Текст книги "Demon's Bride"
Автор книги: Zoë Archer
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“My allies are too few,” said the Roman. “This half-world imprisons me, and only two willing fighters exist in your realm. Not enough. We need others to wage war.” The priestess turned her gaze to Anne. “Powerful warriors.”
Anne held up her hands, palms up. “I have nothing. No power of my own, and am certainly no warrior.”
The Roman’s eyes glittered as she advanced. “Strength lies within you. As for the rest, I shall bring it forth.”
Anne backed up, until she felt slickness under her feet. Blood from the sacrifice. “No.”
“Think you there is a choice?” The priestess looked scornful. “Death is your only other option.”
“I want out of this place. I want to go home.” Anne sounded small and terrified, precisely how she felt.
“We have not the time for this,” snapped the woman. “My hold here weakens.” As she spoke, the edges of the temple blurred and grew hazy. “There is no safety at home. You sense this, and my warning presence. That place is a haven for wickedness.”
“Not Leo.”
The Roman’s mouth twisted into a cruel smile. “He is most wicked of all. The Devil’s operative who makes the world ready for his master.”
Not the same man who held her, who gave her so much, who believed in her strength even when Anne had been uncertain it existed at all. “I don’t believe you.”
The priestess made a sound of irritation as more of the temple turned to smoke. “Time draws apace.”
She raised her hands and chanted. Anne did not understand the words, though some sounded vaguely familiar. Tempestas, ventus, maleficus. The air grew colder. A wind began to gust. It swirled, its movement marked by eddies of dust. Torches flickered. Faster and fiercer blew the wind, cold and lacerating, until it howled like the gates of Hell being opened.
Anne staggered, fighting to keep standing, yet the wind had the force of a storm, pushing her back.
The wind screamed, and the priestess’s voice raised to a shriek, her words barely audible above the tumult. She curled her hands into fists, and the wind spun around her, gathering, collecting. Building momentum. Her hair came loose from its elaborate arrangement, her tunic billowed, and her eyes blazed as she chanted.
Then she opened her hands and shoved the wind toward Anne.
Certain she would be torn apart by the vicious storm, Anne darted to the side. But too late. The wind slammed into her. She stumbled against the altar and fell to her knees. The pain of impact was nothing compared to the sensation of bitter, cutting wind reaching into her, filling her veins, pushing through her.
She screamed. The torches guttered and went out, sinking the room in darkness.
“Anne?”
She jolted, then felt Leo’s large, warm hand on her thigh. There was a hiss of a tinder being struck, then the flare of lit candle. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the light, but when they did, she discovered herself sitting upright in bed. Leo stared up at her, concern furrowing his brow.
“A nightmare?”
Yes, that’s what it had been. Only that. She looked around. No underground temple. No bloody altar. And no Roman priestess speaking of things Anne could not understand. There was no howling wind, nor even a breeze. The bedchamber was warm and still.
“I think so.” She resisted the impulse to check her feet to see if they were sticky with blood.
“You’re bone cold.” He drew her down beside him, surrounding her with his heat. He felt so solid, so real and alive, and Anne relaxed into him. “Better?”
She drew from his warmth, his substance. Her body slowly thawed.
A peculiar ache resounded through her, but she dismissed it as the aftereffects of very thorough, very enthusiastic lovemaking. In time, she might grow used to such physical activity, but she hoped and rather believed she would not. How could she grow accustomed to so much sensation, to a man like Leo?
“Better.” Still, when he began to nibble along her jaw, she added with regret, “I think ... I may be a little sore.”
He chuckled. “Madam, your husband is a brute.”
“Which is one of his more charming qualities.”
Leo gazed over her face. “Tell me what you need, sweetheart. How to keep the nightmares at bay.”
It was strange, she was seldom plagued by bad dreams, and this one had been particularly vivid. Yet Leo’s presence shoved away the last vestiges of the nightmare.
She snuggled closer. “Having you here is enough.”
He pulled away just enough to blow out the candle, then wrapped his arms around her.
“Sleep well, sweetheart.”
“And you,” she said, then added shyly, “my dear.”
His arms tightened, holding her closer. They lay together. Anne felt the gentle, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he drifted into sleep, and it lulled her. The darkness felt more comfortable now, everything secure, everything as it should be. Because of him.
Yet as sleep began to claim her, the priestess’s words echoed in her head.
He is most wicked of all. The Devil’s operative who makes the world ready for his master.
