by Julia London
Knox touched her elbow, warning her. But Margot ignored him. She needed only to convince the butler of their friendship. She moved up one step, smiling as seductively as she knew how to smile. “It was my suggestion, in truth. When I fell ill on the road to Keswick, my brother urged me to ride on, but I told him I knew who would offer me comfort straightaway.”
The butler glanced uncertainly behind him, and Margot saw her opportunity. She brushed past the unsuspecting man into the foyer and began to remove her gloves. “I think his lordship would be very displeased if he knew I’d been turned away.”
The butler glowered at her. “Wait here,” he said curtly. “I’ll tell his lordship you’ve come.” He walked off, his shoes echoing on the stone floors.
“Wherever did you learn to be so bold?” Knox muttered as he removed his gloves.
“What do you think I’ve been doing the last few weeks?” she whispered as she removed her cloak and hat.
They heard the sound of a door being soundly shut, then footsteps scurrying away from them. Another few minutes passed, and they heard the footfall of someone striding in their direction. Quickly.
Putnam suddenly appeared before them, bleary-eyed, his face a mask of confusion as he peered at them. His shirt was only partially tucked into his pantaloons. His waistcoat and coat were unbuttoned, and his wig looked as if he’d slapped it onto his head without benefit of a looking glass. “Miss Armstrong?” he asked uncertainly.
“My lord,” Margot said, sweeping toward him. “Actually, it’s Lady Mackenzie now.”
“Ah, yes... Yes, I recall,” he said uncertainly, as if he didn’t really recall at all.
She curtsied deeply. When he didn’t move to help her up—he seemed paralyzed in some way—Knox stepped forward and did it for him.
“Putnam,” Knox said. “Our sincere thanks for allowing us to intrude on you in this manner.”
“No, no,” he said. “I’m...surprised.” His gaze was still on Margot. “Come in.”
He led them into the drawing room that Margot remembered from her childhood. The last time she’d been here, it had been furnished with Aubusson carpets and crystal chandeliers. The carpets were gone, and elegant chandeliers had been replaced by wooden wheels sporting cheap tallow candles. Moreover, the room had not been cleaned—the floors were unswept, and evidence of dogs and rodents apparent along the baseboards. Papers and books were strewn across the writing desk and spilled onto the floor. And the hearth was burning peat.
“May I offer you some wine?” Putnam asked.
“Thank you. You’d not believe the journey we’ve had!” Margot said. “It was impossible for us to avoid calling on you so unexpectedly, my lord. But the road to Keswick has fallen into severe disrepair since last I was in England, and I began to feel quite ill, what with all the bouncing. Knox insisted that we must keep on, that it would be quite untoward to call on someone without invitation. But I assured him that you would welcome us for a night.”
“Yes, the roads are quite unbearable,” Putnam said, and downed the glass of wine his butler had given him, then thrust it back at him for more before the butler had even poured for Margot and Knox.
When the butler served the wine, Margot found it to be sour and unfermented. It was the sort of wine that was made in kitchens. Knox took his and wandered around the room.
Margot fixed her smile on Putnam and moved closer. “How does your father fare?”
“Oh, he...well, he’s unwell.”
“I’m so very sorry,” she said softly. “You must give him my regards and wishes for good health.”
“Of course.” Putnam was watching her warily.
Margot moved closer. “I am very happy to find you home, my lord. Do you recall that night we played Commerce? There were ten of us in all, were there not? I recall those days of our youth with great fondness.”
He scratched at his head. “I think I lost quite a lot of money that night.”
She laughed. “We were only learning the game.”
“Yes,” he said vaguely. He looked around him almost helplessly, as if he didn’t know what to do with her, or the room, or even himself. He seemed quite ill at ease and suddenly downed the wine and handed his glass to the butler for more.
Margot considered the options she and Knox had discussed. Knox had some idea of where the old dungeons were. His plan was to find the opportunity to have a look while Margot kept Putnam engaged with a game. Judging by the look of the place, she decided he would be very interested in Arran’s purse she had beneath her skirts. Margot smiled and lifted her glass in a mock toast to Putnam.
