Chapter Eighteen
It had been a week from hell itself. Margaret had not thought things could get any worse than they’d already been, but every time she had the thought, it always got worse.
From not eating, to no social agenda, to no entertainment of any sort, and the only thing to come from the good behavior that she had exhibited was that now she was able to leave her room for two hours a day without cause.
Lady Raeburn had called three times since their tea with Aunt Ada, and she was always permitted to see her. Each time, Lady Raeburn had devised an excuse for Miss Ritson to leave the room and she had given Margaret a note from her cousin, and Margaret could respond. After the first time, Margaret had a letter ready to give, and Lady Raeburn had a very serious talk with her about what was going on, and let it be known that her parents had been sent for, but there had been no word from them.
It was the only bright spot in her days, knowing now that she had individuals on whom she could rely for a good account of what was happening.
Somehow, the servant situation was getting worse. The numbers were dwindling, and she could see it. Miss Ritson denied any issues, claiming they were all simply too busy to stand for Margaret’s inspection.
There was something wrong about the house and way Miss Ritson was controlling everything. Everything felt wrong, and as she was so limited in her activities and abilities, she could not investigate the feeling. She felt as though she were living in someone else’s house, a prisoner in some unfamiliar place with only strangers for company. It was unnerving and eerie, and Margaret found herself wishing there was a way to get word to Rafe somehow.
Her anger had abated, and now she wanted him more desperately than ever, which undoubtedly made her a fool and a coward. He may not be the man she thought he was, but he was a good man all the same, and she could see how he had not set out to make her fall in love with him. She had done that all to herself. All he had done was be there. And stir up thoughts. And dreams. And save her from ruin.
He was the Gent, just as he had always said, and he had never pretended anything else.
She had pretended and imagined quite enough for them both.
But could she have imagined the way he looked at her? Could he really have treated anyone else with the same gentleness and warmth? Did he kiss another woman the way he had kissed her?
She couldn’t believe it. He was too good for that.
Don’t pretend that all of those days of seeing each other didn’t give us a certain knowledge.
Rafe’s words to her echoed in her mind again, warming her and confusing her all at once. She thought she knew him, but could she be sure? He had not come again, but she had not given him reason to. She had no way to get word to him as it was, and she knew, somehow, that if she sent for him, he would appear.
And she greatly feared that if he did, she would know in an instant if she loved him still.
She rather suspected she did.
He had been there at Aunt Ada’s, just as he had been so many times before, and the comfort that had brought her had surprised her. It was so natural for him to be there, so easy and familiar.
And she was positive that he did not do that for all those other women.
She shivered now, waiting in her room for Miss Ritson to allow her out. They were to go out and pay calls today, but she had not been informed as to whom. She doubted she would enjoy the experience.
For one thing, the gown she was wearing was an uglier rendition of the ensemble from Mrs. Andrews’ shop, and the only thing to recommend it was the fact that the neckline was higher than that particular gown. But only just. It was a deep red, which she did not mind, except when combined with the black lace emphasizing certain parts of her, she felt like one of the women sitting in the Bounty. Her corset had been laced too tight, but not as tightly as that horrible day, so at least she could breathe without pain.
She could not move, but she could breathe.
Small mercies.
A knock on her door sounded. “Miss Easton?” called a low male voice. “Are you ready?”
She snorted softly and rose from her chair. “Yes, Horace, I am ready.”
The door opened, and the burly man stood at the threshold. “Miss Ritson is waiting for you downstairs.”
“Of course, she is,” Margaret replied, sighing heavily. She twisted her lips, then looked at her guard. “Horace, do I look as ridiculous as I think I do?”
He glanced her over, then looked away, face flushing. “It’s not my place, miss.”
She glowered at him. “That’s all right. You just did.” She shook her head and strode past him, heading down the stairs and trying not to notice how the few maids about the house stared at her.
She looked like a Cyprian off to meet her protector.
Which meant she had a fair idea of where they were going.
Miss Ritson was properly dressed and waiting for her at the door, and looked her over with a bizarre sort of pride. “Yes, that will do nicely,” she told her, almost praising. “Sir Vincent will be most pleased with you.”
Margaret gave her a disgusted look. “Would it not be more efficient for you if I went in my undergarments? Then we could claim myself compromised within five minutes of entry, and the whole thing will be over, and much less expensively done.”
