Tempting The Laird
Tempting The Laird
Julia London
‘Warm, witty and decidedly wicked—great entertainment.’ Stephanie Laurens on Hard-Hearted Highlander.Mystery and desire cloak the Scottish HighlandsUnruly. Unmarried. Unapologetic. Catriona Mackenzie’s reputation precedes her everywhere she goes. Her beloved late aunt Zelda taught Cat to live out loud and speak her mind, and that’s exactly what she does when Zelda’s legacy—a refuge for women in need—comes under fire. When her quest puts her in the path of the disturbingly mysterious Hamlin Graham, Duke of Montrose, Cat is soon caught up in the provocative rumours surrounding the dark duke.Never one to retreat, Cat boldly goes where no one else has dared for answers. Shrouded in secrets, a hostage of lies, Hamlin must endure the fear and suspicion of those who believe he is a murderer. The sudden disappearance of his wife and the truth he keeps silent are a risk to his chances at earning a coveted parliamentary seat. Bu he’s kept his affairs tightly held until a woman with sparkling eyes and brazen determination appears unexpectedly in his life. Deadly allegations might be his downfall, but his unleashed passion could be the duke’s ultimate undoingPraise for Julia London:‘Julia London writes vibrant, emotional stories and sexy, richly drawn characters.” New York Times bestselling author Madeline Hunter‘An absorbing read from a novelist at the top of her game.’ Kirkus Reviews, starred review, on Wild Wicked Scot‘Expert storytelling and believable characters make the romance readers will be sad to leave behind.’ Publishers Weekly, starred review, on Wild Wicked Scot
Mystery and desire cloak the Scottish Highlands
Unruly. Unmarried. Unapologetic. Catriona Mackenzie’s reputation precedes her everywhere she goes. Her beloved late aunt Zelda taught Cat to live out loud and speak her mind, and that’s exactly what she does when Zelda’s legacy—a refuge for women in need—comes under fire. When her quest puts her in the path of the disturbingly mysterious Hamlin Graham, Duke of Montrose, Cat is soon caught up in the provocative rumors surrounding the dark duke. Never one to retreat, Cat boldly goes where no one else has dared for answers.
Shrouded in secrets, a hostage of lies, Hamlin must endure the fear and suspicion of those who believe he is a murderer. The sudden disappearance of his wife and the truth he keeps silent are a risk to his chances at earning a coveted parliamentary seat. But he’s kept his affairs tightly held until a woman with sparkling eyes and brazen determination appears unexpectedly in his life. Deadly allegations might be his downfall, but his unleashed passion could be the duke’s ultimate undoing.
Also By Julia London (#u01228827-fbef-5a9b-adf8-3aafd8d665c0)
The Cabot Sisters
The Trouble with Honor
The Devil Takes a Bride
The Scoundrel and the Debutante
The Highland Grooms
Wild Wicked Scot
Sinful Scottish Laird
Hard-Hearted Highlander
Devil in Tartan
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Tempting the Laird
Julia London
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08349-2
TEMPTING THE LAIRD
© 2018 Dinah Dinwiddie
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Praise for New York Times bestselling author Julia London
“Warm, witty and decidedly wicked—great entertainment.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Stephanie Laurens on Hard-Hearted Highlander
“Julia London writes vibrant, emotional stories and sexy, richly drawn characters.”
—New York Times bestselling author Madeline Hunter
“An absorbing read from a novelist at the top of her game.”
—Kirkus Reviews, starred review, on Wild Wicked Scot
“Expert storytelling and believable characters make the romance [one that] readers will be sad to leave behind.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review, on Wild Wicked Scot
“London is at the top of her game in this thrilling tale of political intrigue and second chances.”
—Booklist, starred review, on Wild Wicked Scot
“The fascinating love triangle, set amid the wilds of Scotland, creates a page-turning read that will resonate with fans of Highland romance.”
—Publishers Weekly on Hard-Hearted Highlander
Contents
Cover (#ufd38dc01-38bb-51e1-8f26-bf3c91be35f1)
Back Cover Text (#uf1d41663-b08b-5ee4-8a22-44cbfa63d5cc)
Booklist (#u5131a367-9aa6-5525-b529-2309de946b1e)
Title Page (#u39f03e9d-87b8-5b2e-b77b-66d634e75f38)
Copyright (#u0d598142-dd6e-5e4a-8017-2e9a16b474cb)
Praise (#ud84ffd0e-58f6-5799-83ef-3d144ac9e610)
Family Tree (#ud43295e5-bd3e-541c-a3ff-3e9a1fc02254)
CHAPTER ONE (#u513d3f68-319c-56d9-b913-f84a0f0ee141)
CHAPTER TWO (#u33a39558-2e98-594e-be91-aab413407d20)
CHAPTER THREE (#u73bb83d9-2689-551b-be76-e483fe074150)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u860aa7ce-770f-5440-98fc-48b7c1071918)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u55e01765-be8b-54e4-84ba-93e99cbeb9cf)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
AUTHOR’S NOTE (#litres_trial_promo)
GLOSSARY (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u01228827-fbef-5a9b-adf8-3aafd8d665c0)
Kishorn Lodge, Scottish Highlands, 1755
THERE’D BEEN A spirited debate among the Mackenzies of Balhaire over where to bury the remains of the venerable Griselda Mackenzie. Arran Mackenzie, her much beloved cousin, wanted her buried at the clan’s seat at Balhaire alongside two hundred years of Mackenzies. But Catriona, his youngest daughter—who had been as close to her “Auntie” Zelda as her own mother—wanted to bury her at Kishorn Lodge, where Griselda had lived most of her remarkable life.
In the end, a compromise was struck. Auntie Zelda was buried in the family crypt at Balhaire, but a fèille in her honor was held at Kishorn a month later. This arrangement satisfied Catriona, as it was the celebration she wanted for a woman who had lived life very much on her own terms.
Unfortunately, the weather turned foul on the eve of her fèille. Kishorn was remote, far into the Highlands, reachable practically only by boat. Therefore, only the most immediate Mackenzie family was able to attend, rowing up from Balhaire, past the Mackenzie properties of Arrandale and Auchenard, and across Loch Kishorn to the point where the loch met the river for which it was named.
There was scarcely anything or anyone this far into the Highlands. A village and prime hunting grounds had once graced the banks of the river, but they were long gone. A Mackenzie ancestor had built the lodge on the ruins of the village. Zelda, who had always preferred her freedom to a confining marriage, and had been indulged by her father, had taken possession of the abandoned lodge as a young woman and had made it her home, lovingly repairing and adding to it over the years.
The only thing left of that ancient village was a crumbling abbey, built on a hilltop overlooking the river glen. It was small as abbeys went, and no one could say whose abbey it had been. Zelda had decided it was hers and had made half of the original structure habitable again. The other half—what had once been the sanctuary—was missing its walls, and only a few beams and arches remained of the roof. It served no useful purpose, other than to provide a wee bit of respite from the weather for the cows that wandered in from time to time.
If only they’d had a respite from the cold rain that continued to beat a steady rhythm against the paned windows on the day of the fèille.
Catriona was quite undone by it—she’d planned this event to rival all such celebrations for years to come. “I’m bloody well cross with God this day, that I am,” she said to the women gathered around the fire blazing in the hearth. They included her mother, the Lady of Balhaire, and Catriona’s sister, Vivienne. Also present were her sisters-in-law, Daisy, Bernadette and Lottie. “It rained the day we buried her, and here it rains again. She deserved better, she did,” Catriona said as she carelessly held up her wineglass to be refilled.
“Zelda would not care a whit about rain, Cat,” her mother assured her. “She would care only that you carried on with the fèille in spite of it. Can’t you hear her laughing? She’d say, ‘Did you expect cherubs and bluebirds to herald my arrival? No, lass, heaven weeps when I knock at the door.’”
“Mamma,” Catriona said gravely, but she couldn’t help a small smile. Zelda would have indeed said something like that.
“I miss that old crone,” her mother said fondly, and lifted her glass in solemn salute. “She was incomparable.”
That was high praise coming from Margot Mackenzie. She and Zelda had maintained a fraught relationship through the years, had never quite seen eye to eye for reasons Catriona still didn’t fully understand. She knew that Zelda couldn’t bring herself to forgive her mother for being English, which, to be fair, was a sin in the eyes of many Highlanders. But Zelda had also seemed determined to believe the absurd notion that Catriona’s mother was a spy, of all things. Once, Catriona had asked her father why Auntie Zelda said her mother was a spy, and he’d given her a strange look. “Some things are better left in the past, aye?” he’d said. “You canna believe everything Zelda says, lass.”
He had not, Catriona had noted, denied it.
In spite of the ancient discord between the two women, in the last months of Zelda’s life, when she’d been ill more often than she’d felt well, Catriona’s mother had come once a week from Balhaire to sit with her. The two of them would argue about events that had occurred during their long lives, but they’d laughed, too, giggling with one another about secret things.
One of the serving women refilled Catriona’s wineglass. She drank it like water.
With all the Mackenzies crowded into the lodge, there was little room for the games Catriona had planned, and little else to occupy them. Frankly, Catriona had fallen into her cups. No, that wasn’t correct—she was swimming in her cups, an idea that made her giggle.
“There ought to be dancing,” Lottie complained, and shifted uncomfortably under the weight of the bairn she was holding. Another boy. “Something.”
“What do you mean?” Vivienne said. “You canna dance, Lottie.” She nodded to the bairn. Lottie had only recently delivered Carbrey. The birth of a second son had Catriona’s brother Aulay strutting about Balhaire like a bloody peacock.
“Aye, but you can dance,” Lottie said, nudging Vivienne. “And I should like to watch.”
“Me? I’m too old and too fat for it, that I am,” Vivienne complained, and slumped back in her chair, one hand across her belly. Bearing four children had left her with a full figure. “Bernadette will dance.”
“By myself?” Bernadette, wife of Catriona’s brother Rabbie, bent down to stir the logs in the hearth. “Shall I hum the music, as well?”
“And what of me?” Daisy asked. She was wed to Cailean, Catriona’s oldest brother. “I’m not too old for a reel.”
“Or too fat,” Lottie agreed.
“No, but your husband is too old,” Vivienne said, and nodded toward Cailean. He was seated near a brazier with their father, his legs stretched long. A tankard of ale dangled from two fingers.
“’Tis a pity that Ivor MacDonald is no’ here to dance with our Cat,” Catriona’s mother said, and smiled devilishly at her daughter.
Catriona’s inhibitions had been drowned by the good amount of wine she’d drunk, and she groaned with frustration. “You’ll no’ rest from seeing me properly wed until you meet your demise!”
“And what is wrong with that, I ask you?” her mother asked sweetly.
“Yes, what is wrong with that?” Daisy asked. “Why will you not accept Mr. MacDonald’s attentions, Cat?” she asked curiously. “He seems rather nice. And God knows, he is smitten with you.”
Ivor was a thick man, the same height as Catriona, with hair that drooped around his face. In the weeks since Zelda had died, he’d offered his condolences so many times she’d lost count. “He may smite all he likes, but I’m far too restless to tie my lot to a shipbuilder,” Catriona said imperiously, and drained the rest of the wine from her glass. Actually, his occupation had little to do with it—it was most decidedly his lack of a neck.
“I think that’s incorrect,” Lottie said, looking puzzled as Catriona held her glass up again. “He hasn’t smited you, but rather, you’re the one who’s done the smiting, are you no’?”
Catriona clucked at her. “You know verra well what I mean, aye?”
“Aye, I know verra well,” Lottie agreed. “But you’re three and thirty, Cat. Sooner or later you must accept that the last sheep at market must take the price offered or be turned to mutton.”
“Lottie!” Bernadette gasped. “What a wretched thing to say!”
Catriona gave the remark a dismissive flick of her wrist. “Aye, but it’s the truth, is it no’? I am firmly planted on the bloody shelf of spinsterhood. I’ve quite accepted I’m to remain without husband or child all my life, aye? That’s what Zelda did, and quite by choice. I know what I’m meant to do—I’m meant to carry on Auntie Zelda’s work.”
“I should like to think you are destined for something other than living at Kishorn, removed from all society,” her mother said. “You are not Zelda, after all.”
Well, that was just the thing—there was no society for her. There was nothing for her here but endless days stretching into more endless days, with nothing to occupy her but this blasted abbey in the middle of nowhere. “What society, Mamma? Do you mean the Mackenzies and all their married men? Or perhaps you mean the MacDonalds and their representative, Ivor?”
“If you don’t care for Mr. MacDonald, there is more society for you to explore,” her mother argued. “But spending all your time at Kishorn has isolated you from the world.”
“Mmm,” Catriona said skeptically. “I think I may safely say I have explored all available society in the Highlands, and like my dearly departed auntie, I’ve found it wanting, I have. And besides, the women and children of the abbey need me, Mamma. Why should I no’ have a grand purpose?” she asked, and gestured so grandly that she spilled wine onto the stone floor. “I’ve learned all that I could from Zelda. The women of the abbey have no other place to go, and I’m determined to carry on, that I am, for there is still so much to be done, and Zelda would have wanted it so. Donna try and dissuade me, Mamma.” She sat up and turned around. “Where is that serving girl?”
“Catriona, darling,” her mother pleaded.
But Catriona was in no mood to discuss her future plans. “Diah save me,” she said, and stood up, swaying when she did, and catching herself on the back of the chair before she tumbled. She was exhausted from discussing her situation. She felt as if she’d been discussing it for years and years. Poor Catriona Mackenzie, whatever will they do with her? She’s no prospects for marriage, no society, nothing to occupy her but a run-down abbey full of misfits. “I think I should like to dance, then. Is Malcolm Mackenzie about? He’s brought his pipes, I’m certain of it.”
“For the love of God, sit, Cat.” Bernadette caught Catriona’s hand and tried to tug her back into her seat. “You’re pissed—”
“I’ve scarcely had a drop!” Catriona insisted. “That’s the English in you, Bernie,” she said, and wagged a finger at her sister-in-law. “We Scots are far better dancers with a wee bit of wine in us, aye?”
“You could hurt someone,” Bernadette said, and tugged on her hand again.
“You really shouldna drink so,” Vivienne said disapprovingly.
“I shouldna drink, I shouldna dance,” Catriona said irritably. Her few drops of wine were enough to make her feel a wee bit stubborn, and she yanked her hand free of Bernadette’s. But in doing so, she misjudged her balance and stumbled backward into someone. She managed to right herself and turn about and laughed with delight when she saw who had caught her. Rhona MacFarlane was the abbess at Kishorn. Rhona wasn’t really an abbess—she had a heart of gold, but she was no nun. Nevertheless, everyone called her the abbess, as she had been working alongside Zelda for twelve years.
“Aye, look who has come to jig with me, then! Thank you, Rhona, dearest. You’ve saved me from a scolding, and I should verra much like to dance.” Catriona made a flourish with her hand and bowed low, very nearly tipping over.
“There’s no music,” Rhona said.
“A fair point,” Catriona conceded, and grabbed Rhona’s arms and teased her by trying to make her dance. “We donna need music!”
“Miss Catriona!” Rhona said, and pulled her arms free.
“Aye, all right, I’ll find Malcolm,” Catriona said petulantly.
“Miss Catriona, we have visitors,” Rhona said.
Catriona gasped with delight. “Visitors! Who has come?” She whirled around to the door, expecting to see the MacDonalds from Skye, all of whom had known Zelda well. But the men at the door were not MacDonalds—Catriona could tell by their demeanor they were no friends of the Mackenzies or Kishorn. She was suddenly reminded of the two letters Zelda had received in the last months of her life. Letters written on heavy vellum, with an official seal. Letters that Zelda had waved away as nonsense.
Fury swelled in Catriona, her heart calling her to arms and swimming against the tide of wine she’d drunk. How dare they blacken the fèille for Griselda Mackenzie with their presence! If they thought the abbey was easy picking now that Zelda was gone, Catriona would show them that was not the case—she’d die before she’d let these men take the abbey from her and Zelda’s memory.
“What visitors?” her mother asked, rising to her feet.
“Bloody bastards, that’s who,” Catriona said, and began striding for the door before her mother could stop her. As she neared the men, the one in front bowed his head.
“Who are you?” Catriona demanded.
“Ah. You must be Miss Catriona Mackenzie,” the man responded in a crisp English accent. He removed his cocked hat, slinging water onto the floor and one of the Kishorn dogs, who shook it off his coat.
“How do you know my name? How did you get here?”
“It is my occupation to know your name, and a man at Balhaire was kind enough to bring us.” He removed his dripping cloak and handed it to the gentleman beside him. His coat and waistcoat were so damp and heavy that they smelled of wet wool and hung nearly to his knees. “I am Mr. Stephen Whitson, agent of the Crown. Would you do me the courtesy of informing the laird that I have come to present a matter of some urgency to him?”
“My laird?”
That man calmly returned her gaze. “As I said, it is a matter of urgency.”
“Is it the same matter of urgency that compelled you to badger my ailing aunt on her deathbed with your letters, then?”
“I beg your pardon, Miss Mackenzie, but this is a matter for men—”
“It’s a matter of bloody decency—” She was startled out of saying more by the firm clamp of a very big hand on her shoulder. Cailean had appeared at her side and squeezed her shoulder as he gave her a look that warned her to hold her tongue.
“I beg your pardon, what’s this about, then?” he asked calmly.
“Milord, Mr. Stephen Whitson at your service,” the man said, bending over his outstretched leg.
“He wants to take the abbey, that’s what,” Catriona said angrily.
“Cat.” Aulay had come around on the other side of her. He took her hand and placed it firmly on his forearm, then covered it with his hand, squeezing so tightly that she winced. “Allow the man to speak, aye?”
“It is true that the abbey is a concern for the Crown,” Whitson said, and casually flipped the tail of his bobbed hair over his shoulder. “I have been sent by the Lord Advocate’s office.”
“The Crown?” Cailean repeated skeptically, and stepped forward, putting himself before Catriona. “I beg your pardon, sir, but we are in the midst of a wake for Miss Griselda Mackenzie.”
“My condolences,” Whitson said. “I regret my arrival is inopportune, but our previous correspondence went unanswered. As I attempted to explain to Miss Mackenzie, I’ve come with an urgent matter for the laird.”
“Aye, bring them forth, Cailean,” Catriona’s father called from the other end of the room.
Whitson did not wait for further invitation. He neatly stepped around Cailean and began to stride across the room, heedless of the others gathered.
The room had grown silent, all ears and narrowed gazes on this man.
Cailean followed Whitson, but when Catriona tried to move, Aulay tugged her back. “Stay here.”
“I’ll no’ stay back, Aulay! That’s my abbey now.”
But Aulay stubbornly tugged her back once more. “Then I would suggest, if you want to keep it, you mind your mouth, Cat. You know how you are, aye? Particularly after a wee bit too much to drink.”
She was not going to debate how much she’d had to drink with him. “What of it?” she snapped. “Zelda is gone and I have drunk my sorrow.” She shook his hand off and hurried after the others.
Her father had come to his feet. He leaned heavily on a cane, but he still cut an imposing figure and was a head taller than Mr. Whitson. Her father was a good judge of character, and he had judged this man’s character quickly, for he did not offer him food or drink. He said curtly, “What is your business, then?”
Mr. Whitson lifted his chin slightly. “As you are to the point, my lord, so shall I be. Kishorn Abbey was used unlawfully in the aiding and abetting of Jacobite traitors who sought to displace our king in the rebellion of ’45, and in return for that treason, the property as such is forfeited.”
Catriona and her family gasped, but her father, Arran Mackenzie, laughed. “I beg your pardon? Kishorn Abbey sits on land that has been owned by the Mackenzies for more than two hundred years. There was no aiding and abetting. We’ve been loyal subjects, sir, that we have.”
“Kishorn Abbey was used to house fleeing rebels after the loss at Culloden and was operated by a known Jacobite sympathizer in the form of Miss Griselda Mackenzie. It is pointless to deny it, my lord—we have the witness of two of the sympathizers. As the property was used to house traitors, it is forfeited to the Crown by order of the king.”
“By order of the king?” Cailean echoed incredulously. “Are you mad, then? Ten years have passed since the rebellion.”
Mr. Whitson shrugged. “It was a crime then and is yet, sir.”
“What does the Crown care for that old abbey?” Rabbie scoffed. “It’s falling down and too remote to be of any use.”
“There is interest in it,” Mr. Whitson sniffed, and paused to straighten his lace cuffs. “There are those who believe any use would be better than housing women of ill repute.”
Catriona gasped with outrage. “How dare you! Have you no compassion?”
Whitson swiveled about so quickly that she was caught off guard. “There are many in these very hills who do not appreciate the likes you seek to house, Miss Mackenzie. Some are very much against it.”
“It is no one’s affair what we do with our property,” Catriona argued. She was acutely aware of Rhona’s nervous fluttering behind her, and even more acutely aware of the anger that was seeping into her bones and warming her face.
“I will ignore your discourtesy, Whitson, that I will, for you are no’ from these parts, aye?” her father said. “But if you ever deign to speak to my nighean in that manner again, you’ll find yourself at the receiving end of Highland justice, that you will.”
Whitson arched a thick brow. “Do you threaten an agent of the king, my lord?”
“I threaten any man who dares speak to my family in that manner,” her father snapped. “Have you an official decree, then, or are we to take the word of a Sassenach?”
Whitson’s eyes narrowed. “I rather thought you were a man of reason, Mackenzie. You’ve a fine reputation as it stands, but it’s best for all concerned if you do not push too hard, if you take my meaning. An official decree was delivered to Miss Griselda Mackenzie. I’ve not a copy of the decree on my person, but I can have one drawn up, if that is what you prefer.”
“Griselda Mackenzie has departed this life,” her father said to Whitson. “Until I’ve seen official notice of it, I’ve no reason to believe you.”
Mr. Whitson clasped his hands behind his back. “I shall have it delivered posthaste. In the interest of expediency, allow me to inform you the decree grants you and your people six months to vacate the premises of the abbey, and if, by that time, you’ve not vacated, it will be taken by force. The property is forfeited, my lord. The king’s orders are quite clear.”
Catriona’s head began to swim; she thought she might be sick. There were twenty-three souls at the abbey, all but one of them women and children who had been cast out of society. Where would they all go?
“Aye, and you’ve a quarter of an hour to vacate these premises, sir, or be removed by force, as well,” her father said, and with that, he turned his back on the strangers.
“Expect your decree to be delivered by week’s end,” Mr. Whitson said icily. He turned about and started for the door.
“Have you no conscience?” Catriona blurted as he walked past her.
He paused. He slowly turned his head and set his gaze on hers, and Catriona felt a shiver run through her. “My advice to you, madam, is that you keep to the charitable works of proper women.”
“Get out,” Rabbie said in a voice dangerously low.
Whitson walked out of the room, his assistant hurrying after him with his soggy cloak.
All of them remained silent for several moments after the intruders had gone. Catriona’s head was spinning. She thought of the women of the abbey: there was Molly Malone, who had been beaten so badly by her husband that she’d lost the child she was carrying. She’d slipped away in the dead of night with her two young children and a single crown in her pocket. And Anne Kincaid, who, as a lass, had been cast out by a father who had no regard for her. She’d been forced into prostitution to survive. And Rhona, dear Rhona, such a godsend to Kishorn! When her husband had died, there had been no one to take her in. She had done piecework for a year but couldn’t pay her rents. Her landlord had offered her a bargain—her body for a roof over her head. Rhona had endured it for three months before refusing him. He’d forced her onto the streets without a second thought.
There were more of them, many of them with children, and Catriona could not bear to think of what would become of them. She sank onto a chair, her gut churning with disbelief, her heart racing with fear and her head beginning to pound.
“Well, then,” Catriona’s mother said.
“Airson gràdh Dhè, what are we to do with this news?” Aulay asked.
“What can we do that has no’ been tried before?” her father returned as he carefully resumed his seat. “The MacDonalds fought to have property seized by the Crown returned to their heirs and were no’ successful.”
“Aye, but the land they wanted returned was arable land,” Cailean reminded him. “It was more valuable than this,” he added, gesturing vaguely toward the window.
“Aye, ’tis no’ worth a farthing for planting,” the laird agreed. “But this is a valuable glen for a Sassenach who means to run sheep.”
“Can they no’ put their sheep in the glen and leave the abbey?” Catriona asked.
Vivienne snorted. “They donna want the abbey or the women who live here.” She paused and glanced sheepishly at Rhona. “My apologies, Rhona.”
“’Tis no’ necessary,” Rhona said. “We know verra well who we are.”
“I’ve a suggestion,” Catriona’s mother said. “I think Catriona ought to deliver Zelda’s letter to my brother sooner rather than later.”
Her father looked at his wife curiously. “A letter? What letter?”
“Zelda wrote a letter to my brother that has not yet been delivered. You know Knox nearly as well as I, Arran. If there is anyone who might help us, it’s him. He knows everyone in places high and low, and it so happens he is summering in Scotland.”
All of Catriona’s brothers groaned.
The Earl of Norwood’s summering had been a sore spot for them all. He was one of the wealthy Englishmen who had benefited from the forfeitures and seizures of Scots’ land after the rebellion. He’d bought a small estate near Crieff from the Crown and had once crowed he’d purchased the property for as much as a horse.
“Zelda’s letter has naugh’ to do with this,” Catriona said as she looked around for her wineglass.
“Nevertheless, you promised Zelda to see it personally delivered, didn’t you, darling? That’s why you must go to him, and while you are there, you can appeal to him for his help with the abbey.”
“Go to him!” Catriona said, and having located her wineglass, she swiped it up. It was empty again? “I canna leave the abbey now, Mamma. Diah, we’ve only just lost Zelda!”
“They have Rhona,” her mother said, and took the empty wineglass from Catriona’s hand. “Rhona is quite capable of seeing after them.”
Catriona shook her head. “’Tis no’ the same—”
“Aye, Mamma is right,” Vivienne chimed in. “Auntie Zelda would have gone to Uncle Knox straightaway, if that’s what it took, Cat. You’re the abbey’s only hope, you are, and Uncle Knox is your only hope. And besides...” She paused and exchanged a look with her mother. “You could do with a bit of distance, could you no’?”
“Distance?” Catriona repeated, confused, as she tried to retrieve her wineglass from her mother. “From what, pray?”
“From Balhaire. From Kishorn,” her father said.
