It's Getting Scot in Here

by Suzanne Enoch

  As Hannah left the room, Eloise slipped inside. “Do you think they’re married yet?”

  “According to Aden, they should be at Gretna Green sometime today. So not yet, but soon.”

  “I know it’s scandalous, but it’s so romantic.”

  Francesca eyed her daughter. “You are not going to elope. If you wed before any of your brothers, I will have to abide by the agreement.”

  “I want a grand church wedding,” Eloise said. “With Papa to walk me down the aisle.”

  That wasn’t likely to happen, but Francesca didn’t say anything about it now. Several miracles had happened already, after all. “Mm-hm.”

  “Mama, may Matthew at least call on me today?” she asked, lifting the folded letter she held in one hand. “He thinks I’m angry with him over something.”

  “Perhaps later,” Francesca returned. “I believe I will have some callers shortly. If everything goes as I hope, then Matthew may join us for dinner.”

  “Everyone else has seen the engagement announcement by now,” her daughter returned. “What does it matter if we’ve seen it or not? Or if we go out and chat about it?”

  “Deniability. We haven’t been asked if we’ve seen it, and we haven’t been asked to comment about it. Therefore, we can claim we knew nothing about the silly thing. That will be important, Eloise. Don’t forget. We know nothing about it.”

  “I still don’t see why that matters. We’re not mentioned in it. Amelia-Rose and Lord Hurst are. Whatever you’ve planned, we can’t stop Lord Hurst from speaking out, certainly.”

  That was the one part that troubled her the most. Hurst was a marquis. He outranked her in Society, and he had a very wide streak of self-importance running through his skinny frame. In addition he was attractive, which made him well liked. But as far as she’d been able to determine he had been absent from London for the past few days, as well. She frowned. Her sons had said they hadn’t hurt him, but she wouldn’t put it past them to have locked him in a cellar somewhere.

  “Just be patient for a while longer,” she said aloud, taking her daughter’s arm as they left the bedchamber. “I know there’s nothing worse than being housebound in the middle of the Season. I believe the cause is worth the trouble, however.”

  Eloise hugged her arm. “It is, of course. I’m only worried. And since no one told me anything, I’m also going to have a few choice words for them when they return.” She lowered her head. “If they return.”

  “Coll and Aden still have English wives to find,” Francesca reminded her. “Nor am I ready to let Niall go when I’ve just gotten him to speak to me without clenching his jaw.”

  “I am very glad they’re here,” her daughter responded. “I always imagined the household with a big family.”

  “I’m sorry you had to wait so long.”

  “I think I appreciate them more now; I didn’t grow up with them pulling on my braids and putting spiders in my bed.”

  That seemed a very likely scenario. Francesca smiled. “You know they would do anything for you. You’re a MacTaggert. And now I think you have a better idea of what that means.”

  Her daughter nodded. “It makes me more proud, in a way, which I suppose is wrong, but I can’t help it. I do wish they would be more welcoming to Matthew, though. He’s better acquainted with me than they are, after all. I think he’s a little afraid of them.”

  “Good.”

  “Mama.”

  Matthew Harris was set to marry their only sister. The young man should be a little wary. “If anyone throws a punch, then I’ll worry.”

  The newspaper lay on the table, set in her usual spot, as they entered the breakfast room. Francesca shut her eyes for just a moment. It was done, then. In the next hour or so she would either find a way for Niall and Amelia-Rose to return to London, or she would sink the combined Oswell and MacTaggert names into mire and scandal.

  While Eloise selected a breakfast, Francesca requested tea and then sat. Trying to conceal her deep breath, she opened the paper to the sixth page. Oh, it was magnificent. Even if she did say so herself.

  Behind her, Eloise gasped. “Mother!”

  Francesca smoothed the paper flatter. “What do you think, my dear?”

  A scroll of thistles outlined the entire page, together with an English Tudor rose and the lion rampant of Scotland. Between those, in bold, black letters, the announcement stated that the Earl and Countess of Aldriss were delighted to announce the marriage of their son, Niall Douglas MacTaggert, to Amelia-Rose Hyacinth Baxter, the daughter of Charles and Victoria Baxter. The blessed day was June the twenty-fifth, which happened to be that very day.

