Chapter 20 #2
Thwack.
Thwack.
“Sir, if ye will step outside—”
“Oh, don’t bother. Go on and talk to him, Barty. You think I don’t know ’bout your little trips to the bawdyhouse?”
Color reddened from his neck to his pockmarked face. His voice bellowed. “What you mean by barging in here and—”
“There was a baby. Your baby.”
“The devil there was.” Mr. Creagh shook his head, eyes crazed, hands jumping in and out of his pockets. “What’s she want, eh? Thinks she can use this to make me pan out bloody earnings and—”
“Elisabeth is dead.”
His jaw slackened. Even the thwacks ceased. “She’s … er …” His cheeks inflated with air. He blew it out slowly and his voice calmed. “The baby too?”
Tom nodded.
“Just as well.” He spared a look at his wife, one that surged with a hint of humiliated regret. “Haven’t been to that sin house in a long time. Not going back. And I’m glad to have my hands bloody clean of it.”
An uncomfortable quietness heated across the room, and Tom gave a small nod of apology to them both. He left, fingering the wigged ringlet in his pocket.
Either Mr. Creagh could playact like those from Drury Lane, or he didn’t know—nor care—about Elisabeth’s death. If someone wanted to avenge her, it wasn’t him.
Which meant there was only one clue left.
“Impossible.” Lady Walpoole draped the delicate leaves-and-pearls necklace around Meg’s neck. “The guests are not to arrive for another hour. Anything earlier is deliberate insolence.”
“Mr. McGwen cannot be expected to keep with social standards.”
“Is he so daft?”
“No.” Meg wanted to squirm from the stool, tired of gazing at herself in the mirror while Tillie and Lady Walpoole twisted and yanked her hair. The reflection staring back at her was so unlike herself.
Dramatic, wispy curls draped on either side of her face, and the faintest rouge they’d dabbed on her cheeks gave her a flushed look.
Silver earbobs dangled from her ears. The pale green-blue dress, embroidered with silver thread motifs, was cut low enough on her chest that she wiggled the neckline higher.
“Stop that this instant.” Lady Walpoole swatted at her hand. “Leave the dress alone. And Tillie, throw away that note. Miss Foxcroft will not be meeting such a request.”
“On the contrary.” Meg stood, ripping off the elbow-length gloves. For heaven’s sake, she was burning up. Or was it only the thought that Tom McGwen awaited her downstairs?
He had not come in days.
Once, she’d sent a servant out to the cottage to deliver the curtains she’d finally finished. The servant returned and said the place was empty. Why had that disheartened her? The knowledge Tom was no longer close?
“Miss Foxcroft, I must insist. We are not finished with your dressing, and I daresay, this is not the sort of behavior a woman betrothed would—”
“Tom would not ask for me were it not important.” Meg rushed to the door, remarking over her shoulder, “And I am not engaged to anyone.”
This was not what he’d planned.
Tom perched on the edge of one of Lord Cunningham’s elaborate chairs, then sprang back to his feet. He paced the length of the drawing room. Sweat trickled down his spine beneath the new clothes, and he wiped his palms down the thighs of his pantaloons.
Everything charged before him.
The look on Mr. Foxcroft’s face less than twenty minutes ago, when Tom had spoken the name Elisabeth. The furious batting of his eyes. The disgusted curl of his lips.
“Ye killed her.” Tom had not wanted to say the words, but they sprung out anyway on the cusps of a curse. “And ye killed Mr. Musgrave.”
Mr. Foxcroft grabbed his coat. He shrugged into it, grumbling.
“Look at me.”
“No, you look at me.” The old goat spun, shoving Tom into his bedchamber wall, rattling a framed picture.
“Always interfering. Pushing your way in where you’re not wanted.
” Spittle sprayed from his lips as he jabbed a finger into Tom’s chest. “Stay away from me. Stay away from my girl.” He turned for the door—
Tom snatched his arm. “I need names. I need to know who else ye killed.”
Nothing.
“Please. For Meg.”
A wave of something heaved across the man’s face. A stricken look. One of reluctance, fear—and grief. He railed at Tom under his breath and escaped.
Now, echoes of those same emotions shredded their way through Tom’s body.
