Midsummer Magic

by Catherine Coulter

“Frances, I lo—” He broke off, appalled at what he had nearly admitted to her. Now was not the time. Had he lost his mind?

  “I am going riding,” she said, and opened the door. “Would you please leave?”

  “Yes,” he said slowly, “yes, I shall leave.”

  He shook his head ruefully at himself, hearing her bedchamber door slam shut behind him.

  The horse stall on wheels arrived that afternoon and caused a great deal of discussion. The smithy had managed to attach a driver’s seat at the head of the stall and two horses would pull it.

  “Very clever,” Edmund said, inspecting it closely.

  “It will make the racers lazy,” said Beatrice.

  “I hope Flying Davie won’t object to it.” Frances said, worried.

  “Let’s see,” said the marquess.

  Belvis brought Flying Davie to the stall. They placed straw inside the stall and ran a wooden plank on an incline to the narrow entrance.

  “Now, my fine fellow, your carriage awaits,” said Belvis.

  Flying Davie regarded the small, enclosed space, and balked.

  Hawk watched his wife regale the stallion with tales of how well-treated he was—like an emperor, indeed—and how he would be very well-rested when he arrived at Newmarket. He wasn’t particularly surprised when Flying Davie, giving a final snort, dociley entered. His only sign of wariness was his twitching tail.

  Frances beamed at the assembled company. “Flying Davie will win everything in sight,” she said.

  “There’s a race near York next week,” said Belvis. “We shall try Davie there.”

  Four days later, no one was more surprised than Edmund to see Lady Constance emerge from her traveling carriage in front of Desborough Hall.

  “Connie!” Beatrice fairly shrieked, and darted down the front steps. “How delighted I am that you could come to visit! Such a bore, but you will add excellent ton to our group!”

  The women embraced, Lady Constance looking a bit bewildered by this effusive greeting.

  “What the devil!”

  Edmund turned to see Hawk staring aghast at Lady Constance. “I am surprised myself, Hawk. I believe it is Bea’s doing.” He shrugged.

  Constance was feeling altogether out of sorts. She had received Beatrice’s scribbled, urgent message and dutifully, hope in her breast, come to Yorkshire. She was beginning to think it was all a mistake, when she spotted Philip standing beside Edmund. She’d missed him dreadfully. She gave him a tentative wave, but was drawn up by Beatrice. “I am so pleased you came, Connie,” Beatrice whispered meaningfully in her ear. “The little nobody he married is perfectly dreadful, you will see. He simply needs to be reminded that everyone important in London would laugh behind their hands at him were he to introduce her to society. Seeing you, my love, will certainly open his eyes.”

  Open his eyes to do what? Constance wondered, beginning to think her coming here was a vast and very stupid mistake.

  Hawk greeted her kindly, seeing no other course of action. His father as well climbed onto his gallant charger and charmed the young lady. She was, after all, the daughter of one of his oldest enemies, old nibble-headed Lumley.

  Beatrice fluttered about her friend, quitting her only when Edmund said with sincere threat, “I would speak to you, my love. Now. Constance will be just fine for the moment.”

  Beatrice shot him a look, but dutifully followed him into the gentlemen’s smoking room.

  “Why, Bea?” Edmund asked without preamble.

  “You said it yourself, Edmund. Philip is refusing to sell to us—you—because of her. Once Connie charms him again, he will leave her here and return to London. He will quickly lose interest in all his newly discovered projects.”

  To her relief, Edmund looked very thoughtful. “I believe,” he said finally, “that you are quite right, my dear. Your method is unsound, but your reasoning ... yes, your reasoning I applaud. At least I think I do. I shall give it further thought.”

  Edmund and Beatrice joined the company in the drawing room some minutes later. Constance had made the acquaintance of Frances Hawksbury and wanted to take to her heels. A pity that her horses were blown. She wanted to kill Beatrice.

  She was saying to Hawk in a very clear voice, “I trust I have not disaccommodated you, my lord. I was journeying to Escrik to see my Uncle George and decided—quite a spur-of-the-moment decision actually—to stop by and say hello and offer my congratulations both to you and to your wife.”

  Beatrice looked at her with new respect. She’d firmly believed Connie to be something of a stupid block.