Chapter 8
The world spread beneath Leo’s hands. Seas, continents, nations. The span of his hand covered the whole of an ocean. If he so desired, he could crush all of it into a ball and consign it to the fire. He grinned.
“Have an interest in maps, do you, sir?”
Leo glanced up from his perusal of the map spread out on a table. The shop’s proprietor watched him with an eager smile. “I begin to.”
“My shop has all that you could desire. The very latest. The Americas, the East Indies. Even the newest geographical surveys of England. Here.” The proprietor hurried behind a curtain and emerged with a globe upon a turned oak stand, surmounted by a brass meridian. “Just come from France, sir. A beautiful example.”
He set the globe down on another table and waved Leo over to it. “Can’t do any finer than this. The latest in the cartographer’s art, and a stunning addition to the home of a distinguished, worldly gentleman.”
Leo peered down at the globe. The cartouche was in French, so he could not read it. He rested his finger atop the dot marked Moscou. How many souls beneath his finger? Giving the globe a push, he watched the world spin on its axis, the passage of days in a matter of seconds. A godlike power.
“My purchases today will not be for myself,” he murmured.
“A friend, then.”
Smiling, Leo moved away from the spinning globe. He perused charts hanging on the walls, with the shopkeeper trailing after him. “I believe so. My wife.”
The proprietor frowned. “Would they be for your wife, or a friend?”
“She is both.” It surprised him, but there was the truth of it. Anne was more to him than could be conveyed in the simple term wife. She accepted him as he was, and did not look for weaknesses to exploit. What she admired in him was ... him.
“Beg pardon, sir, but you mean to say, you would give maps to your wife?”
Leo looked at the shopkeeper, and the man shrank beneath the coldness of his expression. “That is exactly what I intend to do. I’ll take my coin elsewhere.”
“Oh, no, sir. No, no.” Seeing the fineness of Leo’s clothing, the rings upon his fingers, the proprietor was all solicitousness. “I think ’tis a wonderful thing for a man to dote on his wife, indulge her every fancy.”
It was more than a fancy for Anne, her love of maps. She considered not just the things themselves, something pretty or curious to be idly looked up, but what they signified, what they meant. It troubled him how little he had credited her when first he began to pay court. She had been merely an instrument to aid in his objectives. And he had been a fool to think her so easily rendered into a discrete, uncomplicated category.
All this, before he had known the sweet pleasures of her body. Now he had, and the world was new.
The proprietor gestured to a small chamber, separated by a curtain. “The best merchandise lays within, sir.”
Leo nodded and entered the chamber. He would give Anne the best. Anything she wanted, she would have.
The scent of paper enriched the air. Stacks of charts and maps lay atop tables and collected in V-shaped stands. Neat scrolls of parchment rested in cubbies built into the walls. Every sheet of paper represented a part of the globe, whole civilizations, and lives lost to the cause of exploration. But the world needed to be known, and in so knowing, owned. Leo understood this impulse, this covetousness. Always, it had been centered on his demands and what he could attain for himself. Now, he wanted everything for Anne.
“Here, sir.” The shop owner pulled a map of South America from one of the stands. “Taken from the most recent voyage. Mark the profusion of rivers. Most prodigious.”
Leo did not know much of cartography, but he trusted his own judgment. “I will find what I need. On my own.”
With a bow, the proprietor backed from the chamber. As he did, he drew the curtain, affording Leo privacy.
Leo made a thorough, careful survey of the contents of the room. He knew many of the places on the maps, for England served as the heart to the beast of commerce, pumping blood in the form of money and merchandise through the veins of global enterprise. Bending to study a map of the West Indies, he examined the multitude of islands dotting the Caribbean Sea. Barbados, Saint-Domingue, Hispañola. Growing the cane that sweetened the world’s tea, and distilling the rum that spun the world’s head.
“A marvelous place, the West Indies.”
Leo glanced up. The geminus leaned against a table. It had its arms folded across its chest, its legs crossed in a posture of perfect, gentlemanly leisure. Having gained Leo’s attention, it pushed away from the table and joined him in the perusal of the Caribbean map.
“I’ve never been,” Leo answered.
“Some call it a paradise.” The geminus chuckled. “My master particularly enjoys it.”
“The sultry climate.”
“The atmosphere is in all ways pleasing to him. Particularly that of the plantations.”
Leo replaced the map and selected another, this one of the Barbary Coast. Tiny ships sailed atop a painted sea, their sails billowing. Pirates, maybe, preying upon the hordes of merchant ships and their holds laden with wealth.
