Maggie cursed as her hair slid from where she had secured it atop her head and tumbled around her shoulders. Again. Heaving out her breath in irritation, she glared into the oval dressing table mirror she sat before.
“I should have asked Mary to fix my hair before she left,” she admitted to the room. There was no one around to comment, no one at all; the entire house was empty. Which meant there was also no one to help her with this task, either. Worse yet, she had no one to blame but herself, she admitted in aggravation, making a face at her reflection in the mirror.
One of the fairs had come today. It was a much smaller fete than St. Bartholomew’s, which was held in August, but it was one of the first of the season, so had caused a great deal of excitement among her staff. Their excitement had infected Maggie, too, and in a moment of largesse she had decided that every one of them should take the afternoon off.
At the time, she’d believed she wouldn’t need them. As she was attending a ball this evening with James and his aunt, there was no need to make her meal, or clean up after her, and really there was little enough for the servants to do when she was around. With her plans to be out tonight, it had seemed silly to keep the servants in. She had convinced them all, against their somewhat meager protests, to take the afternoon off and enjoy the fair. Even Banks had gone, agreeing in his gruff old voice to Maggie’s suggestion that an older, wiser influence might be for the best.
Of course, when she had given them all the day off, she had forgotten she would need assistance getting ready for the ball. Her maid Mary had brought it up and offered, with a pained smile, to stay behind and assist, but Maggie had not had the heart to keep her; it was hardly fair for everyone else to go while Mary alone had to stay behind and miss the fun. No, Maggie had refused to allow her to stay—despite her concerns about being able to do herself up properly.
It couldn’t be that hard, surely? she’d thought. She could prepare herself. She was a perfectly intelligent young woman. She had managed to dress herself, though it hadn’t been as easy as she’d expected, what with all the buttons in the back and such. Still, with some ingenuity and twisting and turning, she had mastered the situation.
Her hair was another matter entirely. Mary had always been swift and assured at the business, managing to perform miracles in moments with the unmanageable tresses. They seemed determined to defy Maggie’s attempts. She was not feeling terribly intelligent or clever at the moment. In fact, she was feeling rather panicky and incompetent. The hour was growing late. James and his aunt would arrive any moment.
She felt herself blush. James and his aunt. She had seen quite a bit of the pair since the day of her injury. Lady Barlow had invited her to tea several times in the week since, and Maggie had accepted each invitation. James had been in attendance for all of them. He had behaved beautifully during each visit, a perfect gentleman. Nor had he brought up any nonsense about someone trying to kill her again, thank goodness. In fact, he had not tried to kiss her or do anything untoward—not even looking as if he had wanted to.
Maggie found herself looking rather purse-lipped at that thought, and she forced the lines out of her face. Surely she wasn’t disappointed that he hadn’t kissed her or anything else, was she? He was treating her like the lady she was, and that was only appropriate.
She wasn’t fooling herself. Now that her fury at him had been resolved, she found herself recalling those decadent moments in his office. She had even relived them in a dream or two since, awakening as shaken and aroused as when it first happened.
Maggie’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a door closing below, and she glanced abruptly toward the entrance to her room. Relief coursed through her. She hadn’t expected the servants to return so early, but she was relieved that they had. Perhaps she could prevail upon Mary to help with her hair. She simply could not attend the Willans’ ball with Lady Barlow and James if she did not look her best. She wouldn’t want to embarrass them. They were taking her as their guest, after all.
Mary can fix my hair in a trice, Maggie thought with relief, standing and heading for the door. If it is Mary, she considered with a sudden frown. It could be that young Charlie had eaten too many sweets and one of his other sisters had returned with him. That would be all right, though; both Joan and Nora knew how to do hair, each of them had stepped in to take their older sister’s place as lady’s maid a time or two. They practiced on each other and were quite skilled.
