Beguiled (27 page)

Holding her sword at the ready, she stepped into the room. As the servants approached, light from their lanterns seeped into the room. Agnes gasped at what she saw.

A pair of dead doves littered the floor, their heads here, their bodies there, and blood spatters everywhere. The bowman had strewn it on the walls, the carpet, the precious illuminated manuscripts. But he had not spent that last arrow.

Mrs. Johnson wailed. Boswell comforted her with soothing words and a shoulder to cry on.

Unable to breathe, Agnes approached the door to the tower, which now stood open. The common room had been dark when she left it moments ago. Did someone await in there? How did the door get open?

As a precaution, she pitched the scabbard through the opening. It slid across the floor of the common room and caught on a rug. Then she listened.

The assassin would make a move. Auntie Loo would not. Agnes had learned that the hard way.

“All is well,” Auntie Loo said and stepped into the light. Her arms were behind her, probably gripping the hilt of that deadly backsword.

Mrs. Johnson sniffed and examined the room. “All is well? 'Tis a wretched mess.”

Scanning the destruction, Auntie Loo said, “I heard odd noises and came down here. Did you leave this door open?”

For the benefit of the servants, Agnes said, “Aye.” But as she passed Auntie Loo, she sent her a look that said she wasn't sure.

Lighting a lamp, she surveyed the common room. The towel, stained from the cut on Edward's finger, rested on the low table. On the wall above the door the crossbows hung untouched, one wearing a star. Nothing was out of place, but Agnes could feel danger lingering in the air. The Rook had been in this room. She could have passed him in the corridors.

She walked around the room, taking in every detail. At the chessboard, she found proof of the intrusion.

The pink rook was gone.

He'd gotten too close this time. But if Agnes examined each of her movements since the alarm, she would not have acted differently. The children were safe. They were her primary concern. She joined the others.

“Where is Lord Edward?” Auntie asked.

Agnes stomped to the tapestry and threw it back. “Tis something I'd trade my lands in Burgundy to know.” Inside the square alcove she spied the niche to the left and the heavy door on the right. She grasped the handle, but the door was locked tight. With the hilt of her sword, she pounded on the ancient oaken surface.

“He's as deep a sleeper as there is,” said Mrs. Johnson.

Boswell added, “Don't much sound make it down to the dungeon or through that old tapestry.”

What if the bell in the dungeon had not rung? Or if it had, had Edward not been roused by the noise? The Rook could have picked the lock and come upon Edward unawares. What if the assassin, at this very moment, were waiting behind that door to make his escape? What if he'd already found his mark?

Agnes whirled. “Where's the key?”

“His lordship's got the only one. Don't take to visitors, except the children.”

Boswell patted the cook's back. “Kept his wee Button down there with him, and her still in nappies. Do you recall that, Hazel?”

The cook gazed at the blood-spattered walls, but she'd gotten control of herself. “Aye, Bossy. An' didn't I show him the proper way to care for the wee lass?”

“That you did, Hazel.”

Agnes looked at Auntie Loo. “Please get me the awl from my blue velvet bag.”

She nodded and moved toward the new steps. Agnes faced the servants. “Go back to bed.”

“But, my lady. What of this wretched business?” asked the cook. “It must be cleaned up proper.”

If the Rook was still here, Agnes wanted no audience for the fight. “ 'Twill be here in the morning. Find your beds.”

They left reluctantly. Auntie Loo returned with the tool, a lantern, and the scabbard for Agnes's blade. She sheathed it.

“What do you sense?” Auntie Loo asked.

“I do not know. If he got this far, he may have found his target.”

“Or perhaps he saw that his cause was lost and fled.”

Agnes again moved to the tapestry. “Return to the tower and bolt the door.”

“Your arm is weak. Let me go after him.”

“Nay. You must stay with the children, no matter what occurs.”

Slipping behind the tapestry, Agnes put the lantern in the niche and squatted before the door. She tucked the sword under her right arm and worked the awl with her left. In two tries she sprung the lock.

