He carefully raised his arm, careful not to jostle his ribs, and wrote out directions for Wainwright. He also wrote a note for Moreau, telling him to bring some clothes and his shaving things. He did not know how long he’d be here, but he did know he would be allowed some amount of time downstairs on the morrow. He’d prefer to appear pulled together. He had some very particular things to say.
Then another thing occurred to him. “Lady Margaret, I do not wish to insult the duke’s hospitality, but would you taste that porridge,” he asked, pointing at the bowl she had removed from the tray. “I am certain it has salt in it.”
Lady Margaret took herself to the bowl and tasted it. She nodded. “Well, well, well.”
“Well, well, well? What does that mean?”
“It means, my dear boy, that the housekeeper in this establishment is not fond of you. Salting porridge is not something a cook or housemaid would dare. Only the housekeeper. I would say a butler might try it, but they don’t have one.”
“Mrs. Right? I do not see how she can have anything against me. I’ve not insulted the lady in any way.”
Lady Margaret shrugged. “Nevertheless, here we have salt in your porridge. Do I suspect that was all that was on your tray? That is another piece of evidence. Where are the eggs? The bacon? The kidneys? The sausages? The rolls? The coffee?”
“Yes, I did notice those things missing.”
“Never mind it. I will take care of it without putting the duke’s back up.”
“What? What would you do? Do not insult Mrs. Right—I suspect that would make whatever this is even worse.”
Lady Margaret patted his arm. “Leave it to me. This is not the first time I’ve dealt with a recalcitrant housekeeper.”
Before he could press her for specifics, she took herself out of the room.
He satisfied himself by wiling away the morning thinking of the handholding in the cart that had gone on the night before.
*
MONTCLAVE PACED HISbedchamber, swigging brandy. This morning had been a disaster. The night before, he’d not slept at all. He’d tried, but every time he closed his eyes he saw the curtains aflame and himself locking the door and throwing the key. There was no amount of brandy that would wipe it away. He had to stop thinking about it!
Did he look guilty? Could people tell by looking at him?
Every knock on the front doors seemed to jolt his heart and speed it up to a pounding. Were they coming to get him, to lock him up?
Finally, he’d forced himself to dress and go downstairs. Mrs. Featherby had been in the drawing room. She did not look at him strangely, as if she knew his secret. In fact, she seemed rather bored to see him.
She nattered on about this and that. And then she said it—the shred of hope he could hold on to. She said Dashlend was unconscious.
Dashlend had taken a turn for the worse! Perhaps he was dead already? These things could go downhill quickly.
No, if he were dead that news would be a brushfire all over Town. But unconscious, that was better than conscious. Might he not do something with that?
He began to formulate a plan. He must just get hold of Dashlend while he was unconscious and make sure he stayed that way.
Montclave had splashed cold water on his face, taken a fortifying swig of brandy, and set off for Dashlend’s house. He would get Lady Margaret out and Dashlend in. Somehow he would rid the house of that idiot valet Moreau. Then he would see what could be done.
It had not worked. He really did not see how it had not worked. That butler of Dashlend’s was his usual grim visage but would not have defied him. Lady Margaret had defied him. He told her, as the senior most family member on the scene, that he would take over Dashlend’s care and she must leave. He explained to her that she was too chattering a female to be in a sickroom and would only cause harm.
If she would have acted as any old lady might be expected to upon being insulted, she would have tearfully packed her things and been gone. But no, she had the audacity to stand there staring at him and then announce she wouldn’t go until she was dead.
He’d briefly wondered if he ought to kill her to hasten things along, but then he decided the brandy was affecting his thoughts.
Montclave had left and had walked the streets for hours. Now he was closeted in his room. He felt he needed to do something but he could not think of what. Or rather, he could think of things but was not certain he had the nerve.
The thing that kept surfacing was a poison of some sort. If he were to poison Dashlend while he was laid low, it would seem as if he’d simply taken a turn for the worse.
If not poison, then something. He must at least get Dashlend moved to his own house so he had some measure of control over the situation. He’d think of something to get blasted Lady Margaret out of the way. And then, then, what? Would he be forced to put a pillow over Dashlend’s face?
Montclave recoiled from the idea. He did not want to do something so… close.