Or, she considered as she stepped out into the hall, if it was old Banks, weary and returning early alone, she would even be willing to let him have a go. Which showed the degree of her panic and frustration, she thought with amusement as she reached the landing and peered down into the dark and silent foyer below. There was no sign of movement or activity that she could see, but the servants would most likely stick to the kitchens or their own rooms. They would probably assume she had already left.
In fact, she decided as she noted the fact that night was falling, leaving the house shrouded in gloom, it appeared late enough that she should have already left. Lady Barlow and James were late. Picking up a three-tiered candelabra from the table at the top of the stairs, she lifted her skirt slightly and headed down. One of her servants had returned early; she had only to find out which.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Maggie walked along the hall toward the kitchen, her concentration taken up with doing her best to prevent the candles she carried from going out and leaving her in the dark. With her hand and arm out to shield their delicate flames, she opened the door to the kitchens by pushing against it with her hip. The action stirred a slight breeze that threatened to damp her candles, and, distracted by this concern, Maggie stepped into the kitchen before realizing that the room was in near darkness. Seeing that fact, she knew at once that no one had returned from the fair. Building a kitchen fire would have been the first act of any of her servants.
She stood, stymied for a moment by the realization, then stiffened. The hair at the nape of her neck was suddenly standing on end, prickles of electricity racing over her skin. Turning instinctively, she gaped in surprise as her candles illuminated a figure standing behind the door that had just swung shut.
Both of them froze for a moment as if posing for a portrait, the man blinking as his eyes strained to adjust to the candlelight splashing over him, and Maggie’s breath catching in her throat as she absorbed the details of the intruder. He was tall and bulky, with wide shoulders and thick, strong arms. His hair was long and dark, his smile cruel, and a square and puckered scar deformed his cheek. She took all that in, then felt horror race along her nerves as he started forward.
Crying out, Maggie rushed backward, but she jarred her hip against the table Cook used to prepare food. Instinctively she swung the candelabra at her attacker. The makeshift mace made a satisfying impact as it struck her assailant’s head, stopping him briefly and sending the candles flying. Two of them flickered out as they fell, but one managed to remain lit as it rolled across the floor. Still, the room descended into the gloom of dusk, and Maggie spun away, stumbling through the near-darkness, knocking against unidentifiable objects as she sought escape.
She was in a panic at that point, her only thought to flee and get help. Maggie knew without a doubt that this man was the one who had nearly run her down with the wagon, and the one the hack driver had said had pushed her out before his carriage. There was no longer any possibility to deny that someone was after her. James’s voice rang through her head, telling her not to go anywhere alone, to be sure that the servants always locked the doors.
Maggie cursed herself roundly for sending the servants off and leaving herself alone and vulnerable. She hadn’t given a single thought to his warnings, so sure she was that no one could be out to harm her. I am an idiot and deserve whatever I get, she thought viciously as she slammed into a counter, her hands knocking several items to the ground. A hand caught the back of her gown briefly as she tried to straighten, then released its hold to grasp her neck. Fingers closed around her throat from behind, squeezing viciously and cutting off her air.
Maggie’s first instinct was to score the hands at her throat with her nails. When it had no effect, except to have the man slam her into the counter, his body pressing along the back of her own, she gave that up. Eyes closed and gasping for air, she felt frantically around for something, anything, to use as a weapon. Stars were starting to explode behind her eyelids when her hand fell on something hard. Fighting off the unconsciousness threatening to overwhelm her, she closed her fingers desperately around the handle of the heavy item—a pan, she thought—and, using all the strength she could muster, she swung it behind her, slamming it into her attacker.
A grunt by her ear and the loosening of the man’s fingers told Maggie that she had hit her mark. Coughing and sucking in air, she staggered blindly away, but managed only to take a very few steps before she was again grabbed. This time the man caught her by the shoulder. He whirled her around.
Maggie opened her eyes in time to see the room explode; a heavy object slammed into the side of her face. The world seemed to tip inside her head, and she knew she was falling. Something caught her temple as she fell—the corner of a table, perhaps? Maggie cried out at the sharp pain, but hardly felt the impact of the floor when she hit it.
