Page 35 of An Enchanting Dare

30th June 1841, Biddy’s Cottage, Trevick Castle Grounds, Warwickshire.

“Aisling!”

“You can stand there and shout until you’re hoarse, young man, but you’ll not see the child until she’s ready to be seen.” Biddy folded her arms, standing sentry by her front door.

Aisling had refused to see him since she’d run off last night and the ball was in a matter of hours. He did not think she was in any fit state to endure entertainments on a grand scale, and, if the preparations at the castle were anything to go on, it was indeed to be a lavish affair. He had to see her, to speak to her and reassure her—reassure himself—that things were not as dire as she thought. He still could not believe she had killed a man and, if she had, well, it had likely been an accident. Perhaps he had fallen and hit his head? That would explain there being no scandal or story about the murder of a young man. If so, her guilt was misplaced, and he could assure her of that… but it was an impossible task if she wouldn’t even see him. By now Sylvester was beside himself with frustration and toyed with the idea of picking Biddy up and putting her to one side, but the idea of touching her was strangely unsettling, and he decided against it.

“Please, Biddy. I must speak to her.”

“Ah, lord love ye. You are a good man, Mr Cootes. I see that plain as day, but you’ve to give the girl some time. She’ll be at the ball tonight, and she’ll not run away without speaking to you, my word upon it.”

“But she doesn’t understand. She still does not believe I will—”

Biddy put a reassuring hand on his arm and shushed him. “Aisling struggles to put her trust in men, Mr Cootes, and I believe you know why that is, but I trust you, and she is getting there, I promise. Give her a bit of time.”

Sylvester let out a breath and raked a hand through his hair, staring at Biddy, wondering just how much the woman knew.

“Enough, not all,” she replied.

He blinked. “What?”

“You were wondering if Aisling had told me everything she told you.”

Sylvester opened and closed his mouth, a shiver of unease skittering down his spine. But no, it was obvious what he was thinking. Aisling had revealed a secret to him. She must have told Biddy, and Biddy would know he was wondering if she knew it too. It was a simple deduction, nothing in the least bit magical.

“She needs help, and she needs protecting,” he said, wishing he could convey a sense of urgency to this infuriating woman who just stood watching him placidly, as though there were all the time in the world and there was nothing out of the ordinary in this situation. But then, perhaps she only knew that Aisling had been ruined and cast aside. Perhaps she did not know that a man had died.

“He’ll be just as dead tomorrow as he is today,” Biddy replied, her expression remaining unchanged, her voice matter of fact.

Sylvester’s mouth fell open. Very well. That time it had been creepy. He muttered a curse, staring at Biddy in alarm. “You know?”

Biddy rolled her eyes. “That she killed him? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Of course I know. Who do you think taught her the curse?”

He had the sudden forceful sensation they had plunged him into some bizarre fairy tale. Only he wasn’t certain if he was supposed to be the knight in shining armour or the hapless fool who gets murdered by accident and put in a pie. He told himself to stop being hysterical and concentrate on the matter at hand.

“Biddy,” he said, forcing his voice to remain even when he was on the verge of losing his damned mind. “What the hell happened? For the love of God, will you tell me?”

Biddy shook her head and Sylvester fought the urge to swear loudly and at length.

“I can’t do it, bless your heart. Even if I knew it all, it’s Aisling’s story to tell, and she’ll tell you the rest when’s she’s good and ready and not before. Now stop acting the maggot, run along and have yourself a nap before the party. You look done in. I can give you something to help you sleep peacefully if—”

“No!” Sylvester exclaimed in alarm before schooling his expression into something less anxious. She was just an old woman, he reminded himself. There was no such thing as witches. “No, thank you, Biddy. That won’t be necessary. Just… Just tell her I was here. That I’m here for her, and I always will be. Please.”

Biddy smiled, and it was such a delighted smile it took years from her and made something in his heart ease. This was a formidable woman, and she was Aisling’s friend. That was a good thing. She reached up and patted his cheek.

“I will. Now be a good fellow and get yourself some rest. I’ll look after Aisling. Don’t you fret none.”

There was really nothing else that Sylvester could do, so he had no choice but to leave and pray Aisling would change her mind and put her trust in him.

30th June 1841, Chessett House, Warwickshire.

Louis waited impatiently whilst his valet, Elton, fussed about, putting the final touches to his toilette. There was no point in remonstrating, though. The fellow would only sulk if Louis did not allow his creative flair to achieve perfection—in his valet’s eyes, at least. Unlike Elton, Louis knew what hid behind the elegant façade facing him in the mirror, how much darkness lurked behind the mask, which was why he’d known at first glance that the Marquess of Kilbane was a dangerous man. Desperate men were always dangerous, and Louis recognised that particular brand of hopeless despair all too well. The kind that meant you did not much care if you lived or died. Boredom and power, damage and loneliness, that was a powder keg of explosive potential, and Louis had no intention of being the spark. Whatever Kilbane was up to, he wanted none of it, but he could not pretend he wasn’t more than a little curious.

Elton picked up the sapphire stick pin for his cravat and hesitated before suggesting, “Perhaps tonight we might try the ruby and gold, monsieur, just for a change?”

Louis regarded Elton steadily. His valet sighed. “The sapphire then. It goes marvellously well with your eyes, I admit.”

“I am a trial to you, Elton. Forgive me.”