Chapter One
London 1815
“Mistress Margaret,” Sally shook the sleeping woman.
“Hmmm?”
“Wake up, please?” This time giving her mistress a good, hard shake.
“ ‘Tis no use, she’s still weak, poor mite,” Simpson added. “I sent Jamie ‘round to his lordship’s club, but ‘twil be another quarter hour before he returns. We simply cannot wait that long.”
The two servants looked at one other regretfully and sighed. The butler leaned over the side of the bed and gently lifted Margaret up, while the housekeeper shoved three pillows behind her to keep her in an upright position.
“Simpson, fetch the water pitcher,” Sally ordered.
“Pray do not say you are going to empty the contents on poor Mistress Maggie’s head?” Simpson demanded.
Sally scowled up at the butler and grabbed the pitcher out of his hands. She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a fresh linen cloth and dampened it. Then she gently smoothed it over her mistress’s too warm brow.
“She’s still fevered.” Worry creased her brow.
“But you know she will have our collective hides if we do not wake her,” Simpson countered in a low voice.
“Aye, I know it,” Sally agreed.
Margaret stirred under Sally’s ministrations.
“Mistress Margaret,” she said. “He’s gone.”
Margaret’s eyes shot open wide. “Papa?”
“Indeed,” Simpson replied.
“My brother?”
“We sent Jamie to fetch him home, but ‘twil take time,” her butler warned.
Margaret shook her head. Heaven help her, she was tired. Running a hand through her sleep-tousled hair, she sighed. “When?”
“Not ten minutes past,” Simpson offered.
“How did he—”
“Please mistress,” Sally pleaded. “There’s no time.”
Margaret wondered at the guilty look that flashed between the two, but didn’t press the issue, her maid and butler were more than servants. As unorthodox as it may seem to many of the ton, they were simply family and had been since the day her mother had died fifteen years ago.
“We’d best hurry. Papa could be half the way to the Duke of Milford’s estate.” She paused. “We can cut him off on Mayfair Street.”
***
“Are ye sure, lassie?” Andrew, the family’s coachman, asked for the second time.
“I can head him off by cutting ‘round the back of Lord Avery’s townhouse.” Margaret stepped down from the phaeton.
“I dinna trust that one.” Andrew said through gritted teeth. “Here’s your father’s cloak.” He held the black, many-caped greatcoat down to her. “Won’t want himself to be cold.”
“Thank you, Andrew.”
At the white-haired man’s dark look she added, “I will have his lordship home in a trice.”
“I’ll wait here, lassie…call out if ye need me.”
The worry in his voice had chills skittering up and down her spine. “ ‘Twould be best if you did not. What if Lord Avery looks out of his window and sees our coach waiting by the curbside?”
The glare Andrew fired in her direction should have set her hair on fire. “I’ll drive ‘round and come back for ye. Dinna forget to call out,” he reminded her.
“I won’t,” Margaret promised.
The alleyway leading to the back of Lord Edmund Avery’s Mayfair townhouse was deeply shadowed. She walked swiftly toward the lighted street lamp, just beyond the rear wall of the garden. She tugged on the gate, but it didn’t budge. The rattling broke the ominous quiet. “Blast!”
‘Twas of no use, the gate in the wall would not open. It must be secured on the other side, she thought to herself. The sudden vision of her father attired in his maroon silk dressing gown, beaver top hat, and gold-tipped walking stick flashed through her fevered brain.
If she did not find him soon, he would be demanding entrance to the Duke of Milford’s estate at four o’clock in the morning! She had to find a way over the garden wall. She stumbled when her shin hit what sounded like an empty container.
She bent to retrieve it and was nearly overcome by a wave of dizziness that washed over her. Grabbing the offending bucket, she stood slowly and waited for the weakness to pass. Beads of perspiration formed on her upper lip as she blindly felt the bottom of the bucket to see if it was intact. A soft breeze carried the scent of lavender.
“ ‘Twil have to do,” she muttered to herself upending the container and placing it right next to the wall. She should just be able to reach the top of the stone wall and moved to do so, but her father’s cloak tangled in her arms, reminding her she carried it still.
“Double blast,” she hissed under her breath and stepped off the bucket. She swung the greatcoat over her own cloak and tied it at the neck. The bottom edge was bunched at her feet. She sighed and grabbed fistfuls of wool and perched once more on the bucket.
Looking down, she was almost her father’s height with the aid of the wooden bucket. The cloak just brushed the ground. She grabbed the top edge of the wall and started to pull herself up and over.
A whisper of sound stirred the air behind her, and the eerie sensation that someone stood right behind her enveloped her. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck tingled in warning.
She drew in a breath, preparing to call for help, when white-hot pain exploded at the base of her skull. Margaret felt herself falling, but could not summon the strength to stop it. The stars and the lamplight swirled around and around until even they faded away, and there was nothing left but an endless black void.
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
