Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

1

Wedding is destiny, and hanging likewise.

—JOHN HEYWOOD

England 1810

Philip Evelyn Desborough Hawksbury, Earl of Rothermere, handed his gloves and riding cloak to the marquess’s butler, Shippe, glanced briefly toward the array of footmen who hovered nearby in the great entryway of Chandos Chase, and said quietly, “How does my father?”

Shippe, as tall as the young master, and blessed with a greater sense of his own worth, unbent slightly at the concern he saw in the earl’s eyes and said, “His lordship is resting, my lord. I know that he wishes to see you the moment you arrive.”

Hawk nodded, looking about him a moment at the vast house that was at the present moment quiet as a tomb. Even the liveried footmen looked like statues. It was as if there had already been a death. He resolutely dismissed that morbid thought and added over his shoulder to Shippe, “I’ve left my valises in the curricle.”

“I shall see to it immediately, my lord.”

“Please see that my valet, Grunyon, is fed, Shippe.” A small smile flickered in his eyes. “He’s testy after such an invigorating journey.”

“Certainly, my lord.”

Hawk turned and strode across the endless entryway, the heels of his Hessians clicking loudly on the black Italian marble squares. He took the wide oak staircase two steps at a time, remembering briefly how as a young boy he’d dashed up and down these stairs, falling once and breaking his right arm. His older brother, Nevil, who’d been chasing him, had stood at the top and laughed. Hawk shook his head at the memory. There was no more Nevil to laugh or do anything else. Nevil was dead. It is so quiet, he thought again, his eyes going briefly toward the dozen or so huge portraits of past Hawksburys that climbed the wall beside the staircase, all of them inhabitants of Chandos Chase, the seat of the Marquess of Chandos for more than three hundred years. This was his first visit in more than four months. And his father was ill, possibly dying. He felt his heart rate quicken with fear.

He turned at the top of the landing toward the east wing and quickly made his way down the immense carpeted corridor to the large double doors that opened onto his father’s bedchamber. He raised a gloved hand to knock, shook his head at himself, and quietly let himself in. His father’s bedchamber was vast, very warm, and in the early evening, it was filled with long, dismal shadows.

Gold brocade curtains were drawn over the windows, and for a moment Hawk felt his breathing quicken at the feeling of being closed in. His eyes went to the grandly ornate bed on its three-foot dais. He could make out his father’s form, but the dim candlelight shadowed his face.

“My lord, you are here,” said Trevor Conyon in a subdued voice, coming forward. Conyon was his father’s longtime secretary, a man as rotound as his father was lean, a man blessed with a kind heart and an equally sharp mind. His bald head glittered like a beacon, shiny with sweat. Hawk had long before recognized Conyon’s ceaseless loyalty to his father, had sensed his dislike of Nevil, and wondered what the man thought of him. He was, he thought briefly, still a dark horse of sorts, despite the fact that Nevil had been dead nearly fifteen months now and he, Hawk, was his father’s heir.

“Yes,” Hawk said. “My father?”

“Holding his own, my lord.”

Hawk raised a black brow and Conyon merely nodded toward the bed, saying nothing more.

“Father,” Hawk said, stepping onto the dais and leaning down to the quiet figure. “I’m here.”

Charles Linley Beresford Hawksbury, the Marquess of Chandos, slipped a bony hand from beneath the brocade coverlet to clasp his son’s strong fingers. “It’s about time, boy,” he said.

His father should have been called Hawk, the earl thought, staring down at his father’s pale face, with that jutting nose of his. He met his father’s intense hooded green eyes, eyes a shade darker than his own, and lightly touched his fingertips to the thick silver hair, smoothing it back from his broad forehead.

“Yes,” he said, “I came as quickly as I could. I received Conyon’s message last night. How are you feeling, Father?”

“Could be my last prayers,” the marquess said, his voice sounding more frail than before, weaker. “Well, it doesn’t matter, I’ve had a full life and a son to be proud of to carry on my line.”

Hawk winced a bit at that, feeling guilt flood him. Some son—carrying on in London as if gaiety were to be outlawed soon and he had to have his fair share before it happened. “You’re not going to die, Father. Where is your doctor?”

“In the kitchen, doubtless stuffing his mouth with Albert’s ham.” The marquess turned his head on the pillow and coughed.

The cough was dry and harsh. Hawk felt himself grow cold with fear, felt his throat choke with tears, and he clutched his father’s hand tightly, wishing that he could give him strength. “What does Trengagel say?”

The marquess slowly eased his head back on the pillow, his eyes closing a moment. When he opened them on his son’s face, Hawk felt seared by their intensity. “He gives me perhaps two or three more weeks. It’s this congestion in my lungs. The fool wants to bleed my life away but I won’t let him.”

“No, Father, you are right. I saw men fade into death when the damned leeches bled them after battle.”

The marquess heard the deep pain in his son’s voice, and said softly, “You saw too much, my boy. But you’re strong, you survived. The horror of it will grow less, you will see. Now, I must speak to you, Hawk.”

“You’re tired, Father,” Hawk began.

