by Arnette Lamb
When the children remained silent, she relaxed. The conveyance stopped, then rolled backward a bit. They had arrived.
As stoic as a statue of the mother of Khan, Auntie Loo opened the carriage door.
Jamie helped them down. A stableman held the reins to the sorrel gelding, now riderless and lathered. Agnes spied Lord Edward. Surrounded by a group of important-looking men, he stood before the open front doors of the estate. One of the visitors drew her attention. She recognized his chain of office as that of the Constable of Glasgow. A tidy porter who wore a fresh bandage around his head stepped into the circle of men.
Something was wrong. The constable was speaking to Lord Edward. She could almost hear him curse to himself, so violent was his reaction to the news. His jaw tight with restrained anger, he glanced through the opened doors, then looked to the injured servant.
Agnes hurried up the steps and to the earl of Cathcart’s side. His troubled frown worried her more than the presence of the authorities. “Is something amiss, my lord?”
Rather than answer her, he said, “Lady Agnes MacKenzie, may I present our good constable, Sir Oliver Jenkins.”
“Sir Oliver.”
“ ’Tis an honor, Lady Agnes.” Bristling with excitement, he swept off his hat, made a courtly bow, and motioned for his minions to do the same. Replacing his hat, he said, “Would you be of the Saint Andrews’ MacKenzies?”
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Lord Edward shift his weight to one booted foot and stare into the lane, as if searching for someone. Absently, she said to the constable, “Nay, my father is the duke of Ross.”
His earlier enthusiasm paled. “You’re one of Lord Lachlan’s lassies?”
“Aye, what has occurred here?”
“A burglary,” said Lord Edward, his words dropping into the polite conversation like the banging of a temple bell. “Mr. Boswell will escort you to your rooms.” Catching the servant’s gaze, he added, “The blue apartments, Bossy. Keep the children close to you for now, and put a guard outside their door when you retire.”
Mr. Boswell nodded and moved into the foyer. “Aye, my lord. This way, my lady. Hannah and Christopher.”
Innocent of the proceedings, the children skipped up the steps and queried Boswell about his injury. A refusal to follow them perched on Agnes’s lips, but another glance at Edward Napier stifled the words. Restrained anger simmered beneath his facade of civility, and she was reminded of a man poised to do battle with his sworn enemy.
“Go along now,” he said.
Not “Go along, Lady Agnes” or “Excuse us, my lady.” The absence of protocol gave further proof of his distraction. She’d get settled in her room and wash her hands and face. Then she’d find him and learn the details. Or perhaps she’d ask the fellow named Bossy. But no matter the source, she’d learn the particulars about the burglary.
“Thank you, my lord.”
As Edward watched her leave, he chided himself for bringing her here and again placing her in danger. First thing tomorrow he’d send her back to the duke of Ross. He had his own demons to deal with now.
He removed his cloak and handed it to the housekeeper, Mrs. Johnson. Sadness wreathed her face. “ ’Tis a gift of the Almighty himself that you and the wee ones wasn’t here, my lord.”
Putting on a smile he didn’t feel, he patted her arm. “Worry not, Hazel.”
Then he asked the constable to show him what had occurred.
The tour began with a broken window in the old wing and ended in Edward’s study. The destruction he found there, and the threat it carried, chilled him to the bone.
4
THE PORTER, MR. BOSWELL, PROVED AS tight-lipped as he was polite, and to Agnes’s dismay, she left her room with only one more piece of information than when she’d arrived. In keeping with their routine, Auntie Loo had retired for a few hours. Agnes would sleep later or not at all. Even as a child, three or four hours’ rest a night had been sufficient for her. At the moment she couldn’t have slept had she tried; trouble awaited her. Convincing Edward Napier of the danger posed an additional problem.
Making her way down the lighted corridor that led to the main staircase, she organized her thoughts and arranged her plans. A few elementary precautions would help secure the family living quarters, which would form the center of an ever-widening circle of protection around the Napiers. The concept and execution were as basic to Agnes as brushing and plaiting her hair for the night or writing letters to her father on Saturday.
