Page 33 of An Enchanting Dare

― Excerpt of a letter from The Most Hon’ble Ciarán St Just, The Marquess of Kilbane to The Right Hon’ble Maxwell Drake, The Earl of Vane.

The early hours of the morning 29th June 1841, Trevick Castle, Warwickshire.

“Aisling!”

Sylvester pitched his voice low as they were close to the castle here, but he could see no sign of her. The gardens were a maze of paths designed to lead visitors on a meandering tour of the beautiful grounds, and Aisling clearly knew every inch of them, whereas Sylvester was quite literally in the dark. The thin sliver of moonlight had disappeared behind a thick blanket of cloud, and he could barely see his hand in front of his face.

He was desperate to see her, to reassure her he was still on her side. Her words had shocked him, there was no question of that. Yet somehow he still could not quite believe she spoke the truth, nor believe her capable of killing a man no matter how badly he had treated her. And if it really was true, how had she killed a grown man? And who the devil had it been? Surely someone would have noticed a dead man? Try as he might, Sylvester could not remember a young man going missing or dying in strange circumstances. Had she made it look like an accident? Had it happened that very night, in the heat of the moment? Or had she planned his demise? The questions circled his mind, and he felt he would go mad if she did not explain the rest.

As for her being a witch, well, he did not believe in magic. That was nothing more than a fanciful idea, but he would never insult her by saying it so brutally. He understood why she would want to believe it, why any woman would want a means to take control of her own life when there was no other option open to her. He was willing to believe such women had a knowledge of herbal law and natural remedies that ought to be respected, too, but more than that? No.

Finally, and after nearly falling on his face tripping over a huge terracotta plant pot, he made it back to the castle. There was still no sign of Aisling, though, and no matter how much he wanted to see her, to reassure her he meant to help her, he could hardly go to her room in the middle of the night and demand to see her. There was nothing for him to do but wait until morning and try to get her alone. Frustration and worry created an unhappy knot in his guts, but there was no other option. Reluctantly, Sylvester made his way back to his room, knowing he would not sleep a wink… not until he knew Aisling was safe and had put her trust in him.

Aisling leaned back against her bedroom door, fighting for breath, heart thudding so hard her ears were full of the rush of blood thrumming through her. She felt sick and dizzy. She slid to the floor and put her head on her arms. Oh, what was she to do?

I know what you did.

The words circled in her head, and a cold sweat prickled down her back. There was nothing for it. She must deal with this man, face what was coming head on, and do whatever she could to protect her family. The universe wanted its pound of flesh for granting her curse, and she must pay the price.

For a moment, she allowed herself to remember the comfort of Sylvester’s arms around her, his anger on her behalf, and his promise to protect her. She wanted to pretend he still meant that now, even after discovering just how wicked she had been, but she would no longer live a lie. She had gone through the past years pretending that dreadful night hadn’t happened, and hiding the awful consequences that had left a stain upon her soul. No longer. From now on she would face the truth only… only she did not think she could face Sylvester again. Not yet.

The ball was tomorrow night. She could avoid him for that long if she pretended she was unwell. It wasn’t that unusual for her to stay with Biddy if she was poorly, and Mama knew the stress of the upcoming ball could make her ill. Biddy was a healer and Aisling’s old nurse, and everyone knew how close they were. No one would think it peculiar if she spent the day there, and only Sylvester would know she was avoiding him. After she had faced her accuser and discovered what he wanted from her, she would tell Sylvester the rest and even he would agree there was nothing he could do to help her, assuming he still wanted to.

Then she would go away. She would hide herself somewhere her actions could not hurt her family or her friends. It wouldn’t be so bad, she assured herself. She had been hiding ever since that night, anyway. A fresh start might do her good. She could reinvent herself, change her name…. A sob rose in her throat as she realised she was planning to tell more lies. So much for facing the truth.

God, but she was a coward. But how could she face the truth without hurting her family? How could she live with what she had done? But no matter how many times she asked herself that question, she never found an answer.

