by Arnette Lamb
Agnes almost dropped the weapons. “How dare you!” was all she could think of to say.
Looking too much like the sage he was not, Cameron nodded. “I suspected as much. Had she not wanted you, you’d be dead, Edward.”
She rounded on Cameron and hissed, “When did you become a soothsayer?”
Cameron’s smile was tender and thoughtful. “I know your skills, Agnes. But talents aside, you have a love bruise on your neck, and Edward has scratches on his back.”
“What the devil does that have to do with anything?”
“You marked me?” In mock surprise, Edward contorted to see his back. “I don’t recall that we rutted like animals. We were aggressive, but—”
“Haud yer wheesht, Edward Napier. I made you no promises.”
“Nay? You gifted me with your innocence.”
Cameron said, “We call that a promise in the Highlands.”
“It is so in the Lowlands as well, Cam.” Then Edward had the nerve to crook his finger and beckon her.
More old-fashioned males. Agnes had had enough of them. “I will not be forced.”
“It doesn’t look as if he forced you, Agnes,” Cameron said.
“True, Cam,” Edward admitted. “She was unable to resist me, and I actually did the seducing.”
“You did nothing of the sort.”
Into the fray, Cameron said, “Do you think Lachlan MacKenzie opines for an alliance with the Napiers?”
In a low growl, Edward said, “He’ll have it whether it pleases him or not.”
She stepped between them. “Cameron Cunningham, if you even hint to my father that I’ve—”
“Been seduced?” Edward chirped.
Phrasing it that way, he made her sound weak. Agnes fumed but didn’t spare him a glance. “Cameron, if you tell on me, I’ll tell your father that you seduced Sorcha Burke.”
“They know about Sorcha and me. She’s married now and happy.”
His debauchery didn’t end there. Agnes had sailed the world with Cameron. “What of that girl in Calais?”
Cameron blanched. “That serving wench?”
Agnes had him. “You served her right enough. We stayed in port an extra day because you couldn’t bring yourself to leave her bed.”
Edward turned away from them, dropped the tartan, and pulled on the breeches. “Agnes. Are you comparing a night with me to a seaman’s tumble with a dockside sally?”
She’d gone too far; his angry expression said as much, but she could not retreat now. “You likened me to a milkmaid.”
His jaw tightened. To Cameron he said, “Trouble yourself not. I intend to tell his grace of Ross exactly how his daughter came to be here and what has occurred since then.”
Drilling him with a stern gaze, she said, “While you’re playing the gossipmonger, don’t forget to tell Cameron the real reason why I am in Glasgow.”
“Very well. Someone’s trying to kill me.”
“You?” Cameron said. “Why would anyone want to hurt you?”
With the short sword, Agnes pointed at the engine. “That.”
As Agnes edged toward the stairs, Edward told Cameron about the attack in Edinburgh.
“Trust Agnes to find your culprit, Edward. She can follow the wake of a dolphin through the Minch.”
The last thing Agnes heard as she climbed the stairs was Cameron saying, “Edward, is that pink thread in your breeches? Your tailor’s a bit odd.”
Angry and confused, Agnes slammed the heavy door. Edging through the tapestry, she paused. The doves had been removed and the blood cleaned from every surface. Mrs. Johnson must have worked all night.
Just as she touched the handle on the tower door, the shrill sound of Christopher’s whistle rent the air. Edward wouldn’t hear the noise, which was just as well. If the assassin thought to reach Edward through Christopher, he might succeed. Instead, he’d face Agnes MacKenzie. But why hadn’t the other alarms sounded?
Pitching her necklace, stiletto, and shoes onto a chair, and tucking her short sword under her arm, she dashed for the new wing. Heart pounding, legs pumping, she unsheathed her weapon and raced through the corridor to the formal parlor. Not slowing, she burst into the portrait gallery and barreled into one of her father’s messengers. This man she knew.
Beside Rabbie stood her sister Mary and a confused Christopher. Behind them stood a baffled Mr. Boswell.
“Please tell this lad,” Mary wailed, her hands over her ears, “that we are not the angels of death come to murder his father.”
