Must Be Magic (27 page)

Dunstan swallowed a lump of fear at the memory of waking up this same way the morning after Celia's death. At least this time he did not wake with an aching head.

Twisting his stiff neck slightly to the left, Dunstan registered Henry Wickham's sneer. No surprise there. Beyond Wickham stood a third man—a simpleton who did odd jobs around the village. Dunstan had given the boy a coin or two upon occasion to watch his horse. The lad was harmless enough, and not smart enough to lie, but he might be susceptible to suggestion.

Shoving away from the wall, Dunstan stood, towering over all of them. He experienced a twinge of satisfaction when the effete Wickham backed off. Attempting to look nonchalant, Dunstan glanced down at his fancy evening coat, brushed off some of the travel dirt, then raised an inquiring eyebrow at the constable. “You have something you wish to say?”

“I'm sorry, sir. There's an inquiry 'as been made. I'm to ask if you know to whom this here button belongs.” The constable held out a glittering gold button with the Ives coat of arms embossed upon it.

Only one person in the world had been foolish enough to revive that ancient insignia. Celia. She'd discovered it with a childish cry of delight and immediately ordered it attached to every piece of paraphernalia her imagination could dictate—including the buttons of her mantle.

Dunstan experienced a burning sensation in the back of his eyes as he remembered Celia flashing her gold buttons in the sunlight, laughing with pleasure.

They'd carried her body home in that mantle the day she died.

Dunstan clenched his fists and met the constable's eyes squarely. “My late wife had buttons similar to that. Where did you find it?”

Outside, horses clattered and wheels squeaked, signaling the arrival of a carriage in the yard. Feminine cries distracted his audience. They turned as one to look out the wavy panes of the bow window.

Apparently too impatient to wait for a footman to pull down the steps of the coach, a lady in black threw open the door and leaped down.

A
lady
in
black.
Dunstan swore a silent curse as the renewed pain of Celia's death mixed with humiliation and shame. If the worst happened and they proved he'd killed Celia, he wanted to remember Leila laughing and dancing and flashing him a taunting smile in a fancy ballroom. He didn't want her here.

“Where did you get the button?” Dunstan repeated harshly, forcing the others to tear their gazes from the window.

He heard Leila enter the foyer, heard the imperious command of her voice to the innkeeper, and wished himself to the devil. More male voices joined the argument. He thought he recognized Lord John's, but not the others.

He scowled at the constable, who gulped and hurried to speak.

“Paulie 'ere says as you gave it to 'im the night the lady died. Paulie isn't much of one for lyin'.” The constable watched him hopefully, waiting for an explanation.

Paulie
had
a
button
wrenched
from
Celia's mantle.
Before the day of Celia's death, Dunstan hadn't been near his wife or her clothing in months.
But
he'd given the button to Paulie.

He'd been beyond furious that night. He'd had a man's blood on his hands because of her. She had laughed. Could he have reached for her? Ripped the button off?

Dunstan took a deep breath as he sensed Leila's entrance. For her sake, and that of his children, he couldn't believe himself capable of violence. “I was drunk when I saw her last, as I've told you,” he replied coldly. “She could have thrown the thing at me for all I remember.” He didn't remember her throwing anything, but then he didn't remember her dying not twenty feet away from him either.

“You give it to me when you woke up,” Paulie said excitedly. “It was in your hand, 'member?”

“There was buttons tore off the lady's cloak,” the constable confirmed. “P'raps they came off and you found 'em at 'ome?”

“I would have left them at home if so.” Celia hadn't been home to lose them there. Dunstan struggled to remain calm in the face of the evidence against him. Celia hadn't been wearing a cloak when he'd seen her, had she?

The constable watched Dunstan, his brow crumpled in worry. “She was wearin' the cloak when we found her dead, sir.”

Crushed between guilt and doubt on one side and fear for Leila on the other, Dunstan sought a way to end this humiliating scene, but he wasn't an imaginative man and couldn't think like a murderer. “Celia wasn't wearing a cloak when I saw her,” he replied.

From the doorway, the stout innkeeper stepped forward, twisting his thick fingers in his apron. “She were wearin' it when we looked up to see why a door come flyin' down the stairs, milord. She stood there in the doorway, laughin' her head off.”

Still refusing to look at the woman in the entrance, Dunstan bit back a hasty retort and worded his reply carefully. “She couldn't have been. I was in her way.”

