Amanda Scott (4 page)

Margaret slipped from her saddle unaided at the stone steps sweeping up to the entrance, which was set under a broad, stone portico. She tossed her reins to the stoic groom.

“Go round to the stables, Trimby. I don’t know how long I shall be, but I expect someone will be there to direct you and give you a mug of something hot.”

The groom nodded, doubtful but obedient, and Margaret hurried up the steps to bang the heavy brass knocker. The house had a deserted air, and she had the feeling that if anyone were going to answer her summons, he would have to come up from the nether regions to do so. Thus, she nearly jumped out of her skin when the door was pulled open while she still had her hand on the knocker.

“Miss Margaret!” The neat, wiry man who stood there regarded her in amazement. “We thought … that is, Mr. Maitland was given to understand … that is, well, we’re right glad to see you’ve come home, miss.”

“Good morning, Pudd. I am very glad to be back, but news must travel a good deal more slowly than it did before I left Hertfordshire. I arrived at the manor last night and was certain you would have received word of it by now.”

“No, miss.” Puddephatt did not explain. Nor did he stand aside to let her pass.

“Pudd, it is chilly out here,” she said pointedly.

“Yes, miss. Was you meaning to leave a message?”

“No, I was not,” Margaret replied, speaking more sharply. “I wish to speak to his lordship. And not before time, either,” she added with a sweeping gesture that included the overgrown lawn, the weeds, and the leggy, sprawling borders. “Whatever is he about to have let his servants neglect the place so?”

“There’s pretty near only me and the rib left, Miss Margaret. So long as he gets fed and don’t have to answer the door, he don’t much care about nothing else.”

“Then, he is here,” Margaret said, certain the little man must be exaggerating.

Puddephatt hesitated. “Aye, miss, like as not.”

“Well, for heaven’s sake, take me to him, or tell him I am here.”

Nervously the wiry man glanced over his shoulder toward a pair of tall oak doors in the near side of the ancient stone hall. “I’m thinking that it wouldn’t be wise, Miss Margaret. I’ll tell him you was here and that you be wishful to see him. More than that I shouldn’t like to undertake.”

Margaret looked hard at the manservant. She had known him since her childhood when he was a mere footman who could be counted upon to produce lumps of sugar for her to give her pony or to warn young mischiefmakers when to play least in sight. Now he looked careworn and rather anxious. She hadn’t missed the quick glance over his shoulder either.

“His lordship is in his bookroom, is he not?”

“Aye, miss,” he said unhappily, “but I daren’t announce you. ’Twouldn’t be fittin’ for you to see him just now.”

“Fustian,” said Lady Celeste’s grandniece. “Stand aside. You needn’t announce me at all. I’ve not the slightest notion of what’s what with his precious lordship that he isn’t even of a mind to be civil, but I assure you I mean to see him now, at this very moment, and not at his convenience.”

“Miss Margaret, no!” But Puddephatt might as well have spared his breath, for she pushed past him, crossed the stone floor of the hall with quick, angry steps and pulled open the doors to the bookroom.

Adam Fortescue, sixth Earl of Abberley—all six feet, three inches of him—lay sprawled in a tattered leather chair before a cold fireplace, snoring harshly, his light-brown hair more tousled than Margaret could remember ever having seen it before. But even before she had had time to register the sight fully, her nostrils were assaulted by the aroma of stale brandy fumes wafting through the air.

“Merciful heavens, Puddephatt,” she exclaimed, wrinkling her nose, “how long has his lordship enjoyed this disgusting condition?”

“Nigh onto three months or so, miss,” was the quiet reply.

Margaret stared at the manservant. “You’re jesting!” He shook his head. “You are saying he has been like this since Sir Michael’s death?”

“Aye, miss. Took it right hard, he did.”

“But the land, this place …” She waved her hand in an all-encompassing gesture. “All this decay didn’t set in over a period of a mere two months.”

Puddephatt shook his head. “His lordship lost interest in estate management some time ago. Preferred London, the social scene, gaming, women—that is, parties and the like. When Sir Michael and Lady Caldecourt took you to London, you’ll remember that he went down, too. But then you went off to Foreign Parts, and when her ladyship died in childbed soon after, Sir Michael withdrew into himself a bit. Not that he and the master weren’t still close. They were. But Sir Michael busied himself with estate business, and the master began to care less about matters here and to go about even more than he had before, to house parties and such. He was hunting in Leicestershire when Sir Michael took ill and died. We sent word to him as soon as Sir Michael went sick, and he only just made it home in time for the funeral, on account of the warm spell we’d had went cold again, and the vicar wasn’t wishful to risk the ground freezing solid. A full bottle of brandy his lordship had that night, and it’s been much the same ever since.”

