Bewitched Read online

  His eyes darkened until they were the color of the stormy sea. His arm around her shoulders tightened, and he subtly drew her closer to his body. For a moment he turned her without answering.

  “Miss Bourne, I think I owe you an apology,” he finally said, very quietly.

  “Indeed, Mr. Stapleton?”

  “Indeed, Miss Bourne.” His hand on her back shifted; instead of just touching her with its side, he now held her with his flat palm, his fingers splayed wide. Her stomach fluttered, and her face felt hot.

  He lowered his head toward her. “You are a woman of exceptional courage.”

  She blinked. A woman of exceptional courage? Her eyes widened and the flutters died. Because of a waltz?

  She just about managed to turn her guffaw into a cough. Hastily, she turned her head to the side and, screening the lower part of her face with her free hand, she indulged in a series of little coughs. Finally, her merriment had sufficiently subsided to allow her to murmur a faint, “Pardon me.” When she risked a look at Mr. Stapleton, she saw that his eyes had narrowed in suspicion as if he knew she had been covering up a fit of giggles. Oh dear.

  “I hope you are not feeling unwell,” he asked stiffly.

  “Oh no. No,” Amy hurried to say. “After all, there is no traipsing around lonely hills after belles dames sans merci to be had in London, is there?”

  Yet no spark of humor or even recognition lit his eyes. Instead, the look he threw her now suggested he assumed she had taken complete leave of her senses.

  Uh-oh. A cold fish and a dolt!

  “You don’t like Keats?”

  At the sound of the hapless poet’s name, a grimace of distaste flickered over Mr. Stapleton’s freckled face. Underneath her fingertips she could feel how his muscles stiffened.

  “No ‘O what can ail thee, wretched wight’?” she prodded.

  His lips thinned. “Mr. Keats’s poetry is too… fanciful for my liking.”

  Heavens! He made it sound as if it were something terribly improper! “Fanciful?” Amy echoed. Quite suddenly she was gripped by the urge to needle him and crack his slick, formal shell. “Ah, so fairy maidens and their dark enchantments are not for you?”

  With a snort, he gripped her hand a little tighter and maneuvered them past another dancing couple. “My dear Miss Bourne,” Mr. Stapleton said, and managed to sound like a stern tutor lecturing a riotous child. “You ought to know that fairies and magic and other such ludicrous things are nothing but figments of the imagination. The products of some poor fellow’s overheated mind. It does not do for the improvement of rational thought to indulge in such flights of fancy.”

  Amy bit her lip. “Ah,” she said. Her stomach muscles quivered with the strain of holding in her laughter.

  “Indeed.” Again, Mr. Carrothead gave a sage nod. “Such drivel should never be published. For who knows? It might even prove dangerous to the impressionable minds of young ladies!”

  Did he really believe in the nonsense he sprouted?

  This time, Amy couldn’t help herself: she burst out laughing. If only he knew!

  ~*~

  Across the ballroom, Miss Isabella Bentham’s fan flicked open and fluttered agitatedly, thus screening the lower half of her face. Her eyes cast daggers at the scene enfolding on the dance floor. “The nerve!” Color came and went in her face. Should all her chances be ruined by that stupid chit? Wasn’t it enough that all men sighed over Amy like a herd of dimwitted mooncalves? No, now she was even cantering around the room, dancing the waltz of all things! Apparently, the country bumpkin had never heard of modest reserve. Even worse: such behavior could only reflect poorly on Isabella. Whatever had her father been thinking to invite that girl into their home? Who cared whether she was the niece of an old friend or not!

  Isabella’s fan swished shut and she strode across the room to where her mother stood chatting with Lady Westerley. “Mama!” she hissed. “Look at that, over there.”

  “Whatever is the matter with you?” Mrs. Bentham turned—and stared. Her hand flew up to cover the base of her throat. She gasped. But then her face darkened dramatically, seemed to turn inward, shrinking into a mask of anger. “Your father must hear of this!”

  ~*~

  In the refreshments room, Mr. Bentham poured himself another glass of punch. “Just another dram to warm these old bones,” he murmured. Surreptitiously, he tugged at his cravat. These horrid tight knots!

