Beth could hear the lordly sniff of disdain from halfway across the room.
“Be fair though, Anthony, you were waving that hideous-smelling sheep’s thing around. He thought you were about to hit him with it again,” Caroline was saying.
“That was hardly my fault, Caroline,” said the baronet. “It merely shows the folly of speculating on the future, always a risky thing to attempt. Now if you will excuse us, I believe we have a minuet to dance.”
“God, I wish I’d been there,” said Edwin after the couple had gone to take their places on the floor. “Did Anthony really intend for him to fall in?”
“Bartholomew had just been remonstrating with Anne, telling her that she should not be out enjoying herself at frivolous parties, when her husband might be at that very moment dying on the battlefield in Flanders,” said Caroline. “The poor woman was in tears. You know Anthony. I leave it to you to determine whether it was an accident. And yes, you should have been there; it was hysterical. Anthony’s right, Bartholomew was in no danger of drowning, but I really thought he was going to have an apoplexy. Now, are you going to ask me to dance, or do I have to divorce you and find a more gallant suitor?”
Edwin considered this option for longer than was wise.
“Lord Edward is still single,” Caroline remarked.
Edwin took her hand and raised it to his lips.
“In the face of such competition, I give in,” he said. “May I have this dance?”
* * *
Iain and Maggie were sitting, or rather lying, alone in the library, indulging in a little of what Sir Anthony had tried to do behind the potted palm, hopefully to be followed by considerably more. Unlike Sir Anthony and Beth, Iain and Maggie thought themselves to be in no danger of being disturbed, so the knock on the front door came as some surprise. Having consigned the unfortunate caller to the deepest pits of Hell, in Gaelic and English, Iain rearranged his clothing, told his wife not to, and went to find out who it was.
When he returned a couple of minutes later, clutching an envelope, his mood was clearly so altered that Maggie immediately sat up and started fastening her bodice.
“What is it?” she asked.
“A message for Alex, or rather Anthony, by special courier,” Iain said, looking at the slim paper in his hand with trepidation.
“He’ll no’ mind if ye open it, and him out,” she said. This was the common practice.
“I canna do that,” replied Iain. “It’s got the wee acorn on it.” He passed it to her. Sure enough, the envelope had been sealed with red wax, and stamped in the wax was a small acorn. They looked at each other. Alex had told them, more than once; any urgent letter that came for him, they could open if he was out; any letter with an acorn stamp they must not open, but instead take to him immediately, whatever the hour, wherever he was.
“He’s at a wee dance at the Winters’ house, in Grosvenor Square. I’ll run round now,” he said, untying his tousled hair and combing it through with his fingers. Maggie took the ribbon from him and deftly smoothed the dark locks, securing them neatly at the nape of his neck.
“What d’ye think it is?” she asked, her brow furrowed.
“I’ve nae idea,” replied her husband, donning his coat, “but I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.”
Much later Maggie was to wonder what instinct made her follow Iain to the door, and stand there as he ran off down the street; it was not her normal practice to do so. It was almost dark, the street illuminated only by the lanterns of those inhabitants who could be bothered to fulfil their civic duty of lighting the street in front of their houses. Thus it was that she heard rather than saw the scuffle that took place at the corner, and by the time she had realised what was happening, had seized the wooden stave by the side of the door kept for unwelcome callers, and had run barefoot and therefore soundlessly up the street, Iain was lying on the ground, two men bending over him.
She didn’t hesitate; before they were aware she was there, she swung her stick, stretching one man out cold on the ground. The second man leapt backwards, narrowly missing having his arm broken by her second swing.
“Whoa, steady there, darlin’,” he said, holding his hand up in a placatory gesture. He was a squat, stockily built man with sly eyes, wearing a grubby greatcoat. “We wuz only havin’ a conversation with the young gentleman.”