She shifted even closer as Knox moved to the far end of the room and made some remark about the ceilings, as if he were admiring them. Margot shot a sidelong look at Knox’s back and then smiled at Putnam. “Is it obvious that he’s my keeper?”
Putnam blinked. He looked at Knox, too.
“Quite honestly, I wish he were somewhere else,” she said with a sigh. “Would it not be diverting if we were to have a game?”
Putnam slanted her a look. “A game.”
She arched a brow and shrugged lightly as she lifted her glass to her lips.
“What do you want?” Putnam suddenly demanded.
“Whatever do you mean? As I said—travel to Keswick on those wretched roads has made me ill. And to think, all that trouble to call on the Daltons. You remember William Dalton, don’t you? Can you imagine a more tedious evening?” she asked, and slyly touched Putnam’s hand.
She might as well have singed him; Putnam jerked his hand back quickly.
“What are—Need I remind you that you’re married, madam,” he hissed. “Is it not your husband that languishes in our dungeon?”
Margot’s heart seized. She’d expected it, but nonetheless, it was a miracle that she managed to keep her countenance. “Oh dear, my lord, you haven’t heard, have you? He is my husband, yes, but in name only. He’s a Highland savage and truly belongs in a cage.”
“I’ve nothing to do with it,” he said quickly. “I merely hire the space out to whomever needs it.”
“No, of course not!” she said brightly. “It is all my father’s doing. He was right to do it, too. Do you know what that savage left me besides an unspeakable reputation?”
Putnam shook his head.
She leaned in. “A fat purse,” she whispered. “So fat that I might amuse us both with a bit of gaming before I am pressed by my brother to carry on to the bloody Daltons.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m finally free of that beast and the Daltons are my only diversion?” She glanced over her shoulder at Knox, playing the part. “I told him I wanted amusement. Not tedium.”
She had Putnam’s undivided attention now. “What sort of gaming?”
“Commerce?” she suggested. “For the sake of old times?”
“What are you saying?” Knox asked. “Margot, we should carry on and leave his lordship to his evening.”
Knox was the perfect partner. “Knox, really!” she complained. “We can’t possibly reach Keswick by nightfall.”
“Nevertheless, we will not impose on Putnam another moment—”
“No, it’s quite all right,” Putnam said, waving a limp hand at Knox. “Lady Mackenzie has invited me to game until her health is improved.”
“You don’t mind, do you, Knox?” Margot asked sweetly.
“I think that—”
“Have you an interest in architecture, Mr. Armstrong?” Putnam said, turning his attention to Knox.
Knox paused. His gaze flicked over Margot. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason, sir. Except that Fonteneau boasts some of the finest medieval architecture in all of England. If you’d like, my estate agent might show you about.”
Putnam poured more wine down his throat. He was perspiring now
.
“I think we should go,” Knox said.
“Please, Knox?” Margot asked sweetly. “We’ll go, I promise we will, but allow me a bit of a laugh and a game with Lord Putnam first.”
“Joseph, show Mr. Armstrong to Mr. Cavanaugh’s office, will you?” Lord Putnam said. “Mr. Cavanaugh will be more than happy to show you about the abbey.”
“Well,” Knox said, feigning uncertainty. “I suppose I might have a quick look. And then, darling, we really must be on our way and leave Putnam to his work.”
“We will,” she agreed sweetly.
Margot watched the butler escort Knox out of the room, then turned her most winsome smile to Putnam. “At last,” she said, relieved. “My brothers are like vultures, watching every move I make. And they certainly don’t care for me to wager on card games, so thank you for that.”
“No?” Putnam asked, assessing her.
“Oh no,” she said with a gay laugh. “They claim I’ve already lost too much of the family fortune.”
Putnam smiled slowly. He poured more wine, then gestured to a table in the middle of the room. “Allow me to help you lose a bit more, Lady Mackenzie.”