Moaning at the agony in her head, she let it fall weakly to the side and found herself staring at the flames in the fireplace. At least, that was what she’d at first thought they were. Her eyes had started to close when some part of her brain told her she’d made a mistake. Forcing herself back to consciousness, she stared at the dancing flames, frowning when her attacker suddenly knelt before them. He picked something up, and Maggie frowned as she realized that the flames came from a candle. What she was looking at wasn’t a fire in the fireplace at all. One of the candles from her candelabra, the only one that had stayed lit, had rolled up against a sack of grain that Cook had left out and set it ablaze. Her house was now on fire, she realized.
Her attacker moved around the table and out of sight.
Alarm bells started tolling inside her head, and Maggie summoned strength enough to respond to them. Gasping in pain, she struggled to her hands and knees, swallowing the bile that rose in her throat as she did.
Getting to her feet seemed an insurmountable task, but she grabbed at the edge of the table beside her and managed to pull herself to her feet; her only clear thought was that she needed to find something with which to put out the fire. Water, she thought muzzily, leaning against the table. A sound drew her eyes to the opposite side of the room and her attacker. She frowned slightly, not sure at first what he was doing. He stood with his back to her, fiddling with something. Then light bloomed around him and he turned, a lit lamp in hand. The man seemed surprised to find her standing; then his mouth twisted and he hurled the lamp forward.
Crying out, Maggie threw herself to the side, tumbling to the floor as the lamp sailed past. She heard it smash against the wall, and a whooshing sound made her glance weakly over to see that oil had sprayed everywhere. The fire was quickly following.
The flames seemed alive, like fingers of some monster hungry to consume her. Her last thought before darkness claimed her was that she was going to die.
“We are late.”
Lady Barlow peered at her nephew through the growing gloom inside the carriage and bit her lip to keep from smiling. The man was quite put out. He had arrived at her town house a good hour ago, earlier than she’d expected, and she hadn’t been ready. Neither was she ready by the appointed hour, and she had left James cooling his heels in her salon while her maid had fussed over her. By the time she had made her grand entrance into the salon, the man was seething.
Far from being impressed with all the work her maid had put into her appearance, James had turned from his pacing with relief, snatched his aunt’s hand, and nearly dragged her out of the house without her cloak or gloves. She had rebuked him quite firmly for the unseemly behavior, taken her time donning the items, then walked out to the carriage at a dignified pace. The whole while he’d pranced about her, almost begging her to move quicker.
Vivian had nearly burst into laughter at his antics, but she hadn’t thought he would appreciate her amusement. She’d managed to stifle it behind a stern expression.
The boy was terribly eager to collect little Lady Margaret, which Vivian saw as terribly encouraging. James hadn’t shown the least bit of interest in any of the other available ladies of the ton in years. She had despaired of his ever settling down and presenting her with a little grandniece or grandnephew.
She sighed to herself at the thought. Babies. She did love babies. Unfortunately she had not been blessed with any of her own. It had been both a tragedy and a blessing when her dear sister had died at sea and left her young children in Vivian’s care. As much as she had grieved the loss of her sibling and brother-in-law, she had taken James and his sister to her bosom with love and devotion, treating them as her own. Without those two to look after and chase, she felt sure she would have grown into a bitter old woman. Any babies either child produced would be a further blessing. And now Vivian was becoming rather hopeful that Lady Margaret might be the one to lure James to the altar and begin producing such added wonders.
Her gaze slid to her nephew, and she smiled a little slyly at the normally calm and dignified man’s fidgeting. Then, forcing her expression to a more serious mien, she murmured, “This shall be good for Margaret. Having the child at the opera with us should raise a lot of curiosity about her, and then the Willans always have a lot of eligible bachelors at their balls. Perhaps we can find her some suitable husband material.”
She was not disappointed at the sharp way James glanced at her. “What?”