No children would be ripped from the Napier family, unless God himself called them home. Safeguarding the innocent was her special ability; employing it was her salvation.
Buoyed by the challenge ahead, she tested the banister and found it secure, then started down the marble stairway. Tomorrow she would order a carpet and better the odds against serious injury, should an accident occur on the stairs.
In the entryway she peered through the leaded glass panels that flanked the front doors. One of the men she’d seen earlier guarded the residence. Turning left, she found herself in an odd portrait gallery. Beginning with a carved wooden rendering of its first chieftain and continuing in chronological progression, Clan Napier was immortalized on the wall. Unusual about the wall was a sampling of textiles, from exquisite medieval tapestries to a more modern panel of woven silk, that mingled with portraits of past earls and countesses of Cathcart.
Agnes wished her half sister Mary were here. Mary’d make a fuss over William Hogarth’s depiction of Edward’s grandfather, especially the dogs in the painting. She’d also covet the old wooden frames and lament over the poor workmanship of carpenters of today.
Were her sister Lottie the mistress of this house, she’d make a grand occasion of escorting guests down the gallery. She’d provide an endearing story about each person depicted. Sarah, the more scholarly of Agnes’s sisters, could name the raw materials used to create the paints and site their place and time of origin. Uninterrupted, Sarah would supply an account of the painter’s contribution to his craft, as well as the artist’s impact on his contemporaries.
Mary would fume at Sarah over the general use of the male pronoun and name a dozen female artists more talented than the one under discussion.
Fondness filled Agnes; she had been blessed with three good-hearted, honest women for sisters, and they loved each other dearly. Oh, they had and still did prank among themselves, but in the matters that counted, the children of Lachlan MacKenzie were loyal to a fault.
Thoughts of Mary and the coil she’d made of her affair with the earl of Wiltshire troubled Agnes more each day. Too stubborn to yield and too infatuated to go their separate ways, Mary and her nobleman were destined to make a scandal of their love. But until Mary solicited help, Agnes would not intervene. As matters stood, Agnes was needed here in Glasgow.
The last of the portraits intrigued her, for it depicted a young Edward Napier. Rather than the traditional painting of the family heir pictured astride a favorite hunter or posing stiffly beside the hearth, the current earl of Cathcart was surrounded by books, a telescope, and dozens of drawings, some spread out and some rolled into tubes. The birdcage in the background was empty, the little door open. An intriguing detail, Agnes thought, but not so intriguing as the man himself.
He’d aged a decade or more, and time had clearly been his ally, for maturity enhanced his masculinity and added character to his exceptionally handsome appearance. Only the expression in his eyes had not changed. She saw intelligence, confidence, and a gleam she remembered well.
Agnes recalled the kiss but tried to forget the feelings it had inspired. Romance was not an option for her now. But as soon as she found Virginia and reunited her with her beloved, Cameron Cunningham, Agnes would find a man of her own. For the time being she had a greater purpose, and finding the earl’s study was her immediate concern.
She heard approaching footsteps. Not looking away from the portrait, she said, “Is there much damage, my lord?”
He stopped. “How did you know ’twas me?”
Turning, she pointed to his footwear, but the bruises on the knuckles of his right hand drew her attention. He’d removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves. “Your left boot squeaks, and you walk in a casual gait, as if you belong here.”
She took great joy in his surprise, for it softened his expression. His mouth was slightly parted, just the same as when he’d kissed her.
In disbelief, he asked, “You listen for and derive information about the sound and the velocity of a man’s footfalls?”
Embarrassed, she pushed aside her romantic musings. One day soon he’d appreciate her special skills. Better men than the earl of Cathcart had belittled her abilities. All of them had lived to thank her.
She shrugged. “Aye, ’tis an easy way to detect an intruder.”
“What if I had been an intruder?”
How much should she tell him? Considering her injury and his insistence on making too much of it, she decided on a lie. “I’d call for help.”