“Warn't no sign of you, milord, although we'd heard you bellerin' earlier, the ways you do.”

“Then I must have already left.” But he couldn't remember leaving. And he'd been found in the hall just outside her door. Surely someone would have seen him leave?

“She was talkin' to you when she turned around and went back in the room.” The innkeeper wouldn't look Dunstan in the eye. “She was wearin' a big green necklace when I seed her last. She warn't wearin' it when we found her dead.”

“He murdered her in a violent fit of jealousy, Constable,” Wickham said with satisfaction. “He killed my brother, and now we have proof he killed his wife as well. I should imagine if you search his house, you'll find Celia's necklace there.”

Dunstan's empty stomach clenched at this new information. Celia always wore gaudy jewelry. He never noticed such things, but in all likelihood she'd been wearing the gems when he'd seen her. Could robbery have been the motive? How the hell would he find out?

“Wickham is a coward and a liar!” Leila cried from the doorway. “Dunstan would never harm a soul.”

He didn't want her involved in this. He'd ruined her reputation enough as it was. If she tried defending him now or using her witchy talents to hunt for murderers, she would only endanger herself and the child.

Dunstan finally allowed himself a glance at the woman who had given him something so beautiful he could place no name upon it. “Leila, go back to your family and stay out of it.” Her eyes flashed blue fire, but he knew she was listening. “Let me handle this my way.”

“You don't know what evil they've plotted,” she protested.

“It's not your concern,” he answered, willing her to heave things at him and leave in a huff. But his Leila was above Celia's histrionics. When she merely looked stubborn, he turned back to the constable.

“Lady Leila is an excellent judge of character. You would do well to listen to her and not to a man who wears hatred like a cross. Look after her, and I will do whatever you request.”

“I'll send for the earl,” the constable said anxiously. “He'll know what's best to do.” Throwing Leila a worried look, the burly man caught Dunstan's elbow and led him past her to the door.

“We're sending for a London magistrate,” Wickham cried. “The earl cannot judge his own brother.”

“Go home, Leila,” Dunstan whispered as she lifted terrified eyes to his. “I will do nothing until you leave.”

Ignoring the grief and hurt in her expression, he strode out without a backward look.

Rage warred with terror in her breast, but Leila would not give Wickham the satisfaction of seeing either. Facing his knowing smirk, she drew herself up haughtily. “You are a vile coward, sir. If you have some grievance with Dunstan, you should call him out in a fair fight. Hiding behind the words of a simpleton is the mark of a villain.”

“Ives doesn't know the meaning of a fair fight.” The voice came from behind her.

Leila swung around as Lord John entered the tavern, followed by Sir Barton. Remembering that Dunstan's brothers had promised to follow them, she glanced beyond the door. Joseph Ives was there, lounging in a chair in the hall. He looked tired, dusty, and disgusted. He'd apparently heard more than enough. She judged from his balled-up fists that he was feeling as frustrated as she was.

In her pocket lay the vial of perfume she'd made for Lord John. She fingered the small glass tube, wishing she could think how to make use of it.

She wanted to order Joseph to stay with Dunstan, but the smell of triumph and wickedness distracted her. She could not apply the scents to the facts she knew. She could smell guilt, but no doubt these men were guilty of many things.

“How would you know if Dunstan fights fair?” she demanded of the handsome man who had once courted her. “Were you there the day George pointed a pistol at Dunstan? He never carries a weapon, so do not tell me that was fair.”

Lord John's smug look only heightened her fury. She had to escape this room. Bile rose in her throat at the stenches emanating from these roaches her nephew called friends. She couldn't remember ever being so physically attacked by smell like this. Her head spun, and she couldn't think.

“Staines was supposed to be here, not you. What did you do to delay his arrival?” Wickham asked, distracting her before she could push past Sir Barton and leave the room.

“I spoke to him in a foreign language called the truth,” she replied, maintaining her composure. If they expected her nephew to act as witness to this farce so he might run for a London judge, Leila was relieved he'd stayed away. But what would happen now? The constable had said he would notify the magistrate, but no one knew where Drogo was.

“Staines is a fool to listen to women.” Wickham shrugged and appropriated a bench by the fire, calling for an ale and some breakfast. “Come speak softly to me, and I'll see if I can persuade your nephew to leave your pretty flowers alone.”

