Rainer parted his hands as though offering an apology. “You’re right—the London Physical Atheneum wants it, but the earl took them to court, and the High Court of Justice itself ruled in his favor. Somewhat. He’s allowed to sell a copy, although whomever buys it will need to have their paperwork in order. They’ll probably also be asked to sign an agreement not to share the spells. Lord Bennett was a physical aspector. From what I could gather, it’s very likely he knew the spell you’re looking for.”
Bacchus straightened, hope spreading its wings. He’d asked both of his men to help him figure out a way around the assembly. Could it be this easy? He didn’t need the opus itself—a copy would give him exactly what he required. “Excellent, Rainer.” He grinned. “Get me a seat at that auction, and you can have the rest of the day to do whatever you please.”
Rainer shrugged. “There is little that interests me here.”
“How about a couple of pounds to spend at the tables?”
Rainer cocked an interested eyebrow.
A woman cleared her voice behind them.
Bacchus turned to see his other servant, John, standing beside Miss Elsie Camden. Despite John’s larger stature, he seemed almost cowed by the woman. She stood upright with her chin held high like she was a duke’s daughter, and though her clothing was not as fine as that, it was well fitted and hardly inexpensive. Her stonemason paid her well—that part of her story was true, at least. Rainer had already confirmed it.
Elsie looked at him as though amused. The expression was cocky and oddly attractive. For an Englishwoman, anyway.
“Thank you, John. You’re dismissed.” Bacchus nodded to Rainer, and the two of them departed. The walls were taupe, decorated with portraits of the duke’s family and red velvet curtains.
Elsie watched the two men go before speaking, and when she opened her mouth, she also planted her hands on her hips. “Do they know about me?”
Bacchus shook his head and passed through the gallery, forcing Elsie to follow or miss his answer. “None do, as promised. As far as anyone knows, you’re a consultant.”
She considered that a moment. “I do have remarkable taste.”
She was oddly confident, for the employee of a stonemason. Bacchus normally liked confidence in women, but in this case, it made him suspicious. She still hadn’t told him precisely why she’d been on the grounds that night—he didn’t believe the story about the servants. He’d stayed at Seven Oaks several times throughout his life, and the staff were always treated well. “We’ll be working in the ballroom.”
Her step slowed. “And where is the family?” The confidence fizzled as easily as it had come.
“The duke is in his study and has better things to do than follow us around.” He noted Miss Camden nearly trotting to keep up with him and slowed his stride, slightly. “The duchess has taken her daughters into town.”
“And her sons?” she pressed.
“There are none.”
“Only daughters?” Her tone shifted to mocking. “How sad.”
Bacchus did not reply.
After a moment, she said, “Why do you speak falsely? Your accent, I mean.”
This caught him off guard, and he slowed even more. “Pardon?”
That amused look returned to her face. She reminded him of a sugar merchant’s wife, the way her expression so easily slipped from earnest to conniving. “When you were speaking with your servant—you spoke differently than you are with me.”
Had he? He hadn’t noticed. He turned the corner, the doors to the ballroom in sight. “I grow tired of repeating myself. Many men seem incapable of understanding English if it is not spoken to them the way they’ve always heard it. That said, I am just as much English as I am Bajan or Algarve.” He sounded slightly defensive.
“Algarve?” She paused. “Well, I thought it sounded quite intriguing.”
He slowed again, studying her from the corner of his eye. Oddly, the comment sounded genuine. “Then you are a rarity, Miss Camden.”
“I could understand you just fine.”
He paused at the doors. She would not win him over with flattery. “And how long were you standing there before you announced yourself?”
She merely smiled. He ignored her bait and pushed open the doors to the extravagant ballroom. The floors were well polished and showed only minimal wear of dancers’ feet. Two rows of white columns followed the long walls, and the short walls featured intricately carved panels, painted with floral patterns, separated by red drapery. Three unlit chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and a set of glass doors led out toward the gardens.
“The duchess requested that I change the scheme of this room to burgundy.” He sighed inwardly at the request; party décor was not his forte. But an aspector of any alignment had to occasionally take work he or she wasn’t fond of, so this was good practice. He pulled her instructions from his waistcoat pocket once more to review them. “I can overlay the existing spells”—it was quicker and tidier to use magic to paint the walls instead of actual paint—“but the job will have more integrity if the slate is clean, so to speak.”
He turned. Miss Camden gawked at the splendor around her, taking it in slowly, craning her head back to see the angelic mural on the ceiling overhead. Bacchus understood her wonder—he’d felt very much the same when he’d first beheld the rich house as a boy. His holding in Barbados was nothing to scoff at, but the island was small, and the plantation house was not nearly as elaborate as the ancestral homes owned by England’s elite.
He’d once hated all of it. Now he tolerated it fairly well.
“The spells?” he asked.
Miss Camden shook herself and strode toward the unlit fireplace on the far side of the room. She ran her hand over the mantel, then across a carved panel to a red drape. She paused. “Oh, yes. I see it.” She undid the spell quickly, and the curtain changed to an unfortunate teal. “Hmm.” She leaned closer, wiggling her fingers, and it changed again to blue.
Stepping back, she examined her work. “If one is to change fabric with spells, why not start with black or white? Something neutral?”
Bacchus rubbed his eyes. “I beg you not to discuss the décor choices with me, for it is a conversation I am loath to participate in.” He lowered his hand and caught that amused smirk on her face once more. “Please continue, before the duchess returns.”
Her expression blanched. She nodded curtly and moved on to the next drape, dismissing its overlaid spells until it, too, returned to blue. Bacchus, meanwhile, used novice spells to shift the color of the first curtain to burgundy. Color-changing spells were some of the first he’d learned as an adolescent. Hopefully it was the shade the duchess had in mind, for he might go mad from the tediousness of it if she asked him to do it again.
After the curtains came the columns and walls, until everything was burgundy and cream instead of red and white. A tight headache bloomed in the center of Bacchus’s forehead, and his customary exhaustion began to suck at his limbs, despite the early hour. He could think of a few people, his late father included, who would have had a fine laugh hearing about how he’d spent his day.
Somewhere in the house, a door opened and closed, the sound of it echoing through the halls. Miss Camden froze, her alarm apparent enough that Bacchus felt pity for her, earlier trespassing aside.
He gestured toward the double doors leading outside. “Head out this way. There’s work to be done with the tenants.”
“The tenants?” she repeated, but she hurried through the doors and did not slow until her feet were on the stone path that led toward the gardens. “Mr. Kelsey, it must be two in the afternoon by now. I must be getting back to Brookley. I only have so many excuses for my absence, and some of those I need to save for future excursions.”