Moonspun Magic (Magic Trilogy 3)

“Unfortunately, the child didn’t recognize any of the bastards, er, excuse me, Elaine—”

“That’s all right. I fully agree with you. They are animals, crude, malicious, sadistic beasts.”

“All that, my dear? Admittedly, it was not at all well done of them, but surely it was some sort of lark.”

So, Rafael thought, Damien also believed it the work of moneyed young gentlemen.

Victoria stared at Damien. Even though she’d experienced attempted rape at his hands, she was still shocked that any man wouldn’t condemn such an act, at least overtly, in civilized company.

“Age really doesn’t matter,” Rafael said easily, “but the child was, after all, only fourteen years old. I wonder what kind of man would find it a lark to ravish a child?”

“A very twisted, sick man,” said Elaine. “Would you care for some salmi of grouse, Rafael?”

“I wonder if there have been other incidents?” Victoria said, waiting to hear what Damien would say. Two could play this game, she wanted to say to her husband.

Rafael found himself looking from beneath his lashes at his brother. He too had been appalled to hear Damien speak so cavalierly about the girl’s rape.

Damien said nothing until he took a long drink of his wine. “Actually,” he said easily, “I barely remember the incident. It was quite a few months ago, wasn’t it, my dear?”

“Yes, but one doesn’t tend to forget something like that so easily. Do you think it’s related to this incident? Do you think it’s a bizarre revival of the infamous Hellfire Club?”

Damien looked bored, an unusual reaction, his brother thought, given the subject matter. “I neither know nor particularly care, Elaine. It has nothing to do with me. Rafael, may I have a bit more of the stewed partridge?’

Victoria couldn’t keep her tongue still. She said, “But it has to do with all of us. No one could possibly condone what was done to that child. My god, Damien, Dr. Ludcott said that she had been drugged and that many men raped her.”

Damien gave her a twisted smile. “I shouldn’t have wanted to be the last.” He quickly held up his hand. “Acquit me, broth

er, ladies. I was only jesting—”

“—a very poor jest.”

“Yes, well, I meant nothing by it. But really, all of you, the girl is of little importance, after all. Just a village girl, just—”

“I believe that’s quite enough,” Rafael said quietly, in the same tone he’d used with Damaris. “You’re upsetting both Victoria and Elaine.”

“I certainly wouldn’t wish to do that,” said Damien, giving his pregnant wife a fond smile. “My heir must be kept safe and healthy at any cost. Elaine knows that, as do I.”

“Tomorrow,” Rafael said abruptly, “Victoria and I will travel to St. Agnes. There is a property there I wish to inspect. Oddly enough, there are the remains of a medieval castle still there, and the name still visible—Wolfeton. Of course, a manor house is on another section of the property, built in the early seventeenth century, I believe, by offshoot scions of the De Moreton family.”

“They were Norman,” said Victoria.

“Yes. A very old name. The family must have been marvelously healthy to enjoy such longevity. I understand the direct line didn’t die out until the mid-fifteen-hundreds. Their name now is Demoreton, still close to the original, just a bit more English-sounding.”

“Why is the property for sale?” Damien asked idly.

“The usual reason. Money. Rather, the lack of it. The family was cursed with a series of wastrels. The last Demoreton, Albert by name, managed to gamble away his entire patrimony by the age of twenty-five, then killed himself, leaving his family to suffer the consequences. If Victoria and I are pleased with it, I think we’ll make an excellent bargain. Do you care to be the mistress of the manor at Wolfeton, Victoria?”

“Wolfeton. It’s a very romantic name,” Victoria said. She found herself staring at Rafael as he calmly finished off his hazelnut pudding. He’d said nothing to her about a specific property. And he appeared to know everything about it.

“St. Agnes,” she said aloud. “Don’t you remember, Elaine? Damien had business in St. Agnes and you and I went with him. It was four years ago. It’s on the northern coast of Cornwall. The country is so beautifully savage and untamed. And remember how very fierce the sea winds could be? And the trees—so bowed and bent and twisted all along the coastline.”

Rafael was smiling at her enthusiasm. “I believe,” he said, once she had run down, “that I have come across an area that appeals to you.”

“Oh, yes.”

“I remember St. Agnes and St. Agnes Head,” Elaine said, her voice tart. “You were only fifteen years old, Victoria, and you seem to have forgotten that awful storm. I thought we should be swept over that cliff.”

“Victoria was more a mountain goat in those years than a young girl,” Damien said.