Must Be Magic (22 page)

Dunstan
remained
on
top
of
the
wall
and
crossed
his
arms
to
hide
the
pain
at
the
mention
of
his
adulterous
wife's name. Which one of her many lovers was this? Judging from the richness of the silk coat, he'd say one of the wealthy, aristocratic ones. Celia liked titles. “They're not Celia's. They belong to the earl.”

The
young
man
shrugged. “The lady says they're hers. My pair went lame, and she offered these.”

“The lady lies.” Dunstan tried not to bellow and frighten the high-strung animals. “If the horses are hers, why does she not come to the door and ask for them?”

The
mare
flung
her
head, and Celia's drunken victim nearly fell over his feet to maintain his hold. Recovering, he grimaced. “The lady is afraid of her husband.”

Fury
flooded
Dunstan's reason.
The fool lordling didn't even know who he was.

He
didn't know whether his anger was directed at himself for the lack of sophistication that failed to distinguish him from his tenants, or at Celia for her treachery. It scarcely mattered since the result was the same.

“Apparently Celia isn't afraid that her husband will hang you for a horse thief,” he answered cynically.

Stepping
down
the
other
side
of
the
stile, Dunstan began crossing the pasture, debating whether to collar the fool and heave him into a steaming pile of horse shit or kick him all the way back to Baden and Celia.

To
his
annoyance, the young man produced a pistol from his coat pocket. “Don't come near me! I'll report you to the authorities.”

This
close, Dunstan recognized the shivering idiot as one of the fast set Celia used to invite to Ives
—
George
Wickham, heir to an earldom.

At
the
same
time
that
Dunstan
remembered
him, Georgie Boy saw past Dunstan's rough clothes and flushed with recognition. “Ives! I should think even an ignorant hayseed would have sense enough to keep his distance when his wife asks for what's rightfully hers.”

Ignorant
hayseed! Dunstan's temper soared. Stalking across the remaining distance, he rolled his fingers into fists.

Panicking, Wickham dropped the horse's reins and gripped the pistol with both hands. “For my lady's honor, I challenge you to meet me.”

Honor.
As
if
Celia
possessed
a
shred
of
it. Eyeing the shaking pistol with disdain, Dunstan calculated his chances of disarming the drunken rake to be fairly good, but he wasn't much interested in contracting lead poisoning if he could avoid it. His fingers itched to remove Wickham's empty head from his noble shoulders, but his rage was directed more at Celia than her latest victim. “Go back to Celia and tell her to buy her own damned horses.”

“I'm challenging you to a duel!” the lad screamed. “You cannot treat a lady as you have and not expect to die for it.”

Impatiently, Dunstan approached the armed thief. No one deserved to die over Celia, but he would send the nodcock back to her smelling like the horses he would steal.

“I'm warning you, Ives! You cannot beat me as you do her. Produce your weapon, sir.” Wickham retreated another step.

Beat her!
Dunstan
snorted
at
the
ridiculousness
of
the
lie. “If I'd beat the damned woman, she'd not be alive to torment either of us now.”

Rather
than
argue
further, Dunstan lunged for the lunatic. Wickham dodged, and Dunstan's fist grazed his weak jaw. Caught off balance by the blow, Wickham lurched backward. Heel sliding in a pile of fresh manure, he shrieked as he slipped and tumbled over
—
falling
on
his
gun
arm.

The
weapon
discharged, smoke filled the air, and to Dunstan's horror, the Honorable George Wickham lay sprawled in a pile of horse shit, his life's blood seeping from a gaping wound in his side.

***

“‘Out, damn spot!'” Dunstan
muttered as he sat on the marble steps outside his brother's rural mansion, staring at the damning iron-red spot crusted on his boot.

Dipping
his
handkerchief
into
the
tankard
of
ale
beside
him, he attempted to rub the offending blot from the muddy leather. “
Macbeth
,” he grunted. “I'm not an ignorant hayseed.” Wickham's insult still rankled, but his adversary was no longer alive to hear his argument. The horror of that pool of blood formed a blank wall of denial beyond which Dunstan couldn't see.

“Sir?” the sheriff's assistant inquired uneasily while the sexton and a field hand loaded the body of the once Honorable George onto a cart.

Dunstan
raised
his
glower
from
his
boot
to
the
young
man, who was shaking in his. Dunstan had no weapon except his fists, but that was all he needed to frighten the boy.

Why
the
hell
had
Celia
sent
George
Wickham
to
steal
Drogo's horses? Dunstan couldn't send the frightened assistant into the devil's den to ask.

He closed his eyes and let the deputy off the hook. “‘It hath been often said that it is not death, but dying, which is terrible.' I always liked Fielding's satire.” Boot cleaned, he drained the tankard of ale, rose from the stone stoop, and glared at the sheet-covered body in the cart.

