“Of course. I’m a hell of a lover. She should adore me.”
“Then what is the problem?”
Ian knew all the circumstances, and he was too drunk not to confess them. “She’s in love with another man.”
Hadd smiled at the disclosure that so pained Ian. “How do you know that?”
Ian stared. Hadd didn’t think her love important. Or else he didn’t believe Ian knew what he was talking about. So Ian told the truth. “Didn’t you know? I’m the son of a Selkie.”
“A Selkie.” Hadd sat forward. “Your mother is a seal-lady?”
Surprised, Ian looked at this newest Fairchild. He was younger, cleaner, more honorable than Ian, better in every way, and now…more knowledgeable? “How did you know that?” Ian asked.
“I’ve studied the old legends in Scotland.” Hadd’s burr strengthened. “But I’ve never met anyone who claimed to be the descendent of a Selkie.”
“I don’t claim anything,” Ian said flatly. “I am.”
Hadd took a long pull from the bottle, acting for the first time like he needed the drink. Pulling a leather bag from his vest pocket, he tossed it to Ian.
Ian caught it, held it, looked inside it. “Rocks?”
“Throw it back.” Hadd caught Ian’s wild toss. “Where’s your mother now?”
“She went back to the sea.” And abandoned her son with his father. “They always go back to the sea.”
“Transformed into a seal.” Hadd scraped a spot on the floor clean, then poured the rocks out. He stared at them, then stared at Ian, then stared at the stones again. “Fascinating. And what effect has that had on you?”
“I miss her.” Ian spoke faintly, for the pain had subsided through the years and he barely noticed it anymore.
Hadd didn’t notice it at all. Gathering up his rocks, he put them in the bag and slid them back into his vest. “I mean, why has being the son of a Selkie made you know that this girl loves someone else?”
“Oh, that.” Ian shrugged with an elaborate lack of concern. “I can see…feelings.”
“Feelings? Like what?”
The young man gave every evidence of excitement and none of disbelief, so Ian told him. “I see auras. Colors and light around people.” He rubbed a hand over his suddenly weary face. “I’m a difficult man to lie to.”
“And this young lady—what kind of light do you see around her?”
“There’s a halo of golden light that rings her, and it grows and pulsates when the man she loves comes near her.” Ian was aware he sounded morose, but he didn’t care. He stared at the smooth surface of his ring, and half wondered if Hadden could see how the moonstone lit from within as Ian rubbed it. “I don’t see that very often. Usually only with couples who have been married a long time. Happily married for a long time.” Ian watched Hadd, waiting for the first sign of disbelief or amusement. “This gold is a little brighter than that—that’s the unrequited passion, I suppose.”
“I see.” Hadd seemed to think he did. At least he didn’t taunt Ian, or laugh at his expense. “But why is she bothering with you if she loves another man?”
“She doesn’t realize I’m courting her.” Humiliating to admit. “And she doesn’t know she loves him.”
Chapter 16
Mary woke with a start. Her eyes flew open, and as she had each morning for the last four days, she stared into the gray predawn air and tried to calm the thumping of her heart.
Murderess.
She heard the echo of the word. It followed her from a nightmare, a nightmare filled with valets who pointed and accused, with corpses who rose and stalked, from long walks to a gibbet swinging with nooses.
Murderess.
Rising from the bed, she dressed herself in her dark clothing and tiptoed to the pile of notes that had been slipped under her door during the night. Taking them to the window, she sorted through them until she found the one she sought. The one with the plain blob of sealing wax closing the flap. She already knew what it said.
Murderess.
That was all the rest of them had said. The single word unnerved her more than lengthy accusations.
Oh, she knew who had written those notes. She hadn’t seen him again, but she didn’t have to. All the valets in her nightmares wore the same smirk and exuded the same menace as the man she’d seen in the corridor that night. He was after her.
With a glance at the cot that held Jill’s unmoving form, she unlocked the door. She had asked Mrs. Baggot for the key after she received that first note; she had hoped it would make her sleep more securely, but in vain.
As she prepared to slip out, Jill whispered loudly, “Be careful, Miss Fairchild.”
“I will.”
