Amanda Scott (11 page)

Lydia exclaimed, “Oh, Ned, Mama will be so put out! She declares that she is exhausted from sitting all afternoon for her portrait and must have her dinner as soon as possible, so that she can retire for the night to recuperate.”

“Blast me,” James said, “I have never heard such humdudgeon in all my life. How can she be exhausted from sitting? And why, pray tell, has she decided to have yet another portrait painted? When I refused to paint her, she said nothing about finding someone else. Indeed, the whole point of the exercise, she insisted, was that she wished to puff off to all her acquaintance that her dearest son, the artist, had painted her.”

“The Court painter, don’t you mean to say?” Rothwell said in a tone so dry that Maggie’s thoughts were diverted from her own troubles at once. She looked curiously at James.

“As to that,” he said, flushing, “I certainly never told her any such pretentious nonsense. She made it all up herself.”

“She merely misunderstood our somewhat heated discussion of the matter, and you did not set her right,” Rothwell pointed out.

“No, but see here, Lydia, I know she never meant to ask someone else to paint her portrait. Why, Father had a formal one done before he died, to match his own.”

Chuckling, Lydia exchanged a look with Rothwell and said, “But that is just the problem, dear James. That portrait was done so many years ago that it is now quite out of date.”

“But she wore a masquerade costume! It was all the rage to do so for such portraits then, just as it still is now. How can the thing be out of date?”

“Oh, James, don’t be a ninnyhammer. Mama isn’t having an entirely new portrait done. She is merely having her hair repainted so that the style will be
au courant.”

James stared at her. “You cannot be serious.”

“Oh, yes, I am. Just you go and look at it. Mr. Sayers has been painting it in Mama’s sitting room, and she is not there now, for she has gone upstairs to dress for dinner.”

“Which is what Miss MacDrumin must do,” Rothwell said. “Take her up at once, Lydia. She can have the bedchamber overlooking the Privy Garden, next to yours. See that her needs are attended to, and tell your mama that though I sympathize with her exhaustion, the needs of our guest must come first.”

“Well, I will tell her that,” Lydia said doubtfully, “but I cannot pretend to think she will be pleased.”

“Her wrath, as always,” Rothwell said, “will be visited upon my head, not yours. Oh, go along, James,” he added when that young man moved toward the only other door in the room and placed a tentative hand on the latch. “See the fool portrait. I can tell you would like nothing better, but when you have seen it, perhaps you will return and play a game of chess with me. There is so rarely anyone here who can give me a decent game.”

Looking over his shoulder in evident gratification, James said, “Well, I will then, but I do want to see what Sayers is doing. He’s a very good man, you know, for that sort of thing.”

At a sign from Rothwell, Lydia touched Maggie’s arm and said, “We must hurry, for I daresay you will want a bath.”

Rothwell said firmly, “She will.”

Flushing, Maggie looked at him and encountered a look of unexpected warmth that nearly undid her. She had been watching and listening to the others with no little amazement, but she had been singularly aware of the earl nonetheless. His tone of voice had reverted to the lazy drawl he had employed at the beginning of the interview, and she had actually begun to wonder if she had imagined certain other qualities he had seemed to possess. But his whole expression had changed, and the way he looked at her now, instead of disconcerting her, sent a glow through her whole body. She was still annoyed with him. She still did not know precisely what to make of him. But as she turned to go with Lydia, she felt as if she were walking away from a cheerful fire out into the cold and the unknown.

Alone again, Rothwell wondered what he had got himself into. That his guest was the damned little Jacobite he had named her was certain, and no doubt Lydia, whose penchant for rebellion had prompted her upon more than one occasion to endorse the ridiculous allegiance such persons maintained to the Pretender, was even now pressing Miss MacDrumin to relate details of her past, while expressing delight in her presence at Rothwell House.

Though it had been foolish of the young woman to claim his protection, now that she had, he could not cast her adrift, for in fact, as one of his newest tenants, she was entitled to look to him to shield her from harm, a point she had not hesitated—albeit obliquely—to fling in his teeth. And he certainly could not abandon her if it meant insuring her further association with Lady Primrose and others of that sort. Far better that the chit should remain safely beneath his roof, where he could keep an eye on her and perhaps even exploit her acquaintance to learn more about the intended movements of Charles Stewart. She could have no idea that the Pretender’s imminent visit was anticipated with such interest by certain members of the British government.