Miss Ritson’s eyes flashed and she flicked her wrist at the maids waiting with Margaret’s bonnet and cloak. “Mind your tongue, or there will be no meals at all for the rest of the day.”
“That would be a change,” Margaret muttered as she tied her bonnet ribbons, feeling a jolt of satisfaction at the way Sally made a choking sound behind her as she adjusted the cloak.
Her chaperone’s jaw tensed so much that Margaret was positive her face was going to break into a thousand pieces. “You are dismissed!” Miss Ritson barked.
The maids bobbed and vanished quickly, and Margaret folded her hands primly before her, waiting for the fury to unleash upon her.
Miss Ritson stared at her for a moment, her breathing erratic and unsteady, her eyes wild. She took two steps closer to Margaret, and exhaled shortly. “Let me make something perfectly clear to you. Whatever airs and authority you think you have, you do not. Whatever choice you think you have, you do not. You and your impudent quips have no influence on what is about to happen.”
Margaret felt the first twinges of fear as she watched her composed chaperone grow colder and crueler in expression and being than ever before.
The lines on Miss Ritson’s face became more pronounced somehow. “We are going to take tea with Sir Vincent Castleton, who has an interest in you. A very marked interest. You will behave yourself with all of the training that your parents and I have instilled in you. To his credit, Sir Vincent knows of your escapade and somehow still has an interest, perhaps even more now than before. He is being very generous. And when he offers for you, you will accept.”
Margaret lifted her chin and swallowed, despite her suddenly quivering insides. “I will not.”
“You will,” Miss Ritson reiterated, taking another step closer. “You will marry Sir Vincent, because after your parents hear the story, and after I tell them all of Sir Vincent’s virtues and how he still will have you after such shocking behavior, they will jump at the chance.” She smiled tightly, her face stretching with the effort. “And they will pay me handsomely for my efforts, which is why I took up this ridiculous endeavor in the first place. Imagine a woman unable to secure a husband with a fortune like yours. Not that anyone would suspect it is so grand, which is the most ridiculous part of it. Your family has wealth beyond measure and they don’t even act like it. Nothing at all to show for it, and it is offensive to witness.”
Margaret stared at Miss Ritson in horror, not that the other woman would notice. She seemed to be staring through Margaret rather than at her, and appeared to not even notice the words she spoke.
“Your parents are fools, but they will learn. And when they see the match I have settled for you, they will be so grateful.” Her smiled turned whimsical, and it was a frightening sight. “I cannot imagine the gratitude they might bestow upon me.”
The foyer remained silent after her speech, and Margaret waited for her to collect herself, her mind whirling. This was all about money, and plenty of it. Margaret knew they were different in their lifestyle, how their finery was not extravagant or elaborate, and how she did not behave as an heiress might, but she had never seen that as any sort of detriment. Miss Ritson was fixated on the reward she expected, and on Margaret’s match with Sir Vincent, and those two things drove her.
Control, money, and the match.
It made no sense, Margaret thought as Miss Ritson came to herself and led her into the coach. Why would an older, plain woman of no means herself be so concerned with things of such a nature? There were more profitable ways of earning an income, and it was not as though the Eastons would settle an annuity on her after all of this. What, precisely, did Miss Ritson expect?
As they drove through Mayfair, Margaret pondered the situation with care. She suspected that if she’d had a brother, Miss Ritson might have tried to marry him in order to gain the fortune she apparently desired. It was a disturbing thought, but Margaret had an inkling that any brother of hers would have been appalled by the thought and never so idiotic.
And no brother of hers would have allowed her to consider Sir Vincent as any sort of prospect.
Before she could reach any conclusion about anything, they had arrived at the respectable residence of the man in question, though she knew full well that what occurred inside was not at all respectable.
Rumors sprang into her mind and she could not suppress the shudder that coursed through her.
“Get up there, girl, or I will drag you. In public.” Miss Ritson jabbed her in the back, and Margaret moved forward, determined to be perfectly behaved as any proper London miss would be. Calm, collected, and cold.
Perhaps she could put him off with her demeanor.
They were let into the house directly after the first knock, and a wiry old butler showed them into a sparsely decorated drawing room, then departed without a word.
“Lovely decorating, even for a man,” Miss Ritson praised as she looked about. “This would do nicely for you.”
Margaret stared around at the pale pink walls, the paper faded and peeling in places, and the furniture scattered about, looking as though it had come from the last century and had not been used since. There were no paintings, no cushions, and the ceilings bore so many cobwebs that she wondered where the details of the crown moldings actually began.
