Must Be Magic

by Patricia Rice

  Leila’s absence was ominous.

  Well, at least the battle would be fought on home ground and with two of his brothers present.

  Not bothering to check the knot of his cravat or brush back the hair escaping his queue—although he was tempted to check for gray strands—Dunstan sauntered into the upper hall and listened to the low conversation of his brothers below.

  Since Ninian had married Drogo, she had made some impression on the decrepit mansion and all-male household simply by hiring capable servants and ordering the chaos of male accouterments confined to a limited number of rooms. A little paint, some feminine wallpaper in a parlor or two, and a few pieces of furniture that didn’t rattle or collapse when sat upon constituted the remainder of her achievements. The floors still creaked, the walls still bent at odd angles—and sound still carried from the foyer to the upper levels.

  “We don’t have to open the door,” his twenty-two-year-old half brother, Joseph, was suggesting to the elderly butler. “Or you can tell the footman we’re not at home. Isn’t that what Ninian does when she’s busy?”

  “Open the door, Jarvis.” A voice of authority easily recognizable as the earl’s rumbled up from the hall Dunstan couldn’t see. “I doubt they paraded out here to visit Ninian. The Duchess of Mainwaring knows precisely where everyone is at any given time.” Without a break in his tone or any indication that he could see up the stairs, Drogo continued, “Dunstan, you might as well come down now. They’ll only hunt you throughout the house if you don’t.”

  “Give me time to stick some hay in my hair,” he replied, stomping down the creaking stairs two at a time. “Perhaps it will remind them I am but a lowly farmer.”

  “I shouldn’t think they’ve forgotten,” Drogo answered wryly, studying Dunstan through knowing eyes. “They’re Ninian’s aunts and they’ve been more than helpful to us, so try to behave.”

  Eyes wide behind his spectacles, Joseph watched Dunstan as if he were a condemned man on the way to the gallows. “You didn’t ask them to find Celia’s killer, did you?” he asked in disbelief.

  No Ives in known history had ever willingly requested Malcolm aid. They may have been forced to accept it upon occasion, but to ask for the meddling women to interfere, with some hope of controlling the outcome? No chance. One didn’t tamper with forces of nature.

  And yet Dunstan had done exactly that.

  “Ninian and Leila have already put their heads together, so that’s out of my control,” he admitted, catching a glimpse through the open door of the ladies consulting each other while the footman took their cards. Perhaps if he went outside and met them, he could keep his brothers from interfering.

  “Joseph, I suggest you stop gawking and return to whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing,” Drogo said in a tone that brooked no argument.

  Joseph shrugged and gave Dunstan a look of sympathy before removing a polished stone from his pocket and handing it over. “Here. Felicity said this stone has powerful vibrations of good fortune. You’ll need it more than I.”

  “Right.” Dunstan shoved the pebble into his pocket. He’d stuff birds there if he thought it would allow him to survive this confrontation with his skin intact.

  He didn’t have time to formulate an answer to the query in Drogo’s lifted eyebrow. While Joseph scampered out of sight, the ladies ascended the outside steps and appeared in the doorway like avenging angels.

  “Dunstan Ives!” the duchess thundered, shoving her open parasol through the narrow opening and clacking it against the tiled floor. “We’re here to speak with you.”

  Tall and as stately as Juno, she cut through the waters of turmoil like a battleship in full sail. In elegant blue-striped taffeta, she squeezed through a doorway designed for men and not women, momentarily crushing her panniers. “Ives! It’s good you’re here. Let us repair to the salon. Come along, Hermione.” The wiring beneath her skirt sprang to life again as she gestured to her shorter, stouter sister and led the way.

  “I think hanging might be easier,” Dunstan muttered, catching one of the marchioness’s drifting scarves as he and Drogo fell in behind the ladies.

  “I’ll stand behind you in whatever you choose to do,” Drogo murmured in return. “I’ll not see you suffer another disastrous marriage.”

  Relieved that his brother supported him without question, Dunstan squared his shoulders and entered the salon with determination.

