Beguiled (10 page)

“She has odd ways, the Lady Agnes does.” Mrs. Johnson's nose twitched in disdain. “Not in her appearance, mind you. She's a beauty to rival her famous sister Mary—that painter in London. But the Lady Agnes is a puzzlement.”

Edward snatched up a scone. “How so?”

“I came upon her in the kitchen before dawn. She was cleaning up the mess she made winding torches.”

“Torches?”

“Aye, for the tower, where she spent most of the night laboring like a scullery maid. Turn me out to sweep the streets, but I think she means to occupy it” From her apron pocket, she produced some papers. “Gave me this. 'Tis an order for carpet for the stairs and a draft to pay for it.”

He examined the document. “Carpet for the stairs. Why?”

“You'll be needing a wizard to learn the why of it, my lord. She's also taken Bossy and the carriage off with her.”

“I'll deal with her.”

Edward did not learn the answer to the question about the new carpet, but over the course of the morning and early afternoon, he discovered that a stair runner was the least of the changes Agnes MacKenzie intended to make in his household. Her visit was turning his life into a Tobias Smollett novel. Was this what Lord Lachlan had meant when he said trust her with your safety?

“Where is Lady Agnes now?” he demanded hours later.

“She's here.”

She hurried into the room, a vision in crimson silk. Bossy trailed behind her, his arms laden with packages.

With her free hand, she pulled the pin from her plumed hat and swept it off. Her hair was twisted into a fashionable coil and secured at the crown of her head. The style accentuated her slender neck and delicate chin. She'd been outdoors for too long; her cheeks and nose were pink from the summer sun.

Admiring her, Edward questioned the reasons behind his anger and knew that unbidden desire was also at the heart of his displeasure.

He leaned against the large foyer table. “Your father sent an ax-bearing Highlander. He's in my stables.”

“He's one of father's many messengers. He'll stay in the stables, and I doubt you'll notice him. He's to take my letters to Papa. Another messenger will bring Papa's letters to me. The duke of Ross demands that we communicate regularly with him. Is something wrong, my lord? You look vexed.” Alarm flashed in her eyes. “Has there been trouble? Are the children harmed?”

“The children are fine.” Edward waved toward an array of baskets and flowers that filled the parlor. “I'm surprised that every noble family in Glasgow has sent you a basket of fruit or baked goods. Their eligible sons have sent you flowers and love notes of dubious origin. Six maids are scouring my tower. By way of a minion, the parson promises to be a regular visitor during your stay.”

“Good. I had hoped they'd get started as promised.”

She'd invited guests to his house without permission? What would she do next? Plan a harvest ball? “What will the parson get started doing?”

“I was speaking about the cleaning girls. They're from the orphanage and need the work. The tower's a fright. Has Trimble arrived?”

“There's an Englishman who calls himself that quaffing beer in the pantry. He insists you summoned him but refuses to say more until he sees you.”

She moved to leave. “Then I'll see him now.”

“Wait.” Was she trying to anger him?

“Is there something else?”

“Yes. You've received invitations to dine from two dozen of Glasgow's best families.”

Obviously unaware of his discomfort, she strolled to the large table and began inspecting the contents of the baskets. “I did not encourage this attention, if that is what's troubling you. Please do not think that you must escort me, my lord. They would have sent the invitations had I taken rooms at Farley House. You're my host, not my guardian.”

Thank heaven for that. Windsor Castle couldn't accommodate her callers. “Pity that fellow,” he murmured under his breath, thinking that Lachlan MacKenzie was a man deserving of sympathy. Edward couldn't imagine governing three more like her.

As if baffled, she shook her head. “How did they find out so quickly that I was here?”

“The banker you visited spread the word . . . after you gave him a draft of above one thousand pounds for work being done in my home, even as we speak.”

She hefted an orange, then put it to her nose and breathed deeply. “I'm sure you were planning to make similar changes and haven't gotten 'round to them. You'll reimburse me. I had intended to discuss the matter with you, but you were abed when I left.”

