming, the Blade of Altarrh has been stolen by someone he trusts, and most likely, he's facing a mighty tumble himself."
If not death.
Miss Martin pressed her back against the window as she turned. "I am going to do everything in my power to see that doesn't happen."
Anything to protect her lover. "Of course. And I have given my word to help."
Her shoulders slumped in relief. She didn't point out that he was standing far too close to her, but he could see the nervousness in her eyes. "Precisely. Now would you care to sit? I would like to proceed with the binding."
"Not yet." Instead, he reached out to brush a strand of dark, curling hair behind her ears. Miss Martin flinched. Her skin was softer than silk, though perhaps that was only because he'd grown used to roughened, limed walls and coarse canvas shirts.
Colors skittered over her skin, the pastel wash of chalk against a footpath, shimmering wetly.
Or at least, that was how he saw it these days.
Emotions became colors. The problem was in his mind, he had slowly discovered, not his eyes.
Whatever that backlash of power had done to him, it had broken a piece of his mind, and he feared he didn't understand the full extent of it yet.