Amanda Scott (25 page)

“Oh!” The hand clasped to Lady Annis’s breast jerked, then tightened into a fist. “I never … that is, it wasn’t meant to be—”

“Providence didn’t mean it to be, certainly,” Margaret said tartly, “but that was through no fault of yours, was it?”

“Oh, my dear, you cannot think I would do anything so, so dreadful. Truly, if Archer was motivated by something I said … if, indeed, he did that terrible thing, wishing to please me, well, I can scarcely be held responsible for that, can I?” Her eyes shifted from Margaret to Lady Celeste. “Well, can I?”

“Not for me to say,” the old lady responded with a disgusted twist of her lips. “I collect you refer to the business of the chalk pit.”

Lady Annis nodded.

“Are you trying to tell us that Archer carried Timothy into the hills and dumped him into that pit in an effort to please you?” Margaret demanded. “That you knew nothing of the business?”

Lady Annis shrugged helplessly.

“I don’t believe that for a minute,” Margaret told her flatly. “You would have us believe that you are some modern-day Henry the Second and Archer no more than a follower who would heed your slightest wish and rid you of your Becket. ’Tis utter nonsense, ma’am. I daresay Archer was responsible for the thorn under Timothy’s saddle, but he had little opportunity to meddle with Timothy’s medication. His presence in the nursery wing would be remarked, while yours would not.”

Unable to meet the accusing look in Margaret’s eye, Lady Annis turned her head away, then snapped it around again when Abberley spoke from the doorway. “There was not enough of anything in Timothy’s medication to kill him,” he said. “After you told me about what had happened, Marget, I spoke to the doctor, who had already determined that somehow a stronger medication, one similar to that which he’d prescribed for Lady Annis, had been substituted for Timothy’s stuff. I stupidly assumed that Jordan had done the substituting. Nonetheless, Fennaday assures me the strength of the substituted draft was not great enough to be fatal. What did you hope to accomplish, Lady Annis?”

Tears spilled down the woman’s cheeks. “I didn’t know whether my medication would kill him or not. I just thought if he died after taking it, it would be a sign that the Fates had meant it to be. Archer would have killed him, I expect, but I couldn’t let him do anything truly violent.”

“You were afraid Jordan would not inherit if it could be proved that Timothy was the victim of foul play. Is that it?”

“Oh, no. Is that truly the case?” Lady Annis’s dismay seemed perfectly genuine. “I didn’t know. Oh, goodness.”

“Then, why?” Abberley demanded.

“Because I’m not a murderess, of course,” she said indignantly. “If Timothy died of drinking the wrong medication, it would be an accident, an act of Fate. Or if he died from exposure to the elements or of the fall into the pit, well, that would be an accident, too. But if I had put real poison in the medicine or had let Archer strangle him—as I promise you, he wanted to do—well, that would be murder, wouldn’t it?”

The other three stared at her, and Margaret felt a strange stirring of compassion. She said gently, “You hid Michael’s will, did you not, ma’am?”

“Yes, of course. It was the only thing to do once we discovered he didn’t leave poor dear Jordan so much as a brass farthing. Why, Jordan was his only heir up until seven years ago. Michael ought to have left him something.” She was sitting properly now and seemed to be talking as much to herself as to anyone else. She went on musingly, “Of course, there was no particular reason to suspect that Timothy would survive childhood. So few children do, you know, so it seemed practical for Jordan to take control of the estate at once. Only then Abberley found a copy of the will, and the boy seemed to be so very healthy.” She sighed, picking at the nails of one hand with the fingers of the other and seeming to concentrate heavily upon the task. “What will happen now?” These last words came as little more than a whisper.

Margaret looked at Abberley. His lips formed a tight, straight line. “My lord,” she said softly, “I do not think …”

“Her ladyship must not be left alone, Margaret,” he said when her words trailed into silence. “Have you a servant who will sit with her tonight?”

“Yes. She has her own woman, of course, though if you feel we ought not to trust Wilson, I daresay Mrs. Moffatt would sit with her.”

“An excellent choice,” Abberley said, ringing the bell at once. When Moffatt appeared with suspicious haste, he explained the matter, and the butler agreed to fetch his wife.

“What of that dreadful Archer?” Lady Celeste demanded. “The man ought to be hung, drawn, and quartered for his part in this business.”

