April Seduction

by Merry Farmer

  “Home to Strathaven Glen,” he clarified. “Immediately. On the first train. So go pack your things.”

  “Scotland?” Cece stopped short, staring at him with wide eyes. “Are you saying we’re going to Scotland?”

  “Yes. Go pack,” he growled.

  She continued to study him with alarm. “It’s not like you to retreat to the country when things go wrong.”

  “Maybe that’s what I should have done all along,” he said. Part of him felt like he should argue with her. Part of him felt like he should stay and continue the battle. But too much of him was done. He’d lost. It was over. “We’re going home,” he repeated. “And we’re not coming back.”

  “Very well, Papa,” she said as they continued forward. Her voice was hollow and sad, which raised more guilt in Malcolm.

  “I’m sorry,” he said when they reached the stairs. “What am I thinking? You’ve just had your coming out. You should stay in London with your friends. You should enjoy your life. We can find someone for you to stay with.” Up until hours ago, he would have assumed she’d stay with Katya, but that door was closed forever now.

  Cece shook her head and valiantly straightened her back as they mounted the stairs. “You’re my father, and I’ll stand by you no matter what.”

  “You don’t have to,” he said. He needed to grow accustomed to the feeling of being alone anyhow. “Stay here.”

  “No,” she argued. “I’m going with you.”

  There was no sense in arguing. Cece might have looked like her mother but she had his stubborn streak. Malcolm knew full well no one could argue him out of doing something he insisted on doing, and the same went for Cece. If he were honest, he was relieved she would stay with him.

  Cece also inherited his cleverness, though. Not more than half an hour later, as Malcolm walked from his bedroom to the dressing room where one of his footmen had drawn a hot bath for him, he caught Cece slipping an envelope to one of the other footmen. Her expression was sharp with conspiracy, leaving no doubt in Malcolm’s mind that the envelope was a letter, most likely for Rupert Marlowe, informing him of everything that was going on.

  Malcolm sighed and dragged himself on to his bath. Let Cece and Rupert conspire all they wanted. They couldn’t change the facts. He’d spent his whole life giving his heart to the wrong people. Katya didn’t think any more of him than she did her other lovers. Their children could plot, but nothing they did could make love blossom where there were only thorns.

  * * *

  By the time she reached home, exhaustion like Katya had never felt before overcame her. She should have climbed out of the carriage Christopher hired on her own. She should have told him to go home and take care of himself. She should have done a lot of things, but by the time Christopher carried her over the threshold, alarming Mr. Stewart beyond measure as he did, she realized it was too late.

  “She told me to send for Viscount Helm to treat her,” Christopher explained to her butler as Stewart directed him to lay Katya on a sofa in her private parlor.

  “Right away,” Stewart said, turning to leave the room.

  “Mama, is that you?” Rupert’s voice rang from the hall. As soon as he entered the parlor, his face flooded with alarm. “Mama, what happened?”

  “I’m all right,” Katya insisted, instantly contradicting herself with another round of coughing that left her wracked and spent.

  By the time she recovered from her fit, Christopher was already explaining things to Rupert.

  “…entire place in flames. She was lucky to get out alive, but Craig told me her efforts saved the lives of numerous young women who would otherwise have been trapped inside.”

  Katya blinked, sagging into the soft comfort of the sofa. She didn’t remember Christopher talking to Inspector Craig at all. She didn’t remember much after Malcolm had stormed off.

  Malcolm. Thoughts of him hurt more than her lungs and the bits of her that had been licked by flames. It was shattering that he’d come so close to being the instrument of defeat for Shayles, only to have his moment of glory ripped from him. She was certain there was more to the story and that she would hear it in time, but the look in his eyes, the bitterness and the heartbreak of believing himself to have been pushed aside for a younger hero at the last moment killed her. She knew too well what it was like to be pushed aside for someone younger, and in so many ways.

  “Mama! Good heavens, what happened?”

  Katya was robbed of the luxury of wallowing in her own sorrow as Bianca and Natalia scurried into the room. They both wore dressing gowns over their night clothes, had their hair tied up in rags, and wore looks of extreme worry.

