Romancing the Scot (The Pennington Family)

by May McGoldrick

  The secretary appeared, spectacles in hand. “Yes, m’lord?”

  “The list is fine. Send the invitations.”

  As he was about to hand off the paper, however, a name on the list caught his attention.

  Melfort.

  He paused, a flash of temper heating his face.

  “Wait.” He stabbed the list with his finger. “Why is this name included?”

  The young man stared at the paper in confusion. “I’m sorry, m’lord. Sir John Melfort has recently purchased Highfield Hall. He and Lady Melfort are currently in residence. I assumed that you’d wish to include them.”

  “You assumed incorrectly,” Hugh said sharply. He reined in his temper, realizing that his secretary had no knowledge of the history between the Penningtons and the Melforts. “Take them off.”

  “Of course. Immediately.” The young man took the list, eager to escape the room.

  Hugh called to him as he reached the door. “Wait. Has my sister seen the guest list?”

  “No, m’lord. Lady Jo has been too busy. She requested that you approve the invitations.”

  “Good. Keep it that way. And don’t mention any of this to her.”

  Jo hadn’t seen Melfort’s brother Wynne in fifteen years, and the last thing Hugh wanted was to hurt her by reopening old wounds.

  No, the Melforts were not invited at Baronsford. Not this month. Not ever.

  Chapter 7

  “If I was the baby Moses floating down the river in a basket, there’d be no better place to wash ashore than here. Indeed, a lass could do far worse than to leave her bairn at our door.”

  Anna shook open a drying cloth and held it out. Grace stepped from the tub that had been set up for her in the bedchamber in front of the fire, and the maid draped the towel around her shoulders.

  “If I were a gossipy woman, I could tell you some stories,” Anna continued. “But I’ll just say, if a body was in trouble and needed help, Baronsford would be the place for him. Why, I remember this one time, about ten years ago . . .”

  Grace had no need to encourage her with questions. The plump and affable woman liked to talk. Anna’s parents had both been in service here, and it was clear that in her view, Baronsford was paradise on earth. She and her family had always been treated well—“same as everyone belonging to the place”—and she proudly sang the family’s praises.

  Between the pitchers of warm water poured over her head, Grace had learned the histories of all five Pennington siblings. She was also told of the earl and his wife, Lord and Lady Aytoun, who spent most of the year at their country estate in Hertfordshire and their town house in London. Though she’d never seen either place, Anna was certain they were the “grandest houses that side of Hadrian’s Wall.”

  But the most alarming news had come from the maid’s cheerful revelation that the eldest son was the “most respected judge in Scotland.”

  A judge. Grace shivered, cursing her luck. Viscount Greysteil—the man who had introduced himself simply as Hugh Pennington—was not only a peer of the English realm but also Lord Justice of the Commissary Court in Edinburgh.

  Malchance! Of all the crates in that warehouse, why did she have to climb into the one being sent to a British judge?

  “Respected and feared, he is. And he’s much talked about, and written about too,” Anna crowed. “His lordship’s mother, Lady Aytoun, keeps a folio album chock-full with writings about his law doings in the upstairs library. Bulging, it is.”

  Here in Scotland, Grace wondered, would a daughter be punished for the treason of her father or grandfather? As an Irish patriot, Daniel Ware never accepted that he was a subject of the English king, and she’d go to her grave defending his name.

  But she didn’t want to think about any of that now. She’d survived Antwerp and the crossing to Britain. No one was accusing her of anything. They had no reason to. She’d done nothing wrong.

  “The fire is warm and it’s a bonny day out, but you’re sure to take ill again, standing about like that.” Anna draped two more towels around her.

  Dr. Namby was quite progressive regarding the benefits of hot and cold water in the treatment of fevers, and Grace had been washed regularly with sponges soaked in rose and lavender-scented water as she lay in her sickbed. Still, she’d asked for this bath. She needed to immerse herself, hoping to eradicate the ship’s odor that continued to fill her senses. Shivering again, though not from the cold, she pulled the towels tighter around herself and sat on a straight chair. She wondered if she would ever truly recover from the nightmare she’d been through.

