The Curse of the Brimstone Contract Page 10

  There was a slap, and Joan guessed that the prowler had put his hand flat on the cabinet. She listened intently and heard the click of a lock and the rustle of papers.

  A muffled oath and another, sharper, slap against the cabinet followed. The oath did not sound like her father, nor did it sound like anyone she knew. Perhaps someone had stolen the keys.

  The intruder stomped around the room. It was a wonder the noise did not wake up the entire household, but no one else came to investigate.

  Time seemed to slow to a mere drip. It seemed that she crouched there forever against Sherringford while their enemy unwittingly kept them trapped.

  They were in their own world of utter darkness. Her only contacts with reality were the hands holding hers, the soft lips that brushed against her neck and the solid chest she felt against her back.

  She had never been so close to another person. No, this was more than close. It was intimate, especially with her in her nightclothes. She let her head relax against his shoulder. He rested his chin on her hair. The side of his upper arm brushed against her breast.

  His heart pounded with the same rhythm as her own.

  It was as if the two of them had become one in a way that was closer than she ever dreamed two people could be.

  The slamming of the door brought her out of her trancelike state. Sherringford began his quiet chanting again. The inky barrier around them vanished. She blinked, as if her eyes had been exposed to bright sunlight.

  “I cannot get out until you move,” Sherringford whispered in her ear.

  Oh. Of course. She crawled out of the small space. Instead of getting up, she sat and pulled her knees to her chest. She did not trust her body enough to stand up. Tingling gripped her legs as the circulation returned to her numbed feet.

  Sherringford unfolded himself and stood, showing no signs of similar discomfort. He offered a hand to help her stand. She took it and felt her face heat from the skin-to-skin contact. And that was not the only part of her body that was responding to his touch.

  She staggered to her feet. For a moment, his arms encircled her waist as he braced her against a fall.

  “I thought you had little magic, sir,” she whispered. “But hiding us was the work of a mage, as was our silence earlier.”

  He released her completely. She swallowed hard, wishing for his arm around her waist again.

  “I have magic enough for sleight of hand and misdirection, but not nearly enough power to counter your enemy. Hence our hiding under the desk instead of a confrontation. I might risk myself, but not you as well.”

  His whisper held an edge. He sounded almost bitter.

  “Now what?” she whispered.

  “Back to your room.”

  “But whoever it is knows someone is investigating. Couldn’t you see them?”

  “No, it took all my concentration to keep the darkness hiding us. No more questions. We must leave.”

  As they sneaked out of the office, he locked up behind them silently. He took her arm and led her up the stairs, his glance darting in all directions, perhaps worried their prowler would come back. This time, there was nothing sensual about his grip. It was all business.

  His magic hid their sounds on the way back up the stairs. It was not until they were in the safety of her room that Joan drew a proper breath.

  Sherringford let go of her elbow. She collapsed in her chair and stretched out her legs. Her feet still tingled from being cramped.

  “Well done, Miss Krieger,” he said in a quiet voice. “I’m in your debt.”

  “Well done? I did little. You hid us.”

  “Do you know how many women would’ve been too frightened to open the safe? Or would have been so afraid at the darkness I summoned that they would’ve screamed?”

  “It sounds like you have been spending time with the wrong sort of women,” Joan snapped. For some reason, his compliment had annoyed her. “And your actions were for my benefit, as was the danger. So you can hardly be in my debt.”

  He made a humphf noise, as he had in his laboratory.

  “I heard papers rustling in the intruder’s hands. Were those papers from the safe?”

  “Yes. When we tried to open the safe, we triggered a magical alarm. Once our quarry realized the safe contents were in danger of discovery, he checked on them. As for your other questions, I have guesses, not facts.”

  “Then give me guesses,” she demanded.

  “It’s not—”

  She rose out of her chair and grabbed his forearm, much as he had held her earlier. “You may not have full answers yet, Gregor Sherringford, but this is my life, my business and, indeed, my fate at stake. You’ll explain and you’ll explain now.”

  “To give you a full accounting here would risk discovery by your enemy.”

  “Are you telling me you’re too afraid, sir?” She jutted out her chin. The time to panic had been when those icy claws protecting the safe had grabbed her, or when their enemy entered the office. “Because I am done with fear.”

  “I see.”

  Darkness seemed to surround him again. She kept tight hold of his arm, guessing that he could not disappear as long as she was touching him. She only hoped he didn’t physically push her away. He was taller and stronger and could free himself, if he wished.

  “If you come with me, Joan Krieger, you will close a door behind you. It’s not a deed that can be undone.”

  “That door was opened the moment Lady Grey was murdered before my eyes. I chose to step over the threshold when I first came to you. And I have just seen some of the dangers. Quit trying to scare me, Gregor Sherringford.”

  He glanced over at her sewing machine. They were close enough that he could place his hand on the spinning wheel. He let his fingertips brush over the machine, a strangely intimate gesture, as if he were caressing part of her.

  She breathed, in and out, awaiting his answer. If he refused, she would have to find another way. Somehow.

  Finally, he smiled, backed up a step and bowed to her.