This was not lovely. This was disgusting.
The door to the room opened and in came Sir Vincent, his hair greying but for the top, where there was none, his cheeks sagging almost below his jawline, and his stomach so paunchy it was evidence of his tendency to drink, particularly when combined with his overly ruddy complexion. His dark eyes held no warmth and seemed to be in a constant leer, made more uncomfortable by the pox scar above one brow. His half smile was directed at her and he bowed so that his eyes would line up perfectly with her neckline, which was where his eyes focused.
“Miss Easton, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last. Thank you for calling upon me.”
He took her hand in his and pressed cold lips to her knuckles, lingering far too long, and tickling against her glove in an uncomfortable way.
“Thank you for the invitation,” she said, with as much politeness as she could.
He smiled at her décolletage again, and sat himself beside her. “Not at all, not at all. I have sent for some tea, will you take some?”
“Of course.” She introduced him to Miss Ritson quickly, but he never looked anywhere but at her.
“You are such a lovely woman,” he murmured, interrupting some polite conversation she was attempting, his voice dipping as his eyes raked her with dark appreciation. “Such a perfect picture of everything an English girl ought to be. Beautiful beyond compare, and tempting… So tempting…”
Margaret’s eyes widened and she flicked her eyes to Miss Ritson, who was watching with satisfaction.
“Sir Vincent,” Margaret protested as he scooted closer to her. “Really, I do not know you well, and I think such flattery might be premature.”
And unwelcome. And disgraceful. And…
His hand was suddenly tracing her neckline, the fingers grazing the skin a little, making her jump. “I think we could know each other much better, my dear,” he told her, his eyes widening as his fingers moved. “I think prematurity can be a blessing in disguise. And I also think I need to taste you, my flower, before I go mad with wanting.”
He leaned forward and Margaret reared back with a squeal. “Sir Vincent, no!”
The door opened suddenly and a tall maid entered, eyes low, apparently distracted. “Windows, shelves, draperies,” she whispered to herself firmly, as if from memory. “Windows, shelves…”
Sir Vincent sat back, his hand dropping from Margaret’s dress, which Margaret adjusted quickly, yanking it higher than it was meant to be, popping a few threads, and earning her a throat clearing from Miss Ritson, which she pointedly ignored.
“Callie,” Sir Vincent called out, his voice tinged with a new interest that Margaret was grateful for.
The maid jerked and looked at him, eyes wide and horrified. “Sir! I didna mean… I didna know the room was in use…” She turned and went to leave.
“No, no, Callie, stay,” Sir Vincent told her, his large head moving as he eyed her entire figure. “Stay and see to your tasks. The work must be completed, after all.”
Callie nodded obediently, then moved to the shelves behind Margaret and began to clean them.
Sir Vincent looked at Margaret once more, but his eyes kept moving back to Callie. “Now, my dear Miss Easton, where were we?”
Margaret swallowed and barely avoided wringing her hands together. “You were about to tell me more of yourself, sir, so that I might know you better.”
“Was I?” he mused distractedly, watching Callie. “How remiss. I come from Dorset, my dove, and have a fine estate there…”
Thankfully, Sir Vincent enjoyed talking as much as he enjoyed leering, and his conversation was longwinded and one-sided, allowing Margaret to take her bland tea in silence. Callie continued about her work, and Sir Vincent frequently lost his train of thought, which Margaret was only too glad to assist with resetting.
Miss Ritson was growing more and more disgruntled by the minute, and Margaret caught her glaring at the maid more than seemed appropriate, but as it was not her home, she could not very well order Callie out, particularly when her master had indicated his wish that she stay.
Margaret was considering hiring Callie for herself when her parents and sanity returned to her life. Her arrival had saved her, and she was not about to forget it. And as she watched the maid herself, she suspected she was not quite so simple-minded as she seemed. She had moved on to the windows, and had washed the same pane three times now, lingering as if her life depended upon that window, which probably had not been clean in twenty years.
Callie apparently heard nothing of their conversation, as she continually hummed or spoke softly to herself, but once or twice, Margaret swore the girl looked at her, and that was certainly not a maid’s usual behavior.
A knock came at the door and Sir Vincent, pulled from his view of Callie’s backside or Margaret’s neckline, looked towards it.
