Quiet Meg (20 page)

“Amen, Mr. Wembly,” they agreed, in surprising chorus.
They exploded in laughter. They were still in good humor
when Meg brought a subdued Lucy over to Harry.

“I hesitate to interrupt your entertainment, Lord Hayden. Gentlemen.” Meg curtsied to them all. “Mr. Wembly,
my sister has discovered an error.”

“Yes, Mr. Wembly,” Lucy said, looking to the floor. “This
dance is free-should you desire it.”

“I do indeed, Miss Lucy,” Harry said with alacrity. He
bowed to Meg before offering Lucy his arm. “Thank you,
Miss Meg,” he said gratefully.

As the young couple moved to the floor, Bertie asked Meg,

“How did you fetch her?”

“I told her-that if she did not dance with Harry at her
ball, she would regret it the rest of her days.” Meg’s gaze
was on Lucy and Harry.

“And that was sufficient inducement, Miss Lawrence?”
Hayden asked.

Meg turned to smile at him.

“Does a lifelong regret not strike you as severe enough
penance, my lord?”

As Hayden answered with silence, Bertie said, “This is
our dance I think, Meggie,” and led his sister away.

Hayden observed them through his quizzing glass.

“You must marry her, Chas,” he said at last, “and soon.
Else I fear I shall be forced to it.” He dropped the glass and
turned to him. “And that you know you would regret” He
walked off toward the other room, leaving Chas to reflect
that his cousin might be preferable to Dr. Wembly-but not
by much.

He waited. The music was good, though the few instruments with the piano sounded thin compared to Almack’s
orchestra. The tune just barely bested the hum of conversation. The rooms had warmed with the lights and the activity
of the dancers; the cool garden beckoned. But Chas would
have his dance. He watched Meg with her brother. For
some reason Sutcliffe came to mind-for the first time
since the dancing had begun.

Chas tried to dispel the thought but could not. The image was of the music continuing, of the evening still bright
and lively, of Meg still dancing-with Lawrence, with
Hayden, with Knowles and Demarest and Wembly. But he
himself watched as though through a veil, as though he had
passed on.

“What is it, Cabot?” Ferrell asked him. He had been
standing to the side in companionable silence.

“A shadow across my grave, I should imagine, Ferrell.”

Ferrell contemplated Lady Billings’s grand ballroom,
with its high ceilings, glowing sconces and chandeliers,
and decorative swags.

“He isn’t here tonight, Cabot,” he said perceptively.
Then he grinned. “Nevertheless, would you care for something to drink? Negus-or something stronger?”

Chas thanked him but declined. The dance was coming
to a close. As Ferrell wandered away Chas kept his gaze on Meg. He was determined that she should not elude him
again.

When the music stopped he moved quickly to intercept
her. Bertie had just placed her hand upon his sleeve when
Meg withdrew it.

“I believe I shall take a rest now, Mr. Cabot. I am feeling
fatigued.”

“But you cannot . . ” He stopped himself from pleading.
She did not look fatigued. “Of course, Miss Lawrence. As
you wish.”

He stood with her. She could not very well dance with
anyone else after such an excuse. He stood close enough to
note how exercise had dampened the fine wisps of curls
against her forehead. As she fanned her face he had the
overwhelming desire to kiss her delectable neck. When he
noticed her foot tapping to the beat of the music, Chas
knew he had had enough.

“Did you receive my violets, Miss Lawrence?”

The fanning briefly paused.

“I did, thank you”

He turned fully to her.

“But you are determined to do to me … what your sister
did to Harry?”

“It is not the same,” she insisted, again fanning vigorously as she kept her attention on the dancers.

“You must know-it is worse” That drew her gaze. His
own was steady; he reminded her silently of their shared
kiss in the park. It was best she know that he thought her
unfair. As her fanning lapsed altogether he pulled her into
the remainder of the dance.

