Betraying Season (14 page)

“Sir. Lady Keating requests that you join her in the drawing room before you retire, if you please.”

Niall suppressed a groan. All he wanted to do right now was go to bed so he could contemplate the memory of the soft curve of Pen’s cheek when she smiled. It had fixed his attention more than once during dinner and was far more comfortable to think about than their conversation . . . and far safer to dwell on than the feeling of her hand in his and the way she’d blushed when he’d stroked it. “Thank you, Healy. Could you bring me a brandy first?”

“Right away, sir.” He glided to the dining room.

Niall sat on a step and glared at the drawing room door. Now what? Did Mother want a progress report? Could he bring himself to tell her about holding hands with Pen under the folio in the library? That would buck her up for the evening for sure, and maybe she’d let him escape to his room without a further grilling. Niall rose and took a few agitated paces.

However, he couldn’t, just couldn’t, tell her about their later conversation.

“Your brandy, sir.” Healy appeared at his elbow. “Will there be anything else?”

Niall put on his polite face. “Not from me, thank you.”

He waited until Healy had disappeared through the door to the
kitchens, then took a large gulp of his brandy. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could go upstairs and figure out what the hell he was going to do about Miss Leland. He squared his shoulders and opened the drawing room door.

Mother was pacing the length of the Aubusson carpet, her turban abandoned, black hair hanging over her shoulders like ravens’ wings. She paused to smile at him as he entered. Doireann was curled in a chair, still glowering.

Niall’s eyes went immediately to the fireplace, with its missing vase, and he took another sip of brandy before saying, “Yes, Mother? Dinner went well, I thought.”

“Sit down, darling. Yes, quite well,” she replied. “Quite well, indeed.”

Doireann made a small noise, almost but not quite a whimper.

Mother ignored her. “You seemed to have a pleasant time with Miss Leland. I saw you conversing at dinner.”

“Yes.” Of course she had. He could practically feel her willing him to be outrageous to her. He chose a chair where he could watch both women.

“And was progress made?” Her voice cut across him like a whip.

“Well, I suppose. . . .” He swirled the brandy in his glass and breathed in its fumes, hot and dry and smoky, contemplating Mother over the rim of his glass. It would be now or never. He set down the brandy and leaned forward in his chair.

“Damn it, Mother, why? When are you going to let me in on what’s going on? How in blazes is Miss Leland supposed to help us with getting to the duke?”

Doireann spoke up. “You haven’t told him yet?” There was an edge of amusement in her voice.

Mother didn’t look at her but instead kicked at the rug’s fringe. “Quiet, girl. You hardly have any right to speak, given that this is all your fault.”

Doireann snorted.

Mother stopped pacing and came to kneel at his feet in a graceful movement. “Very well, darling. I suppose it is time for you to know. You know how I tried writing to your father last summer and received no reply. I have tried many times since then, without a single word of response. I don’t know what has kept him from answering, but I intend to remove whatever obstacle it is that stands between you, using whatever means I have at my disposal.”

She waved a slender hand, and an image of Miss Leland shimmered in the air before them. Niall wanted to reach out and touch it, but before he could act on the impulse, the image smiled at him and faded into nothingness.

“What has my making Miss Leland fall in love with me have to do with that?” he asked. He remembered her hand holding his fiercely under the folio in the library and the expression in her eyes during their murmured conversation at dinner, and suddenly he wanted to turn on his heels and leave Mother and Doireann and take his memories of the tall, honey-haired girl away from them, to be cherished in private.

“It occurred to me that I could remove the barrier separating you from the duke with a gentle application of my powers,” Mother replied. “So I prepared a magical, ah—
procedure
to remove the barrier, one that required assistance from two others, equally though differently endowed in magic. Great-aunt Nessa was prepared to come down from Belfast to help, though at her age such a long carriage journey would be difficult. Your sister was the other—”

“His half sister, Mother dear. Don’t you think we need to be precise, since we’re on the subject?” Doireann inserted.

“Shortly before I was ready, your halfwitted half sister did something untoward to make it impossible for her to be a part of it, just when I needed her help.” Mother rose, pointedly looking away from her daughter.

