Chapter 2 #2
“All right, Rowerre, wish me luck,” Nic said, striding back into the sitting room.
“Likely I will need—” He froze. On the dressing room door hung the waistcoat his father had ordered for the occasion.
Or rather, half of it. Only the left breast remained, cut from hem to neckline, leaving torn cording to sag like loose strands of skin, while on the floor golden buttons shone.
A step scuffed beside him and Rowerre drew a sharp breath. “I… How? I don’t understand, my lord. We were only out of sight a few moments.”
The room lacked shadowy places where someone could hide, meaning the culprit had come and gone while they’d been in the bedchamber. Behind him, Nic’s echo, Avery, let out a relaxed coo and fluttered her dark wings, untroubled by any disturbance.
“Whoever did this worked very fast.” Nic ran his fingers down the cut fabric. “Quick, check if anyone’s in the hallway.”
Rowerre hurried out as Nic bent, examining the cloth.
The cut had a perfect edge, so straight and fine it was as though the other half had never existed, while the air around it had the slightly sticky feel of fresh magic.
Nic closed his eyes, listening for sigils yet hearing only Rowerre’s returning steps.
“No sign of anyone, my lord,” he said.
“No.” Nic pulled his thoughts back to the room, where the last of the afternoon sunlight crept its fingers across the faded carpet.
“Cut by magic—a very fine splitting charm.” He drew a golden loop with his finger, then pinched and pulled sharply upward, ripping the air. “Much better than anything I could do.”
“But then who?” Rowerre drew close, peering at the cut. “His Grace has never hired servants with the Brilliance.”
Nic slowly shook his head. “I know. I couldn’t feel any sigils, though, so perhaps the charm was made by the tailor and lay dormant somehow.”
“Is that possible?”
“No, but I don’t like the other answers.”
On the mantelpiece, the ugly ormolu clock chimed the half hour and Nic grimaced. “Also I have to go or my father might try something like that on me. Will you clean it up?”
“Of course, my lord,” Rowerre said, his gaze sliding away along the wall as though he were deep in thought. “You go. I’ll take care of it.”
“And don’t tell my father.”
Without looking around from contemplation of the fading paintwork, Rowerre shook his head. “No, my lord. I wouldn’t dream of it.”
For three weeks, the central rooms had been locked up for refurbishment, and as Nic entered the great hall he couldn’t but stare at the result.
The whole room shone. Moss had been scraped from the corners; the tall, stained-glass windows had been cleaned, the parquetry polished, and the walls repainted.
Fine brocade had replaced threadbare drapes and the frames of every portrait gleamed.
Even the central pillars, which had once been chipped and choked and blackened, were now smoothly polished with hundreds of perfectly wrought enamel vines climbing to the vast ceiling, from which a pair of shimmering chandeliers lit the whole.
Where the money had come from for such a transformation, Nic dared not ask.
“You are late,” the duke said in greeting. “They are already outside, and that is not the waistcoat I ordered for the occasion.”
Trying not to think about someone doing slicing charms in his rooms, Nic waved a dismissive hand. “We found it didn’t quite fit. Is Mama not joining us?”
“Your mother is unwell and has chosen to remain in her rooms for the evening.” The duke’s words were clipped and precise and every one of them was a lie. “How, exactly, can it have not fit? The tailor finished it mere days ago.”
“I couldn’t tell you, sir. Perhaps the stiffer fabric sits differently.”
“Sits differently isn’t—”
Voices echoed in the entry hall, and never had Nic been so grateful for the approaching hell. There was no time to change, only to turn and receive their guests.
For the last three weeks, Nic had been trying not to think about this moment.
Trying not to wonder what Lady Leaf would be like, nor what changes time had wrought on Dashiell.
Had success altered him? Turned him into just another vowsmith?
Or would something of the young man he had once called friend still remain?
Now the moment of truth had arrived and it was too late to run.
Although as a Monterris, it had been too late since the day he’d been born.
With a groan of old hinges, the entry doors swung open, spilling a tide of murmuring guests into the room. Castor, Monterris Court’s aging butler, stepped forward. “The Most Honourable Marquess of Charborough, and his daughter, the Lady Leaf Serral,” he intoned as the first two guests approached.
A brief glance at Lord Charborough gave Nic the impression of a large, broad-shouldered man with an easy smile and gold glinting in his neckcloth, but of more interest was the young woman at his side.
Lady Leaf had a pleasant countenance, every feature well proportioned, yet where her father smiled, she looked utterly bored.
Even the pale yellow gown she wore did nothing to enliven her appearance, though it was ruched and ribboned along the hem like it had been edged in daffodils.
Two women followed behind his bride-to-be, both in gathered gowns that dropped soft fabric from high waists. Though they were young, one wore a grey lace widow’s cap over her curls.
“The Right Honourable Lady Radlay and the Lady Lisbeth Pomerin.”
Lock-in parties could include any number of extra guests invited for the occasion, but as Lady Leaf’s companions approached, Nic had the feeling of being socially underdressed without any of his own.
At least years of having to learn the peerage stood him in good stead.
Lady Lisbeth Pomerin had to be one of the Earl of Withington’s daughters, while Lady Radlay was surely Baron Radlay’s widow.
He had a suspicion, too, that she was related to the Serrals.
A daughter of Lord Charborough’s brother perhaps?