Amanda Scott (13 page)

“But that part is quite easy,” Lydia assured her. “Tilda frequently carries messages for me, and she can just as easily arrange to take one for you. Getting oneself out of the house is the difficult part, particularly since Ned said he would punish me most severely if I did any such thing again after the last time,” she added with a mischievous twinkle.

Maggie grimaced. “I daresay I ought not to allow you to help me at all,” she said.

“’Pon rep, of course I will help you, but only if you promise to take me to the masquerade.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Maggie said, truly alarmed. “I certainly will do no such thing.”

“You must,” Lydia said complacently. “You cannot manage to get there yourself without my help.”

Maggie stared at her in consternation, trying to think of an argument that might sway her. Finally she said rather weakly, “You said even you cannot evade your brother’s all-seeing eyes.”

“Piffle. To meet real supporters of the true king, I would sell my soul. It is only necessary for us to scheme a little, and the first thing is to get a message to your friends.”

Hoping that once she had engaged Lady Primrose’s assistance, Lydia’s would be unnecessary, Maggie agreed, and sending the message proved to be as easy as Lydia had promised; however, the reply, instead of promising the necessary assistance, begged her to stay away from Essex Street at all cost, since she had so unfortunately drawn the notice of the Earl of Rothwell. The message was couched in such terms as must have bewildered anyone intercepting it, but to Maggie it was perfectly clear, and quite unacceptable. She had set out to meet the prince, carrying messages assuring him of the support of his Highlanders, but it was not only to deliver these that she felt obliged to meet him. She wanted to make certain he understood the dire straits in which his Highland followers now found themselves.

That her plans might involve Lydia she could not like. Not only did she wish to keep the girl away from Essex Street for her own sake, but Maggie was afraid of Rothwell’s reaction if he were to discover that she had taken his sister to a masquerade. She had seen a good deal of the earl in the few days since her arrival, and though he seemed disinclined to speak to her, she was very much aware of his presence. More than once she had caught his gaze upon her, and when it was warmly approving, she was grateful, but when she saw him looking bored or a stern, she found herself instantly hoping he would not discover her intent.

He had said nothing as yet about her future, and she was glad, for the last thing she wanted to hear was that he had arranged to send her home. That first night he had commanded his stepmama to escort her and Lydia the following day to the silk warehouses in Bedford Street, where they had selected fabrics to be taken to Lady Rothwell’s mantua maker. Lady Rothwell’s woman accompanied them, so there had been no opportunity to slip away, although, in truth, Maggie had no wish to do so. The fashions had changed considerably since her last visit to Edinburgh, and while she remained under the elegantly attired Rothwell’s roof, she had no wish to look like a country dowdy, and thus had been extremely grateful when the first gowns were delivered on Monday.

Throughout the course of these busy days her mind was fully engaged in seeking a way by which she might attend the ball herself without Lydia’s company. Knowing she could not simply wait until Saturday and hope that whatever plan she made might succeed, she decided to make a practice attempt as soon as possible, but the first real opportunity did not present itself until Wednesday afternoon.

The earl had gone out shortly after breakfast, intending to spend the day in Westminster, and when the dowager ordered her carriage to take herself and Lydia into Mayfair to pay calls, Maggie enlisted Tilda’s help. Donning one of Lydia’s capes and a pair of new kid gloves, and with the maid at her side, she strode determinedly to the Privy Garden entrance and informed the footman on duty there that she and Tilda were going to a nearby shop to purchase ribbons for one of her new gowns.

The young man looked a trifle disconcerted, but in the face of her confident air, he moved to open the door.

“One moment, Miss MacDrumin.”

Starting and barely stifling a sigh of exasperation, Maggie turned. “I thought you had gone out, Rothwell. Tilda and I were just going to purchase a few ribbons. Lydia said we might find some at one of the shops in Whitehall Yard.”

He nodded as if in agreement but gestured languidly toward the open door of his library. “Step in here a moment, if you will. I daresay I can direct you to a better shop than Lydia’s.”

