Penelope and Prince Charming (Nvengaria #1)(124)

Meagan let out an exasperated breath. “I vow, Deirdre, it is a great trial being your friend.”

“You shall laugh when you know. He is a very powerful man—oh my, he is powerful. All gentlemen of the ton fear him, and he has the new king of England eating out of his hand. Perhaps I will convince him to introduce you to one of his colleagues and make a good marriage for you.”

“That would be a fine trick,” Meagan said in bitter mirth. Her stepmother had pointed out to her only this morning that if Meagan didn’t “take” this Season, she’d be hopelessly on the shelf. They’d been in London for a few months, and so far, no gentleman had rushed to Meagan’s side, begging her to be his wife.

“Oh, now,” Deirdre began. “You mustn’t—”

She broke off as the sitting room door opened to admit the lady for whom they so anxiously waited.

Again, Meagan felt vague disappointment. Black Annie—in truth Mrs. Annabella Reese—was not a crone with a mass of wrinkles and a hunched back, but a tall, graceful lady with dark hair. She might have been fifty at most, with a touch of gray at her temples and faint lines about her dark blue eyes. She wore a simple gown of gray serge that made overdressed Deirdre appear ridiculous.

Deirdre nearly sprang at Black Annie, her hand in its fine kid glove stretched out. “Mrs. Reese, how delightful to see you again. This is my dear friend, Miss Meagan Tavistock. Have you got it ready?”

Black Annie shook Deirdre’s hand, her expression neutral, then moved her gaze to Meagan. She held out a smooth hand adorned with one gold ring. “Miss Tavistock. How nice to meet you.”

“Mrs. Reese,” Meagan said politely.

As their hands clasped, a strange pressure stole through Meagan’s body. Black Annie looked into Meagan’s eyes a moment, assessing her, and then she gave a slight nod and smile. She moved away, and Meagan rubbed her hand, wondering what had just transpired.

Deirdre, impatient, chattered on. “I have brought my fifty guineas. May I have it now?”

Meagan’s eyes widened. “Fifty guineas? Good heavens, Deirdre.”

“The spell is nearly finished,” Black Annie replied smoothly. “Did you bring the final piece?”

“What? Oh, yes, I almost forgot.” Deirdre yanked open her reticule and withdrew something wrapped in a handkerchief. “I got it from my maid, who got it from one of his maids. Was that not clever?”

“Oh yes, you are very clever, Mrs. Braithwaite.” Black Annie turned away, but not before Meagan saw her small, amused smile.

Black Annie carried the handkerchief to a table in the corner and rang a silver bell that rested there. A moment later, the mob-capped maid entered with a wide, shallow basket. Meagan craned her head to watch, interested, as Black Annie picked over the basket’s contents.

Black Annie pulled out a variety of seemingly ordinary things—scraps of cloth, a length of gold wire, and feathers of different shades and sizes. Once she had the pile of odds and ends assembled on the table, she dismissed the maid, who curtsied and sped away.

“She will bring tea if you like,” Black Annie said, as though apologizing for her lack as a hostess. “You may be seated if you like, Mrs. Braithwaite.”

“What are you going to do?” Meagan asked curiously from the sofa.

“Create the talisman that will transmit the spell.” Annie opened the drawer of the table and added scissors, a small knife, and a length of twine to the pile. “You are welcome to watch me. I have no secrets.”

Meagan rose and pattered across the carpet to the table, where Deirdre stood, fingers clenched in excitement. For fifty guineas, Meagan thought, we ought to be given a good show.

Black Annie lit a spill at the fireplace and touched it to the wick of a fat candle on the table. As the candle warmed, the faint scent of wax and spice wafted to Meagan, filling her with sweet lassitude.

Black Annie lifted the feathers and pieces of cloth and began to bind them in the length of gold wire with deft fingers. All the while she murmured under her breath, words just beyond Meagan’s hearing.

Deirdre leaned closer, eyes bright. “Are you doing magic?”

Black Annie ignored her. Meagan clasped her hands, her body relaxing, mesmerized by Annie’s smooth voice and the tiny flame of the candle. She felt herself swaying, as if in rhythm with Black Annie’s chant.

Annie unwrapped Deirdre’s handkerchief to reveal a narrow braid of black hair. “This is his?” Annie asked her. “You are certain? It would never do for the spell to fall upon the wrong person.”

“Certain enough,” Deirdre said impatiently. “My maid swore it.”

Annie shrugged as though that were ample proof. Resuming her chanting, she wove the wire around the braid, binding it to the feathers and cloth. She continued to weave and add feathers until she had an oblong bundle about the length of Meagan’s thumb. It looked nothing more than a jumble of oddities held in place with the glittering wire.

“That is all?” Deirdre asked, sounding disappointed.

“Nearly. Miss Tavistock, would you put your finger there?” Annie tapped a place where the wire crossed itself.

Still in the grip of the lassitude, Meagan readily put her forefinger where Annie indicated. Annie tied the wire off in a neat knot and withdrew it. The wire scraped a tiny drop of blood from Meagan’s finger to smear the feathers, but Meagan barely felt the sting.