A Certain Magic

by Betina Krahn

  "It's that snooty, interfering bunch of solicitors again… probably more nonsense about Mimi's inheritance," she announced, dropping the letter onto the tray as if it scorched her fingers.

  Phoebe and Flora recoiled visibly, and all three heaved and swayed to their feet, avoiding all contact with the tray. None of them was of a mood to confront legal demands just now.

  Shaddar suddenly appeared in their midst to clear away the tea. A rustling, scratching noise came from a darkened corner as he lifted the tray, and it tilted in his hands, setting the cups sliding and clattering. His countenance darkened as he stiffened and looked to see where the sounds were coming from. Phoebe caught his look of concern.

  "Probably just mice," she observed, patting the manservant on the arm. "See to it, will you, Shaddar?"

  His turbaned head bobbed gravely. As he turned to go, the London letter dropped from the tray unnoticed, and with his first step, he knocked it into the edge of the coals in the hearth. One corner of the letter nudged the glowing heat, and soon the expensive rag stock paper burst into flames. As the old ladies exited with the guttering candles and darkness descended on the venerable chamber, a small, rosy glow bloomed on the stone hearth… unnoticed and unheeded.

  A fortnight later, a fierce late October gale ran aground on the south Devonshire coast. Torrents of wind-driven rain pelted the dark countryside with an elemental fury that bore down from seemingly every direction at once. In that dark, disorienting swirl of wind and water, a lone horse and rider struggled to make progress along the Old London Road.

  "Come on, boy—don't quit on me now!" Graham Hamilton shouted above the storm's roar, grappling to stay aboard his frantic, lurching mount. "The cursed place can't be that much farther!" But even as he said it, a tendril of panic coiled through him. In the howling blackness, he might have already passed wretched Asher House… He could be lost… He could be riding straight off a bloody cliff for all he knew… He wrestled staunchly with his fears, and reason soon seized control again.

  "Get hold of yourself, Hamilton," he commanded.

  Suddenly a massive bolt of lightning streaked to ground close by, setting the hair prickling all over his body as it illuminated the entire landscape for one sizzling, breathless instant. Then he saw it. Half a mile ahead, the craggy old mansion sat huddled on a barren, storm-lashed hill, glowing an eerie silver against the unrelenting black of storm and night.

  The deafening explosion of thunder which followed knocked him half out of the saddle, and the horse reacted with a spurt of fear-spawned might, pulling free of the mud and rearing. Hamilton flailed wildly, then pitched into the muck, landing hard on his shoulder.

  By the time the rumble of pain in his head and shoulder subsided and he could draw breath again, he was alone on the road, with only the mocking sound of the rain splashing on the puddles around him. Struggling to his feet, he groaned and winced, testing his shoulder and reaching for his handkerchief to wipe the grime from his face. Afoot now, wet to the bone, befouled with mud, and humiliated to the core, he realized there was nothing for it but to walk the rest of the way.

  With his boots weighted with mud, his damaged top hat sagging, his ears still ringing from the thunder, and his shoulder throbbing, he slogged his way along the road toward Asher House. Each step fired both his resentment and his determination against the cunning and contriving mistresses of Asher House. The larcenous old crows hadn't complied with his demands, or even deigned to answer his inquiries! Well, they had pushed his tolerance too far. He was going to have justice… or die trying!

  Chapter Two

  Asher House, as revealed by the stark flashes of lightning, was a large gray-stone manor built around the remnants of an ancient castle which had once guarded that forlorn, windswept bit of coastline. In the background, rising above the craggy and uneven roof, was a circular stone tower, complete with battlements and crenellations. As Hamilton drew closer, he saw that the shutters on the upper windows of the main house hung askew and that dead vines and overgrown shrubs clung to its aged walls. The wrought-iron gates by the road hung at a neglected angle. The place had a brooding, twice-faded glory about it that perfectly matched Hamilton's dismal expectations of its owners.

  He trudged through the weedy, rain-scoured front court and assaulted the iron-bound doors with the side of his fist.

  On the third volley of blows, just as his hand was beginning to throb, the massive doors swung open, and he literally blew through the opening in a gust of wind and rain.

