Bewitched by Sandra Schwab Read Free Book Online Page A

hair. Again it intrigued her, this contrast between attributes of maleness and the cheeky splatter of cinnamon dust. As if there were mischievous depths to that stiff, formal, probably even slightly bored man.
    She shook her head and forcefully dragged her attention back to the conversation. “A fortepiano? No, it’s not that. The instrument was just always"— snapping at everybody besides my cousin —“otherwise occupied.”
    Once more, her companion gave a sage nod of his head. Cinnamon splatter or not, he was certainly most irritating! “I quite understand.”
    Amy gave him an arch look. “I seriously doubt that, Mr. Stapleton.”
    ~*~
    In a discreet corner of the room, Mr. Bentham clutched his glass of brandy more tightly as he saw Mr. Stapleton, like a ripe apple falling into his lap, step up to Miss Bourne. Bentham’s hand shook, and quickly he downed the contents of his glass. He welcomed the burn of alcohol in his belly, the explosion of soothing heat.
    Yes, the Fox was stepping up to the bait in the trap. But, he reminded himself, the bait was the niece of an old friend, and his responsibility for the time being. Was all of this right? Bourne had trusted him to look after her, to introduce her into London society, to secure a husband, and thus, happiness for her—which Bentham would do, he supposed, in a manner of speaking. Though of course, with Lady Margaret involved, there could be no happy ending for the girl.
    But it couldn’t be helped. Should he sacrifice his own daughter? Sacrifice Isabella’s happiness? Impossible!
    “Ah, Mr. Bentham.”
    A mere whisper only, yet the sound of the eerily familiar voice made Bentham start. His insides quaked. Too late now for a retreat.
    “I see the fish has caught the worm,” the stranger said in his smooth, pleasant voice.
    “I didn’t…” Bentham desperately wished for another glass of brandy. He wiped his hand over his upper lip. “It wasn’t…wasn’t planned . It’s an accident, really,” he mumbled.
    A smile curved the other man’s mouth. “An accident? Surely not! I would rather call it a twist of fate.” He turned toward Bentham, his movements fluid and graceful. Over a rapier he would be a lethal opponent. Indeed, Bentham suspected the man would thrust his weapon into another’s heart with a smile on his lips. “And since Fortuna seems well-disposed toward us,” the hateful, smooth voice continued, “we should make sure the fish is truly hooked ere the evening is over.” He produced a small phial filled with white powder. “Put a bit of this in their drinks, and the game will run its appropriate course.”
    The phial nearly slipped through Bentham’s damp fingers. “I—”
    But again, the stranger had already disappeared.
    Helplessly, Bentham stared at the white powder. It wasn’t poison, he was sure of it. Lady Margaret’s mind worked differently. When she administered a death blow, literally or not, she would want to see recognition flare in the eyes of her enemy.
    Bentham shivered. Not poison then, but what else? Whatever it was…
    He slipped the phial inside his coat, where it seemed to burn through cloth and skin. Sweat formed on his forehead, trickled down his back. He still could recognize the fire of a bad conscience. And yet, what were his alternatives?
    He closed his eyes as the first notes of the fortepiano drifted through the room.
    No, it couldn’t be helped.
    ~*~
    Though music was the food of love, Lady Worthington’s musicale was poison to every finer sentiment.
    A faint, niggling headache had started to build behind Fox’s temples while the old lady gave her recitations. But, of course, a gentleman would not rub his temple, even if ever so discreetly. No, a gentleman sat and suffered in silence.
    Not even Miss Bourne’s loveliness could outshine this musical fiasco. And she was lovely, he admitted grudgingly, in the way of a plump, golden partridge. Twice now, however, he had received the impression that she