Amanda Scott (51 page)

The dowager looked dismayed. “Oh, how vexatious! You are perfectly right, but ’tis a pity to waste it when it is so dreadfully dear. I don’t suppose …” She paused hopefully.

Rothwell sighed and held out his hand to take the cup. “Very well, ma’am. James insists that it improves the taste, so do not throw it out, I beg you. I am sure I would feel guilty for weeks if I were to make you do something so extravagant.”

“Yes, you would,” Lydia said, grinning at him. “She would make sure that you did.”

“I am sure I should do nothing of the kind,” the dowager said so archly that Maggie was certain that had she held a fan instead of a dish of tea, she would have flirted with him over its folds. Such behavior seemed odd, but when the dowager went on at once to inquire if Scottish customs were as peculiar as she had heard they were, she bristled at once, deciding Lady Rothwell was merely being rude and annoying, and nothing more.

Conversation lagged after that, even Lydia finding it difficult to infuse cheerfulness into what seemed to be an attempt on the dowager’s part to put Maggie firmly in her place. Rothwell, rather than putting an end to such tactics, seemed only to respond to questions as they were put to him, and Maggie began to wonder if he was feeling quite the thing. It did not seem like him to let his stepmother enjoy such a free rein.

When Frederick entered a few moments later and moved as if to speak quietly to the earl, the dowager said, “What is it, Frederick? Have James and Dr. Brockelby, or Sir Dudley, arrived? You ought to have shown them in at once. A family party like this one can be just too dull for words.”

Maggie agreed with her, and Lydia’s expression made it plain that she did, too, so neither expressed surprise when Rothwell said, “Yes, what is it, Frederick? It cannot be Master James, for he would have come straight in, but if you are keeping Sir Dudley kicking his heels in the hall, I won’t thank you for it.”

“No, my lord. It is a pair of … of persons, sir, who desire to have speech with you. That is, they actually demanded speech with Lady Lydia, my lord, but knowing what was right, which they clearly did not, I told them I would announce their presence to you, sir, which I would have done without—”

“Yes, yes, Frederick,” the dowager said, “but since you have now whetted our curiosity, you must bring these persons who inquired for Lady Lydia straight in here. Sit where you are, Rothwell,” she added when he began to get up. “You may think you call the tune, sir, but where my daughter is concerned, I demand to know what is going forward. Show them in at once, Frederick.”

The footman glanced at Rothwell, who nodded wearily. Maggie, looking narrowly at the earl, was certain now that he was not himself. Not only was it unlike him to allow his stepmother to order things as she chose, but Maggie was sure his countenance was paler than it had been only moments before.

The two men who entered a short time later in the footman’s wake were plainly not gentlemen. In fact, Maggie realized, even before the taller of the two announced that they were agents of the law, that they looked very much like the constable’s watchman she had met her first day in London.

Lydia gasped and looked frightened. The dowager looked down her nose at the pair and said only, “Indeed?”

Rothwell said in an expressionless tone, “State your business.”

“Yes, your lordship. I was about to do that very thing, your lordship. In point of fact, your lordship, we have come to question one Lady Lydia Carsley, having it on good authority that the young lady was one of those present at a most dubious event, consorting—if I may take such liberty to say so—with most suspicious persons, and we have been sent to discover what she can tell us about that event, and those persons.”

Maggie’s mouth felt dry, but despite her own fears she saw that the dowager, too, was becoming increasingly alarmed.

Lydia said indignantly, “I do not know who you are that you dare to question me, but I have no objection to telling you that I don’t know what in the world you are talking about.”

“About a masquerade, miss, at a house in Essex Street known to have been visited by Jacobites.” He said the last word in much the same tone, Maggie thought, as he might have said
vipers
or
messengers of Satan.

The dowager’s posture was upright at all times, but upon hearing these words she stiffened like a poker and said in outraged tones, “You dare to accuse my daughter of consorting with … with—Get out at once! Rothwell, I demand that you prevent this outrage.”

“They only want to ask questions, Mama,” Lydia said. “I am sure I shall be happy to answer them. I have already said I know nothing at all to tell them, and that is the plain truth.”

