Midsummer Magic

by Catherine Coulter

  “I have heard he is a good man,” Lord Delacort said, pointing a gnarled finger toward Hawk. “No one believed he would take to racing after he took his brother’s title and estates. Ah, Nevil. He was a one!”

  One what? Frances wondered. She accepted a cup of punch from Mr. Timmons, thanked him, and offered it to Lord Delacort. He snorted, cursed poor Mr. Timmons with great fluency, and took the cup.

  Frances thoughtfully drank a bit of the rack punch. It was very sweet and she didn’t particularly care for it. She said after a moment, her voice carefully neutral, “Did you know the former Earl of Rothermere, my lord? Nevil Hawksbury?”

  “Certainly,” Lord Delacort said on another snort. “Shouldn’t speak ill of the dead and all that, but I didn’t like the fellow! Always prancing about, pretending he knew more about training and racing than the best men in England. Nonsense, of course.”

  “Yes,” said Frances, somewhat disappointed. She didn’t care a bit about Nevil prancing. “You are racing tomorrow, my lord?”

  Lord Delacort grunted. “Don’t think you’ll take the prize on the five-mile race, girl! My Persian is a stout fellow, strong as the devil. What’s your thoroughbred’s name?”

  “Flying Davie, sir,” said Frances. “He’s but a four-year-old, but I fancy he will make an excellent showing. He is also quite strong and his will to win most remarkable. His first race was in York, and he won.”

  “Stupid name,” said Lord Delacort, and drank the remainder of his punch. “Awful stuff, fit only for females.”

  “I believe, my lord,” Frances said with grave honesty, “that it is even too awful for me.”

  “Just what does your father-in-law have to say about you, Miss Impertinence?”

  “He adores me,” said Frances blandly.

  “Harrumph,” said Lord Delacort. Frances thought that escape was a possibility, for Lord Delacort appeared to be focused on something else. Before she could make her escape, however, his lordship said in a ruminative voice, “You know, girl, I lost a very valuable foal—and he’d be four years old now. His name was Starfire. My grandson named him that, cute lad.”

  “He died, sir?” Frances asked without much interest “My grandson? Goodness no! Stout boy, at Eton now.”

  “No, sir, the foal, Starfire.”

  “No, not at all. Some damned villains stole him! Right out of his stall! I searched high and low for him, but no use. Disappeared off the face of England. Damned bounders.”

  Frances felt a stirring of something very cold in her stomach. Surely not, she thought—the name was a mere coincidence. Still, she heard herself say, “You said his name was Starfire. He had a distinctive mark, perhaps? Or simply your grandson’s whimsy?”

  She was holding her breath, terrified of his answer. It was quick in coming.

  “Most distinctive. A white star on his forehead and a spray of white at his fetlocks as well. The rest of him a rich bay.” He shook his head. “His dam was Clorinda, and she had the very same coloring.”

  Frances managed to pull herself together, but her mind was teeming. “If you don’t mind, my lord, I should very much like you to meet my husband.”

  “Go along with you, girl,” Lord Delacort said, waving an impatient hand. “Bring the boy here. I’ll tell you that I won’t spare his feelings if he’s like his damned brother!”

  Oh my God, thought Frances as she walked blindly toward her husband. Everything made sense now. Awful sense.

  30

  See how love and murder will out.

  —WILLIAM CONGREVE

  “His lordship isn’t well! His gout ... the chill evening air! Truly, this is all most awkward, my lord!”

  Mr. Timmons mopped his brow, but his master, Lord Delacort, was silent as he walked between Hawk and Marcus toward the stables.

  “It nears midnight, my lord,” Mr. Timmons continued. He was walking backward, taking double steps to keep ahead of Hawk. “My lord!” Surely this could wait—“

  “Shut your trap, damn you, Timmons!” Lord Delacort roared. “You’re an old woman, don’t know why I put up with you! I should have drowned you long ago!”

  Hawk’s jaw was set. Frances said nothing. She was suddenly very afraid. Beatrice was with them, the marquess at her side.

  “So you think to make me quiver in my boots at the sight of your Flying Davie, eh, my girl?”

  “You very well might,” said Frances.

  “Really, Father, what is all this about?” Beatrice demanded. “I shall surely catch a chill!”