“Pardon?” The churning in her gut was taking on a new urgency. Something wasn’t right, but she was having a wee bit of trouble thinking clearly.
“You were a blessing to my cousin, God knows you were,” he said. “But you’ve tended her deathbed for months, and now it is time you saw to your own life.”
Catriona blinked. Her thoughts were suddenly very clear—they’d been discussing her. Her own family, talking in secret about her! She could see it in the faces of her parents, of her siblings, of her sisters-in-law. They surrounded her now, looking at her with varying expressions of determination and sympathy. “What’s this, then, you’ve discussed my life and determined a course, have you? How dare you speak ill of me behind my back.”
“Criosd, Cat, no one has spoken ill of you!” Rabbie said. “But for the last few months, you mope about and drink your fill of wine and brandy every night, aye?” Rabbie said. “You donna attempt to have any society about you.”
“What society?” she exclaimed loudly. “Where is it, Rabbie, do point me in that direction, aye? And in the course of it, perhaps you might point to something that I might do.”
He frowned. “Do you no’ see what we all see? You’re letting your life slip between your fingers, you are.”
She felt strangely exposed. Uncomfortable. Not angry, really, but...but she didn’t like this, not at all. What did they expect of her? None of them had ever been a spinster, with nothing to look forward to, without any hope of ever being a mother, or a wife. “What would you have me do? I’ve no occupation, no’ a bloody thing to do with my time but mope about and drink wine and brandy!” She felt on the verge of tears. She felt annoyed, she felt betrayed, she felt as if they’d all left her behind. Every one of them had families and loves and occupations, and purpose, for God’s sake, but she, by virtue of being born female and at a time when suitable men were scarce, could do nothing but float from one gathering to the next, looking for something to do with her time.
The only meaningful thing in her life at present was the abbey. Zelda had given a purpose to Catriona’s life, and they would take it away?
Blast it, but the tears began to slip from her eyes again.
“Diah, I didna say it to make you cry,” Rabbie said gruffly.
Her mother walked to Catriona’s seat and wrapped her arms around her daughter. “Go to your uncle Knox, allow him to help you, and please, darling, take a bit of time to care for yourself.”
“I canna leave them,” she said tearfully, and took the handkerchief Daisy offered her and blew her nose.
“Aye, Miss Catriona, you can.”
Catriona stilled. The mutiny was complete, then. “You, too, Rhona?” she asked in a whimper.
Rhona colored slightly. “We’ll be quite all right for the summer, aye?” she said nervously. “Your lady mother, she...well, she’s right, she is. You deserve happiness, Miss Catriona. You’ve no’ had it at Kishorn.”
Catriona wanted to argue that she was happy, but it was a lie. She was desperately unhappy with her situation, and apparently, in spite of her best efforts to hide it, they all knew it.
“Rhona and I had opportunity to speak,” her mother said. “We agree everyone might look after themselves. But I very much miss my bright daughter.”
Her “bright daughter” had withered away a very long time ago, and in her place, a lonely Catriona stood.
“I’ll help at the abbey while you’re away,” Lottie said.
“So will I,” Bernadette offered.
“Me, too!” Daisy joined in. “All of us.”
“Aye, well, you’ll no’ know what to do, any of you,” Catriona said petulantly. “You’ll make a mess of things.”
“We verra well might,” Aulay agreed, and leaned down to kiss the top of Catriona’s head. “But you’ll put it all to rights when you return, aye?”
Catriona rolled her eyes. “I’ve no’ said I’ll go,” she warned them.
But by the end of the week, Catriona was on a Balhaire coach bound for Crieff and Uncle Knox.
CHAPTER TWO (#u01228827-fbef-5a9b-adf8-3aafd8d665c0)
THE JOURNEY FROM Balhaire to Crieff was tiresome, particularly given that the roads were single track and many of them used so infrequently that the coachmen were forced to stop more than once to clear debris from their path. Every day for a week they bounced along to a mean inn, then woke up and started the day over again.
Contrary to her family’s wishes, Catriona’s bleak mood was not improved by the travel.
It seemed weeks had passed instead of days when at last the coach rolled onto the High Street at Crieff and came to a halt at the Red Sword and Shield Inn. It was midday, but Catriona was so weary she all but fell out of the coach and into the hands of the young Mackenzie coachman who caught her and set her upright.
“Here you are, then, Miss Mackenzie,” he said. “We’ll be back for you in a fortnight, perhaps three weeks, aye?”
In that moment, she didn’t care if they ever returned for her, because she could not fathom putting herself in that coach once more.
“There she is!” called a voice very familiar to her.
She turned about and smiled at her uncle Knox, who strode across the cobblestones to her, his coat flapping in time to his gusto. “My dear, dear girl, you’ve come at last!”
Her beloved uncle met her with such verve and enthusiasm that she was propelled a step or two backward, and her cap was knocked from her head. He wrapped her in a hearty embrace, smashing her face against his chest, then laid several kisses on her cheek before standing back, holding her at arm’s length, admiring her as the coachmen tried to hand her the hat. “Still a beauty, my little one,” he said proudly.
Still? She supposed that now she was three and thirty, he was expecting her looks to have begun to fade away into spinsterhood. “It’s so good to see you, Uncle Knox,” she said. “You’ve no idea.”
Her uncle had grown a wee bit more corpulent since the last time she’d held him. What was it, a year or so ago? He’d come from England to visit his sister, Catriona’s mother—and to pay a call to Auntie Zelda at Kishorn. Aye, he was a wee bit rounder, but quite handsome with his glittering pale green eyes and graying hair, which he’d bobbed with a black velvet ribbon. His coat was fine wool, and his waistcoat had been embroidered with gold thread that matched the embroidery along the center front of his coat. His neckcloth was snowy white and tied into an elaborate knot. Catriona felt quite plain in comparison.
“Come, come, you must be thirsty. And hungry, too, are you? Here you are, my good men, a night’s lodging and all the wine and women you might want,” he said, tossing a bag of coins to the driver. “Don’t hasten back now. I should like time with my most favored niece.” He wrapped an arm around Catriona’s shoulders and wheeled her about. “It’s such a dreadfully long way from Balhaire, is it not? I’ve always said to Margot that there ought to be an easier way to reach her, but alas, she has long loved your father and refuses to leave him.”
“Leave him?” Catriona exclaimed.
“You’ve come alone, have you? No girl to tend you? Nothing but those brutes to drive you and handle your trunk?” he asked as he hurried her along the cobblestones toward the entrance of the inn’s public room. Bright red poppies graced the window boxes, and tables and chairs had been arranged outside, yet there was no one enjoying the sun.
“I’ve a girl for you if you haven’t one, although I can’t vouch for her skills. She seems to do well enough to my eyes, but my guest, Miss Chasity Wilke-Smythe, claims she is wretched, and yet Chasity looks rather pretty to these old eyes.”
Guests! Catriona should have known—Uncle Knox constantly surrounded himself with a retinue of friends and acquaintances, gathered from far-flung corners and questionable establishments. Catriona felt suddenly self-conscious as he bustled her along. She could smell herself, felt wretched in her traveling clothes and wanted nothing more than a hot bath and a wee bit of brandy.
“Between you and me, love, the Wilke-Smythes are a bit demanding,” Uncle Knox said in a low voice. “And a bit too far on the side of the Whigs, if you take my meaning.” He waggled his brows at her.
She did not take his meaning.
“But you will find great company in them, I am certain of it, and if not, there is Countess Orlov and her cousin, Vasily Orlov. Now, there is a colorful pair if ever there was.” He leaned his head to hers and whispered, very dramatically, “Russians.”
“I beg your pardon, Uncle. You didna mention you were already entertaining guests in your reply to my request to join you.”
“Why, I’ve hardly any!” he declared. “And besides, I should have an entire assembly under my roof and turn them all away if it meant I might spend a summer with my much beloved niece.”
“No’ a summer, Uncle. A fortnight—”
“Here we are!” he declared, ignoring her, and with one arm around her, he used the other as a sort of battering ram and shoved open the door of the inn, then loudly proclaimed, “She’s here!”
The small group of people gathered at a table in the center of the room looked at her. Those were her uncle’s guests, she gathered, as the only other people in the inn were two men standing at the counter in the back with tankards before them.
Uncle Knox dragged Catriona forward to the table and introduced her to his company: Mr. and Mrs. Wilke-Smythe and their daughter, Miss Chasity Wilke-Smythe. Miss Chasity Wilke-Smythe resembled her mother so much that the pair looked a wee bit like twins in their powdered hair and matching coats. The former, at first glance, seemed scarcely old enough to be out.
She then met Countess Orlov, an elegant woman with a discerning gaze, and her cousin, the handsome, yet foppish, Mr. Vasily Orlov. “You must call me Vasily,” he said, his name rolling off his tongue as he bowed over her hand.
Next was Mrs. Marianne Templeton, whom Catriona knew as the widowed sister of Uncle Knox’s neighbor in England. Her mother had mentioned her once, had said she was quite eager to make Uncle Knox her next husband. She looked a wee bit older than Uncle Knox and examined Catriona from the top of her head to the tips of her boots. And last, an elderly gentleman with thick, wiry brows. Lord Furness, an old friend, her uncle said, scarcely glanced at her.
Uncle Knox sat her between Lord Furness and Miss Chasity Wilke-Smythe and ordered tots of whisky for them all. “In honor of my niece. The Scots are fond of whisky, is that not so, Cat?”
“Ah...many are, aye,” she agreed.
“When in Scotland, lads, we drink as the Scotch do,” Uncle Knox said, and held his tot aloft. “To Scotland!”
“To Scotland!” his guests echoed.
Catriona tolerated whisky well enough, but she was so parched today that she downed the tot and set the small glass firmly on the table. That was when she noticed everyone was staring at her. “It was just a wee tot,” she said a bit defensively. She was still bruised from the apparent censure she’d received from her family on that rain-soaked afternoon at Kishorn.
“Another!” shouted Uncle Knox. “Another round for us all!”
The whisky had the effect of making the group a bit merrier. They began to laugh and talk over one another, correcting each other’s accounting of what had happened the night before, which, from the sound of it, had been a game of Whist gone horribly wrong. Catriona listened, and she smiled and nodded where she thought she ought, but she felt nothing but fatigue weighing her down. She leaned far back in her chair so that Lord Furness could speak over her to Miss Wilke-Smythe. The inn was beginning to fill, and she prayed that meant Uncle Knox would soon see them to Dungotty, the estate he’d allegedly purchased for a song. Unfortunately, he showed no sign of leaving, ordering kidney pies for all, and moving them from whisky to ale when Mrs. Templeton began to laugh a little too loudly.
Another hour passed. Catriona felt herself sliding down her wooden seat and glanced at the watch pinned to her gown to gauge the time. When she wearily lifted her gaze, her eyes landed on the back of a man. He was quite tall. He was wearing a cloak that, from even a bit of distance, she could see was made of the finest wool. His snowy-white collar covered the back of his neck, and his hair, as black as his cloak, was bobbed into a queue with a single green ribbon. She had not seen him come in. He had taken a seat near the window, quite alone, and sat with one leg crossed over the other, one arm slung across the back of an empty chair, and gazed through the windowpanes at the goings-on in the street.
Catriona was suddenly nudged with an elbow. “I can’t believe he’s come in,” whispered Miss Wilke-Smythe.
“Pardon?”
The young woman nodded in the direction of the tall man with the green ribbon. “That is the Duke of Montrose,” she whispered excitedly. “Look, there’s the coach from Blackthorn,” she said, nodding toward the window.
Catriona looked at the man’s back again.
“You’ve no doubt heard of him, haven’t you?” asked Miss Wilke-Smythe.
Catriona shook her head. “Should I have?”
“Yes!” Miss Wilke-Smythe said in a near squeal. She clamped her hand down on Catriona’s arm and squeezed with alarming strength. “He’s quite notorious,” she said, her brown eyes glittering.
He didn’t seem so notorious to Catriona. “Why is that, then?”
Miss Wilke-Smythe leaned even closer, so that Catriona could feel her breath on her neck, and whispered, “They say he murdered his wife.”
“What?” Catriona blinked. She turned her head to look at the young woman. “You jest,” she accused her.
“Not in the least! Everyone says so—they say she simply disappeared. One night, she hosted a table set with so much china and silver that armed guards stood before the mansion. And the next day, she vanished, just like that,” she said with a snap of her gloved fingers. “One moment she was here, and the next, vanished. No one has seen her since.”
Catriona looked at the broad back of the man at the window. “That’s impossible.”
“You must hear it from Lord Norwood!” Miss Wilke-Smythe said, referring to Uncle Knox, who happened to be the Earl of Norwood. “He relayed it all to me.”
“All right, then, that’s enough of this,” her uncle suddenly said, and stood up, swaying a bit on his feet. “Time I see my darling niece home, I should think. Where are her trunks? Has someone got her trunks?”
“Well, I haven’t got them,” Lord Furness said, and staggered to his feet, too. In fact, there was a lot of rattling about as they all stood, casting around for discarded cloaks and reticules, hats and bonnets. In the flurry, Catriona tried to get a look at the duke’s face, but his back was very much to the door, and Vasily Orlov chose that moment to sidle up to her with a leering sort of smile. “Norwood was remiss in mentioning the beauty of his niece,” he purred.
Catriona stepped away from him and followed her uncle as he and his party stumbled into bright sunlight.
The Balhaire coach was gone, and in its place, a large barouche coach waited. It sported red plumes at every corner, and the gold seal of Montrose was emblazoned on its doors, much like the sort of coach Catriona had seen at Norwood Park when she was a child.
“By devil, has Montrose shown his face in town?” Uncle Knox said as he linked Catriona’s arm through his.
“He has indeed,” Lord Furness said as they stood together, admiring the coach. “Did you not see the gentleman in the inn? It can be no one but him, not with the garish signet ring he wore.”
“What? In the inn? I did not,” Uncle Knox said. “Jolly well brave of him to come round, I’d say. Come along, Cat darling, you are with me. I’ve a new buggy, a cabriolet. From France,” he said, as if that pleased him.
“What of my trunks?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder for them.
“Someone will bring them.”
“Uncle, I—”
“There now, darling, don’t fret about a thing. All is taken care of. I should not be the least surprised to see your trunks already delivered safely to your suite at Dungotty. The Scotch are surprisingly efficient.”
She wondered if she ought to be offended by his surprise or his generalized view of her fellow countrymen, but her attention was drawn to her uncle’s new carriage. It had two seats, a hood and two horses to pull it.
Uncle Knox helped her up first, but as he was unsteady on his feet from the ale and whisky, it took two attempts for him to haul himself into the seat beside her.
“Do you mean to drive?” she asked, alarmed.
“I had a mind to, yes. Don’t look so frightened of it, darling! Do you not trust your dear old Uncle Knox?”
“No!”
He laughed. “Well, then, if you prefer, you may drive,” he said gallantly.
“I prefer.”
He clucked his tongue at her. “So like Zelda you are. It’s uncanny.” He gladly handed her the reins. “Look here, look here!” he called to his companions. “My niece means to drive! That’s the way of it in Scotland, the women are as hard as brass!”
“Uncle!”
“I mean that in the most complimentary way,” he said as he settled back against the leather squabs. “My own sister is more Scot than English now, can you believe it? To think how she fought against being sent to Scotland to marry your father,” he said, and laughed heartily before pointing. “Take the north road.”
Catriona set the team to such a fierce trot that Uncle Knox had to grab on to the side of the carriage to keep from being tossed to the ground.
He was eager to call out points of interest as they drove, but Catriona scarcely noticed them, she was so tired. But when the road rounded a thicket, she did indeed notice, sitting at the base of a hill, an estate so grand, a house so vast, that she thought it must belong to the king.
The stone was dark gray, the dozens of windows, even from this distance, glistening in the afternoon sun. There were so many chimneys that she couldn’t possibly count them as they rolled by. “What is it?” she asked, awestruck.
“That, my dear girl, is Blackthorn Hall, the seat of the Duke of Montrose.”
The house disappeared behind more thicket. They climbed a hill in the cabriolet, and the road twisted around, at which point they were afforded another view of Blackthorn Hall and the large park behind it. A small lake was in the center, the lawn perfectly manicured. There was a garden so expansive that the colors of the roses looked like ribbons in the distance. The stables were as big as Auchenard, the hunting lodge near Balhaire that belonged to Catriona’s nephew, Lord Chatwick.
“Quite grand, isn’t it?” Uncle Knox remarked.
The road curved away from Blackthorn Hall, and Catriona returned her attention back to the road. “Did he really kill his wife, then?”
“You’ve heard it already! That is indeed what the locals say, but I don’t know that he did. Perhaps he sent her off to a convent. Whatever happened, it seems to be fact that she disappeared one night and no one has seen hide nor hair of her since.”
“And no one has looked for her?” Catriona asked.
“Oh, I suppose they have,” he said. “She was, by all accounts, a ginger-haired beauty, beloved by the tenants. I have heard it said she was a bright spot of light in a dismal man’s shadow. How he must have resented her,” Uncle Knox mused.
“Why?”
Uncle Knox laughed. “Don’t you know, Cat? Gentlemen of a certain disposition do not care to be overshadowed by the weaker sex.”
“But murder?” Catriona asked skeptically.
“Yes, well, some men are driven to mad passion by the right woman, darling.” He tapped her hand. “Mind you remember that.”
Catriona rolled her eyes. “Have you met him, then?” she asked. “The duke?”
“What? Why, no,” he said, sounding as if he’d just realized it and was surprised by it.
“If I lived here, I should make a point of meeting him,” Catriona said. “I’ll no’ believe such rumors without meeting the man.”
“So much like your aunt Zelda, aren’t you?” he said, shaking his head. “She would have walked up to Blackthorn and banged the knocker and asked his grace, ‘Did you murder your wife?’”
Catriona smiled.
Her uncle suddenly sat up. “There it is, there is Dungotty!” he said, swiping his hat off his head to use as a pointer.
Dungotty was a glorious house. It was half the size of Blackthorn Hall, but quite bigger than Catriona had expected, and rather elegant. It was at least as big as Norwood Park, her uncle’s seat and her mother’s childhood home. Dungotty was nestled in a forest clearing, and a large fountain spouted water from the mouth of three mermaids in the middle of a circular drive. They were arranged with their arms around each other, their faces turned up to the sun as if they were singing.
As Catriona steered the team into the drive, two men in livery and wigs emerged and took control of the team and helped Catriona and her uncle down.
“I’ve the perfect suite for you, my love,” Uncle Knox said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “It was once inhabited by the dowager of Dungotty.”
“Who was the family, then?” Catriona asked, casting her gaze up at the frieze above the grand entry.
“What family?”
Catriona gave him a sidelong glance. “The family that was forced to forfeit.”
“Ah, of course! You still harbor tender feelings, I see. I believe they were Hays. Or perhaps Haynes. Well, no matter. It was a very long time ago, and we should allow bygones to be bygones.”
“Spoken like an Englishman,” she muttered.
Uncle Knox laughed. “You might change your thinking when you see the rooms I’ve set aside for you.”
Well, as it happened, Uncle Knox had a point. The rooms he showed her to were beautiful—a bedroom, a sitting room and a very large dressing room. The suite had been done in pink and cream silks, and a thickly looped carpet warmed the wood-planked floors. The bed had an elaborate canopy, and the view out the three floor-to-ceiling windows featured a trimmed lawn and a picturesque glen with hills rising up on either side beyond. In the sitting room, a fire blazed in the hearth. It boasted upholstered chairs, a small dining table and a chaise. But perhaps the most welcome site was the brass tub in the dressing room.
“What do you think?” Uncle Knox asked.
“Aye, it’s bonny, uncle,” Catriona said, and looked up at the ceiling painted with an angelic scene. “Thank you.”
He smiled with pleasure. “Rest now, love. I’ll send a girl and a bath to you before supper. We’ve a fresh ham in honor of your arrival!”
Catriona wasn’t certain if he was more excited by her arrival or the prospect of fresh ham. She was excited by the prospect of a nap and a bath. “Before you go, uncle,” she said, catching her uncle before he disappeared through the door. “I’ve a letter,” she said, reaching into her pocket.
“My sister is determined to rule my life,” he said with a chuckle. “This will be the third letter I’ve received from her in as many weeks. What now?”
“No’ Mamma,” Catriona said. “It’s from Zelda.”
Uncle Knox’s expression softened. He looked at the letter Catriona held out to him. “She wrote me,” he said, his voice full of wonder.
“Aye, that she did. She left three for me to deliver, she did. One for my father. One for the reverend. And one for you.”
Uncle Knox took the letter and ran the tip of his finger over the ink where she’d written his name. “Thank you, my darling Cat,” he said, and hugged her tightly to him.
Catriona was suddenly overcome with a wave of emotion. “You’ll help me, will you no’, Uncle Knox?” she asked into his collar. “You’ll help me preserve what Zelda worked so hard to build, aye?”
“There now, lass, of course I will. But we will save talk of it until later, shall we? You need to rest from your journey and your loss.”
“But I—”
“We’ve plenty of time,” he said, and kissed her temple. “Rest now, darling.” He went out, his gaze on the letter.
Catriona closed the door behind him, then lay down on the counterpane of her bed and closed her eyes with a weary sigh. But as she drifted off to sleep, she kept seeing a broad back, a neat queue of black hair, held with a green ribbon, an arm stretched possessively over the back of an empty chair.
It was impossible to imagine that a man who looked as virile as he would find it necessary to kill his wife. Could he not have seduced her instead? Of course he could have—he was a duke. She’d never known a woman who could not be seduced with the idea of being a duchess.
What, then, had become of her?
CHAPTER THREE (#u01228827-fbef-5a9b-adf8-3aafd8d665c0)
HAMLIN GRAHAM, THE Duke of Montrose, Earl of Kincardine, Laird of Graham, was brushing a ten-year-old girl’s hair. It was not his forte, nor his desire.
These were the true troubles of a notorious duke.
“It’s too hard,” the girl, his ward, complained.
“What am I to do, then?” he asked brusquely, annoyed with the task and his clumsiness at something that seemed so simple. “You’ve a bird’s nest on your head.”
The girl, Eula—Miss Eula Guinne, to be precise—giggled.
“Why do you no’ have your maid brush your hair, then? She’s surely better than me.”
“I donna like her,” Eula said.
“Aye, and why no’?”
“Because she’s quite old. And she smells of garlic.”
Hamlin couldn’t argue—he’d caught a whiff of garlic a time or two from Mrs. Weaver.
“I should like a new maid.”
Hamlin rolled his eyes. “I’ll no’ let Mrs. Weaver go, Eula. She came all the way from England to serve me and has been in my employ for many years, aye?” There was also the slight problem of finding a suitable replacement were he to lose Mrs. Weaver, given his black reputation.
“But she’s no’ a maid, no’ really. She’s a housekeeper. I want a maid.”
Eula was very much like her cousin, Glenna Guinne, the woman Hamlin had once called wife. Glenna had wanted for things, too—all things, and always more things. It had been a loathsome burden to try to please her.
He took one of the jewel-tipped hairpins from an enamel box and set a thick curly russet tress of Eula’s hair back from her face. He did the same on the other side of her head.
“They’re no’ even,” Eula said petulantly, examining herself closely in the mirror.
It took Hamlin two more attempts before she was satisfied. When she was, she turned around and eyed him up and down. “You’re no’ properly dressed, Montrose.”
“I’ve told you, ’tis no’ proper for a young miss to address a duke by his title,” he said. He glanced down at his buckskins, his lawn shirt and a pair of boots that needed a good polish. “And I’m perfectly dressed for repairing a roof.”
“Which roof?”
“One of the outbuildings.”
“What happened to it?”
“It’s gained a hole.”
“Why must you do it, then? A footman or a groundskeeper ought to be the one, no’ you.”
Hamlin folded his arms and cocked his head to one side. “I beg your pardon, then, lass, but are you the lady of Blackthorn Hall now?”
She shrugged. “Cousin Glenna said dukes are no’ to work with their hands. Dukes are meant to think about important matters.”
“Well, this duke happens to like working with his hands, he does.” Hamlin put his hand on her shoulder and pointed her toward the door. “It’s time for your studies.”
“It’s always time for my studies,” Eula said with the weariness of an elderly scholar.
“Off with you, then, lass.”
Before Eula could skip out the door, Hamlin stopped her. “Are you no’ forgetting something, lass?”
She stopped mid-skip, twirled around, ran back to her vanity, picked up her slate and quit the room.
Hamlin walked in the opposite direction, striding down the carpeted hallway lined with portraits of Montrose dukes and their ladies. He swept down the curving staircase to the marble foyer and strode through the double entry doors a footman opened as he neared, and onto the portico.
He jogged down the brick steps and onto the drive, where he paused to look up at a bright blue sky. The summer had been unusually dry thus far, which created crystal clear days such as this.
He struck out, walking purposefully to a group of outbuildings that housed tools and a tack room. Men were waiting for him, their workbenches and tools arrayed around the edge of a storage building that had been damaged by a late spring storm.
“Your grace,” said his carpenter, inclining his head.
“Mr. Watson,” Hamlin said in return. “Fine day, aye?”
“’Tis indeed, milord.” He handed him a hammer.
Hamlin took it and ascended the ladder that had been placed against the wall. There was a time the servants of Blackthorn had spoken to him as if he were a person and not someone to be feared. Good day to ye, your grace. Been down to the river? Trout are jumping into the nets, they are.
When he had positioned himself on the roof, he leaned to his side. “A plank, Watson.”
“Aye, milord.” With the help of a younger man, Watson climbed the ladder with a plank of wood and helped Hamlin slide it into place. Hamlin held out his hand for nails. Nails were placed in his palm. He set them in his mouth save one, which he began to hammer.
He had not been entirely clear with Eula. It wasn’t the work he enjoyed, it was the hammering. He liked striking the head of a nail with as much force as a man could harness. He liked the reverberation of that strike through his body, how powerful it made him feel. Wholly in control. Capable of moving mountains and forging rivers. He’d not always felt that way. He’d not always been able to pound out his frustrations to feel himself again.
“Your grace,” Watson said.
“Hmm,” he grunted through a mouthful of nails.
“Your grace, someone comes, aye?”
Hamlin stopped hammering. He glanced up, saw a sleek little cabriolet behind a team of two trotting down the drive toward his house. He was surprised to see any conveyance coming down the road at all—no one called at Blackthorn now. There was no such thing as a social call. He spit the nails into the palm of his hand. “Who is it, then?” he asked of no one in particular.
