Kyra slowly opened Riley’s door and peeked out. Her own room beckoned from the other end of the hall. All she needed to do was get there. Kyra took a deep breath, steeling herself for the longest walk of her life. Head high, she exited, clutching her loot to her chest and smoothly shutting the door. She didn’t need to sneak around, of course; she had every right to borrow her brother’s things. It was just that explaining herself to an errant servant most certainly was not one of the steps of her plan. Especially when those things included a gun.
She bustled into her room and shut the door. Once safely inside, she leaned back against the heavy oak door and released her breath in a heavy whoosh. She stifled a nervous sob and forced herself to focus.
Pushing herself away from the door, Kyra attended to step three—packing. Just what are the fashionable refugees wearing these days? she wondered, tossing Riley’s bags on her bed. In addition to the shirts she’d pilfered, she would need riding breeches and a thick cloak; maybe a second set in case she got wet. A hat and some warm gloves might be nice, too. And a lady must never overlook footwear, of course. She’d need heavy riding boots. She’d bring a few gowns to wear on her arrival, but nothing more than she could carry in the haversack. This was an escape, after all, not a vacation. Surely she could arrange to find appropriate clothing once she was safely on MacKenzie lands.
Muslin, silk, corsets and stockings flew as Kyra stuffed the bag with as many articles as she could manage—two day gowns, a paper-thin ballgown, a pair of kid shoes, undergarments, a few night rails, her traveling toilette. Kyra grumbled when she found she was unable to stuff her redingote in the bag. After a moment of fighting with the heavy garment, she conceded defeat. Better to be underdressed for a short while than to live with a troll forever.
A small scratching at the door made her jump. She quickly stepped between the pile on her bed and the doorway an instant before her maid, Maggie, and Mrs. Myrtle unceremoniously entered. Mrs. Myrtle carried a precariously balanced tray laden with food on one fleshy hand, the other wagged vigorously in Kyra’s direction, primed for scolding.
The portly Scottish woman rounded on her, arms and tray waving so sharply Kyra thought she might be eating her dinner off of the floor.
“Well now, miss, do ye really think skipping dinner is going to help your da? Ye ain’t much more than skin and bone already.”
Kyra sighed, praying for patience. Mrs. Myrtle had come to Deverill Manor in the service of Kyra’s mother. Upon Lady Deverill’s death nine years ago, the old virago had taken it upon herself to cluck at Kyra like an overly plump mother hen. Mrs. Myrtle’s lectures either touched on Kyra’s deplorable lack of ladylike tendencies or her lack of appetite. The more interesting lectures managed to include both. Oddly enough, the recalcitrant housekeeper had the one shoulder Kyra ever cried on. Odder still, Mrs. Myrtle never refused. One look at Kyra’s face was all the old badger ever needed. Then she’d simply hug her, hold Kyra’s head to her ample bosom and let her have it out, clucking softly.
Tonight, however, she was not in the mood for anyone.
Drawing herself to her full height, Kyra raised her head regally and looked down her nose at them. Not an easy task considering she had to actually look up at both women to do so.
With a chilly hauteur perfected over years in Society, she stated imperiously, “Thank you, Mrs. Myrtle. Maggie. That will be all.”
Mrs. Myrtle shook with laughter; the tray vibrated with her, threatening to upend its contents. Maggie wisely grabbed it before they all wore the soup course. Mrs. Myrtle elbowed the maid in the ribs. “I think we’ve been dismissed, Margaret.”
Maggie gracefully set the tray on the nearby desk. Kyra saw the small grin tugging at the corner of the woman’s lips. “Quite so, Mrs. Myrtle.”
The tall, willowy maid was a decade older than Kyra, and quite possibly the most proper Englishwoman she’d ever known—much more so than most of the proper English ladies of her acquaintance. Another legacy from Kyra’s mother, the young maid was elegant in both manner and tone. Her ash-blonde hair was also always impeccably coifed, unlike Kyra’s unmanageable auburn mane. Maggie did everything with a quiet grace Kyra secretly envied. Right now, that quiet grace was being put to use, and Maggie was silently assessing her.
Kyra inwardly cursed herself; apparently she’d been a bit too democratic with her servants. So she did her best to stare the ladies down. “You may go.”
