Beguiled (20 page)

Leaning close and speaking behind his hand, Edward said, “ 'Twill lessen when we're out of these stone rooms. The shed itself is made partially of wood.”

Agnes followed the children into a cavernous room built of stone and wood. The earthen floor was covered in sailcloth. Oddly the sound quieted.

Taking her arm, Edward guided her toward the center aisle.

“A shed?” she asked, taken aback by the size of the place. “That being the scale, Westminster is a chapel.”

He chuckled.

The busy atmosphere held none of the gloom she'd seen in similar textile concerns in China. At either end of this building, huge steam-driven fans, that had the appearance of great iron flowers, kept the air fresh but not drafty. Spaced ten across in long rows, hundreds of looms, with giant spools of thread in an array of colors, filled the room.

The workers looked sober and clean, their clothing worn but cared for. They appeared as Christopher had described them: family men. But women were also a part of this work force, some operated looms, others pushed wheeled carts with fuel to replenish the many lamps.

The workers paused to acknowledge the presence of the earl. He returned their greetings, addressing them by name. Agnes was reminded of her father, who could be counted upon to roll up his sleeves and labor alongside the farmers at harvest time. Agnes and her sisters had been allowed to ride in the wagons. Later she had driven a wagon herself.

In a corner of the mill, near a bank of windows, fabric was stretched on frames. Women, old and young, worked side by side, embroidering designs on the cloth. One loom, different from others, sat off to itself. Of iron, the machine rested on great blocks of wood. The loom produced a long roll of heavy white fabric. “What is that, my lord?”

“A canvas loom. 'Tis the only one of its size and kind in Scotland.”

For years Agnes had helped her sister Mary stretch canvases, but she hadn't considered where and how the cloth was made. “For artists who employ larger canvas.”

“Much larger.” The loom itself was at least ten feet across, and its spools as tall as she.

“The greater part of this will be shipped abroad to Dutch painters. 'Tis fitting for their grander style.”

“Is it profitable?”

“Surprisingly so. Every year the profit from that loom pays for itself, for Riley, who is the operator, and for Dunbar's workshop.”

“Then why not have more of the machines and hire more Rileys.”

“ 'Tis a peculiar trade. The younger weavers have no liking for working with flax.” In the clickety-clack dialect of Glaswegians, he said, “The warp and the woof of silk 'twill give us tomorrow's wages.” In his own voice, he added, “Sailmakers will have to take over the craft when Riley's had a belly of it.”

Looking to the left, she saw a sea of white spools of thread. “Or is the profit too paltry for your tastes?”

“My dear, you cannot wound me with a wee prick of your tongue, and do not expect me to apologize because my business prospers.”

Agnes knew her remark was unfair, but the earl of Cathcart didn't bother to follow the rules of decorum. “I will wound you as you embarrass me. I've heard no apologies from you.”

His chuckle turned cunning. “I apologized once to you. I've learned my lesson since.”

He referred to that first kiss they'd shared at the inn in Whitburn.
Desire, base and raw.
The truth behind his seduction saddened her.

“Banish that dire notion that spins in your head, Agnes,” he insisted, moving close. “For it does not aid our cause.”

“We have no cause.”

“Another truce, then. Have you other questions about the operation of the mill?”

She thought of the colorful thread in the looms and the white thread against the wall. “Where do you dye the thread?”

“At the rear of the property. 'Tis a distance away, and the road is muddy.”

Christopher dashed in front of them. “May we go to the kitchen, Papa?”

“Aye, but you're to have only one bun each.” He spoke pointedly to both of them. “Hazel's making partridge.”

“One for you,” Christopher said to Hannah, “and one for me.”

Moving between the children, Agnes said, “I'll accompany them.” She had no intention of leaving them alone.

He paused, uncertain. “I should like to consult with Dunbar.”

“Go on with you, then,” she encouraged. “We'll entertain ourselves.”

Indicating a windowed room beyond the great canvas loom, he said, “There's Dunbar's workroom. I shan't be long.”

