The Lady of Secrets (20 page)

She had not gone far down the garden path, when Blackwood called after her, “Mistress Wolfe. Wait.”

Meg ignored him and kept on going, but he came after her and seized hold of her arm. Meg stiffened, “Let go of me. You are wreaking havoc with my sleeve and trampling Sir Patrick’s asters.”

Blackwood spared a glance down at his boots. “Oh, blast Graham and his tidy little garden. Every time I am here, I want to snatch up a trowel and dig up the borders, let the flowers run wild as nature intended, like heather on a hill.”

Meg started to nod, but checked herself, unwilling to concede that she could possibly agree with Blackwood on anything. She glared until he released her.

“I did not intend to sound so curt just now,” he said. “I spoke out of concern for you as much anything else. It is not wise for a woman to go about dispensing medicine.”

“Surely many women in England do so. Is it not considered part of a woman’s duty to know how to tend the ailments of her household?”

“Yes, her own family and servants, but she would hardly saunter about the country, attending to strangers. Here in London, even midwives must obtain a license from the bishop before aiding women in their confinements.

“If your potions should ever fail, you could so easily be charged with witchcraft.”

“Do you not think I know that? It is a risk I have run all my life,” Meg said, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. “The same danger any wise woman faces. Let but one patient die, and whether it is our fault or not, we could find ourselves facing the hangman’s noose whereas you doctors could destroy an entire village with impunity.”

“Not an entire village, just a small household or two. Kill off more than that and one’s practice would likely decline.”

Meg’s lips twitched, but she refused to allow him to provoke her into smiling.

“Forgive me,” he coaxed, his eyes softening. “You know I can never remain serious about anything for long. It is a fatal flaw in my character. If I have offended you, I am sorry.”

His unexpected apology took Meg aback, defusing her anger.

“I am sorry as well,” she said. “I did not mean to insult you either.”

“Good. Then pray, allow me to fix your sleeve.”

Meg noticed that her right sleeve had come partially unhooked. Before she could object, Blackwood stepped closer
to refasten it. He worked the hooks every bit as deftly as Seraphine had done. The man appeared far too familiar with the intricacies of feminine dress.

It was not an opportune moment to recall Seraphine’s opinion of what a good lover Blackwood would make. Meg caught herself staring at his hands, large, strong, with long fingers. It would not be difficult to imagine those hands caressing …

Meg squirmed, cutting off the thought and averting her gaze. To ease her embarrassment, Meg jested. “You are quite good at that, Dr. Blackwood. If your medical practice fails, you might find employment as a lady’s maid.”

“I doubt that. I am more adroit at undressing a woman, a skill most ladies’ husbands find objectionable.”

He did up the last hook and stepped back, his gaze raking over her. “There. You look … beautiful.”

Meg gave a wry laugh.

“That is not the sort of reaction a man hopes for when he pays a lady a compliment.”

“I could not help it. You sounded so surprised and I remember you telling me you did not think me handsome. Although you did allow that I was
almost pretty
when I smiled.”

“Ah, but mistress, you are smiling.”

Meg realized that she was. She schooled her features into a more sober expression. “You are merely dazzled by the gown, which is quite lovely.”

Blackwood paced around her in a slow circle, studying her from every angle. “No, I don’t think I like the gown. It is an unfortunate color for you. Blue would look better on Madame la Comtesse.”

“Whereas a woman as plain as myself should wear nothing but brown or gray.”

“You should wear green, a deep forest shade to match your eyes, or a deep gold brocade that would draw attention to your hair, those hints of auburn that catch the sunlight.”

“Oh.” Meg was accustomed to Blackwood’s blunt honesty and teasing remarks. She would never have expected a compliment that sounded genuine. He was looking at her the way most men stared at Seraphine. The realization left her feeling flustered.

“Is that what you would prefer?” she asked.

“What I would prefer is to see you garbed in a great deal less.”

When Meg gasped, his eyes widened in an expression of feigned innocence. “I only meant you should get rid of that farthingale. I cannot imagine who invented such an infernal device, some sour-faced virgin or dour puritan no doubt. All that cursed whalebone cage does is keep a man at a distance.”

