Free Amanda Scott by Highland Fling

to say?”
    She swallowed again, wishing he had done nearly anything else but laugh. It would be just her luck, she thought, to discover that the magistrate himself was in fact the Earl of Rothwell. But surely so highborn a personage would not spend his time meting out justice in so lowly a court as this one. She drew a steadying breath. “Lord Rothwell has a … a particular interest in my family, sir.”
    The magistrate, still peering over his spectacles past her, said lightly, “Come now, Mr. Carsley, how is it that you have not yet enlightened this court? Surely, if this young woman is kin to the Earl of Rothwell, you must have heard of her, sir.”
    A calm voice—surely the same one that had chuckled—said from behind Maggie, “Since we have not yet heard her name, I can hardly be expected to have recognized it. As to the young woman herself, I cannot recall ever having met her.”
    Maggie looked over her shoulder. It was the artist who had spoken, and he had done so in the unmistakable tones of a gentleman. A young man some three or four years older than herself, he was dressed casually, not at all like a man of fashion. His chestnut hair bore no trace of powder and was drawn back and tied with a plain black ribbon. His features were even, his eyes a sort of golden hazel color. When his gaze shifted to meet hers, she saw only curiosity in his expression.
    She turned back to face the magistrate and said firmly, “I do not know that gentleman, your worship.”
    “Do you say, then, that even his name is unfamiliar to you?”
    “Certainly it is. I am but newly come to London, sir. In attempting to find a particular address, my coachman took a wrong turning, and we were attacked. He and my maid were killed, my belongings were stolen, and I was left without money or protection, which is how I come now to be in this predicament.”
    Titters and chuckles of disbelief filled the courtroom, but the magistrate made no rebuke and in fact appeared to share the amusement. “A very good tale,” he said approvingly, “but it will not serve you, I fear. You speak well, and I should not be at all surprised to learn that you had at one time or another served as a lady’s maid or in some like position, and try to ape your betters, but since Mr. Carsley cannot speak for you, I fear—”
    “Forgive my interruption, sir,” the calm voice said, “but I see no reason that I cannot speak for the young woman. If it will help her, I am perfectly willing to do so.”
    Maggie turned to him, unsure whether he spoke sincerely or meant merely to mock her. His expression was serious, and she saw that his demeanor was that of a man accustomed to having his wishes attended to. Had he not been engaged in an occupation so distasteful as drawing scenes in a public courtroom, she might have thought him a member of her own class. He smiled at her.
    The magistrate said severely, “Now, now, sir, take care lest you act too impulsively. Since it is patently clear that this woman does not even know the name Carsley, I find it impossible to believe that your brother can have anything to do with her.”
    “Your brother!” Maggie stared aghast at the young man.
    “Don’t blame me,” he said with an engaging grin. “He don’t recognize the connection unless he is forced to do so, and in point of fact, he is only my half-brother.”
    “But—” She broke off when he held up a restraining hand.
    He said calmly to the magistrate, “She knew the title, your worship, and there must be cause for that. I daresay there are many who do not know the family name, and I see so little of him these days that I cannot claim to speak for him; however, I do recall his mentioning sometime or other in the not too distant past that he had undertaken a responsibility of some sort. Therefore it is entirely possible that this young woman is his ward, and I can assure you that I should not like him to discover after the fact that I had allowed her to be hanged if he