“Aye, well, ye can continue it wi’ me, or clear off,” said Maggie, keeping her eye on the man, who was staying out of reach of her stick, but showed no sign of running away. On the floor, Iain moaned, and moved slightly.
“There was no need to hurt my friend there, that wasn’t very nice at all,” continued the man more confidently, his eyes flickering off to the side. Maggie followed his gaze briefly, and saw three other men approaching from the shadows. The adrenaline surged instantly through her veins; her breathing quickened, her heart raced, and in her heightened awareness she noticed that the men were moving to circle her and that Iain was not wearing his sword, even as she took a tighter grip on the stave and resolved to give at least one or two of them cause to regret it before they took her.
And then suddenly there was a commotion at the other end of the street, and a sound as of several feet running. The three figures melted back into the shadows, whilst the fourth man, who was standing under the lantern and clearly visible, thought quickly and then ran towards the group of approaching militiamen.
“Help!” he shouted. “I’ve just been attacked! They’ve killed my friend! Quick, before they get away!”
Maggie bent down over Iain, who was struggling to sit up. He looked around groggily, felt the pain knife up from his twisted ankle, saw the unconscious man and the armed militia coming towards them, and realised what was about to happen.
“Are ye all right?” Maggie said, heedless of the approaching band of blue-coated men.
Iain shoved the letter at her.
“Take it to him!” he said urgently. She looked at it stupidly.
“It’ll have to wait,” she said. “I need tae explain what’s happened.”
“There isna time!” he said urgently. “Maggie, they’re militia, they’ll no’ listen to you! Go, tell Alex I’ve been arrested. I’m all right. Go!”
It hit her then for the first time, how it would look to an outsider. They were Scots; the militia had been raised to protect the citizens of London against the Jacobites, who were mainly Scots. She was standing with a club in her hand and a possibly dead man at her feet; the over-enthusiastic militiamen would not be likely to listen to reason. They would both be hauled off to prison, and Alex, when he returned home, would have no idea where they were. And the message, whatever it was, would be confiscated and passed to the authorities. And they would hang.
“Go!” said Iain again, desperately.
She went, melting quietly into the shadows as the robbers had done, and then running, dodging haphazardly in and out of the alleys until she was certain the militia were not following. Then she stopped, panting for breath and massaging her side to relieve the stitch, and allowed herself the luxury of a few tears, before she looked around, got her bearings, and set off in the direction of Grosvenor Square.
* * *
Sir Anthony was deeply engaged in conversation with Anne Cunningham, the topic being the crucial one of whether it was better to hang wallpaper directly onto the walls of a room, or instead on wooden panels, which could then be taken down and moved elsewhere when required.
“Because wallpaper is so prodigiously expensive, of course,” said the baronet. “And fashions do come and go. If you hang it on panels, you can then remove these easily to a less frequented room when the mode changes.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Anthony,” said Beth. “This economy drive of yours is going too far. Anne has no need to be penny pinching. She can easily afford to change her wallpaper whenever she wishes.”
“Quite so,” agreed Lord Edward, bored by the domestic nature of the conversation, but always willing to ind
ulge in a dig at his cousin-in-law. “Why would anyone want to hang unfashionable wallpaper in any room of the house? Just take it down and throw it away.”
“Yes, but Anthony does have a point,” said Anne, smiling at her own temerity in addressing her brother-in-law without using his title, even though he had told her to more than once. “And Richard is very thrifty. I think he might approve of your idea. I must write and ask him what he thinks, before I redecorate the salon.”
A footman approached, and murmured in Sir Anthony’s ear.
“Yes, very well then, where is it?” the baronet replied.
More murmuring.
“Ah,” said the baronet. “If you will excuse me for a moment. It seems there is a message of some sort for me, which must be delivered directly into my hand. No, stay here my dear,” he said as Beth made to follow him. “I am sure it is nothing. Perhaps my peruke-maker is unsure of a measurement for my new wig. I have not used him before, but he comes highly recommended.”
