The Scent of Scandal (Rogues and Gentlemen Book 16)

by Emma V. Leech

  Mr Brown, of Brown, Racket and Crouch, Solicitors, swallowed and looked somewhat uncomfortable. He set down the paper in his hand and took a moment to organise the items on his desk before returning his gaze to her.

  “Miss Wycliffe,” he began, his expression pained. “I am forced to remark that your uncle was….” There was a lengthy silence while the poor man floundered for an adequate description of her last remaining relative.

  “An odd duck?” Freddie suggested.

  The solicitor let out a breath, relieved they understood one another.

  “Quite,” he said, his mouth thinning into a straight line. “Indeed, I’ve never in my life come across such an… eccentric condition, but the late Mr Wycliffe was quite explicit in his instructions.”

  “I see.” The two of them stared at each other. The solicitor appeared loath to speak again, so Freddie cleared her throat. “So, if I am interpreting the situation correctly, in order to obtain the bequest, I must swear on the bible to… to….” Freddie paused for a moment to control the urge to burst out laughing at the utter ridiculousness of the situation. “To bring spiritual light into the world of one Captain Ross Moncreiffe.”

  Somehow, she said it with a straight face. Even more surprising, the solicitor heard it with only the slightest wince of distaste.

  “There are some specific details your uncle has left for you, Miss Wycliffe, about what exactly your mission would be concerning the Captain, but I’m not at liberty to hand them over until you’ve sworn to accept the undertaking.”

  Freddie’s eyebrows rose. “I see.”

  She took a moment to digest this increasingly bizarre information.

  “Mr Brown,” she said, wondering quite how she ought to phrase this. “I am an unmarried lady and I am not—I regret to say—of a… a spiritual frame of mind. I have never been, nor do I have any intention of being a missionary.”

  She met the man’s eyes and he sighed. “I understand, Miss Wycliffe. Please, believe me when I tell you I begged your uncle to reconsider the terms when he made the will. I raised exactly these points with him, yet every entreaty fell on deaf ears. I believe he knew he was dying, and indeed it was only five weeks after he signed this that I received the news of his passing.”

  “I see,” Freddie said once more, aware she was repeating herself but at a loss for what else to add. “Well,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “It isn’t as if I have a great deal of choice. Can you tell me what you know of this Captain Moncreiffe? Is… is he…?”

  Freddie hesitated as several questions presented themselves.

  Is he an old letch?

  Is he mad?

  Is he dangerous?

  “I believe Captain Moncreiffe to be a relatively young man. In his mid-thirties, perhaps? This, combined with the remote position of the cottage, makes the situation quite untenable for a young lady.”

  “Does the Captain live alone?”

  “My understanding is that he has a butler come valet and a cook, but Tor Castle is a remote place, and the captain does have a… certain reputation. As does the castle itself, which the locals believe is cursed.”

  “Oh,” Freddie said, wondering for the first time if her uncle had felt as fondly for her as she’d always assumed.

  “He is a war hero of some renown,” the solicitor said, frowning as he avoided her gaze. “But he is known to be a rather… rough fellow. Coarse,” he added with distaste.

  “Oh.” This interview was getting somewhat repetitive.

  “The cottage is located some two miles from the castle, and about the same distance from the nearest village.”

  “A village?” Freddie exclaimed, perking up a little.

  Mr Brown’s face darkened. “I use the term lightly. From what I’ve been told there is little in the way of civilisation unless you venture into Ballachulish.”

  Well, that didn’t sound so bad. “How far is that?”

  “I believe you can reach it in five or six hours by carriage.”

  Freddie’s heart plummeted to her boots.

  She had two options.

  First, she could reject this rather bizarre offer, and continue to find herself a position as a governess, without references, or any aptitude for the job.

  Second, she could swear on the bible to bring spiritual light into the life of a man she’d never seen before and who would more than likely wish her to the devil.

  There was a third option, she supposed.