  Beneath that she’d intentionally chosen a passage from a Robert Burns poem—an English writer would never do.

  O my Luve’s like a red, red rose,

  That’s newly sprung in June:

  O my Luve’s like the melodie,

  That’s sweetly play’d in tune.

  As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

  So deep in luve am I;

  And I will luve thee still, my dear,

  Till a’ the seas gang dry.

  “Oh, it’s lovely,” Eloise whispered, wiping at her cheeks. She hugged Francesca’s shoulders. “You’re such a romantic.”

  “Now we have to pray they actually are marrying today, or we’ll look like utter fools.” She tried to blink away the tears in her own eyes, but that was no use. She’d wanted to be there when they married. She wanted to see their joy and hope and love with her own eyes, to know that however she’d mishandled her own miseries, she hadn’t ruined things for her sons. And now, if everything went well, she would miss the first wedding.

  “I think they will,” Eloise stated. “I know they will.”

  “We will have visitors at any moment now, I imagine,” Francesca noted, accepting her tea and adding sugar. “When they arrive, please be elsewhere. If there’s to be any embarrassment on either side, I don’t want witnesses to taint the proceedings.”

  Her daughter sat beside her. “You’re talking about the Baxters.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Oh. Oh. They’re going to be furious.”

  “I imagine so. Make certain Miss Bansil remains upstairs, as well.”

  She’d wanted to post the announcement the morning after Niall and Amelia-Rose had fled, to overwhelm the Baxters’ engagement announcement immediately with a far grander marriage one. But she’d waited. This might be an elopement, but it was one that she’d known about, and one that had her unreserved approval and was proceeding on schedule.

  A slice of toast with marmalade later, and the knocker on the front door began hammering with an almost unnerving frenzy. “Upstairs with you,” she said to Eloise, who snatched up her plate and bolted. Once her daughter had vanished, she nodded at Smythe. “I will be in the morning room.”

  Rising, she passed through the foyer and into the cozy front room, sitting just out of sight of anyone who might have been trying to see through the window. Then she picked up a random book and opened it. She heard the front door open, and then the high-pitched, clenched sound of Victoria Baxter’s voice. Some things remained predictable.

  Smythe appeared in the doorway. “My lady, Mr. and Mrs. Baxter insist on speaking with you this morning,” he intoned, loudly enough for her guests to overhear. “Are you receiving visitors?”

  She did adore her butler. “Yes, I’m much recovered this morning. Show them in, if you please.”

  It struck her that while she enjoyed the theater, she’d never spared much thought for the actors and how fluidly they spun tales that were not their own. She had one of those to tell this morning, and her underlying nerves knew that while she did consider herself formidable, she’d never been fond of, or easy with, lying. This was for her son, though, for the precocious boy he’d been at seven and the admirable, honorable man he’d become at four-and-twenty.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Victoria hissed, stalking into the room, the half-c
rushed page of the London Times in one hand.

  Francesca scowled. “Some tea, Victoria?”

  “I do not want tea. I want an explanation for this … nonsense! I demand one.”

  “My dear,” Francesca returned, keeping her seat, “I’m afraid I’ve been under the weather for the past few days, and I do apologize for not consulting you on the wording, but referring to your daughter’s marriage to my son—the son of Lord Aldriss—as ‘nonsense’ begins to annoy me a little.”

  Victoria snapped her mouth shut. “My daughter is engaged to Lord Hurst, as you well know. We announced it days ago.”

  “Did you? That’s … peculiar. Are you certain someone wasn’t jesting with you?”

  “What? I will not be … bamboozled into disbelieving my own decisions, Lady Aldriss. This is outrageous!”

  “But if, as you say, Amelia-Rose is engaged to Lord Hurst, where is she?”

  Charles Baxter put a hand on his wife’s arm. “We should sit, darling. There is a foul fog in the air, here.”