Margaret nodded, then looked back at the figure sprawled in the chair near the fireplace, his booted feet splayed far apart on the faded green-and-purple Aubusson carpet. Drawing in a long breath, she braced her shoulders resolutely, then spoke without turning her head.

“Fetch me a bottle of porter, a basin of cold water, and a cloth, Pudd. At once, if you please.”

He nodded and went to do her bidding, soon returning with the bottle of that beverage best known for its excellent restorative powers under his arm, and the cloth over it. He held the basin in his two hands with an earthenware mug hooked over one finger beneath it. As he entered, Margaret was attempting to restore life to the fire.

“I’ll attend to that, miss,” he said, handing her the basin and cloth, and setting bottle and mug on a nearby table next to an empty brandy bottle.

Margaret watched Puddephatt move swiftly to the hearth, then turned her attention to Abberley. On closer inspection she saw distinct ravages of dissipation. His once-handsome face was pale, and crow’s feet twitched at his eyes and mouth as he snored. There was likewise an unhealthy puffiness under the eyes, while a red-gold stubble around his lower cheeks and chin testified to the fact that he had not allowed himself to be shaved that day, nor possibly the day before. His neckcloth had become disarranged, and she noted that his linen—once a matter of great pride with him—was dingy. A sudden flash of anger overcame her at this last observation, and with scarcely a thought toward reason or consequence, she upended the basin of cold water over his lordship’s tousled head.

Puddephatt’s gasp of dismay was lost entirely as his lordship came sputtering to an upright position in the shabby chair and struggled unsuccessfully to get to his feet.

“What the bloody—” He dashed water from his brow with the back of his sleeve and saw Margaret standing over him, her eyes flashing, her arms akimbo. “Marget, what the devil are you doing here?”

“Attempting to bring you to your senses, my lord,” she said tartly. “Please do not attempt to rise on my account. You appear to be in no condition to attend to the civilities.”

“Civilities be damned,” he muttered wrathfully. “If I could get to my feet, it would be for the sheer pleasure of throttling you. I don’t suppose you stopped to consider that the Aubusson will scarcely be improved by a wetting. Or this chair—one of Chippendale’s masterpieces, my father always said.”

“Well, Mr. Chippendale would scarcely be pleased to see how little you’ve cared for his masterpiece,” she retorted, “and your precious Aubusson has seen many a better day as well.”

“M’lord,” said Puddephatt hesitantly, picking up the brandy bottle and bending to find the glass, which had somehow managed to roll under his lordship’s chair, “I’ve taken the liberty of pouring out a mug of porter—”

“Well, pour it back again or drink it yourself, man, and fetch me another bottle of the brandy. Lord knows, I need something stronger than porter to sustain the shock of Miss Caldecourt’s assault on my person. Yes,” he added, looking morosely down upon his sodden state, “
and
to ward off pneumonia, I’m thinking.”

“Fustian,” said Miss Caldecourt. “You’ll drink that porter and like it, my lord. Go away, Pudd. His lordship has no further need of your services at present.”

“The devil he hasn’t,” growled Abberley, stopping the manservant midstride. “His lordship, may heaven help him, has the most urgent need of a dry shirt and coat at the very least, so hop to it, man, and don’t forget the brandy!” Absentmindedly, he swigged from the mug of porter, frowned at the unfamiliar taste, then swigged again, eyeing Margaret malevolently over the mug’s rim. “Thought you were fixed in Vienna,” he muttered after a brief silence.

Having taken advantage of that silence to glare at Puddephatt in such a way as to make clear that it would be at peril of his own life if he were to bring his master that bottle of brandy, she turned her direct gaze once more upon his lordship. “Surely you knew I would return as soon as I had word of Michael’s death?”

“Had it from Maitland that you wouldn’t.”

“The vicar?”

Abberley nodded, then winced. “Aye, daresay he had it from that sour-faced aunt of yours.”

“She is
not
my aunt. Merely Uncle Stephen’s wife—more’s the pity. Adam, you must collect yourself. I need your help.”

