“The man who’d been guarding it was bad ’urt,” Roberts continued. “ ’E’d put up a fight, though. There was a corpse, presumably of one of the villains. But in the end it seems they did make off with whatever was in those cellars, and you and the earl, too. The earl’s servants were running around like panicked chickens with their ’eads chopped off!”
Elf was absorbed in trying to make sense of the story when Roberts spoke again.
“We found Sally in the garden, milady. Knifed.”
Elf turned to him. “Dead?”
“Dead.”
All other thoughts vanished. One of those women she’d spoken to in the office that day was dead.
Because of her.
This must be how it feels to be an officer, she thought, and to find that the soldiers you sent into battle are dead. She wished Cyn were here to tell her how to handle such a sickening responsibility.
“I’m sorry,” she said, inadequately.
“We moved ’er,” Roberts said gruffly. “Didn’t seem wise to have ’er found there.”
“I suppose not.” Elf didn’t think she could bear the pain of her suppressed tears. They tore at her chest, and stabbed pain all around her face, but she couldn’t cry yet. If she started crying she’d fall apart, and there were things to do. Things to do if Sally’s death wasn’t to be in vain. “What happened next?”
Roberts cleared his throat. “Well, Roger and Lon ran to try to track the villains, leaving Ella behind to report to me. As soon as I ’eard her tale, I rousted out some more of our people and we spread out through the area looking for any ’int of you. I tell you true, milady, I were fair trembling at the thought of what might ’ave become of you.”
And of what my brothers would have to say about it, Elf knew.
“I’m sure you did the right thing, Roberts,” she said, because she had a commander’s duty to encourage the troops.
They turned onto a wider street and she prayed they were close to Warwick Street. The sky was brightening, and already some people were about. Sooner or later, someone might notice a trussed-up monk hanging off either end of the floor of her carriage. Not to mention the fact that she was bare-legged, and dressed in little more than a man’s coat.
“I tried, milady,” said Roberts. “We didn’t find anything particular, but then I thought of those urchins. I dug another one of ’em out of his ’ole, and a flash of gold shook lose some facts. They’d been curious, you see, about the clergyman who ’ired ’em. A Scots minister, a Reverend Archibald Campbell. Very prim and pious, but they ’ad their suspicions. So, when they didn’t ’ave anything better to do, they followed ’im around. Went to Westminster Abbey a lot, ’e did, which perhaps was suitable. Also went to a crone’s hovel, and she too old to be his woman. But ’e also went down to a burned-out area near the docks, and that struck ’em as fishy. So they kept an eye on ’im, ’oping to catch ’im whoring or something so they could demand more money to keep quiet about it. Anyway, that’s ’ow we come to check the area out, you see.”
“But what is Murray up to?” Elf asked, mostly to herself. “And who is this Scots minister? Westminster Abbey? Could they be planning to kill the king in the Abbey?”
Roberts swiveled his head, staring. “Kill the king?”
She couldn’t bear to get into that now. “Oh, I don’t know. Thank heavens. Here’s Warwick Street! We must come in round the back.”
Still shaking his head, Roberts guided the chair to the lane behind Amanda’s house. All was quiet here, but as Elf drew up the rig in a quiet corner of the back lane, she saw the kitchen door open and a tousled, yawning scullion toss some slops outside.
She’d need Amanda’s help to smuggle Fort in and stow him somewhere safe. Wishing desperately for a skirt, Elf climbed down. “Don’t let him get away,” she told Roberts and ran down the garden to the house.
The scullion—a lad of about ten—gawked at her.
Elf said, “I’m Lady Elfled Malloren. I am going to my room.” The crisp words seemed to dumbfound him, for he made no move to stop her going through the kitchen and into the house.
She used the servants’ stairs to reach the upper floor, then ran along the carpeted corridor to Amanda’s room. She eased in, and arrived at the bedside before realizing there were two people there.
Amanda!
Then she realized that the man was Stephen, Amanda’s husband, and they must have had a merry homecoming.
Elf backed away, but then stopped. She still needed Amanda’s help, but if she woke Amanda looking in such disarray, she’d scream. And if Stephen saw her, there’d be hell to pay.