  "Damn well about time," he muttered irritably, lowering the shoulder cape of his greatcoat and shaking the water from his sleeves. He found himself in a faded and dimly lit center hall and wheeled to address whoever had admitted him. He stopped abruptly at the sight of a huge, swarthy manservant in a turban and tailcoat looming over him, scrutinizing him with sullen green-gold eyes. Ripping the remnants of his hat from his head, he squared his shoulders beneath his dripping garments.

  "I've come all the way from London to see the Misses Asher and Miss Miranda Edgethorn." He summoned his frazzled air of authority and insisted, "And by heaven, I'll see them… now!"

  "And who are you, sir, to be making such demands?" an age-brittled female voice came from behind him.

  He whirled.

  Lord, Hamilton thought, there they were: two of the old crows themselves. They were standing in a huge, arched doorway to the left of the entry hall. Gray-haired and black-clad, withered and wizened, they looked as tough as pine knots and as imperious as Caesar. And they had to be eighty if they were a day. He stalked forward, heedless of the trail of water and muddy footprints he left across the aged marble floor.

  "I am Graham Hamilton of Farnsworth, Farrow, Hamilton, and Benchley, Solicitors, executors of the late Sir Peter Edgethorn's estate." He fished around in the breast pocket of his coat and produced a sodden, crumpled card.

  The taller, thinner of the two old women blanched and stiffened as she accepted and examined it, then exchanged a look with the shorter, rounder one. "In that case… I am Miss Caroline Asher, and this is my sister, Miss Phoebe. I suppose you'd better come in. Shaddar, take Mister Hamilton's coat." She glanced disapprovingly at his ruined footgear. "And boots. Then ask Miss Flora and Miranda to join us in the drawing room."

  Yielding up his water-logged coat and muddy boots to the huge manservant, Hamilton followed the two old ladies into a large, drafty chamber with a ceiling so high it was lost in shadows. Dark, massive antique furnishings, suits of armor, stuffed trophy animals, and old iron candlestands loomed around the ill-lit edges of the room. The walls were hung with faded tapestries, ancient-looking portraits of dour-faced forebears, and a number of battered shields emblazoned with what he presumed must be the Asher family crest.

  His first impression was that he'd stepped into a museum of some sort, and his second was that the old crows hadn't used their ill-gotten gains to feather their nest. The latter was little comfort, however, when he realized that a vulnerable young girl had been sent to live in these faded, gloomy surroundings. Perhaps it would have been better if they had spent some of the money fixing up the place, making it a suitable home for the child. He planted himself before the roaring fire, legs spread and hands clasped behind his back, while the old ladies seated themselves in chairs before him.

  "You know why I am here, of course," he declared testily.

  "Of course," and "Indeed not," they said together, the tall one jerking a nod while the plump one shook her head vigorously. He expelled an impatient breath through his teeth as they exchanged looks of annoyance.

  "I am here," he intoned in his best Etonian English, "because you have disdained all my efforts to communicate with you regarding your role as Miss Edgethorn's guardians. I have written to you decently, civilly, asking for assurances and accounting. And you refused to so much as acknowledge my letters."

  "We have always dealt favorably with that amicable Mister Benchley," Miss Caroline Asher charged defensively.

 
"Mister Benchley is no longer amicable—he is deceased," Hamilton said, his eyes narrowing as he saw the old ladies' dismay. "I am now senior partner of the firm, having succeeded my uncle Throckmorton Hamilton in that capacity more than a year ago." He allowed a moment for that impressive accomplishment to register. It was rare indeed for a man of just thirty years to achieve such recognition in the legal world. "It appears that old Benchley had been on the decline for some time—he'd let a number of matters slip. And while his files were being cleared out and reassigned to other partners, the shameful matter of Miss Edgethorn's trust was uncovered."

  "Sh-shameful?" Miss Phoebe Asher paled.

  "Disgraceful," he pronounced ominously, leaning toward them. "Perhaps even criminal. It appears that you have made a number of large and frequent withdrawals from Miss Edgethorn's trust—so large and so frequent that the principle has been dangerously eroded." Anger seeped into his voice, and his hands curled into fists behind his back.