But she faced poor choices. She did not know the configuration of the downward stairwell. She did not know the arrangement of the dungeon space. She stood in a pool of light. If the Rook lurked beyond that door, he would glimpse her before she spied him.

Choosing the only option that allowed a measure of safety, she flattened herself against the wall to the right of the door. Unsheathing her sword, she used the tip of the scabbard to push open the door.

The loud screeching of the hinges hurt her ears. Why hadn't she heard that before? She'd heard Edward slam the door, but the sound had been muffled.

Senses alert, she held the sword in her left hand, ready to swing, and waited, praying that the Rook would rush out.

Stillness surrounded her. Quiet prevailed, save the metered cadence of soft snores from below. The wretched earl of Cathcart had slept through it all.

Agnes's mouth went dry, and she slumped with relief. Should she awaken him and tell him about the intrusion? It served him right to find out in the morning, but she couldn't do that; he should know what had transpired.

Taking the lamp, she started down the narrow steps. If she stood on tiptoe, her head would touch the ceiling. Edward must crouch to travel through this space.

She came to a landing of considerable size. Niches, larger than but like the one upstairs, were carved into two of the walls. In ancient times or times of war and siege, guards had likely been stationed here. To the right, the corridor led down another flight of steps. The snores were louder down there.

She ducked again and followed the corridor to its end. Once in the laboratory, she stopped and gaped like a child at the wonder of what she saw.

Odd lamps with strange metal roofs reflected the light throughout the chamber and illuminated the earl of Cathcart. He slept on his back on a tufted cot, one arm shielding his face, the other dangling to the floor. Near his hand was a wicker baby crib that now served as a laundry basket. A faded pink ribbon graced the handle. Boswell had said that Edward kept Hannah here with him after her mother's death.

The notion was so sweet, Agnes's throat grew thick. Her father had also kept his children near him. This wasn't the first similarity she'd found between her father and Edward. Physically, however, they were as different as two men could be. Edward's hair was thickly waved and darker in its red hue. His features were not ruggedly handsome, but striking and expressive in an appealing way. Dressed in a casual tunic of faded black wool and marred leather breeches, he radiated nobility. Even that manly snore had a refined quality to it, and Agnes felt enchanted with him anew.

Moved, she turned and gawked at the contents of the room. The stone ceiling was blackened with age and lamp smoke. Brass braziers warmed the room. Wooden bookshelves stood against one wall, playing host to an assortment of what could only be called creations. On the top shelf rested the older, simpler gadgets: a spinning top with a removable crank on the side, and a two-headed hammer. The middle ground displayed archetypes of now popular tools: an adjustable flail, and clamps in dozens of shapes and sizes. The lower shelves contained his more sophisticated machines—metal shapes with pulleys and handles. Their purpose eluded her, but the story they told was clear—the legacy of Edward Napier.

A long, slate-topped workbench marched down the center of the room. An assortment of quills, pots of colored ink, drying sand, and lead pencils mingled on the table with jars and apothecary bottles. At the far end, on a square of black velvet, lay her jade necklace. Beside it lay his open medical bag. He'd restrung the stones but had not attached the clasp. A spool of pink silk thread and an assortment of tweezers and scissors lay nearby. Upon inspecting the knots between the jade pieces, Agnes found them perfectly tied and spaced.

On a wooden pallet sat what must be his new machine. Pipes and a chimney jutted from what she recognized as a steam engine, but this device was smaller and more modern than any machine she'd ever observed. She tried to picture the scholarly earl moving from the difficult work of his complex engine to the simple task of restringing her jewelry.

She stumbled on the word
complex,
for it perfectly suited Edward Napier. She also examined her feelings for him and discovered emotions so strong they terrified her. Later, when the crimes against him were revealed and the men responsible were punished, she'd look into her heart. But not now; she hadn't the strength. In the meantime, she would learn as much about him as she could.

In a flat basket beside the machine lay a stack of drawings, weighted down with a larger version of his folding knife. The top page was crumpled, as if he had considered discarding it and changed his mind.

