Every lady contained something interesting, and, Kirsty decided, probably valuable.
Then there were the two pieces that had disappeared, then reappeared—empty.
Max had said that no one would think she’d stolen the missing pieces, but what would he say now that all the others were revealed as treasure boxes? She grew hot. If she said nothing, perhaps no one would ever find out about the jewels. But someone had taken two of the pieces and brought them back minus their contents. Kirsty was certain that, just like all the others, they must have contained something.
She could be accused of stealing. From Max’s sister.
Well, she had never stolen a single thing in her entire life; in fact the possibility of stealing had never entered her mind.
Boldly, she pulled the bell cord beside the fireplace, then sat down to pen a swift note. That done, she placed it in an envelope, sealed it, and bent to the task of replacing the contents of the Parcheesi pieces. She set the board aside and stared at it.
“Kirsty? Or am I supposed to call ye Miss Mercer now ye’re so important?”
She jumped, and looked up into Fergus Wilkie’s insolent face. She didn’t answer his question, but said, “Thank ye for comin’. Would ye be kind enough t’take this letter t’the lodge.”
He glanced at the window. “Now?”
“Aye, it’s of great importance.” Great importance if she hoped to get any sleep at all this night. “I’m sure there’d be no objection t’ye takin’ the cart they usually use t’get there.”
Wilkie sniffed. “I’ll be faster afoot.” He sidled closer, took the envelope and rudely read the name written there. “Writin’ t’your master. What’s up wi’ ye? A lovers’ tiff?”
Kirsty had never been good at argument. “I will be grateful t’ye, Fergus.”
“Oh, I’m Fergus now ye want somethin’ am I? Well, I’ll take it for ye, but then I’ll expect payment o’ my choice— when I choose t’collect it.”
After he left, with his sly manner of studying her, and his almost silent way of moving, Kirsty settled in to wait.
For the first hour she leafed through a copy of the magazine, Punch , that she’d brought up from the study. It had been published for the first time the previous year. This edition was from December and showed a great many very disrespectful drawings of important people with their worst features presented to make them even more frightful. Kirsty couldn’t help smiling at some of them.
It was some distance to the lodge—a hunting lodge before the viscount took it over to be his and Lady Justine’s home—but Wilkie might have made it there and back by now.
She went into the corridor and walked toward the stairs, planning to look down at the hall below.
As she turned from the corridor, she encountered Lady Hermoine Rashly, puffing, apparently having hurried upstairs. Her face was pink from being outside.
“Oh, Kirsty,” she said, and her golden eyes filled with tears. “Oh, forgive me for being so silly as to cry, but I saw you, and suddenly I feel I can’t cope anymore. It’s all too much. Please say you’ll help me. I’m so worried about Max.”
Kirsty held her breath and waited for Lady Hermoine to continue.
“I’ve been with him, you know,” the lady said. “At least, I’ve tried to be with him. He doesn’t really want me there.” She turned her face from Kirsty, who saw a tear slide down the other’s cheek.
“My lady,” she said tentatively, “what has happened? How can I help ye?”
“I understand you’ve been helping the marquess while Max is ill.”
Ill? Perhaps that was the story being put about to cover the fact that Max was in his cups. “Aye, I’ve been working with His Lordship.”
“Max said he was grateful for you and the marquess because he doesn’t have to worry about estate matters, and he doesn’t feel he could at the moment.”
“I see,” Kirsty said. “I’m glad if I’m helpin’ him.” Could he be really ill?
“Yes, but . . . b-but . . .” Lady Hermoine broke into loud sobs. Her shoulders heaved, and Kirsty was moved to sympathy by the sight. She would have patted the lady’s back but knew better than to touch someone of high rank.
“Oooh,” Lady Hermoine moaned. “I do love him, you know. But he doesn’t love me. But because I love him, I’ve come to ask you to go to him. You mean a great deal to him. He’s so ill. Would you go to him now and see if you can bring him some comfort? Perhaps there is infection. I don’t know, and he refuses medical assistance.”
