Amanda Scott (17 page)

Maggie’s tears were forgotten, and her quaking knees threatened to buckle altogether when she realized where the conversation was leading. Rothwell was too shrewd. Having ascertained at once that he was unaware of Charles Stewart’s presence at the masquerade, she had not thought she would have to defend herself against anything more felonious than attending a masked ball in a suspected Jacobite’s home, but it was clear now that he suspected more, and for that she had no one to blame but herself and her own hasty tongue.

Hoping to divert his thoughts, even if it meant subjecting herself to another tirade, she said, “I cannot tell you the whole truth, sir, and if that causes you to wash your hands of me, I shall understand. Indeed, and I do not know why you brought me back here to Rothwell House at all, when you might just as easily have left me with my friends.”

“Your friends,” he said, and his tone was arctic now, “would most likely have refused to keep you. I can assure you that, mask or no mask, I was recognized by more than one person I passed in that house, and if you can look me in the eye and tell me that your so-called friends would welcome you back knowing I have any interest in you whatever, you are either a greater fool or a greater liar than I believe you to be; which,” he added grimly, “would put you well beyond the realm of most fools and liars. You are self-serving, reckless, and stupid, Miss MacDrumin. Your friends would have to be even more dim-witted to keep you in their midst, for you have far too great a tendency to speak and act without thinking to be of use to any self-respecting conspiracy. Now, go to bed before I lose my temper altogether. You badly want thrashing, my girl.”

Turning away quickly so that he would not know he had succeeded at last in making her cry, Maggie had her hand on the door handle when the icy drawl she was rapidly learning both to fear and to detest came again. “Before you take it into your head to try to run away, you had better know that I will give orders at once for my servants to prevent your stepping a foot outside this house without my express permission.”

Maggie fled blindly, tears streaming down her cheeks, no longer caring if anyone saw her. When she reached her own room, she gave way at last to all the pent-up anxiety and tension of the past week and flung herself onto the bed to cry her eyes out. Though she did not once think of Lydia’s suggestion to visit her bedchamber, or even of her small triumph in deflecting Rothwell’s thoughts from such details of the masquerade as were guaranteed to infuriate him even more, it was long before her tears stopped flowing and even longer before she slept.

R
OTHWELL DID NOT SLEEP WELL
that night either. Not only did his mind’s eye persist in presenting him with a picture of Miss MacDrumin’s chalk-white face as it had looked while he spoke his mind to her, but he wondered what she was attempting to hide from him and devoutly hoped he had not made a grave mistake.

His conscience was pricking him badly, because for once in his life he had put personal, rather inexplicable motives ahead of duty when he had failed to tell Ryder that he knew (or, to be more exact,
suspected
he knew) where a certain masquerade was most likely being held. And while he could congratulate himself for not having caused the descent of government agents upon a party at which his own sister happened to be a guest, he was unable to console his conscience with that fact for the simple reason that he had not for a moment suspected that she would be.

He had, however, suspected that Miss MacDrumin might somehow contrive to be there. That was why, when Ryder had received an urgent message at Drury Lane Theater, informing him that a Jacobite meeting was taking place that very night at some unnamed location under cover of a masquerade, Rothwell had not instantly told the Attorney General that he had for some days been harboring beneath his very roof a suspected Jacobite with friends in Essex Street to whom she seemed anxious to present herself.

Instead, taking base advantage of Ryder’s departure for his office to launch a city-wide search for a ball bearing the presently unfashionable look of a masquerade, and knowing he had little time before they found it, Rothwell had gone straight to Ryder’s own flat, conveniently nearby in Wych Street, to secure a domino and loo mask. Since Ryder had been particularly fond of masquerades before the demise of their popularity, Rothwell had succeeded in this effort by the simple expedient of demanding that his friend’s servant instantly produce the required items.

