No answer.
At the end of the next day there was still no sign of Jenny MacGraff. No one believed she had run away to Dublin. Everyone believed she was dead. Everyone believed that someone had killed her. It became clear that everyone believed it was William
Malcombe who had lured Jenny from the MacGraff cottage and killed her.
Since Meggie was still weak, Thomas carried her to the drawing room, where his mother served everyone afternoon tea.
It was a quiet group. Every few minutes Madeleine said, “I had rotten cards last night. You, Vicar, never should have won.”
“That is indeed true,” Tysen agreed pleasantly for the third time, giving his hostess his best social smile.
Mary Rose, her beautiful red hair corking out about her head, was pacing, something Thomas did with great regularity, more now since all the bad things had started happening. Every once in a while Mary Rose paused, looked at Meggie, who was, in truth, still on the pale side, still suffering some pain in her shoulder, and still refusing to take more laudanum. Mary Rose looked nearly desperate. Thomas knew the feeling well.
He also had finally come up with an idea.
Mary Rose turned toward Lord Kipper when he came into the drawing room. He said, standing on the threshold, “Barnacle seems to have taken a brief conge from his post at the front door, Thomas, so I allowed myself to come in.”
“Welcome, Niles,” Thomas said. “You are just in time for tea.”
Lord Kipper opened his mouth, doubtless to say something amusing, when he stopped cold. He stared at Mary Rose, who was standing with her back to the window. The afternoon sun was pouring in, making her hair look like fire.
“By God you are beautiful,” he said slowly, and strode toward her. “Who are you? Where have you been? I—”
Tysen rose and stepped in front of his wife. “Excuse me, sir, she is my wife. I am Lord Barthwaite, Meggie’s father.”
Lord Kipper came to a complete and very chagrinned halt in the middle of the drawing room.
“Ah, your wife. I see.”
Meggie, who had never before heard her father introduce himself by his Scottish title, gaped. Here was her father, facing down another man who very much wanted to poach on his preserves. Every bit of Sherbrooke arrogance sounded in his voice, every ounce of Sherbrooke blood in him was ready to boil. Her father, she realized, was ready to take Lord Kipper apart. It was an amazing thing.
Mary Rose suddenly leapt into action. She held out her hand. “I am Lady Barthwaite, sir. And you are?”
Thomas said, “This is Lord Kipper, everyone. Niles, you will doubtless meet Meggie’s almost cousin a bit later. He is right now at the stables, eyeing my stock.”
It was then that Lord Kipper noticed Libby was there, seated quietly some twelve feet away. She didn’t look at all happy with him. Actually she looked ready to shoot him. Lord Kipper was a man of great experience, a particularly fine thing when, upon rare occasion, he made a sterling gaff, such as now. He didn’t pause a moment, didn’t appear the least embarrassed. He swept down upon Libby, took her hand, caressed her fingers, lightly touched his fingertips to her lips.
“He is amazing,” Meggie said to the room at large.
“Of course,” Madeleine said. “What would you expect?”
When finally everyone was drinking their tea, Thomas cleared his throat and said, “Mother, why do you think someone wants Meggie dead?”
The sound of sudden silence was deafening. Everyone froze in place and stared blankly at Thomas.
Thomas didn’t look away from his mother. She slowly set her cup back onto its saucer. “I have thought about it,” she said at last, the look in her eyes very sharp, very cold, “as I’m sure everyone else has as well. I think it must be a man who followed her here from her home. He is jealous because she chose Thomas over him. It is this man who is now enraged because she won’t leave you, my son. He wants her dead. He is deranged. Ask her, my son, who this man is.”