by Lynsay Sands
“I shall see to it at once, my lord.” The butler moved off down the hall to see to the matter as James carried Maggie into the salon. He laid her gently on the very same settee he had placed her on the day of the faux tea party. The room was dark for several moments, but then Johnstone thought to collect a candle from the hall. He used it to light several more tapers in the room, and within moments the salon was filled with a soft glow.
James almost wished it weren’t. Up until that point he had thought her merely smoke-smudged; now that he was seeing her in the light, he could see that a good deal of what he’d thought were smudges were really bruises. The side of her face was one large welt, her lip was cut, one eye was blackened, and there were bruises around her throat.
“She fought,” Johnstone commented approvingly, moving to peer over James’s shoulder as his employer brushed the hair away from Maggie’s forehead to reveal a nasty cut at her hairline. Then, apparently noting the blood that had soaked into her hair and ran back along her scalp, the runner added, “Landed on her back after the blow.”
“I shall go fetch some water and a cloth, and be sure Meeks sent someone for the doctor,” Lady Barlow hurried from the room.
“What happened?” James glanced toward the runner Johnstone had called Jack. The man stepped forward at once, his gaze going to Lady Margaret with a frown.
“I was watching from across the street. The servants all left in the early afternoon. She was alone in the house, far as I knew. Then, just before sunset, I noticed a sort of glow coming from some of the windows on the lower floor. I knew it wasn’t candlelight, and thought I smelled smoke.” He shrugged, his expression grim. “Had a bad feeling. Decided I’d better take a look-see. I tried seeing in the front windows, but all I could learn was that the light was coming from the back of the house. She didn’t come to the door when I knocked, so around I went. I saw someone runnin’ out into the gardens as I came around the corner. I was gonna chase after him, then saw that the back door was partway open, and that the kitchens were on fire—so I headed for the house instead. She was lyin’ in the center of the kitchen floor.”
He shook his head. “Everything else in the room was afire, but it hadn’t reached her yet. ’Twas just nipping at her skirts. I ran in and pulled her out, then carried her around to the front of the house. I stopped a passin’ boy and gave him a couple coins to fetch Mr. Johnstone here.” The man frowned, looking regretful. “I should have given him a couple more and had him fetch the fire brigade, too.”
“Ye did fine,” Johnstone said. He patted the larger man on the shoulder. “The brigade came right quick. How’s ye hand?”
The question drew James’s attention to the fact that Jack hadn’t gotten away without injury. His right hand was red and blistered. He had rushed into a burning building, but James hadn’t considered what that entailed.
“Oh, dear.” The murmured words drew his attention to the fact that Lady Barlow had returned. How much of the man’s words she had heard was anyone’s guess, but now she rushed to Jack’s side with the bowl of water and the cloth she had brought.
“Fetch more water and cloths, Meeks,” she ordered, then urged the injured Jack to a nearby chair. Once she had cajoled him into sitting, she set the bowl on his leg, picked his arm up by the wrist, and plopped his hand into the water. Seeming to think that took care of the immediate problem, she turned to where James and Johnstone still hovered by Maggie and eyed them like two misbehaving children. “Now, you had better tell me about this previous incident Meeks mentioned . . . and why exactly you still have Mr. Johnstone in your employ . . . and why you had this poor man watching Maggie!”
“He was keeping an eye out—just in case something like this happened.” James answered the last question first.
“And Mr. Johnstone?”
“Lord Ramsey asked me to look into who was causing all of these accidents,” Johnstone answered with a shrug.
Lady Barlow nodded, then speared her nephew with her eyes. “What about this ‘other incident’ Meeks mentioned?”
James winced. It was a question he really would have preferred not to answer. He had sworn Meeks to silence about that day, so his aunt was not aware of the little incident at all. She knew nothing about the faux tea party, the invitation to which he had signed her name, or anything else about that day. Answering her now would definitely get him in hot water. She wouldn’t be at all pleased to learn he had used her in such a way. Nor, probably, that he had used blackmail and lies to get Meeks to go along with him. Nor that he had put Maggie in a compromising position by tricking her into traveling somewhere to be alone with him.
Fortunately, he was saved from having to answer her immediately by the arrival of Lord Mullin, “Robert!” James said with relief. “Thank you for coming.”
“Not at all.” The younger man shed his overcoat as he crossed the room, Meeks on his heels. Pausing at James’s side, he exchanged the garment for the bag Lady Barlow’s butler had been holding for him, then turned his attention to Maggie. “What happened? I gather there was a fire? Was she burned?”
“I don’t think so, but she has a nasty head wound,” James said. “She’s been unconscious for at least several minutes.”
Nodding, his friend nudged him. “Let me have a look at her, then.”
James stood at once and moved. He watched Robert poke at the wound on her forehead and lift her eyelids one after the other. When he started to look her over for other injuries, James turned away. Leaving his aunt and Robert to tend to the wounds of both Maggie and Jack, he urged Johnstone from the room.
“Have you come up with anything, yet?” James asked as he led the Bow Street runner into the library and closed the door.
