The tarp that made up the ceiling occasionally fluttered, and he imagined it had been put there for privacy, for the denizens of the Underground did not need to worry about snow or rain.
What an odd world to grow up in.
He entered the taproom and all eyes turned to him. Gareth sauntered over to the bar, faced the man who had helped rescue his beloved, and gave him a deep bow. “My lord, I thank you again for your aid—”
“Eh, none of that,” interrupted Bran. “Shape-shifters may style themselves as lords up above, just because our nature honors us with a title. But we don’t hold to none of that in the Underground. Just Bran will do.”
“Very well. My thanks, Bran. And a word, if you please.”
The tavern keeper raised his abundantly bushy brows, scanned the interested crowd in the room, and cocked his head toward a door behind the bar. “In here.”
Gareth followed him into a room that apparently served the dual purpose of storage and living quarters. When Bran settled his bulk upon a crate of whiskey bottles, Gareth took a similar seat opposite, the slats creaking in protest.
“You found Millicent, then?” A rhetorical question, since she had obviously returned to the Swill and Seelie, but the relic had sucked Gareth back in before he had a chance to find her himself. And he didn’t quite know where to start the conversation. He had met men like Bran often over the years. No matter the life fate chose for them—whether landed gentry or peasant farmer—men of substance like the were-bear commanded respect.
“Aye, and brought her home. She is taking the old woman’s death very hard.”
Gareth nodded. “And the bag of ashes I gave you to keep?”
Bran glanced over to a low shelf. “I’ll mind it until you can bury the old woman in a proper place.”
“Thank you.” Gareth did not know what impulse had moved him to gather Nell’s ashes, other than a belief that his ladybird deserved a more respectful resting place. Yet something more nagged at the back of his mind… he rolled his shoulders to loosen the muscles. With all the years he had lived, he often forgot more than he knew. “Have you seen aught of the Crown’s spies?”
“Ah, the shape-shifters from above. They’ve been sniffing around the pub. But they haven’t dared another attempt past my door since the last one.” He smiled, revealing an ominous set of white teeth.
“But they will continue to stalk her. And the duke’s minions will return to harass her as well, once Ghoulston returns to the Underground.”
“I can protect my own. I have proven that, last night. These sorcerers will think twice before interfering with me again.”
“Perhaps. But they won’t leave her alone until she gives up the relic.”
“Then it seems a simple matter to me.” Bran folded his hands over his barrel of a chest and leaned back against the wall. “Go find some other gel to play with, Sir Knight.”
Gareth suddenly felt as if he faced Millicent’s father, and the man was suspicious of her beau’s intentions. He would respect the role Bran had chosen to assume. “I assure you, my feelings for Millicent are quite genuine, sir. I love her. I wish to marry her, if she’ll have me.”
Bran studied Gareth for a long moment, then threw up his hands. “Bloody hell. That makes things a wee bit more complicated.”
“Indeed. And I fear there is more to this than just Millicent and myself.”
“More to—aah, Ghoulston. What’s the devious bugger up to anyway?”
Gareth suppressed a sigh of relief. The shape-shifter had not dismissed the duke’s schemes as none of his business. He appeared genuinely concerned. “Ghoulston used Millicent to deliver a potion to our young queen. When she drinks it, she will fall in love with His Grace, and their marriage will provide him with the power and ambition he so desires. And I sincerely doubt his new position will benefit the English people.”
Bran surged to his feet, glancing over at the far wall. Gareth followed his gaze, surprised to see a picture of Queen Victoria gracing the wall just as it did in most homes aboveground. Apparently, all those who lived below did not disregard the world above as much as Millicent did.
“We must stop him,” snarled Bran. “We must protect the queen—wait. Surely the Master of the Hall of Mages will sense the magic within the potion. Queen Victoria is the most warded person in the country.”
“If it held magic, yes. But it does not. And the ingredients are so… unusual, I doubt anyone will detect something wrong with it.”
“But there is nothing on earth that will make someone fall in love if they don’t want to—hmm, I sense ye have something to do with this, Sir Gareth. No, ye needn’t explain. The important thing is to stop the queen from taking that potion. But I don’t know that anyone above would listen to us—not that we can even get near the queen to warn her. Shape-shifters are not well thought of above. Even the Master’s spies are known to be despised by the rest of the gentry.”
Gareth nodded. “That is true. But there is one person who can take this message above and has a chance of being believed. The Duke of Ghoulston has already introduced her to society.”
“Millicent.”
“Indeed. And I need your help in convincing her to do it. I do not think she will listen to anything I have to say to her right now.”
Bran shrugged. “She blames ye for the old woman’s death, but she’ll get over it. For a woman, and a shape-shifter, she can be pretty sensible. Hmm.” He twisted his lips in thought and added, “Sometimes.” Then he strode over to the door, opening it with a flourish. “The best way to deal with her is by not giving her a choice. Come along, man. If she’s to mix with the gentry, we’ve got to get her a proper wardrobe. And arrange for a carriage. I don’t have the resources of Ghoulston, but there is a particular lady friend of mine from above who may grant me a boon.”
Gareth raised a brow, but returned Bran’s earlier consideration and did not ask him any questions. Although few truly knew of their actual existence, he had no doubt many a bored aristocratic lady might find a dalliance with a man from the Underground titillating. If Bran had chosen to reveal himself to an abovegrounder, that was his business. Gareth had more important things to worry about, for he could only hope he was doing the right thing. Had he judged Millicent correctly? Or would she hate him even more for pushing her into this?
“I won’t do it.” Millicent crossed her arms over her ragged bodice, glaring at Bran.
Gareth sighed. The tavern keeper had finally received a message back from his lady friend, who had obligingly granted him the use of her town house and staff for the morrow. Bran, Millicent, and Gareth now stood in an empty pub—except for one lone shape-shifter collapsed over a table, and one tired sprite snoring atop an empty saucer.
“Now see here, missy,” retorted Bran. “Ye are my employee, and this is the job I’ve got for ye to do.”
“Bloody hell, Bran, you know better than to get mixed up in the business of sorcerers. Since when do we pay mind to the world above?”
“Since when have we had a chance to make a difference?”
Millicent turned her blazing golden eyes on Gareth. He had faced many a maddened warrior and had never been tempted to flinch. Until now. But he managed to calmly return her gaze, leaning back against the bar, crossing one leg over the other with bored nonchalance. Let Millicent roar. She looked lovely with her color up.