Jo Beverley - [Malloren 03] (22 page)

Two more servants were up in the kitchen as Elf made her way back through, but Elf in reasonably normal clothing only warranted a sleepy glance and a “Good morning, ma’am.”

At the end of the garden, she found Roberts with his pistol pressed to the back of Fort’s knee. “ ’E decided to be difficult, milady. I told ’im that even if ’e survived a shattered knee, ’e wouldn’t like life like that.”

Elf wanted to berate the servant, wanted to gather Fort into her arms and heal and soothe him. Being of a practical nature, she just passed Roberts his coat, climbed into the chair, and guided Bianca toward Sappho’s house.

They hadn’t far to go, and London was still quiet when she found the back lane. She jumped down and said to Fort, “Don’t try anything stupid. It’s not worth it. We can sort all this out when we have time.”

Again, he lay as if deaf. Really, she wished she could sting him like the wasp he’d once called her. At least that would get some reaction!

She knocked at the kitchen door. To her surprise, the poet opened it herself, dressed in a plain gown, her hair tied in a loose knot at her neck.

“Lady Elfled?” Even a woman like Sappho showed astonishment.

“I need your help.”

Sappho swung the door wide. “Of course.”

The honest and complete response almost made Elf weep. “You don’t understand. I have Fort—Lord Walgrave—outside tied up. I don’t know what to do with him and Amanda said I was here. I’ve got to try to make him see sense. About the Scots. And the king. And us. The cellar. I didn’t—”

She found herself in Sappho’s arms. “Hush, child, hush . . . Cassie! Sweet tea. Put brandy in it.” She guided Elf to a chair by the plain table. “Don’t fret so. I’ll have Walgrave brought in, and then we can sort this out.”

“Don’t let him loose!” Elf said, rising.

Sappho pushed her down. “Wild, is he? It doesn’t surprise me, and it will doubtless do him good to be both wild and restrained for a while.”

Suddenly strength drained from Elf’s muscles and she sagged in the chair, watching numbly as a maid poured
tea and added a large lump of sugar and a dash of brandy. When the cup was placed in her hand, the warmth of it felt good, and she cradled it.

“Drink up, ma’am,” said the maid, guiding the cup to her lips. It was strong, hot, and sweet, and then the brandy kicked in, making her gasp. No longer needing help, Elf took another sip and another, feeling her brain clearing and her strength return. By the time Roberts and one of the other men staggered in with Fort, she felt ready to face her challenges once more.

Sappho had the men place Fort in an open part of the floor, then dismissed them. “Unless you need them, Lady Elf.”

“No, I don’t think so. Roberts, can we keep this quiet for a while?”

He rubbed the side of his nose. “Perhaps, milady. None of us’ll talk. But with all the goings-on at the earl’s ’ouse, dead bodies and all, London’ll be in a uproar about it soon.”

“I suppose so. Lud, but I wish my brothers were home! Do your best, Roberts.” When the man had left, Elf turned to Sappho. “This must all seem bizarre.”

Sappho sat opposite at the table and poured herself tea. “Let us say, intriguing. I can’t wait to hear the story. I do hope,” she said, “that the earl wasn’t responsible for the bodies. ’Twould be a shame to see him dangle from a rope.”

“They wouldn’t hang an earl.”

“They hanged Ferrers not long ago.”

And that was true. Lord Ferrers had run mad and murdered his valet. Elf looked at Fort, who was not mad, but was quite capable of murder at this moment.

For a grubby man with bedraggled hair, in a torn monk’s robe cut off at the knees, and trussed at elbows, wrists, and ankles, he looked astonishingly beautiful.

Even with the bruises and swollen lip.

She slipped from the chair to kneel beside him, touching the skinned and bloody knuckles.

“Oh, you . . . ! Well, you finally found a chance to hit someone, didn’t you?”

“But not you, unfortunately.” His eyes, hard and cold as stone, looked up at the ceiling.

Elf bit her lips, then addressed the maid. “Could I have some water, please. To clean his wounds.”

“If I am given any say, I would rather you not touch me.”

His chill hit Elf like a blow. She’d counted on anger burning out, but this cold hatred could last forever. Words hovered at her lips—explanations, protestations, apologies. They would fall limply off his hatred like flowers thrown against rock.

