A Perfect Curse Read online

  “Not everyone can be as lucky as John, when it comes to matters of the heart,” he said to Mary.

  She blushed becomingly and the conversation thankfully shifted to other more mundane topics that Ariel could engage in.

  At the end of their meal, the ladies retired. Ariel hugged Mark so tightly, her grandmother had to pry her arms from around his neck. The men then sat enjoying port in the study.

  “So this is the end?” John said. “You leave tomorrow? There will be many a tear shed in the petticoat lane after your departure.”

  “Glad someone will miss me,” Mark said.

  “Do not fob me off, Mark. I care about you a great deal, else I would not be so furious with your stubbornness. And I find this whole affair most havey-cavey,” John said. “Like the gothic novel an anonymous female author has just submitted to my publishing house. Why can you not tell me the truth? We are friends, are we not?”

  Mark stood. He hated lies and did not wish to end his closest friendship with one. John had been like a father to him these past three years. “I shall bid you goodnight, my friend.” He held out his hand. “If you ever need assistance, please do not hesitate to contact me.”

  John stood, but instead of taking Mark’s hand, he hugged him tightly. “I am sorry about Miguel. But he was not the only one who loved you.”

  Mark pried himself loose from John and turned away, trying to get a hold of himself.

  Returning home in his curricle, he managed to keep his grief at bay. He was going to miss John and his family, and London.

  Shortly after arriving in this town three years ago, when Mark had been a raw eighteen-year-old, he had rented rooms in a hotel just outside Mayfair.

  His family, born with magical hunter blood, was excellent at finding and acquiring money. Three centuries ago, they had hidden Nevara’s ancestor in Wiltshire and then turned to investments as a means of growing their fortune. Using their hunter ability that allowed them to successfully bring down elusive prey, they had honed their financial talents until they had built a sound nest egg.

  Mark had the same gifts, except he preferred financial speculation that did not include magical intervention. He was relentless with his pursuits and had a nose for the kill, making him brilliant at picking risky ventures that inevitably multiplied his reserves while others lost their estates and sometimes even their shirts and evening shoes. Before long, Mark’s pockets were even flusher than his late father’s had been. His reputation was stellar and invitations poured in to attend both London’s gentlemen’s clubs and stately ballrooms.

  His interests had lain not only in speculative finance but also in all manner of sports, from boxing to horse racing. He had once raced a high-mounted barouche pulled by four horses down this very street on a dare from John, to the shouts of alarm from spectators. He had won that race and a hefty sum from his friend.

  But all that carefree living had ended six months ago when news arrived that Miguel had died in Spain. Since then, Mark’s life had grown duller. Every entertainment bored him. Sporting challenges were no longer thrilling. His mistresses failed to enthrall him.

  Miguel’s death had been a waste. If only his elder brother had accepted the fact that the Alvaros were now rooted in England, not Spain. That their ability to control the wind, scent a prey, or stir a gale was a relic of the past.

  Since leaving Spain with their charge, his family should have relegated their magical hunting ability to an occasional sports activity, not continued to embrace it as a lifestyle. His father’s and grandfather’s deaths, also in Spain, had proved that necessity beyond a doubt. Both men had died in a vain attempt to break the spell that guaranteed their demise should they set foot back in their homeland. Apparently their failures had taught Miguel nothing.

  Not so, Mark. He wished his family’s magical inheritance to perdition. Unlike Miguel, he accepted that the witch in Spain was too powerful to conquer, and he intended to carry on with his life.

  Tonight, it was not his brother who occupied his somber thoughts, however. Nevara Wood stole in to sit beside him. He shuddered remembering their last meeting at her aunt’s home.

  Cora Wood was Nevara’s father’s sister. Both brother and sister were ordinary humans. Cora had loathed Angelina Lovel, Nevara’s mother, and had transferred that contempt onto Angelina’s child. Perhaps because she begrudged Nevara’s beauty, which was an imitation of her mother’s and mother’s mother, going back many generations.

