Amanda Scott (30 page)

“You lost your entire family within the past year, lass,” he said gently, “and I’ll wager you’ve had little or no time to
grieve properly. As I understand it, whilst you were still recovering from the shock of your brother’s death, you had to help
nurse your mother and little sisters, and when they died, you nursed your father. Directly after his death, you came here
to Mute Hill House, where you have done your best to serve your aunt and look after your cousin. When have you taken time
even to think about yourself and all that you have lost?”

“I was not raised to believe that thinking about myself should be a priority.”

“Not a priority, perhaps, but neither should you neglect your own needs to the point of making yourself ill.”

“Is that what you think I’ve done?”

“Not yet, but you had made a good start before your aunt stirred the coals.”

She thought about that. His blunt description of her past year had awakened the aching grief again, but she felt no further
urge to cry. Talking with him about her feelings had provided a solace she had not expected.

“You are very kind,” she said. “You will make Fiona an excellent husband.”

His expression turned grim. “I doubt that.”

Attempting to striker a lighter note, she said, “You did say, did you not, that your temper is unpredictable and your patience
short?”

“Those are scarcely qualities that will recommend me to your cousin.”

“No, but only think how fortunate it is for you that she is meek and biddable. She will not try your temper or your patience,
so it will be an excellent match.”

“You don’t know what tries my patience,” he retorted. “Look at me.”

He had stopped where the shrubbery still screened them from the stableyard, and when she looked up, he searched her face carefully.

“Have I got a smudge on my cheek?” she asked.

“No, but a blind man could see that you’ve been crying. Why the devil did you not think to wear a cloak out here? One with
a nice, large, concealing hood. I have one of those myself. Perhaps I should give it to you.”

“I didn’t think at all,” she said. “I just wanted to get out of the room. Besides, I don’t feel the cold easily, so I wouldn’t
have thought to fetch a cloak, anyway.”

“Well, walk briskly then, and we’ll go in at the kitchen door. You can slip up the stairs there, whilst I’ll go round to the
main entrance. With luck, no one will question either of us.”

Accordingly, he left her at the postern door, and she hurried up to her bedchamber without meeting anyone. Opening her door,
she slipped quickly inside, only to stop short as she began to shut the door.

Fiona and the jester sat side by side on her window bench.

H
ello, Anne,” Fiona said. “Where have you been?”

Shutting the door firmly, Anne turned back to the pair on the window bench. Controlling her voice with difficulty, she said,
“What is Jake doing here, Fiona?”

Fiona’s eyes widened. “H-he is teaching me to play the lute.”

“But why in my bedchamber? Surely, you must realize how unseemly it is for the pair of you to be alone in here.”

“Mama said she was going to take her nap,” Fiona explained. “I knew he should not be in
my
bedchamber, although I cannot think why, when Molly is most likely in there, tidying things, and would make an excellent
chaper-one.”

“
Definitely
not in your bedchamber,” Anne said, striving for patience.

“Well, yes, I could see that, but I did not think you would mind if we came in here to wait for you, and Mother will not object,
because he is not in my room.”

“She would certainly object just as strenuously to his being in mine,” Anne said, her voice sharpening despite her resolve.

“But you were not here,” Fiona said, as if that made it all right.

With a sigh, Anne said, “I see that we need to discuss this at length, but we need not do so until Jake leaves, which he is
going to do right now. And if you would keep my good opinion,” she added with a stern look at the jester, whose head was down
but whose shoulders shook suspiciously, as if he were suppressing laughter, “you will say nothing about this to anyone, and
you will show the good sense in future to have more care for Mistress Carmichael’s reputation.”

“Yes, my lady,” he murmured, taking his lute from Fiona as he arose but keeping his head down and moving hastily toward the
door. As he neared Anne, he shot a swift look at her from under his eyebrows, frowned, and lowered his gaze.

“Try not to meet half the household as you leave the gallery,” she added frostily as she stepped aside to let him open the
door.

Nodding, he slipped out and shut it, leaving her alone with Fiona.

