Beguiled (25 page)

“Nay. Pay them.” Agnes withdrew a sack of coins from her bag and handed it to him.

He gave it back. “The duchess of Ross sent me fifty pounds. Lady Lottie sent ten.” In reproach, he said, “But you did not hear that from me.”

Her family might swear that Virginia was dead, but some of them helped Agnes finance the search for her. She thought of her father and Mary. “Did your man in London have any news of Papa or Mary?”

“Glad you reminded me.” He went to his desk and fished out a newspaper clipping. It was dated a week ago. In a cartoon Mary had sketched Lord Robert Spencer, the earl of Wiltshire, standing in the winner's box at Longacre Downs, his steed dead at his feet. Written across the horse's body were the words, “Common Man.”

“Saint Ninian help her,” Agnes murmured. “Now she's ridiculing him for his stable of horses and his fondness for the races.”

“You'll be off to London to lend a hand after you've cleaned up this nasty business here.”

“Of course, if she needs me.”

“You never did like Glasgow. Never stayed more than a night, even if your friend Captain Cunningham was at dock.”

She hadn't had good reason to linger in this part of Scotland. She and Trimble corresponded through the web of messengers and truth seekers. In her vocation she couldn't travel to Glasgow at the drop of a hat. Unless he sent word about Virginia. “Where is Cameron?” she asked, speaking of Cameron Cunningham.

Trimble consulted a canvas-bound book. “On his way back from Penang. He's bringing back the first official shipment of pepper since Britain opened the port. He's a fortnight overdue. Did you know that he is also a friend of Lord Edward? Stays at Napier House when his ship docks in Port Glasgow.”

Obviously Cameron hadn't mentioned Virginia to Edward, because Edward hadn't known about her, but that seemed strange, for Cameron was anything but shy.

Agnes pulled on her gloves and rose to leave.

“Give my best to Lord Napier,” he said.

“If I see him.” She related Mrs. Johnson's news about the earl's dedication to his work.

Trimble stared at the ceiling and scratched his cheek. “Didn't you tell me that you thought his work was involved and that Throckmorton's presence alerted you to it?”

“Yes. Everything in Lord Edward's life, except his newest invention, is ordinary. He doesn't own a prison as some nobles do. He hasn't vast lands in the Borders with tenants to ill-treat. I've seen his mill, and the people are happy and safe there. It must be that machine he's perfecting.”

“No accidents at the mill?”

“Hoots. I'd forgotten. Yes, a fire in the workshop of a man named Dunbar. He helps Lord Edward with his inventions.”

“I'll make the acquaintance of this Dunbar. He may know something of importance and not realize it.”

“An excellent thought.” She moved to the door.

“I'm surprised you haven't discovered what's in that dungeon laboratory at Napier House. You've been known to pick a lock with those deadly hands.”

Agnes slowed her steps. She knew why she hadn't picked the lock; she'd waited for him to invite her down there. How foolish that she'd let pride get in the way of prudence. If burgling led to saving his life, that was what mattered. She'd examined the lock and could open it with ease.

“Have you fallen in love with him, Agnes?”

“Nay.” To cover the lapse in good judgment she thought of an excuse and a lie. “ 'Tis an ancient lock. Have you a heavy pick?”

He pointed to a chest in the corner. “You know where the tools are kept.”

Removing her gloves, she sifted through an array of keys and lockpicks, hasps and bolts, and even a chastity belt. She couldn't resist hefting it. If wearing such a device would protect her from her own weakness toward Edward Napier, she'd don the thing and throw away the key.

But that would be cowardly.

She chose a sturdy awl with a bent tip and decided it would work better than one of her knives to spring the old lock on the heavy oaken door to the laboratory.

“Thank you, Trimble.”

He stopped her short of the door. “Agnes, listen to me. As soon as I find the Rook, I'll tell you where he is, but take Auntie Loo with you when you go after him.”

“I'll consider it. You find him.”

“Will you tell Napier about the Rook?”

A difficult decision; Edward was no match for the Rook; yet he'd go valiantly to his death. She could not let that happen. “I'll tell his lordship some of it.”

