Emma Jensen - Entwined (2 page)

Clearly her brothers had spent most of the evening drinking themselves right out of their chairs. She fervently hoped that meant they could not have managed too many hands of cards.

Instead of answering, Rob began humming a cheerful if tuneless melody. No angel could look so innocent, Isobel thought, as he peered up at her through a shock of auburn hair, his green eyes as guileless as could be.

She was hard put not to take a swing at the clefted chin.

Her brothers were pure MacLeod in looks, temperament, and sheer irresponsibility. Isobel alone of the five siblings had inherited heir mother's flaming red hair— and the temper that came with it It had been Muire Gordon MacLeod, with that temper, and unflagging humor, who had kept the three MacLeod men in line. But she had died six years earlier of the fever, and her eldest daughter had been fighting ever since to keep a roof over their heads.

"Well?" Temper roused and humor shredded, Isobel prodded again.

"Och,
Izzy. 'Twasn't so bad. I lost but ten pounds, and Geordie won two.

So we're out but eight. We'll have it back in no time at all."

Isobel gaped at him. "Eight pounds, Rob! We haven't two to rub together most times, and you know that!"

"Oh, leave off, love. I studied my mathematics. The odds—"

"Mathematics, is it? Odds? You must have paid less attention to your lessons than I thought if you think you can wager with air. You're a grown man, Rob. Act like one!"

Rather man shaming him into any semblance of humility, she only set Rob to grinning anew. "I'm but one-and-twenty, Izzy. I've four years yet to grow as pinched and serious as you." Finding that excessively amusing, he heaved a mutton bone at his brother. "Now you, Geordie lad, will be three-and-twenty soon. Best drink and be merry while ye may!"

Geordie mumbled something incoherent and waved his empty tankard in their direction.

Crouching down, Isobel pushed her face near to Rob's and, trying not to inhale, demanded, "Where did you get the sovereign?"

"Hmm?"
He was busy comparing another stripped bone to the bleached buttons of his waistcoat.

"The money, Rob! Where did it come from?"

Apparently the buttons won, for he tossed the bone away and met her gaze as squarely as he could manage in his condition. "From Father's pocket, of course. Would've taken more, but he rolled over. Bloody flush he was, too."

Flush? Jamie MacLeod? The man never had more than a shilling to his name—Isobel and Maggie saw to that. What little he was paid as secretary to the marquess went straight to Maggie who then hid it in the bottom of her herb basket.

Isobel's jaw tightened. If he was hoarding coins, there would be hell to pay. She did her best to allow for small luxuries in the family budget. The MacLeod men, after all, fancied themselves gentlemen, and she did what she could to humor them. Unfortunately, it seemed their foremost gentlemanly trait was a basic inability to live within their means. Just that morning, Isobel had found a bill from the village tailor. Apparently the boys had taken a fancy to silk brocade waistcoats—as if they had any place to wear them.

"Enough," Isobel got a firm grip on Rob's curls. He yelped as she pulled, but he came unsteadily to his feet. "Home for you, lad."

Perhaps he would have protested, but the second Patton chose that moment to stumble through the back entryway. Isobel regarded him with distaste. Never an attractive specimen, the younger of the squire's sons now resembled nothing so much as a great, unripe fig. His face was the same color as his tight green coat.

"You've taken my money, MacLeod!" he bellowed, heading for the prostrate Geordie. "Two pounds, and I'll have it back!"

He did not make it to the hearth, however, for he stumbled on a chair leg and went sprawling across the wooden floor. His brother, roused somewhat by the resulting tremor, raised bleary eyes and echoed, "Two pounds!"

Then his forehead hit the table again. The party was over.

With a bit of help from Harris, Isobel got her brothers outside. She was forced to wait while Geordie stuck his head into a bush and retched, but at last she managed to help both boys onto her horse, while she rode the hunter that had carried them to the inn. Chances were, should either brother take a tumble, his drunkenness would keep him pliant enough to prevent any serious damage. But it still seemed prudent to have them on the slower, wide-backed horse.

The weather had not improved, and her cloak was little protection against the dampness. Isobel knew with the certainty of experience that her brothers would make it home eventually. So, waiting only long enough to see that they were reasonably steady in the saddle, she kicked her mount into a canter. The lads might well take it into their heads to turn back for another go at the Pat-ton pockets, but she knew that the horse would have none of that. He had seen the path home, and nothing short of lightning in his face would deter him.