Mrs. Myrtle chortled again, shaking her head. Maggie, however, cut rope. “You seem rather out of sorts, dear,” she said softly. “Did he throw something at you again?”
Kyra felt her lip quiver. “No.”
Both women were immediately at her side, fussing and cooing over her. “There, there, lass,” Mrs. Myrtle murmured, patting her arm. “A sweet little thing such as yerself shouldn’t have to shoulder such a big burden all alone. It ain’t right.”
On her other side, Maggie had taken her hand and was stroking it comfortingly.
A breath caught in Kyra’s throat. The only times she ever got truly frustrated with these two was when they showed such awful kindness. It inevitably made her feel fourteen years old again, vulnerable and lost after her mother’s death.
Maggie hugged her shoulder. “You should take a holiday. Perhaps a nice visit with Lady York or a shopping spree in London—”
Her voice trailed off as she spied the heap of fabric on Kyra’s bed. The maid pulled away and cleared her throat. “Or perhaps you have plans already,” she stated, nodding at the bed.
Mrs. Myrtle glanced behind her to see what the maid was about. Her eyes widened and she abruptly released Kyra’s arm. Then she joined Maggie in glowering at her. “Mary and Joseph! What do ye think yer doing, ye reckless fool?”
Kyra sniffed. Lying to these two was futile—they’d see right through her. Pulling herself upright, she announced, “If you must know, I am running away to Scotland.”
For a heavy moment, both women stared at her as though she were demented. Kyra stared back. The two women looked at her, then at each other and then back at her. Then the squabbling began.
“Scotland? Just what in heaven’s good name do ye think—?”
“You cannot possibly be serious—”
“Have ye lost yer senses—?”
“And furthermore, a lady of your standing does not simply run away—”
Kyra struggled to compose herself amidst their blather. “I assure you I am quite serious and there is nothing you can do to stop me.”
“And what do ye think yer da will say to this bit of nonsense?” Mrs. Myrtle cackled. “Rational or not, he’d never let his only daughter run off to the highlands.”
“Quite right,” Maggie echoed. “Your father would never approve.”
Kyra took a deep breath. There was no way around it. “The marquess is dead.”
Both women looked horrified. In a trice, Mrs. Myrtle pulled her into a fleshy embrace and began clucking again. “Oh, child. I’m so sorry.”
Maggie threw her thin arms around both of them, caging Kyra between the two most insufferable, and lovely, women she would ever know. “Oh, Kay,” she heard Maggie murmur. “You should have told us.”
Mrs. Myrtle pulled free and, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief, walked to the bell pull. “I’ll ring for Sheridan to attend to the master. And I’ll have a boy fetch the earl of Griffin directly.”
“No!” Kyra shouted.
The housekeeper’s outstretched hand stopped mid-reach. Maggie’s brow arched in surprise. Kyra sighed. Apparently she’d never get away without revealing the whole truth. She just hoped her trust would not be misplaced.
She sank down on the bed, suddenly tired. “Griffin is no longer my guardian.”
Blowing out a blustery sigh, Kyra quickly sketched the details that composed the last half hour of her father’s li
fe—her new guardian, Edmund’s betrayal, Brumley’s betrothal, her father’s instructions to flee, her excellent plan. Maggie and Mrs. Myrtle listened in silence, the only hint of any reaction showing in the housekeeper’s increasingly pinched face and the maid’s thinning lips.
When she was quite finished, Kyra tiredly shook her head. “So you see, that is why no one must know that my father is no longer with us. I need as much of a lead as possible.”
Maggie’s lips were white. “So you were going to leave without telling us?” It was more accusation than question.
“I was going to write you a note,” Kyra promised, hoping to salve their bruised egos. “It was step four. I just hadn’t finished with step three yet. Packing.”
The maid looked at the bed full of clothes. “Yes, we’ll have to pack if we’re going to Scotland. I’ll ring for your portmanteau and the coach. The tweeny can help you pack while I dash to my room and get my things—”
Kyra shook her head. “I’m going alone, Maggie. And I will only take what I can carry on Apollo.”
The maid’s lip quivered. “You cannot possibly travel alone, Kyra,” she protested. “Think of your reputation! Your safety!”
