The Magic Token

By Susanne Marie Knight

Regency Romance. Reissued and New Cover!
2003 EPPIE Award Finalist for Best Historical Romance Novel

A MAGICAL TOKEN--When Amanda Barclay receives a magic token from a stranger, she is more than skeptical about whether this gold coin can change her life. But then the very man who captured her heart years ago suddenly appears. Is it destiny or cruel fate? Does he even remember her? Circumstances obligate her to accept the position he offers as governess, but how can she endure being near a man so beyond her reach?

A DIFFERENCE IN RANK--Marcus Hamilton, Duke of Yarborough, is a man burdened by family and political responsibilities. He does not have the time nor the inclination to dally with women beneath his station. But a chance meeting throws him together with Mandy, the engaging young sprite from his past, causing him to reevaluate his beliefs. For once in his life, the call of love beckons far stronger than the duties and obligations of his position.

Praise For THE MAGIC TOKEN

* 5 Hearts! The supporting characters are very good. I love Dona Inês weaving in and out of the story along with Pritchard, Nannette, Gregory and most especially Duca di Maggiore. Ms. Knight has given us a truly fun story! I enjoyed how she wove the magic into this, and that coin was just great! Another thing I liked about her story is the little pieces of history she added, like the line about the Marquess of Londonderry… of course, I'm a complete period geek and had already looked this up years ago. This is such a good read! I especially liked the epilogue where we see who Amanda passes the coin to for its next magic turn! Oh, and yes, I have read at least one other story by Ms. Knight (which I liked) and now I have to find her other work since I loved this story!--The Romance Studio

* 5 Stars! Another fine book from Ms. Knight! Her meticulous research into this period piece shines throughout this wonderful story. From beginning to end, her words paint the scenes with rich visuals which enrich the story line of the two main characters. You will be invested in this story after just a few pages and will not want to put it down. This book deserves its place among the other novels of Ms. Knight.--Visionary Insight Press

* THE MAGIC TOKEN is gloriously magical and loads of fun! Susanne Marie Knight has taken a magical plot device and whipped up a charming tale in THE MAGIC TOKEN. Her characters are full blown and interesting, while the minor characters add spice. Ms. Knight's writing is bright, and full of that Regency flavor readers enjoy. A sprightly romp with makes for a blast of a read!--Sime-Gen Reviews

* 4 Roses! Ms. Knight weaves a tale of magic. The golden coin is suppose to bring the person good fortune but seems good fortune for the book as well! This was a very lighthearted read and very easy to finish in one sitting--so be prepared to spend time with this story from beginning to end!--A Romance Review

* THE MAGIC TOKEN is an enchanting take on the Cinderella fairytale, complete with an evil stepmother and fairy godmother. This is a well-researched, well-written story with wonderful characterizations. The duke, who has overcome his abusive childhood, is a great hero and Amanda is a caring and compassionate heroine. There was also a very pleasing secondary romance between the squire's son and the Portuguese woman's granddaughter. THE MAGIC TOKEN was a great Regency read, with some magical elements. If you like fairytales, give THE MAGIC TOKEN a try.--PNR Reviews

* Susanne Marie Knight is a talented, versatile author whose books run from this light traditional Regency with a magical element, to time-travel, sci-fi romance, paranormal romantic suspense, mystery, and contemporary romance.--Romance Reviews Today

* Enjoyed it very much. This is a page-turner!--Reader Comment

* Fans of Susanne Marie Knight will enjoy THE MAGIC TOKEN!--Reade...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Susanne Marie Knight
• Release date: Apr 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463532768

Susanne Marie Knight

Award-winning author and seven time EPPIE / EPIC eBook Award Finalist Susanne Marie Knight specializes in Romance Writing with a Twist! She is multi-published with books, short stories, and articles in such diverse genres as Regency, science fiction, mystery, paranormal, suspense, time-travel, fantasy, and contemporary romance. Originally from New York, Susanne lives in the Pacific Northwest, by way of Okinawa, Montana, Alabama, and Florida. Along with her husband and the spirit of her feisty Siamese cat, she enjoys the area's beautiful ponderosa pine trees and wide, open spaces--a perfect environment for writing. For more information about Susanne, visit her website at www.susanneknight.com.

