Midsummer Magic

by Catherine Coulter

  He didn’t realize that his father still held Amalie’s letter.

  He didn’t give it a thought, in fact, until he visited Frances that evening to share dinner with her.

  “You look ready to slay dragons again, my dear,” he said.

  “I am thinking of one particular dragon, a very stupid dragon,” she said, unsmiling.

  “Ah,” Hawk said, “here is our dinner.” He took the bed tray from Mrs. Jerkins’ hands and set it over his wife’s legs. He raised the various lids and inhaled. “Delicious,” he announced.

  “All of her ladyship’s favorites,” said Mrs. Jerkins.

  “Yes, I see,” said Hawk. “Chicken with bechamel sauce, larded peahen, and her very favorite—tipsy cake.”

  He waited until Mrs. Jerkins had left the bedchamber, then said sharply, “Now, what is wrong with you, other than your shoulder?”

  “This,” Frances said, and thrust Amalie’s letter at him.

  “Damn,” said Hawk. “I think I shall murder my father.”

  “How could you keep this from me! Do you believe I am some sort of weak-willed female whose delicate sensibilities would be grossly overset? You are an idiot, and I won’t have it, Hawk!”

  He sighed and seated himself beside her bed. “We’re in deep trouble, Frances.”

  She was so surprised at his capitulation that she was without words for many moments. She saw the worry in his beautiful eyes and softened. But she didn’t want to feel softened and gentled, damn him!

  “You will try no more ploys to keep me in ignorance, Hawk.”

  “No, it is too late,” he agreed. “Eat your dinner.”

  He uncovered his own dishes and took a thoughtful bite of the fluffy potatoes. “Too much salt,” he said absently.

  “The tipsy cake is delicious,” said Frances.

  “Are you in much pain now?”

  “No,” she said honestly. “Just very sore. You were right about the bruises. I look awfut—an blue and purple and disgusting yellow-green.”

  “Sounds like those wretched caps you used to wear,” he said, giving her a lopsided grin. “I shall see for myself after dinner.”

  “If you are thinking to seduce me, I suggest you forget it!”

  He gave her a very knowing look. “I have the utmost respect for your body, my dear, though I must admit that my interest in some parts is more intense than in others.”

  “Well, I think that spot at the base of your spine is very endearing.”

  His smile faltered a bit. He could almost feel her soft mouth traveling down his back. “Touchd,” he said.

  “I even like the hair on your legs. It feels all crinkly and soft and very ... disturbing.”

  “I said ‘Touché,’ Frances.”

  “Not to mention those seductive muscles over your belly.”

  “Frances!”

  She giggled and quickly regretted it. She sobered, recalling his perfidy. His sin of omission. “You are still a dragon, however.”

  “But you haven’t said a word about how fascinating my dragon’s tail is,” he said, drawing her.

  “Hawk—”

  “Finish your dinner, love, and we shall speak of it. If you don’t mind, my father should join us—that is, unless the two of you have already solved our mystery.”

  Frances sighed. “No, unfortunately.”

  She toyed a bit with her mashed turnips, then said quietly, “Why do you call me ‘love’?”

  “It is more appropriate than ‘hate,’ I think.” Why did she have to ask? he thought, feeling irritated. She was pushing him, but he wasn’t ready yet.

  “Father told me you had sent Amalie money to leave London.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “She is returning to France?”

  “Yes, to marry. His name is Robert, and he is a farmer, and, I might add, a very lucky man.”

  “Do you believe that your sister is involved, Hawk?”

  “I don’t know, Frances. I pray she isn’t.”

  “I like Edmund. Perhaps he knows nothing of this.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Who on our staff could be disloyal to us?”

  “Belvis is vastly interested in discovering the man’s identity.”

  Frances took a bite of her peahen, then said, “I still wish to go to Newmarket.”

  His reaction was immediate and forceful. “No, Frances, it would be ridiculous. We shall take no more chances.”

  “Then you might as well sell the damned horses to Edmund!”

  “You will not question me on this, Frances!”

