by Arnette Lamb
“You’re a knave.”
“For treating you as an equal?”
“Equal? An odd description for one who is being carried against her will. You’re a boring cave dweller.”
Edward laughed. “What refinement in the face of defeat. Resign yourself, or I’ll tie your good arm to the bed.”
“You never would.”
He did feel rather primal, and he liked it.
Noises sounded in the foyer. As he passed the entryway and turned to climb the stairs, Mayor Arkwright’s wife stepped through the door. The parson and a smartly dressed military man followed.
Edward froze.
“Sweet Saint Ninian!” Agnes exclaimed, then warbled, “Good day, Commodore.”
“What are you about, Lord Edward!” huffed the mayor’s outraged wife.
Agnes sent him a knowing look and whispered, “You should have let me walk. Equal indeed.”
As quietly, Edward said, “May we keep our disagreements between ourselves?”
“Who would care?” The sling slipped and fluttered to the floor, leaving her shoulder and too much of her breast exposed. “When word of this folly gets out, a disagreement between us will be old news.”
“Explain yourself, my lord,” declared the officer.
“I . . . uh . . .” He glanced down at her. “I was . . .”
Her brown eyes glittered with retribution. “Lord Edward is conducting a scientific experiment. I’m only helping him. Do tell them what it’s called, my lord.”
An acceptable explanation eluded Edward, but he had to try. A coolness swept over him. “I’m doing a study on the relative properties of silk when put to the test of the gravitational pull.”
His guests gaped. Edward held his breath. Agnes fairly gloated.
In the uncomfortable silence, the officer said, “Lady Agnes, is that a bandage on your . . . ?” He couldn’t quite name the place.
Relief swept over Edward. “Yes. Lady Agnes has injured herself and being her doctor, I—”
“Being my doctor, Lord Edward feels obligated to examine me.”
“Please be quiet,” Edward urged. “You’re making it worse. Mayor Arkwright’s wife looks ready to swoon.”
Lady Agnes must have believed him, for she relented. “Nothing untoward goes on here, Commodore. I’ve hurt myself ’tis all.”
Knowing opinion was going against them, Edward asked Mrs. Johnson to show the guests into the parlor. Then he lifted Agnes higher into his arms and carried her to the stairs.
In her room, he lowered her to the bed. “We’ve done it now,” he said, more to himself than to her.
Straining to see the damage to her shoulder, she said, “I’ll change my gown and speak with the commodore.”
“Absolutely not. I’ll manage Hume and the others. You stay here.”
“I hope Lord Hume doesn’t tell my father. They are old friends, you know.”
Edward hadn’t thought of her father, he’d been preoccupied with her. “They should have waited for an invitation. Now everyone will think I’ve seduced you.”
“Rubbish.”
Her sharp tone set him on edge. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I’d rather lie with a toad.”
6
CURSE HER FOOLISH TONGUE AND brand the mark of idiot on her brow. In one sentence, spoken in anger, Agnes had alienated the earl of Cathcart. For three days, she’d paid the price. She’d suffered his cool replies. She’d accepted his absence at meals. She’d damned herself a shrew and worse.
To her surprise, he had placated the pastor and the mayor’s wife. The commodore, he’d taken to dinner at his club. Sponsoring Hume for membership had assured him of the man’s loyalty and silence.
Agnes had worried over nothing.
Lord Edward had also made wicked with a sentence. He’d sent her a message declaring, “You’ll have to beg me to remove those stitches.”
Enough was enough.
Her mood was sour. The itch in her healing wound made her want to scream. With a slight pressure, she rubbed her hairbrush over the spot and shivered with relief.
Her other agony was not so easily assuaged.
The mix of it was, she’d intentionally insulted Lord Edward’s seduction. The habit was old, ingrained, and she’d had no choice. The attraction between them was almost tangible, but their ways of dealing with it were vastly different. He’d been honest after that first kiss. Desire, base and raw, had inspired him. Her reaction was more tender, dangerously subtle, and it frightened her. So she’d struck back with words and hit the mark. She’d driven him away.
