Amanda Scott (5 page)

“And Michael trusted you!” she cried. “I trusted you! I thought matters here were in safe hands because you were here. But I was wrong, so wrong.” Folding suddenly into a chair, Margaret finally gave way completely to her tears, hiccuping and gasping, her face buried in her hands, her sides heaving with terrible, racking sobs, while Abberley, his ill-usage completely forgotten, stared at her in dismay.

“M
ARGET,” THE EARL SAID
gently, “please stop.” For a moment he stared at her helplessly, but when she continued to sob, making no effort to regain control of herself, he finally thrust a hand through his hair and moved toward her more purposefully. “Marget, that’s enough now,” he said firmly. When she gave no sign of having heard him, Abberley leaned down, grasped her by her shoulders, and gave her a shake.

Margaret hiccupped again, but her hands fell away from her eyes and she gazed accusingly at him through her tears. “Go away,” she muttered. “I don’t wish to talk to you anymore. You’re a beast, and a disgusting one at that. Go back to your brandy.”

Abberley straightened, grimacing slightly as if his head were still aching, but when he withdrew a large handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and handed it to her, his expression was stern. “Mop up, my girl, and mind your tongue. You’ve already tried my patience beyond what it would bear from anyone else. If you’ve a wish to be well smacked, just try me a bit further.”

“You wouldn’t.” She dabbed at her eyes with his handkerchief.

“I would,” he corrected, regarding her narrowly. “In a minute and with pleasure.” His lips tightened when her breast heaved with another sob and she began to twist the handkerchief between her fingers. “Give me that thing. You’re making a muck of a simple task, as usual. Come, stand up, because I’m damned if I’ll kneel at your feet, and anyone can see you need help. Up, Marget.”

Hauling her to her feet, he took the handkerchief from her and ruthlessly began drying her cheeks with it. She stood submissively enough, but from time to time there was still the suggestion of a sob, and despite the sophistication of her military-styled habit, she looked more like a bereaved child than a competent young woman. At the third heartbroken little sob, Abberley grabbed her shoulders again.

“Damn it, Marget, I won’t have this! You mustn’t. Please.” Suddenly, with a barely suppressed groan, he snapped his arms around her shoulders and hugged her to him so tightly she could scarcely breathe at all. But he, too, seemed to have trouble, for his next words were muffled. “Ah, Marget, little Marget, I’m sorry I failed you. I made a mess of things, but you should never have trusted me. I’m not worthy of your trust. I’m not a man to be depended upon, little girl, and that’s a fact.”

His words, or perhaps his tone, had the desired effect at last, and after a moment’s silence, Margaret murmured, “Adam, you’re suffocating me.” As she attempted to extricate herself, she realized that over the years she had forgotten how big and broad he was. And how strong he was. She wriggled again, but at the same time she experienced an odd reluctance to free herself from the confines of his embrace. Then, as suddenly as he had caught her up, he released her again, and she found herself regarding him somewhat uncertainly. “I must apologize,” she said, the words finding their way to her tongue with difficulty. “I don’t know what came over me. I quite thought I had no tears left.”

“You’ve stored up rather a number of tears, I think,” he said quietly, keeping his hands tightly at his sides. “The only time I’ve ever seen you cry before was after your mother died.”

Margaret took a deep breath and stepped a little away from him, finding his nearness overpowering. “Fancy your remembering that.” she said. Self-consciously, she blew her nose, then attempted a tiny smile. “You found me in the beech-wood thicket that day.”

He nodded, still watching her closely. “We’d all been searching for you for hours. I remember it was spring and you were in a grassy little meadow surrounded by elder flowers, sobbing your heart out.”

“You told me the flowers would die from overwatering,” she reminded him.

“I was a lout even then. I ought to have held you and comforted you. After all, you were a little girl whose mother had just died. What age were you? Nine, you must have been nine, because Michael and I entered Oxford at Michaelmas term that year.”

“I don’t think I’d have responded as well to mollycoddling as I did to worrying about the elder flowers or to your promise of a ride on Falconer if I dried my tears. Do you remember Falconer?”

“Of course I do. A huge roan gelding, a gift from my father, and one of the finest hunters I ever had in my stables.”