*  *  *

Weary and frustrated, Edward pounded the surface of his work table and pushed to his feet. The air reeked of damp steel and oil. The pressure in the vessel was too high. He must find a way to regulate the temperature of the steam, thus controlling the power of the engine. It was as if he were trying to harness the power of the wheel without ever having seen a circle.

Clearing his mind, he walked around the engine. He rethought the design of each part, the manufacture, the assembly, the failure.

Twice more he tried. Twice more the solution eluded him.

He ripped the drawing of the last design from his tablet and wadded it in his fist. Sighting the glowing hearth, he cocked his arm, but stopped. When he found the answer, he'd want this page as a guidepost. Once the engine was perfected, he'd work backward to discover his mistakes and learn from them.

Frustration had blinded him to his own ways and means of invention. Knowing his children were safe had inspired him to selfishness. A part of him thrived in this dungeon, fed on the science of man building machines. It was why he could close his eyes and feel gravity work, or why he could see mathematics in a linear field. But he couldn't make this engine work.

He slid the page into a basket with its predecessors, then bathed and changed into clean clothes. Drying his hair with a towel, he banked the fire and turned down the lamps. Another unfinished enterprise of a less frustrating nature rested on a throw of black velvet at the end of the work bench. But he wouldn't complete that task now. He wanted to kiss Hannah goodnight and, in return, receive a messy smack of her lips against his cheek. Then she'd tell him her fondest wish, and he'd bite his tongue to keep from weeping with joy.

Christopher would talk to his mother, but what would he tell her tonight?

Buoyed by the moments to come, Edward tossed the towel at the crib that Hannah had often slept in as a babe. Then he left the dungeon and went to the tower to see his family.

Auntie Loo sat in a chair in the common room. “My lady is reading them a story.” She lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “Are you well, my lord? You look tired.”

He rubbed his neck and remembered sitting before this hearth, a pair of nimble fingers kneading his sore muscles and inspiring other earthier parts of him. “I haven't met with much success today.”

As if it were a foregone conclusion, she said, “You will. Difficult times sharpen the mind.”

He'd only chatted with Auntie Loo during meals or in passing in the halls. Now was a good time to get to know her and to learn a few things about Agnes MacKenzie. “Which of your ancient philosophers said that?”

She tucked her legs beneath her. “One who will surprise you.” From the low table beside her she picked up a flat, palm-size star made of shiny metal. Absently, she twirled it between her fingers. “My mother said it, but she lets the emperor take the credit for her wisdom. Please sit. You have other questions in your eyes.”

Taking the opposite chair, Edward couldn't help asking, “Do you miss your home?”

“Very much so.” Dipping her head, she reverted to broken English, but the movement of the metal star in her hand stayed constant. “But Auntie's soul is now twined up tight with that MacKenzie woman's.”

“Because she saved your father's life.”

“Yes. All of my people owe her a gift. A lowly concubine's daughter is a small price to pay.”

He could feel the strength of her conviction and warmed to the conversation. “May I ask you something personal?”

“Yes, so long as I may decline to answer.”

He entertained a second thought about the question he wanted to ask but banished it. “I have read in medical texts that the females in your culture compress their feet to the point of deformation. Yours are normal. Is foot-binding a custom practiced only in the lower classes?”

She put down the star. “The power of fashion is great among the rich and poor alike in China. When I was six years of age, the time when binding begins, my mother forbade it.”

“Were her feet bound?”

“Yes, and eventually she will lose most of her toes. I suffered much scorn.”

“What did people say?”

“Referring to my large feet, they'd say, ‘Just look at those two boats going by.' I tried to bind them myself, but the pain was too great.”

He recalled what Agnes had said about Auntie Loo's skill. “Is it true that you are superior in skill to Lady Agnes?”

She paused for so long, he began to think she would not answer. When she did, her words surprised him. “I've had more schooling in the ancient arts. Chang Ling was my teacher from an early age. But I do not have Lady Agnes's heart for the kill.”

