Yet Nuala couldn’t help but return to the central point. Deborah was sweet, but spirited. She was undoubtedly lovely. Should the right man come along…
Nuala’s thoughts began to take a dangerous turn. She imagined Frances matched with a man who shared her passion for justice and women’s suffrage. Such unusual men, as unlikely as it seemed, did exist. Lillian could do wonderfully with a husband who indulged her love for her flowers and appreciated her warm and giving nature. Males of an Aesthetic persuasion were not difficult to find in London these days; one of them would surely suit Maggie to perfection.
Clara might be harder to match, but a forward-thinking man with a similar interest in the sciences might possibly be found. Julia was hardly alone in her belief in the unseen. And Tameri—
Stop. It was wrong, worse than useless to think this way. Her days of matchmaking were over. Her last attempt had hardly been an unmitigated success. Far from it. Nearly three centuries of atonement had not taught her humility. She had only grown more arrogant.
She had at last accepted that such arrogance was why her powers had deserted her. She had begun to lose them before she had left the estate of Donbridge, two years before she had gone to Lord Charles to be his nurse and caretaker. It had been like losing a limb. Like losing her family again. Like losing her heart, the very essence of what she was.
Now she couldn’t so much as bring a flower into bloom, let alone two deserving people together.
Once she had possessed magic such as had not been seen in generations. And she had done with that magic what no witch was permitted. She had crossed the line from white magic to black, with no stop at gray in between.
Once you have walked into the Gray, the elders had said, the Black Gate is only a step beyond. But she had stepped through without thinking, without considering the price. Not only exile, but an endless span of days and years and, finally, centuries.
And guilt. The sickness of knowing that she had used her abilities for evil. The gradual acceptance of her new work for the good. The hope that one day she would have done enough.
But good works alone were not sufficient. Ultimately she had failed, and the magic was gone. As it should have been taken from her on the day of her sin.
She shook off her wretched self-pity. She had learned to live without magic. If she was no longer a witch, she could be something else.
I can be Lady Orwell’s friend. Surely there was nothing wrong with that. She had not dared to have real friends in her old life. But now that she had settled in London, she must find a new purpose, new challenges to fill her empty days. She must learn to adapt to this world, as Charles would have wanted.
Perhaps she and Lady Orwell might do it together.
“Have you reached a decision, Nuala?” Tameri asked.
Nuala snapped out of her reverie and faced the dowager. “Yes,” she said. “The girl is very much in need of peers who will not judge her decisions. It would be a kindness to let her join us.”
“Even if she fails to keep the vow?” Frances demanded.
“Let us accept her as a provisional member, then. If within a year she is still resolved to remain as she is, she may be fully inducted.”
The group was silent. Frances frowned and then shrugged. Lillian nodded, content to go along with the majority. Maggie popped up in her chair, her short ginger hair falling into her eyes. “I quite agree,” she said.
“Then let it be done.” Tameri rose, her golden earrings swaying. The widows followed her out of the drawing room. Lillian dropped back to walk with Nuala.
“You know she cannot keep the vow,” Lillian said softly, placing a plump hand on Nuala’s arm.
“Perhaps not. But sometimes we must think of the welfare of others above our own preferences.”
“Oh, yes.” Lillian smiled. “She is such a dear child. I should hate to see her unhappy.”
Nuala squeezed her arm. “Perhaps she will take an interest in orchids.”
“Oh, that would be lovely.”
They walked into the corridor and continued on to the Gold drawing room, where the others were already seated. Lady Orwell glanced from face to face, her anxiety manifest in the way she clenched her hands in the folds of her black skirts.
“Please be seated, Deborah,” Tameri said.
The girl sat, nervously adjusting her clothing with pale, slender hands.
“You have been accepted,” Tameri said, “on a provisional basis. You will not be required to take our oath as yet, but will become fully one of us if you find you have no interest in remarriage after one year has passed.”
Lady Orwell leaned forward in her chair. “I assure you, Duchess—”
Tameri raised her hand in an attitude reminiscent of the kings and queens depicted on the drawing room walls. “We do not stand upon formality here, Deborah. But in order to become a provisional member, you must put off your blacks. Half-mourning is permissible for the time being. You must not judge the interests of any of your fellow members, nor may you speak of anything you see or hear during our meetings. Is this acceptable to you?”
“Oh, yes, Duch—Tameri.”
“Excellent. We shall rely upon your honor.” Tameri smiled her exotic, secretive smile. “Now that our formal business is concluded, I suggest that we enjoy our tea. Babu!”
She clapped her hands, and one of her footmen, dressed in spotless white linen shirt and trousers, entered the room and bowed. He took his mistress’s instructions and retreated, while Deborah stared after him.
Nuala wished she could take the girl aside and assure her that everything would be well. She would have much to learn, but among so many unusual women she was certain to find the courage to be herself, not a ghostly figure doomed to a life of widow’s weeds.
And would you not give anything to be with Christian again?
Nuala let her mind go blank as the tea was served. But it was all a sham. She could not forget a single day of her long life. That was a witch’s curse. Her curse.
For her, just as there would be no more magic, there would be no other man. And that was as it should be.
I shall never marry again.
CHAPTER ONE
THE ROYAL ACADEMY was hot and crowded, even though the Season had scarcely begun. It was supposed to be a private viewing, open only to the best and brightest of Society, but that seemed to include half of London.
St. John, the Earl of Donnington, yawned behind his hand and glanced at the paintings with only the mildest interest. He was far more intrigued by Lady Mandeville’s backside. Unfortunately, she was very happily married, unlike a great many of the peerage, and her husband was a rather large man.
Sinjin strolled the Exhibition Room, seeking more amenable prey. There was Mrs. Laidlaw, whose husband was known to be involved with Lady Winthrop. She was quite acceptable in every way but her hair. It was blond, and that was anathema to him.
Lady Andrew, on the other hand, was dark-haired, and her gown was very tight in the bodice, the impressive curve of her bosom all the more accentuated by the severity of her garments. Her husband was a known philanderer, making her ripe for the plucking.
As if she felt his stare, Lady Andrew turned. Her eyes widened as she saw him, and he wondered what was going