“I am surprised to see you at this place,” said the geminus. “Trading is ongoing at the Exchange, and yet you are here.”
Without looking up from the map, Leo replied, “My time is my own. How I spend it is my choice.”
The geminus gave another indulgent chuckle. “Of course. One cannot engage in business every waking moment. Yet ...”
“Yet?”
“Now that you possess knowledge of Lord Overbury’s imminent disaster, would you not be better served putting that knowledge to use?”
“Counterinvest.” Leo straightened and pulled the map of the Caribbean out of the stand once more. He had seen Overbury’s plantation destroyed by storm, a future calamity that could easily be taken advantage of. His ever-present hunger stirred at the thought.
“At the very least,” agreed the geminus. “My master knows how exceedingly clever you are at exploiting weakness.” When Leo did not immediately respond, the geminus continued. “It was clear that Overbury had no love for you, nor others of your class. Had it not been for your advantageous marriage to an aristocrat, you would never have been invited into his home. Indeed, I overheard him say to Lord Devere that he wasn’t surprised by your use of sleight of hand, since it is the perfect skill for someone born of the streets. And that you deserved a wife who came to you very nearly a beggar.”
Familiar hot rage poured through Leo, its origin somewhere between his shoulder blades and spreading throughout his body, tight and burning. He looked down to see that he had crushed the map he held. “I did not see you there last night.”
“I am often close.”
The calm that had enveloped Leo all morning singed away. Overbury’s insult could not stand. The slur against Leo was no surprise, but that Overbury dared to slander Anne ... “The beef-fed bastard won’t live out the rest of the day.” He stalked toward the curtain, ready to race to the man’s doorstep and punch him bloody.
“Hold, sir.” The geminus stepped into his path. “There are more effective ways of hurting Lord Overbury. Ways that will keep you out of Tyburn, and ensure the nobleman’s suffering.”
Leo fought for calm. Damn it, the geminus was right. Though Leo craved blood, money might serve the same purpose. He could manipulate the marketplace against Overbury, ensuring that his loss would be even greater. If Leo acted prudently, he could make certain that the nobleman’s losses gutted his estate. Overbury might not be forced to become a mudlark, scavenging in the slime-draped banks of the Thames, but he’d feel his fall, and painfully.
Today’s plan had been to finish at the map shop, then return home to present Anne with an abundance of gifts. He thought to gladly accept her thanks by taking her to bed, and so pass the day in communion with her body. That plan could not stand. Overbury must be crushed, and Anne avenged.
He stepped around the geminus. “I set out for the Exchange now.”
“Sir? Were you speaking to me?” The proprietor held the curtain back and peered into the chamber with a cautious expression.
“I was talking to my—” Leo turned, and frowned. The geminus was gone.
“To ...” The shopkeeper’s gaze slid to the crumpled map, his eyes widening. “Afraid you are going to have to pay for that, sir.”
Leo always carried cash. He unfolded several banknotes and shoved them into the proprietor’s hands, and the man sputtered his surprise.
“This is too much!”
“For the ruined map, and more. I want your finest wares delivered to my home. The globe and any other map you feel would please a devoted scholar of cartography. Anything you believe is the best, I want. And if that cash isn’t enough, bill me for the rest.”
As the shopkeeper babbled in thanks, Leo scribbled his direction on a piece of paper. Then he strode from the shop. He was known as the Demon of the Exchange. Today, he would be the Demon of Vengeance.
Anne accepted the dish of tea from Lady Kirton with a murmured thanks. She and the countess sat in a little parlor, a small table bearing an even smaller plate of biscuits between them. Anne nibbled on one of the biscuits. It was stale.
The parlor itself was a fine enough room, with a portrait of Lady Kirton’s favorite spaniel taking pride of place on the wall, but it was clear this room was not often used for entertaining callers. A larger, more elegant chamber served more frequently for guests. Anne had seen it as she had been led up by the footman. She did not merit the better parlor.
“Married life must agree with you, my dear.” Lady Kirton eyed Anne over the rim of her dish. “I have seldom seen you looking so well. Though you do appear a little tired.”
Anne fought not to blush. She did feel different today, weary but full of wild energy. It was all she could do to keep seated. Images from the previous night—and early this morning—kept stealing into her thoughts. Leo’s hands. His mouth. His ... cock. All bringing her pleasure. And she had given him pleasure, too.