“I donna recognize it,” Watson said.
Hamlin sighed irritably. He wanted to hammer nails. He wanted to repair this hole and feel as if he’d done something meaningful today. He wanted to feel his strength, and then his exhaustion. But he handed everything to Watson and climbed down the ladder, reaching the ground just as the carriage was reined to a halt...and not a moment too soon, as it happened. If the driver hadn’t reined when he did, the team would have run him over. As Hamlin waved the dust from his face, he squinted at the pair in the cabriolet. It was a woman who held the reins.
A gentleman, older than Hamlin by two dozen years or more, soft around the middle, climbed down, then held out his hand to help the driver. But that one had leapt like a stag from her seat on the opposite side of the cabriolet. The force of her landing knocked her bonnet slightly to one side, and he noticed she had hair the color of wheat. She righted her hat, then strode forward to join the older man.
There was something about the woman that struck Hamlin as odd. Perhaps it was the way she walked as they approached him and his men—confidently and with purpose, her arms moving in time with her legs. He was accustomed to women walking slowly and with swinging hips, in ways that were designed to attract a male’s eye. This woman moved as if she had someplace quite important to be and not a moment could be spared.
The other notable thing about her was that she looked him directly in the eye, and not the least bit demurely. She was not complicated, but rather easy to read. Women used to smile at him in ways that made him question if he knew anything at all. But this woman gave him pause—generally, when anyone looked at him with such undiluted purpose, it was to request something or to accuse him.
“How do you do, sir?” the older man asked.
Hamlin shifted his gaze to the gentleman.
“Be a good man, will you, and send someone to inform the duke we’ve called. Knox Armstrong, Earl of Norwood,” he said, and bowed his head.
Hamlin stared at him. Norwood. He was English, quite obviously. Should he know him? He didn’t recall the name and wondered what in bloody hell he was to be accused of now.
The woman cleared her throat.
“Ah. And my niece Miss Catriona Mackenzie of Balhaire,” he added.
Hamlin looked again at the woman. She smiled prettily.
A moment passed as Hamlin considered the two of them. Miss Catriona Mackenzie of Balhaire arched a brow as if to silently remind him he was to fetch the duke. And then, in the event he did not recall what he was to do, she said, “If you would be so kind as to tell the duke we’ve called, then.”
Her voice lilted with a Scottish accent. It was a lovely, lyrical voice, and he imagined her reading stories to children, soothing them to sleep. It was a voice quite at odds with her direct manner.
“You might tell him yourself,” Hamlin said.
Norwood’s eyes widened with surprise, and he exchanged a look with his niece. The two of them suddenly burst into laughter, startling Hamlin and his men.
“Good God, man, we cannot simply waltz into a grand house and announce our presence, can we? That is not the way things are done. One must inform the duke we’ve called, and he must decide if he shall receive us.”
“Is that how it is done, then?” Hamlin drawled, aware that the niece was looking at him with amusement shining in her eyes.
“Well,” the earl said, smiling jovially, “perhaps I should say that is how we do it.”
Aye, the English thought themselves superior in every wee thing. Hamlin folded his arms across his chest. “I am the duke.”
The niece looked startled, but Norwood seemed quite diverted by it, as if they were playing a game. “You are Montrose?”
“I am.”
He looked at the men behind Hamlin, and whatever he saw there convinced him that Hamlin was telling the truth. “The devil you say. Well, then!” he said, smiling broadly now. “A pleasure to make your esteemed acquaintance, your grace.” He bowed low. “You will forgive me for not recognizing you straightaway, but you can imagine my confusion, seeing you whale away at a nail as you were.”
“Why should that confuse you, then?”
Norwood blinked.
“Because we’ve never known a duke to lift more than a cup, have we, uncle?” the niece said, and laughed.
Hamlin shifted his gaze back to her. This woman had not an ounce of conceit in her. Nor an ounce of manners, as one might expect, given that she was the niece of an English earl.
“Aye, well, this duke is no’ afraid of a hammer. Or a cup.”
“Apparently no’,” she said with a pert smile, and her gray-blue eyes glittered like the surface of the lake in bright sunlight. Hamlin was momentarily blinded by it...until he realized that all gathered were waiting for him to speak.
He turned toward Watson. “Go, then, and inform Stuart we’ve visitors, aye?” he said low. He turned to his guests and said, “If you will be so kind as to carry on to the entrance. My butler will show you in. I’ll join you shortly.”
“Thank you, your grace,” Norwood said, and gestured for his niece to come along.
Hamlin watched her ascend to the driver’s seat once more, then stepped out of the way of the cabriolet, which proved to be a wise decision, for the niece started up the team with such enthusiasm that they practically launched into space with the small carriage flying behind them.
Hamlin looked around at his men. They were all staring at him as if they’d seen a comet. “Aye,” he said, in taciturn agreement. No other words were needed—to a man, they all understood that what they had just witnessed was not the natural way of things.
CHAPTER FOUR (#u01228827-fbef-5a9b-adf8-3aafd8d665c0)
STUART, A PRIM and proper butler, as thin as a reed, his neckcloth tied as tightly as a garrote, showed Catriona and her uncle into a small drawing room with brocade drapes, furnishings upholstered in silk and a wall of books. A clock on the mantel ticked away the minutes for them.
“He means to make us wait,” Catriona said as she made her third restless trip around the room.
Uncle Knox had made himself quite comfortable on the settee and was currently examining a porcelain figurine of a small Highland fiddler. “Well, darling, we did make a rather unfortunate mistake in thinking him someone other than the duke.”
“Who could blame us?” Catriona asked. “He looked like a carpenter, he did.” A strong, strapping, handsome carpenter. His eyes were as black as his hair, his lashes as black as his eyes. His shoulders were as broad as a horse and his hips as firm as a—
“We should not judge a man by his appearance,” her uncle absently opined.
It was too late. She’d judged him by his appearance and had found him ruggedly appealing. “No,” she agreed. “But might we judge him a wee bit? He doesna look a murderer, does he?”
“I hardly know, darling. I am not acquainted with any murderers. I’m uncertain what to look for, precisely.”
Well, she’d never known a murderer, either, but she was convinced the duke did not look like a murderer. He looked like someone who ought to be wearing a crown, or leading an army of Highland soldiers, or breaking wild horses. He had a commanding presence—even more so once she’d realized with a wee thrill that he wasn’t a tradesman after all, but a duke and all that entailed—but not for a moment did he look the sort to murder. Catriona would be bitterly disappointed if she discovered he was.
She made her fourth trip around the room. She’d never been very good at waiting. In fact, she had coaxed her uncle into calling at Blackthorn Hall today because she couldn’t bear to wait another moment to discuss the abbey, which Uncle Knox was reluctant to do. He wanted her to put it out of her mind for a time, and enjoy her visit. But Catriona could not put it out of her mind for any length of time, really, and certainly not without something to divert her instead. So she’d cajoled him into calling on the mysterious Duke of Montrose.
She paused at the shelving to examine his books. The duke had a collection of tomes concerning history, astronomy and philosophy. No plays, no sonnets. A serious man, then. Daisy brought Catriona novels from England, tales of chivalry and love and adventure on the seas. Did the duke read nothing for pleasure? Was the man who inhabited that physique opposed to the simplest diversion?
“Sit, Cat, my love. You’re wreaking havoc on my nerves.”
“I canna sit and wait like a parishioner for the end of the sermon,” she complained.
Just then, the door swung partially open. A russet-haired head popped around the edge of the door about knob high. The head slid in just so that two brown eyes were visible. And then the door slowly swung open.
Uncle Knox gained his feet, clasped his hands at his back, then leaned forward, squinting at the creature who peeked around the door. “Good day,” he said.
The child moved, presenting enough of her body to know that it was a lass who eyed them. The other half remained hidden behind the door. “I’m Eula,” she said. “Who are you, then?”
“Good afternoon, Miss Eula,” Uncle Knox said. “Lord Norwood.” He bowed. “And this is my niece Miss Mackenzie.”
Catriona curtsied.
The lass looked at Catriona, her gaze sweeping over her, lingering on the hem of Catriona’s gown, which had been embroidered with vines and bluebirds. “Did you come to call on Montrose?”
Uncle Knox exchanged a look with Catriona.
“That’s the duke,” the lass said. “He lives here, too.”
“Aye, we have,” Catriona confirmed.
“Are you his friends?”
“Not as yet,” said Uncle Knox. “But we do mean to change that.”
The girl slid all the way into the room, her back to the wall. “He doesna have any friends,” she said, staring at them suspiciously.
Uncle Knox covered a laugh behind a cough.
“Aye, we’ve heard it said,” Catriona agreed.
The lass pushed away from the door and came closer to Catriona, peering at her curiously, her gaze taking in every bit of Catriona’s gown, her face, her hair. “You’re verra bonny.”
“Thank you kindly,” Catriona said. “So are you, Miss Eula. Do you live here, then, with his grace?”
She nodded. “I’ve my own suite of rooms.”
“How wonderful. I should imagine them quite grand, aye?”
“They are,” the lass agreed matter-of-factly, and traced her finger over the figurine that Uncle Knox had been examining. “I have two rooms, I do, but one is for sitting, and one for sleeping. That’s the way of proper ladies.”
“I see,” Catriona said.
“Eula.”
The deeply masculine voice was quiet but firm, and Eula was so startled that she knocked the figurine to the carpeted floor. Catriona bent down and picked it up. She smiled and winked at Eula before she rose, and returned the figurine to the table. She looked over the lass’s head at the duke. He’d donned a proper coat, but he was still lacking a collar or neckcloth. And he had not, she noted, combed his thick, black hair.
“You’re to be at your studies,” he said coolly.
“But we have callers,” Eula said.
“Rather, I have callers. You have studies. Go on, then.”
“Aye, all right,” Eula said with dejection, and began to slink to the door, but at the pace of a slug, pausing to examine the tassel on a pillow, an unlit candle. When she at last reached the door, she glanced back.
“Feasgar math,” Catriona said with a smile.
The lass’s pretty brown eyes widened with surprise.
“Good afternoon,” Catriona translated.
Eula smiled with delight. She waved her fingers and sort of slid around the duke. As she went out, the duke ran his hand affectionately down her arm. So he cared for the wee minx. Which meant he wasn’t entirely reprehensible.
The duke closed the door behind Eula and looked at Catriona and Knox expectantly.
“Very kind of you to receive us, your grace,” Uncle Knox said. “I should have sent a messenger—”
“Aye,” he said curtly.
Catriona arched a brow. Was he miffed with them still, or merely unpleasant?
“Well, then, we are agreed. In our considerable defense, we’ve only just arrived at Dungotty.”
The duke said nothing.
“It’s ours now, you see,” Uncle Knox said.
Still nothing.
“It was an exceptionally good investment,” Uncle Knox added quite unnecessarily. Catriona politely cleared her throat, which caught her uncle’s attention.
“Yes, well, I have come for the summer, which is what brings us here today, your grace. I should like to extend an invitation to you to dine at Dungotty. I have invited my neighbors to the north, the MacLarens. Are you acquainted?”
The duke regarded Uncle Knox a long moment before responding. “I am.”
“Splendid! We will have a fine evening of it. I’ve brought a cook from France, and I do not overstate his culinary skill, I assure you. You will not be disappointed, your grace.”
The duke folded his arms across his chest as if he anticipated Uncle Knox would say more. His eyes, black as coal, moved to Catriona and flicked over her.
“You need not answer straightaway, of course,” Uncle Knox continued. “You will need time to consult your diary, quite obviously, busy man that you must be. We should like to dine on Thursday evening if it pleases you, so if you would be so kind to grant us the favor of your reply by Wednesday, it would be most appreciated.”
The duke stared at Uncle Knox with a clenched jaw. It was curious that he should be so tense in the face of an invitation to dine. Curious and rude. Uncle Knox, quite unaccustomed to taciturnity in anyone, looked helplessly at Catriona.
She stepped forward and took her uncle’s arm. “At any other time we would be delighted to stay for tea, your grace, but as it happens, we’ve many calls to make today.”
His gaze narrowed. “I didna invite you to tea.”
“No?” she said cheerfully. “Then I do beg your pardon. I must have assumed you would as it would be the courteous thing to do, aye?”
“Oh,” Uncle Knox muttered, and squeezed her hand. “Oh, no. No, Cat,” he muttered.
But the duke was not bothered by her pointed remark because he said, “I donna disagree,” and moved to one side and opened the door, thereby giving them a clear path to an exit.
“Thank you,” Catriona said, and curtsied deeply. “We do look forward to your favorable reply, despite your obvious displeasure with the invitation.”
“Oh, dear me,” Uncle Knox said. “Your grace,” he said with a nod of his head, and with his hand firmly on her elbow, he escorted Catriona past the duke. She wouldn’t know if the duke watched them go or not, for she refused to look at him.
In the hallway, Stuart appeared seemingly from nowhere, and with a sweep of his hand, he indicated the path to the main doors, then walked briskly ahead of them. When they reached the foyer, a footman was on hand to open that door so they would not be hindered for even a moment in their departure with a bothersome wait for someone to turn a knob. And no sooner had they stepped onto the landing than the door closed behind them so suddenly that Catriona turned her head to assure herself that her gown had not been caught.
“Well,” Uncle Knox said, yanking on his sleeves, “I’ve scarcely met a ruder man.”
“He’s absolutely diabolical, is he no’?” Catriona asked with gleeful terror as the two of them began their walk down the steps. “I’m more determined than ever to know if he is a murderer, that I am.”
“I would caution you in pressing your cause, darling, for if he is indeed a murderer, he may very well determine you ought to be murdered.”
“True,” she said thoughtfully. “Then again, he might no’, aye?” She winked at her uncle.
“I’ve indulged you in this chase, but I’ve done all that I can for you, darling. You should have heard the hue and cry Mrs. Templeton unleashed when I said we meant to invite him to dine. One would think she was being murdered that very moment. If you want my opinion, you should not concern yourself with him at all. He has a black reputation. They say he is a candidate for the House of Lords, but I can’t see how that could possibly be, given his sour demeanor and penchant for disposing of unruly wives.” He paused. “Or perhaps that is the very thing that recommends him.”
“You believe it!” Catriona said triumphantly. “You believe he’s done something awful to his wife. You do, Uncle Knox!”
He patted her hand. “I’ve not yet made up my mind, but after today’s interview, I am leaning toward the affirmative. Hopefully, he will agree to dine with us so that we might glean something.”
Catriona laughed.
They climbed into the cabriolet. She took the reins from a groomsman and guided the team around. She had the strongest desire to look back at the massive ducal seat as they rode away, but she wouldn’t allow herself to do it. Still, she had the strangest feeling they were being watched. Perhaps he was studying her back, determining where, precisely, to insert the dagger. Perhaps the ghost of the duchess was watching her.
* * *
THEIR NEXT ORDER of business was to call on the MacLarens. Uncle Knox had only recently met the influential laird MacLaren, and he was rather taken with him. Catriona could instantly see why when she was introduced—MacLaren had the same build as her uncle, was roughly the same age and possessed a booming laugh that he employed frequently. “You will be amazed at my collection of American tobacco products,” he crowed as he and his wife led Catriona and her uncle into a receiving salon.
“Ah, American tobacco. A finer cheroot I’ve not enjoyed,” Uncle Knox said as he took up a position at the hearth.
Catriona looked at him curiously. “How have you come upon American cheroots?”
“My dear, my acquaintances stretch round the globe,” he said, and drew a large circle in the air.
Mr. MacLaren burst into loud laughter. “Then you must have a look at my American tobacco, sir, aye? You’ve no’ had as fine as this, on that you may depend.” And with that, he whisked Uncle Knox away to some lair to admire tobacco.
Mrs. MacLaren summoned tea for the two of them. Like her husband, she was jovial, and the small salon felt as gay as its mistress.
“How long will you grace us at Dungotty, then?” she asked Catriona as she poured tea.
“No’ long at all,” Catriona said. “Perhaps a fortnight, but no more. I’ve pressing business at home.”
Mrs. MacLaren did not inquire as to the pressing business as Catriona had hoped—she welcomed any chance to talk about Kishorn. “No’ for the summer? Dungotty is so lovely this time of year, what with all the peonies. The Hays, the former occupants, took great pride in their gardens.”
She had no doubt they did before they were summarily ousted. “They are indeed bonny,” she said. She picked up her teacup. “By the bye, we invited the Duke of Montrose to dine with us Thursday evening.”
Mrs. MacLaren’s surprise was evident in the manner her dark brows rose almost to her powdered hair. “Really,” she said, and put down her teacup, as if she couldn’t hold the delicate china and absorb the news at the same time. “That’s...surprising. He so rarely leaves Blackthorn.”
“Oh?” Catriona asked innocently. “Perhaps, but he’s our neighbor all the same. It would be rude not to have extended the invitation, aye?” She sipped her tea, then said coyly, “I’ve heard what is said of him.”
Mrs. MacLaren looked a wee bit nonplussed. “Aye, he’s been the subject of wretched gossip.” She stirred sugar into her cup and added, “I canna imagine there’s a soul in these hills who’s no’ heard what is said of him.”
“Do you believe it?” Catriona asked.
Mrs. MacLaren frowned. “I donna know what I believe, in truth. Lady Montrose was much beloved in and around Blackthorn.”
“It seems impossible that anyone can simply vanish, much less a duchess, aye?”
Mrs. MacLaren nodded. “Particularly such a bonny young woman. A true beauty, that she was. Och, but she was full of light and love, and younger than the duke. Quite young, really. And him so brooding,” she said with a shiver.
“Is he?” Catriona asked. She had thought him rude. But brooding?
“Rather distant, he is. But I suppose that’s to be expected from a duke.”
Catriona didn’t suppose any such thing, but she kept that opinion to herself. “What did the duchess look like?” Catriona asked.
“Oh, she had beautiful ginger hair and piercing green eyes,” Mrs. MacLaren said, happier to speak of the duchess. “A true beauty, that she was. He must have believed so, too, for he had her portrait made and hung it in the main salon at Blackthorn.”
“Why would anyone assume he’d murdered her, do you suppose?” Catriona asked. It seemed so curious to her that murder should be everyone’s assumption, rather than believing the duke had cast his wife out. A woman who’d been cast out by her husband had turned up at Kishorn Abbey a year or so ago. Did someone somewhere believe that woman had been murdered?
“I can hardly guess the workings of a deviant mind,” Mrs. MacLaren said with a slight sniff. “What I do know is that passion can often be a dangerous thing between two people. But I shall no’ speak ill of the duke,” she said, in spite of having just spoken ill of the duke. “He’s no’ been charged with a crime, has he? To speculate would be to malign his reputation, and no matter what else, he’s done a lot of good for his tenants. But he’s made no friends for himself, that is true. And besides...” Mrs. MacLaren’s voice trailed away.
“And besides?” Catriona gently prodded.
“Well...it was no secret that there was great unhappiness at Blackthorn.”
That was a foregone conclusion. Happy homes did not lose a member here and there. “What sort of unhappiness?”
“I know only it’s been said,” Mrs. MacLaren demurred, and sipped her tea. “Ah, but she was a bonny woman, indeed she was. Devoted to the staff and their families. And he, well...he was rarely seen about. Quite cold, that one. It will be a curious thing to see him in society.”
“I saw him in the common room at the Red Sword and Shield on the day I arrived,” Catriona said.
“Did you? Perhaps he’s changed his ways. God knows he needed to. All right,” Mrs. MacLaren said, putting her teacup down again. “Enough of the duke. Is it true that your uncle has brought Russians to Dungotty?” she asked.
Catriona said it was true, and as Mrs. MacLaren began to speak of a chance meeting with a Russian count several years ago, Catriona thought of the dark-eyed man with the stern countenance and the portrait of his wife—Dead wife? Missing wife?—hanging in his salon.
Catriona hoped he would come to dine. She hadn’t been as diverted by a terrifyingly slanderous tale in ages.
Fortunately for her, they received the duke’s favorable reply on Wednesday.
CHAPTER FIVE (#u01228827-fbef-5a9b-adf8-3aafd8d665c0)
“YOU’RE CERTAIN OF THIS, are you?” Hamlin asked.
“Aye,” Eula said. She was standing on a chair before him, working on the knot of his neckcloth, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“I was speaking to Mr. Bain,” he said, and touched the tip of his finger to her nose.
“Aye, your grace, that I am,” a voice behind Hamlin said.
Hamlin eyed the reflection of his secretary, Nichol Bain, in the mirror. He was leaning against the door frame, his arms folded across his chest, watching Eula’s ministrations. The auburn-haired, green-eyed young man was ambitious in the way of young men. He didn’t care about the rumors swirling around Hamlin, he cared about performing well, about parlaying his service to a duke to a better position. What would that be, then? Service to the king? Hamlin could only guess.
Bain had come to Hamlin through the Duke of Perth, the closest friend of his late father. As Hamlin had been a young man himself when he’d become a duke, Perth had taken him under his wing, and twelve years later, like his father before him, Hamlin considered Perth his closest adviser. Perth had brought Bain to him, had vouched for what Hamlin had thought were rather vague credentials.
Bain’s expression remained impassive as he calmly returned Hamlin’s gaze in the mirror. The man was impossible to discern. Whatever he thought about any given situation, he kept quite to himself unless asked. But he’d made up his mind about tonight’s dinner at once when Hamlin had asked. Frankly, he’d hardly thought on it at all. He’d said simply, “Aye, you must attend.”
Hamlin looked at himself in the mirror, eyeing his dress. He’d not seen about acquiring another valet since the last one had “retired” from his post after the fiasco with Glenna. He’d never been anything but perfectly civil to the man, and yet he’d believed the talk swirling around his master. Fortunately, Hamlin was quite capable of dressing himself and had donned formal attire. His waistcoat was made of silver silk, his coat and breeches black. Alas, Eula’s attempt to tie his white silk neckcloth had not met with success.
“I think it a waste of time,” he said to his reflection, returning to his conversation with Bain. “Nothing of consequence can come of it.”
“It is well-known that the Earl of Caithness is unduly influenced by MacLaren’s opinion. A vote from Caithness will be instrumental, if no’ decisive,” Bain said. “It could verra well be the vote to put you in the Lords, aye? The more familiar you are with the Caithness surrogate, the better your odds.”
Hamlin responded with a grunt. If he secured a seat in the House of Lords, it would be nothing short of a small miracle. Scotland was allowed sixteen seats, and those seats were determined by a vote of the Scottish peers. Four had opened, and his name had been put forth by virtue of his title. But his appointment, which had once been seen as a fait accompli, was now tenuous at best. People did not care to be represented by a man rumored to be a murderer.
“You see this as an opportunity to be familiar with MacLaren. I see it as an opportunity for a lot of scandalmongers to invent a lot of scandal.”
“What does it mean, scandalmonger?” Eula asked.
“It means busybodies have been invited to dine, that’s what.”
She shrugged and hopped down from the chair, her task complete. “Will the lady attend?”
“What lady?” Hamlin asked absently as he tried to straighten the mess she’d made of his neckcloth.
“The bonny one with the golden hair.”
And the gray-blue eyes. He could not forget those eyes sparkling with such mischievous delight. She was a minx, that one. It seemed of late that when most women viewed him at all, it was with a mix of horrified curiosity and downright fear. But Miss Mackenzie had looked at him as if she wanted to either challenge him to a duel or invite him to dance. He didn’t know what to make of her forthright manner, really. He wondered if anyone had ever tried to bring her to heel. She was not a young debutante, that much was obvious, but a comely, assured woman, scarcely younger than he. Which raised the question of how a beautiful woman of means was not married? “I believe she will be, aye,” he said to Eula.
“I rather like her,” Eula said.
Of course she did—Eula was a wee minx herself, and with no woman to properly guide her, she was turning into a coquettish imp. “Where is your maid, then, lass? ’Tis time for your bed, I should think.”
“Already?” Eula complained.
“Already.” He leaned down and kissed the top of her head.
“You look very fine, Montrose,” she said, eyeing him closely.
“Your grace,” he reminded her.
“Your grace Montrose,” she returned with a pert smile. In the mirror’s reflection, Hamlin caught Bain’s slight smile of amusement.
“Off you go, then. I’ll come round to see you on the morrow, aye?”
“Good night,” she chirped, and skipped out, intentionally poking Bain in the belly as she passed him.
When she had gone out, Hamlin undid his neckcloth and began to tie it again. “You’re convinced, are you, that given all that has happened, I still stand a chance at gaining a seat?” Hamlin asked bluntly.
“No’ convinced, no, your grace,” Bain said. “But if anyone will consider a change of heart, ’tis MacLaren. He would keep the seat close to home and his interests rather than stand on principle.”
Apparently, Hamlin was the unprincipled choice for the seat. He mulled that over as he retied his neckcloth. He was not shocked that MacLaren might advocate for him for less than principled reasons—a seat in the Lords wielded considerable power in Scotland, and Hamlin would be expected to return favor to whomever had supported him. But he wasn’t convinced that MacLaren’s lack of principle would extend all the way to him. He could very well have another candidate in the wings.
Never mind all this dithering about the evening on his part. He’d sent his favorable reply to Norwood on Bain’s recommendation and would attend this bloody dinner. He was, if nothing else, a man of his word.
His butler appeared in the doorway and stood next to Bain. “Shall I have your mount saddled, your grace?”
It was a splendid night for riding, the moon full, the path through the forest that separated Blackthorn Hall and Dungotty pleasant and cool. But before Hamlin could answer, Bain lifted a finger. “If I may, your grace.”
Hamlin nodded.
“To arrive on horseback to an important supper such as this might give the appearance of having suffered a diminishment in your standing. I’d suggest the coach, then.”
A diminishment of standing. Is that what was said of him now? Hamlin sighed with irritation at the lengths he had to go to present himself to a society he’d once ruled and that had been quick to turn its back on him. Before he’d been married, invitations to Blackthorn Hall had been sought after throughout Scotland and even in England—the prospect of marrying a future duke, particularly one with the revered name of Montrose, had brought the lassies from far and wide. Hamlin had had no firm attachment to any of them, and he’d agreed to marry the woman his father had deemed suitable to carry the Montrose name and bear its heirs.
