by Arnette Lamb
She quaked in shame. “Leave the authorities out of it, Notch,” she said. “No need to trouble them at this hour.”
The lad nodded in acquiescence. “I’ll just get Cholly, then.”
“By all means.” Michael declared, laughing. “Summon the streetsweeper. Call up the muckrakers. Invite the carters. Move aside the furniture and open a bloody museum. We’ll call it ‘The Great Cultural Experience for the Common Man.’ ”
She fumed at his overdone attempt at intimidation. He couldn’t possibly carry out the threat. But he’d wreak havoc with his threatening.
Notch headed for the stairs.
Michael stopped laughing and held out his hand to her. The challenge in his eyes was undeniable. “Tell the lad you’re perfectly safe with me.”
Only a fool would believe that. Yet she must convince Notch that it was true.
“Notch!” She laid her palm in Michael’s. “Come back.” Her voice warbled, and she cleared her throat. “William, you come, too.”
Notch stopped. William climbed onto the bannister to wait.
Averting her eyes, Sarah fought the trembling that promised to shatter her composure. She could not quail before Michael Elliot. She’d been caught. Bully for him. The canvas was in her possession. She hadn’t had the heart to pitch the painting onto the banked fire in his room moments ago. But she would if he refused to let her keep it.
“Notch, William, you mustn’t worry over my safety or seek help for me from any quarter.”
“You’re just sayin’ that ’cause he’s got you scared as a goose on the eve o’ Christmas.”
Michael’s brows rose. The wretch was enjoying himself.
Responsibility for the evening’s work was hers. She’d gotten the lads into this mess; she’d get them out. But Michael was making the situation worse, and for that poor behavior he would pay a price. But in the process she’d prove to him that Sarah MacKenzie was no goose awaiting the ax.
Moving the canvas behind her back, she gave Notch her kindest smile. “I know you are concerned about me. You are a true champion and a truer friend.”
He stood taller. “Gentlemen don’t take ladies behind closed doors, not if they’re quality to the core.”
“Do too,” said William. “That fancy wee-wee spark with his mah cherries takes Lady Winfield upstairs every night.”
Laughter danced at the corners of Michael’s mouth.
Sarah longed to cast off her manners and slap him. Instead, she sought a different sort of revenge. “Notch, will you be satisfied if Lord Michael gives you his oath that he will comport himself as a gentleman?”
Notch said, “He’ll have to swear on his honor.”
“Or his gentleman’s box,” William put in.
Turning to Michael, she said, “Perhaps you’d care to make that pledge now.”
Humor drained from his expression.
Sarah rejoiced in the small victory. “Let’s see. It must be a sincere oath. Something to the effect that you will not seek retribution against me for anything that has occurred here tonight.”
“What’s retribution?” William queried.
“A season in Tolbooth,” Notch supplied with authority.
“We’d better be after fetching Cholly.” William slid down the bannister, stopping at the turn of the landing.
Turnbull appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
“We’re drawing a crowd,” Michael announced, casually shifting his weight to one leg. “What will you do, Sarah?”
Despise him for the rest of her life, she silently swore. To her dismay, she murmured, “Have Turnbull get them out of here.”
“Turnbull,” Michael said. “See the lads home and have a chat with the Lindsays.”
“A lengthy chat, my lord?”
“Just so. I’m sure you have much to discuss.”
Turnbull smiled affably. “Indeed we do.”
Michael added something in a language she did not understand. Turnbull’s eyes widened in shock, but he quickly regained his composure.
“What about his oath?” Notch said.
“He didn’t swear on nothing,” William grumbled.
Sarah relaxed. “I seem to recall hearing it said that chivalry was a way of life for you, Michael.”
Grudgingly, he turned to Notch. “I swear on my honor that I will forgive Lady Sarah her botched ruse.”
Sarah thought his cunning knew no bounds. “You’ll also add the part about not seeking retribution.”
In a voice meant only for Sarah, Michael murmured, “You’re pushing your luck. Tell your friends good night.”
