Must Be Magic (24 page)

Drogo tapped his fingers impatiently against his thigh. “Both of you are of an age to know what you want. I've enough to do with the younger ones. I will support you in whatever decision you make. You know you're welcome to return to Ives or to take charge of the Wystan estate in Northumberland, should you wish. I have no doubts about your competence. An Ives female!” The earl rolled his eyes heavenward and stalked out, leaving Dunstan to stare at the yellow-silk walls.

Free to do anything he liked…

But he could do nothing at all until he cleared his name—as the duchess had so bluntly pointed out.

With that goal firmly in mind, Dunstan shouted for Joseph, who would no doubt be hiding in the walls and have heard everything already.

Griffith appeared in company with his curly-haired uncle. Joseph and Griffith were eight years apart in age, miles apart in experience. For a moment, Dunstan hesitated. He didn't want to involve his son in this investigation. He didn't want Griffith exploring dangerous city streets. He wanted to keep him sheltered—yet he could not.

Dunstan pointed at the door. “The two of you, find David and Paul.” His youngest half brothers were never in school where they belonged. “If Ewen is in town, call him in as well. We're about to search all the pawnshops in London.”

“How can Griffith help?” Joseph demanded. “He knows nothing of London.”

“Teach him,” Dunstan ordered. Joseph and his two younger brothers had a fairly strong grasp of what it took to keep a lively Ives mind occupied. He could trust them with his son. “The two of you can visit the better shops. He might recognize Celia's jewels faster than any of you can.”

The pride he saw in Griffith's expression nearly broke his heart. He should have included his son long before now. He prayed that he had many years left to spend with him.

Joseph broke into a grin. “Finally decided you didn't murder the twit, did you? Good. Now we'll get somewhere.”

Slapping Dunstan's back in satisfaction, Joseph dashed out with Griffith hot on his heels.

When the hell had his shy baby half brother grown into a confident man-about-town?

Dunstan sighed at the impossibility of dealing with London and fatherhood and murderers and matters he knew nothing about.

Remembering the command of Leila's aunt and mother, he added a trip to the tailor to the list of impossible things he had to do. He mustn't shame Leila at Felicity's come-out.

He would rather wrestle crazed killers than attend a frippery ball.

“You've had time enough to interview half of London,” Dunstan declared, pacing the parlor and jerking back the velvet curtains to discover the current source of the racket out on the street.

Viscount Handel, his personable investigator, merely crossed his leg over his knee and smiled. “And so I have. Your late wife had a large and varied circle of friends.”

“All male,” Dunstan said with derision.

“Mostly,” Handel agreed. “Men prefer to dally with married ladies. Less consequence, particularly if the husband is disinterested.”

Forced to confront the idea that he must have seemed a disinterested husband to Celia's paramours, Dunstan winced at the guilt inflicted by Handel's observation. He turned away from the sight of a carriage driver shouting curses at a pedestrian in the street below and sank into a chair.

Was
his
guilt
even
greater
because
somewhere
in
his
soul
he
was
glad
Celia
was
dead?
Rubbing his forehead, Dunstan tried not to think that. It was almost worse than believing he might have killed her in a drunken fit. Whatever Celia had been, she hadn't deserved to die.

“Did any of Celia's lovers happen to be in the vicinity of Baden the night she died?” Dunstan asked.

Handel shrugged. “Not that they'll admit. I've been investigating alibis as best I'm able. The height of the Season had not begun, so the entertainments here in London were few. Lady Willoughby held a soiree, and many of Celia's friends attended that night. They can attest for each other.”

“How many does that leave unaccounted for?” Dunstan demanded with impatience.

“That depends on who would have a motive to kill her. There doesn't seem to be any. George Wickham was head over heels in love with her. Lord John Albemarle was seen with her upon more than one occasion, but he's unmarried and seeking a wealthy wife, so that's of no account. There's a Sir Barton Townsend who frequents that crowd, but no more so than half a dozen others. Even Lady Leila's young nephew, Lord Staines, was known to have gambled in her company when he was down from school. I'm exploring Celia's favorite gaming houses, hoping to uncover someone who might have owed her a large sum. That's my only theory at the moment. That, or she knew something she shouldn't.”

Could the laughing, lovely girl child he'd married be guilty of blackmail? It didn't seem likely, but she must have supported her lifestyle somehow. “See if Sir Bryan Trimble was in London then. He's a baronet from near Bath. Apparently Celia humiliated him.”

Even as he made the suggestion, Dunstan couldn't believe he was using information gained from a Malcolm vision to search for a murderer.

Then again, since Leila was the Malcolm in question, perhaps it wasn't so odd—no more so than his belief that she could smell emotion.