  “The best of it, mistress,” Anna went on cheerfully as she patted dry Grace’s hair, “is in about a fortnight you’ll have the chance to meet the rest of the Penningtons. What with everyone growing older and going off to find their own way, the summer ball at end of June and the Christmas assembly are the only times that we can be sure of the entire family gathering at Baronsford.”

  A fortnight? Grace prayed to God she was not still at Baronsford then. She didn’t want to be here one more day than she needed to be. It was one thing to have Jo and Anna and the doctor believe her, but she couldn’t imagine trying to fool the entire Pennington family.

  “What day is it, Anna?”

  “Why, I keep forgetting that you don’t remember anything, mistress,” the maid said gently, coming around and facing her. “Today is Saturday, the twenty-fourth of May. It’s just two years next month since the fall of that wee French tyrant.”

  She wondered how kindly this woman would be if she knew Grace had only two months ago left the home of Joseph Bonaparte, the “wee” tyrant’s brother.

  May 24. Grace and her father had been expected to reach Queen Julie’s villa outside of Brussels by the middle of May. They’d traveled under false names, but her father had been carrying correspondence from Joseph to his wife. Someone knew their real identities by now.

  The bloody scene she’d run from in Antwerp came into her mind’s eye. The horror of it was as fresh now as then. The question of what had happened to the bodies of those good men and whether they’d been given a decent burial tormented her. As much as she wanted to send a letter to Brussels and tell Queen Julie about it, she knew it would be intercepted before it left this house. Even if she could find some way to send such a message safely, she had no way to pay for it.

  A thought occurred to her. She had a little money in the pocket of her dress when she was still in Antwerp. She gave a few coins away to her gallant street urchins, but she had some left when she climbed into the crate. Even if she found the rest, however, she doubted it would be enough to convey a letter to Brussels.

  “I believe you may have left your bed too soon.”

  Grace blinked. Jo was watching her. She’d been too caught up in her thoughts to hear her come in.

  “Not at all,” she replied. “I’m doing much better.”

  Grace stood to greet her hostess, but the room tilted. Anna and Jo caught her by the arms as she was about to go down.

  “One more day of bed rest would be wise, I think,” Jo suggested.

  “Thank you, but I couldn’t bear it,” Grace protested. “I need to be up and about. To breathe some fresh air.”

  She needed to walk, grow stronger, and prepare herself to leave this place.

  “Let’s venture just as far as the sitting room, then,” Jo suggested, motioning Anna to continue dressing her. “The windows are open there, and a nice warm breeze is wafting through.”

  The undergarments and the lovely dress of pale blue muslin sagged on her, but Grace was happy for the change out of the nightgown.

  “I’m sorry to say your travel dress was ruined,” Jo explained. “These clothes belong to my youngest sister, Millie. She’s the closest in size to you.”

  “I’m grateful to be wearing a dress again.”

  Taking her arm, Jo led her into the adjoining room.

  “You’re thinner than Millie, but I’ll have the seamstress come up this a
fternoon. We’ll alter this to fit you, and she can take measurements for some additional dresses.”

  “This one will do nicely. I really don’t need more,” Grace replied. “I don’t want to abuse your family’s kindness. You’ve already done so much for me.”

  “Nonsense. This is our way.”

  In the spacious sitting room a fine Persian carpet covered the floor. Several upholstered chairs had been tastefully arranged around the fireplace. A writing table was situated to take advantage of the light from a window. The walls were adorned with brightly colored papers depicting rows of leaves and flowers, and the mantle held delicate, painted figurines.

  Grace breathed in the scent of cut hay coming through the window. She couldn’t get enough of it. After all the days in that crate, this was heaven. The coughing spasm came on with no warning. Sitting on a cushioned bench, she gratefully accepted a cup that Anna brought to her.

  Grace sipped the drink. Cool, weak tea with a taste of honey. It soothed her throat, and the coughing subsided. She looked wistfully at the patches of the blue sky outside the tall casement window.

  “You shouldn’t tire yourself too quickly,” Jo admonished gently.

  “I long to get out.”

