Must Be Magic by Patricia Rice Page A

fop’s breadbasket for his mischief-making, but that wouldn’t convince the investigator that he wasn’t the type of man to go about strangling wives. Why the devil would Drogo recommend he hire a viscount ? Better yet, why would a viscount be available for hire?
    â€œIf you must test me before I hire you, I’m not interested in your services,” Dunstan said, then drank deeply of his tankard and tried to disregard the shame and anger of having to prove himself to a coxcomb.
    The viscount arranged himself elegantly on the seat across from him. “Of course you are interested in my services. You have the social grace of an ox. Your only hope of discovering the truth is to shake it out of someone.”
    Dunstan grimaced at these truths. “I can’t afford a bloody viscount. Why the hell would you be interested?”
    Handel fluttered his long fingers. “Naught better to do with my time. I only accept payment if I solve the mystery. It gives me a good excuse to poke my nose where it doesn’t belong.”
    â€œSuch as in Lady Leila’s business?” Dunstan growled, still peeved at the macaroni for knowing more than he had about the lady’s estate.
    â€œOh, Staines is informing all London of that. You really ought to visit the city more often. It’s a hotbed of entertaining news. I can probably tell you far more about your wife and her lovers than you can tell me.”
    He was no doubt right about that. Grumpily, Dunstan sipped his ale and scowled. There were times when he wasn’t at all certain that Celia deserved to have her killer brought to justice. And then he would remember the lovely child she’d been and know he was as guilty as she was. She’d thought he offered her a dream. Instead, he’d offered his surly self. More the fool, he. “I’d rather not hear the details,” he said. “I simply want to know what happened that night.”
    â€œTo know if you’re capable of murder?” the viscount asked.
    The possibility haunted him. If he had killed Celia—the thought curdled Dunstan’s blood—then he was a danger to every woman he came across, particularly widows who annoyed him and barefoot country wenches who lured him astray.
    Shoving his ale aside, Dunstan nodded curtly. “You’d best take payment in advance if you’re inclined to accept potential murderers as clients.”
    Handel puckered his mouth in a frown of dismissal. “I’ll rely on your brother to take it out of your estate. A handshake will do.”
    His estate—should he hang.
    He would never have a life, much less an estate, if he had to live under a cloud of suspicion. A London macaroni would be far more adept than he at prying information out of the fast company Celia had kept.
    Gritting his teeth, Dunstan held out his callused palm to the viscount’s soft white one and sealed the deal.
    ***
    He’d been ignoring the flower gardens in favor of the income-producing fields—not a politically expedient choice, Dunstan could see now as he rode away from the tavern. He preferred logic to politics, but if Lady Leila was his employer, it might behoove him to ingratiate himself with her so she might give him a recommendation, should the time come when she married and her nephew took over the estate.
    Disgruntled at the idea of groveling, Dunstan rode back under the light of the moon with an eye to looking over the land the lady wished cleared for her gardens. Contrary to what he’d led her to believe, he’d worked with his mother’s rosebushes in his youth. He preferred a good solid feed crop any day. Turnips replenished the soil and fed livestock, and the strain he’d developed would help struggling farmers.
    Flowers? Frivolous folderol that benefited no one.
    He reined in his horse on the side of the lane, tied it to a tree limb, and climbed the stile to inspect the soil. Roses didn’t like this