Jill showed a marked lack of respect for Mary’s good sense. She continually insisted that her mistress was both foolish and foolhardy to wander the halls by herself, and since the first note had arrived, Mary had wondered whether she might not be right.
She walked quietly and quickly to an alcove by a window, broke the seal, and spread open the sheet.
Murderess.
Besseborough’s family still offers a reward.
One hundred quid will buy my silence. I’ll let you know when and where.
The paper rattled in Mary’s shaking hand. A hundred pounds? He might as well have asked for a thousand. She might be an heiress, but she had no money, and no way to get it.
She had to get away from here—now.
She rose in a panic and started to race to her room, but the mere act of running jarred her to her senses. She was behaving impetuously, and no good would come of it. If she tried to leave Fairchild Manor, Jill would got straight to Lady Valéry and tell. Lady Valéry would send for Sebastian. Sebastian would stop her and demand an explanation.
Mary leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. She was trapped. She knew it. But the threat of the note made finding Lady Valéry’s diary more imperative than ever before. She had to get that diary. She had to get away.
Her resolve strengthened, she calmed herself. Placing the note in her capacious pockets, she walked to the kitchen once more.
The servants glanced up as she walked in, but in the last four days she’d proved herself. Every morning, while they finished their own breakfasts and began the long preparations for the day ahead, she’d been friendly, courteous, and undemanding. They still watched her cautiously, but no longer acted as if she were a cannonball that had landed in their midst. It was time to proceed. It was time to find out who among her relatives had the diary.
Mrs. Baggott poured boiling water into the teapot and came to the table. They both seated themselves, and while Mary poured two cups, she said, “I’m looking for someone to explain my family to me, and I hope you can help. How long have you worked for the Fairchilds?”
Of course, Mary told less than the truth, and Mrs. Baggott was too astute not to have her suspicions. But neither could she comprehend the real reasons for Mary’s interest, so she accepted the cup and saucer and said, “Started out here as a scullery maid, Miss Fairchild, when I was eight.”
“Oh, my.” Mary could scarcely believe her luck. Mrs. Baggott must know every family secret. “It’s a rare thing to find a woman who has risen so far.”
“Better the head of an ass than the tail of a horse.” Mrs. Baggott imparted common servant wisdom. “I’ll tell you, it’s been nothing but hard work, but when a woman’s been given a face like mine, what option does she have but work?”
Mary began to make disbelieving noises, and stopped. Mrs. Baggott didn’t want disbelieving noises. She wanted to be taken for what she was—a sharp woman dedicated to her own security. She wouldn’t put her post at jeopardy for Mary; she’d made that clear, but she’d relaxed enough to gossip.
“I suppose no one knows my family like you do.”
“I’m not bragging, Miss Fairchild, when I say that’s the truth.”
“Then perhaps you could help me.”
Mrs. Baggott made a produc
tion out of measuring sugar into her tea. “Perhaps.”
“Why are my great-uncles so cruel to me? That Leslie never misses a chance to mock me or correct me or—”
“Mr. Leslie treats you no different than he treats anyone else.” The spoon clinked and clinked again against the china cup as Mrs. Baggott vigorously stirred her tea. Lifting her spoon out of her tea, she pointed it at a serving maid who hovered near. “What do you need, Sally?”
The tall, gangly girl mumbled, “Nothing, ma’am.”
“Then find something to do or I’ll find something for you.” Mrs. Baggott watched as Sally slunk away, then wiped the drops of tea off the table. Turning back to Mary, she said, “Your uncle Leslie is a mean old man, he is, and never so happy as when he makes others miserable.”
“He’s been making you miserable for years?” Mary guessed.
Clink. Clink. “Yes. Him and his brothers.” Mrs. Baggott folded her lips tightly, as if she regretted her confidences.
“I thought it was just me! I didn’t want to sound peevish, but all of the uncles seem—”
“Cruel? Indifferent? Given to nasty jokes against those unable to hit back?” Clink. Clink. The sound had grown louder, but Mrs. Baggott’s voice lowered. “You see Emma over there by the stove?”