“No,” the marquess said firmly. “Listen to me. I will live to see your wife, see that you take that wife, as you promised to do.”

Hawk felt himself stiffen at those words. That damnable oath! He’d forgotten; perhaps he’d wanted to forget about it.

Hawk slowly seated himself on the edge of his father’s bed. The time had come and there was no way out of it, he knew. For nearly a year now he’d managed to escape the inevitable, throwing himself into the wildness and ceaseless gaiety of London—gambling, drinking, fighting. Not whoring. He didn’t do that for the simple reason that he didn’t want the French pox. He’s seen too many soldiers rot with that. He thought of Amalie, his fun-loving and passionate mistress, and closed his eyes a moment. A wife. He didn’t want a damned wife, not now. But there was no hope for it.

“Go to Scotland, son, and chose your wife, then bring her to me.”

I don’t want to marry some little savage from Scotland, tie myself to a female I’ve never even seen, all because of your damned honor, your ridiculous oath made when I was nine years old! Instead, he said, “Yes, Father, I will leave soon. I suppose it would be only fair to send a servant to the Earl of Ruthven and inform him of my coming.”

“Conyon has already seen to it. He dispatched a servant two days ago. You may leave in the morning.”

“I am well caught,” Hawk said, more to himself than to his father. Honor, he thought, was sometimes a damnable thing. He’d said something of the sort a year before when his father had told him of the oath, told him it was his responsibility to make good on that oath. Indeed, he remembered yelling at his father that he should marry one of the girls himself. “ ‘Tis you who owe the Earl of Ruthven your life, not me. Why don’t you elevate one of his sniveling daughters in the world? Make her your wife? Why leg-shackle me to some unknown girl? I did nothing, save be your damned son! Why didn’t you force Nevil to do the dirty work for you?” And his father had said, very quietly, “I wouldn’t have forced Nevil on a Soho trollop.”

“It’s not as if you’re taking a pig in a poke, Hawk,” the marquess said, eyeing the myriad expressions on his son’s face from beneath his heavily lidded eyes. “You’ve the choice of three young ladies. One of them is certain to please you. Alexander Kilbracken is a fine-looking man. He wou

ldn’t birth any trolls. You are fortunate that none of the daughters has yet married.”

“So you’ve said, many times,” Hawk said, and sighed deeply.

“You’re nearly twenty-seven, son. Time to set up your nursery and ensure the succession.” The old marquess allowed himself to cough again, his frail shoulders shaking.

“Yes, I promise, Father,” Hawk said quickly, pain at his father’s distress subduing his resentment. He thought of Lady Constance, daughter of the Earl of Lumley, well-dowered and beautiful, still hopeful of a proposal from him that would never come, that could have never come in any case. Damned honor, he thought again. He couldn’t believe that he would marry a nobody with no property, no wealth, no connections, all because Alexander Kilbracken, Earl of Ruthven, impoverished laird, had saved his father’s life in Scotland seventeen years before.

And I am the prize, he thought. For what that’s worth to anyone. Damn Nevil for dying! If only he had married one of the Kilbracken daughters before he’d drowned. Hawk shook his head at the less-than-charitable thoughts. He knew that his father had chosen him to carry through on his vow, and not because he was the second son. What had Nevil done to earn their father’s dislike? Hawk didn’t know, not really. He hadn’t seen Nevil for three years before his death. “Life is very unexpected,” he said aloud.

“Indeed,” said the marquess, his voice rumbling and deep. “You are tired, my boy, and you must rest before your journey. You will bid your farewells to me in the morning.”

“Father,” Hawk said, and the marquess knew his favored son was frightened that his father would be dead by morning.

“No, Hawk. I shall be fine—for several weeks yet. I will live to see your wife, ‘tis a promise.”

Hawk felt tears clog his throat and shook his head. “You have never broken a promise to me,” he said. “Never.”

“I do not intend to begin now. Go now, my boy. I wish you well with your courting.”

It was dismissal and Hawk rose as quickly as he had when he was younger, heeding his father’s orders. He looked toward Conyon, standing silently at the foot of the bed, lightly daubing a handkerchief over his bald head, but Conyon lowered his head.

“I will return with my bride as soon as is possible,” Hawk said, turned, then paused a moment. “You will be all right, Father.”

“I will be waiting,” the marquess said. “Hawk ...”

Hawk stared down at his father, trying to control the burning tears that threatened to overflow.

“You’re a son to be proud of.”

Hawk could only nod. He turned and strode from the bedchamber.

At seven o‘clock the following morning, Hawk bid his father good-bye, relieved that he looked no weaker. He had a hard journey before him, five days to the northern end of Loch Lomond, where the Earl of Ruthven lived in Castle Kilbracken. Another week to select one of the daughters, he thought, as he tooled his matched grays down the long drive lined by naked-branched elm trees, then a couple of days to let her ready herself for her marriage, then five days to return. No, he silently amended to himself, with a lady, it would take him longer to return. Damned weak women. Damned miserable situation. He cursed softly under his breath.

“We’re going to Scotland.” Grunyon said the obvious after some twenty miles of silence.