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

  "Murdered," Charlotte repeated.

  Lord Stoneworth came closer to her and eyed her up and down. "Are you going to faint again?"

  "What makes you think it was murder?" Charlotte swallowed hard, staring at her brother's body and ignoring Lord Stoneworth.

  "They told you it was a ritual gone wrong, yes? Or something of that sort. There was a quill found in his hand, dripping blood."

  She flinched infinitesimally at the reminder. As if the sight wouldn't be burned in her mind until death. "Right."

  "Have you ever known your brother to be careless?" Lord Stoneworth gestured around the room, at the gruesome blood-scribbled walls, covered in pentagrams, constellations, and other symbols Charlotte didn't recognize. "Would he ever perform a ritual of this magnitude, particularly one so dark in nature, without even a protective circle?"

  "No circle." Lord Winters rose from his study of Avery's body and began wandering around the elegant sitting room. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he stooped to examine each symbol. "Strange."

  A circle. Charlotte knew her brother had mentioned such things before. Sometimes when she interrupted a ceremony he was conducting, he would point to the line of salt sprinkled around the room and tell her not to break the circle. Now, as the numbness engulfing her mind faded little by little, she noticed there was no such line of salt in this room.

  "Careless is not a word I would use to describe him," she agreed, keeping a wary eye on Lord Winters.

  "Precisely, my dear, and as we counted your brother as our friend, we thought it our duty to investigate. If you don't mind me saying, however, we weren't expecting a sister. He never mentioned you." Lord Stoneworth stepped closer with a look that was friendly, but suspicious.

  Charlotte edged away as he stepped near, until her back was pressed to the wall. "I'm... I don't go out much. Avery is - was very protective. I've never even been to London. I go to the villages sometimes, but they're small. Sometimes people come visit me and I..." She became aware she was babbling and forced herself to stop.

  "Ah." Lord Stoneworth gave a nod as if he were satisfied, though his sharp eyes still pinned her to the wall. "Perhaps you don't know, then, that you shouldn't be around two fellows such as ourselves in your bed clothes. It might be best if you leave before your reputation is ruined."

  Charlotte stiffened her spine at that. "Perhaps you should be the ones to leave. This is my sitting room, and I was planning to spend the evening mourning my brother."

  "Do you want us to find out who killed your brother or not?" Lord Winters snapped from across the room. He was stooped down in front of a particularly sloppy symbol, a circle with two slashes across the centre.

  "Fine. Then I'm helping. You said I might be able to help." She crossed her arms and looked at Lord Stoneworth. "I shall fetch my housekeeper to chaperone us."

  "That might be wise," he replied with a benign smile. "One you trust to secrecy."

  Charlotte gave him a scornful look and swept out of the room. "Don't steal anything," she tossed back over her shoulder before she slammed the door shut behind her.

  Chapter Three

  The Solemn Vow

  "I say, did you hear that?"

  Ben blinked up from his study of the blood spatter slashing its way up the wall. "Hear what?"

  "The chit just told us not to steal anything." Oliver looked almost indignant at the thought. "As if we're just some ruffians off the street."

  "Why would we want to?" Ben rose to his feet. "It's all covered in blood."

  "That's hardly the point."

  Ben looked around the room, only his focus on the details able to keep his stomach from turning at the gore. The girl was certainly an unexpected piece of the puzzle. "You think she really is the sister? Involved at all?"

  "They have the same eyes. I must say they're much prettier in a lady's face," Oliver mused. "And she seemed genuinely distraught."

  "She was doing something when we came in." Ben crossed to the body again, inspecting the shirt where she had tugged it open. "All that energy lost. Surprised she's not still unconscious."

  Oliver looked surprised at that. "I thought she just fainted from shock."

  Ben gave him an exasperated glance. "Ladies don't really go around fainting at every turn. It was related to whatever she was attempting with Avery's corpse."

  "And she failed?" Oliver guessed. "To be frank, I didn't notice anything, but I trust your judgment in these matters."

