The Hourglass (35 page)

She took a tiny swallow, while he downed half his glass. “I am so sorry,” she said, near to tears.

“It is not your fault.” He set down his glass and sat on the bed beside her, rubbing her hands, which still felt clammy. “Try to sleep. You will feel better in the morning.”

She sighed again, half a moan. “It does not feel that way.”

“Shall I stay?”

“No, I am too embarrassed that you had to see me like this.”

“Do not be foolish. You saw me bleeding and unconscious.”

Beads of perspiration formed on her forehead. “Just go. I think I am going to be—” She was, missing his bare feet by inches. He grabbed up the chamber pot and supported her shoulders, holding her hair back.

When she appeared to be finished, he asked if she wanted some tea or plain water.

She tried to smile. “No, I had a glass of milk before, to help me relax.”

He noticed the half-empty glass on her bedside table. “Well, that did not seem to work.”

“It did not taste good. My stomach was already queasy.”

“Should I…help you sleep?”

“No! I will be fine in the morning, as you said. Or in a few months. That is what Mrs. Newberry told me, anyway.”

He put another blanket on her, more because his own feet were cold than because she looked chilled. In fact, her face was flushed and damp with sweat. He supposed he ought to get her into a clean, dry nightgown, but he thought the sight of her naked, now-untouchable body might very well have him in tears, too. He kissed her cheek and said, “I will go get my slippers and a book and come back to stay with you.”

“It is not necessary.” Her eyes were already drifting shut.

“It is to me.”

He went back to his room, then remembered he’d shut
the bird away in the sitting room, the bird that had kept nattering on about him cutting himself. “Ar nick,” or something like that.

“Ar nick?” Not a shaving cut? He ran into the sitting room, stubbing his toe on a footstool, and found the crow huddled on the curtain rod.

“Arsenic? Did you mean arsenic?” he shouted.

“Ar’nic.” Olive’s head bobbed.

“Who? Who?”

Olive tried to turn his head around like an owl.

“No, damn it.” Ardeth shook his fist up in the air. “Who did it?”

Olive flapped his wings. “Snell did.”

“You smelled it? Damn!”

Ardeth did not take the time to find his slippers or his shoes, but tore out of the room and down the corridor, down the stairs, down another flight, then another. Where was the ability to float through walls when he needed it, the traveling through time and space in a blink of an eye? His solid flesh could do nothing but hurtle down stairs and along dark corridors. He took a wrong turn and had to backtrack through a portrait gallery of prigs in fancy dress who could not possibly have been his ancestors. Who the devil were they, and why did he ever think he needed a barracks so huge? Finally he reached the kitchens. The rooms were empty, as he should have realized, with everyone out in the barn. He opened doors and drawers and cupboards until he found what he was looking for, the cook’s stock of stillroom supplies. Yes, the arsenic was there, carefully marked. Every household had some, to get rid of vermin. Some ladies used it in making cosmetics, the morons.

He also found what he needed to counteract the poison. Although arsenic was called the widow maker, he had not had much experience with this end of it and could only hope he had the right ingredients. He tossed the stuff into a bowl, added water from the pump, and then ran back up the stairs and endless corridors, cursing the house, the Devil, his bare feet, and whoever did this to his wife.

She was shivering, and noticeably weaker. “Here, my love, drink this.”

“You called me your…love.”

The woman was poisoned and she wanted to talk about semantics? “What of it? We can speak about that in the morning. Just drink this.”

Her nose wrinkled at the smell. “Will it make me feel better?”

He could not lie. “No, but it will rid your stomach of what is making you so ill.”

“Then it is not the baby causing it?”

The baby and her poor weak stomach likely saved her life. Ardeth decided he could lie after all, rather than frighten her while she was so wretched. “No, others are sick, too. Something must have been rancid in one of the dishes at dinner.”