He floated airily off, his wife’s complaints about the cost of his wigs drifting behind him, and accompanied the footman from the room.
In the hall, he took one look at the dishevelled, breathless figure of his cook, and turned immediately to the hovering servant, whose face wore an expression of studied indifference.
“I am sorry, sir,” said the footman immediately, expecting to be chastised for allowing so lowly an individual access to the great gentleman. “I did try to discourage the… ah…young woman.”
“No, no, it is perfectly all right,” said the baronet. “But it is a, how can I put it, a delicate matter. You are a man of the world, I am sure. You will understand.” He winked grotesquely at the footman, who looked from the serving-woman to Sir Anthony in amazement. “Is there somewhere private we could go where we will not be disturbed for a few minutes?”
A coin flashed in the candlelight, and then Sir Anthony and Maggie were in a private room, furnished in red and gold. The door closed, and the baronet instantly placed his hand over Maggie’s mouth before she could speak.
“The footman will guard the door,” he said quietly. “He will also endeavour to overhear what we’re saying. Keep your voice down. What has happened?”
She told him. Then she gave him the letter, and he opened it, read it, then sat down, reaching up to run his hands through his hair, in the process dislodging his wig, which Maggie caught in mid-air.
“Oh shit,” he said, softly but feelingly.
“What does it say?” asked Maggie, who had thought she could not be any more worried and afraid than she had been when running from the militia, but who now realised she was wrong. Under the makeup Alex had certainly paled, and his face looked suddenly drawn. He took the wig from her hand and placed it expertly back on his head, tucking the loose tendrils of chestnut hair out of sight.
“Can you act distressed?” he asked.
“I dinna need to act,” Maggie replied. “I am distressed. What does the letter say?”
“I need to get Beth out of here, now,” he said. “If Iain’s been taken by the militia rather than the Watch, they may have taken him directly to Newgate instead of the round-house. Christ, why did this have to happen now?”
“What?” she said. “What’s happened?”
“I’m going to go back in and tell them your husband’s been arrested, and that I have to go and try to secure his release. You need to look more despairing, cry, that sort of thing, beg me to help him. Can you do it?”
“Do I no’ look despairing now?” she said. “I thought I did.”
“No, you look belligerent. Be more helpless, afraid. You’re of little consequence, a servant. You think I might dismiss you.”
“I’m no’ so good at the acting as you,” she said. “Help me a wee bit. How do I look afraid?”
He helped her a wee bit, by summing up, in three words, the contents of the letter he had just scanned. After that, she had no trouble in looking afraid at all.
“Really, it is most excruciatingly tiresome,” complained Sir Anthony as he helped his wife on with her cloak. “I really need to ride directly to Robert, and now I have to visit Newgate first. I will probably get fleas, or worse, contract some horrible disease to pass on to my ailing friend. It is just too appalling.”
“I don’t know why you can’t let the man rot in jail for a few days, while you go and visit your sick friend,” said Lord Edward. “Teach the fellow not to brawl in the street again. The conduct of your servants reflects on you, you know. Intolerable behaviour.”
“I agree entirely, Edward,” replied Sir Anthony. Beth had gone to Maggie, who was standing uncertainly in the hall, the half of her face that was visible over the baronet’s handkerchief stark white. Beth put her arm around the young woman, felt her trembling, and asked if she was about to faint. Maggie shook her head once, her eyes staying on her employer, huge and fearful.
“However,” Sir Anthony continued, “Margaret is a remarkably good cook. And you of all people, Edward, know how difficult excellent cooks are to come by. I would not want to come home from Kent and find myself without a good meal. But there will be no second chances,” he said sternly to his servant. “You must both be quite clear about that.”
“Oh!” cried Anne from behind them. “Your feet are bleeding! You must sit down at once. Fetch some water and a cloth,” she instructed a nearby servant.