  She was so surprised by the show of respect that she let go of his arm.

  “So it is done. Come with me, Joan Cohen.”

  Chapter Ten

  Joan was so shocked by the use of her matrilineal name that she said nothing until Sherringford had ferried her out onto the street. After she had changed into working clothes, of course. It would never do to leave the house in a nightshirt and robe.

  Cohen, he had named her. She felt the pendant heavy against her bare chest. She had tucked it beneath her underclothes, conscious more than ever of its history. Gregor had seen the pendant. He must have researched it and found the family connection sometime earlier today. He was a detective, after all.

  She felt no sense of dread from the pendant, despite her worry. That was a good sign.

  They walked down the street cloaked in Sherringford’s unique darkness. She noticed that it was less dark than the void that he’d created while they’d been trapped under her father’s desk. His power must have several levels, like the difference between a simple stitch and a seam stitch.

  After turning onto the third cross street, Joan saw the light of a hansom cab at the corner. Her sight cleared as Sherringford dropped his unique subterfuge and called to the cabbie.

  The same man who had dropped her off yesterday answered the detective. The cabbie tipped his hat to her as Sherringford helped her aboard. By then, she had recovered enough of her wits to question him about using Cohen. He demurred, saying speaking before they were warded was a very bad idea.

  “Ward? A protection of some sort?”

  “A protection of the highest sort. How many hours do you have before you are missed?”

  “I usually rise at dawn but today they might expect me to sleep later, especially with the upcoming marriage. My routine is terribly off schedule.”

  “Good.”

  No one would look for her unless Sir August sent a message or, even worse, came himself. Even her father never c
ame into her room. Her mother or Emily might. But Joan no longer cared as much about discovery or its consequences as she had even a day ago. Too much had happened. She did not feel like the same person. She looked down at her hand and flexed it. It seemed to be suffering no ill effects from the magical attack.

  “Will Sir August still have me if my absence is noted?”

  “Do you care?”

  The question annoyed her, especially since she had asked hoping to hear that this night departure made her an unsuitable bride. Or perhaps she had hoped he would be glad her marriage was now impossible. “Sir August seems to be entwined with my life just now. I cannot ignore him. And my family’s financial future rests on him, unless another solution is found.”

  “Ah, I see.” He frowned. Joan wondered why he disliked her answer. It was an obvious one, under the circumstances.

  “Sir August Milverton is a determined man, and he is desperate to add mages to his family. Reason forces me to conclude that he will have you still, scandal or no.”

  “Drat. And he will not accuse me of an indiscretion with you?” That might be a sure way to get out of the marriage.

  “Since he would know on your wedding night that you are a virgin, he would overlook your indiscretion with me.”

  “Lovely,” she snapped, and didn’t know why Sherringford’s statement that her virtue was not at stake tonight made her so testy. Yes, she did. Had he been so unaware of what had passed between them? Their hearts had literally beat as one.

  “Peace.” He laughed. “This is the most tangled and intriguing case I have had in at least a year.”

  “I’m so pleased someone’s happy about the ruin of my family,” she muttered.

  “View it as my being pleased that I can untangle that ruin.”

  “You would be happy about working on such a complicated case, regardless of my family’s plight.”

  “Entirely possible. But you will still gain from my expertise, either way.” He paused. “And I’m glad to be able to help you.”

  “If you ever provide the answers. You haven’t even given me a good explanation for needing to borrow my gloves.”

  “That is because I lack a definitive explanation as yet.”

  She thought she caught a smirk in the soft glow thrown by the carriage’s lantern and decided not to challenge him any longer. It was too exhausting. Her head lolled forward until she corrected the motion. With effort, she kept her eyes open and studied him in the pale light.

  Her first impression of Gregor Sherringford had been right. He was interested in her and the mystery surrounding Lady Grey’s murder as a puzzle to be solved. He lived in his head, not his heart. What she had felt under the desk had been only her overactive imagination. She sensed some underlying respect, hence the bow in her rooms, but that was it, she guessed. He respected competence and she was useful. And she had been unpredictable and he liked that.

  A romance with him—how ridiculous that seemed now.

  A short time later, the carriage let them off at Sherringford’s office. No life stirred on the street, though the smells that had wrinkled her nose on the first visit were the same. He led her through his entrance illusion and then into his furnished study. Once inside, she near collapsed on the couch. It was hard to be brave and resolute when one felt exhausted to one’s bones.

  Her host poured a drink for himself and offered one to her.

  “I don’t drink,” she said flatly. And tonight did not seem like the time to start. Her wits were scattered enough already.

  Sherringford drank down his whiskey and supplied her with a glass of water. She finished it in several large gulps.

  He sat down in the same chair he’d used at their first meeting. His chair, she thought, the center of his home. He put up his feet on a little footstool, closed his eyes and sighed. He was as tired as she was. Or else he was gathering his wits on how to teach her about mage gifts.

  “Well?”

  “Give me a moment to collect my thoughts.”

  “Fine.”

  Yet he was silent for a long period. Just when she started to be lulled into sleep by the quiet, he spoke.