Mary did, and marveled at the young woman’s abilities. She stirred, cut, and ground, and all with one hand. The other had been removed at the wrist. “She does very well.”
“She did better when she had them both.” Clink. Clink. Breakage threatened. “Mr. Leslie got it into his head it would be funny to put a fox trap into his closet, then call one of the chambermaids to do some cleaning for him.”
Mary stared at Emma, then turned her horrified gaze on Mrs. Baggott. “You don’t mean…”
“He had his laugh, did Mr. Leslie, and that was the result.” Mrs. Baggott stopped stirring at last and waved her spoon in Emma’s direction. “He would have had her turned away—said she complained past the time it was amusing—but I wouldn’t have it. I know his secrets, I do, and I had only to tell him so to put him in his place. But he’s dangerous when he’s thwarted, so I’ve kept Emma in the kitchen and out of his sight ever since.”
“All my great-uncles are so…evil?” A mixture of shame and loathing drove Mary to ask. Was this the reason she had committed murder so many years ago? Because of her relationship to the abominable Fairchilds?
“None so bad as Mr. Leslie, but about him, I could tell you stories…which is what makes Lord Whitfield’s presence here all the more astonishing to me.” Mrs. Baggott sipped the well-stirred tea at last. “He must truly adore you, Miss Fairchild, to take you as his betrothed after what those wretches did to him. But that’s old news to you.” Mrs. Baggott smiled, and the bristles of her slight mustache smoothed down.
“Is Bubb like that?” Mary asked.
“Mr. Bubb?” Mrs. Baggott released a sharp, breaking laugh. If Mary had been less charitable, she would have called it a cackle. “I beg your pardon, miss, it’s Lord Smithwick now, but I forget that with his silly ways. Although isn’t he the handsomest thing you ever saw?”
“All the Fairchilds are handsome,” Mary said dryly.
“Well, of course they are, miss. You are.” Mrs. Baggott seemed surprised, as if she’d almost forgotten Mary’s background. “But I’ve had to dismiss maids who fell so deeply in love with him they made themselves a nuisance.”
“Does he encourage them?”
“Keeps to Lady Smithwick, he does. And he’s a likable sort, kind to the servants even if he can’t pay wages half the time.”
“The family is in financial straits, then?”
“Ever since old Lord Smithwick left the money to you.” Mrs. Baggott obviously relished the notion. “But the new Lord Smithwick is always boasting he has a scheme to keep the family afloat.”
“Now?” Mary wrapped her hands around the bowl of the cup and let the warmth seep into her fingers. “I mean, have you heard him say anything lately?”
“Nothing important. Not a fortnight since, he was telling Lady Smithwick he would save the family, but he’s nothing but a bag of wind. Lady Smithwick knows that. She just rocked and did her needlework and agreed.”
Since the house party began, Mary had seen Nora acting as hostess, matching up her daughters with the most eligible men, all the while graciously guiding Mary, the newfound Fairchild, through the intricacies of proper behavior. “Lady Smithwick is no fool.”
“No, not ever. She used to be one of us, you know.” Mrs. Baggott gestured around at the servants, and saw the serving maid standing off to the side, head cocked as if she were listening. “Sally! What do you mean by this?”
Bright spots of color rose in Sally’s cheeks. “Ma’am?”
“Go and stir the oatmeal,” Mrs. Baggott said sharply. “After I’m done here, I’ll start you peeling the onions. Maybe that’ll remind you how to work.”
Sally curtsied and fled toward the stove.
“I don’t understand what’s wrong with that girl,” Mrs. Baggott confided. “She’s usually so responsible. It must be a man.”
“It usually is,” Mary agreed.
“Look at the sun.” Mrs. Baggott started to rise. “I have so much to do!”
“But you were telling me about Lady Smithwick,” Mary protested.
“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Baggott glanced again at the window, then settled herself in the chair and leaned closer. In a low tone she said, “Lady Smithwick used to be one of us. One of the servants.”
“Fascinating.” Mrs. Baggott couldn’t know how fascinating.
“She was a governess at Bramber Court, not far from here, and Mr. Bubb—excuse me—Lord Smithwick was a charmer. Well, you can imagine the ending of that tale.”