After his marriage, Hamlin and Glenna hosted dinners and balls for the country’s elite in his ailing father’s stead, as was expected of him, the heir. And when his father died, and the title had passed to him, Hamlin had stepped into his father’s shoes. He and Glenna had dined with peers, appeared in society when it was expected. He opened a school and presented funds to a theater troupe. He sat on councils and hunted game and joined men at the gentleman’s club in Edinburgh to complain about the government.
He had performed the duties of a duke in the same distant manner as his father had before him. Not because he was the same distant person his father had been—Hamlin liked to think himself as warmer than his father had ever been—but because he was already having trouble with Glenna and he didn’t want anyone to know.
The trouble with Glenna was not apparent to anyone else before the disaster fell that ruined his life and his spirit, and left him desolate and questioning everything he thought he’d ever known about himself or this world. What had happened at Blackthorn Hall was a disgrace to any man.
That astounding fall from grace was the reason he’d taken Nichol Bain into his employ. The first thing Bain had said to Hamlin the day they met was I am the man who might repair your reputation, I am.
Normally, Hamlin would have taken offense to that. But he was intrigued by Bain’s lack of hesitation to say it, and he was acutely aware that his reputation was in critical need of repair. This was, in fact, the first invitation he’d received in several months.
“Aye, Stuart, do as he says, then,” Hamlin conceded. “The coachmen and the team will no’ care to stand about waiting for a lot of fat Englishmen to dine, but that’s their lot in life, it is.”
* * *
THE EMBLAZONED MONTROSE coach drew to a halt in the circular drive at the Dungotty estate, and two footmen sprinted to attend it. The door was opened for Hamlin, a step put down for his convenience to exit the coach. The front door likewise opened for him before Hamlin could reach it, and a man wearing a powdered wig and a highly embroidered, fanciful coat stepped forward, bowed low and said, “Welcome to Dungotty, your grace.”
“Thank you.” He handed the man his hat as he stepped into the foyer. The grand house had had a bit of work done to it since Hamlin had last seen it, which he recalled was at least a decade ago, before his marriage. Marble flooring had replaced wooden planks, and an expansive iron-and-crystal chandelier blazed with the light of a dozen candles overhead. The stairs leading to the first floor were dressed in expensive Aubusson carpets, the railing polished cherry.
Hamlin removed his cloak, handed it to yet another footman and wondered just how many footmen an English earl actually needed for summering in Scotland. He’d seen more tonight than he had on staff at Blackthorn Hall, which was twice the size of this house.
The sound of laughter suddenly rose from a room down a long hall. Hamlin immediately tensed—it sounded as if there were more souls laughing than the four he expected, which were the MacLarens, Norwood and his niece.
“This way, if you please, your grace,” the butler said, and walked briskly in the direction of the laughter, down a corridor and to a set of double doors. He placed both hands on the brass handles, paused and gave his head a bit of a shake, then practically flung the doors open. He stepped inside and loudly cleared his throat. Standing behind him, Hamlin could see a number of heads swivel around. Damn it to hell, he’d been waylaid by that old English goat. There was a crowd gathered in this room.
The butler bowed and said quite grandly, “My Lord Norwood, may I present his grace, the Duke of Montrose.”
Hamlin moved to step forward, but the butler was not quite done.
“And the Earl of Kincardine,” he added, just as grandly.
Hamlin waited a moment to ensure that was the end of it, but as he moved his foot, the butler added with a flourish, “And the Laird of Graham.”
Well, that was definitely the end of it, as he held no other titles. But Hamlin arched a brow at the butler all the same, silently inquiring if he was done. The butler bowed deeply and stepped back.
Hamlin walked into the room and looked around at the dozen souls or more gathered. He made a curt bow with his head, and almost as one, the ladies curtsied and the men bowed their heads back at him.
“Welcome, welcome, your grace!” Norwood appeared through what felt a wee bit like a throng, one arm outstretched, the other hand clutching a glass of port. He was dressed in the finest of fabric, his waistcoat nearly to his knees and as heavily embroidered as the butler’s. They shared a tailor, it would seem.
“We are most pleased you have come. May I introduce you to my guests?” Norwood said, and gestured to the MacLarens. “Mr. and Mrs. MacLaren, with whom, I am certain, you are acquainted.”
“Your grace,” Mrs. MacLaren said, and curtsied, her powdered tower of hair tipping dangerously close to Hamlin.
“Montrose, ’tis good to see you about,” MacLaren said, eyeing Hamlin shrewdly as he gripped his hand and shook it heartily.
“Thank you,” Hamlin said.
When MacLaren had taken a good long look at him, he shifted his gaze to Norwood, and something flowed between those two men that Hamlin didn’t care for. That was precisely the reason he hadn’t wanted to come here this evening—the unwelcome scrutiny, the assumptions about what had happened at Blackthorn.
“My dear friend Countess Orlov and her cousin, Mr. Vasily Orlov,” Norwood continued, introducing him to a middle-aged woman with dark hair and rouged cheeks, and her fastidiously dressed cousin, who wore a sash across his chest with several medals pinned to it.
He was then introduced to an English family, the Wilke-Smythes, whose relation to Norwood was quite unclear. Lord Furness, a corpulent man who, from what Hamlin could glean, was an old friend. He seemed already well on his way to being thoroughly pissed. Next was Mrs. Templeton, a woman with a full bust and a painted fan, which she employed with great verve in the direction of her décolletage.
“Lastly, my dear niece Miss Mackenzie, who has already had the great pleasure of making your acquaintance,” Norwood said, and waved airily at his niece.
She had made it quite clear it was not a pleasure, as he recalled. Miss Mackenzie rose elegantly from her inelegant perch on the arm of a settee. “It was indeed a great pleasure, your grace,” she said with a wee lopsided smile that made it seem as if she was teasing him. She was wearing a shimmering gown of silver silk cut so daringly low across her bosom that standing over her, Hamlin had a most enticing view of creamy, full breasts. Her eyes, the remarkably brilliant gray-blue orbs, were shining at him a mix of mirth and curiosity. Her golden hair had been fashionably arranged on top of her head, pinned with a pair of tiny ornamental bluebirds, and a pair of long curls dangled across her collarbone.
He inclined his head. “Miss Mackenzie.”
She sank into a curtsy at the same moment she offered her hand to him. He reluctantly took it, bowing over it, touching his lips to her knuckles. It struck him as somehow incongruent that a woman with such an audacious manner should have such an elegant hand that smelled of flowers.
He lifted her up and let go of her hand.
“There, then, the introductions are done,” Norwood said. “You are in want of a whisky, your grace, are you not? I know a Scotsman such as yourself enjoys a tot of it now and again. My stock has come from my sister, Lady Mackenzie of Balhaire, and she assures me it has been distilled with the greatest care.”
“No, thank you,” Hamlin said. He would prefer to keep all his wits about him this evening.
Miss Mackenzie arched a brow. “Do you doubt the quality of our whisky, then, your grace? I’ve brought it all the way from our secret stores at Balhaire.”
“I’ve no opinion of your whisky. I donna care for it,” he said, but really, it was the whisky that didn’t agree with him. The worst argument he’d ever had with Glenna came after an evening of drinking whisky. Hamlin had sworn it off after that night. He’d never believed himself to be one who suffered the ravages of demon drink, but a bad marriage could certainly illuminate the tendency in a man.
The lass smiled and said, “There you have it, uncle—that is two of us, both Scots, who donna care for whisky.”
“What? I’ve seen you enjoy more than a sip of whisky, my darling,” the earl said, and laughed roundly.
She shrugged, still smiling.
“Will you have wine?” Norwood asked Hamlin.
“Thank you.”
“Rumpel! Where are you, Rumpel?” Norwood called, turning about and wandering off to find someone to pour a glass of wine.
His niece, however, showed herself to be more expedient. She walked to a sideboard, poured a glass of wine and returned, handing it to Hamlin.
He took it from her, eyeing her with skepticism. “Thank you.”
“’Tis my pleasure, your grace. I find that a wee bit of wine eases me in unfamiliar places. It helps loosen my tongue.” She smiled prettily.
Did she think him uneasy? She stood before him, her hands clasped at her back. She made no effort to move away or to speak. No one else approached, which didn’t surprise Hamlin in the least. He’d been a pariah for nearly a year and knew the role well.
“Will it surprise you, then, if I tell you I didna believe you’d accept our offer to dine?” she asked.
He considered that a moment. “No.”
“Well, I didna believe it. But I’m so verra glad you’ve come.”
He arched a brow with skepticism. “Why?” he said flatly.
She blinked with surprise. She gave a cheerful little laugh and leaned slightly forward to whisper, “Because, by all accounts, your grace, you’re a verra interesting man.”
That surprised him. Was she openly and, without any apparent misgivings, referencing the untoward rumors about him? “You shouldna listen to the tales told about town, Miss Mackenzie.”
“What tales?” she asked, and that mischievous smile appeared again. “What town?”
“Here we are!” Norwood said, reappearing in their midst. He’d brought the butler, who carried a silver tray on which stood a small crystal goblet of wine. Norwood spotted the wine Hamlin already held. “Oh,” he said, looking confused. “Well, never mind it, Rumpel,” he said, and waved off the glass of wine the butler was trying to present to Hamlin. “You may take that away. I beg your pardon, Montrose, if my niece has nattered on. Have you, darling?” he asked, smiling fondly at her. He probably doted on her, which would explain her impudence. She’d probably been allowed to behave however she pleased all her life.
“Whatever do you mean, uncle?” Miss Mackenzie asked laughingly.
“Only that you are passionate about many things, my love, and given opportunity, will expound with great enthusiasm.”
Miss Mackenzie was not offended—she laughed roundly. “You dare say that of me, uncle? Was it no’ you who caused your guests to retire en masse just last evening with your lengthy thoughts about the poor reverend’s most recent sermon?”
“That was an entirely different matter,” Norwood said with a sniff of indignation. “That was an important matter of theology run amok!”
“Milord.” The butler had returned, sans tray and wine. “Dinner is served.”
“Aha, very good.” Norwood stepped to the middle of the room and called for attention. “If you would, friends, make your way to the dining room. We do not promenade at Dungotty, we go in together as equals. And we dine at our leisure! I’ll not insist we race through our courses like the Empress Maria Theresa of Austria, whom I know firsthand to be quite rigid in her rules for dining. Countess Orlov has been so good as to help me determine the places for everyone. You will find a name card at each setting. Catriona, darling, will you see the duke in, please?” With that he turned about and offered his arm to the young Miss Wilke-Smythe.
Miss Mackenzie held her hand aloft in midair. “You heard my uncle—I’m to do the escorting of our esteemed visitor, who, it would seem, is no’ our equal after all, but above us mortals and worthy of a special escort.”
The woman was as impudent as Eula.
She smiled slyly at his hesitation. “Please donna give him reason to scold me.”
With an inward sigh, Hamlin put his hand under her arm and promenaded her into the dining room ahead of everyone but Norwood.
The dining room was painted in gold leaf and decorated with an array of portraits of men and women alike. The table had been set with fine china, sparkling crystal, and silver utensils and candelabras polished to such sheen that a man could examine his face in them. A floral arrangement of peonies graced the middle of the table, and as Hamlin took his seat, he discovered that one had to bend either to the left or right to see around the showy flowers.
On his right was the Wilke-Smythe miss, and on his left, Mrs. MacLaren. He was not entirely sure who sat across from him, given the flowers. Norwood was seated at the head of the table, naturally, and anchoring the other end was Miss Mackenzie. She had the undivided attention of Mr. Orlov to her right, and Lord Furness to her left.
The dinner began with carrot soup, progressed to beef, potatoes and boiled apples, and was, Hamlin would be the first to admit, quite well-done. The earl had not exaggerated his cook’s abilities.
In the course of the meal, Mrs. MacLaren asked after Hamlin’s crops. Yes, he said, his oats were faring well in spite of the drought this summer. Yes, his sheep were grazing very well indeed.
When he turned his attention to his right, Miss Wilke-Smythe was eager to speak of the fine weather, and how she longed for a ball to be held this summer at Dungotty. “I miss England so,” she said with a sigh. “I’m invited to all the summer balls in England. On some nights, I keep a coach waiting so that I might go from one to the next.”
She made it sound as if there were scores of summer balls, dozens to be attended each week. Perhaps there were. He’d not been to England in years.
“Alas, there are none planned for Dungotty,” she said, pouting prettily, and Hamlin supposed that he was supposed to lament this sad fact, and on her behalf, either make a plea to her host to host one or offer to arrange one himself. But Hamlin couldn’t possibly care less if there were a hundred balls planned for Dungotty this summer, or none at all.
His lack of a response seemed to displease Miss Wilke-Smythe, for she suddenly leaned forward to see around him. “My Lord Norwood, why are there no balls to be held at Dungotty this summer?”
“Pardon?” the earl asked, startled out of his conversation with Countess Orlov. “A ball? My dear, there are not enough people in all the Trossachs to make a proper ball.”
This answer displeased Miss Wilke-Smythe even more, and she sat back with a slight huff. But then she turned her attention to Norwood’s niece. “Do you not agree, Miss Mackenzie, that we are in need of proper diversion this summer?”
Miss Mackenzie was engaged in a lively conversation with Mr. Orlov and looked up, her eyes dancing around the table as if she was uncertain what she might have missed. Her cheeks were stained a delightful shade of pink from laughing, and her eyes, even at this distance, sparked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I was just saying that Dungotty is so very lovely,” Miss Wilke-Smythe explained, “but there are very few diversions. How shall we ever survive the summer without a ball?”
“Oh, I should think verra well,” Miss Mackenzie said. “We survive them without balls all the time, do we no’, Mrs. MacLaren? I intend to survive the summer by returning home,” she said. “You must all take my word that the journey to Balhaire is diverting enough for a dozen summers.”
Her announcement caused Miss Wilke-Smythe more distress. “What?” she cried, sitting up, her fingers grasping the edge of the table. “You mean to leave us? But...but when? How long will we have your company at Dungotty?”
This outburst had gained the attention of everyone at the table, and they all turned to Miss Mackenzie, awaiting her answer.
“A fortnight,” she said. She smiled and turned her attention back to the Russian, apparently intent on continuing her conversation, but Miss Wilke-Smythe pressed on.
“But why must you go?”
“Yes, why indeed?” Mr. Orlov seconded as his hand strayed near Miss Mackenzie’s, his fingers touching her thumb. “You do not mean to deprive us of your lovely company, surely. You must stay the summer, Miss Mackenzie, for I shall be highly offended if you do not.”
Miss Mackenzie laughed. “You might be offended for all of an afternoon, sir, but I’ve no doubt you’d find suitable company, aye?”
“Oh, she means to stay,” Norwood said dismissively. “She’s been too long in the Highlands.”
“Too long in the Highlands, as if that were possible!” Miss Mackenzie playfully protested. “You know verra well that I’ve an abbey to attend to, you do, Uncle Knox. I intend to leave in a fortnight.”
“An abbey!” Mrs. Templeton said, and snorted. “I would not have guessed you a nun.”
Miss Mackenzie did not take offense to that purposeful slight. She laughed again, delighted by the remark. “On my word, I’ve no’ been accused of being a nun, Mrs. Templeton. But I’ve wards that need looking after, aye?”
“You’re far too young for wards, Miss Mackenzie,” Mrs. Wilke-Smythe said graciously.
“She is indeed, but she speaks true,” Norwood says. “My niece and her dearly departed lady aunt have provided shelter for women and children for a few years now.”
Shelter for women and children? Wards? Hamlin looked curiously at Miss Mackenzie. He himself had a ward. That she had a ward—several of them, by the sound of it—aroused his curiosity.
She looked around the table at everyone’s sudden attention to her. Her laugh was suddenly self-conscious. “Why do you all look at me this way, then? Have you never done a charitable thing, any of you?”
“’Tis more than charity, my darling,” Norwood said.
“What women?” Mrs. Templeton demanded. “What children?”
“Women who’ve no other place to go, aye?” Miss Mackenzie explained. “They’ve taken up rooms at an abandoned abbey on property my family owns, that they have.”
“Why have they no place to go?” Miss Wilke-Smythe asked with all the naivete of her age.
“That’s...that’s no’ an easy answer, no,” Miss Mackenzie said, and shifted uncomfortably. For the first time since Hamlin had made her acquaintance, she seemed at a loss for words and looked to her uncle for help. “It’s that they are no’ welcome in society or with families for...for various reasons.”
“Good Lord,” Furness said. “Do you mean—”
“Aye, I mean precisely that, milord,” she said quickly before he could say aloud who these women were. “Women who have been cast out, along with their children.”
That was met with utter silence for a long moment. Mrs. Wilke-Smythe looked at her husband, but he was staring at Miss Mackenzie.
Privately, Hamlin marveled at her revelation. The sort of charitable work she was suggesting she did was the kind generally reserved for Samaritans and leaders of the kirk. Ladies of Miss Mackenzie’s social standing might embroider a pillow or collect alms, but they did not generally participate in a manner that would put them into direct contact with such outcasts. Or at least, they would not house them. It appeared that Miss Mackenzie was more than a pampered woman of privilege.
“What do you make of it, Montrose?” MacLaren abruptly asked him. “Seems the sort of thing you’d run across now and again in the Lords, does it no’? Social injuries, poor morals and the like?”
“They donna have poor morals,” Miss Mackenzie said, her voice noticeably cooler. “Or if they have poor morals, it is because the poor morals were forced onto them.”
MacLaren ignored her, his gaze on Hamlin. “Well? What would you say to someone with Miss Mackenzie’s passion for the depraved?”
“They are no’ depraved!” she said, her voice rising.
“Yes, your grace, what do you say to it?” the countess asked him.
One reason Hamlin was intent on gaining a seat in the House of Lords was to address social injustice, to move Scotland forward, away from the rebellions of the past. Change was needed. Many people had been displaced by the rebellion, he knew, but even he was taken aback by this. Women and children living in a run-down abbey? He glanced at Miss Mackenzie, who was watching him without any discernible expectation. He realized she didn’t care what he thought of it. That also intrigued him. “One canna dictate or impose on the charitable intentions of another, aye?”
“One can if it’s wrong,” MacLaren said.
Miss Mackenzie’s gaze narrowed slightly, and she looked away.
“For God’s sake, Rumpel, take that arrangement away, will you?” Norwood complained. “I can’t see Cat from here.”
The butler moved at once to remove the offending peonies.
“Catriona is a philanthropist,” Norwood continued, looking around at them all.
“Philanthropy!” Countess Orlov suddenly laughed. “Of course, that explains it! I understood something much different, but now I understand it plainly. The Orlov family is among the greatest philanthropists of Russia.”
Miss Mackenzie’s face had turned a subtle shade of pink. “’Tis no’ philanthropy,” she said low. “My family is verra generous with their resources, aye, but ’tis a wee bit different for me. I verra much want to help them. By the saints, I donna understand anyone who’d no’ want to help them. Their lives have unfurled in ways through no fault of theirs, and life can be verra cruel to women, it can.”
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. MacLaren muttered despairingly. “Do you mean that life has been cruel to you, then?”
“To me?” Miss Mackenzie clucked her tongue. “No’ to me. I’ve had every privilege. But to women born to less fortunate circumstances, aye? Women without a family fortune to gird them, aye? I’ve wanted for nothing in my life, no’ a thing. But these women? They’ve wanted for compassion and love, a place to call their own. They’ve wanted food for their children and shoes for their feet. Some of them have come with hay stuffed into their shoes to keep the damp from seeping in. Can you imagine it, any of you?”
It was the height of indelicacy to speak of these things at a supper table, but Hamlin found her response to be intriguing and, frankly, righteous. Everyone needed to understand the inequalities that existed in their world.
“I wouldn’t know about that, but life has certainly been cruel to me,” Mrs. Templeton said bitterly, prompting Norwood to pat her kindly on the hand before she swiped up her wineglass and drank. Mrs. Templeton seemed to have forgotten she was dressed in silk and dripping in jewels. She clearly didn’t understand what cruel meant.
“What madness is this?” Furness demanded of Norwood. “How is it your family has allowed one of your own to...to consort with such women and in such a public manner?”
“I beg your pardon, sir, but my uncle doesna speak for me,” Miss Mackenzie said calmly, although the color was high in her fair cheeks, and her grip of the table so tight that Hamlin could see the whites of her knuckles from where he sat. “Griselda Mackenzie, God rest her soul, turned an old abbey into a safe haven for the forlorn and the lost, aye? I donna know all the circumstances that brought these women to Kishorn, but it never mattered to her, it did no’—what mattered was that they’d lost their husbands and fathers and brothers, with no one to provide for them, or had escaped situations in which their bodies were used for the pleasure of men.”
Mrs. Wilke-Smythe gasped with alarm. Her daughter’s eyes rounded.
“None of them had a place to go, no’ until Zelda revived the old abbey for them.”
“But that’s...that’s hardly proper,” Mrs. Wilke-Smythe said uncertainly.
“Neither is it proper to leave them in the cold with no hope,” Miss Mackenzie retorted.
“But what do you do?” Miss Wilke-Smythe asked, clearly enthralled by this unexpected side of Miss Mackenzie, while her mother withered in her seat, clearly undone by the world beyond ivy-covered walls. “Do you mean you are with them?”
Miss Mackenzie let go her grip of the table and touched a curl at her neck. “Aye, I am. I see after them, that’s what,” she said with a shrug. “I see that they have all they need.”
“My niece is to be commended,” Norwood said firmly, but it was clear to Hamlin that few others in this room, with perhaps the exception of Vasily Orlov, shared his view. “Frankly, it is unconscionable that there are those who would cast out these women and children from the safety of an old abbey when they can’t properly fend for themselves,” he continued.
“Who would cast them out?” asked MacLaren.
“Highland lairds,” Miss Mackenzie said. “They donna like them so close, aye? They can find no pity in their hearts, can see no value in them. They view them as hardly better than cattle.”
“How do you presume to know what is in the hearts of the lairds?” Lord Furness demanded.
“Englishmen, too,” she continued, ignoring him. “They want the land for their sheep. They mean to seize the property. The Crown has determined it forfeit.”
“On what grounds?” MacLaren asked gruffly.
“I’ll tell you the grounds,” Norwood said grandly. “My niece will not tell you the whole story, I’m certain of it. Her aunt, who I may personally attest was as daring a woman as I’ve ever known, and if I might say so, quite beautiful,” he added wistfully, “in her own way assisted the Jacobite rebels who fought to overthrow our king by hiding them when they fled to escape the English forces.”
There were gasps all around, which Norwood clearly relished.
“Treason!” MacLaren uttered.
“Uncle, perhaps you ought no’—”
“Perhaps they ought to know the truth, darling.”
Hamlin’s curiosity about this abbey was entirely kindled. He had not been on the side of the Jacobites—he was loyal to the king. But like most Scots, he was not particularly fond of the English and their ways.
“This woman’s aunt was a traitor to the king and the Crown,” Furness said angrily, pointing at Miss Mackenzie.
“Furness, for God’s sake, man, she was a benevolent,” Norwood said impatiently. “When the rebellion was put down, and these men faced certain death, she took it upon herself to help them escape with their lives instead of seeing them slaughtered. Find fault with it if you will, but I think it a very noble thing to do for one’s countrymen.”
No one argued with Norwood’s impassioned defense, but Hamlin privately wondered if it was truly noble to aid traitors, no matter if they were countrymen.
“Shall I tell you what else?” Norwood asked, leaning forward now, one elbow on the table.
“No, Uncle Knox,” Miss Mackenzie said, sounding slightly frantic.
But Norwood had the room’s rapt attention, and Hamlin knew he would not relinquish that attention. It seemed even the servants were leaning a little closer to hear his answer.
“Our own Catriona Mackenzie helped her.”
“Airson gràdh Dhè,” Miss Mackenzie muttered, the meaning of which was not known to anyone in this group. “I beg you, Uncle Knox, donna say more!”
“She’s a daring girl in her own right,” he said. “Her own father expressly forbid her to associate with known Jacobites, and yet my beautiful, compassionate niece could not let those young men die! She brought many of them to Kishorn herself.” He sat back, nodding at the looks of shock around him. Miss Mackenzie looked as if she wanted to crawl under the table. “What’s the matter, darling? You’re not ashamed, are you?”
“No!” she said emphatically. “But you are needlessly distressing your guests, uncle.”
“They’ve no grounds for distress!” he proclaimed. “I will have you all know that I mean to help her. What sort of men are we to punish a woman’s true compassion? Is that not what we all seek from the fairer sex? The Lord Advocate contends the property is forfeit for housing those traitors a decade ago, but by God, I shall have something to say for it.”
Miss Mackenzie groaned softly and bowed her head.
“And what have you to say for that, Montrose?” MacLaren challenged him. “Is the property forfeit?”
“I’ll no’ pass judgment on events for which I donna have all the facts, sir, and I’ll no’ do so here for your entertainment.”
A ghost of a smile appeared on MacLaren’s lips. If he wanted to find reason to deny him the vote, then so be it. But Hamlin would not be goaded into making a pronouncement on Miss Mackenzie’s good intentions.
“I beg your pardon, Lord Norwood, but what have these women to do with the rebels?” Miss Wilke-Smythe asked.
“You see, don’t you, my dear, that once the rebels slipped away, it was only natural that women and children who had lost their protectors and providers to the same battlefield and desertion would follow? And once they were gone, others who had no place to go, no way to feed their children came behind them. It was a noble calling that Zelda and Catriona undertook.”
“I would argue that,” Furness sniffed. “Seems rather foolhardy and ill-advised to me. Precisely the sort of thing one can expect to happen when one leaves aunts and daughters to their own devices without proper arrangements for marital supervision.”
