The Duke's Bedeviled Bride (Royal Pains Book 2) (10 page)

To my long-lost daughter,
 

I was apprised of the circumstances of your birth too late to make contact during your recent visit to Holyroodhouse Palace or, rest assured, I should have taken steps to do so at once. Believe me when I tell you that you have long been missed by your father. ’Twould please me exceedingly if you would consider visiting me in Edinburgh when next you are in the capital. My brother appointed me Lord High Commissioner of Scotland and seated me at Holyroodhouse to oversee governmental affairs. In the meantime, let me hear from you and be assured I shall always be very kind to you.

Your affectionate father,

James

Maggie heaved a mordant sigh. ’Twas a better letter than she had a right to expect, yet she remained unmoved. The duke’s shameless whoring disgusted her. To acknowledge him as her father would be misconstrued as approval of his licentious ways.
 

As she set down the letter, the sight of Mrs. McQueen looming over her gave her heart a jolt. She’d been so caught up in reading, she’d not heard the housekeeper come into the room. The dourness on the woman’s usually cheerful face told her at once something was amiss.

“What is it, Mrs. McQueen?”
 

“I’m sorry to trouble you, m’lady, but the marchioness left instructions with her maid to have a bath drawn and waiting upon her return from the ride.”

Maggie furrowed her brow. “How is that a problem?”

“Normally, ’twould not be, but she’s insisted upon bathing in her bedchamber.”

Maggie and Robert took their baths in the kitchen behind a screen. Juliette was quartered on the second floor—a considerable inconvenience to the servants who had to haul pitcher after pitcher of boiling water up the narrow and winding servant’s staircase.

“I still see no problem,” Maggie said crossly. “Be grateful we’ve not housed her in the tower room.”

“I am indeed,” the housekeeper returned. “Most grateful. But, at the same time, I fear the lady is exceedingly spoiled—and has no qualm about inconveniencing the whole household to secure her every comfort.”

Maggie heaved a sigh. She hoped Mrs. McQueen was wrong and Juliette would quickly adapt to their simple way of life. “The lady is accustomed to the luxuries at the court of Versailles. While we are in no position to compete, we can certainly make an effort to accommodate this one trifling request without turning ourselves inside out. If it helps, I will speak to the duke about postponing our baths until tomorrow.”

Mrs. McQueen, looking contrite, bowed her head. “Very good, m’lady.”

As the housekeeper exited the room, a plan hatched inside Maggie’s mind—a bold and wicked plan. The whole of Juliette’s room could be viewed from the small chamber Robert’s father built for the family to hide within should the rounding up of Catholics and priests for imprisonment, torture, and execution be reinstated.
 

The priest hole could be entered through an opening behind a panel in the staircase. Rising from her chair, Maggie hurried to the door and checked the corridor. To her great relief, there was no one within her range of vision. She waited a moment, listening for voices or footsteps. Hearing naught, she kicked off her slippers and, heart hammering in her chest, crept toward the stairs in her stocking feet.

* * * *

As he sipped his ale, Robert cast around the dim and dingy warren of a pub to assess the likelihood he’d have his throat slit.

He’d wasted the morning attempting to settle a dispute betwixt two of his tenants—both of them Catholic-hating Presbyterians, as were most of the inhabitants of Dunwoody. His late father had been given the estate in gratitude for his service to the royal family following the execution of its former owner, a Covenanter who’d conspired against King Charles I.
 

The former laird’s allegiances led Robert to suspect most of his tenants were cut from the same zealous cloth. Stiff, plain black cloth with no ornamentation. Many were the nights he’d laid abed fearing a mob would storm the castle and kill all within. Fortunately, they had not. Probably because, though a Catholic, he was an exceedingly tolerant man who turned a blind eye to their illegal conventicles.
 

Now, the morning post had brought, along with a letter from the Duke of York, a directive from King Charles II demanding he post the names of all Covenanters known to him throughout Dunwoody. To do so would be akin to kicking a sleeping dog. One known to foam at the mouth when awake. Yet, to defy the order would be treasonous—a crime punishable by the most horrendous form of death imaginable.

Drawing and quartering.

Shuddering at the thought, he took a long drink of strong ale. Given the current climate of unrest, he probably should not have stopped at the Broken Crown, a warren of a pub along Dunwoody’s main road. But the chances of any Covenanters being within a Catholic-owned establishment were slim, and he was in too foul a mood to go home.

The only good thing he could say about the day so far was that his wounded arm no longer bothered him enough to consult Dr. Cockburn.

Outside, a group of rabble-rousers were singing the Hokey-Pokey—a dig at the Latin phrase
hoc est enim corpus meum,
which Catholic priests spoke over the Eucharist during Mass. These “magic words” brought about transubstantiation—the literal transformation of bread and wine into the body and blood of Jesus Christ.

I put my right hand in,

I put my right hand out,

In out, in out.

And shake it all about.

Robert’s scrutinizing gaze took in his fellow patrons. Most were soldiers—lowland militia and Highlanders who’d been billeted in the Covenanting shires for the past two years. The Highlanders were almost exclusively Catholics, the reservists predominantly Episcopalian. Rumor had it, they robbed their grudging hosts and defiled their wives and daughters. One man’s pregnant wife had been fatally stabbed for motives that remained unclear.

Such barbarous deeds only amplified the animosity toward Catholics and the crown.
 

You do the hokey pokey

and you turn yourself around

That what it’s all about.

“I have a mind to make them eat those words,” grumbled the scruffy-looking Highlander on the next stool.

Robert glared at the man. “Do you think that will stop them from hating us?”

“Nay. But ’twould make me feel better, I promise you.”

“That’s what the ale is for.” Robert turned to the landlord, a reedy man with a thin moustache who stood behind the bar wiping a pewter tankard with a dirty rag. “How about another round for all within? On the duchy.”