  Muttering, he shook his head and took a sip from his punch, and didn’t notice the gentleman stepping up to him.

  “Mr. Bentham. Good evening.”

  Caught by surprise, Bentham choked. Spluttering and coughing, he put his punch glass back on the table. Out of breath and patience, he narrowed his eyes at the stranger, a tall, smiling youth, exquisitely groomed. Why, the polished buttons of his coat shone like small suns. “Do I know you, sir?”

  The man’s smile deepened as he reached for a cup with slender, long fingers and poured himself a cup of tea. The smoky aroma of bergamot wafted up. A splash of lemon drew pale streaks in the reddish brown liquid. The man meticulously stirred, his small, silver spoon clinking against the china.

  Bentham’s furry brows met over his eyes in displeasure. He cleared his throat. “Sir?”

  Unperturbed, the younger man raised the teacup to his lips.

  “What—”

  “We’ve got a mutual friend,” the stranger said.

  “A mutual—”

  The young face turned toward him, a hint of cruelty visible in the twist of the lips. “Lady Margaret,” he said. He took another sip of tea. Over the rim of his cup the light blue eyes, almost as light as water, remained trained on Bentham.

  Bentham felt the blood drain from his face. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and the knot of his cravat seemed even tighter than before. “L-lady Margaret?” He fumbled for a handkerchief, dabbed at his temple.

  “Indeed.” A blond eyebrow rose. “The time has come for her to call in a few, shall we say, debts?”

  “Debts.” Bentham wriggled a finger under the collar of his shirt and tugged.

  “I believe she did you some service several years ago. Some financial service.”

  “Ah … yes. Yes.” With trembling hands Bentham reached for his glass and took a long gulp of punch. “Financial service,” he mumbled. “Yes, Lady Margaret did—”

  “Well, the time has come for repayment.”

  Bentham nearly choked again. Panic rose inside him. How—? When—? “I… there’s…” He swallowed, hard. A wave of nausea rolled through his stomach. It would ruin them. Again. “Now? I mean, I—”

  “Still got that little gambling problem?” The hateful blue eyes threw him a knowing look. The stranger’s lips twitched, as if he found the whole episode highly amusing. “Never fear, Mr. Bentham. Lady Margaret doesn’t expect you to repay in kind.”

  “Not in… So I won’t have to…?” Bentham’s shoulders sagged with relief. “She doesn’t want her money back?”

  “Oh no.” The man momentarily turned his back to put his now-empty teacup on the table. “Lady Margaret never sees her debts repaid with money.” He straightened, his movements as graceful as a cat. “How crude would that be?”

  “Oh. Oh, well…” Bentham pressed his handkerchief against his mouth. He felt lightheaded.

  The other man’s thin lips twitched, as if in silent amusement—as if he knew something Bentham didn’t.

  Bentham frowned. This smooth young bastard! With jerky movements, he stuffed his handkerchief back into place. Indignation made his chest swell. “So, sir, pray tell me how am I supposed to repay my debts?”

  “Quite simple.” Taking a few steps forward, past him, the stranger turned and beckoned with a twist of his chin. “Come.”

  “I don’t see why—”

  Yet the other had already left.

  Disgruntled, Bentham followed the man out to the edge of the dance floor. People whirled past to the notes of a waltz. Bentham sniffed. Quite in
decent, these new continental fashions!

  The stranger stopped in a relatively quiet corner and turned to gaze at the dancers. “Do you believe in justice, Mr. Bentham?” he asked.

  “Justice? Well… I daresay… yes, I—”

  “Good.” The stranger contemplated the dancing couples as if they were intriguing insects under a microscope. “For that is what Lady Margaret wants you to do: help her to satisfy justice.” The man gave him another of these disconcerting stares.

  To satisfy justice? The words made Bentham quake inside. “A duel?” he whispered disbelievingly. How could she expect him to fight a duel for her?

  Again, the stranger laughed. “Nothing quite so dramatic, Mr. Bentham. It’s rather simple, actually: she wants you to open the door for her into the family of the Earl of Rawdon.” The thin lips lifted into an unpleasant smile. “Years ago, Lord Rawdon did my lady a great injustice, and it is time to right it.”