“Not my help, you don’t,” he said more to the mug of porter than to her. “My help’s not worth sixpence. Not worth tuppence, come to that. Not worth …” But words failed him. He could suggest nothing further that his help was not worth.

Margaret, staring at him as though at a stranger, felt the need of a chair. A trifle dazed, she reached behind her until she located the mate to the one Abberley sat in, and sank down upon it. He had made no further attempt to rise despite the fact that she was certain he must be sitting in a puddle. Nor did he speak, and since he had never before refused to help her out of a scrape, she could think of nothing further to say to him. Thus it was with a feeling of unmixed relief that she greeted Puddephatt’s return a few moments later.

He entered the room quietly, carrying a pile of clothing over his arm and a bottle in his hand. Margaret noted with dismay that it was a brandy bottle exactly like the one he had carried away moments earlier. She opened her mouth in angry protest, but before she could voice the words leaping to her tongue, Puddephatt put a finger to his lips. Since it was the hand holding the bottle, the gesture was nearly lost, but Margaret understood his intent and kept silent. He set the bottle down beside Abberley.

“There ye be, m’lord.”

“Ah, bless you, man.” Ignoring the fact that his man had neglected to provide him with a fresh glass, Abberley fell upon the bottle and drank thirstily, swallowing almost convulsively several times before a black look crossed his face and he snapped the bottle to arm’s length, glaring at it accusingly. “What the devil is this?” he demanded. Puddephatt was silent, watching him in a wary but measuring way. Scarcely a half minute passed before what little color was left in his lordship’s face drained away. “Oh, my God, Pudd, what’ve you done?” he muttered, setting the bottle down hard upon the table and attempting once more, this time with a look of desperation, to get to his feet.

Puddephatt snatched up the basin from the floor where Margaret had put it after dousing the earl, and said quickly over his shoulder, “If ye’r not wishful t’see ’im cast up ’is accounts, Miss Margaret, ye’d best wait a bit in the front hall.”

Margaret fled.

In the hall she found herself remembering Abberley as he had been in better times, a young man given to the airs, graces, and general fastidiousness of a dandy. He had not gone so far as to employ one glovemaker to cut the thumbs and another to make the rest of his gloves as had the most famous dandy of them all, Mr. George Bryan Brummell, who was now—for his sins—a permanent resident on the Continent, but she had rarely seen Abberley before with an unstarched neckcloth or linen that was not immaculate. Indeed, she had hitherto scarcely ever seen him with a hair out of place or without that air of confidence he had been wont to wear so casually. What had brought him to this pass?

Her thoughts had produced no acceptable answer to the question before Puddephatt finally emerged from the bookroom, the basin in his hands discreetly covered by a pile of discarded clothing.

“He’ll see you now, Miss Margaret,” he said, for all the world, she thought, as though nothing remarkable had occurred.

“Whatever was in that bottle, Puddephatt?”

“Oh, just a bit of this and that,” replied the manservant cryptically. “He’s a mite weakish and not in the best of tempers,” he added, “but he’ll do now—for the moment, anyway.”

Hoping that his pessimism with regard to Abberley’s temper was misplaced, Margaret entered the bookroom once more to find the window open wide to a chilly breeze, the fire burning determinedly upon the hearth, and his lordship looking paler than ever but more presentable. He glowered at her when she stepped past him to close the windows, the brisk breeze having already cleared the air sufficiently for her comfort.

“Haven’t changed, have you?” he growled. “Still tossing the cat among the pigeons whenever the mood strikes you.”

She turned from the window, glaring right back at him, and retorted, “At least I don’t fail when all that is needed is a spot of resolution.”

“Meaning that I did, I suppose.” He looked away as if he could no longer meet her eyes. “I expect you’re right about that. I certainly failed Michael when he needed me most.”

“Failed him! How did you fail him?”

“By not being here when he needed me, of course,” he replied as if she ought to have known the answer.

Resentment welled within her. How dared he? By what right did he take that particular blame unto himself? “Is that a fact?” she demanded, moving angrily toward him. “You think you were responsible for his death, so you drown your stupid sorrows in a hundred brandy bottles and let the world around you go to rack and ruin!” Suddenly the tears she had long since decided she could not shed for Michael’s death spilled down her cheeks in rivers, but attempting to ignore them, she continued to rip up at Abberley, calling him every insulting name she could think of and accusing him, among other things, of encouraging Lady Annis and her despicable son to usurp control of Caldecourt Manor from its rightful heir.