Johnstone shook his head. “Not much,” the man admitted regretfully. “I found a couple of people who witnessed the incident where she was pushed in front of the hack. A couple people remembered it happening, but couldn’t say whether she had been pushed in front of the carriage or just bumped. No one remembered a scarred man being there except for that driver. I’ve nosed around to see if there’s any ill will toward G. W. Clark, but no one’s rushing forward with information. I’ll keep at it, though.”
“Aye. You do that,” James murmured, rubbing a hand wearily along his neck. “This has to be connected to Lady Margaret’s articles. There is no other reason for anyone to wish her harm.”
Johnstone shrugged. “There doesn’t appear to be. Usually such murderous attempts revolve around some sort o’ monetary gain, but there doesn’t appear to be anyone to gain from her death—except for her cousin, perhaps. He would probably inherit the town house and the money she invested if she died, but I looked into that and the lawyers still haven’t located him. No, I believe ye’re right, m’lord. It has to be connected to her articles.”
“Did you look into Drummond?”
“Aye. It’s not him. He’s dead.”
“Dead?” James glanced over in surprise and the runner nodded.
“Aye. Got his neck stretched. Rumor is that the judge who tried him was one of the victims of his flammery.”
James frowned. “Then it must be because of one of her other articles.”
Johnstone nodded. “Well that’s the problem: it could be one of the articles she wrote, or one her brother wrote. Anyone who discovered Clark’s identity now wouldn’t necessarily know her brother was the writer before his death, and would blame her for it. Do you know how many articles they have done between them?” he asked in disgust. “The suspects are in the hundreds.”
“Damn.”
“Aye,” Johnstone agreed.
“Well, my main concern is to keep her safe. Which might be easier now that her house is gone. She never would have agreed to leave it ere this, but now it shouldn’t be too difficult to convince her to stay with me. I—”
“She will stay with me.” A stern voice resounded through the room.
Both men turned to peer at Lady Barlow. She stood in the door to the ro
om, and they had been so caught up in their discussion that neither man had heard her open it. They exchanged vexed glances.
“It would be improper for her to stay with you,” Aunt Vivian pointed out. “She will stay with me. But someone must be sent to wait for and collect her staff. She says that they went to the fair. I imagine they should be returning soon. They won’t have anywhere to go, and Margaret is quite worried about them.”
“She is awake?” James started for the door, only to pause when his aunt remained blocking the entrance.
“Robert is still with her. He has finished with Jack, however.” Her gaze slid to Johnstone. “I sent him to the kitchens for something to eat and drink.”
“Thank you, ma’am. He is a good man.”
“Yes, he is. He saved Lady Margaret’s life. But he needs to rest for the remainder of the night, at least, before he will be any good as a guard again, so you may wish to arrange to send someone to relieve him.”
“Yes, o’ course. I shall see to it at once,” Johnstone assured her. As he moved forward Lady Barlow stepped out of the way; then she closed the door behind his departing back and eyed James as she’d done when he was in trouble as a child.
“Now, James Matthew Huttledon, it’s time you told me about this ‘incident.’ Meeks is looking bedeviled and guilty, and avoiding my questions. Obviously, whatever occurred includes your convincing him to behave against his instincts.”
“Against his instincts?” James echoed with feigned surprise, trying to stall long enough to think of a way to explain without it sounding quite as bad as he knew it would. He already knew that his aunt wouldn’t be pleased that he had used her name, her home, and her staff in an effort to get Maggie alone—even if his only intention had been to speak to her, not ravish her. His aunt wasn’t of the belief that the end justified the means; he had learned that long ago. She preferred honest, aboveboard tactics in everything.
“Yes. Against his instincts. Even as a boy you were always able to twist that man about your finger. Meeks is as soft as pudding where you and Sophie are concerned. Now, tell. I am losing patience.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Thank you, my lord.” Maggie said, watching Lord Mullin return his implements to his bag.
“You are more than welcome. It’s the least I could do for Gerald’s sister.” He closed his bag with a snap and stood. “Now, I had best go find James and Lady Barlow. I wish to have a word with them on your care. You just rest, Maggie. I know your head must be paining you. The tincture I gave you should help with that soon.”
Maggie instinctively started to nod, then caught herself and merely watched him leave. He was right, of course, her head was pounding something awful, and her face felt as if someone had taken a cricket bat to it, but she was alive. That was something, she supposed. She wouldn’t lay odds that she had much else left to be happy about. The last thing Maggie recalled before waking up here on Lady Barlow’s settee, again, was lying helplessly on the floor of her kitchen as the fire spread around her.
Sighing, she closed her eyes and tried to get the image out of her head. The hum of voices from the hall told her that Robert had found James and his aunt, and was, no doubt, giving his diagnosis. Battered, bruised, and aching should about cover it, she thought wryly.
Reaching a hand up to feel her face, she found it swollen and deformed. Still, it was little enough to bear. Considering what might have happened . . . she’d been lucky and knew it. Maggie was not alive and well now due to any action on her own part. If anything, her foolish refusal to believe that someone might be out to do her harm had nearly cost her life. She should have listened to James. Any injury she had sustained was her own bloody fault. Even so, she could still hardly believe someone hated her enough to wish her dead.
