Lord Merlyn's Magic Read online

  LORD MERLYN’S MAGIC

  Marcy Stewart

  1816

  Chapter 1

  Sparkling in the light of a thousand candles, the lobby of the Pendragon was more magnificent than anything Miss Abigail Lyons had ever seen. Gilded walls and ornate mirrors decorated High Chipping’s new theatre, and red carpeting stretched up a staircase railed in vines of wrought-iron ivy. Surrounding her, richly gowned, bejeweled ladies murmured and laughed and tapped their fans on the arms of their escorts, who rivaled them in the elegance of their dress and manner.

  Scarcely knowing where to direct her gaze, Abby tried to look at everything at once, her wide brown eyes lit by a hungry fire.

  “Stop gawking, Abigail,” commanded her companion, Philip Demere. “You are behaving like a peasant who has come to the city for the first time.”

  “I cannot help myself; there is too much of interest,” Abby said. “Do you not find these people amusing, Philip? Look at that lady by the stair. Her tiara is as tall as a fan, and it keeps slipping from her head.” She gave a little gurgle of laughter. “There, do you not see? She has narrowly missed stabbing her escort in the eye!”

  Philip turned in the direction indicated, then stiffened. “That is Lady Anna Wentworth. If she notices you laughing at her, we shall both be ruined.”

  Abby lowered her lashes resentfully and mumbled an apology. But even Philip could not dampen her spirits for long; not here, not where bright lithographs dotted the walls promising an incomparable evening’s entertainment provided by Lord Merlyn the Wizard, Prestidigitateur and Mentalist of World Renown.

  Keeping her head downcast, she studied one of the broadsides now. The darkly handsome man depicted there, his face half-hidden behind a black domino, cut a figure more romantic than anything she had ever seen. He was certainly more colorful than Philip, who aside from a white shirt with a high, starched collar and silk cravat, was dressed entirely in shades of grey.

  She looked from the magician’s image to Philip and back again and again, until she realized it must appear as if her eyes were rolling in her head. She settled her vision on the magician and sighed faintly.

  Philip missed very little, and he responded to her distracted air by tightening his grip on her arm. “I hope you’re not expecting him to look like that. They always have the artist paint an idealized version of themselves, or a younger one. I’ll wager the fellow’s past sixty if he’s a day.”

  Abby’s mouth quirked in annoyance, but she gave the lithograph another glance—a dubious one this time. “You cannot know that for certain,” she protested weakly, then blinked as her escort’s eyes flashed in disapproval.

  But he said nothing more, and after a moment she shifted her shoulder a little to tell him he was hurting her. However, the hand on her arm did not relax, and she did not wish to ignite him further by speaking of it. He had, after all, been generous enough to give her this outing—one of only a few such entertainments she’d had in the years since she’d come to live with her grandmother—and what was a little discomfort in comparison with that?

  They were moving toward a set of wide double-doors that led into the auditorium. Philip bestowed practiced smiles on distant faces he recognized in the crowd. Although she saw no one she knew, Abby smiled and nodded, too, causing several people to look doubtful and glance behind them.

  She had little opportunity to make friends, isolated as she was with an ailing relative in the furthest reaches of the Hampshire countryside, but if she were friendly enough, perhaps she could make a few this evening.

  Tonight, she was prepared to enjoy everything put before her as a starving man would embrace a full table. And tomorrow? Tomorrow, she would have new memories to lace into her dreams.

  And who knew? Perhaps more would come of this evening than memories. Perhaps this outing was all she needed to clear her mind, to find a solution to her dilemma. If her grandmother thought she was going to marry the high-tempered man at her side, she was in for a grave disappointment.

  But these were bold thoughts indeed for timid Abigail Lyons, and she knew it. Her spirits fell a little.

  Her reverie was interrupted by a gentleman edging through the crowd crying her escort’s name. When he reached them, he clapped Philip’s back while darting interested looks in her direction. The man was dressed in a knee-length brown frac, a yellow-and-black-striped waistcoat, and ivory trousers. His side whiskers appeared even more wiry and abundant than her companion’s, and his long, sharp nose put Abby in mind of a drawing of an anteater she had once seen in a book.