Wondering what on earth she could say that would neither frighten her cousin nor anger her, Anne thanked the fates that Lady
Armadale had explained to her certain things that married people did and why it was unwise to encourage attentions from anyone
other than one’s husband or betrothed. Her ladyship had not had to deal with Fiona, however, or anyone else who jumped at
the least sound and worried about what others might think about everything she said or did.

Fiona did not look at Anne but stared at her own hands clenched in her lap.

Moving to sit beside her on the bench, Anne said gently, “Whatever possessed you, love, to steal away up here with the jester?”

Tears welled in Fiona’s eyes as she looked up, saying, “He is kind to me, Anne, and he sings pretty songs. He said he would
teach me to play the lute, and I want to learn. Why can’t I ever do what / want?”

“It must seem hard sometimes,” Anne agreed sympathetically.

“You look dreadful,” Fiona said, looking closely at her for the first time since her entrance had startled them. “You look
as if you’d been crying, but you never do, so you must still have that awful headache. Do you want to go to bed?”

“No, and never mind about me,” Anne said. “I want to know why you and the jester came in here.”

“Well, we couldn’t sit in the hall, because it’s too noisy there, what with Sir Eustace’s men—or Sir Christopher’s, as I suppose
they must be now—plus our own. Besides, Mother does not like me to linger there. Still, it did not feel right to stay in her
bower without her either, particularly after she suggested rather firmly that I take a nap, too. I was sure she would not
want me to stay there with Jake. I wasn’t sure what to do, so we came up to your bedchamber to seek your advice, and when
you weren’t here, I said we should just wait for you.”

“And the jester saw nothing wrong with that?”

“Well, he could hardly refuse after I’d said I wanted to,” Fiona said reasonably. “He is only a servant, after all.”

“He is not our servant, however,” Anne pointed out. “Did you not stop to think what Eustace or Sir Christopher might say about
this?”

Paling, Fiona exclaimed, “Faith, you won’t tell them!”

“No, of course I won’t, but can you imagine what they would do to the jester if they even suspected he had been alone with
you like that?”

“What?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Anne said honestly, “but I would not be surprised if Eustace ordered the poor lad flogged.”

“Then we mustn’t tell him. I won’t do it again, Anne, I swear. Just don’t tell anyone. Mercy, if I were to cause anything
like that… ” She fell silent, and Anne watched in fascination to see if the tears that threatened to spill over and down her
cheeks would do so. It seemed utterly unfair that Fiona and Olivia could both cry at the slightest thing and never suffer
from swollen eyes or similar signs of weeping, while other people looked so awful that their relatives thought they had fallen
ill.

Having come to the conclusion that it would be useless to try to make Fiona understand, and hoping she was frightened enough
for the jester’s safety to avoid being alone with him again, Anne was about to suggest tactfully that her cousin go to her
own bedchamber to rest when Fiona said abruptly, “He told me something dreadful, Anne.”

“Mad Jake?”

“He said someone tried to kill Sir Christopher. And he wasn’t jesting, either, because I asked him if he was.”

Aware of a sudden chill, Anne said sharply, “Did he say how it happened?”

“Someone shot at him on his way home. Jake said he was riding up to Hawks Rig, and the track he was on doesn’t go anywhere
else. Jake thinks the person who shot at him knew it was Sir Christopher, but why should anyone try to kill him?”

“I don’t know,” Anne said, not thinking it wise or appropriate to declare her certainty that Eustace would like noth ing better
than for his nephew to be officially dead again, as long as Eustace could provide a strong alibi for himself.

“What if I have to marry him,” Fiona demanded, “and someone tries to shoot him then? What if they accidentally shoot me instead?”

“Don’t borrow trouble, love. No one is likely to shoot at you.”

“Well, I don’t want to be a widow either,” Fiona said flatly.

Changing the subject, Anne soon persuaded her to go to her own chamber and rest, whereupon she was able at last to fetch her
looking glass and try to repair the ravages of her weeping.

Cold water and a few hours of peace did much to restore both her complexion and her spirits, and she was able to descend to
the hall for supper with her normal composure reestablished.