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Julia London
‘Warm, witty and decidedly wicked—great entertainment.’ Stephanie Laurens on Hard-Hearted Highlander.Mystery and desire cloak the Scottish HighlandsUnruly. Unmarried. Unapologetic. Catriona Mackenzie’s reputation precedes her everywhere she goes. Her beloved late aunt Zelda taught Cat to live out loud and speak her mind, and that’s exactly what she does when Zelda’s legacy—a refuge for women in need—comes under fire. When her quest puts her in the path of the disturbingly mysterious Hamlin Graham, Duke of Montrose, Cat is soon caught up in the provocative rumours surrounding the dark duke.Never one to retreat, Cat boldly goes where no one else has dared for answers. Shrouded in secrets, a hostage of lies, Hamlin must endure the fear and suspicion of those who believe he is a murderer. The sudden disappearance of his wife and the truth he keeps silent are a risk to his chances at earning a coveted parliamentary seat. Bu he’s kept his affairs tightly held until a woman with sparkling eyes and brazen determination appears unexpectedly in his life. Deadly allegations might be his downfall, but his unleashed passion could be the duke’s ultimate undoingPraise for Julia London:‘Julia London writes vibrant, emotional stories and sexy, richly drawn characters.” New York Times bestselling author Madeline Hunter‘An absorbing read from a novelist at the top of her game.’ Kirkus Reviews, starred review, on Wild Wicked Scot‘Expert storytelling and believable characters make the romance readers will be sad to leave behind.’ Publishers Weekly, starred review, on Wild Wicked Scot
Mystery and desire cloak the Scottish Highlands
Unruly. Unmarried. Unapologetic. Catriona Mackenzie’s reputation precedes her everywhere she goes. Her beloved late aunt Zelda taught Cat to live out loud and speak her mind, and that’s exactly what she does when Zelda’s legacy—a refuge for women in need—comes under fire. When her quest puts her in the path of the disturbingly mysterious Hamlin Graham, Duke of Montrose, Cat is soon caught up in the provocative rumors surrounding the dark duke. Never one to retreat, Cat boldly goes where no one else has dared for answers.
Shrouded in secrets, a hostage of lies, Hamlin must endure the fear and suspicion of those who believe he is a murderer. The sudden disappearance of his wife and the truth he keeps silent are a risk to his chances at earning a coveted parliamentary seat. But he’s kept his affairs tightly held until a woman with sparkling eyes and brazen determination appears unexpectedly in his life. Deadly allegations might be his downfall, but his unleashed passion could be the duke’s ultimate undoing.
Also By Julia London (#u01228827-fbef-5a9b-adf8-3aafd8d665c0)
The Cabot Sisters
The Trouble with Honor
The Devil Takes a Bride
The Scoundrel and the Debutante
The Highland Grooms
Wild Wicked Scot
Sinful Scottish Laird
Hard-Hearted Highlander
Devil in Tartan
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Tempting the Laird
Julia London
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08349-2
TEMPTING THE LAIRD
© 2018 Dinah Dinwiddie
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Praise for New York Times bestselling author Julia London
“Warm, witty and decidedly wicked—great entertainment.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Stephanie Laurens on Hard-Hearted Highlander
“Julia London writes vibrant, emotional stories and sexy, richly drawn characters.”
—New York Times bestselling author Madeline Hunter
“An absorbing read from a novelist at the top of her game.”
—Kirkus Reviews, starred review, on Wild Wicked Scot
“Expert storytelling and believable characters make the romance [one that] readers will be sad to leave behind.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review, on Wild Wicked Scot
“London is at the top of her game in this thrilling tale of political intrigue and second chances.”
—Booklist, starred review, on Wild Wicked Scot
“The fascinating love triangle, set amid the wilds of Scotland, creates a page-turning read that will resonate with fans of Highland romance.”
—Publishers Weekly on Hard-Hearted Highlander
Contents
Cover (#ufd38dc01-38bb-51e1-8f26-bf3c91be35f1)
Back Cover Text (#uf1d41663-b08b-5ee4-8a22-44cbfa63d5cc)
Booklist (#u5131a367-9aa6-5525-b529-2309de946b1e)
Title Page (#u39f03e9d-87b8-5b2e-b77b-66d634e75f38)
Copyright (#u0d598142-dd6e-5e4a-8017-2e9a16b474cb)
Praise (#ud84ffd0e-58f6-5799-83ef-3d144ac9e610)
Family Tree (#ud43295e5-bd3e-541c-a3ff-3e9a1fc02254)
CHAPTER ONE (#u513d3f68-319c-56d9-b913-f84a0f0ee141)
CHAPTER TWO (#u33a39558-2e98-594e-be91-aab413407d20)
CHAPTER THREE (#u73bb83d9-2689-551b-be76-e483fe074150)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u860aa7ce-770f-5440-98fc-48b7c1071918)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u55e01765-be8b-54e4-84ba-93e99cbeb9cf)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
AUTHOR’S NOTE (#litres_trial_promo)
GLOSSARY (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u01228827-fbef-5a9b-adf8-3aafd8d665c0)
Kishorn Lodge, Scottish Highlands, 1755
THERE’D BEEN A spirited debate among the Mackenzies of Balhaire over where to bury the remains of the venerable Griselda Mackenzie. Arran Mackenzie, her much beloved cousin, wanted her buried at the clan’s seat at Balhaire alongside two hundred years of Mackenzies. But Catriona, his youngest daughter—who had been as close to her “Auntie” Zelda as her own mother—wanted to bury her at Kishorn Lodge, where Griselda had lived most of her remarkable life.
In the end, a compromise was struck. Auntie Zelda was buried in the family crypt at Balhaire, but a fèille in her honor was held at Kishorn a month later. This arrangement satisfied Catriona, as it was the celebration she wanted for a woman who had lived life very much on her own terms.
Unfortunately, the weather turned foul on the eve of her fèille. Kishorn was remote, far into the Highlands, reachable practically only by boat. Therefore, only the most immediate Mackenzie family was able to attend, rowing up from Balhaire, past the Mackenzie properties of Arrandale and Auchenard, and across Loch Kishorn to the point where the loch met the river for which it was named.
There was scarcely anything or anyone this far into the Highlands. A village and prime hunting grounds had once graced the banks of the river, but they were long gone. A Mackenzie ancestor had built the lodge on the ruins of the village. Zelda, who had always preferred her freedom to a confining marriage, and had been indulged by her father, had taken possession of the abandoned lodge as a young woman and had made it her home, lovingly repairing and adding to it over the years.
The only thing left of that ancient village was a crumbling abbey, built on a hilltop overlooking the river glen. It was small as abbeys went, and no one could say whose abbey it had been. Zelda had decided it was hers and had made half of the original structure habitable again. The other half—what had once been the sanctuary—was missing its walls, and only a few beams and arches remained of the roof. It served no useful purpose, other than to provide a wee bit of respite from the weather for the cows that wandered in from time to time.
If only they’d had a respite from the cold rain that continued to beat a steady rhythm against the paned windows on the day of the fèille.
Catriona was quite undone by it—she’d planned this event to rival all such celebrations for years to come. “I’m bloody well cross with God this day, that I am,” she said to the women gathered around the fire blazing in the hearth. They included her mother, the Lady of Balhaire, and Catriona’s sister, Vivienne. Also present were her sisters-in-law, Daisy, Bernadette and Lottie. “It rained the day we buried her, and here it rains again. She deserved better, she did,” Catriona said as she carelessly held up her wineglass to be refilled.
“Zelda would not care a whit about rain, Cat,” her mother assured her. “She would care only that you carried on with the fèille in spite of it. Can’t you hear her laughing? She’d say, ‘Did you expect cherubs and bluebirds to herald my arrival? No, lass, heaven weeps when I knock at the door.’”
“Mamma,” Catriona said gravely, but she couldn’t help a small smile. Zelda would have indeed said something like that.
“I miss that old crone,” her mother said fondly, and lifted her glass in solemn salute. “She was incomparable.”
That was high praise coming from Margot Mackenzie. She and Zelda had maintained a fraught relationship through the years, had never quite seen eye to eye for reasons Catriona still didn’t fully understand. She knew that Zelda couldn’t bring herself to forgive her mother for being English, which, to be fair, was a sin in the eyes of many Highlanders. But Zelda had also seemed determined to believe the absurd notion that Catriona’s mother was a spy, of all things. Once, Catriona had asked her father why Auntie Zelda said her mother was a spy, and he’d given her a strange look. “Some things are better left in the past, aye?” he’d said. “You canna believe everything Zelda says, lass.”
He had not, Catriona had noted, denied it.
In spite of the ancient discord between the two women, in the last months of Zelda’s life, when she’d been ill more often than she’d felt well, Catriona’s mother had come once a week from Balhaire to sit with her. The two of them would argue about events that had occurred during their long lives, but they’d laughed, too, giggling with one another about secret things.
One of the serving women refilled Catriona’s wineglass. She drank it like water.
With all the Mackenzies crowded into the lodge, there was little room for the games Catriona had planned, and little else to occupy them. Frankly, Catriona had fallen into her cups. No, that wasn’t correct—she was swimming in her cups, an idea that made her giggle.
“There ought to be dancing,” Lottie complained, and shifted uncomfortably under the weight of the bairn she was holding. Another boy. “Something.”
“What do you mean?” Vivienne said. “You canna dance, Lottie.” She nodded to the bairn. Lottie had only recently delivered Carbrey. The birth of a second son had Catriona’s brother Aulay strutting about Balhaire like a bloody peacock.
“Aye, but you can dance,” Lottie said, nudging Vivienne. “And I should like to watch.”
“Me? I’m too old and too fat for it, that I am,” Vivienne complained, and slumped back in her chair, one hand across her belly. Bearing four children had left her with a full figure. “Bernadette will dance.”
“By myself?” Bernadette, wife of Catriona’s brother Rabbie, bent down to stir the logs in the hearth. “Shall I hum the music, as well?”
“And what of me?” Daisy asked. She was wed to Cailean, Catriona’s oldest brother. “I’m not too old for a reel.”
“Or too fat,” Lottie agreed.
“No, but your husband is too old,” Vivienne said, and nodded toward Cailean. He was seated near a brazier with their father, his legs stretched long. A tankard of ale dangled from two fingers.
“’Tis a pity that Ivor MacDonald is no’ here to dance with our Cat,” Catriona’s mother said, and smiled devilishly at her daughter.
Catriona’s inhibitions had been drowned by the good amount of wine she’d drunk, and she groaned with frustration. “You’ll no’ rest from seeing me properly wed until you meet your demise!”
“And what is wrong with that, I ask you?” her mother asked sweetly.
“Yes, what is wrong with that?” Daisy asked. “Why will you not accept Mr. MacDonald’s attentions, Cat?” she asked curiously. “He seems rather nice. And God knows, he is smitten with you.”
Ivor was a thick man, the same height as Catriona, with hair that drooped around his face. In the weeks since Zelda had died, he’d offered his condolences so many times she’d lost count. “He may smite all he likes, but I’m far too restless to tie my lot to a shipbuilder,” Catriona said imperiously, and drained the rest of the wine from her glass. Actually, his occupation had little to do with it—it was most decidedly his lack of a neck.
“I think that’s incorrect,” Lottie said, looking puzzled as Catriona held her glass up again. “He hasn’t smited you, but rather, you’re the one who’s done the smiting, are you no’?”
Catriona clucked at her. “You know verra well what I mean, aye?”
“Aye, I know verra well,” Lottie agreed. “But you’re three and thirty, Cat. Sooner or later you must accept that the last sheep at market must take the price offered or be turned to mutton.”
“Lottie!” Bernadette gasped. “What a wretched thing to say!”
Catriona gave the remark a dismissive flick of her wrist. “Aye, but it’s the truth, is it no’? I am firmly planted on the bloody shelf of spinsterhood. I’ve quite accepted I’m to remain without husband or child all my life, aye? That’s what Zelda did, and quite by choice. I know what I’m meant to do—I’m meant to carry on Auntie Zelda’s work.”
“I should like to think you are destined for something other than living at Kishorn, removed from all society,” her mother said. “You are not Zelda, after all.”
Well, that was just the thing—there was no society for her. There was nothing for her here but endless days stretching into more endless days, with nothing to occupy her but this blasted abbey in the middle of nowhere. “What society, Mamma? Do you mean the Mackenzies and all their married men? Or perhaps you mean the MacDonalds and their representative, Ivor?”
“If you don’t care for Mr. MacDonald, there is more society for you to explore,” her mother argued. “But spending all your time at Kishorn has isolated you from the world.”
“Mmm,” Catriona said skeptically. “I think I may safely say I have explored all available society in the Highlands, and like my dearly departed auntie, I’ve found it wanting, I have. And besides, the women and children of the abbey need me, Mamma. Why should I no’ have a grand purpose?” she asked, and gestured so grandly that she spilled wine onto the stone floor. “I’ve learned all that I could from Zelda. The women of the abbey have no other place to go, and I’m determined to carry on, that I am, for there is still so much to be done, and Zelda would have wanted it so. Donna try and dissuade me, Mamma.” She sat up and turned around. “Where is that serving girl?”
“Catriona, darling,” her mother pleaded.
But Catriona was in no mood to discuss her future plans. “Diah save me,” she said, and stood up, swaying when she did, and catching herself on the back of the chair before she tumbled. She was exhausted from discussing her situation. She felt as if she’d been discussing it for years and years. Poor Catriona Mackenzie, whatever will they do with her? She’s no prospects for marriage, no society, nothing to occupy her but a run-down abbey full of misfits. “I think I should like to dance, then. Is Malcolm Mackenzie about? He’s brought his pipes, I’m certain of it.”
“For the love of God, sit, Cat.” Bernadette caught Catriona’s hand and tried to tug her back into her seat. “You’re pissed—”
“I’ve scarcely had a drop!” Catriona insisted. “That’s the English in you, Bernie,” she said, and wagged a finger at her sister-in-law. “We Scots are far better dancers with a wee bit of wine in us, aye?”
“You could hurt someone,” Bernadette said, and tugged on her hand again.
“You really shouldna drink so,” Vivienne said disapprovingly.
“I shouldna drink, I shouldna dance,” Catriona said irritably. Her few drops of wine were enough to make her feel a wee bit stubborn, and she yanked her hand free of Bernadette’s. But in doing so, she misjudged her balance and stumbled backward into someone. She managed to right herself and turn about and laughed with delight when she saw who had caught her. Rhona MacFarlane was the abbess at Kishorn. Rhona wasn’t really an abbess—she had a heart of gold, but she was no nun. Nevertheless, everyone called her the abbess, as she had been working alongside Zelda for twelve years.
“Aye, look who has come to jig with me, then! Thank you, Rhona, dearest. You’ve saved me from a scolding, and I should verra much like to dance.” Catriona made a flourish with her hand and bowed low, very nearly tipping over.
“There’s no music,” Rhona said.
“A fair point,” Catriona conceded, and grabbed Rhona’s arms and teased her by trying to make her dance. “We donna need music!”
“Miss Catriona!” Rhona said, and pulled her arms free.
“Aye, all right, I’ll find Malcolm,” Catriona said petulantly.
“Miss Catriona, we have visitors,” Rhona said.
Catriona gasped with delight. “Visitors! Who has come?” She whirled around to the door, expecting to see the MacDonalds from Skye, all of whom had known Zelda well. But the men at the door were not MacDonalds—Catriona could tell by their demeanor they were no friends of the Mackenzies or Kishorn. She was suddenly reminded of the two letters Zelda had received in the last months of her life. Letters written on heavy vellum, with an official seal. Letters that Zelda had waved away as nonsense.
Fury swelled in Catriona, her heart calling her to arms and swimming against the tide of wine she’d drunk. How dare they blacken the fèille for Griselda Mackenzie with their presence! If they thought the abbey was easy picking now that Zelda was gone, Catriona would show them that was not the case—she’d die before she’d let these men take the abbey from her and Zelda’s memory.
“What visitors?” her mother asked, rising to her feet.
“Bloody bastards, that’s who,” Catriona said, and began striding for the door before her mother could stop her. As she neared the men, the one in front bowed his head.
“Who are you?” Catriona demanded.
“Ah. You must be Miss Catriona Mackenzie,” the man responded in a crisp English accent. He removed his cocked hat, slinging water onto the floor and one of the Kishorn dogs, who shook it off his coat.
“How do you know my name? How did you get here?”
“It is my occupation to know your name, and a man at Balhaire was kind enough to bring us.” He removed his dripping cloak and handed it to the gentleman beside him. His coat and waistcoat were so damp and heavy that they smelled of wet wool and hung nearly to his knees. “I am Mr. Stephen Whitson, agent of the Crown. Would you do me the courtesy of informing the laird that I have come to present a matter of some urgency to him?”
“My laird?”
That man calmly returned her gaze. “As I said, it is a matter of urgency.”
“Is it the same matter of urgency that compelled you to badger my ailing aunt on her deathbed with your letters, then?”
“I beg your pardon, Miss Mackenzie, but this is a matter for men—”
“It’s a matter of bloody decency—” She was startled out of saying more by the firm clamp of a very big hand on her shoulder. Cailean had appeared at her side and squeezed her shoulder as he gave her a look that warned her to hold her tongue.
“I beg your pardon, what’s this about, then?” he asked calmly.
“Milord, Mr. Stephen Whitson at your service,” the man said, bending over his outstretched leg.
“He wants to take the abbey, that’s what,” Catriona said angrily.
“Cat.” Aulay had come around on the other side of her. He took her hand and placed it firmly on his forearm, then covered it with his hand, squeezing so tightly that she winced. “Allow the man to speak, aye?”
“It is true that the abbey is a concern for the Crown,” Whitson said, and casually flipped the tail of his bobbed hair over his shoulder. “I have been sent by the Lord Advocate’s office.”
“The Crown?” Cailean repeated skeptically, and stepped forward, putting himself before Catriona. “I beg your pardon, sir, but we are in the midst of a wake for Miss Griselda Mackenzie.”
“My condolences,” Whitson said. “I regret my arrival is inopportune, but our previous correspondence went unanswered. As I attempted to explain to Miss Mackenzie, I’ve come with an urgent matter for the laird.”
“Aye, bring them forth, Cailean,” Catriona’s father called from the other end of the room.
Whitson did not wait for further invitation. He neatly stepped around Cailean and began to stride across the room, heedless of the others gathered.
The room had grown silent, all ears and narrowed gazes on this man.
Cailean followed Whitson, but when Catriona tried to move, Aulay tugged her back. “Stay here.”
“I’ll no’ stay back, Aulay! That’s my abbey now.”
But Aulay stubbornly tugged her back once more. “Then I would suggest, if you want to keep it, you mind your mouth, Cat. You know how you are, aye? Particularly after a wee bit too much to drink.”
She was not going to debate how much she’d had to drink with him. “What of it?” she snapped. “Zelda is gone and I have drunk my sorrow.” She shook his hand off and hurried after the others.
Her father had come to his feet. He leaned heavily on a cane, but he still cut an imposing figure and was a head taller than Mr. Whitson. Her father was a good judge of character, and he had judged this man’s character quickly, for he did not offer him food or drink. He said curtly, “What is your business, then?”
Mr. Whitson lifted his chin slightly. “As you are to the point, my lord, so shall I be. Kishorn Abbey was used unlawfully in the aiding and abetting of Jacobite traitors who sought to displace our king in the rebellion of ’45, and in return for that treason, the property as such is forfeited.”
Catriona and her family gasped, but her father, Arran Mackenzie, laughed. “I beg your pardon? Kishorn Abbey sits on land that has been owned by the Mackenzies for more than two hundred years. There was no aiding and abetting. We’ve been loyal subjects, sir, that we have.”
“Kishorn Abbey was used to house fleeing rebels after the loss at Culloden and was operated by a known Jacobite sympathizer in the form of Miss Griselda Mackenzie. It is pointless to deny it, my lord—we have the witness of two of the sympathizers. As the property was used to house traitors, it is forfeited to the Crown by order of the king.”
“By order of the king?” Cailean echoed incredulously. “Are you mad, then? Ten years have passed since the rebellion.”
Mr. Whitson shrugged. “It was a crime then and is yet, sir.”
“What does the Crown care for that old abbey?” Rabbie scoffed. “It’s falling down and too remote to be of any use.”
“There is interest in it,” Mr. Whitson sniffed, and paused to straighten his lace cuffs. “There are those who believe any use would be better than housing women of ill repute.”
Catriona gasped with outrage. “How dare you! Have you no compassion?”
Whitson swiveled about so quickly that she was caught off guard. “There are many in these very hills who do not appreciate the likes you seek to house, Miss Mackenzie. Some are very much against it.”
“It is no one’s affair what we do with our property,” Catriona argued. She was acutely aware of Rhona’s nervous fluttering behind her, and even more acutely aware of the anger that was seeping into her bones and warming her face.
“I will ignore your discourtesy, Whitson, that I will, for you are no’ from these parts, aye?” her father said. “But if you ever deign to speak to my nighean in that manner again, you’ll find yourself at the receiving end of Highland justice, that you will.”
Whitson arched a thick brow. “Do you threaten an agent of the king, my lord?”
“I threaten any man who dares speak to my family in that manner,” her father snapped. “Have you an official decree, then, or are we to take the word of a Sassenach?”
Whitson’s eyes narrowed. “I rather thought you were a man of reason, Mackenzie. You’ve a fine reputation as it stands, but it’s best for all concerned if you do not push too hard, if you take my meaning. An official decree was delivered to Miss Griselda Mackenzie. I’ve not a copy of the decree on my person, but I can have one drawn up, if that is what you prefer.”
“Griselda Mackenzie has departed this life,” her father said to Whitson. “Until I’ve seen official notice of it, I’ve no reason to believe you.”
Mr. Whitson clasped his hands behind his back. “I shall have it delivered posthaste. In the interest of expediency, allow me to inform you the decree grants you and your people six months to vacate the premises of the abbey, and if, by that time, you’ve not vacated, it will be taken by force. The property is forfeited, my lord. The king’s orders are quite clear.”
Catriona’s head began to swim; she thought she might be sick. There were twenty-three souls at the abbey, all but one of them women and children who had been cast out of society. Where would they all go?
“Aye, and you’ve a quarter of an hour to vacate these premises, sir, or be removed by force, as well,” her father said, and with that, he turned his back on the strangers.
“Expect your decree to be delivered by week’s end,” Mr. Whitson said icily. He turned about and started for the door.
“Have you no conscience?” Catriona blurted as he walked past her.
He paused. He slowly turned his head and set his gaze on hers, and Catriona felt a shiver run through her. “My advice to you, madam, is that you keep to the charitable works of proper women.”
“Get out,” Rabbie said in a voice dangerously low.
Whitson walked out of the room, his assistant hurrying after him with his soggy cloak.
All of them remained silent for several moments after the intruders had gone. Catriona’s head was spinning. She thought of the women of the abbey: there was Molly Malone, who had been beaten so badly by her husband that she’d lost the child she was carrying. She’d slipped away in the dead of night with her two young children and a single crown in her pocket. And Anne Kincaid, who, as a lass, had been cast out by a father who had no regard for her. She’d been forced into prostitution to survive. And Rhona, dear Rhona, such a godsend to Kishorn! When her husband had died, there had been no one to take her in. She had done piecework for a year but couldn’t pay her rents. Her landlord had offered her a bargain—her body for a roof over her head. Rhona had endured it for three months before refusing him. He’d forced her onto the streets without a second thought.
There were more of them, many of them with children, and Catriona could not bear to think of what would become of them. She sank onto a chair, her gut churning with disbelief, her heart racing with fear and her head beginning to pound.
“Well, then,” Catriona’s mother said.
“Airson gràdh Dhè, what are we to do with this news?” Aulay asked.
“What can we do that has no’ been tried before?” her father returned as he carefully resumed his seat. “The MacDonalds fought to have property seized by the Crown returned to their heirs and were no’ successful.”
“Aye, but the land they wanted returned was arable land,” Cailean reminded him. “It was more valuable than this,” he added, gesturing vaguely toward the window.
“Aye, ’tis no’ worth a farthing for planting,” the laird agreed. “But this is a valuable glen for a Sassenach who means to run sheep.”
“Can they no’ put their sheep in the glen and leave the abbey?” Catriona asked.
Vivienne snorted. “They donna want the abbey or the women who live here.” She paused and glanced sheepishly at Rhona. “My apologies, Rhona.”
“’Tis no’ necessary,” Rhona said. “We know verra well who we are.”
“I’ve a suggestion,” Catriona’s mother said. “I think Catriona ought to deliver Zelda’s letter to my brother sooner rather than later.”
Her father looked at his wife curiously. “A letter? What letter?”
“Zelda wrote a letter to my brother that has not yet been delivered. You know Knox nearly as well as I, Arran. If there is anyone who might help us, it’s him. He knows everyone in places high and low, and it so happens he is summering in Scotland.”
All of Catriona’s brothers groaned.
The Earl of Norwood’s summering had been a sore spot for them all. He was one of the wealthy Englishmen who had benefited from the forfeitures and seizures of Scots’ land after the rebellion. He’d bought a small estate near Crieff from the Crown and had once crowed he’d purchased the property for as much as a horse.
“Zelda’s letter has naugh’ to do with this,” Catriona said as she looked around for her wineglass.
“Nevertheless, you promised Zelda to see it personally delivered, didn’t you, darling? That’s why you must go to him, and while you are there, you can appeal to him for his help with the abbey.”
“Go to him!” Catriona said, and having located her wineglass, she swiped it up. It was empty again? “I canna leave the abbey now, Mamma. Diah, we’ve only just lost Zelda!”
“They have Rhona,” her mother said, and took the empty wineglass from Catriona’s hand. “Rhona is quite capable of seeing after them.”
Catriona shook her head. “’Tis no’ the same—”
“Aye, Mamma is right,” Vivienne chimed in. “Auntie Zelda would have gone to Uncle Knox straightaway, if that’s what it took, Cat. You’re the abbey’s only hope, you are, and Uncle Knox is your only hope. And besides...” She paused and exchanged a look with her mother. “You could do with a bit of distance, could you no’?”
“Distance?” Catriona repeated, confused, as she tried to retrieve her wineglass from her mother. “From what, pray?”
“From Balhaire. From Kishorn,” her father said.
“Pardon?” The churning in her gut was taking on a new urgency. Something wasn’t right, but she was having a wee bit of trouble thinking clearly.
“You were a blessing to my cousin, God knows you were,” he said. “But you’ve tended her deathbed for months, and now it is time you saw to your own life.”
Catriona blinked. Her thoughts were suddenly very clear—they’d been discussing her. Her own family, talking in secret about her! She could see it in the faces of her parents, of her siblings, of her sisters-in-law. They surrounded her now, looking at her with varying expressions of determination and sympathy. “What’s this, then, you’ve discussed my life and determined a course, have you? How dare you speak ill of me behind my back.”
“Criosd, Cat, no one has spoken ill of you!” Rabbie said. “But for the last few months, you mope about and drink your fill of wine and brandy every night, aye?” Rabbie said. “You donna attempt to have any society about you.”
