“Hmmph.” Turning away from the leaded windows, the dowager relaxed her grip on her walking stick—this one a stout length of yew topped with a heavy brass ball—and gestured for Lady Sylvia to enter the sitting room. “Well, don’t just stand there, gel. Come in.”
To her surprise, Lady Sylvia was carrying a silver tray with two tea cups and a bowl of sugar. The dowager’s eyes narrowed even more on seeing her relative’s cat-in-the-creampot smile. “What’s this?”
“A peace offering,” replied Lady Sylvia. “I wish to apologize for my outburst of last night.”
“Hmmph.”
“And for the air of tension surrounding the entire visit. I had hoped that perhaps we might…” She shrugged as she placed the tray on the sidetable. “But there is no use in crying over spilled milk. My party will be taking its leave soon, and while I know it is too much to ask that we part as friends, I should at least like to do so without animosity.”
Lady Octavia eyed the steaming brew with some skepticism. She would sooner expect hemlock than Oolong from her relative, but as Lady Sylvia seemed sincere, accepting the goodwill gesture seemed a small concession to make.
“It is a special mix I brought from London—a blend of Indian spices and black tea.” A splash of cream lightened the deep chocolate color. “It’s best enjoyed with a liberal helping of sugar. May I?”
The dowager gave a brusque nod as Lady Sylvia held a heaping teaspoon over the cups. “Just don’t expect to turn me up sweet,” she murmured. “At my age, I am too old to change, gel.”
A laugh. “Oh, I have no illusions of altering your opinion of me. I know you think me shallow and far too extravagant in my taste of fashions and friends.” Lady Sylvia stirred her tea. “But truly, do you never miss the gaiety of London Society? The glamour of the ton, the glitter of the ballrooms?”
The dowager took a long sip before answering. “Fool’s gold. Beneath the lustrous veneer is nothing of real value. Perhaps one day you will understand what I mean.”
“Perhaps.” Lady Sylvia was saved from having to say more by the pelter of small feet on the stairway landing.
“Miss Sloane says we may end lessons early.” Prescott shot into the room a half step ahead of his sister.
“She says you have found a grand set of skittles in the attics and that we may play with it in here with you, grandmama,” added Emma, a bit breathlessly.
“If you keep your voices down to a dull roar.” Shannon followed on their heels. “And if we are not interrupting a private family conversation.” Her brow rose in question. “I can keep the children occupied in the schoolroom if you prefer.”
“No need, Miss Sloane. I was just leaving.” Shannon was surprised to see Lady Sylvia take up the tea tray as she swept by. “As the weather looks to be holding, we will be leaving shortly to view the ruins of St. Alban’s Abbey.”
“She’s finally come to the conclusion that her presence is best served in small doses,” said the dowager dryly, once the door had fallen shut.
“What did she want?” Shannon’s gaze remained on the panels of polished oak.
“To offer an apology, if her words are to be believed.” Lady Octavia fingered the knob of her walking stick. “She is not quite as featherbrained as I thought. Indeed, had she ever spoken to me with as much candor as today, things might have been different between us.”
“I wonder what prompted a change of heart.”
“As do I. She didn’t ask for money. But likely she is just trying to butter me up for later.”
“Sugar and spice,” murmured Shannon. “I believe there is an old nursery rhyme—”
A snort interrupted her words. “Hmmph. She tried that already.” A glare glinted off the dowager’s spectacles. “But I didn’t bite.”
Whatever schemes Lady Sylvia had brewing, they seemed trivial compared to the threat of a cold-blooded French assassin.
Shannon shivered in spite of her shawl. “While the London ladies feast on a picnic of cold pigeon pie and old Town gossip amidst the Abbey Ruins, our concerns are closer to home.”
“Indeed.” Though she spoke with some force, Lady Octavia was forced to stifle a yawn.
“Did the children keep you up all night?” she asked in some concern. “If you wish to take a nap, I am perfectly capable of keeping watch.”
The dowager waved off the suggestion. “Slept like a babe. And you?”
She hoped her cheeks did not betray the telltale flush of heat. “No disturbances to speak of.”
