Читать книгу Unlacing the Innocent Miss - Margaret McPhee - Страница 6

May 1815, London

Outside in the darkness of the night a dog was barking.

A necklace of diamonds lay within a nest of black silken rope coiled on Lord Evedon’s desk. The diamonds glittered beneath the light of the candelabra as he picked up the necklace, letting it dangle and sway from his fingers, all the while watching the woman standing so quietly before him across the desk.

‘Well?’ he finally said, and his expression was cold. ‘What have you to say for yourself, Miss Meadowfield?’

A look of confusion crossed Rosalind Meadowfield’s face. The concern that she had felt at being summoned to attend Lord Evedon in his study had become fear. The hour was too late, and they were alone. His mood was not good, and it could be no coincidence that he was holding his mother’s missing jewels.

‘Lady Evedon’s diamonds, they have been found?’ She did not understand what else he expected her to say.

‘Indeed they have.’ He spoke quietly enough, politely even, but she could hear the anger that lay beneath. ‘Do you know where they were found?’

Her puzzlement increased, along with her sense of foreboding. ‘I do not.’

His eyes seemed to narrow and he glanced momentarily away as if in disgust. ‘The crime is ill enough, Miss Meadowfield. Do not compound it by lying.’

The tempo of her heart increased. She eyed him warily. ‘I am sorry, my lord, but I do not understand.’

‘Then understand this,’ he spoke abruptly. ‘The diamonds were found hidden in your bedchamber, wrapped within your undergarments.’

‘My undergarments?’ She felt her stomach turn over. ‘That is not possible.’

He did not answer, just stared at her with angry accusation. And in that small pregnant silence she knew precisely what he thought and why he had called her here.

‘You cannot believe that I would steal from Lady Evedon?’ Her words were faint, their pitch high with incredulity. ‘I would not do such a thing. There must be some mistake.’

‘There is no mistake. Graves himself was there when the diamonds were discovered within your chamber. Do you mean to call into question the propriety of the butler who has worked for the Evedon family for over forty years?’

‘I do not, but neither do I know how the diamonds came to be hidden within my clothing.’ She gripped her hands together, her palms sliding in their cold clamminess, and bit at her lower lip. ‘I swear it is the truth, my lord.’

‘And what is the significance of this?’ From the surface of the desk he lifted the rope, and even in the subdued lighting from the candles and the fire, she could see its dark silken sheen. With one end of the rope secured tight within his fingers, he released the rest; as it dropped, Rosalind saw, to her horror, that it had been tied in the shape of a noose. She could not prevent the gasp escaping her lips.

‘Well?’ One movement of his fingers and the noose swung slightly.

‘I have never seen that rope before. I know nothing of it.’ Her heart was hammering so hard that she felt sick. All of her past was back in an instant—everything that she had fought so hard to hide—conjured by that one length of rope.

He made a sound of disbelief. ‘I warned my mother against taking on a girl without a single name she could offer to provide her with a character. But Lady Evedon is too kind and trusting a spirit. What else have you been stealing these years that you have worked as her companion? Small items perhaps? Objects that would pass unnoticed? And now you become brave, taking advantage of a woman whose mind has grown fragile.’

‘I deny it most fervently. I hav—’

But Evedon did not let her finish. ‘I do not wish to hear it. You are a liar as well as a thief, Miss Meadowfield.’

She felt her face flood with heat, and her fingers were trembling so much that she gripped them all the tighter that he would not see it.

‘The diamonds we have thankfully recovered; with the emeralds we have not been so fortunate. Will you at least have the decency to tell me where you have hidden them?’

She stared at him, her mind still reeling from shock, too slow and stilted to think coherently. ‘I tell you, they are not within my possession.’

‘Then you have sold them already?’ The silken rope slithered through his fingers to land in a dark pile upon the desk. He pocketed the diamond necklace. The clawed feet of his chair scraped loud, like talons gouging against the polished wooden floor, as he pushed the chair back and rose to his feet.

‘Of course not.’ Instinctively she stepped back, just a tiny pace, but enough to increase the distance between them. ‘I have taken nothing belonging to her ladyship.’

‘I doubt you have had time to rid yourself of the emeralds, and they are most assuredly not within your chamber. So where are they concealed?’ He moved out from behind the barrier of the desk and walked round to stand before her, facing her directly.

Rosalind’s throat dried. ‘I am no thief,’ she managed to whisper. ‘There has been a terrible mistake here.’

