Quiet Meg (18 page)

Sutcliffe’s smile was coldly tolerant.

“I have dueled, Meg. It is not a crime. Sir Eustace himself could not portray it so” He viewed her thoughtfully. “I
wonder-if Douglas had killed me-would you have married him? Or would you have recoiled from a murderer?”

“That is a most exaggerated if, my lord. You arranged
every detail, every circumstance, to make it an impossibility. Douglas had no chance with you.”

“Still-I think you may not understand yourself.” He
considered her. She noticed, for the first time, that his eyes
were an icy, soulless gray. And she noticed when that pale
gaze sharpened with calculation. “Meg .. ” He moved as
though to touch her once more, but restrained himself.
“You will come to me,” he said confidently, and very softly,
as though his own assurance now intrigued him. “I believe you will choose to do so. You will do so to spare him. To
spare him from death, or from murder. It is all the same.”

“You speak nonsense”

“Do I? I promise you, that unless you act, there will be a
meeting. And there is always a risk. Much as one hates to
accept it, there are … accidents. You object so particularly
to my own record. I wonder how you would justify his taking of a life-even mine. You are your father’s daughter,
Meg. You and your family share the morality of your origins”-his voice condescended-“of the so quaint and
comfortable county parish. Such virtue has kept you from
me. But now, my dear, it will bring you to me.” He had the
gall to touch her chin with one finger. “Yes, I think so. You
see, Miss Meg, had you been my daughter-or my sisterI would have eliminated a Lord Sutcliffe long before now.
It is to my benefit-at last-that your family is so very
good.” His smile was satisfied.

“Your scheming trips you up, Lord Sutcliffe. It is a wonder you need converse with me at all-you converse so admirably with yourself.”

“That kind of conversation is not what I have in mind for
you, Meg.” He looked at her frankly. “You shall learn to
love me”

His look made her think of Cabot’s kiss, but in an entirely different way. For Meg at once felt an unlooked-for
power. Sutcliffe had told her she promised. It was possible
he might be worked upon.

“If I come to you,” she said slowly, and watched his gaze
grow darkly penetrating. “If I come to you-would you not
take that as proof-that I cared too much for him?”

“It would not last,” he said with supreme confidence. He stepped even closer to her. “I would soon have you forget
him.”

“I think you might surprise yourself, my lord. And find
that you no longer want what you would win.”

“I will always want you, Meg. Have I not impressed you
with my constancy?”

She bit back a retort. Obsession was a peculiar constancy. But she must continue to `promise.’

“If I should come to you … ,” she said again, and the
light eyes darkened even more. She feared she had gone too
far-he looked as though he might grab her right there. He
was a man maddened by his passions; it must have taken effort for him to discourse with her this long. “… what assurance would I have-that you would harm no one?”

“No one, again,” he remarked with a cynical lift of a
brow. “You would have the assurance that I’d have obtained what I wanted. I would want nothing more.” He noticed her dubious gaze. “You will come to me, Meg,” he
repeated firmly. “I shall make it easy for you. You must send
word to me at Grosvernor Square. I will collect you immediately. Mind you”-again he placed a finger under her
chin, but this time he raised her face for his inspection-“I
shall not wait long. Mr. Cabot might press me.”

“My sister’s ball is tonight-as you no doubt know.”

Sutcliffe smiled.

“Little Lucy did not invite me”

“My sister is braver than I”

“It does not take bravery to deny me, Meg. It takes bravery to invite me in-as you, at last, dare to do”

She had the horrifying feeling he meant to kiss her, and
stepped back abruptly. His look was sardonic.

“Yes, I think I shall have to teach you to love. And we
must find you a new maid,” Meg glanced over at Annie,
“since I believe this one does not share your aversion to
murder.”

Annie was indeed glowering by the door.

“She is from the North, my lord. Not a comfortable
county parish.”

“She will be returning there shortly,” he said with annoyance.

Meg silently applauded his displeasure.

“If you do not hear from me,” she said, moving toward
Annie and escape, “‘twill be because I do not choose to
join you”

He bowed to her, a courtesy that under the circumstances seemed a mockery. He had effectively just robbed
her of any choice.

“If you do hear from me, Miss Meg, ‘twill be because
Mr. Cabot chooses to join his maker.” And she knew his
gaze was on her as she turned to leave.

Dressing for Lucy’s ball was such an extended, tortuous
process, at least as overseen by a valet as fastidious as Dietz,
his uncle’s man, that Chas was tempted to send last minute
regrets. According to Dietz, a gentleman must wear so
much in evidence of his standing and good taste that Chas
was convinced he could evidence neither. He consented to
the elaborately styled cravat, to the ostentatious buckles on
his shoes, and to the impressively high, stiff shirt points.
But he balked at having his hair powdered. He told Dietz in
no uncertain terms, and in the only language Dietz understood, that he refused to appear looking like a character
from Fasching carnival.

Dietz, who had to be nearing ninety, could manage offended pride and servile abasement simultaneously. Chas
considered it an opportune moment to suggest that Dietz
remove himself permanently to Brookslea, where he would
have a large staff to terrorize, instead of one transient, obsti nate master. How that would work, Chas hadn’t a clue,
since Dietz spoke neither English nor French. But Dietz
took the proposed removal as a sign of promotion, and retreated to a pleased and dignified silence. As Chas finished
with his finery he could only stare resignedly at his reflection in the mirror.

He thought tonight might be the last time he saw her.

Of all the eventualities for which he had prepared over the
previous weeks, that was the one for which he had not
prepared-for which he was perhaps incapable of preparing.
The finality of the thought affected him as nothing else had.