“Miss Sloane, will you come show me the proper way to play skittles?” called Emma from the far corner of the parlor. “Scottie is making up his own rules.”
“I am not,” retorted her brother. “Mr. Oliver taught me how the Russian Imperial Guards play.”
“I had better mediate an international truce,” murmured Shannon. She was not sorry to have something to take her mind off Orlov. The gentlemen had been gone for several hours, and she couldn’t help imagining all the terrible things that could befall an individual out on the moors.
Even one as wily as a Russian wolf.
“If you tire of games, I brought down the book on pirates.” Lady Octavia rubbed at the bridge of her nose. “I think I shall ring for some more tea.”
But it was one of the local gardeners who appeared in the doorway, rather than Rawley. “Excuse me, milady, but I’ve been sent with a message. Right urgent, I was told.” Hat in hand, he tugged at a shock of ginger hair. “From the tall gent—the tutor.”
Shannon forced a show of calm as she waited for the man to go on.
“Well, don’t just stand there, man, spit it out!” said the dowager.
The man swallowed in some confusion. “Auch, he asked that Miss meet him as soon as possible by the loch. At the old laird’s boathouse.”
“You spoke with him?” Shannon rose. “When?”
“Not me, miss.” He ran a hand over his grizzled chin, leaving bits of dirt clinging to the rough stubble. “It was Jock who passed the word.”
She looked to the dowager, who nodded in answer to her unspoken question. “He’s a steady enough fellow,” added Lady Octavia, after dismissing the gardener with a brusque thanks.
Still, she hesitated. Her foremost duty was to the McAllister children. As for Orlov…
“He wouldn’t ask you to leave the children unless there was a demmed good reason.” The dowager’s low whisper echoed her own sentiments. “He left me a loaded pistol, and made sure I knew how to use it.”
Her mind raced through a few hurried calculations—the distance to the loch, the time it would take to make the round trip. “You are sure?”
“Go.”
“You will stay here in the Tower? And bar the stairwell door until I return?” she murmured.
“Never fear. These old fortress walls have held off hordes of wild Highlanders. They won’t give way to a Frog assassin, no matter how slippery a reptile.”
Shannon dared not vacillate any longer. Lynsley might question her judgment, but it would not be the first time they had disagreed on strategy.
“Mind your grandmother while I am gone,” she called to the children. “I must run an errand for her, but I shall be back shortly.” And if she was not? No, she would not even think of it. Lady Octavia had been told about the inn in Dornoch, run by one of Lord Lynsley’s operatives, and knew it was where she must go in case of disaster.
Giving thanks that she had taken to wearing her breeches and shirt beneath her dress, Shannon turned for the door.
“Damn. Another miss,” growled Jervis.
“Perhaps the gunsights need to be readjusted,” said De Villiers. “None of us has had any luck today—and my last shot was at nearly point-blank range.”
“Shoot me and put me out of my misery,” wheezed Talcott. Dropping his rifle, he slumped to a seat on a pile of stones. His face was a mottled red, and his shirtpoints and Belcher neckerchief were soaked with sweat. “Jervis, where the devil is your man with the refreshm
ents? I need a swig of brandy to fortify my strength.”
Still fiddling with the powder pan, Jervis looked up in annoyance. “He will be along in a moment.”
“We might as well take a break for some sustenance. The last beat through the heather was a trifle steep.” The comte did not look at all winded from the climb, noted Orlov. His step had been sure over the uneven ground, and he had handled his weapon well on flushing a brace of partridge. That he had missed bagging the birds was simply a bit of bad luck.
Their eyes met and De Villiers smiled. “You have yet to take a shot, Monsieur Oliver.”
“I did not wish to interfere with your sport. Perhaps later.”
“Afraid of matching your skills against those of a gentleman?” said Jervis with a lordly sneer.
“I’ll take my chances.”
The comte laughed. “He is right. We have nothing to crow about.”
Jervis did not appear to find the observation amusing. “Enough of damn birds. Let us cross that ridge and head into the stand of pine trees. It seems a likely place to pick up the trail of a stag.”