Agnes almost wilted with relief. Between labored breaths she reminded Christopher that he’d met Mary in Edinburgh. “She drew a picture of you, don’t you remember? Lady Juliet begged you to give it to her so she could remember you.”
Embarrassed to his polished shoes, the lad flapped his arms. “Well, we didn’t go to church today. Hannah fretted until Auntie Loo put her back to bed. I couldn’t find you and father. I’ve been as bored as anything. Then Captain Cunningham arrived.” His bottom lip quivered. “Nothing’s as it should be anymore.”
Immediately attentive to his distress, Agnes took his hand. “ ’Twill be better soon, Christopher. I give you my word.”
“Cameron’s here?” Mary asked, removing her spectacles. “Good. He’ll help me.”
“Help you what? Why are you here?”
Her critical gaze moved to Hogarth’s depiction of Edward’s grandfather. “I followed Rabbie.”
Their father’s messenger huffed. “Blackmailed me, she did. Fooled the duke and Wiltshire. Caught up with me in North Hampton. His grace’ll banish me to the Orkneys or worse when he gets wind of it.”
Eager to speak to both of them, but not at once, Agnes set her priorities. She told Mrs. Johnson to take charge of Christopher and Rabbie and asked Boswell to take Mary’s bag to the room next to hers in the new wing.
When she turned to Mary, she wasn’t surprised to hear her sister say, “Someone should have whipped Hogarth for putting parti-colored spaniels in this painting. He might as well have painted festoons on the subject’s waistcoat and furbelows in his wig. Spaniels,” she spat. “Wretched for the image of a Scotsman.”
“I thought you would covet the frame.”
With hands as graceful and talented as God could create, Mary touched the wood. “ ’Tis truly fine craftsmanship.”
Smiling, Agnes hugged Mary. “How are you, sister dear?”
“Wait!” Mary stood back. “Your shoulder.”
Agnes had forgotten the wound. “I’m fine, truly. And you?”
Her auburn hair glistened with dampness, and her dress was wrinkled beyond easy repair. Tears pooled in her hazel eyes. “Papa tried to force me to wed
Robert Spencer. He doesn’t want me, Agnes. He made a wager with his friends in the House of Lords that he could seduce Contrary Mary.”
Agnes’s heart ached for her. “And he succeeded.”
Mary nodded so vigorously, her hair came unbound. “His courting of me was a jest. I was such a fool. Papa doesn’t understand. I had no choice but to flee.”
“Oh, Mary.” Agnes embraced her again, and as Mary cried in earnest, Agnes said, “I’ll make certain he doesn’t seduce anyone else.”
“I knew I could count on you, Agnes.” Mary dashed her tears. “I’m so tired, and I’m . . . I’m . . .”
“Pregnant.”
“Aye. Oh, Agnes. What’s to become of me? Papa’s so angry, and he’s actually taken a liking to Robert.”
The earl of Wiltshire would pay, and Agnes knew some very inventive ways to seek retribution, but Mary needed her now. “Come,” she said. “Forget about men. I’ll send for a bath, and you can rest. It’ll all look better in a while.”
“You sound like Lottie.”
Agnes made a funny face. “Heaven forbid!”
Mary lifted her chin in imitation of Lottie and said, “I insist on having a room to myself.”
Agnes sketched an elaborate bow. “Your wish is my command,
Your Highness.”
Laughing, they climbed the stairs. As soon as Mary was resting quietly, Agnes changed her clothes and went in search of her father’s messenger. She found him in the foyer with Edward and Cameron.
“Going somewhere, my lord?” she asked.
Edward’s gaze traveled over her in proprietary fashion. “Yes. Sunday is wages day at the mill.”
He couldn’t go out alone. “Wait. I’ll get a few things and go with you.”
His cool demeanor spoke volumes about his mood. “Cameron will accompany me. You stay with Mary until your father arrives.”
Mary had said nothing about Papa coming to Glasgow. “Where is he?”
With a glance, Edward deferred to Rabbie. “His grace and Robert Spencer, the earl of Wiltshire, are at most a day’s ride behind us.”