“Well, of course it is the truth,” the dowager said angrily. “How can you possibly know anything about a masquerade in Essex Street of all places. You have attended no masquerades except for the ridotto at Ranelagh last evening.”

“Well, in point of fact, ma’am, I
was
at the party in Essex Street, but my presence was completely innocent, I assure you.”

“You!” Lady Rothwell leapt to her feet and pointed dramatically at Maggie. “You are to blame for this. How dare you try to lure my daughter into your treasonous endeavors! This is the one you want, my good man. This woman is Scottish! Her father is a Highland chief who no doubt led his men against our valiant English soldiers in that traitorous uprising, and she is no more than a branch from the same family tree. If there is a Jacobite in this room, it is she, not my innocent daughter!”

Maggie, shocked to her toes by the accusation, for she had not expected even Lady Rothwell to attempt so blatantly to throw her to the wolves, arose as if she had been a puppet on strings, staring at the dowager in astounded disbelief. She barely felt the hand that gripped her arm or heard the spokesman say, “You’ll be coming along with us for questioning, young woman, and if your answers ain’t satisfactory, we’ll know what to do next. Ain’t been no female Jacobites hanged as yet, but far as I knows it, being female don’t save no one from the noose.”

“No!” Rothwell, aroused to fury at last, leapt to his feet, took a step toward the man daring to lay hands on Maggie, and collapsed to the floor.

“My God,” shrieked Lady Rothwell, clasping her hands to her bosom, “the wicked Jacobites have poisoned the Earl of Rothwell!”

M
AGGIE TRIED TO RUN
to Rothwell, but the taller constable caught her by the arm, saying harshly, “Oh, no, you don’t, wench, not when you’re the one most likely responsible for his collapse. I don’t say it’s poison, mind you—not without the doctor says so—but it can’t do any man no good to learn he’s harbored a spy in his house, let alone a high and mighty lord like that’un. You just come along with us now.”

“But he needs help!” she cried. “Oh, Lydia, send someone at once to find James, or send for Dr. Brockelby.”

“But what is wrong?” Lydia demanded. “Ned is never sick.”

“Don’t chatter! Just go at once and send Frederick to—Oh, thank God!” she exclaimed when, trying yet again to jerk away from the constable’s clutches if only long enough to ring for the footman, she saw the door from the stair hall open and James appear on the threshold. “James, Edward’s sick again!”

“What the devil?” James demanded. Then, evidently just at that moment seeing Rothwell lying in a crumpled heap on the floor, he turned and cried, “Brockelby, in here. Quickly, man!”

Hearing a gasp from the dowager, Maggie saw at once that she was looking gray, and remembering the dreadful accusation the woman had made against her, wondered if something might actually have been in the tea that would make them all ill. That thought stimulated a second, more terrifying one, and when the constable, still keeping a tight grip on her arm, began to pull her toward the doorway, she said urgently, “James, listen to me!”

But he was speaking to a stout gentleman in a red coat, who she realized with profound relief must be Dr. Brockelby. Not only did he carry the gold-headed cane of his profession but when he doffed his hat upon entering the room, Maggie saw that Frederick, entering behind him and reaching to take it, handed him a black leather satchel. James glanced at her when she called to him again, but his attention was divided between the fallen Rothwell and the doctor, and he said, “One moment, Maggie. Let Brockelby have a look at Ned first. And get all these extra people out of here, will you?”

“We’ll just do as the man says, wench,” the constable said, pulling her aside so the doctor could pass them. “His lordship’s in need of a doctor, and he don’t need the likes of you lingering about. You come along with me, like I said, and we’ll get you all sorted out in a pig’s whisper.”

“But you don’t understand!” she cried.

Lydia, hearing her, leapt up and ran to her side. “Let her go, you fool. This is my brother’s wife you are manhandling. She is the Countess of Rothwell. Unhand her, I say.”

“A likely tale, that be,” declared the constable. “Now, don’t you go a-worritin’ me or spinning me no tales about his lordship taking up with the Scotch, for I’ll not believe a word of it, my lady. You’ve already gone and cost us a deal of trouble, and I’ve a notion I ought to be asking you a lot more questions, but since his lordship has fell by the wayside, so to speak, I’ll just be a-taking of this Scotch wench along to the magistrate’s office until I’ve spoke with them what sent me.