“What society?” she exclaimed loudly. “Where is it, Rabbie, do point me in that direction, aye? And in the course of it, perhaps you might point to something that I might do.”
He frowned. “Do you no’ see what we all see? You’re letting your life slip between your fingers, you are.”
She felt strangely exposed. Uncomfortable. Not angry, really, but...but she didn’t like this, not at all. What did they expect of her? None of them had ever been a spinster, with nothing to look forward to, without any hope of ever being a mother, or a wife. “What would you have me do? I’ve no occupation, no’ a bloody thing to do with my time but mope about and drink wine and brandy!” She felt on the verge of tears. She felt annoyed, she felt betrayed, she felt as if they’d all left her behind. Every one of them had families and loves and occupations, and purpose, for God’s sake, but she, by virtue of being born female and at a time when suitable men were scarce, could do nothing but float from one gathering to the next, looking for something to do with her time.
The only meaningful thing in her life at present was the abbey. Zelda had given a purpose to Catriona’s life, and they would take it away?
Blast it, but the tears began to slip from her eyes again.
“Diah, I didna say it to make you cry,” Rabbie said gruffly.
Her mother walked to Catriona’s seat and wrapped her arms around her daughter. “Go to your uncle Knox, allow him to help you, and please, darling, take a bit of time to care for yourself.”
“I canna leave them,” she said tearfully, and took the handkerchief Daisy offered her and blew her nose.
“Aye, Miss Catriona, you can.”
Catriona stilled. The mutiny was complete, then. “You, too, Rhona?” she asked in a whimper.
Rhona colored slightly. “We’ll be quite all right for the summer, aye?” she said nervously. “Your lady mother, she...well, she’s right, she is. You deserve happiness, Miss Catriona. You’ve no’ had it at Kishorn.”
Catriona wanted to argue that she was happy, but it was a lie. She was desperately unhappy with her situation, and apparently, in spite of her best efforts to hide it, they all knew it.
“Rhona and I had opportunity to speak,” her mother said. “We agree everyone might look after themselves. But I very much miss my bright daughter.”
Her “bright daughter” had withered away a very long time ago, and in her place, a lonely Catriona stood.
“I’ll help at the abbey while you’re away,” Lottie said.
“So will I,” Bernadette offered.
“Me, too!” Daisy joined in. “All of us.”
“Aye, well, you’ll no’ know what to do, any of you,” Catriona said petulantly. “You’ll make a mess of things.”
“We verra well might,” Aulay agreed, and leaned down to kiss the top of Catriona’s head. “But you’ll put it all to rights when you return, aye?”
Catriona rolled her eyes. “I’ve no’ said I’ll go,” she warned them.
But by the end of the week, Catriona was on a Balhaire coach bound for Crieff and Uncle Knox.
CHAPTER TWO (#u01228827-fbef-5a9b-adf8-3aafd8d665c0)
THE JOURNEY FROM Balhaire to Crieff was tiresome, particularly given that the roads were single track and many of them used so infrequently that the coachmen were forced to stop more than once to clear debris from their path. Every day for a week they bounced along to a mean inn, then woke up and started the day over again.
Contrary to her family’s wishes, Catriona’s bleak mood was not improved by the travel.
It seemed weeks had passed instead of days when at last the coach rolled onto the High Street at Crieff and came to a halt at the Red Sword and Shield Inn. It was midday, but Catriona was so weary she all but fell out of the coach and into the hands of the young Mackenzie coachman who caught her and set her upright.
“Here you are, then, Miss Mackenzie,” he said. “We’ll be back for you in a fortnight, perhaps three weeks, aye?”
In that moment, she didn’t care if they ever returned for her, because she could not fathom putting herself in that coach once more.
“There she is!” called a voice very familiar to her.
She turned about and smiled at her uncle Knox, who strode across the cobblestones to her, his coat flapping in time to his gusto. “My dear, dear girl, you’ve come at last!”
Her beloved uncle met her with such verve and enthusiasm that she was propelled a step or two backward, and her cap was knocked from her head. He wrapped her in a hearty embrace, smashing her face against his chest, then laid several kisses on her cheek before standing back, holding her at arm’s length, admiring her as the coachmen tried to hand her the hat. “Still a beauty, my little one,” he said proudly.
Still? She supposed that now she was three and thirty, he was expecting her looks to have begun to fade away into spinsterhood. “It’s so good to see you, Uncle Knox,” she said. “You’ve no idea.”
Her uncle had grown a wee bit more corpulent since the last time she’d held him. What was it, a year or so ago? He’d come from England to visit his sister, Catriona’s mother—and to pay a call to Auntie Zelda at Kishorn. Aye, he was a wee bit rounder, but quite handsome with his glittering pale green eyes and graying hair, which he’d bobbed with a black velvet ribbon. His coat was fine wool, and his waistcoat had been embroidered with gold thread that matched the embroidery along the center front of his coat. His neckcloth was snowy white and tied into an elaborate knot. Catriona felt quite plain in comparison.
“Come, come, you must be thirsty. And hungry, too, are you? Here you are, my good men, a night’s lodging and all the wine and women you might want,” he said, tossing a bag of coins to the driver. “Don’t hasten back now. I should like time with my most favored niece.” He wrapped an arm around Catriona’s shoulders and wheeled her about. “It’s such a dreadfully long way from Balhaire, is it not? I’ve always said to Margot that there ought to be an easier way to reach her, but alas, she has long loved your father and refuses to leave him.”
“Leave him?” Catriona exclaimed.
“You’ve come alone, have you? No girl to tend you? Nothing but those brutes to drive you and handle your trunk?” he asked as he hurried her along the cobblestones toward the entrance of the inn’s public room. Bright red poppies graced the window boxes, and tables and chairs had been arranged outside, yet there was no one enjoying the sun.
“I’ve a girl for you if you haven’t one, although I can’t vouch for her skills. She seems to do well enough to my eyes, but my guest, Miss Chasity Wilke-Smythe, claims she is wretched, and yet Chasity looks rather pretty to these old eyes.”
Guests! Catriona should have known—Uncle Knox constantly surrounded himself with a retinue of friends and acquaintances, gathered from far-flung corners and questionable establishments. Catriona felt suddenly self-conscious as he bustled her along. She could smell herself, felt wretched in her traveling clothes and wanted nothing more than a hot bath and a wee bit of brandy.
“Between you and me, love, the Wilke-Smythes are a bit demanding,” Uncle Knox said in a low voice. “And a bit too far on the side of the Whigs, if you take my meaning.” He waggled his brows at her.
She did not take his meaning.
“But you will find great company in them, I am certain of it, and if not, there is Countess Orlov and her cousin, Vasily Orlov. Now, there is a colorful pair if ever there was.” He leaned his head to hers and whispered, very dramatically, “Russians.”
“I beg your pardon, Uncle. You didna mention you were already entertaining guests in your reply to my request to join you.”
“Why, I’ve hardly any!” he declared. “And besides, I should have an entire assembly under my roof and turn them all away if it meant I might spend a summer with my much beloved niece.”
“No’ a summer, Uncle. A fortnight—”
“Here we are!” he declared, ignoring her, and with one arm around her, he used the other as a sort of battering ram and shoved open the door of the inn, then loudly proclaimed, “She’s here!”
The small group of people gathered at a table in the center of the room looked at her. Those were her uncle’s guests, she gathered, as the only other people in the inn were two men standing at the counter in the back with tankards before them.
Uncle Knox dragged Catriona forward to the table and introduced her to his company: Mr. and Mrs. Wilke-Smythe and their daughter, Miss Chasity Wilke-Smythe. Miss Chasity Wilke-Smythe resembled her mother so much that the pair looked a wee bit like twins in their powdered hair and matching coats. The former, at first glance, seemed scarcely old enough to be out.
She then met Countess Orlov, an elegant woman with a discerning gaze, and her cousin, the handsome, yet foppish, Mr. Vasily Orlov. “You must call me Vasily,” he said, his name rolling off his tongue as he bowed over her hand.
Next was Mrs. Marianne Templeton, whom Catriona knew as the widowed sister of Uncle Knox’s neighbor in England. Her mother had mentioned her once, had said she was quite eager to make Uncle Knox her next husband. She looked a wee bit older than Uncle Knox and examined Catriona from the top of her head to the tips of her boots. And last, an elderly gentleman with thick, wiry brows. Lord Furness, an old friend, her uncle said, scarcely glanced at her.
Uncle Knox sat her between Lord Furness and Miss Chasity Wilke-Smythe and ordered tots of whisky for them all. “In honor of my niece. The Scots are fond of whisky, is that not so, Cat?”
“Ah...many are, aye,” she agreed.
“When in Scotland, lads, we drink as the Scotch do,” Uncle Knox said, and held his tot aloft. “To Scotland!”
“To Scotland!” his guests echoed.
Catriona tolerated whisky well enough, but she was so parched today that she downed the tot and set the small glass firmly on the table. That was when she noticed everyone was staring at her. “It was just a wee tot,” she said a bit defensively. She was still bruised from the apparent censure she’d received from her family on that rain-soaked afternoon at Kishorn.
“Another!” shouted Uncle Knox. “Another round for us all!”
The whisky had the effect of making the group a bit merrier. They began to laugh and talk over one another, correcting each other’s accounting of what had happened the night before, which, from the sound of it, had been a game of Whist gone horribly wrong. Catriona listened, and she smiled and nodded where she thought she ought, but she felt nothing but fatigue weighing her down. She leaned far back in her chair so that Lord Furness could speak over her to Miss Wilke-Smythe. The inn was beginning to fill, and she prayed that meant Uncle Knox would soon see them to Dungotty, the estate he’d allegedly purchased for a song. Unfortunately, he showed no sign of leaving, ordering kidney pies for all, and moving them from whisky to ale when Mrs. Templeton began to laugh a little too loudly.
Another hour passed. Catriona felt herself sliding down her wooden seat and glanced at the watch pinned to her gown to gauge the time. When she wearily lifted her gaze, her eyes landed on the back of a man. He was quite tall. He was wearing a cloak that, from even a bit of distance, she could see was made of the finest wool. His snowy-white collar covered the back of his neck, and his hair, as black as his cloak, was bobbed into a queue with a single green ribbon. She had not seen him come in. He had taken a seat near the window, quite alone, and sat with one leg crossed over the other, one arm slung across the back of an empty chair, and gazed through the windowpanes at the goings-on in the street.
Catriona was suddenly nudged with an elbow. “I can’t believe he’s come in,” whispered Miss Wilke-Smythe.
“Pardon?”
The young woman nodded in the direction of the tall man with the green ribbon. “That is the Duke of Montrose,” she whispered excitedly. “Look, there’s the coach from Blackthorn,” she said, nodding toward the window.
Catriona looked at the man’s back again.
“You’ve no doubt heard of him, haven’t you?” asked Miss Wilke-Smythe.
Catriona shook her head. “Should I have?”
“Yes!” Miss Wilke-Smythe said in a near squeal. She clamped her hand down on Catriona’s arm and squeezed with alarming strength. “He’s quite notorious,” she said, her brown eyes glittering.
He didn’t seem so notorious to Catriona. “Why is that, then?”
Miss Wilke-Smythe leaned even closer, so that Catriona could feel her breath on her neck, and whispered, “They say he murdered his wife.”
“What?” Catriona blinked. She turned her head to look at the young woman. “You jest,” she accused her.
“Not in the least! Everyone says so—they say she simply disappeared. One night, she hosted a table set with so much china and silver that armed guards stood before the mansion. And the next day, she vanished, just like that,” she said with a snap of her gloved fingers. “One moment she was here, and the next, vanished. No one has seen her since.”
Catriona looked at the broad back of the man at the window. “That’s impossible.”
“You must hear it from Lord Norwood!” Miss Wilke-Smythe said, referring to Uncle Knox, who happened to be the Earl of Norwood. “He relayed it all to me.”
“All right, then, that’s enough of this,” her uncle suddenly said, and stood up, swaying a bit on his feet. “Time I see my darling niece home, I should think. Where are her trunks? Has someone got her trunks?”
“Well, I haven’t got them,” Lord Furness said, and staggered to his feet, too. In fact, there was a lot of rattling about as they all stood, casting around for discarded cloaks and reticules, hats and bonnets. In the flurry, Catriona tried to get a look at the duke’s face, but his back was very much to the door, and Vasily Orlov chose that moment to sidle up to her with a leering sort of smile. “Norwood was remiss in mentioning the beauty of his niece,” he purred.
Catriona stepped away from him and followed her uncle as he and his party stumbled into bright sunlight.
The Balhaire coach was gone, and in its place, a large barouche coach waited. It sported red plumes at every corner, and the gold seal of Montrose was emblazoned on its doors, much like the sort of coach Catriona had seen at Norwood Park when she was a child.
“By devil, has Montrose shown his face in town?” Uncle Knox said as he linked Catriona’s arm through his.
“He has indeed,” Lord Furness said as they stood together, admiring the coach. “Did you not see the gentleman in the inn? It can be no one but him, not with the garish signet ring he wore.”
“What? In the inn? I did not,” Uncle Knox said. “Jolly well brave of him to come round, I’d say. Come along, Cat darling, you are with me. I’ve a new buggy, a cabriolet. From France,” he said, as if that pleased him.
“What of my trunks?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder for them.
“Someone will bring them.”
“Uncle, I—”
“There now, darling, don’t fret about a thing. All is taken care of. I should not be the least surprised to see your trunks already delivered safely to your suite at Dungotty. The Scotch are surprisingly efficient.”
She wondered if she ought to be offended by his surprise or his generalized view of her fellow countrymen, but her attention was drawn to her uncle’s new carriage. It had two seats, a hood and two horses to pull it.
Uncle Knox helped her up first, but as he was unsteady on his feet from the ale and whisky, it took two attempts for him to haul himself into the seat beside her.
“Do you mean to drive?” she asked, alarmed.
“I had a mind to, yes. Don’t look so frightened of it, darling! Do you not trust your dear old Uncle Knox?”
“No!”
He laughed. “Well, then, if you prefer, you may drive,” he said gallantly.
“I prefer.”
He clucked his tongue at her. “So like Zelda you are. It’s uncanny.” He gladly handed her the reins. “Look here, look here!” he called to his companions. “My niece means to drive! That’s the way of it in Scotland, the women are as hard as brass!”
“Uncle!”
“I mean that in the most complimentary way,” he said as he settled back against the leather squabs. “My own sister is more Scot than English now, can you believe it? To think how she fought against being sent to Scotland to marry your father,” he said, and laughed heartily before pointing. “Take the north road.”
Catriona set the team to such a fierce trot that Uncle Knox had to grab on to the side of the carriage to keep from being tossed to the ground.
He was eager to call out points of interest as they drove, but Catriona scarcely noticed them, she was so tired. But when the road rounded a thicket, she did indeed notice, sitting at the base of a hill, an estate so grand, a house so vast, that she thought it must belong to the king.
The stone was dark gray, the dozens of windows, even from this distance, glistening in the afternoon sun. There were so many chimneys that she couldn’t possibly count them as they rolled by. “What is it?” she asked, awestruck.
“That, my dear girl, is Blackthorn Hall, the seat of the Duke of Montrose.”
The house disappeared behind more thicket. They climbed a hill in the cabriolet, and the road twisted around, at which point they were afforded another view of Blackthorn Hall and the large park behind it. A small lake was in the center, the lawn perfectly manicured. There was a garden so expansive that the colors of the roses looked like ribbons in the distance. The stables were as big as Auchenard, the hunting lodge near Balhaire that belonged to Catriona’s nephew, Lord Chatwick.
“Quite grand, isn’t it?” Uncle Knox remarked.
The road curved away from Blackthorn Hall, and Catriona returned her attention back to the road. “Did he really kill his wife, then?”
“You’ve heard it already! That is indeed what the locals say, but I don’t know that he did. Perhaps he sent her off to a convent. Whatever happened, it seems to be fact that she disappeared one night and no one has seen hide nor hair of her since.”
“And no one has looked for her?” Catriona asked.
“Oh, I suppose they have,” he said. “She was, by all accounts, a ginger-haired beauty, beloved by the tenants. I have heard it said she was a bright spot of light in a dismal man’s shadow. How he must have resented her,” Uncle Knox mused.
“Why?”
Uncle Knox laughed. “Don’t you know, Cat? Gentlemen of a certain disposition do not care to be overshadowed by the weaker sex.”
“But murder?” Catriona asked skeptically.
“Yes, well, some men are driven to mad passion by the right woman, darling.” He tapped her hand. “Mind you remember that.”
Catriona rolled her eyes. “Have you met him, then?” she asked. “The duke?”
“What? Why, no,” he said, sounding as if he’d just realized it and was surprised by it.
“If I lived here, I should make a point of meeting him,” Catriona said. “I’ll no’ believe such rumors without meeting the man.”
“So much like your aunt Zelda, aren’t you?” he said, shaking his head. “She would have walked up to Blackthorn and banged the knocker and asked his grace, ‘Did you murder your wife?’”
Catriona smiled.
Her uncle suddenly sat up. “There it is, there is Dungotty!” he said, swiping his hat off his head to use as a pointer.
Dungotty was a glorious house. It was half the size of Blackthorn Hall, but quite bigger than Catriona had expected, and rather elegant. It was at least as big as Norwood Park, her uncle’s seat and her mother’s childhood home. Dungotty was nestled in a forest clearing, and a large fountain spouted water from the mouth of three mermaids in the middle of a circular drive. They were arranged with their arms around each other, their faces turned up to the sun as if they were singing.
As Catriona steered the team into the drive, two men in livery and wigs emerged and took control of the team and helped Catriona and her uncle down.
“I’ve the perfect suite for you, my love,” Uncle Knox said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “It was once inhabited by the dowager of Dungotty.”
“Who was the family, then?” Catriona asked, casting her gaze up at the frieze above the grand entry.
“What family?”
Catriona gave him a sidelong glance. “The family that was forced to forfeit.”
“Ah, of course! You still harbor tender feelings, I see. I believe they were Hays. Or perhaps Haynes. Well, no matter. It was a very long time ago, and we should allow bygones to be bygones.”
“Spoken like an Englishman,” she muttered.
Uncle Knox laughed. “You might change your thinking when you see the rooms I’ve set aside for you.”
Well, as it happened, Uncle Knox had a point. The rooms he showed her to were beautiful—a bedroom, a sitting room and a very large dressing room. The suite had been done in pink and cream silks, and a thickly looped carpet warmed the wood-planked floors. The bed had an elaborate canopy, and the view out the three floor-to-ceiling windows featured a trimmed lawn and a picturesque glen with hills rising up on either side beyond. In the sitting room, a fire blazed in the hearth. It boasted upholstered chairs, a small dining table and a chaise. But perhaps the most welcome site was the brass tub in the dressing room.
“What do you think?” Uncle Knox asked.
“Aye, it’s bonny, uncle,” Catriona said, and looked up at the ceiling painted with an angelic scene. “Thank you.”
He smiled with pleasure. “Rest now, love. I’ll send a girl and a bath to you before supper. We’ve a fresh ham in honor of your arrival!”
Catriona wasn’t certain if he was more excited by her arrival or the prospect of fresh ham. She was excited by the prospect of a nap and a bath. “Before you go, uncle,” she said, catching her uncle before he disappeared through the door. “I’ve a letter,” she said, reaching into her pocket.
“My sister is determined to rule my life,” he said with a chuckle. “This will be the third letter I’ve received from her in as many weeks. What now?”
“No’ Mamma,” Catriona said. “It’s from Zelda.”
Uncle Knox’s expression softened. He looked at the letter Catriona held out to him. “She wrote me,” he said, his voice full of wonder.
“Aye, that she did. She left three for me to deliver, she did. One for my father. One for the reverend. And one for you.”
Uncle Knox took the letter and ran the tip of his finger over the ink where she’d written his name. “Thank you, my darling Cat,” he said, and hugged her tightly to him.
Catriona was suddenly overcome with a wave of emotion. “You’ll help me, will you no’, Uncle Knox?” she asked into his collar. “You’ll help me preserve what Zelda worked so hard to build, aye?”
“There now, lass, of course I will. But we will save talk of it until later, shall we? You need to rest from your journey and your loss.”
“But I—”
“We’ve plenty of time,” he said, and kissed her temple. “Rest now, darling.” He went out, his gaze on the letter.
Catriona closed the door behind him, then lay down on the counterpane of her bed and closed her eyes with a weary sigh. But as she drifted off to sleep, she kept seeing a broad back, a neat queue of black hair, held with a green ribbon, an arm stretched possessively over the back of an empty chair.
It was impossible to imagine that a man who looked as virile as he would find it necessary to kill his wife. Could he not have seduced her instead? Of course he could have—he was a duke. She’d never known a woman who could not be seduced with the idea of being a duchess.
What, then, had become of her?
CHAPTER THREE (#u01228827-fbef-5a9b-adf8-3aafd8d665c0)
HAMLIN GRAHAM, THE Duke of Montrose, Earl of Kincardine, Laird of Graham, was brushing a ten-year-old girl’s hair. It was not his forte, nor his desire.
These were the true troubles of a notorious duke.
“It’s too hard,” the girl, his ward, complained.
“What am I to do, then?” he asked brusquely, annoyed with the task and his clumsiness at something that seemed so simple. “You’ve a bird’s nest on your head.”
The girl, Eula—Miss Eula Guinne, to be precise—giggled.
“Why do you no’ have your maid brush your hair, then? She’s surely better than me.”
“I donna like her,” Eula said.
“Aye, and why no’?”
“Because she’s quite old. And she smells of garlic.”
Hamlin couldn’t argue—he’d caught a whiff of garlic a time or two from Mrs. Weaver.
“I should like a new maid.”
Hamlin rolled his eyes. “I’ll no’ let Mrs. Weaver go, Eula. She came all the way from England to serve me and has been in my employ for many years, aye?” There was also the slight problem of finding a suitable replacement were he to lose Mrs. Weaver, given his black reputation.
“But she’s no’ a maid, no’ really. She’s a housekeeper. I want a maid.”
Eula was very much like her cousin, Glenna Guinne, the woman Hamlin had once called wife. Glenna had wanted for things, too—all things, and always more things. It had been a loathsome burden to try to please her.
He took one of the jewel-tipped hairpins from an enamel box and set a thick curly russet tress of Eula’s hair back from her face. He did the same on the other side of her head.
“They’re no’ even,” Eula said petulantly, examining herself closely in the mirror.
It took Hamlin two more attempts before she was satisfied. When she was, she turned around and eyed him up and down. “You’re no’ properly dressed, Montrose.”
“I’ve told you, ’tis no’ proper for a young miss to address a duke by his title,” he said. He glanced down at his buckskins, his lawn shirt and a pair of boots that needed a good polish. “And I’m perfectly dressed for repairing a roof.”
“Which roof?”
“One of the outbuildings.”
“What happened to it?”
“It’s gained a hole.”
“Why must you do it, then? A footman or a groundskeeper ought to be the one, no’ you.”
Hamlin folded his arms and cocked his head to one side. “I beg your pardon, then, lass, but are you the lady of Blackthorn Hall now?”
She shrugged. “Cousin Glenna said dukes are no’ to work with their hands. Dukes are meant to think about important matters.”
“Well, this duke happens to like working with his hands, he does.” Hamlin put his hand on her shoulder and pointed her toward the door. “It’s time for your studies.”
“It’s always time for my studies,” Eula said with the weariness of an elderly scholar.
“Off with you, then, lass.”
Before Eula could skip out the door, Hamlin stopped her. “Are you no’ forgetting something, lass?”
She stopped mid-skip, twirled around, ran back to her vanity, picked up her slate and quit the room.
Hamlin walked in the opposite direction, striding down the carpeted hallway lined with portraits of Montrose dukes and their ladies. He swept down the curving staircase to the marble foyer and strode through the double entry doors a footman opened as he neared, and onto the portico.
He jogged down the brick steps and onto the drive, where he paused to look up at a bright blue sky. The summer had been unusually dry thus far, which created crystal clear days such as this.
He struck out, walking purposefully to a group of outbuildings that housed tools and a tack room. Men were waiting for him, their workbenches and tools arrayed around the edge of a storage building that had been damaged by a late spring storm.
“Your grace,” said his carpenter, inclining his head.
“Mr. Watson,” Hamlin said in return. “Fine day, aye?”
“’Tis indeed, milord.” He handed him a hammer.
Hamlin took it and ascended the ladder that had been placed against the wall. There was a time the servants of Blackthorn had spoken to him as if he were a person and not someone to be feared. Good day to ye, your grace. Been down to the river? Trout are jumping into the nets, they are.
When he had positioned himself on the roof, he leaned to his side. “A plank, Watson.”
“Aye, milord.” With the help of a younger man, Watson climbed the ladder with a plank of wood and helped Hamlin slide it into place. Hamlin held out his hand for nails. Nails were placed in his palm. He set them in his mouth save one, which he began to hammer.
He had not been entirely clear with Eula. It wasn’t the work he enjoyed, it was the hammering. He liked striking the head of a nail with as much force as a man could harness. He liked the reverberation of that strike through his body, how powerful it made him feel. Wholly in control. Capable of moving mountains and forging rivers. He’d not always felt that way. He’d not always been able to pound out his frustrations to feel himself again.
“Your grace,” Watson said.
“Hmm,” he grunted through a mouthful of nails.
“Your grace, someone comes, aye?”
Hamlin stopped hammering. He glanced up, saw a sleek little cabriolet behind a team of two trotting down the drive toward his house. He was surprised to see any conveyance coming down the road at all—no one called at Blackthorn now. There was no such thing as a social call. He spit the nails into the palm of his hand. “Who is it, then?” he asked of no one in particular.
“I donna recognize it,” Watson said.
Hamlin sighed irritably. He wanted to hammer nails. He wanted to repair this hole and feel as if he’d done something meaningful today. He wanted to feel his strength, and then his exhaustion. But he handed everything to Watson and climbed down the ladder, reaching the ground just as the carriage was reined to a halt...and not a moment too soon, as it happened. If the driver hadn’t reined when he did, the team would have run him over. As Hamlin waved the dust from his face, he squinted at the pair in the cabriolet. It was a woman who held the reins.
