Beguiled

by Arnette Lamb

  She stopped. “I’ve interrupted your meal.”

  He wiped his thick mustache and tossed the napkin onto a table. The remains of his lunch, a pile of quail carcasses and a hunk of bread, littered a platter. The sweet odor of cabbages hung in the air.

  Patting his flat stomach, he said, “I’ve had my fill. Come in and sit down. I’ll put these dishes in the hall.”

  Past fifty by a year or two and gray from forehead to nape, Trimble had a youthful air about him. He could be stern and harsh when circumstances dictated, but when he met with success, he rejoiced like a lad who’d collected his first wages.

  Agnes removed her cloak and hung it on a rack with an array of similar garments. Then she took the chair nearest the window.

  Trimble set out the rubbish and began tidying the table. Across the room, boxes were piled to the ceiling. Packed inside were garments of every kind, from lepers’ rags to princely robes, disguises used when necessary by those in his employ. Agnes had worn a costume or two in the course of her search for Virginia.

  Trimble had established a web of knowledge gatherers that stretched from the Baltic to Canton. Some of his associates were retired soldiers, same as he; others were ship’s captains, nannies, and roomsetters.

  He made a fist and pounded the desk. “Congratulate me. I’ve found your bowman.”

  Agnes slumped in the chair. “Good work, Trimble.”

  He laughed and poured her a glass of ale. “It’s not the item of information we long for, but it will save Napier’s life.”

  The item he spoke of was Virginia’s whereabouts. For five years, he’d been in Agnes’s employ, but from the start, he’d adopted her cause. In private they dropped formalities. He was practical about the search and mindful of the odds; Agnes was neither. The differences between them formed the basis of their unusual friendship. He’d traveled with her to Canton and enlisted the harbormaster into his web.

  Agnes touched her glass to his. “Tell me about him.”

  Trimble whistled. “Name’s Van Rooks, and we’ve not seen his like before.”

  “A Dutchman?”

  “Yes.” From a niche in his desk he produced the quarrel she’d given him. “A queer one the Rook is. That’s what the fletchers in London call him. The Rook. How many of these”—he brandished the arrow—“do you have?”

  She recalled each of them. One in her shoulder. The second in Edward’s chair. A third in the Napier crest. The fourth skewering the dove in the MacKenzie plaid. “Four, why?”

  He chewed his lip, a sure sign that the subject troubled him. “He commissions only five for each job.”

  Odder still, this assassin. “What if he doesn’t succeed in five tries?”

  “Hasn’t happened. That’s why no one questions his price.”

  “Which is?”

  “Five thousand pounds. One for each arrow.”

  It was Agnes’s turn to whistle. “He must be good.”

  “They say the word hasn’t been uttered yet to equal the Rook’s skill.”

  Agnes gazed out the window. A group of seamen swaggered down the lane; a pack of scrawny children followed. Sunlight turned the panes of glass to mirrors. Did the bowman stand behind one of those windows?

  Agnes scooted her chair back. “I was bothered when he did not kill the guard. Now I know why and it frightens me. He is an honorable assassin.”

  “There’s worse news, so I won’t argue the point.”

  Impossible, she thought. “If you tell me he is a ghost, I will tell your wife that you gifted your mistress with a new carriage.”

  In mock misery, he wrung his hands. “Crafty women, you Highlanders.”

  He’d always teased her about her heritage. Agnes took no offense. “Give me the ill tidings and end my misery.”

  “He’s skilled with a blade.”

  Bitterness filled her. “Does he poison them as well?”

  Trimble shook his head in shame. “No honor in that.”

  Agnes didn’t necessarily agree, but she wouldn’t broach the argument either. “The fletcher who makes the quarrels. I don’t suppose he can be bought.”

  “Everyone can be bought.”

  “Well then?”

  “Not every price can be met.”

  “Oh, now that’s symmetry of thought, Trimble. I’ll pay dearly to learn the Rook’s location and a description of his face.”

  Trimble sipped the ale. “The fletcher has a brother in the workhouse of Saint Andrews, Holborn. Gain his release and you’ll get the location of the Rook and a likeness of his face.”

