Unlacing the Innocent Miss. Margaret McPhee
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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