“The Highland variety prefer a more open terrain,” murmured Orlov, more to goad the other man into a temper than to offer accurate advice.
“If I wanted a schoolroom lecture on the flora and fauna of Scotland, I would have hired a lackey for myself.”
“I am sure Monsieur Oliver was only trying to be helpful.” De Villiers moved quickly to smooth his friend’s ruffled feathers. “Ah, here is your man now with the food and drink.”
The valet unslung the large canvas sack from his shoulder and began unwrapping the oilskin packages of cheese and cold ham. Orlov watched, seeing for the first time the man’s misshapen knuckles and scarred fingers. They looked more adept at throwing a punch than knotting a gentleman’s cravat.
“Some claret, Hartley, and be quick about it.” Jervis accepted the bottle from his servant and took a long drink. “Come, gentlemen, don’t tarry too long. If we are to have any hope of downing a prize, we cannot waste any time.”
Talcott groaned. “I will wait for you here, if you don’t mind.”
“There is no guarantee we will pass back this way again,” snapped Jervis, a rather nasty smile curling the corners of his mouth. His mood seemed to be growing edgier by the moment. “So unless you can find your own way back to the castle, I suggest you follow along.”
Swallowing a hasty bite of cheese and bread, Talcott swore again. “Christ, don’t leave me here in this godforsaken place.”
“Then don’t lag behind.” Jervis seemed to be taking a malicious pleasure in venting his ill-humor on his friend. He allowed a few more minutes to pass, then signaled to his valet to begin packing up.
Talcott swore and struggled to his feet.
“Hartley, give his lordship a hand.” Brushing the last crumbs of cheddar from his fingertips, Jervis took up his cartridge bag. “Let him carry your rifle,” he said to Talcott.
His friend gratefully passed over the weapon.
Orlov slowly gathered his own gear, straining to overhear the exchange as Jervis drew his servant aside for a few words. They spoke too softly, however, and he was forced to back off.
“Ready, gentlemen?” Jervis did not wait for an answer as he started up the steep trail.
Faster, faster. Her heart was outracing her feet as Shannon beat a path back to the castle. Vaulting the garden wall, she sprinted across the cobbled courtyard. There had been no sign of Orlov—or anyone else—around the loch.
Even a child should have seen through the ruse. But she had been looking with the starry-eyed gaze of a lover rather than the hawkish stare of a Merlin.
She barreled through the front door and rushed blindly down the hallway, praying there was still time.
Up ahead, the Tower door hung wide open on its heavy iron hinges.
Taking the stairs two at a time, Shannon yanked the pistol from her waistband. Shadows cut across the landing, dark as the iron bars guarding the narrow window. From inside the parlor came an ominous silence.
Drawing a steadying breath, she slowed to a measured step and cocked her weapon. A nudge of her boot inched the door open a crack.
“Lady Octavia.”
There was no answer… save for a whispery snore.
Thank god. She gently shook the dowager’s shoulder. “Lady Octavia, you must wake up.”
A flutter of lashes, and finally a peek of blue showed behind the glass lenses. “Hmmph.” The snort was soft and slurred and the eyes looked rather glazed.
“You’ve been drugged,” muttered Shannon.
The dowager struggled to raise her chin. “It must have been the tea. The taste was strange but I thought it due to the spices,” she said thickly. “Demme me for a fool.”
“And me.” Shannon spun around at the sound of approaching steps.
“Is something amiss?” Rawley shuffled into the room. “Cook and I saw Miss Sloane flying across the courtyard like a bat out of hell.”
“The children—have you seen them?” she demanded.
“Why, Lady Sylvia and her friends took them along on their picnic.” His face fell. “She said milady was napping, and that you were running an errand. I thought nothing of it.”
“You had no reason to.” The carriage had less than an hour’s head start, but it could be headed anywhere. Shannon closed her eyes and recalled the maps she had memorized. Fortunately, a vehicle of that size had few choices. There was still a chance.
“Rawley, stay with Lady Octavia.”
