“You’re welcome. And now I will bid you all adieu. I must pack my bags and leave.”
Robert stood. “You plan to follow Miss Beauchamp?”
“Yes. I must find out who wanted that. I have it on good authority that Miss Beauchamp is leaving within the next few hours, and wherever she’s going, she plans to stay overnight.”
Robert looked skeptical. “How did you discover that? You just arrived.”
“Oh, I have my methods.”
Mary’s gaze was bright with curiosity. “William, just how well do you know Miss Beauchamp?”
He shrugged. “Well enough.”
“That’s an understatement,” Robert murmured. At William’s sharp look, he continued, “I take it you’re telling us you don’t need our help?”
“Not yet. I will contact you as soon as I know more.”
Robert nodded. “That’s good. I’ve an errand of my own in Edinburgh.”
MacLean quirked a brow at Robert. “Shall we expect the pleasure of your company after you finish your errand? You would be within a day’s ride.”
“Perhaps,” Robert said, favoring them all with an odd smile.
William scowled. Damn Robert and his mysterious airs. “If you don’t mind, I shall leave you all now. I must be off as soon as possible if I’m to retrieve that artifact.”
Robert turned to his sisters. “Shall we retire to my house? Unlike William, I will offer you food and a very nice Madeira.”
William added, “I’ve already ordered your coaches to be brought around.”
A sudden knock sounded as Lippton stood in the doorway. “Sir, you asked that I inform you when your caller arrived. I escorted him to the library and he is awaiting you there.”
“Very good. My family was just preparing to leave.” He turned to them. “As soon as I know something more, I will write.”
Robert stood and adjusted one of his French cuffs, his shrewd gaze locked upon William. “You know where this artifact—and Miss Beauchamp—have gone, don’t you?”
“When I regained consciousness, I immediately sent word to my friend Fielding who oversees the Bow Street Runners. I asked him to have an agent keep an eye on the elusive Miss Beauchamp.”
“Ah. That is your visitor, then.”
“I believe so.”
Robert turned to his sisters, who were standing ready to depart. “I suggest we leave this mess for William to sort out. He’ll contact us if he has need of our help.”
“William, please hurry,” Caitlyn begged. “I worry about Michael.”
“I don’t,” Erroll said.
Mary sighed. “Erroll says Michael is fine, and that in some foreign climes being held for ransom is almost an honor.”
“It is until they cut off your head,” Robert said blandly.
At the reproachful looks tossed his way, he shrugged. “I am merely repeating something Michael once said. I’m of the opinion that so long as our brother is under the protection of the indomitable Miss Smythe-Haughton, he will come to no harm.”
Mary frowned. “She’s just his secretary.”
“She is his translator, curator, administrator, organizer—in a word, she is his everything. He just hasn’t realized it yet.”
“They don’t even like one another,” Caitlyn said. “Michael’s said so in his letters.”
“Exactly,” Robert replied with a smug smile.
William made an impatient noise. “Whatever Miss Smythe-Haughton is or is not, I will get that artifact and deliver it as soon as possible. I will keep you all apprised of the situation as it develops.”
He gave a quick bow and left the room, his mind focused on the man who awaited him in the breakfast room. Michael, it won’t be long now. Wherever I have to go, whatever I have to do, I will find that artifact and win your release.
Letter from Michael Hurst to his sister Mary, from a rented room overlooking a busy bazaar in Turkey.
I am awaiting my new interpreter. He is to take my party on a two-week journey into the mountains, where the locals swear a number of ancient ruins are hidden. One of our contacts suggested that there is also treasure to be found, but finding just one ruin of a proper antiquity would be enough of a treasure for me. One never knows until one investigates. Never believe the ears until confirmed by the eyes.
CHAPTER 5
The young porter dropped Marcail’s trunk to the floor, then pulled out a kerchief and wiped his brow. “I’ll fetch yer portmanteau from the bottom of the steps next, miss.”
