The Etsey Series 1: The Seventh Veil (38 page)

There was a loud, sharp crack, and then all the stars went out.

* * *

Madeline was gone. And Emily was terrified.

She hadn’t realized her sister was truly nowhere in the house until she was getting ready for bed and went to the back stoop to bring in her sister’s teatime tray. Madeline always left it at the back door when she was working late, unless she was very engrossed, in which case Emily had to slide into her shoes and putter out to the workshop and fetch it herself. But there was no tray on the doorstep there either, and the workshop was locked and dark.

Emily checked the house again and again. She went to the barn and the shed. She went out to the workshop, and there she saw the fog.

It was thick and black and nasty, and Emily drew back at the sight of it. She could make out the great tree, but that was all—beyond that was darkness. Not fog, just black darkness, as if the world ended beyond the ridge. The beasts were out again, but there were more of them now. More than she had ever heard before in her life.

She hoped Stephen had been able to make it to Whitby Hall safely.

She ran into the house and locked every door and window. She paced for half an hour, raged for another half, then cried for she didn’t know how long, worrying for her sister, for Stephen, for the charm she had made him, wishing Madeline had been there to do it properly, hating her for being gone, worrying for her that she might not be safe, on and on and on, her mind an endless loop of fear and rage and helplessness. She tried to call the ghosts. But whatever that blackness was on the moor was keeping them away too. She did not go to bed, only dozed instead by the hearth, waking at every slight sound until exhaustion finally took her deep enough that when the pounding came on the kitchen door at dawn, she startled and fell out of her chair. Then she scrambled to her feet and stumbled drunkenly to the door to throw back the latch.

“Madeline, I was so worried—” She cut herself off, her shoulders falling in dejection when she saw it was not Madeline but Timothy Fielding. He looked like she felt.

“He didn’t come back.” Fielding pushed past her into the kitchen and began to pace frantically. “He didn’t come back—he went out to that damn lake
and he didn’t come back
.” He stopped and turned to Emily, looking ready to tear things apart. “He went looking for her. For the witch. He sent me back because I had no charm—some
mathdu ch’derha
tried to ingest my brain, so I went back, but he did not—” He let out a ragged, angry, terrified breath and looked at her desperately. “He did not come back.”

“Madeline has been gone since the afternoon,” she whispered, not bothering to hide her fear. “I thought she was working, but she’s gone too. I can’t find her.”

“Charles—” He ran his hand through his hair. “I lost him. I hurt the alchemist. Could he…? Could Smith have—” He swore so violently that Emily blushed even though she couldn’t understand him. “I hate feeling helpless,” he ground out when he could speak coherently again.

Emily reached for her shawl from the hook. “We’ll go to town. We’ll look for them. We’ll find Stephen—he’ll help. We’ll find them.
We will find them
.”

Timothy nodded grimly and headed for the back door, Emily close behind him. But he had not so much as turned the knob when there was the clatter of wheels in the drive followed by a swift and almost indignant rap upon the front knocker. Timothy looked at her with sudden hope.

She shook her head. “Madeline would come to the back, or she would knock and call out.”

“Emily?” Three more sharp knocks. “Emily, open the door. It’s Alan.”

Timothy’s eyes narrowed. He reached for his belt.

“Wait,” Emily said, almost pleading. “It must be something unusual or important to bring him here, especially at this hour. Let me see first.”

“It could be a trap,” he said.

“Emily!” Alan rapped even more insistently. “Emily, open the door!”

He nodded to the door. “Answer it, but I’ll be in here.” He withdrew a long knife from a sheath. “Listening.”

Emily’s eyes went very wide. “He’s the son of the
magistrate
!”

“As I said—” He tucked the now naked, long knife into an open spot on his belt and reached for something small inside his pocket. “Listening.” He nodded to the door and put the small something between his teeth as he reached in for another.

Emily scurried down the hall, her stomach doing backflips as she ran.

She caught sight of herself in the large shard she’d salvaged from the mirror and propped beside the door; she looked a fright. Her hair was half flat and half on end, her face was splotchy on her cheeks but pale everywhere else, and she had dirt on her apron. Then Alan knocked again and she decided not to care and simply opened the door just far enough to peer out.

