The Lady of Secrets (40 page)

“Margaret did ask me to seek you out, reason with you,” Armagil admitted. “But I came of my own accord. I am concerned about you.”

Patrick laughed bitterly. “Since when?”

Armagil flushed. “I am your friend and always have been, albeit a poor excuse for one.”

Patrick softened in spite of himself. “No, you have ever been loyal from the time we were boys, keeping my secrets as I have kept yours. I believe you are a man of abilities with a great capacity for—for devotion. That is why it has nigh broken
my heart to watch you waste your talents in such idleness and dishonor, wrapping yourself in your indifference. I—” Patrick checked himself. “Forgive me. You hate it when I lecture you, but—”

“No, you are right. I have made a poor use of my life and it shames me. I feel as though I have been asleep for a long time and have been jarred awake.” Armagil set down his mug and Patrick saw that it had scarce been tasted. Far from being drunk, Armagil was stone-cold sober.

“You ask why I am here? To do something that I should have a long time ago.” Armagil leaned forward, his eyes more intent and clear than Patrick had ever seen them.

“You want revenge upon James Stuart? I have come to help you.”

T
HE COLD AIR SEEPED THROUGH THE WINDOWPANES. DESPITE
the fire that crackled on the hearth, Meg could not seem to get warm. November had arrived on a chilling wind that spoke of the coming of winter. A gray pall had hung over the city most of the day, the light fading early.

Meg wrapped herself in her shawl as she lit the candle to examine the note that Tom had delivered to her from Armagil. He had been gone for over a week with no word from him. Her fingers trembled with eagerness as she scanned the lines that had obviously been penned in some haste.

Meg read the letter several more times, biting her lip in frustration. She had waited on edge for days to hear from Armagil. How like the aggravating man to send such an abrupt message that conveyed so little.

She already knew that the king had returned to London unharmed. The entire city was aware that James was back in residence and preparing for the opening of parliament tomorrow. What did Armagil mean about reaching an understanding with Graham? Had he prevailed upon Sir Patrick to abandon his plans for revenge? Obviously not enough to trust him entirely or Armagil would not feel obliged to remain so close to his side.

And what was it that Armagil needed to tell her but had been unable to do so? That he loved her? Was that so difficult for him that he could not have taken another moment to pen a few words more? His note raised far more questions than it answered.

Meg shook her head in vexation, but folded up the note and tucked it inside her bodice as though it had indeed been a love letter. Doubtless it was the closest to one she would ever receive from Armagil.

She smiled wryly, trying to take some comfort from the fact that Armagil was back in London and for the moment the king appeared to be safe, at least from the vengeance of Robert Brody. But what of the Rivers sisters? Nothing more
had been heard of the two women since the night of the murder. Seraphine speculated that they might have fled from London and she could well be right. It would certainly have been the wise thing to have done, but
wise
was not a word Meg would have applied to either Beatrice or Amelia Rivers.

She shuddered, remembering all the dark emotions she had sensed when she had touched that pentagram. Pain, rage, and torment that ran too deep for reason. No, those mad-women might have been forced to go to ground for a while, but Meg doubted they would so easily abandon their desire to be avenged upon James Stuart or their plans to revive the coven of the Silver Rose.

But how much longer could she and Seraphine remain in England to search for the witches? Meg had already neglected her duties as Lady of Faire Isle for too long and their funds had begun to dwindle. Seraphine was loath to draw upon more credit from her husband’s agents, so she had gone out to sell one of her brooches.

Meg had hated to have her friend do so, but Seraphine had merely shrugged and said she had never found the ruby becoming. Meg had strongly suspected that Seraphine was merely tired of being mewed up in the house. Her restless friend felt the need to be doing something, an emotion Meg well understood. She was restive herself.

Meg paced to the window and pushed open the murky diamond-paned casement. A chilling blast of air knifed through her woolen gown. She drew her shawl more closely about her and leaned forward to peer out.