  “Ah,” she said, giving him a creditable sneer, his own patented sneer, he realized. “So you are back to being my overbearing lord, my keeper, the arrogant master!”

  “Don’t push me on this, Frances, or I won’t be tempted to compare you to a summer’s day.”

  “You will not dictate to me, Hawk!”

  “I will do just as I please with you, wife. Now, finish your dinner.”

  He saw she was sorely tempted to throw her tray at him, and said quickly, “Don’t do it, Frances, you’ll hurt your shoulder.”

  She sighed, giving up the fond desire. “You are right about that, I suppose. Hawk, I wish to discuss this entire matter with you, reasonably.”

  “All right,” he said agreeably. “You never know, my dear, perhaps after you have done your wifely duty by me, I might be very amenable to your women’s wiles.”

  “What about my shoulder?”

  He merely grinned at her sarcastic tone. “I shall proceed with great care, you may be certain of that. Indeed, I might just begin with your beautiful belly and never travel higher. What do you think?”

  “I think you are a goat!”

  “You’re blushing, Frances,” he observed blandly. “If I were to touch you right now between those lovely thighs of yours, do you think that I should find you quite ready for me?”

  She tried to heave her dinner tray at him, but the pain in her shoulder made her drop it. A chicken breast landed in her lap and she felt bechamel sauce begin to seep through her nightgown. She growled in frustration.

  Hawk laughed. “I don’t think I’ll call in Agnes to assist you, my dear. Most embarrassing, I should say. Now, you will hold still, I don’t wish you to hurt yourself anymore.”

  She lay stiffly as Hawk cleared the food away. She saw him grin widely at the stain of bechamel sauce low on her belly. “Go away,” she said.

  “I’ll clean you up, my dear. I shan’t tell a soul, I swear it to you.”

  He returned with a damp cloth, and before Frances could protest, he was lifting her nightgown, baring her to the waist.

  She squeaked.

  “It seems a pity to waste such exquisite-tasting sauce,” he said, only to stop when she squeaked again.

  “Hold still,” he said again, and began to wipe away the sauce. When he finished, he tossed the cloth aside, leaned down, and kissed her stomach. Frances sucked in her breath, and then expelled it when his fingers caressed along her inner thighs, slowly upward, until he was touching her. “Very nice,” he said, his breath warm against her belly. “More intriguing than the sauce, I think.”

  “I shouldn’t like this, Hawk,” she said in a very worried voice. “I am ill.”

  “Not here, you’re not. Hold still, Frances, close your eyes, and relax. I’m going to make you forget all about your shoulder.”

  And he did. His mouth burned deep, making her shiver and groan, despite her best attempts to keep quiet. “That’s it,” he said softly, raising his head just a moment to look at her face. “Ah,” he said, quite pleased with his progress, and returned to his task.

  When she cried out her pleasure, he thought the world a very perfect place.

  “A gentled woman, how very nice,” he said, lightly stroking her limp body.

  “I still don’t like you,” she whispered, wondering where her voice had fled to.

  He ignored that, stripped off her nightgown, and tossed it to the
floor. “I would get you another one, Frances, but it would only get in the way.”

  “Please cover me,” she said. “I ... I’m cold.”

  “You were right about that shoulder,” he said, his smile turning into a frown. It looked awful. “God, Frances, you scared the hell out of me.”

  “It looks worse than it feels, I promise.” She raised her hand and gently caressed his cheek. “I’m all right.” He kissed her palm, and for a long moment they were silent.

  “You’re cold,” he said finally. He gently pulled the covers over her. He gave her a cup of tea laced with laudanum. When he saw she was on the edge of sleep, he undressed and climbed into bed beside her.

  She was beyond protesting, of course, and he very gently settled her against him.

  “How can you love someone you don’t like?”

  His eyes widened in the dark room. Her voice was blurred, her words slow, but he understood, indeed he did. “It is a very common affliction,” he said finally. “Go to sleep, Frances.”

  “You are always giving me orders,” she grumbled. He thought she’d finally fallen asleep, but after some moments she whispered, “You gained no pleasure this time.”

