Missouri Magic

by Charlotte Hubbard

  She closed her eyes, and this time he didn’t trifle with her feelings. Damon pressed her against the wall, seeking her eager mouth with his. She tasted like cider and birthday cake, all the sweet happiness he hoped he could bring her in the coming years—but he had more serious subjects to cover now, before Patrick made his inevitable appearance. One or both of them might be badly hurt, and Celesta deserved to know the truth, whatever happened.

  He pulled away too soon, but she understood his urgency. “Tell me about Lucy,” she whispered.

  Damon raised up so that he could look into her eyes. “As you know, we were engaged. And when I ran out on her, she was pregnant, so everyone assumed the child was mine.”

  “Because it was,” came a voice from the bushes beside the porch. There was a rustling, and Patrick stood up from his hiding place. He’d removed his hood and mask, and as he ascended the stairs the moonlight gave his face and hair an infernal glow. “She was a mill worker’s daughter, shunned by her family and shamed into taking the potion that ended the baby’s life as well as her own.”

  “Your baby’s,” Frye blurted.

  Perkins stopped a few steps away, sneering. “That’s the most ridiculous—how can you prove that to a smart girl like Celesta?”

  “You sneaked Lucy into your father’s office one day when he was out. Spread her flat on his desk, just like you did Celesta, only you got what you went after.”

  “I didn’t exactly have to force her.”

  “So I found out. The hard way,” Damon replied bitterly. “You were the heir to the Perkins throne, and Miss Bates thought she’d do a little social climbing, so she—”

  Celesta listened in horror, her back to the wall as Damon railed at his accuser. All these years he’d kept his fiancée’s infidelity to himself and shouldered the blame for that long-ago scandal. And now, when Frye had a true love to lose, this whining lumberman’s son was determined he’d pay for Lucy’s duplicity forever.

  “I was only eighteen, for Chrissakes,” Patrick protested. “The last thing I needed was a sniveling little, redheaded—”

  “And I was only twenty!” Frye shot back. He advanced toward Perkins slowly, trying to keep his rage in check. “Imagine my shock when she came crying to me, begging my forgiveness. Begging me to marry her, even though my good friend made her pregnant.”

  Perkins scowled and jabbed Damon’s chest with his finger. “Why should anyone believe that? It could just as easily have been your—”

  “No, it couldn’t. And Lucy knew it.” Frye clenched his fists against the same rage that had boiled within him a decade ago, the shame of a betrayal that had scarred his life forever. “She wouldn’t let me love her until our wedding night, Perkins, and I respected her wishes. Lucy was a flirt, but she was a decent girl until you coaxed her into a quick roll with your pretty promises. You strung her along and then turned on her—the same way you turned on me, you damn—”

  Perkins came at him, so he lunged, sending them both tumbling down the stairs to struggle in the cold, damp grass. Too long he’d kept his torment locked inside, and as he pummeled the agile blond his burden was lifted. When he felt Patrick reaching into his waistband, however, he sensed the fight was taking an ugly turn.

  From the porch Celesta saw the gleam of a knife blade, but when she tried to bolt down the stairs she was blocked by a sturdy body and caught around the waist in an iron grip. A quick hand stifled her cry for help.

  “We’ll let them fight it out,” her captor stated, “and if Frye’s unfortunate enough to live, he’ll watch you die, Celesta. You know too much, just like your mother did.”

  Celesta froze, a scream welling up inside her while Eula continued her chilling monolog. The hand clamped over her face was oddly fragrant, but her employer’s perfume was hardly important at a moment like this.

  “You see, Rachel found out about Patrick and Lucy, and being a responsible servant and a mother herself, she told me the girl might cause a problem. We couldn’t have that, of course, so I saw to it that Lucinda Bates never had her baby.”

  A whimper rose in her throat when the fight in front of them became more vicious. Damon swore in pain. His elegant cape was now trapped beneath him and hampering his movements. Bright violin music filtered down to them, an ironic counterpoint for when Patrick rolled on top of Frye and slugged his jaw.