Oh, Lord. As if Agnes didn’t have enough to deal with. But Edward’s safety was foremost on her mind. “You’ll not go anywhere else?”
Engrossed in pulling on his gloves, Edward chuckled. “Only a dockside sally could prevent me from returning to you, Agnes.”
She winced at the cruel remark but knew she deserved it. “Edward—”
He held up his hand. “Save it for later, my lady.”
That formality said, he marched out the front door. Cameron followed him.
Rabbie gave her a letter from her father. Unfortunately, the message had been penned before her letter had reached him.
According to Lachlan, the earl of Wiltshire had indeed made the awful wager that Mary had spoken of, but during the course of the seduction, Robert Spencer had fallen in love. Lachlan had penned his message before Mary’s flight from London, so no mention was made of a journey to Glasgow.
Heaven help them when Papa arrived.
Agnes went to the kitchen and informed Mrs. Johnson that more guests were expected. At the cook’s frightful look, Agnes sent Bossy to the orphanage for extra maids. Then she ordered Edward’s mount and went to visit Trimble.
* * *
When she returned several hours later, Edward was waiting for her in his study. His first words frightened her all over again.
“A Dutchman visited the mill today. He thought you were my wife. Of course, I did not tell him how silly that notion was. He sent you this.”
“What is it?”
“I do not know. It was not mine to examine.”
Agnes took the small box from Edward’s hands. Her own were shaking. The time would come to broach the problems between them, but not now. “I don’t remember meeting a Dutchman.”
“You haven’t. He said that he saw us in passing in Trongate that day we visited Saint Vincent’s Church.”
A Dutchman. Even before she opened the gift and examined the velvet pouch inside, Agnes knew what it was. The pink rook from the chess set in the common room.
Hefting the bag in her hand, she said, “Tell me about him.”
Edward made a slow inspection of her, but the hunger in his eyes had dimmed. “Prosperous fellow and honest to the teeth.” Strolling to the firescreen, he touched the Napier shield. “The Dutchman admitted to knowing nothing about textiles, except the return to be made on his guilders. But I doubt you’re interested.”
Ice wouldn’t melt on Edward’s tongue, so cold was his tone. A chill went through her. How close had Edward come to death that day in Trongate, and later at the mill? The Rook had followed them there and left the golden badge of the MacKenzies in the carriage.
Thank God, Cameron had been with Edward today. But soon it would be over. At this very moment Trimble’s best thief was waiting for Throckmorton to take his family to tea. As soon as they left, the thief would search their rooms for proof of Throckmorton’s part in the conspiracy.
Shoring her courage, she said, “The man who gave you this is the assassin.”
His eyes widened; then he relaxed and toyed with the alphabet blocks he’d brought home for Hannah. “He’s a businessman, Agnes.”
“Nay, he is not. The Dutchman is the assassin. He goes by the name of the Rook.” She fished the chessman from the pouch. “He took this from the common room last night. This is his way of taunting us.”
“Sweet Saint Columba.” Edward plopped down in a chair.
But thanks to Trimble, Agnes now knew where to find the Rook.
Clutching the game piece, she knelt beside Edward’s chair and lied. “I’m going to visit Trimble. I shan’t be long. When I return, we’ll talk.”
“Talk?” he taunted. “The way friends talk? How delightful. I seem to remember that you have an interesting way with words.”
She couldn’t hold back. “You told Cameron that you seduced me.”
“So?”
“You made me sound weak.”
“Weak as in purring like a kitten in my arms? Weak as in asking me to braid your hair because you were too exhausted from our lovemaking to lift a finger? Weak because your heart is filled with love for me?”
“You’re being unfair.”
“By accepting the consequences?”
“Consequences?”
“Ask Lady Mary. She knows about the lingering effects of passion.”
“I cannot be with child. Not after only one night.”
Turning away, he finished with, “Give my best to Trimble.”
Agnes deserved his scorn, and later she would apologize. But she welcomed his anger, for it had blinded him to any suspicions about her upcoming mission.
Rising, she patted his arm and hurried up the stairs to change her clothes.
Then she went after the assassin.