He ignored her. ‘Empty your pockets, Miss Meadowfield.’

She stared at him all the more, her heart beating a frenzied tattoo while her mind struggled to believe what he was saying, and she could not rid herself of the sensation that this nightmare into which she had walked could not really be happening.

‘I said turn out your pockets.’ He enunciated each word as if she were a simpleton.

Her hands were shaking and her cheeks burning as she removed a handkerchief from her pocket and pulled the interior out to show that it was empty.

‘And the others.’

‘I have no other pockets.’

‘I do not believe you, Miss Meadowfield.’ The logs crackled upon the fire. He stood there silent and still, before suddenly grabbing her arm and pulling her close enough to allow his hand to sweep a search over her bodice and skirts.

‘Lord Evedon!’ She struggled within his arms, trying to break free, but his grip tightened.

‘I will not let the matter lie so lightly. You will tell me where they are.’

‘I did not take them,’ she cried and struggled all the harder.

The dog was still barking and, as if in harmony, came the sound of a woman’s cries and shouts from upstairs within the house.

Rosalind ceased her resistance, knowing that it was the dowager that cried out.

Evedon knew it too, but he did not relinquish his hold upon her.

‘Do not think to make a fool of me so easily, Miss Meadowfield. If you will not divulge the whereabouts of the emeralds to me, perhaps you will be more forthcoming to the constable in the morning.’

From other parts of the house came the sounds of voices and running. And of hurried footsteps approaching the study door.

‘No,’ she whispered, almost to herself, and in that moment, his grasp slackened so that she succeeded in wrenching herself free of him. But the force of the momentum carried her crashing backwards towards the desk. Her hands flailed wide seeking an anchor with which to save herself, and finding nothing but the pile of books stacked upon the desk. Her fingers gripped to them, clung to them, pulling them down with her. From the pale fan of their pages a single folded letter escaped to drift down. Rosalind landed in a heap alongside the books with the letter trapped flat beneath her fingertips.

Lord Evedon’s face paled. She saw the sudden change in his expression—the undisguised horror, the fear—as he stared, not at her, but at the letter. He reached out and snatched it back, the violence of his action startling her.

A rap of knuckles sounded against the study door.

‘Lord Evedon.’ She recognized the voice as Mr Graves, the butler.

Evedon stuffed the letter hastily into his pocket. She saw the glimmer of sweat upon the skin of his upper lip and chin as she scrambled to her feet.

‘Attend to your appearance,’ he hissed in a whisper.

Only then did Rosalind realize that her chignon had unravelled, freeing her hair to uncoil down her back. She crouched and began searching for the missing hairpins.

‘M’lord,’ Graves called again. ‘It is a matter of urgency.’

Lord Evedon quickly smoothed the front of his coat and waistcoat.

‘Up.’ And with a rough hand, he yanked her to her feet by the shoulder of her dress, ripping it slightly in the process. ‘You will speak nothing of this to my mother. Do I make myself clear?’

She nodded.

At last he granted Graves admittance.

‘Forgive me, m’lord, but it is Lady Evedon.’

‘Another of her turns?’

Graves coughed delicately. ‘I am afraid so, my lord. She requests Miss Meadowfield’s presence.’ The butler did not even glance in Rosalind’s direction, and yet she could not help but remember what Lord Evedon had said about Graves overseeing the discovery of the diamonds. He had searched through her possessions, sparing nothing, not even her undergarments, and he thought her a thief. Her cheeks heated with the shame and injustice of it.

‘Very well.’ Lord Evedon’s gaze moved from Graves to Rosalind. ‘You will attend her ladyship, and this other matter will be concluded upon the morning.’

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, aware of her burning cheeks and her unkempt hair and of what Mr Graves and the small collection of maids and footmen gathered in the hallway all thought her. She could see the accusation in their eyes and the tightening of their lips in disapproval.

She wanted so much to deny the unjust accusation, to say that she was as shocked at what was unravelling as they, but all turned their faces from her. She had no option but to follow Mr Graves up the staircase, aware with every step that she took of Lord Evedon at her back and of what the morning would bring.

Lady Evedon was no longer crying by the time they reached the room. She lay there so small and exhausted and frail within the high four-poster bed, her face an unnatural shade of white.

‘I saw his face,’ she cried. ‘He was there, right there.’ She pointed to the window where she had pulled the curtain back.

‘Who was there?’ Rosalind followed the dowager’s terrified gaze.

