Amanda Scott (22 page)

For a moment there was silence. Then Lady Celeste said, “Gone to sulk, most like. Though she denies taking the responsibility upon herself, you shouldn’t have criticized her housekeeping, Margaret.”

“No, I suppose not,” Margaret agreed. “My tongue ran away with me. Must I apologize, do you think?”

“Certainly not,” replied her ladyship without elucidating.

Abberley had taken the opportunity to speak quietly to Kingsted, and that gentleman rose now to inquire whether Miss Maitland might care to take a hand at piquet.

Pamela, clearly as a second thought, glanced at Margaret. “Should we not play something that the others can play as well?” she asked politely.

“Nonsense,” said Abberley before Margaret could think of anything to say. “You teach Kingsted how to count his cards properly. I’ve a wish for some conversation with Margaret, if Lady Celeste doesn’t mind.”

“Not a bit,” replied her ladyship. “You will give me a chance to read a chapter of my book. And don’t you worry about me, Miss Maitland. I detest playing cards unless I am made to do so. Too many years of making a third or a fourth when I didn’t really wish to. I shall be perfectly content with my book. You needn’t spare me a second thought.”

So saying, she picked up the volume in question, moved a branch of candles a trifle nearer, adjusted a pair of wirerimmed spectacles upon her nose, and turned her attention to the story.

Pamela and Kingsted were soon seated comfortably at a card table near the crackling fire, discussing the play of their cards, and Abberley drew Margaret to a sofa some distance away from them near the front window.

“We need to talk,” he said.

“I think Jordan has run away,” she said at the same time.

He looked at her, considering her words. “There would be no point to that,” he said at last, keeping his voice low.

“If he thought he had been found out?”

“Why would he think such a thing? He might have heard somehow that Timothy had been found unhurt, but there has been no overt suggestion of foul play, certainly none that involves him.”

“What if he thinks Timothy recognized him?”

“He took good care to avoid that.”

“But—”

“No, Margaret, we have no reason to suspect that he’s flown. He has too much to lose, after all, and if he did what we think he did, he did it to acquire the manor. For him to run now would be absurd. He’ll turn up with some tale or other. Most likely he’s found a woman to entertain him, for he certainly needed some excuse for being away yesterday afternoon. What better than one of his barques of frailty. Lord knows, he seems to have any number of them hereabouts.”

She hadn’t thought of that, but she had to agree that Abberley’s words made sense. He was looking at her now in such a way as to stir that odd tremor again, so she said quickly, “I wish Jordan would come back so we can tell him we know what he’s up to.”

“We cannot do that,” he said quietly.

Her eyes opened wide. “Of course we can.”

“No, we cannot. I’ve thought about it a good deal, but the fact remains that we still have no proof. All the man has to do is say he had nothing to do with the matter. It would be our word against his, and we don’t have anything to put behind the accusation beyond our suspicions.”

“And good cold logic,” she said, anger rising at his stubborn attitude. “How can he deny what he’s done if the question is put to him directly?”

Abberley chuckled, shaking his head at her. “There are no rules of conduct covering attempted murder, sweetheart,” he said. “Caldecourt will scarcely confess merely because we’ve figured out the puzzle. He’ll tell us to go soak our heads. We must find a way to catch him out.”

“A trap?” She looked at him hopefully. His use of the endearment had not escaped her notice, and she remembered that he had called her something else the night before. Then it had been his “love,” now “sweetheart.” Rakes, she told herself firmly, no doubt grew into the habit of using a good number of such terms without thinking much about them. Still, there was a small feeling of disappointment that he could use the words so casually to her. She gave herself a small shake, realizing that after nodding in response to her question, he had fallen into a brown study. “What sort of trap?” she asked.

“I’m thinking.”

“Perhaps we could get Timothy to say he recognized his voice,” she suggested. “If we set it up properly, we’d be able to judge from Jordan’s reaction whether he’s guilty or not.”

“I thought you were certain of his guilt.”

“I am, but you said we need proof.”

“Well, that would scarcely be proof. The only proof that would come out of such a daft notion would be that he would make a stronger push to kill Timothy to keep him quiet. That’s not the sort of proof I desire.”