  The marquess grinned behind his hand. Uncle George be damned! The fellow had been underground these many years, shot in a duel by his mistress’s lover.

  Hawk merely smiled, and Frances, not realizing anything, offered more tea and cakes to their unexpected guest.

  Beatrice, loath to relinquish all her plans, turned her attention to Frances and said with great kindness, “You know, Frances, Philip and Connie have known each other—so very well—for the longest time now.”

  “Actually only about eight months,” said Hawk.

  “So friendly you have been!” Beatrice pursued.

  “I as well,” said Edmund unexpectedly. “Tell us the news from London, Connie.”

  “Well,” Constance began, “you simply wouldn’t believe the spectacle Lord Mallory is making of himself with Lady Lawton! ‘Tis most disgraceful and Lady Mallory is creating quite a fuss!”

  Hawk relaxed, for Constance, once started upon London gossip, could not be stopped until fatigue overtook her.

  Frances merely blinked and let her mind wander. She knew none of the people Lady Constance was speaking about. She caught a wink from her father-in-law, and frowned a bit.

  Bea had given up her drawing implications by dinnertime. Well, she had tried.

  Frances was dressing for dinner when there came a knock on the adjoining door.

  Hawk entered. “You are lovely, my dear,” he said to his wife. “You may go now, Agnes.”

  “What have you there?” Frances asked, looking at him in her mirror. He opened a long velvet case and drew out a very green and sparkling emerald necklace.

  “To match your eyes, my dear,” he said.

  “My eyes are gray!”

  “Hummm,” he said. “Hold still.”

  She felt his warm fingers against her neck, and felt those ridiculous very warm feelings begin to simmer deep within her, feelings that she had begun to discount during the past days. Odd aberrations, she’d thought.

  “What do you think?” he said, backing up a bit.

  She stared at the necklace nestled between her breasts. “It is beautiful. Why are you letting me wear it?”

  “It is yours. It belonged to my mother and to her mother before her. If you should like the stones reset ...” He shrugged.

  “No, it is lovely. Thank you, Hawk.” She rose from her dressing stool and frowned at him. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why are you giving it to me?”

  His eyes were sparkling as brightly as the emeralds. “Green for jealousy,” he said. “I hoped that my very generous gift would nip any ire you were nurturing in your lovely bosom.”

  “You mean calm my savage breast because Lady Constance is one of your ... flirts?”

  “Exactly. Of course Beatrice dragged her here and has made her most uncomfortable. Be kind to her, Frances, and we shall see her on her way—to her Uncle George—very soon, I don’t doubt.”

  “Surely Beatrice can’t think that you would divorce me!”

  “Nothing so severe, I imagine. I believe she hoped I would see the light and follow Connie back to London like a panting pup.”

  “I wish Beatrice would leave,” she said, and he smiled at her hopeful tone. “And I am not jealous, Hawk!”

  “Not even a tiny bit?”

  “You, my lord, can have your flirts and I shall have mine!”

  “Poor Marcus,” Hawk sigh
ed. “The fellow is beset. You expect him to hold Miss Melcher with one arm and you with the other?”

  She flushed, knowing she was so wide of the mark as to be in another county.

  “Come, my dear, and give me a kiss before we go downstairs.”

  He pulled her gently to him, lifted her chin with his fingers, and lightly kissed her. “Ah, so very long. I suppose I must wait until tomorrow?”

  He sounded so wistful that Frances was obliged to smile. “You have been keeping track?”

  “Every single day,” he said fervently.

  “Marriage,” Frances said thoughtfully, “makes one most aware of things one was never particularly aware of before.”

  “By that do you mean that you are counting days also?”

  “No,” she said honestly. “Indeed, I was beginning to believe that all we ... well, you know, the feelings ... were all in my head! That is all.”

  “In your head? How very repulsive a conclusion. Shall I have to begin at the beginning again?”

  She flushed slightly and shook her head against his shoulder.

  “You know, Frances, my bed has been very empty without you.” He sighed deeply. “Shall we go downstairs?” He patted her cheek and stood away from her. “You look lovely.”

  He looked very lovely himself, she thought as she walked downstairs beside him.