“My brothers do not go about much in society, but if there's any way they can help, they're willing,” Dunstan continued. “Give us a list of people and questions, and we'll start on it. There's some chance Celia may have been robbed, so we're trying to locate her jewels.” He didn't care to explain that a Malcolm child thought Celia had had at least one of her jewels with her in Baden, and it had disappeared along with all the rest.

Handel's brows drew together in thought. “Excellent idea. I had assumed that you—or the earl—gave her an allowance, but was there some chance she pawned them?”

“I gave her no allowance.” Dunstan peered glumly out the window again.

“I should have asked.” The viscount thrummed his fingers on his crossed knee. “Tracing her income could be significant. She rented a small flat, but it was located in an expensive area. Someone was paying.”

“Perhaps she paid with the jewels I bought her, since they were never found.”

“George Wickham had an allowance, but he wasn't wealthy.” Handel rose from the chair, apparently eager to follow this new lead. “Neither is Lord John. Perhaps Sir Barton Townsend. He wasn't seen with her much, but they flirted publicly. They might have had an arrangement. I'll inquire more deeply.”

“I need to pay you for your efforts so far.” Dunstan retreated toward the desk. “You must have expenses.”

Handel shook his head. “This investigation gives me a good excuse to spend my evenings in gaming houses and bad company. I assure you, it's no more than I would have spent on my own. I'll charge you handsomely for my bad habits when I solve the crime.”

Dunstan had the uneasy feeling that Drogo was paying the man, but he couldn't argue. He would repay his brother when his crop came in. “Keep me apprised of all suspects. The more eyes and ears we have, the faster we'll learn.”

Handel nodded. “I'm glad of your help. See you at Lady Felicity's come-out this evening?”

“I'll be there.”

***

“You're not wearing black,” Leila exclaimed, hurrying across the empty dance floor toward the man towering at the top of the grand entrance staircase leading into the ballroom. That he'd chosen to dress fashionably rather than appear as a brooding menace to society warmed a piece of her frozen heart. “The green is absolutely perfect on you.”

Dunstan frowned at his elegant frock coat and gold-and-white-striped silk vest, then shrugged and fastened his dark gaze on her. “The tailor said this color is all the fashion. Looks like parrot feathers to me. He said I couldn't wear popular styles but this one would suit. I'm not certain but what I've been insulted.”

His lack of vanity melted Leila's heart a little more. “He means you are much too broad and manly to be encased in padding and frippery. He's chosen an excellent cut for you instead. You will set the fashion this season.”

Apparently mollified, he stomped down one side of the split semicircular staircase leading to the lowered floor of the ballroom. Located on the third floor of the marquess's London residence, the ballroom was designed for impressive entrances. He glanced with curiosity at the glittering candles and festive ropes of flowers on the high ceiling. “Why did you ask me here early?”

“I thought you might be more comfortable if you were already ensconced in the gaming room when the crowds arrived. Besides, I wanted to see you before I'm lost to family duties.” Leila smoothed his cravat, not because it needed it, but because she wished to touch him.

He quirked a supercilious eyebrow. “Did you wish to see if I would shame you by wearing boots and moth-eaten wool?”

She batted her fan against his nose. “I wished for you to kiss me, but now I do not. Go sulk in the conservatory, but try not to throw anyone over the balconies this evening. It's Felicity's first ball, and she's terrified.”

A dark gleam lit his eye, and in the second before she realized she'd thrown down a gauntlet, Dunstan clasped her waist, crushed her panniers, and hauled her into his arms. She had time only to grab his shoulders for balance before he bent her backward and took her mouth with the soul-stirring kiss that she had spent nights dreaming of.

“Leila,” a panicked girlish voice called from the landing of the private floor below the ballroom. “Where are you? I cannot wear these gloves!”

Dunstan lowered her slowly to the floor again, not completely releasing her. Gasping, Leila raised a hand to her heated cheek. She'd never had a suitor accept her challenge and act on it. She'd best learn not to tease men like Dunstan.

She didn't think another man like Dunstan existed. In his presence, all others paled to foppish caricatures. By the goddesses, what was he doing to her? She ought to be more in command of herself.

“Give me some task so I do not lose my mind these next hours,” he demanded, returning her to her senses.

“What did your investigator say?” Leila asked. “Did he give you names of suspects? Perhaps we can question them together.”

“I don't like involving you any more than I already have. My brothers are helping me.” Before she could argue, Dunstan eyed her stack of inky curls. “It's not fashionable.”

“Anything I do is fashionable.” She slapped his arm with her fan, irritated by his refusal of her aid but softened by his look of approval. “Do you like it?”

“I like that you did it for me.” Appreciation rumbled through his tone and gleamed in his eye.

The man didn't know a word of polite flattery, but his blunt honesty had her hot and flustered and wondering how the evening might end. “Go hide where you will, and I'll find you later,” she ordered.