Silently bemoaning the passing time, she hurried to her own room and threw off her motley garments.
She wanted a wash. No. She wanted a long, hot bath. She had time only to grab a new shift, a petticoat, and a plain gown. It didn’t lie right without a corset, but the simple gown didn’t need hoops.
Shoes! Where did Chantal keep her shoes?
She found them in a drawer, and started to put them on until she saw the rags that had once been her beautiful lace stockings.
Plague and damn and hell.
Angrily, she brushed away weak tears, tore off the dirty rags, and rummaged through more drawers until she found some plain cotton ones.
Hosed, shod, and dressed at last, she stuffed her ruined clothes in the bottom of a drawer, then spared a glance in the long mirror.
What a mistake. Her hair was a powdered rat’s nest, her face and hands grubby, and she looked . . . She just looked different.
She was, of course, but she didn’t want to look it.
Grimacing at yet more wasted time, she used the cold water on her washstand to clean her hands and face. Then she brushed her powdered hair into some sort of order and tied a frilly cap on top to hide it.
The mirror told her that the improvement was slight, but it would have to do. She hurried back to Amanda’s room and gingerly opened the door.
They were still asleep.
Elf tiptoed over to Amanda’s side of the bed and shook her. “Amanda,” she said softly. “Wake up.”
Amanda blinked, woke, then almost spoke. But Elf laid her fingers over Amanda’s lips, and her friend managed to keep the words inside. She slid out of bed, pulling on a wrap, and hurried with Elf out into the corridor.
“What happened?” Amanda whispered. “You look terrible! I was so—”
“It’s a long story,” Elf interrupted. “Look, I have Fort—Walgrave—tied up outside and I need somewhere to put him.”
“Tied up . . . ?” Amanda sagged back against the wall. “Elf, what have you done now?”
“Made a mess of things. You can scold me later. For now, you must have a cellar or attic—”
“Elf, this isn’t a mansion like Malloren House. Every inch is crammed with servants’ rooms! There’s a spare bedroom, but how could we keep it from Stephen?”
Elf was trying to think of a way, when Amanda added, “And anyway, I told him you were at Sappho’s.”
“Sappho’s?” Elf stared at her. “Why tell him that?”
Amanda grimaced and pulled Elf farther down the corridor. “Stephen turned up at Lady Yardley’s looking for me! Of course, I was delighted to see him home so soon. It was only when he wanted to come home early”—she blushed—“that we realized you weren’t there. He was going to make a fuss, so I said you’d left with a friend. When he asked who, the only person I could think of who was sure not to be at the masquerade was Sappho!”
It was Elf’s turn to sag against the wall. “If I were to tear out my hair and giggle, do you think you could find me a cozy spot in Bedlam, please?”
“Well,” said Amanda, “you have no cause to blame me! I did the best I could at the time. It was you who disappeared, presumably with Walgrave. I assumed you were enjoying yourself, and now I find you have him tied up! You’re in the suds again, aren’t you?”
“Deeper than you can imagine,” said Elf with a sigh. She hug
ged her friend. “You’re right. You’ve done everything possible. And perhaps Sappho is the answer. If not, I’ll just take him to Malloren House and let the mess fall out as it will.”
Amanda hugged her back. “You look exhausted, and not as if you’ve been having fun. Is there anything else I can do?”
“No, love. And,” added Elf, turning toward the stairs, “some of it was fun. Lots of fun . . .”
Two more servants were up in the kitchen as Elf made her way back through, but Elf in reasonably normal clothing only warranted a sleepy glance and a “Good morning, ma’am.”
At the end of the garden, she found Roberts with his pistol pressed to the back of Fort’s knee. “ ’E decided to be difficult, milady. I told ’im that even if ’e survived a shattered knee, ’e wouldn’t like life like that.”
Elf wanted to berate the servant, wanted to gather Fort into her arms and heal and soothe him. Being of a practical nature, she just passed Roberts his coat, climbed into the chair, and guided Bianca toward Sappho’s house.