“Well,” she murmured comfortably, “her brother did die saving your life. It does behoove us to find her a good, strong, well-set husband to take care of her.”
“She doesn’t need a husband,” he protested at once, looking put out by the idea. “She can take care of herself.”
“Nonsense. Once she is married she can give up writing those dangerous articles. She is taking too many chances, as it is.”
James stared at her in horror for a moment. It had obviously not occurred to him that his aunt might take it into her head to see the girl settled. It was also obvious he didn’t like the idea. At all. Good, she thought as she watched him shift. There was no reason for him not to want to marry the girl off unless he was interested himself. Oh, yes, she would see the stubborn cur married by the end of season, or her name wasn’t Lady Vivian Jean Barlow.
“Dammit! I told Crowch to drive quickly. What is he doing?” James grumbled, drawing her attention. She glanced at him in time to see his head disappear out the window to address the driver. “Crowch? What is the holdup here? We are nearly at a standstill.”
“Sorry, m’lord. There appears to be some problem up ahead. A fire, I think. There is smoke filling the road, and gawkers are holding up traffic.”
“A fire?” Vivian asked, catching the man’s explanation and leaning curiously toward the window.
Her nephew went as stiff as a board. “Can you see where it seems to be coming from?” he asked.
Vivian felt anxiety strike her at the dread in James’s voice.
“I’m not sure, m’lord. It looks to be coming from somewhere near Lady Wentworth’s. It could be one of her neighbor’s homes, or hers. . . . I can’t tell from here.”
James was out of the carriage before Vivian had even digested Crowch’s words. Leaning out the window of the door her nephew had just pushed closed, she peered up the street in concern. A black cloud of smoke was billowing up into the darkening sky.
James ran. He ran so fast his heart was thumping violently and loudly in his chest, deafening him to the startled gasps and complaints of the people he was pushing and shoving past in his desperate effort to reach Maggie. The fire couldn’t be at the Wentworth town house. It couldn’t be. But even as he tried to reassure himself, he knew that he was wrong, and cursed himself for not preventing this somehow—for not doing more about the danger she was in and seeing her safe.
He stumbled through the last of the onlookers, crashing against the gate separating the town house from the street. His hands clenched on the pointed metal spears as he gaped in horror at the burning building. Smoke was billowing out of several broken windows in the house and rising to merge into one large cloud that blackened the already inky sky.
“Maggie,” he said under his breath. He had already started to pull the gate open when a hand settled on his shoulder.
“M’lord?”
James started to shake the hand off, but the man’s next words made him pause.
“She ain’t in there, m’lord. She’s all right.”
Turning sharply, James stared at the speaker, not recognizing him for a moment. “Johnstone?”
“Aye, m’lord.” The man’s expression showed some concern.
“Where is she?” he asked sharply, grabbing the man’s coatfront in agitation.
“My man got her out.” When James looked blank, the runner raised a soothing hand. “Ye remember? Ye said to put a man on her until we discovered whether someone were after her or not.” His gaze slid grimly to the burning house and the brigade working to put it out. “Well, it looks like someone is after her after all.”
“Where is she?” James repeated, his voice harsh. He didn’t care about anything else at that point but seeing for himself that Maggie was safe. Seeming to finally realize that, Johnstone tugged free and started to lead his employer back through the crowd.
“This way, m’lord.”
“James?” a voice called.
He hesitated in the street, then paused to rush back to meet his aunt. She was hurrying breathlessly through the crowd toward him. Frowning up the road, he saw that his carriage was still some distance back, and realized that his aunt had followed him on foot.
“Perhaps you should go back and wait in the carriage, Aunt Viv,” he suggested as he reached her side.
“Is Maggie all right? Is that her town house?”
“Yes, it is hers.”
“Is she all right?” his aunt asked again with growing alarm. James hesitated. He wanted to insist that his aunt return to his carriage and wait there, but he knew she would merely argue and delay him. Unwilling to waste time convincing her, he took her arm and hurried over to where Johnstone now stood leaning into a hack.
