by Mason, Nina
Maggie stole a glance at Juliette, who always seemed to watch her. The present moment proved no different. Their gazes met briefly before she shifted her focus back to Hugh.
When he caught her looking his way, he said with a hateful scowl, “I did warn you not to marry Robert, as you will recall. But did you listen? Of course not, because you saw your chance to be a Duchess instead of a lowly marchioness. What I could offer was not good enough for a fortune-hunter like you. And now that you’ve made your bed, you must be content to lie in it, mustn’t you?” With a cruel laugh, he added, “I’ll wager my brother will write you when he tires of his whores. Though, in light of his reputation, that could take several weeks.”
Maggie gawped at him, unsure what to say. As Hugh went back to slurping his soup, Maggie searched for a way to deflect the conversation from herself and her husband. Finding a topic she believed would do the trick, she said to her brother-in-law, “Pray, do you know much about your wife’s family? I would ask her myself if not for the language barrier.”
“You really should learn French.” His tone was admonishing, as was typical of late. “It surprises me greatly my brother has not taken steps to educate you properly. Had you married me, I should have made sure you acquired at least a passing knowledge of all the modern languages.” He paused to slurp another spoonful of broth. “And as to Juliette’s bloodline, she is the illegitimate daughter of Guy Armand de Gramont, Count of Guiche.” Meeting Maggie’s gaze head-on, he added, “Do you know the name? Or has my brother neglected your education in the social sphere as well?”
Incensed by his overweening attitude, she wanted to defend Robert, to explain how her husband, far from neglectful of her education, had been schooling her in history and philosophy, among other subjects, but thought better of it. Let Hugh take his digs. All would come to right when her dear heart was restored to her in the Lord’s good time. Besides, she now had the reprieve she’d prayed for. Juliette was not her sister and therefore, their tryst had been a harmless mistake instead of a mortal sin.
“I confess, I am unfamiliar with the Count of Guiche,” she told Hugh as she captured a spoonful of broth in her bowl. “But do feel free to enlighten me about the gentleman’s claims to fame.”
Though she cared naught about the Count, she’d much rather pass the meal listening to Hugh prattle on about his father-in-law than squirming under his venomous glares.
“The Count is dead now, of course,” Hugh began, “but when he yet lived, he was quite the most notorious playboy in Paris.”
Maggie forced a smile. “Was he? How interesting.”
“He also was what’s known as bi-sexual.” As he spoke, he studied her countenance for her response to the term. “Do you know what it means to be bi-sexual?”
“I believe I do,” she said primly.
“Then tell me, so I can be assured you speak the truth.”
She sipped more soup as she formulated a definition she felt comfortable communicating aloud. Though she was not particularly hungry, she would eat her fill for the baby’s sake.
“The term applies to a person who derives pleasure from sex with either gender,” she said at last.
Hugh grinned at her in a reptilian way that made her skin crawl. “It gladdens me to discover my elder brother has not neglected your education entirely. Not that I believed for a moment he would when it came to fleshly matters. Do tell me, Maggie: How far did your corruption extend before Robert took his leave?”
The heat of a blush scorched her cheeks, giving her away even as she said, “That is none of your affair.”
“There, you are wrong.” His gray-green eyes narrowed to slits. “As long as Robert stays away, I shall be the duke and Juliette, the duchess. And you shall be relegated to the role of servant to us both. Do I make myself clear?”
Maggie, stricken by shock and affront, rose from the table and threw down her napkin. “How dare you speak to me thusly? I am mistress of this household and your stating differently does not make it so. And, if you should persist in these mutinous assertions, I shall summon the Ballie and have you put out.”
He rose from his chair, set his hands upon the table, and stared her down in a most intimidating fashion. “Do not make threats you cannot back up. You will be in no position to summon Mr. Watt, I assure you. And, even were you able to do so, he is a Covenanter who would gladly see me take my brother’s place. In fact, he and some of the other prominent Presbyterians hereabouts encouraged me to return when word reached them of my conversion.”
