Marguerite had almost finished dressing for dinner when there was a knock on the door and Serena’s voice called, “May I come in, Miss Ninian?”
The hackles rose on the back of Marguerite’s neck. What could Serena possibly want from her? Because she would no doubt want something. She was not the sort of young woman who would bother to pass the time of day with a secretary—a crippled one at that. But here she was, oozing civility.
Marguerite smoothed her skirts down and opened the door. “My lady. What may I do for you?”
Serena swept in, brushing Marguerite aside, and snapped the door shut behind her. Marguerite had the impression she was trapped in a lair with a restless black panther. The predatory gleam in Serena’s green, almond-shaped eyes lent credence to that notion.
Marguerite stood beside the chair at her dressing table and fiddled with her hairbrush as if she were about to tidy her hair. She wanted to get rid of Serena as soon as possible. She did not trust this woman, not one bit. Not that she imagined Serena was the sort of person to take a hint, but as an employee, all Marguerite could do was hint.
“Brechin and I thought you might be interested in a new position. Dancing attendance on the marchioness must be taxing to your—health.” Here Serena glanced down at Marguerite’s leg. “You are too young to spend your life tucked away in the country.”
Marguerite opened her mouth to refute that, but Serena continued. “Do you have plans?”
“Plans?”
“What will you do when you leave Trewbridge?”
“I had not planned to leave Trewbridge, your ladyship. I like it here. But if I fail to give satisfaction I shall go to Bath to stay with my sister.” There, the solution had just popped out of her mouth. She didn’t have to go to London to stay with Mama. Why hadn’t she thought of Penelope before? Penelope would find some dear old tabby in Bath who needed a companion or a secretary or some such. It wasn’t that she thought the marchioness was displeased with her work, but it paid to be prepared.
“Bath? My dear, how ghastly! Bath!” Serena rolled her eyes at the sheer horror of it all. “No, no. You must not. You must come to us. I am much in need of a companion, someone I can confide in. My husband suggested that I might find you—amusing.”
It wasn’t only that word ‘amusing’ that troubled Marguerite. It was the strange inflection in Serena’s voice that worried her. “That is very kind of you,” she said insincerely, “but at this point the marchioness still needs me. However...” She trailed off, trying to sound as if she was giving Serena’s invitation some consideration.
“Oh, I would not steal you from my esteemed mother-in-law,” Serena trilled. She pressed Marguerite’s arm. “But remember you are most welcome whenever you choose to come to us. Do not stand upon ceremony. Just arrive.” Serena waved an arm theatrically and smiled.
Why was she being so insistent? Marguerite was puzzled.
“I’m glad we had this little chat.” Serena wandered over to the mirror and smoothed back an artistically disarranged wing of glossy hair. “We shall leave tomorrow. For some reason we do not appear to be welcome here. ‘Tis most unfair when one considers that we will be the master and mistress here one day.” She shrugged. “And that day might not be too far off.”
“What do you mean?” Marguerite asked, shocked. “Do you mean that the marquess is not well?”
“Well, you must have noticed he does not look as hale and hearty as he did last year. Oh, I forgot,” Serena said, turning towards Marguerite. “You do not know him as well as I do. I have known the family most of my life, you see.” She patted Marguerite’s arm again. “There. Don’t worry about it. It will be our responsibility in due course. We are prepared.”
Anyone less prepared for the responsibility of a large estate Marguerite had yet to meet.
After Serena left, Marguerite sat down and tried to sort through the hidden messages, but she could make no sense of it all. “Amusing.” It sounded as though Serena wanted a new pet for her household. The veiled words left Marguerite perturbed and uneasy.
****
That evening a lethargic air reigned over Trewbridge. Everyone including the staff had eaten and drunk their fill, and by mutual consent the tea trolley was dispensed with. They were a large party, the marchioness’s sister having brought not only her husband and older children, but all their younger progeny as well. Serena and Spencer would obviously rather be anywhere but here. Serena was seated in a large wing chair with Spencer perched beside her. Every now and again he whispered something in her ear and her lips eased into a derisive smile. From which, Marguerite deduced, they were covertly criticizing other members of the gathering. She wondered what they were saying about her.
Spencer noticed her gaze on him and winked. At the same time he managed to convey by a wealth of insinuation that the two of them shared a secret. Marguerite averted her eyes. The man was as nasty a piece of goods as she had ever met. Not that she’d met many like him, thank goodness.