  She could lie.

  She could take the bequest and never do as her uncle had asked, but she knew at once she couldn’t even consider it. Freddie was a straightforward young woman, and she despised deceit in any form. Her honesty and rather forthright opinions were one reason she was so ill suited to be a governess. She didn’t have an ounce of the tact required for such a position. No, if she swore on the bible, she’d be honour bound to follow it through. Not because she thought the good Lord would smite her if she did not, but because she’d not be able to live with her own conscience.

  Never having to work as a governess again was more than appealing. She’d be free.

  Independent.

  It was a heady idea.

  Except she’d more than likely be ruined too.

  Her mission—if that was what she must call it—meant forcing her company on a man she suspected needed spiritual guidance because of either a dissipated lifestyle, or a dark outlook on life. The company of a young unmarried woman would set tongues wagging, no matter how remote the place was. Added to the concern that the man might take her interest in him as an invitation to….

  Freddie’s cheeks burned and she decided to cross that bridge when she got to it.

  “Miss Wycliffe?”

  She started a little, aware she’d been wool gathering while the solicitor awaited her answer.

  “Have you reached a decision?”

  “I have,” she said, her voice firm though she was quaking inside.

  Her Uncle Phin had been fond of her, she was certain of it. If he’d believed her capable of the task he was setting for her, then she was capable of it. Furthermore, he must have had a reason for such an odd request. She had to trust in him, hoping he had wanted the best for her and would not lead her into danger.

  Mr Brown stared back at her, an expectant look in his eyes.

  “Well, sir,” she said, with a rather apologetic smile. “You’d best fetch me a bible.”

  Chapter 2

  “Wherein Freddie plans her mission.”

  18thSeptember 1820.

  A little over two weeks later, Freddie stood staring at a tiny, stone cottage. Long and low, with a shaggy thatched roof and two chimneys, it was a pleasingly solid structure.

  “Oh, isn’t it darling?” she said, relieved to discover more than just a pile of stones, the idea of which had plagued her for much of the tedious journey to get here.

  “Darling,” repeated her companion, Mrs Runcible, her tone sour.

  Freddie turned to look at the woman in surprise, to discover her staring up at the mountain that towered on the horizon. Thick billows of cloud slouched down the sides, like a silk shawl on the shoulders of a sulky debutante.

  “That’s Ben Nevis,” Freddie said in awe. “It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

  Mrs Runcible gave a heavy sigh, returning an expression which eloquently expressed doubts as to Freddie’s sanity, and walked away towards the cottage.

  Mrs Runcible had also been in service, in the position of lady’s maid to the first Lady Cheam, and she had remained to work for the second for whom Freddie had worked.

  When Freddie had taken the job as governess to Lord and Lady Cheam, she had arrived a few days before Mrs Runcible had taken her leave. Lady Cheam was young and frivolous and, in an uncharacteristic display of courage, had decided she needed someone younger, more fashionable—and less frightening—to dress her.

  Lady Cheam had found Mrs Runcible’s manner a little too forthright for her comfort.

&nb
sp; When Freddie had realised she would need a companion to accompany her and lend her a modicum of respectability, Mrs Runcible had been the obvious choice. Though their acquaintance had been brief they had gotten along well, and Freddie had thought her no-nonsense manner would suit her own rather blunt nature perfectly. More to the point, Mrs Runcible had failed to find further employment, despite glowing references, and was desperate.

  Just as well for Freddie, as the peculiar circumstances she faced would have sent anyone else running for the hills.

  The inside of the cottage was somewhat spartan, but clean and tidy. A few oddities caught Freddie’s eye as she looked about, including some interesting carvings she suspected her uncle had brought from Africa. With regret she realised their extraordinarily voluptuous and rather explicit figures would have to be consigned to packing boxes.

  If anyone saw those, her reputation would be in shreds before she even met Captain Moncreiffe.

  She caught Mrs Runcible regarding a very impressive figure of a man and they both grinned.

