Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(123)

The fantastically decorated house that was his home while he was ambassador to England was silent as he crossed to the stairs. Alexander needed to reach his bedroom before one of his efficient Nvengarian staff saw him—or God forbid, the English servants who still did not know quite what to make of him. He’d escape into his chamber, clean himself up, and ring for Nikolai to dress him.

Before Alexander could start up the stairs, he spied a figure lurking behind one of the arched pillars that lined the staircase hall.

“Myn?” he called softly.

Myn stepped out from the shadows as though he’d been waiting to be summoned.

Myn was a logosh, one of the legendary shape-shifting creatures that roamed the high mountains of Nvengaria. He stood Alexander’s height, six and a half feet tall, broad of shoulder, rippling with muscle. His eyes were blue, a strange, almost glowing blue that seemed to take in everything and give nothing away.

“Did it happen again?” Myn asked in slow Nvengarian. Myn never addressed Alexander as Your Grace, the only person in the household who dared leave off the honorific.

Alexander scowled at him. “What do you know about this?”

Myn gave him a cryptic look in return. “It is beginning.”

“What is?” Alexander demanded, a sour taste in his mouth. “Tell me what you know—now.”

“It is inside you.” Myn tilted his head, his strange eyes fixed on him. “When you embrace it, these troubles will leave you.”

“That is not an answer,” Alexander growled.

Myn studied him quietly another moment, then the leader of the logosh walked away. Alexander started to call him back, but words choked in his throat. Myn moved into the shadows and then, in the uncanny way of his people, he simply disappeared.

Swearing under his breath, Alexander mounted the stairs, making for his rooms. Myn’s cryptic hints meant there was magic in this, and Alexander hated magic.

He would find out who wielded it and deal with the mage, no matter what ruthless and final methods he had to employ.



* * *



“Do hurry,” Deirdre Braithwaite bleated, grabbing Meagan’s arm with pinching fingers and dragging her into the little house just off the Strand.

From all Meagan had heard of the witch called Black Annie, she expected to step into a dark and smoky abode full of eerie things like bottles and jars of odd, bubbly liquids and dried reptile carcasses hanging from the ceiling.

Instead Meagan found herself entering a narrow, white-painted front hall that looked no different from that of any other house in this part of London. The ordinary mob-capped maid who’d opened the door at Deirdre’s knock led them to a sunny sitting room.

Meagan hid her interest by sinking casually onto the scroll-backed sofa, pretending she consulted witches for love potions and the like every day. Her father would be livid if he’d known Meagan’s “outing” with Deirdre included a call on this witch to whom ladies of the London ton hurried with their problems. But Meagan hadn’t been able to resist the opportunity, even though Deirdre, since her marriage, had become quite indecorous.

Deirdre’s husband was a wealthy nabob, a fact Deirdre flaunted with costly frocks and as many jewels as she could cram onto her person. Even for this clandestine outing she’d donned a dark blue velvet gown trimmed with brilliant scarlet, draped a gold silk shawl over her arms, and hung cascades of diamonds from her ears.

Meagan Tavistock, daughter of a gentleman without excessive means, wore a narrow silver ring—a gift from her father—on her left hand and a gold ring dusted with Nvengarian sapphires on her right, a gift from her dearest friend Penelope. Meagan’s frock was plain broadcloth, a rust color that went well with her red hair and did not make her complexion too sallow.

“Do sit down, Deirdre,” Meagan said as Deirdre passed the sofa for the dozenth time. “You make me dizzy simply watching you.”

Deirdre swung to Meagan, regarding her with large brown eyes that protruded slightly. Meagan’s new stepmother always said that Deirdre reminded her of an over-eager rabbit.

“This is a very important transaction, Meagan darling,” Deirdre said, her gloved fingers twitching. “After tonight, you will be proud to be my best friend.”

Meagan did not point out that her best friend was in fact Penelope Trask, who had married last summer and gone to the far-off kingdom of Nvengaria to be its princess.

“Are you certain you wish to do this?” Meagan asked Deirdre. “Your husband is a kind man. I cannot fathom why you rush to cuckold him.”

“All married women take lovers, and their husbands take mistresses.” Deirdre waved propriety away. “I’ve given Braithwaite an heir and a spare, and now I am taking my reward for being tied to a tedious and frumpy old man.”

Mr. Braithwaite was middle-aged and good-natured. Even if he was a trifle portly, Meagan had never considered him frumpy.

“Who is this gentleman you wish to ensnare with a love spell?” Meagan had been asking the question all afternoon, but Deirdre so far had refused to answer.

Deirdre gave Meagan another mysterious look. “Shan’t tell you.”

Meagan frowned at her. “I am risking my father locking me in the cellar for the entire Season to be here, you know. You might at least tell me which gentleman you are chasing.”

Deirdre opened her mouth as though ready to blurt out the name then looked wise and shut it again. “You’ll find out soon enough.”