Must Be Magic by Patricia Rice

tankard, nodded at the local butcher, and took a bench near the fire to wait.
    â€œI say, you look familiar.” A traveler in a silk coat pinned back at the tail for riding, and fashionable new spatterdashes to cover his stockings, spoke up from a booth in the corner. “Have we met?”
    The speaker was evidently a London macaroni, and Dunstan made it a habit to avoid the city and its jaded residents. He sipped his ale before replying, “I doubt it.”
    â€œI’m Handel.” The fop carried his tankard over to the settle. “I’d recognize an Ives anywhere,” he said, taking a seat. “Those black looks and that long nose give you away. Inventive, the lot of you, I understand.”
    Dunstan shrugged. If this was the man Drogo had recommended, then his brother had made a rare mistake in judgment.
    â€œI say, you aren’t here to court the widow, are you? Not fair at all, I assure you. Drogo’s claimed one fair Malcolm. There’s no need for Ives to take them all.”
    â€œThere are dozens of them,” Dunstan informed him dryly. “The countryside is littered with golden-haired witches. There’s scarcely enough of us to take them all.”
    The fop chortled. “It’s the fair-haired ones who are dangerous, so they say. Now, the widow, she’s different. Her late husband used to say her only power is that of seduction, and I’ve no objection to that.”
    That fairly well narrowed the topic of conversation, although Dunstan didn’t grasp the difference between Lady Leila and the rest of her clan. They were all golden-haired, dangerous seductresses, in some manner or other.
    He could still feel her fingers on his chest a week after the fact. He could easily see how a Malcolm could sink her seductive talons into a man, and he’d never be free again—although dying of pleasure might be its own reward. It just wasn’t for him. He had other responsibilities.
    â€œHer late husband’s nephew is offering a bounty to the first man who catches her,” Handel continued affably, apparently unconcerned that he was holding a conversation with himself.
    The news about Lady Leila’s nephew surprised Dunstan. He hadn’t thought a young lad would be so astute as to offer cash to take the widow off his hands. “Why would he do that?” he asked, cursing himself for asking.
    The macaroni shrugged his padded shoulders. “He keeps bad company? Perhaps he wants his estate back. The lady possesses only a life interest in it, and she surrenders that should she marry.”
    Dunstan struggled to hide his shock. All his hard work, the field he’d just meticulously planted according to the latest scientific recommendations—left to the whims of a woman who might marry and lose it all? Was ever a man so great a fool as he?
    â€œFor a man with no wish to immerse himself in the country, her lack of land would be no matter,” the man continued, unaware he’d just dealt a blow to his listener. “She has wealth and position enough without it.”
    His seeds were planted, damn it. He couldn’t leave now.
    Raking his hands through his hair, Dunstan tried not to panic. How long would it be before she married and he was thrown out again by the heir? He’d only met the new Viscount Staines once and knew little of him, other than that he was an obnoxious adolescent just down from school, ripe for all the trouble London could provide.
    â€œAnd your interest is?” Dunstan demanded, choosing belligerence over panic. The lady had hired him. He owed her the loyalty of protecting her from idle gossip, if naught else.
    The fop grinned. “Just testing to see if you’re interested in a wealthier wife this time around. Full appellation is Arthur Garfield, Viscount Handel. I believe you expressed an interest in hiring me.”
    An aristocrat! At the moment, Dunstan would prefer to plant his fist in the