  “Once Damon left town and Miss Bates was buried, we agreed the incident would never again be mentioned,” Eula went on calmly. “Patrick never knew I suspected his little tryst, and no one was the wiser about the old crone who provided Lucy’s potion ...I do love to disguise myself on occasion.

  “And the whole sordid affair would’ve remained buried had Damon not returned to Hannibal this summer. Your mother saw him in town and made the mistake of mentioning how handsome he’d become. Knowing how he’d eyed you when you were young, I couldn’t risk letting the past raise its ugly head now that Patrick’s running the mill. Your mother would’ve told you about Lucy, since you weren’t old enough to hear such things when they happened. She was a dear friend, but you surely understand why my son’s welfare was more important than hers.”

  Celesta’s heart stopped. She stared at Mama’s murderer, knowing now who poisoned the sugar bowl . . . and aware that the slight bitterness of almonds on Eula’s hand signaled the beginning of her own end.

  She forgot about the men struggling in the yard and focused upon the unlikeliest of killers: wealthy, sophisticated, donor of time and money for every charity in town ... a devoted mother. After penning so many Sally Sharpe stories, she should’ve realized that Eula Perkins had stronger motives than anyone else—more to lose, so more to protect—yet the summer’s startling events had blinded her to the obvious clues about who killed Mama.

  “Patrick didn’t help matters,” the little widow went on with a wry chuckle, “and his sudden interest in you prompted me to do some research. Tom would spin in his casket if he knew there were now two sets of ledgers. Our son was always more interested in flaunting his power than working for it ... sickens me to think how he frittered away our fortune to the point that I couldn’t afford help this week, because that diamond drained our accounts.

  “Poor boy got impatient when Ambrose spoiled his plans to marry your money, after the other heirs were so conveniently dying off. So once again I’m forced to clean up his mess to keep the Perkins name out of the mud.”

  Celesta’s eyes widened as the woman’s hand snaked up her side, bringing with it the pungence of cyanide.

  “Ironic that you suggested this clever method in one of your stories,” Mrs. Perkins said, her grin malignant below her feathered mask. “And when I found your fountain pen in your desk after your mother’s funeral, I sensed I might have a chance to try it out. If you recall, in ‘The Pen is Mightier,’ the victim had two small puncture wounds in her neck, like those inflicted by a vampire. How sporting of Mr. Frye to dress for the part—and how convenient that your choker will cover the wound.”

  All her mysteries were now solved, but Celesta was in worse trouble than when she’d been naive and grieving. Below her, one of the men swore violently, and after repeated smacking blows she heard a gurgling sound. Who was strangling whom? She didn’t dare look away from Eula, couldn’t think about what would happen if it were Patrick choking the life out of Damon . . . her Damon, who’d lost the best years of his life to an unfaithful fiancée and a false friend . . . Damon, who loved her enough to come back and rescue her, despite her lack of trust in him.

  The sound of Eula flicking the cap from her fountain pen brought her out of her stupor. Celesta jerked her head free and screamed, throwing her weight against the smaller woman to knock her off-balance. Still her captor managed to pin her against a porch pillar, and with the hard wooden post cutting into her backside, Celesta gasped for what she assumed would be her final breath.

  Visions of Mama’s last contorted, confused expression flickered before her mind’s eye, memories of that fatal cup of tea
that caused convulsions and collapse before—

  “Mrs. Perkins, you don’t want a third murder added to your record,” a forceful voice declared, and then Eula was wrenched off her by none other than Harlan Jones. “Your little story clears up a lot of questions, so why don’t we go on down to the jail and—”

  “You can’t lock my mother away!” came Patrick’s protest. He was dragging himself up the stairs, yet his voice rang with defiance. “I’ll pay her bail and—”

  “With what? She just admitted you drained the accounts buying that fancy ring,” the chief replied smugly. He gripped Eula harder to keep the lethal fountain pen from scratching his face, and finally squeezed her wrist until she dropped it. “Come with her and answer some questions. I know better than to hope you’ll apologize to Celesta and Mr. Frye, so we might as well be gone before a crowd gathers.”

