Maggie MacKeever (20 page)

* * * *

“Where the deuce is she?” Averil demanded, as family and guests gathered for the evening meal. “I’ve not set eyes on her all day.”

“Was Loveday not with you, Dillian?” Isolda asked, and was surprised to see a faint flush stain the girl’s cheeks.

“No,” Dillian replied.

“The household has been much diverted today,” sighed Isolda, who had taken the news of Dillian’s altered status with remarkable outward aplomb. Hilary’s reaction to that information had been overwhelmed merriment, although he refused to explain the joke; while Dorcas had been obviously chagrined. “She could have slipped away at any time.”

Jem had a sudden unpleasant suspicion. “Do you suppose Theo—”

Jasper shook his head. “He hadn’t time. If he already had the girl, why show himself here?”

“To divert suspicion from himself!” They exchanged a long and serious look.

“I think we should instigate inquiries,” Jasper said.

“After supper!” Isolda was firm. “Loveday can wait that long to be rescued from whatever scrape she’s fallen into now.”

“You will excuse me, Your Grace,” Jasper replied, with equal determination. “I find that I have quite lost my appetite.”

“I’ll go with you!” Dillian cried, and followed the men from the room.

It was not long before the household was again in a state of total chaos. Jem brought word from the stables that Loveday had ridden out early, but had returned. Dillian informed them that the riding habit was absent from her room, so Loveday could be presumed not to have changed.

“It ain’t like her at all,” Jem growled. “To be wandering about in all her dirt!” No one paid much heed to Dillian’s statement that Verdelet, too, had vanished.

The complete household staff turned out to aid in the frantic search, though their combined efforts did not prove to be particularly efficacious. Huffington, dispatched by his master to aid Twitching in a quest through the lower story, was too disturbed by the detested woman’s proximity to pay much heed to his task. As for Twitching, she was all a-twitter. Mrs. Snugglebutt assisted readily enough, mumbling charms and spells under her breath; but Samson was far too interested in the maids’ plump backsides to be of any practical use; and the cook firmly refused to step forth from her snug, safe kitchen.

It was Tarbath who proffered the first real clue, inadvertently enough, as it had been Tarbath who caused the
contretemps
earlier in the day. Fortunately, it was to quick Dillian whom he told his tale, for anyone else would have brushed him aside. Greatly unsettled by the astounding sight of an unconscious man sprawled across the castle’s timeworn doorstep, Tarbath had fled to the wine cellar, as was his custom. Instead of finding his usual succor there, however, this day he had been assaulted by the cries of a fiend from hell, and had accordingly fled.

Dillian waited to hear no more; she ran, calling for help. “The oubliette!” she cried, taking firm hold of Jem’s sleeve. “We must look in the oubliette. There’s a cellar entrance. Come with me!”

They descended to the cellars, well-armed with candles. Averil led the way, Jem and Dillian followed, and Jasper brought up the rear,

“It’s along here somewhere,” Averil muttered, as he prodded various sections of the wall.

“Here’s a candle!” Dillian rescued it from the floor.

Verdelet was heartily bored. He’d spent entirely too long in that damp place, cooped up with Loveday, a dead rat, and a moldering pile of bones. To even further the tedium, the wretched girl seemed to have fainted dead away. When his mistress’ voice came faintly to his ears, he uttered a loud and protesting wail.

“Verdelet!” Dillian exclaimed.

“Do you mean to tell me,” Averil demanded, pausing in his labors, “that you’ve brought us down here to search for that accursed cat?”

“Try not to be such a chowderhead!” Dillian snapped, astonishing all three men. “He didn’t get in there by himself.”

“Could this be what you’re looking for?” Jasper asked, casually pushing a jagged outcrop of stone.

Verdelet knew his duty: his mistress’ nearby presence assured him hope of immediate rescue, and he sat about briskly licking Loveday’s face with his sandpaper tongue. Thus, when the saviours peered into the darkness of the oubliette, the first thing they heard was Loveday’s voice.

“Why are you standing on me, you wretched creature?” she inquired irritably. “A normal cat would be dining in state on that accursed rat.” Verdelet purred.

“Loveday! Are you all right?”

Loveday peered at the opening several feet above her head. “My arm’s broken, I think. It hurts like the devil. Could you shine some light down here?”