  “Skin as white as snow, hair as black as a raven’s, and lips as red as blood” perfectly described Calida, the first de Rivera child entrusted into the care of Mark’s ancestor. Since then, every Alvaro generation had safeguarded each of Calida’s descendants.

  After both of Nevara’s parents had died, the child had been left in Cora Wood’s charge. But the woman had never understood Nevara’s special gift, and the Alvaros had been forbidden to educate her.

  Then one night, Nevara’s screams swept in on a breeze through Mark’s window. It was an odd occurrence. It had been winter, so Mark’s windows had been closed. Miguel and his grandmother denied having heard anything. Yet Mark had not been able to shut out Nevara’s cries. Terrified for her, he raced to her rescue.

  Her aunt had mercilessly whipped her and left her lying hurt and bleeding in the root cellar. Mark wrestled away her lash and she shrieked, “I had to beat the devil out of her.”

  His furious reaction to that scene was partly responsible for Mark speeding out of Wiltshire and toward London. He had convinced himself that Miguel and his grandmother were better able to guard their charge without getting personally involved.

  Before he left, however, he put the fear of God into Cora Wood. If she ever touched Nevara again, he would hear it whispered on the wind. And he would come. But next time, he would not be so merciful.

  Now, three years later, here he was, forced to return home. While Cora was long dead and buried, he was dreading seeing Nevara again. He was not the least little bit taken with her anymore. At least, he was trying to convince himself of that. . . .

  NEVARA WOOD could hardly contain her elation as she made her way home on foot this morning along London’s streets. It was crowded, with horse-drawn carriages rumbling over cobblestones and pedestrians hurrying to keep morning appointments. With a forefinger, she pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose, unable to contain her glee at her morning’s discovery.

  She had long suspected the Rue Alliance’s origins lay in Seville, Spain. Centuries ago, the alliance’s ancestors had been transformed from ordinary humans into people who could change themselves or things around them. Members spanned the classes, from servants to the aristocracy. Their talents were also varied.

  Most, like Lady Roselyn, could adjust their features. Some, like the Earl of Berrington and his sons, could levitate. Stony, the footman at Ravenstock Manor, and his mother could move objects. Daniel Trenton, now the Duke of Morton, was a flame shifter. Nevara too could shift in a way, though not always at her will. Her shifting ability made her see visions that were inexplicable. Her Aunt Cora had insisted that Nevara’s other sight was of the devil’s making. She had said that Lucifer himself was trying to entice Nevara away from God’s world, the real world, by presenting her with false visions.

  “Men are repulsed by the devil’s playthings,” her aunt had once told her. So, for as long as Nevara could remember, she had wished her cursed sight back to Hades, where Aunt Cora had said it had likely been conceived. And now, she might finally be close to making it go away.

  If she succeeded, the alliance would soon be no more, with all its members becoming normal people again, no longer needing to hide who they were, or be despised for their very nature. None would need to be petrified of being discovered, of facing persecution by those who feared them, or of being enslaved, as many alliance members had almost been a year and a half ago by o
ne like themselves.

  For this past summer, Nevara had found a clue to the alliance’s origins. A heavy-lidded, painted eye on a crest found on the late Duke of Morton’s portrait had seemed oddly familiar. So, for months, she had been scouring libraries and bookstores across London to locate where she had seen that insignia.

  Today, she had finally found it, in a book about Spanish gypsies. Nevara patted the volumes she carried with barely suppressed excitement. This discovery led to the very city in Spain she wished to visit. Seville. At last, she was on the verge of discovering the source of the alliance’s curse. And surely, once she achieved that, ridding herself of her affliction could not be far behind.

  She wove through the crowded pavement, her imagination transforming the chill brush of the English autumn wind into a hot Spanish breeze warming her shoulders and back. If only her Aunt Cora could have lived to see how close Nevara was to ending her affliction. She would be so proud of her. Perhaps she might even have loved her again, as she once had, before Nevara’s curse began to manifest itself.

