“She began in that situation very recently, right before coming to Town. She signed on with Hume a month or so ago.”
“Hume? That radical?”
“The same. In his mind he hired a tutor for his daughter, not a governess,” Langford continued. “Miss MacCallum is responsible for teaching a whole range of academic subjects to his daughter. That was how she occupied herself in Edinburgh. Not as a governess.”
Brentworth thought about the essay in the journal. “I think Davina MacCallum may be a radical too.” It would explain a lot if she had politics as a motivation, not greed. For one thing, she had not struck him as the sort to cheat to enrich herself. But to bring Scottish lands back under Scottish ownership—He could see that being a goal that allowed a twisted rationalization that cast cheating as not cheating.
“Why would you say that? My tutor did not adopt my father’s politics, so why would she adopt Hume’s?”
“I don’t think she adopted anything. I think she knows him because they already held sympathy for the same cause.”
“Cause? Singular?” Stratton said. “I assume you mean the Scottish cause. I think it is safe to say that after the executions in ’20, the remnants of that cause have finally been put to rest forever.”
“Amanda reported no political views at all of her new friend, least of all that one,” Langford said.
“Her essay described travel east of Glasgow where that trouble was centered. Her patient was the wife of a weaver. She made reference to his unfortunate absence from the home the last few years and the trials that created. He was probably one of those transported.”
“Does it matter? I doubt she has come to London to assassinate anyone,” Stratton said.
Brentworth let that pass. No, she came to London to steal hundreds of acres from my legacy.
Langford peered at Brentworth hard. Brentworth suffered it. With most men he would be confident that absolutely nothing would be discerned, but this was Langford who knew him too well and who possessed an annoying ability to bore beneath the armor.
Langford smiled like a devil and mischievous lights entered his blue eyes. “You don’t really give a damn about her politics. You are just looking for an excuse to be interested in her for any reason, and that one will serve your purpose.”
Stratton’s eyebrows shot up. He scrutinized Brentworth too.
“Nonsense,” Brentworth said. “You have no idea how very wrong you are. Your ongoing infatuation with your wife has you assuming all men are idiots like you, Langford. I have no interest in overly self-possessed Scottish women of peculiar education and manner. Now, isn’t it time we join the ladies? You two are boring me.”
“Overly self-possessed, was she? You have already spent more time considering her character than you do most women.” With a cocky smile of victory, Langford rose to lead the men out.
Indeed he had, but not for the reasons Langford assumed.
Chapter Three
The house on Saint Anne’s Lane in Cheapside did not appear large, but London houses could surprise you. Some of them, though narrow, rambled back almost an entire block. Eric assumed this one did not. It had been let by an M.P. after all, and not a wealthy one at that.
It probably proved convenient enough to Angus Hume’s attendance at sessions, however. Also to those meetings of radicals that he no doubt attended too. Hopefully that was where Hume was right now. Eric mounted the few steps to find out.
He presented his card to the servant who opened the door. “I am calling on Miss MacCallum.”
She paused over the card. Her freckled face flushed beneath the brim of her white cap. Flustered, she invited him to sit in a little room beside the entry before she hurried away.
The chamber served as a small library. Nice windows looked out on the street and good furniture offered comfort. He perused the books, wondering if they belonged to Hume or had come with the house.
“Your Grace, we are honored.”
Not a woman’s voice. Damnation.
He turned to see Hume right inside the doorway. The man affected an artistic look in his shoulder-length hair and mustache, made more dramatic by its deep copper color. On the other hand he favored fashionable clothes, so Eric at least did not find himself treated to some exotic turban and robe.
He did not like Hume, and not because the man was a Jacobite who flirted with sedition in condemning the Union of Scotland and England. There were radicals, and then there were radicals. This radical was of the type that wanted to turn everything upside down tomorrow. He had once suggested that the only way to have the necessary change was to exile all the nobles. Privately he was known to have spoken fondly of how the guillotine handled the problem in France.
“Hume. Good to see you. You appear hale and fit.” And happy. Smugly happy. Like most wiry men, Hume always gave the impression that he held in a burgeoning energy. Right now he looked fit to burst with it.
He knew. The damned Jacobite was aware of Miss MacCallum’s claim. Haversham would have apoplexy if he found out.
“I am healthy as an ox, I am glad to say. The housekeeper said you want to see Davin—Miss MacCallum.”
The familiarity was not truly a slip. It had been a deliberate declaration of—what?
“That is correct. Is she at home?”
“She is in the schoolroom with my daughter. She normally holds lessons until two o’clock.”
“It is one thirty. Perhaps this once you will allow her to end them early. Although if you require it, I will wait.”
“No, no, we can’t have that. When a duke condescends to call, he must be accommodated. I have already told the housekeeper to inform Miss MacCallum of your arrival.”
“How good of you.”
Hume strolled around aimlessly, looking at the furnishings as if he were the guest. “Can I ask why you called?”
As if you don’t know, you annoying rogue. “No.”