The butler entered and came to him, speaking softly, and Sir Vincent’s entire demeanor changed. Gone was the leering profligate of a man, and a cold, calculated anger appeared. She saw him look at Miss Ritson, whose expression did not change, and then back to his butler, nodding.
The butler vanished, and a tall, dark Rom appeared in the door, a jagged scar on his cheek, and a glittering earring in one ear. He folded his arms, which became more muscled than one might have thought, and a dagger on his belt came into view. He looked at Sir Vincent with an impatient air, and Sir Vincent glared in return.
Then he turned to Margaret with a heavy sigh that did not fool her for a moment. “My dear Margaret, I fear business has come up and I must end our interlude.” He slid her glove off of one hand and rained wet kisses upon her hand, palm, and wrist. “But I trust I may receive you again? Perhaps… more privately?”
Bile rose in Margaret’s throat and she pulled her hand away firmly. “Perhaps,” she said in a tone that indicated she rather thought hell would freeze over before that occurred.
He missed the tone and smiled indulgently. “Ah, my dove, you are a spirited one. I love a woman with spirit. It is so… invigorating.”
He leaned in and pressed an equally wet kiss to her earlobe, inhaling sharply. “I so look forward to our private time, Margaret,” he whispered against her skin.
Callie let loose with an expletive of shocking nature as she dropped the tea tray she had suddenly decided to move, and Margaret took the opportunity to spring from her seat, as if to avoid the remains of the tea.
“Clumsy fool!” Miss Ritson shrieked, whirling on the girl. “How dare you…”
“Ritson,” Sir Vincent snapped, “do shut up. Callie is my maid, and I will not see her maligned by you for finding misstep.” He came to Callie and ran a soothing hand too far down her back. “Not to worry, Callie. Just clean it up, and we will forget it ever happened.”
Callie sniffled and wiped at her eyes with the rag from the windows. “Y-yes, sir,” she stammered. She flicked her eyes to Margaret, standing a bit away, and winked.
Margaret hid a smile, and tipped her chin in the barest hint of a nod.
“Come, Miss Easton,” Miss Ritson ordered, her tone clipped. “We must leave Sir Vincent to his business.” She swept from the room, moving past the Rom without any trepidation at all.
Margaret hurried after her, wishing to avoid any further attentions from Sir Vincent, and found the Rom standing too close to the door for her to move easily.
“Excuse me,” she murmured, daring to look up at him.
His eyes were hard and unfeeling, but he took half a step back for her, his eyes speculative, and then moved into the room that she had vacated and closed the door sharply.
Margaret exhaled slowly as a repulsed shudder rang through her. The butler brought her cloak and bonnet, and she hurriedly fixed them, then followed Miss Ritson out.
“That went well,” Miss Ritson said, almost to herself. “But for the stupid maid, we might have gotten somewhere.”
Margaret said nothing, tears welling as she glanced down the street.
Her eyes trained on a boy leaning against the wall of Sir Vincent’s house just a few feet to her right. His cap was lowered, but he tilted his head up to look at her for a moment, and she recognized him at once.
Jamie.
She glanced at Miss Ritson, now climbing into the carriage. Margaret leaned closer to Jamie, pretending to adjust her gloves. “Something is wrong, Jamie,” she whispered. “Tell him something is terribly, terribly wrong.”
She moved on into the carriage, but she heard the soft, short whistle from behind her, and felt a little more at ease.
Rafe would be told of her warning, and perhaps he would do something. Save her, kill him, have Miss Ritson abducted, any of the alternatives were good ones. She only needed him to know, and perhaps in the warning, he would know she trusted him.
“Your behavior was not at all encouraging,” Miss Ritson scolded as the carriage moved. “You might have offended Sir Vincent the way you acted.”
Margaret kept her eyes lowered and her jaw locked. She would not respond beyond what she had to, and she was only grateful Lady Raeburn’s evening tomorrow night was still on the agenda. She was running out of time.
“He kissed her?”
“Gent, sit down.”
He whirled to face Rogue, wondering where his friend had gone and why he was so calm. “Are you hearing the same report I am, Rogue?”
Rogue met his look calmly. “Yes. Callie saved Margaret from being ruined and from anything truly damaging twice, and managed to distract Sir Vincent enough to keep the visit relatively painless. I’d say that deserves a commendation, and you are focused on some flabby codger taking a small liberty with your woman?” He shook his head slowly and looked over at Callie, who stood before them both. “I’m sorry, Callie, Gent’s a bit single-minded.”
