The Devil Wears Tartan

by Karen Ranney

  Once more he looked down at the floor when he spoke, and shuffled in place. At another time, she’d have taken the time to reassure him, or to ease his discomfort. But she was too afraid for Marshall to help someone else.

  “How did you get here?” she asked.

  He looked surprised at the sharpness of her tone, and when he didn’t answer her quickly enough, she repeated the question. “How did you get here, Jim?”

  “I didn’t think anyone would mind, Your Ladyship,” he said. “I borrowed a coach from Ambrose.”

  “Where is it now?” she asked, moving toward the door.

  “I left it in your stable. I’ll be sure and take it back.”

  She didn’t for a moment care that he’d taken one of the expensive coaches from Ambrose. Davina gathered up her skirts in her hands, and ignoring the rules about behavior and decorum, held them high above her ankles as she went through the doorway and down the corridor to the stairs. Once there, she began to run.

  Her feet pounded against the steps, reminding her that she wore only her slippers, but she didn’t take the time to change into her shoes.

  Instead she raced down the two flights of stairs to the first floor. She ran as fast as she could down the hall, across the foyer floor, and into the back of the house. Turn left, then right, then right again, and she was through the bustling kitchen and out the back door, past the maids hanging up the linen in the small yard.

  She didn’t look back to see if Jim was catching up with her. If he wasn’t ready to leave when she drove out of the courtyard, he’d have to find another way back to Ambrose.

  The coachman was nowhere about, but she began shouting for him, and quickly enough, he appeared in the shadows of one of the stalls. He and her stable master were evidently sharing a convivial jot of whisky, but right at this moment, Davina didn’t care if the man was drunk as a stoat. She’d drive the carriage back to Ambrose herself, if she must.

  She turned to see Jim racing around the corner of the building followed closely by Nora. Both of their faces were flushed, but they weren’t a bit hesitant about leaping into the carriage. She joined them a moment later after shouting the order to the coachman.

  Davina hadn’t brought her shawl or her bonnet, and her reticule was in her room. Her soft kid slippers were proper enough for home but not for public. She’d dispensed with her hoops for only two petticoats. Her aunt would think her disreputable. The matrons of Edinburgh would think her twice scandalous.

  At the moment, however, nothing mattered but getting to Marshall.

  Several long moments passed when none of them spoke. Nora sat beside Jim with their backs to the driver. Occasionally they’d share a glance, but neither Nora nor Jim questioned her actions or her haste. Perhaps they knew how dire the situation was, or perhaps they were simply being loyal. For whatever reason, she was grateful for their silence.

  She took the time to compose herself, speaking to herself in the silence of her mind. I cannot help him if I’m overwhelmed with panic. I must be sensible and logical. And courageous.

  How dare Mrs. Murray send word to Garrow Ross! Why not to her if things were so dire? Why did she not send word that Marshall was harming his health?

  Because Davina had left him, and in doing so had abdicated—at least to the world—any responsibility, any sense of caring, any love.

  Garrow Ross had told Mrs. Murray to send Marshall away. Davina wouldn’t have done so. Instead she’d have returned to Ambrose and cared for her husband. She wasn’t given the chance, however, and she didn’t honestly know if she deserved one.

  I cannot help him if I’m overwhelmed with panic. I must be sensible and logical. And courageous. Dear God, she must be as courageous as Marshall had been.

  When she finally composed herself, she glanced at Jim.

  “What happened in China?” she asked. “Is it true that Marshall gave up his men to save himself?”

  The young man looked shocked. When Jim finally did speak, his voice quavered.

  “He told you that?”

  She nodded.

  “It was a terrible thing, Your Ladyship.” He looked toward Nora, and Davina knew he wished the girl wasn’t there.

  “Tell me, Jim,” she said, uncaring if the entire world heard. The time in China was at the root of Marshall’s agony. Somehow she must find a way to help him forgive himself.

  Jim glanced once more at Nora and then nodded, his decision evidently made.