  “I’m all right,” Katya wheezed. “It’s just a little smoke is all.”

  “Rob has been sent to fetch Viscount Helm,” Stewart reported from the doorway.

  “Good. Thank you, Stewart,” Rupert said, then turned his attention to Katya. “News of the fire reached us at Spencer House,” he said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if rumors were flying through London as we speak. What really happened?”

  Katya opened her mouth, but coughed instead of forming words. She gestured to Christopher.

  “The raid was a success,” Christopher began.

  Katya closed her eyes and submitted to Bianca and Natalia’s hugs and petting instead of paying attention. Everything had gone right—at least, as far as nabbing Shayles—but she felt as though she’d experienced a crushing defeat. All she wanted to do was sleep.

  Sleep is what she did, she realized with a shock, when her eyes snapped open again. More lanterns had been brought into the parlor, and Armand had arrived. She must have slept for half an hour at least. No one had bothered to move her, and no one had bothered to go to bed. Christopher had left, though.

  “Awake at last?” Armand asked, smiling at her—an expression that was clearly designed to hide his true concern—as he sat on the edge of the sofa beside her.

  Katya answered him with another wracking cough that left her weak and shaky and feeling as though her lungs were balls of smoldering embers.

  “Don’t try to talk,” Armand said, resting a hand on her forehead. He placed a long listening device on her chest and bent to listen at one end. His brow knit into a frown. “Your lungs are severely irritated,” he said. “Which is to be expected from someone who was caught in a fire but managed to escape.”

  “What can we do about it?” Rupert asked. He hovered behind the sofa, looking as though he would perform surgery on Katya himself if it could help her.

  “Rest and fresh air are the only things that cure the effects of inhaling smoke,” Armand explained. “You’ll likely continue to cough for weeks to come and to taste smoke as well.”

  “Isn’t there something else that can be done?” Bianca asked, as doggedly determined to heal Katya as Rupert was.

  Armand turned to her, no doubt to explain at length, but Stewart stepped into the room and cleared his throat.

  “Lord Stanhope, a letter has just arrived for you,” he said.

  Rupert pried himself away from Katya’s side and rushed to take the envelope Stewart held.

  “What is it?” Katya asked, anxious to direct attention away from herself, but sounding so much like an aged frog that her girls hovered even closer to her.

  Rupert opened the envelope and withdrew a single piece of paper. The note must have been short, because within seconds, his face fell into an irritated frown. “Of all the stupid….” He started, but didn’t go on.

  “What is it?” Bianca asked. “Who would send you a letter at three o’clock in the morning?”

  Katya’s brow flew up. Was it that late?

  “It’s Cece,” Rupert told them, returning to the sofa. Katya didn’t like the look of uncertain sympathy he gave her. “She says that her father has ordered her to pack her things, and that they’re leaving for Scotland on the first train this morning.”

  “That bloody—” Katya started, but a violent coughing fit stopped her
from expressing just what she thought of Malcolm running away.

  Being stopped from expressing her knee-jerk reaction caused her to think twice, though. Malcolm never picked up and ran away when things were difficult. Quite the contrary. He stayed and fought, even when he shouldn’t. Even when it drove everyone around him to distraction.

  Something was horrifically wrong. He’d been so upset after the fire. Katya had been upset herself, but the calm of home and the circle of her loved ones had eased her back into the complacency of her routine. Her heart sped up and her mind raced all over again as the implication of Malcolm returning to Scotland hit her, like the fire breaking out all over again. And yet, with the rise in tension, her coughing grew worse, preventing her from speaking.

  “Why would he do that?” Natalia asked, her lower lip turned down in a pout. “Less than a day after learning I’m his daughter.”

  Armand turned to her with a look of shock. Katya wanted to explain and to tell Natalia to hold her tongue, but her lungs prevented her.

  Instead, Rupert was the one to scold, “Natalia, hold your tongue. We do not discuss family matters in public.”