Book preview

Prologue

Swinbrook, Oxfordshire, 1802

Without her mother’s knowledge, nine-year-old Amanda Barclay slipped out the back door of the stone and thatch cottage. Cool night air playfully swirled about her bare ankles, causing her to shiver. She pulled her worn, handkerchief shawl around her slender shoulders, but its muslin material gave little warmth. While fragrant breezes of wild honeysuckle tugged at the shortened hem of her nightgown, the almost full moon beamed a fond welcome at her.

Amanda smiled. Nature seemed especially gleeful tonight. And why not? It was Midsummer Eve.

The lonely hoot of an owl warned her that time was fleeting. Gathering up her skirts, she hurried past the row of cottages, each one identical to the next, and hoped no villager would be about. At a quarter before twelve, usually all the townsfolk were tucked in their beds, oblivious to the outside world. If, perchance, anyone spotted her, she would be in a devil of a coil. Mama would likely have an attack of the vapors, and Papa...

Well, what Papa would do did not bear thinking about.

Amanda could not tarry; midnight was fast approaching. Quickening her steps, she raced through the thicket of junipers, heedless of the wicker basket swinging madly against her side. At last she reached the River Windrush and, out of breath, she folded her legs under her, sitting by the sloping bank near the water.

With trembling hands, she removed the supplies from her basket: some herbs, a tallow candle, a tinderbox, and a small, tart crab apple. Her greatest friend, Lydia Griffith, had insisted the spell required a real apple to eat--a golden orange Pippin, at the very least. But in June, apples were hard to come by, and money was even scarcer. Amanda counted herself fortunate to have found a crab apple this early in the season.

The gentle lapping sounds of water had a soothing effect on her ruffled nerves. She did not believe in magic. However, Lydia had been so insistent that this particular spell worked--that a maiden on June 23, Midsummer Eve, could see her future husband reflected in the waters by the light of the moon and a tallow candle.

Not that Amanda could conceive of getting married at the tender age of nine. But she was curious. If the spell did not come true, and all she got for her troubles was a stomachache from the crab apple, then, no matter. The adventure was well worth it. Her brother Francis, often stayed out as late. Since she was a girl, her bedtime was always set.

The river gurgled in its age-old way, recalling her to her purpose. She straightened her shoulders. Time to begin. Scooping out a hollow of dirt, she placed the candle down, then opened the tinderbox. She struck a piece of steel against the flint, and after several precious minutes, her efforts were rewarded with fire sparks. The candlewick now lit, she circled the crab apple with a sprig of red sage, going clockwise seven times--no more, no less.

This is foolish, Amanda muttered, but she completed the instructions anyway. Lifting the flickering candle in one hand, she bit into the apple.

Her heart pounded with such intensity, she feared it would escape from her body. Inhaling sharply, she leaned over the edge of the riverbank and peered into the water below.

An image of a young girl with unremarkable, loose brown hair and dark, soulful eyes stared back at her.

And that was all.

Drat! Amanda made a face to hide her disappointment. Ignoring the apple’s sour taste, she took another bite.

Nothing. She saw nothing but quiet ripples marring the smooth surface of the river.

Gammon! Patience was never one of her virtues, so she plunked the crab apple into the water, sending waves of confusion over her reflection. Tomorrow, she would make Lydia Griffith sorry for making up this Banbury tale. Future husband, indeed! Tomorrow, she would--

Just what the devil do you think you are doing?

At the sound of the deep-timbred male voice, Amanda froze. Who interrupted her solitude? And how long had he been watching her? The heat of embarrassment burned her cheeks.