  “My daughter … is unwell. She is at home, resting,” Victoria stated, but took a seat on the couch opposite Francesca.

  “Your daughter,” Francesca returned, setting aside her book, “is in Gretna Green with my son. I asked them to wait for a church wedding, but they are young and impulsive, and couldn’t bear the idea of waiting for a special license or for the banns to be read. They took my coach, accompanied by Niall’s brothers and Jane Bansil. Surely you know this. Whoever is resting in your daughter’s bedchamber is not Amelia-Rose. If you don’t recognize your own child, I wonder if you—”

  “No! This is not— I believe nothing you say!”

  Stubborn, self-obsessed woman. “Very well,” Francesca said, dropping all pretense of bewilderment. “These are the facts before you. Your daughter has been missing for four days. As far as I know, you’ve told no one, which is fortunate. Amelia-Rose and Niall are in Gretna Green. I expect they will be wed by noon. His brothers are witnesses. Your daughter’s companion is not. She is nowhere near Scotland.”

  “She—”

  “Hush. Amelia-Rose is ruined. It’s happened; it’s done. Hurst wouldn’t have her now, whatever agreement you made with him. You, therefore, have a select few choices. You can cry to the heavens at what a horrible girl your daughter is, and let her ruin tear you down, as well. You can decry my son as a poacher and a heathen—which everyone knows he is, anyway, because he’s a Highlander. The scandal, the ruin, will be yours, and they will not be here to share it. I, on the other hand, will face almost no consequences. Everyone’s seen my wild sons. No one could hope to control them. And yet I am quite pleased to see him in love and married.”

  Victoria opened her mouth again, but her husband squeezed her hand. “And the other choices?”

  “There’s but one, actually. The notice you placed in the newspaper wasn’t actually done by you. It was some sort of jest, but until you discovered the villain you didn’t wish to say anything. We’ve known for better than a week that Niall and Amelia-Rose were going to marry. Being the young couple they are, they couldn’t tolerate the idea of waiting, and so with our mutual blessing they, hied themselves off to Niall’s native Scotland to wed.”

  “No!” Victoria burst out, the newspaper shredding in her fingers. “No, no, no! I will not be a party to this! And neither will Lord Hurst!”

  “I imagine Lord Hurst, who’s also been absent from London, will most happily claim that he had no knowledge of any engagement, and has no idea which rogue might have placed the announcement. If he wishes to disagree, I would be very interested to see how any ranting he does about losing a woman to an untitled Scotsman could possibly benefit him.”

  “Y—”

  Francesca stood. “Beneath any other argument, Victoria, if you stand against me, you will lose. Your indignance only makes you look like a frothing lunatic. Anyone asked to choose between your version of events and mine will choose mine. Especially when the new Mr. and Mrs. MacTaggert return to London in four days, happily wed and with no idea of any confusion they might have left behind here.

  “Therefore,” she went on, “when they return you may be here to welcome them with smiles and blessings, or you may be elsewhere keeping your thoughts and opinions to yourself. And that is for your benefit. You still have people who will invite you to parties. You still have a chance to meet your grandchildren, God willing. Whether you retain those things is utterly dependent on your own behavior.” She took a breath. “I have seen to it that there will be perhaps a few whispers and a bit of speculation about who authored the engagement announcement. Nothing more. No scandal, no ruin attached to the Baxter name, no reason your lifestyle or associations should alter. Think beyond your anger, Victoria.”

  Her lips trembling, Victoria Baxter glared. It must all be crumbling away, her dreams of being introduced as the mother of a marchioness, of having a title so directly attached to her name, to rising in her social circle to a level she’d probably imagined to be much greater than it truly would have been as the mere mother of good fortune.

  “Do as you will,” Mrs. Baxter finally spat, standing. “I have a wretched daughter, and I will be happy—happy, I tell you—never to set eyes on the ungrateful thing again. She ruined everything. And you stand there with a smile and help her. The lot of you be damned.” With that she flung open the morning room door and stalked out of the house.