  Holborn was a district of London. “But that will take a fortnight at the least. I’ll have to hire a barrister in London. Take it to Sessions.” She stopped. She understood. “ ’Tis a price we cannot meet.”

  “Exactly. The Rook will have finished the job by then.”

  “Or the job will have finished him.” Agnes didn’t wince at the prospect of taking the man’s life. The world would be better off without the Rook.

  Trimble leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clutching the glass with both hands. “He’s very dangerous. His peers and those who know him say the first scruple has yet to find him.”

  She straightened her fingers and made a slicing motion. “But can he bring a man down with the edge of his hand?”

  “No.” He sat back. “But you’ll have to get within arm’s length of him first, and I tell you, Agnes, it will not be easy. Those ruffians in Burgundy? That childmonger in London? Those were amateurs. I’ll wager my firstborn son that the Rook knows all about you. He’ll be prepared to deal with your unusual abilities.”

  Some people did not speak kindly of Agnes’s skills. Other people did not believe in weaponless fighting, but she no longer took offense at their disparaging words. “Perhaps I’ll brew up a little Chinaman’s poison.”

  He scoffed. “You never would stoop to that. ’Tis a coward’s weapon, and you’re no coward. That brawl in Canton convinced me.” His voice dropped. “The Rook will not stay long in Scotland. Word from the fletchers’ guild says he’ll come and go within a fortnight.”

  “That doesn’t give me much time.”

  He turned his attention to her sling. “Are you healing well?”

  “Aye, I have an excellent doctor.”

  “Cathcart’s a ruddy good man. In the event you are interested, he hasn’t visited his mistress lately.”

  Feigning boredom, Agnes examined her fingernails.

  Trimble wasn’t done. “Every Wednesday and Saturday, regular as England will war with France, she entertains him. Stays over, they say, but only on Wednesday.”

  “Then we can assume that the widow MacLane does not snore.”

  Trimble howled with laughter. “Dismiss those deadly hands and feet, Agnes MacKenzie. A solid prick of your tongue, and a man’ll bleed to death.”

  “I learned it from Lottie.”

  “So you’ve said.” Wiping his eyes, he sniffed. “One of my sources saw you in the carriage with the Napiers.”

  She told him about visiting Saint Vincent’s Church in search of Mrs. Borrowfield. “Have someone question the sedanchairmen and the runners in the area. See if Mrs. Borrowfield, or however she styles herself, hired a ride on Sunday mornings between nine-thirty and ten o’clock. She did not attend services. Learn where she went, whom she met.”

  He jotted down the information in a small book. “I should have thought to check with the churches. Anything else?”

  Agnes felt another twinge of guilt over her treatment of Penelope, but tucked it away and explained her suspicions about Sir Throckmorton.

  Nodding in agreement, Trimble made another notation. “If he brought that many women with him, the laundry maids at the inn will probably aid us out of spite.”

  “Nay. Pay them.” Agnes withdrew a sack of coins from her bag and handed it to him.

  He gave it back. “The duchess of Ross sent me fifty pounds. Lady Lottie sent ten.” In reproach, he said, “But yo
u did not hear that from me.”

  Her family might swear that Virginia was dead, but some of them helped Agnes finance the search for her. She thought of her father and Mary. “Did your man in London have any news of Papa or Mary?”

  “Glad you reminded me.” He went to his desk and fished out a newspaper clipping. It was dated a week ago. In a cartoon Mary had sketched Lord Robert Spencer, the earl of Wiltshire, standing in the winner’s box at Longacre Downs, his steed dead at his feet. Written across the horse’s body were the words, “Common Man.”

  “Saint Ninian help her,” Agnes murmured. “Now she’s ridiculing him for his stable of horses and his fondness for the races.”

  “You’ll be off to London to lend a hand after you’ve cleaned up this nasty business here.”

  “Of course, if she needs me.”

  “You never did like Glasgow. Never stayed more than a night, even if your friend Captain Cunningham was at dock.”