  “Harold, well met!” Philip declared, pumping his hand. Then, noticing irritated looks from other patrons trying to pass by, he pulled them both through the doorway to stand against the back wall. “Haven’t seen you since we sold out. Where have you been?”

  Harold laughed uncomfortably. “On a fool’s errand, trying my hand at making a fortune in Australia. Didn’t work, dash it all.” His gaze slid pointedly toward Abby.

  Philip turned to her. “Abigail, allow me to present my friend, Harold Crumb, who fought Boney’s Frogs by my side. Harold, my betrothed, Abigail Lyons.”

  Abby’s brows lowered during the final portion of Philip’s speech, but Harold did not notice, only seized her gloved hand and pressed it to his lips. “Enchanted,” he said. As he continued to stare at Abby, his eyes lost focus, seeming to look beyond her. “Lyons, Lyons … Isn’t that the name of your neighbor, Philip? The one whose estate joins yours?”

  “Yes, Abigail is Matilda Lyons’s granddaughter.”

  Harold’s gaze sharpened as he looked back and forth between them. “I see,” he said, his plain features brightening. “Your luck has taken a change for the better, hasn’t it, old boy?”

  Philip smiled thinly. “We are all responsible for our own destinies. I don’t believe in the whims of fortune.”

  “Hah! ‘Tis just as well.” Harold fixed his protuberant blue eyes on Abby and grinned. “Miss Lyons, I was in the army four years. The only time I came close to being planted was when Philip’s gun discharged while he was cleaning it. The shot blew a row of hair off the side of my head, nicked my ear, and dented the captain’s favorite saber. And Philip says he don’t believe in luck. Hah!”

  Abby gazed with wonder at her escort, whose face was clouding dangerously. Could this stranger possibly be speaking of the man she knew? Dignified, proud, intimidating Philip, who tolerated nothing less than perfection in himself and everyone else?

  Struggling to keep her features composed, she ventured, “Perhaps that was an example of your own misfortune rather than his. Or, since you were not grievously injured, your good fortune.”

  “Oh, well, I might think so were it not for all the other things. There was the night he set the tent on fire with his pipe, and the time he escorted a badly needed shipment of boots that fell in the river—”

  “The boy is snuffing the candles, so we had better find our seats,” Philip interrupted hastily, then frowned into Abby’s amused eyes. “Will you join us, Harold?”

  “Can’t. Mother’s so glad I’m home she sprung for box seats and is waiting upstairs. Don’t guess you did the same, though, even for your lovely lady, or you’d be up there. Still as tight-fisted as always, eh?”

  “We have perfectly good seats up front,” Philip replied coolly.

  “Right in the pit with the ruffians, I’ll wager,” Harold said. Then, seeing Philip’s face, he added hurriedly, “Well, I’m off. Hope to see you in town sometime.”

  As Harold fought his way upstream, Abby thought she heard him murmur, “Stiff stick,” but could not be certain. The mere possibility that he had brought a smile to her lips.

  Philip did not appear to see it as he nudged her into the
aisle and toward the stage. “Harold wants for good sense, as you could judge for yourself by his leather-headed reminisces,” he murmured in her ear. “You shouldn’t have encouraged him.”

  “Had I said nothing, you would have accused me of being dim-witted as you did at your mother’s dinner party last month.” She gathered courage and added, “I wish you had not told him we are betrothed.”

  Philip’s eyes were inscrutable as he guided her to a seat in the second row behind the orchestra and sat beside her on the aisle. She sighed in relief when he removed his hand from her arm.

  “Well, aren’t we?” he demanded.

  “You know we are not.”

  “But your grandmother believes we are. You wouldn’t want to disappoint her, would you? Not when she’s in such poor health.”

  Abby made no answer. She didn’t know what she wanted, except she was certain it wasn’t Philip. But somehow in the past four years since her parents died, her wishes had slipped beyond her control. She floated adrift in the desires and demands of others, led this way and that as stronger wills dictated her decisions.