Despite Blackwood’s complaint, he still managed to stand quite close, tracing one knuckle along her cheek.

“I do approve of the way the comtesse has arranged your hair, pulling it back from your face.”

“You consider that an improvement.”

“Aye, it makes it so much easier to kiss you.”

Heat simmered in his eyes, his intention writ clear upon his face as Blackwood leaned closer. Seraphine’s words echoed through Meg’s mind.

“Choose someone whose lovemaking does not inspire such adjectives as warm, comfortable, and very pleasant. Blackwood should be your man.”

Meg did not want or need a man. Yet she could not summon the will to move. Her heart beat faster as she awaited his kiss.

He paused, his mouth a breath from hers. Blackwood sighed and drew back, gathering up her hands.

An expression of rare seriousness settled over his features. “You will be careful today, Margaret.”

It was the first time he had ever used her name, and the way he pronounced it was unexpectedly grave and sweet.

“Y-yes,” she stammered, confused and surprised that he had not kissed her, even more surprised by her disappointment. “I am always prudent.”

“No, you aren’t or you would have stayed on Faire Isle. King James may strike you as being crude and even a bit of a fool, but he is very shrewd. He is a weak man, but that only makes him dangerous. There is no one more treacherous than a coward. You should also be wary of the king’s little beagle. He has been known to bite.”

Blackwood squeezed her hands. “And you should be careful with Graham as well.”

“Sir Patrick?” Meg asked in astonishment. Was Blackwood warning her against his good friend?

Blackwood hesitated as though struggling with himself before he went on, choosing his words with great care. “Graham is a good man except when he is blinded by his zeal. He suffered a tragedy in his youth that affected him deeply, shaped the man he has become. He—”

But whatever else Blackwood intended to say was checked by the arrival of Sir Patrick himself. Graham entered the garden, pulling up short at the sight of them.

Blackwood dropped her hands and stepped away from her, but not, Meg feared, before Sir Patrick had seen, though she hardly knew why that should matter. Blackwood looked self-conscious, although he made a swift recovery.

“Graham.” He greeted his friend after his usual offhand fashion.

“Blackwood,” Sir Patrick returned curtly. He bowed to Meg with none of his usual courtesy, his gaze taking in her new gown. Although he made no remark upon her altered appearance, Graham seemed far from pleased. As he turned back to his friend, she detected a spark of anger in Graham’s eyes.

“What brings you here at such an early hour?” he demanded. “I thought you never bestirred yourself much before noon.”

“Occasionally I manage. I came to bring Chalmers a remedy for his stones, but since he prefers Mistress Wolfe’s potion to my lice, I have packed my little friends away and was on the verge of returning home.”

“One moment if you please.” Sir Patrick turned toward Meg, forcing a stiff smile to his lips. “Mistress Wolfe, if you will excuse us, I need to have a private word with Dr. Blackwood.”

The tension between the two men was so palpable, Meg felt reluctant to leave. But other than defying Sir Patrick’s request, she had little choice. She curtsied to both men, but it was Blackwood’s gaze that she met. His eyes seemed to reach out to her before he looked away.

As Meg walked toward the house, Blackwood tried to not stare after her and failed. She was learning to manage those higher-heeled shoes, her retreat graceful and dignified.

A half-smile touched his lips. Strange, but when Meg wore her simple dresses and serviceable boots, she exuded a quiet confidence. Trussed up in that fancy gown, she appeared uncertain, vulnerable, and somehow younger, arousing in him a fierce protectiveness.

He didn’t want to feel such tenderness any more than he wanted this confrontation with Graham. But there seemed to be no way of avoiding either.

As soon as Meg was out of sight, Graham rounded on him. “What are you doing here, Blackwood? And don’t give me any nonsense about an urgent need to fetch lice to Chalmers. You could have sent the remedy with that boy you usually engage to run your errands.”

“Tom was nowhere to be found this morning. Besides, do I require an excuse to call upon you now?”

“You did not come to call upon me. You came to see
her
and after you promised to stay away.”

“I don’t recall that I exactly
promised.
”

“You agreed it would be for the best.”