  She hadn’t had good reason to linger in this part of Scotland. She and Trimble corresponded through the web of messengers and truth seekers. In her vocation she couldn’t travel to Glasgow at the drop of a hat. Unless he sent word about Virginia. “Where is Cameron?” she asked, speaking of Cameron Cunningham.

  Trimble consulted a canvas-bound book. “On his way back from Penang. He’s bringing back the first official shipment of pepper since Britain opened the port. He’s a fortnight overdue. Did you know that he is also a friend of Lord Edward? Stays at Napier House when his ship docks in Port Glasgow.”

  Obviously Cameron hadn’t mentioned Virginia to Edward, because Edward hadn’t known about her, but that seemed strange, for Cameron was anything but shy.

  Agnes pulled on her gloves and rose to leave.

  “Give my best to Lord Napier,” he said.

  “If I see him.” She related Mrs. Johnson’s news about the earl’s dedication to his work.

  Trimble stared at the ceiling and scratched his cheek. “Didn’t you tell me that you thought his work was involved and that Throckmorton’s presence alerted you to it?”

  “Yes. Everything in Lord Edward’s life, except his newest invention, is ordinary. He doesn’t own a prison as some nobles do. He hasn’t vast lands in the Borders with tenants to ill-treat. I’ve seen his mill, and the people are happy and safe there. It must be that machine he’s perfecting.”

  “No accidents at the mill?”

  “Hoots. I’d forgotten. Yes, a fire in the workshop of a man named Dunbar. He helps Lord Edward with his inventions.”

  “I’ll make the acquaintance of this Dunbar. He may know something of importance and not realize it.”

  “An excellent thought.” She moved to the door.

  “I’m surprised you haven’t discovered what’s in that dungeon laboratory at Napier House. You’ve been known to pick a lock with those deadly hands.”

  Agnes slowed her steps. She knew why she hadn’t picked the lock; she’d waited for him to invite her down there. How foolish that she’d let pride get in the way of prudence. If burgling led to saving his life, that was what mattered. She’d examined the lock and could open it with ease.

  “Have you fallen in love with him, Agnes?”

  “Nay.” To cover the lapse in good judgment she thought of an excuse and a lie. “ ’Tis an ancient lock. Have you a heavy pick?”

  He pointed to a chest in the corner. “You know where the tools are kept.”

  Removing her gloves, she sifted through an array of keys and lockpicks, hasps and bolts, and even a chastity belt. She couldn’t resist hefting it. If wearing such a device would protect her from her own weakness toward Edward Napier, she’d don the thing and throw away the key.

  But that would be cowardly.

  She chose a sturdy awl with a bent tip and decided it would work better than one of her knives to spring the old lock on the heavy oaken door to the laboratory.

  “Thank you, Trimble.”

  He stopped her short of the door. “Agnes, listen to me. As soon as I find the Rook, I’ll tell you where he is, but take Auntie Loo with you when you go after him.”

  “I’ll consider it. You find him.”

  “Will you tell Napier about the Rook?”

  A difficult decision; Edward was no match for the Rook; yet he’d go valiantly to his death. She could not let that happen. “I’ll tell his lordship some of it.”

  * * *

  Weary and frustrated, Edward pounded the surface of his work table and pushed to his feet. The air reeked of damp steel and oil. The pressure in the vessel was too high. He must find a way to regulate the temperature of the steam, thus controlling the power of the engine. It was as if he were trying to harness the power of the wheel without ever having seen a circle.

  Clearing his mind, he walked around the engine. He rethought the design of each part, the manufacture, the assembly, the failure.

  Twice more he tried. Twice more the solution eluded him.

  He ripped the drawing of the last design from his tablet and wadded it in his fist. Sighting the glowing hearth, he cocked his arm, but stopped. When he found the answer, he’d want this page as a guidepost. Once the engine was perfected, he’d work backward to discover his mistakes and learn from them.

  Frustration had blinded him to his own ways and means of invention. Knowing his children were safe had inspired him to selfishness. A part of him thrived in this dungeon, fed on the science of man building machines. It was why he could close his eyes and feel gravity work, or why he could see mathematics in a linear field. But he couldn’t make this engine work.