Across the drawing room, the doors finally parted. Meg entered like a stranger, like a figure he’d seen in magazines or in fancy drawn carriages. His stomach flopped.
He missed her flyaway hairs and braids.
Her bare feet.
“I received your note.” She swept toward him, a strong perfume of violets tickling his nose. “Is something the matter? You are early.”
“I had to speak with yer uncle.”
She smiled. “You did not praise him enough. I have spent a great deal of time with him over the past days. He told me of my parents.”
That was important to her.
Well, it had been.
Before.
“Something is wrong.” Meg’s brows came together and the smile wavered. “What is it?”
“I want ye to stay away from him.”
“What?”
“Ye heard me.” He took a step back, toward the window, into the dusty rays of sunlight. “He left.”
“He is coming back. For the dinner party.”
“I dinnae think so.”
“What did you say to him?” Her voice pitched higher. “If this concerns the letters, you are unjust. We know too little to determine anything.”
“I know enough.”
“Well, I do not.” She stepped closer, forehead tightening. “If you believe the allegations against him, you must also believe them against me.”
“Ye are innocent.”
“Which you concluded how?”
“Because I know ye.”
“And I know him.” Her eyes brightened with feverish indignation. “I cannot explain this to you. I realize I have not my memories. I further realize I have spent little more than a few days in the man’s company.”
“Meg—”
“Yes, he is peculiar. I admit I had my own reservations upon our first encounters. But he is bashful, not malicious. He did not kill anyone.”
“I want it to be true more than ye know.”
“Do you? Because you seem very anxious to accuse him and be done with it. Were you not friends?”
“Aye.”
“I should think you would have more allegiance. I am disappointed, Mr. McGwen.” Her chin quivered, but her words hurled out faster. “Not only do I refuse to stay away from him, but I am determined to prove to you the error of your suspicions.”
“Then ye leave me no choice.”
“What are you—”
He brushed past her, irritated, and made it to the door before she swung herself in front of him.
She grasped his arms with a resolute grip. “Tom, please. He is the only family I have. I cannot lose him. I cannot be alone.”
She wasn’t.
She had Tom.
But that seemed to mean less and less to her, and that reality vibrated deep inside him. “He needs to be locked up and kept as far away from ye as possible until we figure this out.”
“No.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve nae choice.”
“Yes. You do.” Her shoulders stiffened. “All this time, you have begged me to trust you. For once, I am asking it back.”
Seconds rushed by.
Patience disappeared, and her lips formed a hard, pinched line. “I am beginning to understand why it was my uncle did not wish us to marry—”
“That’s enough.”
“You have no right to—”
“Meg, enough.” The strain, the bands of resistance, snapped so quickly he was engulfed in flames.
“Dinnae raise yer voice at me. I’ve done nothing but try to help ye.
From the beginning. But ye’ve lashed me with yer ferocious tongue, and ye’ve kicked me away, and ye’ve treated me like a dog ye can whip around on a rope.
” He hovered over her, tearing out of her grip.
“I’ve a mind to do what the old goat should’ve done years ago. ”
Her chin notched higher, unwavering. “And what is that?”
“Turn ye over my knee and whack some sense into ye.”
“Thank you, sir, for enlightening me as to what sort of gentleman you are.” Her eyes blazed. “And as for sense, I am just this moment attaining it. I trust you can see yourself out?”
“I’m staying.”
“I would think you would be too busy launching your personal manhunt against my uncle than to attend anything so trifling as a dinner party.”
He glowered, bit his tongue before he said something he would regret. Before he told her everything. The guilt on Mr. Foxcroft’s face. Elisabeth, locked in her wretched chamber, murdered. Mrs. Musgrave alone because they’d trusted the wrong man.
“You are no longer welcome in this house.” Meg marched through the doorway and glared back at him one last time. “If you were our friend before, you certainly are not now.”
He was willful, terrible, and a headstrong pig.
Meg balled her gloved fists under the white satin tablecloth, a breeze slanting the steam from various dishes. Lord Cunningham had endeavored to make the dinner party memorable, and since the weather was pleasant, had persuaded Lady Walpoole it would be ingenious to set up a table in the courtyard.
All the guests had gathered first in the drawing room, where awkward introductions were made. Tom had smiled at each new acquaintance, no trace of the earlier aggravation in his movements.