  “You’re wrong about that, love. Have you no idea how it makes me feel when you moan so sweetly while I’m caressing you? And when you flow over me, I want to shout.”

  “You make me shout,” she said. “I forget everything.”

  “Me included?”

  “No, you’re part of me.”

  “I am never going to sleep without you again,” he said softly. “Even when it is your monthly flow, I shan’t leave you alone. Of course,” he added thoughtfully, “I shall practice great nobility. Good training, I am certain my father would say. And when you are carrying my child, Frances, I will feel every move he makes inside you.”

  She was asleep, her breathing even and soft.

  I could have lost her today, forever.

  All his very pleasant thoughts faded. Damn, he said to himself. I must do something!

  Everything changed the following afternoon. Belvis discovered one of his assistant trainers, Henry, mixing poison into Flying Davie’s feed. He grabbed him, yelled at the top of his lungs, but Henry, scared for his life, managed to break away.

  Hawk visited the magistrate, Lord Elliston, and the search was on.

  Frances kept muttering, “We must find him, we must! Only he can tell us who paid him to kill Flying Davie!”

  Hawk grunted. He was so weary he didn’t want to move, much less speak.

  His father jerked him out of his fatigue. “No reason not to go to Newmarket now,” the marquess said.

  “That’s right,” Frances said, adding her pence.

  “No!” he shouted, coming up to his feet. “No!”

  “My boy,” the marquess said gently, “I don’t hold any hope of tracking down Henry, more’s the pity. The only way to bring out the parties responsible is to go to Newmarket.”

  “With Flying Davie,” Frances said.

  “We would be on our guard,” said Marcus, edging into the ring. “Nothing could happen.”

  “All of you are about in the head!” Hawk shouted. “Frances could have been killed, dammit!”

  “But I wasn’t, and it wasn’t me they were after.”

  “You could have been, and it is possible that it was you,” Hawk retorted. “Remember, Frances, a disgruntled lover of yours?”

  “You will cease riding that particular lame horse, Hawk,” Frances said. “I will not be drawn or distracted.”

  “Infernal female! Men should be saved from your sort.”

  “My sort!” Frances squawked.

  “Well, this man wasn’t saved,” said the marquess, his eyes twinkling at his son’s flushed, very angry face. “You might as well give in, my boy. You do have a bit of grace left.”

  “This is not a democracy,” Hawk said.

  “Ah, I was forgetting,” Frances drawled. “The lord and very superior master speaks.”

  “They are my horses, you are my wife, and, Marcus, I might add, you work for me! As for you, Father, why don’t you take your opinions back to Chandos Chase?”

  “Not a prayer of that happening, my boy,” the marquess said jovially. “Damn, if I haven’t enjoyed myself this much in an age—not that I wanted to see you harmed, my dear.”

  Frances waved this away. “It doesn’t make sense, Hawk, to have the horses eating their heads off, paying trainers, and all for nothing. Besides, if you are truly worried for my safety, I promise not to let myself out of your sight.”

  “You are ill,” Hawk said, digging in his heels at the edge of the cliff.

  “I shall be just fine in a week,” Frances said. “Flying Davie and Clancy’s Pride are in prime condition. As for Tamerlane, we can leave him well-guarded here.”

  “I suppose you have already commissioned another traveling stall for Clancy’s Pride?”

  “Of course. Do you not recall my winnings from the York races? It will arrive before we wish to leave.” Actually, she’d borrowed the money from her household accounts. She hoped Hawk wouldn’t remember that she’d sent that two hundred pounds to her sisters.

  He wanted to shake her until her smug teeth rattled, but it was to be denied him. He said something very uncomplimentary about the Earl of Ruthven’s antecedents and stomped out of the room.

  “The lad will come about,” the marquess said, his voice complacent.

  “The lad,” Frances said in an acid voice, “needs to have a swift kick to his ... shins.”

  “Just so, my dear. Just so.”

  Marcus blurted out, “I am going to marry Miss Melcher!”

  “Oh dear,” Frances said, feigning distress, “now my dear husband will taunt me with losing a prime flirt!”

  Three days later, Henry’s body was found in an alley in a seamy part of York. He’d been stabbed.

