A dangerous ruse, p.1
A Dangerous Ruse, page 1
A Dangerous Ruse
Tournament of Shadows 2
Tilly Wallace
Copyright © 2022 by Tilly Wallace
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Also by Tilly Wallace
About the Author
One
London, August 1788
* * *
“Lady Winyard, Mistress of Drains.” Elliot read the headline aloud as he carried the newspaper into the room. He dropped it at her elbow on the desk, where Seraphina Winyard sat regarding the street out the window.
She placed her pen in its holder and pushed the newspaper away. “I cleared three drains and now I’m the sorceress of sewage.”
The footman snorted. “There was a lost opportunity for the newspaper. I’d like to see sorceress of sewage across the front page. What was blocking the latest one?”
“A thigh.” She watched the children outside bouncing a bright red ball among themselves. Had the owner of the leg once raced around with his friends without a care in the world or an inkling of the fate that awaited him?
Elliot leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “A thigh with nothing else attached?”
“From the knee joint to the hip ball. I was told it’s not unusual to find body parts down the drains in that part of London.” Three times now the Mage Council had sent her out to aid the poorest area of the city, and she didn’t imagine that was a coincidence. Since she had thwarted their attempts to retain control of her, they dispensed horrid jobs with a petulant glee. Kitty’s father and his supporters were doing their bit to overturn the amendment to the Mage Act, but until the Mage Council was defeated in Parliament, she lived under a cloud.
Elliot raised his eyebrows. “Makes you wonder what goes on behind some doors. It’s not like a fellow just loses his entire upper leg.”
A rap at the door saved her from having to speculate on the origins of the body parts liberated from the narrow channels sweeping waste out to the Thames.
A familiar murmured voice came from the hall and Elliot reappeared, followed by the surgeon Hugh Miles. He clutched a battered leather satchel in his hands. On seeing her, he dropped it to the floor and slid off his hat.
“Good morning, Sera.” His tongue stuttered over her name, which, unlike Lady Winyard, was still unfamiliar territory to him. Sera thought Lady Winyard sounded like a dour old matron who never smiled.
“Good morning, Hugh. What a pleasant surprise. Elliot, do see if Rosie can rustle up a tea tray for us.” She waved at the footman.
Elliot grinned behind Hugh’s back, then the impertinent man puckered his lips and made a kissing motion. Sera moved to the settee and wriggled her fingers, sending an invisible smack to the back of Elliot’s head. A muffled oath from the footman made Hugh turn and frown.
“What brings you to this neighbourhood?” Sera asked, distracting her companion from the antics of her staff.
“I was visiting a patient nearby and thought I would call on you. You must be relieved to no longer have the accusation of murder hanging over your head.” He took the armchair before the fire, as had become his habit.
“The accusation has been withdrawn, but the taint remains.” Some would always believe she had supplied the poison to Jake Hogan, even after Lord Tomlin had unexpectedly come to her defence and said a gifted apothecary might have brewed it.
“You proved wrong those who accused you. Do you think the Mage Council will accept you now?” He leaned on the arm of the chair and fixed his warm gaze on her.
She heaved a sigh. How she wished it were as simple as proving a few stuffy men wrong, and being left to live her life as she pleased. Unknown secrets whispered over her skin and darted at the corners of her vision. Their plan is abhorrent… She would unearth what truth lay behind those few words.
“I always wondered why the Mage Council let me live, when for centuries they quietly disposed of any girl mage. I used to have to perform at mage tower while they sneered at my attempts. As though parading me about as an inferior specimen somehow justified their horrific actions in the past.”
Hugh rose from his chair and the settee sagged as he sat next to her. He took her left hand in his and rubbed his thumb over the fading scar left by the magical bracelet that had been the cause of her humiliation. “No one who ever met you could think you in any way inferior. You crackle with power and potential.”
The magic flowed freely through her veins now. But for many years, the river had been dammed and strangled to a mere trickle. “The pretty bracelet I wore for all those years suppressed my magic. I would know why. Branvale did not act alone. Someone instructed him.” She met his gaze. “I found an ensorcelled page he used to correspond with someone, and on it was written, Keep her with you, however you can. To ensure her safety, the council must believe her feeble, with little power, and of no consequence.”
She found it easy to confide in him, with his solid and comforting presence. He would no more reveal her secrets than a snow-covered mountain would. She still puzzled over the last part of that secret message, which made no sense to her.
There cannot be another Nereus.
“That sounds as though someone has been trying to protect you. But why put you through what you have endured when they could have acted openly?” A frown pulled his brows together and his thumb stilled on her skin.