15
HER STILETTO TUCKED INTO HER sleeve, and her special tools in her vest, Agnes left her mount behind the Drygate Inn, hurried past the dovecote, and stepped into the kitchen. A robust cook worked at the stove. The oily odor of kidneys and leeks hung in the air.
Agnes cleared her throat.
The heavy woman turned and gasped. A wooden ladle fell from her hand. Wide-eyed, she stared at Agnes’s manly attire.
Agnes pitched her a guinea. “I’d like some information on one of your guests.” Trimble had told her where to find the Rook. Agnes hoped this woman could provide the details. “ ’Tis the Dutchman I seek. Which room is his?”
“Upstairs in the corner.” The woman pulled a rag from her cleavage and mopped her brow. “Faces the mews, but he don’t mind the stench. He asked for the room special. Keeps the window open, and none but the innkeeper has another key.”
So he could slip in and out of the inn with a crossbow, and no one would notice. “Is the Dutchman about?”
“Oh, aye. Sleeps in the day, he does. Locks his door.”
A minor impediment. “Have you some grease?”
The cook reached into a crock and slapped a handful of drippings onto a towel. Agnes took the cloth. “Where are the servants’ stairs?”
She pointed toward a storage area across the room. “Behind those barrels. Door’ll be the last on your right.”
Agnes spied the kegs. “You haven’t seen me here.”
The cook waved the guinea. “For this, I’d deny seeing the Second Coming.”
Agnes climbed the worn stairs. At the top she spied three doors and headed for the last one. Sunlight streamed through a window at the end of the hall, and wagons rumbled on the street below. Crouching, she peered through the keyhole.
The Rook slept on a bed against the wall, but in her narrow line of sight she could only see him from the chest down. The crossbow rested atop a table in the center of the room—blessedly out of easy reach. The remaining quarrel, its distinctive fletchings pale against the dark wood, lay nearby. A pair of knives was also visible on the table. His empty hands were folded over his belly.
She found him surprisingly small in stature, his feet almost an arm’s length from the end of the bed. She thought of Edward, so tall his feet lapped over the cot. She remembered his powerful legs, the strength in his loins. Warmth crept up her neck, and her vision drifted out of focus.
Troubled by distracting thoughts of Edward Napier, Agnes put him from her mind and oiled the iron hinges.
Taking a moment, she closed her mind to everything save the harmony. Like a rainbow of thought, it embraced her, and as she relaxed, she breathed deeply. Choosing the proper pick from inside her vest, she went to work on the lock. As it sprung, the lever made a dull thud. Quickly, she looked again through the keyhole. His chest rose and fell, but other than that, he had not moved.
But she did. Easing open the door, she slipped inside and hurried to the bed. In a movement she’d practiced thousands of times, she unsheathed the deadly blade. Then she pressed it to his neck.
His eyes flew open.
“Move and you’re dead.”
He had not moved. Blue-eyed and fair, he wore his hair close-cropped, and his complexion was pitted and dirty. He’d shaved off the beard he’d worn in Edinburgh.
“Do you know who I am?” she asked.
“Ya.”
The Dutchman. She could smell his fear. “Who was the nanny?”
“Mrs. Borrowfield?” His speech was flavored with the guttural tones of his homeland.
“Aye, the woman who fled the church in Edinburgh.”
“Hired out of London to report on the earl’s progress on the engine.”
“Hired by whom?”
His throat worked, and he swallowed loudly.
Agnes put gentle pressure on the knife. “You’ve begun to bleed, Rook.”
“Throckmorton. Same as hired me.”
“You did not kill the guard that night at the fountain at Napier House.”
He shook his head, but winced when the knife cut deeper. “The inventor is my mark. Please do not kill, _ j) me.
A fortnight ago she wouldn’t have thought twice about slitting this villain’s throat. But she couldn’t summon the old ruthlessness. She knew the reason, a brilliant earl with magical hands and a heart-stealing smile.
“I beg of you,” said the Rook. “I haff a family.”
Agnes cast off thoughts of Edward Napier. “What were you looking for?”
“I am not a thief.”
“But you wanted something from Napier House.”