Sappho appeared on his other side, with a bowl of water and a cloth. “Then you will have to put up with me, my lord. I cannot let a guest remain in such poor condition.” She turned his head toward her and gently cleaned away dirt, checking his eye. “No great damage done there.” She washed his face and hands, then called for tweezers to remove some small stones from his knuckles.

Elf knelt there watching, wanting to take his other hand or stroke the hair off his brow. He had asked that she not touch him, but he lay limp and unresisting under Sappho’s care.

Having cleaned both hands, Sappho moved and began to attend to his feet. Beautiful feet, Elf thought as the dirt was wiped away. Arms, feet. A man’s body held unsuspected pleasures . . .

Suddenly, she hugged herself, remembering other pleasures she had shared with this man.

Who now didn’t want to be touched by her.

She bit down on her knuckle, tempted again to rail, to plead, to beg. Later. He must be as exhausted as she, and he needed time to heal his spirit as well as his body.

“You have a cut here on your foot, my lord,” said Sappho. “I’ve taken out the piece of a glass, but I’m going to apply brandy to clean it. It will hurt.”

She pressed the pad of brandy to the cut, and Fort
hissed, clenching his fists. That was all, though. As Sappho bandaged the cut, he relaxed again into mute endurance, eyes closed.

Elf looked at her hostess, who met the glance and raised her brows. Her expression was enigmatic, but seemed calmly reassuring, as if she didn’t see this as a great tragedy. Elf pushed wearily to her feet, hoping the poet was right.

Sappho rose, too, handing the bowl and cloth to the maid. “Now, my lord, we must do something with you. You are in the way where you are. Will you be reasonable and promise not to make trouble?”

He opened his eyes and smiled a little, though coldly. “On the contrary. I intend to make as much trouble as I can.”

“Even to killing the king?” snapped Elf.

His eyes flicked to hers at last. “Hardly.”

“Then tell me what’s going on so I can put a stop to it!”

“But I don’t want it stopped. Not anymore.”

She was horribly tempted to kick him.

Before Elf could say anything else, Sappho laid a calming hand on her arm. “First we must find a slightly more dignified place for him. No man is going to be reasonable while prostrate at his captors’ feet. And you, my lady, should eat something. Lord Walgrave may eat, too, if he wishes. He’d doubtless find it calming. Then we can discuss all these tangled matters further.”

“I’m not sure we have time for niceties!” But Elf could see Sappho was right about his position. She grabbed a sturdy wooden chair and thumped it down near his head. “Let’s put him up here.”

Sappho shook her head. “Judging by the look in his eye, the first thing he would do would be to tip it over and knock himself out. That would hardly further communication. No, I think it should be the sofa. Cassie, get John and Margaret.”

In moments, a sturdy older man and a wiry maid appeared. The three servants and Sappho picked up Fort
and maneuvered him out of the kitchen, along a corridor, and up to the elegant drawing room in which Elf had encountered him over poetry.

Was it only four nights ago?

One of the sofas, she noticed now, had a back composed of elegant curlicued wood. The gasping porters dumped Fort on it, swung his legs to the front, then tied him firmly in place, passing belts and strips of cloth through gaps in the wood.

For a moment he clearly thought of resisting, but then he sagged back. It was hardly surprising. In addition to his scrapes and bruises, his head must still be throbbing from the blow that had knocked him out hours ago.

At Sappho’s order, the servants undid most of his bonds so that only his arms were restrained by a belt just above the elbows. However, his torso was now firmly bound to the sofa back.

“There.” Sappho settled into a chair opposite him as if it were a normal social occasion. “I think that’s better for all of us. Cassie, we will take breakfast in here, please.”

As the servants left, Elf sank into another chair. Her eyes ached, as did her stomach. As did a host of other places, some of which she’d scarcely been aware of before last night. She wanted a bath. She longed to just sink into sleep. Surely he must feel the same.

“Now,” Sappho said, “what is this about killing the king? He seems an inoffensive young man.”

Elf pulled her wits together. “Lord Walgrave has some connection to a bunch of Jacobite madmen who want to kill the king. Within the week, they said. A week that is nearly up.”

Sappho turned to stare at Fort. “My lord! You astonish me.”

“She’s mad. We should dispatch her straight to Bedlam.”

“If I’m mad,” Elf demanded, “who stole us from your house, injuring one of your servants and killing one of mine?”

He met her eyes. “Jealous lovers?”

“Then they must have been yours, because before last night, I’d never had one.”