Without Dunstan to stop him, Staines could run amok through her fields if he chose. The servants would not stand in the way of the man-child who controlled the estate's future.

She'd been a fool to place her land first, over a man who was worth far more.

That error she could correct, if the arrogant Ives would let her.

“May you spend your nights in a bed of thorns,” she replied sweetly, before pivoting on her heel and marching out of the tavern. Joseph Ives had disappeared from the hall, she noted. She prayed he had gone to Dunstan.

Loud voices raised in argument in the stable yard drew her attention. If she did not mistake, one voice belonged to Christina in a temper.

“I will not listen to a man whose aura changes color with every passing moment,” Christina was shouting as Leila stepped outside. “It's like making sense of a rainbow.”

“A woman in breeches is an open invitation to scandal,” Ewen shouted back. “We don't have time to watch over both you and Dunstan. Go back where you belong.”

Standing aside, mouth agape, Dunstan's son listened to the senseless argument. At Leila's arrival, Griffith looked relieved and darted a worried glance toward the stable.

“Stop it, both of you!” Leila stepped between them. “I have enough to worry about without the two of you scrapping like children. Dunstan needs all of us. If you can't work together, go home.”

“Lord John's aura is murky, but Wickham's is decidedly black,” Christina declared with urgency. “I watched him through the window.”

“You said Dunstan's aura was black, too,” Leila replied wearily. “It is of no moment.”

Looking smug, Ewen started to speak, but Christina shot him a glare, silencing him. “Dunstan's aura is mostly gray and blue right now. He is worried and depressed, but he's trying to do the right thing.”

Ewen raised an eyebrow in an expression that was remarkably similar to Dunstan's, and the pain of that reminder tore at Leila's heart. Behind him, Griffith slipped away.

“And I suppose the simpleton with the gold button glows with rosy innocence?” Ewen asked in a scathing tone.

Christina shrugged. “He does, but that button could have come off anywhere. Or someone could have dropped it where Dunstan might find it.”

“Have you found Drogo yet?” Leila asked. “As magistrate here, he can see justice done.” She kept an eye on Griffith's progress across the yard. She could let nothing happen to Dunstan's son, no more than she could harm the child she carried. She was torn in so many different directions, she didn't know which way to turn.

“Drogo is observing some conjunction of moon and stars or whatever,” Ewen answered. “Ninian is sending for him. I'll not let Dunstan rot in a stable until he's found.” With that angry dismissal, Ewen stalked off after Griffith.

“Arrogant Ives pig,” Christina muttered.

“Bankrupt, titleless, arrogant Ives pig,” Leila reminded her, as her mind conjured the horror of Dunstan locked in a stable. “He is not for you.”

Christina blinked in startlement at this observation, but Leila was staring across the yard while her stomach roiled. They'd locked Dunstan in a stable! The proud man who strode across acres of farmland in sunshine, treated plants as tenderly as children, and carried children about like lambs had no business being imprisoned in a windowless stable because of a lying worm like Wickham.

Or because he thought to protect her, the damned insufferable man.

Her heart ached with the desire to go to him, but she could not talk through a door with his brother and son about. She had only one meager hope left.

With all the guilt stinking the scene of the crime, surely one of the inn's occupants had to be Celia's real killer. It was up to her to find out which one.

***

Sitting in the straw and leaning against the rough wooden wall, Dunstan contemplated closing his eyes and getting the sleep he'd missed, but if these were to be his last few days of life, he would prefer to spend them awake.

Passing his time cataloging all the mistakes he'd made seemed to be the only direction his thoughts followed. He avoided thinking about the mistake of Celia, because he still couldn't believe in his guilt. He stared at his big fists and couldn't imagine them circling Celia's pretty neck.

He wrenched his thoughts from his late wife and back to other failures. He knew it had been a mistake allowing others to usurp his duties to Griffith. If Wickham won, Dunstan would never have a chance to know the boy, to teach him how to get on in the world, to instill in him pride for who he was, so that he could march forth into life with full confidence in himself. A boy needed a father for that. Stupid of him to realize it only now.

Letting Celia live in London without him had been the act of a fool, too. Had he been there, perhaps he could have steered her away from soulless devils like the Wickham brothers and their friends. If he got out of here alive, perhaps he could guide Leila's nephew away from those dangerous shoals, though he hadn't done it for Celia.

He would do anything for Leila, even put up with her spoiled nephew so she could have her flowers. What he felt for Leila surpassed any meager infatuation he might ever have felt for Celia.

