One Touch of Magic (19 page)

Sarah followed slowly, her head aching from the noise and violence. She clutched at her reticule, which held a small pistol in its velvet depths. It was an old one that had belonged to John, and had not been fired in years, but it gave her a measure of comfort to have it.

Mr. Hamilton turned into a room ahead of her, and gave a strangled cry. Sarah came up behind him, and reached out to clutch his arm at the sight that greeted her.

The farmer, so large and blustering when he pushed Mary Ann down in the dirt, lay in the middle of the floor, staring up at the ceiling with sightless eyes. His face was wax white, frozen in a rictus of horror. The wooden handle of a plain kitchen knife stood straight up in the center of his chest. A sharp, nasty smell assaulted her nostrils.

Sarah felt a sour pang of nausea in the back of her throat. She choked on it, on the horror of the vision before her. She had seen deceased bodies before, of course, but never a
murdered
one. And somehow the fact that this man had been quite despicable the one time she had met him did not make it any more palatable.

Her gaze fell to her reticule, to her own weapon, and she shuddered.

Mr. Hamilton, his own face white with shock, took her arm and turned her out of the room, away from the body. “Come outdoors, Lady Iverson. This is no place for a lady.”

Sarah leaned gratefully on his arm. “It is no place for a human being,” she murmured. “Who did this? The same person who destroyed our artifacts?”

He helped her to climb up into the waiting carriage. “I do not know,” he said, his own voice faint. “But we
will
discover who is doing these terrible things.” He turned away to one of the workers and called, “Fetch the magistrate! Tell him to come here at once.”

“Of course, sir,” the man said, seizing the reins of his horse.

Mr. Hamilton looked back to Sarah. “You should go home, Lady Iverson. Your sister will be worrying.”

Sarah longed for home, for a comforting swallow of brandy and the solace of her own fireside. But she knew that she had to do her duty. “Will the magistrate not want to speak to me about—about what we have found here?”

“If he does, he can just as easily speak to you at your home. I see no reason why he should involve a lady in this matter, though. It will be safer for you at home.”

Safer? She stared at him in mounting horror. Did he think there was some rampaging maniac on the loose, out to kill everyone in the neighborhood? “Do you think that whoever did this will try it again someplace else?”

He gave her a bracing smile. “Of course not. I would just feel more secure if I knew that you and your sister and my wife were safe. Perhaps you would do something for me, Lady Iverson?”

“Of course, Mr. Hamilton.”

“Will you look in on Mrs. Hamilton at the inn? Just tell her that I will be back this evening, and that she is not to venture out until then.” He looked away, back to the ramshackle farmhouse. “Emmeline can be rather—headstrong at times.”

Or spoiled,
Sarah thought. She did not voice this aloud, though. She just nodded, and said, “Yes, certainly. I would be glad to look in on Mrs. Hamilton.”

“Thank you, Lady Iverson. That is very kind of you.”

Sarah nodded, and sat back against the leather cushions as Mr. Hamilton shut the door and the carriage jolted into motion.

She closed her eyes, and wished for once that she was the sort of female who carried hartshorn with her. She could certainly use a whiff of it now.

The Hamiltons had convinced her that it was the irate farmer who had destroyed her artifacts, in a petty act of vengeance for his humiliation at the hands of Lord Ransome. She had been sure it had been him—someone she did not know, someone whose rage was relatively impersonal and therefore not so difficult to understand. The thought that now it was probably someone she knew made her feel sick all over again.

Who could it be? Who could it be?

She pressed her gloved fingers to her temples, trying to force out the images of her shattered objects, the farmer’s dead body. She’d faced small jealousies and pettiness before in her life, but never true hatred. It made her feel ill and frightened to be face-to-face with it now—and she disliked feeling frightened.

She shook her head. She would
not
feel frightened now; she could not afford to. There was too much at stake. She had to find out what was happening, what was causing her world to spin out of control, and put an end to it. Before something even more dreadful, such as someone hurting her sister, could happen.

