The Curse of the Brimstone Contract Page 11

  “Karma.” She drank more water. He was trying to distract her with an unfamiliar term. It was working. “Is that an Indian term?”

  “It’s a simple English word for a complicated religious concept, but it will do for our purposes.”

  Apparently many words were shorthand for complex concepts, at least in Sherringford’s world. “Your mother is Indian, then?”

  He nodded. “As you guessed. My skin is not as dark as my mother’s, so I can pass tolerably well. That is, if I wish to pass, which I do not, save when I need to do so when working on a case.”

  “Did your father marry your mother for her magic? As Sir August wants to marry me for mine?”

  He scowled and stood, drawing back from her. “I hardly think that’s your business.”

  “So you can know my full history and yet keep yours hidden?”

  “Yes.” He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt. “In general, as I said, the lords of the realm are eager to add mage gifts to their bloodlines and those like Milverton are increasingly unconcerned how this is done. No doubt part of my mother’s charm for my father was her mage gift. That’s all past the point.” He chopped the air with his hand. “I was teaching you about magic, not the politics of the lords of the realm.”

  Touchy, she thought, and with good reason. She’d been worried about what being married to Sir August would do to her life. She had thought her children would at least have a good life. Yet Sherringford was the product of such a mismatched union and he seemed to think it held serious difficulties. He belonged in neither of his parents’ worlds.

  She wondered how much he was isolated emotionally from them. So sad to be all alone with parents who didn’t understand. She well knew that pain.

  “Aye, sir, let us continue with the point, then. Magic. It’s a tool, like a gun.”

  “Or a sewing needle.”

  She nodded. “So where does mage coal enter into this?”

  He smiled. “Would you believe mage coal is the waste product of using the mage ability to channel energy? It’s a magical byproduct that releases its great energy slowly as it’s burned, making it a very efficient heating product.”

  “You’re saying mage coal, which has transformed our world, is nothing more than scraps left behind by a mage’s power?”

  “Ironic, is it not? The lords make its creation sound so complex but it’s as simple as that. It’s quite an excellent fuel source, as you could tell from Milverton’s home and my own lodgings. Releasing blunt energy from the body is relatively simple for a mage but few are strong enough to produce more than a trace of the coal on a consistent basis. Hence its high price.”

  “Could I make mage coal?”

  “You don’t have to think about making it. Once you use magic, it happens by itself. If you are powerful enough and if you have a focus, such as the pendant. It remains to be seen how powerful you are. We can do that now.” He cocked his head. “You are feeling charitable toward me right this moment? I should not like to get singed.”

  Singed? “How could I do that?” She shook her head. She couldn’t envision anything that she could do that would jar that impassive front of his, never mind cause him harm. “I’ve never hurt anyone.” Except Lady Grey. Her magic had enabled the killer to act.

  “Good to know.” Sherringford stood. “Shall we begin?”

  “Will you tell me first why this is so dangerous?”

  He snorted. “Because untrained mages often cannot control the release of their sunlight-absorbed energy and thus it can be quite explosive. However, it is warded here and any mess will be contained.”

  “Explosive?”

  “The stronger the gift, the larger the possibility of, er, an incident. You know of the barren patch of land in the park?”

  “Everyone does.”

  “That was a duel between powerful, trained mages. The duel should have been contained by wards, but one of the participants set them badly and the power spilled out to nearby spectators and the land itself. Untrained, raw power, such as yours, can be just as lethal.” He knelt in front of her again. “Give me your hands.”

  “I am most definitely not lethal.” Once more, she did as he asked. He cradled her palms between his fingers. She took a deep breath. Silly girl, she was about to learn how to be a mage, and now her stomach fluttered just because this arrogant man held her hands.

  It was not romantic at all, she told herself. It was nerves. And it was not like he cared for her in that way. He had had a chance to show her that he did and had passed it over.

  “The pendant makes it far easier for you to begin this, Joan. Many mages spend years making and attuning their focus. Happily for you, yours is already attuned.”

  “Thank the Cohens.” She meant that to be funny but her voice cracked.

  “Indeed. They were a remarkable family, if my research is to be believed.” He squeezed her hands. “Put all your mental energy, all your thoughts on the pendant. Relax, and let it flow through that.”

  “To what end? Do I try to create light?”

  “No. That might cause a fire. Try to push my chair away. That should be enough of a test.”

  She closed her eyes, remembering what she had done to help them stay hidden while trapped under the desk. She had cleared her mind and concentrated on just one thing.

  She pictured his chair, the black velvet cushions, the darkened wood armrest, the stubby feet. Then she pushed. Or told her brain to push. She opened her eyes and stared at the chair until she had memorized every line of the seams of the cushions and noted the wear on the arms from overuse.

  Nothing happened.

  She imagined slamming the chair into the door via magic.

  The chair remained in the same place.

  Sherringford scowled at her and stood.

  “I did my best,” she muttered.

  “Your best?” He paced, sharp, quick movements in front of his ornate fireplace. “Your best? That was a pathetic effort. You are not the person I thought you were. I thought you were brave and strong. Instead, you’re weak, as a woman usually is. Bah. Leave. You’ve wasted my time. The Cohens would be appalled at what you lack.”

