The Poisoner's Game

Chapter 8

M.

The days after the ball spun by me in a blur of anxiety. I hoped that Lord Alexander, the Poisoner, and the mysterious duke had already forgotten all about me and that in the grand populace of London there was, indeed, another Margaret Savoy. She would be better suited to facing this unknown than I could ever be.

Curled up on a chair in the back parlor like a cat without a spot of sun, my mind dwelled in the murky bog of better left alone thoughts. The afternoon tea sat before me, but I did not drink it. Instead, I warmed my uncommonly chilled hands on the fine china glass. Rose's numerous dresses lay at my feet like a flurry of fallen birds.

The clearing of a throat interrupted my thoughts. Our butler, Buxley, stood in the doorway to the parlor, his nose notched in the air at just the right angle.

"My lady, you have callers..." Buxley said, clearing his throat again as if also surprised by the unfamiliar utterance.

The last part of whatever he said was lost to time as something crashed above us followed by a wail of rage from Rose. At first, my mind dismissed his words, and I nodded thinking that he had offered more scones. I set my cup on the coaster and picked up the hemming once more.

Buxley bowed and left.

What did he say? The hemming needle shot through the pad of my thumb and a droplet of blood threatened the sanctity of Rose's muslin dress. Slumping back into the chair, I sucked on my injured appendage with my eyes fixed to the door.

The door creaked open. I removed my thumb from my mouth. Lord Alexander walked in with quiet stealth and a casual perusal of the room. A black walking-suit fell comfortably on his lithe form, and his hat remained in his hands, indicating a short visit. Next to him stood a petite woman at just below five feet. Below her hat, decorated with beautiful jade plumage, her hair was pure white. Not a single wrinkle graced her face but for laugh lines around her deep brown eyes. She looked me up and down without any expression.

My hair fell in disarray around my face, my loose bun barely kept the strands of curls together. Only a few shades lighter than bombazine-black, my dress was already too heavy for the spring weather. I shuffled my feet covered in worn leather shoes that had seen better days beneath my skirts. But Lord Alexander noticed and quirked a brow, before sitting across from me after the older woman. I did not want to dwell on what they might have thought of me, or the wish that the other Margaret Savoy would take my place.

An obstinate silence filled the room. Sunlight gleamed directly across his eyes, and he didn't even squint. In his presence, I felt wholly too much like a mouse. My tongue rolled along the back of my teeth to keep myself from liberating a batch of nervous rambling. Why couldn't he speak first? My tongue pressed against my lips again. Courage welled in me to speak only to splinter apart as the sound of Rose's voice reached my ears.

"Buxley? Buxley, what do you mean, 'Margaret has a gentleman caller?' You must have misheard. Direct me to him immediately."

I avoided Lord Alexander's eyes and instead stared at my poorly befitted feet. I folded up Rose's dress and cleaned up my sewing kit—bracing myself for a tirade of epic proportions. The older woman tilted her head toward the door and then whispered something in Lord Alexander's ear.

"I am sorry, Miss Rose, but the gentleman asked for Lady Margaret, and she said she would receive them."

After no more than a few seconds of silence, Rose wrenched open the door to the parlor. "You must be mistaken, I will see that your imbecility is remedied."