Progress to the kitchen was slow. The children were hailed by one person after another, all of them solicitous of Hannah's fashionable sling. Agnes felt a warmth about the people, certainly no artifice. But what about the clerks? And what had sent Peel down into that room with the locked entry?

Looking across the building, Agnes saw Edward enter the workroom he'd spoken of. He spoke briefly to the man who must be Dunbar, then followed him to a bench. As one, they examined a bulbous glass containing an amber liquid. After another lengthy discussion, Edward removed his jacket and waistcoat and rolled up his sleeves. Even from this distance, she couldn't mistake his enthusiasm or avoid comparing him to her father.

Wondering what had captured his interest, Agnes followed the children to the kitchen. But when next she saw the earl of Cathcart, his first words shocked her.

*  *  *

“The bloody bastard's been in the carriage. I found this in the seat.” He held out the smaller golden version of the MacKenzie badge, the one she'd attached to the tartan and placed over the damaged Napier crest in his study. She'd been so shocked at seeing the dead dove wrapped in the plaid, she'd forgotten the brooch.

They stood in the side yard of the mill, outside the kitchen and near the building housing the school. Hannah and Christopher were saying their farewells to the other children in the yard. Jamie, the driver, was examining the harnesses.

The wide road leading from the front of the building was rutted and worn from the constant stream of wagons. Beyond it lay a pasture with a few fat cattle and a small herd of recently sheared sheep. The area between the school and the mill proper served as storage for a mountain of cone-shaped spools, now empty of thread.

Baffled, Agnes said, “How could he have come onto the property unnoticed? When could he have gotten inside the carriage?”

“Jamie didn't leave it unattended for long, just for necessity. But surely someone would have noticed a stranger.”

Agnes remembered seeing the cooper's wagon enter the yard earlier. “Perhaps he stowed away on one of the delivery wagons.”

Distraught, Edward surveyed their surroundings. “I'm at a loss, Agnes.”

Frustration laced the informality. She asked him about the stairwell behind the iron grate.

“Tis the old dungeon. We keep the treasury there, and our charter.”

“A dungeon?”

“Aye, complete with manacles and an iron maiden.”

This was not the first time trouble had visited the mill. She remembered their conversation at the Dragoon Inn in Edinburgh. “You said there had been a fire here. When did it occur?”

He pointed to a scorched brick building on a patch of blackened ground beyond the schoolhouse. The roof, doors, and windows were gone, leaving only the charred masonry. “ 'Twas there. It occurred last March.”

“The same time as the arrival of Mrs. Borrowfield?”

“Yes, by God. I did not link the two.”

That was her expertise, but she wouldn't remind him of it. “What was in the building at the time of the fire? Was anyone hurt?”

Lines of worry creased his forehead. “ 'Twas Dunbar's workshop, and the fire was set at night. Only progress was hurt.”

“Progress,” she repeated, and felt a spark of intuition. The assassin had rummaged through the papers in his study. The workroom had been destroyed. Progress. She'd learn the reasons behind it, but now he needed reassurance. “Worry not, my lord.”

With a wave of his hand, he indicated the whole of the property. “How can I not?”

Gazing at the huge wooden structure and imagining how rapidly the contents would ignite, Agnes felt a shiver of apprehension. “You should put a cistern here and a supply of buckets beside it. Build another atop the stone building to catch rainwater and pipe it along the support columns. You must increase the night watch. Men should patrol the yard during the day. Begin a log of every delivery wagon, its origin, and the name of its driver.”

“Have you any other orders for me?”

“Yes. Can you think of any tie he might have to this mill?”

“A well-paid assassin? Nay.” Absolute denial harshened his tone. “This is a community of people. They stage a harvest fair on this land, have for decades. On wages day the family members congregate here. I will not believe one of them has betrayed me.”

“None of your employees could afford the assassin's fee.”

“None of them would, I tell you!”

His vehemence was rapidly turning to anger. Agnes knew she must calm him down before the children joined them. She chose an easy path. She gave his arm a smart pat. “Careful, Edward Napier, one might mistake you for a Highlander, so patriarchal do you seem.”