  “Call for tea, sir,” the duchess commanded, immediately reducing the earl to a lackey. “Ninian has done a poor job of teaching you manners.”

  “It isn’t Ninian’s job to teach me anything,” Drogo returned, signaling Jarvis to do as he’d been told before closing the salon door.

  While his brother took up a position leaning against the mantel, Dunstan paced in front of the ladies. “I trust Leila has explained why we’ve returned to London, and you have come to offer assistance.” Always take the strongest position first, he’d learned long ago.

  Leila’s mother gasped and waved her shawl in front of her face as if she were in need of air. The duchess merely sat with spine rigid, hands on the knob of her parasol, glaring.

  “Do not take that officious tone with me, young man,” the duchess commanded. “Leila has told us how you have helped her learn of her gift. We are grateful.”

  Almost falling over his feet at this unexpected acknowledgment, Dunstan halted his march across the floor and stared at the old witch. Too caught up in his fears, he hadn’t noticed the subtle fragrances of the two ladies, but he should have. Leila had packed all her vials of perfume bases when she’d left the country. The first thing she would have done upon arrival would have been to tell her mother what she’d learned of her gift, then experiment on the family.

  He admired Leila’s cleverness. He had the overwhelming urge to grin hugely, but he didn’t want to give himself away.

  “I have nothing to do with Leila’s gifts and talents,” he answered, pacing once again. “She simply needed to be left alone long enough to develop them.” He wondered what artifices the perfume had revealed in these women, or if it was only his imagination that the perfume had any effect at all.

  “It has always been our policy to let our children explore their gifts at their own pace,” Hermione said. “I tried to encourage Leila,” she continued almost apologetically, “but she is so opposite of everything I am that—”

  The duchess interrupted. “Leila has always been headstrong and determined, and has known precisely where she was going and what she had to do to get there. She has manipulated all of us since she was small, but not once did we think of how she managed it. We were simply glad that she could go on without much help from us.”

  “And no one thought it odd that she smelled fear or cowardice?” Dunstan inquired.

  Hermione gesticulated helplessly. “We’re all so odd, dear, how could one notice the difference? Of course, it was unusual, but so is her black hair. And I smell love and happiness and conflict when I create my fragrances, so I thought nothing of it. I’d hoped she would build upon her talent for scents, but I simply didn’t . . .” She gestured again, unable to explain.

  “Listen to us,” Stella exclaimed. “We are simpering like ninnies instead of telling you just exactly what we think of you.” She glared at Drogo. “I want to demand that your brother marry my niece, but I cannot help but admit my admiration instead. It’s quite the outside of enough. You shall have to do it for me.”

  Perplexed, Drogo looked to Dunstan for an explanation.

  Dunstan wrapped his fingers around Felicity’s stone in his pocket and sought the diplomatic words he needed—as if he had ever in his life practiced diplomacy. “Leila has the ability to see the true nature of people through her sense of smell,” he explained. “In a way that we can’t explain, we think it may relate to the unique perfumes she creates. She’s not had time to experiment, so we don’t know the extent of her gift.”

  His logical, scientific brother crossed his arms and
nodded, waiting for further revelations.

  Dunstan tried to think of a polite way to explain the ladies’ current dilemma. “I think what the duchess is trying to say is that she cannot bluster and threaten me when what she really feels is gratitude because I have helped Leila understand her gift and made her happy.”

  “Threaten?” Drogo asked calmly, turning his gaze to the ladies.

  The marchioness fluttered her hands again. “I know Leila is very headstrong and it must be my fault, but surely, my lord, you cannot approve of her bearing your niece out of wedlock. I know it is done, and that she has her reasons, but really, sir . . .”

  The duchess raised her expressive eyebrows, and silence froze the room while Drogo absorbed the implications of this outburst.

  Dunstan winced as the earl grasped the gist of the problem and shot him a questioning look.

