Salt Magic, Skin Magic Page 12

  John generally lost interest in the other young gentlemen he fucked, as soon as the fucking was done. He might see them a few times, but they grated on him, even as he desired them. Thornby did not grate. By not demanding John’s respect, he had won it. The way he teased was—fun.

  John stopped in his tracks at that. Fun. He had not had much in his life. Life was work. It was serious. And he took his pleasures seriously too; you had to, or you got caught. Thornby made his heart lift.

  And Thornby didn’t seem to mind the magic. He didn’t seem afraid of it, or afraid of John. John’s last affaire with a non-magician had ended in disaster, when the fellow had asked him for the hundredth time what it was he actually did for Mr Paxton. John had told him, and the man had laughed, then scoffed. So, John had let him watch as he made a sigil to stop the Crystal Palace roof from leaking. He had thought an architect would appreciate such a charm, but no. It was dangerous, ungodly. It was wrong. It was cheating nature. And John had seen then, that the man was already ashamed of the things they’d done together, frightened of the way John made him feel, and that the magic was final damning proof. Not of something wonderful, but of something degenerate and evil. Stay away from me.

  He started walking again, hazel twigs catching at his shoulders. Since meeting Thornby he’d scarcely thought of anyone else. He’d even forgotten his primary purpose in being here; to help Lady Dalton. The curse was the thing. If he could somehow unravel that, everyone would be a lot better off.

  When he got back to the house he saw Lord Dalton going into the breakfast room. John took a moment to tidy the leaves out of his hair, then followed him in. Lord Dalton was devouring devilled kidneys. John bowed.

  “Lord Dalton. A moment of your time, please.”

  Dalton grunted, and gestured impatiently to the chair opposite.

  John sat. “I’ve been thinking, sir—”

  “Damn it, let me eat, man. We’ll talk when I’ve done.”

  John clamped his lips together and tried not to think about what the man across the table had just done to Thornby. The curse surged around Dalton as he chewed. One-to-one, the stench of it was overpowering. It mixed with the scent of the kidneys, turning John’s stomach. He found himself watching Dalton’s hands, hard and calloused as a working-man’s. They surely never got that way from holding a polished stick and a well-oiled pair of reins. Dalton’s face was seamed and weather-beaten, as coarse as his hands. But his eyes were bright blue chinks, sharp as spite.

  Finally, Dalton wiped his mouth, and let his gaze rest over John’s left shoulder. “Well?”

  “Well, my lord.”

  “Damn it, what do you want?”

  “I’m here at your invitation, sir. I believe the proper question is; what do you want from me?”

  Dalton made a grumbling noise in his throat. “Blake, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, John Blake.”

  “All right, Blake. And whose man are you?”

  John bowed his head obsequiously, to give himself time to think, then said; “Currently, sir, I have connections to His Grace the Duke of Devonshire. As you may know, he has an interest in the Crystal Palace. I have been working with his man, Mr Paxton, to ensure everything at that great edifice has run as it should. Which it has.”

  Well, it was true enough if the Marquess decided to check any of it. And John had met the Duke a couple of times.

  “Devonshire, eh?” Dalton snorted. “Damned Whig.”

  But, still, it seemed to have been the right thing to say. Dalton looked John straight in the eye. “So, you’ve contacts?”

  “I hope so, my lord.”

  “And? What are they?”

  “What contacts do you need?”

  “No, Blake, it doesn’t work that way. You tell me what you’ve got, and I tell you if I need it.”

  Damn. “Just so.” John bowed again. “I have contacts in theurgy.”

  Dalton made a small noise of scorn. “They’re no good to me. Bloody load of charlatans. What else?”

  John frowned. “I assure you, sir, my contacts are of the finest—”

  “I’m not interested, damn you. I’ve tried them all. Tried them years ago. Useless, the lot of them. What else?”

  Interesting. So, Dalton had tried magicians and found them wanting. Was that because he’d tried to get them to remove the fairy curse?

