The Tudor Signet (5 page)

Ragamuffin watched every forkful travel from plate to mouth.

Lady Lilian smiled. “I shall see the poor fellow is fed later,” she said.

The chicken was delicious and Mariette wondered what liquid had been used to poach it. She would have liked to ask for the receipt, but she was afraid of blundering into another faux-pas. Was talk of cookery beneath a well-bred lady? How could she guess?

She wasn’t even sure what to call her. “My lady” sounded like a servant, but “Lady Lilian” seemed much too familiar. Safest to use “ma’am,” she decided.

The last scrap of food disappeared and Lady Lilian removed the plate. “Now something to drink,” she said. “Dr. Barley was most particular that liquids are even more important than nourishment in restoring the blood, so I hope you are thirsty.”

“Yes, ma’am, but I can’t see how the deuce I’m to drink without spilling it all over the place.”

Lady Lilian winced but said gaily, “Oh, Malcolm came up with a solution to that problem. A nursery trick. He and Emily have been out to the stables to find hollow straws--clean ones, I assure you, and Cook has rinsed them besides. You put one end in the drink and the other in your mouth and simply sip it up. Here, try it.”

“What a clever idea!” Taking the cup and straw she offered, Mariette sucked up a little of the lemon-flavoured barley water and giggled. “It’s fun!”

“Nanny used to grow quite irritable when we tried it in the nursery. ‘Disgraceful conduct for young ladies and gentlemen,’ she always told us.” Lady Lilian must have seen Mariette’s dismay for she quickly added, “But ideal for an invalid. I must admit we used to misbehave dreadfully. We blew bubbles in our milk, and my brothers shot bread pellets at each other and made horrible squawking noises when they reached the bottom of their cups.”

The childhood reminiscence made her seem much more approachable.

Suddenly very tired, Mariette said hesitantly, “I...You don’t mind if I stay here tonight, ma’am? I don’t think I can quite manage to get home.”

“Of course you cannot, child! No more laudanum for the present, I think, but let me move your pillows so that you can lie down and sleep for a while. There, is that better?”

“Oh, yes. I don’t know how to thank you for...for taking me in and everything.”

“It is no more than one neighbour owes to another. The best thanks will be to rest and recover quickly.”

“I’ll try. Please tell your brother I’m very grateful for all his help.” She didn’t quite dare ask to see Lord Malcolm.

“Certainly.” Slightly flushed, Lady Lilian said tentatively, “I don’t know how much you recall of Dr. Barley’s visit. Jenny faints at the sight of blood so I thought it best that Malcolm rather than any other servant should assist...You may be assured that he is a gentleman and has already put out of his mind any...any untoward circumstances.”

Mariette’s cheeks felt a far brighter red than Lady Lilian’s. Her eyes lowered, she murmured, “Yes, ma’am.”

“So you will not object to speaking to him? He still hopes you will remember something to identify the villain who shot you. The sooner the better, he says; later this evening if you feel well enough. It is hardly proper that he should visit you in your bedchamber, but I cannot dissuade him. Jenny or I will chaperon you, of course.”

“If you think it unexceptionable, ma’am.”

“Allowable, at least.” She turned down the lamp. “Will your dog come with me? Ragamuffin, dinner!”

Ragamuffin sprang to his feet and pranced after her, tail waving.

She left Mariette puzzled and apprehensive. Lord Malcolm knew perfectly well who had shot her. Why insist on questioning her about an imaginary poacher? Why had he invented a poacher in the first place?

His servant was in no danger from the law for firing on a highwayman. Instead of dragging her off to the nearest magistrate, he had taken care of her and lied to his sister, who’d surely not have received her at Corycombe had she known the truth. Mariette had every reason to be grateful, but her gratitude was tinged with suspicion.

Did Lord Malcolm want something from her in return, and if so, what? Recalling her bared bottom, she buried her hot face in her pillow. Surely that bloody sight had not inflamed his animal passions!

But she knew nothing of men, except that they were lamentably self-centred. Experience and history taught the same lesson. Throughout the centuries, men had committed deeds both dire and heroic for the sake of honour, fame, power, riches; the comfort and happiness of others came as afterthoughts, if at all. Look at Edward III and the burghers of Calais. He’d have executed them without a qualm if the queen had not pleaded for their lives.