But Doireann just laughed quietly. “You’re so genteel all of a sudden. ‘Something untoward’? I stopped being a virgin, little brother. It was boring, so I went to bed with someone. Shocking, isn’t it? Can your delicate ears stand it? Poor Mother needed a Maiden and a Crone to play second fiddle to her magic, and I ruined it all. What I would like to know is why it’s all right for a man to do as he will with his body, but not a woman.”

“Idiot!” Mother spat the word. “You know very well why in this case. Any man can rut like an animal. It doesn’t matter for them. But to waste your maidenhood just because—what did you say?—because you were
bored
with being a virgin? I thought I had trained you far better than that. Throwing away your power—” Her hands clenched into fists.

“I did not throw away my power. I went from Maiden to Mother and exchanged one sort of power for another. If anything, I’ve increased it,” Doireann shot back.

“Oh, yes,
increased,”
Mother mimicked. “You did this knowing full well that it was your power as a Maiden that we need right now. With Nessa and you and me performing the spell, we had not only the power of the Three, but the power of family as well.”

“I’m not sure that I want to hear any more about this, Mother.” Niall walked to the fireplace and stared down into the dancing flames. So this was the cause of the increased acrimony between
them over the last months. His head had begun to spin, and it wasn’t the brandy’s fault.

“Is it too much for the diddums’s pure little ears?” Doireann lisped. “Is the big, bad world too naughty to hear about? Well, Saint Niall, we don’t all choose to live as monks just because Mother says to.”

Niall willed his fists not to clench. “Doireann, please.”

“Without your sister, we could not perform the . . . procedure,” Mother continued as if she had never been interrupted. “I had to find someone else to help us. Finding a young woman with our ability who was also a maiden was difficult enough. But I had lost the added power of her being a part of our family, power that we needed if my plans were to work. With the power of the Three, bound by family ties, I can do what needs to be done to bring you and your father together.”

“But what does Miss Leland—”

“Miss Leland is a witch,” Mother interrupted him calmly. “I saw it at once when I met her. She practically reeks of magic. Her connection with the Carrighars only confirms it. You know Dr. Carrighar is one of the most powerful wizards in Ireland. And after what happened tonight, I am sure.”

“What?” Niall’s jaw dropped. Penelope Leland . . . a
witch
? Like Mother and Doireann? It couldn’t be. Not her. He shook his head, as if to clear it. “What happened that makes you so sure?”

“Just Mother dear up to her usual tricks,” Doireann said with cheerful malevolence. But her face had gone white and pinched. “That alarming little incident with the vase?” she continued nonchalantly. “Mother made it start to fall on my head, to see if Miss Leland would stop it with magic. I say, darling Mother, just out of curiosity, what if you’d been wrong and she hadn’t been a witch?”

Niall stared at her. “So that was what . . . good lord! Mother, surely you could have found some other way to test her without . . . are you all right?” No wonder she had glowered so this evening.

Doireann rolled her eyes. “If I weren’t, we wouldn’t be having this cozy chat, would we? You’d have been mopping up my brains and pretending to mourn instead of flirting with that English
bean draoi.”

“Niall, do you really think I would have let any harm come to your sister?” Mother looked annoyed.

“Well, no, but—”

“At least not too much,” Doireann added sweetly. “What harm is a smashed skull?”

Mother clapped her hands. “Enough, both of you! This is important. Not only is she a witch, but she is also a gently brought up young lady, which almost certainly means that she is a virgin as well. Listen to me, Niall. If she can be encouraged to love you, then she’ll want to help you. You will have to ask her to marry you so that she will be bound to us by a family tie. But that is easily taken care of, and then we can proceed with the important part and bring you and your father together at last.”

“Although that means
you’ll
have to take the role of the Crone, Mother dear,” Doireann purred. “But as you say, the cycle of life is inevitable. One does become a crone with time.” She shrugged. “Of course, there is compensation for becoming old and ugly. The Crone is supposed to have the most power, isn’t she?” Doireann’s expression indicated her opinion of that trade-off.