  27

  There is no pack of cards without a knave.

  —SIXTEENTH-CENTYRY PROVERB

  Amalie looked thoughtfully at the careful arrangement of playing cards spread before her on her bed. “Moi, je le savais” she said to her empty bedchamber. “I knew this would happen, yes, I certainly did.”

  Amalie would be the first one to admit that philosophy and superstition weren’t the most compatible of bedfellows, but she’d had this feeling. And the cards had proved her right, indeed they most certainly had.

  She slowly reshuffled the cards and set them on the table beside her bed. “Il faut penser, maintenant, ” she said quietly, and propped herself up on her bed pillows. Yes, I must think this through very carefully. After all, she really had no proof at all ...

  She had received the Earl of Rothermere’s expected letter two weeks before. It appeared that he was now ready to be a faithful husband. He had sent her two hundred pounds and an assurance that the lease on her house would be extended to the end of the next quarter. Very generous was Hawk, and she missed him. Still, there was Robert, and she very nearly had enough for a substantial dowry. Never, she thought fiercely, and with French determination, would she go to her husband without a dot.

  For that reason alone, she had let the very generous Lord Dempsey stroll into her life and into her bed. His name was Charles Lewiston and he was a very powerful man, particularly in the racing world. And he was a friend of Lord Chalmers, who was betrothed to Lady Beatrice, Hawk’s sister. And he’d spoken when he was in his cups. Spoken of things that bothered Amalie. Lord Dempsey hadn’t seemed to know that she had been under Rothermere’s protection and after his bout with the brandy bottle, she wasn’t about to tell him. “Indeed, soon we will have what we wish,” he’d said, his voice slurred, his body thankfully, from Amalie’s point of view, limp and sodden from the brandv. He was a rough lover and she had agreed to see him again only because of what he’d said.

  “Ah, my lord, what is it you will soon have?” she’d inquired in a soft, rather awed voice.

  “Desborough stock, all of it, and then it will be all over.”

  What would be over? Amalie wondered. She saw that he was on the brink of a drunken sleep, and said, “You are so brave, my lord, and so magnificent. Much more so than the former Lord Rothermere, Nevil. You knew him, I suppose?”

  “Demned bounder,” said Dempsey giving a satisfied snort, “selfish sod. We took care of him, oh yes, we did.”

  He was snoring loudly the next moment, and Amalie was transfixed by his words. She’d prayed devoutly that he would not remember what he’d said when he awoke.

  She rose now from her bed and walked to her dressing table. She straightened a sheet of pressed paper and dipped the quill into the ink pot.

  Frances shouted until she was hoarse, and when Flying Davie flew across the finish line, she threw her arms about her husband’s neck.

  “We did it! We did it!”

  Hawk, grinning proudly, kissed her.

  She’d seen the other jockeys trying to knock Timothy from Flying Davie’s back, seen the vicious swipes with riding crops. Thankfully, Flying Davie had managed to widen the lead and escape further harassment. Damned vicious brutes!

  They’d won the meet at York, a grueling five-mile race that tested the mettle of all ten thoroughbreds entered.

  “I’d say he’s ready for Newmarket,” said Belvis, rubbing his hands together. “As for Timothy, he needs a bit more instruction on how to keep his hide intact, but a fine job the boy did, yes, indeed, a fine job.”

  Frances had won two hundred pounds, for Flying Davie, an unknown, was at seventy-to-one odds.

  “Most impressive,” said Edmund, shaking Hawk’s hand. “Tamerlane will run tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” said Frances, glowing with pride.

  “And you, Frances, fully intend to repair all your fortunes?” Hawk asked, tweaking a curl beside her left ear.

  “I believe I shall have another traveling stall made,” she said.

  “A very small, inconsenquential race,” said Beatrice, smoothing out her gloves. “I shouldn’t rely too much on the outcome.”

  “Then why ever should you wish to purchase our horses if you place no reliance on their abilities?” Frances asked.

  Edmund shook his head fondly at his betrothed, took her arm, and followed Hawk and Frances to the winner’s circle. Timothy was flushed and smiling, and so excited he could barely speak.