Then why did she feel so wretched?
Frustrated, she slammed down the brush and ran her fingers through her hair to dry it. The coal fire in the brazier spread a gentle warmth, and the thick carpet provided a comfortable seat.
She considered the reasons behind her attraction to Lord Edward. He was more handsome by far than other men of her acquaintance, and his winning ways could detract a nun from her vocation. Beyond the obvious, only sensible answers came to mind: for the first time in her quest to protect the innocent, Agnes had pledged her special gifts to a man. The danger that stalked him drew her like a magnet. Thwarting it offered temporary redemption from her great sin. Blind to all but that, she’d confused the man with the mission.
Therein lay her mistake.
Children were her cause. Better she had traveled that familiar ground. Adults could fend for themselves. Except, she thought morosely, when it came to removing stitches.
She’d tried to take out the worrisome thread and had stabbed herself twice in the doing. On orders from his lordship, Auntie Loo had refused to help. Oh, she could have disobeyed his edict but chose not to. The privilege of a princess, she’d said.
“Fither her fete!” Agnes cursed.
An apology to his lordship was unthinkable. The alternative held less appeal. If she wanted relief, she must let him touch her with hands as icy as his look.
That decided, she resumed brushing her hair.
During the last three days, she’d busied herself as best she could, interviewing those who had commerce with the earl of Cathcart and his children. Arranging what appeared to be an accidental meeting with his mistress at the dressmaker’s shop had involved inventiveness on Agnes’s part, but the results had been disappointing. Of an age with Lord Edward, the well-kept widow MacLane supported herself on a generous pension from her late husband’s tobacco concern. A second marriage would steal the woman’s freedom, so her heart was not engaged in the affair.
Agnes had felt a moment’s relief but convinced herself that respect for another independent woman was the cause.
The dancing master, the music instructor, and the young scholar who tutored Christopher were guileless. The vanishing nanny was another matter. According to information gathered by the agent, Mr. Trimble, the woman had not existed prior to taking the post in Napier House. She had left no belongings here. None of the people Agnes had spoken to knew more than her name. Small wonder Mrs. Borrowfield had fled Saint Margaret’s Church moments before the attempt on Lord Edward’s life.
She was a key piece to the puzzle of the assassin’s plot. Agnes would find her. The long search for Virginia had taught Agnes which avenues were profitable to explore and what people were worthy to engage. Mr. Trimble managed an organization of discreet messengers and able “truth seekers,” as he referred to his associates. With his help, she would find the nanny and the assassin in either order.
But first, the stitches must come out.
As she rose to dress, the door opened. Auntie Loo stepped inside, a tray in her hands, which she set before Agnes.
Agnes stared, struck dumb at the sorry fare. “A bowl of dried thistles? How very clever.”
“I’d love to lay claim to it, but Lord Edward deserves the credit.”
“You’re only the messenger of this madness, I suppose. I hope both of you trip on a bed of jagged stones and share your dying breath w
ith hungry carnivores.”
“Now who’s being clever, my lady?”
“Did you refuse to deliver his taste of sarcasm?”
“No.”
If deceit had ever visited Auntie Loo, she’d cast it out early in life. Speaking the truth shared an equal post with family honor. None of her Manchurian kin possessed more.
“You like Edward Napier?” Agnes asked her.
“Yes. He’s turned fierce, though, since we arrived here.”
Auntie Loo hadn’t seen him dictating to Agnes in the stables in Whitburn, else she wouldn’t be so generous. “He’s a beast prowling his den.”
“You mean he’s been beastly to you.”
“At every turn.”
Auntie Loo took a pale green day dress from one of Agnes’s trunks, which had been delivered the day before. “This dress? The daring neckline should work to your advantage.”
The implacable earl of Cathcart probably wouldn’t notice. The upcoming meeting didn’t require formal attire, and the gown was the latest fashion. “ ’Twill do.”