Kirsty listened to Lady Hermoine with mounting horror. “You think there’s infection, my lady?”
“I don’t know. It pains me so to come to you when I wish he wanted me, but I cannot be so selfish as to stand between him and the one who may be able to bring him some solace.” She looked at Kirsty, caught her hands, and squeezed them. “Go to him, my dear. Go now before it is too late.”
Kirsty pulled her hands free. “I will,” she said. “I’ll go at once, and bless ye for the unselfish woman ye are. I’ve misjudged ye. God love ye, my lady.”
Without taking time to return to her room for bonnet and mantle, Kirsty sped down the flights of stairs to the hall and outside into a cool night. She noticed the chill air, but paid it no mind.
She would follow Fergus Wilkie’s lead and go to the lodge on foot. At least she wore relatively sturdy half boots and could negotiate the rough path well enough as long as she was careful of ruts and rocks along the way.
Now she wished the day were even longer. The last traces of evening purple had fled the sky, and there was only the hint of the moon’s glow. She stumbled frequently, but steadied herself each time and pressed on. The way to the lodge was better now than it had once been but it was still no path to take in the darkness.
She wasn’t prepared to hear the approach of a horse and stood to one side of the path, squinting in all directions.
The animal and its rider were upon her almost immediately. There was no chance to get out of the way. Kirsty pressed her back into the hedgerow and cried out at the piercing of thorns into the skin of her neck and arms, at the snagging of her hair.
Against the black sky, the even darker form of the horse reared up at her side, its rider cloaked and hooded—as good as invisible. Kirsty’s heart beat so hard she thought she might choke. She would have turned to run, but there was no avenue to take, and the rider slid quickly from his mount and took her by the arms. With never a word, he spun her around and tied her wrists together. She thought she cried out, but couldn’t be certain, so abject was her fear.
“Who are you?” Surely this was the same man who had come to Max’s aid. “Let me go or you’ll be sorry.” He bound her wrists tightly. “Someone’s coming this way to meet me. He’ll be here at any moment, and he’ll be carrying a pistol.”
His laughter chilled her.
The cloth he pushed into her mouth and knotted at the back of her head silenced her.
Another cloth, this one thick and secured over her eyes, stole what sight she’d had in the night.
He moved so rapidly. Bundled and pushed, lifted and tossed, very quickly she was slung, facedown, over the horse’s neck, with the man in the saddle behind her. They rode full tilt, the horse’s gait jouncing her until she was sure no bone remained whole. Her body must be bruised over every inch.
He was going to kill her.
Kirsty’s scream died in her throat. She felt she might choke on the wad of stuff the man had forced into her mouth.
So far he took her. Kirsty rolled toward the saddle, and knew they rode uphill, then the rider held her to stop her from sliding forward, and she felt they were going downhill again.
The horse’s hooves scrunched on gravel. There were shouting voices, then a single command from the rider, “Silence!” And there was silence but for running feet, and slamming doors, and the occasional incomprehensible whisper.
Inside a house. Yes, she was carried up some steps and into a house.
Then he hoisted her over his shoulder, wrapped an arm around her legs, and climbed flight after flight of stairs while someone ran behind him.
There couldn’t be so many flights of stairs in a house.
The smells grew musty. Her abductor reached a door and threw it open. He bundled her inside and set her on her feet. Then, to her amazement, he untied her hands and removed the blindfold and gag.
With the hood pulled low over his face, he stood just out of her reach. Whoever had been behind him fled, his or her feet clattering on bare steps. “Here is food,” he said, his voice muffled. He pushed a tray forward with his toe. “If you wish to relieve yourself, you’ll find a place and a way.”
Kirsty surged toward him, but he fended her off with a single outstretched arm.
“Let me go,” she cried. “Please, who are ye? What have I done to ye? How long are ye goin’ t’keep me here?”
He snickered. “That will depend.”
“Depend upon what?”
