Must Be Magic

by Patricia Rice

  “How would you know if Dunstan fights fair?” she demanded of the handsome man who had once courted her. “Were you there the day George pointed a pistol at Dunstan? He never carries a weapon, so do not tell me that was fair.”

  Lord John’s smug look only heightened her fury. She had to escape this room. Bile rose in her throat at the stenches emanating from these roaches her nephew called friends. She couldn’t remember ever being so physically attacked by smell like this. Her head spun, and she couldn’t think.

  “Staines was supposed to be here, not you. What did you do to delay his arrival?” Wickham asked, distracting her before she could push past Sir Barton and leave the room.

  “I spoke to him in a foreign language called the truth,” she replied, maintaining her composure. If they expected her nephew to act as witness to this farce so he might run for a London judge, Leila was relieved he’d stayed away. But what would happen now? The constable had said he would notify the magistrate, but no one knew where Drogo was.

  “Staines is a fool to listen to women.” Wickham shrugged and appropriated a bench by the fire, calling for an ale and some breakfast. “Come speak softly to me, and I’ll see if I can persuade your nephew to leave your pretty flowers alone.”

  Without Dunstan to stop him, Staines could run amok through her fields if he chose. The servants would not stand in the way of the man-child who controlled the estate’s future.

  She’d been a fool to place her land first, over a man who was worth far more.

  That error she could correct, if the arrogant Ives would let her.

  “May you spend your nights in a bed of thorns,” she replied sweetly, before pivoting on her heel and marching out of the tavern. Joseph Ives had disappeared from the hall, she noted. She prayed he had gone to Dunstan.

  Loud voices raised in argument in the stable yard drew her attention. If she did not mistake, one voice belonged to Christina in a temper.

  “I will not listen to a man whose aura changes color with every passing moment,” Christina was shouting as Leila stepped outside. “It’s like making sense of a rainbow.”

  “A woman in breeches is an open invitation to scandal,” Ewen shouted back. “We don’t have time to watch over both you and Dunstan. Go back where you belong.”

  Standing aside, mouth agape, Dunstan’s son listened to the senseless argument. At Leila’s arrival, Griffith looked relieved and darted a worried glance toward the stable.

  “Stop it, both of you!” Leila stepped between them. “I have enough to worry about without the two of you scrapping like children. Dunstan needs all of us. If you can’t work together, go home.”

  “Lord John’s aura is murky, but Wickham’s is decidedly black,” Christina declared with urgency. “I watched him through the window.”

  “You said Dunstan’s aura was black, too,” Leila replied wearily. “It is of no moment.”

  Looking smug, Ewen started to speak, but Christina shot him a glare, silencing him. “Dunstan’s aura is mostly gray and blue right now. He is worried and depressed, but he’s trying to do the right thing.”

  Ewen raised an eyebrow in an expression that was remarkably similar to Dunstan’s, and the pain of that reminder tore at Leila’s heart. Behind him, Griffith slipped away.

  “And I suppose the simpleton with the gold button glows with rosy innocence?” Ewen asked in a scathing tone.

  Christina shrugged. “He does, but that button could have come off anywhere. Or someone could have dropped it where Dunstan might find it.”

  “Have you found Drogo yet?” Leila asked. “As magistrate here, he can see justice done.” She kept an eye on Griffith’s progress across the yard. She could let nothing happen to Dunstan’s son, no more than she could harm the child she carried. She was torn in so many different directions, she didn’t know which way to turn.

  “Drogo is observing some conjunction of moon and stars or whatever,” Ewen answered. “Ninian is sending for him. I’ll not let Dunstan rot in a stable until he’s found.” With that angry dismissal, Ewen stalked off after Griffith.

  “Arrogant Ives pig,” Christina muttered.

  “Bankrupt, titleless, arrogant Ives pig,” Leila reminded her, as her mind conjured the horror of Dunstan locked in a stable. “He is not for you.”

