Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology #1) - Charlie N. Holmberg Page 0,96

to diffuse a storm, but to bottle it. Viscount Byron’s demise instantly came to mind.

Was this Nash’s true job? He was not a delivery boy, but an . . . an . . .

Assassin.

Elsie practically leapt from the chest, and the lid smacked loudly down. Pulse racing, legs desperate to flee, Elsie turned for the stairs—

—but in her peripheral vision, she spied a familiar parchment on the side table. It was thick, gray. Cowls.

Her fear flared into anger. How dare he be a part of it, too. How many people did she dance for?

Three strides were all it took to cross the room. She recognized the writing on the letter. It matched every other letter she’d ever gotten from the “Cowls.” Now that she knew, it did look like Ogden’s—if he were trying to disguise his hand. The flourish on the T . . . something about it was painfully familiar.

Again at Seven Oaks. Disregard the heirloom opus and go for the Master. He’s too much of a distraction.

A chill rushed through Elsie’s body.

Seven Oaks was the Duke of Kent’s estate. And the only master there was . . .

The Cowls’ next target was Bacchus Kelsey. The duke must have owned another’s opus. That had been the first target. But now . . .

“Oh God,” she muttered, dropping the letter. “Oh God, oh God.”

Nash had been in a hurry. Night was falling. Perhaps he was heading to Kent even now, as Elsie rifled through his things.

Not Bacchus. Not Bacchus.

She flew down the stairs and unbolted the door, too anxious to care if she was seen. But she made it only a few steps before turning back. She’d forgotten her valise and didn’t want to leave anything connecting her to Nash. Snatching it, she hurried to a busy street and nearly got herself run over trying to flag down a carriage that had no intention of stopping. But she stepped right in front of the next cab, forcing the driver to stop or run her over.

“Are you mad?” The man had long gray sideburns poking from beneath his hat, and his two black horses stamped nervously.

“Where are you going?” Elsie did sound mad, but she didn’t care. She even grabbed the reins so the driver could not leave her.

The man sputtered. “What’s it to you? I’ve passengers heading for the train.”

“They’re close enough! Let them out here and take me to Seven Oaks. I’ll pay you three times your asking price.”

He paused, considering.

“Now, man!” Elsie cried.

The driver jumped from his seat, and though his passengers had likely heard the entire exchange, opened their door and said, “Way’s too crowded, but the station’s just ahead! Out you go!” He grabbed their luggage and practically chucked it onto the cobblestone. The passengers—two women and a man—gawked, and one of the women complained in an accent Elsie couldn’t place. But to her relief, they got out, and she got in.

“As fast as you can go,” she pleaded, pulling her gloves off her sweating hands. “Please. It is a matter of life and death.”

“Duel?” the driver guessed, but he didn’t wait for an answer. Returning to his seat, he whipped his horses forward.

Elsie could only pray she wouldn’t be too late.

“Well, it was quite a scare, nevertheless.” Master Lily Merton raised her spoon to her lips. She sucked the white soup down, dabbed her mouth with a napkin, and added, “I would have so hated to see our dear Miss Ida join our ranks out of necessity. A career of any sort is much more enjoyable when chosen through passion.”

It was unsurprising that the Duke of Kent’s health was the primary subject of conversation for the first course of dinner—the first meal the duke had been able to take with the entire family in a while. Bacchus couldn’t have been more relieved to see him well. The temporal aspector’s spell had taken well enough, and the duke had gradually regained his strength. Master Merton of the London Spiritual Atheneum was an unsurprising addition to their dinner. She had nearly cemented herself into Ida Scott’s future. Indeed, in the past week, Miss Ida had practically assaulted Bacchus with question after question regarding aspecting, until he’d given her a gentle reminder that physical aspectors studied different subject matter than spiritual, and so her experiences would greatly differ from his.

“I wouldn’t say necessity,” chimed the duchess. “Do not mistake me, I love my husband”—she passed a tender look to Isaiah, who had finally gotten his color back—“but we