She would no doubt be angry to know that he looked upon her in such a way. He was as certain of that as if he had known her for years instead of less than an hour. She certainly was not what he had first thought her, and Jacobite or not, one had to admire her for her lack of feminine guile. She was reprehensibly careless and too quick to speak without thinking; but she was direct, impulsive, and uncomplicated, which, in a day when women were generally manipulative, fawning, flirtatious, and greedy, made her unique among her sisters. And if she held her temper on a shorter leash than most women of breeding, and had touched him on the raw with her damned accusations of neglect, she was nonetheless remarkably intriguing.

He looked forward to seeing the change his sister would contrive in Miss MacDrumin’s appearance, for he had a notion the little Scottish lass could be made to look very well indeed. That thought stimulated others, and he allowed his imagination free rein until he was interrupted by James’s return.

James was shaking his head. “It’s dashed nonsense, Ned. What maggot gets into females’ brains to stir them to such absurd lengths? If Mama is having her hair repainted, surely she ought also to have her face redone as well, but it’s been left alone.”

Rothwell chuckled. “You must not expect me to condemn her for her vanity, my dear James. Have you not accused me of being the worst offender in the family in that regard?”

James eyed him warily. “I have accused you of that and worse, Ned, but you rarely find such comments amusing. I own, I had expected you to be uncomfortably grim about all this. I know you must be vexed, but Dev and I could scarcely keep her with us in the bridge house, you know.”

“You did exactly right,” Rothwell said, rising to fetch the chess board, then adding as he took his seat again, “You may take white if you like. I believe I had that honor the last time we played.” When James had moved his king’s pawn, Rothwell moved his own to meet it, saying with a smile, “Perhaps the time has come for me to learn more about my Scottish estate.”

L
YDIA DID NOT ALLOW
Maggie much time for introspection, demanding the moment the library door shut behind them, “Where do you come from, Miss MacDrumin, that you speak of being held against your will, and why did my brother talk of magistrates?”

“Please, Lady Lydia, I wish you will call me Maggie. Never before have I been called Miss MacDrumin so frequently in so short a span of time, and indeed, I am not accustomed to it.”

“Well, I will do so, but only if you call me Lydia, and only if you answer my questions.”

Maggie smiled ruefully, realizing that her head was beginning to ache again. “They are not questions that I can answer briefly, I fear, but I will tell you as much as I can.” She glanced around. “This is not the place for it, however.”

“Secrets?” Lydia’s delicately arched eyebrows soared upward. “Oh, I love secrets!” Tucking Maggie’s hand in the crook of her arm, she added cheerfully, “Come upstairs now, and I will show you your room before I take you to mine. Formal dress is not required tonight, for no company will be here, so a simple gown will suffice if we can but find one to fit you. My maid will delight in dressing you, I know, but you are so small and I so much taller, that I think she may have trouble finding something of mine that you can wear.”

She showed Maggie to a well-appointed bedchamber decorated in shades of peach and white, with a floral carpet on the highly polished floor and peach-colored hangings around the bed. Bed steps had been cunningly devised to serve as tables flanking it, and the coverlet was exquisitely embroidered. Accustomed to much more Spartan surroundings, it having never occurred to her to decorate a bedchamber, Maggie gazed around in pure delight.

“’Tis a marvelous room,” she said, “but faith, it must be meant for royalty.”

Lydia laughed. “No such thing! Lud, even if the king did not have his own residence nearby, I doubt that Ned would invite him to stay here, although he has frequently invited him to visit Rothwell Park—in Derbyshire,” she added with a sigh, “which is quite the most distant and dismal place imaginable. Fortunately, Ned has duties that keep him in town most of the year.”

“What sort of duties?” Maggie asked. Rothwell was proving to be quite an enigma, and it occurred to her that the more she could find out about him, the better she might deal with him.

But Lydia only laughed and said they were not of the least interest to females. “James says they mostly have to do with lending money, and although James
would
say that, I think it must be true, for really I think Ned must spend most of his time with his tailor and his barber.” Then, literally pulling Maggie out of the room, she said, “We must make haste, for before I make you tell me all about yourself, I daresay you will want a bath. I should if I were such a mess as you are.”