He pushed the papers and books off the table and let them fall to the ground. As they sat down to play, Margot really had no plan other than to allow Putnam to win by making some poorly placed bets. She reasoned that he would gain confidence so that when the time was right, she might make a very large wager. One that freed Arran. Her deal with the devil, so to speak. Admittedly, her only real hope of winning that wager was if he drank himself into unconsciousness.
But surprisingly, it proved very difficult to lose to Putnam. He was so fearful of losing that he seemed to agonize over every decision. He drank through one bottle of wine, then another, and sank deeper and deeper into his cups, moaning at each loss as if he were physically ill.
Margot began to take pity on him, especially when he insisted they go again every time he lost. Lord Putnam was a galleon, sailing straight into the rocks. And when that ship wrecked, she would have her husband back.
* * *
IT HAD BEEN an hour or so since Arran heard voices. But this time, the voices belonged to men, their low conversation punctuated by their strolling footfalls. Arran had paused in his pacing and stood as still as he could to listen. He’d determined they were walking away from him, and one of them was thanking the other for the tour. Tour of what?
Moreover, that Englishman’s voice had sounded vaguely familiar. But then again, Arran wasn’t certain he wasn’t hearing things now. Surely he’d imagined Margot’s laugh.
He was trying to will himself to face another night when he heard footsteps coming back toward him. But these weren’t the footsteps of the jailer. These were quick and light. He heard the clang of the door, and the footsteps were now inside. Someone was moving down the hall, jangling the doors, trying to open them.
The doors opened, and he heard Ben shout; then a male voice shouted back. “Mackenzie!”
Arran froze. Was this it? Had they come to take him for the mockery that would be his trial? But wouldn’t there be more than one of them to take him?
“Aye, here!” Ben shouted. Arran realized at once what Ben was doing—his men would do anything to protect him, including pretending to be him now. He suddenly shoved aside the soup from the shelf and shouted. “Here! The laird is here!”
The footsteps hurried toward him. He heard a fumbling of keys, first one in the lock, then another. Then a third. A moment later, the door swung open, almost hitting Arran. He blinked against the candlelight, still unable to make out who was there.
“For God’s sake, come on,” the man said. “The jailer will return at any moment.”
“Who—”
“Are you blind? Knox Armstrong.”
Arran couldn’t gather his wits. He didn’t know why Knox was here, and he could only assume that like all of the Armstrongs, Knox was against him. But Knox’s arm appeared through the candlelight, and he grabbed Arran’s forearm. “Come,” he demanded. “You’ll have us all killed.”
“My men,” Arran said.
“We’ve no time—”
“My men,” he said again.
Knox threw the keys at him. “I’ll keep watch. Make haste, make haste,” he urged him, and hurried down the corridor.
“Here, milord!” Ben said, his hand showing in the slit of his door.
Arran fumbled with the keys, found the one that worked and opened the door. Ben burst through and grabbed the keys from Arran. “Go, laird, donna wait for us. Dermid is ill, aye?”
Ben lunged for a door across from his. He opened the door and disappeared inside. He reappeared only moments later with Dermid half-draped over his shoulder.
“Diah,” Arran exclaimed. The man was emaciated, his hair matted against his skull.
“Go milord,” Ben urged him. “The clan can survive without me or Dermid, but they canna go on without you. Save yourself.”
“The hell I will,” Arran said. He took part of Dermid’s weight from Ben, and together they dragged the ailing man from the jail.
Just outside the door, Knox was waiting. “The keys, the keys,” he said, gesturing for them. “We’ve not a moment to waste.”
Ben handed him the keys.
“Just at the bottom of the hill are the stables,” Knox said, speaking quickly and quietly. “They are unmanned tonight—I’ve just come from there. Saddle your horses. Be prepared to ride.”
“And you?” Arran asked.
“I’ll lead you out of here,” Knox said. He turned and began to stride away, the candlelight bobbing with his near sprint.