The only horse left in the stable was an old Highland gelding used for the occasional cart ride into the village. Shannon grabbed a bridle and a moment later was astride the animal’s bare back, urging him into a rawboned gallop. Cutting across the orchards, she crested the hill overlooking the loch. From there she had two choices—the road leading down toward Dornoch, or the way winding south through the moors to Inverness. Shading her eyes, she saw no sign of movement. She would have to act on intuition.
The abbey ruins were situated deep in the hills, on a small lake at the foot of Beinn Tharsuinn. Five miles by road, but no more than two as the crow flies.
Or the Merlin.
Praying that she was right, she turned her mount south.
It was slow going through the thick pines, and what little sun trickled through the heavy boughs did nothing to lighten the mood of the hunting party. Talcott had fallen into a sullen silence, punctuated by wheezing gasps and an occasional oath. Even De Villiers had dropped any attempt at small talk. The only sound was the crunch of dried needles underfoot.
Under Jervis’s direction, they spread out, and within minutes Orlov lost sight of the others through the tangle of dark tree trunks and twisted branches. He paused. The woods seemed wary, watchful. Even the songbirds had ceased their twitter.
After waiting a little longer, he angled through the underbrush, intent on keeping the others in front of him. The stalk was on. But what game was being hunted?
A twig snapped. Orlov looked around and saw a shape backtracking down the hill. He moved quickly to catch up.
“Lost your way, Mr. Hartley?”
Startled, the valet spun around. Talcott’s rifle was still in his hands, but before he could bring it to bear, Orlov caught its barrel. “Careful.” A sharp twist pulled it free of the man’s grasp. “It’s imperative to exercise great caution when handling a loaded weapon.”
Hartley glowered. “Lord Jervis asked me to return to the castle for more wine and brandy.”
“I think that would be a grave mistake. Shooting requires a clear head and a steady hand, don’t you agree?”
“Orders are orders,” grunted the valet.
Orlov shouldered the second rifle. Not that it added any real firepower to his arsenal. He had taken the precaution of removing the bullets from all the cartridges earlier that morning. “Come, let us find His Lordship and ask him to reconsider.”
Hartley shot him a disgruntled look, but after e
yeing the weapons a moment longer, he seemed to think better of further argument and reluctantly started back up the hill.
A puff of dust swirled up ahead. Shannon reined to a halt. The top of the carriage, a black speck against the heathered greens and golds, was visible for an instant before dipping down into a wooded swale.
Coaxing a last burst of speed from her lathered mount, she caught up with the vehicle as it slowed for a bend in the road. Coming abreast of Lady Sylvia’s coachman, she called at him to halt.
He turned to answer, but a sharp crack cut off his words. His mouth hung open for an instant, then he slumped forward, revealing a gaping hole at the back of his head.
From the underbrush across the road, Shannon saw the glint of gun barrel swivel her way. Jerking back on the reins, she flung herself sideways. The shot whistled by her ear.
Another few inches…
She dropped lower—only a handful of horsehair kept her from falling beneath the pounding hooves. As her frightened mount reared, she pushed off from its flank and grabbed for the carriage door latch. The brass gave a wild lurch as the wheels hit a rut, but her grip held.
Pain shot through her shoulder as her body slammed into the varnished wood. From behind the paned window came a piercing scream. Swinging her legs up, Shannon kicked in the glass and crawled inside.
Lady Sylvia, her face bloodless as marble, was trying to crawl out from under Helen Talcott, who had fallen into a dead faint. Ignoring her sister’s plight, Annabelle started to scream again. “Stephen! Stephen!”
Shannon elbowed her aside and crouched by the far window. “Stop that caterwauling,” she ordered. Knocking out one of the panes with her pistol, she scanned the roadside. Nothing.
“Are two you all right?” She slanted a quick look at the children. Prescott had his arm around his sister, but other than that, they looked remarkably calm.
“Yes, Miss Sloane,” they answered in unison.
“But you have a cut on your wrist,” said Emma in a worried voice. “And on your cheek.”
“Mere scratches, elf.” Shannon wiped at the blood. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Why do you have a pistol?”
She hesitated for a fraction. “Pirates. Of a sort, that is. They are trying to board and hold us for ransom. I mean to fight them off.”
Seduced by a Spy Page 24