  Christina blinked in startlement at this observation, but Leila was staring across the yard while her stomach roiled. They’d locked Dunstan in a stable! The proud man who strode across acres of farmland in sunshine, treated plants as tenderly as children, and carried children about like lambs had no business being imprisoned in a windowless stable because of a lying worm like Wickham.

  Or because he thought to protect her, the damned insufferable man.

  Her heart ached with the desire to go to him, but she could not talk through a door with his brother and son about. She had only one meager hope left.

  With all the guilt stinking the scene of the crime, surely one of the inn’s occupants had to be Celia’s real killer. It was up to her to find out which one.

  Sitting in the straw and leaning against the rough wooden wall, Dunstan contemplated closing his eyes and getting the sleep he’d missed, but if these were to be his last few days of life, he would prefer to spend them awake.

  He’d rather not pass his time cataloging all the mistakes he’d made, but that seemed to be the only direction his thoughts followed. He avoided thinking about the mistake of Celia, because he still couldn’t believe in his guilt. He stared at his big fists and couldn’t imagine them circling Celia’s pretty neck.

  He wrenched his thoughts from his late wife and back to other failures. He knew it had been a mistake allowing others to usurp his duties to Griffith. If Wickham won, Dunstan would never have a chance to know the boy, to teach him how to get on in the world, to instill in him pride for who he was, so that he could march forth into life with full confidence in himself. A boy needed a father for that. Stupid of him to realize it only now.

  He’d been a fool to let Celia live in London without him, too. Had he been there, perhaps he could have steered her away from soulless devils like the Wickham brothers and their friends. If he got out of here alive, perhaps he could guide Leila’s nephew away from those dangerous shoals, though he hadn’t done it for Celia.

  He would do anything for Leila, even put up with her spoiled nephew so she could have her flowers. What he felt for Leila surpassed any meager infatuation he might ever have felt for Celia.

  He wanted to grow old sitting beside the fire with her, watching their children romp and play, hearing her intelligent opinions of his fine ideas, and listening to the results of her latest experiments. Agony twisted his heart at the thought of never knowing to what extent she could develop her fascinating gifts.

  He’d thought marriage a mere acquisition of possessions and had had no understanding of its true meaning until now—when it might be too late.

  Dunstan buried his face in his hands at his mental list of rank negligence.

  He’d fathered a babe out of lust and not love, conceiving another child that he might never watch grow.

  Leila had said she admired him, and he’d brushed it off. She had been telling him something, and as usual, he’d shut his mind and hadn’t listened.

  It was much easier to be scornful and judgmental than to take the time to understand. Perhaps she ought to stay out of his reach, as silk should be kept from mud.

  Yet she’d stood there in that doorway, listened to an honest man give certain proof of his guilt, and still she miraculously believed in him.

  His guilt and doubt could destroy a woman he admired and loved beyond all others.

  He loved her.

  Rocking his head back to slam against the thick plank behind him, Dunstan stared at a glimmer of light coming from between the boards of the door to his prison. If he truly loved Leila, he ought to trust and believe in her. She’d said he was innocent. If he believed in her as she did in him, then he couldn’t be guilty, despit
e the evidence stacked against him.

  A murderer still ran loose. Somewhere in his mind, he’d known that, but it had taken this dark moment to acknowledge it.

  Apprehension clenched Dunstan’s stomach as he saw past himself and his guilt to the truth. He was locked behind barred doors, and Leila was out there while a cold-blooded killer roamed free.

  Rage shoved panic aside even before he heard the hiss of a whisper behind his head.

  “Dad, are you there?”

  Griffith. What was the damned boy doing here with a killer loose? Dunstan slammed his fist into the wall until it shook. “Where are your uncles? Tell them to get me out of here! There’s a murderer out there.”

  Silence. Then Ewen’s voice intruded. “How did you know that? Your investigator just got here.”

  Oh damn, oh double damn, he had to get out of here. Dunstan scanned the walls, panicking at the knowledge in Ewen’s voice. “Where is Leila? Lock her up somewhere. Get me out of here.” He ran his hands over the solid planks, searching for a rotted one, a weakness, anything. Taking a deep breath, he tried to think. “What did Handel find out?”