“I am, my dears,” Kyra promised softly. “My reputation will recover. In truth, no one outside this room even needs to know I went alone. We could claim my mother’s family sent an escort. I’m sure Uncle Cam would play along. No one would argue with him—he is the MacKenzie, after all. As for my safety...well, traveling alone to Scotland seems less treacherous than marriage to Brumley.”
Maggie started to argue again, but this time it was Mrs. Myrtle who stopped her. The housekeeper stepped forward, jaw set. “The girl’s right, Margaret. We can’t let her wed that awful man.”
Maggie considered for a moment. “Well,” she stated resolutely. “If you’re off to northern climes, we need to get you packed.”
Kyra grinned and stepped toward the bed. Mrs. Myrtle stopped her with a firm hand on her elbow. “Not ye, girl. Ye sit down at that desk and fill yer belly. Lord knows when ye’ll next get a hot meal, and ye’ll need all yer strength in the coming days.”
When she started to protest, Maggie piped up. “Mrs. Myrtle is correct, Kyra. You cannot get to Scotland if you starve.”
The housekeeper helped Kyra settle in a chair and thrust the tray at her. The old harpy planted herself by the desk, obviously ready to stand and watch until Kyra ate. Kyra sighed and picked up her fork. There was nothing else to do except stab at the roasted pheasant and vegetables marinated in a light wine sauce.
“Now, would you like to wear your green riding habit or that lovely sapphire redingote? Personally, if I were fleeing to Scotland, I’d choose the redingote. It’s warmer and quite dashing.”
Kyra swallowed her mouthful and took a sip of tepid tea. “I’d thought breeches.” Maggie and Mrs. Myrtle turned to gape at her, and she felt a tad defensive. This was her plan, after all, and her plan called for breeches. “I’ll be less conspicuous as a lad.”
The maid started to argue again, but Mrs. Myrtle pulled her aside and the two had a rather heated, albeit, hushed discussion. After a few moments of Mrs. Myrtle’s frantic gesturing and Maggie’s increasingly rigid spine, the maid nodded. Lips thin, Maggie turned back to Kyra. “Fine. Do you have breeches?” she asked tightly.
“I took a couple of Riley’s shirts, but his breeches and riding boots were too large. I may have inherited the Deverill backbone, but he got their height,” Kyra said around a forkful of vegetables. The look the housekeeper shot her made her swallow before she spoke again. “I thought I’d nip down to the laundry and see if I might pilfer something from one of the stable boys’ bundles.”
Mrs. Myrtle made a derisive noise. “Stable clothes! Ach. It’s a good thing ye’ve us to help ye.” The housekeeper strode to the door. “My nephew Stanley has had another growth spurt, and I’ve just let out some of his breeches for him since his ma is close to burstin’ with that babe of hers. I’m thinkin’ yer just about the same size as him.”
“Wonderful,” Kyra muttered, reminding herself that in this case it was good to be roughly the same size as a fourteen-year-old boy.
“Don’t give me any cheek, missy,” the housekeeper warned. “You keep eatin’ while I fetch them.”
The older woman disappeared, leaving Maggie to pack and Kyra to stuff her face. The maid tsked at Kyra’s obviously hashed packing attempt. “Throwing silk and linen into a sack—shameful. Your poor dresses would have more wrinkles than Lady Tunbridge’s forehead. You must roll them in tissue, darling,” she instructed. “Tightly. They’ll still need a hot iron, but at least the creases won’t be permanent. And the tighter the roll, the more dresses you can pack.”
Amazingly, Maggie managed to squeeze in two more sturdy walking dresses, another gown and a pair of slippers. After a few moments of wrangling, she finally gave up on the redingote and set it aside. “You’ll have to make do with the slippers and kid boots, I suppose.”
She tossed the toilette case and a small bonnet into Riley’s gun pouch. “I don’t suppose you have room for a parasol,” she muttered. “Ah well, at least the countryside’s still gray this time of year. Now, if you’ve finished your dinner, let’s do your hair.”
Kyra abandoned her nearly empty plate and obediently sat at her vanity. Maggie undid the well-anchored chignon that attempted to tame Kyra’s wild curls. The maid brushed through the auburn waves with a practiced hand. Satisfied, she went to work efficiently weaving the mass into a tight braid. Tying it with a plain ribbon, she stepped back and admired her handiwork. “That should hold for a day or so.”