Mother turned a dull red. “Old and ugly?”

Niall rose abruptly and stood between them, trying to make sense of this all. “So in order to get Miss Leland’s help so that I can
have some chance at the future you’ve chosen for me, I must make her love me and accept my proposal?”

There was an odd rushing noise in his head and the room seemed to recede around him. Ask her to marry him. He would have to take her in his arms, and kiss her, and gaze down into those endless blue eyes, and tell her he loved her—

“Which of course you won’t have to go through with, darling. Don’t worry.” Mother glided over and took his arm.

Words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them. “What if I wanted to?”

Her green eyes narrowed and her grip on his arm tightened. “Nonsense, dear. Once your father has accepted you, you shall have a duke’s daughter to wife at the very least. You won’t need to throw yourself away on some member of the lesser nobility. We just need you and Miss Leland engaged when my spell is performed. You will break it off afterward—the very next day, if you like.”

“Her grandfather is the Duke of Revesby. That’s hardly lesser nobility,” Niall countered.

Doireann laughed suddenly. “Ha! Didn’t I warn you, baby brother? Getting too fond of our dear Miss Leland, aren’t you?”

Niall gritted his teeth. Blast Doireann anyhow. “It’s not that. It’s—I just can’t go around proposing to granddaughters of important peers without intending to keep my word. It’s breach of promise.”

Mother turned him to face her. “Nonsense, Niall. It will all work out in the end. Trust me, darling. To make an omelet, one must break eggs. Miss Leland will recover from her jilting. She’s an attractive enough girl and will find someone quite easily next season if her marriage portion is as handsome as I suspect it is.”

“Lucky girl,” Doireann said to the room. There was an odd note
in her voice that Niall didn’t understand, but Mother had fixed him with her green eyes.

“Listen carefully. Now that we know she’s what we need, it’s time to move in for the kill. No, don’t turn away from me like that. I’m speaking metaphorically, you softhearted boy. You must increase your efforts with the girl. I want you calling on her at least every other day. Make it clear you’re utterly fascinated by her. In a month’s time, she’ll be putty in our hands. Do you understand?” She reached up and patted his cheek. “You are tired, my dearest one. Go to bed.”

At last, a chance to escape. Niall bent dutifully and kissed her cheek, then turned to Doireann. “I’m glad that you’re safe, whether you believe that or not,” he said.

His sister draped herself across the sofa and smirked up at him. “Of course I believe it. You’re too damned nice to think anything else.” She gave a sarcastic little laugh.

Niall kept his impassive face and straight posture until he was safely in his room with the door locked. Then he leaned against it and closed his eyes.

A witch! Penelope Leland, a witch!

It would explain many things—her puzzling mix of youth and wisdom. And why she didn’t want to talk about her studies. Not if she was studying magic with Dr. Carrighar. That must mean that her governess was a witch as well. And the married sister back in England. Penelope had said that she missed studying with her sister.

But a witch? Niall tried to picture her pouring tea without touching the teapot, as Mother did. She wouldn’t do anything quite so—so showy, he guessed. Magic was not a convenience for her, a way to
smooth life over and make it easier. From the way she talked about studying, it was more a sacred duty.

But those candid blue eyes. That smile. The girlish pleasure in her new cloak. How could she be all those things and a witch too?

Niall wrestled his coat off and began to untie his cravat before it strangled him. It was time to engage a valet, if he could find one who could learn to live peaceably in the same house with his mother and sister. The one he’d hired to accompany him on his continental trip had lasted only two months after returning to Ireland with him. He paced restlessly up and down his room as he fumbled with the linen.

His picture of Pen Leland was shifting, changing. It was as if he’d only seen her through a filmy curtain before, and now the curtain had been withdrawn. Beneath the charming, hesitant young girl exterior was a disciplined, strong woman. There had to be. No one could wield magic and not be those things.

And he was supposed to try to work his own sorcery on her, and enchant her with honeyed words and meaningful glances into using her power for him? Good God, if his cravat didn’t choke him first, the irony would. Surely she would see through him at once, see how he was trying to manipulate her, use her.