He felt as if he were speaking English and she Scottish, so disjointed was their conversation. “I'm delighted to know, at this juncture, that you considered consulting me.”

“As I said, you had not arisen.”

She made boldness sound so reasonable. “A Commodore Lord Hume has sent his regards. His ship is docked fourteen miles away in the harbor. Have you been to the docks?”

“I visited the harbormaster.” She turned to his housekeeper.

At her dismissal, Edward fumed. “Keeping in mind as you ventured there, that as your physician, I would disapprove of so much activity?”

Facing him again, she blinked in confusion, and he knew without a doubt that Agnes MacKenzie seldom followed the orders of another. But then, Edward had had fair warning; he'd seen her with her father. “Riding in a carriage?” she asked. “I've spent the last two days in a carriage.”

“Which is why I ordered you to stay abed today.”

“Yes, of course.” Again she turned to Hazel. “These are for you, Mrs. Johnson.” She handed her a large canvas bag. The sides bulged and an umbrella handle stuck out from the top.

Flustered, Mrs. Johnson wrung her hands. “You shouldn't have, my lady.”

Lady Agnes patted the cook's shoulder. “The duchess of Ross would have my hide did I not thank you properly for putting up with Auntie Loo and me. Will you please tell Mister Trimble that I'll be with him shortly.”

“Of course. You're very kind. Very kind, indeed, my lady.”

At that point, she poured on the Highland charm. “I promise not to be too much trouble to you, Mrs. Johnson.”

Completely disarmed, Mrs. Johnson did two surprising things: she curtsied twice and left the room without a word to her lord.

A knock sounded at the door. Bossy answered it and returned with another basket. Lady Agnes sent Edward an apologetic look and, with her unbound arm, lifted the cloth. Frowning, she read the accompanying card. “Hoots!” She dropped the paper as if it were aflame, same as her cheeks. “I'm so sorry. 'Tis for you, my lord.”

The scent of a familiar perfume drifted to him, and he could guess what was in the basket. Judging from the depth of Lady Agnes's embarrassment, his mistress had intended the contents for him alone.

“If you'll excuse me.” Head down, she fussed with her hat. “I'll fetch the quarrel and give Trimble his instructions.”

They both needed time to regroup, but Edward wasn't done with the meddlesome Agnes MacKenzie. “Speak with your Mr. Trimble, but I want to see you in my study in fifteen minutes.”

C
ARRYING THE BASKET CONTAINING FRESH
bread, a silk neckcloth he'd forgotten, and a message from his mistress, Edward went to his study to await Lady Agnes. On scented paper, the note read, “Welcome back, darling. I've missed you dreadfully.”

It was no surprise that his houseguest had blushed; he felt embarrassment for her himself. She had every reason to assume the basket was for her, but he couldn't find the words to ease her humiliation.

He had no experience with maidens who shunned tradition. The university was closed to women, as were scholarly circles. Men ruled the church. Women didn't even rule at home, but if he objectively examined his own behavior toward his houseguest, questions arose.

He'd scolded her. He'd interrogated her. He'd criticized her every move. In the circumstances, any man of his acquaintance would have done the same. Why, then, did he feel uncomfortable? Because Agnes MacKenzie was an exceptional female. Again he saw her moving into the path of that arrow, and his belly tightened with fear.

Trust her with the safety of your children and follow her advice,
her father had said to Edward. What of the safety of his heart? In less than a week she'd turned his life around, literally and figuratively. She challenged his every rational belief and took him to task for his every normal move.

Then there was the kiss. When his lips had touched hers, his world spun on its axis and fundamental needs ruled. More bothersome was the knowledge that she was as affected and equally uncomfortable with her reaction to him.

What could he do about it?

