Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

“Yes. When I sold out, things still were in chaos. There are rumors flying about that Napoleon plans to invade Russia. One but prays that it will be ill-fated.”

“Ah,” said Ruthven, “here is my son, Alex.”

The very image of his father, Hawk thought at the sight of the small boy standing in the open doorway of the nursery, his clear gray eyes fastened upon Hawk’s face.

“Do your best, boy,” Ruthven said, grinning down at his son.

“How do you do?” said Alex very formally, extending a small, somewhat grubby hand.

“I survive, Alex,” said Hawk, and gravely shook the boy’s hand.

Ruthven said, “I see that Adelaide hasn’t cleaned you up, lad. Doubtless ‘tis all the excitement with the girls.”

“Viola’s gown nearly made Adelaide blind,” said Alex with some disgust. “You should have heard Viola simpering and carrying on in front of her mirror ... such a ninny!”

“That will be enough, I think,” said Ruthven. “Now, lad, off you go. Adelaide is most certainly ready for your lessons. You can get to know his lordship better after a while.”

“Aye,” said Alex.

Hawk watched the boy dash down the long, rather barren corridor. “You are lucky, sir,” he said. “A fine boy.”

“Yes, he is,” said Ruthven. “Now, Rothermere, here is your chamber. Marta cleaned it up quite nicely.”

“Call me Hawk.”

Ruthven raised an eyebrow.

“A name that has followed me from the army. Rothermere was my brother’s name for so long, I can’t accustom myself to it yet.”

“Ah yes, Nevil. A pity.” Ruthven strode into the chamber, standing aside for Hawk.

It was a wonderful room, Hawk thought, staring about him at the dark wood-paneled walls, the blackened fireplace, and the majestic bed that sat in isolated splendor in the middle of the room. There was but an old armoire against one wall and a winged chair in front of the fireplace. There was one red wool carpet on the floor, small and faded.

“This is Frances’ room,” Ruthven said blandly, watching the earl’s reaction at this announcement.

Hawk turned to look at his host in some amazement, a look that was not lost on Ruthven. There was no evidence at all that a young lady spent her time here. Of course, Hawk thought, Frances was such a pitiful, homely little thing, she probably didn’t want any mirrors or dressing tables about to remind her of her looks.

“I’ll leave you and see that your man is sent up,” said Ruthven. “Dinner is early here, six o‘clock.” He nodded and left the room.

I am going to kill Frances, Ruthven decided, striding back downstairs. I am going to wring her neck, shake her until her teeth rattle, then I’m going to thrash her until she can’t sit!

Suddenly he laughed deeply. One never knew what to expect from Frances. At least she was never boring, curse her!

3

Was ever woman in this humor won?

—SHAKESPEARE

Frances was easing out of the kitchen door, freedom in sight, when she heard her father’s roar.

“Frances!”

Her hand tightened on the doorframe, and one foot snaked past the step.

“Frances, if you take one more step, I’ll murder you!”

Angus, the Ruthven woodsman, and Donald, a halfwitted boy whose job it was to muck out the stables and run errands for the cook, Doris, stared between master and daughter, saying nothing. No one said anything when the earl flew into one of his occasional rages. Frances believed all their people were proud of her father’s outbursts, and retold around peat fires in the winter how they had seen the earl do this or say that. Now, she thought, I will be the subject of a story. Angus spit in the corner, and shrugged, but Frances wasn’t fooled, he was all attention.