His words shook Maggie to the core. “What are you talking about? Since when did you change religions?”
A triumphant grin bowed his lips. “Since I married a Huguenot and converting promised the advantages birth so cruelly deprived me of.”
Maggie could not believe her ears, though Hugh was clearly in earnest. “You villain! I shall find a way to stop you if it’s the last thing I do!”
“Will you? That will prove a considerable feat when you are bound, gagged, and locked inside my brother’s chamber of sexual perversions.”
The blood drained from her face. “You wouldn’t dare!”
“Would you care to make a stake on that? Balloch Castle and the duchy, perhaps?”
He started toward her, his expression and posture menacing.
Maggie backed away, her heart caught in her throat. She had no doubt he would carry out his threats and she had nowhere to run, nowhere to turn to, no way to summon help. Still, she could not simply stand here and let him capture her. She took off running—toward the kitchen. Maybe the servants would help her. She could not see how, but neither could she see an alternative.
The moment she reached the doorway, Hugh overtook her, seized her by the hair, and pulled her back. She shrieked in pain and fell hard against his chest. “You are mine now, Maggie,” he whispered in her ear. “To do with as I please.”
As he dragged her down the corridor toward the library, panic threatened to shut out her thoughts like a great heavy drape. She could not allow that to happen. She must keep her wits about her, must think this through. If he’d plotted against Robert from the beginning, that meant—oh, dear God!
The pieces fell into place with devastating, breath-stealing clarity. Robert would never return from London, if, indeed, he’d made it that far. Because Hugh and the other Covenanters had arranged to have him killed along the way. Her only hope was her husband had somehow survived the ambush. But she had no hope of finding him if she was Hugh’s prisoner. She’d have no access to pen and paper or the means to smuggle correspondence in or out of the castle. No, if she wanted her freedom, she’d have to play along with Hugh’s scheme. ’Twould mean being reduced to servitude, but better hard work than being locked away with no hope of escape.
“All right,” she conceded. “You win. I will do as you wish. Just, please, I beg of you, do not lock me up.”
“You must think me a fool.” His humid breath brushed her smarting nape.
“I swear to you, I am in earnest.”
“I shall decide if you are to be trusted.” Still pushing her toward the chamber, he added, “After putting your obedience to the test.”
* * * *
As the berline de coupe creaked and quavered over the cobbles of Drury Lane, Robert congratulated himself for having the good sense to leave his wife behind in Dunwoody. During the fortnight he’d been in transit, he’d been set upon not once, but twice. By the same scurvy band of would-be assassins, oddly enough. Covenanters, by the look of them, though he was hard pressed to understand why they’d targeted him. Aye, he was a Catholic—reason enough, he supposed—but they could not know he’d be traveling this particular road at this particular time. No one knew of his plans outside those at Balloch Castle, and he refused to entertain the notion anyone there had conspired against him.
Hugh may be deceitful, but surely he would not stoop to plotting the murder of his own brother.
’Twas now close to nightfall on 17 Novemb
er, a full se’nnight later than he’d expected to arrive in London, but at least he was still in one piece—more than could be said for his attackers. He would call at the palace on the morrow. Tonight, he’d seek lodging and a private chapel where he might find absolution for the blood on his hands. Killing in self-defense might not be a crime by the letter of the law, but ’twas still a sin in the eyes of the Lord.
The area round the Strand seemed a good bet. During his days at court, several highborn Catholics in that part of town maintained private chapels, which they made available for worship and prayer to those in the know. With any luck, the practice had not rendered obsolete by the current climate of hatred.
Within half an hour, Robert had located a suitable inn with a vacancy and, once his trunk was safely inside, he dispatched the coachman and postilion to the livery yard whilst he set off to find a chapel.