“I am of course responsible for Miss MacCallum. May I at least ask if this is a social call?”
“It is a private matter.”
“Ah.”
Ah, indeed.
“You met her, I think,” Hume said. “No doubt your perception of her matches my own. She is a most determined woman. Strong-willed too. She is not cowed easily.”
“How unfortunate for you to have a servant with those qualities.”
“Oh, she is more than a servant. We have taken her into our family. She is one of us.” He sent a direct gaze with that, to be sure that last sentence carried all kinds of meaning, which left Eric to wonder which one applied in reality.
“I am sure she appreciates her good fortune.”
“Well, there is good fortune, and then there is truly good fortune, isn’t there?”
Eric hoped Miss MacCallum arrived before he had to listen to Hume explain how her future good fortune would come at the Duke of Brentworth’s expense. The man was itching to do just that.
“I have been negligent,” Hume said. “Allow me to have Mrs. Moffet bring you some refreshment.” He aimed toward the door to call for the housekeeper. “I will call my mother as well, so she can greet you.”
Eric did not want refreshment. He did not even want to stay in this house, where he was sure ears would be listening. “Please do not. This is a business call, and I would not want to disturb the household. I will wait in the garden, however. The day is fair.”
“Certainly. I will show you the way.”
* * *
Davina stared in the looking glass, then groaned. Hopeless.
She had hurriedly changed into a decent dress, though hardly one suited to receiving a duke. That did not bother her as much as her hair. It hung in loose waves on either side of her face, skimming her jaw. It almost looked fashionable. Unfortunately, it hung the same way all around her head. Long locks had not been gathered into a knot on her crown the way anyone would expect.
She scowled at her reflection, but not in distaste at her appearance. Rather, she fumed over
the idiocy of cutting her hair. Had Sir Cornelius gotten to her in time, the quack her landlady in Edinburgh called in would not have had the chance. Sir Cornelius was a scientist and knew the ancient practice of cutting off hair during bad fevers did nothing a cool compress would not achieve.
You are alive, aren’t you? that quack had snapped when she complained after the fever passed. Yes, alive, but that illness had taken a toll in her face, her weight, her hair, even her outlook. She had gone into that fever a girl and emerged a woman.
That was what she saw in the looking glass. A woman with features too bold and hair too short and goals too ambitious. A woman with something she had to do that had now been delayed too long.
She stood and smoothed the pale ocher muslin of her skirt, and left her chamber to go down to the library. She did not expect it to be a pleasant meeting. There was only one reason the Duke of Brentworth would have come here today.
She found Mr. Hume loitering outside the library door. “He has gone to the garden,” he said, falling into step and guiding her toward the back of the house. “I had intended to have my mother sit with you as a chaperone, but in the garden there is no point because he will only request you walk with him.”
“I do not need a chaperone, least of all with this man. Nor did you think so. You just wanted your mother to listen.”
“That is not true. You are as yet unmarried. You should not—”
“Mr. Hume, we both know why he has called. I am in much more danger of being browbeaten than importuned.” She paused at the door in the morning room, which led out to the garden. “I appreciate your concern and your interest in my welfare, but, please, allow me a moment to collect myself. A dragon waits out there, and my sword is very small.”
He patted her shoulder in reassurance. “Find me in the library when he leaves.” He went away.
Davina faced the door, closed her eyes, found the core of her strength, then walked outside.
The duke stood twenty feet away. He did not stroll amid the plantings or even look at them. Rather he stood tall and erect, his profile carving the landscape, his brow slightly furrowed.
He appeared crisp and precise and sternly, impressively handsome. And displeased.
He must have heard the door, because he turned his head to watch her approach. Oh yes. Very, very displeased.
Amanda had said that mothers with eligible daughters did not even try to lure him because they found him too formidable. Davina understood that now. Here he was in all his privilege, his lean strong form containing an energy that contradicted his casual stance.
She made her curtsy and he his bow. “How generous of you to call,” she said. “I fear the household will not be the same for days.”
“I will not stay long. I apologize for taking you away from your duties.”
“Nora, my charge, is delighted, and I don’t mind having an excuse to partake of the garden in midday.”
He looked toward the house. “Would you walk with me? I need to discuss something with you in privacy.”
“Of course.”
He set his hat and crop on a nearby bench. They began to stroll through the garden. She ignored how his close proximity made him very large and a bit overwhelming. She would not allow him to bully her. Not that he had done anything to imply he sought to do that. Then again, she wondered if it was the goal of how he presented himself to the world.
“I have been to the palace,” he said. “I was informed why you were there when I saw you. I know about your claim, and your petition.”
She turned her head to look up at him just as he turned his head to look down. “You could have told me,” he said. “If not at the salon when we were introduced, then at St. James’s when we met there.”
“I thought it better not to until I heard back from the king.”
“More likely you were hoping I would not learn about this nonsense until you wreaked all the trouble you could.”
“Did you come here to insult me? We do not know each other well, and this is not looking like a promising friendship.”
