Her Mad Baron (28 page)

“He was involved,” Nathaniel said, rather impressed that she had learned that much. “But he carried out instructions issued by Mr. Maller, my late uncle’s man of business.”

Her lip curled. “Mr. Maller? I think not. He was most upset when he spoke of-of the problem. So genteel. I can’t believe that such a polite, discreet—”

“I have evidence.” Nathaniel smiled again, because he thought of Florrie and knew she’d expect him to keep talking. So he would. “I would rather not tell you the rest, but I promised that I would reveal the whole truth to you.”

“To whom did you make the promise?”

“Miss Cadero.”

Her eyes narrowed, and her mouth pursed. She might have screamed
I thought as much, that hussy.
However she didn’t say a word, merely sipped her tea.

“The evidence I found was at your brother’s house, in the form of letters Maller had written to him.

“Maller strongly hinted at the artificially induced nature of my condition and how my continued insanity might benefit them both. Nothing spelled out, but all very plain to anyone who accepts that I am not, in fact, mad. Lord Bessette knew the truth, Mother. That I was being held prisoner and being fed not cures but the cause of my symptoms.”

She put down the cup and saucer with a rattle and went very still.

Nathaniel rose to his feet, ready to be escorted from the room by one of his mother’s servants. Any second, she would summon them. Unlike the close of other mortifying interviews conducted in this house, Nathaniel would go calmly, with only a polite adieu.

In the meantime, he’d finish what he had come to tell her. “In other words, ma’am, Lord Bessette knew and did nothing to stop it. Once the truth became plain, he did nothing to bring the perpetrator to justice.” No need to mention the possibility of blackmailing Maller as the reason for Bessette’s silence. Nathaniel expected his mother had heard more than enough for outrage.

Her bosom rose and fell in a marked manner, but nothing else betrayed her extreme agitation. After a few seconds of silence, she spoke. “No.”

Nathaniel merely bowed, unsurprised and unwilling to argue. There was no point; he’d learned that lesson. Years ago, Lady Margaret had seen the bruises on Nathaniel’s face and the marks on his back and she’d done nothing. Today he had only his word with no evidence to back up his story.

His business here was done. He had fulfilled his promise to Florrie to tell his mother and now he would be on his way.

He took out his watch and wondered if he could still find Peter Johnston at home and inform him of his role as best man. Nathaniel decided that one scene a day was enough. He’d write a note instead.

“No,” Lady Margaret spoke again. “Where are these letters? I must see them.”

Her voice was almost loud. He raised his brows, surprised that she would pursue the matter. “I handed the letters over to the authorities.”

She rose to her feet. “You did what? Felston, I cannot understand you. Our reputation will be dragged through the mud. This is dreadful. How could you?” Her pale face and still heaving bosom showed her powerful emotion.

“I am terribly sorry, ma’am.” Ah, he should be struck dead for lying. “I’m sorry, but I have no intention of allowing Maller to escape justice merely to preserve someone’s good name.” Particularly not Bessette’s name. Oh, that was the sweetest reward. He tried to keep his face grave.

“No!” She almost shouted the word. But then she regained control. “I refuse to believe Bessette had anything to do with this tawdry nonsense.”

He bowed again and started for the bell pull. “I apologize for disturbing you. I think it best to call back Miss Weatherby. Good morning.”

She lunged across the room, moving faster than he had ever seen.

She grabbed at his wrist, stopping him from ringing the bell. “Once again you are trying to impugn a good man, and I will not stand for it.”

He put his hands behind his back and stood at attention, unconsciously adopting posture he’d been required to take when Bessette read him a lecture. The moment he noticed his own posture, Nathaniel shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. His mother didn’t appear to observe his crudity. She paced back and forth.

“No,” she said again. “You and I will go to my brother’s house. He must be allowed to defend himself from these charges.”