  “Marine botanists,” John said. It was a stab in the dark, but maybe the seaweed business link would be a way in.

  “Botanists, eh?”

  “Yes, specialising in maritime flora.”

  “Mph. Don’t need a botanist.”

  “Medical gentlemen.”

  “Doctors? What do I need with doctors?”

  “I don’t know, my lord. If you would only tell me your requirements, I could perhaps render my assistance that much faster.”

  Dalton regarded him steadily for some time. John looked steadily back. It wouldn’t do to be too obsequious. He was here as a guest, after all, and even if he wasn’t really a gentleman, he wasn’t a servant either.

  “What do you know of pearls, Blake?”

  What on earth?

  “A little,” John said, in the tone of voice that means ‘quite a lot’.

  Dalton harrumphed again, eyes narrowing suspiciously. Then he snapped, “Are you married? Children? Eh?”

  What the hell did that have to do with anything? Or was this Dalton’s idea of small talk?

  “No, my lord,” John said.

  “Devonshire’s not the marrying type. Perhaps you aren’t either.”

  “Perhaps not.” John didn’t like where this conversation seemed to be leading. Not that he’d had the slightest whiff of anything of that type from the Duke. He decided to be more direct. “I mention doctors, my lord, because perhaps you have some old trouble.”

  “What the devil are you talking about?”

  “Trouble that started when—forgive me—when the first Lady Dalton passed away.”

  Dalton jerked to his feet. “What do you know of that?”

  John got to his feet, too. “Nothing, my lord. If you would confide in me, perhaps I could find someone who could—”

  “Could what, damn you? What do you mean by coming in here with your hints and suggestions?”

  “Perhaps I could find someone who could help you.”

  “You, I suppose?”

  “Not necessarily me. I would help you if I could, sir.” He tried to sound sincere, in case there was a part of Dalton, somewhere deep inside, that wanted help. “If you could give me any information. Anything that might help me, or a colleague, to understand the situation.”

  “And how do I know I can trust you, eh?”

  “You could ask Mr Paxton, perhaps? I believe I have given satisfaction at the Crystal Palace.”

  “Hmph. Haven’t seen it. No wish to see it. All right, Blake. I’ll think on your suggestions. It’s true, I need a new angle. Good day to you.”

  And he walked out, slow and stately as usual. John stared after him, wondering what had just happened, and whether it had gone well, and whether he’d got any kind of clue that could help him unravel the curse.

  Chapter Eight

  When Thornby got back to the house, Prout and Abbott half-dragged him upstairs to his room and sent one of the maids up to bandage his ankle. They sent a new girl, who did the job with shaking hands, showing the whites of her eyes when he cursed under his breath at the pain. So, he dug his nails into his palms and didn’t curse again. She’d brought food and hot water, so he ate, washed and shaved. Once, having to shave himself had felt like the pinnacle of humiliation and inconvenience; these days he did it without thinking. He put on clean clothes and tossed the muddy rags that were his old ones outside the door.

  Father had squinted suspiciously at his healed face, but in the end had shrugged and ridden away. He hadn’t said anything, but then, he didn’t have to. He’d said it already: “Miss Grey and Miss Lazenby. You’ll make yourself pleasant.”


  Thornby lay on his bed, but straight away got up. It hurt to walk, but walking was one of the ways he stayed sane, so he limped about the room anyway. How like Father to have made Thornby inflict the pain on himself. If he’d been able to stop himself from fighting the chain, he wouldn’t have been hurt. But when it came to leaving the estate, he’d never been able to think rationally or control himself.

  John’s revelation about Mother seemed a lot less shocking today. Perhaps she hadn’t been human, but she was still Mother—beautiful, spirited, and laughing. He didn’t feel any different in himself, either. He recalled some cherished memories—reading Ruskin in a sunlit room at Oxford, a day’s hunting in Dorset on that marvellous borrowed grey, fucking that handsome guardsman—but they all felt just the same. He was still himself. The only bad thing about it, as far as he could see, was that somehow it gave Father some hold over him.