That was just one of the many secrets she sought to uncover. “I don’t know. Perhaps it is someone not in a position to speak against the council?” An ordinary concerned citizen, perhaps? No. Branvale would never have listened to a busybody. For him to follow instructions, the person had to possess magic, power, or wealth. Or possibly all three.
Hugh cleared his throat and clasped her hand between both of his. The furrow remained on his forehead, but his eyes brimmed with concern. “Do you think there is someone within the council who might try to move against you? Even though you have proven your worth?”
“I am convinced of it. There are layers of secrets here that stretch back to when I was born. That afternoon in Jake’s rooms, his last words to me were, ‘You don’t know, do you? How deeply you’re caught in his web.’ They thought me a feeble girl, but I have shown them a competent woman. That might prove my undoing. But I am not afraid of them. I will know the truth.”
For most of her life, an unknown hand had placed her on a game board. She had shaken free of that grip, and would make her own moves. If only she knew the identity of her opponent. They kept themselves hidden in the shadows.
The name Lord Ormsby flew to the front of her mind, but was he too obvious a candidate? The Speaker of the Mage Council barely hid his contempt for her. At least with him, Sera knew exactly where she stood. No, the greater risk came from those who murmured quietly and sharpened their knives behind her back.
“I would assist you in your search for truth and will do anything you require of me. You have only to ask.” The worry at his brow lessened a little, but he did not dissuade her from her path. How wise of him.
A clatter from the hall preceded Elliot’s return with the tray. “Scones fresh from the oven.” He didn’t need to tell Sera—the delicious, warm aroma enticed her nose and she leaned towards the tray.
Hugh’s eyes widened, and Sera wondered if he had eaten yet. She dropped two fat scones on a plate and handed it to him, inviting him to help himself to the clotted cream and jam, both gifts from country clients. Then she poured tea.
A rap on the front door elicited a sigh from Elliot. “Who is it now?” he muttered as he left the room to perform his actual duties.
Muffled voices came from beyond, then Elliot returned followed by two men wearing the purple and gold livery of the Mage Council. Each man clutched the rope handle of a wide, flat crate hoisted between them.
“Delivery for you, milady,” Elliot murmured, sounding almost like a real footman.
Sera rose from the settee, and Hugh leapt to his feet, clutching his plate in one hand and half a scone in the other. She wrapped the tea tray in magic and lifted it out of the way. “Place it on the table, please.”
The men lowered the object to the low table, and Sera resettled the tray on her desk. Then she turned her attention to the delivery. It stretched two feet long, a foot and a half wide, and several inches deep. The men bowed and shuffled out without speaking.
“Talkative fellows,” Elliot remarked.
She only half listened, her attention on the crate. Sera laid both hands on the rough wood. A spell tickled across her hands. An enchantment ensured that only the intended recipient could open the lid. Anyone else would receive a nasty shock. She picked at the spell, trying to find the point where it would unravel, rather like possessing a bunch of keys but not knowing which one fitted the lock.
“Have you thought about adding some sparks while you’re working, or swirly colours? Or some light music for those of us watching? It’s all a bit boring,” Elliot said.
Sera cracked open one eye and sent an arc of harmless blue sparks towards the footman. He jumped back and glared at her. Hugh grinned and ate the remaining half of his scone in one mouthful.
The lid emitted a crack, but otherwise the crate appeared unchanged. Sera grabbed it and levered it away to reveal a tightly packed mass of straw.
“Bedding for a donkey?” Elliot tugged a flake of straw free.
“Nothing quite as stubborn.” Clearing away the straw, Sera found a large book with a worn leather binding. In the middle of the cover was stamped the number six in faded gold. The number corresponding to her seat in the council chamber. “The mage genealogies.”
After she lifted free the book, Elliot and Hugh took a handle each and removed the crate, depositing it by the door. Sera set the book on the table and knelt on the floor before it. She rested her hands on the cover. Once, this had belonged to her predecessor, and like his magic and seat, it now became hers.
She opened the book and flicked through to the more recent entries. At the top of each page was written the name of a mage, and underneath, their date of birth. Below, the book kept track of the mage’s offspring. Once a mage was born, and except for their own children, the five generations that followed, called aftermages, were touched by magic and inherited different gifts. In some, like her friend Lady Abigail Crawley, magic manifested in a gift for music. No one knew what form the gift would take, only that it appeared the strongest in a mage’s grandchildren—the third generation. Then it faded, until the seventh generation barely possessed any magic at all. After that, it disappeared entirely and a mage never reappeared in that family line.
Near the middle of the book she found her name. Apart from three younger mages born after her, the rest of the book was blank, its pages yet to be filled by mages and their progeny.
* * *
Seraphina Elizabeth Winyard
15 July 1770
The parents of a mage were never recorded. History deemed them unimportant.
“How does it work?” Elliot peered over one shoulder, Hugh at the other.