Shaking out the wrinkles, Auntie Loo said, “Will you make amends with him?”
“I have. Dozens of times without speaking the words.”
With an insight that seldom proved wrong, her friend said, “He is a man who must hear them.”
“He’ll probably gloat, too, or strut like the cock o’ the walk.”
“So?” She took the brush and motioned for Agnes to take the stool. “I have never known you to shy from an interesting and attractive man.”
Agnes plopped down on the stool, the weight of dread dragging at her determination. She must relent or continue to suffer his detachment.
Under the circumstances, withdrawal from him was surely the better way. Nothing could sway her, no one could prevent her from finding Virginia. Word would come. On a fine blue day or winter’s bleakest night, a messenger would knock on Agnes’s door and say the magic words.
With a valise of only essentials, she’d hurry to snatch Virginia from the hand of fate.
Then she could wade neck-deep in romantic intrigues. She’d flirt with any gentleman she fancied. She’d sleep without nightmares. She’d turn her attentions to having a family of her own.
But she’d waded too deeply with Edward Napier.
Auntie Loo gave her hair a final inspection. “He’s very handsome, for a red-haired Lowlander.”
Agnes had cursed him in that fashion and twelve others in the last few days. But to set things aright between them, she must start now. She donned her petticoats. “Actually his hair is auburn, same as Papa’s.”
Holding the dress, Auntie Loo casually said, “Did you know that he helped the workmen build the partition between the children’s beds in the tower, as well as our beds?”
As grouchy as ever, Agnes stepped into the gown. “Probably because the hammering prevented him from doing his great work in his laboratory. I’ve most likely set back the progress of man, you know.”
Auntie Loo tugged the waist of the dress, then began fastening the buttons. “Why are you so cross? Have you forsaken the quest for inner peace?”
Facing the standing mirror, Agnes fluffed her sleeves. Part of her training in weaponless fighting involved the search for harmony within one’s self. While physical, the exercises also sharpened her mind. “My stitches itch, and I cannot bear the strain between his lordship and me.”
“Neither can the rest of us who reside under this roof. He’s as cross as you are, but he masks it better with the children.”
“I know what you are thinking, Auntie, but Edward Napier is not for me.”
“How can you be so sure about him? He’s like no other man you’ve ever met. Only yesterday you said as much yourself.”
“Because I will it to be so. What if I do act on the feelings I have for him? News of Virginia could come on my wedding night.”
“Should that come to pass, you will find a way. You are the Golden One. The doors of life fly open before you. The high holy man proclaimed it.”
In China Agnes had visited the temple of an extraordinary monk. Without knowledge of Agnes or her language, and never having traveled more than a mile from his home, the priest had known Virginia’s name and the events leading to her disappearance. “He said I would find her, and one prophecy at a time is enough for me.”
“He said you would find love first.”
Agnes could and would control that particular event in her destiny. “ ’Twas not a moment-by-moment chronicle of my life he foresaw.”
Picking up Agnes’s discarded robe, Auntie Loo took great care in folding it. “I will not argue with you when you are so vexed.”
Agnes slipped the sling over her neck and rested her arm in the fold. The movement aggravated the itch. “Then wish me luck in braving the lion in his den.”
“He’s in the courtyard.”
* * *
Agnes found him squatting beside the sundial. Her shadow fell over him, but he did not acknowledge her presence. Across the courtyard the glazier and his helper worked at replacing the glass in the newer wing with mullions. In tandem, the older fellow labored outside while the younger man stood in Lord Edward’s study. Near the path that led around to the stables, one of the magistrate’s men conversed casually with her father’s messenger. The Highlander, distinguished only by his MacKenzie tartan, waved to Agnes. She returned the greeting, but she didn’t know his name. He was one of many men her father employed for the purpose of communicating with his family.