Lights were bright in the cottage windows when she arrived. So Tessa had woken Maggie after all. Trying not to think of the oil her sister was wasting, Isobel settled the hunter in the stable, then headed toward the warmth of the cottage. She would be outside again soon enough to see to her brothers. For the moment, though, she was looking forward to the hot tea Maggie would have waiting and a seat by the kitchen fire.

Margaret, like the boys, was almost painfully beautiful, with her MacLeod auburn hair and sea green eyes. " 'Tis Rob and Geordie again, isn't it?" she asked as Isobel entered the cottage. "Tessa woke me."

She was moving through the kitchen as she spoke, collecting mugs and testing the water, efficient even half asleep. Isobel sank gratefully into a chair.

"Aye, she came flying out the door after me, bare feet and all. I told her not to wake you."

"Mmm."
Maggie measured leaves into the teapot "She said you were off on another moonlight ride and wouldn't let her come."

As if on cue, the youngest MacLeod popped into the room, holding unruly auburn curls away from her face with one hand and gripping an unlit candle like a dagger in the other. The girl was barefoot as she frequently was, and wide awake as always.

The elder two looked at the young girl's feet, sighed, and, in unison, muttered, "Slippers!"

Tessa wiggled her bare toes and shrugged. Then, seeing Isobel's cloak, she asked, " 'Tis the princelings, isn't it? They've gone and done it again."

"Go back to bed," Isobel said sternly. " 'Tis well past time for you to be asleep, and I don't want you becoming ill."

"I am never ill."

True enough, Isobel conceded. Tessa had the constitution of a wild goat

"Only because you have older sisters to see to it that you get enough rest.

Now off with you."

Tessa did not budge. "Have you found them, then? I expect they were at the inn."

"How do you know?" Isobel sighed. "Nay. Don't tell me. Why can you not stay in bed like a proper twelve-year-old girl?"

"I am nearly thirteen. And I cannot sleep."

This time, Isobel smiled. "Of course. The sleep of the innocent would elude you." She raised a hand when Tessa made a move toward the table.

"Ah! Not another step, lass. You will take yourself back to your chamber right now."

"But I cannot sleep."

"Unfortunate, that. Count sheep."

"Oh, do be serious, Izzy! I'll only be roused again when the wee highnesses come blundering in."

Trying to keep the girl either ignorant or quiet was as futile as trying to keep the male MacLeods from the bottle. Isobel loved all with a bone-deep fierceness, but she was not quite noble enough to refrain from wishing them to perdition on occasion. While Maggie helped with her tangled bootlaces, Isobel aimed what she hoped was a sufficiently stern glare in Tessa's direction.

"Go back to bed,
ribhinn.
And when you awake in the morning, you will tell yourself 'twas all a dream."

Tessa rolled her eyes. "Oh, Izzy. Really!"

"A dream," Isobel repeated firmly, rising to her feet. She propelled the girl into the hall. Tessa, muttering all the way, vanished in the direction of the stairs.

Margaret, fully awake now, peered out the window. "Did you find them at the inn?"

"Aye, drunk as bishops on alms day. They'll be along soon enough."

Isobel gazed again toward the kettle, willing it to boil. "Rob had a sovereign, Maggie Líl. Do you know where Papa is?"

Margaret, being Margaret, merely gave a serene smile and nodded.

"Aye. He's in the cellar in fair form, I'd say. And he's supposed to be attending the marquess tomorrow, too."

As if on cue, a rumbling snore drifted through the cellar door.

Isobel, being Isobel, would have liked to howl. Instead, she merely gave the steaming kettle another wistful look and sighed.

The greatest problem with receiving news of an acquaintance's death, Nathan decided, was that one must engage in the pretense of giving a damn.

"Unfortunate," he managed at last, "though not surprising. The only indication we were ever given that the man had a heart was the red-faced fits it set him to. I find it a wonder he didn't kick off far sooner."