She drank his potion and was indeed sicker, until he was certain her stomach was empty. Then he gave her a sip of the wine he knew was safe because he’d suffered no ill effects. He did pull the silk gown off her and wrapped her in his own thick robe. He was too concerned to notice her body or his own nakedness. Cold determination doused any sparks of desire, and hot fury kept him warm.

He held her in his arms until she fell into an exhausted sleep on her own. He knew how she feared his trancemaking, and lud knew, she had enough to fear without that.

When he was certain she would not awaken, he laid her down and went into his own room to dress. A shirt, trousers, his black cape, boots—that was enough. He told the gremlin crow to watch over the lady while he was gone.

“If anyone but I or Miss Hadley or Marie tries to enter, peck out his eyes.”

“Eye eye?”

Ardeth saluted back.

He terrified Miss Hadley by pounding on her door.

“Good grief, you nearly frightened me to death.”

“Death does not do that,” he said, then added, “I need you to stay with Lady Ardeth while she sleeps. She is ill.”

Miss Hadley noted his boots and cape and thought he was going to ride for help. “But they said there was no physician in the vicinity.”

“She does not need a doctor, only a watchdog.”

The party in the barn was ending, hurried along by the sudden storm that seemed to reach a thunderous crescendo when the master strode across the packed dirt to Mr. Spotford’s side. With the music stopped, everyone could hear Lord Ardeth order Spotty to send the guests home, but to reassemble the entire staff.

“I want to know everyone who was in the kitchens, everyone who brought food upstairs.”

Now the servants began to recall those rumors trickling from London of his lordship’s madness. If he was this difficult on his first night in residence, they would all be looking for other positions. The tenant farmers and the villagers and the field workers scrambled to leave, in spite of the driving rain. They’d rather face the elements than the wrath of the mercurial nobleman who was kind and caring one moment, raging like the thunder outside the next. And hadn’t they heard he’d appeared at that last battle during just such a storm?

Mr. Spotford tried to smooth the troubled waters. “Here, now, Cousin. Everyone has to be up early in the morning for their chores. Whatever questions you have can surely wait.”

With cold lightning in his voice, Ardeth said, “You speak to them now, every single one. Find out who brought my wife a glass of tainted milk. You tell them that if any harm befalls her, tonight or till doomsday, I will tear this place down, brick by brick. I will burn whatever is left to the ground, and all the fields and farms. No one will have a job, a home, or a pension if Lady Ardeth suffers. And tell them that no one will benefit from my death, either, for none of you is now or ever will be named my heir.”

Those nearby were looking at him fearfully. The vicar’s daughters were clinging to one another.

Spotford tried to hide his disquiet. “I say, Cousin, there is no call to be so grim at the party. Neither myself nor my sons ever had expectations of inheriting anything from you. Not in line for the title, by Jupiter, never have been, or for any entailment on the lands. And I am certain no one means any harm to your lovely lady. We all fell in love with her on the instant, didn’t we?” He looked around, seeking support, and everyone was quick to nod. “If the milk had turned bad, well, such things happen.”

Ardeth pulled the arsenic bottle out of his pocket. “They happen more when someone adds poison to it.”

Miss Calverton fainted. Someone screamed and was shushed, so the others could listen. Campbell pushed his way to his master’s side, a pitchfork in his hand.

Marie ran forward, crying. “My lady! My lady! She lives?” At Ardeth’s nod she crossed herself, then said, “I brought the milk to her myself, monsieur. I poured it myself from the pitcher.”

“Who saw you?”

“Almost no one. The kitchens were empty with everyone in the barn.”

“And you never took your eyes off it?”

“I left it outside her door in case you had finished your bath, and you and she…” She shrugged.

“And you saw no one in the hall?”

Spotford asked, “Who would be above stairs at this time of night except personal servants like your man and her ladyship’s maid? Everyone else was here.”

Ardeth’s valet stepped out of the crowd, wringing his hands. “I knew I should have stayed after tidying up after my lord’s bath instead of joining the frolicking here. I should have been more vigilant.”

“Do not feel badly. You would not have seen someone tamper with the glass outside Lady Ardeth’s chamber.”