A gentleman, older than Hamlin by two dozen years or more, soft around the middle, climbed down, then held out his hand to help the driver. But that one had leapt like a stag from her seat on the opposite side of the cabriolet. The force of her landing knocked her bonnet slightly to one side, and he noticed she had hair the color of wheat. She righted her hat, then strode forward to join the older man.
There was something about the woman that struck Hamlin as odd. Perhaps it was the way she walked as they approached him and his men—confidently and with purpose, her arms moving in time with her legs. He was accustomed to women walking slowly and with swinging hips, in ways that were designed to attract a male’s eye. This woman moved as if she had someplace quite important to be and not a moment could be spared.
The other notable thing about her was that she looked him directly in the eye, and not the least bit demurely. She was not complicated, but rather easy to read. Women used to smile at him in ways that made him question if he knew anything at all. But this woman gave him pause—generally, when anyone looked at him with such undiluted purpose, it was to request something or to accuse him.
“How do you do, sir?” the older man asked.
Hamlin shifted his gaze to the gentleman.
“Be a good man, will you, and send someone to inform the duke we’ve called. Knox Armstrong, Earl of Norwood,” he said, and bowed his head.
Hamlin stared at him. Norwood. He was English, quite obviously. Should he know him? He didn’t recall the name and wondered what in bloody hell he was to be accused of now.
The woman cleared her throat.
“Ah. And my niece Miss Catriona Mackenzie of Balhaire,” he added.
Hamlin looked again at the woman. She smiled prettily.
A moment passed as Hamlin considered the two of them. Miss Catriona Mackenzie of Balhaire arched a brow as if to silently remind him he was to fetch the duke. And then, in the event he did not recall what he was to do, she said, “If you would be so kind as to tell the duke we’ve called, then.”
Her voice lilted with a Scottish accent. It was a lovely, lyrical voice, and he imagined her reading stories to children, soothing them to sleep. It was a voice quite at odds with her direct manner.
“You might tell him yourself,” Hamlin said.
Norwood’s eyes widened with surprise, and he exchanged a look with his niece. The two of them suddenly burst into laughter, startling Hamlin and his men.
“Good God, man, we cannot simply waltz into a grand house and announce our presence, can we? That is not the way things are done. One must inform the duke we’ve called, and he must decide if he shall receive us.”
“Is that how it is done, then?” Hamlin drawled, aware that the niece was looking at him with amusement shining in her eyes.
“Well,” the earl said, smiling jovially, “perhaps I should say that is how we do it.”
Aye, the English thought themselves superior in every wee thing. Hamlin folded his arms across his chest. “I am the duke.”
The niece looked startled, but Norwood seemed quite diverted by it, as if they were playing a game. “You are Montrose?”
“I am.”
He looked at the men behind Hamlin, and whatever he saw there convinced him that Hamlin was telling the truth. “The devil you say. Well, then!” he said, smiling broadly now. “A pleasure to make your esteemed acquaintance, your grace.” He bowed low. “You will forgive me for not recognizing you straightaway, but you can imagine my confusion, seeing you whale away at a nail as you were.”
“Why should that confuse you, then?”
Norwood blinked.
“Because we’ve never known a duke to lift more than a cup, have we, uncle?” the niece said, and laughed.
Hamlin shifted his gaze back to her. This woman had not an ounce of conceit in her. Nor an ounce of manners, as one might expect, given that she was the niece of an English earl.
“Aye, well, this duke is no’ afraid of a hammer. Or a cup.”
“Apparently no’,” she said with a pert smile, and her gray-blue eyes glittered like the surface of the lake in bright sunlight. Hamlin was momentarily blinded by it...until he realized that all gathered were waiting for him to speak.
He turned toward Watson. “Go, then, and inform Stuart we’ve visitors, aye?” he said low. He turned to his guests and said, “If you will be so kind as to carry on to the entrance. My butler will show you in. I’ll join you shortly.”
“Thank you, your grace,” Norwood said, and gestured for his niece to come along.
Hamlin watched her ascend to the driver’s seat once more, then stepped out of the way of the cabriolet, which proved to be a wise decision, for the niece started up the team with such enthusiasm that they practically launched into space with the small carriage flying behind them.
Hamlin looked around at his men. They were all staring at him as if they’d seen a comet. “Aye,” he said, in taciturn agreement. No other words were needed—to a man, they all understood that what they had just witnessed was not the natural way of things.
CHAPTER FOUR (#u01228827-fbef-5a9b-adf8-3aafd8d665c0)
STUART, A PRIM and proper butler, as thin as a reed, his neckcloth tied as tightly as a garrote, showed Catriona and her uncle into a small drawing room with brocade drapes, furnishings upholstered in silk and a wall of books. A clock on the mantel ticked away the minutes for them.
“He means to make us wait,” Catriona said as she made her third restless trip around the room.
Uncle Knox had made himself quite comfortable on the settee and was currently examining a porcelain figurine of a small Highland fiddler. “Well, darling, we did make a rather unfortunate mistake in thinking him someone other than the duke.”
“Who could blame us?” Catriona asked. “He looked like a carpenter, he did.” A strong, strapping, handsome carpenter. His eyes were as black as his hair, his lashes as black as his eyes. His shoulders were as broad as a horse and his hips as firm as a—
“We should not judge a man by his appearance,” her uncle absently opined.
It was too late. She’d judged him by his appearance and had found him ruggedly appealing. “No,” she agreed. “But might we judge him a wee bit? He doesna look a murderer, does he?”
“I hardly know, darling. I am not acquainted with any murderers. I’m uncertain what to look for, precisely.”
Well, she’d never known a murderer, either, but she was convinced the duke did not look like a murderer. He looked like someone who ought to be wearing a crown, or leading an army of Highland soldiers, or breaking wild horses. He had a commanding presence—even more so once she’d realized with a wee thrill that he wasn’t a tradesman after all, but a duke and all that entailed—but not for a moment did he look the sort to murder. Catriona would be bitterly disappointed if she discovered he was.
She made her fourth trip around the room. She’d never been very good at waiting. In fact, she had coaxed her uncle into calling at Blackthorn Hall today because she couldn’t bear to wait another moment to discuss the abbey, which Uncle Knox was reluctant to do. He wanted her to put it out of her mind for a time, and enjoy her visit. But Catriona could not put it out of her mind for any length of time, really, and certainly not without something to divert her instead. So she’d cajoled him into calling on the mysterious Duke of Montrose.
She paused at the shelving to examine his books. The duke had a collection of tomes concerning history, astronomy and philosophy. No plays, no sonnets. A serious man, then. Daisy brought Catriona novels from England, tales of chivalry and love and adventure on the seas. Did the duke read nothing for pleasure? Was the man who inhabited that physique opposed to the simplest diversion?
“Sit, Cat, my love. You’re wreaking havoc on my nerves.”
“I canna sit and wait like a parishioner for the end of the sermon,” she complained.
Just then, the door swung partially open. A russet-haired head popped around the edge of the door about knob high. The head slid in just so that two brown eyes were visible. And then the door slowly swung open.
Uncle Knox gained his feet, clasped his hands at his back, then leaned forward, squinting at the creature who peeked around the door. “Good day,” he said.
The child moved, presenting enough of her body to know that it was a lass who eyed them. The other half remained hidden behind the door. “I’m Eula,” she said. “Who are you, then?”
“Good afternoon, Miss Eula,” Uncle Knox said. “Lord Norwood.” He bowed. “And this is my niece Miss Mackenzie.”
Catriona curtsied.
The lass looked at Catriona, her gaze sweeping over her, lingering on the hem of Catriona’s gown, which had been embroidered with vines and bluebirds. “Did you come to call on Montrose?”
Uncle Knox exchanged a look with Catriona.
“That’s the duke,” the lass said. “He lives here, too.”
“Aye, we have,” Catriona confirmed.
“Are you his friends?”
“Not as yet,” said Uncle Knox. “But we do mean to change that.”
The girl slid all the way into the room, her back to the wall. “He doesna have any friends,” she said, staring at them suspiciously.
Uncle Knox covered a laugh behind a cough.
“Aye, we’ve heard it said,” Catriona agreed.
The lass pushed away from the door and came closer to Catriona, peering at her curiously, her gaze taking in every bit of Catriona’s gown, her face, her hair. “You’re verra bonny.”
“Thank you kindly,” Catriona said. “So are you, Miss Eula. Do you live here, then, with his grace?”
She nodded. “I’ve my own suite of rooms.”
“How wonderful. I should imagine them quite grand, aye?”
“They are,” the lass agreed matter-of-factly, and traced her finger over the figurine that Uncle Knox had been examining. “I have two rooms, I do, but one is for sitting, and one for sleeping. That’s the way of proper ladies.”
“I see,” Catriona said.
“Eula.”
The deeply masculine voice was quiet but firm, and Eula was so startled that she knocked the figurine to the carpeted floor. Catriona bent down and picked it up. She smiled and winked at Eula before she rose, and returned the figurine to the table. She looked over the lass’s head at the duke. He’d donned a proper coat, but he was still lacking a collar or neckcloth. And he had not, she noted, combed his thick, black hair.
“You’re to be at your studies,” he said coolly.
“But we have callers,” Eula said.
“Rather, I have callers. You have studies. Go on, then.”
“Aye, all right,” Eula said with dejection, and began to slink to the door, but at the pace of a slug, pausing to examine the tassel on a pillow, an unlit candle. When she at last reached the door, she glanced back.
“Feasgar math,” Catriona said with a smile.
The lass’s pretty brown eyes widened with surprise.
“Good afternoon,” Catriona translated.
Eula smiled with delight. She waved her fingers and sort of slid around the duke. As she went out, the duke ran his hand affectionately down her arm. So he cared for the wee minx. Which meant he wasn’t entirely reprehensible.
The duke closed the door behind Eula and looked at Catriona and Knox expectantly.
“Very kind of you to receive us, your grace,” Uncle Knox said. “I should have sent a messenger—”
“Aye,” he said curtly.
Catriona arched a brow. Was he miffed with them still, or merely unpleasant?
“Well, then, we are agreed. In our considerable defense, we’ve only just arrived at Dungotty.”
The duke said nothing.
“It’s ours now, you see,” Uncle Knox said.
Still nothing.
“It was an exceptionally good investment,” Uncle Knox added quite unnecessarily. Catriona politely cleared her throat, which caught her uncle’s attention.
“Yes, well, I have come for the summer, which is what brings us here today, your grace. I should like to extend an invitation to you to dine at Dungotty. I have invited my neighbors to the north, the MacLarens. Are you acquainted?”
The duke regarded Uncle Knox a long moment before responding. “I am.”
“Splendid! We will have a fine evening of it. I’ve brought a cook from France, and I do not overstate his culinary skill, I assure you. You will not be disappointed, your grace.”
The duke folded his arms across his chest as if he anticipated Uncle Knox would say more. His eyes, black as coal, moved to Catriona and flicked over her.
“You need not answer straightaway, of course,” Uncle Knox continued. “You will need time to consult your diary, quite obviously, busy man that you must be. We should like to dine on Thursday evening if it pleases you, so if you would be so kind to grant us the favor of your reply by Wednesday, it would be most appreciated.”
The duke stared at Uncle Knox with a clenched jaw. It was curious that he should be so tense in the face of an invitation to dine. Curious and rude. Uncle Knox, quite unaccustomed to taciturnity in anyone, looked helplessly at Catriona.
She stepped forward and took her uncle’s arm. “At any other time we would be delighted to stay for tea, your grace, but as it happens, we’ve many calls to make today.”
His gaze narrowed. “I didna invite you to tea.”
“No?” she said cheerfully. “Then I do beg your pardon. I must have assumed you would as it would be the courteous thing to do, aye?”
“Oh,” Uncle Knox muttered, and squeezed her hand. “Oh, no. No, Cat,” he muttered.
But the duke was not bothered by her pointed remark because he said, “I donna disagree,” and moved to one side and opened the door, thereby giving them a clear path to an exit.
“Thank you,” Catriona said, and curtsied deeply. “We do look forward to your favorable reply, despite your obvious displeasure with the invitation.”
“Oh, dear me,” Uncle Knox said. “Your grace,” he said with a nod of his head, and with his hand firmly on her elbow, he escorted Catriona past the duke. She wouldn’t know if the duke watched them go or not, for she refused to look at him.
In the hallway, Stuart appeared seemingly from nowhere, and with a sweep of his hand, he indicated the path to the main doors, then walked briskly ahead of them. When they reached the foyer, a footman was on hand to open that door so they would not be hindered for even a moment in their departure with a bothersome wait for someone to turn a knob. And no sooner had they stepped onto the landing than the door closed behind them so suddenly that Catriona turned her head to assure herself that her gown had not been caught.
“Well,” Uncle Knox said, yanking on his sleeves, “I’ve scarcely met a ruder man.”
“He’s absolutely diabolical, is he no’?” Catriona asked with gleeful terror as the two of them began their walk down the steps. “I’m more determined than ever to know if he is a murderer, that I am.”
“I would caution you in pressing your cause, darling, for if he is indeed a murderer, he may very well determine you ought to be murdered.”
“True,” she said thoughtfully. “Then again, he might no’, aye?” She winked at her uncle.
“I’ve indulged you in this chase, but I’ve done all that I can for you, darling. You should have heard the hue and cry Mrs. Templeton unleashed when I said we meant to invite him to dine. One would think she was being murdered that very moment. If you want my opinion, you should not concern yourself with him at all. He has a black reputation. They say he is a candidate for the House of Lords, but I can’t see how that could possibly be, given his sour demeanor and penchant for disposing of unruly wives.” He paused. “Or perhaps that is the very thing that recommends him.”
“You believe it!” Catriona said triumphantly. “You believe he’s done something awful to his wife. You do, Uncle Knox!”
He patted her hand. “I’ve not yet made up my mind, but after today’s interview, I am leaning toward the affirmative. Hopefully, he will agree to dine with us so that we might glean something.”
Catriona laughed.
They climbed into the cabriolet. She took the reins from a groomsman and guided the team around. She had the strongest desire to look back at the massive ducal seat as they rode away, but she wouldn’t allow herself to do it. Still, she had the strangest feeling they were being watched. Perhaps he was studying her back, determining where, precisely, to insert the dagger. Perhaps the ghost of the duchess was watching her.
* * *
THEIR NEXT ORDER of business was to call on the MacLarens. Uncle Knox had only recently met the influential laird MacLaren, and he was rather taken with him. Catriona could instantly see why when she was introduced—MacLaren had the same build as her uncle, was roughly the same age and possessed a booming laugh that he employed frequently. “You will be amazed at my collection of American tobacco products,” he crowed as he and his wife led Catriona and her uncle into a receiving salon.
“Ah, American tobacco. A finer cheroot I’ve not enjoyed,” Uncle Knox said as he took up a position at the hearth.
Catriona looked at him curiously. “How have you come upon American cheroots?”
“My dear, my acquaintances stretch round the globe,” he said, and drew a large circle in the air.
Mr. MacLaren burst into loud laughter. “Then you must have a look at my American tobacco, sir, aye? You’ve no’ had as fine as this, on that you may depend.” And with that, he whisked Uncle Knox away to some lair to admire tobacco.
Mrs. MacLaren summoned tea for the two of them. Like her husband, she was jovial, and the small salon felt as gay as its mistress.
“How long will you grace us at Dungotty, then?” she asked Catriona as she poured tea.
“No’ long at all,” Catriona said. “Perhaps a fortnight, but no more. I’ve pressing business at home.”
Mrs. MacLaren did not inquire as to the pressing business as Catriona had hoped—she welcomed any chance to talk about Kishorn. “No’ for the summer? Dungotty is so lovely this time of year, what with all the peonies. The Hays, the former occupants, took great pride in their gardens.”
She had no doubt they did before they were summarily ousted. “They are indeed bonny,” she said. She picked up her teacup. “By the bye, we invited the Duke of Montrose to dine with us Thursday evening.”
Mrs. MacLaren’s surprise was evident in the manner her dark brows rose almost to her powdered hair. “Really,” she said, and put down her teacup, as if she couldn’t hold the delicate china and absorb the news at the same time. “That’s...surprising. He so rarely leaves Blackthorn.”
“Oh?” Catriona asked innocently. “Perhaps, but he’s our neighbor all the same. It would be rude not to have extended the invitation, aye?” She sipped her tea, then said coyly, “I’ve heard what is said of him.”
Mrs. MacLaren looked a wee bit nonplussed. “Aye, he’s been the subject of wretched gossip.” She stirred sugar into her cup and added, “I canna imagine there’s a soul in these hills who’s no’ heard what is said of him.”
“Do you believe it?” Catriona asked.
Mrs. MacLaren frowned. “I donna know what I believe, in truth. Lady Montrose was much beloved in and around Blackthorn.”
“It seems impossible that anyone can simply vanish, much less a duchess, aye?”
Mrs. MacLaren nodded. “Particularly such a bonny young woman. A true beauty, that she was. Och, but she was full of light and love, and younger than the duke. Quite young, really. And him so brooding,” she said with a shiver.
“Is he?” Catriona asked. She had thought him rude. But brooding?
“Rather distant, he is. But I suppose that’s to be expected from a duke.”
Catriona didn’t suppose any such thing, but she kept that opinion to herself. “What did the duchess look like?” Catriona asked.
“Oh, she had beautiful ginger hair and piercing green eyes,” Mrs. MacLaren said, happier to speak of the duchess. “A true beauty, that she was. He must have believed so, too, for he had her portrait made and hung it in the main salon at Blackthorn.”
“Why would anyone assume he’d murdered her, do you suppose?” Catriona asked. It seemed so curious to her that murder should be everyone’s assumption, rather than believing the duke had cast his wife out. A woman who’d been cast out by her husband had turned up at Kishorn Abbey a year or so ago. Did someone somewhere believe that woman had been murdered?
“I can hardly guess the workings of a deviant mind,” Mrs. MacLaren said with a slight sniff. “What I do know is that passion can often be a dangerous thing between two people. But I shall no’ speak ill of the duke,” she said, in spite of having just spoken ill of the duke. “He’s no’ been charged with a crime, has he? To speculate would be to malign his reputation, and no matter what else, he’s done a lot of good for his tenants. But he’s made no friends for himself, that is true. And besides...” Mrs. MacLaren’s voice trailed away.
“And besides?” Catriona gently prodded.
“Well...it was no secret that there was great unhappiness at Blackthorn.”
That was a foregone conclusion. Happy homes did not lose a member here and there. “What sort of unhappiness?”
“I know only it’s been said,” Mrs. MacLaren demurred, and sipped her tea. “Ah, but she was a bonny woman, indeed she was. Devoted to the staff and their families. And he, well...he was rarely seen about. Quite cold, that one. It will be a curious thing to see him in society.”
“I saw him in the common room at the Red Sword and Shield on the day I arrived,” Catriona said.
“Did you? Perhaps he’s changed his ways. God knows he needed to. All right,” Mrs. MacLaren said, putting her teacup down again. “Enough of the duke. Is it true that your uncle has brought Russians to Dungotty?” she asked.
Catriona said it was true, and as Mrs. MacLaren began to speak of a chance meeting with a Russian count several years ago, Catriona thought of the dark-eyed man with the stern countenance and the portrait of his wife—Dead wife? Missing wife?—hanging in his salon.
Catriona hoped he would come to dine. She hadn’t been as diverted by a terrifyingly slanderous tale in ages.
Fortunately for her, they received the duke’s favorable reply on Wednesday.
CHAPTER FIVE (#u01228827-fbef-5a9b-adf8-3aafd8d665c0)
“YOU’RE CERTAIN OF THIS, are you?” Hamlin asked.
“Aye,” Eula said. She was standing on a chair before him, working on the knot of his neckcloth, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“I was speaking to Mr. Bain,” he said, and touched the tip of his finger to her nose.
“Aye, your grace, that I am,” a voice behind Hamlin said.
Hamlin eyed the reflection of his secretary, Nichol Bain, in the mirror. He was leaning against the door frame, his arms folded across his chest, watching Eula’s ministrations. The auburn-haired, green-eyed young man was ambitious in the way of young men. He didn’t care about the rumors swirling around Hamlin, he cared about performing well, about parlaying his service to a duke to a better position. What would that be, then? Service to the king? Hamlin could only guess.
Bain had come to Hamlin through the Duke of Perth, the closest friend of his late father. As Hamlin had been a young man himself when he’d become a duke, Perth had taken him under his wing, and twelve years later, like his father before him, Hamlin considered Perth his closest adviser. Perth had brought Bain to him, had vouched for what Hamlin had thought were rather vague credentials.
Bain’s expression remained impassive as he calmly returned Hamlin’s gaze in the mirror. The man was impossible to discern. Whatever he thought about any given situation, he kept quite to himself unless asked. But he’d made up his mind about tonight’s dinner at once when Hamlin had asked. Frankly, he’d hardly thought on it at all. He’d said simply, “Aye, you must attend.”
Hamlin looked at himself in the mirror, eyeing his dress. He’d not seen about acquiring another valet since the last one had “retired” from his post after the fiasco with Glenna. He’d never been anything but perfectly civil to the man, and yet he’d believed the talk swirling around his master. Fortunately, Hamlin was quite capable of dressing himself and had donned formal attire. His waistcoat was made of silver silk, his coat and breeches black. Alas, Eula’s attempt to tie his white silk neckcloth had not met with success.
“I think it a waste of time,” he said to his reflection, returning to his conversation with Bain. “Nothing of consequence can come of it.”
“It is well-known that the Earl of Caithness is unduly influenced by MacLaren’s opinion. A vote from Caithness will be instrumental, if no’ decisive,” Bain said. “It could verra well be the vote to put you in the Lords, aye? The more familiar you are with the Caithness surrogate, the better your odds.”
Hamlin responded with a grunt. If he secured a seat in the House of Lords, it would be nothing short of a small miracle. Scotland was allowed sixteen seats, and those seats were determined by a vote of the Scottish peers. Four had opened, and his name had been put forth by virtue of his title. But his appointment, which had once been seen as a fait accompli, was now tenuous at best. People did not care to be represented by a man rumored to be a murderer.
“You see this as an opportunity to be familiar with MacLaren. I see it as an opportunity for a lot of scandalmongers to invent a lot of scandal.”
“What does it mean, scandalmonger?” Eula asked.
“It means busybodies have been invited to dine, that’s what.”
She shrugged and hopped down from the chair, her task complete. “Will the lady attend?”
“What lady?” Hamlin asked absently as he tried to straighten the mess she’d made of his neckcloth.
“The bonny one with the golden hair.”
And the gray-blue eyes. He could not forget those eyes sparkling with such mischievous delight. She was a minx, that one. It seemed of late that when most women viewed him at all, it was with a mix of horrified curiosity and downright fear. But Miss Mackenzie had looked at him as if she wanted to either challenge him to a duel or invite him to dance. He didn’t know what to make of her forthright manner, really. He wondered if anyone had ever tried to bring her to heel. She was not a young debutante, that much was obvious, but a comely, assured woman, scarcely younger than he. Which raised the question of how a beautiful woman of means was not married? “I believe she will be, aye,” he said to Eula.
“I rather like her,” Eula said.
Of course she did—Eula was a wee minx herself, and with no woman to properly guide her, she was turning into a coquettish imp. “Where is your maid, then, lass? ’Tis time for your bed, I should think.”
“Already?” Eula complained.
“Already.” He leaned down and kissed the top of her head.
“You look very fine, Montrose,” she said, eyeing him closely.
“Your grace,” he reminded her.
“Your grace Montrose,” she returned with a pert smile. In the mirror’s reflection, Hamlin caught Bain’s slight smile of amusement.
“Off you go, then. I’ll come round to see you on the morrow, aye?”
“Good night,” she chirped, and skipped out, intentionally poking Bain in the belly as she passed him.
When she had gone out, Hamlin undid his neckcloth and began to tie it again. “You’re convinced, are you, that given all that has happened, I still stand a chance at gaining a seat?” Hamlin asked bluntly.
“No’ convinced, no, your grace,” Bain said. “But if anyone will consider a change of heart, ’tis MacLaren. He would keep the seat close to home and his interests rather than stand on principle.”
Apparently, Hamlin was the unprincipled choice for the seat. He mulled that over as he retied his neckcloth. He was not shocked that MacLaren might advocate for him for less than principled reasons—a seat in the Lords wielded considerable power in Scotland, and Hamlin would be expected to return favor to whomever had supported him. But he wasn’t convinced that MacLaren’s lack of principle would extend all the way to him. He could very well have another candidate in the wings.
Never mind all this dithering about the evening on his part. He’d sent his favorable reply to Norwood on Bain’s recommendation and would attend this bloody dinner. He was, if nothing else, a man of his word.
His butler appeared in the doorway and stood next to Bain. “Shall I have your mount saddled, your grace?”
It was a splendid night for riding, the moon full, the path through the forest that separated Blackthorn Hall and Dungotty pleasant and cool. But before Hamlin could answer, Bain lifted a finger. “If I may, your grace.”
Hamlin nodded.
“To arrive on horseback to an important supper such as this might give the appearance of having suffered a diminishment in your standing. I’d suggest the coach, then.”
A diminishment of standing. Is that what was said of him now? Hamlin sighed with irritation at the lengths he had to go to present himself to a society he’d once ruled and that had been quick to turn its back on him. Before he’d been married, invitations to Blackthorn Hall had been sought after throughout Scotland and even in England—the prospect of marrying a future duke, particularly one with the revered name of Montrose, had brought the lassies from far and wide. Hamlin had had no firm attachment to any of them, and he’d agreed to marry the woman his father had deemed suitable to carry the Montrose name and bear its heirs.
After his marriage, Hamlin and Glenna hosted dinners and balls for the country’s elite in his ailing father’s stead, as was expected of him, the heir. And when his father died, and the title had passed to him, Hamlin had stepped into his father’s shoes. He and Glenna had dined with peers, appeared in society when it was expected. He opened a school and presented funds to a theater troupe. He sat on councils and hunted game and joined men at the gentleman’s club in Edinburgh to complain about the government.
He had performed the duties of a duke in the same distant manner as his father had before him. Not because he was the same distant person his father had been—Hamlin liked to think himself as warmer than his father had ever been—but because he was already having trouble with Glenna and he didn’t want anyone to know.
The trouble with Glenna was not apparent to anyone else before the disaster fell that ruined his life and his spirit, and left him desolate and questioning everything he thought he’d ever known about himself or this world. What had happened at Blackthorn Hall was a disgrace to any man.