  Bentham rubbed his hands. “Indeed, indeed.” This sounded easy. Most certainly better than repaying the money. “But how am I supposed to—”

  “Lord Rawdon has got a younger brother.” Once more the stranger focused his attention on the dancers. “An unmarried younger brother. And by a happy coincidence you happen to have an unmarried daughter—if you catch my drift.”

  Bentham’s mouth opened. “The… the… I…” Isabella? He was to sacrifice his only daughter?

  The younger man turned his head a little and caught the expression on Bentham’s face, and he laughed-a slick, smooth sound. “Ah, never fear. Your daughter, your real daughter, is quite safe. For by chance, haven’t you happened to gain the responsibility for a young ward?” He cocked his head to the side, wordlessly inviting Bentham to follow his gaze, to look at the dancers.

  Bentham’s eyes widened.

  “A most happy coincidence, don’t you think?” the stranger asked softly. “Bourne’s little brat. Pair her off with him. You will be given some … assistance.”

  “Assistance?” Bentham echoed. Yet when he turned, the stranger had already disappeared.

  ~*~

  “She did what?” Drew burst out laughing. He fell sideways and rolled onto his back on the black leather seat of the carriage. One foot braced against the door, he crossed his hands behind his head and threw his friends a smug look. “Serves you right for attempting to break my heart.”

  They had left the ball and were now headed to other entertainment.

  Fox rolled his eyes. “Soul, ” he corrected in a mutter.

  Cy frowned. “I’ll tell you which part of yours is going to be broken: your neck, if you continue lazing around like this.”

  “Did I say ‘soul’?”

  Fox’s eyebrow arched. “You did.”

  “Fiddle-faddle.” Airily, Drew waved a hand. “You said you were going to break my heart. Don’t you think a man would remember a threat like that?”

  “Or,” Cy continued with a sigh, “you might just bump your head and addle your brains.”

  Fox leaned close. “His brains are already addled,” he disclosed to his friend in a stage whisper.

  “Ha!” Drew struggled upright and pointed a finger at him. “Whom did Miss Bourne laugh at, hmm? You or me?” His smirk flashed a dimple in his cheek.

  Fox couldn’t help himself: he grinned. He had always found Drew’s chubby cheeks highly amusing, given that the rest of the man most definitely did not incline toward chubbiness. Yet, with his curly blond hair and puppylike brown eyes, Drew generally resembled an oversized cherub.

  “Touché.” Still grinning, Fox raised both hands.

  “Got you there, didn’t I?” Drew’s nose wrinkled. Looking like a big, fat tomcat that had just devoured a particularly tasty mouse, he tapped his fingernail against his teeth. “But did you not find her delectable?” A dreamy look came over his face. “A face like a French porcelain doll…”

  “With a body as plump as a peach,” Cy provided helpfully.

  “Ah, no, Cy!” Drew grimaced. “That’s crude.”

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice her body!” His friend shook his head.

  Drew adopted a pious expression. “In matters of the heart, my dear Lord Stafford, a man tends to concentrate on the… um… inner values.”

  Fox and Cyril exchanged a glance before both burst out laughing. “Dear God, Drew!” Cy managed to gasp after a while. He wiped his eyes, which had overflowed with merriment. “These tendres of yours always turn you into a raving lunatic!”

  “Quite true.” Fox agreed with a chuckle. “You spout the most nonsensical notions that would do any March hare proud. Why, it puts a man quite off developing a tendre himself.”

  Drew cocked his head to the side. “Foxy, Foxy, Foxy.” With an expression of utter sadness he shook his head. “Don’t tell me the charms of Miss Bourne left you cool as a cucumber. This would be most shocking indeed!”

  “Ah, Drew, you know how Fox is.” Cy heaved a dramatic sigh. “While we all wallowed in calf love at Eton, not even sweet Nettie at the baker’s could wrench a sigh from the depths of Mr. Stapleton’s chest.”

  A little self-consciously, Fox shrugged. “The little blonde? You know I prefer women of a more Italian hue.” Though he never dabbled in matters of the heart. For those, he had on good authority, could bring a man to ruin in no time at all. He shrugged again, to dislodge the uneasiness which gripped him: the tickle of ice down his spine, the tightening of his guts.