  Hawk warmly congratulated his jockey on his victory, and also heard the grumbling from other race-horse owners. He saw money changing hands, a great deal of money. His ears picked up when he chanced to overhear one gentleman saying to another, “Flying Davie, huh, George! Where the devil did old Nevil pick up that magnificent piece of horseflesh? Odd coloring, reminds me of a thoroughbred I saw at Ascot last year.”

  George, wiping perspiration from his brow, grunted. “Nevil never said a word about it. You remember Nevil—always bragging about his finds. Why would he keep mum about this fellow?”

  Hawk’s interest was truly piqued when he returned to Desborough Hall to find Amalie’s letter waiting for him. He saw Frances give him a rather penetrating look, and quickly excused himself and made for the gentlemen’s smoking room. He read the letter once, and then again. His eyes went yet again to Lord Dempsey’s words: We took care of him, oh yes, we did ... Desborough srock ... it will be all over ...

  What the devil was going on here? Hawk knew himself to be a straightforward man, unused to machinations of this sort. In the army, he had lied, cheated, and otherwise employed every means known to soldier to provide Wellington with needed information, but in this world, the one he’d now joined, he was uncertain how to proceed. He decided in the end that the differences couldn’t be so great after all. He had a problem and he must solve it.

  He tracked down his father, who was enjoying a sprightly walk in the east rose garden. The warm summer air was redolent of their sweet scent. He shook his head at himself, for it made him think immediately of Frances.

  “My boy,” the marquess greeted him. “Frances isn’t with me, more’s the pity. I wager you can find her at the paddock.”

  “No,” Hawk said, “‘tis not my wife I seek.” He matched his stride to his father’s slower one. “Was Lord Dempsey a close friend of Nevil’s, sir?”

  “Old Edward’s boy, Charles, isn’t that his name?”

  “I believe so. Charles Lewiston.”

  “Lewiston was a blackguard,” the marquess continued thoughtfully, dredging his memory. “I imagine that any son of his wouldn’t be a particularly sterling specimen. I remember Nevi
l speaking of him, yes, he was a friend of Nevil’s.”

  “And of course Edmund was also.”

  “Yes, certainly. Pity that Nevil couldn’t have been more of a man, but ...”

  The marquess broke off, and Hawk frowned. “You told me once that you wouldn’t force a Soho trollop on Nevil. I really don’t understand, sir. Did he change so much?”

  “You’ve forgotten his sneaky, mean ways, I see. He always was a petty, sniveling boy, and as a man, he got himself in with a scurvy sort of company. I saw little of him in the six months before he drowned, Hawk. He severed the connection, not I.”

  “I remember receiving your letter, sir. I recall wondering how the devil Nevil could be so careless as to get himself drowned. He was an excellent swimmer, I know.”

  “He was drunk, utterly castaway,” the marquess said, distaste in his voice.

  “Who told you that he was?”

  The marquess blinked a bit and stared searchingly at his son. “You know,” he said finally, “‘twas Edmund, of course. Came to Chandos Chase immediately to tell me. (Most proper is our Edmund. I had to pry the details from him.) Edmund is a gentleman.”

  “Was Lord Dempsey one of the men aboard Nevil’s yacht?”

  “I don’t know, Hawk. Why the interest now?”

  Hawk was hesitant to speak further, and thus, hedged. “I’m not certain.”

  The marquess looked at his son’s closed face and said, “I believe Edmund and Beatrice are to leave tomorrow. He, of course, must get his own cattle ready for Newmarket.”

  “Do you wonder, Father,” Hawk said, “why Edmund is so very interested in buying all the Desborough stock? The price he offered me was beyond something grand.”

  “Ambition,” said the marquess. “I believe Edmund has aspirations of equaling the records of Jersey and Derby. Can’t fault a man for that.”

  “No, I suppose not,” said Hawk. But why, he wondered, had Lord Dempsey spoken of the Desborough stock? What would be “all over”?

  For some reason Hawk couldn’t explain to himself, he made no mention of anything to Edmund. Their last evening together was amiable, and it seemed to Hawk that Edmund’s wishes for racing success were sincere. Beatrice was not so amiable, of course, but Hawk didn’t expect it from his sister.