  “He followed Wickham last night,” Ewen answered.

  Dunstan quit pounding on the planks and listened. “Wickham? Where did the bastard go?”

  “To a pawnshop.” Ewen hesitated, as if checking to be certain no one heard. “The proprietor wouldn’t let Handel in after Wickham left, so he had to wait until this morning.”

  “What did he learn?” Dunstan continued running his hands over the planks, searching for a rotten board.

  “Wickham retrieved some jewels last night. Handel just brought us a description. Griffith thinks they sound like Celia’s.”

  “Wickham?” Dunstan couldn’t conceive of it. That effete mouse dropping? Why would he know where to find Celia’s jewels? Lord John was the dangerous one, wasn’t he? The one who had destroyed Leila’s lab?

  “One of you, keep an eye on Leila before she does something dangerous,” Dunstan shouted. “Then get me out of this damned barn so I can wring Wickham’s neck and pull the truth out of him.”

  “I just sent Griffith over to the inn.” Ewen kept his voice low. “Joseph’s already there. But neither of them will persuade the fool woman to listen. You’re the only one she’ll heed. Can’t you rip off the stall door?”

  “Don’t you think I would have if I could?” Dunstan bellowed in frustration. “The gems, they’re evidence, aren’t they? Can’t you make the constable ask Wickham about Celia’s jewelry?”

  “Wickham passed the jewels to someone else last night,” Ewen finally admitted. “We think he’s hired someone to conceal them among your belongings.”

  Hellfire and damnation. Of course he had. Wickham might as well have said it aloud when he suggested it to the constable.

  “Staines,” Dunstan muttered. “He’ll send them with Staines and hide them in the tenant house.”

  Wickham had known where to find Celia’s jewels. Mealymouthed, smarmy Henry Wickham knew far more about Celia than he ought. George Wickham had had a passion for her, and Henry was trying to frame Dunstan. Where was the connection?

  At least Leila’s intuition had been vindicated. Another suspect existed besides himself. Fine lot that meant if he hanged and left Leila in the world with a murderer and his son without a father.

  With a roar, Dunstan rammed his shoulder against the stable door.

  Twenty-eight

  Black skirt sweeping the carpet of the parlor she’d requisitioned, Leila rubbed her forehead. She’d been awake far too long.

  She would never sleep again.

  She didn’t bother looking up as young Joseph entered. She hoped Ewen was keeping an eye on Griffith. She might as well learn to accept the presence of Ives men in her life. At some other time she might even enjoy their support.

  “What are they doing now?” she demanded.

  “Wickham’s gloating,” Joseph reported, having just returned from the tavern. “He and Lord John and Sir Barton are playing cards, and Wickham’s losing. I don’t know where he’s come into money from. He’s a lousy gambler.”

  “So is Staines,” Leila said. It didn’t take a witch to add two and two and see these rogues gaining her nephew’s wealth over a gaming table, pressuring him to marry Lady Mary in exchange for his debts. She simply didn’t understand what that had to do with Dunstan or Celia. How did one go about finding a killer?

  The vial of perfume in her pocket grew warm between her fingers.

  “Where is the little lordling?” Joseph asked. “I thought he was supposed to be here.”

  “If he has any sense at all, he’ll be halfway back to Bath by now,” Christina answered. “Leila left him with a flea in his ear.”

  Not that it mattered much. Ewen had told them about Wickham and the jewels. Had Staines left for the country before or after Wickham had retrieved Celia’s gems?

  “Wickham has talked the constable into sending for a London magistrate,” Joseph informed them gloomily. “They’re waiting for his arrival.”

  Leila fought back a wave of nausea. Fingering the vial, she decided it was now or never. She had to believe she could use her gift to save Dunstan. She simply didn’t know how to make it work.

  Lifting her skirts, she hurried across the room before anyone could stand in her way. “I refuse to let those wicked devils gloat while a good man suffers.”

  “Leila, don’t be foolish!” Christina called after her.

  “Either I have power, or I don’t,” Leila shouted, sidestepping the young Ives who blocked her way. “I’ll not wait any longer to find out.”