  “Before I can show you what to do, you’ll need some background. What do you know of magic?”

  “Very little.” She related what she knew of mage coal and what she’d read in her great-grandmother’s diaries. “Are soul stealers possible?”

  “Many things are possible, some more likely than others, but I’d not care to dismiss any possibilities offhand. As your ancestor wrote and your pendant proves, there has been magic in the world since the beginning. Only recently did man learn to harness it, and that was somewhat by accident. The late Prince Albert had the talent and a knack for practicality. And, most important, he could teach others how to harness their mage energy.”

  “Explain again what my pendant does. I’m not certain I understand it yet.”

  “The pendant’s maker had great skills. What it does is focus mage ability and magnifies it. It also senses when magic is around and the intention of those wielding that magic. Your family knew enough about mage gifts to pass the pendant down to those who could sense its power.”

  “My grandmother gave it directly to me, not my mother.”

  “Likely because of your strong mage gift. What have you sensed previously when wearing it?”

  She shook her head. “It is a fine piece, so I wore it only on rare occasions.”

  “Ah. But you wore it at Sir August Milverton’s house today. What did it tell you?”

  “Not to trust Milverton.”

  “Then it is working quite well. He has let some personal tragedies turn him bitter.”

  “Oh.” And now she was curious about that tragedy. “But my great-grandmother wore it most of her life. You are saying she was right to heed the dread she felt and flee Germany, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And a spell murdered her husband, Kurt, just as one murdered Lady Grey?”

  “I cannot speak for her Kurt. But, yes, magic murdered Lady Grey. Spell, however, is a primitive word for what was done to turn your scarf into a weapon. Magic is also just a word, a convenient one for a gift we do not quite understand.”

  “What would you call spells or magic, then?”

  “A scientific unknown that can be uncovered and studied.” His lips quirked. “My family disagrees, especially my mother. They do not recognize there are gifts other than traditional magic.”

  “But you do have magic, sir.”

  “Not the kind they recognize.” He waved away the subject. “But, essentially, magic is a way people can use energy. Just as plants can absorb sunlight and turn it into food, those who possess the mage gift can use sunlight to produce a type of energy. The most basic type of this energy is what some call a mage light, which illuminates but doesn’t burn.”

  “You used a mechanical device as light,” she said. “Why was that?”

  “Because I don’t have that basic form of magic. In many ways, what I possess is anti-magic. With focus, I can block light and energy. Not a terribly useful talent, save for subterfuge.”

  “It might be useful in blocking the power of a mage.”

  “Indeed.” He frowned. “You, however, possess the basic gift for absorbing the sunlight and converting it to mage energy. Without training or a focus, your energy dissipates harmlessly into your surroundings. For example, when you create clothing, a small amount of your gift ends up in the material because you are so focused on the task. I suspect that is why your family’s business has thrived. Your clothing has that extra touch, especially since it seems the gift runs in the family. It might explain why Sims grew in prominence so quickly.”

  “I have been putting a spell on the clothing I create?” She frowned. Sewing felt right, even when it was frustrating, but many people could master the task. It was design that required talent.

  “Nothing so careful as a spell. Just that extra touch of artistic inspiration that puts your clothes a cut ab
ove. It is attractive even to those without the gift, though they couldn’t say why. I only see it because I know you have the gift and because you wore the pendant when you first came to me.”

  “So, if I were trained, I could do something truly magical to the clothes, and not just these echoes you speak of?” She slumped back on the couch. Her grandmother must have known this.

  “Your magic is already in the clothes, under the surface. All a trained mage would need is a spell to make use of what’s already there.” He cleared his throat. “Which is why your scarf was used to kill Lady Grey. It was simple to lay a spell over the magic sewn into it.”

  “What?”

  “Someone dusted a chemical commonly called brimstone over the scarf and used that to hold the spell.”

  Joan felt the color completely drain from her face. “Oh no.”

  “The same chemical was on your gloves.”

  She put her head in her hands, tasting the bile coming up her throat. “The gloves had a spell too?”

  “Not yet. Just the brimstone. Your bringing them to me ensured they would not be used as part of a spell.”

  She nearly doubled over at the nausea in her stomach. “But I helped kill Lady Grey?”

  Once, she had worked so long at the sewing machine that when she finished, she had nearly fainted from not eating for a day. Her head had gone all fuzzy and blurred around the edges. She felt exactly like that now. She was a part of a murder.

  Sherringford refilled her glass. She drained the water in one swallow.

  “No need for hysterics at this late date. You’ve already shown yourself to be made of sterner stuff. Magic is a tool, like any other. Being the owner of a gun does not make you responsible for someone who steals the gun and uses it for murder.” He knelt in front of her. “You’re not responsible, Joan. In fact, you’ve probably just saved the life of the woman who will wear the gloves.”

  “Her life was endangered because of me. And if I hadn’t come into Lady Grey’s life, she would be alive.”

  “We all affect each other in this life, for good or ill.” He smiled. “My mother would term what happens in those interactions karma. You bring good karma, not bad, Joan Cohen.”