Airborne - The Hanover Restoration (10 page)

I didn’t feel strong enough to challenge him, but I would. Oh yes, I would.

After devouring every morsel of my dinner, I let Tillie settle me for sleep. Tomorrow, I vowed, tomorrow would be better. In spite of being bedridden, I would be able to face Lady Thistlewaite and her guests with equanimity.

Ha!
snorted my inner voice and my common sense in unison.

But I slept well. Until the screams began.

Chapter 8

At first, when I woke to the dim light of pre-dawn, I blamed my sore head—even a good thump against my goose-feather pillow still hurt. And then I heard it. Screams—shrieks of terror—echoing dow
n the corridor outside my room.

I warbled a faint cry of my own as a giant shadow catapulted from a chair near the fireplace, passed my bed on the run, and charged through my door, leaving it swinging on its hinges. I tried to follow and found myself poised on the edge of the bed, the room whirling around me. I clutched at the bedcovers, willing my head to settle, but collapsing back onto the bed was my only option.

By the time my head would allow me to think, the screams had stopped. My heart still pounded, but reason had returned. The shadow was Rochefort, who had slept in my room. Probably the previous night as well. Which was, well . . . gratifying. A gesture I had not expected.

But the screaming puzzled me. Surely it came from this floor, and no one else was supposed to be here. Not until tomorrow. The screams were definitely female. A wandering maid encountering the ghost of an ancient monk? An assignation gone wrong? But what members of the staff would dare carouse on beds destined for Lady Thistlewaite and her guests? Yet the sound had seemed to come from that direction.

How thoughtful of Rochefort to go haring off, leaving me with my door wide open.

He slept the night here
, my common sense reminded me.

And abandoned me at the first sign of danger
, my ever cynical inner voice countered.

I heaved a sigh and pulled the bedcovers up to my chin. Whatever it was, was over. And when Rochefort had settled the matter, he would come and tell me about it.

If I wasn’t murdered in my bed before that.

With considerable caution, I inched onto my side and slid open a narrow drawer in the tallboy beside my bed. My head protested the awkward angle as I slipped my hand under a stack of linen towels and retrieved my small double-action pepperbox pistol. Clutching it to me, I fell back on the pillow, determined to keep an eagle eye on the door until Rochefort returned.

But nature triumphed. I woke to find my husband, dressed in nothing more than a rumpled white shirt and slim trousers, holding my pistol up to the light of full dawn and examining it with considerable interest. “Papa imported it from the United States,” I told him.

He raised his dark brows. “And taught you how to use it?”

“And load it, yes. If you would be so kind as to return it to the second drawer—under the towels.” With only a slight shake of his head, he did so. “And now if you would tell me what has occurred?”

To my surprise, Rochefort sank down on the edge of the bed, pressing the fingers of his good hand to his forehead, almost completely obscuring his face. Bone weary, or was he hiding a smile? “I believe you mentioned you met Roberta under less than auspicious circumstances?”

“Good heavens! Don’t tell me that was the cause of all the fuss? But who screamed?”

My husband heaved a long sigh. “In your case, I fear your meeting with Roberta may have been deliberate, but this time . . .” Rochefort raised his head and looked at me. If for a moment he had found the situation amusing, he’d banished all levity. “This time the case is less clear. Jacob, one of the footmen, is in charge of setting Roberta to her schedule each day. Evidently, no one told him our guests had decided to travel late, arriving a bit after ten last night. Jacob set Roberta to a final cleaning, not realizing the rooms were occupied. Lady Wandsley’s screams roused her daughter, who added to the melée.” He paused, looking grim. “I must confess, I came close to throwing the bloody thing out the window.”

I giggled, I couldn’t help it. “Your precious creation—you wouldn’t.”

“It was a close-run thing.”

“Poor Julian,” I murmured.

He gave me a narrow look. “That’s the first time you’ve used my name.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s all been so . . . sudden.” I allowed by eyelids to droop, hoping for a nice mix of shyness and maidenly modesty. “I need a little time to settle myself into your world.”

“Of course,” he agreed, evidently not such an eccentric genius that he had completely forgotten his manners.

“Surely it was Mrs. E’s responsibility to tell Jacob the rooms were occupied?” I pointed out.

“It was.”

I proffered a significant look, willing him to cast blame where blame was due. His gaze slithered away, as if he suddenly found something of intense interest on the carpet. “I fear Mrs. E is not best pleased by your marriage,” I said.

Rochefort stood, his voice cool. “Go back to sleep, Minta. Perhaps additional rest will help you recover from your flights of fantasy. I could use some rest in my own bed myself.”

“Roche—Julian?” He paused a foot from the door. “You haven’t told your Mama yet, have you?”

“If I had, the screaming wouldn’t have been over Roberta.”

“That bad?”

“Hell hath no fury like a mother with her marriage candidate scorned.”

“I’m sorry. Do you regret it? Surely under the circumstances an annulment—”

He drew himself up to his full height, his white shirt glowing in the early morning light. “If I was too subtle before, Lady Rochefort, let me be more clear. The blow to your head has obviously affected your brain. Good-night.” He went out, gently closing the door behind him.

I sulked, and finally slept.

Shortly after a light luncheon the next day, I realized the paintings on the walls had taken on more clarity, as had the pattern in the silk brocade window draperies. And the ache in my head had dulled to the point of a familiarity I could ignore.

I was better. Well, thank God for that!

But, having finally put abject misery aside, I was forced to deal with reality. Lady Thistlewaite and guests. The taming of Mrs. E.

Being shot.

I searched through the bits and pieces I could recall from Rochefort’s conversation with Drummond. Although assassinating my husband made considerably more sense than someone wanting to kill me, the incident remained a puzzle.