29thJune 1841, on the road to Chessett House, Warwickshire.

Maxwell Drake, Earl of Vane, swallowed hard as the carriage rolled over a rut in the road and his stomach lurched. Oh, God. He would not puke his guts up in front of the comte. Too humiliating. Not that he was a stranger to humiliation, or to being entirely helpless and at the mercy of someone who owed you nothing and thought you were a waste of space. They’d not been wrong though, and Maxwell had done everything in his power to make amends for the harm he’d done. He’d had good cause to take a long look at his life and re-evaluate what was important. Getting murdered would do that to a fellow.

He ought to be dead. That he wasn’t was damn near miraculous and he knew he had much to be grateful for. Mending his ways had included an end to womanising, gambling, and generally being a despicable arsehole. It had also included not getting off his head drunk. He’d been doing well, too, considering. But when Barnaby Godwin had found him, he’d been the wrong side of half a bottle of brandy and mired in melancholy.

“Not much farther now,” Barnaby said cheerfully, and Maxwell smothered an uncharitable urge to tell him to shut up because he’d said the same thing an hour ago when they’d got off the train. It wasn’t Barnaby’s fault he’d allowed the past to catch up with him, to remind him what a disgusting human being he’d been until he was so wretched he’d fallen off the damned wagon. None of it was Barnaby’s fault, nor anyone else’s but his own.

Finally—praise be to God—the carriage rocked to a stop outside of his home. Chessett House was one of the smaller properties he owned, but it had become his favourite. A higgledy-piggledy Tudor building, the main and oldest part of the property was a two-storey high square block with a later L-shaped addition. The interior was splendid, designed with no expense spared, and yet it conveyed a homely, comfortable welcome in a way that none of the other grand houses he could claim as home did.

“Well,” Barnaby said, staring about him. “I say, Maxwell. This is charming. Not at all what I was expecting, if you’ll forgive me for saying so.”

Maxwell winced inwardly, knowing exactly what Barnaby meant. In years past, he’d been a damned snob and ignored this lovely little gem of a house, preferring to spend his time at Vane Hall. That was a great mausoleum of a place which did the job of impressing visitors with its opulence and grandeur, whilst being impossible to heat and akin to living in a museum exhibit.

The comte nodded in agreement. “Barnaby is right. C’est charmant, Vane. Really, most beautiful.”

Maxwell smiled, experiencing an unexpected sense of pleasure at his friend’s enthusiasm. Not that they were his friends. They didn’t know him. He didn’t have friends, though that was something else he was working on. Perhaps one day, he might call them so if he didn’t mess everything up.

“Please, call me Maxwell,” he offered the comte, hoping the fellow might warm to him a bit more if he was less formal. “There’s no ceremony here at Chessett House. I like to keep things simple. Someone once told me I needed to keep my feet on the ground and stop being such a pompous twat, or I’d get my arse burned by the sun. I’ve been trying to keep that in mind.”

Both men stared at him in surprise and Maxwell wished he’d kept that particular bit of advice to himself. Then Barnaby gave a snort of laughter.

“Close friend was it?” he asked mildly.

The comte’s lips twitched. “Only a close friend could say such a thing, I believe. And do call me Louis, if we are to relieve ourselves of the formalities.”

Maxwell grinned, reassured. “Thank you. And, actually, more of a mentor than a friend, but it was sound advice, nonetheless. I did not behave well in years past and… I’m trying to put it behind me.”

“If only it were that simple, my old friend.”

A shadow fell over the entrance hall as a figure filled the doorway. Maxwell stiffened, recognising the slight Irish lilt softening the cut glass English accent all too well. He turned to see the figure of his oldest friend in the doorway. Except he and Ciarán St Just, the Marquess of Kilbane, had never been friends. They had drunk together, gambled together, cheated, whored, and caused havoc together until the world had learned to fear them, but they had never been friends.