  Her husband stood. “This is not ideal,” he said, his tone much more measured. “I shall have to listen to that for years, now, as I’ve listened to her ambitions for years. Please inform me when my daughter returns to London. I, at least, would like to be here to welcome her. That child … Well, she’s no child any longer. She did try very hard to please.” He nodded. “Outspoken, though. She didn’t get that from me.” Charles held out his hand. “Good morning, my lady. We shall do as you suggest. Victoria would not be able to tolerate her life with a scandal in it.”

  Francesca shook his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Baxter. I shall send word, and I’ll see you in a few days.”

  Once they were gone and Smythe had shut the front door again, latching it for good measure, Francesca walked back up the stairs to Rory on the landing. Then she leaned down and kissed the deer’s cheek. Rory, it seemed, wouldn’t be going anywhere. And neither would Niall—or at least not permanently.

  Seventeen years ago she’d abandoned them, putting all her hope into an agreement that, if Eloise decided not to wed, she could never enforce. One by one, the pieces of her life had begun to fall back into place. Even better, Niall had found happiness in the middle of this mayhem. So while she couldn’t—and wouldn’t—brag that she’d planned perfectly, she could happily admit to herself that like the mad, half-dressed stag on the landing and despite dubious beginnings, they seemed to be showing quite well. All of the MacTaggerts. Herself included.

  * * *

  Fresh pots of red and white roses lined the shallow turn-in at Oswell House. Two dozen potted flowers at least, alternating in color. It looked … hopeful, but Amelia-Rose kept her hands clenched together as she had since they’d first reached the outskirts of London.

  “If ye have an apoplexy before we speak a word to anyone, ye’ll nae find out what’s actually happened,” Niall pointed out from beside her, stretching as the coach came to a stop.

  “How can you be so relaxed?” she asked him, though the only thing she’d yet seen trouble him was when something stood between him and her. That made it seem simple, that nothing else signified, but she’d been raised to be much more careful.

  “I’m nae relaxed,” he returned, reaching past her to open the door as Smythe appeared to lower the steps. “I’m in love. And I’m hopeful. Here or elsewhere, it’s ye and me, Amy.”

  She stepped down first, then turned around and kissed him as he joined her on the drive. “It’s destiny, yes?” she whispered, smiling against his mouth.

  He grinned back at her. “Aye. Now take my arm so the rest of ’em
cannae see me tremble.”

  “Mm-hm.” She did as he suggested, leaning close against his side. Only Smythe had emerged from the house, but then he gave some sort of signal and a trio of footmen trotted outside to begin unstrapping the trunk at the back of the coach. Niall had hauled it about on his own, but then he carried sheep about regularly.

  His brothers joined them, Aden flexing his back as they reached the doorway. “I’m nae going anywhere for at least a week,” he commented. “And if my arse is numb, I can only imagine—”

  “There’s a lady present, ye heathen,” Niall interrupted without heat. “But aye, at least part of me is hoping we’ve traveled as far as we need to for now.”

  More than half of her was hoping that. And it wasn’t so much that she felt like she’d returned home, but simply that she wanted to wake up and then fall asleep beside her husband in the same bed more than one night in a row. The inns had been the nicest along the road, but she missed soft sheets and mornings without coachmen yelling for their passengers to board or they’d forfeit their fare to London or points elsewhere.

  “Ye want me to go in first?” Coll asked.

  Niall shook his head. “Nae. But if ye lied to get us back here, dunnae go far because we’ll be having a tussle.”

  Smythe somehow beat them inside the house, and ushered them down the hallway toward the Oswell House library. It was the largest room on the ground floor, full of windows and light and delightful-smelling books, but it seemed more a place for a dressing-down than … than whatever else she wanted it to be. They had eloped, after all. Perhaps a happy greeting was too much to expect. She flexed her fingers in Niall’s strong hand, and he glanced at her.

  “I promised ye happiness,” he murmured, smiling that charming, disarming smile of his, the one that made her feel very warm and safe and aroused all at the same time. “A MacTaggert keeps his word.”