He had kept her thoroughly, deliciously occupied, and if that had not exhausted her, then her troubling dream would have. Normally, when she did recall her dreams, they faded over the course of the day. Not so this one. Anne could still feel sticky blood on her feet, could describe in detail every pleat in the Roman priestess’s gown, and remembered all that had been said.
He has never seen the Dark One’s true face. And on the day he does, it will be too late.
“Mrs. Bailey?”
Anne’s attention snapped back to the present. “Apologies, my lady. Indeed, I am a little weary, but I find your company altogether delightful.”
“The first weeks of marriage can be quite taxing.” The older woman spoke from wellsprings of experience. “In time, the novelty wears off, and we wives are left in blessed peace.”
Anne hoped not. The more she knew of Leo, the more of him she wanted. And it seemed the feeling was mutual.
How very different her marriage was from others of her class! How full of wonderful potential! It exceeded her every expectation.
Yet her memories were darkened by the dream that had followed. That temple. The images of an evil being bringing death and destruction. And the awful storm being slammed into her body.
Anne gulped at her tea, striving for warmth. “I have heard that a husband’s interest wavers.”
“If one is fortunate.” Lady Kirton smiled thinly. Having met the ill-tempered Lord Kirton, Anne could understand why it was preferable to keep him at a distance.
“For the present,” Anne said, “I do enjoy having my husband’s favor.”
The countess sniffed. “Though he lacks any sort of breeding, when it comes to fortune and appearance, your husband is generously endowed.”
It took Anne’s supreme force of will to keep from saying something extremely unpleasant. She had a purpose here, and could not allow herself distractions.
“Though I know in time he will behave as all men do, in the interim I strive to keep things amusing between us.” She affected a conspiratorial giggle. “Shall I tell you how?”
Lady Kirton’s veneer of polite boredom fell away, and she leaned in close. “Yes, do.”
“I like to play little practical jokes on him.”
Though clearly this was not quite the response the countess had been hoping for, she still looked interested. “Practical jokes?”
“Mr. Bailey is so very observant. It amuses me to see what he does and does not notice. For example, I replace his brandy with sherry and his Bordeaux with burgundy.”
“I’m surprised a man of his pedigree knows the difference.”
Anne dug her nails into her hand to stop herself from slapping Lady Kirton. “He notices. And there is another trifling game I like to play.” She edged closer and lowered her voice. “Money is indeed a pressing concern of his.”
“Naturally,” drawled the countess.
Anne forced her bared teeth into a semblance of a smile. “He often keeps coins in the table beside the bed. It’s extremely droll to replace the coins with the exact same amount, but in different denominations, and then wait to see if he recognizes the discrepancy. Observe.” From her purse, she pulled a handful of coins. “I have here a thruppence and two shillings. I shall use them to replace the six ha’pennies and two tanners that I know my husband keeps in his desk. Or,” she said, “perhaps you might like to try the same little jape on Lord Kirton.”
The countess sat back, stunned. “I? On Lord Kirton?”
“With such an amusing trick, it might rekindle some of the newlywed’s spirit in your husband.”
Lady Kirton looked dubious. “Truly?”
“La, yes.” Anne giggled. “I assure you, whenever Mr. Bailey catches on to my jest, it puts him into a very agreeable humor.”
The countess considered this, tapping one finger against her chin. Some faded memory of past passion must have revived, for her pale cheeks turned pink. At last, she said, “Perhaps I shall.”
“Oh, marvelous!” Anne clutched her purse tightly. “Can you think of a place where Lord Kirton keeps his coin?”
“His desk in the library.” Lady Kirton stood eagerly. “I can fetch them in an instant. A moment, Mrs. Bailey.” She hurried out the door to the parlor, leaving Anne alone.
Smiling to herself, Anne set down her dish of tea. She rose up from the settee and drifted around the parlor, idly examining the room. The portrait of the dog drew her attention; paintings were costly, and she wondered what sort of person immortalized an animal.
She realized that in the whole of Leo’s house, there were a few paintings of landscapes, some hunting scenes, but not a single portrait. No grim ancestors staring out from the walls. Not even a picture of Leo’s father or mother. Her husband had no history. He created himself, whole and entire, as if he were both Zeus and Athena, springing forth fully formed from his own mind.
A demilune table was positioned directly beneath the portrait of the dog. Lit candles were arrayed atop the table, struggling against the overcast day. As Anne neared the picture, the candles guttered. When she halted her advance, the candles stopped flickering. The room was still and silent, the windows shut tight, and not a breeze or draft whistled.
