Missouri Magic

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “Meet me on the back veranda during the first intermission,” he whispered. “I want you to myself for a few moments. And save me some dances, all right?”

  She nodded almost imperceptibly as she greeted the next guests, John Cruikshank and his wife. Damn she was a tease! She knew precisely how much he wanted her and was playing coy to arouse him.

  Patrick kissed her lightly on the cheek. “The ensemble’s played two dances without me. Time to get over there, to keep those fellows following a beat. I love you, my dearest.”

  He felt her gaze following him between the couples chatting along the dance floor, all the way to his stool at the back of the other players. It took his utmost concentration during the next waltz—not only because his Celesta was the crowning jewel in the room, but because her aunt and uncle had just come through the doorway.

  Ambrose Ransom swaggered in dressed as a pirate, a red bandanna tied rakishly over his head and a black patch covering one eye . . . appropriate, considering the way he’d shanghaied his niece’s inheritance. Katherine stepped shyly into his mother’s embrace and then Celesta’s, poignantly elegant in what he assumed was her wedding gown. Layers of lace and veiling made her appear girlishly vulnerable—also appropriate, because she was now the key to his upcoming success. When Celesta’s wedding day drew near, he knew Katherine would either convince her husband to come forth with a sizable dowry, or she could be cajoled into obtaining the money herself. It would keep him afloat until he thought of a more permanent plan, anyway.

  Perkins gripped the neck of his instrument as he watched the exchange between Ambrose and his niece. It was stilted, but cordial enough because his mother kept exclaiming over Katherine’s gown. When the tall, burly steamship magnate thumped on into the room and greeted his friends, Patrick relaxed and found his place in the music. It was a sure bet Mrs. Ransom would want to dance sometime this evening, and he polished a few opening lines as though they were his halo.

  “Ladies,” Bill Thompkins was announcing above the crowd’s murmur, “the next dance will be a schottische, so grab a partner! I want to see everyone having a good time!”

  The director raised his baton, and after couples formed a ring around the ballroom he gave the count. Patrick dug his bow into the strings, producing the steady bass beat that would propel the dancers through this spritely song. He was secretly pleased that Celesta lingered beside the punch bowls, watching the dancers circle the floor—until her chin lifted and she stared toward the doorway.

  When Perkins followed her gaze, he stiffened. A commanding figure surveyed the crowd from behind a chilling white mask that covered all but his mouth and chin. His dark hair was waxed back, and he was clad in a black suit, over which a black cape lined in red rippled with the current the dancers were creating. A vampire . . . and because he seemed so haughtily at home, Perkins racked his brain to figure out who the hell it was.

  He gripped his bow until it nearly snapped when he saw the debonair newcomer stride straight toward Celesta.

  Celesta, too, was so stunned by the stranger that she barely heard Harlan Jones’s question. It could’ve been Grandfather playing one of his spooky games—he’d sported just such a cape on occasion. But the suave, eerie form approaching her was far more frightening than Ambrose Senior’s ghost, and she turned toward the police chief in hopes of avoiding it.

  “Pardon me?” she asked lamely. “I was preoccupied with my canapés.”

  Jones, whose paunch made his western marshal’s gear look downright silly, gave her a hooded look. “I merely commented that Mr. Perkins hath a lean and hungry look tonight.”

  Celesta glanced toward the bass player, whose blond hair was concealed by a tight hood. “It’s the spider costume. Black makes him look anemic.”

  The policeman grunted. “Is your interest in him mutual, Miss Montgomery? Such a match would certainly improve your—”

  “Patrick’s like a brother to me. I’m not his type and everyone knows it.”

  “How fortunate,” came a heavily accented voice from behind her. “I sense your type is exactly to my tastes, however. Shall I sample your lovely neck to find out?”

  Celesta felt the blood rush from her head. With Jones looking on, it was best to humor the man standing so closely behind her. “You flatter me, Count Dracula,” she teased as she turned to him, “but I don’t recall mailing any invitations to Transylvania.”