That astounding fall from grace was the reason he’d taken Nichol Bain into his employ. The first thing Bain had said to Hamlin the day they met was I am the man who might repair your reputation, I am.
Normally, Hamlin would have taken offense to that. But he was intrigued by Bain’s lack of hesitation to say it, and he was acutely aware that his reputation was in critical need of repair. This was, in fact, the first invitation he’d received in several months.
“Aye, Stuart, do as he says, then,” Hamlin conceded. “The coachmen and the team will no’ care to stand about waiting for a lot of fat Englishmen to dine, but that’s their lot in life, it is.”
* * *
THE EMBLAZONED MONTROSE coach drew to a halt in the circular drive at the Dungotty estate, and two footmen sprinted to attend it. The door was opened for Hamlin, a step put down for his convenience to exit the coach. The front door likewise opened for him before Hamlin could reach it, and a man wearing a powdered wig and a highly embroidered, fanciful coat stepped forward, bowed low and said, “Welcome to Dungotty, your grace.”
“Thank you.” He handed the man his hat as he stepped into the foyer. The grand house had had a bit of work done to it since Hamlin had last seen it, which he recalled was at least a decade ago, before his marriage. Marble flooring had replaced wooden planks, and an expansive iron-and-crystal chandelier blazed with the light of a dozen candles overhead. The stairs leading to the first floor were dressed in expensive Aubusson carpets, the railing polished cherry.
Hamlin removed his cloak, handed it to yet another footman and wondered just how many footmen an English earl actually needed for summering in Scotland. He’d seen more tonight than he had on staff at Blackthorn Hall, which was twice the size of this house.
The sound of laughter suddenly rose from a room down a long hall. Hamlin immediately tensed—it sounded as if there were more souls laughing than the four he expected, which were the MacLarens, Norwood and his niece.
“This way, if you please, your grace,” the butler said, and walked briskly in the direction of the laughter, down a corridor and to a set of double doors. He placed both hands on the brass handles, paused and gave his head a bit of a shake, then practically flung the doors open. He stepped inside and loudly cleared his throat. Standing behind him, Hamlin could see a number of heads swivel around. Damn it to hell, he’d been waylaid by that old English goat. There was a crowd gathered in this room.
The butler bowed and said quite grandly, “My Lord Norwood, may I present his grace, the Duke of Montrose.”
Hamlin moved to step forward, but the butler was not quite done.
“And the Earl of Kincardine,” he added, just as grandly.
Hamlin waited a moment to ensure that was the end of it, but as he moved his foot, the butler added with a flourish, “And the Laird of Graham.”
Well, that was definitely the end of it, as he held no other titles. But Hamlin arched a brow at the butler all the same, silently inquiring if he was done. The butler bowed deeply and stepped back.
Hamlin walked into the room and looked around at the dozen souls or more gathered. He made a curt bow with his head, and almost as one, the ladies curtsied and the men bowed their heads back at him.
“Welcome, welcome, your grace!” Norwood appeared through what felt a wee bit like a throng, one arm outstretched, the other hand clutching a glass of port. He was dressed in the finest of fabric, his waistcoat nearly to his knees and as heavily embroidered as the butler’s. They shared a tailor, it would seem.
“We are most pleased you have come. May I introduce you to my guests?” Norwood said, and gestured to the MacLarens. “Mr. and Mrs. MacLaren, with whom, I am certain, you are acquainted.”
“Your grace,” Mrs. MacLaren said, and curtsied, her powdered tower of hair tipping dangerously close to Hamlin.
“Montrose, ’tis good to see you about,” MacLaren said, eyeing Hamlin shrewdly as he gripped his hand and shook it heartily.
“Thank you,” Hamlin said.
When MacLaren had taken a good long look at him, he shifted his gaze to Norwood, and something flowed between those two men that Hamlin didn’t care for. That was precisely the reason he hadn’t wanted to come here this evening—the unwelcome scrutiny, the assumptions about what had happened at Blackthorn.
“My dear friend Countess Orlov and her cousin, Mr. Vasily Orlov,” Norwood continued, introducing him to a middle-aged woman with dark hair and rouged cheeks, and her fastidiously dressed cousin, who wore a sash across his chest with several medals pinned to it.
He was then introduced to an English family, the Wilke-Smythes, whose relation to Norwood was quite unclear. Lord Furness, a corpulent man who, from what Hamlin could glean, was an old friend. He seemed already well on his way to being thoroughly pissed. Next was Mrs. Templeton, a woman with a full bust and a painted fan, which she employed with great verve in the direction of her décolletage.
“Lastly, my dear niece Miss Mackenzie, who has already had the great pleasure of making your acquaintance,” Norwood said, and waved airily at his niece.
She had made it quite clear it was not a pleasure, as he recalled. Miss Mackenzie rose elegantly from her inelegant perch on the arm of a settee. “It was indeed a great pleasure, your grace,” she said with a wee lopsided smile that made it seem as if she was teasing him. She was wearing a shimmering gown of silver silk cut so daringly low across her bosom that standing over her, Hamlin had a most enticing view of creamy, full breasts. Her eyes, the remarkably brilliant gray-blue orbs, were shining at him a mix of mirth and curiosity. Her golden hair had been fashionably arranged on top of her head, pinned with a pair of tiny ornamental bluebirds, and a pair of long curls dangled across her collarbone.
He inclined his head. “Miss Mackenzie.”
She sank into a curtsy at the same moment she offered her hand to him. He reluctantly took it, bowing over it, touching his lips to her knuckles. It struck him as somehow incongruent that a woman with such an audacious manner should have such an elegant hand that smelled of flowers.
He lifted her up and let go of her hand.
“There, then, the introductions are done,” Norwood said. “You are in want of a whisky, your grace, are you not? I know a Scotsman such as yourself enjoys a tot of it now and again. My stock has come from my sister, Lady Mackenzie of Balhaire, and she assures me it has been distilled with the greatest care.”
“No, thank you,” Hamlin said. He would prefer to keep all his wits about him this evening.
Miss Mackenzie arched a brow. “Do you doubt the quality of our whisky, then, your grace? I’ve brought it all the way from our secret stores at Balhaire.”
“I’ve no opinion of your whisky. I donna care for it,” he said, but really, it was the whisky that didn’t agree with him. The worst argument he’d ever had with Glenna came after an evening of drinking whisky. Hamlin had sworn it off after that night. He’d never believed himself to be one who suffered the ravages of demon drink, but a bad marriage could certainly illuminate the tendency in a man.
The lass smiled and said, “There you have it, uncle—that is two of us, both Scots, who donna care for whisky.”
“What? I’ve seen you enjoy more than a sip of whisky, my darling,” the earl said, and laughed roundly.
She shrugged, still smiling.
“Will you have wine?” Norwood asked Hamlin.
“Thank you.”
“Rumpel! Where are you, Rumpel?” Norwood called, turning about and wandering off to find someone to pour a glass of wine.
His niece, however, showed herself to be more expedient. She walked to a sideboard, poured a glass of wine and returned, handing it to Hamlin.
He took it from her, eyeing her with skepticism. “Thank you.”
“’Tis my pleasure, your grace. I find that a wee bit of wine eases me in unfamiliar places. It helps loosen my tongue.” She smiled prettily.
Did she think him uneasy? She stood before him, her hands clasped at her back. She made no effort to move away or to speak. No one else approached, which didn’t surprise Hamlin in the least. He’d been a pariah for nearly a year and knew the role well.
“Will it surprise you, then, if I tell you I didna believe you’d accept our offer to dine?” she asked.
He considered that a moment. “No.”
“Well, I didna believe it. But I’m so verra glad you’ve come.”
He arched a brow with skepticism. “Why?” he said flatly.
She blinked with surprise. She gave a cheerful little laugh and leaned slightly forward to whisper, “Because, by all accounts, your grace, you’re a verra interesting man.”
That surprised him. Was she openly and, without any apparent misgivings, referencing the untoward rumors about him? “You shouldna listen to the tales told about town, Miss Mackenzie.”
“What tales?” she asked, and that mischievous smile appeared again. “What town?”
“Here we are!” Norwood said, reappearing in their midst. He’d brought the butler, who carried a silver tray on which stood a small crystal goblet of wine. Norwood spotted the wine Hamlin already held. “Oh,” he said, looking confused. “Well, never mind it, Rumpel,” he said, and waved off the glass of wine the butler was trying to present to Hamlin. “You may take that away. I beg your pardon, Montrose, if my niece has nattered on. Have you, darling?” he asked, smiling fondly at her. He probably doted on her, which would explain her impudence. She’d probably been allowed to behave however she pleased all her life.
“Whatever do you mean, uncle?” Miss Mackenzie asked laughingly.
“Only that you are passionate about many things, my love, and given opportunity, will expound with great enthusiasm.”
Miss Mackenzie was not offended—she laughed roundly. “You dare say that of me, uncle? Was it no’ you who caused your guests to retire en masse just last evening with your lengthy thoughts about the poor reverend’s most recent sermon?”
“That was an entirely different matter,” Norwood said with a sniff of indignation. “That was an important matter of theology run amok!”
“Milord.” The butler had returned, sans tray and wine. “Dinner is served.”
“Aha, very good.” Norwood stepped to the middle of the room and called for attention. “If you would, friends, make your way to the dining room. We do not promenade at Dungotty, we go in together as equals. And we dine at our leisure! I’ll not insist we race through our courses like the Empress Maria Theresa of Austria, whom I know firsthand to be quite rigid in her rules for dining. Countess Orlov has been so good as to help me determine the places for everyone. You will find a name card at each setting. Catriona, darling, will you see the duke in, please?” With that he turned about and offered his arm to the young Miss Wilke-Smythe.
Miss Mackenzie held her hand aloft in midair. “You heard my uncle—I’m to do the escorting of our esteemed visitor, who, it would seem, is no’ our equal after all, but above us mortals and worthy of a special escort.”
The woman was as impudent as Eula.
She smiled slyly at his hesitation. “Please donna give him reason to scold me.”
With an inward sigh, Hamlin put his hand under her arm and promenaded her into the dining room ahead of everyone but Norwood.
The dining room was painted in gold leaf and decorated with an array of portraits of men and women alike. The table had been set with fine china, sparkling crystal, and silver utensils and candelabras polished to such sheen that a man could examine his face in them. A floral arrangement of peonies graced the middle of the table, and as Hamlin took his seat, he discovered that one had to bend either to the left or right to see around the showy flowers.
On his right was the Wilke-Smythe miss, and on his left, Mrs. MacLaren. He was not entirely sure who sat across from him, given the flowers. Norwood was seated at the head of the table, naturally, and anchoring the other end was Miss Mackenzie. She had the undivided attention of Mr. Orlov to her right, and Lord Furness to her left.
The dinner began with carrot soup, progressed to beef, potatoes and boiled apples, and was, Hamlin would be the first to admit, quite well-done. The earl had not exaggerated his cook’s abilities.
In the course of the meal, Mrs. MacLaren asked after Hamlin’s crops. Yes, he said, his oats were faring well in spite of the drought this summer. Yes, his sheep were grazing very well indeed.
When he turned his attention to his right, Miss Wilke-Smythe was eager to speak of the fine weather, and how she longed for a ball to be held this summer at Dungotty. “I miss England so,” she said with a sigh. “I’m invited to all the summer balls in England. On some nights, I keep a coach waiting so that I might go from one to the next.”
She made it sound as if there were scores of summer balls, dozens to be attended each week. Perhaps there were. He’d not been to England in years.
“Alas, there are none planned for Dungotty,” she said, pouting prettily, and Hamlin supposed that he was supposed to lament this sad fact, and on her behalf, either make a plea to her host to host one or offer to arrange one himself. But Hamlin couldn’t possibly care less if there were a hundred balls planned for Dungotty this summer, or none at all.
His lack of a response seemed to displease Miss Wilke-Smythe, for she suddenly leaned forward to see around him. “My Lord Norwood, why are there no balls to be held at Dungotty this summer?”
“Pardon?” the earl asked, startled out of his conversation with Countess Orlov. “A ball? My dear, there are not enough people in all the Trossachs to make a proper ball.”
This answer displeased Miss Wilke-Smythe even more, and she sat back with a slight huff. But then she turned her attention to Norwood’s niece. “Do you not agree, Miss Mackenzie, that we are in need of proper diversion this summer?”
Miss Mackenzie was engaged in a lively conversation with Mr. Orlov and looked up, her eyes dancing around the table as if she was uncertain what she might have missed. Her cheeks were stained a delightful shade of pink from laughing, and her eyes, even at this distance, sparked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I was just saying that Dungotty is so very lovely,” Miss Wilke-Smythe explained, “but there are very few diversions. How shall we ever survive the summer without a ball?”
“Oh, I should think verra well,” Miss Mackenzie said. “We survive them without balls all the time, do we no’, Mrs. MacLaren? I intend to survive the summer by returning home,” she said. “You must all take my word that the journey to Balhaire is diverting enough for a dozen summers.”
Her announcement caused Miss Wilke-Smythe more distress. “What?” she cried, sitting up, her fingers grasping the edge of the table. “You mean to leave us? But...but when? How long will we have your company at Dungotty?”
This outburst had gained the attention of everyone at the table, and they all turned to Miss Mackenzie, awaiting her answer.
“A fortnight,” she said. She smiled and turned her attention back to the Russian, apparently intent on continuing her conversation, but Miss Wilke-Smythe pressed on.
“But why must you go?”
“Yes, why indeed?” Mr. Orlov seconded as his hand strayed near Miss Mackenzie’s, his fingers touching her thumb. “You do not mean to deprive us of your lovely company, surely. You must stay the summer, Miss Mackenzie, for I shall be highly offended if you do not.”
Miss Mackenzie laughed. “You might be offended for all of an afternoon, sir, but I’ve no doubt you’d find suitable company, aye?”
“Oh, she means to stay,” Norwood said dismissively. “She’s been too long in the Highlands.”
“Too long in the Highlands, as if that were possible!” Miss Mackenzie playfully protested. “You know verra well that I’ve an abbey to attend to, you do, Uncle Knox. I intend to leave in a fortnight.”
“An abbey!” Mrs. Templeton said, and snorted. “I would not have guessed you a nun.”
Miss Mackenzie did not take offense to that purposeful slight. She laughed again, delighted by the remark. “On my word, I’ve no’ been accused of being a nun, Mrs. Templeton. But I’ve wards that need looking after, aye?”
“You’re far too young for wards, Miss Mackenzie,” Mrs. Wilke-Smythe said graciously.
“She is indeed, but she speaks true,” Norwood says. “My niece and her dearly departed lady aunt have provided shelter for women and children for a few years now.”
Shelter for women and children? Wards? Hamlin looked curiously at Miss Mackenzie. He himself had a ward. That she had a ward—several of them, by the sound of it—aroused his curiosity.
She looked around the table at everyone’s sudden attention to her. Her laugh was suddenly self-conscious. “Why do you all look at me this way, then? Have you never done a charitable thing, any of you?”
“’Tis more than charity, my darling,” Norwood said.
“What women?” Mrs. Templeton demanded. “What children?”
“Women who’ve no other place to go, aye?” Miss Mackenzie explained. “They’ve taken up rooms at an abandoned abbey on property my family owns, that they have.”
“Why have they no place to go?” Miss Wilke-Smythe asked with all the naivete of her age.
“That’s...that’s no’ an easy answer, no,” Miss Mackenzie said, and shifted uncomfortably. For the first time since Hamlin had made her acquaintance, she seemed at a loss for words and looked to her uncle for help. “It’s that they are no’ welcome in society or with families for...for various reasons.”
“Good Lord,” Furness said. “Do you mean—”
“Aye, I mean precisely that, milord,” she said quickly before he could say aloud who these women were. “Women who have been cast out, along with their children.”
That was met with utter silence for a long moment. Mrs. Wilke-Smythe looked at her husband, but he was staring at Miss Mackenzie.
Privately, Hamlin marveled at her revelation. The sort of charitable work she was suggesting she did was the kind generally reserved for Samaritans and leaders of the kirk. Ladies of Miss Mackenzie’s social standing might embroider a pillow or collect alms, but they did not generally participate in a manner that would put them into direct contact with such outcasts. Or at least, they would not house them. It appeared that Miss Mackenzie was more than a pampered woman of privilege.
“What do you make of it, Montrose?” MacLaren abruptly asked him. “Seems the sort of thing you’d run across now and again in the Lords, does it no’? Social injuries, poor morals and the like?”
“They donna have poor morals,” Miss Mackenzie said, her voice noticeably cooler. “Or if they have poor morals, it is because the poor morals were forced onto them.”
MacLaren ignored her, his gaze on Hamlin. “Well? What would you say to someone with Miss Mackenzie’s passion for the depraved?”
“They are no’ depraved!” she said, her voice rising.
“Yes, your grace, what do you say to it?” the countess asked him.
One reason Hamlin was intent on gaining a seat in the House of Lords was to address social injustice, to move Scotland forward, away from the rebellions of the past. Change was needed. Many people had been displaced by the rebellion, he knew, but even he was taken aback by this. Women and children living in a run-down abbey? He glanced at Miss Mackenzie, who was watching him without any discernible expectation. He realized she didn’t care what he thought of it. That also intrigued him. “One canna dictate or impose on the charitable intentions of another, aye?”
“One can if it’s wrong,” MacLaren said.
Miss Mackenzie’s gaze narrowed slightly, and she looked away.
“For God’s sake, Rumpel, take that arrangement away, will you?” Norwood complained. “I can’t see Cat from here.”
The butler moved at once to remove the offending peonies.
“Catriona is a philanthropist,” Norwood continued, looking around at them all.
“Philanthropy!” Countess Orlov suddenly laughed. “Of course, that explains it! I understood something much different, but now I understand it plainly. The Orlov family is among the greatest philanthropists of Russia.”
Miss Mackenzie’s face had turned a subtle shade of pink. “’Tis no’ philanthropy,” she said low. “My family is verra generous with their resources, aye, but ’tis a wee bit different for me. I verra much want to help them. By the saints, I donna understand anyone who’d no’ want to help them. Their lives have unfurled in ways through no fault of theirs, and life can be verra cruel to women, it can.”
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. MacLaren muttered despairingly. “Do you mean that life has been cruel to you, then?”
“To me?” Miss Mackenzie clucked her tongue. “No’ to me. I’ve had every privilege. But to women born to less fortunate circumstances, aye? Women without a family fortune to gird them, aye? I’ve wanted for nothing in my life, no’ a thing. But these women? They’ve wanted for compassion and love, a place to call their own. They’ve wanted food for their children and shoes for their feet. Some of them have come with hay stuffed into their shoes to keep the damp from seeping in. Can you imagine it, any of you?”
It was the height of indelicacy to speak of these things at a supper table, but Hamlin found her response to be intriguing and, frankly, righteous. Everyone needed to understand the inequalities that existed in their world.
“I wouldn’t know about that, but life has certainly been cruel to me,” Mrs. Templeton said bitterly, prompting Norwood to pat her kindly on the hand before she swiped up her wineglass and drank. Mrs. Templeton seemed to have forgotten she was dressed in silk and dripping in jewels. She clearly didn’t understand what cruel meant.
“What madness is this?” Furness demanded of Norwood. “How is it your family has allowed one of your own to...to consort with such women and in such a public manner?”
“I beg your pardon, sir, but my uncle doesna speak for me,” Miss Mackenzie said calmly, although the color was high in her fair cheeks, and her grip of the table so tight that Hamlin could see the whites of her knuckles from where he sat. “Griselda Mackenzie, God rest her soul, turned an old abbey into a safe haven for the forlorn and the lost, aye? I donna know all the circumstances that brought these women to Kishorn, but it never mattered to her, it did no’—what mattered was that they’d lost their husbands and fathers and brothers, with no one to provide for them, or had escaped situations in which their bodies were used for the pleasure of men.”
Mrs. Wilke-Smythe gasped with alarm. Her daughter’s eyes rounded.
“None of them had a place to go, no’ until Zelda revived the old abbey for them.”
“But that’s...that’s hardly proper,” Mrs. Wilke-Smythe said uncertainly.
“Neither is it proper to leave them in the cold with no hope,” Miss Mackenzie retorted.
“But what do you do?” Miss Wilke-Smythe asked, clearly enthralled by this unexpected side of Miss Mackenzie, while her mother withered in her seat, clearly undone by the world beyond ivy-covered walls. “Do you mean you are with them?”
Miss Mackenzie let go her grip of the table and touched a curl at her neck. “Aye, I am. I see after them, that’s what,” she said with a shrug. “I see that they have all they need.”
“My niece is to be commended,” Norwood said firmly, but it was clear to Hamlin that few others in this room, with perhaps the exception of Vasily Orlov, shared his view. “Frankly, it is unconscionable that there are those who would cast out these women and children from the safety of an old abbey when they can’t properly fend for themselves,” he continued.
“Who would cast them out?” asked MacLaren.
“Highland lairds,” Miss Mackenzie said. “They donna like them so close, aye? They can find no pity in their hearts, can see no value in them. They view them as hardly better than cattle.”
“How do you presume to know what is in the hearts of the lairds?” Lord Furness demanded.
“Englishmen, too,” she continued, ignoring him. “They want the land for their sheep. They mean to seize the property. The Crown has determined it forfeit.”
“On what grounds?” MacLaren asked gruffly.
“I’ll tell you the grounds,” Norwood said grandly. “My niece will not tell you the whole story, I’m certain of it. Her aunt, who I may personally attest was as daring a woman as I’ve ever known, and if I might say so, quite beautiful,” he added wistfully, “in her own way assisted the Jacobite rebels who fought to overthrow our king by hiding them when they fled to escape the English forces.”
There were gasps all around, which Norwood clearly relished.
“Treason!” MacLaren uttered.
“Uncle, perhaps you ought no’—”
“Perhaps they ought to know the truth, darling.”
Hamlin’s curiosity about this abbey was entirely kindled. He had not been on the side of the Jacobites—he was loyal to the king. But like most Scots, he was not particularly fond of the English and their ways.
“This woman’s aunt was a traitor to the king and the Crown,” Furness said angrily, pointing at Miss Mackenzie.
“Furness, for God’s sake, man, she was a benevolent,” Norwood said impatiently. “When the rebellion was put down, and these men faced certain death, she took it upon herself to help them escape with their lives instead of seeing them slaughtered. Find fault with it if you will, but I think it a very noble thing to do for one’s countrymen.”
No one argued with Norwood’s impassioned defense, but Hamlin privately wondered if it was truly noble to aid traitors, no matter if they were countrymen.
“Shall I tell you what else?” Norwood asked, leaning forward now, one elbow on the table.
“No, Uncle Knox,” Miss Mackenzie said, sounding slightly frantic.
But Norwood had the room’s rapt attention, and Hamlin knew he would not relinquish that attention. It seemed even the servants were leaning a little closer to hear his answer.
“Our own Catriona Mackenzie helped her.”
“Airson gràdh Dhè,” Miss Mackenzie muttered, the meaning of which was not known to anyone in this group. “I beg you, Uncle Knox, donna say more!”
“She’s a daring girl in her own right,” he said. “Her own father expressly forbid her to associate with known Jacobites, and yet my beautiful, compassionate niece could not let those young men die! She brought many of them to Kishorn herself.” He sat back, nodding at the looks of shock around him. Miss Mackenzie looked as if she wanted to crawl under the table. “What’s the matter, darling? You’re not ashamed, are you?”
“No!” she said emphatically. “But you are needlessly distressing your guests, uncle.”
“They’ve no grounds for distress!” he proclaimed. “I will have you all know that I mean to help her. What sort of men are we to punish a woman’s true compassion? Is that not what we all seek from the fairer sex? The Lord Advocate contends the property is forfeit for housing those traitors a decade ago, but by God, I shall have something to say for it.”
Miss Mackenzie groaned softly and bowed her head.
“And what have you to say for that, Montrose?” MacLaren challenged him. “Is the property forfeit?”
“I’ll no’ pass judgment on events for which I donna have all the facts, sir, and I’ll no’ do so here for your entertainment.”
A ghost of a smile appeared on MacLaren’s lips. If he wanted to find reason to deny him the vote, then so be it. But Hamlin would not be goaded into making a pronouncement on Miss Mackenzie’s good intentions.
“I beg your pardon, Lord Norwood, but what have these women to do with the rebels?” Miss Wilke-Smythe asked.
“You see, don’t you, my dear, that once the rebels slipped away, it was only natural that women and children who had lost their protectors and providers to the same battlefield and desertion would follow? And once they were gone, others who had no place to go, no way to feed their children came behind them. It was a noble calling that Zelda and Catriona undertook.”
“I would argue that,” Furness sniffed. “Seems rather foolhardy and ill-advised to me. Precisely the sort of thing one can expect to happen when one leaves aunts and daughters to their own devices without proper arrangements for marital supervision.”
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Julia London
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: ‘Warm, witty and decidedly wicked—great entertainment.’ Stephanie Laurens on Hard-Hearted Highlander.Mystery and desire cloak the Scottish HighlandsUnruly. Unmarried. Unapologetic. Catriona Mackenzie’s reputation precedes her everywhere she goes. Her beloved late aunt Zelda taught Cat to live out loud and speak her mind, and that’s exactly what she does when Zelda’s legacy—a refuge for women in need—comes under fire. When her quest puts her in the path of the disturbingly mysterious Hamlin Graham, Duke of Montrose, Cat is soon caught up in the provocative rumours surrounding the dark duke.Never one to retreat, Cat boldly goes where no one else has dared for answers. Shrouded in secrets, a hostage of lies, Hamlin must endure the fear and suspicion of those who believe he is a murderer. The sudden disappearance of his wife and the truth he keeps silent are a risk to his chances at earning a coveted parliamentary seat. Bu he’s kept his affairs tightly held until a woman with sparkling eyes and brazen determination appears unexpectedly in his life. Deadly allegations might be his downfall, but his unleashed passion could be the duke’s ultimate undoingPraise for Julia London:‘Julia London writes vibrant, emotional stories and sexy, richly drawn characters.” New York Times bestselling author Madeline Hunter‘An absorbing read from a novelist at the top of her game.’ Kirkus Reviews, starred review, on Wild Wicked Scot‘Expert storytelling and believable characters make the romance [one that] readers will be sad to leave behind.’ Publishers Weekly, starred review, on Wild Wicked Scot