The lodgings Seraphine had found were situated in the environs of Westminster and Meg could just make out the towers of the old palace in the distance, the ancient stone walls conveying a sense of order and serenity. Tomorrow
morning all that calm would be shattered by the bustle and fanfare of the king arriving to address his parliament, the quiet halls thronged with the most important men in the realm.

Despite the bitter cold, the evening sky had cleared and the morrow promised to be a fair day. Then why did Meg have this unsettled feeling of a mighty storm a-brewing? She frowned, directing her gaze to the deserted street below.

Likely her disquiet sprang from the fact that it was nearly dark and Seraphine had yet to return. It was not uncommon in London for women to venture to the shops alone. But Seraphine was not familiar enough with the city.

“I should have accompanied her,” Meg fretted, feeling all the more guilty because of the reason she had not. She had not wanted to be gone from the house in case Armagil had come seeking her.

At the very least she should have insisted that Seraphine take along the maid whose service they had engaged, but Seraphine had protested, “Eliza is a fat, idle creature who walks at the pace of a snail. I could complete my errand thrice over in the time it will take me to drag her along.

“Don’t worry about me, Meggie.” Seraphine had flashed her most dazzling smile. “I shall be back before you’ve had time to miss me.”

That had been what—nearly three hours ago? Reveling in her freedom, Seraphine was likely in no hurry to return, lingering as she explored the shops and purchased some provisions with the coin she had acquired from selling the brooch. But what if she had gotten lost? Or her hasty temper had caused her to run afoul of one of the merchants? Or what if—

“Stop it,” Meg adjured herself. Seraphine could be brash
at times, but Meg knew of no woman better able to look out for herself.

Drawing back from the window before all warmth escaped the chamber, Meg closed the casement. She ought to go belowstairs to see how Eliza was progressing with the preparations for the evening meal. The maid could not be trusted to stay on task. But that would mean listening to Eliza’s barrage of complaints about her endless aches and pains, most of which Meg suspected were imaginary.

If Eliza burned the meal again, Meg could always slice up some bread and cheese. Propping up some pillows, Meg clambered atop the bed to await Seraphine’s return. She tucked her shawl about her shoulders and yawned. Lord, she was tired. With so much on her mind, she had not been sleeping well.

At least she had not been haunted by any more nightmares of Maidred Brody. If Armagil had succeeded in dissuading Sir Patrick from his scheme of revenge, perhaps the girl was finally at peace. Meg prayed that it was so.

She stared into the flames crackling on the hearth and felt her eyelids growing heavier. Despite all of her best efforts, Meg nodded off.

And promptly began to dream.

Meg stumbled as she raced along the twisting corridors of the tunnel, chasing after the cloaked figure. She could not see his face, but she knew who it was.

“Robert Brody! Stop,” she cried. “Robbie, where are you going?”

The boy ignored her, disappearing around the next bend. Meg plunged after him, emerging into a large cavern. For a moment, she could not see where Robert had gone. Then a torch flared as he struggled to light the end of a rope.

Why it should be so important to him to fire that rope, Meg could not fathom. But she felt an equally compelling urge to stop him. She rushed forward, but she was too late.

The rope had turned into a fiery snake, twisting and hissing and shooting off sparks. It coiled its way toward a mountain of barrels, its tongue flicking out deadly flames.

Suddenly the entire cave exploded in a blinding flash of light and heat that lifted Meg off her feet and hurled her through space.

She was lying sprawled on the floor of hell, the entire city of London quaking and caving in around her, buildings falling in a hail of stones, the night lit up by flame and rent by the screams of the dying.

Meg staggered to her feet, but she was hemmed in by gyrating bodies. Witches capered around her in a mad joyous dance led by Tamsin Rivers, her long gray hair streaming like a banner in the wind.

“Death to ye, James Stuart and all your kin. May ye all perish in the flames.” The old woman cackled and pointed to the blazing palace.

Beyond the burning beams, Meg saw the king clutching his young son, desperately trying to lead his family to safety.