Anne took another step forward. The candles flickered. She took one more step. The candles went out. Twists of smoke rose to the ceiling.
It was as though she were the breeze that extinguished the flames. Frowning, Anne crossed to the fire burning in a small hearth. As she drew closer, the blaze sputtered and popped, despite the screen arrayed in front of it. She walked quickly to the fire. It shuddered as if harried by a wind. Then it choked out, leaving only smoldering ashes.
Anne stared down at the ashes. Her dream assailed her—the windstorm conjured by the priestess, and the wind crashing into her own body, absorbing it.
It had been a dream. Nothing more. Yet Anne gazed at her hands as if she could not quite place them, as if they belonged to someone else, and were grafted on to her body.
“This will be amusing.” Lady Kirton sailed back into the parlor, her hands cupped around an assortment of coins. She held them out to Anne.
Anne blinked.
“The substitution,” prompted the countess. “Some of Lord Kirton’s coins for the same amount in different denominations.”
Anne shook herself. There was a purpose in her coming here. “Yes. Let’s make the exchange.”
Lady Kirton frowned at the now smoldering hearth. “Those useless servants. Cannot make a decent fire.”
Saying nothing, Anne took her seat. Lady Kirton did the same, and counted out twenty-seven pence’ worth of coins, which Anne traded for her two shillings and thruppence. Anne felt a visceral thrill when the countess placed her coins in her hand. The woman had no idea what she had willingly agreed to do, believing herself the instigator of an entertaining prank. But Anne had manipulated Lady Kirton to do precisely what she wanted.
If this was anything like the sort of excitement Leo felt when finessing a deal at Exchange Alley, no wonder he devoted himself to work. She could get quite addicted to the stimulation.
“I cannot wait to see Lord Kirton’s face when he discovers my cleverness.” Lady Kirton gave a sly smile. “He was in a fever to marry me, those many years ago. Not merely for my fortune. I had been known as quite a beauty.” She patted her powdered curls. “Perhaps this may reignite that tendre.”
Anne rose, tucking her purse into her pocket. “Do keep me informed, my lady.” Though she rather hoped that she did not receive any excessively detailed descriptions. “Now, I thank you for your affability in welcoming me into your home, but I have several more calls to pay.”
“The obligations of a new wife.” Lady Kirton sighed. “Enjoy these early days, child. You will soon discover that the man you thought you married is someone else entirely.”
With a small shiver, Anne asked, “Why would you say that?”
The countess shrugged. “We all of us pretend to be different people in order to make ourselves agreeable to our spouses. But the illusion soon drops away. ’Tis the nature of marriage. Then it becomes a matter of adjusting expectations.”
“I will take that under advisement. My lady.” Anne dipped a curtsy and was led by a footman back downstairs.
Leo had taken a hackney that morning, leaving her use of their own carriage, and it now waited for her outside. As the footman held the carriage door open, something within caught her attention.
A letter, placed upon the seat.
“Who put that there?”
The footman shrugged. “I didn’t see anyone, madam.” He turned to the driver. “You see somebody put a letter in the carriage?”
The coachman only shook his head.
“Never mind.” Anne gave the footman a vail, though she was careful to keep some of Lord Kirton’s coins for Leo, then climbed into the carriage. As the door closed and the carriage drove away, she picked up the letter. The name Mrs. Bailey had been written across the front, but with no direction.
Someone had placed the letter in the carriage without being seen—someone of dark skill. She pressed back into the seat and drew the blinds, yet she could not rid herself of the sensation that she was being watched.
Madam,
I am given to understand that you have been contacted by Valeria Livia Corva. I wager she has confused you more than elucidated. Have patience with her, as existing over a millennia trapped between the realm of the living and the dead tends to confound one’s wits.
As I have
not
been trapped between these realms, my mind is a degree sharper than Livia’s, and I must illuminate that which she has left dark. Thus shall I to my purpose.
Mrs. Bailey, your husband is not the man you believe him to be. He and the other Hellraisers all share a wicked partnership. Once I counted myself one of their compatriots, but wisdom, and an audacious Gypsy woman, prevailed. All of us Hellraisers were blinded by arrogance and greed. We made a bargain, gaining gifts but never understanding the price.
The price was our souls.
In short, Mrs. Bailey, we forged a pact with the Devil.
