The Perils of Presumption (The Conclave Series Book 1) Read online

  The Perils of Presumption

  The Conclave Trilogy, Book 1

  Sarah Sokol

  Copyright © 2020 Sarah Sokol

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9781234567890

  ISBN-10: 1477123456

  Cover design by: Hayakiu

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Epilogue

  About The Author

  Chapter One

  The Dark and Stormy Night

  "The king is dead."

  Lord Benjamin Winters glanced up, brows lifting at the lanky figure of his cousin Oliver leaning against the doorway of his office.

  Oliver gripped a glass of brandy in one hand and swirled it, peering down into the amber liquid. His sharp blue eyes lifted, and he raised the glass in a mocking salute. "Long live the king."

  "What nonsense are you spouting?" Ben yawned, leaning back in his chair. He might have a minor title, a minor fortune, and a minor estate, but he was by no means next in line for England's throne. "Last I heard, our king was a queen, and she was alive and well."

  "Not that sort of king, you nodcock." Oliver strode forward and gripped the back of the wooden chair Ben kept for visitors. His knuckles whitened as he spoke. "The real king."

  Ben's eyes popped open, and the weariness from a day of papers and estate management faded as if it had never been. "Avery is dead?"

  "A ritual gone wrong, that's what they're saying. Though I believe it was murder. It had to be." Oliver jerked the chair out from the desk and sat down, his laid-back posture belying the spark in his eye. "The Conclave has wanted him gone for years."

  "Not all of them," Ben replied. The Conclave was full of loyal individuals who had voted Avery into leadership ten years ago. In truth, Ben had plenty of ambition to spare, and had been keenly disappointed to have lost that vote. But he had been loyal, never entertained thoughts of treachery. It had all been fair and above board.

  His mind raced, adding up the facts and figures, attempting to make sense of the equation. He nearly missed Oliver's next words.

  "Not all of them, but enough. They were all growing tired of his absence. You must admit he had become more and more reclusive. A leader cannot seclude himself from his subjects, and then be surprised at their betrayal."

  "I doubt he is surprised," Ben responded absently. "Seeing as he's dead."

  "Must you be so pedantic? They have already begun murmuring about a vote, and you are at the forefront of their minds. You have been leading in Avery's absence for years, now."

  There was no point being modest, the statement was true enough. Ben shrugged one shoulder, mind still racing to take it in. "You said murder, however. If that is true, it cannot be supported."

  "Of course not. We will find whoever accomplished the deed. But that's beside the point, Cuz. Surely you realize this changes everything."

  Again, Oliver was pointing out the obvious. "Avery is gone," Ben repeated, pushing back his chair and standing. "He was a good friend, as little as I saw him in recent years. We will pay him the respect of mourning his passing without greedily eyeing his throne."

  Oliver narrowed his gaze. "I am being practical, not greedy. I thought you of all people would appreciate that. Of course I'm sad the idiot is gone, but we must attend to the living, now. Everything is in place."

  "How did it happen?" Ben picked up his coat where it was slung over the back of his chair.

  "Perhaps it's best if I explain all at the scene." Oliver rose to his feet as well and tossed back the rest of his brandy with a grimace. "You might need a drink yourself, before you go."

  "I prefer a clear head." Ben picked up his customary satchel and cane, then proceeded to the door of his study. "Coming?"

  "The sight of it turned my stomach," Oliver said. "But I suppose I must. I have my carriage waiting outside."

  "Where are we headed? Avery's estate, I presume?"

  "Indeed." The two men fell into easy step together, both approximately the same height; the same long stride carried them through the plainly-furnished hallways of Ben's home. They exited into the dying light of dusk and stepped into Oliver's ornate black carriage. Oliver reached up and rapped his knuckles on the side, a signal to the driver, and it lurched forward. Generally, they preferred to ride, but official business was better conducted from a carriage with the Conclave's symbol upon it.

  Ben's whole life might be about to change. This was everything he had worked for. Would anyone suspect Ben of killing Avery? Would it put a damper on Ben's clear chances at becoming the next Conclave leader? He was so deep in thought he did not register Oliver's voice until a sharp kick landed against his shin.

  "I say, are you listening?"

  Ben blinked up at Oliver with a queasy smile. "Wool-gathering."

  "I asked if you had any theories."

  "Theories?" He took a moment to order his thoughts and refocus on the task at hand. "Right. Theories. Well... It could be anyone, really."

  "Anyone?" Oliver looked amused. "I thought you said most of the Conclave was loyal."

  "Any sort of attempt to understand the intricacies of humans, and why any of them do what they do, has long escaped the realm of possibility to me," Ben replied, idly toying with the handle of his cane. He had carved and polished it himself years ago. He wished he had more time for such projects now.