Well aware that Ryder would soon learn of his impudence, he decided it would be beneficial for him to obtain any information he could before then, and it occurred to him that no matter how much Miss MacDrumin had deserved castigation, he might have done better to have treated her more gently. But though she would be even more guarded with him now than before, he still hoped he could exploit her impulsive tongue to gain the information he sought. Even then, the best he could hope for was to lessen Ryder’s anger, since no information would be enough to keep him from demanding to know why Rothwell had not apprised him of Miss MacDrumin’s Jacobite connections the instant he learned of them.

Rothwell was not certain himself why he had not, and he wondered why it had not so much as crossed his mind to leave her in Essex Street when he had found her there. The plain fact, despite what he had told her, was that the thought had not even entered his head. As the long night passed and he still could not sleep, he tried to convince himself that he had instantly realized that she would be an excellent source of information.

He did sleep at last, but it was still early when he arose the next morning. He attended morning prayer service in the chapel at the north end of the Privy Garden, had a solitary breakfast, and then retired to his library to deal with matters of business. His half-sister was not an early riser, and he knew she would linger in bed until Lady Rothwell rousted her out to attend chapel at eleven o’clock, but he was in no hurry to confront Lydia. That scene would be an unpleasant one, and he had not yet decided how he intended to punish her.

Hearing all three ladies leave the house shortly before eleven, he realized his servants had assumed that his order did not include preventing his guest from attending church, and hoped she would not give his stepmother the slip. Deciding to deal with Lydia as soon as they returned, he tried to fix his attention on his work. Fifteen minutes later Fields announced Sir Dudley Ryder, who strode into the library, looking grim.

Warily, Rothwell stood to shake his hand, then waved him to a chair near the fire and sat down again at his desk. Ryder refused refreshment and waited only until Fields had gone before saying tersely, “He’s here, Ned, in London.”

“Charles?”

“Aye. The blasted scoundrel inspected the Tower of London defenses yesterday and is said to have remarked that the main gate could be blown in by a petard! And this morning he had the temerity to attend church in order to be formally received into the Church of England. And him with a Catholic cardinal for a brother! The whole business would be laughable if it weren’t so damned maddening.”

“Straighten your wig,” Rothwell said, thinking quickly. “I cannot talk to a man who looks demented. Where is he now?”

“Good lack, if I knew that, don’t you think I’d have had him in irons by now?” But Ryder obediently straightened his wig, and his tone was calmer when he added, “He’s committed treason, Ned, but for all the fear he shows, he must think us no more dangerous than a gaggle of geese. He’s taunting us, and there’s little I can do about it. Do you recall the message that took me from the play last night? He is said to have
danced
at that damned masquerade, as indifferent to his peril as any man could be.”

A cold chill struck Rothwell as a number of things suddenly became blindingly clear to him, and even as he decided to have one damned little Jacobite’s head on a platter, he realized that Charles Stewart’s presence at the masquerade rendered Lydia’s attendance there more dangerous to her than ever. He had cause, yet again, to be grateful for his skill at masking his feelings, for he was able to keep his tone matter-of-fact, even slightly amused, when he said, “I’d not have thought Charlie the type to enjoy disporting himself dressed as a harlequin or some such thing. Are you quite certain he was present?”

Ryder nodded glumly, stretching his legs out and crossing his ankles. He smothered a yawn and said, “Our best fellow—the one I told you about—tumbled to it late in the day. Got wind of a Jacobite masquerade but evidently did not know the location or that the Pretender would be there. When he discovered the ball was at Lady Primrose’s house, he went to have a look first, knowing it would be such a crush that he could do so without causing much ado amongst his own set. As soon as he saw Charles, he sent word to us of course, but even so, we were too late. My lads found only her ladyship and a few lingering guests, all feigning innocence, but Lady Primrose was so nervous that one of my lads said he expected her to expire. Guilty as they come, of course, but not a man present would speak against her.”

“Not even your own?” Rothwell was thinking furiously.

Ryder grimaced. “As I said before, I haven’t a notion who he is. He may well have been one of those who lingered at the scene, but I wouldn’t know him if we met. As to whether he’d agree to stand up in a court of law and speak against a member of the
beau monde
is more than I can say. After all, he’s got to be one of them himself, don’t you think?”

“Judging by the information you receive, yes. A servant could not know such details.”