His demeanor was that of an amiable fop offering assistance on a matter of dress, and though Maggie was not deceived for a moment, with a glance at the footman, she capitulated. “Go back upstairs, Tilda. I shan’t want you after all.”

“Yes, miss,” Tilda said, turning quickly away.

Striding to the center of the library and waiting only until she heard the door shut behind her, Maggie said without turning, “I suppose you think—”

“Never mind what I think,” Rothwell said, sounding much closer than she had expected. “You do not want to hear it.”

Turning, she found that he was quite near—so near, in fact that she had to look up to see his face—and thus she became aware of a delicate spicy scent before she saw that he was looking stern. The flintlike look that she had seen only once before was in his eyes again, and his voice was hard when he said, “I believed I had made my orders plain, but in the event that you somehow managed to misunderstand them, you are not to leave this house without a proper escort, which does not include my sister’s doltish maidservant.”

Maggie stiffened at his tone but could not help taking a step backward. To cover her confusion, she took a deep breath, glared at him, and stripped off her kid gloves. Then, turning away toward the cheerfully crackling fire in the hooded white marble fireplace, and holding out her hands in the hope that he would believe she sought only the fire’s warmth, and not an escape from his disturbing closeness, she said over her shoulder, “You presume too much, sir. I am grateful for your protection, but I do not require your guidance. I am quite capable of deciding where I shall go and with whom.”

“One hesitates to contradict a lady, of course,” he said smoothly, “but the difficulties that brought you here prove quite conclusively that you are mistaken in that belief. I should dislike having to command my servants to prevent your leaving the house without my permission, but if you force me to it, that is precisely what I will do. London is a dangerous place, and since you refuse to promise that you will not associate with the many Jacobites in residence here, you leave me little choice.”

Turning sharply, she snapped, “How dare you treat me like a prisoner, Rothwell!”

Seeing his lips twitch with amusement did nothing to quell her rising temper, but when he spoke, his tone was controlled. “I assure you, you are no prisoner. You may come and go as you choose, so long as you are with my stepmother or with Lydia and at least one stalwart footman. That is no more or less than the protection I provide to every female residing in this house. Even maidservants are expected to go in pairs or to request male escort before venturing into the public streets, for as you have discovered, the streets are not safe for unescorted females.”

“Tilda was to go with me,” Maggie said, gritting her teeth.

“Yes, but you are not a maidservant. Ladies of the house do not stir from its bounds without the escort of at least one or even two footmen. If you tell my stepmother that you wish to shop for ribbons, she will no doubt order her coach out for you, and perhaps Lydia will also wish to go.”

In the face of this eminently reasonable and altogether maddening speech, Maggie was left with no recourse other than to submit with as much grace as she could muster. Blocked at every other gate, feeling she had no choice but to enlist Lydia’s help, Maggie fully expected that young woman to be indignant when she learned that she had attempted to proceed without her.

But Lydia, hearing her tale of woe, only chuckled and said, “I told you to leave it to me, you know, but no doubt I am to blame for your lack of success. Oh, don’t poker up like that. I said nothing to Ned, but he has had so much experience putting obstacles in my path when I wish to do things of which he does not approve that for him to deal with you is no doubt child’s play by comparison. Look here, do you think perhaps your friends might come to fetch us by barge?”

Maggie turned to look out the window. They were in Lydia’s bedchamber, overlooking the Privy Garden courtyard. “They dare not come here,” she said. “I did not tell you before, but they fear being brought to your brother’s notice.”

“They have cause,” Lydia said. “He is determined to help German George keep the Stewarts from recovering the throne of England. But we shan’t let him stop us. Let me think.”

Maggie was amused to see that Lydia had apparently fallen into a brown study, but she still felt uncomfortable allowing the girl to lend assistance. Had the confrontation with Rothwell not convinced her she would be a fool to make any other attempt to leave the house without help from someone experienced in defying him, she would not do it. It was wrong to encourage Lydia to go against Rothwell’s wishes, and no doubt just as wrong to allow her to mix with Jacobites when her family opposed their cause.

