The Untamed Mackenzie Read Free Page A

that his face had lost most of its color. His cheeks had taken on a greenish tinge, and Hargate’s breath hitched.
    “Are you all right, Your Grace? Perhaps we should adjourn to the open air.”
    If Hargate had eaten something that disagreed with him, that would put paid to this awkward proposal. Louisa caught the bishop’s arm, ready to lead him out and give him over to the ministrations of their hostess.
    “Loui—” Hargate had to stop to draw a breath. He coughed, staggered, and coughed again.
    Louisa began to be truly alarmed. “Come outside with me, Your Grace. We’ll take you to the house, where you can rest out of the heat.”
    Hargate tried to take another breath. His eyes widened as air eluded him, and he dropped his teacup, splashing tea across the grass. He sagged against Louisa, his eyes and mouth wide, his chest heaving, but no air moving inside.
    “A few more steps is all,” Louisa said, trying to support him. “You’ll be all right once we get outside.”
    Hargate took one more step before his legs buckled and he fell heavily against Louisa’s side. Down went Louisa’s plate, which she realized she was still clutching, the plate breaking, creamy profiteroles smearing on the dead grass.
    “Your Grace.”
    Louisa couldn’t hold him. Hargate landed on his back, Louisa on her knees next to him, her blue and brown striped skirt spreading over the tea-dampened grass. Hargate’s face had gone completely gray, and hoarse little gasps came from his mouth.
    A doctor. She needed to fetch a doctor. One was here at Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ garden party, a very famous one called Sir Richard Cavanaugh.
    Louisa scrambled to her feet. “I’ll find Sir Richard. Don’t worry. Help is coming.”
    As she ran out, the heel of her high-heeled lace-up boot caught the teacup Hargate had dropped, smashing it to bits.
    Louisa dashed into the open air, scanning the guests in desperate search of Sir Richard. There he was, speaking with Louisa’s sister, Isabella, and another old friend of Louisa’s, Gilbert Franklin. Both Isabella and Gil turned with welcoming smiles as Louisa panted up, but Isabella’s smile faded in concern.
    “Darling, what is it?”
    “Hargate . . . in the tea tent. Taken ill. He’s collapsed. Please, Sir Richard. He needs you.”
    Sir Richard, a short and lean man with dark hair going to gray and an arrogant manner, seemed uneager to set aside his tea and rush across the lawn at Louisa’s request. “What seems to be the matter with him?” he asked.
    Louisa resisted the urge to grab the man and shove him down the hill. “Please, you must hurry. I think he is having a fit. He can’t breathe.”
    “Good Lord,” Gil said, managing to sound pleasant even with his worry. “We’d better see to him, Cavanaugh.”
    Sir Richard frowned, then finally he sighed, passed his teacup to a footman, and gestured for Louisa to lead him to the tent.
    He walked too slowly. Louisa had to wait for Sir Richard, she holding the tent flap open impatiently while he sauntered in. Isabella, Gil, and Mrs. Leigh-Waters followed, along with a smattering of curious guests.
    Sir Richard at last showed concern when he saw Hargate, who hadn’t moved. Sir Richard went down on one knee next to the bishop and looked him over, felt his pulse points and his heart, then leaned down and sniffed at Hargate’s mouth.
    The doctor gently closed the bishop’s wide, staring eyes before he got to his feet. His arrogant look had grown more arrogant, but it was more focused now, more professional.
    “He is dead,” Sir Richard announced. “Nothing I can do for him. Send for the police, Mrs. Leigh-Waters. The bishop appears to have been poisoned.” He looked at Louisa when he said it, his accusing gaze like a stab to the heart.

Chapter Three
    London was Lloyd Fellows’ home. He knew every street from Whitehall to the East End, from the Strand to Marylebone and all points in between. He’d known them as a boy living in St. Giles