  “But we’re not—oh.” Natalia blushed after glancing to Armand, then whispered, “Sorry.”

  Katya gave up trying to speak and sank back into the sofa. Her coughing gradually subsided, but her lungs and her heart continued to burn.

  “We can’t just stand by and let them get away,” Bianca said, crossing her arms. “Rupert, you need to get us tickets to Scotland too.”

  “Yes.” Natalia leapt up from where she’d been kneeling beside Katya’s sofa. “We have to go after them. Lord Malcolm is making a terrible mistake.”

  Katya shook her head, barely managing to whisper, “No. Leave it alone.”

  Her children ignored her.

  “It will take some time to pack,” Rupert said with a thoughtful frown. “We might not be able to catch the same train as them, but we can get ourselves together at least in time to catch one that departs before noon.”

  “Yes, exactly.” Bianca rushed to his side. “We have to do this.”

  The pain in Katya’s chest took on a different feel. No one had heard her protest. Her children were dragging her into a wild scheme she didn’t want to be part of. Once again, Rupert was assuming the role she’d held for years, leaving her as much of a nothing as she’d been when she was married off to his father.

  “No,” she insisted, willing herself to be heard. They turned to her. “If Malcolm wants to lick his wounds in Scotland, let him.”

  “Mama, you can’t be serious.”

  “You can’t just give up like this.”

  Bianca and Natalia spoke at the same time, flying back to the sofa to appeal to her. Armand was forced to stand and move to the side so they could crowd into his place.

  “You have to fight for the man you love,” Bianca insisted.

  “Yes. It’s what any good heroine would do,” Natalia agreed.

  Katya squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “Life is not a fairy story,” she whispered hoarsely.

  “Your life is,” Natalia insisted.

  “Fresh air is the accepted cure for your current condition,” Armand added. Katya opened her eyes to peek up at him, furious that he wore a grin, as though this were just another game and not a turning point in her and Malcolm’s lives. “Scotland is full of fresh air. London is not.”

  “The air in London is terrible,” Rupert said. “Everyone knows that.”

  “Yes, Mama,” Natalia went on. “And if we go to Scotland, I can see where that part of my family comes from.”

  Katya frowned. She was going to lose the argument, and there was nothing she could do about it. At least if she traveled to Scotland, she could give Malcolm a piece of her mind for running out on her. And she could explain away the mountain of misunderstandings that seemed to have grown up between them.

  “Fine,” she sighed, coughing. “We’ll go to Scotland.” Though whether it would do any good was beyond her.

  Chapter 13

  Strathaven Glen sat in a dreary valley, surrounded by unattractive trees and piles of rocks, nudged up against the border of the Highlands, but not a part of it. Malcolm found a certain degree of wry humor in that. His ancestors weren’t the great and noble Campbells who had made a name for themselves in the freedom struggles of the past. They were the money-hungry, bloodthirsty traitors who had sided with the English against their kinsmen and been rewarded with second-rate land and a title that didn’t actually mean much.

  It was fitting, really. He’d been no more successful than any of his forbearers, and now, like them, he was returning home to sulk with his tail between his legs.

  “We should really do something about the house,” Cece said at luncheon the day after their late-night arrival. She sat to Malcolm’s right, stirring a bowl of cold stew and trying to hide her distaste.

  “There’s nothing wrong with the house,” Malcolm’s nephew and heir, Gerald Campbell, said as though Cece had insulted his mother.

  Malcolm remembered Gerry’s mother. He would have insulted the feckless chit too. His late, lamented brother hadn’t been much better. They were all rotted fruit on the withered branch of the family tree.

  “Do forgive me, Cousin Gerry,” Cece said with a diplomatic smile. “I was merely going to suggest that some of the furnishings and decorations be updated. It’s rather dark and medieval in here, you must admit.”

  Gerry shrugged, stuffing sausage into his mouth and looking rather like he was eating his own kind. “It gives the place character.”

  “Perhaps we could light a few more fires?” Cece went on. “Or throw more logs on the ones already lit? Installing a coal stove might help.”