Dillian quickly thrust her candle into the opening.

“Just as I suspected,” Loveday commented, casually inspecting the pathetic skeleton. “Averil, are you there?”

“Yes. We’ll have you safely rescued in just a few moments’ time.”

“I’m not concerned with that. Was your mother wearing a locket when she disappeared?”

“Why, yes,” Averil said, with some bewilderment. “I think she was. Why?”

“Well, then,” replied the unquenchable Miss Fairchild, “she didn’t run away at all.”

“What are you talking about?” Averil demanded irritably. “Has the fall addled your wits?”

“Not at all,” came the calm reply. “It’s hard to tell, but I believe her neck was broken. You see, she’s down here with me.”

Chapter 13

Isolda surveyed the sparkling ballroom with satisfaction. Originally the castle’s great hall, Isolda had seen to its transformation herself, many years ago when she first came to the castle as a bride.  Her first step had been to banish the open fire pit in the middle of the room. With the lavish, but judicious, introduction of marble, velvet, and crystal, a startling transformation had been effected. Rather than disguising the narrow, deep-set windows and the thick stone walls, Isolda had let them be, and the result was one of surprising charm.

The chamber had been long unused, and Isolda oversaw the housecleaning with a shrewish eye. Even Samson was prevailed upon to help with the activities, much to that worthy’s disgust; and his wife’s voice was hoarse from constant haranguement of her underlings. The outcome was admirable. Isolda glanced around her critically, then turned to go. All was in readiness for the
fete,
two days hence.

Dillian had tried to dissuade her, which only reinforced Isolda’s conviction that the chit was addlebrained. Cancel the festivities, after arrangements had been made and the invitations sent? Never! Particularly not for so paltry a reason as the mere wrenched arm Loveday had sustained as a result of her tumble into that wretched oubliette. Dillian seemed to harbor grave fears for Loveday’s safety, but Isolda placed little credence in tales of mysterious assailants; no doubt the chit had stumbled into the opening on her own.

Isolda had begun to suspect that Loveday was merely accident-prone. Such an explanation did not account for the dagger wound, but the girl could easily have inflicted that herself in an attempt to capture Averil’s attention. If so, the effort had been remarkably successful, though Isolda was somewhat piqued that Loveday hadn’t seen fit to confide in her. Silly chit, they were working toward the same end; Isolda could have furnished absolute volumes of practical advice. Ah well, the girl seemed to be doing well enough on her own. Averil was positively besotted, and if Loveday couldn’t bring him to the speaking point, Isolda had a scheme of her own.

She was not even certain that those long-ago deaths had been murder, despite her suspicions. Isolda had carefully considered each member of her household in turn, and none seemed a fit candidate for the killer’s role.

Isolda looked around the room, and sighed. Timothy’s presence would have comforted her greatly at that moment; the Black Duke would have welcomed the opportunity to oust the entire Assheton clan. She had not forgotten the scandal that arose when the Earl of Dorset, then plain Sylvester Assheton, had challenged her husband to a duel over some exquisite lightskirt; nor could she forget that the reckless Sylvester had been so impudent as to win. That defeat had been a sore blow to Timothy’s pride.  Faith, but Sylvester Assheton had been a fine figure of a man. Isolda had experienced an extremely unladylike envy for the fair charmer who had caused it all.

What if she was mistaken, though? What if those accidents weren’t accidents at all? Isolda didn’t care to dwell on that possibility, for if serious harm befell her unconventional guest, the blame could only rest upon herself.

She knew she was guilty of a grave error in announcing that Loveday had witnessed the murders; she should have denied the girl admittance to the castle for safety’s sake. There was her inheritance, though. Isolda could not bear to let such a handsome fortune slip through her fingers.

Something would have to be done about Jasper, too. He’d been looking positively glum of late. No doubt he found country life tediously uneventful. Isolda pondered the wisdom of asking Charmain to show a little more interest in Assheton, then decided against it. Charmain was a perverse creature, and altogether too shrewd. Isolda thought it best to keep her plans secret, for the moment.