“That’s good to know.” He chuckled softly. “I feared you’d try to capture him by yourself.”
Hopefully the occasion would not arise, at least until her wound healed completely. “I’d never try that.” She wouldn’t simply try. She’d do it. Surprise was a woman’s first weapon, because men did not expect to meet resistance from the fairer sex.
“Were you looking for me?” he asked.
“Yes, my lord. Bossy was struck from behind. Whom do you suspect?”
“Whom does Bossy suspect?”
Sarcasm didn’t come naturally to Edward Napier. Loyalty from his servants did. Two very good signs. “That was all he would say. Have you determined where the vandal entered?”
“Yes, in the old wing.”
Getting information from him was harder than making Auntie Loo angry. But Agnes was up to the task. “May we go there?”
“Surely you’d rather retire.” He flexed his fingers, but his attention was focused elsewhere. “ ’Tis late.”
Another lie and a truth would skirt the issue and, perhaps, loosen his tongue. “I napped in the carriage today. I couldn’t sleep now, even if you commanded me to.”
A quirk of humor lifted one corner of his mouth. “A wasted effort in any event.”
That he could smile told her much about his mild temperament—either that or he was a very good actor. And where had he gotten those abrasions on his hand? If she didn’t know better, she’d think he’d been in a tavern brawl.
Again she glanced at his portrait. “I obeyed you this morning at the stable in Whitburn.”
He held up both hands, as if warding her off. “I’d as soon forget our shouting match.”
And the kiss, she thought morosely. He’d made it dear that the kiss meant nothing to him—a view she would adopt, too. “As would I. Tell me about the damage.”
His gaze sharpened and anger flickered in his gaze. “Better you should have something to eat. Mrs. Johnson braised a hare with turnips and carrots. Her bread’s exceptionally fine, and there’s always fresh, cold milk.”
Agnes’s stomach rumbled, but she ignored it. “I had hoped for a tour of your home first.” She extended her hand. “Show me where the vandal entered.” Only a poor host would refuse her, but he was clearly considering it. “Please?”
“You cannot expect to see much. ’Tis black as pitch.”
He too was proving an expert at skirting the issue. But Agnes was determined. “Lantern light will do.”
“I will not allow you to involve yourself. You may have foiled an attempt on the life of Burgundy’s heir, but I shan’t put you in danger. The brigand could still be on the grounds.”
“With a guard stationed outside?” Tossing her head, she laughed. “Come. Show me—unless you’ve caught him.” And bashed in his face in the doing, she added silently.
His demeanor changed, as if he were recalling an unpleasantry, which she suspected was the case. Why else would he have bruised knuckles?
“Nay. He’s not inside the estate proper.” After fetching and lighting a hand lantern, he took her through a formal parlor with groupings of brocaded chairs and tables with carved thistles for legs. The cold hearth of a marble fireplace was hidden behind a tapestry screen. A standing clock struck the half hour before midnight.
Nothing was out of place.
A peaked lintel, topped on either side with sculptures of a lounging Pan, framed the entrance to an older wing. As the light illuminated the room, Agnes felt thrust into a museum of the Elizabethan Age. Heavy furniture of Jacobean mahogany dominated the room. A matching pair of standing candelabrum flanked a table containing an onyx and pale pink alabaster chess set. A collection of silver and brass pomanders sat atop a low table in the center of the room.
Deeper into the building, the earl ushered her into another wing of older origin. Replete with standing suits of polished armor, battle axes, and hanging tapestries larger than a wading pool, this room was a testament to the Age of Chivalry. The flagged stone floor was scattered with small woven carpets, probably products of the Napier looms. A door in an inwardly rounded wall must be the entrance to the old tower she’d seen from the street.
“The vandal entered here.” Across the room, he moved aside one of the tapestries and revealed a broken window.
Nothing else was amiss.
The rough-hewn bookshelves contained a number of valuable items. The price of the illuminated manuscripts alone would support a dozen common thieves for a year and more. The twisted pewter candlesticks would buy a wagon and a team of horses.
