The Wild Baron (Baron 1)

“Macbeth was so secure on his throne that he was able to make a pilgrimage to see the pope.”

“Leo IX?”

“Yes, Susannah, it’s very possible. Just perhaps the pope gave him something and Macbeth brought this something back to Scotland with him. Toby will do more research tomorrow. Of course we could be wrong about the Macbeth connection, but it seems the best place to begin.”

“I wonder where the other half of the map is?” Susannah said. “I wonder what the pope gave to Macbeth?”

“I don’t know,” Rohan said slowly. “But one thing is likely. I think the only place we’re going to find answers is in Oxford. That is, after all, where George got half of the map, where our prisoner came from. Yes, I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Oh, yes, sir,” Toby said, bouncing on his heels in excitement. “That’s exactly what we must do. That’s where George lived. He must have known something. We can find out about these other men as well. May I come with you?”

He saw the excitement in Toby’s dark blue eyes, remembered his own boundless excitement when he had been Toby’s age, and said slowly, “I will think about it. First, we must wait to see if our villain awakens. I’m still hoping that he will tell us something useful.”

“What did the pope give to Macbeth?” Susannah said again, more to herself than to them. “It must have been something he prized, a treasure of some sort. But why?”

“Macbeth was a good man,” Rohan said. “Evidently a man to trust. Perhaps the pope had to give whatever it was over to Macbeth. Perhaps he had no choice in the matter.” Rohan threw up his hands. “It’s all supposition. But it is a start.”

“There is another thing, dearest. Did you forget our dinner and ball on Friday night? Everyone has been invited and everyone has, naturally, accepted.”

“Look at Susannah’s face, Mother. Also, she might still be staggering about on Friday.”

“No, I will be perfe

ctly fine,” Susannah said. “But he’s right, Charlotte—my face is a mess.”

“Two days from now. Hmmm.” Charlotte lightly traced her fingertips of the bruises. “They should be light enough by Friday so that some judiciously placed cosmetics will do the trick. Sabine is really quite good. I will have her attend you.”

“She shouldn’t wear cosmetics.”

Charlotte straightened, looked at her son, and raised a perfect blond eyebrow. “Goodness, dearest, why ever not?”

He had no answer except, “She doesn’t need it. She would look foolish. She would look like an opera girl.”

“He should know,” Charlotte said with a good deal of satisfaction. “About opera girls, that is.”

“You cannot cancel the party,” Susannah said. “If I look too awful, then I won’t come.”

“Very well,” Rohan said, seeing no hope for it. “Wear any bloody cosmetics Mother believes you still need.”

Charlotte nodded, then said calmly, “I will have no arguments from you, Susannah. You will wear one of my gowns. I doubt Rohan will let you out of bed long enough tomorrow to be measured for a new one.”

Rohan felt an intense bolt of lust. She was ill; she was in bed. But it didn’t seem to matter. “I’m going to bed. Toby? Are you coming?”

By Friday Susannah wasn’t staggering about at all. The bruises on her face had faded considerably. Rohan knew that his mother would powder her all up, but he supposed he couldn’t say anything.

As for their villain, the man had finally awakened, but he refused to say a word. He just turned his head to the wall whenever anyone came into the room.

“I wish I had some thumbscrews,” Rohan said, loud enough for the man to hear. “I believe I will go to the village and see what the blacksmith has lying about.”

There was no getting a thing out of him.

Marianne wouldn’t permit her mother out of her sight, letting loose a howl anytime Susannah attempted to excuse herself, if only for a moment. Rohan imagined that the child held Susannah’s hand even when she relieved herself.

Toby and Vicar Byam were reading everything they could find about Macbeth, king of the Scots, and his reign.

Rohan and Toby planned to leave Saturday morning for Oxford.

He’d said to Susannah, “You know you can’t come. Marianne won’t let you go anywhere, and I refuse to relive our first trip through Oxford. It was a nightmare. Besides, this could prove dangerous.”