“Thank you.” Marcail unhooked her gray cloak of fine wool, trimmed with deep red satin, and hung it on a hook by the door. The room was a far cry from the luxurious house she occupied in London, but charming nonetheless. The bed’s thick coverlet was decorated with yarn bows that matched the curtains, and the furniture was of good quality. As far as accommodations went, it was much better than she’d dared to hope.
The only difficulty had been finding a place for her coach and six. This inn’s stable was small, so she’d had to send her equipment down the street to a less genteel inn with a larger stable. All told, it was a relatively minor inconvenience.
The porter returned with her portmanteau and she pointed to a clear space beside the bed.
“Very good, miss. They’s fresh water in yer pitcher and clean glasses, too.”
“Thank you.”
The porter’s bright gaze locked on her veil and bonnet as if he wished he had the nerve to ask her to remove them. “Pardon me, miss, but I was surprised to see a genteel lady like yerself comin’ into town, it not bein’ ocean bathin’ season no more.”
The small town she’d been ordered to report to was eerily empty, as the weather had turned cold several weeks before. “I wish to enjoy the quiet.”
“Ye’ll still find plenty t’ do if ye like walks upon the beach,” the porter said helpfully. “’Tis a grand little town, fer all that it’s not as popular as Brighton. Queen Charlotte herself stayed here one night twenty years ago! The day after she left, the lord mayor renamed two buildings and three streets after the royal family, hopin’ more o’ them might come.”
“And did they?”
His face fell. “No. But we’ve grown all the same. Why, the town’s twiced as big now as it was then.”
Realizing she was about to receive an exhaustive history of Southend-on-Sea, Marcail quickly pressed some coins into the porter’s hand. “Thank you again for bringing up my luggage.”
He backed toward the door, beaming. “It’s my pleasure, miss. If’n ye need anything else, just ring the bell and someone will come t’ see what ye need.”
“Thank you.” Smiling, Marcail herded him from the room.
“I’ll be glad to brush yer shoes if ye leave them outside the door,” the porter added as he crossed the threshold.
“I shall remember that, thank you.” With that, she closed the door and turned the key in the lock.
After the porter’s footsteps faded away, she hurried to her portmanteau. She removed all of the clothes from the bag and dislodged the false bottom, revealing the carefully wrapped artifact. “Good,” she murmured, repacking the bag and returning it to the floor.
Now all she had to do was wait. If this was like her other exchanges, Miss Challoner would show up when she chose, which often left Marcail waiting for hours and sometimes days. The whole thing was most unnerving.
But the worst part was behind her. She’d procured the artifact; now she could deliver it and be done with it.
Yet she couldn’t forget the blaze of William’s eyes as he watched her, condemning her every move. Don’t be silly; he was drugged. He probably wasn’t fully aware of what occurred.
The thought should have reassured her, but it just made her heart ache a little more. Blast it, she should be done with feeling bad about things that had happened, especially about things that had to happen. Perhaps I should have just told him why I’d come, that I needed the artifact to protect my family.
But even as she
had the thought, she shook her head. He’d been too angry to listen to her. If she’d been on fire, he wouldn’t have spared a glass of water to save her. I had no choice; I did what I had to.
Heart heavy, she removed her veil and bonnet and set them on the bed. She pulled out all of her hairpins and placed them on the nightstand, then threaded her fingers through the mass of waves that fell about her shoulders.
She was tired, worn, and ached from head to foot. Southend-on-Sea was almost a twelve-hour ride from London. Why had her blackmailer chosen this town? It was in the middle of nowhere, which made her uneasy.
She ruffled her hair and then went to look out one of the windows. The town sat on the North Sea at the mouth of the Thames, built upon a graceful slope that led to the sea’s edge. The rainy street below was nearly empty, except for a man in dark clothing who appeared to be waiting for someone and a stray dog that was digging under a stoop.