  Her only solace was her dreams. She often retreated to an imaginary world of balls and teas and dinners, a world where cheerful friends sought her company and handsome gentlemen loved her just as she was.

  But her fantasies had not served her well. She could not put her finger on the very moment, but sometime during the past year while Abby dreamed, Matilda’s hopes for a wedding between Philip and her granddaughter had changed into certainty. Now, without even a formal declaration, it seemed that one more decision had been stolen from Abby’s hands. And this the greatest one of all; one that would affect her entire future.

  In the dimming light, she tossed her head a little, shaking off the weight of her thoughts, determined to enjoy this moment. The musicians in the small orchestra had tuned their instruments, and now a quartet of violins began an eerie melody, the lower strings joining them in a tense tremolo. When the harpsichordist struck a tinny arpeggio, the crimson curtains parted, and an excited hush fell over the audience.

  The set was painted to resemble the stone-walled interior of a castle. Leaded windows revealed a lonely moor and craggy peaks in the distance, and a real door intersected the center. The only furniture, two chairs and a wooden table covered with a velvet cloth, were placed centerstage.

  In the shadowy, flickering footlights, the scene was surprisingly real. When a crack of thunder sounded offstage, several ladies cried out in surprise and fear.

  Abby grinned delightedly and would have clapped her hands had Philip not cast her a quick look of disapproval. But even he shifted a little in his seat when a loud knock sounded, and the door creaked open. Behind it stood a very frightened young woman whose milkmaid’s dress skirted the top of her ankles and barely contained a brimming cleavage.

  “Is—is anyone at home?” she asked in a quavering voice. Several masculine whistles and catcalls greeted this query, but she paid no attention, merely swept back her tumbled red locks and crept inside, calling hopefully, “I’ve lost my way, and I seek shelter from the storm.”

  “Come here and I’ll shelter you!” cried a young man in the first row, who was immediately shushed by his neighbors.

  The maiden’s glance fell upon the table, upon which sat a man’s top hat. She walked toward it cautiously and lifted it, peered within, then tilted the interior toward the audience so they saw nothing was inside. After placing it back on the table, brim side up, she sighed heavily and began to walk about the stage in a desultory manner. Suddenly, little puffs of smoke came from the hat, then huge billows that clouded the table. She stood back, her arms raised in alarm.

  When the fog dissipated, a tall, wide-shouldered man stood there, clothed all in black satin except for his cloak, which was lined in red. The jeweled domino he wore could not disguise the clean line of his jaw, the straight, fine nose, nor the startling brilliance of his blue eyes, which Abby believed must be visible from the furthest row of the balcony.

  More than a few ladies sighed in appreciation.

  Abby could not help murmuring, “Sixty years old?”

  When Philip glared at her in the darkness, she pretended not to notice.

  The action on the stage continued. “And what fair maid is this who visits Merlyn’s castle on such a dark and gloomy night?” asked Lord Merlyn in a mellow voice, his inflection lending humor to the melodramatic words.

  “It is I, Hilda of Silverwaithe Farms, my lord, seeking refuge from the storm.”

  He bowed to her. Then, staring into the audience, he said meaningfully, “Who am I to deny such a simple request?” While the audience tittered, he continued, “Are you hungry, fair Hilda of Silverwaithe Farms?”

  “I am, my lord.”

  “Then you shall eat.” He swept his cloak backward and passed his hands over the hat several times. Plunging his fingers inside, he brought forth two white doves and handed them to her. “I hope you know how to cook.” While she struggled to hold onto the flapping creatures, he pulled a bouquet of flowers from the hat. “For the table. And of course, no meal is complete without wine.” A champagne bottle followed.

  As Hilda hurried offstage with the items, the audience applauded politely. Abby was disturbed to note that Philip was growing restless. But she refused to allow his grumpiness to destroy her enjoyment and returned her attention to the stage.

  “I perceive you are no longer hungry,” Lord Merlyn said as the maiden came back empty-handed. “Perhaps I can now amuse you with a little entertainment.”