Sarah lowered the carriage window and leaned out. “Coachman!” she called. “Take me to Ransome Hall, please.”

Sarah stood in the drive of Ransome Hall, staring up at the house. It looked quiet and peaceful in the late morning light. It looked as if nothing evil or ugly could ever touch its hallowed stones.

What am I doing here?
she thought. She did not know. She only knew that she had to see Lord Ransome, to talk to him, to watch his face as she told him all that had happened.

She did not,
could
not, think that he had anything to do with this horrid business. No man she had ever come to care about, as she had Lord Ransome, could possibly do such things!

Yes, she admitted to herself finally. She
did
care about Lord Ransome, more than was sensible. She could not help it, despite everything that had happened between them, despite the fact that he did not understand the true importance of her work. His kindness, his good nature, the fact that he was concerned about those less fortunate than himself, had touched her deeply, and would not be erased.

No man who had all those things could possibly harbor such cruelty in his heart. Could he?

Sarah wished that instead of studying ancient history all the time she had spent some effort in studying human nature. Perhaps then she would not be so confused, so bewildered.

She did not know what she would say to him when she saw him, but she knew that she could not turn back now. She climbed the front steps, and reached up to lift the polished door knocker and let it drop.

Only a moment had passed when the door opened, and Makepeace, the butler, stood there. She could not run away now.

There was a quick flash of surprise in Makepeace’s eyes, but he was too well-trained to let it stay. It was swiftly covered in bland inquiry. “Lady Iverson,” he said. “How pleasant to see you this morning.” He stepped aside to let her into the house.

“I must see Lord Ransome at once,” she said. “It is most urgent.”

Makepeace hesitated. “His lordship is in the library, my lady. I will see if—”

“I am sorry, Makepeace, but there is no time for politeness.” Sarah turned on her heel, and walked as quickly as she could down the corridor to the library, Makepeace sputtering behind her. There would be gossip about this, she was sure, but somehow she could not care. She just wanted to see him. To watch his face as she told him about what had happened.

She knocked briefly at the library door, and pushed it open before she could be summoned.

He stood behind his desk, a sheaf of papers in his hand. He obviously had not expected company, for he wore no coat and his cravat was loosened. His shirtsleeves were pushed back, revealing strong, corded forearms, lightly dusted with pale brown hair. His expression, blankly polite when he looked up to see who had interrupted his work, turned startled when he saw that it was she who stood there.

“Lady Iverson,” he said, slowly putting the papers he held back down on his desk. “Is something amiss?”

Sarah felt frozen, her hand still on the doorknob. For one instant, she could scarcely remember what she was there for. The seriousness of her mission clouded at the actual sight of him, at being truly in his presence. Attraction, suspicion, exhaustion, it all tangled up in her mind, confusing her, disorienting her. She closed her eyes, swaying dizzily. In the darkness, she saw him as he had been in her dreams—a bold Viking.

She felt a touch on her arm, and opened her eyes to find him next to her. His hand was warm through the sleeve of her spencer; his eyes were kind, deeply concerned.

Could this man have possibly done those terrible things? Sarah, once so sure of all the things in her life, now could be sure of nothing.

“I am sorry, my lord,” she heard Makepeace say behind her, his voice distinctly breathless after chasing her down the corridor. She took the opportunity of the distraction to move away from Lord Ransome.

“I wanted to properly announce Lady Iverson,” the butler went on.

“It is quite all right, Makepeace,” Lord Ransome said. Even though Sarah had moved a few steps across the room, she could feel him watching her. “You may leave us now.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Sarah listened to the butler’s footsteps echo away, and only when she heard the door click shut did she turn around.

Lord Ransome leaned back against the wood of the door, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked most perplexed. “Would you care for some—tea, perhaps?” he said finally.

For one moment, she longed desperately to go to him and lay her head on his shoulder, feel his strong arms about her, keeping her safe. She felt like she had been alone, had been the strong one, for so long, and his shoulder looked sturdy enough to hold all her burdens.