  The bland smile he gave his friends proved a bit difficult to fabricate.

  They were silent for the moment, and the sounds of London intruded into the cozy space inside the Stafford carriage. A city like London never slept—not even in the darkest hours of the night when the Wild Hunt was said to haunt the land.

  Not that such a thing as the Wild Hunt had ever existed, of course. It was nothing but an old wives’ tale, the remains of a pagan past when Britain had been caught fast in the clutches of superstition. Luckily, science and progress had erased all such fancies and replaced them with rational thought. Yes, rational thought. It was something in which Fox believed above all else. Always had. Not for him the fanciful notion of love ever after.

  He rolled his shoulders in an attempt to shake off his irrational worries once and for all. For what was there to feel uneasy about? After having witnessed what had happened to his brother, had he not sworn never to shackle himself to any woman, be it in love or—heaven forbid!—holy matrimony? Not that his friends would understand his rationale; certainly not Drew of the thousand tendres.

  Besides, if Fox ever married, he would have to divulge the crude facts about his birth to his wife. How distasteful would that be? Certainly nothing he wanted to contemplate! There might be other men who were born in similar circumstances and who didn’t seem to care a fig whether the world at large knew about it or not. Fox, by contrast, would never willingly consider making himself vulnerable to society gossip.

  Cyril cleared his throat. “Ah well.” He clapped Fox’s shoulder. “There you’ve got your explanation, Drew, why our friend here wasn’t as smitten with Miss Bourne as you were. Now, then…” He rubbed his hands. “All this talk about women and peaches is enough to make any man lusty, don’t you think?”

  Glad for the change of topic, Fox stretched his limbs and yawned. “Absolutely.” While he might consider matters of the heart, and indeed marriage itself, a waste of time, matters of the flesh were an altogether different cup of tea. “What do you suggest?”

  “Well…” Cy looked from one man to the other. “It all depends on whether you are in the mood for some sweet talking, or just some jaunty rut, doesn’t it?” He looked at them inquiringly.

  Fox glanced at Drew. “A jaunty rut,” they said unison, and grinned.

  “For of sweet talking,” Drew pointed out, “today we most definitely have had enough.”

  “All right, then.” Cy raised his walking stick to rasp against the front partition of the carriage. “In this case I’d suggest Madame Suzette
’s. Any objections, gentlemen?”

  There were none.

  Chapter Two

  The next day, London woke to the news that a young gentleman named Henry Boothby had committed suicide. “His Braynes were Spleweth over the Walls of his Appartement,” one newspaper put it, with a regrettable lack of delicacy and an even more regrettable grasp of orthography. Before he murdered himself, young Mr. Boothby had apparently written a note—printed in whole by the newspaper, of course—saying he could no longer endure the ennui of buttoning and unbuttoning. Sadly, even in death he had to follow the dictates of the fashionable world and sprinkle his sentences with French terms.

  Turning the page, Amy grimaced and started nibbling on another biscuit while she digested other horrors London had to offer.

  In the meantime, Mrs. Bentham’s kitchen maid laid out to the cook her plan on how to stake a slug. “I lets it crawl over me skin ‘ere. Look.” She waved her hand in front of Mrs. Hodges’s face. “‘Ere. And then all I needs to do’s stick the slug onna thorn. And as soon as the slug’s dead, the wart’ll be gone!” she ended triumphantly.

  “Now, now, girl, don’t excite yourself thus,” Mrs. Hodges growled. “Get on with peeling the potatoes instead.”

  “But Mrs. Hodges!” Ethel wailed.

  “Sticking a wee beastie onto a thorn…” The cook shook her head in agitation. Frills of gray hair escaped from under her enormous white bonnet.

  Amy put her elbow onto the table and rested her chin on her hand. Dear heavens, the whole of London seemed a madhouse! Who would have thought it? She turned her attention to the servants. “And if you just let it crawl over your wart and don’t stick it onto a thorn afterwards?” she suggested to the kitchen maid. “It seems to me that it might be just the slug slime that—”

  “Oh, but Miss Amy, that’s not how the charm works!” Ethel protested. “Ya needs t’ let it crawl o’er your skin and then stick it onna thorn, and when the slug’s dead the wart’ll be gone.”