Even Uncle George, who had given her a home and never refused any request, was too occupied with his sculpture to pay the least regard to whether she was content with her lot. Which she was, of course. What was the point of repining? Maman always said one must not demand the moon.

Still, had Uncle George bothered to read the note Lady Lilian said she had sent? Did he miss her? Had he even noticed she wasn’t there?

Ralph would be on tenterhooks, but only because he didn’t know whether she had retrieved his ring. Even Ragamuffin had abandoned her at a promise of food.

By the time Mariette drifted into exhausted sleep, her pillowcase was damp from tears she was too weak to hold back.

* * * *

“And when you’ve finished your supper, miss, his lordship’d take it kindly if you’d spare him a word.”

Restored by food and rest, Mariette felt more equal to facing her rescuer. “Thank you, Jenny. Please tell Lord Malcolm I’ll be ready to see him in half an hour.”

“Beg pardon, miss, but if you’d like me to comb your hair first, it’ll be longer than half an hour. Seeing it’s in a shocking tangle and you with a great lump on your head I’ll have to watch out for.”

Suddenly conscious that he had seen her not only indecently stripped but in a disgraceful state of dishevelment, Mariette said subduedly, “Yes, I’d like my hair combed if you don’t mind. Tell his lordship however long you think necessary.”

Despite Jenny’s care, the combing was a painful process. However, Mariette insisted that she proceed. No one had combed her hair for her since maman died, nor told her her black locks were beautiful, as the kindly abigail did. She peered eagerly into the silver-backed handglass Jenny gave her, trying to see if it were true. As usual, she decided she’d rather be blonde, like Lady Lilian.

Jenny braided her hair and tied it back with a bit of white satin ribbon. The maid was adjusting a shawl of incredibly soft white wool around Mariette’s uppermost shoulder when someone tapped on the door.

Wishing she were able to adopt a rather more elegant posture, Mariette called, “Come in.”

She had first seen Lord Malcolm when she was robbing him, more concerned with his movements than his appearance. After that, she had viewed him through a blur of pain. He had carried her up the stairs as if she weighed no more than a feather bolster. Now she was surprised to find he was of little more than average height, his strength belied by a slight though well-knit frame.

He was elegantly dressed, she thought, though she had little basis for comparison. His midnight blue coat, brass-buttoned, fitted to perfection. His snowy cravat was elaborately knotted and the frill of his shirt, equally snowy, projected over a low-cut waistcoat of blue and silver brocade. He wore trousers rather than the breeches still more common in the country. They moulded his muscular legs like a second skin...

Hastily she transferred her gaze to his face: short, light-brown hair, brushed forward in the modern style; a broad brow above blue-grey eyes; a hint of an aristocratic hook to the nose; a determined chin, which Mariette knew was not necessarily a sign of a determined character. Altogether a rather ordinary face--he was nowhere near as good-looking as Ralph, or the haughty Lord Wareham.

His expression was not a bit haughty. He looked just about as wary as she felt.

He bowed. “Miss Bertrand,” he said, “allow me to introduce myself. I am Malcolm Eden.”

His formality put her at her ease. He wasn’t treating her like a thief, like a naughty child, like a lightskirt with whose anatomy he was intimately familiar. He behaved as if she were an ordinary, respectable guest in his sister’s home.

“How do you do, my lord. I...Get down, Ragamuffin!” She had been too busy staring at Lord Malcolm to notice her dog’s arrival until, miffed at being ignored, he reared up on the bed and licked her nose.

Watching her pet the dog, Malcolm suddenly decided that, whatever else she might be, she was adorable.

Before he could follow up this alarming thought, Lilian’s abigail curtsied to him and said, “Her ladyship told me to stay, my lord.”

“Yes, of course. Why don’t you sit over here, Miss Pennick, and I’ll bring over a branch of candles so that you can see your needlework.” He settled her in a corner by the Dutch-tiled fireplace, as far from the bed as possible.

For himself, he set a chair at a precisely calculated distance from the bed, far enough for propriety, close enough to talk quietly without being overheard. Though he paused a moment before seating himself, apparently Miss Bertrand was unaware that she ought to give him permission to sit down. She regarded him gravely but without fear, thank heaven. The last thing he needed was to figure as a threat.

“I must apologize...” they both said at once.