  "Well then, you are hardly the proper partner to be conducting investigations with."

  "On the contrary. I find it helps in these matters to focus on the facts, while you focus on the motivations. We must all play to our strengths, eh?"

  Oliver chuckled and settled back in his seat. "I cannot argue with that. I will endeavour to come up with a short list of more distinct possibilities than 'anyone.'"

  "God forbid you make yourself useful."

  Another kick in the shins was Oliver's only response, and both men settled once more into companionable silence. The ride out to Avery's estate was a long one, as he had situated himself deep in the countryside, so Ben had nothing to do but think, and try to ignore the tu
rning of his stomach. He would rather be out in the rain that had started pattering down on the carriage roof than deal with the motion sickness.

  Avery Whitcomb was dead. Ben had established himself as Avery's right-hand man, his trusted adviser and ally. It had been easy enough to befriend Avery, as fortunately the man was damned likable, and had a good heart. Ben's power and knowledge had also grown over the past ten years and he knew, even at the relatively young age of thirty-two, he ranked amongst the most powerful magical practitioners in London.

  He could see why the Conclave might prefer Ben in the post of leader rather than Avery. Still, it did not make sense that someone would kill another man just so Ben could be promoted. He would have to be vigilant, and make sure he was not next to be stabbed in the back.

  Not that Avery had been stabbed in the back. Actually, Ben still didn't know how the man had died.

  "We're here," Oliver announced, tucking away his notebook into his waistcoat pocket.

  Ben blinked out of the mire of his own thoughts and glanced out through the carriage window. It was already dark, and the rain had picked up now that they were in the countryside; no London buildings to protect them from the swirling wind.

  They had arrived before the gates of a grand estate, one to which Ben had never been invited. He was impressed by the size of the gardens that encircled the place. As one who used herbs aplenty, he could always appreciate a good garden. There was a muddy pathway that led through the front yard to a terraced stone fountain, which was surrounded by flowers. Blood red carnations and dahlias, as far as Ben could tell, and the poor things were being battered by the rain. He wished he had been invited out before now. He could've given Avery a few of the garden covers he had invented for storms such as this.

  Of course, it was too late for all that now.

  The windows of the estate were lit in two rooms, one upstairs, and one down, in what appeared to be perhaps a front sitting room.

  "Were we expecting anyone to be here?" Ben asked.

  Oliver peered down at his watch, then back up. "It's deuced late for any servants to still be up and about, but perhaps they're unsure of what to do in this event."

  "And Avery lives alone."

  "Never took a wife," Oliver agreed. He started forward, heading through the small side gate for pedestrians.

  Ben followed, curiosity driving his eyes to dart this way and that as he went. Since Avery had become such a recluse, he had always wondered what was occupying the man's days. Perhaps now, he would finally get a clue.

  Chapter Two

  The Strangers Come to Call

  Even you cannot raise the dead, Lottie.

  Tears burned at Charlotte's eyes and her brother's voice echoed in her mind. She stood over his open coffin, cradling his limp neck with one arm. Now and then a teardrop would roll down her nose and plop onto his face. She kept hoping he would flinch. But he didn't.

  "It wasn't supposed to be you. It was never supposed to be you." She stroked her trembling fingertips down his cold cheek.

  She had been hiding upstairs all day after she had summoned the constable. He had been followed by a team of policemen, and then more investigators, and then solicitors, and finally a few nosy fellows she didn't recognize, maybe from the Conclave. She had watched them all come and go from high above, unwilling, unable to face them, to listen to them discuss her brother as if he weren't there anymore.

  Which of course, he was not.

  His beautiful green eyes, the only physical trait they shared, were clouded and empty, now.

  Even you cannot raise the dead, Lottie.

  "What am I supposed to do without you?" Charlotte whispered.

  The family lawyer, before he had departed, had told her not to worry. Everything would be taken care of, he said. They had wanted to remove the body immediately, clean away every trace of the blood painted around the room, but she hadn't allowed it. She let them tidy up his corpse, load it into a coffin as was proper, but she made them leave it in her home for one more night.

  She needed time, she had said. Time to say goodbye.

  Even you cannot raise the dead, Lottie.

  "Shut up." Charlotte gazed down at him. "I can. I will. I have to."

  She knew it would kill her if she managed it. But if anyone was worth trying for, surely it was him. The only one who took care of her, knew her, loved her.

  She pushed back the echoing voice of reason and focused within, on that little bead of power curled up in her chest. She nudged it, prodded it out of hiding, and encouraged it to grow. She pictured it as a vine, flowering, sprouting up and spreading its branches to fill every part of her, extending to her fingertips and reaching out into her brother.