“What happened to him?”

“Pneumonia, two winters ago,” he said, looking away, then moving abruptly to stir the fire. “He had gotten beyond hunting, but I liked him.”

Margaret was silent, watching him, her tears forgotten. The room was quite warm now and heavy with the familiar scent of wood smoke. The fire didn’t need his attention, and she wondered what he was thinking. No matter how much he had cared for the old horse, she couldn’t believe he was reliving sorrow over Falconer’s death. His attitude sprang from something else, something deeper, and she wanted to touch him, somehow to comfort him, but she could not bring herself to do so. Her own feelings were unfamiliar, and she wasn’t by any means certain she wanted to sort them out. No doubt, she told herself, she was merely suffering some strange aftereffects of her emotional storm.

When Abberley turned back to her from the fire, his face clear of any particular expression, she was convinced she had been imagining things. He looked only as if he were attempting to determine if she was entirely recovered or not.

She straightened her shoulders. “I am truly sorry to have subjected you to such a scene,” she said. “It was patently unfair of me to blame you for anything that has happened.”

“No,” he replied, giving her look for look. “You had every right to expect more from me. I assumed that Lady Caldecourt and your cousin had everything in hand, but you used the word
usurped
a moment ago. Do you mind explaining that more clearly?”

Margaret felt warmth invade her cheeks as she recalled that she had said a great many more things to him—had shouted them at him, in fact, in a very unladylike fashion. She could not meet his eyes for a moment until her memory provided her with a sharp vision of the way he had looked when she first entered the bookroom. Squaring her shoulders again, she fought down her blushes and shot a glare at him from under her lashes.

“Perhaps I had better sit down,” she said. “I daresay there is a good deal you do not know.”

Abberley chuckled. The sound rolled forth and seemed to fill the air. His dark-blue eyes sparkled and his white teeth gleamed when he grinned at her. “Ah, Marget, you haven’t changed. Not a jot. I can still tell what you are thinking just by heeding the changing expressions on your face. No sooner did you begin to remember some of the very rude things you shouted at me and to be properly ashamed of yourself than you also remembered why you lost your temper in the first place.” His expression gentled and he took a step toward her. When he didn’t take another, Margaret felt a surge of disappointment. His chuckle had stirred a host of good memories and a glow of warmth besides. She smiled at him, but he didn’t smile back. His expression was serious again. “Foolish girl,” he said, “you’ve no need to be ashamed. I do not doubt that I deserved to hear every word and more. But please explain about your aunt—that is, Lady Annis—and that counter-coxcomb son of hers. I was given to understand that they had taken charge of young Timothy and assumed they had the right to do so, that Michael had specified such an arrangement in his will.”

“Michael left no will.”

“Nonsense, of course he did.”

Margaret’s eyes lit with hope. “Were you a witness to it, Adam?”

“No, but I assumed that was because I was mentioned in it somehow. He’d always said … But that is of no consequence now,” he amended with a shrug. “Look here, do you want a glass of ratafia or some wine? I could certainly do with—”

“Nothing, thank you,” she interrupted tartly. “You don’t need anything either, Adam. You’ve got to help me.”

“All right,” he conceded, taking a seat not in the Chippendale chair but in another nearer the window, “but you can have no notion what that concoction of Pudd’s did to my insides. I need a settler.”

“Then ring for tea if you must.”

“Tea! Lord, I don’t drink tea. Doubt if there’s a tea leaf in the house unless Pudd springs for a bit for his missus now and again when he’s feeling flush.”

“For his rib, you mean?”

Abberley chuckled again. “She’d fetch him a good clip on the ear if she knew he’d said that to you.”

Margaret awarded the sally a slight smile, but her thoughts had wandered again. “Adam, if Michael had drawn up a will, where would he have kept it?”

“Either in the library or in the estate office,” he answered promptly. “I’d plump for that big oak desk of his in the library.”

“Would he have hidden it? Is there a secret drawer or a false bottom or something in that desk?”

“No, I’m certain Michael would have told me of any such device.”

“Perhaps it was a family secret, handed only from father to son, and he hadn’t handed it on to Timothy yet.”

