Page 138 of Midsummer Magic (Magic Trilogy 1)

; “You fool! My God, man, do you know what you’ve done?”

Edmund Lacy, Lord Chalmers, shook with rage as he faced Lord Dempsey. “You tell me you didn’t know that the woman was Rothermere’s mistress! Idiot!”

Lord Dempsey tried to make light of it. “She’s no longer under Rothermere’s protection—why should she care, even if she did wonder what I was speaking of? In any case, who would believe some silly trollop?”

“Then why,” Edmund said very softly, “did Amalie Corleau pack up her belongings and leave? Oh yes, she is gone, I checked, and Hawk had extended the lease on her house until the end of the quarter. Why would she leave if not out of fear of recriminations from you? There is little doubt in my mind that she has informed Hawk of what you said.”

Edmund watched Lord Dempsey rise from his chair and pour himself a glass of port. Bloody fool! He’d never liked the man, had always feared what he would say in his cups. And he had spoken—to Hawk’s mistress, of all people! Charles Lewiston, Lord Dempsey, and Nevil had always been good friends, until Nevil had become weak and frightened. Christ, what was he to do? Surely Hawk must have doubts about him now, grave doubts.

Henry, the stupid clod, was thankfully dead in York, with no traces to them. Dempsey had enjoyed killing him, had even bragged about it to Edmund, saying, “Pleaded with me, the little swine, so I made it quick.”

“Kill them,” said Lord Dempsey suddenly.

Edmund stared at him. He saw the bland viciousness in Dempsey’s pale blue eyes, recognized that if pushed, the man would also kill him if he felt cornered. “Who?” Edmund asked, trying to keep himself calm. “Both Hawk and his lady?”

“Certainly. If the mistress is any sign of Rothermere’s taste in women, I should like to spend a bit of time with his wife before sending her on to her reward.”

“No,” Edmund said. “All of England would be up in arms. Doubt not that the damned Marquess of Chandos knows all the facts. Even if he couldn’t prove anything, we would be hounded out of England. The man has too many powerful friends, not to mention all the men Hawk knows in the War Ministry. I have no desire to flee the country, not with Napoleon spitting on every Englishman he can get his hands on.”

“Then what is your plan?” Dempsey demanded, pouring himself another glass of port. “We’ve tried it your way, Chalmers, and it’s been a damned failure.”

“Flying Davie cannot go to Newmarket. If the horse can be destroyed, accidentally of course, then we are safe. Surely Rothermere will have his suspicions, but there would be no proof.” Edmund suddenly smiled. “There is another thing, Dempsey. I have Lady Beatrice in the palm of my hand—”

“What part of her lovely anatomy?” Dempsey asked, his voice as leering as his look.

“Shut up, you fool, and listen! Any complications, and I would most certainly use her for protection.” He wondered if he could persuade her to marry him now. Surely then Hawk would have to back off. And the marquess, of course.

“What of the other racers?”

Edmund Lacy sat back in his chair and thoughtfully tapped his steepled fingers. “First we must plan to rid ourselves of Flying Davie. It shouldn’t be too difficult ... with a proper plan.” His hands suddenly clenched into fists. “Damn Nevil anyway! If the stupid sod hadn’t been such a weakling, none of this would be necessary!”

“I quite liked Nevil,” said Lord Dempsey, and Edmund could only stare at him.

Hawk gently pushed Frances’ damp hair from her forehead. Her breathing was still erratic and he fondly gazed down at her still-heaving breasts, and her beautiful dark pink nipples, still taut, lightly tantalizing the hair on his chest. Her shoulder still held faint bruises, but she had no more pain, just a bit of soreness.

“Hawk?”

“Yes, love?”

“You’re still inside me.” He moved convulsively at her words. “I love it when you’re inside me.” She arched up a bit to keep him deep.

He lowered his head and lightly caressed her lips, moist and sweet under his. “Do you think you will still want me inside you in fifty years?”

She gave him a heavy-lidded look. “Fifty years?” she asked. “Is that all?”

He laughed and rolled off her. She pouted, and he was startled at the innocent sensuousness of it. He balanced himself on his elbow, stretching along her side.

He touched his fingertips to her pouting lips. “Where did you learn how to do that?”

The sparkle of fun was back in her eyes. “I watched Viola perfect it in front of her mirror. It drove all the neighboring young men wild.”

“May I request that you pout only for me?”

“Perhaps, if it is truly a request and not one of your lordly orders.”

“I believe that orders should refer to the priesthood, don’t you?”