She did as he said.
Turnbull motioned for the boys to follow him.
Sarah hurried into Michael’s room.
Was it a lifetime ago that she’d crouched on the floor here and pried nails from the painting? Now she examined the room in earnest. For rented quarters, the rooms were spacious and well furnished. A door to the left led to the bedroom, but she could see only the edge of the blue velvet coverlet.
In both rooms, the walls were roughly plastered and the ceiling beams recently polished. Matching high-backed chairs framed the square hearth. An array of brass and wooden boxes flanked the mantel clock. The timepiece was one of Nathaniel Hodges’s more ornate designs.
The absence of a display of family miniatures on the mantel or any of the small tables strewn about the room struck her as odd. But if she had relatives like his, she wouldn’t exhibit their portraits either.
According to the clock, the time was just before 10. She remembered Michael’s comment about the curfew.
The door closed. He strolled toward her, the top of his now-bare head only a palm’s width from the ceiling. “Make yourself comfortable.” He dominated the room.
Sarah stood her ground. “I’d have to go elsewhere to do that.”
“But I want you here, and we have a number of important matters to discuss.”
Sarah sighted the hearth. She held up the rolled painting. “I’ll destroy it.”
As if he were settling in for a pleasant evening, rather than a forced seduction, he hung up his hat and tossed his gloves onto a table. “Not tonight, Sarah.”
She dashed for the fire.
He dashed for her.
He was too close and too quick, and his arms were like bands of steel.
Twisting, she tried to break free of his hold. “You cannot stop me.”
Releasing her, he held up his hands and gave her a bland smile. “Nor will I try. Go ahead. Do what you must.”
The canvas trembled in her hand, but she could not move her arm to throw the painting in the fire.
“Mary swore you would retaliate,” he said reasonably. “And after hearing her tell the tale of Lottie and a dozen fresh haggis in her marriage bed, I believe Mary. But I do not think you will destroy her beautiful painting.”
Sarah couldn’t. For reprisal, she’d have Mary’s face painted over her own and display the scandalous canvas at London Bridge. The idea soothed her, and she smiled. “You can be sure that Mary will get fitting wages for this shoddy work.”
All patient man, he shook his head. “If you call that shoddy, the king’s a MacKenzie.”
Ignoring him, she asked the question foremost in her mind. “What language were you speaking to Turnbull, and what did you say to him?”
Ignoring her, he removed the glass top from a dish of candy. The smell of ginger filled the air. When she refused the offered sweet, he took one and replaced the lid.
“What possessed you to foul Lottie’s marriage bed?” he asked.
How did she explain a life of caring closeness? What words could convey the unity of four siblings who constantly battled the stain of illegitimacy? Loyalty seemed too ordinary a word for the unique ties that bound the four half sisters.
She settled for the oblique. “The same sort of prank that led Lottie to dose my perfume with bitters.”
He pulled off his neckcloth and unfastened the top button of h
is shirt. “Is that what she did to earn your wrath?”
Trying to stay calm in the face of a disrobing man, she put the canvas on the seat of the facing high-back chair, then moved around behind it. For something to do, save gape at the black chest hair that peeked from the opening in his shirt, she examined the doily on the chair back. She found no grease on the cloth; he obviously did not pomade his hair.
The clock struck 10 o’clock. At least Notch and William were safe with Turnbull.
Michael reached for the canvas and laid it across his lap. “Did Lottie foul your favorite fragrance?”
She couldn’t help looking at where the canvas rested. His snug-fitting breeches accented his wellmuscled legs. No wonder he controlled his spirited horse with ease.
“Did she?”
Sarah swallowed back shame but couldn’t fend off peevishness. “Living in the same house with Lottie is reason enough.” Hearing her own testy words, she softened her tone. “But I did not act alone, and Lottie deserved it. Mary and Agnes helped me. That’s generally the way it was in our youth, three against one.”
He raked the ribbon tie from his hair. The long strands fell to his shoulders. “I’m not surprised Notch and the other orphans take to you. You’re more adept at conspiracy than they are.” Easing down in the chair, he propped his booted feet on a tasseled footstool. “But you plunder badly.”