  “We vampires have ways of procuring what we need.” He reached into his inside pocket and produced a vellum invitation identical to the ones Eula sent out, but he replaced it before she could verify her employer’s signature. “I believe the orchestra’s introducing a waltz. If you’ll dance with me, I’ll tell you how I got myself on the guest list.”

  The Count gave her no chance to refuse. He was clasping her hand in a white-gloved grip and leading her to a place between the other dancers, infuriatingly sure of himself. Celesta’s heart was pounding. Who had planned such an encounter—a rendezvous with a man who obviously knew her, but was keeping his identity camouflaged by his accent and lustrous white mask?

  When he began to guide her smoothly through the three-quarter beat, Celesta gasped. She was eye-level to a strong, shadowy chin that had a very familiar cleft in it.

  He tightened his hold on her. “It’s to your advantage to keep my presence a secret, sweetheart,” he said in his normal voice. “And it’s the least you can do, considering how many times I’ve rescued you from Perkins lately.”

  “And how have you done that, Mr. Frye?” she demanded. “Wasn’t it enough that Cruikshank and our lame-brain police chief turned you loose?”

  Damon chuckled low in his throat. “Remember that rock that shattered Patrick’s office window? A timely gesture, I thought—as was the removal of the rest of that rat poison this morning. You’re surrounded by companions far more dangerous than I, Celesta. And you know as well as I do that this masquerade’s the perfect place to cause you further harm.”

  Her head was reeling, partly because his words echoed her own suspicions, but mainly because he was holding her so closely that his magnificent satin-lined cape was enveloping her in its magical, arcane mystique. “How do I know that was you?” she challenged weakly.

  “Who else is aware of those incidents? Perkins didn’t see me in the alley because I was crouched beneath his window, and you’ve been too spooked about that cyanide to mention it to anyone else.”

  How did he know her so well? Celesta leaned against his arm to study the hard white mask and the dark hair that was slicked away from it. He was too handsome, too much the sorcerer even after his unforgivable crimes, and she was determined not to fall under his spell again. “And why are you protecting me? Surely I made my hatred clear after you lured Aunt Justine into the river.”

  His lips curved into a smile that made the gruesome mask look more human. “I’m surprised you haven’t figured out who the real culprit is, Celesta. But I love you anyway, and I realize now that you’re far too precious to sacrifice to Perkins for the sake of my selfish pride. I did that ten years ago, to Lucy, and I’ll regret it the rest of my days.”

  The cool aloofness had disappeared from his voice, and she heard the Damon Frye who’d once declared his intentions so ardently, so passionately. He sounded sorry about leaving her—ready to open his heart about his most compelling secret—and as they swayed gracefully around the crowded ballroom, Celesta sensed he held the key to all of her unsolved mysteries. “All right. I’m listening.”

  He’d deftly maneuvered her into the small turret room behind the refreshment table, where crocks of punch and trays of food were waiting. “We need privacy,” he said as he backed her against the wall. “Such a confession deserves your complete attention and every ounce of my courage. I don’t bare my soul to just anyone.”

  She licked her lips nervously. “So where—”

  “Meet me on the back veranda later, when you can slip away unnoticed. I’ll wait a few moments and follow you downstairs
.”

  It occurred to her that Patrick had specified the same meeting place, yet it didn’t matter. Damon was gazing down at her as though he’d devour her, his warm breath teasing her forehead. Celesta was exhilarated yet confused, wanting to believe him while wondering if this was just another cruel trick to destroy what was left of her heart.

  “All day I’ve wanted to crush you close and kiss you,” he whispered. “But it’ll have to wait.”

  She wasn’t sure she could. “How . . . how have you kept watch over me without anyone knowing you were back in town?”

  He chuckled and ran a gloved finger along the side of her face. “We vampires can pass through walls and disappear into thin air, remember?”

  “Don’t tease me, Damon, I—”

  “Makes for some interesting eavesdropping, too,” he continued lightly. “It seems your uncle’s dramatic reappearance and Katherine’s speechlessness have made people forget all about me. But you haven’t, have you?”

