Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology, #1)(5)

Elsie had teased her about it, once, asking if the true reason for her interest in the blond errand boy was a hidden affection, but Emmeline had responded so coldly that Elsie dared not mention it again. Ogden was more likely to court the man than Emmeline was.

Elsie’s shoulders drooped. “Yes, I’ll help you.”

Emmeline looked so relieved she might have fainted. “Thank you. I’ll serve you breakfast first tomorrow.”

Elsie snorted. “We’ll see how Ogden likes that.” Climbing a few steps, she took the girl’s arm in hers and walked her to the kitchen, noting how Emmeline gave the hall to the studio a nervous glance. The action made her feel like something of an older sister. The thought niggled something painful in her gut, however, and she pushed the notion away.

The two set the table and ate together. Emmeline listened intently as Elsie regurgitated the story of the baron from her novel reader, and together they speculated what his fate might be. Ogden still hadn’t come in for his plate when they finished, but that wasn’t unlike him. Like most artists, he could be a little absent at times.

Grabbing a candleholder, Elsie ventured toward the stairs, but voices in the studio caught her attention. Nash was quiet even in motion—she’d never heard the front door open.

She peeked in. Nash looked fragile next to Ogden, who had the broad, stout, muscular build of a stonemason—work he still did on occasion, when commissions from his paintings and sculptures grew sparse. Nash was taller, his hair dandelion yellow, his face young and narrow. He was in his midtwenties, dressed simply. Pale. Completely unthreatening.

Elsie couldn’t overhear their discussion, not that it mattered. Nothing interesting ever passed her employer’s lips, and she’d spied on them enough to know they were strictly business partners and nothing else. No, Elsie had to depend on Emmeline and the local merchants for good gossip. Not that she ever spread it herself. But the vicar didn’t preach against listening to gossip.

And yet, as Elsie turned away to venture to bed, Abel Nash looked over Ogden’s shoulder, his light eyes finding her for only a moment before refocusing on the man before him. In that brief moment, Elsie felt a chill course down her spine.





CHAPTER 2



After three weeks aboard a merchant ship, Bacchus’s head ached for land almost as much as his legs did. He swore he could feel his sanity slipping. He’d made the trip more times than he could count in his twenty-seven years, and yet he never had accustomed himself to it. The Atlantic always felt so much broader than he remembered it. On a voyage that long, he craved solid ground. And oranges. These merchant ships abounded in good food, but all of it was for profit, not for crewmen or passengers.

As Bacchus looked up at accumulating rain clouds and listened to the English lilt of the sailors hurrying to dock, his home in Barbados felt very far away. He’d spent just as many years in England with his father as he had on the island, but he’d never truly felt he belonged anywhere but the Caribbean. He’d visited his mother’s homeland, the Algarve, only twice. His poor grasp of Portuguese had always made him feel like he stood on the outside looking in. He had no desire to return.

He nodded to John and Rainer, servants from his household, who scrambled to collect his suitcases. He’d tried to pack light, but he didn’t know how long his stay would be. He could be in England for a mere week, or he could be here for months. It all depended on how accommodating the Physical Atheneum would be.

He had a feeling accommodation wasn’t the atheneum’s strong suit.

Grabbing a bag himself and urging strength into his limbs, Bacchus marched for the gangplank leading to the dock. A few of the sailors stepped aside to let him pass. He was not yet a titled man, certainly not here in England, but he was a well-dressed landowner and an aspector ready to test for master status, which in this uptight society would shove him somewhere above a clergyman and below a baron. Unfortunately, the test was not the only hurdle he faced in English society. As soon as he stepped ashore, he felt eyes on his face, his hair, his hands. Even the finest clothes couldn’t hide his foreign heritage. Despite having an English father, he didn’t look English, and his skin was all the darker from a lifetime in the sun.

But Bacchus was accustomed to stares.

Fortunately, as a breeze reeking of fish blew through his thick hair, bound at the nape of his neck, he saw a familiar face among the onlookers, standing on the edge of the road across from low-lodging houses. It was a face as pale as the whites of Bacchus’s eyes, framed by hair even lighter. A hooked nose, a regal bearing despite his years. A waistcoat embroidered with gold thread.

Isaiah Scott, Duke of Kent.

Bacchus grinned and charged forward. This time, when the Englishmen scattered from his path, it was because his stride demanded it, as did his height and breadth. He may have been a copper coin against a sea of silver, but he was a large coin—a fact he often used to his advantage. He clasped hands with the duke. Bacchus’s father had become close with the family after attending university with the duke’s youngest brother, Matthew. He’d maintained the connection from afar after moving to Barbados to claim his inheritance. The first time Bacchus’s father had brought him to England, or at least the first time Bacchus remembered, had been to pay his respects to the Scotts after Matthew passed away in a hunting incident. Although Bacchus’s father had since passed on, Bacchus had stayed close with them. They felt like family.