  "What on earth could be so—" An aged woman clad in dark violet bustled into the drawing room and stopped short at the sight of him. "Oh." Her gaze flew to the others, and she slowly made her way toward them.

  "Florabunda, this is Mister Hamilton… the solicitor… from London," Caroline said, her voice laden with undercurrents of meaning as she rose from her chair.

  "He's here about Mimi's inheritance," Phoebe added with a dark look, shoving to her feet.

  "Thousands of pounds are missing from the trust accounts," Hamilton announced, annoyed by the covert glances among them. "It was nothing short of plundering… unconscionable pilferage. And I intend to hold you responsible for it. If necessary, I shall not hesitate to make use of the civil and criminal proceedings of the courts—"

  "Pilferage? Courts?" came a feminine voice from the doorway. He flicked an irritable glance in that direction then looked a second time and froze. In the opening stood a stunning young woman with dark, burnished hair, fair skin, and a rather extravagant set of feminine curves, which were cloaked in a simple, unbustled dress of gold wool challis trimmed with touches of velvet. As she came forward, Hamilton's gaze fixed first on her large, thickly lashed eyes, which were astonishingly close to the color of her dress, then on her prominent cheekbones, straight nose, and finally her lush, cupid's bow mouth. He realized she had spoken and scrambled to recall what she had said while he had been staring at her.

  "What has been pilfered? And what could my aunts possibly have to do with a theft of any sort?" She stopped nearby, frowning expectantly at the old ladies.

  "This is Mister Graham Hamilton, Miranda dear. He's from the firm of solicitors which administers your father's estate… come all the way from London," Phoebe informed her. "He seems to think we've been imprudent in drawing from your inheritance."

  Hamilton felt himself swaying and braced his long legs a bit further apart. Miranda? He blinked to clear his vision. This was Miranda Edgethorn? The same Miranda who had written the girlish notes he discovered in sentimental old Benchley's files? He had known the undated notes were old, but, even allowing for a few years, they'd somehow formed a picture in his mind of a fledgling young girl, not of a gorgeous' young woman in the full bloom of—he caught a fleeting scent of something flowery and tantalizing, and sucked a long, intense breath, trying to recapture it—in the full bloom of lush, delectable womanhood.

  "… dare to suggest that my aunts have pilfered my inheritance?" he heard when he managed to focus again on the words those rosy lips were forming. He reddened all the way to his ears at being caught speechless and staring, and—Lord!—sniffing. He pulled his chin back and glowered his fiercest.

  "Miss Edgethorn, the trust your father created for your security has been drastically reduced over the past several years. And your aunts have stubbornly refused to give an accounting of the thousands upon thousands of pounds—"

  "My aunts—stealing from me? Such an accusation would be ludicrous, sir, if it weren't so perfectly vile!" Miranda advanced angrily on him, determined to defend the dotty old dears with everything in her.

  Color bloomed in her face as she suddenly found herself so close to him that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. Too close, she realized too late. She braced, wishing she could back up a few steps as he filled her vision and overwhelmed the rest of her senses. He was tall, nearly as tall as Shaddar, and dressed in a wet, rumpled charcoal-gray suit, which at the moment exuded a distinctive blend of male-seeming smells: wet wool, mud, sandalwood, and a hint of pipe smoke. His starched collar had long-since dissolved into a limp rag, and his royal-blue silk tie was shriveled and lying askew. He was shoeless, mud-spattered, and had a huge streak of dried mud across his right cheekbone.

  Her attention fastened stubbornly on the dark hair that framed his strong, angular face and the lock which drooped willfully over his forehead, then slid to those light gray eyes which were topped by dark, feathery brows and rimmed by indecently long lashes. When he spoke, at such close range, his voice penetrated her skin and rumbled along her nerves like echoes of distant thunder, setting her quivering and tingling in all sorts of odd and interesting places.

  "Whatever money my aunts may have claimed, Mister Hamilton, was certainly their due," she protested through a constricted throat. What was happening to her? "And it is absolutely none of your concern."

  "It is intensely my concern, Miss Edgethorn, when a member of my firm permits the wanton thievery of an estate entrusted to us to provide for the security of a defenseless child," he said, edging closer, looming over her.