They had to skirt the set. He deftly maneuvered her past the orchestra, toward a door to the garden. And when the
music stopped he slipped her quickly outside into the night
air, just as everyone else headed to supper.

“Mr. Cabot…”

He placed a finger against her lips, and coaxed her further, away from the circle of light at the door, down the
steps and on beyond a line of clipped pear trees. The scent
of lilacs again filled the air, and the leaves on the pear trees
rustled. The shadows of the trees and of the high garden
walls crossed the light from the ballroom.

“Do you not hear it?” he asked softly, drawing her closer.
He had had her in his arms before-she belonged there always. “Do you not hear the waltz?” He turned with her as
though to music, holding her as he had at Almack’s, even,
perhaps, a bit tighter-because there was no one to seeand she did not protest. He recognized helplessly that he
was above all things a lover.

He led her silently through a series of slow, gliding
turns, his arm hard against her waist. Her face was pale in
the darkness, her eyes large and beautiful. When they
closed, he leaned to kiss her.

His lips, the wonderful warm lips she had missed, had
just touched hers again when Meg heard something quite
different from the muted rustling of leaves. It sounded distinctly intrusive-a soft scraping against brick; it sounded
as though someone were climbing down the garden wall to
their side.

Instantly Cabot put her from him and moved to the wall,
listening intently as he eyed its height. There was no gate to the alley beyond. He returned to grasp her hand and pull
her none too gently toward the ballroom.

“You must stay inside,” he commanded as he ran her up
the steps. His voice was now anything but coaxing. “I have
been incalculably foolish”

Meg was deposited, blinking dazedly, in the suddenly
harsh lights of the ballroom, where only the musicians still
lingered away from supper. As Cabot strode quickly ahead
of her, she trailed in his wake, conscious of the first flush of
embarrassment. If Cabot were to tell father, or Bertie, they
would know she had been out in the garden with himalone …

Cabot did not go to the supper room but out through the
library behind the dancing gallery. The library’s tall glass
doors fronted both the garden and the mews; none of the
doors was open. Cabot unlocked one in back and straddled
a low iron rail to jump easily down to the lane. Meg knew
the back route well, since she and Bertie had used it often
as their exit for their early morning rides. From the safety
of the library, she watched Cabot rapidly walk the length of
the garden wall and beyond into darkness. Nothing was in
sight-no people, no horses, no carts or carriages. Meg
could not imagine how someone could possibly have
gained the top of the wall without aid-and then disappear
so quickly.

When Cabot reappeared down the alley, he entered at
the kitchen door below.

Meg looked about the library, which had been used as a
card room. Dealt hands still lay upon the tables, awaiting
renewal of the games. The players must have recessed reluctantly for supper, though the sound of conversation
and laughter from the dining room was continuous and
cheerful, and clearly, Meg thought enviously, untroubled.

Cabot returned to her in the library and pointedly locked
the glass door to the mews.

“Someone helped him up. There are no signs of hooks
or ropes. Our visitor must have been atop the wall for some
time. Since before the guard was posted at the kitchen
door, at least-for he saw nothing. The guard says he heard
only what he believed to be a cat. It is dark enough the
sneak could have slipped quietly into the shadows and been
off in mere seconds” He sighed heavily. “Curse me for a
simpleton!” He brushed off his coat with impatience.

“You could not have known … ,” Meg said.

“I should have guessed. Even with guards front and back
I should not have taken you out there. I apologize, Miss
Lawrence”

She watched his face, wondering if he apologized for
everything. If so, she did not want him to.

“Come, let us say nothing of this.” He placed a warm
palm at her waist to direct her back toward the hall. “Nothing further can be done. It would only distress the rest of
your family.”

“You think he was-someone from Lord Sutcliffe?”

“I know he was.” He stopped her there in the library
and turned her to him. The playfulness of her waltzing
partner had disappeared. All was tense expectancy and
purpose. “Your father said you return to Selbourne Saturday?”