  Patrick was wheezing against the porch pillar now, his blue eyes glittering fiercely. Celesta noticed a dark, wet stain on his shirt, and when he leered at her there was a bloody gap in his teeth. “Can’t apologize to a dead man,” he said with a nasty laugh. Then he glared at the policeman. “Now unhand my mother, or you’ll wish you never came to this party. Hurry up, before the guests see all this.”

  “He’s got a knife,” Celesta breathed, but just as Perkins raised his weapon there was a commotion in the doorway. Ambrose Ransom swaggered onto the porch, drawing his dagger from its sheath with a flourish.

  “My blade’s a lot longer than yours, Perkins,” he threatened, “and from what Katherine’s told me about Justine’s death, I ought to cut your damn heart out with it! Now move!”

  “I don’t take orders from some peg-legged—”

  With amazing agility, the burly pirate balanced on his good leg, and with his wooden one he sent Patrick sprawling backward down the stairs. “By damn, Harlan, we’ll lock these two up, and tomorrow you’ll have your reward. Fine job of watching out for my niece!”

  Celesta stared after them as they steered the Perkinses down the sidewalk, but when she caught sight of Damon’s inert form in the yard she rushed to his side. “Dear God, no! I thought Patrick was only baiting me—you can’t be—”

  Falling to her knees, she scooped his head and shoulders into her lap. Her mind was spinning wildly while the gash along his face smeared against her dress. He was ghostly pale, dead weight in her arms as her tears splashed onto his cheeks. “You can’t be gone, Damon!” she wailed. “First Mama and then Justine and—oh, Aunt Katherine, what’ll I do? I made a horrible mistake, and he died trying to make up for it. I—”

  Frye held his breath a little longer and half-opened one throbbing eye. The sight of Celesta bemoaning his death made his pain worthwhile, but only a monster would let her carry on this way. She was clutching Katherine’s arm, and he was vaguely aware of other voices and movement around them, and of the cold, wet grass ... and his face rested only inches from the pale, round moons of her cleavage, which quivered with her sobs. A man could die a worse death.

  He drew a shuddering breath and opened his eyes—or at least the one that was cooperating at the moment. Celesta nipped her lip and gazed fearfully at him. “Damon?” she breathed.

  His lips cracked when he smiled. “Last time I checked, I was.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Never better, as long as your heart’s not set on dancing the night away.”

  Her mouth fell open. “You ornery—I thought you’d passed on, and now you’re making fun of me!”

  “We vampires can die and come back at will,” he reminded her wryly. “I was playing dead so Perkins would quit messing up my face. He always did fight dirty, but aside from that a couple of cracked ribs were all he inflicted. So quit your crying. I’ll be my obnoxious self again in no time.”

  She let out a quavery laugh and wiped her face with the back of her hand. “I—I don’t know how to thank you—”

  “Sure you do. But I hope you can restrain yourself while we have an audience.”

  Relieved laughter rippled through the crowd around them, and her heart filled with wonder. This man, who more than once had frightened and awed and infuriated her, was now making her chuckle in spite of his pain. “It’s a good thing I love you, Frye,” she whispered, “because otherwise I’d be peeved that you ruined such an extravagant party. Weeks I worked, getting ready for it!”

  “You’re a fine hostess, Celesta,” he agreed as he reached for her hand, “and I hope we’ll soon be entertaining this lavishly in our own home.”

  “Oh, that’ll be so lovely!” Katherine gushed as she gazed at them. “I’m so glad—”

  “What’ll be lovely, my dear?” Ambrose called out. He was coming back up the sidewalk with a confident step, as though his former amiable nature had been restored by the evening’s excitement.

  Katherine gazed fondly up at the man who towered above them. “Parties at Damon and Celesta’s new home. And with him being an architect, I can only imagine what a grand place it’ll be.”