Quickly, boldly, did he react. “At least I do not stoop to flinging your words in your face.” In carefully precise motions, using only his fingertips, he pulled paper and pencil from his waistcoat. One side of the paper contained a drawing with symbols, notes, and measurements. Turning it over, he began writing on the clean surface. As he wrote, he recited her suggestions, but his voice was high-pitched and cocky.

She recalled his saying that he couldn't stay angry with her for long. Adding that memory to his actions now, she decided that he possessed a mild temperament. She wondered what he'd been like before the attempts on his life. Last night in the tower he'd donned a long tunic and pretended to be a medieval lord as he presided over the meal and the evening.

He'd cleverly convinced his children that the whistles they wore around their necks were special toys. He'd invented a game he called Castle Keep, wherein he'd dubbed the children vital sentries. He'd charged them to blow their whistles to sound an alarm should a stranger enter Napier House.

“Agnes?”

At the gentle insistence in his voice, she pulled herself to the present. Her gaze went immediately to the children. Seeing that they were safe, she studied their father.

Sunlight turned his gray eyes to sparkling silver. “What were you thinking?” he asked.

Only in exchange for knowledge of Virginia's whereabouts would Agnes have revealed her tender thoughts of him. She took the golden brooch from his hand. “I was wondering how I will clean the blood off this.”

“That wasn't what you were thinking. But I'm a patient man.” He took the brooch. “Allow me. I've a solvent in my laboratory that will do the trick.”

He didn't need a solvent to perform trickery; he could captivate her at will, a situation that both surprised and frightened her. She said, “Thank you,” when she wanted to ask why he continued his seduction game. She'd made her position clear on the subject of romance, and even if she did fall in love with Edward Napier, she would not forsake her search for Virginia.

The wind changed directions, and the smell of the sea filled the air. She thought of her home in Tain, of the docks in Cromarty, of an older sister and her younger charge, of a tryst the former had arranged with a dashing young beau. Agnes saw herself give Virginia a penny for a pie and another for her silence. The image blurred.

With an effort, she put away the past. “I think you should send our apologies to the mayor tonight.”

“Oh, nay.” He opened the carriage door and called for the children. “This villain will not make a coward or a prisoner of me.”

The children would be safe in the tower with Auntie Loo. The assassin had braved a crowd in Edinburgh, but would he show himself in Glasgow? Agnes hoped so. “Pray he crawls from his hole, for I long to meet him face-to-face,” she said.

He snapped his fingers. “We will draw him out and away from my children.”

“Not apurpose. He's too clever for that,” she warned. “We must be careful, and stop shouting orders at me.”

Having a plan inspired confidence in him, for his mood brightened, and he winked at her. “Of course. I wouldn't want to sound patriarchal.”

He'd also tossed her words in her face, and for that act of deviousness, he would pay. “Aye, you take every opportunity to lord yourself over me.”

“Since you've found me out, I may as well confess.”

Busying herself with the fit of her gloves, she feigned disinterest. “You may, but please be expeditious about it.”

He put his face very close to hers. “Do not wear that green dress tonight.”

Of all the gall. “Is that a warning?”

“Aye. That gown draws my eyes to your breasts and turns my thoughts to earthy impulses.”

He was too close, and the promise in his eyes set her heart to racing. “Then you must learn to contain yourself.”

“As must you. Unless—” With the toe of his boot, he drew a mark in the ground between them. “You'd care to don that dangerous frock and figuratively step over this line.”

Roguish didn't begin to describe him. “You're an admitted ravisher.”

“Only when taunted beyond restraint.” He took her arm. “Wear that green dress or its like, and we'll have a long and memorable carriage ride to the Ark-wrights.”

He was promising to seduce her over the cut of her clothing. Pity that he didn't want her for herself, not that anything would come of an affair with him. She wouldn't be intimidated by him, but she wouldn't act recklessly either.

Later that night, when she joined him in the foyer, Agnes wore her best gown, a gift from her father on her last birthday.