“Whether or not we get what we want.”
“But why are you doing this to me?”
“Because you get in the way.”
“Who are you? I know you’re the lone horseman, but who are you? What do you want from me?”
“So many questions,” he said, and backed quickly from the room.
Kirsty looked about her with horror. She was in an attic, of that she was certain. An attic filled with old trunks, dusty pictures, furniture losing its stuffing.
“No!” she yelled. “No, don’t leave me here. Please don’t leave me here.”
She threw herself at the door and grabbed the handle— and heard the key turn in the lock.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Into every man’s life came a time when he must put pride aside. At least it did if by putting pride aside the general good would be served.
Or even a substantial part of what was good.
He should not, Max thought, feel quite as first-rate as he did this morning. Striding the way from the lodge to the castle should at least have caused his headache to return. Or made him weak. Encouraged renewed bleeding from beneath the plaster strips the sawbones had applied to the wound on his jaw perhaps.
In fact he felt quite marvelous.
If the tossing away of a man’s pride could do good for even a single soul, then toss it, he most certainly should.
And he would.
For that one deserving soul Kirsty Mercer, he would not only toss away his pride, but he would grind it into the dust beneath his feet!
Max scuffed at the said dust with the toe of a boot, checked in all directions, and made a sideways leap into the air. He executed the feat of clapping his boots together before landing, and caught sight of a gardener who had paused his work to observe the spectacle.
The gardener doffed his cap.
Max grinned and gave the man a mock salute and a cheerful, “Good day to you.”
Oh, why not simply admit that his generosity of spirit was for his own good as well as Kirsty’s? And knowing that she was at least twice as generous as he was, he could only be assured that she would melt at his contrition and admit that she had merely been affecting nobility when she’d refused him.
He entered the building by the main door beneath its clock tower and castellated balcony and strode toward Eve. At the foot of the stairs to his apartments—and Kirsty’s—he hesitated. The hour of ten was past. His father had informed him that she was working side by side with Arran to keep estate affairs running smoothly.
She would be in his study.
Fergus Wilkie emerged from belowstairs, reading as he walked. He was too engrossed to notice Max, who said, “Good book, Wilkie?” and smiled when the other man jumped.
“Aye, sir,” Wilkie said, tucking the small volume into the pocket of his livery. He attempted to slide away again.
No doubt Wilkie was studying for his next amorous encounter. “I’d been meaning to inquire about your nuptials to . . . Ada, is it? Fine figure of a woman, that.”
Wilkie had the grace to turn bright red. He cleared his throat and nodded, and mumbled, “Thank you, sir. You know how it is. Sometimes it takes time to arrange these things. We can’t inconvenience the household, after all, can we.”
Max stared at him and wondered if Ada would be well served by marrying the man. He decided she would, even if only to give her the married status that would bring her suitable respect within the household staff.
“We’ll have to see what we can do to work things out,” Max said, and strode on toward his study where he found the door shut tight.
A rumble of masculine voices came from within.
Grinning, Max threw open the door and marched into the room. His father and Arran stood facing each other. Each man wore a deep frown.
And Kirsty was not at her desk, dash it all.
“Max!” Father said, and advanced rapidly to take him by the arm. “Wonderful to see you looking yourself, my boy. But don’t overdo things too soon. Come and take a chair.”
“Yes,” Arran agreed. “Take a chair.”
“I’m feeling better than ever,” Max informed them. “If you’ll excuse me, I just remembered what I intended to do before coming in here.” He would go to the rosy rooms. No doubt Kirsty had finally fallen into a decline for the want of him and could no longer pretend herself capable of continuing to work.
“We need to talk to you,” Father said.
“I—”
“Now,” Arran told him. “We’ve a dilemma on our hands.”
“I’m back now,” Max said, and he could not contain his wretched grin. “No need for either of you to worry yourselves about matters here anymore. Kirsty and I will take care of everything.”
His father and uncle looked at each other before Struan turned his back on both of them and went to the window.
