Maggie MacKeever (16 page)

Charles raised his quizzing glass and thoughtfully regarded his companions. Jasper returned his long look steadily. “Ah, yes,” murmured Charles, and allowed the glass to fall.

“Is your father well?” Averil inquired. Charles cast him a reproachful glance.

“Alas, yes.” Charles was believed to have lived on his expectancy for years; few people knew that his endless racketing about was actually done in the service of his monarch. He was the perfect courier, for his foppish appearance and drawling manner hid a razor-keen mind and whipcord body. Charles was continually underestimated, which suited his purposes, and his regent’s, admirably. “But let us speak of more pleasant things. I assume you can house me for a while?” Ballerfast could accommodate an army, and reputedly had at one time, but Charles tended to belabor the obvious. It was part of his admirably constructed facade.

“I daresay we can find space.” Averil tugged the bellcord. “I suppose your horses have already been attended to?”

“Well, yes,” Charles replied apologetically. “I took that liberty.”

Huffington crept obsequiously into the room. Averil glared at him. “Where the deuce is everyone?”

Huffington took great pains to avoid his master’s eye. “They are otherwise occupied, sir. May I be of service?”

Charles tittered. “I see things do not change at Ballerfast. How do I find you, Huffington?”

The valet bowed. “Very well, and yourself, sir? May I add that we are glad to see you again, sir?”

“Huffington,” Averil interrupted, “where the devil is Tarbath?”

Huffington gazed steadily at the opposite wall. “I believe him to be in the wine cellars, sir.”

“And what sent him there?”

Huffington sighed. “There was a slight altercation in the nether regions, sir. Samson, uh, took a liberty with one of the maids, sir, and Mrs. Snugglebutt saw fit to chastise him with a skillet.”

“The devil,” said Charles, momentarily shocked out of his customary boredom. “If you ever wish to turn off your staff, Averil, let me know. I’ll engage them all.”

Averil ignored this interruption. “Very well, Huffington. See to it that rooms are prepared for Charles and his man. Twitching will be glad to assist you, I’m sure.” Huffington favored his master with a reproachful look, and Hilary laughed. Overlooking this ill-timed levity, Averil turned again to his friend.

“You are not our only guest. Assheton is gracing our humble halls with his presence, as are Lord Fairchild’s offspring.”

Charles shot his friend a shrewd glance. “Loveday Fairchild? How comes this about? London is abuzz with rumors about her sire, but I’d heard nothing of this.”

Averil explained, briefly. Charles regarded his brandy thoughtfully. Before his friend could comment, Averil added another piece of information. “She’s betrothed to Assheton, as will soon be announced.”

Jasper soon made his excuses; Hilary followed after. “Now,” said Charles, shedding his effeminacy as easily as he had earlier shed his coat, “we can talk freely. You have been withholding a great deal, I think.”

Averil sighed, and told all. When he had done, he looked up to find Charles’s shrewd gaze fixed on him.

“She’s a sad romp,” Charles remarked, “and has been into scrapes since she was out of leading strings.”

“I find her amusing,” Averil replied stiffly.

“Of course you do, who wouldn’t? Which don’t alter the fact that she’s a regular hoyden. I recall one occasion when she entered a club looking for her father, which you’ll agree isn’t at all the thing.”

“Mere scandal-broth.”

“No such thing,” Charles retorted, “I was there. She’s rumored to have ridden with highwaymen, also.”

“Now that I cannot credit! She would not do such a thing.” Averil was wrong, as Jasper could have informed him, had he been present. That particular prank was Denis’ doing, and both he and Loveday had been highly indignant when Jasper forcibly removed them from the presence of their new-found friends. Jasper had been so incensed as to speak to Lord Fairchild about his daughter’s reprehensible behavior; Lord Fairchild was overcome with mirth. “This conversation is pointless,” Averil added. “The chit is betrothed.”

“So you say.” Charles appeared unconvinced.

Averil brooded.  “I cannot care much for this match. Assheton is no fit husband for an inexperienced girl.”

“Inexperienced?” Charles hooted. “Are you all about in your head?”

“What are you suggesting?” Averil’s voice was cold.