A rustling made her start and peer around nervously, but she relaxed at the sight of Lady Barlow, Lord Mullin, and James entering the room.
“How are you feeling, dear?” the older woman asked, moving quickly to her side.
“Much better than I should, all things considered,” Maggie admitted softly. She eased to a sitting position, ignoring the pain the action sent shooting through her.
“Are you sure you should sit up?” Lady Barlow asked, but her questioning gaze went to Robert.
“Yes,” Maggie answered before Lord Mullin could comment. “If I continue to lie here, I will fall asleep . . . and I know I should tell what happened while it is fresh in my mind.”
“Surely that can wait until morning . . .” the old woman began, but James interrupted.
“No, she is right. She may forget something important if we wait. Best to get this out of the way. If you feel up to it,” he added gently, ignoring his aunt’s narrow-eyed gaze.
She wasn’t pleased with him at the moment. Aunt Viv had not taken the news of his faux tea party well. Fortunately, before she had been able to lambaste him about the ordeal, Meeks had tapped on the library door to let them know that Robert was finished with Maggie. James was rather hoping that tonight’s events would see to it that his aunt never got around to that lambasting.
Aunt Vivian was the only one who could make him feel like a naughty five-year-old. He supposed it was a mother thing, and the woman had certainly filled that role for him.
A sound from Maggie drew James’s gaze to her pale, battered face.
“Yes. I can manage,” she assured them with quiet determination, then paused, seeming to try to organize her thought. Her eyelashes fluttered, and her eyes rose to him. “I suppose I should start with an apology.” When he looked startled, she admitted, “You were right, of course, about the scarred man.”
James’s gaze sharpened with interest and he settled on the couch next to her, covering her hand where it rested in her lap with one of his own, he said, “Start at the beginning, Maggie.”
She tried to nod, then paused abruptly, pain flashing across her face. She held still for a moment, then took a deep breath and began. “I let the servants go to the fair,” she admitted regretfully. “It was opening day, and I was to attend the opera and then the Willans’ ball with the two of you, so I saw no reason not to let them all go.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Lady Barlow murmured soothingly, taking up a position on Maggie’s other side. She reached out to squeeze her free hand. “It was kind of you to let them go.”
“It was stupid of me, actually.” A smile that held little humor twisted her mouth as she admitted what James was thinking. It had been incredibly foolish of her. He had warned her not to go anywhere alone, and here she had released her entire staff and left herself vulnerable at home. At least she now realized the danger she had put herself in, he thought, gratefully. Then she spoke again.
“I neglected to consider that I would need help getting ready,” she admitted to a sympathetic Lady Barlow. “With everyone gone, I had no one to help me with my hair or dress.”
James rolled his eyes at the complaint. This was why she thought she had been stupid in releasing her staff? Never mind that it had left her vulnerable to attack; she’d had to dress herself! Dear Lord, wasn’t it just like a woman to be more concerned with matters of vanity than her well-being. He exchanged a speaking look with Robert, who had taken a seat across from them.
“And then, too,” Maggie continued, “had I kept someone behind I should not have been all alone when that man came. He might not have broken into the house had the servants been there.”
Relieved that the fact had at least occurred to her, even if only as a secondary consideration, James nodded and prompted her to continue. “You let the staff go and were preparing for the ball . . .”
“Yes. I heard a noise below and thought one of the servants had returned early. Which I thought was grand. I was in terrible need of someone to aid me with my hair. I took a candelabra and went to find them.” Maggie frowned as the memory washed over her, clearly frightening.
“He attacked me when I entered the kitchen. We struggled and . . . I lost.” She
sighed wearily.
“He set the fire after you were unconscious?” James asked.
“Yes. No. I was still conscious, and he didn’t start the fire, but he did spread it.”
“Spread it?” Robert echoed in surprise.
“Yes.” Maggie explained, “When I hit him with the candelabra, the candles went flying. One landed against a sack of grain. It started a fire. He used the candle to light a lamp, then smashed it against the wall. I tried to stop him but . . .”
James’s hand squeezed hers tighter.
“Who pulled me from the fire?” she asked after a moment. Her gaze went to him. “You?”
“No. You were already out by the time we got there.”
“A fellow named Jack pulled you out,” Lady Barlow added. “He had you in Mr. Johnstone’s carriage when we got there.”
“Johnstone?” Maggie murmured. She frowned.
“The Bow Street runner who thought you were Lady X,” Lady Barlow reminded her. James didn’t think his aunt sounded at all impressed with the man.
“I asked him to hire someone to keep an eye on you,” he explained. “Jack was to watch over you—in case something like this happened. I knew you did not believe anyone would want to hurt you and wouldn’t take the proper precautions. He smelled smoke and went around the back of the house just as your attacker fled.”
“Did he catch him?” Maggie asked.
“No. He went into the house after you, instead,” James explained.
She looked disappointed at the fact that her attacker had gotten away.
“He’ll try again,” she said faintly, then met James’s concerned gaze. “Thank you. I really did not think anyone could be out to harm me, but I guess you were right.”