Spencer stood up suddenly. There was a hush in the drawing room as all eyes turned towards him. “This is to say thank you to everyone and farewell. We must be off early in the morning.” He acknowledged the polite murmurs of regret and moved towards his aunt and mother. He pecked perfunctorily at their cheeks whilst smiling in a charming manner. Serena followed suit and attempted to kiss the air around Lady Trewbridge. The marchioness smiled tightly and patted Serena as if she were patting a dog that might bite.
Both Brechins ignored Spencer’s young cousins. Spencer satisfied himself with a negligent flip of his hand to his brothers and father. But Serena smiled sweetly and proffered her hand to her father-in-law.
“Goodbye, my dear,” he said politely.
Marguerite noticed he did not extend an invitation for any future visits.
As the Brechins passed Marguerite sitting in a corner near the door, they both stopped. “Ah, Marguerite...may we speak with you?” Spencer raised her from her chair and edged her out through the doorway. He led her to the small withdrawing room as if he were carrying a precious parcel. Her heart in her mouth, Marguerite waited for Lord Brechin to remove his sweaty hand from hers. She noticed there was an unsightly boil on his neck. Strangely, it resembled the raw pinkness of Lord John’s scar.
To her great relief, the Brechins did not press their invitation. In fact, they were rather sweet.
“My parents went to a lot of trouble for our wedding,” Spencer explained. “In return, I thought of something I could do for Father. We’d like it to be a surprise.”
Marguerite smiled. How nice of them! Looks were deceiving.
“You’ve seen the Trewbridge scales which sit on Father’s desk, haven’t you?” Spencer asked.
Marguerite wrinkled her brow. “The little gold scales holding some coins?”
“Yes. You’ve probably noticed that the base needs repairing. I thought I’d take the scales back to Town to a goldsmith. But I can’t go into the study because someone would see and that would spoil the surprise.”
Marguerite hadn’t noticed that the scales were damaged. She worked in the study most days, but when she did, she went straight to the marchioness’s desk tucked away in the far corner. She knew Lord Trewbridge set great store by the little set of scales. They always sat on the right-hand corner of his huge desk and she had, on occasion, seen him reach out and fondle the old guineas in the pans. Sometimes he would turn the coins over and over between his fingers as he read his correspondence.
She was very happy to help the Brechins if it meant doing the marquess a good turn. “That’s very kind of you. Shall I fetch them now?”
“That would be a good idea. We must be away early in the morning because we are promised to friends at Newbury. I apologize for asking you to do this, but if Father catches me, not only will the surprise be spoiled, but Father might assume I’m poking my nose into estate business.” Spencer pulled a comical face. “I don’t want him to think I am interfering. He’s so taken up with Trewbridge that he brooks no interference in the running of the place.”
Marguerite had never seen the marquess in that light, but no doubt those within the family knew better than she did. She turned to Lady Brechin. “I shall bring the scales to your room in a few minutes, my lady.”
Maybe the pair had some good in them after all. Marguerite had no intention of taking a position with them, but she would cheerfully do this for them. She hurried down the hallway and into the study where a taper still burned. The scales were in their usual place. Scooping them up, she hurried upstairs and along to the east wing. She tapped on the door of the Brechins’ suite of rooms. “Lady Brechin?”
“Is that you, Marguerite?”
At least nobody here ever called her Daisy.
“Yes, m’lady.”
“Come in. Come in.”
Serena sat before the fireplace with her beautiful, lustrous hair unpinned. Marguerite was confused to find Lord Brechin there also. He was standing beside his wife, his long thin fingers massaging her shoulders. Serena’s body swayed with the weight of his hands.
“Thank you,” she said as Marguerite laid the scales on the dressing table beside her.
“Ah—when do you think they will be returned?” Marguerite ventured to inquire. “Just in case someone asks,” she hastened to explain.
“We have no idea, because we don’t know how long the goldsmith will take. I shouldn’t think it would be more than a few days. I shall have a messenger return them,” Spencer answered.
“What shall I say if somebody asks if I’ve seen them?”
“That is up to you, my dear.”
“Uh...I think I had best say it is a surprise, and the scales will be returned shortly.”
“Very well. Now, are you quite sure you would not like to come back to London with us?”