  A bird suddenly flew by her shoulder, its wings beating so close, Nevara ducked aside. It skimmed past her and landed on a nearby tree. Startled, she stopped to glance with curiosity at the black bird. It was a crow. A one-eyed crow. The moment she sighted it, her head began to throb, a definitive signal that her talent had been activated.

  Her sight began to shift, overlaying the bird’s black feathers with streaks of shimmering light.

  Do not be swayed. This is an illusion.

  Nevara repeated the mantra her Aunt Cora had taught her, followed by the Lord’s Prayer, to ward off evil apparitions. She blinked to clear her sight and rubbed at an aching spot on the side of her head. Why must her accursed talent act up now, when she was in a rush to return home?

  Up in the tree, the crow hopped from branch to branch, a blinding shimmer that shuffled among the leaves.

  Her throbbing temple made her dizzy. Nevara moved to the edge of the pavement and braced herself by wrapping an arm around a lamp post. Her books slipped out of her grip.

  She bit her lip to keep her moan silent. She did not want to alert people to her distress. They might ask what was wrong and she could hardly say the devil considered her its plaything.

  Her altered sight disguised what was real—her scattered books—with a layer of what was unreal, a medley of crisscrossing lines of light. The lines spread out in intricate pathways, like frost forming on an icy windowpane.

  Experience had taught her, however, that if she waited long enough, her normal sight would return. So she breathed slowly and urged her pounding heart to be calm.

  “This too shall pass,” her Aunt Cora used to whisper between each lash of her whip.

  Despite all of Nevara’s quietly muttered prayers, the street stayed as lit up as if Guy Fawkes Day had come early in September, instead of in November. Pain and frustration brought tears that wet her cheeks.

  “Nevara?” a man said.

  That voice sounded so familiar. She was petrified at being spotted in this debilitating state by a friend. Few, even in the alliance, were aware of how she dreaded her shifting sight, or how dramatically it could affect her. She eased behind the lamp post, hoping whoever it was would just walk away.

  When he did not say anything else, she adjusted her spectacles and peered up. A tall man was staring down at her but she could not make out his face beneath the mask of light that covered his features.

  “You have dropped your books,” he said, and knelt to retrieve them from around her feet.

  That voice. It was unmistakable this time. And it belonged to the last person she wanted to run into while in this state of distress. Surely God could not hate her so much as to bring her face-to-face with the one man whom she loved with all her heart, a man who had shunned her because of her abnormal talent? Her vision finally began to return to normal, but as he was bent over gathering her books, it was still hard to confirm his identity. Was she fooling herself? That lush brown hair was so achingly familiar. Could it be him? Then she caught her first clear glimpse of his handsome face as he gave her an adorably worried grin.

  Recognition slammed into her and Nevara’s knees liquefied. Mark Dimas Alvaro. It was him. Her heart thudded with joy. And in the tree above, the crow cawed.

  MARK GLANCED up and encountered the all too familiar molten brown gaze of his charge. It tipped him backwards onto his heels. He had dreamed of Nevara again last night. Perhaps because returning to Wiltshire had been on his mind.

  In his dream, Nevara was still the sixteen-year-old gangly girl he remembered, on the brink of blossoming, after her aunt began to feed her regularly. Beside her sat an Iberian lynx. The moment he spotted the animal, it did an about-face and leapt away. Mark had awakened, perspiration beading his forehead and fear rapping on his chest.

  He had taken that dream as a warning, connecting Spain to Nevara. After he finished this last bit of banking this morning, he had planned to head straight home, and the minute he walked into his grandmother’s home, he would warn her that Nevara might be thinking of returning to her homeland. If so, they would have to act quickly.

  But Nevara was here, in London. How could he have not sensed her presence? In his dream, she had not been this full-bosomed, red-lipped and black-haired Venus. She must have just had another of her visions. By the petrified look on her face, she was still as frightened by it as she ever was.

  In their years apart, had she not become accustomed to her gift? Even after her Aunt Cora passed away?