Feeling the telltale warmth creep into her cheeks again, Maggie said, “I assure you, I do not customarily look like this, but I have had the most extraordinary day imaginable.”

“You shall tell me all about it,” Lydia said, “but first I will ring for Tilda and your bath water, and then I must run tell Mama that James will stay to dine and that Ned has ordered dinner put back. She will be displeased about that, but she will be glad about James and will no doubt celebrate his presence by treating us to a dish of her precious Bohea after dinner, so I must tell Fields to be sure someone puts sugar on the tray. Although it is quite awful to put stuff in one’s tea, James utterly detests Bohea without it.”

Her maid, a buxom, rosy-cheeked young woman, entered soon after she tugged the bell, whereupon Lydia gave swift orders and left the room. Tilda was gratifyingly unconcerned with Maggie’s history, paid no heed whatsoever when she removed the papers from her corset, and not only produced upon request a pretty reticule for her to put them in but seemed delighted by the challenge of turning her out in prime style in less than an hour’s time.

“Though I don’t mind telling you, miss, it will be something to accomplish. How would you like me to do up your hair?”

Discussion of this and other such important topics occupied them until Lydia’s return. She came in smiling, and said that her mama was just as displeased as she had feared she would be. “And she ought not to be, for James brought her some lovely lotion for her face. He is always bringing her things, because he is nearly as good at mixing up such stuff as he is as doctoring people. But, now, Maggie, tell me everything!”

Maggie obliged. The bath had eased her headache, and there was quite enough to tell without actually disclosing her real reason for coming to London so that between revealing just what sort of court painting James did and deciding what to wear, what remained of the hour passed swiftly. Ready at last, she stood before Lydia’s looking glass, gazing at herself with pleasure, still dazed by the thought that such a splendid outfit was considered to be informal. Lydia explained that the term meant only that one’s gown covered all that lay beneath, except sometimes for a bit of petticoat if one’s gown opened up the front. Maggie’s white petticoat, speedily hemmed a good four inches shorter than it had been, did not show, for the front section of her pink damask gown was undivided and fastened around her waist beneath the loose, trailing back of the gown. Her bodice was laced over a snowy white handkerchief, and the dress was worn over a small hoop with a lacy white apron.

“The hoop will take up any extra length,” Lydia had said, “for I never wear one with that gown. It must be a small hoop though, for otherwise you will be overturning chairs and stools in Mama’s bedchamber.”

“Her bedchamber?” Maggie said, tucking an errant strand of hair back into the elaborate twist of curls that Tilda had arranged, unpowdered, atop her head while the maid lightly powdered her face with a hare’s foot. “What on earth would I be doing in your mother’s bedchamber?”

“Eating your dinner,” Lydia said, her eyes twinkling. “Oh, you need not try to conceal your astonishment. I promise you, it is not a common English custom. Mama is merely determined to get back at Ned after he put back dinner to accommodate you. She heard once that kings and queens dine and even hold audiences in their bedchambers, so she is quite determined to do so tonight. Just pretend it is the sort of thing everyone does and you will survive it perfectly well.”

She too was ready, and Maggie thought she looked like a princess in her emerald green gown with its embroidered and ruffled yellow silk apron. Everyone wore aprons, Lydia told her. It was all the rage to do so, even at quite formal parties.

Maggie slipped the reticule over her wrist, took the fan Tilda handed her, and followed Lydia from the room. Her heart began to thump as they approached the dowager’s bedchamber, which proved to be a much more elaborately appointed room even than Lydia’s. The rich red velvet hangings, dark wood furniture, and Turkey carpet were magnificent, albeit a trifle overwhelming, but Maggie soon forgot them in her amazement at finding her hostess reclining languidly against a huge pile of pillows in the bed, wearing a low-cut robe of brocaded purple silk with a tiny white-lace, beribboned cap perched atop hair that was expertly powdered and arranged in artistic puffs and curls. A single, enticing sausage curl dangled free, casting a shadow on one plump bare shoulder. She was attended by her tirewoman, a despotic-looking female with an air of vast superiority, who hovered over her, alert for the least sign that her services might be required.