  Hawk went on a rampage.

  Frances offered Lord Elliston, the magistrate, another cup of tea. He was an older gentleman, and he looked very frail to Frances, until she saw his intense fanatical dark eyes.

  Lord Elliston watched the earl pace the drawing room. It was most fatiguing to watch him. He set his teacup down and looked at Lady Frances, a most lovely young lady. Her lips, at the moment, were rather pursed as she followed her husband’s progress.

  “I don’t imagine it was the result of a brawl, my lord,” Lord Elliston said after a moment. “One wound, to the heart, clean it was, so to speak.”

  “I had no doubt of that at all,” Hawk said.

  “A cup of tea, my lord?” Frances said to her husband.

  He shook his head impatiently. “Someone must have seen something,” he said after a moment. “I think I shall bring in a Bow Street runner.”

  “You are quite right,” Frances said. “I cannot imagine our villain hiring yet another man to do his dirty work.”

  “Have you any notion at all, my lord,” Lord Elliston said, “of who could be behind this?”

  “Yes,” said Hawk, “but I have no proof.”

  “May I ask who?”

  “Lord Dempsey,” Hawk said.

  Lord Elliston looked not at all surprised. “The man has quite an irregular reputation, I fear. Like you, my lord, I have my own racing stables, nothing grand of course, but still, I am aware of things. Egremont, the Earl of Derby, was telling me some few months ago that the number of supposed gentlemen involved in the racing corruption is most disheartening.” He rose to his feet. “I think your idea of hiring a Bow Street runner a good one, my lord. Perhaps you can speak of your concerns to the Duke of Portland. He will be at Newmarket. You know what he says, of course, about racing: ‘Luck or skill or knavery decides the victory.’ ”

  “Damn,” said Hawk. “Frances, go rest now, you’re looking somewhat peaked. Marcus, come with me. We shall send a message today to Bow Street.”

  29

  What bloody man is that?

  —SHAKESPEARE

 
; “You fool! My God, man, do you know what you’ve done?”

  Edmund Lacy, Lord Chalmers, shook with rage as he faced Lord Dempsey. “You tell me you didn’t know that the woman was Rothermere’s mistress! Idiot!”

  Lord Dempsey tried to make light of it. “She’s no longer under Rothermere’s protection—why should she care, even if she did wonder what I was speaking of? In any case, who would believe some silly trollop?”

  “Then why,” Edmund said very softly, “did Amalie Corleau pack up her belongings and leave? Oh yes, she is gone, I checked, and Hawk had extended the lease on her house until the end of the quarter. Why would she leave if not out of fear of recriminations from you? There is little doubt in my mind that she has informed Hawk of what you said.”

  Edmund watched Lord Dempsey rise from his chair and pour himself a glass of port. Bloody fool! He’d never liked the man, had always feared what he would say in his cups. And he had spoken—to Hawk’s mistress, of all people! Charles Lewiston, Lord Dempsey, and Nevil had always been good friends, until Nevil had become weak and frightened. Christ, what was he to do? Surely Hawk must have doubts about him now, grave doubts.

  Henry, the stupid clod, was thankfully dead in York, with no traces to them. Dempsey had enjoyed killing him, had even bragged about it to Edmund, saying, “Pleaded with me, the little swine, so I made it quick.”

  “Kill them,” said Lord Dempsey suddenly.

  Edmund stared at him. He saw the bland viciousness in Dempsey’s pale blue eyes, recognized that if pushed, the man would also kill him if he felt cornered. “Who?” Edmund asked, trying to keep himself calm. “Both Hawk and his lady?”

  “Certainly. If the mistress is any sign of Rothermere’s taste in women, I should like to spend a bit of time with his wife before sending her on to her reward.”

  “No,” Edmund said. “All of England would be up in arms. Doubt not that the damned Marquess of Chandos knows all the facts. Even if he couldn’t prove anything, we would be hounded out of England. The man has too many powerful friends, not to mention all the men Hawk knows in the War Ministry. I have no desire to flee the country, not with Napoleon spitting on every Englishman he can get his hands on.”