  “The Chinese, they didn’t care if they killed all of us, and they took a liking to it, making everybody die in a different way.”

  Silence stretched between them, during which Nora reached over and placed her hand on Jim’s arm in a wordless gesture of encouragement. He looked up at her, and Nora smiled.

  “I never saw them do to anybody what they did to the earl, though. It was like they wanted him to suffer the most. They fed him opium, day after day, until all he could do was sit in the corner with his eyes closed. Nobody could tell if he was alive or dead.” He scrunched up his hat in his hands, and then sat smoothing out the wrinkles. His hands were old, older than his age, brown and scarred, with large calluses earned, no doubt, from being a sailor.

  “Then when he was good and sotted with the stuff, they’d stop giving it to him for three or four days. Once they made him wait a week. He’d start shivering and seeing things, and then get sick. Then he’d just lie there and curl into a little ball. He used to beg them to let him die, but they had other things in mind.”

  “What happened then?” Davina asked.

  Jim looked out the window, and she suspected that he didn’t see the passing scenery as much as he did the inside of that prison in China.

  “They’d give him a choice. Opium or one of his men. Then they’d give him a taste of it. He tried to hold out. His body would be shaking and he’d be screaming at them, and I know that he tried.”

  “And he chose the opium? Over his men?”

  Jim stared down at his hat. “Twice. At the beginning. But never again. I don’t know what he did, but he never gave up one of his men again.”

  “I do,” she said, suddenly certain.

  He looked at her curiously, but she didn’t tell him about the scars on Marshall’s palm. Had he found a nail, gouging it into his own flesh until pain had eased the cravings? She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the cushions.

  Jim wasn’t finished, however. “He never gave in after that, but I don’t think he’s ever forgiven himself for it, neither. I think those are the ghosts he sees the most.”

  “Thank you, Jim,” she said, opening her eyes.

  She leaned forward, opened the small metal window, and called out to the driver. “Is there nothing you can do to speed up the horses?”

  The man was a stranger to her, but deferential, as were all of Ambrose’s employees. He bowed his head and touched his fingers to the rim of his hat.

  “Your Ladyship, it’s growing dark, and these roads are not the best. If one of our horses breaks a leg, we won’t reach Ambrose at all.”

  There was nothing she could do in the face of such prudence. She leaned back against the seat and wished that she could be magically transported in the air to Ambrose.

  She glanced at herself in the small mirror attached to the carriage case. There was a look of fear on her face and panic in her eyes.

  Opening the case, she pushed aside the visiting cards and reached for the carriage clock. Barely twenty minutes had passed since they’d left Edinburgh, but it seemed like an eternity.

  Ambrose was a lifetime away.

  Please let him be all right. What a paltry prayer to offer God. What else could she say? Forgive me, God, for leaving him. Forgive me for my pride in staying away.

  When they reached Ambrose, she’d run to Marshall’s library, kneel by his side, and hold his hands in both of hers. She’d keep him rooted in reality by her will alone, if necessary.

  Davina wanted to consign Mrs. Murray to hell. Why was th
e woman so eager to send Marshall away? Because there was no relationship between them as there had been in the past? Had Mrs. Murray been as jealous of her as Davina had been of the housekeeper?

  What was she to do? How did she stop them? Her thoughts raced from one answer to another until she calmed herself again. She was the Countess of Lorne; she’d find a way. Garrow Ross had no more power than she had. In fact, he had a great deal less. It was up to her to assert her authority.

  It was up to her to save Marshall.

  Chapter 25

  It took four burly men to get him into the coach. Even in his delirium, Marshall realized that something was wrong. In the past, whenever he encountered that feeling, he paid attention to it, and this moment was no different.

  As Marshall struggled, he thought he heard Jacobs shouting, but other than his valet’s voice, no one else came to his aid. In due time, he was subdued and placed on one of the seats in the coach.

