One Touch of Magic (15 page)

“I was quite lost when I came home to England,” Miles answered. “I felt useless, with no direction in this new life. A purpose was what I needed, and when I met you, I saw what that purpose could be. I could help men who had returned from brave service in the war only to find poverty and hardship.”

“A noble goal.”

Miles shook his head. “Hardly noble. It is only a tiny drop in the sea of trouble I have seen here. But when I inherited this title and estate, I saw a way that I could make some of those aspirations a reality. Ransome Hall is vast, and fertile.”

“And not used as it should be,” Patrick said. “I saw many fields that lay fallow.”

“You are quite right. I have been working with the bailiff to develop a plan, one which will call for many more workers.”

“The portion that that lady antiquarian—what was her name? Lady Iverson?—is using is a large one. The soil looks rich.”

“Indeed, it is.” Miles did not want to think of it, did not want to imagine what the scene would be when he asked Lady Iverson to abandon her village. But he knew that the day was coming, and coming soon.

Seeing Patrick O’Riley, remembering what had set him on this course in the first place, only affirmed his conviction that he had to do what was right.

“I hope to have it under cultivation by the spring,” he said.

Patrick’s green Irish gaze was shrewd. “And what does Lady Iverson say about this plan?”

Miles laughed ruefully. “Well, the truth is I have not yet had a chance to speak to her about it. I have invited her and her party to supper tomorrow evening, and I will make an appointment to speak to her then.”

“Ah. I see.” Patrick swallowed the last of his brandy, and put the snifter down on a nearby table. “Lady Iverson is very pretty, is she not? And her sister, too. Many people would say they are wasting their charms in digging about in the dirt all day long. Is that not so?”

“Some might say that. Lady Iverson is an attractive lady, and her sister a pretty
young
girl.” Miles felt an irrational surge of protectiveness toward Lady Iverson and her family. It made absolutely no sense, as he was the one who would send them away from their work soon.

“Young—and not for a poor Irish ex-lieutenant,” Patrick said with a grimace. “And quite right you are. But that does not mean I can’t admire her fine dark eyes, eh?”

Miles laughed. “I would say not.”

“Well, I am off to my bed. I fear your butler was quite shocked when you told him I was
not
to be housed in the servants’ quarters, but in a guest chamber.”

“The servants are not yet used to my changes. They think everything should continue as they were in my uncle’s time. But we are coming to terms. You are my friend, not a servant, and thus should stay in a guest chamber.”

“That is most kind of you, Lord—Miles,” Patrick said. “But I insist on working for my keep, friend or no.”

“Oh, never fear about that! Tomorrow, I will show you the plans for the farm, and I’d like your opinion on them.”

“Of course. Good night.”

“Good night, Patrick.”

Long after Patrick had gone, and the butler cleared away the brandy tray, Miles sat in the library. He stared into the crumbling sparks of the fire, remembering the day just past.

He had been completely taken by surprise at the force of his fury toward that farmer today. It was true that wanton cruelty, even against animals, always angered him, but this was something more. When he saw the man push Lady Iverson’s sister, and the shock and pain in Lady Iverson’s eyes, a feeling sharply akin to the rage he had felt in battle rose up in him. He could very well have killed the man, if the ladies had not been watching. Certainly, he would have delivered the thrashing that the bully so richly deserved.

He had thought all that was left far behind him on the battlefield. What could have made it come upon him today, in the safe light of an English day?

He feared that he already knew the answer to that. It was a primitive male drive to protect his woman—one that no doubt the Viking men who had once lived in Lady Iverson’s village would understand.

What the devil was he going to do about it?

Sarah sat before her dressing table, staring at her reflection, yet not really seeing herself there. Her maid had already dressed her hair, and helped her into her evening gown of smoky lavender silk. Now all she had to do was choose her jewelry from the open case, and she would be ready to go to supper at Ransome Hall.

A shiver of anticipation danced up her spine. She wanted to see Lord Ransome again, so much that it frightened her. But something deep inside her dreaded this evening even more. Dreaded what might happen—what might be said.

Running away from troubles solved nothing, she knew that very well. Tonight, though, she would gladly run away, take a ship all the way to Norway. But she could never do something so wild—her life was here, come what may, and she had to stay and face it.