  “They say the child is a girl,” he offered, as if that explained it all. “Leila thinks she will have no difficulty raising a girl on her own. I have promised to be at hand to help as I can. It is her choice,” he continued. “She will lose her home and land and the gardens if we marry.”

  The Duchess of Mainwaring rose in a rustle of taffeta. “I will not allow a breath of scandal to harm my daughters or my nieces,” she lectured. “You will find the foul villain who has besmirched your name, then you will marry Leila.”

  Dipping her powdered curls so that the absurd flowers on her cap bounced, she motioned for her sister to rise. “Come along, Hermione. I am certain that Ives men know their duty.”

  Straightening her rumpled skirt, searching for her misplaced parasol, pulling her neckscarf askew in the process, Hermione turned a firm gaze in Dunstan’s direction. “Felicity’s come-out ball is tomorrow. You will be there.”

  Dunstan bowed gallantly and waited for Jarvis to escort the ladies out. Then, collapsing on the sofa, he buried his head in his hands and moaned.

  “Lady Leila has enjoyed commanding society these few years past,” Drogo said from his position at the mantel behind Dunstan. “And you despise that society.”

  “She is everything that Celia wanted to be,” Dunstan agreed, “and everything Celia could never have been.”

  “I see.” Drogo dropped into a chair opposite and crossed his foot over his knee. “No, I take that back. I do not see. The two of you could not have created a child together if you had nothing in common.”

  Agony ground through Dunstan’s gut at the dilemma of having to explain what he and Leila had done. It was inexplicable. He’d had no right to look at another woman. Leila must have been insane to hire him in the first place. None of what had happened made logical sense.

  He would rather eat glass than expose his feelings. Ninian could probably explain them better than he could. Or Leila. Maybe he should send for Leila. How did he explain that they did not want to marry but desired each other’s company? It didn’t make sense even to him.

  “Leila wants me to develop new strains of flowers for her,” he said. “She needs to create new scents that now she only smells in her head.” He understood that much, at least. “The scents somehow give her insights into the people around her, or they reveal their true personalities in some manner because of the perfume.

  “To develop her power will take a great deal of land, labor, and time. She is willing to sacrifice her position in society if that’s what it takes.” Dunstan rubbed his fingers into his hair, willing himself to believe that last.

  Drogo tapped his boot with his fingernails. “ ‘Sacrifice’ being the key word here? She enjoys London and society and all the fripperies of her sort?”

  Dunstan nodded against his palms. “I believe so. She’s had parties of people coming and going ever since she retired out there.”

  “So it isn’t just your lack of land or wealth that is the problem,” Drogo observed.

  “No,” Dunstan agreed. “She does not wish to marry again. She doesn’t want to give up her estate or control of her life, and I should imagine she will not wish to give up London either, once she has what she wants.”

  “And if she marries you, she loses her estate.”

  Dunstan nodded again. “I am the worst thing that could happen to her.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Drogo said thoughtfully, still tapping his foot.

  He rose, and Dunstan could see his own reflection in his brother’s boots. He didn’t look up to read Drogo’s expression. He didn’t need a lecture right now.

  “I have confidence that you’ll do what’s best for all concerned,” Drogo said. “You won’t need me tomorrow evening, will you? Venus will be in conjunction with Mars, and Tom Wright and a few others have invited me to an observatory.”

  Drawing down his eyebrows in confusion, Dunstan glanced up. “That is it? No lectures on doing the responsible thing? On honor? On supporting my offspring?”

  Drogo tapped his fingers impatiently against his thigh. “Both of you are of an age to know what you want. I’ve enough to do with the younger ones. I will support you in whatever decision you make. You know you’re welcome to return to Ives or to take charge of the Wystan estate in Northumberland, should you wish. I have no doubts about your competence. An Ives female!” The earl rolled his eyes heavenward and stalked out, leaving Dunstan to stare at the yellow-silk walls.

  Free to do anything he liked . . .

  But he could do nothing at all until he cleared his name—as the duchess had so bluntly pointed out.

