Everyone was listening as he went on. “The Hunt rides through the sky in the worst of weather. Whoever they’ve marked will never escape. He might run for a time. He might hide. But the Hunter and his hounds will find him eventually, and take him back to Hell. To be accused is to be condemned. There is none who can stand against the Wild Hunt.”
He told the tale simply, without any of the drama that the Fitzgeralds laced their ghost stories with. But it was somehow even more frightening than theirs had been.
Lady Paget’s eyes were wide as she stared at Finn. “And you think I’ll stay here a moment longer after that?”
Finn’s twisted smile appeared. “If you’re not marked, my lady, you haven’t a thing to fear.”
“How does one know?”
“Oh, if you’re marked, you’ll feel it. Like a doom you can’t escape.”
Camellia felt a sudden stab of pain. He wasn’t talking about the Wild Hunt at all. What happened to him on the Peninsula?
Whether Mrs Bloomfield saw her reaction or not, the other lady had thoughts of her own. She mentioned quietly to Camellia that Finn might benefit from a talk with an old lady like Mrs Bloomfield, who wouldn’t have any stake in his sorrows. “I will find him after nuncheon.”
“Try the library,” Camellia said, hoping she didn’t sound too interested.
Later that day, Mrs Bloomfield did find Finn in the library, near a fireplace that had been installed well away from the books. Camellia followed Mrs Bloomfield, feeling both sneaky and silly. She hid around a corner so neither one would see her.
“How did you know of the Wild Hunt?” Mrs Bloomfield was asking when Lia got close enough to eavesdrop.
“I came across the story in one of the books I was going through with Miss Swift. I’ve been continuing on alone, though it’s slower work. The tale of the Hunt resonated with me.”
“I imagine so. You told it well,” said Mrs Bloomfield.
He shrugged. “I don’t count myself a storyteller.”
“We found Lord Elliot is secretly a musical prodigy,” Mrs Bloomfield said. “If you are not a teller of tales, what other skills do you possess? What do you excel at?”
“Offending people and counting cards,” he returned.
If Mrs Bloomfield was shocked, she hid it well. “It’s the former skill you should be more worried about.”
“The latter is just as likely to get me killed.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that you’ve been making your living in gaming hells. You’re one of the few men who doesn’t lose his head in such a place.”
“But there’s still an element of chance,” he said. “I know how to shorten the odds, not beat them.”
“Why do it, then? Surely an intelligent man such as yourself has other options.”
“When my contacts all revile me? When my family is poorer than I am? No. This is the best I can do.”
“But time is against you.” Mrs Bloomfield’s voice became very gentle, understanding.
“Wise words, madam. I’ll lose one night,” Finn said. “I’ll remember something wrong. I’ll forget a trick. And I’ll lose. I’ve been lucky. My luck will turn.” He sounded so…resigned. Camellia hated that sound in his voice.
Mrs Bloomfield went on, “Can you not marry? Perhaps to a woman with some sound investments?”
He sneered at the very notion. “I wouldn’t marry any woman who would have me. What sort of man would I be, to marry a lady for her money alone?”
Mrs Bloomfield smiled. “No, you are not that sort of man. I can tell.”
“What sort of man am I, then?”
“An honorable one.”
He laughed, a rather ugly sound.