Not daring to look behind her at the intruder, she glanced down at the river’s surface. There, hovering over her shoulder, stood a young man with unruly hair as dark as the night sky. The image wavered, then steadied, appearing as clear as glass. The stranger looked about the same age as her brother, almost a man, and yet not quite.

Although she should have felt fear, she did not. Since her father was the village parson, she had more than a passing acquaintance with everyone living around Swinbrook and Burford in Oxfordshire. But she had never seen this comely boy before. He had a strange sadness resonating from his pale blue eyes.

She turned around to face him. He had made himself comfortable by sprawling his lanky form on the high thatch of weeds near her. While he waited for her answer, he plucked a yellow dandelion and proceeded to crumple it between his large hands.

Well? he prodded.

His half-opened white shirt revealed the beginnings of dark chest hairs, a forerunner of his adulthood. The sight of his dishabille disturbed her in a way she never experienced and made her flush at the thought of her own state of undress.

She hugged her thin shawl against her chest. I-I do not know you.

He smiled a humorless smile. No one knows me, my fine little filly. Excepting Pritchard, of course.

On hearing that name, her eyes widened. You are acquainted with Squire Pritchard? The Pritchards had the finest manor house in all of the Oxfordshire Cotswolds, so it was said. The family had been landowners since time immemorial.

She studied the aristocratic set of the boy’s determined jaw and the noble lines of his high forehead. The delicate muslin of his shirt was finer than her best Sunday dress. He must have been one of the gentry.

His plump lip curled upwards. Even at your young age, you are impressed by position and wealth. Females! He spat on the grass.

What a disagreeable boy! Gentry or no, she did not have to listen to his tirade. Turning her back on him, she gathered up her supplies from her ill-fated adventure.

Stay! He grabbed her wrist, and looked down into her eyes. Perhaps he could read her unflattering thoughts, for then he amended, Please stay.

Her lower lip quivered, but instead of leaving, as she knew she should, she sat back on her heels.

He released his hold. I do apologize, my moppet. You are but a child. I had no right to vent my spleen on your account.

Standing, he made an elegant bow. I suppose I must introduce myself. You may call me Marcus. Young Pritchard and I attend Eton together.

Amanda lifted her nose in disapproval. Two could play a game of snobbery. After all, Papa was a baronet. A penniless baronet, true, but she could hold her own with toplofty young fops.

She replied with a regal nod. And you may call me Mandy.

Ah, fair Mandy. He kissed her hand. A name worthy of queens, I’m sure.

Her heart soared with excitement. Odds were that Lydia never had her hand kissed before.

An eyeblink later, his high-spirited mood changed, and he paced in front of her. Enough of that drivel! I am tired of insincerity--I wade in it twenty-four hours a day. Tell me why you are out past midnight, dressed in your nightclothes. I’ll wager your mama remains ignorant of your whereabouts.

He considered his compliments drivel? Amanda’s shoulders slumped. I-I had hoped to, um, meet someone tonight. But, um, she did not come.

She hated lying; she really did. However, there was no way she would tell this maddening boy the truth. "And why are you out here by the River Windrush? I will wager that your mama knows naught of where you are."

It was a childish taunt, but she didn’t care. After all, she was a child.

His icy blue-eyed gaze seemed to pierce her. Indeed, my stepmama knows not, nor does she care. And neither does my worthy father.

Placing the rest of Amanda’s things in her wicker basket, he held out his hand to help her up. I have been sent to the Cotswolds to rusticate whilst my stepmama completes her confinement. My father hopes for a son, of course. Marcus’ jaw was thrust out defiantly, but his pain shone from his expressive eyes.

After standing, Amanda hesitated, then reached up to smooth the tangled hair from his handsome face. It was obvious this boy missed having the affection given by loving parents. I am sorry, Marcus, she murmured softly.

His gaze hardened. I’ll not have your pity!

Whether it was his brusque tone or his unhappy plight engaging her ready sympathies, she didn’t know. Either way, she blinked back the sting of tears.

Marcus must have noticed her melancholy. A strange, hungered expression overtook his face. Don’t ever change, sweet Mandy. I can tell you are one in a million.

