CHAPTER 18
Exhaustion ached her bones, and the harsh drawing room lights stitched pain across her forehead. She accepted the cup of green tea. The steam was moist and warm against her face as she stared down into the rippling yellow liquid.
Anywhere but at them.
Either of them.
“Margaret, I think it time we discuss what you said when you first arrived home.” Lord Cunningham took a seat next to her, the settee creaking. “I believe everyone in this room is fully aware that this gentleman cannot be your uncle.”
The older man leaned forward in his wingback. From the light of a wall sconce, she had a chance to examine him better. His clothes were plain—brown coat and breeches, green waistcoat, and black-velvet watch fob. He had brooding eyes. Deep wrinkles in his face. Slightly disheveled tufts of thinning white hair.
The teacup shook in her hands. He was alive? Was it possible?
“Heard about your mind.” His gaze remained on some unknown object across the room. “Other things I can fix. Mix something up for. Ailments of the mind are for God.”
“If you are indeed her uncle, why have you not come sooner?”
“Did. Been moseying around for the past week or two.”
Lord Cunningham stood. “You are the gentleman who called, then had the unfavorable indecency to disappear.”
A terse nod.
“You have allowed your niece—and everyone else—to assume you were dead.”
“Safer that way.”
“For whom, pray?”
The man snorted, yanking up his waistcoat and shirt. A dark pink scar twisted into his abdomen. “Almost died. Didn’t know who was after me. Had to do something with Meggie and leave her somewhere safe.”
Meggie?The childhood dream returned to her. The pink pinafore and white duck and petals. This man spoke the truth. Hewasher uncle, wasn’t he?
“Why here, of all places?” asked Lord Cunningham.
“I knew your father.”
“How?”
“Doesn’t matter now. Long time ago.” Her uncle scratched his chin. “He owed me a favor. Thought this might settle the debt.”
Lord Cunningham finally looked down at her. His look was pensive, strange. From irritation at the unexpected guest? Or shame in himself? He cleared his throat before she could decide. “The hour is very late, Mr. Foxcroft—if that is indeed your name.” He flicked his hand at a servant. “My footman will escort you to your chamber. We shall discuss this more fully tomorrow, at which time I shall require proof of your identity.”
The stranger turned to Meg, face reddening. Moisture sprang to his eyes then was gone. “Go sleep, Meggie.” As he moved past her, he landed a small, awkward pat to her cheek. “I’ll fix this for you. Just like I always do.”
She was too weary, too confused to allow the words to penetrate her emotions. When he was gone, she took a trembling sip of tea and left the cup on the stand. “I am going to bed.”
Lord Cunningham reached for her. “Margaret, we must talk.”
“Not tonight.” She nearly ran for the door. She had not strength for his excuses. Nor, at present, the will to believe them.
Violet’s sweet coverlets folded around Meg like a cocoon. The child was already asleep. Little Pippins was curled at the foot of the bed, and the steady creak of Jenny’s rocking chair soothed Meg’s nerves.
Burrowing deeper, Meg hugged the child’s back. Touching someone filled her emptiness. Holding another person kept back the tears.I am all right.If Tom were here, he would tell her that.
Not that she needed Mr. McGwen.
She shivered. Everything repeated in her mind like flashes of lightning. The gunpowder kegs exploding. Lord Cunningham running. The two men’s faces, haggard and dirty. She should have grimaced at their memory, but something about them had seemed, well, less heinous than she had imagined.