“There is no time for that now,” said Sir Anthony coldly, giving Maggie’s bare and bloody feet a cursory glance. “I have no intention of wasting any more of my evening than I need to. She can tend to her own feet, at home, whilst I am endeavouring to secure the release of her miscreant husband. I must make my excuses to Lord and Lady Winter. Elizabeth, please escort Margaret to the carriage. I will join you in a moment.”
He disappeared back into the drawing room, leaving Beth to help Maggie into the coach, where they sat in silence, the coachman being hired and not trustworthy, although it was obvious Maggie had information that Beth needed to know. A few minutes passed, and then the baronet appeared, springing up lightly into the coach, which set off for home at a brisk pace.
“What was all that about?” asked Edwin, coming up behind Caroline a moment after Sir Anthony had vacated the room. She was standing looking after him, a puzzled expression on her face. Her ribs would probably be bruised in the morning.
“His footman’s been arrested for…”
“I know,” he interrupted her. “I didn’t mean that.”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” she said. “I have no idea. He was just having an affectionate moment, I suppose.”
She supposed it could be called affectionate when you approached a friend to say goodnight, only to be swept up in an unexpected and painful hug which literally took your breath away.
“Goodbye, Caroline,” Sir Anthony had said into her hair. “I love you, you know that, and Edwin, too. Tell him.” He had released her then, and looked at her intently for a moment as if committing her to memory, before turning and leaving the room.
“Maybe he’s upset about his friend,” offered Edwin, who thought it a little odd that Anthony had never before mentioned his close friend Robert in Kent. “Whatever it is, I suppose he’ll tell us when he’s ready.”
The house was reached, the coachman dismissed for the evening, and the three occupants of the coach went indoors.
“What did the letter say?” Beth asked the moment the door was closed.
Alex repeated the three words that had set Maggie trembling.
“We are betrayed,” he said. “Daniel knows Sir Anthony does not exist.”
He turned and walked straight into the library. Beth and Maggie followed him. He bent down by the fire and began to blow on the embers, feeding more wood carefully on top of them.
“No,” Beth said, aghast. “How could he know that? Who could have told him?”
“No one tellt him,” Alex said, abandoning Sir Anthony’s voice. “He didna go to Switzerland to lick his woun
ds, as his father thought. He went to see if he could find out any scandal about Sir Anthony. It took him three weeks of searching to find the gravestone, the one you saw.” The fire was now blazing cheerfully, and Alex went across to his desk and began pulling things out of the drawers.
“But the gravestone wouldn’t tell him anything,” Beth said. “It hasn’t got Sir Anthony’s name on it.”
“No, but Daniel knew then that if the family were buried there, likely someone would ken something about them. He made enquiries, asked about, I dinna ken the details. But he found out that Sir Anthony died when he was a wee bairn, and that’s enough for him to alert the authorities. He got back to England three days ago. Ye have to burn all these,” he said, carrying a pile of papers from the table to the hearth. “Make sure there isna anything left but ash. I have to go and get Iain out, and then ride to Blackheath to warn Gabriel, and we must be gone before morning.” He stood up, and started to fasten his coat, to become Sir Anthony again, for the last time. “Ye have to pack,” he said, “and saddle the horses, and prime the pistols. Maggie, ye ken how to do that. I have tae go.”
His feverish urgency was contagious, but there was still something Beth didn’t understand.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “If Daniel got back three days ago, why didn’t he go straight to the authorities? He wouldn’t wait to tell them something like that. Who’s he told who would write to warn you? And where’s Daniel?”
“Beth,” he said, “I canna tell ye that. I need to go. There isna enough time as it is.”
She moved round in front of him, blocking his exit.
“Two minutes won’t make any difference. If someone knocks on the door while you’re out, we need to know if they’re a friend, someone harmless, or an enemy,” she said. “We need to know who to invite in, who to get rid of, and who to kill. If it’s Daniel, or Highbury, should we kill him?”
The Storm Breaks (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 4) Page 3