He swallowed.
I was never allowed to defend myself.
That boy was long gone, and Nathaniel could banish the pain of an indignant child. He even managed a polite tone. “I understood my uncle is out of town.”

“The morning papers published a notice of his return. We will pay a call on him.”

So the old humbug must know about the break-in by now. Nathaniel would be glad to confront him. “Very good, ma’am. Will you order a carriage? I can only take one passenger, and my vehicle isn’t closed.”

She seemed almost restored to her customary calm. “Yes. I was finished with breakfast. I will order my barouche.” Lady Margaret tightened her lips and reached for the bell. Her elegant fingers shook, but she glanced at him, daring him to mention her weakness. He wasn’t interested.

He waited and wondered if Miss Weatherby had been finished with her meal.

Miss Weatherby wasn’t told why they would disturb Lord Bessette at such an early hour, but Nathaniel doubted she ever knew the reasons for any of his mother’s activities. The thin companion made a few cautious remarks on the weather and the prospect of a fine day on the morrow. A single sniff from Lady Margaret was enough to stop that, and they rode in silence.

They hadn’t far to go. If he’d been with Florrie or anyone else, they could have strolled over to his uncle’s establishment instead of loading up the barouche.

Lady Margaret was still pale, and Nathaniel noticed her mouth looked strained and tired. Her salt and pepper hair pulled back from her face in a tight bun had more grey than black now.

She must have felt his gaze for she turned her head and glared back, her blue eyes bright with rage. He smothered a false yawn and looked out the window.

Her anger must have still burned hard when Moss answered the door, because she pushed past the butler as if he were nothing more than a breeze.

“Lady Margaret!” he wheezed, following after her. “My lady—no, please, wait!”

She looked over her shoulder. “Where is my brother? The back sitting-room?”

Moss had managed to maneuver in front of her. “My lady, no. No!”

She barged past Moss again, ignoring h
is further attempts to block her path.

Nathaniel blinked, bemused by her display of temper. She might have been her brother, the roaring headmaster, and not the cool Lady Margaret.

Miss Weatherby had trailed up the stairs and stood near him. “I’ve never seen her like this,” she whispered so quiet he barely heard her. Miss Weatherby looked so bedraggled and worried. Nathaniel glanced around for Moss to order some tea. But the butler had disappeared down the long hall. Running. Yes, actually sprinting after his mother bleating, “Lady Margaret!”

Nathaniel gave Miss Weatherby’s shoulder an awkward pat. “I’m sorry to abandon you, but I think it best if I—”

His mother screamed, a long horrible sound, and Nathaniel took off at a dead run toward the sitting-room.

His mother’s wails didn’t stop, and Nathaniel skidded around the corner, expecting to find bloodied bodies piled in Lord Bessette’s sitting-room.

He found bodies, but they weren’t bloody.

His uncle sprawled naked on the floor. On the sofa above him, Mrs. MacDonald lay naked except for a pair of stockings and garters. She sat up and crossed her arms over her formidable breasts. Naked breasts.

She caught sight of Nathaniel and brightened. She spoke, but Nathaniel couldn’t hear her words over his mother’s yells.

Lord Bessette slowly got to his feet, rubbing his head where his sister must have smacked him. She darted forward, ready to strike again.

“Fornicator.” She screamed again. “I believed you. I believed you.” She’d gotten hold of a fireplace poker.

Nathaniel grabbed her around the waist and wrenched the poker from her hand.

“You must stop, ma’am,” he said. “Enough.”

“But he said...” Tears streamed down her face. “Noble? Disgusting!”

She shuddered, clearly trying to regain control. But then Mrs. MacDonald stood and stretched. She winked at Nathaniel. “Thank goodness you got the harpy to settle down,” she said.

That set off Lady Margaret again. Nathaniel, clutching her arm to keep her from going after the poker, wondered where his mother had picked up such an impressive vocabulary.