  "A wise choice." Ben took a last glance around the room. "I don't think we'll get much more from just looking. I wish they hadn't moved the body."

  "Much more? What do you have so far?"

  "It clearly wasn't a skilled practitioner. I'm not familiar with this ritual in its entirety, in fact I'm not even convinced it's a real combination of symbols. Each individually means something, but the full picture means nothing yet." Ben gave a frustrated huff. "It's why I wish they wouldn't have disturbed the body. Perhaps it would have completed the puzzle."

  "I'm sure they were trying to protect the lady's sensibilities," Oliver said. "She did seem a bit--"

  He stopped speaking when the door swung open to admit a sleepy-eyed older woman, and the Lady Whitcomb, who had dressed herself in a more appropriate garment, some sort of thick robe that covered her head to toe. It appeared, however, that she had still forgotten shoes, and her bare toes peeped from underneath the hem as she scurried forward.

  The housekeeper gave a stern look at the two men, then her face went a bit white and she took herself off into the corner and looked away from the scene of carnage in the rest of the room. Lady Whitcomb advanced, pale but determined, dark shadows under her startling green eyes. Her honey-coloured hair was bound in a thick braid down the centre of her back, with tiny wisps curling around her temples.

  She was quite pretty, Ben noted, though not as done up and perfect as the ladies he often saw in London. She had more of a tan than would be considered fashionable, but then again, what was fashionable had never been what he considered beautiful anyway.

  Her jaw was set, and she darted her gaze back and forth between Ben and Oliver.

  "I seemed a bit what?"

  "Overwrought?" Oliver finished lamely.

  "I am not overwrought." Lady Whitcomb's low voice sounded as if it were not accustomed to being sharp, but stress and grief had made it that way.

  "Well, you did faint."

  "The lady says she is fine, Oliver, and so she is." Ben could tell she was swiftly losing her patience with them, and he didn't want to be kicked out before he had a chance to speak with her a bit more.

  "Please, call me Charlotte," she said, shooting him a tired smile. "If you will be the two gentlemen avenging my brother, we may as well be informal about it."

  "Nobody said anything about vengeance. And you can call me Ben if you like."

  "Pleased to- well, we've already met. At any rate, if you are correct and he was killed, then of course we will be seeking vengeance." She looked puzzled, as if the thought of not doing so hadn't even entered her mind.

  Well. Ben supposed she couldn't be blamed for that, she was still stricken with grief, and they had sprung a lot on her at once. They could concentrate on that later. For now, they had questions. Speaking of which, Oliver was talking. Damn the man, he was always talking.

  "-may be a bit unusual, but did your brother have any enemies, Lady- Charlotte, that is? Anyone who would wish him harm?"

  Her eyes flashed up at them, and Ben was struck by the wealth of emotion there. Usually people's emotions were so veiled, hard for him to read, but with her it was all clear. Pain, anger, suspicion, accusation, and over it all, swimming with grief.

  "His enemies would lie within the Conclave, as you should very well know."

  Oliver cleared his throat awkwardly. "I assure you we are pursuing that course of investigation as well. But no personal scuffles to speak of? Gambling debts, anything of that sort?"

  "My brother was a powerful m
an with many secrets, and a strong protective instinct for his loved ones. If he did have anything of that nature, I would have been the last to know of it." She averted her gaze, but her voice remained sharp. "I'm sure you of all people can understand."

  Ben found himself unable to look away while she spoke. He had expected her to be indignant at the implication that Avery might have been less than perfect. The family of the dead never wanted to think the worst was possible, let alone probable.

  "Of course, of course. Well... Does your brother have a study somewhere, or a laboratory where he might have been working on projects?"

  Ben was glad Oliver at least was keeping his wits about him enough to continue questioning.

  "Yes. You wish to see it tonight?"

  "The fresher the better. If he were preparing for this kind of ritual, he'd have notes and components there. We can at the very least confirm our suspicions and determine if this truly is a murder investigation."

