Carlisle was not certain. "The Norwood Emerald," he repeated, for want of saying anything else.
Oh, curse the emerald! As well as its rightful owner, though Marigold did not remove his hand from her neck. "I cannot give you the blasted emerald because I do not
have
it. Still, I know where it is, and you may buy it back for the sum of twenty-five thousand pounds."
Carlisle was not inclined to spend such a sum, although he might have done so easily. However, he was not the one responsible for the emerald having gone missing, and it was not in his nature to let the guilty party squirm off the hook. "I'll hazard a guess. You lost it at play."
Could he like her just a little bit? There was the matter of his hand resting on her neck. Prettily, Marigold pouted. "I admit that I was very foolish. But I am willing to tell you where the emerald is, and then you may buy it back if it is so important to you as all that."
"Oh, it is important, Miss Macclesfield." Carlisle leaned over her, holding her prisoner between his two strong arms. "And I
will
have
it back."
If Marigold didn't know better, she would think the man meant to make love to her. Not that she was averse to the notion, exactly, but she disliked the expression in his dark eyes. He was looking at her rather like she imagined a snake might look before it gobbled up a mongoose. Or was it the other way around? Whichever, Marigold didn't think she cared to share that fate. "Whatever are you doing?" she asked, and tried to squirm away.
Carlisle wished she would stop squirming. Damned distracting, it was. "You are asking me to barter," he said. "A good businessman—and I am a
very
good businessman, Miss Macclesfield—makes no bargain without first sampling the goods."
Barter? Marigold didn't think she'd be asked to barter, though it was very difficult to think clearly with his face—his chest!—so close to hers. Mr. Sutton added, "It would take a great deal of bartering to compensate me for twenty-five thousand pounds."
Good God!
She
was
the merchandise Mr. Sutton wished to claim in return for his lost emerald. "Oh! You horrid man! I vow I shall have a spasm!" Marigold gasped.
Mr. Sutton smiled wickedly. "Yes," he said. "I rather think you might."
Marigold was outraged. Rather, part of her was. Another part would have been content to stay precisely where she was and let Mr. Sutton do with her as he would. But Marigold, for all her fecklessness, was not that feather-headed. She wriggled beneath her captor until she could free the pistol from her waistband, and then she jammed it into his ribs. Carlisle, who had mistaken her wriggles for something else altogether, was taken aback. "What in blazes?" he inquired.
'The gun is loaded." Marigold gave his ribs another poke. "I assure you that I know how to use it very well. You will release me, Mr. Sutton. At once."
Certainly Mr. Sutton would release her. Females were irrational creatures at best. He would not quarrel with a female who held a gun, although more than ever he still intended to have his revenge. "You will recall the Hindu custom of
seti,
Miss Macclesfield," he said as he stood up. "Hurling herself upon her husband's funeral pyre is the only alternative for a widow who is unable to live a chaste life."
The man would have used her as if she were a common harlot. Worse, she had almost let him. Marigold snatched up her felt cap and jammed it on her head.
"You shall have your emerald, damn you!" she snapped.
Carlisle was every bit as angry as his escaping quarry. "Within the week!" he retorted. "Or I will see you hanged."
Chapter Twenty-one
Various members of the Halliday household were gathered in the kitchen following a dinner of mutton shoulder, gravy soup, potatoes, and turnips mashed with butter, pepper, and salt. Missing were Andrew, assumed to have stayed away for fear of being subjected to further such delicacies as mashed snails and stewed prunes, and Marigold, thought to be sulking in her room. Andrew's absence was regretted; Marigold's was not. Lump' s presence was unfortunate, because he had eaten the entire apple tart that had been intended for dessert, and now lay groaning and belching on the hearth. Tibble was also in disgrace, having broken the soup tureen while washing up the dinner dishes. Gloomily he applied blacking rather too lavishly onto Agatha's boots, then attacked them with a brush.