Beyond the street, she could see a long pier jutting out into the water. Several boats were tied there, including a large ship. In the distance, two more ships slowly sailed toward the pier. It was a pretty scene, worth painting.
Sighing, she dropped the curtain and looked about the room, suddenly feeling very alone. “Just come and take the blasted thing,” she murmured sourly. “I don’t have all week to wait for you.”
Not to mention that the longer Miss Challoner waited to claim the artifact, the longer William had to find her. She was safer here, away from London, but still … He had been so very, very angry. She would have to face him when she returned home. She’d been extremely careful that no one knew she was coming here. Except for three of her servants, everyone thought she was at home in bed, ill with the ague.
Still, she couldn’t linger too long; she was due to begin rehearsal on a new melodrama entitled Ali Pasha. The script was in her portmanteau, as she’d planned to read it on the way, but the bouncing of the coach had prevented it.
Impatient, she went to the dresser and poured herself a glass of water, then sat in a chair and stretched out her legs.
It was as if the blackmailer was purposely trying to grind her spirit into dust. That was a silly thought, for it suggested that the person had a personal grudge against her, and she had no real enemies.
That is true, isn’t it? Is there any reason someone would want my life disrupted in such a fashion?
She tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair, considering all the people she knew well enough for them to wish her either harm or true good, and realized that the list was short indeed. Over the years she’d become very private, only going to and from the theater, riding most mornings with Colchester to remind the world that they were supposedly a couple, and visiting Grandmamma. She simply didn’t know anyone well enough to have an enemy.
She shifted restlessly. This whole situation reminded her of one of the mystery plays that the theater put on for the afternoon and early evening crowds for a penny ticket.
She rose to pull the script from her bag and then returned to her chair to read.
Two hours later, just as Marcail was beginning to doze, a knock sounded on the door, startling her. “Finally,” she grumbled as she rose to her stockinged feet. She tossed her script on the bed, grabbed her boots, and stepped into them. Not bothering to lace them, she hurried to the dresser to repin her hair.
The knock sounded again, more insistent.
“One moment!” Miss Challoner certainly was anxious to get her hands on the artifact.
Marcail glanced at her portmanteau. What is the value of that thing, anyway? I wish I knew.
The knock sounded again, even louder this time, and she called out in an exasperated tone, “I’ll be right there!”
She slipped in just enough hairpins to keep the hair off her shoulders and then went to the door. She undid the lock and swung it open. “Miss Challoner—”
William Hurst swooped her up like a sack of sand, tucking her under his arm, against his hip. Her hair immediately fell from its few pins as his drenched clothes soaked hers. “You’re wet! Damn it, William, put me down!”
“Like hell.” He crossed the room while she squirmed and kicked. “Hold still or you’ll hurt yourself.”
That made her madder and she squirmed even harder, kicking with all of her might. Her toes slammed into the dresser, one unlaced boot flying off. “Owww!” she yelled.
“I warned you.”
“Put me doooooooown! I swear to heaven, if you don’t—”
He tightened his hold until she could only gasp, no other sound fleeing her lips. She fisted her hands and pummeled his thigh as hard as she could.
“Stop that at once.”
William’s voice cracked the order and Marcail instinctively stopped. Perhaps it was just as well, for her toes throbbed. There was a time to fight and a time to scheme. Now was a good Scheming Time.
He reached the bed and tossed her onto the mattress, then returned to the door and locked it.
Marcail took the moment to sit up and scoot to the edge of the bed. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the portmanteau on the floor, by her feet.
She quickly spread her skirts as if to shake them back into their intended folds. Hidden by this gesture, she shoved the portmanteau under the bed with her heel. It went partway but then stopped, blocked by some unseen object.
She’d just have to keep her skirts over it.
William tucked the key into his waistcoat pocket and leaned against the door, his arms crossed over his broad chest as he regarded her with a self-satisfied smile. “Well, here we are. I’d offer you some drugged port, but unfortunately I don’t have any.”