Surprise registered on the Highlander’s ruddy, bearded face. “Do you work for His Grace, then?”

“Nay, you overgrown moron,” the landlord put in with a chuckle. “You are conversing with the man himself.”

“A thousand pardons, Your Grace.” The Highlander gave Robert a deferential nod. “Being new to the post, I didna ken who you were.”
 

The tavern door swung open, admitting an icy gust and a blast of daylight into the windowless room. All heads turned to see who’d come in. Robert’s gut tightened at the sight of Alec Watt, the baillie he employed for the duchy.

Watt was a two-faced sycophant who’d sell his own mother if there was a profit to be made. Robert also strongly suspected the baillie of being a closet Covenanter. Watt had been hired by Robert’s father—probably to keep the kettle from overboiling—and, for the same reason, Robert had kept the baillie on.
 

“Your Grace.” Watt approached, wearing the smile of a serpent. “How glad I am to see you. How is your lovely young bride? Well, I hope.”

“The duchess is very well,” Robert returned, all politeness. “Thank you for your kind inquiry.”

“And your brother? Well, too, I hope. I hear the marquess has returned to Dunwoody.”

“You’ve been correctly informed.” Robert regarded the man with rising distrust. He’d shared the news with none outside the castle. Had one of the servants been spreading gossip? He hoped not. For there was naught he disliked so much as a twattler—unless, of course he was in the market for information. “As it happens, the marquess arrived only yesterday.”

With a bow and a satisfied smile, Watt left him to join a group of officers in the far corner. Though still curious how the baillie had gotten wind of Hugh’s homecoming, Robert let it go and returned to his ale. He had more important matters to occupy his thoughts, starting with the powder keg he was perched upon at present.
 

Where would all the religious strife end? With the cold-blooded murder of him and his loved ones, probably.

Aggrieved by the thought, Robert emptied his tankard, and ordered another. If the king continued down this path of tyranny, he could see no happy outcome for either monarchy or duchy. Robert might know little of military matters, but he knew this much: one did not extinguish a raging fire by throwing more fuel upon the blaze.

The moment the landlord set the freshly poured ale on the bar, Robert snatched up the tankard, gulped down its contents, and pushed the empty stein toward the proprietor.

“Give me another.”

Drinking might help him forget his troubles for a time, but to make them go away, he’d need to do more than heft a few pints. Much more. Perhaps he ought to go to London and attempt to make the king see reason. Would the endeavor bear fruit? Probably not, but at least he’d have the satisfaction of knowing he’d exerted the effort. He would take Maggie with him, which would offer the added benefit of getting her away from Hugh.

Or would it be more perilous to subject Maggie to the vipers at the Palace at Whitehall, the royal residence in London? The intrigues she’d been caught up in at Holyroodhouse were child’s play compared to those of the larger court.
 

He ran his hand through his hair. Even if the court was not a nest of spiders, there were the perils of the journey to consider. Given what they’d faced upon returning from Edinburgh, he could not expect to travel all the way to London unmolested. As much as it grieved him to leave Maggie behind, taking her along was out of the question.

God’s wounds! What a dilemma.

He now must choose between the lesser of evils: go to London and risk losing his wife and his hard-won royal favor or stay in Dunwoody and wait for mayhem to shower down on his head.

* * * *

Maggie watched from the hidden chamber with a racing pulse as one of the household’s serving lasses fetched and poured pitcher after pitcher of heated water into a copper bathing tub.
 

When the tub was sufficiently filled, the marchioness came in with her abigail, a pretty dark-haired girl of Rubenesque proportions. The maid wore a simple linen frock whose laces strained to keep her ample bosom contained. Juliette donned a heavily embroidered riding habit which, except for the petticoat, might have been a man’s fashionable suit of clothes.
 

The exquisite ensemble provoked a pang of envy in Maggie. What she would not give to own something that lent such an air of elegance and authority to her person. But, alas, she had never learned to ride.

The marchioness dismissed the scullery maid and locked the door after the girl departed. She then proceeded to unbutton her heavy coat as she crossed to the bed. Sitting upon the edge of the mattress, she removed her coat whilst her lady’s maid pulled off her boots.
 

Maggie kept as still as possible. There would be the devil to pay were she found out. How would she ever explain such deviant behavior? The very thought of being called to account for her actions enflamed her blood.

She had little to fear, for both women appeared entirely taken up with undressing Juliette.
 

Off came the boots and coat, followed by the cravat. Then, to Maggie’s bewilderment, the maid sat down beside her mistress, said something in French, and began to unlace her own frock.
 

As soon as the maid’s bodice fell open, Juliette reached for her bulging breasts and disengaged them from the constraining stays. The girl’s great paps broke loose and sagged down in the manner of two great sacks of meal. A more enormous pair Maggie had not beheld since her days at the convent. Not even Mistress Honeywell’s had been so large. And the nipples—by the light of Lucca!—were as big around as Mrs. McQueen’s barley bannocks.

Undeterred by their daunting size, the marchioness set upon them with hands and lips. The maid uttered a soft sigh and fell back upon the bed as if in a swoon.

Climbing off the bed, Juliette lifted the maid’s skirts before stepping aside to continue removing her own clothes.

Maggie gaped in wonder at the dark bush and vermillion ruffles laid open to her view. The urge to touch, taste, and explore welled up inside her with dizzying force. Surely, such feelings were not sinful. For she had observed two sisters at the convent in a similar embrace when she was too young to understand what she’d seen.
 

Moreover, Robert had assured her what transpired betwixt two women could not rightfully be categorized as “sex,” for, without male penetration, true coition could not be achieved. This, he claimed, was the reason the things he’d done at court did not constitute adultery.