Alan looked crisp and put together even though it was a frightful hour. His smile cracked and fell as he saw her, but he hastily put it back again as he made a stiff and awkward bow. “Miss Elliott. It is good to see you.”

Emily did not fully open the door. “It’s very early, Alan. I’m not ready for visitors.”

His smile thinned. “It’s quite important, Emily. I’m afraid I must insist.”

She saw Timothy peer at her down the hall, looking very alert, and she saw him flash a knife.

“This truly is an inconvenient time,” she said, her voice rising a little too high.

Alan was panicking now. “Emily, I must—”

“Out of my way, boy.” A shadow fell over the stoop, and Alan fell back as Lord Whitby took his place.

Emily stumbled into the foyer, letting go of the door. Whitby swung it wide and stepped into the small entry room, filling it half with his size and the rest with his presence. His cane tapped sharply upon the flagstone floor.

“Your sister has in her possession an item belonging to the House of Perry and Whitby,” he said.

“Madeline is not a thief,” Emily said, but she could not manage to bring her voice above a whisper.

Tap. Tap. Tap
. Now Lord Whitby stood directly in front of Emily. “I have full authority as lord of this parish to search in entirety any and every house of every suspected criminal, be they commoner or lord or witch. I will exercise this right now.” He nodded over his shoulder at Alan without taking his eyes from Emily. “Boy. You have been given your instructions.”

“Yes, sir,” Alan said, his voice thin. He hurried into the house and began rummaging through every drawer and tin and bottle in the foyer.

You can’t do this
, Emily wanted to shout, but she couldn’t seem to make her throat work. Whitby had turned away and was directing Alan where and what to search, sending him now into the parlor, but he kept one eye on Emily the entire time, pinning her in place with his gaze. But even with Whitby’s glare keeping her in place, she still startled when Timothy came sailing into the room.

“What’s this?” he asked, feigning surprise. He sidestepped Whitby and drew Emily out of the corner before either she or Whitby realized what he’d done. “Darling, what is this?”

Darling
? Emily blinked at him. Alan stopped his progress in the sitting room and looked up sharply. Timothy drew Emily against his side—his right, as he still had his knife visible on his left, and it flashed in the light.

“Lord Whitby,” Timothy said, coolly but with a deferential nod. “What can we do for you and your companion this early in the morning?”

“Do not interfere, Catalian,” Whitby replied laconically, but there was a tic in his cheek.

Timothy ran his hand over Emily’s shoulder absently as he narrowed his eyes at Alan. “Who is this? Why did you bring your footman into my lady’s house, Whitby?” He feigned surprise as Alan glared at him. “Oh, forgive me, Lennox. I did not recognize you.”

Footman
? Emily had to bite her lip to keep from smiling as Alan stiffened and turned pink. Oh, she would love Timothy forever for that. Timothy slid his hand absently down to her elbow, making her shiver. She would have fidgeted, as this touching was making her uncomfortable, but Whitby was still staring at her. Something told her this was part of Timothy’s plan, though what this would accomplish she could not possibly imagine.

“This is an investigation.” Whitby planted his cane and kept his eye now firmly fixed on Timothy. “You will not interfere.”

Whitby was speaking very quietly, but Emily still cringed and began to sweat. Madeline had told her once that she thought there was something magical about Whitby’s voice, but she hadn’t been able to pinpoint what or how. Now Emily had no doubt. The man had but to speak and she couldn’t move.

Timothy, however, seemed to have no trouble. He spoke with calm apology. “I’m afraid I can’t allow that, Lord Whitby—not without your son’s explicit authorization.”

Emily forgot to breathe. Across the room, Alan didn’t look much better.

Whitby planted his cane a little farther in front of him and leaned harder on it. His voice was barely above a whisper now, but it was a razor. “
You
cannot
allow
?”

Timothy didn’t so much as flinch. “I’m very sorry, but no, I cannot, and I should specify that the authorization for the search must be in writing. We must observe these legalities carefully, my lord. I’m sure you understand.” And as Emily tried not to faint and Whitby seemed to be coalescing into a localized thundercloud, Timothy drew Emily a little closer to him and leaned down to place a tender kiss against her temple. “I must protect my bride.”