“‘The grave's a fine and private place, but none, I think, do there embrace.'” But
quoting
poets
wouldn't answer the question at hand, he knew. “Guess I'd better find the bitch, tell her she's not embracing the Honorable George anymore.” He dreaded the confrontation. An entire barrel of ale wouldn't numb him sufficiently to make it bearable.

The
sheriff's deputy looked mildly alarmed. “Sir, I know it was a matter of self-defense, and your brother is the magistrate, but perhaps you should let someone else speak with the lady…”

Dunstan watched the cart carrying the body rumble down the lane, away from the estate, and shook his head. “‘Affection is enamour'd of thy parts, And thou are wedded to calamity.' Calamity, she should have been called.”

Celia
could
drive
a
man
to
murder.

When
a
footman
arrived
with
a
silver
tray, tankards, and a pitcher of ale, Dunstan poured a fresh cup of fortification. “Liquid courage, it is.”

The
deputy
glared
at
the
footman. “He should be taken to his chambers. A man just died here. This is a serious matter.”

The
footman
shrugged. “He don't quote poetry 'cept when he's cup-shot. Ain't seen him like this”
—
the
liveried
lad
wrinkled
his
nose
in
thought
—
“since the mistress left him back a year or so ago.”

Dunstan
glowered
at
the
loquacious
footman, set the empty tankard on the tray, and stalked toward the stable muttering, “‘Of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs.'”

Not
being
one
to
stick
his
head
in
a
noose, the deputy dismissed any further attempt to stop him the moment Dunstan ripped the stout oak bar from the stable and flung it halfway across the yard.

***

Dunstan
didn't remember much of how he'd reached the inn in Baden, but once there, the landlord confirmed what Dunstan had already known. His adulterous wife was waiting upstairs for the return of her lover. No amount of ale could erase that damnable tiding.

“Celia!” Dunstan bellowed as he pounded the wooden door of her chamber. “I need to talk with you.”

She
laughed, the light, tinkling laugh that had once caused his gut to clench with desire. She always laughed at his bellows. Or yelled back. That last time, she'd run away.

Mind
reeling, Dunstan rubbed his aching forehead and steadied himself. He was a big man who could handle his liquor. He'd never passed out from drink before. Of course, he'd never watched a man die either. Maybe he had drunk a wee bit more than usual, but he was thinking straight enough to know it wasn't seemly to shout his news about George from the hall.

Contemplating
the
stout
door
standing
between
himself
and
his
faithless
wife, Dunstan allowed his rage to build, replacing the guilt and shame of watching a weak young man bleed to death for no good reason at all.

Celia
had
told
George
Wickham
that
Dunstan
beat
her. She'd sent him to steal horses she'd known weren't hers. She knew Wickham carried a pistol. She knew Dunstan didn't even
own
one.

The
callousness
of
her
behavior
filled
Dunstan
with
such
rage
that
he
ripped
the
chamber
door
from
its
leather
hinges
with
one
good
pull.

“You meant for George to kill me!” Dunstan flung the door down the stairs and strode into the room.

Beautiful, sophisticated Celia stood in the room's center, laughing, undismayed at his crude entrance. “Of course, dear, but I figured you had even odds. George isn't very smart. How is he?”

In
a
moment
of
crystal
clarity, Dunstan comprehended the enormity of his wife's duplicity. She'd drained him of every penny he possessed, run up debts in his name far higher than he could pay in a lifetime, and knowing she no longer possessed the power to twist him to her wishes, she must have decided he was expendable. She had hoped Wickham would kill him and free her to marry another.

That
poor
pitiful
creature
back
there
had
paid
the
price
of
her
scheming. Without wondering why she was willing to sacrifice her lover, Dunstan let his last flickering ember of affection for her die into ashes. “George is dead, may you rot in purgatory,” he declared.

He
reached
for
her, staggered, and blacked out.

***

“And that's the last I remember.”

Sick to his stomach, Dunstan watched out the carriage window rather than look at the lovely woman seated across from him. He held his breath in fear of her scorn.

“You passed out,” she said without a shred of doubt.

His breath expelled in relief. He didn't understand why or how, but she believed what he could not. “I didn't drink enough to pass out. They found Celia dead and me sleeping in the hall outside. I must have staggered there somehow.”

“Then we must discover who entered Celia's room after you left.”

“No one,” he asserted now that they were on familiar territory. “The sheriff and Drogo and my hired investigator have all inquired about the inn's occupants. It was the usual assortment of farmers and shopkeepers she never would have acknowledged. None of them stirred themselves to go upstairs to her rescue while I bellowed at her. They only discovered us when one of them stumbled over me in the dark later.”