Agnes had taken a life? The knowledge should have appalled him, but it did not. “How many people has she killed?”

“Three. In each instance she saved the life of a child.”

She'd saved Edward's life, and had she killed the assassin in the process, he would have rewarded her. “What of conscience?”

“I also have more of that than the Golden One, as my people have named her. But her cause is greater.”

“What is her cause?”

“In the church in Edinburgh, when you were tending her wound, the duke of Ross spoke about Virginia.”

Edward knew the girl was missing and assumed dead by all of the MacKenzies except Agnes.
The ache in your heart will hurt you more than this latest wound.
Auntie Loo had said that of Agnes; she had been referring to the loss of Virginia MacKenzie.

“Tell me about the lost girl,” Edward asked. “What happened to her?”

Auntie Loo folded her hands. “Do you believe she is lost and not dead?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because Lady Agnes believes it.”

“That is the burden she must carry. I am at liberty to say no more. Maybe she will confide in you someday.”

“I hope she does. You addressed her as Golden One. Why?”

“Among my people, there is a very great holy man. He has touched the spirit of Agnes MacKenzie. He found it as pure and fine as gold. And so she is revered as the Golden One.”

More enchanted than ever, Edward rose. “I'll remember your advice.”

As he climbed the stairs to the second level of the tower, the new wood creaked and groaned beneath his weight, announcing his presence to any within hearing distance. How had Agnes managed to walk down these same steps and not make a sound?

He heard her voice before he mounted the second flight of stairs. She was beginning a story about a young girl who ran away from home by hiding in the tinker's wagon.

“Why did she run away?” Christopher asked.

“Because her father spanked her.”

“Spanking hurts my bottom,” said Hannah.

Edward paused. He had never spanked the girl, and he'd left strict orders to the servants that his children were not to be whipped.

“Who spanked you?” Agnes asked.

Christopher said, “Mrs. Borrowfield did. She was knocking on the door to Father's laboratory and Hannah came upon her.”

“ 'S'Bad.”

“Why should Hannah get a whipping for that?”

“We are—were not allowed in the old wing.”

“ 'S'old, and will break from wee hands.”

“But now it's our home, Hannah. Leave my soldiers alone.”

Something clattered against the wall.

“Now you've done it,” Christopher spat. “You Hugotontheonbiquiffinarian. You've thrown the commodore.”

“Draggle tail.”

Edward paused on the threshold. Lady Agnes and the children sat on the bed. Christopher and Hannah wore new nightcaps and sleepy-eyed expressions.

“Papa, she threw Commodore Lord Chesterfield against the wall.”

Hannah stuck out her bottom lip. “You took all the letters.”

Agnes grasped Hannah's hand. “Why do you think Christopher has all of the letters?”

The girl pointed to the toy box. “ 'S'there.”

Christopher pounded the bed. “You stay out of my toys, you Piscinarian.”

“Dandy prat.”

“Quiet.” Edward scooped Hannah off the bed. “Find that commodore, Button.”

“ 'S'there.” She pointed to the spot where the chamber pot sat.

Praying Chesterfield hadn't fallen in, Edward put Hannah down. The toy lay on the floor. “Pick up the soldier and give it back to your brother. Then tell him you are sorry.”

She squatted, retrieved the toy, and held it as if it were a slimy toad. Her new sleeping gown dragged the floor, and she almost tripped. Her eyes were wells of misery. “Sorry.” She dropped the toy on the bed.

Lady Agnes excused herself saying, “I'll await you downstairs, my lord. I have news to share from Trimble.”

Edward's heart raced. “Good news about our . . .
friend?”

“Friend?” said Christopher. “Ha! You mean the man who's trying to kill you with a crossbow?”

A stillness settled over Edward, and he drilled Agnes with a cold stare. “Did you tell him?”

She looked beautifully baffled. “Nay.”

“I'm not a lack-wit, Father. I see what goes on.”

“Then you've seen enough. Where are the whistles Lady Agnes gave you? You promised to wear them.”

He flapped his arms and sighed dramatically. “Not to bed, Father.”