Amanda Scott Read Online Free PDF Page B

like. When Sir Michael and Lady Caldecourt took you to London, you’ll remember that he went down, too. But then you went off to Foreign Parts, and when her ladyship died in childbed soon after, Sir Michael withdrew into himself a bit. Not that he and the master weren’t still close. They were. But Sir Michael busied himself with estate business, and the master began to care less about matters here and to go about even more than he had before, to house parties and such. He was hunting in Leicestershire when Sir Michael took ill and died. We sent word to him as soon as Sir Michael went sick, and he only just made it home in time for the funeral, on account of the warm spell we’d had went cold again, and the vicar wasn’t wishful to risk the ground freezing solid. A full bottle of brandy his lordship had that night, and it’s been much the same ever since.”
    Margaret nodded, then looked back at the figure sprawled in the chair near the fireplace, his booted feet splayed far apart on the faded green-and-purple Aubusson carpet. Drawing in a long breath, she braced her shoulders resolutely, then spoke without turning her head.
    “Fetch me a bottle of porter, a basin of cold water, and a cloth, Pudd. At once, if you please.”
    He nodded and went to do her bidding, soon returning with the bottle of that beverage best known for its excellent restorative powers under his arm, and the cloth over it. He held the basin in his two hands with an earthenware mug hooked over one finger beneath it. As he entered, Margaret was attempting to restore life to the fire.
    “I’ll attend to that, miss,” he said, handing her the basin and cloth, and setting bottle and mug on a nearby table next to an empty brandy bottle.
    Margaret watched Puddephatt move swiftly to the hearth, then turned her attention to Abberley. On closer inspection she saw distinct ravages of dissipation. His once-handsome face was pale, and crow’s feet twitched at his eyes and mouth as he snored. There was likewise an unhealthy puffiness under the eyes, while a red-gold stubble around his lower cheeks and chin testified to the fact that he had not allowed himself to be shaved that day, nor possibly the day before. His neckcloth had become disarranged, and she noted that his linen—once a matter of great pride with him—was dingy. A sudden flash of anger overcame her at this last observation, and with scarcely a thought toward reason or consequence, she upended the basin of cold water over his lordship’s tousled head.
    Puddephatt’s gasp of dismay was lost entirely as his lordship came sputtering to an upright position in the shabby chair and struggled unsuccessfully to get to his feet.
    “What the bloody—” He dashed water from his brow with the back of his sleeve and saw Margaret standing over him, her eyes flashing, her arms akimbo. “Marget, what the devil are you doing here?”
    “Attempting to bring you to your senses, my lord,” she said tartly. “Please do not attempt to rise on my account. You appear to be in no condition to attend to the civilities.”
    “Civilities be damned,” he muttered wrathfully. “If I could get to my feet, it would be for the sheer pleasure of throttling you. I don’t suppose you stopped to consider that the Aubusson will scarcely be improved by a wetting. Or this chair—one of Chippendale’s masterpieces, my father always said.”
    “Well, Mr. Chippendale would scarcely be pleased to see how little you’ve cared for his masterpiece,” she retorted, “and your precious Aubusson has seen many a better day as well.”
    “M’lord,” said Puddephatt hesitantly, picking up the brandy bottle and bending to find the glass, which had somehow managed to roll under his lordship’s chair, “I’ve taken the liberty of pouring out a mug of porter—”
    “Well, pour it back again or drink it yourself, man, and fetch me another bottle of the brandy. Lord knows, I need something stronger than porter to sustain the