At the moment I was
h’ors de combat
, barely able to bring a spoon to my mouth. I would have to leave the problem of assassins to my husband. As for the household . . .

Had Rochefort told his mama he was married? If so, I’d heard no screams. More likely, she was too well bred to throw a fit of hysterics where her guests might overhear. Or . . . if her son was anything like his mama, perhaps Lady Thistlewaite would not scream if the Abbey was falling down around her ears.

But she would come to me—good manners, not to mention curiosity, demanded it. And I would be ready. Julian had attached a length of braided silk cord to the bell pull so I could reach it easily. I summoned Tillie. Let the battle begin.

The ornately gilded clock on the mantel was chiming four when my husband peeked his head around my door to ask if I was fit to receive company. The dreaded moment had arrived.

I was indeed fit to receive my mother-in-law—every hair in place, cheeks and lips rosy with help from the rouge pot, and garbed in an embroidered silk dressing gown I had seen in a window on Bond Street and had to have that very instant. It was turquoise, with a striking combination of brightly colored flowers entwined with white dragons, one on each side of the front, a larger one in back. White and pure, they gave me courage. Which I very much needed at the moment.

One look at my husband’s mother, and I doubted Eleanore Thistlewaite ever screamed, even in childbirth. Whatever happened, she would grit her teeth and bear it. As she was doing now. Tall and thin, she radiated the arrogance and displeasure of a queen betrayed by one of her closest advisers. Her gown was royal purple, with falls of black lace at her cuffs and in three rows above her hem. Yards and yards of it, in fact, for her skirts were so full I suspected she’d added an old-fashioned hoop beneath them all. Or were hoops coming back into fashion and I hadn’t noticed?

Rochefort managed the introductions gracefully enough, but Lady Eleanore Thistlewaite’s icy stare did not soften. “I understand your engagement i
s
of long-standing?” she said.

There was no hope of matching her freezing demeanor—Mrs. E was the first person who had ever shown me open hostility, and I had no experience in sparring with females. I responded simply. “Yes, my lady.”

“You are not a suitable bride for a Stonegrave. We may thank the good Lord the marriage may yet be annulled.”

“The marriage will not be annulled,” Rochefort inserted with considerable force, though he managed to keep his roar to a level that would not penetrate the walls. “As I have told you, Mama, I have waited a very long time for this bride, and no one else will do.”

“Her father was in trade!”

“Her father was a gifted engineer, and she bids fair to follow in his shoes. She is mine, Mama, and there’s an end on it. Minta is my bride, and nothing you can do will change it.”

I should be gratified . . . I
was
gratified. If only I could believe Rochefort’s words were defense of me rather than defiance of his mother. Or his determination to make sure the wife cog fit in the right hole to complete his plans.

Lady Thistlewaite was not a woman who took
no
for an answer. Turning to her son, she declared in ringing tones, “You cannot possibly expect her to entertain the guests who arrive next week. It is out of the question!”

Deliberately misunderstanding his mother, Rochefort returned, “I can see Minta is feeling better today, and I am certain that by next week she will have no difficulty coping with additional guests. And now, Mama,” he added, taking his mother firmly by the arm, “I believe we promised to entertain your guests with a stroll through the gardens before tea.”

The moment the door shut, I fell back on my mound of pillows, my head once again threatening to dissolve into a whirlpool. Only this time it wasn’t my wound that precipitated the chaos. I could actually picture that woman wanting me dead. Perhaps the bullet outside the workshop . . . No, no, no. She would never risk her precious son’s life. And, besides, at the time Lady Thistlewaite hadn’t known about me.

Fantasy. A flight of pure fantasy
, my common sense pronounced.

But if Rochefort hadn’t told his mama about me until today, perhaps someone else had. Someone who could have arranged for an assassin.

No. Once again, I struggled to recall the conversation I’d overheard between Rochefort and Angus Drummond. Yes, I was almost certain they’d assumed the bullet was intended for my husband.

But what if it wasn’t?

Nonsense, all nonsense. Ladies of noble birth did not resort to murder when their sons married women of whom they did not approve. Yet there was something more here, I was certain of it—something too nebulous to pin down. If Lady Thistlewaite were any kind of a true mother, she’d be glad to see her son married to a woman of similar interests. But instead . . .

As I examined her hostility, a strange thought took shape. Somehow her extreme anxiety seemed to be more connected to our next set of guests than to her son’s rejection of her candidate for wife. And why was my role as hostess considered “out of the question”?

Rochefort had much to answer for.

When Tillie brought in the tea tray, I eyed it with no little trepidation.

Tea, biscuits, and two rather nice macaroons
, my common sense pointed out.

Could be your last meal
, my inner voice asserted snidely.
If Lady Thistlewaite consulted with Mrs. E . . .

Fine. I could eat or starve.

My common sense won. I had too many reasons to get back on my feet. But I took care with the first sip of tea, with each first bite of the sweets, searching for any flavor that did not seem normal.

Scardy cat!
my inner voice mocked

Sensible!
countered my common sense.

But over the next few days, in spite of Julian’s apologies for his mother and his assurances she would not repeat her verbal attack, I was not reassured. A darkening cloud seemed to hang over Stonegrave Abbey, ready to explode into stormy violence at any moment. Though I occasionally heard voices, for a full three days no one but Rochefort, the doctor, and Tillie entered my room.

The doctor was a sensible sort. Intelligent, brusque, and not given to gossip. And he was right, my eyes were nearly back to normal. And when he assured me Rochefort also would soon be fit as a fiddle, I believed him.

To my complete surprise, the vicar called every other day to inquire about our health. A rather nice gesture, I thought, as I suspected Julian, like my papa, tended to be rather careless about practicing his religion. Nonetheless, the vicar had married us on the same day we were shot, and I suppose it did him credit that he considered us part of his flock.