  "Very well." Lady Charlotte nodded and fished into the pocket of her dressing gown, tugging free a long leather cord with an intricate iron key. "Follow me. Agatha?"

  The older woman joined her mistress at the door, casting long, disapproving glances at Ben and Oliver.

  Ben didn't know where the urge came from, but he found his hand reaching forward to touch Lady Charlotte's shoulder. He met her gaze earnestly and did something he'd told himself he'd never do.

  "We're going to catch whoever did this. I promise."

  Lady Charlotte turned back towards him, eyes hypnotic in her pale face. She captured his gaze for such a long moment, he feared she would never let him go. Slowly, regally, her head dipped into a nod.

  "Good."

  Something tightened in Ben's chest, and he rubbed his fingers across it uneasily. He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd just locked himself into an irrevocable promise he might not be able to keep.

  With another glance at Lady Charlotte's resolute gaze, however, he couldn't bring himself to regret it.

  Chapter Four

  One Year Later...

  "Are you certain you have to leave? Surely you can stay another day, at least."

  Charlotte managed a wan smile but pressed one hand to her sweaty forehead. She was swaying on her feet, so she eased herself down into the wooden chair next to the bed. Henry was such a dear, but he did insist on asking her this in front of his daughter, which made it so much more difficult to say no.

  She leaned forward and clasped the pale hand of the sleeping invalid. Just being around the girl made Charlotte feel drained, and the touch of their hands drew power from her even when she wasn't trying to give it.

  "I'd love to stay, truly I would," Charlotte continued, stroking the child's hand. "Margaret is one of my best patients. But the others need me too, and poor Stephen will be wondering if I've fallen off the face of the earth if I don't come out soon."

  "You know, if you'd just stop being so stubborn, you wouldn't have to go back home."

  She had even more trouble keeping her smile pinned in place. "I've told you, Henry, I'm so appreciative of your offer..."

  "I know, I know. I'm sorry to press you." Henry leaned back. He was a handsome man, with a firm jawline that was clamped tight now with his gritted teeth, somewhat shaggy hair, and a perpetual scruff on his chin. He liked to joke that all he needed was a woman to take him in hand, and he'd be a raving, tearing beauty.

  Charlotte pressed her fingers to the back of his hand, letting the last reserves of her energy flow into him. There wasn't much she could do to help with his emotional pain, but there was a knot of tension in his muscles, she could sense it near the nape of his neck, so she sent cool fingers of energy in to pulse, gently easing the muscles, untwisting them and forcing them to relax.

  Henry stared at her with a slow, wondering smile. "You are amazing."

  "I try." Charlotte gave a little pat to his hand, then dragged herself back to her feet. "I am very trying. My carriage is waiting. I will see you next week, Henry."

  "We are always eager for your return." Henry seemed to recover his manners at that point, pulled himself upright and escorted Charlotte down the soft -carpeted stairs to the front door.

  The weather was gorgeous at this time of year, playful zephyrs tousling the wisps of her hair that had tumbled down around her neck, and the sun just warming the brisk spring air enough to make it refreshing. Charlotte was reluctant to get into the rickety carriage, but she allowed Henry to hand her up.

  Apparently, part of being a proper lady was not being allowed to walk for miles across the moors alone. She was too tired to really do a walk like that justice anyway, so she relaxed back against the carriage cushions.

  A flicker of movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she twisted around to peer through the window. There was Henry, waving after her carriage, looking forlorn.

  "Damn and blast," Charlotte muttered under her breath. He was a perfectly lovely man, and his daughter's plight broke her heart, but it would be a cold day in hell before she married someone who just wanted to use her gift.

  She needed to get rid of this sick-room scent and soak in the sunshine. As the carriage rattled and rumbled its way over the muddy road back towards her family home, Charlotte poked her head out of the window.

  "Such a lovely day, Stephen! Is it all right if I sit up there with you?"

  The grizzled coachman had been with her family for thirty years, so it was with little surprise and only a modicum of exasperation that he nodded. "Very well, Lady Whitcomb."