“Unfortunately, I believe Archer has taken to his heels,” the earl said quietly. “I asked Moffatt about him after I discovered—when I escorted the worthy Mr. Tuckman to the stableyard, you know—that Archer had attempted to take a horse from the stables a short time earlier. Trimby saw him trying to saddle Dancer and put a stop to his intentions in short order, but now Moffatt tells me he is nowhere to be found. Just as well, I imagine, since we still have no hard evidence against the man, unless you believe Lady Annis here could be got to testify against him.”

“How would he know—”

Abberley chuckled as Margaret began to form the question. “He’s a footman, m’ dear. Can’t beat a footman for the ability to listen at doors. Plain as a pikestaff that something untoward was occurring here tonight. No doubt he saw the writing on the wall and decided the climate was becoming too unhealthy for his future well-being. Not a slowtop, Archer isn’t. Must have known we’d cotton to him, soon or late.”

Mrs. Moffatt came in a moment later, accompanied by the bracket-faced woman who attended Lady Annis. Her ladyship seemed grateful to see them both and went away with them contentedly.

Margaret turned to Abberley as soon as they had gone. “Has this business turned her mind, do you think, sir?”

“Possibly, I suppose.”

Lady Celeste clicked her tongue in annoyance. “She is overwrought, that’s all. Annoyed to have her plans come to naught. Annis’s trouble is that she can never take full responsibility for anything, so she’s made a mull of nearly everything she’s ever attempted. Timothy can thank those precious Fates of hers for that, I expect, but I don’t believe for a moment she’s deranged. Merely that she don’t wish to face up to what she don’t like. Been that way from a child. Still and all, if we are wise, we won’t be deceived by her innocent airs now we know her to be dangerous. She ought to be clapped up somewhere safe with a keeper.”

Abberley, who had been looking sober until now, was betrayed into a chuckle. “You are very harsh, ma’am. Not that she doesn’t deserve a taste of harshness for her mischief, but I think we can manage the thing without clapping her into Bedlam.”

“If you insist.” Lady Celeste clearly didn’t think much of his merciful attitude, but encountering a speaking glance from him a moment later, she sniffed and looked over at Margaret, who was fiddling with the folds of her skirt. Then with a sudden, understanding glint in her eye, Lady Celeste cleared her throat and announced that since she had meant to go to bed a deal earlier than this, she might as well take herself off. “Now that all the entertainment seems to be over,” she added acidly. “You may say what you like about Kingsted, but he does know farce when he meets with it.”

Margaret looked up then, surprised by her grandaunt’s tone. “Farce is not usually so frightening, ma’am. I feel cold shivers running up my spine whenever I think of what might have happened to Timothy if we had not chanced to hear him cry out as we did.”

Lady Celeste shook her head. “It was meant that he be found, my dear. You were right about that. Providence interceded. Even if you had not heard him cry out, I doubt Annis would have stood up long to any direct questioning about his whereabouts. It must have come to that, you know, for we already knew that mischief was afoot, and Jordan would have been accused. Rather than see him suffering Abberley’s no doubt rough cross-questioning, I daresay she would have opened the budget and told us where to look for the boy. Don’t stay up too late, my dear.”

“Aunt Celeste is right, you know,” the earl said quietly when the old lady had gone, leaving the two of them alone. “Lady Annis isn’t the stuff of which martyrs are made. I would swiftly have determined that Jordan knew nothing of what was toward, and she would have been the only possible suspect left.”

“But it was Archer—”

“Archer had nothing to gain unless he was acting under someone else’s direction,” Abberley pointed out. “She must have known his general plan. For one thing, he doesn’t know these hills. As it is, he must have stumbled over that particular pit, though I daresay she pointed him in the right direction. It is not the natural way of footmen to spend their idle hours on horseback or traipsing about unknown terrain on foot.”

Margaret nodded, accepting his explanation as a logical one. “What will happen to her?”

Abberley moved toward her. “I think it best that she be removed from here. No doubt Aunt Celeste is in the right of it, and her mind is not truly affected by all this, but I see no reason to put that theory to a test when Timothy’s safety, and yours, might be in jeopardy as a result.” He sat down in the chair beside her, pulling it nearer to hers as he did. “If you do not dislike it too much, perhaps we could send her to my estate at Pytchham. The house is a small one, but I keep a skeleton staff there all the time, and her woman would go with her, of course. It would be easy enough to arrange for her to be looked after there, at least until we know her mind is whole. By then, her own house will be free again.”