  He didn’t know where he was going. Not since China had he been forced to do something against his will. As if to remind him, Peter appeared, sitting opposite him in the coach. Next to him was Matthew.

  The palm of Marshall’s left hand began to throb, and he wished the pain were greater, ample punishment for their deaths.

  He leaned his head back against the seat, and in a flash of lucidity realized that it wasn’t Peter and Matthew sitting there but two very wary-looking men. One of them had a gash across his cheek. Another held his hand to his nose.

  No doubt wondering how they came to be in this position, steward to the mad Earl of Lorne, trussed up like a Christmas goose.

  If he were capable of speech, Marshall would have told them that he held no rancor for their actions. They had no idea, after all, what a horror it was for him to be imprisoned.

  The jostling of the carriage made him feel sick. Or perhaps it was simply the fact that he had not eaten in a day or so. How long had it been? That was the last lucid thought he had until the carriage stopped and disgorged him like a black lacquered beast giving birth.

  In front of him was a structure he’d never before seen, but on the tail of that thought he lost consciousness again. A moment later he roused to find himself being half carried, half dragged inside.

  Strange, echoing voices surrounded him as he was being transported up a set of stairs. A door opened as another man with a deep, soft voice spoke. He heard the word Ambrose, and his title, and then someone addressed him, but the message was lost in his confusion.

  He was placed on a bed, and then surrounded by silence. The only thing he heard was his heartbeat and the sound of a key scraping in a lock. He was a prisoner again.

  Dear God, let him die first.

  Davina. He conjured up her name, and her image followed. She stood beside him, bending down to brush her hand tenderly against his forehead. He’d loved her. With the greatest part of his soul, with the most generous part of his heart, he’d loved her.

  Suddenly everything was blue and white again, settling into a purple mist. And then there was nothing.

  An interminable time passed until they arrived at Ambrose; the journey was even longer than the one to Edinburgh three weeks earlier.

  Davina descended from the carriage before the footman could assist her, running up the steps to the great front door of Ambrose, up the stairs, and down the corridor to Marshall’s suite.

  The double doors didn’t open. Frustrated, she beat both fists on them repeatedly until a footman came to her assistance.

  “The door is locked, Your Ladyship,” he said. “Shall I fetch a key?”

  “Yes,” she said, glancing at him. “And while you’re about it, ask Mrs. Murray why she dares to imprison my husband in his room.” She took a deep breath. “Never mind, fetch Mrs. Murray herself, and I’ll ask her.”

  The footman looked as if he were being torn in two. Finally he spoke.

  “I’m sorry, Your Ladyship, but Mrs. Murray isn’t here. Neither is the earl.”

  “Where are they?”

  How strange that her voice sounded so pleasant, almost calm.

  She pressed both hands flat against the wood of one door, wondering why it felt so warm. Or was it simply because her hands were so cold?

  “I don’t know where Mrs. Murray is, Your Ladyship. She left in a carriage right after they came and took the earl away.”

  “Who came? When? Where is he?”

  When the footman didn’t speak, she turned to him angrily.

  “Where have they taken him?” she asked. Her voice no longer sounded so calm. Inside, she wanted to scream, or to dismember Mrs. Murray slowly and with great relish.

  “I don’t know, Your Ladyship,” the footman said, taking one precautionary step away from her.

  “I do.”

  She turned to find that Jim had followed her up the stairs. Following him was Nora, her arm around a trembling young maid.

  “Tell her,” Nora commanded the young maid. The girl sent a fearful look toward Davina, and then in Jim’s direction.

  “Tell her,” he said.

  Evidently Jim’s irritation frightened the young girl more than Davina’s presence, because she began to speak.

  “Your Ladyship,” she said, bobbing an awkward curtsy. “They took the earl away, they did. Not more than an hour ago. I heard the coachman say they were going to the Black Castle.”