Arran didn’t pause to question Knox’s intent. At least they were out of the cells. At least now they had a fighting chance. “Aye, let’s go, then,” he muttered to Ben, and together, they carried Dermid down the road.
* * *
MARGOT WAS BEGINNING to panic. Putnam was frightening her. She had two of his markers on the table before her, and he was perspiring heavily, alternating between tears and anger. Where was Knox?
She forced herself to draw a steadying breath and mentally ran through her options: she could scream, which would surely bring someone...if there was anyone lurking about this old abbey besides the butler. She could pretend that she needed a retiring room and flee. But if Knox hadn’t found Arran, where would she go? And how would she come back for him?
As she was debating what to do, Putnam picked up the deck. “Again,” he said.
“My lord, you are distressed—”
“I am not distressed! I’ve been divested of my money by a woman who has come here on disagreeable business! Do you think me ignorant, Lady Mackenzie? I know what you’re about,” he snarled.
Good God, where was Knox?
“You want that bloody Scot, do you? That traitor to your queen?”
She resisted the urge to argue with his slander. She had to be calm, quite calm, and slowly began to gather the coins and markers before her. His eyes seemed almost to bulge now as he watched her. “I don’t know what you are implying, my lord. I meant only to enjoy a bit of sport, as I said. My father has freed me from an unbearable marriage and I assure you...” She lifted her gaze, looked him directly in the eye and said gravely, “I don’t want him back. Perhaps a better question is, what do you want?”
Putnam slowly licked his bottom lip, as if seeking the last drop of wine.
“I think I know what you want,” she said calmly. “I think you want my money. Quite desperately.”
Putnam’s face mottled, and for a moment, she thought he would explode with anger. He looked as if he might lunge across the table for her throat at any moment, wrap his fingers around her gullet and squeeze. But then, inexplicably, he lowered his head and dissolved into tears. “I’ve lost every
thing,” he sobbed.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Everything, all of it!” he cried, sweeping his arm across the table and sending markers and cards and his empty glass sailing and breaking on the stone floor. “I’ve nothing! Nothing at all!” He tore the wig from his head and threw it on the ground, then stood and staggered across the room.
“My lord!” Margot exclaimed. She could feel his despair coming off him in great lapping waves. Worse, she understood it. She’d felt that sort of bone-deep despair three times in her life: when she was told she would be married. When she was told she would return to her husband. And in these last two days, when she thought she’d lost him.
Margot stood up and gathered the coins and markers and went to him before he could pour more wine. “Lord Putnam,” she said, catching his arm as he reached for the decanter. He tried to shake her off. “Richard,” she said, her voice quiet and soothing. “Here—this is for you. And...and this,” she said, and reached into the pocket of her gown for Arran’s purse.
He looked down at the bounty she forced into his hands, then up at her again. “No,” he said. “I won’t take charity—”
“It’s not charity,” she said, and folded his hands over the money. “It’s a loan. You’ll repay me when you can.”
“But I can’t—”
“You will,” she said. “Oh, my lord, you will,” she said earnestly. “I have every faith in you.”
Putnam began to sob, his body racked with them. He clutched the money to his chest as he slipped down and landed on his rump beside the sideboard.
Margot had never seen a man lose his composure so completely, and she was overcome with a strange mix of empathy and revulsion.
“Margot.”
She startled, whipping around to Knox. He, too, was staring at Putnam. “Come away,” he said, taking her by the elbow. “Come now.”
Her brother pulled her from the room, as she was unable to tear her gaze away from the broken man who took in prisoners for money.
Once outside, Knox moved her along much more quickly, and she struggled to keep up with him. He paused at a closed door near the entry and pushed it open. “Your master needs help. He needs to be carried up to his bed,” he said to the startled butler. “Lady Mackenzie and I will take our leave now.” He did not wait for an answer, but he pushed Margot out the door, pausing only long enough to pick up her cloak and gloves.