“No, but I could have shaved milord.”

Ardeth decided to consider a different valet when he had time. “Who else could have been near our rooms?”

He looked around. As far as he knew, the entire staff was present. Every one of them, from butler to knife-boy, looked anxious and curious. No one looked guilty or avoided his eyes. Then someone shouted, “Where’s Snell?”

“Who the deuce is Snell?” Ardeth asked Spotford. “I do not recall the name from the introductions this morning.”

Spotford was craning his neck, searching through the crowd. “That would be my son’s man. Has an elegant touch with a neckcloth, Snell does. He came back with Fernell’s baggage, he did.”

Ardeth pounded his fist into his thigh. “His name is Snell? As in ‘Snell did’? Not ‘smelled it’? Bloody hell.”

Now they all thought he was demented. Dangerous and deranged, and the devil take him for ruining their evening and most likely their comfortable lives.

Ardeth did not care what they thought. “Find the man. And find him before I do, or he’ll be hanging by his own damned elegant neckcloth.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

“I say,” came an affected drawl from the barn door, “if you are finished killing the fatted calf for the prodigal’s return, Pater, perhaps someone could take my horse.”

The young man in the doorway was indeed holding the reins of a fractious brute, scattering the departing cottagers. He was about five and twenty, Ardeth thought, handsome despite being wet from the storm. The rain did not explain his disheveled appearance, his shirt hanging out of his waistcoat, his neckcloth draped around his neck, his hat missing altogether. Perhaps the brute of a stallion behind him explained the mud on his breeches. Or perhaps the fact that he was swaying on his feet, wearing a foolish grin, could account for it all. The man was foxed, and looked like he was going to lead the skittish, unruly horse right into the crowd of guests.

Ardeth strode to the door and took the reins from the gudgeon’s hand. In a bare moment, he had the big horse calm and rubbing its damp muzzle on Ardeth’s shoulder. The earl gestured for one of the stupefied grooms—the fiddle player—to lead the horse away. Then he turned back to the rider, whose mouth was hanging open. “Mr. Fernell Spotford, I gather.”

“’Pon rep, if the tales ain’t true,” the young man said, belatedly making a bow. “My lord.”

Before Ardeth could say another word—and he had several in mind—the elder Spotford had his son’s arm and was leading him to an empty corner of the barn where they might have a bit of privacy. “I like gossip about the family as little as you do, Cousin,” he told Ardeth.

The earl gestured to Campbell, who still appeared ready to stick the pitchfork into anyone who looked sideways. “Get them all out of here,” Ardeth ordered, “and organize a search for that man Snell.”

“I say, did you mention Snell?” Fernell said with a giggle. “Old jaw-me-dead will be furious I ruined another suit of clothes.” He looked down at the mud and scuffs. “Had to get here in time, though, to greet the nabob.”

Richard Spotford came over with a mug of something hot. Fernell made a face at it until Richard said, “You are going to need this, Brother.”

When all of the people had left, Ardeth would have hanged Fernell by his collar from a peg on the barn’s beams until he had his answers. But one of the dairymen approached, holding his hat and tugging on his forelock. “Pardon, Mr. Spotford, but would it be all right if I brung the cows back into the barn?” He jerked his head toward the door. “Devilish night out there for man or beast. Sure and the milk will be bad in the morning.”

The milk was bad enough tonight, Ardeth recalled, outraged all over again.

Spotford started to tell the man to go ahead and bring in the cows, then caught himself. “With your permission, Cousin.”

Ardeth nodded, not taking his eyes off Fernell, who was still teetering on his feet. Ardeth pushed him to sit on a bale of hay where the musicians had been standing, before the jackass could fall down. “Where have you been?”

“Why, to Bath, as I told the governor. Deuced boring place. Then I went to Wally Wintercross’s place for the shooting. Didn’t hit a thing. Meant to get here sooner, but there was a pretty barmaid at the Black Dog, and a cockfight in Upper Rutley.”