Likely, you think me mad, and with good reason. Yet my pen conveys the truth, difficult as it may be to accept. My gift had been the ability to manipulate fortune, for I could control probability to suit my needs. As a gamester, no greater ability exists. I have since surrendered this ability, and with great joy. The other Hellraisers, however, retain their bequests so bestowed upon them by the Devil.
John gained the facility to comprehend thoughts.
Bram received the power to persuade anyone to do his bidding.
Edmund was bestowed Rosalind.
And Leo has the ability to see what has not yet transpired.
Well may you think me deranged for proposing such outrageous allegations, yet my claims are factual. Indeed, not so long ago, I battled the Devil and the Hellraisers, both. Upon Leo’s shoulder is a scar which I made with the point of a rapier blade. If I may presume, you may observe it in the intimacies of nuptial life.
Your husband is in monstrous danger. If he is not already consumed by the Devil’s evil, soon shall he be. All of the Hellraisers are being consumed. As they fall, as their dark power grows, they become threats not merely to themselves, but to the world.
This cannot stand.
You shall find me and Zora at the Black Lion Inn, in Richmond. Do not dally in seeking us out, for the danger to you and Leo increases with every passing moment.
Three things I urge you: do not speak of this missive to anyone; destroy this letter upon reading it; find Zora and I quickly. We face now a war for Leo’s soul, as well as the fate of millions. In this, we are your sole allies.
I remain,
Your servant, & c.
James Sherbourne, Earl of Whitney
She lost count of the number of times she read the letter. A dozen, at least. She moved from shock, to fear, to indignation, to anger. To pity.
Anne sat on the settee in her bedchamber, the letter in her lap. She glanced from it to the rain-streaked windows.
Lord Whitney was mad. That much was plain. Who else but one destined for Bedlam might pen such a letter, with allegations too preposterous to be considered? The Devil? Truly?
Like most women of her acquaintance, Anne went to church on Sundays. She sat through sermons, the reverend admonishing the congregation about sin, temptation, wickedness. Evil. These things existed in the hearts of man. One couldn’t walk down the streets of London without seeing proof. But she never truly believed there was an actual Devil. He was a metaphor, nothing more.
That Lord Whitney believed the Devil was real ... that might be excused as a religious mania. Perhaps he had fallen out with the Hellraisers because of newfound spiritual beliefs. He could be one of those fire-and-brimstone Calvinists. Many former sinners found redemption and comfort in the arms of an angry God.
Yet there was more, far more, than simple religious conviction in Lord Whitney’s letter. He was not speaking metaphorically. Nor even as one trying to convert former friends. No, this was insanity. The depths of his madness were unfathomable.
She watched rain streak down the glass, the gray city beyond. Shivering a little, she stood to prod the fire. As she neared, the flames snapped and guttered.
She frowned, and pulled her shawl of Indian cotton closer about her shoulders. She had thought that perhaps this strangeness was confined to Lady Kirton’s home. But it seemed to have followed her back to Bloomsbury.
Lord Whitney had to be mad. That could be the only explanation for his letter. She felt a small comfort in knowing that he had, in fact, approached her the other day and was no construct of her own unbalanced mind. Yet this comfort was small compared to the dozens and dozens of questions now tumbling through her mind.
Quickly, before the fire could go out, Anne strode to it and threw the letter onto the flames. She backed up, watching the paper writhe as it burned. Like a soul in Hell. Leo’s soul?
Stop it. Do not give Lord Whitney’s lunacy any credence.
Men did not sell their souls to the Devil. Not literally. They did not gain magic power as a result of this bargain. Magic did not exist. She lived in a world of coal and clockworks. It had been decades since witches were burned. Every day were made new discoveries in the realm of natural science. Lectures were given nightly by distinguished men of learning on those very subjects.
And there were maps, wondrous maps, of new lands. For every new inch of land charted, fear and superstition retreated, replaced by rational thought. Maps embraced the progressive, the enlightened, one of the reasons why they fascinated her. Magic and superstition—relics of older ages—had been supplanted by the modern era.
Life was about the present. The present meant her life with her husband, Leo. As of last night, they had begun to form a true connection, not just of legalities, but of their hearts.
Lord Whitney was a stranger. His mad words could not touch her. They would not.
Yet the red walls of the bedchamber felt too close, the vines snaking up the wall coverings forming a cage. She strode from the room. Some of her books had arrived from her parents’ house, and waited in the library to be unpacked. That would serve to occupy her.