The night was so cold his breath formed white clouds. The sidewalk was unusually crowded and the air reeked of rubbish and wood smoke. He kept one hand on the dagger in his waistband and the other on the prayer beads in the pocket of his heavy velvet coat. The pearl-and-silver rosary had belonged to his mother, and he would not be deprived of his most precious possession by either pickpocket or poor tailoring.
Though the horde of pedestrians slowed his progress, he eventually made it to the chapel. There was no priest about, so he knelt at the rail before the altar and, using the beads in his pocket, prayed all ten decades of the Rosary whilst meditating upon the Sorrowful Mysteries.
When the prayer was finished, he got to his feet, crossed himself, and left the chapel and the great house to which the sanctuary belonged. Back on the street, the crowd had grown significantly in number and boisterousness and seemed to be moving in a particular direction. Flacons of wine were being passed among seeming strangers, which struck him as extremely odd. Curiosity aroused, he followed along to discover what might be afoot.
As he walked, he racked his brain for an explanation. Then, he remembered. This was the anniversary of Queen Elizabeth’s accession to the throne. Elizabeth, a devout protestant, had executed her Catholic cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots, on trumped-up charges of treason—after keeping her locked up for almost twenty years.
Mary, Queen of Scots, he realized then with a chill, had been a distant grandmother of Maggie’s.
Alarm bells sounded inside his head. Festivities marking the ascension of a staunch Protestant monarch were an imprudent place for him to be. He tried to turn back, but the crush of bodies prevented his retreat. He pushed forward instead, hoping to discover what lay at the head of the procession.
Someone started ringing a bell whilst crying out, “Remember Justice Godfrey.”
An ice-cold snake slithered down Robert’s backbone.
Justice Godfrey was the London magistrate found murdered shortly after being assigned to investigate the conspiracy charges brought by that lying snake Titus Oates, who claimed several Jesuit priests and lords were plotting to assassinate the king so his brother could accede the throne that much quicker.
How could anybody take that defrocked clergyman at his word when he’d never spoken the truth in the whole of his life?
Robert ground his teeth together and clenched his fists. The mere thought of Oates’ contrived allegations and the blind stupidity with which they’d been substantiated made him seethe with rage.
Then, something struck him like a blow to the chest. This pageant had naught to do with Queen Elizabeth. This was some sort of anti-Catholic demonstration.
God’s wounds! He tore at the lace cravat encircling his neck, which all at once felt as tight as a hangman’s noose.
As the crowd marched from Moorgate to the North of the City, pulling him along like a strong current, he pushed closer to the front. What met his gaze sickened him. Torchbearers at least a hundred strong and a parade of elaborate effigies.
Godfrey’s body followed by a Jesuit on horseback; a priest offering pardons to all who murdered Protestants; a troop of assorted monks and friars, including six Jesuits brandishing bloody daggers; eight Bishops and six Cardinals in resplendent robes; the queen’s physician (rumored to be involved in the Jesuit plot); two more priests and finally, the Holy Father himself, escorted by two devils.
From the yowling emanating from the figure’s belly, he could only deduce the effigy was filled with live cats, which the organizers undoubtedly intended to burn alive for the sound effects—a terrible noise to mimic the pope’s alleged dialogue with the devils.
The throng now numbered in the thousands. Nay, the tens of thousands, and was growing steadily more drunken and rowdy. His escape still blocked by the tightly packed mob, he marched with them through Cheapside past the Royal exchange.
They came to a stop near the new stone gateway at Temple Bar. Robert did not want to see what would happen next, did not want to be here at all. He longed for the quiet and safety of his inn, now on the far side of the city. Perhaps if he could fight his way out of this mob, he could hail a cab to convey him back to the Strand.
He did his best, feeling like a salmon swimming through a barrel of sardines. Progress took an eternity, but at last he reached the edge of the throng. He was sweating profusely despite the cold and his heart hammered with such force he feared the organ might burst from his chest. As he broke free, he took a breath to calm his frazzled nerves.