  Celesta felt her insides tighten, even as she was willing herself not to kiss him. Damn him, he’d yet to prove himself innocent of her charges, yet he so effortlessly led her deeper into his hypnotic embrace.

  Frye let out a husky sigh and followed the curve of her neck with his velvety fingertip. “Don’t pretend you didn’t miss me, sweetheart. Your scarlet disguise can’t hide your true feelings from me.”

  She held her breath, riveted by the dark eyes beneath his pale mask as his finger followed the neckline of her dress.

  “That’s what I thought,” he murmured, so softly that only her heart could hear it beneath the frantic pounding of her pulse. “You’re still mine, as you’ll always be. It’s the best thing that could happen to either of us, you know.”

  Closing her eyes, Celesta raised her face for the kiss she so desperately needed. If she knew this was real, rather than a wishful daydream—

  “By the way, my love, you’ve never looked more stunning,” he said matter-of-factly. “But I can’t figure out who you’re supposed to be.”

  Her eyes flew open. How dare he ignore her plea for—he was still the infuriating Damon Frye, and now he was humiliating her! “I’m surprised you don’t know a cherry tart when you see one,” she snapped, and then she wrenched herself from his grasp and stalked out of the little room.

  Patrick was waiting for her. His black clothing was as tight as his smile; his extra four legs, attached to the center of his back, swayed as though they were reaching for her. His golden good looks were concealed by his hood and a mask, so only his mouth was visible, but that was enough to show her his mocking displeasure.

  “It’s time for a birthday toast,” he said as he took her hand. “Our guests are filling their punch glasses, wanting you to cut the cake. You shouldn’t let a stranger keep them waiting.”

  He knew as well as she did who the stranger was, but with nearly a hundred revelers looking on, Celesta couldn’t challenge him. Patrick raised his glass and said appropriate words that made the audience applaud on the other side of the cake table from them, but she barely noticed. She felt a dreamlike distance from these events—went through the motions of blowing out the candles before slicing the top tier of the elaborate cake—all the while wondering how she was going to escape the downward spiral Damon Frye and Patrick Perkins were pulling her into. Damon was standing at the rear of the crowd, watching her, and she wanted to scream for his help, but—

  “Here honey, the first bite should be yours,” Patrick’s voice interrupted her trancelike state.

  She blinked. He was holding a forkful of cake a few inches from her lips, as though he’d been waiting for her to take it. She had no choice, with everyone looking on.

  When the sweet, frosted morsel was in her mouth, Perkins grinned triumphantly and faced his audience. “If that looks like a hint of things to come, it is,” he announced proudly. “Celesta Montgomery has agreed to be my wife, and I can think of no more appropriate birthday gift than a diamond ring.”

  Chapter 31

  Celesta felt him slipping a warm band onto the fourth finger of her left hand and gaped: the diamond was as large as the lump in her throat, a lump that threatened to choke her as he raised her hand to show off his extravagant gift.

  The applause was deafening—or was she losing consciousness? She was vaguely aware that the Troubadours were playing another waltz, and that she and Patrick were dancing, encircled by their guests. Harlan Jones was smirking at her, and little wonder. Uncle Ambrose watched with great interest while Katherine’s pale eyes mirrored her own confusion. Eula Perkins sipped her punch, her eyes riveted on them as she fingered the beadwork on her collar.

  And then there was a ripple of red upon black as Damon danced alongside them with Katherine. He seemed to be goading Patrick with pointed stares while making polite conversation with his partner, and soon other couples were joining in the dance.

  Celesta had never felt more frightened in her life. The room seemed to spin in its own warped circles as Patrick clutched her closer, murmuring about how he wanted to have her after the party. She had to escape somehow, before this conniving blackheart forced her into anything else.

  “Forget him, Celesta. Frye’s a liar and a murderer,” Perkins whispered against her ear. “I’ve loved you all my life. Come away with me tonight—we’ll be together forever, my darling.”

  Her throat went so dry she couldn’t swallow. The voice Patrick had just used was very similar to Damon’s . . . the voice on the wax cylinder, which had driven Aunt Justine to her death! Why hadn’t she assumed it was one of his imitations all along?

