by Julia London
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.”