  Ambrose smiled slowly at Celesta. “I’m sure it will, judging from his work at Ransom Manor. And until it’s built, I hope you’ll both accept my invitation to stay with us. It seems I misjudged you two, and I certainly owe you lodging for looking after my wife and sister. I ... I hope we can make up for some lost time and past mistakes.”

  “I’d like that, Uncle Ambrose,” Celesta said softly.

  He grinned sheepishly at Frye. “I caught quite an earful once my wife’s voice returned, and among other things she’s informed me I have no business commissioning three new steamers. Something tells me the money for the Celestial Fortune will be my niece’s dowry. Is that acceptable?”

  Frye shrugged and shifted closer to her. “Do what you want. I was ready to marry her when she was the maid’s daughter, and your money won’t change that.”

  Ambrose gave a satisfied nod and helped his wife up off the ground. “Shall we go back to the ballroom while Dr. Denton tends to Frye?” he asked the revelers around them. “No sense in leaving before all that food and punch are gone!”

  As the crowd dispersed to go upstairs, Celesta stroked Damon’s face. John Denton, an earnest young surgeon, knelt on Frye’s other side with his medical bag and handed her a slender, dark object— her fountain pen. “I stepped on this coming outside,” he said. “Sorry I flattened it.”

  Celesta gazed at the pen Mama had given her, sighing when she realized that a dime novel manuscript could’ve spelled out her own demise. “It won’t be any good for writing now, but it’ll serve as a memento of a very eventful birthday.”

  Frye grimaced when the doctor pressed his ribs, but kept his eyes on Celesta. “I hope that doesn’t mean you’ll never publish another story. You’re off to a galloping start—”

  “But when I should’ve listened to my instincts, my imagination ran away with me,” she mumbled. “I thought you killed my aunt, and I thought you were only using me to get back at Patrick, and—”

  He could understand her qualms, because some of them had been true at one time. She was smart enough to know that, too, and decent enough not to hold it against him . . . and Celesta Montgomery was indeed the most fetching young woman he’d ever met. “Will you marry me anyway?” he murmured as he looked up at her. “No doubt it’ll be a better cure than anything the doc here can do for me.”

  Denton chuckled and stood up. “We’ll wrap those ribs and get you to bed. No doubt she can fix what ails you there, too—but carefully, understand?”

  Damon laughed low in his throat and held his breath as Celesta lowered her lips to his. She was being too cautious—he wrapped an arm around her neck and moved his mouth hungrily over hers, ignoring the pain because the sweetness of her response was the most gratifying medicine of all. She loved him, after all she’d suffered at the hands of Patrick Perkins . . . whose foul intent surfaced only after he’d egged the blond into it. He owed her a lot, and he tried to pour his feelings into one long, lovely kiss.

  Sighing
blissfully, Celesta held on for what seemed like forever, sensing this was the start of the greatest plot she’d ever concocted. Here she was in the arms of the wounded hero she’d wrongly cast out, who’d returned to rescue her despite her mistakes, and she now had a dowry, and her aunt and uncle were reconciled, and the two villains were behind bars . . . Sally Sharpe should be here to enjoy all these little victories.

  Damon saw the faraway light in her eyes and wanted her desperately. “Is that angelic smile because of my kiss, or because of what you hope comes next?”

  Celesta’s chuckle sounded sly and wanton and very, very pleased as she looked down into his dusky face. “I feel a story coming on,” she whispered.

  And Frye knew it would be her finest one yet.

  The End

  About the Author

  Charlotte Hubbard sold her first historical romance in 1990, and she's been a slave to her overactive imagination ever since. As she writes, her stories invariably take on a life of their own, different from the way she proposed them: unforeseen characters and plot twists come along, and they keep her guessing right along with her readers!

  Charlotte invites readers to contact her at http://www.charlottehubbard.com/

  Copyright

  Copyright © 1994, 2015 Charlotte Hubbard

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.