  “I think I would have liked your uncle,” the woman murmured.

  Freddie nodded. “I believe you would too. I wish I had known him better myself. His letters were always larger than life, though strangely he was quite a small man.” She sighed, looking around her with satisfaction. Uncle Phin had done her proud. “Well then, Maggie,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “Let’s make this place feel like home.”

  ***

  It took the best part of two days to get the place how they liked it. Maggie took it upon herself to find a local woman who would come in daily and do the washing and ironing and cook for them, as neither of them could boast that skill.

  Mrs Reid was a short, stout woman, despite her name. She was a hard worker and, on first meeting them, clearly viewed both Freddie and Maggie with scepticism which bordered on suspicion.

  Once she’d discovered Miss Wycliffe was Mr Phineas Wycliffe’s niece, however, things went rather smoother. Unsurprisingly, Freddie’s uncle had been a well-known and well-liked figure in the area, and from that moment on Mrs Reid seemed disposed to look kindly upon them. She gave them a deal of advice, including where best to buy their goods and who was likely to try and fleece them of their money, given the chance.

  That evening, after Mrs Reid had left them a hearty beef stew studded with large chunks of carrot, onion and turnip, Freddie brought up the subject that had been plaguing her ever since she’d laid her hand on the bible.

  “When do you think I ought to call upon Captain Moncreiffe?”

  Maggie looked up at her, a forkful of beef and carrots suspended before her mouth. “When Hell freezes over?” she suggested, quirking one eyebrow a little.

  “You know I must,” Freddie replied with a huff, stabbing a chunk of beef with impatience. “I made a vow, on a bible, no less. I must carry it through.”

  Maggie shrugged, apparently having nothing further to offer. It was something Freddie appreciated about her. She’d give her opinion, but once given, she would not pry or persuade. They were both grown women with their own choices to make. She might have had little option but to follow Freddie up here because of her financial situation, but she’d made no bones about the fact she thought Freddie was out of her mind.

  “We’ll go tomorrow,” Freddie said, with sudden decisiveness. “First thing in the morning.”

  She had long since concluded that things one wished to avoid altogether were best faced at once. A horrid situation only became worse by pretending it didn’t exist.

  “As you wish.”

  Freddie stared across the table, wondering at the resigned tone to her voice.

  Maggie was not what you’d call pretty, but she was handsome, with a rather aristocratic profile and full, wide lips. Tall and rather broad for a woman, she towered over Freddie, who was merely of average height. Her thick hair was the same deep shade of brown as her eyes, and the first streaks of grey showed at her temples. Freddie judged her to be in her mid-forties. Even Viscount Cheam had let her be, daunted perhaps by her force of character and the fact his first wife held her in great esteem.

  “Well, aren’t you at least a little curious to meet Captain Moncreiffe?” Freddie demanded, a little vexed by her complete lack of interest.

  She waited for a response as Maggie pursed her lips, staring down at her bowl of stew for a moment before meeting Freddie’s eyes.

  “No.”

  ***

  A chilly morning greeted Freddie. A curling mist swirled over the ground as she peered outside her bedroom window before deciding what to wear. She at least had a good amount of options thanks to her friend.

  Darling Bunty had been distraught when she’d discovered Freddie really meant to bury herself in the wilds of the Scottish Highlands. Bunty was blessed, or possibly cursed, with a vivid imagination, and had become quite overwrought. Visions of Freddie carried away by some heathen Highland laird with nefarious intentions had been all her friend could think about.

  Once Bunty had discovered she could not turn Freddie from her chosen course, however, she had insisted on gifting her with the entirety of her last season’s wardrobe. Whether to help or hinder in capturing the attention of the aforesaid Highlander, Freddie wasn’t entirely sure.

  One thing she was sure of—no one where Freddie was going would realise the clothes were a whole year out of date, and Freddie certainly didn’t give a hoot.

