Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology #1) - Charlie N. Holmberg Page 0,97

would not fall into shambles upon his passing. I may not have a son, but our nephew is kindhearted and well meaning, and there are sufficient funds set aside beyond that.”

The duke raised his glass. “Though I have decided I would like to see Ida utilize her talents.”

Bacchus couldn’t tell who beamed more: Miss Ida or Master Merton.

“Bacchus,” the duchess said, perhaps to steer talk away from her husband’s near demise. It had troubled her greatly, and even now, with the duke’s recovery, she worried he’d relapse. They all did. “Are you sure you won’t stay with us a while longer? I’m sure Ida, at the very least, could learn from you.”

“Master Merton would likely do a better job of teaching her.” Bacchus stirred his soup. He’d had an appetite, but it seemed to have been scared off by the duchess’s inquiry. And of his future trip in general. He craved home, with its familiar faces, privacy, and balmy weather. And yet something about the plans made him feel uneasy.

The uneasiness made him think of Elsie.

“Our alignments are very different.” He swallowed back the thoughts. “And I’ve lands to manage back home.”

Which was true, though he had full confidence in his manager. And the voyage was no quick journey, as it took three weeks to cross the Atlantic to Barbados.

“When do you leave, Master Kelsey?” asked Master Merton.

“Within the week.” He finally lifted his spoon to his mouth.

“It must be very beautiful.” Miss Josie, the younger sister, rushed in, likely eager for a chance to join the conversation. “The island, I mean. Always sunny.”

“And often rainy,” he pointed out, “but it’s a different rain than here. It’s warmer and has more purpose.”

Miss Ida chuckled. “Do you mean to say English rain has no purpose?”

Bacchus shrugged. “Is there a purpose to watering stone?”

“I’d love to feel warm rain,” Miss Josie said dreamily. “Even in the summer, the rain isn’t warm.”

“I think,” interjected the duke, “that it is. Perhaps one day a year. Next month we might be lucky.”

The duchess smiled behind her napkin.

“I think,” Master Merton began, but a thud from elsewhere in the house—Bacchus thought it might have been the front entry—vibrated up the exterior hall. Everyone paused in their dining and turned toward the door. There were sounds of an argument, though Bacchus could make out only one speaker, and it was a woman.

A few of the words carried through the silence that filled the dining room: “—don’t understand! . . . see him . . . might die!”

Bacchus stood. Elsie?

The duchess followed suit. “I think someone is bullying Baxter,” she said, naming the butler.

The moment Bacchus took a step toward the door, he heard a soft curse behind him. He turned, but the foul word had not come from any of the dinner guests. He peered toward the heavy curtains drawn across the windows.

Heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway. The opposite door burst open, and sure enough, Elsie toppled through, her hat askew. Her wild blue eyes found him. “Bacchus! You have to—”

Lightning shot out from the drapes.

Bacchus dived, and the electric bolt blasted through the backrest of his chair. He hit the carpet, tasting static in the air. Both daughters screamed. Master Merton cried, “What’s the meaning of this?”

“Get the duke!” Bacchus shouted, grabbing the chair in front of him and throwing it back toward the windows. The air prickled again, and lightning raced across the room, flashing bright in his vision.

“Fire!” Miss Josie shouted.

Cursing, Bacchus turned toward the second ruined chair, which had fallen on the fine carpet, a small blaze springing up from it. He crawled toward the fire, intent on putting it out, and at the same time Elsie screamed, “I know who you are, Abel Nash!”

That voice cursed again, this time louder, and a man dressed in all black, his face hidden save for his eyes, leapt out from the curtains. The duchess pulled the duke toward safety, and Master Merton ushered the girls toward the rear exit. Baxter rushed into the room.

But the man—Abel Nash—had eyes only for Bacchus.

Wielding a lightning staff, the thin man charged and flung its head forward.

Calling upon a spell, Bacchus threw up his hands and demanded the air to move.

The lightning flew just over his head as a gust of wind slammed into Abel Nash’s body, shoving him back toward the curtains. It wasn’t enough to knock him against the wall, and the assailant proved surprisingly nimble, flipping over upon landing, returning to his feet in an