My stomach dropped to my heels.
He looked at me squarely. “Join me in the hall.”
All eyes turned on me, including the Queen’s, and I didn’t need a Faytling’s help to divine their thoughts: that I was exactly what Abigail had said I was, a thief. Nothing but a good for nothing thief.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Mr. MacDougall stood in the corridor as I closed the Queen’s sitting room door behind me. Abigail stood by, her gaze darting from the House Steward to me and back again.
“I saw her take something, just like she took my locket,” Abigail wailed. “I saw her.”
He regarded her outburst with a spike of his overgrown eyebrows then slid that regard back to me. “Abigail is under the impression you took something that doesn’t belong to you.”
Every inch of me froze in guilty fear. “I did not, sir.”
His cheek twitched. It was his only response.
“I’m sure it’s in her pocket,” Abigail pressed. “Make her show you. You’ll see for yourself.”
He crossed his arms over his narrow chest. “Perhaps Abigail is right.”
The minx smirked. “Of course, I am. I saw it.”
Mr. MacDougall grimaced. “That’s enough, Abigail.” He turned back to me. “Do please show us the contents of your pockets.”
I stared at her, at the ugly ruts anger had carved between her eyebrows and the pinched wrinkles above her nose. Had she always been so bitter, or had I done this to her?
I had known it would be a risk when I snatched the locket. But it was the way her fingers always seemed to wrap around it at her collar in an absent-minded sort of way. And the dreamy look that came over her as she touched it. I knew it held precious memories, and I wanted them. Eventually I could think of nothing else.
That’s what compelled me when I passed the open door of her room and saw the thing dangling from the hook by her wash basin. I’d paused to check that the room was empty and that no one was nearby, then I’d slipped in and grabbed it. I was just turning the corner to the stairwell when I heard a door of another maid’s room open and then Abigail’s voice.
She had seen my back as I rounded the corner, but she had no proof I’d taken anything.
Despite my gnawing guilt, I stood firm. “I will do it,” I said defiantly, “but only to prove she’s wrong.” I slipped both hands into my skirt pockets and pulled them out, leaving them to flop at my sides like a bloodhound’s ears.
Abigail’s smug expression turned to befuddlement. She searched the crimson carpet around my feet. “It’s a trick. She must have put it somewhere else. A sleeve maybe? Her gloves? Check those ridiculous gloves!”
I dangled my wrists at my sides to show I had nothing stashed there then held out my hands so Mr. MacDougall could see nothing was wedged within them.
The House Steward glowered at Abigail. “It appears you are mistaken. Again.”
Her lower lip shot out in a pout. “She stole something. I know it.”
He turned to me. “What do you say, Jane?”
I fought back my guilt. I would make amends to Abigail, but not here. Not now. “Sir, I didn’t steal anything from the Queen’s sitting room.” That was the truth, and I clung to it.
He closed his eyes and touched his right temple with a fingertip as though a headache was brewing there. When he opened his eyes, they were bloodshot. The skin beneath his eyes appeared sunken and gray. I almost pitied him.
“Abigail, no more—”
“But, Mr. MacDougall—”
His hand rose to stop her. “No. More. You must refrain from these baseless accusations. Or else.”
Her shoulders slumped.
This may be her defeat, but it was not my victory. I knew that well enough.
“Jane,” Mr. MacDougall said in his low, menacing way, “if you have deceived us, I assure you, it will not go well for you.”
Then, instead of dismissing us, he turned and strode away.
Abigail looked as surprised as I was. Then her expression darkened. She stepped closer and leaned her face into mine. “You aren’t going to get away with this.”
I shuffled back till I was flush against the door. “You’ve got it wrong.”
But even as I spoke, I saw her gaze drift from me and a sappy smile spread across her lips.
When I looked, I nearly groaned. Someone was walking toward us from the main drawing rooms, and while he was still yards away and his head was down, I recognized the rolled-up shirtsleeves, the dusty boots, and the deviant hair curled beneath his tweed cap. He seemed to halt, as though he was about to stop and turn back but then thought better of it and proceeded toward us.
When he was close enough, Abigail said in a singsong voice, “Good afternoon, Mr. Wyck.”
“Afternoon,” he answered with a quick glance her direction. When he looked at me, his lips tensed. “Miss Shackle.”
“Mr. Wyck,” I replied.
He didn’t stop. In fact, he seemed to quicken his pace.
Only when he disappeared around a corner did Abigail turn back to me, her eyes wide. “What’s going on between you two?”
“Nothing.”
“I doubt that.”
Was it a trap? “We’re acquainted,” I said carefully.
“Is that so? Then perhaps you could introduce me? I mean, properly.”
There it was again, that stupid, starry-eyed look all the maids got when he was around. I didn’t know what to say, so I ignored her question. “I should be going. Mrs. Crossey will throw a fit if I’m not back to help with the evening biscuits.”
Abigail crossed her arms. “Yes, I suppose she will. Think about it, though. You owe me that much.”
“I don’t owe you anything.” I walked away, taking the opposite route from Mr. Wyck. With every step, I could feel her eyes on me like burning daggers, but I didn’t stop until I opened the door to the servants’ stairs, carefully closed it behind me, and made sure I was alone. Only then did I bend down