What did the assassin want in this room? What value could be placed on the first model of a spinning top that had become as common a toy as the hoop? Or the Napier flail, a tool as widely used as the plow? Whatever the assassin's employer wanted, it was something very valuable to him, else he wouldn't have spent five thousand pounds to get it.

She recalled Edward's explanation of what the new machine would do. The engine would enable him to spin raw cotton into thread here in Glasgow, thus eliminating the need to import expensive spools from India. He would no longer trade with Throckmorton, who just happened to have made his first visit to Glasgow at the same time that an assassin was stalking the inventor of the machine.

Throckmorton had to be behind it all. He could have faked his own signature on the letter of reference.

Edward's breathing changed. She knew he'd awakened.

Sleepily, he said, “Have you come to slay me with that blade?”

“Nay. The assassin was here.”

Edward ran to the stairs.

She stopped him. “Nay. 'Tis too late. The danger has passed.”

He shook his head, then rubbed his face in an effort to gather his wits. “What occurred?”

“The assassin slaughtered two more doves and painted the walls in the Elizabethan wing with the blood.”

“Why?”

“He's taunting us.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Nay. Auntie Loo is with the children. The door to the tower is bolted from the inside. Bossy and Mrs. Johnson have gone back to bed. You are safe down here.”

“How did you know that our defenses had been breached?”

“A bell sounded, and the guards awakened me. We could not discover which bell. The east door was unbolted and the front door was open.”

His gaze shot to the wicker crib and the niche in the wall above it. A carelessly tossed towel hung on the ledge. “Damn!” He yanked the cloth free, revealing the alarm bell. The towel had cloaked the sound. That explained why he hadn't come running; he hadn't heard the bell.

Agnes couldn't resist saying, “When you did not come upstairs, Bossy thought you were with your mistress.”

“So you assumed I had returned and forgotten about the bell in the east wing. You thought I sounded it as I entered.”

She had considered it, but now she knew the Rook had come in that way. What was Edward getting at? “Actually, I thought you had left to visit her, rather than returned. By the way, you snore.”

Leaning against the table, he crossed his arms over his chest. “We had a wager on that very thing.”

“On your snoring?”

He growled a warning. “For spoils you agreed to tell me about the MacKenzie way of scolding.”

Agnes had forgotten the wager. And why not with an expert assassin after them? “I've had other things on my mind.”

“You made a bargain, and at the moment, the subject of your father holds more appeal than anything else in this house.”

Telling the tale offered a diversion from the harrowing events of the night. She rested the sword on the workbench. “When my sisters and I were very young—before Juliet White came into our lives, my father had been appropriately dubbed a rogue.”

“Four illegitimate children, all of an age, born to different women?” He laughed so hard his shoulders shook. “Naming Lachlan MacKenzie a rogue is an understatement.”

She bristled a little. “He was foremost a devoted father, no matter on which side of the blanket his children were born. Do you wish to hear the story or not?”

Raising his hands in surrender, Edward murmured an apology, but he was smiling. “I meant no offense. The honest truth of it is every Scotsman admires your father's devotion to the fairer sex.”

Agnes squared her shoulders. “Indeed. But from the time I learned to walk, the fairer sex was
devoted
to my father. They came in droves to conquer the infamous Highland rogue and wear his ducal coronet.”

Edward slapped a hand over his heart. “Oh, to be vanquished so often and by so many beautiful foes.”

Put that way, it was rather flattering. Unable to contain her mirth, Agnes laughed too.

“So how did scolding come into it?”

A thought of the carefree days of her youth brought peace to Agnes. She moved to a tall bench near the new engine and sat down. “You must know that privacy was impossible at Kinbairn Castle. My sisters and I were always underfoot. Juliet was our fifteenth governess.”

“How old were you when she came?”

“About six.”

He whistled. “Did the duke of Ross scold Juliet?”

“Nay. He married her.”

“Then whom did he scold?”

“All of the maids, governesses, and nannies before her. But he didn't actually discipline any of them. He only told us he was going to scold them so we wouldn't interrupt him.”