His comfortable pose drove her to boldness. “Five minutes more, and I would have made good my escape.”
“Five minutes later, and I would have come after you.”
As if she would let him in. “You cannot keep that painting. ’Tis wrong of you in every way.”
He waved it at her. “You’ve looked at it?”
Sarah glared at him. “You lied about the freckles.”
Resting the tube on his legs, he unrolled the painting. “Do you say so because Mary didn’t paint them on your likeness, or because your skin is unblemished?”
She huffed in disdain and fought the urge to look away. “As if I would tell you.” If he could be secretive about his exchange with Turnbull, she could be evasive too.
“It’s a beautiful work.” With his index finger, he touched the canvas, tracing the curve of the model’s hip.
Even viewing it upside down, she had to agree. Emulating the lush style of George Lambert, Mary had posed the languishing Eve on an opulent chaise of tucked white velvet and set her amid a landscape full of ferns and exotic pink blossoms, nymphs and furry forest creatures. The blue sky above perfectly matched Sarah’s eyes.
To Mary’s credit, she’d given Sarah’s waist-length hair a high sheen and richly textured waves. To Sarah’s regret, Mary had omitted the simple modesty of a fashioning a sheer drape over the model. Down to the darker flesh on the nipples and lower, to the shadowy tuft of curly hair, Mary had glorified the female form. The size of the breasts, however, was a debatable matter. Sarah couldn’t stave off a blush.
He grinned at her dismay.
“Stop gawking! She’s made me naked, for God’s sake.”
“To be frank, my dear Sarah”—he choked back laughter—“I don’t think religion played the smallest part. Mary made you completely naked for me.”
Sarah shivered. “Was that your idea?” Until now, she hadn’t considered that he could influence Mary; the notion was absurd. But on second thought, he never failed to engage Sarah’s emotions. Perhaps Mary had also been swayed by him.
With the flat of his hand, he caressed the surface, his eyes alight with mischief. His overlong hair tempered the devilish aspect of his dark good looks.
When he spoke his voice was soft, beguiling. “Alas, the commendations are not for me. Mary thought it up. I only watched.”
Mary was perfectly capable of that kind of scandal. They probably discussed body parts as if they were hinges on a door.
“Is that why she sent it to you rather than to the lord provost as she threatened?”
He shrugged. “I only advised her that the lord provost would not show her work the appreciation I would. Sending it with the earl of Wiltshire was her idea. I think she was anxious to be rid of him for a day or two, or at least that’s what she said. He returned to London immediately.”
Mary would make her decision about the engaging earl; Sarah had Michael Elliot to worry over.
Eager to put the matter behind them, Sarah feigned indifference. “Mary should paint what is in her heart. I cannot imagine why she is content to copy others.”
As if he understood, he rolled up the painting and put it on the floor beside his chair. “Her talent far surpasses her mentor.”
The compliment struck a soft chord with Sarah. Mary was eccentric, stubborn, and bolder than Agnes. With the stroke of a brush, she could capture a person’s soul on canvas. With the scratch of a quill, she could personify the body politic in cartoon. Out of jealousy, her male contemporaries scorned her with names like Contrary Mary. Reynolds and the others of his age embraced her. London society didn’t know what to make of Mary Margaret MacKenzie. The earl of Wiltshire did, for he’d vowed before the congregation at Westminster Abbey to make her his wife.
Sarah loved her dearly. Next year, they’d sit before a roaring fire, pop colony corn, and share a merry laugh over both the painting and Sarah’s revenge, whatever that turned out to be.
“Would you care to share that joyous thought?”
Melancholy swamped her, but she held it close to her heart. A conversational detour was appropriate; Sarah found that she couldn’t voice it. “I was thinking how constant some things are in this life.”
“Namely, your affection for Mary and hers for you.”
He shouldn’t be so knowledgeable about Sarah’s feelings. “Yes, but Mary will still pay a hefty price, make no mistake about that.”