“But you are not going directly to London, I believe.”
Spencer turned to his wife. “She’s quick.” He spoke as if Marguerite were not in the room.
Serena smiled and rubbed herself against her husband’s questing hands, sinuously as a cat.
But Spencer left off massaging Serena’s shoulders and strolled over to Marguerite.
How she hated to be near him! She sidled towards the door.
Lord Brechin got there first. “Allow me.” He leaned across her to open the door and brushed his hand down the front of her dress. Then he cupped her breast and squeezed. Hard. The pain was sharp and unexpected.
“Oh!”
“There’s plenty more where that came from. Do try to join us, Marguerite, or we may be constrained to send someone to fetch you. I am very anxious to have you join our household.” Spencer Trewbridge’s voice was smooth as cream and very, very determined.
Marguerite’s heart threatened to climb out of her chest. In her haste to escape, she tripped over the hem of her gown and thudded to her knees in the hall. Peals of laughter rang out behind her and the door slammed shut.
Struggling to her feet, she hurried to her room. They might be trying to curry favour with the marquess by repairing the scales, but her mother had been quite right. What a horrid, horrid man Lord Brechin was. And Lady Brechin was even worse. Imagine watching your husband do that to another woman and be able to laugh about it!
When she heard the Brechins leave Trewbridge early next morning, she breathed a sigh of relief. She had slept with a chair propped beneath her door handle, just in case.
At the breakfast table she found that the marchioness’s sister’s family was staying for another day before returning to their estate in the far north. In the absence of the disapproving company of Lord and Lady Brechin, the cousins became boisterous. Marguerite did not know why Spencer had been so haughty to his cousins, but John and Edward seemed to be on excellent terms with their young relatives.
“A ride! A ride!” The youngest cousin bounced up and down in her chair.
“Very well. A ride it shall be. There’s very little snow about now. Who’s coming?” John was obviously used to dealing with young people. Of course he must have had many young men in his charge in Spain and Portugal, Marguerite reflected, watching the interplay between the cousins. The marchioness’s sister’s large brood had been restrained during the nuptials. This morning they were in full cry. She grinned as she saw Edward cast up his eyes with young adult superiority. The oldest cousin was a mere two years younger than he.
“Miss Ninian, would you care to come for a ride?” John asked.
“Yes, do come Miss Ninian.” There was a chorus of approval from Edward and the cousins.
Of course she would enjoy it, but the marchioness might have need of her services, and she was still frightened of riding a horse on her own.
The marchioness flapped her hand at Marguerite as if she were a recalcitrant chicken. “Go, my dear,” she said, settling down to a comfortable coze with her sister. “John will look after you.”
Half an hour later, a cavalcade of seven persons left the stables followed by a groom. All the decent horses being in use, the poor groom had to be content with a pitiable excuse for a horse that Lady Trewbridge had rescued from a local farmer. As the horse was still suffering the effects of malnourishment and neglect, it had a difficult time trying to keep up with the others.
John had tossed Marguerite up in front of him. He looked back over his shoulder at the valiant but weak roan trying to shorten the distance between itself and the other horses. “Is that another of Mama’s lame ducks?”
Marguerite nodded. Surprised, she realized she had not reacted to the word ‘lame’ for a long time now.
“What is his name?”
Marguerite grinned. “The grooms call him Speedy.”
John snorted with amusement. It seemed that the marchioness’s family and servants had become inured to her collection of people and animals that had fallen on hard times. In fact, Marguerite thought, she was one of those lame ducks herself.
“He has his good points,” John mused. “I wouldn’t mind him at Trewbury. I’m using one of the farm hacks at the moment. I still miss old Diabolo.”
“He is definitely not Diabolo,” Marguerite said, snorting with amusement.
“No, but his heart is in the right place.”
So is yours, Lord John Trewbridge, she thought. So is yours. Then she stole a quick look at him, hoping her thoughts did not show.
She needn’t have worried. He was looking ahead at his youngest cousin Nan, who was trying to impress Edward with her prowess. “Nan!” He moved their mount forward. “Careful. The melting snow disguises quite a few hollows. Don’t want any broken legs.”
He probably meant the horse’s legs, not Nan’s. Marguerite was fairly sure that John considered horses to be of more account than most people. Well, she agreed with him there. When they fell back again, he apologized for jouncing her around.