  Nevara’s eyes now widened as recognition set in and he guessed that her vision was clearing. As their glances collided, delight shone in hers and hot spots of pink stained her creamy white cheeks. She pushed her round spectacles up the bridge of her pert nose and stepped back.

  In her rush, she trod on her hem and would have fallen if he had not dropped her books and risen to steady her with a firm grip around her slim waist. She was still too thin for his liking. It reminded him too much of the horror she had lived through with her aunt, and his family’s inability to aid her for fear of unleashing their curse and alerting the Spanish witch’s descendant to Nevara’s hiding place.

  She pulled away and he released his hold, flexing his fingers as they tingled from that brief contact. His arousal returned full force, as if he were still an eighteen-year-old. To regain control, he swiftly knelt to retrieve the books that he dropped this time.

  His mood instantly lightened. Nevara had always been fond of reading. As a child, she had spent hours in a tree house between his home and hers, dreaming of far off places as she delved into books Miguel had lent her. He scanned the spines of her latest treasures, wondering what drew the adult Nevara’s fancy.

  Each title hammered a nail of fear into his chest. His mind reeled at the implication of these particular books, especially in conjunction with his dream of the lynx. He stood up, now far from aroused or amused.

  “Oh, my books.” She reached for them.

  He whisked the volumes out of her grasp, anger simmering. Was she planning to put her life in danger by going to Spain like his misguided brother? Or was she simply curious about her homeland? With exaggerated care, he turned the volumes on their sides and read each title aloud. “Travels in Spain. The Iberian Peninsula. Seville, the Mountain City of Spain. Interesting reading matter, Miss Wood.”

  She shrank at his use of her formal name. Good. They were not friends. They could never be friends. Not when he wanted so much more. “Are you perhaps thinking of traveling to foreign lands?”

  “Sir Phillip, my employer, says it is quite safe to travel to the Peninsula now.”

  So, she was planning to go there. He bit back an oath. “To perdition with your Sir Phillip. Have you forgotten that Miguel died there?”

  “Oh, Mark, Mr. Alvaro, I am sorry about your brother. I meant to wr
ite but could not find words to convey my sorrow.” Her eyes watered. “I loved Miguel, too.”

  “Yet you plan to put yourself in the same danger?” He wanted to shake her but did not dare touch her. A tear escaped her wet lid and the urge to kiss the drop was enormously tempting. Nevara’s wide eyes and parted lips seemed to invite him to claim her there as well. When had she become such a temptress? With effort, Mark stuck to the matter at hand. “It is best that you remain in England.”

  She bent her head. “I have good reason to wish to go there.”

  “Forget the reason.”

  “Do you not want to know what it is?”

  “No.”

  At her lowered shoulders, which he hoped was a sign of capitulation, he breathed a tad easier. “Where do you stay?”

  “I work for Lady Roselyn. It is a live-in position.”

  And with that admission, Mark’s world shattered and then reformed into a more alarming landscape. Sir Phillip, the man she had mentioned earlier, had recently married a Lady Roselyn. He remembered reading about their nuptials in the Morning Times.

  Lady Roselyn was also the new head of the group of gypsies who had begun to gather in London under the auspices of the late, doomed Mrs. Beaumont. They called themselves the Rue Alliance. He had meant to relay this disconcerting news to his grandmother once he returned to Wiltshire.

  If Nevara worked for Lady Roselyn, then somehow, she had been pulled into the gypsies’ net. This boded ill for her safety. Somehow, he must find a way to extricate Nevara from this group, and to do that, he needed to keep in contact with his charge. He could not afford to lose track of her again. But how?

  When Nevara had been a child, her aunt had discouraged her socializing with other children. As a result, she had grown up a lonely little girl, with Miguel as her only friend.

  Now that her aunt and Miguel were gone, had Nevara finally found friendship? Was that why she had joined with these gypsies? If so, pulling her away from them felt wrong, yet leaving her with them could be dangerous to her welfare, especially if they were encouraging her to go to Spain.