They hadn’t far to go, and London was still quiet when she found the back lane. She jumped down and said to Fort, “Don’t try anything stupid. It’s not worth it. We can sort all this out when we have time.”
Again, he lay as if deaf. Really, she wished she could sting him like the wasp he’d once called her. At least that would get some reaction!
She knocked at the kitchen door. To her surprise, the poet opened it herself, dressed in a plain gown, her hair tied in a loose knot at her neck.
“Lady Elfled?” Even a woman like Sappho showed astonishment.
“I need your help.”
Sappho swung the door wide. “Of course.”
The honest and complete response almost made Elf weep. “You don’t understand. I have Fort—Lord Walgrave—outside tied up. I don’t know what to do with him and Amanda said I was here. I’ve got to try to make him see sense. About the Scots. And the king. And us. The cellar. I didn’t—”
She found herself in Sappho’s arms. “Hush, child, hush . . . Cassie! Sweet tea. Put brandy in it.” She guided Elf to a chair by the plain table. “Don’t fret so. I’ll have Walgrave brought in, and then we can sort this out.”
“Don’t let him loose!” Elf said, rising.
Sappho pushed her down. “Wild, is he? It doesn’t surprise me, and it will doubtless do him good to be both wild and restrained for a while.”
Suddenly strength drained from Elf’s muscles and she sagged in the chair, watching numbly as a maid poured tea and added a large lump of sugar and a dash of brandy. When the cup was placed in her hand, the warmth of it felt good, and she cradled it.
“Drink up, ma’am,” said the maid, guiding the cup to her lips. It was strong, hot, and sweet, and then the brandy kicked in, making her gasp. No longer needing help, Elf took another sip and another, feeling her brain clearing and her strength return. By the time Roberts and one of the other men staggered in with Fort, she felt ready to face her challenges once more.
Sappho had the men place Fort in an open part of the floor, then dismissed them. “Unless you need them, Lady Elf.”
“No, I don’t think so. Roberts, can we keep this quiet for a while?”
He rubbed the side of his nose. “Perhaps, milady. None of us’ll talk. But with all the goings-on at the earl’s ’ouse, dead bodies and all, London’ll be in a uproar about it soon.”
“I suppose so. Lud, but I wish my brothers were home! Do your best, Roberts.” When the man had left, Elf turned to Sappho. “This must all seem bizarre.”
Sappho sat opposite at the table and poured herself tea. “Let us say, intriguing. I can’t wait to hear the story. I do hope,” she said, “that the earl wasn’t responsible for the bodies. ’Twould be a shame to see him dangle from a rope.”
“They wouldn’t hang an earl.”
“They hanged Ferrers not long ago.”
And that was true. Lord Ferrers had run mad and murdered his valet. Elf looked at Fort, who was not mad, but was quite capable of murder at this moment.
For a grubby man with bedraggled hair, in a torn monk’s robe cut off at the knees, and trussed at elbows, wrists, and ankles, he looked astonishingly beautiful.
Even with the bruises and swollen lip.
She slipped from the chair to kneel beside him, touching the skinned and bloody knuckles.
“Oh, you . . . ! Well, you finally found a chance to hit someone, didn’t you?”
“But not you, unfortunately.” His eyes, hard and cold as stone, looked up at the ceiling.
Elf bit her lips, then addressed the maid. “Could I have some water, please. To clean his wounds.”
“If I am given any say, I would rather you not touch me.”
His chill hit Elf like a blow. She’d counted on anger burning out, but this cold hatred could last forever. Words hovered at her lips—explanations, protestations, apologies. They would fall limply off his hatred like flowers thrown against rock.
Sappho appeared on his other side, with a bowl of water and a cloth. “Then you will have to put up with me, my lord. I cannot let a guest remain in such poor condition.” She turned his head toward her and gently cleaned away dirt, checking his eye. “No great damage done there.” She washed his face and hands, then called for tweezers to remove some small stones from his knuckles.
Elf knelt there watching, wanting to take his other hand or stroke the hair off his brow. He had asked that she not touch him, but he lay limp and unresisting under Sappho’s care.