“Mayhap I did, but if I do feel a certain interest in Mistress Wolfe, I don’t know why it concerns you to such a degree. You might deplore my amorous pursuits, but you have never sought to interfere.”

“Mistress Wolfe is far different from one of your doxies. She is a guest in my household, under my protection.”

“And do you mean to protect her?”

To Blackwood’s unease, Graham avoided the question. Instead he fired back one of his own. “Have you been enchanted by her?”

The question was so ridiculous Blackwood laughed. But Graham was obviously quite serious.

“I am glad you find the idea amusing because I don’t,” he said. “I have never seen you regard any woman as tenderly as you do her. I fear you are in danger of being bewitched by her.”

“You’re daft.”

“I hope so. Margaret Wolfe may call herself a healer, but
she admits to knowledge of white magic and she is a confessed pagan. To become enamored of such a woman would imperil your immortal soul.”

“My soul?” Blackwood could not help but laugh again. “We both know I am well on the road to hell.” He sobered as he added, “But I never wanted you marching alongside me. Graham, whatever you are conspiring, I beg you to stop.”

A haunted look shadowed Graham’s face. “I can’t.”

“You mean you won’t, even if you endanger Margaret Wolfe and destroy yourself in the process.”

“Sacrifices are often necessary when one acts in the name of God and justice.”

“Justice! I hate it when you turn sanctimonious. At least be honest with yourself and acknowledge your plot for what it is.”

“What would that be?”

“Revenge.”

A muscle worked in Graham’s cheek, his only response to the accusation. “I must collect Mistress Wolfe and be off to Whitehall. It would not do to keep the king waiting. Your servant, Blackwood.”

Graham accorded him a curt bow before striding toward the house. Blackwood suppressed the urge to charge after him and try to thrash some sense into the man. It would do no good. That steely glint had sparked in Graham’s eyes, that fanatical expression Blackwood so hated.

Blackwood strode off in the opposite direction, angry at Graham for being so obdurate, at Meg for not having the sense to stay on Faire Isle, and at the king for … far too many reasons.

Most of all Blackwood was angry at himself because all he wanted to do was return home and drown in strong
drink. When had he turned into such a worthless piece of dung?

As he stalked past the apple tree, he caught sight of something glittering on the ground. He drew up short for a closer look.

“What the devil?” He bent down and retrieved the strange object, a white rose frosted with something so silvery, it sparkled in the sunlight. Blackwood had never seen the like.

He studied it as he let himself out the garden gate. The flower pricked his thumb and he swore. The rose’s thorns were as sharp as the tip of a knife.

Blackwood fumbled in his purse and produced a handkerchief in which he carefully enfolded the flower. His thumb was bleeding and he sucked at the tip of it, to stop the flow.

He had never seen a flower as perfectly formed as the silver rose. It was beautiful, but so unnatural, it filled him with unease. Who could have created such a thing? Not Chalmers, that was certain. He was a good gardener, but hardly a clever man and not given to any sort of grafting or experimentation.

Chalmers had said that Meg had been helping him in the garden. Far more likely the rose was something of her fashioning, but for what purpose? Did it have some extraordinary healing properties? Then why would she have been so careless as to drop it? All good questions that Blackwood needed to ask her. It would give him a marvelous excuse to see her again.

The woman has you bewitched.
Graham’s accusation resounded through his mind.

Nonsense, Blackwood wanted to sneer. But he could not help reflecting that perhaps Graham was not the only one being less than honest with himself.

“God’s blood,” he muttered. “I need a drink.”

As he strode away, he never noticed the old woman observing him from a safe distance.

As the woman watched Blackwood making off with the precious silver rose, she quivered with anger, banging the tip of her cane on the ground.

“Damn, damn,
damn
!”

She whirled and headed in the opposite direction, her youthful steps belying any need for a cane. Her white wig itched something dreadful, and the first thing Amy did when she joined her sister was snatch the hairpiece from her head.

“Well, how did it go?” Bea asked.

“The test failed,” Amy cried.

Bea rolled her eyes. “I might have known you would bungle it. I should have gone myself.”

“You couldn’t have done any better! It was all going well enough. The lady spied me in the garden and I am sure she must have seen me drop the rose.