“Oh, the very thing,” Margaret agreed, regarding him warmly. But then she frowned. “Only, will she not refuse to go, sir? You have no authority over her, you know. She is no connection of yours at all.”

“Well, I had thought of that,” he confessed, “but perhaps I have an answer to that problem as well. Do you not think she would be more willing to accept my hospitality if I were more closely linked to the Caldecourt family?”

Margaret’s breath stopped in her throat, and she pushed her hands against her skirts in order to wipe away the dampness suddenly coating her palms. “Wh-what do you mean, sir?” she asked, wondering if the voice she heard was actually her own, it sounded so odd.

He leaned closer, reaching out to take her chin in his hand, to turn her face toward his. “Look at me, Marget,” he said quietly. “I want to ask you something very important.”

“Oh, sir, please,” she said, feeling a surge of panic, “please, don’t.”

“Don’t?” He watched her closely for some moments, then said, “I realize the time is not the most romantic I might have chosen, but you have known me all your life and you must have felt the warmer feelings developing between us these past weeks.” He smiled gently. “No one will take it amiss for me to offer your aunt the hospitality of one of my manor houses when I am betrothed to her niece.”

“I am not … that is, she is
not
my aunt,” Margaret muttered, refusing to look at him, “and I take leave to tell you, sir, that that is the most absurd reason for offering one’s hand to a lady that I think I have ever heard.”

“That is not my only reason, Marget,” he said quickly. “I’ve fallen in love with you. You must know that. Dammit all, I’ve moved heaven and earth these past weeks to restore my house and estates to order. Surely you must have guessed I did it all with an eye toward a more settled future.”

“Fustian,” she said, straightening and giving him look for look. “I know nothing of the kind, sir, and you speak very glibly of love for one who less than a week past had a houseful of ladies who traveled all the way from town to seek you out, so intensely did they bewail your continued absence. Well, now that the danger is past, I assure you I have nothing on my mind other than to put this house back in order and, with Aunt Celeste’s help, to raise Timothy to be a proper gentleman. You need not bother your head about us, either. You may go back to your raking with a clear conscience.”

He did not bother to dispute her description of his house party. Instead he asked quietly, “Is there someone else, Marget? Someone you left behind in Vienna?”

“You must know there is not. I have no intention of forming a lasting passion for anyone, Abberley. It will not do, and can only lead to further heartache. If you are truly in love with me—which I don’t believe for a minute—you will get over the affliction in time. I daresay you have fallen in and out of love any number of times in the past and have survived every time. You have merely looked upon me as a younger sister for so long that you have become accustomed to looking after me, and this business has made you think I need you more than ever. Well, I thank you, but I don’t want to marry you.”

He reached to grip one of the hands in her lap. “Can you deny your feelings for me so easily as that?”

She swallowed, then forced herself to look at him. “I deny nothing, sir. I do care for you, very much. You know I do. I always have. But my feelings are sisterly, just as your feelings for me are those of a brother!” She gave a gasp of pain when his hand tightened on hers, but when he released it with a muttered apology, she said calmly, “I believe I am meant to remain a spinster, sir. I am not emotionally suited to the married state.”

He made a sound low in his throat that sounded like a growl, and she felt cold thrills shoot up her spine that this time had nothing to do with fear. But then he got to his feet and stood for a moment, silently and a bit stiffly, before he said, “Very well, I shan’t impose upon your sensibilities any further. You needn’t fret about Lady Annis or Jordan,” he added brusquely. “I’ll see both matters attended to, one way or another. Good night, Margaret.”

As he strode to the door, she leapt to her feet, calling his name sharply. He turned, his eyes alight with hope. When she said nothing further but merely stood with her mouth agape, staring at him helplessly, he said, “Well?”

“Adam, please don’t leave this way,” she begged. “Not when you are so angry with me that you call me Margaret. I cannot bear it,” she added, her words spilling over each other in her haste to make herself clear. “I know I haven’t said all that is proper. You have done me a great honor, and I was probably rude, but you must believe that I am fully conscious—”