That thought brought another, even more unpalatable, on its heels. Could Lydia’s presence at the ball endanger the prince? A moment’s thought was enough to dismiss the notion. What purpose was there in holding a masquerade, especially when such diversions were out of fashion and favor, if not to provide concealment for all who attended? Prince Charles Edward Stewart need reveal himself to no one outside the inner circle. No doubt there would be others among the guests as unsuspecting of his presence as Lydia would be. And as for any danger to Lydia herself, the chit would be as safe at a Jacobite ball as she was anywhere else in London. None would dare to harm Rothwell’s sister. Her mind made up at last, Maggie said quietly, “Is there really a way we can elude your brother’s protection, Lydia?”

“Oh, to be sure,” she replied airily, “when I truly wish to get out, Ned never knows a thing about it. I allow him to catch me often enough that he thinks he has me utterly under his thumb, but when I wish to escape him, I can certainly do so.”

“And you never get caught unless you want him to catch you?”

“Oh, no,” Lydia said. Then, encountering Maggie’s skeptical gaze, she blushed and said, “Well, not usually. I confess, there has been an occasion or two that I would as lief not discuss, but if it means a chance for me to meet real London Jacobites, I promise you we shall not be caught.”

Maggie was still doubtful. She had learned enough about Rothwell’s beautiful half-sister to know she was capable of saying, even believing, whatever would serve her interest best, but if the information she had received before coming to London held true, his highness was already in the city—and there were only three days left before Lady Primrose’s masquerade ball.

As if Lydia had somehow intercepted her thoughts, she said abruptly, “It was foolish of you to arouse Ned’s suspicions by attempting to slip out today, for now he will be doubly watchful, and if he should catch us, he will be most unpleasant about it.”

Maggie said, “You really ought not to go with me, you know. It is quite unnecessary for both of us to risk his wrath.”

“Piffle. Of course, I shall go with you. Now,” she said, cutting off Maggie’s next protest, “getting out on a Saturday evening is not so difficult even at this time of year, for there is always a party of some sort somewhere, but I believe this week Mama intends to take us to an insipid soiree at Lady Portland’s. We cannot allow that, since the party will be a small one and we shall be entirely too noticeable to slip away. Moreover, Mama expects James to go with us, on account of Lady Portland’s niece being such an heiress.”

“Goodness, Lydia, I could not be party to allowing you to slip away from your mama at the Countess of Portland’s house.”

“No, did I not just say that would never answer? Now, hush, and let me give this more thought. Tis the greatest of pities that you stirred Ned’s mistrust.”

“I’m excessively sorry,” Maggie said, meaning every word.

“Lud, do not repine,” Lydia said. “You could not have known how fatal your actions might be.”

“Hardly fatal,” Maggie said dryly.

“Yes, fatal, for it utterly killed most of the opportunities we might have created for ourselves. ’Pon rep, I believe our only chance now rests upon the sacrifice of another.”

“Sacrifice? Lydia, what on earth are you talking about? I won’t allow you to sacrifice anyone.”

“See here, Maggie, you cannot continually be putting up obstructions if I am to get us to that masquerade. You do absolutely wish to go, do you not?”

“Yes,” Maggie said contritely. “I beg your pardon.”

“Very well, then I fear we must use Oliver—Ned’s bargeman, you know—and the reason I call that a sacrifice is that Ned said that if I managed to twist Oliver round my thumb just once more, he would turn him off without a character.”

“But then—”

“We shan’t get caught, Maggie, and even if we do, Oliver won’t be cast off. I daresay Ned meant it at the time, but he is very fair about things, usually, and I do not think he will really turn the poor man off if he should chance to discover that he helped us. He will know it was all my doing, not Oliver’s.”

Maggie felt strongly that she had mixed a brew that was rapidly boiling out of control, but her determination to attend the masquerade was too great for her to quibble even over such details as sacrificing Oliver, and she realized that if she had to have Lydia’s company, they would both be a great deal safer with Rothwell’s brawny young bargeman than in one of the public barges or a hackney coach. If worse came to worst, she could always plead the man’s case with Rothwell herself and say that, between them, she and Lydia had overcome Oliver’s better judgment.

Saturday, September 19, 1750