  He then proceeded to perform a number of illusions. He collected coins from Hilda’s ears, pleased the gentlemen by pulling a long, long scarf from her bodice, and frightened the ladies by tossing a glass of wine toward the audience, a glass that changed into a ball of paper, all done with Lord Merlyn’s thumbs tied and covered with the hat.

  There were fewer snide comments as the performance progressed in difficulty and the audience’s loyalty was won by the magician’s charm. He did not appear arrogant as Abby had feared he might be from the imposing look of his posters.

  But as the applause became louder and increasingly appreciative with each successive trick, Philip seemed to grow more and more disgruntled.

  And then, near the end of a routine with cups and balls, Lord Merlyn asked Hilda under which cup was the ball hidden, and Philip’s impatience could be restrained no longer. “The ball is in your pocket!” he shouted. “I’ve seen it done a hundred times!”

  To Abby’s mortification, the audience grew silent as though eager to see how Lord Merlyn would deal with this, for such a loud heckler could surely not be ignored. But the magician made no answer, only lifted his brows and stared directly at Philip, his piercing eyes seemingly unfazed by the darkness that shrouded the spectators.

  Abby felt her cheeks burn as the conjurer’s eyes shifted slightly and appeared to look at her. The moment stretched an instant too long for comfort, and she thought she saw something flicker in his expression, some little look of doubt or hesitancy, but it could have been her imagination. And then the moment was gone, and he was switching the cups with deft fingers again, around and around and around; and when Hilda tapped one of the cups, he lifted it to reveal a peeping baby chick that he gave her, to the delight of the audience.

  A roughly dressed man sitting several seats down leaned toward Philip, grinning. “Sure had that’n figgered, din’t ye, mate!” he said loudly.

  Philip did not lower himself to answer.

  When the crowd grew quiet again, the wizard said, “And now, fair Hilda, perhaps you are growing tired. I regret I do not have a bed to offer you, but perhaps the chairs will suffice.” When Hilda sat in the chair, he said, “No, that cannot be comfortable enough. Here, lie down between them.”

  When the maiden protested that the chairs were not of sufficient length to support her, he passed a hand before her eyes. “Sleep,” he commanded, and she stiffened and closed her eyes. Carefully he aligned th
e chairs and assisted her to recline across their backs. When he removed the one beneath her feet, gasps were heard as she remained suspended by only the chair beneath her head.

  The curtains closed to foot-stampings and yells and wild applause. While several boys rushed to light the wall sconces, the stage manager walked onstage and announced that lemon ices and other refreshments would be available in the lobby during intermission, after which Lord Merlyn would return to amaze them with card tricks and mental illusions in a quarter-hour.

  As the orchestra began to play and people stirred to their feet, Philip said, “Let’s go, Abigail; I’ve seen enough of this nonsense.”

  “You mean to leave now?”

  “I see no reason to remain. The performance is as foolish as I feared it would be, but you wanted to come so badly. Surely the first half has satisfied your craving for a diversion.”

  Abby stared up at him as he touched her shoulder. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it beating in her temples. The old weakness, the tired old thoughts that said it was easier to give in than object, almost made her yield to the hand fingering her sleeve. But once, just this once, she was determined to have her way.

  “No,” she said firmly. “I’m not leaving.”

  He could not have looked more surprised had the chair risen and slapped him. “But Abigail, I insist.”

  “If you intend to force me to go,” she said, staring hard at the cello player, “you will have to sling me over your shoulder in front of all these people.”

  A light flared in his eyes, and for a moment she feared he might meet her challenge. But though he tapped his fingers against his trousers, he held his temper in check. “Very well. I had no idea you were enjoying yourself so much. I wouldn’t wish to cause you distress. Would you care for an ice?”

  Thinking that the lobby was that much nearer the front doors and Philip’s carriage, Abby thanked him and shook her head.

  “I shall return directly, then,” he said, and turned away from her.

  When he came back some ten minutes later, his mood had not been improved by the roasting he’d taken in the lobby about his outburst. Harold and a few other acquaintances had thought it highly amusing to see him “put in his place by a theatre person, for Gawd’s sake,” as one had so elegantly put it. When Philip sat down, he neither looked at nor spoke to Abby.