The crowd cheered—a riotous uproar. The air was smoke-filled and fire-scented. They’d started burning the effigies. He cared not. He only wanted to get away. As he glanced about for a hackney coach, a man bumped his shoulder. As suspicion niggled, he checked his pocket. Outrage flared when he found his mother’s rosary gone. He spun round, ready to pursue the thief. There was no need to give chase. The man who’d robbed him stood a few feet away with the rosary dangling from his upthrusted hand. With the other hand, he pointed at his mark.
“He’s a papist, he is,” the crook shouted at the top of his voice. “One of the king’s lackeys, I’ll wager, come to play the spy.”
Several men broke free of the pack and came toward him in a menacing manner. From his belt, Robert drew his dagger and jabbed the air to keep them at bay.
“Stay back,” he warned. “I’ve got more than enough blood on my hands already.”
“A spy and a murderer,” one of them said. “Well, well. I’d expect no less from a bloody papist.”
“I am no spy,” Robert insisted. “Only an average citizen going about his business.”
“Right,” another one chimed in. “And I’m Justice Godfrey, back from the dead. Or, better yet, Jesus Christ himself!”
“If you’re Christ, I’m doubting Thomas,” another voice jeered.
There were more of them now, coming at him from every direction. Then, three or four of them rushed toward him. For several tense moments, he held them off with his blade. Not far behind him was a street corner. He backed toward it—inch by inch.
The men whispered and muttered amongst themselves. Then, two of them rushed him whilst the others went round to cut off his escape. Terror gripped Robert by the throat. He was surrounded and vastly outnumbered. There was no chance this would end well for him.
An arm flung round his neck, cutting off his wind. He jabbed the dagger blindly at his attacker over his shoulder. The man screamed and something warm spurted over his neck and the back of his head. The arm binding him fell.
Two more came at him, but he eluded them with a quick turn. Stooping, he picked up a stone and hurled it into the midst of his assailants. A bellow of pain and anger rose from the group. When he bent to grab another rock, someone jumped him from behind, knocking him to the ground. The whole lot descended like a pack of hungry wolves. Boots struck him everywhere, setting fires of pain in his shins, thighs, buttocks, wame, and ribs. He curled in upon himself and did his best to cradle his head. They were mad with drink and hatred. They clearly meant to kill him, and there was naught he could do save make his peace with God.
Dómine,
non sum dignus, sed tantum dic verbo, et sanábitur ánima mea.
Lord, though I am unworthy, only say the word and I shall be healed.
Robert repeated the line over and over in Latin as the assault went on and on. Then, something struck him in the head. Pain shot across his skull. Warmth seeped along his scalp. The crowd quieted. Nay, everything stopped, including time. Another blow struck his head with blinding force. A golden nimbus appeared behind his eyelids. Inside the frame of light was his mother’s visage.
“Come home, my dearest boy,” she said. “All is forgiven.”
Chapter Eight
“My brother stole you from me,” Hugh told a frightened Maggie. “You should have been mine all along—and now, at long last, you are. To do with exactly as I please.”
They were in the flagellation chamber, she trembling on her knees in naught but her shift, he lording over her in a pair of breeches with her favorite riding crop in hand.
“What will my duties be?” she inquired, her voice as shaky as her nerves.
“Light housekeeping, waiting on us at table, and whatever else we might need.”
“You cannot be serious.”
He laughed again, a cruel sound. “And yet I am. Deadly serious. Now, give me your hand.”
Seeing no other choice, she reluctantly gave him her hand.
Taking it in his, he turned her palm face up, stepped back, and brought the crop down.
She flinched at the sharp sting, but swallowed her cry. The nuns had done much worse with a tawse before they’d reduced her to tears.
Hugh glowered down at her as if she was an ill-behaved servant. “You will not defy me—and should accustom yourself to speaking of my brother in the past-tense. For I have reason to believe he did not survive the journey to London.”