The Lies of Lord John (Bonnie Brides Book 5)

by Fiona Monroe

  It is unlikely that we will ever meet again, but know that I remain your lordship's most loyal and humble servant...

  Her hand was trembling, and another treacherous tear ran down her nose and dropped onto the paper. She blotted it away hastily before it could smudge the ink and then wrote:

  Margaret Bell

  Chapter 18

  Margaret spent the rest of the morning lying down in Emmeline's tiny guest room, curled under a feather counterpane and listening to the sounds of horses' hooves, rattling carriage wheels, and voices drifting up from Hanover Street below the window. Like Princes Street, and unlike Charlotte Square, Emmeline's road was a thoroughfare and so busy all day long with traffic and hurrying foot passengers of all sorts. She had the miserable feeling that life was going on down there as usual on this bright spring day, while she was stranded, abandoned, and broken.

  After a while, she could not bear it and got up to close the shutters, blocking out sound and sunlight alike.

  The ringing of the house bell raised her from a hazy, nightmarish doze, and she ran to the window to prise open the edge of one shutter and look down to see who was at the door. A rush of hope, a half expectation that she would see the top of Lord John's hat down there overwhelmed her before she remembered that she must not think of seeing him again.

  It was not Lord John. It was a broad, upright, older gentleman with a military bearing, whom Margaret realised with a surge of disquiet must be General Macintosh. He was on the doorstep only for a moment before an unseen maid let him in.

  Fully awake, all Margaret's wretchedness returned. She knew she ought not to spend even a single night in this house, but she still could think of nowhere else to go. Briefly, she considered returning to 18 Queen Street and throwing herself upon Lady Buccleuch's kindness, but quite apart from a strong disinclination to explain her situation to anyone, she remembered that the Buccleuchs had been intent upon returning to their Highland seat very soon after she and Lord John had left them. They did not spend much of the year at their town house, and Lady Buccleuch had said something about wanting her child to grow up in the land of his people.

  She touched her stomach. How quickly did a child start, after the act that made it? How soon would she know? More importantly, how long would she have to wait to be sure that it had not? She imagined a miniature baby, perfectly formed but tiny, already nestled deep within her, and had to fight down an attack of suffocating fright.

  She jumped as someone knocked gently on the door to her room.

  "My dearest." Emmeline's head appeared round the edge. She was decked, head to toe, in gaudy splendour. Her hair was almost entirely disappeared under a silk turban festooned with ostrich feathers, except for artful ringlets at her brow, and she was wearing the ruby necklace again. "The general is taking me to the new play at the theatre tonight. You will be all right on your own? I cannot invite you, the general does not yet know I have a guest. Besides, he likes to be alone with me. You do understand?"

  "Please. Go, and enjoy the play." She wondered if she sounded bitter. In fact, she was sincerely relieved that Emmeline did not expect her to appear in public in company with her married lover and somewhat uneasy that her friend thought that she might want to be part of such an outing.

  Emmeline came over to kiss her, in a cloud of French perfume. "I shall explain all about it to the general tonight."

  "Please do not."

  "Oh, Margaret—you cannot be too bashful; we must get our revenge on this horrid man! Remember, you have nothing to be ashamed of. The general will know what to do. Now I have told the girl to make sure you take some supper. I shall see you later, or at least, tomorrow morning."

  Because when she returned that night, Margaret supposed, she would be too occupied with keeping the general happy to have any time for her friend. She felt a little sick.

  Weary of being in the little room, she told the servant an hour later that she would take supper in the dining parlour. She was sure she could eat nothing, but at least it gave her the opportunity to look at four different walls.

  To her great surprise, there were two envelopes laid beside her plate. Her heart gave a treacherous leap.

  "Post for me?" she asked.

  "Aye, madam," said the maid. "They both arrived in the last post."

  Post was delivered in New Town five times a day, most days, with the last delivery being around six o'clock. Margaret seized the letters and saw, as she had hardly dared to hope, that one was addressed in Lord John's hasty, dashing hand.

