Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

“Not a prayer of that happening, my boy,” the marquess said jovially. “Damn, if I haven’t enjoyed myself this much in an age—not that I wanted to see you harmed, my dear.”

Frances waved this away. “It doesn’t make sense, Hawk, to have the horses eating their heads off, paying trainers, and all for nothing. Besides, if you are truly worried for my safety, I promise not to let myself out of your sight.”

“You are ill,” Hawk said, digging in his heels at the edge of the cliff.

“I shall be just fine in a week,” Frances said. “Flying Davie and Clancy’s Pride are in prime condition. As for Tamerlane, we can leave him well-guarded here.”

“I suppose you have already commissioned another traveling stall for Clancy’s Pride?”

“Of course. Do you not recall my winnings from the York races? It will arrive before we wish to leave.” Actually, she’d borrowed the money from her household accounts. She hoped Hawk wouldn’t remember that she’d sent that two hundred pounds to her sisters.

He wanted to shake her until her smug teeth rattled, but it was to be denied him. He said something very uncomplimentary about the Earl of Ruthven’s antecedents and stomped out of the room.

“The lad will come about,” the marquess said, his voice complacent.

“The lad,” Frances said in an acid voice, “needs to have a swift kick to his ... shins.”

“Just so, my dear. Just so.”

Marcus blurted out, “I am going to marry Miss Melcher!”

“Oh dear,” Frances said, feigning distress, “now my dear husband will taunt me with losing a prime flirt!”

Three days later, Henry’s body was found in an alley in a seamy part of York. He’d been stabbed.

Hawk went on a rampage.

Frances offered Lord Elliston, the magistrate, another cup of tea. He was an older gentleman, and he looked very frail to Frances, until she saw his intense fanatical dark eyes.

Lord Elliston watched the earl pace the drawing room. It was most fatiguing to watch him. He set his teacup down and looked at Lady Frances, a most lovely young lady. Her lips, at the moment, were rather pursed as she followed her husband’s progress.

“I don’t imagine it was the result of a brawl, my lord,” Lord Elliston said after a moment. “One wound, to the heart, clean it was, so to speak.”

“I had no doubt of that at all,” Hawk said.

“A cup of tea, my lord?” Frances said to her husband.

He shook his head impatiently. “Someone must have seen something,” he said after a moment. “I think I shall bring in a Bow Street runner.”

“You are quite right,” Frances said. “I cannot imagine our villain hiring yet another man to do his dirty work.”

“Have you any notion at all, my lord,” Lord Elliston said, “of who could be behind this?”

“Yes,” said Hawk, “but I have no proof.”

“May I ask who?”

“Lord Dempsey,” Hawk said.

Lord Elliston looked not at all surprised. “The man has quite an irregular reputation, I fear. Like you, my lord, I have my own racing stables, nothing grand of course, but still, I am aware of things. Egremont, the Earl of Derby, was telling me some few months ago that the number of supposed gentlemen involved in the racing corruption is most disheartening.” He rose to his feet. “I think your idea of hiring a Bow Street runner a good one, my lord. Perhaps you can speak of your concerns to the Duke of Portland. He will be at Newmarket. You know what he says, of course, about racing: ‘Luck or skill or knavery decides the victory.’ ”

“Damn,” said Hawk. “Frances, go rest now, you’re looking somewhat peaked. Marcus, come with me. We shall send a message today to Bow Street.”

29

What bloody man is that?

—SHAKESPEARE