Meg tried to run to his aid, but she was dragged back, held fast by a pair of strong arms. “No, Robbie, let me go!”

She twisted in his grasp, fighting to break free, only to dislodge his hood. The fabric fell back to reveal not Robert Brody’s youthful features, but those of a grown man, regarding her through sad, weary eyes.

Meg ceased her struggles, staring up at him. “A-Armagil?”

He looked at down her, his beard-roughened face streaked with tears. “Forgive me, Margaret.”

She pulled away from him. “Forgive you for what? Armagil, what have you done?”

She could not hear his reply as the witches enveloped her again, chanting her name. “Megaera! Megaera!”

She tried to get away from them, but they surrounded her, propelling her toward a witch who stood apart from the others, cloaked and hooded in black.

“Megaera.” Her mother called to her, Cassandra beckoning with a dead white hand.

No! Meg sat up in bed, her heart racing. She tried to blot out the nightmare, but she could still hear that persistent voice, still see the phantom woman in black gesturing to her.

She knuckled her eyes, but the phantom remained. It hovered by the foot of her bed, whispering her name.

“Megaera.”

She wasn’t dreaming. Meg froze, so petrified with shock, she was unable to speak or move.

“Ah, you have awakened, my Silver Rose,” the specter rasped.

Awakened? This—this
thing
had been lurking in her room, watching her sleep?

“W-what—” Meg’s mouth had gone so dry, she could barely form the words. “W-who are you?”

“Surely you must already know.”

Maman?
No, it was impossible. As much as Meg feared her mother might still be alive, this person who had invaded her bedchamber could not be Cassandra Lascelles. She was not tall enough.

Recovering from her initial shock, Meg noted other things as well. The woman’s hood was drawn too far forward for Meg to discern her features, but the hand that she had stretched out to Meg was slight, nothing like Cassandra’s long elegant fingers.
The woman’s other hand toyed with something beneath the flap of her cloak—the hilt of a knife.

Fear sent a rush of warmth through her frozen limbs, enabling Meg to move. She scrambled off the bed, staggering a little as she gained her feet, heading for the door. But the intruder was quicker. In a whirl of black, she leapt ahead of Meg, barring her exit.

“No, milady. Wait! There is nothing for you to fear.”

“Who are you?” Meg demanded again in a stronger voice. “How did you get in here?”

“Why, Eliza was obliging enough to let me in.”

Something in the sly way these words were intoned filled Meg with dread.

“You forced your way past my maid to gain admittance? Did you hurt her?”

“No, why would I hurt Eliza? She is one of us.”

“One of us?”

“Another witch, part of your new coven, milady. She is waiting for you below with the others.”

Eliza, a witch? That placid, idle creature who would not bestir herself to add another log to the fire even if she was freezing? Meg pressed her hand to her temple, feeling as though she was still caught up in some kind of mad dream.

She stiffened as the full import of the cloaked woman’s words struck her. “Others? There are others? How many?”

“Enough,” came the vague reply. “And all of them your devoted followers, but none more so than I.”

She pushed back her hood, revealing a round face well past the first blush of youth, creases bracketing her mouth, her chin starting to sag. Her unkempt hair was streaked with tinges of gray. Only her eyes remained youthful, wide with a dream-ridden quality.

“Mistress Rivers?” Meg hazarded.

“You know who I am?”

The woman beamed with delight until Meg added, “Beatrice?”

Her lips puckered into a childish pout. “No, that is my sister. I am Amelia Rivers, but my granddam always called me Amy.”

“Of course, Amy. I should have known,” Meg murmured, all the while Mary Waters’s warning echoed through her head.

“Amelia … She’s the dangerous one. If you do confront her, you had best take great care.”

Meg retreated. Her heart leapt in alarm when Amy’s hand shot out to grab hers. Her fingers were icy, sending the same chill through Meg she had experienced in the room at the Two Crowns. She had little doubt that this was the hand that had dripped blood while painting that pentagram.