Beguiled (22 page)

“About sunset. Should have arrived sooner, but who could, I ask you. I've seen better cart paths in a Madras monsoon than the rutted beasts you Scots call roads.” His gaze swung to Agnes. “Not that you are at fault, my lady.”

“How can I be when the king's exchequer allocates our taxes?”

He looked as if he'd swallowed a midge and it buzzed in his gullet. At length he said, “The king's exchequer did not rut the roads.”

She wanted to tell him to take his superior British attitude and boil it with his dreadful beef. She settled for a mild insult. “How regrettable, Sir Throckmorton. But since you find travel in the north a bother, the MacKenzies will be forced to strike your name from the guest list.”

That got the attention of his remaining flock. As spokesman, he said, “But we've never been on your invitation lists.”

Before she could deliver a stinging retort, Edward said, “William, I'm surprised to see you in Glasgow.” To Agnes, he said, “This is Throckmorton's first visit to our city.”

Agnes fumed at his interruption. “Pray our king finds it in his Hanoverian heart to follow your lead.”

As jovial as a diplomat at court, Throckmorton laughed in a self-effacing way. “My wife and daughters insisted that we come. The gels are of an age that requires travel to round them out at the edges, you know.”

Agnes thought a liking for food had rounded out the entire family, especially the five daughters, who stair-stepped in age from Penelope, who had yet to get breasts, to Mary, who displayed hers at will.

A butler carrying a huge platter glided up to them. “Would you care for angels on horseback, my lady?”

Agnes's stomach protested at the thought of eating oysters with anything, least of all bacon. “Thank you, nay.”

“Are you well?” Edward asked.

“Bonny as a London summer,” she said between her teeth.

Sir Throckmorton waved the servant over and downed three of the delicacies.

His eldest daughter flipped open her painted ivory fan and wielded it with an originality even Lottie would envy. “We've just come out of India.”

Waving the butler off, Sir Throckmorton said, “Nothing in that place for a well-bred gel, except second sons trying to make an easy catch.”

If living in India didn't qualify as traveling, Agnes couldn't imagine what did. The offensive remark about second sons begged for a reply; her sister Sarah had recently married a second son. But Edward was giving Agnes pointed stares.

“Did you like India?” she asked.

For answer, she received a chorus of negatives. Mrs. Throckmorton's shiver of revulsion sent a cloud of wig dust raining onto her shoulders.

“I liked it there,” chirped the youngest girl.

The eldest, who kept sneaking glances at Agnes's dress, lifted her chin in disdain. “That's because you are as rude and uncivilized as the natives there.”

Sending her eldest sibling a glare that promised retribution, the youngest moved to the punch bowl.

Edward leaned close and whispered, “Please be civil.”

Agnes relented. She'd been introduced to all of them, but she only remembered the names of the eldest and youngest. “Mary,” she said to the busty one. “That's a pretty name. I have a sister named Mary.”

“The painter.” Mary Throckmorton cocked an eyebrow in disapproval. “Contrary Mary, they have named her. She really has broken her reputation now, but I doubt you've heard, being trapped up here in the wilds.”

Agnes grew chilled inside. An insult to Mary was an insult to every MacKenzie. An insult to Scotland went beyond forgiveness. If this spoiled Englishwoman wanted to make a fool of herself in Scottish society, who was Agnes to stop her? Better she should give the girl a verbal push.

“Are you bursting at the bosoms to tell us, Mary?”

Edward coughed to disguise a burst of laughter.

Challenged, the viper revealed her fangs. “Imagine, being presented to the king and having the gall to speak Scottish to him.” In delicate outrage, she fluttered her eyelashes and jiggled her head. “I cannot believe your sister is allowed in society. Bad for all of us.”

Agnes thought it fortunate that the English snake did not know about Mary's delicate condition. She'd spread that news like the plague.

Edward gripped Agnes's arm above the elbow. “I'm sure you exaggerate, Miss Throckmorton.”

“No. 'Twill be in the papers in a day or so. Do you have printing presses here? Well, never you mind. We've brought the news straight up from London with us.” She stepped closer to Agnes. “What do you think of that behavior?”