“Well, do you have a better idea?” she demanded, not appreciating his opinion of hers.

“Keep your voice down,” he said in a sharp undertone when Lady Celeste looked up from her book with a slight frown. “I’ve no wish for this discussion to become general. I’ve been thinking this might be a case for the Runners.”

“Bow Street! You are all about in your head, Abberley. Can you imagine the scandal that would result from an action like that? Why, everyone here and in London would then know precisely what had happened here.”

“I would insist that everything be kept confidential.”

“And how would you guarantee that?” she demanded. “Doubtless you would have to do as your illustrious ancestor did to guarantee the secret of his hidey-hole, for the only way to be sure no scandal arises would be to shoot the Runner once he discovers the evidence we need.” Her tone was sarcastic and she glared at him. He said nothing. Neither did he look away, however, and a moment later she was certain there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Are you laughing at me, Adam? Because if you are, so help me—”

“So help you, what?” he asked conversationally. “I hadn’t thought of shooting the Runner, that’s all. It would wrap things up rather neatly, don’t you agree?”

“I don’t think any of this business is funny,” she said, although she was finding it difficult not to laugh. “Oh, Adam, you didn’t really mean to call in Bow Street, did you?”

“No, but I confess I don’t know of anything better to do. There has to be a simple way to get to the bottom of things without blowing up a scandal, but I want to protect Timothy, too. I’d as lief the boy never know that someone meant him real harm.”

They continued to discuss the possibilities, bickering amiably and sometimes not so amiably, while Kingsted and Pamela finished another several hands of piquet. Time passed quickly, and when finally there came a pause in the conversation between Abberley and Margaret at the same time that Pamela threw down her cards in mock disgust, Lady Celeste closed her book with a sigh and suggested that someone might be so kind as to ring for the tea tray.

“I don’t know how it comes about that I am so weary,” she said, “for unless my watch has stopped, it is not yet even half past nine.”

“Perhaps the fact that we were all up rather late last night accounts for it,” Margaret said, twinkling.

“Very true,” agreed her ladyship without a blink. “Lord John, you are nearest. Will you just give that red cord two good tugs?”

Kingsted complied, but the door to the drawing room was pulled open well before they might have expected the tea tray to arrive, and a rather flushed Moffatt approached Abberley, wringing his plump hands.

“If you please, my lord, there’s a bit of a turn up in the stableyard and Mr. Farley desires you to come at once.”

“What is it, Moffatt?” asked Lady Celeste.

The butler looked anxiously at Abberley, but the earl crooked a grin at him. “I’ll come, of course, but unless you wish for her ladyship’s company as well, I’d advise you to answer her question.”

“’Tis Mr. Caldecourt, m’lady, and some person from Royston, I believe. The man leapt upon Mr. Caldecourt as he was giving his horse into a groom’s keeping.” Moffatt hesitated, clearly uncomfortable, then added in a rush, “Mr. Farley said to tell his lordship the person bellowed something about his daughter’s honor.”

“M
ERCIFUL HEAVENS!” EXCLAIMED LADY
Celeste, but there was little by way of consternation in her tone. Indeed, Margaret thought the old lady was more amused than anything else.

Abberley did not know their grandaunt so well. “I’ll send the fellow packing, ma’am, never you worry,” he said.

“Nonsense,” she said tartly, stopping him halfway to the door. “If Caldecourt has wronged the gel, the matter must be set right. I wish to hear what this person of Moffatt’s has to say, if you please. Bring him up here straightaway.”

“But, ma’am,” protested the earl gently, “I am persuaded that whatever the man’s tale might be, ’tis certainly not one for delicate ears to hear.”

“Pish tush,” retorted the old lady, “what delicate ears? Mine are no such thing, I assure you, and Margaret is no mealymouthed miss to be distressed by what will no doubt be a common enough tale. As for Miss Maitland, she is a vicar’s daughter, is she not? The tale will be nothing new to her ears, will it, my dear?” Her glance dared that young lady to contradict her.

Miss Maitland’s soft eyes gleamed with suppressed merriment. “No, ma’am,” she replied obediently, “I daresay it won’t be.”

“Well, then?” Lady Celeste turned a basilisk glare upon the earl.