  The marquess said nothing, which was most odd in Beatrice’s experience.

  She shot him a quizzical look, but his expression was so formidable that she found she shuddered, and not from the cool evening air.

  They reached the left wing of the stables. It looked an armed fortress. Belvis, three grooms, two trainers, and Mr. Uckley surrounded the two stalls.

  “You take no chances, I see,” Lord Delacort said, blinking as they came into the well-lit stables.

  “No, sir, not a one,” said Hawk.

  Frances placed a gentle hand on Lord Delacort’s arm. “Sir, this is most important. You must see Flying Davie. Belvis, would you please?”

  Belvis opened the stall and brought Flying Davie out of his stall.

  There was absolute silence, all eyes trained on the horse and the gouty old man.

  Flying Davie stood docilely, regarding the intruders with baleful patience.

  Frances stared at Lord Delacort. She saw his eyes widen, heard him whisper, “Starfire.”

  She felt a strange sort of relief, and her eyes met her husband’s. She saw pain there, and felt immense sorrow that it had ended this way.

  Beatrice said sharply, “I don’t understand any of this! Why is his lordship calling him Starfire? Really, Philip—”

  Hawk turned very slowly to face his sister. “Bea,” he said very gently, “I fear that our brother was involved in stealing horses—foals bred from racers.”

  “That is absurd, ridiculous! Has she been filling your ears with that ... drivel?”

  “I fear it isn’t drivel, Bea. We should probably have figured it out much sooner, what with no bills of sale and Belvis’ memory that Flying Davie’s supposed dam had died a year before he was foaled. I’m sorry, Bea, but Edmund had perforce to be involved with Nevil in this. Lord Dempsey as well. As to the others, we do not know.”

  The marquess said, “It was clever of them, very clever. Who would ever suspect such a respected stable as Desborough of being involved in such a scheme?”

  He added after a moment, his voice trembling just a bit, “It also appears, my dear, that your brother was likely murdered by his accomplices.”

  Beatrice’s anger turned to panic. “No! Not Edmund! No!”

  Frances thought Beatrice would faint. Her face was perfectly white, her hand clutching her father’s sleeve.

  “The accidents started after Hawk refused to sell to Edmund,” Frances said, feeling very sorry for her sister-in-law. “Don’t you see, Bea? If Hawk had sold all the Desborough stock to Edmund, no one would have ever discovered the truth. Because Flying Davie’s markings are so distinctive, he would probably have been shipped to America and sold for a princely sum. As for the others, and we don’t know how many are involved, Edmund probably could have raced them without fear of their being recognized by their real owners.”

  “Your logic is inescapable, Frances,” said a soft voice from behind them.

  “Edmund!” Beatrice shrieked, whirling about. “Tell them it isn’t true, tell them—”

  “I cannot, my dear. It is true, you see.” Edmund’s pistol was trained on Beatrice’s breast. None of the men moved. He continued to Hawk, his voice emotionless, “You have the luck of the devil, Hawk. I was most distraught when I learned Frances rode Tamerlane and not Flying Davie that morning. Then, of course, the damned horse should have been killed in the fire at Grantham.”

  “It is no use, Edmund,” Hawk said.

 
“Unfortunately I must agree with you. However, I have no intention of fleeing the country without some ... security. You have too many fighting friends, Hawk, and I know they would search me out. I intend to ensure that they don’t. Come here, my dear Beatrice. Now.”

  “You damned bastard!” the marquess shouted. “Don’t you dare—”

  “Shut up, old man!”

  “Edmund,” Hawk said very quietly, “why did you kill Nevil?”

  “I will tell you, Hawk,” Edmund Lacy said, his eyes narrowing. “Your brother was greedy, then a weak fool. We were making plans that week on his yacht, great plans, but Nevil was frightened. He wanted out. He was in his cups, incidentally, and Dempsey, well ... he—”

  “Nevil was a fool,” said Lord Dempsey, coming into the stable, a deadly pistol in his hand. “I merely helped him over the railing. He was too drunk to save himself.

  “You filthy bastard!” the marquess thundered, and stepped toward Dempsey. “You murdered my son!”

  “Don’t, Father,” Hawk said, putting a restraining hand on his father’s shoulder.