Reaching the runner’s side, James released his aunt to step up and peer past the shorter man’s shoulders into the carriage. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark interior. When they did, he found himself staring at a crumpled female form in the arms of a large, dark shadow.
“Jack says she was unconscious when he found and dragged her out of the house. He sent a lad to fetch me at the office and waited with her on the front lawn until the fire got too hot. When I got here, I had him get her in the carriage. I was going to take her to yer town house, but by that time the gawkers had clogged the road. We couldn’t get out of here,” Johnstone told him apologetically, stepping aside to allow James to fill the open door. Then he added, “She hasn’t regained consciousness yet.”
James didn’t hesitate. Leaning into the hack, he lifted Maggie out of the other man’s arms, then straightened with her. “Come,” was all he said. It was enough; his aunt, Johnstone, and the man named Jack all trailed obediently back along the street to his carriage.
“Can you get us out of here, Crowch?” James asked grimly as the driver leaped down from his bench to open the carriage door.
The coachman hesitated, his gaze moving over the vehicles now ahead of and behind them, then he considered the empty half of the road where carriages should have been traveling in the opposite direction, but weren’t. He nodded determinedly. “Aye, m’lord.”
“Good man,” James said. “Take us back home.”
“Your home or Lady Barlow’s?” the driver asked.
“My home,” his aunt promptly answered. When James frowned, she explained, “It is closer.”
James’s gaze dropped to the pale, smoke-smudged face of the woman he held; then he nodded and stepped up into his carriage. His aunt followed, settling on the bench seat across from him. James settled Maggie carefully in his lap, her head against his chest, her lower legs and feet taking up the rest of the seat. Johnstone paused long enough to order his man to join Crowch on the driver’s bench, then clambered in as well, murmuring apologies as he settled next to Lady Barlow.
They were all silent as Crowch maneuvered the vehicle’s horses, turned it on the lane, and headed them back the way they had come.
It was a very short ride back to his aunt’s house, and James leaped out of the carriage—Maggie cradled to his chest—as soon as Crowch opened the door. He was grateful to see that Johnstone’s man had already rushed ahead to announce their arrival. Meeks opened the door just as James reached the house, his eyes goggling at the sight of Lady Wentworth in James’s arms.
“Another accident, my lord?” he asked in alarm, quickly stepping out of the way so that everyone could enter.
“Another one?” Lady Barlow echoed sharply.
James grimaced, but shook his head. “Not an accident, Meeks, and we will be needing a doctor this time. Send someone for Lord Mullin.”
“Are you sure he is back?” Aunt Vivian asked with concern.
James nodded. “He returned yesterday,” he responded, then breathed a heartfelt, “Thank God.”
Robert had always been fascinated by medicine. That fascination had led the younger man to train in the field despite there being no necessity for him to work for a living. That training had been put to use when he was called to war. Robert had been the medic for their platoon, and James had watched him save many men he’d been sure were lost. James would trust no one else with Maggie’s life.
“I shall see to it at once, my lord.” The butler moved off down the hall to see to the matter as James carried Maggie into the salon. He laid her gently on the very same settee he had placed her on the day of the faux tea party. The room was dark for several moments, but then Johnstone thought to collect a candle from the hall. He used it to light several more tapers in the room, and within moments the salon was filled with a soft glow.
James almost wished it weren’t. Up until that point he had thought her merely smoke-smudged; now that he was seeing her in the light, he could see that a good deal of what he’d thought were smudges were really bruises. The side of her face was one large welt, her lip was cut, one eye was blackened, and there were bruises around her throat.
“She fought,” Johnstone commented approvingly, moving to peer over James’s shoulder as his employer brushed the hair away from Maggie’s forehead to reveal a nasty cut at her hairline. Then, apparently noting the blood that had soaked into her hair and ran back along her scalp, the runner added, “Landed on her back after the blow.”
