Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology #1) - Charlie N. Holmberg Page 0,31
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.