Clearing his throat, he gave her the basket. Well, my moppet, you best be getting home. Shall I escort you?

No, thank you kindly, Marcus. I should return by myself. But what about you?

Ah, I am doomed to wander the woods ‘til sleep comes to claim me. You see, dear Mandy, I suffer from insomnia. That is why I happen to be out at this ungodly hour.

He took a step away from her, then bowed. ‘Tis of no import. My thanks for a diverting evening.

An unfamiliar ache settled over her heart. She did not understand it; nor could she explain it. For some unknown reason, she did not want Marcus to leave. Wait! I have something that might help you.

Reaching into her basket, she pulled out a small linen pouch filled with the herb chamomile. Here, steep this in boiling water to make chamomile tea. It will let you sleep.

Marcus’ grin made him appear younger than his years. Laughing, he shook his head. What’s this? Are you a traveling apothecary? My wondrous Mandy.

She liked being his wondrous Mandy, but his admiration made her uncomfortable. I want to heal people when I grow up, she mumbled at her bare toes. Her friends usually laughed at her when she told them her ambition.

He accepted the pouch, then lifted her chin. A noble aspiration. However, I do believe you are already grown up, while I, on the other hand, have a long way to go.

To her surprise, he brushed his warm lips against her forehead. I will remember this night forever.

With those words, he turned and walked away.

Amanda skimmed her fingertips across her forehead. Goodness, Midsummer Eve really was a magical night.

She glanced back in his direction, but he had disappeared into the darkness. Humming a little ditty, she skipped down the dirt path towards home. A sudden thought stopped her. What if Lydia’s spell worked? What if Amanda did see her future husband? After all, Marcus’ image had gazed up at her from the River Windrush.

A broad smile stretched her face. Maybe she would see Marcus in the morning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter One

Swinbrook, Oxfordshire, 1818

Oh, Mandy! You will never guess what I overheard at the Swan Inn this morning!

On hearing her sister-in-law’s excited outburst coming from a distance, Amanda Barclay glanced up from her resting place under the shade of the village green’s carefully tended weeping willow tree. Where was Lydia? A gentle breeze whispered through the tree’s leafy branches, and sunlight dappled the emerald lawn with bright beams and shadowed foliage. Fresh yellow daffodils and crisp white daisies dotted the park.

Amanda took a deep breath of nature-scented air. Goodness, but she was glad to be back home.

Mandy! Lydia Barclay’s call came again.

Setting down her wicker basket filled with various purchases of the day, Amanda turned toward the approaching Lydia. Since Amanda had finished her shopping first, she had chosen to wait in the village green and enjoy the beloved sounds and sights of her childhood. She had been gone from Swinbrook three years.

Three long years.

Flushed from the heat of the summer sun, Lydia rushed across the tall green grass and, stumbling on her long walking dress, fell into Amanda.

Oh, I am so sorry! Pray, please forgive me.

Even as she righted herself, Amanda had to laugh. Some things never changed. Her friend was still as clumsy as ever. Are you hurt, Lyddie?

No, but you must listen! As Lydia patted her swelling bosom to catch her breath, soft blonde tendrils of hair escaped from her wildly askew, high crowned bonnet. Mandy, the Duke of Yarborough is to pay the manor house a visit.

Amanda sensibly straightened her own straw bonnet knocked crooked from the force of the impact. Whatever she had expected her sister-in-law to say, it was not that. How could Lydia lose all sense of propriety and dash about as a hoyden half her five and twenty years of age? Especially after giving birth two months ago. And to be excited over what, that lecherous, old roué’s arrival? Duke or no duke, Yarborough was despicable.

Now, Lyddie, do try to contain yourself. All this commotion is unseemly. You forget, you are not only the parson’s wife, but a new mother as well. Even to Amanda’s ears, her words sounded stuffy. Indeed, they carried an uncanny resemblance to sentiments her own dear departed mother would have uttered had she been privy to Lydia’s display of emotion.