But the memory of her artifacts shattered on the stable floor, the farmer with the knife in his chest, held her where she was.

“I do not need tea,” she said.

“You look as if you need something a great deal stronger,” he answered. He pushed away from the door and crossed the room to pour her a measure of brandy from the decanter on the desk. When he came back to press the glass into her hand, he said, “What is amiss? Are you ill?”

“No.” Sarah stared down into the amber depths of the liquid. Its heady fragrance beckoned her to its warm comfort, and she swallowed it, gasping a bit at the bite at the back of her throat. It helped to steady her, to ground her in the moment.

It also made her dizzy, though. She sat down unsteadily on a nearby settee.

Lord Ransome followed her, kneeling at her side. He took the glass from her hand, and put it down on the carpet. “Then is your sister ill? Please, Lady Iverson, I want to help if I can. There must be a reason you have come here today.”

“Yes, there is.” Sarah looked at him closely, trying to judge his expression as she talked. “Some terrible things have happened. Last night, someone broke into the stable and vandalized our artifacts.”

He looked deeply shocked. His lips parted, but no sound emerged. In the silence, he reached out to touch her arm. Finally, he said, “You were not there when it happened? You were not hurt?”

“No, no. I could not sleep, so I went to check on some of my work, and found the—the destruction.” She choked on the remembrance, and wished for more of that brandy. She was grateful at the steady support of his hand.

He
had
to be innocent. Not even Kean himself could be such a fine actor as to appear so shocked. Sarah felt a rush of relief, a warm wave that almost drowned out her terrified doubts.

“I was able to salvage many of the objects,” she said. “But some were lost beyond repair. It was a truly vicious act.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw, and his mouth tightened. His shock turned to anger, an anger as deep as Sarah’s own had been in the stable last night. “Do you know who did this?”

She shook her head. “I could not say. I did have my suspicions.” She bit her lip. One of her suspects had been
him
. She could scarcely tell him that.

One of the others had been the dead farmer.

“Who?” he said shortly.

Sarah looked down at her lap, at their hands joined together there. “The vadalism was not the only occurrence, I fear. Do you recall the dreadful man who tried to drown Mary Ann’s kittens?”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “How could I ever forget?” His hand tightened on hers. “Was it that bast—man who did this?”

“I had thought so, at first,” she admitted. “But then this morning, when Mr. Hamilton and I went to confront him, we found him . . .” She could not say it. Again, her voice failed her, and she wished for the brandy. For something to make her forget that vision. “Dead. He was dead.”

“Dead?”

“Murdered. Someone had stabbed him,” she said, all in a rush, to get the words out and send them away.

Lord Ransome rose up from his knees and sat beside her on the settee. He said no words; he just put his arms around her and drew her close.

He
was
strong, and warm, and to be close to him felt like the safe haven Sarah had imagined it would be. She gave in to her longings, and rested her head against his linen-covered chest. She felt his heartbeat, strong and steady.

“You should never have had to see such a thing,” he said gently.

Sarah smiled weakly. “I am hardly a sheltered young miss. I have seen bodies before.”

“But not, I would wager, one that has been cruelly murdered,” he answered, his arms tightening around her. “I should have been there, to help you, to protect you.”

Sarah drew back a bit to look up at him. “You could not have known.”

“I
should
have known.” He framed her face in his hands, looking down into her eyes with a strange, intent glow in his sky-colored eyes. “Lady Iverson—Sarah. This will sound lunatic, but I feel some—connection with you that I have never felt before with anyone. I have tried to deny it, to explain it away, but I cannot. God knows, I would go back onto the most hellish battlefield I have ever known before I would see you have any more pain.”

Sarah stared at him, unable to breathe, unable to think, unable to do anything but
feel
. Could this be Lord Ransome, speaking to her so passionately? She could scarce believe it. How could he feel the same way she had, that something very odd connected them, something unexplainable but quite undeniable?

She had felt caught in a dreamworld ever since she opened the stable door last night. Now that nightmare shifted into something sweet, but just as unreal.