Believing the men would linger at the high table until all hours, as usual, she doubted that she would find any opportunity
to ask Kit about the shooting incident. However, if that was their plan, Olivia foiled it by saying as the ladies rose from
the table, “Pray, join us soon, gentlemen. I would enjoy more of your company before Sir Eustace and Sir Christopher depart
tomorrow. I know Toby has challenged Sir Eustace to a game of chess, so mayhap we can make a games night of it.”

Fiona looked startled. “I do not know how to play chess!”

“You do enjoy playing Fox and Geese, however,” Olivia said, “and I believe Sir Christopher will gladly indulge you in a game
or two, will you not, sir?”

“Indeed, I will,” that gentleman responded, “but only if Lady Anne or someone else who has played the game more recently than
I have agrees to act as my tutor, so Mistress Carmichael does not turn me into a pauper.”

Fiona giggled. “We do not make wagers over Fox and Geese, sir.”

“Be a more interesting game if you did,” Toby declared. “Children’s stuff! If you want a simple war game, try draughts.”

“We have boards, men, and cards for any number of games,” Olivia said pacifically. “You gentlemen may choose what you like
when you join us.”

“Berridge,” Toby said to that gentleman, “what will you choose?”

“I like poque,” his lordship said, “because nearly any number can play.”

“Aye, poque’s good,” Eustace agreed. “We can play a few hands after I beat Toby at chess.”

“Now that’s a wagering game, poque is,” Fiona said wisely.

“Aye, puss, so it is,” Eustace agreed before turning back to his lordship to say, “If Kit’s going to be stuck playing children’s
games, Berridge, you’d best have a few hands of Cent with Olivia, so she don’t grow bored, waiting.”

“It will be my pleasure,” Berridge said, bowing to Olivia, who smiled and said she would be delighted.

Accompanying her to her bower, Anne and Fiona discovered that she had already caused numerous games to be laid out on the
largest table, and Fiona went at once to get the board for Fox and Geese.

“We’ll play on that round table near the fire, Anne,” she said. “It has room for all three of us, so you can be comfortable
whilst you help Sir Christopher. Perhaps you should count the geese to be sure that all thirteen are here.”

Obediently, Anne tipped the polished wooden game figures out of their box. The geese were white with yellow beaks and feet,
and black eyes. The little fox was bright red with black eyes and boasted a white tip to its tail. Picking it up, she said,
“Has anyone seen our fox since it tried to eat Cook’s chicken?”

Olivia grimaced. “Do not mention that beast to me. Moira found evidence of its presence in my bedchamber this afternoon. Do
not ask me what sort of evidence, I beg of you, for I do not want to discuss it. I have told Malcolm that he simply must find
the creature and get rid of it. I do not care how he does it.”

“He mustn’t hurt it,” Fiona exclaimed. “It is not the fox’s fault it is trapped in the house. Mayhap if we left the doors
open for a day, it would run out again.”

“Or other beasts would run in,” her mother said tartly. “We’d certainly have every one of my uncle’s dogs inside if we were
so rash as to leave doors open. Do be sensible, Fiona. You will soon be managing a household of your own after all.”

Deflated by the suggestion, Fiona idly fingered the little geese until Anne suggested that perhaps they should play a game
while they waited for the men. “Because I’m not sure that I remember all the rules,” she said. “I don’t want to make a fool
of myself when Sir Christopher asks questions.”

Fiona agreed to the game, and Anne discovered that she easily remembered how to play, but she also discovered when the gentlemen
joined them a quarter of an hour later that Kit had no need whatsoever of her sage advice.

“You know this game better than I do,” she said accusingly when he had easily “killed” all of Fiona’s geese for the second
time.

“I confess,” he said, eyes twinkling. “My Highland cousins and I often played this game. And,” he added, grinning at Fiona,
“we made wagers on the outcome when we did. But in my own defense, let me add that it has been years since we played. I’m
glad to see you looking so much more rested, Lady Anne.”

Anne shot him a dagger look, but he met it with a provocative smile.

“Oh, yes, she does look better, does she not?” Fiona said. “I thought perhaps she had fallen ill when I saw her this afternoon.
She looked dreadful.”

Deciding to serve Kit with some of his own sauce, Anne said, “I’m told that someone shot at you last week, sir. That must
have been terrifying.”