  "Thievery?" Miranda raised her chin in defiance of his forbidding male glare and found herself face to face and nearly nose to nose with him. Then her eyes fastened on his lips, little more than an inch away, and her knees weakened strangely. "The boldest and blackest of lies, sir," she said hoarsely. "How dare you stand in my aunts' house and slander their good and honorable names?"

  The eruption of her anger gave her an excuse to jerk back one, then two, reason-restoring steps. She flung a trembling finger toward the door, "Please be so good as to remove yourself from this house immediately!"

  Her order lay burning on the air, while she and her old aunts held their breaths. He seemed to grow before their very eyes as his broad shoulders squared and his face took on the semblance of granite. He took one step, then another… but neither in the direction of the door. Instead, he closed the distance between himself and Miranda, and now stood shockingly toe to toe and button to button with her.

  The silence sizzled and crackled around them as his flint-gray eyes struck sparks against the burnished gold of hers.

  He was so heated, so male, so foreign to anything she'd ever experienced…

  She was so warm, so womanly, so utterly unexpected…

  "I would remind you, Miss Edgethorn, that I am here on your behalf," he said with a noticeable thickness to his voice. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

  "Then"—she swallowed hard—"on my behalf, remove yourself back to London." The surge of anger in his arrogantly carved features was somehow satisfying. And disturbing. His head lowered half an inch toward hers before it snapped up with a jerk, and he stumbled back a step.

  "I've spent the last three days and nights, Miss Edge-thorn, hazarding life and limb to reach this godforsaken place. I've been squashed witless by fat matrons in rail cars, bounced mercilessly on top of a crowded mail coach, and robbed of three nights' sleep by portly merchants who snore like ailing rhinoceroses. I've been caught in a fiend of a storm, drenched to the bone, thrown from a horse, and damn near struck by lightning. I've lost a horse, a raft of crucial legal documents, and half my blessed hearing!"

  His eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped to a harried rasp. "I am not leaving this house until I discover what happened to every last penny of those purloined funds." With that, he strode straight to the hearth and slammed his long frame into the closest chair, looking for all the world as if he were burrowing in for the winter.

  Mimi sputtered
and gasped, turning to her old aunts, who stood watching the unthinkable encounter with shock-widened eyes and drooping jaws. A half-stifled noise of outrage issued from deep in her throat, and she whirled toward the door. "I'll call Shaddar to remove—"

  "No!" Aunt Caroline jolted forward to catch her arm and hold her back. "I mean… we certainly cannot send Mister Hamilton packing before we've had a chance to clear our good names. And we could never send him off in such a hideous storm. Why, Mimi, dear, we don't even put the cat out on a night like this."

  "Caroline?" Phoebe started to protest but was quickly overridden.

  "I fear we're partly to blame for the unfortunate misunderstandings that brought Mister Hamilton all this way." Caroline turned an intense, speaking look on Phoebe and Flora.

  "Oh… oh! Ohhh, absolutely!" Flora took it up with sudden enthusiasm. "The very least we can do is provide a bit of hospitality while we redeem ourselves in his legal opinion. Why, he must be exhausted," she said with a look of concern. "And those wet clothes—he could be taking a dread chill even as we speak."

  "B-but—" Mimi sputtered.

  "Then it's all settled," Caroline announced, looking quite pleased as she went for the bell pull to summon Shaddar. "You shall be our guest, Mister Hamilton. And we shall open both our coffers and our estate books to you, first thing in the morning."

  Aunt Flora seized his sleeve and gave a ladylike tug that succeeded in peeling him from the chair. "We'll have Shaddar bring you a good hot bath and a tasty bit of supper… and a good strong toddy."

  "This makes no sense at all, Aunt Flora… Caroline… Phoebe," Miranda protested, appalled by their gracious attitude toward a man whose expressed intent was to prove them a trio of unprincipled thieves. Didn't the bighearted old dears realize they were clasping an adder to their breasts?

  "But it makes perfect sense, my dear," Caroline intoned loftily. "How else will Mister Hamilton learn the truth about us, except by staying with us and coming to know us?" Her smile was so well-intentioned and guileless that Mimi ground her teeth in frustration.