“I shall go fetch some water and a cloth, and be sure Meeks sent someone for the doctor,” Lady Barlow hurried from the room.
“What happened?” James glanced toward the runner Johnstone had called Jack. The man stepped forward at once, his gaze going to Lady Margaret with a frown.
“I was watching from across the street. The servants all left in the early afternoon. She was alone in the house, far as I knew. Then, just before sunset, I noticed a sort of glow coming from some of the windows on the lower floor. I knew it wasn’t candlelight, and thought I smelled smoke.” He shrugged, his expression grim. “Had a bad feeling. Decided I’d better take a look-see. I tried seeing in the front windows, but all I could learn was that the light was coming from the back of the house. She didn’t come to the door when I knocked, so around I went. I saw someone runnin’ out into the gardens as I came around the corner. I was gonna chase after him, then saw that the back door was partway open, and that the kitchens were on fire—so I headed for the house instead. She was lyin’ in the center of the kitchen floor.”
He shook his head. “Everything else in the room was afire, but it hadn’t reached her yet. ’Twas just nipping at her skirts. I ran in and pulled her out, then carried her around to the front of the house. I stopped a passin’ boy and gave him a couple coins to fetch Mr. Johnstone here.” The man frowned, looking regretful. “I should have given him a couple more and had him fetch the fire brigade, too.”
“Ye did fine,” Johnstone said. He patted the larger man on the shoulder. “The brigade came right quick. How’s ye hand?”
The question drew James’s attention to the fact that Jack hadn’t gotten away without injury. His right hand was red and blistered. He had rushed into a burning building, but James hadn’t considered what that entailed.
“Oh, dear.” The murmured words drew his attention to the fact that Lady Barlow had returned. How much of the man’s words she had heard was anyone’s guess, but now she rushed to Jack’s side with the bowl of water and the cloth she had brought.
“Fetch more water and cloths, Meeks,” she ordered, then urged the injured Jack to a nearby chair. Once she had cajoled him into sitting, she set the bowl on his leg, picked his arm up by the wrist, and plopped his hand into the water. Seeming to think that took care of the immediate problem, she turned to where James and Johnstone still hovered by Maggie and eyed them like two misbehaving children. “Now, you had better tell me about this previous incident Meeks mentioned . . . and why exactly you still have Mr. Johnstone in your employ . . . and why you had this poor man watching Maggie!”
“He was keeping an eye out—just in case something like this happened.” James answered the last question first.
“And Mr. Johnstone?”
“Lord Ramsey asked me to look into who was causing all of these accidents,” Johnstone answered with a shrug.
Lady Barlow nodded, then speared her nephew with her eyes. “What about this ‘other incident’ Meeks mentioned?”
James winced. It was a question he really would have preferred not to answer. He had sworn Meeks to silence about that day, so his aunt was not aware of the little incident at all. She knew nothing about the faux tea party, the invitation to which he had signed her name, or anything else about that day. Answering her now would definitely get him in hot water. She wouldn’t be at all pleased to learn he had used her in such a way. Nor, probably, that he had used blackmail and lies to get Meeks to go along with him. Nor that he had put Maggie in a compromising position by tricking her into traveling somewhere to be alone with him.
Fortunately, he was saved from having to answer her immediately by the arrival of Lord Mullin, “Robert!” James said with relief. “Thank you for coming.”
“Not at all.” The younger man shed his overcoat as he crossed the room, Meeks on his heels. Pausing at James’s side, he exchanged the garment for the bag Lady Barlow’s butler had been holding for him, then turned his attention to Maggie. “What happened? I gather there was a fire? Was she burned?”
“I don’t think so, but she has a nasty head wound,” James said. “She’s been unconscious for at least several minutes.”
Nodding, his friend nudged him. “Let me have a look at her, then.”
James stood at once and moved. He watched Robert poke at the wound on her forehead and lift her eyelids one after the other. When he started to look her over for other injuries, James turned away. Leaving his aunt and Robert to tend to the wounds of both Maggie and Jack, he urged Johnstone from the room.