Janie, meanwhile, was applying a flatiron to one of Marigold's muslin gowns. Janie was not fond of ironing, and her thoughts tended to stray to Charles Footman down the street, whom she had finally contrived to meet, with the result that she had already let the iron sit on the muslin too long, and the material had become scorched. Fortunately, Agatha had a remedy for restoring whiteness to scorched linen— one-half pint of vinegar, two ounces of fuller's-earth, one ounce of dried fowl's dung, one-half ounce of soap, and the juice of two large onions, all boiled to the consistency of paste, spread over the damaged part and allowed to dry—and so the day was saved. Agatha and Georgie were seated at the long elm table, savoring cups of hot tea and munching marzipan. Georgie looked unremarkable in a gown of pale sprig muslin. Atop her fiery ringlets, Agatha sported a frilled and beribboned mobcap.
Andrew limped into the kitchen and sat down at the table. Agatha fetched another teacup, and laced the brew liberally with cowslip, because Andrew looked overwrought. Georgie, too, regarded her brother with concern. She knew better than to quiz him about his health. "Where have you been?" she asked.
Andrew shrugged. "Here and there." In point of fact, he had been asking a great many questions, and he didn't like the answers above half. Andrew squinted at his sister over the edge of his teacup. She still looked like the same old Georgie, which just went to show how deceptive appearances were, which Andrew already knew, because although he might look like his same old self, he most certainly was not. Nor was Georgie her same old self, if she was waltzing with murderers and sitting in rakehells' laps. Oh yes, she had said the latter was an accident, caused by Lump— was there ever an accident not caused by Lump?—but she had not looked like she much minded perching there.
Magnus Eliot had not looked like he minded, either. No doubt Magnus Eliot had females dropping into his lap all the time. Were he not so fatigued by this whole business, Andrew might have found it in himself to envy the man. "What's all this nonsense about Warwick?" he asked.
Georgie should have guessed that rumors about Garth would eventually reach her brother's ears. "You are not to worry yourself about that business. Nonsense is exactly what it is."
Andrew didn't know how he was not to worry, although he wished he might. He replaced the teacup in its saucer. "Lady Denham instructed me to tell you that you should not associate with such a curst loose fish."
Georgie blinked in astonishment. "Lady Denham called Garth a curst loose fish?"
Damned if all this to-ing and fro-ing hadn't given Andrew another headache. "No. I added that. She merely said that he did away with his wife, although she wasn't certain precisely how it was accomplished. It seems to me that the gossips might have less to say if the man defended himself, or at least said something, but it seems that he has not." He reached for a piece of marzipan. "Do you think Warwick did for Catherine, sis?"
Georgie looked around the kitchen at the various faces turned raptly in her direction. Agatha and Tibble and Janie had all paused in their various chores to stare. Only Lump had no interest in the conversation. Lump's sole interest was in his distended belly. He rolled over on his back and groaned.
Tibble put two and two together. Warwick—the groom who had insulted him—"Nincompoop!" he announced.
The others ignored this revelation. "I think," Georgie said very clearly, "that Garth had nothing to do with his wife's disappearance. Or so he says, at: any rate, and I have no reason to disbelieve him. Now may we please speak of something else?"
"Could hardly blame him if he had." As Andrew drained his teacup, he caught his sister's startled expression. "I never could abide Catherine myself. Tell me, do you
like Carlisle Sutton, sis?"
Georgie disliked the seemingly erratic nature of her brother's thoughts. "Mr. Sutton is a very interesting conversationalist. He has told me many intriguing things about his life in India. Yes, I would say I like him well enough. Why do you ask? What has Mr. Sutton to do with anything?"
What Andrew might have said in explanation—surely he would not have confessed that Miss Inchquist wished his sister to act the coquette with Carlisle Sutton and thus provide her a smoke screen—must remain unknown. Marigold burst into the kitchen. Since she was still clad in masculine attire, her appearance caused a considerable sensation. Janie abandoned all thought of her footman, Agatha choked on a swallow of tea, and Tibble dropped his blacking-brush.
"Carlisle Sutton is the greatest beast in nature, and I should know!" Marigold announced. She was momentarily distracted by sight of Lump lying on the hearth with all four paws extended straight up into the air. "Is he dead?" she asked.
"No," said Georgie. "He ate an entire apple tart and is suffering as he deserves. Marigold—"
Marigold flung her hands into the air. "Everything is going as badly as possible! I am cast quite into despair! Since you like Mr. Sutton so well, you
should talk to him, Georgie. Which now that I think of it, is an excellent idea! Because he certainly won't offer you
a slip on the shoulder like he did me!"