Agnes felt gentle pressure on her arm. This needle-minded English twit could do with a blackened eye and a toothless grin. But Agnes didn't follow her instincts. She drew upon the lessons she'd learned from her sister Sarah. She gave the poor English cow a piteous smile. “I think a king should learn the language and respect the customs of all of his subjects.”

Matched, Miss Throckmorton stiffened her spine. “I think a king should speak whichever tongue he chooses. I don't suppose a Scot would know about the divine right of kings.”

Agnes chortled and lost the grip on her composure. “You silly, uneducated girl.”

“Yes, she is,” her father prudently said. “Mary, a Stewart king was the first to make such a proclamation.”

Undaunted, his daughter snapped her fan shut. “So? Next you'll have our genteel Hanoverian kings wearing Scottish tartan plaids. Imagine that, Papa, our monarch showing his knees and paying respects to the Scotch.”

Which, Agnes thought, was the root of the differences between her people and the human rubbish that occupied the southern part of the isle. Scotch, indeed.

The youngest of the girls stepped into the fray. “You're a snake, Mary. A wicked snake, and I hope you marry an old vicar who gives you the pox.” The girl looked at Agnes with unabashed kindness. “Mary's a horrid sister.”

Agnes almost reached for the young girl. “My sister Mary is not.”

“She's the painter who says Parliament cheats the people.”

“Papa!” exclaimed the eldest. “Send her home. She's starting to whine like a monkey.”

Penelope wasn't done. “You're miffed because the men here are more interested in Lady Agnes than you. She's prettier and she's nice.”

Throckmorton leaned on his cane. “Do you wish to retire, Penelope, dear? We have gone beyond the pale of polite conversation. I can have the driver return you to the inn.”

“No, Papa. I'd like to stay. You promised that I could sing tonight.”

Her sister said, “Then find someone else to bore until after dinner.”

“Penelope,” said her father. “Should you misbehave once more, you will be excused immediately. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Papa.”

Agnes watched the young girl make her exit. She walked casually until she reached the stairs; then she lifted her skirts and ran. At the first landing, the staircase split, one flight heading left, the other right. After a brief hesitation, the girl raced up the left side.

Agnes was thinking of herself at that age and remembering similar exits she'd made, when she heard Edward say, “William, I didn't know you were friends with Mayor Arkwright.”

“A rather new acquaintance.” As if it were a secret, he lowered his voice and said, “Unless you insist on having the consortium's business to yourself, I thought to meet the other textile concerns here and see if they are in the market for our products.”

The answer confused Edward, for he said, “But I've always been in favor of the free market. Had you sent word, I would have arranged the introductions for you.”

“That's our Lord Edward,” the mayor said expansively, now that the conversation had reverted to pleasantries. “A most equitable man.”

“When did you arrive in Glasgow?” Edward asked Throckmorton.

“Just today. The mayor offered us his hospitality, but we could not impose.”

The house was spacious, but from personal experience, Agnes doubted the logistics of supporting so large a family of guests. None of the Throckmorton women wore wrinkled gowns, and their wigs were perfectly dressed. Had they each traveled with a maid, or did they harry the servants at their lodgings? Probably the latter, Agnes decided.

“I'm delighted you've come to Scotland at last.”

Like young Penelope, Agnes had had a bellyful of Throckmorton and his flock of vile females. If Edward and the mayor wanted to hoist the welcome banner, let them. Excusing herself, she unfortunately made eye contact with the persistent Viscount Lindsay.

Pretending she had not seen him, she wended her way through the crowd and eased through the side door. Expecting Edward to follow, she strolled down the steps and admired the moonlit garden.

The door opened behind her, and her heart tripped fast. But judging from the footfalls, she knew that disappointment was on its way. The viscount had followed her.

After listening to two more stories about the Lindsay roses, she complained of a parched throat and sent him after punch. When he was gone, she searched for another exit from the garden. She discovered a locked gate and several bolted doors.

“I could show you the way out.”