  But did it mean he also had latent magic in him? He’d never noticed any odd abilities. He’d never feared iron or had trouble going to church when necessary. He’d never had trouble crossing running water—or was that witches? The problem was, he knew so little about it all. Except, he had been able to answer the fairy queen’s questions and that was encouraging.

  Although his face was healed, he’d scratched it afresh in the hazel thicket and it stung. His ankle throbbed. He was trembling with a potent mix of fear, loathing for Father, and frustrated excitement for John. God, what a night! The sheer panic of being chained outside the estate. And then, John undressing him in the middle of a thicket, and the nightmare was transformed. That was truly magic; to be able to take such a terrible situation and turn it into something sweet.

  More than anything, he wanted to see John again. John Blake, with his clever, serious eyes and reassuring hands. John, who had murmured some really quite surprising things last night, while still managing to look like a paragon of middle-class respectability. “I will make you beg,” he’d said.

  Thornby flexed his ankle. Agonising. Nevertheless, he limped along the passage to John’s room. He knocked, but there was no reply. Damn. What now? Last time he’d gone in, that pathway had opened and they’d nearly been trapped. John’s theory that you couldn’t open the pathway by accident was comforting, but—

  He was still dithering at the door when Lady Dalton appeared at the top of the stairs. She wore a morning dress of turquoise velvet trimmed with lemon-yellow ribbons. He remembered it from last autumn; perhaps her dressmaker had stopped extending credit.

  “Oh!” she said, going white, then red. “Lord Thornby. Good morning. I was looking for Mr Blake. Your face—it—seems much improved.”

  “Ma’am.” He bowed, coldly, and was about to walk away when he remembered John saying, “Leave her out of it,” at dinner. Also, her cousin was John’s friend. “He’s not here,” he added. “I’m looking for him, too.”

  She looked as if she would turn away, then stopped. “Lord Thornby, I owe you an apology. I thought you were doing things to frighten me. But Mr Blake says you’re quite innocent. So, I beg your pardon. I hope you will forgive me.”

  A dozen memories of being rather cruel to her jostled in his head. At the beginning, she’d tried to be friends, and he’d pushed her away every time. He’d lumped her in with father and his lackeys.

  “No, really,” he said. “Easy mistake to make. Think nothing of it.”

  “There’s something strange going on, though, isn’t there? Mr Blake says there is.”

  “Yes, he thinks Father’s cursed.”

  “Oh.” She paled again.

  “Forgive me. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “No, no. I want to know. Lord Thornby, I’m so glad your face is better, but you do look pale. And you’re quite scratched. Should you not sit down?”

  As she spoke he felt the world spin around him. “I probably should.”

  He started to move away from John’s door. When she saw how he was hobbling, she took his arm.

  “Did you overdo it in the park?”

  “It’s my ankle. Father chained me to a tree.”

  “Oh, I wish you wouldn’t say such things! I know he has his faults, but he is your father!”

  Thornby sighed. “It’s the truth. But if you prefer, I can say I got it stuck in a gin trap. The poachers are terrible, aren’t they? What we need is a decent gamekeeper.”

  “Why do you make up these stories? I can never tell whether you’re telling the truth.”

  “I always used to tell the truth, but no one ever listened. Or they didn’t believe me. So now I just say whatever I like.”

  “No one believes what I say, either.”

  They looked at each other, both recognising something in the other. Then she added, “Mr Blake listens.” And blushed.

  So, she fancied John, did she? He didn’t blame her. But he’s mine, he thought, so fiercely it surprised him. Or I wish he was. He remembered John putting a careful, deliberate hand on the wall of Father’s room; the intent look on his face as he listened to whatever he was learning from it. She was right. Now he thought of it, he’d never met a man who listened quite as well as John.

  “He believes me, too,” she said. “He says I’m not imaging anything. And he says there’s a curse? On Lord Dalton?”

  “I’m afraid so. I’m sorry you’re caught up in this, my lady.”