  “Now, as I was saying,” Edmund continued, “I have need of you, Beatrice.”

  “You bloody coves!” Mr. Uckley exclaimed in frustrated fury. He forced himself to be calm. “You’ll never escape with the lady. Best give it up now.”

  “I was right about Hawk’s women,” said Lord Dempsey, his eyes traveling from Frances’ face to the tips of her slippers. “I’ll bring her also.”

  “You touch her,” Hawk said very softly, “and I’ll kill you myself, very slowly and with great enjoyment.”

  Lord Dempsey laughed. “You won’t do a damned thing, my lord! And if you’re stupid enough to try, I’ll kill her.”

  Frances edged closer to her husband.

  “I don’t suppose we can do away with all of them, eh?” Lord Dempsey said to Edmund, disappointment in his voice.

  “Don’t be a fool,” Edmund snapped. “Leave Frances be. We require only Beatrice.”

  “I won’t go with you,” Beatrice said very clearly. Her eyes were steady upon Edmund Lacy’s face. She repeated, more forcefully, “I won’t go with you. I cannot believe I was so deceived in your character, my lord.”

  “A pity about my character, but I fear you have no choice, my dear,” Edmund said. He indicated the pistol in his hand. “Come here, Bea, now.”

  “You betrayed me, you used me,” Beatrice said. “You killed my brother.” She drew a deep breath. “You will have to kill me, for I will not come.”

  Edmund Lacy looked startled for a moment. “Such fire from you, my dear. Dempsey, keep that pistol of yours trained on the marquess. Any of you try anything, and the old man will die.”

  Edmund grabbed Beatrice and pulled her roughly against him, trying to still her flailing arms.

  Beatrice struggled, her nails raking his face. Edmund raised his hand to strike her, then froze. In that instant, there was an unearthly shriek—a woman’s shriek.

  Amalie jumped on Lord Dempsey’s back, her hands clamped about his jaw, jerking back his head.

  Then there was pandemonium.

  Frances blinked at the sight of Beatrice smashing Edmund’s jaw with her right fist with incredible strength and venom. He reeled and was caught by Mr. Uckley.

  Dempsey, a wild woman on his back, struggled, cursed, tried to aim the pistol, but Hawk was on him, forcing the pistol upward. The pistol fired and hit the unfortunate Mr. Timmons in the arm.

  Beatrice, Marcus, and Mr. Uckley were pounding Edmund to his knees.

  Hawk drove his fist into Lord Dempsey’s jaw. The man groaned and slipped to the straw-covered floor, unconscious.

  Hawk pulled Amalie to her feet and brushed her off. He was grinning widely into her flushed, triumphant face, until he heard his wife say, “Thank you, ma‘am, you saved us. Who are you? How are you here?”

  He cursed softly, the full import of Amalie’s rescue bursting into his now-uncluttered mind.

  He cleared his throat. “Frances, my dear, this is a very good friend of mine. Let Mr. Uckley fetch the magistrate, then the three of us will enjoy a comfortable talk.”

  It was another hour before Hawk, Frances, and Amalie were ensconced in the parlor. The marquess had escorted Beatrice to her bedchamber. Lord Delacort had most solicitously looked after poor Mr. Timmons, yelling at the hapless doctor each time Mr. Timmons happened to make a sound.

  “This is Amalie,” Hawk said simply.

  Frances knew, of course. She gazed at the beautiful Frenchwoman, and without a word, walked to her and embraced her. “You are very brave and we thank you. For everything.”

  Hawk breathed a sigh of relief and proceeded with manly stupidity to blunder. He grinned, and drawled with woeful cockiness, “Everything, Frances?”

  Both women turned on him.

  “You will not act the bastard, Hawk,” said Amalie, “or I shall regret saving your English hide.”

  She shot a look at Frances, caught her nod, and Hawk felt his arm suddenly jerk behind his back by Amalie. He shot her an incredulous look, then yelped, doubling over, pushed to his knees by Amalie as Frances’ right fist connected with his belly.

  Frances was dusting her hands together, a smile of smug enjoyment on her face. “I was almost as good as Beatrice, I think,” she said.

  “He perhaps deserves more,” said Amalie, releasing his arm. She stood over him, her hands on her hips.

