The Perfect Princess (18 page)

She was about fifty, plump, and anything but comely. All the same, he treated her with the gallantry he would have shown a society beauty. The stupid cow didn’t realize that all he wanted was information. When it became evident that she knew nothing useful, he induced her to leave him alone in Maitland’s rooms by promising to stop by on his way out and share a pot of tea and her homemade scones.

His smile vanished the moment he showed her out. The magistrates, he knew, had already taken away anything of interest, but he was betting that Richard Maitland wasn’t the sort to leave anything interesting lying around. But that was speculation, and he had learned the value of caution. He couldn’t go far wrong if he took Maitland as his example, and he knew that if their positions were reversed, Maitland would be here.

In four days, the search for Maitland had practically ground to a halt. Or it would be truer to say that the trail had grown cold. There were horse patrols in plenty, going off in fits and starts whenever someone reported sighting Maitland or his former bodyguard. But there was no pattern to these sightings, no single direction to give them a clue to where they were headed. What
was
known was that Maitland had hidden out in a cottage in Chelsea then had slipped away in a boat. It wasn’t until the next morning that the boat was discovered under the Vauxhall dock, and that’s where the trail ended.

There was a rumor going around, a rumor he knew to be true, that Lord Caspar had enlisted Hugh Templar’s help to track Maitland, and that had raised his hopes.
But nothing had come of it, or they would have found Lady Rosamund by now and the whole world would know it.

Maybe he had misjudged Templar. Maybe he hadn’t deserted his friend. Maybe he was playing a delaying game to give Maitland time to cover his tracks so that he could come back and fight another day.

That’s what gave him his sense of urgency. Only he had the will and the drive to find Maitland, because he had the most to lose. Not that he seriously believed that Maitland would work things out and come after him. But after their last encounter, he wasn’t leaving anything to chance.

He spent the next few minutes walking through the rooms, taking a general impression. He was surprised at what he found. He had anticipated something more Spartan, in keeping with Maitland’s character, but these rooms were comfortably furnished in blue upholstery and some fine walnut and mahogany pieces. Only the book room was as he expected—shelves of books, two shabby leather chairs flanking the grate, a desk, and little else.

After this, he went through each room systematically, cupboard by cupboard and drawer by drawer. It was just as he thought: the few letters, papers, and receipts that he found were of no help to him. The only thing that struck an odd note was a small painting in an alcove in the book room. It was in oils, pleasant enough though not very skillfully executed, and depicted a gem of a house, of neoclassical design, in a pastoral setting. The artist was Richard Maitland.

There were other pictures scattered throughout the various rooms, but they were all landscapes—stark mountains and lakes, and heather-clad moors—obviously scenes of Scotland, Maitland’s home.

He toured the rooms again, but this time he looked only at the paintings. They were far superior to the
painting in the book room, and none of them bore Maitland’s signature.

It seemed to him that the painting of the house must have sentimental value to Maitland, or why would he keep it? Something else struck him. The pastoral setting was typical of England, not Scotland.

A memory came to him. In the holidays, everyone went home, but not Maitland. He went to an uncle who had a house on the Berkshire downs.

What was his name? What was the name of the house?

It hardly mattered. When Maitland left Chelsea, he’d rowed downstream, in the opposite direction to the route he would have taken if he were making for Berkshire.

He thought about it for a moment or two, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. A false trail, he thought, to throw them off the scent? What else had Maitland done to throw them off the scent?

He opened his eyes and stared at the painting. If only he could remember the name of that house. After a moment’s silent scrutiny, he removed the picture from the wall and took it to the window to get a better look.

It was right there, etched into the masonry above the front portico.

Dunsmoor.

At Dunsmoor House, Rosamund was slumped in one of the armchairs that flanked the grate. She’d managed to snatch a few hours of sleep during the night, but she’d been up since dawn nursing her patient and stoking the fires.
Fatigue
was too weak a word to describe what she was feeling. Every muscle in her body ached. She didn’t know if she had the strength to push herself out of the chair now that she’d given in to the temptation to take a few moments for herself.

She glanced at the clock, then at the bed. Maitland was sleeping soundly. In a few minutes, though, it would be time to begin the ritual that she performed every other hour in an effort to bring down his fever and keep his wound clean: change the poultice; bathe the patient with cold water; feed him weak tea, spoonful by spoonful; check the gash on his head; feel his pulse.

The last time she’d added something to the ritual, or rather to the tea. He’d been so restless during the night that he’d torn the poultice, and bran had leaked onto his bare skin. If she’d been there, it wouldn’t have happened, but she’d been in the kitchen making his tea. By the time she got to him, the bran had hardened like plaster. It had taken her forever to clean the mess. So she’d added a drop or two of laudanum to his tea to prevent him from thrashing about, and it worked. Only she wasn’t sure if she’d done the right thing.

