by Julia London
“Oh, her parents were killed in a tragic fire, and her only other relative, a cousin, died in childbirth. Lady Montrose had no one but the duke,” Mrs. MacLaren said. “Even if she had, what could be done about it, I ask you? Who would dare question a duke? He may say what he likes of his wife’s absence and there is no’ a man in Scotland who would dare defy him. How do you mean to discover the truth, then, Miss Mackenzie, without putting yourself in harm’s way?” asked Mrs. MacLaren. “And well within a fortnight at that, as you yourself said this very evening you’d no’ be long at Dungotty.”
All fair questions. “I donna know how,” Catriona admitted. “But I’ve quite a lot of idle time between now and my departure, and if I donna at least try, I’ll perish from curiosity, that I will. It’s a wretched rumor, and I, for one, donna think he seems even a wee bit murderous. And yet, a duchess doesna go missing all on her own, aye? If he is a murderer, he ought to be made to account for it, aye?”
“Are you some sort of authority on traitors and murderers?” Mrs. Templeton scoffed. “Is that another of your gifts?”
“Only traitors,” Catriona said. “But I mean to become an authority on murderers, too.”
“You’re a hoyden, that’s what you are,” Mrs. Templeton said icily. “You’ve been indulged by your uncle in your fantastical thinking and left to roam the countryside like a pilgrim.”
Catriona burst out laughing, picturing herself with a staff and a rough robe, wandering the Highlands.
Her laughter only angered Mrs. Templeton more. “What is your age, Miss Mackenzie?” she demanded. “I find it curious a woman of your considerable years has not yet married. Were you my daughter, I would have made you a proper match long ago.”
Her remark was met by stunned silence from everyone except Catriona. “Diah, Mrs. Templeton, how I incense you without any effort on my part at all,” she said cheerfully.
But in truth, Catriona was a wee bit surprised that Mrs. Templeton had seen fit to state the obvious so openly. It was the question that followed Catriona wherever she went. Why wasn’t the daughter of a powerful laird, the sister of noblemen, the daughter of an English heiress, married? Never mind what she’d accomplished without benefit of being married in her thirty-three years, it seemed that none of it mattered to the world if she was not wed. She was expected to have a husband, provide an heir, set his table and mend his shirts. She was to be dutiful and supportive of the head of her household and submit to his desires. She was not to have adventures of her own, or desires of her own, or dreams and ideas and likes and dislikes all on her own.
Anything less than what was expected made her less of a person in the eyes of proper society.
Aunt Zelda had scoffed at such thinking, but even she had lamented more than once that the world thought less of her than any man, and would never think any more of her until she had a husband.
“You do incense me,” Mrs. Templeton agreed. “You seem to think it perfectly all right to shirk your duty.”
“If you’d care to see me wed, Mrs. Templeton, I’ll no’ stand in the way of your attempts,” Catriona said. The irony in Mrs. Templeton’s observation was that she seemed to think Catriona had refused to be married when, in fact, she longed to be married. She did want a husband to love, a family to raise. She wanted the happiness her siblings found in sharing their lives with their spouses and children. For whatever reason, fate had not seen fit to lead her to drink from the trough of marital bliss, and now, frankly, it was too late.
Fortunately, Zelda had taught Catriona to think beyond everyone’s expectations for her. To think beyond marriage and the sort of life she’d been taught to expect. “Life didna turn out as you thought it might, aye?” she’d said to Catriona once. “Never mind it, lass—yours is still a life that can bring you as much joy as you allow. This world belongs to you as much as anyone. You’re fortunate, you are, mo chridhe, for you have been blessed with a family that allows you to live as you choose. No’ many women are given such an opportunity, are they? But choose your path wisely, aye? Donna make the same mistakes I did.”
When Catriona had pressed her on what mistakes she’d made, Zelda had shaken her head and waved her away. “Och, too many I’ve made, then,” she’d said. “Too many long forgotten.”