‘The one that follows me always. The one that never leaves me,’ she whispered. ‘He was no gentleman. He lied…Robert lied and I believed him.’

Rosalind glanced nervously at Lord Evedon.

‘There is no one there, mother. It is only you and me and Miss Meadowfield.’

‘You are quite certain?’ Lady Evedon asked.

‘I am certain. It was another of your nightmares.’ He pressed a hand to his mother’s, his face filled with concern. ‘I shall send for Dr Spentworth.’

‘No.’ Lady Evedon shook her head. ‘There is no need. You are right. It was a nightmare, nothing more.’

‘Then we will request the doctor’s presence in the morning, to ensure that all is as it should be.’

‘I understand well your implication, Charles; you think that I am going mad!’

‘I was not suggesting any such thing. I am but concerned for your health.’

Lady Evedon nodded, but Rosalind could see in the lady’s face that she was not convinced. ‘Of course. I am merely tired, and the barking of that wretched animal outside woke me with a fright.’ She seemed almost recovered. ‘You may leave us now; Miss Meadowfield will read to me until I fall asleep. Her voice soothes my overly excited nerves.’ She turned to Rosalind with a little smile. ‘You look rather pale, my dear. Are you feeling unwell?’

‘I—’ Rosalind opened her mouth to speak and, feeling Lord Evedon’s hard gaze upon her, quickly closed it again. With a sinking heart she realized that he had been right in his caution as they left the study. She could not tell Lady Evedon of the accusation of theft or any of the rest of it, not with the dowager’s state of mind.

‘I am quite well, thank you, my lady.’

‘Your book.’ Lord Evedon lifted a small book from the bedside table and handed it to his mother.

Lady Evedon smiled. ‘Thank you, dear Charles.’

‘I will leave Stevens outside the door to ensure that you two ladies are kept safe.’ Lord Evedon’s gaze met Rosalind’s and she knew his words for the warning they were.

‘I shall be glad to know that we are being so carefully protected.’ Lady Evedon seemed reassured by the knowledge.

‘Mama…Miss Meadowfield.’ He bowed and left.

‘Miss Meadowfield,’ Lady Evedon held the copy of Wordsworth’s poems out to her.

‘My lady,’ she said, and with only a slight tremor of her fingers she opened its leather cover.

She read aloud, keeping her voice calm and light. She read and read, and by the time that Lady Evedon finally fell asleep the candles on the bedside table had burned low.

She sat there, listening to Lady Evedon’s quiet snores, her palms clammy even while her fingers were stiff with cold. Her mind raced with thoughts, with fears, with worried speculation. Once the constable arrived, it was only a matter of time before they discovered the truth: that Rosalind Meadowfield did not exist at all, that she had lied. Theft of this magnitude from an employer was a capital offence, and when they knew her real family name, there was no court in the land that would deal with her leniently. Prison. Transportation. Or even…hanging. Her hands balled to form fists, clutching so tightly that her fingernails cut into the flesh of her palms.

She remembered the anger on Lord Evedon’s face, his rough search of her person and his cruel grip. He believed the worst of her. He thought she had betrayed the dowager’s trust and stolen from her and that she was still hiding the emeralds. The accusation stung at her doubly, for not only was she innocent, but she had grown fond of Lady Evedon. From all she had come to learn of Charles Evedon over the years, she knew that he was a man who would not take what he believed to be a betrayal lightly. Not for Evedon a quiet dismissal. Already she knew he meant to call the constable. He wanted retribution, and he did not mean to be denied it. The guard outside the door was testament to that fact. Evedon would see her punished. And once he knew her true identity, he would see her hanged.

That knowledge had a cruel fatalism about it. She closed her eyes, trying to suppress the dread, and thought again of the black silken noose that had swung from Lord Evedon’s fingers. Did someone already know her secret? Or was it just a warning of the fate that awaited a jewel thief?

She replaced the book on top of the copy of The Times that lay upon Lady Evedon’s bedside table, her eye catching again the small advertisement she had read earlier on the top right-hand corner of the front page. Oh, to be there on the wild moorland of Scotland, so far from Lord Evedon and the chaos that was unfolding around her. But such dreams were without hope.

She rose to her feet and turned away from the bed where the dowager lay sleeping, knowing she must return to the small room that was her bedchamber even though its humble privacy had been violated. The thought of Graves and others of the servants raking through her undergarments, touching all that was personal to her, was deeply humiliating.