Having cleaned both hands, Sappho moved and began to attend to his feet. Beautiful feet, Elf thought as the dirt was wiped away. Arms, feet. A man’s body held unsuspected pleasures . . .
Suddenly, she hugged herself, remembering other pleasures she had shared with this man.
Who now didn’t want to be touched by her.
She bit down on her knuckle, tempted again to rail, to plead, to beg. Later. He must be as exhausted as she, and he needed time to heal his spirit as well as his body.
“You have a cut here on your foot, my lord,” said Sappho. “I’ve taken out the piece of a glass, but I’m going to apply brandy to clean it. It will hurt.”
She pressed the pad of brandy to the cut, and Fort hissed, clenching his fists. That was all, though. As Sappho bandaged the cut, he relaxed again into mute endurance, eyes closed.
Elf looked at her hostess, who met the glance and raised her brows. Her expression was enigmatic, but seemed calmly reassuring, as if she didn’t see this as a great tragedy. Elf pushed wearily to her feet, hoping the poet was right.
Sappho rose, too, handing the bowl and cloth to the maid. “Now, my lord, we must do something with you. You are in the way where you are. Will you be reasonable and promise not to make trouble?”
He opened his eyes and smiled a little, though coldly. “On the contrary. I intend to make as much trouble as I can.”
“Even to killing the king?” snapped Elf.
His eyes flicked to hers at last. “Hardly.”
“Then tell me what’s going on so I can put a stop to it!”
“But I don’t want it stopped. Not anymore.”
She was horribly tempted to kick him.
Before Elf could say anything else, Sappho laid a calming hand on her arm. “First we must find a slightly more dignified place for him. No man is going to be reasonable while prostrate at his captors’ feet. And you, my lady, should eat something. Lord Walgrave may eat, too, if he wishes. He’d doubtless find it calming. Then we can discuss all these tangled matters further.”
“I’m not sure we have time for niceties!” But Elf could see Sappho was right about his position. She grabbed a sturdy wooden chair and thumped it down near his head. “Let’s put him up here.”
Sappho shook her head. “Judging by the look in his eye, the first thing he would do would be to tip it over and knock himself out. That would hardly further communication. No, I think it should be the sofa. Cassie, get John and Margaret.”
In moments, a sturdy older man and a wiry maid appeared. The three servants and Sappho picked up Fort and maneuvered him out of the kitchen, along a corridor, and up to the elegant drawing room in which Elf had encountered him over poetry.
Was it only four nights ago?
One of the sofas, she noticed now, had a back composed of elegant curlicued wood. The gasping porters dumped Fort on it, swung his legs to the front, then tied him firmly in place, passing belts and strips of cloth through gaps in the wood.
For a moment he clearly thought of resisting, but then he sagged back. It was hardly surprising. In addition to his scrapes and bruises, his head must still be throbbing from the blow that had knocked him out hours ago.
At Sappho’s order, the servants undid most of his bonds so that only his arms were restrained by a belt just above the elbows. However, his torso was now firmly bound to the sofa back.
“There.” Sappho settled into a chair opposite him as if it were a normal social occasion. “I think that’s better for all of us. Cassie, we will take breakfast in here, please.”
As the servants left, Elf sank into another chair. Her eyes ached, as did her stomach. As did a host of other places, some of which she’d scarcely been aware of before last night. She wanted a bath. She longed to just sink into sleep. Surely he must feel the same.
“Now,” Sappho said, “what is this about killing the king? He seems an inoffensive young man.”
Elf pulled her wits together. “Lord Walgrave has some connection to a bunch of Jacobite madmen who want to kill the king. Within the week, they said. A week that is nearly up.”
Sappho turned to stare at Fort. “My lord! You astonish me.”
“She’s mad. We should dispatch her straight to Bedlam.”
“If I’m mad,” Elf demanded, “who stole us from your house, injuring one of your servants and killing one of mine?”
He met her eyes. “Jealous lovers?”
“Then they must have been yours, because before last night, I’d never had one.”
He flinched, but kept up the sneer. “That, my dear, was not love. It was an entertainment as crude as bear-baiting.”
Jo Beverley - [Malloren 03] Page 22
