The other men in their group had toasted Rory’s triumphant return, but Notley had offered to accompany him. “Why not?” Rory had said, not trusting himself to make the journey alone.
Now, he wondered what the devil he’d been thinking. Lilacfall Abbey was no place for Mr. Notorious. Notley was better at causing problems than solving them, and Rory had more problems than he dared count.
“Is it something in the letter?” Notley asked, gesturing to it with his wine glass. “You’ve been reading and rereading that letter since Paris.”
“I don’t know what to make of it,” Rory said, lifting the paper. “I fear my friend has gone mad.”
“Why is that?”
Rory took a breath. “Because he writes that a witch cursed him and caused him to lose his title.” Rory realized what he’d said and added, “That’s what he thinks, at any rate.” It was what Rory believed too, but he wouldn’t admit that aloud.
Notley ate another spoonful of soup. Rory should have known he would be unfazed. He’d wreaked havoc across the Continent. Why would the mention of a witch discombobulate him?
“What was his title?” Notley asked.
“The Marquess of Kingston. He was the heir of the Duke of Avebury.”
“Ah. I read about the duke.”
“Really?” Rory didn’t think he’d ever seen Notley pick up a newspaper.
“He’s in the Tower for treason.”
“King had nothing to do with that.”
“But the Lords stripped the son of his title too.”
“So it appears.” Rory lifted the letter. “And King’s convinced it’s all because of a witch’s curse.”
“You don’t believe in witches?” Notley said, leaning back so the footman could remove the soup.
Rory looked at the footmen and then at Notley. There was no way in hell he could answer this question honestly. To tell the truth, he’d thought Notley would laugh the whole thing off and they’d be onto another conversation by now. But Notley continually surprised him.
“Believe in witches?” Rory said, hoping his tinny voice didn’t give him away. Yes, he believed in witches. He bloody well believed in them. “I…might. Do you?”
“Of course. I steer clear of them too. You don’t want to anger a witch.”
The spot between Rory’s eyes had begun to throb with pain. He rubbed it and eyed his wine glass. He was still sober, so he hadn’t imagined Notley’s statement.
“What sort of curse was placed on him?” Notley asked.
“Does it matter? We were thirteen, and even if I believed in witches, how could she cause the Duke of Avebury to commit treason? He made that decision all on his own.”
“Oh, no.”
Rory looked up at Notley, who was eyeing him with concern. “What is it?”
“You’re cursed too. You saidwe were thirteen. Not King.We.”
“We were all cursed,” Rory admitted. “But as I explained, how could a curse be responsible for the duke’s actions or…” He trailed off, not wanting to state the obvious—the curse had killed Harriet and his son. “It has to be coincidence,” he said, trying to convince himself.
“What is the—”
Notley’s words were drowned out by a loud crash and then a scream. The dining room door flung open and a child in a white nightgown ran inside and slammed the door closed again.
His child.
Rory stood. “What is—”