“That’s quite all right,” she assured him, her heart settling back into its accustomed rhythm. Heavens, she had no complaints about being held tight against his hard chest. No complaints at all. It was just like the day they had first met.
“Good,” was all he said.
My, he was in a cheerful mood this morning. Probably happy that he would soon be returning to Trewbury.
****
On their return to the house, John sought out his parents. His duty was done, and he wanted to return to Trewbury. Fitzy had gone home on the same day that John had come to Trewbridge, but before he left he had recalled a position that might suit Mr. Berry and John was anxious to settle the matter. Having Mr. Berry watch his every move was disconcerting. John wanted his home to himself.
And though he loved Trewbridge with all his heart, somehow the death of Diabolo here had reduced the rosy hue through which he’d always seen the family home.
But when he tracked down his mother, he forgot all about going home to Trewbury. The marchioness was standing stock-still outside the study, very pale in the face, and to John’s concern, she looked as if she were about to cry. “Mama! What is it?”
“We cannot find the scales,” she whispered. “Twoomey and I and the maids and the footmen have looked everywhere. Fortunately your father is at the Grange. We may yet find the scales before he returns, but...” She sniffed.
John had rarely seen his mother so downhearted. “Perhaps Father has taken them with him. The base was a bit loose. He might have called at the blacksmith’s on the way to the Grange.” But even though the scales were his father’s pride and joy, John thought it more likely that such a task would have been delegated to Twoomey. And the scales would not have been taken to the village blacksmith but to a jeweller in Bath or even London.
He heard Miss Ninian behind him make a distressed sound. And as he turned around he knew, he just knew she had something to do with the disappearance of the Trewbridge Scales.
“What?” he demanded.
“I-I...last night Lord and Lady Brechin told me they were taking the scales to London to be repaired. They meant it as a surprise for your father.”
“What?” both John and his mother exclaimed in unison.
Miss Ninian stared at them, brown eyes huge with uncertainty. “And you let them?” John demanded angrily, struggling to ignore those soulful eyes. He could feel the anger boiling up inside him. What on earth had the woman been thinking?
Marguerite Ninian licked her lips nervously. “What else could I do? They are your family. And they very much wanted to do something for the marquess.”
John exploded. “Damn it, Marguerite! Of all fool things to do.” She had allowed herself to be manipulated by those arch schemers. Didn’t she realize they had no intention of ever returning the scales to Trewbridge?
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“It was a secret—a surprise,” she stammered.
“Marguerite, I—”
“Enough, John!” The marchioness’s angry voice drowned out the cutting comment he was about to make. Just as well. He swallowed hard and tried to stamp on his anger. He’d never imagined Marguerite was so naïve as to think the Brechins intended to do his father a good turn. Of course, she didn’t know about his father’s disagreement with Spencer, nor had she any idea just what Spencer was capable of. “The scales are a tradition. They are the heart of the Trewbridge family,” he heard himself lecturing Marguerite. “That is why Spencer wanted them. He wants to destroy what we value most.”
Her distressed expression changed to one of incredulity. “D-Diabolo?” she whispered.
No. She wasn’t naïve after all. “Undoubtedly,” he answered.
“And the fire at Edward’s farm?”
“We think so.” He watched her paper-white face grow pinched and his heart smote him. “I’m sorry, Marguerite. I believe they are staying at Newbury for a few days, so provided they don’t pawn the scales in the meantime, we will get them back. Knowing Spencer, I imagine he will hold on to his little prize so he can gloat over it. He used to do that when we were younger.”
Marguerite’s lips trembled but she raised her chin. “Excuse me,” she whispered, then turned and slowly climbed the stairs towards her bedchamber.
“You were far too harsh, John,” his mother said. “She was not in a position to gainsay them.”
“I know. My wretched tongue. And she was just coming out of her shell. But the scales, Mama!”
“Oh God, yes. I dread telling your father.”
“Let me do it.”
“No, John. You’re a good son, but it’s for me to explain.” She patted his arm. “I would like it better, however, if you treated everyone else as kindly as you treat your parents.”
John felt himself reddening. It had been some time since Mama had chastised him and he did not relish the experience. He’d thought he had all that bitterness under control, but the minute Spencer became involved, he lost his sense of perspective. “I shall try, Mama,” he muttered, feeling all of eight years old.
“Do,” his mother replied.