  She looked away from him, focusing on Aunt Katherine’s euphoria as she glided in perfect time with the vampire who held her. Her eyes were nearly closed as she inclined her ear to Frye’s whisperings ... so long she’d gone without dancing, and Celesta wished the situation wasn’t becoming more desperate by the second. She had to free herself from Patrick’s grasp. She caught a shimmer of teal and blue beads, and saw his mother striding purposefully out of the ballroom.

  There was a startled cry as Aunt Katherine stood stock-still in the midst of the couples whirling around her, staring at her partner. “Damon!” she croaked. “Damon, thank God you’re back! You’ve got to do something!”

  “And I intend to. If you’ll excuse me—” Frye released her to tap Perkins on the shoulder. “Allow me a dance with your bride-to-be,” he ordered, and when the spidery blond refused to relinquish her, he swung around behind Celesta and kept on dancing, holding her as he faced his opponent.

  “We make an unfortunate trio, just as we did ten years ago when Lucy got caught between us,” Frye continued in a low voice. “Be the gracious host and dance with Katherine, or escort her to her husband. If you back down, we can settle this privately. If not, I’ll make it so you can never conduct business again—in Hannibal or anywhere else. And you know how I’ll do that, don’t you, Perkins?”

  “You goddamn—if you say one word, I’ll—”

  “Go find your mother, Perkins. Her little secrets are just as appalling as yours—and you know how nasty things will get if everyone here finds out about them.”

  Patrick stepped back, grimacing like a cornered animal. Ignoring Katherine, he shoved his way through the crowd and caused a murmuring among the dancers that were gathering around her.

  “You’ve found your voice!”

  “Somebody tell Ambrose!”

  “Is that vampire really Damon Frye?”

  Celesta was still staring at her aunt, her joy overshadowed by the truth about Justine’s death. “Are you all right now? Do you want some punch to clear your throat?”

  She’d released Damon to clasp her aunt’s hands, and the little woman’s pulse was racing. “I—I think you’d better leave,” Katherine said in a crackling voice. “Ever since Eula planned this party, I’ve had the most awful feeling—”

  “Katherine! Is it true what they’re telling me?” Ambrose demanded as he clumped between the onlookers
surrounding his wife.

  Celesta felt Damon’s hand slip around her waist, and as the curious crowd focused on the two Ransoms he whisked her out of the ballroom and down the back stairs.

  “I should’ve told you about Lucy long ago,” Frye was muttering. “Should’ve trusted your feelings for me. Do you still love me, Celesta? I have to know.”

  They were on the back veranda now, lit by a pale moon that turned the carved pillars and scrollwork a dreamlike white. As she gazed up at him, she recalled their earlier declarations, when Damon had directed the thunder and lightning, had sealed her fate with kisses that made her ache just remembering them. She reached up slowly to raise his mask. “I could never love anyone else,” she whispered. “I—I had no idea Patrick would give me this ring—”

  “Another of his insidious traps, sweetheart.”

  “—and I’m so sorry I blamed you for making that awful recording, when I should’ve known—” Celesta blinked the mist from her eyes, wondering if her heart would burst right out of her dress as Damon gently removed her mask. “Can you forgive me for being so blind? So stupid?’’

  His smile was dark and shadowy as he leaned her against the wall. “I already have, or I wouldn’t be here. Do you remember the first time we kissed, Celesta? It was in this very spot.”

  His resonant voice made her tremble as he took her hands and flattened the backs of them against the house. Faint strains of music and laughter drifted down from the ballroom, and a breeze riffled Damon’s cape as he stood gazing at her.

  She laughed softly. “You knocked the basket from my hand—stole that gruesome story about the pen with the poison in it. And I accused you of stealing my favorite pen, too, but you didn’t, did you?”

  “No.”

  Celesta sighed. “You must think I’m the most impulsive, temperamental—”

  “And those are some of the qualities I admire most about you,” he murmured. “Kiss me now. Remind me why I fell in love with you that day, Celesta.”