If only there was someone she could share her worries with. Even Harper would do. She thought, hoped, the fever had abated a little, but she wasn’t sure. It was the same with the inflammation. And she didn’t know the first thing about concussions. A second opinion would be more than welcome.

At least she could say with conviction that her patient’s condition hadn’t worsened.

She had just struggled to her feet when she heard what might have been a floorboard or a stair creaking. When it came again, her pulse began to race. Someone was creeping up the servants’ staircase, someone who did not want his presence to be known. Not Harper, then, or the authorities. They wouldn’t come by stealth. A thief, perhaps, who thought the house was empty. Or maybe it was Maitland’s mortal enemy, the one who had engineered his downfall.

The fatigue that had weighed her down was swept away as sheer animal instinct took over. There was no chance of hiding Maitland or getting him away. But she
was ready for trouble. Maitland’s pistol, primed and ready, was on top of the dresser. She never went anywhere without it now.

Every nerve was tingling as she curled her fingers around the smooth butt, then, moving as stealthily as the intruder, she positioned herself to one side of the door. When he opened it, she would be hidden from view.

When the door handle turned, she held her breath. Inch by slow inch, the door opened. There was an exclamation of surprise, then a man entered and walked to the bed.

Rosamund leveled her pistol. “Touch him and I’ll blow your brains out! I mean it! Now drop your pistol on the floor—gently, mind—put your hands in the air, and turn around.”

Harper had managed only a quick glance at his chief to make sure that he was all right when the strident voice accosted him. He did exactly as he was told, but as he turned, he tensed to spring. When he saw his opponent, however, surprise held him in check. A beardless youth confronted him, a youth who looked as though he’d just walked off the battlefield. His shirt and face were spattered with flecks of blood and what looked like mud. His eyes were red-rimmed; his expression haunted. But the hand that held the pistol that was aimed straight at Harper’s heart was as steady as the hand on a marble statue.

“You’re making a mistake,” began Harper, then stopped when the youth lowered his pistol and sniffed.

“You took your time getting here,” said the young man, only he didn’t sound like a young man now. He sounded like a female, and one, moreover, who had come to the end of her tether.

Her words were quick and edged with reproach. “I
could have used another pair of hands. My life has become one long round of applying poultices, bed-baths, keeping the fires stoked, making tea, and emptying chamber pots.” She waved the gun in the air. “Not to mention watering and feeding the horses. They have to be watered and fed three times a day, did you know that?”

Harper was seriously coming to believe that he was dealing with a maniac, and would have sprung at her if she hadn’t pointed the gun at him again.

“He wouldn’t lie still,” she said, “and ruptured the poultice, so I gave him laudanum. I think I may have done more harm than good. But you must understand, I’ve never treated a horse with a concussion before.”

Harper felt as though he were lost in a fog. The youth was turning out to be Lady Rosamund Devere. His mind quickly sifted through her unintelligible words. He glanced at his chief, then took a slow inventory of the shambles in the room. Bloodied rags and poultices were stacked on top of the dresser, basins of water were set out on the floor like stepping stones; jars and bottles of he knew not what were set out on a small table; a pile of filthy clothes was heaped in a chair; on another chair, he saw a kettle, teapot and cups, and a half-eaten apple. And—he looked and looked again—a china chamber pot was on the floor beside the bed, decorously covered with a folded towel.

“What horse, your ladyship?” he asked carefully, his eyes never wavering from the chamber pot.

She shook her head, gave a watery chuckle, and said brokenly, “Oh, Harper, I’m so glad you’re here.”

It was late in the evening when Richard dragged himself from sleep to find Harper hovering over him. Though he felt shivery and had a blazing headache, he
insisted on getting up. He frowned when he saw he was naked, but other than that, he made no comment. “Rosamund?” was the first word out of his mouth.

“She’s in the room across the hall,” said Harper, “sleeping the sleep of the just. I don’t think she’ll wake for a long time yet.”

As Harper helped Richard into a nightshirt and a warm woolen dressing gown, he gave him an account of his own movements since taking off with the duke’s carriage. He told him about the reward the duke was offering for Lady Rosamund’s safe return, about Digby and Whorsley, and finally explained why he had taken so long to get there. The countryside, he said, was crawling with militiamen, and that had slowed him down. He’d spent the first two nights sleeping in haystacks, the next night in a barn, and last night in one of the shepherd’s stone bothies on the downs. He’d only arrived an hour or two ago, to find the colonel blissfully out of things and Lady Rosamund at her wits’ end.

He broke off at that point. He didn’t think his chief was listening. He was looking around the room, taking everything in. The candles were lit, the curtains were drawn, and every evidence of the mayhem Harper had encountered earlier had been tidied away.