Chapter Twenty-Eight
The coachman was loathe to disturb them and waited for three quarters of hour, despite the cold wind buffeting them and the darkness spilling like ink all around. When newlyweds did not choose to exit the carriage, every driver knew better than to poke their head in. He went into the stables for a change of clothes and a drink.
But eventually the storm crashed down harder, sputtering the torches burning along the drive and around the front door. Candles spilled warm honey light into the frozen gardens. The coachman could not feel his hands or his nose. His greatcoat dripped rivers of water when he knocked on the carriage door. “Your Grace?”
No response. Not a bark or a giggle or a hand pressed to the window. Worry gnawed at him, and he finally yanked the door open.
That was what woke Meg, the sudden onslaught of wind and cold rain. Dougal sat up abruptly, then groaned clasping his head. He squinted at the coachman, while leaning to block Meg with his body. “What the bloody hell?”
The coachman was confused. “Your Grace, we arrived some time ago but you did not respond.”
He rubbed his face, then froze. He licked his lips. “There was laudanum in the beer.”
Meg sat up slowly, making sure her stomach did not push up into her throat or her eyeballs fall out of their sockets. She felt drowsy, heavy, but not ill. “Is that what that taste was?”
“She drugged us,” Dougal said. “Alice Atkins.” He reached for the lemonade bottle still in the picnic hamper behind them and handed it to Meg. “This should wash the taste out.”
“I’ve never taken laudanum,” she replied, sipping slowly. “I don’t think I care for it. Or for her.” Her eyes widened in horror. “I told her we had a riddle.”
“It likely saved our lives,” Dougal said. “She’d have wanted to hedge her bets.” He peered carefully into her eyes. “Your pupils aren’t pinpoints. You’ll recover.” He helped her out of the carriage. “Can you stand?”
She took a deep breath. “Yes, I think so. How do you know so much about laudanum?”
“Work in a mill can be miserable,” he said. “The fibers get into your lungs.” He didn’t elaborate. “Has anyone come by?” he asked the coachman.
“I was in the stables, so I’m not sure, Your Grace. No carriages, at least.”
“No, she wouldn’t have a carriage, would she.”
“The weather is too wild for her to have walked all the way here,” Meg said. “She’ll likely try later. We have time to find the treasure before she does.”
“You should rest first.”
“Not a chance.”
Dougal escorted her carefully to the front door, though he was not entirely steady on his own feet. They held each other up until the rain revived the last of Meg’s weary brain. She tilted her head back, letting the cold wind and water do its work.
Canterbury opened the front door. “Do you mean to drown yourself, lass?”
They ducked inside, thunder chasing them like an ill-tempered cat, sneaking around their ankles and biting at them with jagged teeth of light. “We weren’t expecting you, Your Grace.”
“Your Graces,” Dougal corrected.
Canterbury’s smile widened. “It’s that happy I am to hear it. Everyone in the servant hall has sat down to supper but I’ll get them moving in no time.”
“Finish your meal,” Meg said. “We can wait.”
“Oh, but—”
Dougal shook his head. Meg was already hastening away, pulling him along behind her. “We’ll wait. But keep an eye out for housebreakers tonight.”
The house was quiet, except for the rattling of the windows. The others must be taking their meals in their rooms. The painted horses and hares and countless stars escorted them down the hall. Meg had to stop herself from bouncing on her toes. She wasn’t sure her stomach could handle the extra movement, but she couldn’t get to the dining room fast enough.
Or at all, as it happened.
They spotted George standing just inside the door to the Gold Parlor. Dougal frowned. “George, what are—”
George turned his head, motioning them away but it was too late.