She pushed her hair from her face and pulled it all to one side. “So … here we are. We can’t seem to stay away from each other lately.”
“I’d be happy to stay away from you, if I could. I want that artifact.”
“That’s too bad. I already delivered it to its rightful owner.”
“Who happens to be my brother. He purchased it in Egypt several months ago.”
“He stole it, so he was not the rightful owner.”
“Is that what you were told?”
She opened her mouth, and then closed it. “It’s the truth … isn’t it?”
He sent her a look of such disgust that her face warmed. “You don’t even know for certain, do you? What in the hell is going on, Marcail?”
Her heart sank to her stomach as she read the truth in William’s face. It was a lie. It was all a lie. She shouldn’t have been surprised, for her blackmailer was anything but honorable. Feeling as if she might be ill, she smoothed her skirts and said in a tight voice, “I was told it was stolen and I should deliver it to the rightful owner.”
“Who is that? Who is this ‘rightful owner’?”
She shrugged, pretending indifference though she wondered the same. She’d accepted without question the story told to her simply because it had been easier not to ask questions.
William raked a hand through his wet hair, slicking it away from his face, his dark blue gaze locked upon her. Many men would look foolish with their hair plastered back, but the severe style worked for William, emphasizing the strong angles of his face.
He wasn’t conventionally handsome like Colchester, who seemed soft compared to William. Bold lines drew William’s jaw and brow, while his dark blue gaze, shadowed by a sensual sweep of lashes, was piercing and unflinching. He appeared exactly as he was—strong, determined, and indomitable. At one time, she’d loved to lie at his side in bed and trace his profile with the tip of her finger. Now he barely tolerated her presence.
“You’re lying.” His words were firm, spoken without question.
“I am not. I was told the artifact belonged to someone else.”
“I don’t think you believed that any more than I do.”
“I believed it,” she retorted. “I still do.”
His gaze narrowed and he watched her for a long moment before he shook his head. “No. You’re lying. You
didn’t believe it when you heard it, and you don’t believe it now.”
Marcail dropped her gaze to where her feet peeped out from beneath her skirts, one booted and one not as her heart tripped uncertainly. He can’t tell if I’m lying or not. He must be bluffing, too.
Well, she knew how to deal with a bluffer. She raised her chin and met his gaze with calm certainty. “It doesn’t matter what I think or don’t think; the artifact is gone.”
He looked around the room. “Where is it?”
She forced herself to laugh. “Still the same stubborn William.”
“Still the same deceitful Marcail,” he retorted, his gaze landing upon her trunk. He crossed to it and tried the lid. “It’s locked?”
She shrugged.
His mouth tightened. “Fine. I’ll open it in my own way.” He lifted a foot and kicked the trunk.
She winced, biting back a protest.
He kicked again and again. Finally, the back hinges gave way and the trunk fell over on its side.
“That was a waste. Your artifact is not in there.”
William reached down and upended the trunk. A rainbow of silk gowns and shoes tumbled onto the floor, twined about a handful of the finest lawn chemises.
She had to fight the urge to jump up and collect her belongings, but she couldn’t do so without revealing the portmanteau. She was forced to settle for a tight, “You’re going to pay for those.”
“I already have.” He stirred the clothes with one foot, his wet boot marring the silks.
“Oh, for the love of—William! Get your muddy boots out of my clothes! You’re ruining them!”
He bent down and picked up an especially sheer lawn chemise. “Very nice. I suppose Colchester bought this for you.”
“No, I bought it for myself. The gaslights are very hot in the theater and a lighter chemise is much cooler.”
He threw it back on the floor and picked up a long silk night rail. He held it aloft, his blue eyes locked with hers. “Since when did you start wearing a night rail to bed?”
Her cheeks burned. “A gentleman wouldn’t speak of the delicate details of a past relationship.”
Hurst 02 - Scandal in Scotland Page 5