He flinched, but kept up the sneer. “That, my dear, was not love. It was an entertainment as crude as bear-baiting.”

The fight not to cry became harder by the moment.

“The king,” Sappho calmly reminded them.

Yes, the king. The plot. Elf could deal with that and not feel torn into pieces. “You can’t deny those Scots at Vauxhall. I saw you, heard you.”

“You are delusional. Unless, of course,
you
are plotting treason and merely seek to put the blame on me. That would be a typical Malloren trick.”

Before Elf could explode over this, Cassie came in with a large tray. Sappho helped her lay out brioches, butter, jam, coffee, and chocolate on a small table. When the maid had done, Sappho turned to Fort. “May I feed you something, my lord? It might sweeten your temper.”

“I like my temper bitter.”

“As you will.” Sappho turned away. “Coffee or chocolate, Lady Elf?”

Hopelessly, Elf let Sappho provide her with chocolate and a brioche. Clearly Fort was in no mood to be rational, even about a threat to the king. Instead, he would pick fights and create as much damage as possible, even as the clock of disaster ticked the moments away.

It was all her fault, and she couldn’t think how to put it right.

She nibbled on food which could as well have been sawdust, desperately seeking inspiration.

Joseph Grainger had not been in Malloren House for an hour yet, but problems and puzzles covered his desk. Then the door opened and another walked in.

Grainger shot to his feet. “My lord!”

The Marquess of Rothgar raised a brow. “I am aware that I am unexpected, Mr. Grainger. Is my appearance
cause for alarm, however?” He looked down at his plain, dark riding clothes and boots as if seeking a peculiarity.

Heat flared in Grainger’s cheeks. “No, my lord. I beg your pardon. It is just that there are so many things—”

“There always are.” Rothgar settled elegantly into a plain chair and waved Grainger back into his seat. “Now, tell me what is amiss.”

Grainger studied his unruffled employer, knowing his calm meant nothing and wondering what to tell him. It was dangerous indeed to try to keep things from Lord Rothgar, but why spill things that might never come to light?

He started with a minor matter. “I have just received word from Rothgar Abbey, my lord, that a mechanical device was taken from there nigh on a week ago. Launceston seems to think it was by your orders, and yet I do not recall any such matter being raised.”

“Mechanical device?”

“The Chinese pagoda, my lord. The automaton.”

Rothgar frowned slightly. “Taken? Stolen?”

“Not precisely, my lord. It was collected by some men claiming to be from Jonas Grimes, the clock maker. They carried a note from you explaining that the device was to be cleaned and checked before being given to His Majesty. I was about to send a message to Grimes inquiring about the matter, but I fear he knows nothing of it. I’m in a puzzle, however, as to why anyone would go to such trouble to acquire a toy.”

“Puzzling indeed. And is that the only matter on your mind?”

Grainger cleared his throat. “No, my lord. This is even more peculiar. I have here a message from one of your private informants in government quarters. It seems that in some way the Stone of Scone has disappeared from Westminster Abbey.”

“The Stone of Scone,” Rothgar repeated. “If I remember correctly, it is a large and rather ugly hunk of sandstone. No wonder you seem distracted, Mr. Grainger. Perhaps it was a full moon last night.”

“No, my lord. The moon is on the wane.”

“Ah. Thank you. I can always depend on you for these details. So,” he said, counting on his long, pale fingers. “we have a missing toy and a missing rock. Has any other strange item absented itself?”

Grainger shuffled his papers anxiously. “Not exactly an item, my lord. An earl.”

Rothgar’s brows rose. “An
earl
?

“Lord Walgrave. He has disappeared.”

Now the marquess was attentive. “He has fled the country?”

“Not as far as anyone knows, my lord. He disappeared from his bed, taking not a stitch of clothing, and leaving a corpse and a badly injured servant behind.”

Rothgar’s dark eyes showed no particular alarm, but Grainger knew he was most dangerous when calm. “Do we know the identity of the corpse or the servant?”

Grainger swallowed. Here came the dangerous part, but he could see no way to conceal it. He thanked heaven that he had that note from Lady Elfled. “The corpse is unidentified, my lord, and the servant was not one of our people. However”—he cleared his throat—“there was another fatality. Sally Parsons, a maid in your employ.”

Rothgar raised a long pale finger to his chin and as if by design, a shaft of morning sunlight caught his ruby signet ring, flashing red as blood. “She was, perhaps, enjoying the earl’s favors?”