Bedazzled. Bertrice Small

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СКАЧАТЬ She lightly touched his hand encouragingly.

      The boy did as his mother had bid him, twisting the blade with some pleasure, she noted, not particularly shocked. The woman took the goblet from which her victim had been drinking, splashing the remaining contents into the fireplace, where they hissed briefly, then died away. Using her own handkerchief, she wiped the goblet free of the residue of finely ground glass and hair—the items she had used to kill her prey. Then she poured fresh wine from the decanter into the goblet, and replaced it upon the table opposite a second goblet, which she tipped over to give the appearance of both anger and haste on the part of the victim. “There,” she said, well satisfied with her efforts.

      Her son was growing fretful. “Can we leave now, Mother?” The boy whined impatiently.

      She nodded. Taking his hand, the pair slipped unnoticed from the house that Lord Jeffers had rented when he was in residence in London. His valet, the only servant Lord Jeffers employed, had been given the night off. The woman had made certain, using one of her own serving girls, that he would not return until dawn. Even now, as she and her son mounted their horses—which had been hidden in the alley belonging to their victim’s house—and rode quickly back to their own elegant abode, the woman knew her stepson would have been informed already of Lord Jeffers’s demise, and encouraged to escape lest he be blamed for the crime.

      Of course the young man would argue—he always did—and attempt to reason with the family’s majordomo, but poor desperate Rogers would convince him, for he loved the young man whom he had known his entire life as he would a son. Rogers was old now. His weakening mind could easily be confused. The woman had coolly informed him, just before she and her son had left the house that evening, that Lord Jeffers would be found murdered in the morning with the young master’s dagger in his heart. If Rogers did not forewarn the young man, he would surely be arrested, convicted, and hung for the crime. After all, was not the quarrel between the two men over that strumpet, Lady Clinton, public knowledge? Lord Jeffers had no other known enemies.

      “But, my lady, how could you know such a thing?” the old man had quavered. Then he shuddered when she smiled knowingly at him. He was not so old that he didn’t realize she knew because she planned to commit the murder herself. He had always suspected she was a dangerous woman, but as a servant he was helpless to her will. His master was at court with the king. There was no way he could get a message to him in time. Besides, would his lord believe such a tale?

      Rogers had always known that her ladyship was jealous of the young master’s position. He knew she coveted it for her own son, but he had never imagined she would kill for her child. Still, she was giving the elder son a fair chance to escape with his life, even if he would lose everything else he held dear. She would have the young master’s inheritance for her own.

      He bowed stiffly. “I will see my lord makes a good escape, your ladyship.”

      The woman nodded. “I knew that I could count upon you,” she said. Then she added, “You have always been a careful man, Rogers. Is it not comforting to at least know he will be safe, and that you will have a comfortable old age?”

      “Yes, my lady,” he had replied impassively, “I am grateful for your kindness.” But when she had gone, he had run up the staircase of the house faster than he had ever imagined he could at his age, delivered the bad news to his young master, and then convinced him, not without great difficulty, to flee for his own safety. Less than a year later, Rogers had died quietly in his sleep. The truth of Lord Jeffers’s death went with him.

      Part I

      ENGLAND, 1625—1626

      Chapter 1

      “Welcome to France, madame,” the duc de St. Laurent said to his mother-in-law as he handed her from her great traveling coach.

      “Merci, monseigneur,” Catriona Stewart-Hepburn said, curtseying stiffly, her famous leaf-green eyes making contact with the duc’s but a moment and then peering beyond him anxiously.

      James Leslie, the duke of Glenkirk, stepped quickly forward, a smile on his handsome face, his arms open to enfold his mother into his warm embrace.

      “Jemmie!” she cried out, her eyes filling with tears even as his arms closed about her, and he kissed her soft cheek. “My bairn!”

      Glenkirk laughed, and then he hugged his mother. “Hardly a bairn, madame. Nae at my age.” He stepped back, and gazed upon her. “ ’Tis good to see you, madame. When we learned that you would be coming, we brought over our entire brood so you could finally meet your grandchildren, some of whom are already half grown.”

      “And your wife, Jemmie,” his mother said. “You have been married more than a decade, and I have never met her.”

      “Jasmine has been so busy having our bairns that I couldna let her travel. She was nae a lass when I married her after all.” He tucked her hand in his arm. “Come, and let us go into the château. They are all awaiting you, my wife and family, and my sister, and her children.”

      “Jean-Claude,” Lady Stewart-Hepburn said, turning to her son-in-law, “ ’tis really quite good of you to have us all.”

      “The château is large,” the duc de St. Laurent replied cordially, “and a few more children makes little difference.”

      His mother-in-law raised an eyebrow, and then she laughed. James Leslie had three sons of his own, plus two stepdaughters and two stepsons. Seven in all, and it was hardly a trifle especially when added to her daughter and son-in-law’s six children. Her youngest child, her daughter, Francesca, had married her dashing French duke fourteen years ago when she was sixteen, and had lived happily with him ever since. Shortly afterward her beloved second husband, Francis Stewart-Hepburn, had grown suddenly ill, and died. But he had lived to see both of his daughters settled. Francesca with her Jean-Claude, and Jean, or Gianna as she was known, the wife of the marchese di San Ridolfi. Their son, Ian, was another matter, and had yet to settle down.

      “How is Jeannie?” the duke of Glenkirk asked his mother as they entered the house.

      “So Italian that you would never fathom that she was a Scot,” his mother answered him.

      “And Ian? What mischief is he up to these days?”

      “We must speak on Ian,” came the terse reply.

      They entered a bright salon where the family awaited them.

      “Grandmère! Grandmère!” Francesca’s children rushed forth to surround her, demanding her attention as they welcomed her.

      “Welcome, Mama,” the duchesse de St. Laurent said as she kissed her parent. “I thank God that you have come safely to us.”

      “The trip is long, and it is tedious, Francesca,” her mother replied, “but not dangerous.” How beautiful she was, Cat thought. She has his wonderful auburn hair, and my eyes. When she smiles, I see him. She acknowledged Francesca’s children, the four boys and two little girls, greeting each by name. Then, looking across the salon, Lady Stewart-Hepburn saw that her eldest son had joined a beautiful woman with night-dark hair and spectacular jewelry.

      Seeing the direction of her gaze, the duke of Glenkirk led his wife forward. “Madame, my wife, Jasmine Leslie.”

      Jasmine curtsied gracefully. “Welcome to France, madame. СКАЧАТЬ