Yet there was no other recourse. Had there been, Sir Eustace would have thought of it and acted before now. All
remedies at law were closed to them. All society’s penalties
for uncivil behavior had been exercised. And Chas knew he
could not continue as he wished while Meg was effectively
in Sutcliffe’s power. The earl was quite literally squeezing
the life out of her.

The hour was close. Chas had been to Wimbledon just
that morning, to walk the ground, to see if there were any
possible advantage to be had.

Sutcliffe might challenge him at any moment now, but at
least the challenge would not come tonight. There was little
likelihood the earl would approach Lady Billings’s home,
with hundreds of guests attending, and all the protection
Sir Eustace and Bertram would have arranged.

Chas sighed as he touched his cravat. He wanted to concentrate on the task at hand, on meeting Sutcliffe, and not
on the outcome. Even then, like some troubling refrain, all
he could contemplate was his desire to see Meg, to hold
Meg, to more than hold Meg.

“What a lovesick puppy you are,” he muttered to himself, only to quickly dismiss Dietz’s inquiring “Bitte?” In
his present state, Chas had to believe himself fortunate to
have a man who did not speak English.

He had been asked to arrive at Lady Billings’s a bit
early, just why he could not imagine. Perhaps Lucy had requested his presence so that she might regale him with
some extensive description of a recent revel. Ordinarily, he
would not have objected. But tonight … tonight would be
difficult enough, having to be surrounded by so many,
when so much was at stake.

Dietz, quietly observing Chas’s prolonged attention to
his dress, probably assumed his master was courting. Well,
so he was. Courting an invitation, courting disaster. As he
headed out the door, Chas took some comfort in knowing
he met with the elderly Austrian’s approval. However much
one might resent them, the proprieties had been closely observed. Such attentions had never mattered much before,
but now, with the lady involved …

Out of doors, the late May night was lovely, warm, still
and clear. As the hired carriage deposited him at Meg’s
aunt’s home, Chas took a moment to survey the street. The
lamps were lit; a few people were out walking, but no vehicles waited. A man standing by the garden gate to the side
touched his hat when Chas nodded.

The strong scent of lilacs graced the air.

Once in the hall, Chas scarcely recognized the place. All
the wide doors between the front rooms had been opened
to create an airy, broad gallery, from the garden, past the
piano and orchestra at one end, through the hall and into a
morning room and further dining room. The table had been removed to make space. He could hear servants clattering
dishes in a supper room in back. Scores of lanterns flared,
reflecting brightly in the many mirrored walls.

As the butler left to announce him to Sir Eustace, Chas
glanced toward the piano. The evening’s small orchestra
was just setting up. He wondered if there would be a
waltz-and then wondered if he would dare. The memory
of Meg at the piano rose to haunt him yet again.

To distract himself he moved to the display of flowers on
a long console table. The offerings were extravagant, elegant and colorful. But one simpler arrangement of white
roses and blue ribbons drew his inspection. He fingered the
card, noticed the unmistakable name Wembly-and frowning, immediately released it.

“‘Tis an `H,”’ Sir Eustace said as he propelled his chair
forward, “for Harry.”

Chas glanced at him, then scanned the rest of the flowers.

“Which are your favorites, Cabot?” Sir Eustace asked.

“I do not see them, sir.”

“There are, as you know, two young ladies residing at
this establishment. Lucinda’s are here tonight, of course,”
he gestured broadly to the table, “but I believe Margaret
has taken all her flowers upstairs.”

Chas had to rally. His initial relief had been too quickly
doused by the reference to “all” of Margaret’s flowers.

“It promises to be quite a crush this evening, Sir Eustace.” He tried a smile. “Miss Lucy has gathered a raft of
admirers.”

“I must inform you, Cabot, that Lucinda has thrown you
over several times in as many weeks”

“So I hear. I regret to say-I had expected it”

“You are not heartbroken?”

“Not on her account, sir.”

Sir Eustace’s smile was warm. He tapped the top of his
cravat.

“I note your magnificent cravat is rather askew, Mr.
Cabot,” he said, and indicated the mirror further along the
wall. Cabot stepped over to it with a frustrated sigh. In his
discomfort with Dietz’s noose he must have unthinkingly
loosened the devilish thing on the carriage ride over. The
damage was not severe, though, and he was able to right it
and secure the repair by relocating his cravat pin. As he
fixed his linen he could not help but notice the portrait reflected from the wall behind him-of Meg as a young girl,
with her sisters and mother. He turned to consider it.

“For some years I had it out at Selbourne,” Sir Eustace
told him as he too viewed the portrait. “Until I could no
longer bear it. Perhaps,” he mused, “I am ready to have it
back.”

“‘Tis a fine portrait, Sir Eustace. Of a fine-looking
family.”

“My wife was a most handsome woman-and beautiful
to me. Louisa is much like her. Lucinda is a very pretty,
lively girl. But Margaret … Margaret is something more.”
He gestured at the big-eyed child. “Even then I had to wonder where she had sprung from”

“Did you, sir?” Cabot looked from the portrait to Sir Eustace. “‘Tis no mystery. She is very like you”

“I am not near so comely,” he scoffed.

Chas smiled, but glanced thoughtfully again at the portrait.

“She is the same in her essence-in her confidence. In
her strength in her family. In you, sir.”

Sir Eustace’s eyes glistened as he looked at him.

“She causes a good deal of trouble,” he said gruffly, as
though he would mask his sentiment with irritation. Chas
viewed the empty hall.

“I seem to have arrived excessively early. I misunderstood-and thought perhaps that Miss Lucy had some last
minute directive or mission for me.”

“No, Cabot. I sent for you” As Chas glanced at Sir Eustace in surprise, he added, “I wished to have a few minutes
alone with you. Unfortunately, one of Lady Billings’s ancients can no longer read time. Ferrell has detained him in
the library for me, whilst we are demoted to the hall. I hope
you do not mind?”