  He slid the page into a basket with its predecessors, then bathed and changed into clean clothes. Drying his hair with a towel, he banked the fire and turned down the lamps. Another unfinished enterprise of a less frustrating nature rested on a throw of black velvet at the end of the work bench. But he wouldn’t complete that task now. He wanted to kiss Hannah goodnight and, in return, receive a messy smack of her lips against his cheek. Then she’d tell him her fondest wish, and he’d bite his tongue to keep from weeping with joy.

  Christopher would talk to his mother, but what would he tell her tonight?

  Buoyed by the moments to come, Edward tossed the towel at the crib that Hannah had often slept in as a babe. Then he left the dungeon and went to the tower to see his family.

  Auntie Loo sat in a chair in the common room. “My lady is reading them a story.” She lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “Are you well, my lord? You look tired.”

  He rubbed his neck and remembered sitting before this hearth, a pair of nimble fingers kneading his sore muscles and inspiring other earthier parts of him. “I haven’t met with much success today.”

  As if it were a foregone conclusion, she said, “You will. Difficult times sharpen the mind.”

  He’d only chatted with Auntie Loo during meals or in passing in the halls. Now was a good time to get to know her and to learn a few things about Agnes MacKenzie. “Which of your ancient philosophers said that?”

  She tucked her legs beneath her. “One who will surprise you.” From the low table beside her she picked up a flat, palm-size star made of shiny metal. Absently, she twirled it between her fingers. “My mother said it, but she lets the emperor take the credit for her wisdom. Please sit. You have other questions in your eyes.”

  Taking the opposite chair, Edward couldn’t help asking, “Do you miss your home?”

  “Very much so.” Dipping her head, she reverted to broken English, but the movement of the metal star in her hand stayed constant. “But Auntie’s soul is now twined up tight with that MacKenzie woman’s.”

  “Because she saved your father’s life.”

  “Yes. All of my people owe her a gift. A lowly concubine’s daughter is a small price to pay.”

  He could feel the strength of her conviction and warmed to the conversation. “May I ask you something personal?”

  “Yes, so long as I may decline to answer.”

  He entertained
a second thought about the question he wanted to ask but banished it. “I have read in medical texts that the females in your culture compress their feet to the point of deformation. Yours are normal. Is foot-binding a custom practiced only in the lower classes?”

  She put down the star. “The power of fashion is great among the rich and poor alike in China. When I was six years of age, the time when binding begins, my mother forbade it.”

  “Were her feet bound?”

  “Yes, and eventually she will lose most of her toes. I suffered much scorn.”

  “What did people say?”

  “Referring to my large feet, they’d say, ‘Just look at those two boats going by.’ I tried to bind them myself, but the pain was too great.”

  He recalled what Agnes had said about Auntie Loo’s skill. “Is it true that you are superior in skill to Lady Agnes?”

  She paused for so long, he began to think she would not answer. When she did, her words surprised him. “I’ve had more schooling in the ancient arts. Chang Ling was my teacher from an early age. But I do not have Lady Agnes’s heart for the kill.”

  Agnes had taken a life? The knowledge should have appalled him, but it did not. “How many people has she killed?”

  “Three. In each instance she saved the life of a child.”

  She’d saved Edward’s life, and had she killed the assassin in the process, he would have rewarded her. “What of conscience?”

  “I also have more of that than the Golden One, as my people have named her. But her cause is greater.”

  “What is her cause?”

  “In the church in Edinburgh, when you were tending her wound, the duke of Ross spoke about Virginia.”

  Edward knew the girl was missing and assumed dead by all of the MacKenzies except Agnes. The ache in your heart will hurt you more than this latest wound. Auntie Loo had said that of Agnes; she had been referring to the loss of Virginia MacKenzie.

  “Tell me about the lost girl,” Edward asked. “What happened to her?”

  Auntie Loo folded her hands. “Do you believe she is lost and not dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Lady Agnes believes it.”