  Usually she would cut it off, let it slide back into her chest and settle, recover from the expended energy. This time, she didn't let go. She didn't stop. She kept pushing, feeling the familiar dizziness sweeping over her. Her breathing became laboured, rattling in her lungs. She kept her eyes fixed on his face.

  "Avery," she breathed. Keep going. Just a bit more. "Avery. Come back. Please... come back to me..."

  "What the devil is going on here?"

  Charlotte screamed in frustration as her concentration was broken, and she reeled back from her brother, turning to see who had invaded her home. She spun too quickly, swaying as the blood drained from her face, and she caught just a glimpse of two tall gentlemen, coattails dripping with rain and wearing nearly identical scowls, before her vision went dark.

  When her eyes blinked open again there were two faces hovering over her, and she was certain she was dead. Both were male, one with an amused expression, bright blue eyes, and a shock of blonde hair. He must be the angel, she mused vaguely. The other face was all dark eyes, square jaw, and a low, almost bushy brow. He was glowering at her with an intensity that made her wonder what on earth she had done. Maybe he was the devil and now they were fighting over her.

  But she wasn't worth fighting over, was she? The point was... If she was dead, Avery was alive. He had to be.

  "It worked," she murmured. "Thank God." Then let her head fall back to the floor.

  She groaned as the pressure of the hard, polished wood against the back of her head brought into focus a bruised, aching sensation. Maybe not dead, then.

  "You said there was no wife?" The devil was speaking now.

  "Perhaps she's a mad cousin he's kept hidden away. It would certainly explain his absence of late," the angel replied, still sounding vaguely amused.

  "Probably just a servant."

  "Young lady. I say, wake up."

  A large hand came down, cupped her cheek, and then gently tapped it. Then tapped again, this time harder.

  "Ow," Charlotte said, and forced her eyes open once more. That's right. They had interrupted her, blast it all. Whenever she was interrupted, she had a very annoying habit of fainting. She sat up so abruptly her head swam, and she felt her forehead smack into the chin of the dark haired one.

  "Ow," he snapped and jerked his head back from her.

  "Calm down, young lady." The angel was back at her side, sliding his hand up her back and helping her sit up.

  She didn't get out much, but she knew it wasn't at all the thing for him to be touching her in that way, so she pulled away from his grip and staggered to her feet.

  "Stop saying 'young lady.' It's Charlotte." She lifted her chin. "And I am perfectly calm. Who are you? What are you doing in my house?"

  The two men exchanged looks, then rose from their kneeling positions to their full, towering height, and she was abruptly aware that her feet were bare, and she was wearing her dressing gown. She shrank back from them and clutched the neck of her gown together tighter.

  Finally, the blonde one stepped forward and gave an elegant bow. "Apologies for our rudeness. Lord Oliver Stoneworth, at your service, my dear. This is my cousin, Lord Benjamin Winters."

  Lords. How lofty. Well, she could be lofty too. She stuck her nose in the air and gave a sw
eeping courtesy, just as her governess had taught. "Lady Charlotte Whitcomb. I must ask again, what are you doing in my house?"

  The dark-haired man stepped forward, an urgent look in his eyes. "Whitcomb, you say? Who the devil are you?"

  "I believe what Ben means to say is... What is your relation to our friend Avery? Our apologies for our ignorance," Lord Stoneworth continued with an exasperated look at the other man.

  "I am his sister." She was a little surprised. These gentlemen had to be from the Conclave. She'd always thought the Conclave knew everything about everyone. "You are his friends?"

  "From the London Practitioners," Lord Stoneworth confirmed, using the more formal name for the group. "We are so sorry for your loss."

  For a moment, the surprise, terror, the rush of her power, had made her forget her brother. She gasped and turned, rushing to his body. She tugged his shirt open and surveyed the gaping slashes in his chest, stroking the edges sadly. They hadn't healed at all, not even a faint scabbing. That didn't bode well. Even if she had been able to keep going, it probably wouldn't have worked.

  She felt her shoulders slump as the last trace of hope which she had clung to all day finally bled from her, and she curled her fingers over his cold, stiff hand. "Thank you. I am sorry too. It is growing late, however. Why have you come?"

  They approached her, both eyeing her with twin looks of doubt, and it almost made her giggle. She had a feeling, though, once she started crying, or laughing, she'd never be able to stop. She'd never been a hysterical female, and she wouldn't start now.

  "We are here because we believe your brother has been murdered," Lord Winters said bluntly. His dark brows were low, angry slashes over his eyes as he bent down to inspect the wounds on Avery's chest.

  "I say, I thought we were keeping that under wraps," Lord Stoneworth protested.

  "She's his sister. She could help. She might know more than she thinks," Lord Winters responded. His tone seemed almost absent, now, his focus completely on the body in front of him.