  She clung to this letter, heart beating so fast that she felt dizzy, staring at the direction. It took a few seconds for her to understand that he had addressed it to Lady John Dunwoodie.

  The seal was a slapdash blob of wax that looked as if it had been pressed with his thumb.

  My dear, my very dear Margaret,

  For so you will always be to me. My wife, my true wife indeed, my heart.

  I know you wish to be generous with your offer of money that is not lawfully mine, but hang it. You might not think me a gentleman, but I'll be damned if I'll take a penny from you until I can lay honest claim to it.

  That aside—there is a great deal I cannot tell you. Only be patient, my love. And be careful. I do not like you living with Mrs. Douglas—that is not a respectable house, and I don't like you being there—but you had better stay safe there at present and keep indoors at all times. I will work something out, and we will be together again.

  Who knows, perhaps I will fight that duel, and win. I may have to travel abroad. You are not to worry about me, my love. I have seen at first hand to what desperate lengths these people will go, and I am still alive to tell the tale. Be patient, and all will be well.

  I shall write again when I have something to tell you. Until then, see no one—write to no one—talk to no one else about this business. I remain, with all my heart, your devoted and passionate,

  JGD

  PS: Where is the letter? The Latin letter? I must have it.

  Margaret read this letter through, over and over, though she knew she ought to toss it straight onto the fire, while her tea cooled in front of her and mutton-chops congealed uneaten. Its every word was a siren call of temptation, its writer's very assumption that he could still command her both thrilled and infuriated her. The endearments were honeyed barbs. The vague hopes it held out—be patient, and all will be well—were heartbreaking.

  It was as well that the letter ended with that tactless postscript, or she might have ceased to struggle against the temptation of hope and let herself believe that everything might work out. It was merely a subtler form of seduction. He was asking her, just not in so many words, to be his mistress, if he could somehow remove the danger posed by Count Contarini. The Lady Lucia—and her child—he seemed content to abandon in Venice. It was despicable, looked at this way, and she wanted no part in it.

  Margaret composed several angry replies in her head, but after a few minutes' consideration, realised that the most sensible and dignified response was to make none. It would be pointless and dangerous to get involved in a back and forth correspondence with the man whom she had to regard from now on as nothing more than a stranger. It had been necessary to write to him that morning, to warn him of the danger, but that was where it ended.

  She ought, in fact, to destroy this letter.

  She looked at the dining parlour fire, which was burning low, and put the letter to one side for now. Then she picked up the other one, suddenly recalling that it might be a conciliatory reply from her uncle.

  The original direction of Lady John Dunwoodie, 36 Princes Street had been crossed out, and her present address scribbled above in Lord John's hand. The first hand was not her uncle's, however.

  My dearest cousin,

  I write to you in haste, and sad to say, in secrecy. I saw your letter delivered to my stepfather this morning and chanced to read your new address from the back of it, so I know where you are now living. I will have a boy in the st
reet deliver this. I cannot risk the post.

  I saw you and your noble husband yesterday walking along Princes Street, when I was going with my mother toward the bridge to distribute alms in Cowgate. You looked very well and happy, my dear cousin, and Lord John looked handsome indeed. I was pleased to see you appearing in such good spirits, but oh, cousin, I am wretched indeed! I am so wicked and miserable a girl that I cannot feel pleasure in the happiness of my own dear cousin! Instead it made me want to cry, to think that I shall never be so fortunate, myself.

  I was a very bad and disobedient girl, and I carried on my correspondence with Mr. Obidiah Carluke in defiance of my mother's orders to cease it. After he sent me the sampler, which I showed you, and which I now know was made at his earnest request by his younger sister, Grace, I wrote again to him to tell him that I did not want us to part, but that I had to obey my mother.