  His emphasis on the 'lady' bit didn't dissuade Charlotte from climbing out of the carriage. It continued to rattle along behind the steady old horse as she pushed the door open and slid her foot out onto the steps. Clinging to the side of the carriage, she hauled herself up to land on the bench next to Stephen. She leaned down to push the door shut once more before smoothing her skirts, then glanced up to find Stephen's stern brown eyes staring at her from under shaggy brows.

  It was a look that would have filled her with consternation at a younger age, but now all she cared about was feeling that glorious sunshine soaking into her face, neck, and hands. She even dared to push up the long sleeves of her gown and lean back, closing her eyes.

  "I can feel your judgment, Stephen, and you can just save it for a cloudy day."

  "Don't rightly care myself, Lottie," he rumbled, resorting to the nickname he had called her throughout her childhood. "It's just the missus, she keeps goin' on to me about your freckles."

  "My freckles?" Charlotte's eyes popped open and she glanced down at her hands and forearms.

  "She says they're growin' monstrous."

  "Well." Charlotte eyed the liberal scattering of freckles across her tan expanse of skin. "They've always been monstrous; I don't see why that would change now. Anyway, you can tell Agatha I appreciate how sweetly she speaks of me behind my back."

  Stephen's craggy features flushed a bit red. "It's only your trip to London that has the missus concerned. We know you're as noble as any of those other poncy chaps, but... "

  Ah. They didn't want to see her mocked or embarrassed by the upper echelons of London society. "Don't worry, Stephen. I'll make you both proud, freckles or no freckles."

  "I never doubted it, Lottie, not for a moment." He looked uncomfortable, averting his gaze and flicking his whip lightly over the rump of the plodding horse. "Get on now, Arkle."

  She nudged him with her elbow, trying to alleviate his discomfort. "Guess who got another offer of marriage today?"

  Stephen sent her a sideways glance. "Don't be tellin' the missus that Henry chap is still offerin' for you. You'll never hear the end of it."

  "Oh, it doesn't really mean anything anymore. I think he knows by now that we just wouldn't suit."

  The coachman just grunted in the noncommittal way he had perfected. Charlotte sighed and laid her head back, closing her eyes once more. "Apologies in advance if I doze off, Stephen. I'm quite exhausted."

 
; "The little girl isn't doin' much better, then?" Stephen asked, frowning. The man was so soft-hearted, it always made Charlotte feel guilty that she had to drag him to see all the sick folks she tended to.

  "I'm afraid not. There's only so much I can do." Charlotte massaged her temple. She could feel the sunshine soaking into her skin, energy beginning to trickle back into her reserves. She'd given everything to that child, and it had barely touched the shadow of the illness growing within.

  "You do more than you should already, Lottie." Stephen laid a comforting arm around her shoulder. When they were at home, he posed as the stiff and formal butler, but in reality, he had been a father figure for her since before she could walk.

  "Nonsense. I am quite fine. All I need is a bit of sun to cheer me up." Charlotte gave him a smile, more genuine now that she could feel her strength regenerating. "And perhaps a nap."

  Stephen studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "Go ahead and lay your head down while I get us home."

  Charlotte knew at three and twenty she shouldn't be cuddling up to her coachman anymore, but... it was Stephen. And she was so tired. She nuzzled her cheek against the rough material of his coat and let her eyes drift closed. The rattling of the carriage wheels and clopping of the horse's hooves didn't allow for the deepest sleep, and it felt like barely a moment had passed before Charlotte was roused from her slumber.

  "Lottie. You'd better wake up."

  The normally staid tone of Stephen's voice was laced with a serious quality that had Charlotte's eyes flipping open, and she jerked her head up from his shoulder. "What? What is it?"

  The coachman nodded ahead. They were approaching the open front gates of the Whitcomb estate, and there, parked in front of the main house, was a large black carriage. A familiar crest was emblazoned on its side, a phoenix with wings outstretched, surrounded by flame. The Conclave was here.

  Again.

  Chapter Five