Abberley grinned at her. “Michael still would have told me, and I’m quite certain there was no such thing, because we do have something of that nature here at the hall, and he knew about it and said only that the notion was an archaic one and foolish to boot.”

“Here?” Margaret was diverted. “What sort of secret?”

“Just a tricky panel in the master bedroom. One of the ancient Abberleys back of beyond had it installed, learned the trick, then did away with the fellow who contrived it.”

“Dear me, what a charming ancestor. Is his portrait in the gallery?”

“No, he was the second Baron Abberley, the one in the drawing-room tapestry, clutching at all the jewels round his neck. He was a friend of Brother John’s while King Richard—the lionhearted one—was off enjoying his crusade. One of our wealthier ancestors. He built the first bit of the pile here, this bit, as a matter of fact, though it’s been renovated a time or two since then.”

“I know the gentleman you mean,” Margaret said. “All jewels and duck feet. But your great grandmother stitched that tapestry, I thought.”

“Right, but she copied it from an ancient example that was falling apart,” he said. “I’m glad you noted the duck feet. In the original, the baron’s ankles were crossed, as they are on his tomb, but Great-grandmama knew for a fact that he’d never set foot on any crusade, so she made the correction.”

Margaret laughed. “Aunt Celeste has told me about your great-grandmother before, of course, but she never told me that tale. Still, even though the baron wasn’t a nice man, I don’t think you ought to have told Michael about the secret panel.”

“Didn’t. My father showed both of us. He agreed with Michael, you see, that more than one person should know about any secret of that nature, lest the secret be lost. After all, if the family jewels were kept there, it might make matters a trifle awkward for any heir who hadn’t yet been told the secret. That’s why I’m certain Michael would have told me of any odd hiding place he might have had.”

“But, Adam, he must have written a will.”

“Of course he did. Like as not, your charming relatives discovered that it didn’t benefit them quite so much as they’d anticipated and destroyed it, hoping for better treatment from the House of Lords.”

Margaret stared at him, knowing he had just voiced thoughts she hadn’t wanted even to formulate. “Would they dare?”

He shrugged. “Others have. Did you write to Jensen?”

“Jensen?”

“Michael’s solicitor in London. Marjory died there, after all, and Michael must have had a number of legal matters to contend with afterward. Stands to reason he’d have turned everything over to Jensen. The man would at least know if a new will was drawn up at the time.”

Margaret gave a sigh of relief. “Of course. I did know he’d employed someone in London, but I had forgotten he and Marjory were still in town when she died. I was in Vienna by then, you know.”

“I know. I thought you would come home.”

“When Michael wrote to tell us of her death, he said not to come, that there was nothing we could do. I should have done so anyway, perhaps, but I wasn’t really ready to face England again so soon.” When Abberley didn’t say anything, she returned to the subject of Mr. Jensen. “I meant to ride into Royston today to speak with Mr. Swift, in any case. I shall ask him to go to London at once.”

Abberley straightened in his chair. “I’ll attend to it for you. I can go and be back before Swift—who, despite his name, is no speedier than any other man of law—gets his papers organized. I’ve a notion I ought to have looked into the matter before now. It just never occurred to me that Lady Annis or Jordan Caldecourt would play at ducks and drakes where young Timothy’s fortune is concerned.”

Margaret’s eyes lit. “Would you, really? Oh, Adam, I should be so grateful if you would attend to the matter. Only …” She regarded him doubtfully.

“I know. I said you mustn’t depend upon me. And ordinarily you mustn’t, Marget. I’ll only let you down. But I’ll fix this business for you, you can count on me for that much.” He got to his feet. “It’s the very least I can do.”

She thought he looked tired. One light-brown lock had fallen forward over one bushy eyebrow, giving him a rakish look. She considered the thought. No doubt he was a rake, at that. She had heard such things said of him more than once, and certainly his name had never been linked to any female’s for longer than a month or so, which no doubt would explain Lady Annis’s self-righteous sniffs and knowing looks. Margaret knew from his expression now that he was going to send her away, and she didn’t want to leave. She wanted to speak to Mrs. Puddephatt to make sure he would get a nourishing dinner, and she wanted to warn Puddephatt himself to hide the brandy. But she had no right to do either, so she smiled at Abberley and let him help her from her chair.