  Wickham, Lord John, and Sir Barton looked up in surprise as Leila swept into the room, trailed by her sister in breeches and Joseph with a scowl on his face. “To what do we owe this honor?” Wickham asked, lifting his mug and sipping in appreciation.

  “To me,” Leila answered with fury. “Without me, you would all be nothing. For my nephew’s sake, I recognized you. And now, I think I’ll have all London banish you.”

  Belatedly remembering their manners, the three young men staggered to their feet in bewilderment.

  Wickham shrugged. “You’re the one who decided Ives was more interesting. I’m the one who will inherit a title, not him. You made a poor choice, if you ask me.”

  “Leave her be, Henry,” Sir Barton warned. “She’s a Malcolm and not to be trusted.”

  “I am but a woman, sir.” She swept closer, cautiously sniffing her surroundings. “And you did not offer to help me grow roses.”

  “Roses,” Lord John scoffed. “Most women want jewels. Who could know you wanted foolish flowers?”

  She needed to catch more subtle aromas. Or use the perfume in her pocket. With a distracting sway of her skirts, she strode toward a window not far from their table. “Perhaps next time you will think to ask.”

  Behind her, she could hear Christina admonishing Joseph to hold his tongue. He was no doubt ready to tear her to shreds for even speaking with the men who had locked his brother in a stable.

  She let the rage build within her and waited for the right moment.

  “It’s too late now to curry our favor,” Lord John replied with scorn. “Your nephew owes me a debt greater than he can pay. Once he marries my sister, his house in London as well as the one in Bath will be open to me anytime.”

  “How very charming.” Leila decided she would set fire to both house and gardens before she allowed that to happen. Curling her fingers around the vial concealed in her pocket, she loosened the lid. “Staines needs a man to look after him. He does not heed my counsel.”

  “He’ll heed ours,” Wickham snarled, reaching for his ale.

  “No, he won’t. He’ll heed Dunstan’s or none at all. I have proof of Dunstan’s innocence. He’ll be free shortly.” She still couldn’t ascertain guilt or innocence through their scents, and they would return to their gaming if she did not act now.

  Before any of the men could suspect her inten
tion, Leila whipped the vial from her pocket and raised her hand to fling it.

  Lord John leapt toward her and smacked her arm away, dashing the vial—and her hopes—against the wall. The odor billowed on the air currents instead of soaking her adversaries. In despair, she knew she’d never wring a confession from them now.

  Behind her, Leila heard Joseph’s shout of anger at Lord John’s hasty action, but before they could come to fisticuffs, Wickham intervened. Gripping Leila’s wrist, he jerked her toward him. “Drenching us in your foul potions won’t stop Dunstan from hanging,” he warned.

  Caught by surprise and off balance, Leila stumbled into his narrow chest. She was still devastated by her inability to save Dunstan, and didn’t feel fear for herself—until Wickham swung her around and wrapped his arm about her neck, playfully raising her chin . . . and the scent of murder exploded inside her head.

  A vision of Celia rose through the darkness, and Leila screamed.

  Glancing down at the startled, drunken faces below her, Celia laughed. Then, turning back into the room, she fastened her mantle and nudged the big man on the floor with her toe. “I trust you killed him.”

  The man retrieving his cocked hat from the wardrobe shrugged and brushed at the felt. “He killed George. One way or another, he’s a dead man.”

  Startled by his cold tone, Celia stopped laughing. She smiled again as he caressed her neck, lifting the heavy necklace fastened there. “Then we can be married,” she purred in satisfaction. “Let it be soon, so the child has a name.”

  “But you were the one who sent George to his death,” he murmured, running his thumb up and down her throat. “Bitch.”

  “Dammit, Ewen, where’s your inventiveness when I need it? Get me out of here!” Dunstan shouted as he pounded his shoulder against a door that would not budge no matter how much force he applied.

  He heard his brother scrambling around outside the stable. He didn’t ask what Ewen had done with the constable or the men who should be guarding him. He didn’t care. He needed to reach Leila before she did something rash.