Georgie supposed she should not be startled by this revelation. And why should a gentleman
not
offer her a slip on the shoulder, pray? Certain people did not think she was such an antidote. "I have already talked to Magnus Eliot. That was quite enough."
Marigold could only be disappointed by this ungenerous attitude. "Mr. Sutton refuses to buy back the emerald from Magnus Eliot. He says he would rather see me hang." She wrinkled her nose. "What's that smell?"
These shocking disclosures had so further astonished Marigold's audience that several members quite forgot themselves. Tibble found that he had been polishing his knee instead of Agatha's boot. Janie quickly snatched the flatiron off the ironing board, and whisked Marigold's singed dress out of sight.
It was not burning muslin that had caught Marigold's attention, however. "Turnips!" she announced. "You have been eating turnips. I detest turnips of all things."
Agatha rose from the table. "God strike me blind!" she muttered, and went in search of refreshment more appropriate than tea.
Andrew tried to make sense of the situation. "Does this have anything to do with Georgie sitting in Magnus Eliot's lap?" he asked.
Marigold paused in her agitated gape to stare at Georgie. "You sat in his lap?" she echoed, and then clapped her hands. "How very clever of you, Georgie! I would not have thought of that! Or I would not have thought of it for
you!
Tell me all about it! What was it like?"
"Magnus Eliot is a rascal and a rogue," Georgie replied honestly. Then she quickly added, "You would not like him one bit. And I have already told you what he said. He will not let the emerald go for less than twenty-five thousand pounds."
Thoughtfully, Marigold toyed with her knotted handkerchief. "You didn't tell me you had sat upon his lap." Perhaps if Marigold sat upon Mr. Eliot's lap it would be more effective. Marigold had considerably more experience with lap-sitting than did her friend.
Georgie had by this time gained a fair understanding of how Marigold's mind worked. "No! You are not to approach Magnus Eliot yourself. We will think of something else."
Tibble was trying very hard to follow this conversation, during which he sat rapt and open-mouthed. "Tap his claret!" he interjected helpfully. "Mill his cannister! Break his head!"
"Tsk!" said Agatha, and placed a cup of negus—a mixture of wine, hot water, sugar, lemon juice, and spices—on the table in front of him. Tibble abandoned all thought of costard-smiting and napper-cracking to pick up the cup and drink instead.
Andrew's mind was also a considerable jumble. One thing, however, stood starkly out.
"What
emerald?" he asked. "Why the devil are you dressed like that?"
Now Marigold was truly in the suds, because Andrew already didn't like her above half, and she didn't imagine any more fondness would be engendered by the tale she had to tell. "I don't know why everyone must blame me!" she cried, and burst into tears that abated only when Lump elevated himself from the hearth to come lick her cheek and burp gently in her ear. It was left to Georgie to explain Marigold's plight as best she could.
Lost emeralds, stage actresses, irate nephews— Andrew was appalled by this imbroglio. "Hang it! That's why you were talking to Eliot."
Georgie eyed her sodden friend, who was huddled with Lump on the flagstone floor. "Would you rather I had sent Marigold?"
Andrew shuddered at the suggestion. "I would rather you had sent me if anyone was to be sent anywhere."
That notion had not occurred to Georgie. Were she honest, she must admit that she had wanted to meet Magnus Eliot herself. Wicked gentlemen did not in the normal course of events come her way.
Georgie did not tell her brother that she had longed to meet a rakehell. "I did not care to involve you in this imbroglio."
Marigold didn't feel that her predicament was engendering a properly sympathetic emotion in her companions' breasts. Too, the focus of attention had too long been turned away from herself. "I could always disappear," she suggested. "Disguise myself and take up another name."
Andrew was not impressed by this enactment of the martyr. "You already tried that! It didn't serve. You are to do nothing, Marigold. Nor are you, Georgie! I will deal with this."
Marigold, who nurtured an admiration for the military, and an appreciation for anyone who took the onus of responsibility from herself, applauded this masterful attitude. Georgie was less impressed. She did not like to see Andrew so flushed and feverish. However, she supposed his efforts would do no harm. And then conversation ceased, as Lump divested himself at last of the remnants of the purloined apple tart.