She wondered what had become of Theo, for she knew he’d visited his estates, and her grandson had not seen fit to inform her of the arch-villain’s precipitate departure. Isolda was secretly disappointed; she’d expected a show of spirit on Theo’s part, and was extremely disgruntled that he had not seen fit to at least attempt an abduction. Open confrontation would doubtless have been much better, but Isolda had learned not to expect too much from her fellow man.

Then there was Dillian. Isolda had taken the startling news of the girl’s birth with apparent good grace, but she was nonetheless furious, and that anger spilled over to include Charles. It was just like the sentimental fool to play the pretty and want to provide for the girl. Isolda would have been better served had he denied all knowledge of the chit, for his generosity had removed Isolda’s only hold over Loveday. Seventeen years of hatred were not to be erased overnight; if anything, Isolda loathed Dillian even the more. The paltry creature did not deserve the largess that had been bestowed upon her.

Isolda had hoped that Charles’ family would make an angry protest, but to her great disgust they did not.

* * * *

Charles’s mother had done her work well; when her scapegoat son faced his irritable sire, that crotchety gentleman only demanded to know if his mulish offspring was such a fool as to wish to claim the girl. When Charles protested that he was not so bacon-brained as to wish to ruin himself, no more was said on that score, and his lordship actually went so far as to donate the use of a long dead, and extremely wealthy, brother who had been so obliging as to get himself mysteriously killed. Between the three of them, they had hatched a tale that would make Dillian acceptable to all but the highest of sticklers.

“What’s more,” said his lordship, eyeing his gouty leg from beneath bristling brows, “his money’s in trust and the income can go to the girl. I daresay I can secure the necessary documents.”

“Father!” Charles’ protest was laughingly delivered. “That smacks highly of the dishonest!” His father glared fondly at him.

“Fudge!” retorted his lordship. “He was a miserable rakehell, and my father tied up his share so that he could not ruin himself. The girl might as well have the use of it.”

“Also,” interrupted Charles’s mother gently, “Isolda may try to cause a scandal, if what you tell me about her feeling for the girl is true. With this action, we will insure that any such gossip must be thought shockingly untrue.”

“Aye,” agreed her husband. “Sour grapes.”

“And,” continued her ladyship, “the tale that was put around about her birth was to protect her. In case her father’s murderer wished to strike again.”

Charles gazed at his parents with something close to awe. “Bang up to the nines, the both of you!” he announced in unaccustomed praise, and departed.

* * * *

Isolda sighed. Charles had returned to the castle greatly pleased with himself, and bearing a gift for Dillian from her grandmother, a beautiful set of matched pearls worth a small fortune. Isolda supposed they considered that any offer to reimburse her for the expense and care she had lavished on the girl would be indignantly refused, but the funds were sorely needed. Few suspected that the Veres were not as affluent as they once had been; even Hilary believed Isolda to have a bottomless purse; but the sad fact was that Isolda had great need of Loveday’s fortune, for the family was living on credit.

One other problem confronted her: Loveday gave every indication of allowing the announcement of her betrothal to Jasper. Such a thing would pose difficulties, though none that were insurmountable. Isolda would have preferred a more tractable bride for her grandson, but none with a sufficient dowry had presented herself.

No matter, the chit would become obedient enough in time. In any event, Isolda had no intention of allowing her to depart without revealing the identity of that long-ago murderer. That Loveday knew, she had no doubt.

* * * *

Isolda was wrong; Loveday did not know, and nothing was further from her mind at that moment. For the first time in weeks, no trace of her would-be assassin was in her thoughts. She and Phyllida surveyed Tibby contemplatively.

“V-v-vinegar,” Tibby said.

“Vinegar?” Loveday repeated, with horror.

“Speak more slowly, and stop worrying about your stammer,” Phyllida instructed.

“I tried to drink it, but that did not serve,” Tibby enunciated clearly, “so then I began to pour it on my food.” She stared at them with wonder. “I didn’t s-s-stam-mer. Oh, d-damn!”

“Practice,” said Phyllida, “that’s what you need. What color is your gown?”

“Pink. Mrs. Merryweather likes p-pink.” Tibby’s manner clearly indicated that she did not share the housekeeper’s preference. “She’d be cross as a cat if she knew I was here.”

“Hmm,” said Phyllida.

“You see! Phyllida was right.” Tibby stared at Loveday blankly. “You didn’t stammer once during that last sentence because you weren’t thinking about it.”