“Yes.

“That’s for the best-for now. Sutcliffe can reach you
too easily here in town”

Meg thought her face must betray her guilty secret, the
meeting at Monsieur LeBecque’s and the earl’s dreadful
offer. Cabot was looking at her too closely.

“He has not attempted to see you-since Vauxhall?”

Meg shook her head. Silence seemed less of a lie. And
yet she wanted to tell him everything. The desire to unburden her heart was acute.

“When-will you return to Selboume?” she asked, thinking her voice sounded pitiable.

“This fall.”

Did that mean three months from now? Four months?
Five?

“Not-before?” She stared intently at his gorgeous
cravat.

“Before would certainly be preferable,” he said softly,
and when her gaze sought his eyes she thought she read a
smile in them. “If I am not detained. You must trust that all
will be well-Meg.” He took her hand and raised it, palm
up, to his lips. Even through her glove she felt the warmth
of that kiss; her fingers curled inward. With his other hand
he lightly traced the line of her jaw, then caught a tendril of
hair curling at her neck. When his lips lowered to hers it
was as though to a decision. But his touch was scarcely
more than a breath, as though he restrained himself. Meg
knew with a pang that he would not have been so careful
out in the garden.

The noise from the supper room increased. Cabot drew
away from her and led her out into the gallery. A few guests were filtering back toward the ballroom. When he released
her hand, Meg felt adrift, as though she were returning
from a distant journey, though they had been away from the
gathering for scarcely twenty minutes.

In the crowded supper room she moved toward Louisa
and Ferrell, but her gaze still accompanied Cabot.

“Margaret!” Walter accosted her. “I’ve been looking for
you! I thought we were to come into supper together.”

“I-I’m sorry, Walter,” she said. “I had no idea you were
waiting” She watched Cabot find Lord Hayden, saw Hayden listen and nod, saw Cabot find her father. Her father
glanced quickly at her. Meg made no effort to follow what
Walter was saying-she was too thoroughly attuned to
Cabot.

He was taking his leave. He was leaving now, even before supper was finished, even with more music to come
and the lilacs still perfuming the warm night air. And why
should he feel compelled to leave now? He had not told
her. Because Sutcliffe would have him followed? Because
Sutcliffe’s men might at this moment be awaiting him at his
rooms? Because Sutcliffe would challenge him, or have
him murdered in the dark?

He was bowing to Aunt Pru, he was kissing Lucy’s hand.
He was walking, in all his formal elegance, toward the
door.

Meg felt faint. She grasped the back of a dining chair
and clung to it.

“Miss Margaret, you are very pale. You must take a seat”
Walter was hovering. From the front hall, Cabot looked
back at her, standing at the entrance to the supper room. She
thought he frowned, as though he debated removing her from Dr. Wembly’s attentions. But he turned away, and Walter blocked her view, and Louisa thrust a glass of punch into
her hand, saying firmly,

“Drink this, Meggie.”

At breakfast the next morning, the post brought a sealed
note addressed to Miss Lawrence:

Charles Cabot is a dead man. Unless … ? Sutcliffe

“Whatever the reckoning may be, my dear,” Sir Eustace said as he buttered a slice of toast, “I assure you your
father will pay it.”

Meg roused herself from her shock.

“It is not a bill, father.” She looked up to meet his frown.
“I am being taken to task-for being a dilatory correspondent”

“That doesn’t sound like you, Meggie,” Bertie said.
“Who dares charge you with tardy replies?”

“Oh-she is … a friend of Aunt Bitty’s. You do not
know her.” Meg folded the page and placed it carelessly to
the side of her plate. She had not had supper last night; she
had no appetite this morning. She thought she might never
wish to eat again. But she reached for her teacup and forced
herself to take a sip. She could think only of Cabot telling
her last night, “You must trust that all will be well.” He had,
for the first time, called her Meg.