  She ran her hands over a series of warm winter gowns of a quality she would have once expected as her due. No longer.

  When her parents had died, she’d discovered everything had been entailed to a male cousin who had no interest whatsoever in taking on a young girl and introducing her to the ton. In a matter of days, fate had reduced Freddie from a beloved, indulged daughter with a bright future, to an orphaned girl with barely a penny to her name.

  Freddie banished the melancholy memories of that time. It was almost seven years ago, and since then she’d discovered herself to be, if not precisely capable, then tenacious. Once she’d decided to do a thing, do it she would.

  No matter what.

  She selected a simple gown and matching fawn coloured pelisse in twilled sarsnet. It was not an intricate design, but beautifully trimmed with pink-and-black ribbon that gave it an understated elegance.

  Everything had been taken in and up, as Bunty was taller and far more generously made than Freddie, a fact that Bunty lamented often. Freddie couldn’t understand why, though. Bunty was gorgeous, with lush proportions that made even Freddie’s curvaceous figure look mean.

  Having seen the damp morning awaiting her, Freddie was glad she’d shown sense enough to invest in a sturdy pair of walking boots. The matching satin boots that accompanied her outfit wouldn’t last five minutes in the landscape awaiting her. The fine leather gloves and a sweet little bonnet with the same trimming as the coat were acceptable, however.

  Freddie looked at herself in the glass with a critical air. She was no beauty, but her hazel eyes were bright, lively, and thickly lashed. Her face was not the kind to launch a thousand ships, but neither was it a hardship to look upon. Hopefully, she looked like a serious young woman with a brain in her head, though hardly a missionary.

  She bit her lip, wondering if perhaps she should have bought a severe black or grey gown, of the type more suited to such an endeavour. No, she decided at once. It was certainly not her uncle’s intention and, if Captain Moncreiffe believed she intended to lecture him, he would no doubt put her outside the door in short order.

  Her uncle had not wanted her to preach to him, which was just as well as she had no idea how to deliver such a lecture, nor a sermon. Her knowledge of the bible was fuzzy at best and delivering appropriate quotes for any circumstance so beyond her capability there was no point in considering it.

  Uncle Phin did not expect her to act like a messenger of God, that much had become clear.

  Exactly what his intentions were, however….

  Returning t
o her bed, she sat down and reached for the perplexing letter she had left there last night. The solicitor had handed it over after she had made her pledge and it had been both a great source of relief and one of enormous anxiety.

  My dearest Fredericka,

  If you are reading these words, I must have shuffled off this mortal coil and gone to meet my maker, and you, my brave girl, have accepted my challenge. I knew I was right about you!

  Firstly, do not grieve for me, my dear. I have lived a marvellous life, full of adventure and friends and the wonders of this astonishing world.

  My only regret is that I did not know you better, that I did not make more effort to ensure your happiness. I have realised far too late that I have spent my life on charitable endeavours, ignoring the fact my only living relative needed me.

  On returning home I made two discoveries. The first, that my health is failing me, and the second, that I learn far too late your circumstances are worse than I had realised. Your letters have always been such joyous things to receive that I never guessed how things were.

  My bequest is a trifling thing, I’m afraid, but I hope that it gives you a little security at least.

  This brings me, of course, to the conditions of my will. No doubt you’re thinking me a mad old man, and perhaps you are correct, but in my heart, I feel it is the right thing to do.

  Captain Moncreiffe is a good man. Do not doubt that. He doubts it, but I beg that you do not. He will bluster and insult and no doubt do his best to scare you away but stand strong. He’s lonely and hurting and desperately needs to return to the living world.

  Please be reassured that when I asked you to bring spiritual light to his world, I was not expecting you to read him bible passages as perhaps you feared. He certainly won’t let you. Instead, I hope that your lively sense of humour and forthright attitude can prise him out of that wretched castle and remind him that the world is not full of misery and hatred but instead filled with hope and possibility.