“Don’t let us come to cuffs! I meant only that her actions are not prompted by innocence, but by a total disregard for the conventions. As for Assheton, from what I know of the two of them, I think they’ll deal extremely well together.” Charles did not add that he’d once had occasion to know Jasper Assheton very well indeed. “Miss Fairchild has had her choice of striplings, ever since she came out. What intrigues me is why anyone should wish to put a period to her existence.”

Averil slammed his empty glass onto the table with a force that shattered it. “Charles,” he said grimly, “I mean to have that girl!”

* * * *

He’d drunk too much brandy, Averil thought, as he wove his way unsteadily down the hallway. It hadn’t seemed all that much at the time. Something made him pause outside Loveday’s door, and a sudden movement within made him call out.

“Loveday? Is anything amiss?” She quickly unlatched the door. Averil took one look at the girl and set his candle down. “What is it?” he asked, shaking her gently. She stared at him for a moment, then raised a hand to push the hair out of her eyes.

“A snake, I think. In my bed.” Averil swore and stealthily approached the bed, armed with a poker. It did not take him long to find and destroy the reptile; he found great satisfaction in crushing its head.

“It wasn’t dangerous,” he said, returning to her. “It could not have harmed you.”

“Balderdash!” Loveday retorted. “That was no garden snake. Jem and I used to play in the woods on Papa’s estate; that horrid thing could have killed me.”

Averil withheld comment, and swept her up off her feet. “What on earth are you doing?” she demanded, though he noticed that she did not struggle.

“Removing you from the premises until Huffington can dispose of the corpse.”

“Oh. Do you think I might have some brandy?”

“For medicinal purposes? Of course. You’ve suffered a shock, have you not?”

“I have, indeed.” Loveday was not immune to the pleasure of being carried in a strong man’s arms, and did not tell him that she felt perfectly well enough to walk. Averil settled her in a chair before his fire, placed a robe across her lap, and speedily dispatched Huffington on his errand.

“This is becoming quite tedious,” Loveday commented, sipping her brandy. “I fear I shall soon begin to suffer a disorder of the nerves.”

“We shall soon unmask the culprit. He is bound to reveal his hand.”

“I hope he may do so before I am dead! I think I would be wise to leave this place.”

“You cannot do that!” Averil was suddenly intent. “Think of my grandmother’s disappointment. She has already sent out the invitations for your ball.”

“I had forgotten that.”

“You’ve done her a world of good,” Averil continued, pressing home his advantage. “It would break her heart for you to leave her now.”

Loveday suspected that Isolda’s heart was made of stronger stuff, but withheld comment.

“Then, too, she expects that you will solve our mystery for us, in time.”

“I fear those hopes must come to nothing,” Loveday replied. She’d told no one that her wayward memory had revealed all but the killer to her, for what could it signify? There had been a fourth person in the room that fateful night, but she hadn’t a clue as to that person’s identity. She didn’t even know whether it was male or female.

“And where would you go?” Averil persisted. “To Assheton’s family? Remember they are coming here.”

Loveday sighed. It seemed as though she was smartly trapped, and with no one to blame but herself. “Very well, I shall remain through your grandmother’s ball. She’s holding it on my birthday, and then I will be of age.” She glanced at Averil’s brooding face. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I am very much in your debt, but I cannot impose upon your hospitality much longer.”

Averil made no reply, but continued to look at her in that strange manner. “While I remain here,” Loveday continued, “I think it best if I share Dillian’s room. Perhaps that way I can avoid some of this unpleasantness. I cannot imagine that she will mind.” As Loveday saw it, there were only three people in the castle who, for various reasons, could not be responsible for her mishaps. She could not think that Isolda would sanction the sharing of a room with Jasper or Jem.

“Do as you think best,” Averil growled, and her eyes flew to his face. She was suddenly and inexplicably afraid of him; it came to her that she’d already provoked him too far, and that it was to his credit that he had controlled his passions, and his temper, until now. Loveday didn’t imagine that he’d had much occasion to exercise restraint, and she had a definite impression that he could be very dangerous.

She made as if to rise, and only succeeded in tangling herself in the robe. Averil crossed the room in two quick strides.

“I think it’s time I go.” Her voice was unsteady. “I do not wish to awaken Dillian.”

Averil laughed harshly. “I think not,” he replied, taking her face between his hands. “Let us have done with games!” He kissed her roughly. Loveday tried vainly to extricate herself from his strong grip.