  Mr. Carluke says that if I will not marry him, then he will when he is ordained (which is very soon now) go off to be a missionary in southern Africa. He has a friend who runs a mission in Cape Colony and who has invited him to join him there. Mr. Carluke says that he feels a strong calling to take the Word of God to the poor unenlightened people of that dark continent, but also that if we cannot be married, then he wants to leave Scotland altogether and try to forget his heartbreak.

  Oh, that it were possible for a woman to escape sorrow in a like manner! I should love to journey into the depths of the jungle and face all the dangers of climate, wild beasts, savages, and disease, to take the love of our Lord to little native children. If I cannot marry Mr. Carluke, then that is what I should like to do, myself. But instead, I must stay in Charlotte Square, keep my mother company, and grow old, I suppose.

  If he goes to Africa, I shall never see him again. It is so far away, and so many accidents may befall him. If he ever returns, it will be years and years hence. Cousin, what should I do? Should I obey my mother and dismiss him forever? Or should I pledge my troth and wait for him, and hope that in ten or fifteen years he will return safe and still unmarried? It seems so sad and uncertain a prospect.

  You had the courage to marry the man of your choice against your family's wishes. I consoled myself by reflecting that you had done wrong, and I had done my duty, and I would have my reward hereafter—but since receiving that letter from Mr. Carluke, all I can think about is that perhaps you were not wrong, after all, and that I should like my reward now. Is this temptation, or is it reason?

  I am rambling. I always was a very poor correspondent. I cannot express myself wittily in writing, as you can. I am not clever, as you are. What a long letter I have written nonetheless. I do not know if you care to reply, but even after everything I said to you, I should like your advice after all.

  Your anxious cousin, Charity Rankine

  Here was something she could do, some good she could disseminate immediately. Margaret rang the bell beside her plate and, ignoring the disapproving glance the servant gave her uneaten chops, she called again for writing materials. When the maid brought a sheaf of papers and some pens, Margaret pushed aside the untouched meal and wrote her reply right there at the table.

  Cousin Charity,

  You flatter me, you overestimate my powers both as a correspondent and as a person qualified to dispense advice on such a subject. I am the very last person whose views you ought to take into account. However, I must urge you, that in this particular matter, you should rely on the counsel of your own heart. You fear being led astray by the guidance of that organ, I know, but, cousin! You are no longer eighteen, and Mr. Obidiah Carluke is assuredly no libertine!

  If you send Mr. Carluke off to the jungles of Cape Colony with a promise that you might marry him fifteen years hence, you will disoblige your mother, but he would be no kind of man to accept so lukewarm a declaration. You had better cut him loose right now and free him to marry another. If, on the other hand, you would rather marry him, yourself, you should do so at once. If you are going to disoblige your mother, you may as well do it thoroughly.

  That is my advice, since you ask for it.

  Your affectionate cousin, Margaret

  She could not bear to wrestle with the question of how to subscribe herself, so she limited her signature to her Christian name. Then she summoned the servant once again and gave instructions that the letter was to be delivered by hand to Charlotte Square as soon as possible.

  Despite Margaret's injunction to haste, the maid lingered. "Don't you care for lamb chops, madam? I can ask cook to make you something else, something more digestible—a basin of gruel, maybe?"

  "I do not want anything to eat at all!" Margaret cried. "Just—make sure that letter is put into the hands of Miss Rankine of 17 Charlotte Square, not put in the common mail, and—see that I am not disturbed tonight."

  She fled back to her narrow room and paced the short distance between the fireplace and the window with Lord John's letter open again in her hand. There was a fire in the tiny grate, so the room was not uncheerful, and she could turn the wretched letter to ashes in a moment if she wished. She could not, however, stop herself from reading and re-reading the fourth paragraph, the one in which he suggested that he might really fight Count Contarini and talked about 'desperate lengths'. Had the count's agents really tried to kill him, or was that hyperbole, a melodramatic exaggeration?