  She gasped, his words slapping at her like cold water in the morning. Angry, tired and sick to her stomach, she stood, glared at his chair, straightened her arms, gritted her teeth and…pushed.

  The anger rolled out of her. The chair tipped over and its cushion caught fire.

  She blinked and grasped the armrest of the couch. Drained, she could only stare as Sherringford smothered the flames with a blanket. She hugged herself because her body was beginning to shake uncontrollably. She closed her eyes, thought of the pendant, pictured it in her mind and told herself to calm down.

  I started a fire. I am a mage. I started a fire!

  Sherringford grasped her by the shoulders. She ignored him as the trembling spread throughout her body. He shook her, and reality came rushing back. Unbalanced, she collapsed on the couch. He sat next to her.

  “The second attempt was a definite improvement,” he said. “But you lied. You said you were not explosive.”

  She glared. “You insulted me on purpose! You wanted me to become angry!”

  “You seem to function better when you let your frustration loose. Interesting, as most noble ladies find serenity a better way to channel the energy.”

  “I’m no noble lady,” she snapped.

  “You have more innate nobility of purpose than many who can claim the title at birth.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so. That’s not the problem. No, I suspect this explosive release is a result of having suppressed the gift for so long.”

  Her shaking ebbed, as much a result of his compliment as his explanation. “Now what?”

  “Now I know you can defend yourself, if absolutely necessary. Even the best mage will have trouble standing up to that, especially since he will not be expecting it, considering the source.”

  “I will be dismissed or un
derestimated, you mean.”

  “Yes. That means I can investigate on my own, knowing you are safe. And there is another bonus to all this.” He held out his hand, palm flat.

  His palm held a finger-length piece of black stone. She grasped it and brought it close to her face. It looked like ordinary black stone.

  “Mage coal?” she asked in a whisper.

  He nodded. She closed her hand around it and started to laugh. Like before, she felt something well up inside her, but this time instead of anger, it was giddiness. She doubled over, unable to stop.

  Sherringford’s arms went around her shoulders. “Easy, Joan,” he whispered in her ear. “Are you undone?”

  She turned her head and her gaze was met by Sherringford. Their faces were less than an inch apart. She studied the fine lines of his face, his intense dark eyes and his lips, now curled into a smile. Such a gorgeous man. He’d touched her face when they were under the desk. She wanted to touch his.

  She laid her palm on his check. He closed the distance between them.

  Clearly, she was undone.

  Chapter Eleven

  There was a low noise, not quite a sigh, which Joan was not certain had come from her or from him. Ah, she was a fool. She had momentarily forgotten she was a puzzle to Gregor Sherringford, not a person. It was past time to leave here.

  But he was so close, so enticing. He put his hand over hers, drew it away from his cheek and kissed the back of it. Her vision wavered.

  He held her hand against his chest. She dared move forward and put her hand on his shoulder.

  For a moment, they stayed frozen, locked in some silent understanding. Then she felt the touch of his lips against her hair. She sighed. He cupped her face in his hands and brought it up to meet his gaze.

  “Joan,” he said, and her name sounded like a plea.

  “Gregor,” she answered, her voice cracked and broken.

  She kissed him.

  He moaned, and he parted her lips with his tongue. What had started as a soft kiss spiraled decidedly out of control. She clung to him, kissing back as best she knew, her little experience with kisses inadequate to answer this craving inside her.

  But if she was confused as to logistics, Gregor knew exactly what he was doing, tasting her lips and mouth just so. Her hands curled into fists as they clutched his shoulders. When his fingertips caressed her neck, she shuddered, crying out at the incredible sensation that coursed through her, as heady as the mage power and definitely more overwhelming. The mage power had drained her. This energized her.

  He drew back but kept his arms on her shoulders. She could not let go of him, either. Her hands were curled in his shirt.

  “I—”

  He did not finish his sentence.

  “You are more intoxicating than mage power, sir,” she said.

  “Gregor. My name is Gregor.”

  “Gregor,” she whispered.

  He smiled. Not his thin smile, but rather one of warmth. One of his carefully brushed curls had fallen in front of his forehead, giving him a disheveled look. She suspected she was not perfectly groomed either. There had not been time to do up her hair before they’d left her room.

  He cleared his throat. “Joan, you cannot marry Milverton.”

  “I already knew that.” She took a deep breath. “Just what are you proposing, Gregor?” She liked saying his name.

  “Propose? I do not—”

  He stood. She stared, watching the transformation from disheveled lover to impassive detective play over his face. His mouth tightened, his back straightened and the smile disappeared.

  “You would be a waste as Milverton’s wife. He is playing with an inferno, though he doubtless knows not the danger. Or he does not care. He will keep you untrained and under his thumb.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “This rather complicates matters.”

  “This? You mean our embrace? Our kiss? Our passion?” She stood and squared her shoulders. As a proclamation of love, desire, or even concern, his words lacked any hint of feelings. Damn him. How could he appear so unaffected? “Pray elaborate on how our kiss complicates matters.”