He looked amused but stepped away so she might flee to her sister.

By the time the first guests arrived and the family had formed a receiving line to greet them, Dunstan was nowhere to be seen. Leila kept an anxious eye on the ballroom, but she couldn't expect him to be loitering there, admiring the decorations.

The first indication that all was not as it should be came with a scent Leila could only describe as buoyant. She'd never before attempted to identify scents or connect them with character traits. “Buoyancy” didn't seem to be a quality other people noticed.

Nervously, she glanced over the rapidly filling ballroom. The musicians had taken their places in their balcony and had begun tuning their instruments. Her mother had added the fragrances of pleasure and happiness to all the candles, so the crowd murmured contentedly.

Identifying smells didn't seem to be a very exciting gift, but if it was somehow related to her visions…

Leila glanced uneasily toward the fountain room—in the direction of the conservatory and the apparent source of the whispering disruption below. What could the scent of buoyancy mean?

Leila leaned over to whisper in Felicity's ear. “Did you invite more than one Ives?”

Still holding out her gloved hand to the next guest, Felicity cast her a sidelong glance. “I invited all of them. Should I not have?”

“Depends on how much you wish your guests to talk about your first entertainment. I think, perhaps, I ought to leave you in
Maman's
capable hands while I investigate.”

Felicity's eyes widened, but she said nothing as Leila flirted with the next gentleman in line, caught up her skirts, and took his arm to descend to the ballroom as if she'd planned it all along.

Once on the main floor, she escaped in the direction of the fountain room. Before she reached it, an iridescent bubble bumped her nose and popped. Another bubble caught in the lace of her elbow-length sleeves, and a few more sparkled like diamonds against her long gloves. Around her, shimmering clouds of tiny bubbles rose on the breezes of the two-story ballroom, reflected in the mirrored walls, and drifted upward on air heated by hundreds of candles.

Their guests murmured in wonder and delight as the more observant among them elbowed their way toward the source of this new entertainment. Leila didn't have to wonder. She knew.

She bit back laughter and maneuvered her way through the crowd. She was quite certain she had not smelled the buoyancy of bubbles. They smelled distinctly of soap. She had no notion whatsoever what the dratted man was about, but she knew precisely what she would find when she reached him.

Sweeping into the small antechamber with its bubbling fountain of water circled by velvet sofas, Leila fixed her sights on the broad green-clad shoulders and dark hair rising above a crowd of bewigged gentlemen. Two more men with dark queues had joined him, although how they'd entered without her notice, Leila had no notion.

The fountain frothed with bubbles, and the spray lifted thousands more into the warm air, where a breeze from the open conservatory door blew them toward the ballroom. It was quite the most fascinating sight—except that everywhere she looked, the bubbles popped against silk and left tiny iridescent water stains.

So far, no one had noticed.

She tapped her closed fan against a familiar broad back and almost dissolved beneath the brilliance of Dunstan's grin when he turned to her. “This is your idea of behaving?” she asked pertly.

“Mine,” one of the younger, curly-haired Ives said proudly. “I thought Felicity would enjoy it.”

“Joseph, is it not?” Leila eyed him cautiously. “You're the architect who designed my uncle's folly? I thought Ewen was the inventive one.”

Politely, Dunstan didn't touch her, but she felt as if be had. He stood close, wrapping her with his awareness—and his buoyancy.

He was actually enjoying himself! The real Dunstan Ives had emerged from his brooding shell. For her? She thrilled to the idea.

“They threw Ewen out of school for this trick,” Dunstan answered for his half brother. “Joseph and David merely improved upon his concept.” Dunstan nodded to the second Ives standing beyond Joseph. “They made certain the fountain wouldn't overflow and flood the ballroom as Ewen's did.”

Taller than Joseph, giving signs that he had inherited the same broad shoulders as Dunstan, David colored but made a proper bow. “We have been trying to determine if there was some way of pumping the waters in accompaniment with the music.”

“In accompaniment with the music—of course.” Leila refrained from rolling her eyes and took Dunstan's arm instead. “I shall be certain Felicity thanks you appropriately when she is available. Might I borrow your brother for a moment?”

Before following her, Dunstan caught his brothers' attention. “Remember what I said earlier. Keep your eyes and ears open. David, don't leave Joseph's sight. Don't flash that gaudy thing too much, just make certain the right people see it.”

For the first time, Leila noticed the emerald pinned to the boy's cravat. He reddened at her look, but nodded at Dunstan's orders.

“What are you up to?” she whispered as Dunstan led her toward the conservatory. His size allowed him to saunter through the crowd with ease. Men fell away as they passed. Whispers followed in their wake, but he seemed supremely unaware of them.