Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology, #1)(45)

He touched his chest. He could still feel the prints of Miss Camden’s fingers there. He hadn’t thought her touch would affect him, yet the pressure of her hand lingered like she’d cast her own spell. In that brief moment, he had seen more of her than she usually revealed—sadness limning her eyes, frustration creasing her brow. But the certainty with which she’d declared the existence of another spell, one he had no recollection of, had dissipated any tender feelings.

He didn’t know how large the rune was, but Miss Camden insisted on its presence. How long had she known? Had she learned of it that first night, when he’d caught her discharging his spell? During the re-enchanting of the wall? Or perhaps at Isaiah’s dinner, when he’d escorted her into the dining room. Perhaps he’d let his guard down, allowing the lighting and her sharp blue eyes to put him at ease—

Had she told him about the spell to torture him, let him stew in worry as revenge for making her work? Did she mean to continue her employment? But he didn’t blooming pay her, damn it.

And truthfully, she didn’t seem like that kind of woman. Though she masked it well, Bacchus suspected she genuinely cared about people, despite her . . . illegal tendencies.

No, he did not believe she’d lied. He only wished she had.

He took to the narrow writing desk in the corner. Readied a pen. Wrote briskly, scratching the paper, ignoring the few places where the ink bled. Shaking the message dry, he folded it over and scrawled Master Jacques Pierrelo on the back. Although she had told him the master wouldn’t have sensed the first spell, the man might know something.

Someone had to know something.

Letter in hand, Bacchus charged for the door. He pulled it open, finding a startled footman on the other side.

The servant bowed. “My apologies, Mr. Kelsey, but you’re needed in the drawing room.”

He huffed. “What for?”

The man twisted in discomfort. “Perhaps you’d best see for yourself.”

Eyeing the servant and hating the way every single Englishman danced around his intent, Bacchus nodded, pocketed the note, and strode toward the drawing room. The manor was huge, but the room wasn’t far. He reached it and opened the door. The duke paced before the pianoforte, obviously disgruntled about something. The duchess had her back to him. A constable stood erect near the other entrance.

“What is this?” Bacchus asked, shutting the door behind him.

Isaiah said, “He only means to question you, Bacchus.”

Bacchus turned toward the constable. “What has happened?” They found out about Elsie. His stomach tightened. He’d made a promise to her, and he intended to keep it . . . that, and the thought of the woman behind bars filled him with dread.

“Please sit down, Mr. Kelsey.” The constable, a short, rounded man in full uniform, gestured to one of the chairs. Bacchus selected one that allowed him to see all three people in the room. He took his time, trying to think of excuses for both himself and Miss Camden, ones that wouldn’t immediately convict her.

The constable pulled out a pad of paper and a pencil. “What is your relationship to Felton Shaw?”

“Felton Shaw?” He repeated the foreign name, trying to hide the relief lightening his shoulders. “I don’t . . . Wait.” Wasn’t that the name of the man Bacchus had lost the opus to at the auction three days ago? “A gentleman in his forties, brown hair cut short? Wealthy?”

The constable nodded.

“I am barely acquainted with him.” What was this about? “He attended an auction at Christie’s Auction House this past Wednesday. Wore a gray suit. We bid on the same opus. He won.”

“And that was the end of your acquaintance?”

“No. I spoke to him after the auction about purchasing a spell from the opus. He seemed interested until I named a master spell. Then he dismissed me somewhat forcibly and left.”

“You did not follow him?”

Bacchus narrowed his eyes. “No. And my servant did not, either.”

The constable nodded, eyes on his paper. “Your servant’s name?”

He didn’t like the way the man asked his questions, as if he were insinuating guilt. Cooperate, Bacchus. The duke will protect Rainer. “Rainer Moor. What is this about? Has Mr. Shaw filed a complaint against me?”

“Mr. Shaw is in hospital in serious condition.” The constable finally looked up. “He was stabbed last night, after his home was broken into. Robbed.”

Bacchus stiffened.

“Among the items taken was the Bennett opus. The only other witness is suffering from a head injury he will likely not recuperate from.”

The duchess slumped, covering her face with her hands.

“That is . . . terrible,” Bacchus managed.

The constable agreed with a dip of his head. “You were seen having a confrontation with him at the auction house.”

“I would not call it a confrontation.”

“Where were you last night, Mr. Kelsey? Between the hours of one and three a.m.?”

“Sleeping.” He let the obviousness of the statement leak into his tone.

“Where?”

“In my bedroom. Until midnight, I was sharing some Madeira with the duke in his study.” Though truthfully he didn’t care for the drink—he preferred rum. “Before that, I dined with the Scott family and listened to Miss Josie practice the pianoforte.”