Rafe looked at Callie, feeling a little ashamed. “I’m sorry, Callie. Thank you for intervening.”
She smiled back, shrugging. “It was nothing, really. Sir Vincent doesn’t get involved with servants, finds it beneath his dignity. He might have roving hands, but they don’t go nowhere in particular. He can look, but he can’t touch. Your Miss Margaret handled herself beautifully. Nary a tremor, my lord, and that’s the truth.”
Rogue snorted. “Don’t call him ‘my lord’ here. He’s got airs enough as it is.”
Rafe shook his head, still filled with furious rage about the whole situation and what Margaret had endured at the hands of that blackguard, but he could see that Rogue was right. It could have been so much worse but for Callie.
“I’d best be getting back,” Callie said, straightening up. “There’s another meeting tonight, probably like the one two days ago.”
Rafe nodded, focusing his mind on the task at hand. Installing Callie into the house had been a brilliant move, and he hated that he hadn’t thought of something like that before. Sir Vincent was not the ringleader of their traitors, but he was highly placed. He frequently met with some of the others, and only Callie had been able to tell them details of those meetings, as she was permitted absolutely everywhere in the house.
The men wanted to overthrow the French government with someone else, and it was sounding more and more like Sieyès was their candidate. Whether the old man knew that or not was not known, and he hardly seemed the type to bring about an uprising. But he was in Brussels, and no one spoke of Belgium at all. What they did know was that each man entering a meeting of this kind repeated Sieyès’ famed phrase from the Revolution deposition: “J’ai vécu.” I lived.
If that did not show their indication, he didn’t know what else would.
The Shopkeepers had been informed, and the decision had come to let the group continue to meet without intervention until they could get more information about actual activities or events. This was only one small group of British supporters, who knew what else lay in wait?
And as no one had been harmed by their actions yet, they were not giving them reason to act quickly.
Rafe disagreed, but he followed direct orders. He might take opportunity to have some of their less than reputable contacts thrash Sir Vincent to within an inch of his life, but he would let him continue to meet with the traitors until the day they could take them all down and bring them to justice.
But if he touched Margaret one more time, he was going to take matters into his own hands. Literally.
Callie left the room, and before Rafe could sit down, Jamie entered, looking dirtier than normal.
Rogue lifted a brow. “Chimney sweep today, Jamie?”
Jamie shrugged. “Got me in, didn’t it?”
Rogue nodded his acceptance, and waved for him to go on.
Jamie looked at Rafe with serious eyes. “I followed your Miss Margaret, Gent, and I was wif her this morning at Sir Vincent’s.”
Rafe sank into a chair and groaned, not sure he could bear hearing more. “What is it now?”
“She saw me, and says I’m to tell you somefink is ‘terribly, terribly wrong’.” Jamie shrugged and scratched his nose. “She seemed a mite upset, sir, and I ‘ung around to see what might be the trouble, and Miss Callie got sent from the room when the Rom went in…”
Rafe’s head snapped up and he stared at Jamie for a long moment, then glanced at Rogue briefly. “What Rom?” he asked slowly.
“Big bloke. Got a knife mark on his face and a dagger on his belt. ‘ands that could wring chickens by themselves. Spoke ‘arshly to Sir Vincent, but listened and obeyed ‘im all the same.” Jamie wrinkled up his nose a little. “Seems strange to me. I stayed for a while, then went back to minding Miss Margaret, like you said. She don’t do much, Gent. The maid says she’s in her room all the time, and aside from the silver gone missing, there’s not much to tell.”
Rafe nodded slowly, processing this new information. The Rom was obviously Pov, from this account, and Jamie’s cleverness might have saved them more trouble. If Pov were working with Sir Vincent, things were dire indeed, and it sounded as though Margaret was more trapped than he’d realized. He’d wondered if she might be avoiding going out because of him, but it seemed her Miss Ritson was playing jailkeeper now as well.
This was not good.
Jamie left to find something to eat, and Rafe looked at Rogue with resignation. “Something’s got to give, Rogue,” he told him.
Rouge nodded slowly, for once not arguing. “I agree. Probably time to tap into your more respectable resources.”
He groaned. “I hate doing that.”
Rogue smiled briefly, then waved him out with a dismissive flick of his fingers. “Yes, but you are so good at it, and they can give you the information you need. Go on, be a good lord and do your duty.”
“Shut up.”