Spellbreaker

Master Merton, not yet seeming to notice the change in Duchess Morris’s face, turned to Elsie and jerked her head toward the door. She was right, of course. Better that someone of Elsie’s social class not stick around for the punishment of a duchess.

But Duchess Morris shifted, blocking Elsie’s way to the door, and grabbed Master Merton’s wrist. “Really, Lily.” Elsie readied a defense, but the exasperated duchess ignored her, instead dragging Master Merton to the exit. Elsie lingered behind to put distance between them, picking up the items she’d knocked off the table and offering another apology to the milliner. Once she deemed it safe, she, too, stepped back out onto the street.

Bacchus strode up to her, watching the backs of the two fleeing women. “You are a natural, Miss Camden.” That earlier gloom had dissipated from his manner. The excursion had been successful in two ways, then.

“But of course.” She adjusted her hatpin. “If you’ll kindly see me home, Mr. Kelsey, I have a growing list of chores that needs my attention.”

He almost smiled.

CHAPTER 12

At home, with her hat and chatelaine bag put away and an apron tied around her waist, Elsie finished arranging the tea service in the kitchen before carrying it upstairs. Shifting it to one arm, she knocked lightly and waited for Ogden to invite her into the sitting room.

He lounged on his settee, arm across the drooping back, looking tired but otherwise well. Across from him sat Abel Nash, wearing the same clothes he’d worn the last time Elsie had seen him. He glanced at her briefly and grinned before turning back to Ogden.

Elsie gingerly set the tray on the end table nearest Ogden. Began filling his cup.

Then she saw it, and froze.

There, under an unopened letter on the edge of the settee, was the next novel reader. The continuation of The Curse of the Ruby.

She squealed and clanked the teapot against the teacup, spilling a few drops.

Both men glanced at her.

She cleared her throat. “The usual?”

Ogden raised an eyebrow. “When did you start asking?”

Elsie hurriedly dropped a half spoonful of sugar into the cup, followed by far too much cream. Ogden was plenty fit, however, so it didn’t seem to be doing him any harm. She set the prepared cup aside and grabbed the empty one, eyes darting to the novel reader. She could make out most of the words on its cover: Unveil the truth . . . in a time where darkness . . . and he must make his choice.

Oh my.

“Elsie.”

She quickly filled the second cup. “My apologies. The tea is ready. Unless you stopped liking it plain, Mr. Nash?”

He shook his head, his too-long blond hair dusting his eyelashes. “Never could dislike anything you made, Miss Camden. My thanks.” It was a wonder he made Emmeline uncomfortable, charming as he was.

She served Ogden first, then Nash.

“Oh, take it, Elsie.” Ogden tried to sound exasperated but did a poor job of it. “The letter is yours, too.”

“Is it? I mean, oh! The post. Why, thank you, Mr. Ogden.” She snatched the novel reader and the letter atop it with both hands. Beneath it she spied a folded newspaper, the word poacher catching her attention.

Continued from page 2 . . . insists that the escaped poachers will be caught and brought to justice. “It isn’t merely about a pheasant,” Bamber said. “It’s about common decency and respect.”

Elsie’s lips parted. Escaped poachers! It must have been from the carriage! She’d been successful, and now the boys would go free—

“Elsie?” Ogden asked.

Lifting her head, she asked, “Will that be all?”

Ogden waved her off with a limp hand, and Elsie gladly left the men to their business.

The window of her room was closed, making the room noticeably stuffy, but she didn’t bother opening it. She had a tendency to vocalize her reactions to stories, and passersby on the street had no need to hear that.

Elsie leapt onto the bed on her stomach, her corset biting her hip as she adjusted to a more comfortable position. Let us see if the baron figures out—

Oh, letter.

She paused, taking note of the rough paper, sealed with a dot of uncolored candle wax pressed flat with a thumb. The magazine slipped from her fingers as she snatched up the paper. Turned it over. Read her name, written in flowing handwriting. She knew that handwriting—it belonged to the postmaster who served Juniper Down. Where she’d last seen her family.

This letter was from Agatha Hall.

Jerking upright, Elsie snapped the wax and opened the short letter. Her hope instantly cracked—it would be another missive telling her no Camdens had passed through, and no one had heard word of them. But the familiar mantra wasn’t in these words.

Elsie,