“No.” Mary was fascinated. “Tell me.”
Mrs. Baggott glanced behind her. “It’s just the same old tale, Miss Fairchild. You know.”
“No,” Mary insisted. “Really.”
Mrs. Baggott shifted uncomfortably. “I can’t gossip about Lady Smithwick. I just can’t.” A restraint that obviously caused her considerable torment. “But I can tell you this. She’s been fanatically loyal to Lord Smithwick ever since the wedding.” She nodded wisely. “In my opinion, not that anyone ever asks it, if there’s one who will save the Fairchilds from themselves, it will be Lady Smithwick.”
“But the details…” Mary pressed for information.
Mrs. Baggott glanced at the window where the morning sun now beamed brightly. “Look at the light! Here I’ve been loitering, talking to you, when there’s to be a meal set up outdoors in the gazebo.” Standing, she curtsied.
“But—but—” Mary sputtered. She wasn’t done yet! She hadn’t heard everything. Catching Mrs. Baggott’s fingers, she pleaded, “Just one more thing. Tell me about my cousins.”
Mrs. Baggott looked down at Mary’s hand. Lifting it, she examined the back, then turned it over and looked at the palm. “There’s not many noble folk who have calluses like this, Miss Fairchild. It occurs to me to wonder where you got them.”
Mary wanted to snatch her traitorous hand away. No one else had noticed the marks ten years of housekeeping had worn into her skin, but Mrs. Baggott had experienced eyes.
“Don’t fret, Miss Fairchild.” Mrs. Baggott patted the well-worked palm. “I had wondered why you woke so early and why you fit in down here so well, and if this gives me an answer, well, I’m good at keeping secrets.”
Was she? Courted by a little courtesy on Mary’s part, Mrs. Baggott had told most of Lady Smithwick’s story readily enough, and tattled on Uncle Leslie with relish. Yes, Mrs. Baggott’s indiscretion gave Mary another thing to worry about.
“Your cousins?” Mrs. Baggott swept the two cups off the table and stood with them in her hand. “They’d sell their father’s liver for a price. Does that tell you what you wish to know?”
“Yes.” Mary stood also. “Unfortunately, it does.” It told her that she’d wasted her time. Any on
e of her family could have stolen that diary.
As she left the kitchen, she could hear Mrs. Baggott giving the dawdling Sally yet another scolding. Stifling a yawn, Mary walked toward her bedchamber. She’d been doing her duty as Sebastian saw it every night, and doing her duty as she saw it every morning. She was worried sick about the threatening notes, and she couldn’t begin to imagine how she would get her hands on a hundred pounds. And, she realized as she glanced around her, she was lost. Again.
Funny that she was so good at deceiving and manipulating, but so bad at directions. She’d used Mrs. Baggott, as all Fairchilds used people, and she’d done it effortlessly. It reminded her of the days when she had thought intrigue was exciting, and lying a justifiable method of getting her way.
The specter of Guinevere Fairchild drifted ever closer. When Mary thought about the unrestrained pleasure she’d found in Sebastian’s arms—and she thought about it too frequently—she wanted to get as far away from him as she could. At the same time Guinevere whispered, “What’s the harm in a little fun after so many years of discipline?”
Mary couldn’t run far enough to get away from that voice. It rose inside her every time Sebastian respectfully bowed before her. He hadn’t shown one sign of interest in her since the night of the first ball, but inside her Guinevere whispered, “I could make him want me. I could trap him and keep him happy forever.”
Guinevere, God rot her, was apparently indestructible.
Perhaps worse was Mary’s desire to explain the circumstances of the murder. Sebastian was a sensible man. He’d understand. Then she could tell him about the extortion that terrorized her, and he would take care of everything.
Closing her eyes, she shook her head. How selfish of her to want not only Sebastian’s compassion, but his protection.
“Mary.” A male voice spoke behind her. “You came to see me.”
She jumped and swung around. In the protection of an open doorway, a menacing form stood silhouetted. Alarm shuddered through her for one brief moment. Was it one of the aristocrats who would use this opportunity to discredit her? Worse, was it the treacherous valet?