“Have you come up with anything, yet?” James asked as he led the Bow Street runner into the library and closed the door.
Johnstone shook his head. “Not much,” the man admitted regretfully. “I found a couple of people who witnessed the incident where she was pushed in front of the hack. A couple people remembered it happening, but couldn’t say whether she had been pushed in front of the carriage or just bumped. No one remembered a scarred man being there except for that driver. I’ve nosed around to see if there’s any ill will toward G. W. Clark, but no one’s rushing forward with information. I’ll keep at it, though.”
“Aye. You do that,” James murmured, rubbing a hand wearily along his neck. “This has to be connected to Lady Margaret’s articles. There is no other reason for anyone to wish her harm.”
Johnstone shrugged. “There doesn’t appear to be. Usually such murderous attempts revolve around some sort o’ monetary gain, but there doesn’t appear to be anyone to gain from her death—except for her cousin, perhaps. He would probably inherit the town house and the money she invested if she died, but I looked into that and the lawyers still haven’t located him. No, I believe ye’re right, m’lord. It has to be connected to her articles.”
“Did you look into Drummond?”
“Aye. It’s not him. He’s dead.”
“Dead?” James glanced over in surprise and the runner nodded.
“Aye. Got his neck stretched. Rumor is that the judge who tried him was one of the victims of his flammery.”
James frowned. “Then it must be because of one of her other articles.”
Johnstone nodded. “Well that’s the problem: it could be one of the articles she wrote, or one her brother wrote. Anyone who discovered Clark’s identity now wouldn’t necessarily know her brother was the writer before his death, and would blame her for it. Do you know how many articles they have done between them?” he asked in disgust. “The suspects are in the hundreds.”
“Damn.”
“Aye,” Johnstone agreed.
“Well, my main concern is to keep her safe. Which might be easier now that her house is gone. She never would have agreed to leave it ere this, but now it shouldn’t be too difficult to convince her to stay with me. I—”
“She will stay with me.” A stern voice resounded through the room.
Both men turned to peer at Lady Barlow. She stood in the door to the room, and they had been so caught up in their discussion that neither man had heard her open it. They exchanged vexed glances.
“It would be improper for her to stay with you,” Aunt Vivian pointed out. “She will stay with me. But someone must be sent to wait for and collect her staff. She says that they went to the fair. I imagine they should be returning soon. They won’t have anywhere to go, and Margaret is quite worried about them.”
“She is awake?” James started for the door, only to pause when his aunt remained blocking the entrance.
“Robert is still with her. He has finished with Jack, however.” Her gaze slid to Johnstone. “I sent him to the kitchens for something to eat and drink.”
“Thank you, ma’am. He is a good man.”
“Yes, he is. He saved Lady Margaret’s life. But he needs to rest for the remainder of the night, at least, before he will be any good as a guard again, so you may wish to arrange to send someone to relieve him.”
“Yes, o’ course. I shall see to it at once,” Johnstone assured her. As he moved forward Lady Barlow stepped out of the way; then she closed the door behind his departing back and eyed James as she’d done when he was in trouble as a child.
“Now, James Matthew Huttledon, it’s time you told me about this ‘incident.’ Meeks is looking bedeviled and guilty, and avoiding my questions. Obviously, whatever occurred includes your convincing him to behave against his instincts.”
“Against his instincts?” James echoed with feigned surprise, trying to stall long enough to think of a way to explain without it sounding quite as bad as he knew it would. He already knew that his aunt wouldn’t be pleased that he had used her name, her home, and her staff in an effort to get Maggie alone—even if his only intention had been to speak to her, not ravish her. His aunt wasn’t of the belief that the end justified the means; he had learned that long ago. She preferred honest, aboveboard tactics in everything.
“Yes. Against his instincts. Even as a boy you were always able to twist that man about your finger. Meeks is as soft as pudding where you and Sophie are concerned. Now, tell. I am losing patience.”