“A magic so old, I don’t think anyone knows how it came to be. The book knows when a mage is born, marries, or their children produce an aftermage. Their names simply appear on the page. When a book is full, twelve new copies appear in the library—one for each living mage.” She turned back a few pages and found Lord Branvale. The date of 15 July 1788 was now recorded under his name as his date of death. Crisp black lines led from his name to those of his two children and a scattering of grandchildren.
“What if it’s wrong, or out of date, or a child dies?” Hugh leaned closer, his words scented with jam.
“As long as a child draws a single breath, their life is captured in the book, and it is never wrong.” With a fingertip she traced a line from her former guardian to his newest grandchild. A girl who, according to the book, could see the dead.
Hugh’s sleeve brushed her shoulder as he reached out, but he stopped short of touching the magic paper, perhaps lest he leave a buttery smudge. “Something there has been rubbed out.”
“What?” Sera followed the line of his finger.
He gestured sideways. “The way the light hits the book from here, I can see a line going to the right of Lord Branvale’s name.”
Sera stood and carried the book with her to the desk. Setting it down in front of the window, she picked up one side and angled the page. Sure enough, a faint line and the impression of letters appeared to the side of Branvale’s name.
“That’s impossible.” With the book laid flat, the erasure was invisible. A horizontal line meant a marriage, or was used to denote the mother of a mage’s child. Such things were never undone. Was it as simple as a mistake by the book? Or had Hugh stumbled upon one of Branvale’s secrets?
“How many hundreds of years has the book been recording all gifted mage descendants? Is it that surprising it made one mistake out of thousands of entries?” Hugh gestured to the page.
Elliot held his silence, and took the opportunity to pocket a scone from the plate. Sera rolled her eyes at him, and the footman discreetly slid out the door.
“I will consult the book held in mage tower. It’s the original genealogy—these are all its copies. Or descendants, I suppose. It is not impossible that in duplicating the entries, an error might have been made, but I have never heard of such a thing before.” Sera closed the book.
Hugh picked up the last scone and cast a longing look at the one with a small nibble out of it on her plate. “Do you think this is one of the secrets that Lord Branvale’s valet referred to?”
Sera tore off a piece of scone and popped it into her mouth. They were too delicious to let the surgeon eat them all. “I don’t know. But that still doesn’t explain why the book recorded something and then erased it. It’s not like we can submit corrections or alterations to it.”
The clock in the hall chimed ten times, and Hugh grew taller as he stood to attention. On the last chime, he grabbed his hat and bag. “Blast. I have a meeting with Lieutenant Powers at half past. I am sorry, Sera. I did not mean to linger so long.”
“Rosie’s scones are quite the temptation.” She followed him out to the hall.
He clapped on his hat with one hand and paused on the doorstep. “I meant it. Anything you need of me, you have only to ask.”
“Thank you, Hugh.” Then an idea occurred to her. “If you like, I could ask Contessa Ricci if you could join us for our monthly dinner?”
His eyes lit up, whether at the thought of a well-laid table or a chance to examine the elegant vampyre, she did not know. Likely both. “I would not wish to impose, but neither could I decline if such an invitation were made.”
After she closed the door on his broad back, Sera returned to the parlour. The faint line next to Lord Branvale’s name in the mage genealogy was a puzzle for another day. There were two other names she needed to pursue first.
Sera opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a square of paper. She rotated it between her fingers, sliding it along her palm on one edge and then flicking it over to the other. Two names and a place name were written in the middle of the square. Enough for her to start a journey of discovery. But did the people want to be found?
When she turned eighteen, Sera had requested the names of her parents. Lord Pendlebury had supplied the details on one of her visits to the tower. Taken from her mother at age five, she had few memories of the woman who had borne her, and none whatsoever of the man named as her father.
* * *
Nora Jones.
Benjamin Cohen.
Oswestry, Shropshire.
The people had different surnames. The most likely explanation was that her father had died, and her mother remarried. And yet…the hollow in her stomach made her wonder if there was another reason. One tied to why her parents hadn’t bothered to contact her since she’d come of age. Nor had they stayed in touch. Some parents kept up a steady correspondence with their magical offspring. The Mage Council removed a young mage at five to begin their training, but in one aspect at least, they weren’t monsters. Mothers and fathers could write, and receive replies. That decision lay entirely in their hands.
Why had her parents remained silent?
Sera knew little about Shropshire except that it bordered Wales and had, at times, changed hands between the two countries. An ancient area, steeped in magic—with a portal to the Fae realm. Currently, time did not allow her a trip to the area to knock on her mother’s door. Instead, she had made a request of Mr Napier, father of her best friend, Kitty, to ferret out any information he could about the couple.