“Sit down,” Arran repeated. “We’ve got a bit of a pickle on our hands. We were deciding how to proceed when you arrived.”
Impatient to be off, Max still declined to sit. He asked, “What’s the problem?” and tried to appear interested.
“We think Kirsty’s missing,” his father said without turning around.
“Good God, Struan,” Arran bellowed. “Why don’t you learn not to be so subtle when announcing these things?”
“I wasn’t subtle.”
“Exactly. You have the subtlety of a team of oxen. Damn it, man, after all these years you’d think you’d learn to think before—”
“What are you talking about?” Max asked. He felt suddenly quite cold. And perhaps he was weak after all. “Kirsty? Missing? How can she be missing?”
“She’s not with her family,” Arran said. “I went down there myself to see, and they haven’t had a word from her. They’re worried, but I tried to ease them. I told them we would inform them when she returns.”
Max looked from one man to the other, backed away, turned, and fled the room. He took the stairs several at a time, ignoring the throb in his jaw, and strode to Kirsty’s rooms.
Not a sign of her.
The bed was smoothed with not so much as a wrinkle in the counterpane. Absolute order wherever he looked. He opened a drawer in the dresser. Empty. And the next. And the next. All empty. And the wardrobe? Empty—but for the new clothing she hadn’t wanted. He looked to the table beside the bed. The Bible was gone.
He returned to the sitting room and sat on the chest near the window, his mind whirling, yet blank of inspiration. Where would she go? She had nowhere to go.
“Sir?” Fergus Wilkie, a hesitant expression on his thin face, hovered on the threshold. “May I come in, sir?”
Max stared at him, then remembered himself, and said, “Yes, yes. Come in. What is it?”
Wilkie closed the door carefully behind him and approached. “I’m no’ sure I should ha’ come t’ye, but I know Kirsty Mercer is by way of bein’ important t’ye.” Hastily he added, “Because of how she’s good with numbers and so on.”
Max watched
him narrowly and decided there was definitely something he did not care for about Fergus Wilkie. “We would all appreciate any help you can give us,” he said, as impersonally as possible under the circumstances.
With his gaze fixed firmly on the carpet, Wilkie said, “I was passing this way verra late last night.”
“Really? Why would you be passing this way? You have no reason to come here unless summoned, do you?”
That brought Wilkie’s eyes to meet Max’s briefly. He gave a one-sided, “man-to-man” leer that Max disliked intensely. “If ye recall, sir, Ada and—”
“Yes,” Max said quickly. “Quite so. You were passing this way. And?”
“Kirsty was sitting where you are.”
Max gripped his knees and leaned forward, and said,
“And?”
“I dinna like t’say it.”
“Say it.”
“I’m sure there’s a good explanation for it, sir.”
Now he no longer felt weak. He did feel angry. “Speak plainly, Wilkie. I’ve no time for foolishness. Spit it out, man. Now”
“Aye. Well, she had those.” He turned and pointed to Ella’s Parcheesi set. “The pieces.”
When Wilkie didn’t immediately continue Max had to stop himself from taking hold of the man and shaking him. “Was there something unusual about that?”
“She’d the heads off all the silver ladies, and she’d made a pile o’ things she was putting in a little bag. Sir, they were precious, I could see that, and that they must have come from inside the ladies. Jewels they were. Brooches and such. Glittered, they did.”
Bewildered, Max frowned and looked at the board. The pieces appeared to be all there and not one was without her head. “When did this . . . when did this supposedly happen?”
“Midnight or so, I’m thinkin’.”
“I see.” In other words Wilkie was suggesting Kirsty was a thief. “Is that all? If so—”
“No, sir. There’s somethin’ else. Verra early this mornin’. Before six. Ada saw it from the window.” He snickered and thrust his hands in his pockets. “I was dozin’, but she woke me. Unfortunately I was too late t’see it, but Ada’s good eyes.”
The Wish Club Page 35