Mrs. Myrtle returned, the armful of items slowing her only slightly. She dumped everything on the desk, grumbling about the scraps left on the tray. Maggie unbuttoned Kyra’s gown and slipped it off her shoulders, leaving her in her cotton sheath. Kyra took a pair of sturdy breeches, a strip of linen, and a shirt from the pile Mrs. Myrtle had provided and ducked behind her dressing screen. Maggie followed, helping her remove her sheath and wrapping the linen snugly around her chest. Not that Kyra felt she needed it; her bosom was not exactly what one might describe as ample. As Maggie helped her pull on the shirt and breeches, Kyra peeked at the remaining items on the desk.
“What’s all that?” she asked, nodding to the pile.
“Sheridan pinched some boots and a hat from one of the grooms. And Cook ransacked Scotty’s closet for a greatcoat. He’s got the night off, so she just walked right in and took it. Brash as brass she is.” The old woman chuckled.
Kyra snorted as well, pulling her laces tight. Stanley’s shirt was a bit roomy, but it fit a far sight better than Riley’s would have. And the breeches fit perfectly. Had she known how comfortable they were, she would have taken to wearing breeches years ago. She only hoped the plundered boots and hat were as good.
The thought of her senior staff swiping items brought a slight grin to her face. She could definitely see impudent Cook pilfering clothes from the footmen, especially Scotty, who was a bit full of himself. But picturing her painfully proper butler, Sheridan, stealing boots from a groom was quite funny indeed.
Realization hit and Kyra nearly choked. “You told Cook and Sheridan?”
Mrs. Myrtle gave her a pointed look. “They’d have been beyond hurt if ye’d sneaked off without them knowin’ where and why. And ye ken as well as I, missy, that they ain’t goin’ to tell anyone, so don’t go giving me that look.”
“You weren’t supposed to tell anyone,” Kyra complained. Yelling at the old harridan would have been useless, Kyra knew that from experience. So she emerged from behind the screen and tugged on the wool socks and heavy boots Maggie handed her.
“Besides,” the housekeeper retorted, “Sheridan can make sure no one gets into yer da’s room for another day. Everyone already knows that the master’s had a difficult day, so any
one with any sense will agree that he needs his rest. Especially if Sheridan decrees it. And we’ll claim ye’ve got a headache, so of course no one but Maggie will be coming to yer room. As usual, when yer sick, I’ll see to the master myself in yer place. And Cook said she’d send up trays with Maggie and me, so’s no one suspects.”
They were buying her more time! A lump formed in Kyra’s throat, though she tried to ignore it. “Thank you,” she whispered.
The housekeeper gave her a dismissive wave. “Don’t go flattering yourself, missy. None of us want to wind up in Brumley’s employ, is all. The man ain’t natural. And if ye do somethin’ to lose this lead we’re givin’ ye, not one of us’ll feel sorry fer ye.”
Kyra knew better, of course, especially when the old badger’s gruff tone was belied by the glistening in her eyes. She smiled and shrugged into Scotty’s greatcoat. Maggie handed her the haversack first, Riley’s thick blanket attached at the bottom. She slung the heavy pack over her shoulder, nearly losing her balance for a precarious moment, then picked up the smaller gun pouch. Kyra draped it across her other shoulder, followed by the canteen Mrs. Myrtle had filled. The maid tossed the hat on her head.
Maggie shook her head. “You remind me of my littlest brother, John, on his first hunting expedition.”
“Isn’t he twelve?” Kyra asked. At Maggie’s smile, Kyra frowned. Apparently her form was digressing. Oh, well. No good worrying about it now.
Mrs. Myrtle handed her a third pouch. “Cook packed a little something for your trip,” she replied to Kyra’s raised eyebrows. “Hunk of bread, some dried beef, bit of smoked fish, a few apples and oranges.” The housekeeper hesitated a moment, uncertain, then thrust a wad of paper at her.
Kyra took one look at the offering and turned scarlet. “I have no desire to take your earnings, Mrs. Myrtle.”
Mrs. Myrtle grunted and pressed the money into Kyra’s hand. “Don’t be so stubborn. Ye can’t go running off without some blunt, girl. We want you to have it.”
“We?”
An Inconvenient Wife Page 3