“I beg your pardon!” Charles murmured, and Averil flung Loveday away from him with a muffled oath. “I knocked but you did not answer.” He wondered why the girl stared so at him; hadn’t she seen a man in his nightshirt before? She had a brother, didn’t she? “I do hope I don’t intrude?”

In truth, it was not Charles’s legs that held Loveday’s attention, but his eyes. “Not at all, sir,” she said, and fled.

Averil glared at his friend with great loathing. “Well? What has brought you to me at so bloody unfortunate a time?”

“It don’t signify.” Charles backed out of the room. “I didn’t mean to spoil sport.” Averil swore mightily at the closed door.

* * * *

Dillian was not asleep, and asked few questions as she made Loveday comfortable, apparently not even noticing the older girl’s intent scrutiny of her face.

Loveday waited until Dillian’s breathing became deep and regular, then slipped stealthily from the room. It did not take long to find Jem’s room, even in the dark. She shook his shoulder.

“Devil a bit!” he swore, upon awakening. For one startled moment he’d thought Dillian’s ghost had come to pay him a call.

“Jem, I must speak with you!”

“Dash it, Loveday, can’t it wait until morning?” Jem buried his head in the pillow, hoping she’d miraculously disappear. Instead she shook him again.

He groaned and sat up. “Very well,” he said in resigned tones, “what is it? I don’t mind telling you it had better be good.”

“Jem, I found a snake in my bed, and—” Loveday paused, enjoying her moment of drama, “—and I know who Dillian’s father is!”

* * * *

The Earl of Dorset was not pleased. Much as he loved his daughter, he did not care for her in the role of chaperone. “You should have let me come alone,” he said, for possibly the thousandth time.

“And pass up what has every indication of being a splendid adventure?” Phyllida inquired. “Never!”

Sylvester would never admit it, but he’d actually enjoyed her company. All too soon, Adolphus would be home again, to stay this time, and the house would be empty again. It irritated him, however, to travel at a snail’s pace when he could have made much better time alone. Sylvester supposed he should be grateful that Phyllida had left her needlework behind.

Tarbath, for once, was present to open the door. He gazed at the callers owlishly, then went to announce them.

Family and guests were gathered in one room, an event unusual enough to be noteworthy. Tarbath wondered what had inspired this sudden conviviality. “The Earl of Dorset and Lady Montague,” he announced in sepulchral tones. There was a sudden silence in the room, then Loveday flew to embrace her friends. Jasper was careful to hide his relief at their arrival; he’d begun to imagine various accidents and misadventures, all of them harmful to his father. His sister’s well-being he took for granted, for she emerged from all sort of predicaments unscathed.

“Phyllida!” Loveday embraced her. “How good to see you again. You’re looking wonderfully.”

Phyllida extricated herself and regarded her friend critically. “And you are not. Indeed, you look shockingly worn-down.” It was nothing but the truth; Loveday had become almost haggard; but Phyllida softened her words with a smile.

That smile brought Charles Elcock from his corner of the room with a disbelieving expression on his face. “The devil,” he said, taking Phyllida’s hand. “Phyl!”

Phyllida had grown expert at controlling her expression, and she exercised that ability now. Her face, as she surveyed the man before her, revealed nothing. He had aged well, she thought judiciously; never a handsome man, Charles was more attractive now than he had been as a youth. His fair hair showed no traces of gray; his bright eyes had lost none of their twinkle. “Hello, Charles,” she calmly replied.

Charles suddenly recalled his surroundings, and he released her. “This is famous,” he drawled. “Fancy finding you again after fifteen years. Fortune has smiled on me.”

“Seventeen years,” Phyllida corrected.

“Faith, it cannot have been so long!” Charles protested gallantly. “You can be no more than twenty-and-nine.”

“Gross exaggeration,” Phyllida murmured. “Pray don’t make a cake of yourself.”

“I don’t mind telling you, Phyl, that I’d hoped you’d learned to mend your tongue. You’re frank to a fault!” Having delivered himself of this masterful reprimand, Charles immediately resumed his previous manner. “Let’s give these slow-tops the slip. I protest, it’s an age since we were private.”

Phyllida laughed. “And a pretty to-do there was over that!” Truth be told, she was in no mood for impassioned diatribes. “We had much better not, you know. It wouldn’t be at all the thing.”