She reached into her jewel case and took out a pair of Viking silver hair ornaments. They had been a gift from her husband when they married, and she loved them, loved their intricate etchings of strange beasts and unreadable runes. Wearing them always gave her confidence, made her feel closer to the history she had devoted her life to. She slid the ornaments into her upswept curls, and reached into the case again to find her earrings. There was a knock at her bedchamber door, and, thinking it was her maid returning or Mary Ann, she called, “Come in.”

But it was not Mary Ann—it was Mrs. Hamilton. She wore a stylish if over-elaborate gown of ice-blue satin trimmed in white Belgian lace and ribbon rosettes. Her expression above this confection was hesitant, though, as she stepped through the doorway.

“Mrs. Hamilton,” Sarah said. “Is there something amiss?”

“Oh, no!” Mrs. Hamilton said, with a forced little laugh. “I just—just thought I would see if you needed any assistance. I fear we have arrived a bit early.”

“Thank you, but I am very nearly ready.” Sarah slid pearl-drop earrings into her earlobes, and watched Mrs. Hamilton’s reflection in the dressing-table mirror. Mrs. Hamilton sat down on the window seat, and ran her fingers over the velvet cushion, as if restless or nervous.

Sarah wondered what this was all about. She and Mrs. Hamilton were hardly friends, and they almost never had private converse.

“Neville told me what happened at the village site yesterday,” Mrs. Hamilton said.

“Did he? How very odd, since he was not even there.”

“One of the men who are working with Neville on the bakery site told him about it.
All
about it. Such a shocking scene! Whoever would have thought Lord Ransome to be a violent man?”

Sarah had wondered the same thing yesterday, when she watched him menace that farmer, but today the shock had worn away, and she felt only gratitude at his defense. She felt the strongest urge to defend
him
now. “He was in the Army, Mrs. Hamilton. And I would hardly call his behavior violent. That man was cruel to Mary Ann, and we were fortunate that Lord Ransome was there to make certain he departed without causing any more trouble.”

“Fortunate indeed,” Mrs. Hamilton said. “Fortunate when his anger is turned against someone else—someone outside our circle. But what if he becomes angry with one of us?” She leaned forward in a rich rustle of satin and lace. “I have heard that he means to send us away from here, with the work undone, in order to use the property for his own purposes.”

Sarah turned to peer closely at Mrs. Hamilton. She had always thought that Neville’s wife was a silly woman, concerned with fashion and parties to the exclusion of all else. Now she thought perhaps she had underestimated her a bit. Mrs. Hamilton’s gaze was deeply serious; her words held a disquieting ring of persuasiveness.

“You seemed to enjoy making Lord Ransome’s acquaintance,” Sarah said cautiously.

“Of course! He is a marquis. I just think—” Mrs. Hamilton broke off on a ripple of laughter. “I just don’t know what I am trying to say. I was simply concerned about what Neville told me.”

“Yes, I see. Well, I am certain we have nothing to fear from Lord Ransome. Yesterday was a mere isolated incident, one that was over in an instant. He was defending us.”

“I am sure you are right. Then he does
not
mean to send us away from here?”

“I do not know what his plans are,” Sarah answered truthfully. She only had suspicions. But she would have thought that Mrs. Hamilton would want to be “sent away” with the way she pined so for Bath. “I thought you preferred town life, anyway, Mrs. Hamilton.”

Mrs. Hamilton shrugged. “Of course, I would prefer to live among a wider society! But Neville needs his work, and a good wife supports her husband in all he does.”

“Hm.” Sarah reached for her gloves and reticule. “Well, Mrs. Hamilton, we really should be going. We do not want to be late for supper.” And she had had quite enough of this conversation.

Ransome Hall was quieter than it had been the night of the supper party. There were no banks of flowers, no tall candelabras of light, no crowds sipping champagne. Yet Sarah, despite her earlier trepidations, found that she was enjoying herself. The food was much better than the plain fare the cook turned out of the small kitchen at the hunting box, the wine was fine, and the conversation interesting.

Mostly
interesting, anyway. Neville Hamilton looked frankly appalled to be asked to dine with an Irishman, even one as obviously educated as Mr. O’Riley, and his wife chattered on to Mary Ann about the gloves she had bought yesterday. Mary Ann’s eyes had a distinctly glazed look about them.