The letter lay on the carpet behind the door. She saw it immediately, lying pale and slightly crumpled upon the deep rose and blue threads of silk, and she knew without touching it, without even seeing it close up, that it was the letter that Lord Evedon had stuffed into his pocket downstairs in his study. The same letter that he had snatched away from her so angrily.

She walked towards it, lifted it, heard it crinkle with her touch and felt the stiffness of the paper and the broken sealing wax beneath her fingers. The large black spiky font showed the letter to be addressed to Earl Evedon, Evedon House, Cavendish Square, London. Normally, Rosalind would not have dreamt of reading a letter addressed to another, but there was nothing of normality about this evening. Beneath the low flickering light of Lady Evedon’s candles, Rosalind opened the letter and began to read.

The dowager’s snores still sounded softly within the room, but Rosalind no longer heard them. She read the words and then read them again, and she understood the reason for Lord Evedon’s anger—and his dread. A scrawl of words that Evedon would not want the world to know. A scrawl of words that could destroy him, just as he could destroy her.

She refolded the letter, knowing that fate had just dealt the final blow to her life as she knew it. She could not simply set the letter back on the carpet and pretend that she had not seen it. Once Lord Evedon realized that the letter was here in this room he would know that she had read it. And Stevens was standing guard outside the door so that she could not place it elsewhere. Besides, she would not wish another to chance upon it and read its words; Lady Evedon did not deserve that shame.

And the thought came to her that, if Evedon knew that she had this letter, he would not then call the constable. He would not call anyone. He would do nothing to risk the focus of attention upon the letter or the truth that it contained. For there could be no doubting that its words were the truth; she had seen the desperation on his face.

The realization was quiet in its dawning, a gentle waft of thought rather than a sudden inspired burst. She looked at the newspaper upon the bedside cabinet, weighing the thought in consideration for long minutes before she acted.

The newspaper ripped easily with little noise, and she read the small ragged square of words again before folding it neat and smaller still and slipping it within her pocket. She sat there for a while longer before finally folding the letter and pocketing it in just the same way.

She looked again at Lady Evedon sleeping so peacefully, all of the dowager’s demons banished—for now. A final lingering glance around the room, then Rosalind rose and walked quietly to the door.

Stevens escorted her to her tiny bedchamber at the back of the house without a single word, and she was glad of his silence.

She did not know if he waited outside her chamber door, standing guard for fear that she would escape the justice Evedon meant to deal her. It made no difference if he waited there the whole night through, for the roof of the scullery was directly below her window. A strange calm had descended upon her, although her hands were trembling as she quietly packed her few possessions into the small bag and swung the cloak around her shoulders. She drew the window sash up as slowly and carefully as she could, cringing as the slide of wood seemed loud against the surrounding silence. The outside air was cold against her face as she breathed in its nocturnal dampness and the freedom that it promised.

She did not look around the bedchamber, at the mean narrow bed or its empty hearth, but kept her gaze fixed on the black sky in which the moon was hidden. A deep breath, and then another, before she climbed over the sill and carefully lowered herself to the slates below.

The dull yellow glow of the street lamps eased the night’s darkness as she hurried over the cobblestones. She glanced back nervously at Evedon House. The dog had ceased its barking and the streets were so quiet and still, and she the only thing moving within them.

No footsteps followed, no breath sounded save for hers, yet her skin prickled with the sense that Evedon was there silently watching, so that she feared that he followed her.

Rosalind did not look back again. She began to run.

In a nearby alleyway, a man, dark as the shadows that surrounded him, waited until the woman had passed before stepping out from his hiding place to watch her. All around was hushed and sleeping, disturbed only by the echo of her hurried footsteps. Dressed in black, he stood where he was but his intent gaze followed the scurrying figure. He watched until she faded from sight, swallowed up by the darkness of the night. Only then, did he turn and walk away in the opposite direction, passing beneath the same street lamps under which she had fled. A small gold hoop in the lobe of one ear glinted against the ebony of his hair, and teeth that were white and straight were revealed by the smile that slid across his mouth.

‘You might run, my dear Miss Rosalind Meadow-field, but you shall not escape the scandal. Justice will be done,’ he whispered, and then setting his hat at a jaunty angle, he began to whistle an ancient Romany tune as he rounded the corner and sprang lightly up into the black coach that waited there. And then the stranger and his coach were gone, disappeared into the darkness of the sprawling metropolis beyond.