  “I rather like a man on his knees,” said Frances.

  Hawk didn’t move. He wasn’t that stupid. They were killers, he knew it. He looked from one to the other, and threw up his hands. “Ladies, I surrender!”

  “A bit of groveling might save you further mortification and pain, my lord,” said Frances, enjoying herself immensely.

  This was too much. Hawk roared to his feet, grabbed his wife against him, only to feel Amalie’s very strong fingers in his hair, pulling with all her might.

  He gritted his teeth and felt his eyes water. Escape, he thought. Only a complete fool would stay. He quickly released Frances, fought free of Amalie’s very strong fingers, and fled from the parlor.

  He came to an abrupt halt in the outside corridor, frowning ferociously as he heard the gales of laughter from the two women.

  “What is this, my boy?”

  Hawk turned a chagrined face to his father.

  “What the devil is going on in there? Don’t tell me you were idiot enough to introduce your mistress to your wife?”

  “They nearly killed me,” said Hawk, rubbing his hand over his belly.

  The marquess gaped at him. “They?”

  “Attacked by two furies. Brought to my knees. Made to grovel. Unmanned.”

  “I think that about covers it,” said Frances, giggling in the open doorway, Amalie beside her.

  “Oh my God,” said the marquess. “Excuse me, my boy, but I am not fool enough to get involved in this!”

  “Coward!” Hawk shouted after his departing sire.

  “Well, my lord,” Frances said, “Amalie and I are now ready to discuss matters. If you swear to keep your mouth shut, unless spoken to, we will allow you to join us.”

  Brutality and then a tea party, Hawk thought in some disgust some minutes later when the three of them were seated in a most civilized manner, teacups in their laps.

  Amalie said, “I couldn’t just leave for France, not knowing what that awful man would do.”

  “You are very brave, Amalie,” Frances said. She tried desperately not to picture Hawk making love to this exquisite piece of womanhood.

  Amalie merely shrugged. “All is well now,” she said. She beamed at Hawk and Frances. “As our magnificent French playwright Corneille said, ‘And the combat ceased for want of combatants.’ You are now satisfied with this man, my lady?”

  Frances gave her husband a very drawing look. “I shall keep him in good form, Amalie, I promise.”

  “A brute for a wife,” Hawk remarked.

  “The logic of the hear
t is absurd,” Amalie said, and raised her teacup in a toast.

  And good-bye to my bluestocking mistress, Hawk thought.

  “Julie de Lespinasse said that, didn’t she?” Frances asked, her eyes sparkling.

  “Yes,” Amalie said, bestowing another pleased smile on her.

  “My governess, Adelaide, was much taken with her,” said Frances.

  The rest of my life with a bluestocking wife, Hawk thought, and lowered his head, rumbling laughter erupting from his throat.

  The two women looked at the Earl of Rothermere, then at each other. Amalie shook her head. “I wonder if the strain has been too much for him.”

  “If it is strain he suffers,” said Frances, “it is most certainly a very lordly strain.”

  EPILOGUE

  A loose end is never tidy.

  —EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY PROVERB

  “Finally, my boy, finally! I knew you could do it if you truly set your mind to it!” The marquess beamed at his strutting son and vigorously shook his hand.

  “What?” Frances protested loudly. “Your boy did little enough, my lord. I did everything!”

  “Well, not quite everything,” Hawk said, leaning down to ruffle his wife’s hair. “And he does look like me, Frances. That in itself tells the tale—men and husbands are much stronger, their will is the more—”

  “I suggest,” said Lord Ruthven, grinning at his son-in-law, “that you retreat just a bit. Women, you know, Hawk, get strange notions.”

  At that point, Charles Philip Desborough Hawksbury, Viscount Linley, let out a furious howl.

  “Men begin very early,” Sophia observed, “to get their way.”

  “And they never stop howling, Sophia,” Frances said. She saw that her husband was on the point of saying something in all likelihood very improper, and added quickly, “I shall feed this little man, then join you downstairs.”

  Hawk kissed his wife, then joined his father and father-in-law.

  Frances heard her father-in-law say, “Yes, indeed, my grandson will be a famous horseman and racer. I can see it in his eyes already.”