“Penelope!” Whirling, Agnes spied the girl on the balcony. She'd shed her wig; without it, she looked too small for the full-sleeved dress. “Have you been listening up there?”

She giggled. “You called him a toad, and he didn't even suspect. You're very clever.”

“I'm very desperate. Where is the way out?”

“What will you give me?”

This girl had the upper hand, which Agnes suspected was a rarity, considering Penelope's position in the Throckmorton pecking order.

She must think of something to please a young girl who stood awkwardly between childhood and maturity. That or befriend the girl. “I'll give you a book of sonnets,” Agnes teased.

“Do and I'll pitch them into the privy.'

“A jar of Jerusalem sand?”

“I can buy that in Bartholomew Fair on any Saturday.”

This girl knew how to drive a bargain. “A pair of Moroccan dice.”

Hesitating, she said, “What else?”

The offering was generous by far. “A good spanking if you do not take your spoils and be done with it, Penelope Throckmorton.”

“ 'Tis there.” Her arm shot out, and she pointed to a fat urn overflowing with China roses. “Behind that pot of flowers lies the stairs.”

“Where do they lead?”

“Up here.”

“Must I also buy your company?”

Suddenly shy, she murmured, “No. Please come up.”

Carefully Agnes maneuvered her white skirt around the urn and into an alcove. The stairs were dark, but she climbed them without mishap.

She was met with, “When do I get the dice?”

Agnes also got down to business. The character reference presented by Mrs. Borrowfield had contained the forged signature of Sir Throckmorton. That linked him to the assassin, albeit an accidental pairing. Through Penelope, Agnes could put to rest any suspicion that Throckmorton was a part of the conspiracy. “Tomorrow, but our meeting must be a secret.”

Warming to the plan, the girl whispered, “There's a mercantile across the street from the Culross Inn. That's where we've taken rooms. What time can you be there?”

Agnes intended to visit Trimble tomorrow, but she could see him afterwards. Yes, that might be better. She lowered her voice and played along with the intrigue. “At the meridian.”

“I'll be there. Someone's coming!”

The doors opened again; noise from the crowd drifted into the peaceful garden.

“Agnes? If you are here—”

“I am.” At the concern in Edward's voice, she shot to her feet. “Up here.” Without question, he was thinking about the assassin and fearing for her life.

His smile was pure relief. “Good. Who have you there?”

“Penelope. We've become very fast friends, haven't we?”

She giggled.

He moved to stand beneath them. “Tis better company to be had out here all the way 'round, wouldn't you agree, Miss Penelope?”

Her giggles turned to chortles.

“You mustn't embarrass her, my lord,” Agnes chided.

“He's very handsome,” said Penelope in an awed whisper.

When he chuckled, Agnes couldn't resist saying, “Aye, and well he knows it. Dub him comely again, Penelope, and he'll preen like a peacock.”

The girl said, “I saw a white peacock once in the royal menagerie.”

Bless her, she still knew the art of honest conversation. Pray she did not let her siblings drum it from her. “Truly?”

“By my oath,” the girl swore. “The next time I visit, I shall bring it a crust of bread. That's what peacocks like to eat.”

“How exciting. Do you promise to tell me about it at
another
time?”

“Must I go?”

“Aye, Penelope.” Agnes extended her hand. “With friends, there is always tomorrow.”

The girl shook hands as if she were priming a pump. “Until tomorrow.” Then she dashed down the stairs.

“Wait! You've forgotten your wig.” Agnes tossed it over the rail to Edward.

“May I?” he asked, holding the mass of white curls.

“Why must I wear it? You and Lady Agnes don't.”

As he replaced the wig and adjusted it, he said, “ 'Tis another of those adult choices that await you.”

“I will not be like Mary when I'm grown. I'll be a good person, like Lady Agnes.”

“You are a delight, Penelope. Now hurry inside before you get into trouble.”

Waving to them both, the girl rushed to the doors, then slowed and made a graceful entrance into the ballroom.

Edward joined Agnes.

“You were looking for me?”

“Aye. Young Lindsay convinced you to try the punch.”