Under this rebuke, her friend’s pretty face crumpled. A well of regret rose up within Amanda. She placed her arm around Lydia’s waist and pulled her closer. Dear sister, I apologize! Please wipe those tears from your eyes. What would my brother say if we return to the cottage with you feeling lower than a hole?

She intentionally deepened her voice. ‘Is this the gratitude I get for braving Cousin Winifred’s displeasure? Perhaps I should not have arranged for you to return home, Amanda Barclay. I intended for you to cheer my wife, not send her into a gloomy melancholy.’

As Amanda hoped, her impersonation of her brother Francis, gave Lydia a fit of the giggles. Truly, Mandy, for a moment, I thought Frank was right here, ringing a peal over your head.

As he usually does. Glad that the mood had lightened, Amanda stood, then brushed the grass from her well-worn, brown day dress. Maybe the grass would not stain. She should have sat inside the green’s octagonal gazebo, instead of down on the ground. The honeyed fragrance of the daisies, however, had proved too tempting.

Shall we leave for home now, Lyddie? I am certain your darling babe has awakened hungry from his nap. Your mother must be at her wits’ end waiting for you.

Amanda furtively glanced at Lydia’s rounded bosom. Despite the upper class inclination to hire wet-nurses for newborns, Lydia insisted on feeding the baby herself. Amanda admired the decision. Perhaps one day she would marry and have her own babe suckling at her breast. At that pleasurable thought, a heated flush spread upon her cheeks.

The warm August day had changed into a scorcher and even under the shade of her parasol, a moist sheen of perspiration dotted her forehead. Wiping it away, she stooped to pick up her basket. Ready?

A stubborn cast settled over Lydia’s sweet features and she refused to budge. Little Jeremy will not awaken for another hour or so. And Mama always has things well in hand.

No use arguing. Amanda knew her friend inside and out. Truce, sister. I yield. Let us continue on our way and you can tell me why you are fair bursting about the Duke of Yarborough’s visit. I saw him last, oh, about four years ago, and he had naught to recommend him other than his title. Have his temper and looks improved?

Truth be told, she did not care a button about the duke. Goodness, he was probably sixty years old by now. But Lydia must be humored. Her breathing appeared somewhat shallow, and an unhealthy blush crept up her neck. Too many exertions, and too soon after her confinement.

Lydia was not aware of what had happened four years ago. Just passing through town, the duke had cornered Amanda inside the Swan Inn and made an improper suggestion--among other things. One of his strong hands covered her mouth while the other... took liberties with her person. Fortunately, her childhood scuffles with Francis had taught her how to escape a stranglehold.

Even now, she still shuddered thinking of Yarborough’s debauchery. Crossing the stone bridge over the River Windrush, she threw a grainy pebble into the cool water below.

But, Mandy, are we talking about the same duke? Many fine ladies consider him--

As they stepped onto the dirt road, a sway-backed horse pulling a small gig, trotted past them. In the carriage’s wake, a trail of dust indiscriminately rained down. Lydia stopped talking, consumed by a coughing fit.

Amanda patted her friend on the back and gave her a handkerchief to wipe her eyes. No matter what other ladies consider him, I consider him worthless.

You never change, Mandy, dear. Lydia laughed into the handkerchief. Never have been impressed with the nobility, have you? Why, I do believe if you met the Regent himself, you would give him a rare trimming because of him having many mistresses.

Shrugging, Amanda led Lydia across the street. "Perhaps. But at least he chooses one at a time, not like others of the beau monde, including your Duke of Yarborough. Although Cousin Winifred’s village is rather backwaters, we sometimes got the latest news. When I left, the on-dit was that Yarborough had ten members of the Fashionable Impures dangling after him." Imagine. At his age!

To the Regent’s credit, she continued. "Lady Hertford is still his only chère amie. At least, that is what I have heard."

Truly? Lydia’s color heightened again, showing that she thrived on gossip. Well, I have heard-- Gracious!

What cut short her inevitable