He couldn't send her away; he owed her his life. Worse, budding feelings for her sparked to life a part of him he thought he'd buried long ago. When he delved within himself, he discovered that his reasons had little to do with obligation and less to do with gratitude. Desire stood at the forefront of his emotions, but close by was attraction of another, more basic kind. He remembered the most tormented of her father's opinions of her. The duke of Ross had proclaimed his firstborn, “a deep thought to ponder.” Edward agreed, and with contemplation came excitement. After five minutes in her company, he felt enlivened, tempted to let loose the reins of propriety and see how far the attraction would take them. But their passion would cool, and what then? What would a well-traveled, headstrong Highland lass find of interest in a widowed scholar whose great quest was the perfection of a low-pressure steam engine?

Dizzy from the dilemma, he tore a hunk from the loaf of bread and turned his attention to the puzzle she'd presented last night. She believed the intruder had been searching for something, and if Edward viewed the damage in the room through her eyes, he must concur.

But what did the man want? Edward's journals and the documentation of his university projects had been a target, but those works were published and easily acquired.

The placement of the two quarrels held a deadly message and maybe a clue. Agnes had said the fletchings were English, and that might be true, but Edward knew in his heart that the assassin was a Scot. An Englishman wouldn't violate the Napier shield, for as a race the English had no common allegiance. Wiltshiremen did not stand shoulder to shoulder against their neighbors from Dorset. So why, unless he was Scottish, had the assassin assaulted the symbol of the Napiers?

An assault on his clan. The notion sounded absurd to Edward. In both his lifetime and his father's, the Napiers had enjoyed a peaceful association with other clans and with the English. Not since his grandfather and the other Scots had faced the Jacobite rebellion of '45, had the allegiance of the Napiers been brought into question.

Brought into question.
Put that way, it sounded rather benign. Certainly not a “rattling to life of the auld hatred,” as his grandfather had described the great clan war.

Rattling to life of the auld hatred.
Edward now understood what his grandsire had meant, for every time he looked at that quarrel desecrating the family crest, anger rumbled inside him.

“Am I interrupting, my lord?”

Lady Agnes stood on the threshold, a sheaf of papers in her left hand. Her right was bound in a sling cut from the same cloth as the lavender dress she'd donned. From the odd bulges in the sling, he knew she concealed a number of things, but he was too in-volved in the woman herself to ponder it. Her embarrassment had passed; his need to admonish her had waned.

The parting words of the countess of Tain came immediately to mind. Lady Lottie had said, “God never made a better woman than Agnes. He just forgot to make her a mate.” Even with Lottie's heartfelt words to warn him, Edward couldn't stop himself from wanting to be the man to woo and win Agnes MacKenzie.

“Nay.” He got to his feet and welcomed her into the room. “I was thinking about something your sister, the countess of Tain, said to me.”

Her brown eyes twinkled with mischief. “Then I stand before you, a pleasant respite from Lottie's wicked tongue.”

She looked fresh and fit, an odd description for a female who had spent the night rummaging through the tower and the day traipsing around Glasgow. To outward appearances, no stitches bound a wound in her shoulder. “You're not curious?”

“Originality has never been among Lottie's accomplishments, but let me guess. Since you are young and an earl, and you are smiling, I suspect she told you something far too personal. Did she say that contrary to common belief, male children spring from the wombs of Lachlan's daughters?”

During their lengthy meeting in Edinburgh, the countess had spoken those very words to Edward, citing her own two sons as proof. Uncomfortable with his own feelings, he borrowed another of Lottie's opinions. “She said you were a duke's daughter and spoiled for it.”

She tipped her head and gave a little huff. “Lottie's either with child or without her husband's graces then. She knows the peerage from the most recent ducal by-blow to the last Hanoverian hopeful. In her quest to find me a husband, she reserves that particular remark for eligible dukes, and never would she mistake your rank. Pay Lottie no mind.”

“She's a matchmaker?”

“A poor one, but she hasn't the wherewithal to do anything else except save Tain from mediocrity.” Striding to his desk, she placed a sheet of paper before him.

Glancing at the neatly penned page, Edward was reminded of her father's statement that she wrote as well with her left hand as her right The duke had been correct, but Edward noticed a very interesting aspect of her penmanship. She fashioned words plainly, without looping scrolls or flowery symbols. She even forgot to dot the
i
in dancing master.