The hedges at either end of the spacious rectangle had been neatly trimmed in conical shapes, and the herb garden in the center sported no weeds. The fountain gurgled softly, enhancing the peaceful ambience of the surroundings and belying the uncomfortable mood.
As had become his preference of late, Lord Edward wore his tartan plaid belted and a stylishly cut waistcoat. Today he’d chosen a pale gray silk shirt, but no neckcloth. Rows of tiny pleats circling the sleeves at the elbow gave the shirt a distinctive flare. It was also a practical touch, for it would prolong the life of the garment.
Patience waning, she stepped closer. “Am I disturbing you, my lord?”
He continued with his task. “You are disturbing to me.” At the first of the twelve meridian bells, he began shifting the dial to align the shadow of the gnomon. Before the third pealing, he stepped back, wiped his hands, and faced her. “But there’s little I can do to change that.”
Drat his honesty and his appealing smile. Not to mention his penchant for quarreling. “Must you always draw a line in the conversation and bade me step over it?”
His interest engaged, he tipped his head to the side and studied her. “We could exchange a few niceties. My view of the weather for the next day or so. Your skill with a needle.”
“My part in the discussion would be brief. I do not sew.” Nor could she unsew; the bothersome stitches were proof of that.
A pair of butterflies danced on air, fluttering among the flowering hawthorns. The drone of a passing bee sounded extaordinarily loud to Agnes.
“Do I understand that my lady has something on her mind?”
She expected aloofness, but this cool tone put her on edge. “You know very well these stitches are driving me to madness.”
Feigning indulgence, he tisked. “Scratching only makes it worse.”
“Then please take them out.”
With the heel of his hand, he tapped his ear, then shook his head. “My hearing must be failing, or was that an apology?”
The beast. If she did not swallow her pride, the itching would go on and on. “I’m sorry for comparing you to a toad.”
He fairly oozed satisfaction. “Do you promise never to do it again?”
Watching him and knowing he could put an end to the itching moved her to sarcasm. “Never will I repeat that you are a toad. I’ll be much more creative when next you put me in a compromising position.”
“That sounds interesting. What will you do?”
/> Reminding him of the risks she’d taken seemed unsporting, and she couldn’t bring herself to stoop so low. “I’ll stay out of the way of deadly missiles and falling objects.”
“Oh, Agnes,” he lamented. “I cannot stay angry with you.” He laughed, but she could tell that he didn’t want to.
She offered her hand. “A truce then?”
His grip was stronger than it had to be. “With conditions.”
Wary anew, she watched him closely, but couldn’t see past the alluring blue-gray of his eyes. “What conditions?”
He rubbed his chin, which bore no trace of a stubble. “I want to know everything you’ve learned about the assassin, no matter how inconsequential to you. If you leave this house again, I want to know where you are going.”
Answering for her every action rankled, but his stern tone brooked no argument. Logic forced her to say, “I’m in no danger.”
He stared at the tower, his profile limned in sunlight, his hair glistening like dark embers. “The bowman may have taken a liking to shooting you, and the next time, he may soak his quarrels in a stronger poison. You’d be dead before I could stem the flow of your blood.”
She shivered at the notion, but common sense ruled. “He would not hurt me except to hurt you. Were that his motive, Mrs. MacLane would be dead.”
His gaze riveted to hers.
She’d invaded his privacy for very good reasons. “She remains unharmed?” Agnes asked, undaunted at broaching the delicate subject.
Chagrined, he cleared his throat. “ ’Twould seem you’ve seen her since I have. Shall we move on to the second and more comfortable of my conditions?”
It was a minor point to yield, and they were finally conversing easily. “By all means.”
“ ’Tis actually a request. Will you try to teach Hannah to read? I know she’s young for it, but she has an aversion to the alphabet. I’m troubled by that.”
Agnes glanced across the courtyard. Through the windows in the music room she saw Hannah, Christopher, and Auntie Loo huddled on the floor and examining something she could not make out. “I’ve noticed, and I think it has to do with the letters themselves.”