He wanted to grow old sitting beside the fire with her, watching their children romp and play, hearing her intelligent opinions of his fine ideas, and listening to the results of her latest experiments. Agony twisted his heart at the thought of never knowing to what extent she could develop her fascinating gifts.

He'd thought marriage a mere acquisition of possessions and had had no understanding of its true meaning until now—when it might be too late.

Dunstan buried his face in his hands at his mental list of rank negligence.

He'd fathered a babe out of lust and not love, conceiving another child that he might never watch grow.

Leila had said she admired him, and he'd brushed it off. She had been telling him something, and as usual, he'd shut his mind and hadn't listened.

It was much easier to be scornful and judgmental than to take the time to understand. Perhaps she ought to stay out of his reach, as silk should be kept from mud.

Yet she'd stood there in that doorway, listened to an honest man give certain proof of his guilt, and still she miraculously believed in him.

His guilt and doubt could destroy a woman he admired and loved beyond all others.

He loved her.

Rocking his head back to slam against the thick plank behind him, Dunstan stared at a glimmer of light coming from between the boards of the door to his prison. If he truly loved Leila, he ought to trust and believe in her. She'd said he was innocent. If he believed in her as she did in him, then he couldn't be guilty, despite the evidence stacked against him.

A
murderer
still
ran
loose.
Somewhere in his mind, he'd known that, but it had taken this dark moment to acknowledge it.

Apprehension clenched Dunstan's stomach as he saw past himself and his guilt to the truth. He was locked behind barred doors, and Leila was out there while a cold-blooded killer roamed free.

Rage shoved panic aside even before he heard the hiss of a whisper behind his head.

“Dad, are you there?”

Griffith.
What was the damned boy doing here with a killer loose? Dunstan slammed his fist into the wall until it shook. “Where are your uncles? Tell them to get me out of here! There's a murderer out there.”

Silence. Then Ewen's voice intruded. “How did you know that? Your investigator just got here.”

Oh damn, oh double damn, he had to get out of here. Dunstan scanned the walls, panicking at the knowledge in Ewen's voice. “Where is Leila? Lock her up somewhere.
Get
me
out
of
here.
” He ran his hands over the solid planks, searching for a rotted one, a weakness, anything. Taking a deep breath, he tried to think. “What did Handel find out?”

“He followed Wickham last night,” Ewen answered.

Dunstan quit pounding on the planks and listened. “Wickham? Where did the bastard go?”

“To a pawnshop.” Ewen hesitated, as if checking to be certain no one heard. “The proprietor wouldn't let Handel in after Wickham left, so he had to wait until this morning.”

“What did he learn?” Dunstan continued running his hands over the planks, searching for a rotten board.

“Wickham retrieved some jewels last night. Handel just brought us a description. Griffith thinks they sound like Celia's.”

“Wickham?”
Dunstan couldn't conceive of it. That effete mouse dropping? Why would he know where to find Celia's jewels? Lord John was the dangerous one, wasn't he? The one who had destroyed Leila's lab?

“One of you, keep an eye on Leila before she does something dangerous,” Dunstan shouted. “Then get me out of this damned barn, so I can wring Wickham's neck and pull the truth out of him.”

“I just sent Griffith over to the inn.” Ewen kept his voice low. “Joseph's already there. But neither of them will persuade the fool woman to listen. You're the only one she'll heed. Can't you rip off the stall door?”

“Don't you think I would have if I could?” Dunstan bellowed in frustration. “The gems, they're evidence, aren't they? Can't you make the constable ask Wickham about Celia's jewelry?”

“Wickham passed the jewels to someone else last night,” Ewen finally admitted. “We think he's hired someone to conceal them among your belongings.”

Hellfire
and
damnation.
Of course he had. Wickham might as well have said it aloud when he suggested it to the constable.

“Staines,” Dunstan muttered. “He'll send them with Staines and hide them in the tenant house.”

Wickham had known where to find Celia's jewels. Mealymouthed, smarmy Henry Wickham knew far more about Celia than he ought. George Wickham had had a passion for her, and Henry was trying to frame Dunstan. Where was the connection?

At least Leila's intuition had been vindicated. Another suspect existed besides himself. Fine lot that meant if he hanged and left Leila in the world with a murderer and his son without a father.

With a roar, Dunstan rammed his shoulder against the stable door.