His eyes had also begun to dance and his lips twitched as well, but he controlled himself with an effort and turned to Lord John with a long-suffering sigh. “I suppose I shall have to fetch the fellow. Do you wish to lend your assistance to the task?”

“Not in the least,” replied that gentleman, affecting a fastidious air. “If I may make so bold as to say so, old chap, this appears to be a family matter and not one in which I should involve myself.” He made no effort to absent himself from the scene, however, nor did he suggest that Miss Maitland should do so. Instead, he grinned at the earl.

“Damn your impudence, John,” Abberley said without rancor before turning his hand up in a polite gesture to the butler, who stood impatiently in the open doorway. “Lead on, Moffatt.”

The butler turned with great dignity upon his heel, but at that very moment, from below, came such noises as to indicate that the stableyard altercation had moved into the front hall, and Moffatt’s astonishment overcame his dignity at once. He fairly ran to see what was happening, and Abberley, his eyebrows raised but with no other change of expression, strode after him.

Without thought for propriety Margaret leapt to her feet and followed them. By the time she reached the landing at the top of the stairs, the others were in the hall, and since she had no wish to become involved in the altercation and could see and hear everything perfectly well from where she was, she stopped there, her hands resting upon the gallery rail. A moment later, she realized that Kingsted was standing beside her, his erstwhile, albeit spurious air of fastidiousness entirely overcome by his curiosity. Evidently, Pamela had been able to restrain so unbecoming a trait and had remained with Lady Celeste. And while that lady had sufficient curiosity to put the rest of them in the shade, Margaret knew she would stay put at least until she began to doubt whether Abberley meant to bring the participants to the drawing room.

At first it seemed that he had no intention of doing anything of the kind. For that matter, it appeared that it would be beyond his power to do so. The front hall was alive with the sort of persons who would never be found in a lady’s drawing room. At first glance there seemed to be an entire invasion force, but once Margaret had forcibly calmed herself, she realized that there were only five or six men below. Three of these, mere stablehands who had evidently followed the others, were speedily routed by the earl and Moffatt. That left Mr. Farley, Jordan, and a beefy man wearing a soiled apron under his tattered coat and over his dusty pantaloons in much the way that an innkeeper might. However, he carried a shotgun under his arm, which Margaret thought to be a trifle out of character for an innkeeper. His complexion was choleric. He bellowed indiscriminately, not seeming to care who it was that he addressed.

Farley attempted to silence him, as indeed he had been trying to do before Margaret arrived on the scene. “Mr. Tuckman, an ye please, man!” he shouted.

“I’ll see justice done, b’God,” bellowed the beefy man, ignoring him. “Me own daughter, b’God, ruint by—”

“That will do,” said Abberley. He had not shouted, but somehow Margaret had heard him very clearly, and his tone sent shivers up and down her spine, making her thankful that he had not been speaking to her, and causing her to remember that there had been moments before this one when she had thought him other than a harmless, gentle friend.

Evidently the others also heard him, for a silence fell immediately that was a good deal more unnerving than the uproar that had gone before it. Jordan opened his mouth twice to speak but shut it both times as if he had thought better of the notion, and Margaret realized she had not heard his voice at all among the bellowing. He was nursing a bruised jaw, which might account for his silence, and for once no one would mistake him for a dandy, so filthy and disarranged were his clothes.

Abberley turned his attention to the young man. “Explain this row, if you please,” he said gently.

The gentle tone did not encourage Mr. Caldecourt overmuch. Indeed, he colored up to his ears and appeared to have more difficulty speaking than ever. His mouth, opening and shutting as it was, put Margaret forcibly in mind of a landed fish. Abberley waited patiently for some seconds, but when Jordan still said nothing, he turned to the beefy man.

“Perhaps you would care to explain your presence, Mr.—”

“Tuckman, I be, m’lord,” the big man growled, but he bent at the middle as he said it, clearly remembering at last that he was in a gentleman’s house. “Landlord down t’ the Fox ’n Grapes in Royston town, I be.”

“I see. Well, perhaps you will not object to stepping upstairs with me so that we may discuss this matter,” said his lordship calmly, remembering his orders.