His jaw flexed. “The king is no more pleased by your persistence than I am.”
“Then he should not have promised me to take up the matter.”
“How did that happen? What exactly did he say to you?”
“He was in Edinburgh for the Scottish festivities. My father was associated with the university and had many friends there who helped me after he passed. One is Sir Cornelius Ingram. He was knighted for his scientific work.”
“I know of him.”
“He agreed to try to arrange for me to see the king. He had me attend a banquet as his companion, and introduced me after the meal.”
“A meal at which His Majesty drank freely, no doubt.”
“I could not say. I did not count the glasses of wine he consumed.”
“Trust me, he was well into his cups by then.”
“He was not foxed, if you are trying to suggest that he did not have his wits about him.”
He stopped and faced her. “Such wits as he possesses are easily lost to drink. So, the meal was done, Sir Cornelius pushed you forward and made an introduction, and there was no cut from the king.” He narrowed his eyes on her face. “Your hair was longer then. It was cropped more recently. The king saw before him a pretty young woman with a winning smile and he behaved as all men do.”
“Not all men. You, for example, are behaving boorishly whether I am pretty or not. As for the king, he was polite and gracious, which is what I would expect a king to be.” She tipped up her chin and looked him in the eye. “We spoke a few minutes, then I explained my situation. He was sympathetic.”
“I’m sure he was.”
“He said that when he returned to London he would direct his men to look into the matter and see what could be learned, and that he would support a bill in Parliament to rectify any oversight and to clarify matters, lest someone claim there should have been an attainder even if there was not.”
He appeared surprised to hear that last part. She suspected his mind had gone in that direction. Your great grandfather died at Culloden fighting against Great Britain, and if there had been an heir there would have been an attainder due to his criminal act.
“He probably did look into the matter and learned you have no claim and there was no oversight. Hence his avoiding you.”
“If he had looked into it, he would have learned I am completely at rights.”
He inhaled tightly. He appeared like a man reining in his temper. Only she had not seen anything to indicate he had become angry.
“Perhaps you would be good enough to explain your situation, as you call it.” He gestured to a stone bench, inviting her to sit.
She perched herself on the bench. He did not. He loomed in front of her. Huge now. A tower of black garments and chiseled visage watching her.
“Before my father died, he shared a family secret with me,” she began. “He also entrusted a letter into my care. One from the last king. It all pertained to my family’s history and my grandfather’s identity as the rightful heir of the Baron of Teyhill.”
“The baron perished at Culloden. He had no heirs. His only child, a son, died around the same time.”
“So it was believed. That son, however, did not die. He was spirited off to Northumberland and given into the care of a farming family there.”
“Why?”
“For his safety. The baron’s people did not trust the British army. They believed that after the defeat and his father’s death he would be harmed.”
“Our armies do not kill innocent children.”
“What nonsense. Of course they do. Of course they did.” She glared at him, daring him to disagree.
He did not make the claim again.
“And so he was raised there,” she continued. “My grandfather became a clerk, and married, and my father was born. He in turn eventually returned to Scotland and studied to become a physician in Edinburgh. Before my grandfather died, howe
ver, he revealed his true identity to him.”
“It would ring truer if he had revealed it to the Lord Lyon much earlier.”
He referred to the authority in Scotland that served much like the College of Arms in England, as arbiter of titles and heraldry. “He was not sure of it earlier. Nor did he hold the land as is required of those feudal baronies. He sought proof, so the lands would be returned to him, and then the title. Sought evidence.”
“Which he did not find before he died, correct? If he had, this claim would not have been delayed by over a generation.”
“In his own mind he was sure enough that he wrote to the king and presented himself as the son of MacCallum of Teyhill. Whatever that letter said, it resulted in the king responding with great encouragement. Had my grandfather lived longer, it would all have been settled then. Only he didn’t live longer. Before he died, however, he gave my father that letter and told him about the history.”
He paced away slowly, thinking. “You have no proof of this except a family story from the sound of it.”
“My grandfather had more, I am sure. It was in the letter to the last king. Only now I am told that letter is lost. Or so Mr. Haversham claims.”
“He has no reason to lie.”
She stood. “Doesn’t he? How awkward it must have been when the king’s men realized who now held that land. Not some other Scot, or even an English lord from the border lands. Not some viscount or baron of recent patent. No, it was a duke. Not any duke. Brentworth. A powerful duke who makes lesser men tremble. The king must have thought it was the worst luck for it to be you.”
“If you are accusing the king of lying to you in order to avoid an argument with me, you overestimate my influence. He and I have argued plenty in the past over more important matters, but as the king he wins. That is how it works, Miss MacCallum. He and I are not friends and he does not care if I am the object of a claim from a Scottish woman with nonexistent proof.”
“If you and he were not friends, he would enjoy giving me the lands. Instead they are claiming all the proof is gone.”
“That is because it is in fact gone if it ever existed. You should give this up. It will come to nothing.”
Never Deny a Duke Page 3