  He turned that warm smile on her again and she nearly melted.

  “Joan.”

  “Yes?”

  They stared at each other. And just as quickly, he was a stranger again.

  “I don’t understand how you can switch from what we shared to this—” She had no idea what to call it.

  “You’re still in great danger,” he said.

  “I have the means to protect myself, as you yourself just said. You seemed pleased at the time.”

  “I’m not talking about danger from outside. I am speaking of danger to your person. From me.”

  “I didn’t ask for protection from that quarter. I, after all, kissed you.”

  His smile was sardonic. “Perhaps I am the one who needs protection.”

  “Yes, I am using you to ruin myself so Sir August Milverton will not have me. That was my brilliant secret plan when I kissed you.” She set her jaw. “I may be new at this, but I know enough to realize that your words are not what should be expected from someone who shared what we just shared.”

  “I may be a gentleman by birth, but, as you may have noticed, I’m not one in practice.”

  She suddenly wished him vanished into that void of his. “Your manner is unacceptable. If you kissed me with any affection, now is the time to speak of it.”

  “I have never been good at words of affection.”

  “You certainly know how to show affection.”

  He laughed, stepped forward and took her hands. “Well. Give me time to realize that I’ve stepped over a threshold of my own, Joan.” He brushed a hair back from her cheek. Her face grew hot.

  She swallowed hard. She had confused him. She would have preferred to have affection, but having discomfited him was some consolation. “So what is next then, Gregor?”

  “Before we can sort out what is between us, I must solve your case. We must uncover the person in your household who is creating spells that turn your clothing into murder weapons.”

  “You’re sure it’s someone in my household?”

  “Yes, and so are you. You well know it is the only theory right now that fits the facts. Spells were placed on two pieces of clothing from your business, the gloves and the scarf. Probably three, but I don’t have the cravat to examine. No matter. The culprit resides at Krieger & Sims. That there is something kept under magic lock and key in your father’s office only confirms that.” He cupped her face in his hands. “Stay here for one moment. There is something I need to give you before you leave.”

  He left the room, and she took the opportunity to study the damage to his favorite sitting chair. The cushions had burned up, and the wood was scorched and discolored. She was capable of that kind of destruction. Sir August’s assertion that she could become a murder suspect if the authorities knew of her mage gift seemed far more possible now. She could kill people this way. With intention.

  Sherringford…no, Gregor returned with an oversize pocket watch. He flicked the watch open to reveal not a watch but an empty chamber adorned with an unusual jade-colored six-petaled metal flower.

  “Hand me your pendant,” he said.

  She closed her fingers around her grandmother’s gift. “Not unless you tell me why.”

  He narrowed his gaze as if angry, but just as quickly that emotion was gone. “Ah yes, I have gotten into the bad habit of giving orders.” He set the false watch in her hand. “This is a case for your pendant. Please put it inside and tell me what you feel.”

  She brought the case closer to have a better look at it. The jade flower petals each had a small gold symbol inscribed on them. “This is beautiful work.”

  “Thank you. Mine is also a family heirloom.”

  As such, likely of great value, she thought. She slipped the pendant off, placed it inside the case, chain and all, and shut the case tight.

  The case warmed her ha
nd but not unpleasantly so. Instead, a soothing aura seemed to emanate from it. “I feel peace,” she said.

  “Excellent. Put it on.”

  This time, curiosity won out and she did as ordered. He walked around her, intent. She crossed her arms over her chest, determined to pretend she didn’t notice the scrutiny. Of course, the heat she felt creeping up her face might give her away.

  He stopped in front of her and twisted his wrist right in front of the case. And, perhaps coincidentally, perhaps deliberately, in front of her bosom.

  “What was that about?”

  “Your pendant focuses your ability. This necklace will hide those abilities from anyone prying.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Are you telling me you have put a spell on me, Gregor?”

  There was that thin, satisfied smile again. “Not quite. The spell is on my case. As I said earlier, I’m what you would call an anti-mage. I block mage abilities. This case focuses my ability.”

  “You have blocked my gift?”

  “Nothing so drastic. I have only blocked others from seeing it.”

  “In other words, you have concealed it, as you concealed us under the desk.”

  “Quite.”

  “Why?”

  “Taking off your ancestor’s pendant would accomplish the same thing. It would hide you. But that would also lessen your ability to access your mage gift. You’re not safe with what is happening in your household. Now you can wear the pendant unseen and no one will be the wiser.”

  “As long as I wear the pendant inside the case.”

  He nodded. She looked down at it. “The chain is rather long. I hope it doesn’t get caught in my sewing machine or thread. I would hate to damage your heirloom. What is this flower?”

  “A lotus. It’s a Tibetan symbol for peace.”

  “I certainly could use some of that.” Tibetan. Another sign of Gregor’s non-English heritage. She took a deep breath. “Thank you. Now what?”

  “Now I do something very nonmagical and trace the background of all those who work at Krieger & Sims. It is a very human way to investigate but it has its rewards.”

  “And what do I do while you are investigating? The clock is ticking down on my marriage.”