“Will you stop touching it?” Clarke scolded.

Crispin glanced up with a guilty expression, his hand hovering above the still-recognizable clay finger.

Gideon glanced up from the book he was perusing, surprised at the vehemence in his friend’s voice. “It’s completely harmless now,” he assured him.

He should know. He’d been turning the thing over and over since the day the creature had attacked.

At first, Gideon had insisted on decamping, but Amelia wouldn’t hear of them leaving Tarryhall. He could barely walk in the immediate aftermath. His ears rang for days—a side effect of the blow the creature had dealt him.

Once the monster had gone, Amelia called their guards for assistance—chiding him for insisting she throw her gown over her head for modesty’s sake before the men saw her in dishabille.

It took two of them to help him to the house. He only remembered fragments of the trip back. His next clear recollection was of being in his study, undergoing an examination by the surgeon Amelia had insisted upon.

The doctor had proscribed travel by carriage for at least two weeks. He’d been prepared to disregard the medical edict, but Amelia hadn’t. By the time he could think clearly enough to argue with her, she’d organized the staff against him. The male servants were split into teams that guarded the house day and night. And the maids or Amelia herself attended to him at all hours, making sure he didn’t exert himself, while cook prepared tonics and enough fortifying dishes for an army.

Amelia had also sent for Clarke. Lord Worthing had accompanied him. Despite the injury to his leg, the viscount had stoically endured hours of carriage travel to come to their side. His presence had comforted Amelia, so Gideon was grateful, but he was a little surprised Clarke had allowed it.

Though social in ton terms, his old friend had few close confidantes. In fact, before Lord Worthing, Gideon had believed himself to be the only one. But in a short amount of time, Clarke and Worthing had become fast friends. Their ease with each other was like those who’d known each other from the cradle.

He was still marveling over the change in Clarke’s usually reserved disposition when Amelia appeared around a tall library shelf with several books in her arms.

“I’ve found it!” she exclaimed.

She hurried to the central table and laid down the volumes, indicating a small dusty volume on top with a flourish.

Lord Worthing glanced down. “The Maharal of Prague, a history and dissertation.” He frowned, squinting at the smaller text on the pocket-sized leather volume. “A rabbinic text? I thought we were meant to be searching for our monster in these occult volumes.”

“And that’s where we—or more specifically I—went wrong.” She turned to Gideon. “You were correct, my lord, it is not a demon.”

Gideon frowned and she cradled the book excitedly.

“You called it a giant and in some respects, that is true,” she elaborated so quickly her words almost ran together. “I remembered something I had read, a legend about a rabbi creating a man made of earth to protect his people after the sitting pope ordered they be expelled or killed. I couldn’t recall the details, but fortunately for us, one of your predecessors was an ecclesiastical scholar with varied interests, for these were in your library.”

Gideon nodded, leaning forward. “That would have been Edwin. He was earl a few decades ago—the Duchess of Marlboro’s particular friend.”

“Edwin, bless his heart, may have saved us all,” Amelia said, sitting at the table. “This book details the story of the Golem of Prague.”

“A golem? What is a golem?” Lord Worthing asked before Gideon could.

“It’s a creature made of earth or clay, animated by magic. It’s a part of Hasidic folklore,” Clarke said.

Heads turned to him in surprise. He shrugged. “A few of my informants are Jewish, though they don’t advertise the fact. I dined at the house of one once. He told his misbehaving children the golem would punish them if they did not stop making noise. But he didn’t mention Prague.”

Amelia shoved another book toward them. “I found the pope I was thinking of in this one. It was Rudolf II, the Holy Roman emperor and the rabbi in question was named Loew. The rabbi brought the golem to life through rituals and secret incantations and kept it alive by placing holy words on a piece of paper either in its mouth or forehead. In some accounts, the holy words are written on the forehead.”

“Our golem definitely does not have words on its forehead,” Gideon growled. “If this creature is meant for protection, why in the bloody hell is it bedeviling us—and why did it touch you?”

Amelia blushed, but she had been the one to insist their friends know all the disturbing details so she didn’t prevaricate.

“Protection was its purpose in Prague, but there are many tales where it was simply used for labor. These are usually framed as cautionary tales because the golem follows instruction letter by letter. For example, if it was supposed to dig a ditch, but never told to stop, it keeps digging endlessly.”

“So it follows orders?”

“Yes, and very literally. And they must be simple instructions. That is the salient feature of golems. There are many tales about them, some even outside the Jewish tradition. You tell a golem what to do and it obeys, even if your orders are nonsensical or…”

“A perversion?” The flames in Gideon’s eyes could have set fire to the curtains. “I still say Sir Clarence is our chief suspect, especially considering the way it behaved the last time, but he is dead. I saw his body.”

“You did?” Amelia asked.

Gideon hadn’t told her that before, but after what had just occurred, there was little point in protecting her anymore.

He nodded. “I was summoned as his next of kin. The body had been removed from his home by then. It was at the local icehouse, but I did see him and he is most assuredly deceased…so he can’t be controlling this monster.”

Frustrated, he threw up his hands. “Where would he even learn about such a thing? There was never a bigger prig in the whole of England than Clarence. How would he know about rituals and witchcraft?”

Amelia hummed and looked away. He narrowed his eyes at her. “What is it?”

“Er…Sir Clarence might have had occasion to learn about the occult. Not a golem per se, but he encountered magic long ago if my guess is right.”

“When? And how?”

“I can’t explain in too much detail because I’d be revealing the confidence of someone I love, but Sir Clarence witnessed a demonic possession and encountered a witch years ago.”

He gaped at her. “It’s Isobel. Bloody hell, she’s a witch!”