Well, Catriona had chosen her path, all right—she’d followed her aunt on some of the greatest experiences man or woman could imagine. She was thankful for the life Zelda had shown her, and while she worried about the responsibility Zelda had left for her, she was grateful it was her responsibility, and not one of her brothers.
It seemed a far more important calling than marriage.
“You’ll not stand in my way?” Mrs. Templeton repeated snidely, then laughed with a twinge of outrage. “Perhaps you’ll find the duke a suitable match, Miss Mackenzie, seeing as how you are convinced he’d no’ harm a hair on anyone’s head. As the Countess Orlov has pointed out to us all, he does not have a wife.”
“Mrs. Templeton!” Mrs. MacLaren chided her.
But Catriona couldn’t help laughing. By God, the woman was as bold as she was. And she obviously loved Uncle Knox very much, for nothing else could explain her contempt for Catriona. “Perhaps,” she said jovially.
The conversation was thankfully ended as Uncle Knox fairly exploded into the room, swaying a wee bit and in jolly spirits thanks to all he’d imbibed this evening. The other gentlemen filed in behind him, the duke entering last and remaining at the back of the room, his hands clasped behind him, his weight shifted onto one hip. He said not a word but kept his head down, studying the room with his black eyes. When that black gaze met Catriona’s, she felt a strange shiver course through her unlike anything she’d ever felt in her life. She wasn’t entirely certain what it was—a natural response to Mrs. Templeton’s suggestion that she should marry those black eyes? A shiver of revulsion? Or was it something else? Whatever it was, it was intense and hot and prickled at the back of her neck.
She wondered, as she turned away from him and let her gaze settle on mother and daughter at the pianoforte, if the duke had ever looked at his wife like that. She wondered if he’d looked at his wife like that as he squeezed the breath from her throat.
Another, more potent shiver ran down her spine.
“Chasity, darling, we’ll have a song from you, shall we?” Uncle Knox asked.
“It would be my pleasure,” Miss Wilke-Smythe answered.
As she and her mother arranged themselves at the pianoforte, Catriona moved around the perimeter of the room so that she could steal another glimpse of the dark duke.
His gaze was locked on the performers.
Miss Wilke-Smythe cleared her throat and began to sing along to her mother’s accompaniment. Catriona wandered to the back of the room and paused, pretending to listen, standing with her back to the wall. Miss Wilke-Smythe sang passably, her voice light and pure, like her. Catriona surreptitiously watched the duke take in the performance. His expression was inscrutable, but his attention apparently rapt, as he never turned his eyes from the magpie.
After polite applause praised Miss Wilke-Smythe at the conclusion of her song, she decided to perform a second. Catriona sighed beneath her breath and rested her hands on her middle on her belly, pretending to enjoy the warbling and stealing glimpses of the duke.
He never glanced in her direction.
When the second song concluded, Lady Orlov suggested something a bit livelier. She relieved the Englishwomen of the pianoforte, then settled in, speaking in Russian to her cousin, who seemed to disagree with the countess’s suggestion. In the midst of the familial argument, Montrose wandered to where Catriona stood, set his gaze on the Russians and said under his breath, “I take it you are no’ the sort of woman to present your accomplishments in song.”
His remark surprised Catriona. “No, alas,” she said. “My accomplishments run to the masculine.”
> He glanced at her for a single, searing moment. “To the masculine? Pray tell, what are your accomplishments, other than rescuing widows and lightskirts?”
Catriona couldn’t help a pert smile. “The sort of accomplishments of a duke.”
He slowly turned his head toward her. His eyes flicked the length of her. “As lofty as that?” he murmured as Countess Orlov arranged the music on the stand and settled in.
“I didna say a duke’s accomplishments were lofty.” She smiled coyly, pushed away from the wall and walked away. She took a seat. Countess Orlov began to play with such a heavy hand that the flames of the candles shook.
Halfway through the countess’s playing, Catriona glanced back. But the duke was not in the room. Neither was Mr. MacLaren. They had slipped out, unnoticed.
She turned around and fixed her gaze on the mantel clock. What a strange and curious man the dark duke was. What had he done with the beauty of Blackthorn Hall?