“I’d like to be a beetle under the chair on that occasion.” He removed his waistcoat and tossed it on the arm of his chair. A broadside fluttered to the floor.
Needing something to do, save watch him disrobe and question her own attraction to him, Sarah picked up the paper. A name caught her eye. Keen to the subject, she read the text. “Where did you get this?”
Consumed with his own comfort, he snuggled down into the chair again. “From my mother. She brought it back from London. Have you heard of this Lucerne?”
The innocent question gave Sarah pause, an opportunity to put aside troubling thoughts of Michael Elliot. Sarah knew well the musician Lucerne; her half sister Agnes traveled as companion and bodyguard to the young composer.
Was Michael fishing for information? His curiously bland expression appeared honest. He’d been in India for 15 years. That would explain a guileless query about Vicktor Lucerne; the virtuoso was only 12 years old, and he did not travel farther by boat than London. But he refused to perform there.
“Have you?” he asked.
“Lucerne is all the rage in Europe. At the age of three, he built a ladder and sat upon it to master the harpsichord. He composed his first opera as a tribute to himself on his sixth birthday. It’s said his violin sonatas are truly inspired, and his minuets the most popular of the day.”
“How do you know so much about him?”
She wouldn’t tell him about Agnes yet, not until she’d heard everything he had to say on the subject. “I enjoy learning, no matter the topic. Why do you ask?”
“My mother has arranged for him to give a concert in Edinburgh.”
His mother? If Lady Emily were involved, Henry must be too. That spelled trouble. If Henry dared to use Agnes as a pawn to get Lucerne to Edinburgh, and Agnes found out, Henry would regret it for the rest of his life.
For lack of anything better, Sarah said, “How interesting. How did that come about?”
“Happenstance, actually. A thief cut Mother’s purse in London, and a lady friend of this fellow Lucerne recovered it.”
An unholy suspicion gripped Sarah. “Another musician found your mother’s property?”
“No. That’s the oddity of
it. A noblewoman brought it back.”
“A noblewoman?” Drat her warbling voice. “Who was she?”
“Mother could not remember her name—only that it was Scottish. She was also quite taken with the woman’s pink jade necklace and her Oriental servant.”
Sarah knew who the woman was, and she also knew how adept Agnes Elizabeth MacKenzie was with her hands; she could snatch a purse with an ease Notch would envy. But even if Agnes hadn’t taken the reticule herself, which was entirely possible, she was clever enough to see it done intentionally to facilitate an introduction to Lady Emily.
Yes, Agnes must have instigated the meeting; the coincidence was too great. The pink jade necklace was too rare. Auntie Loo, the servant from Bangkok, was unforgettable. Since Agnes was in London, she and Mary had probably cooked up the concert scheme together. But to what end, Sarah wondered? And how could she glean more information from Michael without rousing his suspicions?
She smoothed out the doily. “I’m surprised your mother had time for anyone but poor Henry.”
“According to Mother, she and the woman became friends. The woman was quite eager to make the acquaintance of another Scot.”
Agnes could leach a secret from a person before the poor soul realized he, or in this case she, had revealed it. But Henry was involved, and he was Sarah’s problem. Did he know about the meeting between Lady Emily and Agnes? “I assume Lady Emily mentioned Henry.”
Michael smiled, but the expression lacked fondness. “As Mother tells it, the good Samaritan couldn’t ask enough questions about Henry and the Elliots.”
If Agnes was up to meddling, Sarah would have her head on a pike. But what if this were Agnes’s noble way of coming to Sarah’s aid? Agnes didn’t know the truth about Sarah’s parentage, not that it would matter to Agnes. They’d been raised as sisters, and pranks aside, they were fiercely loyal. Lack of a blood tie would not change that. But Sarah wasn’t ready yet to face Agnes and tell her the truth.
In any event, Sarah needed to know if Agnes had truly kept her identity a secret from Lady Emily. “Are you certain your mother doesn’t remember the woman’s name?”