Sarah, however, rather liked Mr. O’Riley. She and John had spent several months on an excavation in Ireland early in their marriage, and Mr. O’Riley had lived on a farm very near the site. He was surprisingly knowledgable about antiquarian methods.

“When I was a boy, I used to go to the ruins with my cousins and clamber all about,” he told her. “It made me interested to know more about the history and the objects there.”

Sarah laughed. “You probably destroyed valuable historical evidence, ‘clambering’ about!”

He grinned at her, and for one moment the gaunt, war-haunted man fell away, and she saw the charming man he must have been once. From the corner of her eye, she saw Mary Ann turn away from Mrs. Hamilton and look at Mr. O’Riley, a startled expression on her face.

Sarah sighed inwardly, and hoped that this was not the beginning of another infatuation.

“I am very sorry, Lady Iverson,” Mr. O’Riley said. “We had no idea we were destroying anything valuable. We just liked to imagine we were ancient Vikings, pillaging and rampaging.”

“Well, I have to reassure you, then. You cannot have destroyed a very great deal, for we made some valuable finds there. My husband wrote a monograph on the site that was very well-received in scholarly circles. But those Vikings did no pillaging or rampaging—not in the period of that site, anyway. By then, they were respectable immigrants, farming and building.”

“Ah, but you have destroyed my romantic illusions, Lady Iverson!” Mr. O’Riley laid his hand on his heart, as if wounded. “I can never think of the Vikings the same way again.”

Sarah laughed. “The Vikings are really far more complex, and interesting, than those myths. You are welcome to come to the village whenever you like, Mr. O’Riley, and we will show you about. If—” She broke off, and glanced down the table at Lord Ransome. He watched them closely, as if interested in what their conversation could be. Her heart quickened at the expression in his eyes.

She looked back down at her wineglass, her cheeks warm.

“If what, Lady Iverson?” Mr. O’Riley asked.

She had been about to say, “If we are there very much longer”; but, instead, she said, “If you are to be in the neighborhood long enough.”

“As to that, I am not certain what my plans are as of yet,” said Mr. O’Riley.

“Have to get back to the elves and the bogs, eh?” Mr. Hamilton broke in, his voice slightly slurred, as if he had been imbibing freely of the fine wine. “The Irish are such a superstitious lot, they can’t be happy in a civilized place like England for very long.”

Sarah stared at him, startled. The Neville Hamilton who used to work with her and John would never have been so rude. This just seemed one more sign of how he had changed of late. His wineglass was nearly empty, not for the first time—had he been drinking heavily?

Mrs. Hamilton giggled, an inordinately loud sound in the sudden hush of the dining room. Perhaps his marriage, and not the drink, was unhinging him.

Mary Ann looked furious, and she half rose from her seat. Sarah gave her a small shake of her head, and Mary Ann sat back down. She still seemed mutinous, though, scowling like a fierce little Valkyrie.

Sarah turned back to Mr. O’Riley, who stared expressionlessly at Mr. Hamilton. “Ireland is a lovely country,” she said. “Sir John and I enjoyed our time there a great deal. Indeed, I have never seen anyplace more magical.”

Mr. O’Riley looked back to her, and gave her a smile. Unlike his earlier wide grin, though, it was humorless and small. “Thank you, Lady Iverson. It is indeed a beautiful place, but not, I fear, a land of great opportunity. Where else have you and your husband been fortunate enough to see? Have you been to Scandinavia?”

“I have not, but my husband did once, and he often spoke of it.” She went on to relate John’s anecdotes of Norway, but inside she still thought about the Hamiltons and their eccentric behavior.

She resolved that if Lord Ransome did not ask them to leave his land, if they were fortunate enough to continue their work, she would have to rethink her association with them.

“I want to apologize for Mr. Hamilton’s odd behavior at supper,” Sarah said to Lord Ransome later, as they strolled on the terrace for a breath of fresh air. Ahead of them walked Mr. O’Riley and Mary Ann; the Hamiltons sat in the drawing room, watching them through the open French doors. “He should never have insulted your guest.”

“It is not for you to apologize, Lady Iverson,” he answered quietly. “And it seems Mr. O’Riley is quite unconcerned with any insult now, not in your sister’s company.”