  Davina had heard about the Black Castle all her life. The structure was isolated, a private hospital, a place to house those patients whose families could no longer care for them in their homes, or whose maladies were so severe that they needed to be treated away from others. Known as the Black Castle but more properly named Brannock Castle, the facility was rumored to cater to those families with more money than patience. Still, the very name induced shivers.

  “What shall we do now, Your Ladyship?” Jim asked.

  “Go to the Black Castle, of course,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips. Perhaps the expression looked odd, because the four of them—footman, maid, Nora, and Jim—looked at her as if she, too, needed to be incarcerated.

  “Meet me at the carriage in ten minutes’ time,” she said to Jim. “There is something I must do first.”

  Without further explanation, she walked away from the group.

  If Garrow spent the same time with a woman as he did with his hair, he’d be a very skilled lover.

  But the hair always took longer.

  Perhaps if she’d had more liking for him, Theresa might have gently hinted at his deficiencies. The fact that he was a ghastly lover was a fortunate occurrence. She hadn’t had to worry about acting the part of seductress in the last month.

  Garrow believed that a true lady did not become excessively agitated in bed.

  So she lay stiff as a board, enduring his pumping while staring at the ceiling, a fixed smile on her face. Thanks to Garrow’s wealth, it was not entirely a wasted experience. The man responsible for carving the beautiful plaster angels was remarkably talented. She quite enjoyed the sight of those angels.

  Despite the fact that she was not to moan or groan, or evince any type of pleasure, she managed to convey to Garrow that he was the most delightful of lovers.

  The damn fool preened whenever he left her bed.

  Now he disappeared into the lavatory, and she heard the sound of water splashing. At least he was fastidious in his personal hygiene.

  She sat up on the edge of the bed, reaching for her wrapper.

  “I’m returning to Edinburgh,” she said, when he came back into the room. “I’m worried about Davina.”

  He finished drying his face on the towel, uncaring that he was naked. In his current flaccid state, he really should have taken the time to don a dressing gown. He was not attractive at all, putting her in mind of shriveled berries hanging from a sagging twig.

  “She’s a grown woman, Theresa.”

  With some difficulty she clung to her smile.

  “I have heard from my staff, Garrow,” she said. Was it t
he wisest course to tell him? She decided to continue since the woman he thought she was—besotted and somewhat lacking in wits—would have done so. “Davina has left Ambrose. She’s been in Edinburgh these past weeks.”

  Garrow didn’t look surprised by the news.

  “Did you know?” she asked him.

  “The housekeeper has informed me.” He turned, facing the mirror, and in the reflection gave her a tight-lipped little smile. “I am kept apprised of changes at Ambrose.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked. The lines between her duty and her true life were beginning to blur, and she felt a little panicky.

  “Was it important that you know?”

  What the hell did she tell him? That Davina had been more like a daughter to her than a niece in the past two years? That she was the only relative Theresa had left in the world? To reveal anything to Garrow Ross was to grant him a weapon over her.

  “I need you more than Davina needs you, Theresa. I would not like it if you left me now.”

  She’d done what she could to help the Crown in the past two decades, and she’d done so with her whole heart. Her work was her life, the very soul of her life. It had taken the place of the young, idyllic man who’d been her husband. But the Crown had never asked more of her than now, as she fixed a submissive smile on her face.

  “If you think it best,” she said softly.

  “I do, my dear.”

  She stretched indolently, allowing the wrapper to fall open. “Must you leave?” she asked.

  “I must,” he said. “I must meet with some people. You’re welcome to remain, of course. In fact, I insist upon it. It would not do for you to be seen leaving the house at this hour.”

  Was he trying to regain a certain respectability? Did he think Victoria’s court would tolerate him after word spread of his activities? If she could not prove what he’d done, she could at least ruin his reputation. Of course, hers would be tarnished as well, but it was a price she’d gladly pay to ensure that Garrow Ross was punished.

  “Of course, Garrow,” she said. Perhaps Lord Martinsdale was right and she had other talents not yet used. She’d never before known that she was such a skilled actress, or that she could bury her disgust so deeply.