“Now, look here,” Lydia began, but Maggie, terrified for Rothwell, cut her off.

“Lydia, forget about me. I will come to no harm. But tell James about the sugar in Edward’s tea, and tell him I’m certain now the other times were not accidents. Promise me you will tell him that, Lydia, and don’t let anyone but James or the doctor give Edward anything to eat or drink! I … I think …” But she could not speak the horrid thought aloud, not to Lydia, who looked at her now as if she were crazed, not even to James. She could only pray that between them James and Brockelby would save Rothwell. Taking a last look over her shoulder at the tableau she was leaving behind, misting now beyond a curtain of tears, she saw that Lady Rothwell stood as stiff and still as though she had been carved out of stone, and she hoped that Brockelby, who looked more like another aristocratic fop than any doctor she had ever seen, was no more a fop than Rothwell was and knew as much about his business as James thought he did.

Making no further protest lest she merely delay them in helping Rothwell, she let the two constables take her through the stair hall to the entrance hall, past curious, whispering servants, and out the door to the courtyard, where a shabby coach awaited them. Making no effort to stem the tears now streaming down her cheeks, blindly allowing the men to take her to their coach, she forced her mind to focus on prayers for Rothwell’s recovery and on reassuring herself that she could trust James, that no matter what, both James and Lydia cared more about Rothwell than either had revealed when she first met them, that they loved him almost as much as she did. They would not let him die. As she was hustled into the shabby coach, she recited to herself like a litany that Lydia would tell James about the sugar, James would tell Brockelby what had happened on the road, and Brockelby would know exactly what to do to save the earl.

She required no lengthy reflection now to know who must be responsible for Rothwell’s illnesses. Remembering that Maria had carried lotions and distillations given to her by the dowager, and that Chelton had seemed to control his wife with an iron fist, she remembered as well that Maria had once offered to give her laudanum, telling her she kept it to use for pain. Maggie had thought at the time that Maria used the stuff to ease pain caused by Chelton’s rough handling, but she wondered now if the opiate had also come from Lady Rothwell.

Whatever the cause of Rothwell’s present illness, she had no doubt now that he had been poisoned and no doubt who had poisoned him. Remembering that James had dismissed the possibility of the Cheltons being involved because they had shown no inclination to murder the earl before, she realized now that neither James nor she had considered that the Cheltons might have been acting for their mistress. Lady Rothwell had no doubt wished to take advantage of a chance to eliminate the earl in such a way that others would be blamed, to pave the way for her darling James to take his place.

Sitting stiffly against the tattered upholstery, shifting a little to make room for the larger constable to sit beside her, and moving her feet to let the second man take the seat opposite them, she tried otherwise to ignore the two men, telling herself she was not afraid. Indeed, she hoped she was not concerned about herself at all, only about Rothwell, for whatever came to her, the most important thing was that he must not die. He would do what he could for her when he was well again, and even if he did not survive—a thought too dreadful to contemplate—Lydia would surely enlist the aid of Sir Dudley Ryder; although, of course, the possibility did exist that everyone at Rothwell London House would by then be too distraught by the death of its master even to remember her existence.

The possibility also existed that Lydia would think it silly to tell James about Rothwell getting sugar in his tea. Maggie wished she had been more specific in her accusations; however, there was also a chance—a remote one, she hoped—that James and Lydia both were more selfish than she thought they were, that James desired wealth and position enough to allow his half-brother to die. As the coach began to move and she found herself wondering what MacDrumin would do if she were in fact actually hanged as a Jacobite, she recognized in that maudlin thought, if not in the ones preceding it, an increasing tendency to fall into a pit of despondency. Ruthlessly forcing all such notions out of her mind, she began to collect her wits.

The coach lurched forward, and the horses pulling it were urged at once to a smart trot, so that when the driver was forced to rein them in quickly to avoid running into a chaise being driven through the gate from the Privy Garden as they approached, the passengers had to grab what they could to keep from being thrown to the floor. Maggie, clutching the window frame, looked out as the smaller vehicle swept by and found herself staring into the astonished countenance of Sir Dudley Ryder.