Catriona didn’t know how she’d discover the truth. She might have to simply resort to inquiring of his grace. What have you done with your wife, milord?
A curl of heat settled in her chest when she imagined how dark his eyes would look if she ever found the courage to ask him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
FOR MACLAREN TO whisper in Caithness’s ear, Hamlin would have to pledge his support for keeping the Scotland bank under the control of Scotland.
MacLaren had explained this rather succinctly a couple nights past as Hamlin had prepared to take his leave of Dungotty. “The earl will no’ abide the choke hold the Crown keeps on the English banks, no’ here, no’ in Scotland,” he said with such vitriol that Hamlin wondered what sort of encounter MacLaren or Caithness had experienced with an English bank. “Our regulations serve us well enough without the meddling of the exchequer or Parliament, aye?”
“Aye,” Hamlin agreed.
“I am favorably inclined to voice my support of a candidate who vows to keep as much of our independence as possible, that I am,” MacLaren said. He’d kept his gaze, shrewd and suspicious, on Hamlin, as if he thought he might see something in Hamlin’s expression to warn him off.
But Hamlin had learned through years of a tumultuous marriage how to keep his thoughts and emotions to himself. He steadily held the man’s gaze and said, “My aim is to keep Scotland for the Scots and move forward from the disputes of the past, aye? I donna mean to bring more rule into Scotland, if that is your fear.”
MacLaren’s smile had been slow. “Well, then,” he’d said. “You may verra well have my Caithness’s vote after all. I’ll have a word with him.”
Hamlin related the conversation to Bain this morning, who stood across the continental desk with its inlaid wooden design of blackthorns. It had been a gift from Glenna’s family to Hamlin on the occasion of their wedding. He had liked Glenna’s parents. He had been appalled when he’d received word that the viscount and his wife, as well as a chambermaid, had died in an early morning fire at their estate. An unattended candle was the culprit, setting fire to half the house.
The desk was a constant reminder of their tragic end, but it felt too dismissive of their lives to remove it. He’d once asked Glenna for her opinion. She’d glanced at the desk rather absently, then at him, and had shrugged. “I donna care what you do with it,” she’d said.
Was it grief that had made her so callous? He knew grief came to people in different ways. Some made light of it to protect themselves from more hurt, he thought. Others let it grip them by the throat until it felt almost as if there was no point in breathing any longer. He could count himself in the second group.
He’d kept the desk.
His study was his favorite room in the sprawling ducal estate—it was filled with books and maps, and rugs he’d purchased from Flemish weavers. He had floor-to-ceiling windows from which he had an excellent view of his extensive garden.
Bain was staring out the windows as Hamlin told him about the supper at Dungotty and what MacLaren had said. “Did he give you his commitment, then?” Bain asked when Hamlin had finished.
“He said he’d discuss it with the earl.”
Bain tapped absently on the windowpane. “I should think it worth a wee inquiry, aye?”
“What?”
“The sort of bank business MacLaren may wish to keep under wraps, that’s what. If you donna have his firm vote, perhaps it would behoove you to have something that might help persuade him.” He’d turned and looked at Hamlin then, his green eyes dark and intense.
Hamlin understood. Bain’s point was unsavory, but he understood why he made it. “The Bank of Scotland was once believed to be supportive of the Jacobites, is that no’ so?” Hamlin asked.
A ghost of a smile appeared on Bain’s lips. “Aye, your grace, that is so.”
Hamlin nodded. He drummed his fingers on the desk, thinking. “How difficult would it be to learn MacLaren’s business, then?”
“I’ve an acquaintance, a banker. A Scottish banker.”
Hamlin chuckled. “How fortuitous for me, aye?” He stood up and walked to the window and stood beside Bain. His eye caught the ruby-red color of a rose bush in full bloom. He was suddenly reminded of another, similarly bonny day, when the roses also had been in full bloom. He’d been in the garden with Glenna. He recalled her crying. Forever tearful she was, her complaints and displeasure with him piling higher with each passing week. He could not, for the life of him, remember what had vexed her so that day.