Amelia blinked and smacked him on the shoulder. “How did you guess?”

Gideon stared at her incredulously. “The only other people you love are in this room.”

“Oh.” Her abashed expression was so adorable he couldn’t stop himself from leaning close and stealing a kiss.

His cousin Matteo’s wife was a witch. Imagine that. “Tell me everything,” he ordered.

“Later,” she promised. “What’s relevant here is finding who is controlling the golem. Though he knew about witchcraft and spells, I don’t believe Sir Clarence could create them on his own. Isobel would have said if that was the case.”

“That is reasonable,” Worthing said. “But who else could it be? Is it possible he commissioned it, the way you would have a builder make something? And now it’s running loose, out of control?”

“I suppose it’s possible,” Amelia replied. “There are tales of golems breaking down and going on a murderous rampage. However, that doesn’t explain who created it in the first place…and to me, the answer is obvious.”

She paused, flicking her eyes from him to the other two men.

“Don’t keep us in suspense,” Clarke said. “Who is it?

“Mrs. Ellie Spencer.”

The men stared at her. Each was wearing some variation of a frown, although she noticed Clarke’s was contemplative as if he was mulling over her idea.

Gideon, she noticed, did not look convinced. “Are you certain? Ellie Spencer always struck me as…simply ornamental. A charming companion for Sir Clarence in his old age. I’ve never seen her do anything out of line.”

She scowled at him. “Except for spreading rumors about you murdering Sir Clarence.”

“Ah, yes, well in my view that’s something quite in character for a member of the ton.”

“Isn’t that the truth?” Crispin said with a snort.

“I think I see some of Amelia’s logic,” Clarke said. “It always struck me as a bit odd that someone as conscious of the proprieties as Sir Clarence would have his mistress living with him openly in town. Few said anything because of their respective ages—Mrs. Spencer is hardly a debutante and she claimed to be a widow. When she first arrived in town, Sir Clarence kept a hired companion on hand to observe the proprieties, but once the sticklers became accustomed to Mrs. Spencer, the old woman was quietly dismissed and no one batted an eye.”

“Tightfisted Clarence wouldn’t pay an additional servant wage if he could get away with it,” Crispin observed, and Amelia nodded. “Even to stop the tongues wagging—after all, it’s Mrs. Spencer who would have been savaged by the gossips, not himself.”

“Regardless of whether he was concerned with his own reputation, why would Sir Clarence ally himself with a woman like Mrs. Spencer?” Amelia pointed out. “As attractive and presentable as she is, she has no fortune, no connections to any notable families. No one knows anything about her. And I don’t believe Sir Clarence would sponsor any mistress, no matter how charming, unless it benefited him in some way.”

Gideon pursed his lips. “Love, I understand you’ve been a bit sheltered, but there are many ways a woman like Mrs. Spencer can make herself indispensable to a man.”

“Really?” she asked with sarcasm. “To a man like Sir Clarence—the man you called the biggest prig in all England?”

He shrugged. “The thing about prigs is that they tend to be hypocrites as well.”

Amelia sighed. She knew she was correct about Mrs. Spencer, but men—even her loving husband—did tend to underestimate the females around them. Including herself.

“I believe Amelia may be right,” Mr. Clarke said, his eyes distant. “There isn’t another reasonable candidate. Sir Clarence had no friends aside from a few cronies at his clubs, and from all accounts, those relationships were superficial. In the last months of his life, when we were keeping a close watch on him, he had no visitors of note, no tradesmen who came and went with any regularity. And it makes sense his magical mercenary was someone he kept close at hand. And Amelia’s point about Mrs. Spencer’s background is a valid one. She’s known to be tight-lipped about her family and only mentioned in a vague way she was from Somerset.”

“A magical mercenary and mistress in one. You may be right,” Gideon told Amelia, rubbing his chin. “That’s a convenience even a miser like Sir Clarence would value, enough to sponsor a woman through the high cost of the season. Mrs. Spencer always dressed in the height of fashion—a very expensive proposition for someone like Clarence. And clearly, Mrs. Spencer benefited from the arrangement in other ways. She was accepted in the best homes and was seen everywhere. Though of mysterious and most likely humble origins, she has taken to the ton like a duck to water and would be loath to leave town.”

That fit with what Amelia knew of her. “Which means she should be easy to find, surely?”

Clarke held up a hand. “I’m afraid I have some bad news. As you know my information network is still hard at work. They’ve been monitoring Mrs. Spencer, and she disappeared from town around the same time you departed. At least she was not seen afterward. Enough people noticed for them to make a few more nasty insinuations about you,” he said with a nod to her husband.

Gideon humphed. “This makes sense. She may have realized she overplayed her hand by using her golem to strangle one of my greys.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Sir Clarence said he met her in Bath. Is there any chance that’s where she is now?”

Clarke conceded the point with a nod. “I would guess so. Most people retreat to familiar stomping grounds when they run from trouble. We do have some connections in Bath and can send more men to do some discreet questioning. One thing working to our advantage—I doubt Mrs. Spencer will attempt to live quietly wherever she is.”

Amelia hoped that was the case. Privately, she didn’t agree about the reason for Mrs. Spencer’s sudden departure from town. Her instinct told her the woman had lost control of the creature she had raised. It made more sense that she had run from it—and not out of fear for a single earl’s wrath.

If they were correct, Mrs. Ellie Spencer was a witch, one unprincipled enough to harass an innocent member of her own sex. Amelia doubted someone like that would decamp from her hard-won position in the ton over guilt or fear of reprisal. Nevertheless, she couldn’t argue with the plan.

The witch had to be found.