By now Lord Bessette had pulled on his trousers and shirt. He grabbed the rest of his clothing, turned, and left the room. The old bastard was any number of things, but Nathaniel had never pegged him as a coward.

“Don’t worry.” Mrs. MacDonald went to a chair where her clothes were neatly folded. “I’ll go dress elsewhere. Nice to see you again, Lord Felston.”

She slung her clothes over her shoulder and strolled out into the hall. Nathaniel heard a yelp of “merciful heavens” from one of the footmen.

Lady Margaret had whipped around to face Nathaniel. “She knows you?”

“We’ve met.”

She wailed, then began a low moaning. She started for the door. He grabbed her arm again, and with her free hand, she tried to pry his fingers from her. “I think perhaps you should sit down, mother.”

“She ruined you all.”

She managed to pull free and ran from the room. Nathaniel put the poker back on its stand. He supposed he should rush after her, but surely his mother’s peculiar fit was over by now.

Then he heard her, loud as a Hyde Park speaker. She stood at the top of the front steps, trying to eject Mrs. MacDonald from the house.

He pushed past the gawping servants and the sobbing Miss Weatherby. Still no sign of Lord Bessette.

He grasped his mother by the shoulders and turned her so she faced him. “You need to calm yourself.” He cast his mind for something that could touch her peculiar hysteria. “People will talk if you carry on like this, ma’am.”

Her eyes widened, and she looked around, as if she was waking up and was only now aware of where she stood. Out on the street. In public.

“I am so ashamed!” she keened, but softly now.

“We will leave,” Nathaniel announced. Moss nodded eagerly.

The horses stood waiting, and a small army of footmen helped his shivering mother up and into the stodgy carriage. After helping her in, he shut the door, leaving her with poor Miss Weatherby and went in search of his uncle.

The man was in his library. As tidy and calm as if nothing had happened, he looked up from a map on the chart table as Nathaniel entered without knocking.

“You’re missing some letters,” Nathaniel said without preamble.

Bessette mouth dropped open. Was it possible he hadn’t noticed the burglary yet?

“My mother didn’t believe you were capable of hiding the truth about Maller. She wanted to hear your version of the events. I think she’ll have to wait for another visit.”

Lord Bessette sat down heavily. “You had no right to remove my correspondence. I demand that you return the letters immediately.”

“Ah, you’re out of luck there. You see, that’s why my mother didn’t believe me—I couldn’t show her the evidence because I gave it to the authorities. I believe charges of false imprisonment will be leveled against Mr. Maller.”

He should have relished the panic in his uncle’s eyes, but he didn’t seem to care. “Tell me, sir. Did you have a hand in planning my imprisonment? Are you that determined to make my life a misery?”

His uncle shook his head slowly, back and forth, and kept shaking as he said, “Upon my honor, I knew nothing.”

“But eventually you did know something. And then you chose to remain silent.” Nathaniel leaned close. “I have had enough of you. If you interfere in my life, if you dare interfere with anyone for whom I have a care, I will kill you. It might or might not be called a fit of insanity of course, but you won’t know. You’ll be dead.”

“You
are
mad,” his uncle whispered. Real fear lurked in those eyes.

Come, this might be useful.
Nathaniel grinned, trying his damndest to appear maniacal. “If I am, it now only concerns you if you cross me. I will be married soon, and thus I would be a burden upon my wife. My affairs will never be in your hands.”

He left without bothering to close the door and trotted back down the several flights of stairs to the waiting carriage.

His mother sat bolt upright against the seat. “I lost control and made a fool of myself,” she said the moment he opened the door. “I will say nothing more of the matter.”

“It was the shock.” He didn’t particularly appreciate her usual cool, superior manner, but now he wished like hell she’d revert to it. This stricken look was far worse.

She pressed her lips tight and gave one of her sharp little nods. “Lord Bessette, your uncle. He has flaws, apparently. Terrible ones, but…I know…at his core he is good.”

He closed his eyes and repressed a sigh.