“There is to be a meeting held of the Gentlemen of Science, Thursday next,” Bain said. “Among them are the agents of some of our more illustrious countrymen, and in particular, the dukes Argyll and Lennox. And Caithness.”
In addition to Caithness, Argyll and Lennox would also vote on the empty seat in the Lords. “What is the meeting about, then?”
“Bridges, your grace.”
“Bridges,” he repeated.
“There is need of a bridge on the south end of Loch Ard to ease travel.”
“I see,” Hamlin said. “And now I must be a proponent of bridges, is that it?”
“It would be helpful.”
Hamlin nodded. “What else?”
“Mr. Palmer has informed us he intends to leave his post by month’s end.”
Hamlin turned his attention from the window to Bain. “My gamekeeper?”
Bain nodded.
“Why?”
His secretary shrugged. “He’s been quite taken with religious sensibilities.”
Hamlin frowned. “Religious sensibilities? Or does he find it reprehensible to be in my employ, perchance? ’Tis been a year, has it no’, and still they quake in their boots at the sight of their employer?”
“As I understand it, a reverend from Kippen attended the parish fair and there expounded on the battle of good and evil in our world. He advised his flock to avoid evil at all costs. Mayfield House has been searching for a suitable gamekeeper and Mr. Palmer was moved to inquire after it, aye?”
“The news catches me by surprise, aye? For a day or so, I have forgotten I am the evil, black-hearted Duke of Montrose. Mayfield House will no’ pay a wage as well as I’ve paid his bloody hide,” Hamlin groused.
“No,” Bain agreed.
“For God’s sake. Verra well, find another. And a lady’s maid for Eula.”
Bain started. “Beg your pardon, your grace?”
“She needs proper supervision, aye?”
Bain stared at him.
“What?” Hamlin asked impatiently.
“You’re proper, your grace.”
“No’ me. Someone who knows about hair and...and gowns, I suppose. And the way of women.”
Bain looked utterly confused. Hamlin clucked his tongue at the young man. It wasn’t as if Bain was naïve about the fairer sex. He was often out catting around at nights—Hamlin h
ad seen him slinking back to Blackthorn Hall in the misty hours of the early morning. “Their courses, lad,” Hamlin said low.
Bain slowly lifted his chin, his gaze suddenly defiant. “I beg your pardon, your grace, but I am no’ versed in the requirements of a lady’s maid.”
“I just told you the requirements. She must brush hair and...” He made a whirling gesture with his hand.
Bain and Hamlin stared silently at each other for a moment until Hamlin relented and said, “Aye, verra well, then. Inquire of Mrs. MacLaren.”
“Aye,” Bain said, his voice full of relief. “I’ll call today, I will. Speak of the wee devil,” he said, and nodded toward the window.
On the road that ran alongside the garden walls, Eula appeared, leading her pony with one hand, and dragging a stick in the dirt behind her with the other. Aubin, Hamlin’s cook and resident equestrian—the Frenchman possessed many talents and had no qualms about taking his wage from purported murderers—was riding his mount behind her.
“Is there more?” Hamlin asked as he watched Eula walk along.
“No, your grace.”
Hamlin walked out the French doors of his study and onto the terrace, then headed down the flagstone steps and around the side of the house, where he intercepted Eula and her instructor.
“Good afternoon,” he said.
“Good afternoon,” she responded, and bobbed a lopsided curtsy as she waved her stick at him.
“Why do you no’ ride?”
“I donna want to ride him anymore,” she said, looking at the pony. “He’s too small.” She dropped her stick and the reins and looked at Hamlin with an edge of defiance he’d only recently begun to notice. It rivaled only Mr. Bain’s.
“He looks the perfect size for you, he does,” he said, and stroked the pony’s mane.
“He’s no’. I saw the lady today, and she rides a horse as big as Mr. Aubin’s.”
“What lady?” Hamlin asked, although he suspected he knew the answer.