  “Where do you plan to get the money for your improvements, Cousin Cecelia?” Gerry snapped, his piggy eyes full of avarice. Piggy eyes, piggy face, piggy body. It described Gerry to a tee. Malcolm wasn’t sure how he was so closely related to the man. “You’re certainly not taking it out of my inheritance, I can tell you that,” he laughed, focusing on his food.

  Malcolm sighed and shifted in his chair. Perhaps drinking himself into oblivion in preparation for the trip hadn’t been such a good idea. Everything hurt. His eyes stung, his head throbbed, his stomach churned, and every muscle in his body felt as though it’d been wrung out. Not even the coffee he’d had the dreary estate’s cook scare up for him was helping.

  “At least it stopped raining,” Cece went on. “It seems that every time I’ve visited Strathaven Glen it’s been raining. It’s rather like a gothic novel.”

  “There you go, then,” Gerry said with a nod.

  Cece blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  Gerry shrugged. “The estate is like a gothic novel. There’s no need to rush about, changing the aesthetic, when we already have a solid identity.”

  Cece let out a short, impatient breath. “I’m saying that it doesn’t have to be this way. If we replaced all the drapes with something lighter, kept them open so sunlight reaches the rooms, and traded the outdated carpets for something newer and more brightly colored—”

  “I fail to see the point,” Gerry cut her off, his mouth full. “It’s an unnecessary expense. Carpets are meant for walking on and chairs are meant for sitting, nothing more. Besides,” he added with a sideways look to Malcolm, who was rubbing his pounding head and barely paying attention, “it’s not as though Uncle does any entertaining here.”

  “But he might,” Cece said, a hint of mischief in her eyes that made Malcolm wince. “You never know who might drop by unexpectedly.” She darted a glance toward him and broke into a nervous smile.

  Malcolm sat straighter, reaching for his coffee but not replying. The letter he assumed Cece had sent off to Rupert the night before their departure must have begged the man to come rescue her from the specter of horrible, Scottish weather. He supposed he should alert his butler, Mackay, to prepare a room for Rupert. But at the moment, he wasn’t inclined to m
ove, let alone make preparations for guests.

  “If there’s nothing to spare to purchase new drapery and furniture,” Cece went on, her expression hinting that she didn’t believe for a moment money was a problem, “perhaps we could have the staff engage in spring cleaning. I would be willing to wager that if the carpets were taken out and beaten properly, they’d brighten up in no time.”

  “So now you’re ordering my servants about?” Gerry gaped incredulously at her.

  “They’re Papa’s servants, not yours,” Cece corrected him, her jaw tight.

  They might as well have been Gerry’s, for all Malcolm cared. Strathaven Glen had always held a distant second place to Strathaven House in London in his heart. If such things had been allowed, he would have foisted the title and estate off on Gerry and retired to London as a simple gentleman of means instead of a bloody marquess. The title had never done him much good anyhow, and Gerry was clearly champing at the bit to get his hands on it. Malcolm would do everyone a favor if he climbed to the top of the miserable house’s highest roof and jumped off to speed things along.

  The errant suicidal thought jolted Malcolm out of his thoughts and he sat straighter. Things weren’t that bad yet. He’d pack everything up, including Cece, and embark on a world tour before ending things. In fact, leaving the country for sunnier climes didn’t sound like a half bad idea. The islands of the Caribbean were nice this time of year, weren’t they?

  “Excuse me,” he said, standing and tossing his serviette onto the plate with his uneaten lunch. Without another word, he started out of the room.

  “Where are you going, Papa?” Cece rose and followed after him. “You haven’t eaten a thing.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Malcolm said as he marched into the hall.

  “That’s no excuse not to eat,” Cece kept on his heels. “You hardly ate any breakfast and you barely touched anything on the train yesterday. Well, except whiskey. You aren’t going to drink yourself into your grave, are you?” she asked, her tone far too chipper to be serious. “That may be a romantic reaction to a broken heart, but it’s hardly your style.”