Why hadn’t any of these treasures or the ones in the next room been taken? What and where was the havoc the intruder had wreaked? She’d find out. “Have you considered replacing the window with mullioned glass?”
Suddenly attentive, he glanced from the gaping window to her, then back to the window. “Aye, all the way ’round.” He let the tapestry fall into place. “I’ll summon the glazier tomorrow and a locksmith to secure the ground level windows. Although it pains me to make a prison of my home.”
She knew grudging respect when she saw it, and respect from Edward Napier felt especially fine. “ ’Twill not be forever, my lord. Only until we find out who and why.”
“I like your confidence, my lady.”
“As did Burgundy and the others.”
He busied himself with straightening the tapestry. “Christopher and Hannah behaved well on the journey?”
Light conversation was not what Agnes had in mind. “They behaved very well until he called her an odd name . . . Capricorn something.”
“He’s only begun then. He’s made a science of employing big words. Wait until he accuses his sister of being a Hugotontheonbiquiffinarian.”
Baffled, Agnes shook her head. “Where did he learn such great words, and what do they mean?”
“From his tutor last year, a student at the university. I cannot recall the meanings exactly, but I think they were societies of some sort. Christopher only brings it up to bedevil Hannah because she cannot read as yet.”
“It works.”
He shrugged and began rolling down his sleeves. He’d clubbed his hair at the nape of his neck, but some of the wavy strands had worked themselves free of the tie. “ ‘Tis his poor behavior of late.” He raked a stray lock back behind his ear. “He’ll grow bored with it eventually and take up something else. Last year he swore only to speak French during meals.”
“Did he succeed?”
“Quite admirably until he couldn’t think of the word for chocolate cake.”
“He got no dessert?”
“No, and petulance overcame him when Hannah was served. He was sent to his room.”
“My sisters and I carried on our poor habits at once, and not two of them alike.” At the thought of those happy and carefree days, her spirits brightened. “ ’Tis a wonderment that my father didn’t sell us for slaves.”
“I doubt he would have done t
hat. Is it true that he took you from your mothers and raised you himself?”
Love for her father filled Agnes. “Yes, until we were six. Oh, we’d had dozens of governesses, most of them more interested in laying claim to our father than to teaching us. But then a Colonial named Juliet White came to Kinbairn.”
“Lord Lachlan married her.”
Juliet’s influence had left its mark on Agnes, and for that she was proud. On the day Agnes met Bianca Campbell, the woman who’d given birth to her, Juliet had been at her side. “He did, but we all reaped the benefits.”
“A delightful woman,” he said. “A match and more for the Highland rogue. Life here will surely be boring to you.”
Even wearing modern clothing, he looked at home in the ancient surroundings. Were he to don the plain clothes of the Dark Ages, he would have dominated the room. In any era or wearing any style, Lord Edward Napier commanded female admiration.
“How can life be boring while someone is trying to kill you?”
“Trying is the operative word.”
Uneasy with her growing attraction to him, she turned and opened the door to the tower. Stale, musty air rushed out, and a mass of cobwebs ripped from their moorings. Peering inside, she could see an arch-shaped pattern of moonlight streaking across the dusty floor. Overhead a vast wooden wheel of aged and spent candles marked this tower as the bedrock of Napier House. Other than discarded stools and chairs and some kind of spinning machine, the room was empty.
“You’ll soil your dress.”
Yes, but she’d have a peek anyway. The tower was probably the safest part of the estate. To be sure, she’d come back for a closer inspection and bring a torch to deal with the current inhabitants.
“Tell me about the tower. How many rooms?”
“Three, one on top of the next.”
“How many entrances?”
“Just this one. There’s a door leading to the battlement on the top floor, but no ladder to reach it.”
Satisfied for now, she closed the door and returned to her immediate mission. “May we walk a bit? I’m rather stiff from sitting in the carriage for so long, and I’m not sleepy in the least. Unless ’twould be an inconvenience for you?”