Meg was not so docile.
Chin raised, mouth tight, she unfolded her napkin. Conversation buzzed around her. Mr. Rushworth spoke to Lord Cunningham about a new remedial book he’d discovered in Hatchards Bookshop, while Captain Godfrey recited a droll conundrum to his sister and Lady Walpoole.
With deliberateness, Meg spoke to everyone.
She solved the captain’s challenge while finishing off her beef olives and sweetbread.
She nodded through Mrs. Rushworth’s excruciating stories. She even smiled at Lord Cunningham, unblinking when he called her dear, while footmen arrived with the second course.
All without looking, even once, at Tom McGwen—or her uncle’s empty chair.
This was wrong.
He was wrong.
All the stories he’d told her rushed back. The three of them wiling away winter evenings by the hearth in the apothecary kitchen. Her slipping to Uncle’s lap. Tom helping them hang rosemary and laurel on Christmas Eve.
She’d clung to those memories, decorating them in her mind until they were beginning to feel real. Now he wanted to destroy that? When Uncle was finally here? When she was just beginning to understand the inexpressible comfort of having family?
The letters were wrong.
She was not asking for Tom to believe that. Only to rein back judgment until it could be proven. Did he not owe her that?
“A toast, I think.” From the head of the table, Lord Cunningham stood. His eyes swiveled with amusement between Meg and Tom. Had he noted the tension? “To dismissing the past and looking with fervency and excitement to what awaits us in the future.”
“Always a master with words,” Mrs. Rushworth praised, the first to lift her wine.
Glasses clinked.
Meg had expected Tom to remain still, but he raised his goblet of water and tinged it with hers. She almost spilled her drink. A fresh onslaught of anger tampered with her chest, and she tore her eyes away from him before she felt the full effect of his new face.
She’d never seen him like this.
In the well-fitting black tailcoat with a modest but neatly tied neckcloth and finger-combed hair. The beard was gone. His skin was smooth, his jaw firm, and long dimples appeared around his mouth when he smiled.
Which he did—right now—to the captain’s eligible sister, seated next to Tom.
Miss Godfrey blushed in delight.
Hah.
Of all things. Meg’s pulse skipped. Not in jealousy, of course, but annoyance. Why had he bothered staying, anyway? What was this? Another scheme to annoy her?
No wonder they had fought before.
He was insufferable.
Despicably stubborn.
Even if he was handsome. To other girls. Like the captain’s sister.
The third course passed in a blur of orange soufflé, lamb chops, and a grating riddle from the captain.
Both he and Lord Cunningham seemed to have imbibed too many glasses of ratafia, as the former grew too amused and the latter too loud.
Miss Godfrey kept Tom engaged in a steady flow of whispered conversation.
When Lord Cunningham rose for a second toast, a sliver of apprehension jumped through Meg.
“This is lovely.” He swept a hand across the courtyard, the garden behind them, the cloisters to the right.
“Made lovelier by the presence of so many esteemed guests. Especially you, darling.” His watery eyes lingered on Meg, a little sultry.
“The woman who has agreed, much against what I deserve, to be my wife.”
A murmur of cheerful excitement rippled across the table. Her frustration gained speed. What was he doing?
“But do not cheer yet, my friends. All among us are not so fortunate.” He angled his head toward Tom. “It is Mr. McGwen we must raise our toast to. A better man than me.”
What?
“Anyone who can rise from the ashes of his past, who can rally his own inner strength enough to overcome the hatred of not only his entire family but his entire community …”
Shock winced through Meg. What was he talking about?
“There is a man we must revere. I salute you, my friend. I never had a brother, but if I had, I cannot imagine the pain involved in knowing his death was upon my hands.” His words slowed. “And yet you sit here, smiling, unaffected, as one who has no stains on his conscience. I commend you.”
Breath shallow, she turned to Tom.
He leaned back in his chair, no sign of discomposure, aside from the tips of his ears burning red. His eyes remained on Lord Cunningham. Unblinking.
No one raised their glasses.
Mr. Rushworth cleared his throat.
No, no. Some raw and protective fury tingled throughout her body, making her hand shake as she lowered the fork. She wanted to speak. She didn’t know what to say.
Tom scooted his chair from the table and left.