Malcolm laughed. Her answering smile brought a sparkle to eyes the lucent brown of a clear pool in a moorland stream--and revealed an unexpected dimple. His captivation was completed.

Gammon!

He knew his susceptibility to feminine pulchritude and he had never let it interfere with his work. Now was not the moment to succumb. He rushed into speech.

“I believe, Miss Bertrand, as a gentleman it is my privilege to be the first to apologize, particularly as yours was by far the severer injury. May I hope that you will forgive me?”

She looked bewildered. “Forgive you? But it wasn’t you who shot me, was it?” Her voice was low and sweet, remarkably refined considering her upbringing, and without a trace of a French accent.

“It was
my
servant.”

“I heard you try to stop him. You cannot be blamed, and I hope you haven’t punished him? He was justified in firing on a highwayman. Is Sparrow all right? My horse?”

“Yes, Jessup is taking good care of him. Jessup was most certainly at fault. It was perfectly obvious you were no ordinary highwayman,” he said dryly, “though I admit I had not guessed you were a female. What on earth possessed you to do anything so absolutely shatterbrained?”

“I know it was idiotic,” she said, flushing. “I’m very sorry I threatened you with a gun, though it wasn’t loaded, and robbed you, though I did give your money back and didn’t take the stick-pin or anything. But I had to do something.”

“Why?”

“Because Ralph--he’s my cousin--was quite in despair. You see, the ring has been in his family for generations. It’s all he has left, as his papa was a shocking gamester and lost the Riddlesworth estate as well as his wife’s fortune. And you need not look at me like that. I know Ralph likes to gamble. He can’t help it, it’s in his blood.”

“Of course he can help it. If you ask me, he’s simply spoiled.”

“Oh no,” she said with an earnest air, “quite the reverse. When his parents died and he came to live at Bell-Tor Manor he was only a little boy, yet as a baronet he had too much pride to ask Uncle George for things.”

“Understandable, I suppose.” Though unrealistic if George Barwith was as heedless as he was reputed to be.

“It is, isn’t it? So when we grew out of our clothes I was always the one to ask for new ones, but that’s all. Uncle George has been so generous giving us a home all these years that I don’t like to ask for things we don’t really need. Except horses,” she added conscientiously.

“A necessity,” Malcolm assured her.

“Oh, and my subscription to the circulating library, but I pay for that out of my allowance now. Ralph wanted an allowance so I asked Uncle George for him, and Uncle George offered me one too. Did I not say he is excessively generous? The subscription is quite expensive but I don’t regret a penny.”

“I daresay you borrow Gothick novels, like every other young lady of my acquaintance,” he quizzed her in an effort to conceal his anger at both Barwith’s and Riddlesworth’s treatment of her.

“Yes, I don’t need to borrow serious books because the Manor has an excellent library.” She obviously had no idea the mamas of the young ladies of his acquaintance frowned on the reading of romances, even if that didn’t stop their daughters.

“And it’s from a novel, I wager, you took the notion of dressing as a highwayman and holding up my carriage!”

Blushing delightfully, she fidgeted with the fringe of her cashmire shawl. “Yes,” she confessed. “It sounded quite easy.”

“That doesn’t explain why you were the one to do it.”

“Well, it was no use whatsoever expecting Ralph make any effort to recover his blasted signet, so I had to. One must be practical.”

He stared at her for an astonished moment, then burst into laughter. “Practical! My dear Miss Bertrand, I’ve never heard of anything less practical than your utterly romantical scheme!”

“It would have worked,” she argued with spirit, “if Ragamuffin hadn’t insisted on coming with me. If I hadn’t dashed well had to untie him I’d have got away without being shot.”

“Before going to such lengths,” he said gently, “you might have tried simply asking me for the ring.”

She hesitated before saying, “I didn’t think you’d be willing to let me redeem it.”

Her answer struck him as evasive, the more so because she failed to meet his eye. Surely Riddlesworth’s fondness for his heirloom was insufficient to explain so dangerous a ploy! Had she been as desperate as her cousin to retrieve the sphinx seal without revealing her identity? Malcolm did not want to believe it.

“I am quite willing to give it to you.” He took the signet ring from his pocket and put it in the drawer of the bedside table. “Its...sentimental value is far greater than its actual worth, I feel sure.”