  “Well, Dalton is my husband, I suppose.”

  “How on earth do you stand it? Being married to him?”

  “Oh, I—”

  “Sorry, you needn’t answer that.”

  They got along in silence for a bit. Eventually she said. “I’m not really married to him, am I? We stay in the same house in winter. That’s all.”

  Thornby had never really noticed women in the past. They’d been vaguely decorative objects with which he’d danced at balls, while keeping a sharp eye out for which fellow might be keen on something more interesting afterwards. Or they were servants, or models that posed a challenge of form and technique. He’d never been unkind to them, but he’d never really thought of them at all, until he’d been forced into the proximity of his Aunt Amelia. He’d been so lonely and she’d been so surprising. As surprising as John in her way. She’d smashed all his preconceptions about what women liked and wanted, and she’d made him see that her thoughts and wishes were as valid as his own. And yet, despite these realisations, he’d still been treating his young step-mother as a pantomime cut-out; the gauche social-climber who’d married for position, and damn everything else.

  “I’m sorry, my lady,” he said. She gave him a bleak smile. “You should’ve kept that parrot,” he added.

  “The parrot? The one you brought to the wedding? But I did keep it! It lives in Hertfordshire with friends of mine.”

  “You know it’s trained to say ‘hello, dear’?”

  “Of course! It says it all the time.”

  “So now you see why I gave you it.”

  “Er...”

  “Well, it’s a better conversationalist than Father. I thought you might need someone sensible to talk to.”

  She gaped at him for a moment, then began to laugh. He hadn’t thought it that funny, but the more she laughed, the more impossible it was not to join in. She put one hand to her side, weeping with laughter. They’d almost stopped when she said ‘Hello, dear!” in a croaky voice, not at all like a parrot, and with a frown that resembled Lord Dalton’s habitual expression.

  They were still standing there, helplessly clutching at each other, when John arrived. He gave them a sharp look and raised an eyebrow.

  “Lady Dalton. Lord Thornby. Are you all right?”

  Lady Dalton, already bright red, gave a small shriek. “Oh! I must—that is—good day, Lord Thornby. Mr Blake.” She patted Thornby’s arm in a familiar way, and fled back along the passage.

  “Ah, Mr Blake,” Thornby said, grinning at him.

  ***

  John had left his interview with Lord Dalton and made his way upstairs tho
ughtfully. He wasn’t sure if he’d learned anything or not. Why did Dalton persist in this failing seaweed venture that was churning through money he didn’t have? Was the seaweed business really a cover for some scheme regarding pearls? What did being married, or not, have to do with anything?

  At least he’d discovered that Dalton knew enough about magic to have tried theurgists and found them useless. But what had he tried them for? Did he know he was cursed? Had he tried to have the curse removed? No wonder it hadn’t worked if the magicians had been using ordinary magical methods. Or was there something else? Lord Dalton was a man with secrets. Was it the natural caution about business in a man facing ruin, or something more sinister?

  He decided he’d look in on Thornby. Probably, Thornby was asleep; but possibly he was upset from his awful ordeal. Either way, it wouldn’t hurt to check, and anyway the temptation to see him again was too strong to ignore.

  The last thing John expected was to find Thornby neatly dressed, standing in the passage in fits of laughter with Lady Dalton. An unworthy stab of jealousy went through him to see them so plainly enjoying each others’ company. It seemed magical that Thornby could find anything to laugh at. In his place, John felt sure he’d have become gloomy and grumpy and beaten-down. You’d never guess Thornby had been in torment half the night. He looked paler than usual and a bit scratched, but that was all.

  “Well! You look all right,” John said. “Did the soil from the estate help? What on earth were you saying to her?”

  Now he looked more closely, John could see that, in fact, all was not well. Thornby might be able to laugh, but there was a nervous glitter in his eyes, and tension in his jaw and shoulders. He was wound tighter than a steel cable on a suspension bridge. He hid it well, but at any moment, he might snap.