Nathan stood facing his study window, brandy snifter in hand. There was a distressed rustling of paper from the desk behind him. Judging by the audible scratching, he could only assume Matthew Gerard, ranking officer of the War Department and his former superior, was jotting down frantic notes—with a nearly dry pen. Nathan allowed himself a wry smile. Brilliant as the man was, Gerard tended to forget such practical things as employing the inkwell regularly.

"I said the
surgeon
cited a fit of the heart," Gerard muttered, and scratched harder. "I do not believe it."

"No? Well, perhaps he did not have one after all."

"Really, Oriel, this is no time for levity."

In truth, Nathan could not agree. There were so few times for levity, and Dennison's death seemed as good an occasion as any. But he had no desire to further agitate his companion. Gerard was flustered enough as it was.

"If not his heart, then what?"

"Poison."

Nathan nearly choked on the brandy. "You are not serious."

"Didn't see the body myself, but it seems the most likely scenario."

Again, Nathan disagreed. It seemed the most dramatic scenario. "No one saw or heard anything?"

"No one we've found as yet. Dennison died sometime between leaving White's around two in the morning and five, when the steward found him in the alley off Saint James. I have to take this very seriously, Oriel, very seriously."

Nathan had been uneasy from the moment Gerard had arrived unannounced and at such a late hour. Now he knew precisely what was coming next. "I want no part of it, Matthew."

"I know I had promised to let you go, but damn it, man, this one has me rattled!"

Nathan stared out into the darkness, seeing nothing but deep shadows.

He did not want to be involved, did not want to feel even the smallest share of Gerard's disquiet. True, the man had just lost one of his agents, but it was far from the first time, and Dennison did not merit such a response. Better men had gone before him, their deaths unavenged.

"Find someone else," Nathan said quietly.

"Who?"

"Brooke... St. Wulfstan. Anyone."

"Brooke is in Spain," Gerard replied. "And, as usual, no one knows exactly where St. Wulfstan is." Nathan found no amusement in the familiar lament. "There is no one else available."

"Use someone who was not among the Ten, then."

"I cannot do that." There was the sound of a glass being refilled, and Nathan found himself hoping the man would drink himself senseless. Then he could be bundled into a carriage and sent elsewhere, preferably all the way back to London. "This could involve the... occurrence in Lisbon."

It took all of Nathan's willpower to keep his head from snapping back around. "Explain."

"In the days before his death, Dennison was in possession of some documents." At his host's curse, Gerard hastened to assure him, "Nothing crucial, and he delivered them."

Nathan tamped down his rising ire. "Dennison was a toad, and his performance on the Continent disgraceful. What was he doing carrying anything but snuff?"

"I know you never liked the man—"

"I detested him. But that had nothing to do with my opinions of his work. He was a pompous, preening fool. Worse, he was incompetent."

"Perhaps after the fort at Almeida fell..." Gerard cleared his throat. "He was useful, though, at the beginning of the campaign."

"Very well," Nathan said. "I will concede that he had his small merits—

once upon some fairy-tale time. But I can't even begin to imagine how his demise in Saint James alley could possibly be connected to—how did you phrase it?— the occurrence in Lisbon. It was an ambush, Matthew; you may say the word. Rievaulx and I walked out of the tavern and straight into an ambush."

"Well, Dennison was at White's the night he died, mumbling something about Portugal. And about being pursued."

"By?"

"We don't know. But apparently he was damned cocky about it. Kept repeating that the matter was more than an ordinary man could handle, but he would win out in the end."

Nathan's patience was wearing thin. "Good God, man, he could have been speaking of a bill collector."

"Bill collectors don't dispatch their debtors," Gerard insisted.

"You've obviously never refused to honor a debt!" Nathan snapped back.

"Listen to me, Oriel. Dennison was still communicating with Brooke.

And for him to die so, even after all these months.... Think of Harlow, Witherspoon, Rievaulx, all dead. It is too much to be a coincidence."

Nathan carefully set his glass aside before he could snap the fragile stem. "Do not list Rievaulx's name with theirs."

"Oriel..."

"Not in my home, Matthew." Nathan kept his face averted. His leg was aching fiercely, but he did not want to return to his seat. "Harlow and Witherspoon died doing what we were all sent to the Continent to do: intercepting French communiques. Rievaulx—" His voice broke. "Rievaulx died because he followed me to Lisbon. He shouldn't have been there."