“My thinking, precisely. At all events, he is out of the inner circle at the moment and professes to have no idea where the Pretender is staying. We know he is not in Essex Street, for I’ve had the entire street watched since midnight.”

Rothwell was watching Ryder narrowly to see if there was the least hint in his expression of knowledge he did not want to share. He clearly had not heard yet that Rothwell had been in Essex Street, but he might have learned about Lydia’s presence. Though not certain his friend would shield her from his displeasure, he knew Ryder harbored at least a tenderness for Lydia and thought it might be enough to stir him to protect her. He would certainly expect Rothwell’s temper to ignite at the slightest whisper of her presence at a Jacobite ball. But he could discern no uneasiness in Ryder’s demeanor. Though the Attorney General looked tired and frustrated, he did not look as if he harbored guilty knowledge.

“Have you had any sleep at all?” Rothwell asked.

“Three hours on a dashed uncomfortable sofa in my office. I’ve got my lads out sweeping the streets, but I doubt they’ll turn Charles up under a cobblestone. That man’s got more bolt holes than a philandering hedgehog.” He yawned again. “Came to see if you’d come out and dine with me. I don’t want to go home. It is not my nature to sit and stew, but I know I shan’t get anything of worth accomplished there, and although I’m well nigh dead on my feet, I doubt I’ll sleep for hours yet.”

“I cannot go out, but you are welcome to stay and dine with us,” Rothwell said, deciding it would be better to keep Ryder under his eye and away from Wych Street until he had had more time to think. “My stepmother likes to dine early on Sundays, so dinner will be served at two. Will that suit you?” When Ryder nodded, he got up to fetch a pack of cards and added, “We can play a few hands of piquet in the meantime.”

Ryder seemed able to keep his mind on the game, but Rothwell’s thoughts kept drifting and he played badly. Certain now that he had misjudged the incident of the previous evening, and had blamed Miss MacDrumin for one thing when she had actually been guilty of something much more serious, he wanted very much to find that young woman at once and shake her until her pretty teeth rattled. He remembered his resolution, however, as well as his obligation to Ryder and knew it would do no good to berate her if berating only made her button her lips.

He began to doubt now that she would tell him anything of value anyway, for he realized that if she had known all along that Charles Stewart meant to attend the masquerade, she had betrayed none of that knowledge; and, despite her apparent habit of allowing her thoughts to spill freely and without check from her brain to her tongue, she had not said a word to arouse his suspicion, or Lydia’s either. He could not for a moment imagine his garrulous sister keeping such news to herself. Nor could he imagine her keeping silent for long about having been present at a ball graced by the notorious Bonnie Prince Charlie. Whatever else he might forgive Miss MacDrumin, he would not forgive her for taking Lydia there. That thought, however, triggered an instant mental vision of what her difficulties with Lydia had been, and he could almost sympathize with her—almost, but not quite, for his imagination next presented him with a vision of the likely scenes he faced when he informed Lydia and his stepmother that he had decided to send them home.

So preoccupied did he become with these thoughts and the necessity to keep at least a portion of his mind on the game that when the door to the library opened and Lydia peeped in, looking contrite and most alluring in a sack dress of flower-striped silk over a moderate, fan-shaped hoop, it took him a moment even to recall that he had told her he wanted to speak with her.

“Oh,” she said, quickly assuming a more formal demeanor and making a swift but graceful curtsy to Ryder, “I expected to find you alone, Ned. How do you do, Sir Dudley?”

As Ryder leapt to his feet to make his bow, Rothwell said, “We can talk later, my dear. Ryder is staying to dine with us.”

“Oh, lovely,” she said, flirting with Ryder over her fan. “I daresay that since we are to enjoy your company, sir, I must run upstairs and tidy myself.” And with that, she was gone.

Rothwell tried to return his attention to his cards but again failed to concentrate, allowing Ryder to win not only that hand but the two that followed. Thus, although he had not yet decided how to handle his half-sister, let alone his guest or the confession he still owed to his friend, he greeted his butler’s announcement that dinner was served with profound relief.