  With that goal firmly in mind, Dunstan shouted for Joseph, who would no doubt be hiding in the walls and have heard everything already.

  Griffith appeared in company with his curly-haired uncle. Joseph and Griffith were eight years apart in age, miles apart in experience. For a moment, Dunstan hesitated. He didn’t want to involve his son in this investigation. He didn’t want Griffith exploring dangerous city streets. He wanted to keep him sheltered—yet he could not.

  Dunstan pointed at the door. “The two of you, find David and Paul.” His youngest half brothers were never in school where they belonged. “If Ewen is in town, call him in as well. We’re about to search all the pawnshops in London.”

  “How can Griffith help?” Joseph demanded. “He knows nothing of London.”

  “Teach him,” Dunstan ordered. Joseph and his two younger brothers had a fairly strong grasp of what it took to keep a lively Ives mind occupied. He could trust them with his son. “The two of you can visit the better shops. He might recognize Celia’s jewels faster than any of you can.”

  The pride he saw in Griffith’s expression nearly broke his heart. He should have included his son long before now. He prayed that he had many years left to spend with him.

  Joseph broke into a grin. “Finally decided you didn’t murder the twit, did you? Good. Now we’ll get somewhere.”

  Slapping Dunstan’s back in satisfaction, Joseph dashed out with Griffith hot on his heels.

  When the hell had his shy baby half brother grown into a confident man-about-town?

  Dunstan sighed at the impossibility of dealing with London and fatherhood and murderers and matters he knew nothing about.

  Remembering the command of Leila’s aunt and mother, he added a trip to the tailor to the list of impossible things he had to do. He mustn’t shame Leila at Felicity’s come-out.

  He would rather wrestle crazed killers than attend a frippery ball.

  Twenty-four

  “You’ve had time enough to interview half of London,” Dunstan declared, pacing the parlor and jerking back the velvet cutains to discover the current source of the racket out on the street.

  Viscount Handel, his personable investigator, merely crossed his leg over his knee and smiled. “And so I have. Your late wife had a large and varied circle of friends.”

  “All male,” Dunstan said with derision.

  “Mostly,” Handel agreed. “Men prefer to dally with married ladies. Less consequence, particularly if the husband is disinterested.”

  Forced to c
onfront the idea that he must have seemed a disinterested husband to Celia’s paramours, Dunstan winced at the guilt inflicted by Handel’s observation. He turned away from the sight of a carriage driver shouting curses at a pedestrian in the street below and sank into a chair.

  Was his guilt even greater because somewhere in his soul he was glad Celia was dead? Rubbing his forehead, Dunstan tried not to think that. It was almost worse than believing he might have killed her in a drunken fit. Whatever Celia had been, she hadn’t deserved to die.

  “Did any of Celia’s lovers happen to be in the vicinity of Baden the night she died?” Dunstan asked.

  Handel shrugged. “Not that they’ll admit. I’ve been investigating alibis as best I’m able. The height of the Season had not begun, so the entertainments here in London were few. Lady Willoughby held a soirée, and many of Celia’s friends attended that night. They can attest for each other.”

  “How many does that leave unaccounted for?” Dunstan demanded with impatience.

  “That depends on who would have a motive to kill her. There doesn’t seem to be any. George Wickham was head over heels in love with her. Lord John Albemarle was seen with her upon more than one occasion, but he’s unmarried and seeking a wealthy wife, so that’s of no account. There’s a Sir Barton Townsend who frequents that crowd, but no more so than half a dozen others. Even Lady Leila’s young nephew, Lord Staines, was known to have gambled in her company when he was down from school. I’m exploring Celia’s favorite gaming houses, hoping to uncover someone who might have owed her a large sum. That’s my only theory of the moment. That, or she knew something she shouldn’t.”

  Could the laughing, lovely girl child he’d married be guilty of blackmail? It didn’t seem likely, but she must have supported her lifestyle somehow. “See if Sir Bryan Trimble was in London then. He’s a baronet from near Bath. Apparently Ceila humiliated him.”