  People certainly did die in duels. That was why they were illegal, in civilised Britain. But there were no laws against affairs of honour in the wild countries of Europe, and the death of this and that unfortunate young gentleman who had travelled to France or Germany for the purpose was always being reported in the papers. It was just the sort of thing she thought that Lord John might do. Presumably that was why he said he might go abroad.

  On reaching the window for the third or fourth time and glancing out distractedly, she suddenly noticed that the same man had been lingering outside the house opposite for a very long time. He was a slender, dark-looking fellow, not a gentleman but not the lower kind of working man, wearing a curiously shaped stovepipe style hat and a short cloak. He carried a cane of sorts which he twirled now and then in his gloved hands. Perhaps it was her imagination, but he seemed to be glancing frequently up at her window.

  She shrank from the window, and lay down on the bed to think. Dusk was falling. When she dared to peep through the window again, she saw the lamp-lighter making his stately way along the pavement. The stove-hatted individual had stepped out from under the direct arc of light from the street lamp, but she could see the tip of his cane gleaming.

  If they were really watching the house, what was their plan? Did they imagine that Lord John was going to come for her here? Was that sinister-looking fellow waiting until he came along, and then going to emerge from the shadows and stab him with the sword he was doubtless concealing in that cane?

  Margaret came to a sudden bold decision.

  She wrapped up in her outdoor cloak and bonnet before creeping downstairs and to the front door. She did not want to alert the servants to her plan; she was sure that the sharp-eyed parlour maid would try to prevent her.

  The house was still, however, and nobody intervened. She shut the front door behind her very carefully, so that its latch would not click, and ran lightly down the front steps. A carriage was rattling along the road, obscuring her view of the other side of the street. Once it had passed, she peered into the lamp lit gloom.

  For a moment, she thought the watcher must have gone, melted into the shadows in which he lurked. But then she saw the flash of silver, and her heart lurched.

  She was not going to fail in her duty. She picked up her skirts and crossed the road.

  The man who had been watching the house looked as if he were going to slide away as she approached him. Margaret had to call out, "Sir! Signore!"

  He stopped and turned to look at her with glittering, feral eyes.

  Margaret drew in a deep breath. "Take me to your master."

  Chapter 19

  Lord
John was awakened from what felt like the sleep of the dead by a tentative poking on his shoulder.

  "My lord. My lord."

  He squinted at the anxious face above him, surrounded by its lopsided halo of ruffles. It was one of the servant girls, prodding him awake.

  He still couldn't remember her name. He might have taken passing notice of her previously, though she had crooked teeth and a few pockmarks, but he suddenly had no interest in any other woman. And even under a dust-cap and a work apron, a housemaid was a woman, not a separate species that existed to slake his appetites. He knew that very well; besides, the appetite had gone.

  "What is it?" he grunted, amazed that he had managed to fall asleep that night at all.

  The shutters were flung full open, rain was battering the windows, and the girl was hopping from foot to foot.

  "Begging your pardon, my lord, but you wouldnae wake up—"

  "Has something happened?" Suddenly, he was wide awake and swinging out of bed. "Has your mistress returned?"

  "No—my lord—but there's a visitor, wanting to see your lordship right away—"

  "Oh good God." John grabbed his boots. "Is it a foreign gentleman? Did you let him in? I told you not to let anyone in at all before you consulted me."

  "Aye, my lord, and so Mrs. Downie said, too, but we talked and we just couldnae leave the lady standing in the street—in the rain an' that—we had to let her come in."

  "Lady?" His blood cooled a little. "Did she give her name as Mrs. Douglas?"

  "She—she wouldnae gie her name my lord, I'm sorry! She just said she had to speak to you, alone, right the noo."

  A mysterious lady visitor. In a moment of wild insight, John wondered if Lucia Contarini had somehow escaped from her convent captivity and made the long, treacherous journey across Europe, to throw herself on his protection. It seemed to him the sort of thing she might contrive to do. Under that demure exterior was a will as ferocious, a mind as devious as her brother's.