Alan dropped the curio box he had been holding and started forward, his face a fiery red.

Whitby snorted. “This is a farce.”

“You made no mention of this yesterday when you were in town!” Alan shouted at Timothy. “You’re a
molly
. A foreign
molly
.”

“I
was
.” Timothy smiled down at Emily, and it did strange things to her insides, especially when he also stroked her cheek. “My lady charmed me. I can’t say I’ll never look away from a well-set codpiece, but my heart is hers.”

“
Pervert
!” Alan practically gagged.

Emily stiffened and leaned a little closer to Timothy, glaring back at Alan. Timothy kissed her again and looked almost serenely at Whitby.

“You can’t be married.” Alan was seething now. “The priestess hasn’t been through in a month!”

Timothy was still looking at Whitby, and his smile turned a little wicked as he shrugged and said, “Catalian ceremony.”

Emily didn’t know what that was, but Alan’s mouth fell open, and he stared at Emily as if she’d just stripped naked in front of them all.

“It’s perfectly legal,” Timothy said, still to Whitby. “Even Etsians with no claim to my country have used it with some success.”

“This is all ridiculous,” Alan sputtered. “Even if you were married, we can still search this house!”

Timothy looked almost pityingly at Alan before turning back to Whitby. “Would you like to explain to him, or should I?”

Whitby’s nostrils flared slightly, but this was his only acknowledgment of irritation. “An equerry has rights equivalent to that of a lord, unless his lord waives them.”

“But you are his lord!” Alan cried.

“He answers first to my heir, and second to me.” Whitby’s smile was thin but terrible. “My heir
will
answer to me.” He looked with distaste at Emily. “In the meantime, we can do nothing here. An equerry’s wife is a socially delicate position, but her legal question is sound.”

“But we can just search—” Alan said, then cut himself off when Whitby raised a hand.

“We will not involve the law in this matter. This is a temporary delay.” He looked thoughtfully at Emily, then smiled slowly as he added, “Though we could insist on a challenge. The trouble with Catalian ceremonies is that it is conveniently impossible to prove the ceremony actually occurred. “

Whitby was looking pleased, as if he were certain he had called Timothy’s bluff, but now the Catalian’s grin was feral. “Precedent has been set there too.” He lifted an inquiring eyebrow at Alan. “I think my lady would be a bit bashful, but she is a dutiful wife and will do what she needs to do to protect her family and the law.” When Alan only glared, Timothy sighed and turned to Emily, taking her face gently in his hands. He bent his face to hers slowly, his eyes deep and dark, and for a second Emily was lost in them. He was so beautiful and exotic and full of strength and love and pain. And then she shook herself out of her trance so she could listen to whatever he was going to whisper to her. But his mouth did not move to her ear, and his eyes hooded, half-open, fixed now on her mouth.

Goddess save me, he’s going to kiss me.

He did—and it was no chaste, sweet kiss. It wasn’t even tentatively exploring like Stephen’s, but it wasn’t brutal, either. It was
carnal
. Emily whimpered as he gently tipped her head to the side and deepened the angle. One of his hands slid delicately down her back, making her shiver, but the other stroked gently at the back of her neck, his fingers trickling over her skin until he seemed to find a place he particularly liked. He pressed gently, first with one finger, then another, then another, all the while his thumb massaging firmly against a soft point on her spine. Emily felt her heart flutter and expand, all her nervousness and fear rippling away like pools in water. Without realizing what she was doing, she wrapped her arms around his neck and let her fingers tangle in his hair as she opened her mouth wider for him, sighing and meeting his tongue boldly in an erotic dance as he took the kiss deeper and deeper still. She was dimly aware of Alan sputtering and shouting in the distance, but he seemed so far away, and she didn’t care. She didn’t even blink when she heard Whitby’s terse, “
Enough
,” and when Timothy drew back from the kiss, she sagged and shut her eyes, feeling bereft.

Timothy kept her close, and his hand stayed at her neck and the base of her spine, still massaging her gently. “Is there anything else we can do for you, my lord?” His voice was cool and even, as if he were not affected at all. Emily, her head still swimming, gave in to the fight and let her forehead fall against his chest, her fingers sliding against his shirt.