  Feeling stronger, Grace stood and moved to the open window. A walled garden stretched out below—a pleasing design of green paths, fruit trees, and well-tended flower beds ablaze with red and purple and yellow. In the distance, a wide meadow rolled down to a forest. Glimpses of a river showed through. Baronsford was idyllic, to be sure.

  A rider appeared in the distance, galloping up through the meadow. He continued right to the house and stopped by the garden wall beneath her window. As the man swung down from his glistening black stallion, Grace’s gaze fixed on his broad back. Servants came running, and their immediate response told her he had to be Viscount Greysteil.

  He was much taller than the lanky groom who took the horse’s reins from him. Something in his build, in the way his black jacket fit, made him appear larger than most men. Tan trousers sheathed powerful legs, and his riding boots gleamed in the sunlight. Removing his hat, he ran a hand through longish hair the color of night.

  Her vague memory of him did nothing to prepare her for when he turned. High, firm cheekbones. A strong, chiseled jaw. Intensity and confidence were written in every line of his face, in the stride as he walked toward the house. He was a dangerously handsome man.

  Alert to being watched, he directed his eyes upward to the window. He stopped, and she was stunned by the sudden heat rushing through her. For a moment, she remained locked in place by his gaze. Then, coming to her senses, she backed away from the window.

  His sister was standing by the unlit hearth. Grace sat again on the cushioned bench.

  “I can’t imagine that you’re a person who’s accustomed to being ill,” Jo said, taking the seat next to her.

  She wasn’t. Grace never had time to be sick, especially in recent years. Her increasingly infirm father relied on her wherever they went. She was not only Colonel Ware’s daughter and nurse, she served as his secretary—arranging his travels, coordinating his schedules, managing his correspondence. In short, doing what needed to be done. She could never afford to be ill.

  “Do you have any recollection of ever being sick?”

  Jo was obviously trying to elicit some response regarding the time before her journey from Antwerp, and Grace knew she’d be constantly tested for as long as she stayed here. She shook her head.

  “I feel no change in what I remember. I still don’t know who I am or what I’m doing here. I just asked Anna the date before you came in. I have no idea why I am here.”

  This was, in part, the truth. She really didn’t know why they’d been attacked in Antwerp with such cruel violence.

  “Dr. Namby has suggested that seeing something from your past might perhaps stimulate your memory.”

  Jo went into the bedchamber and returned a moment later carrying Grace’s deep green traveling dress.

  “You were wearing this when you arrived.” She laid it on the bench. “The skirt and the bodice are ruined, but I wanted you to see it.”

  When she ran down to the carriage at the harbor inn, Grace hadn’t taken the matching pelisse coat or hat, her gloves or reticule. She thought she would be returning immediately to their rooms to finish preparing for the final leg of their travels. She ran her fingers over the torn, stained hem of the skirt.

  “I don’t know. This seems like any other dress.”

  “But a fine one,” Jo corrected. “Look at the quality of the taffeta. The high, padded waistline and the embroidery. A great many hours must have gone into making it.”

  It was, indeed, a fine travel dress. This garment and the clothing packed in the lost trunks had cost a great deal. But in their travels through the courts of Europe, it was required that Grace dress and act and speak in a manner consistent with the haut ton.

  “I’m sorry. I wish I could remember.”

  Disappointment registered on Jo’s face as she took the dress and laid it over the back of a chair.

  “There’s more that I want you to see.” Jo picked up a beaded reticule from the table and returned to the bench and sat. She held out a number of coins.

  “My brother found these in the bottom of the gondola.”

  Grace stared at the American coins. Copper pennies and a few half dimes. She took them from Jo’s hand, pretending to study them.

  “They’re American. Perhaps I was there,” she said, trying to sound hopeful. “But perhaps they belong to someone else, and they somehow fell into the crate.”

  Trying to use this money to send a letter to Brussels would be futile. How many people around here would take American coins in a transaction? Her secret would be discovered immediately. No, these coins were of no use to her. She shook her head, returning them.

  “I do wish I could remember.”

  “We have to keep faith that it will happen.” Jo patted her hand gently. “I’ll have Anna take the dress away, if you have no more need of it.”

  “I think it’s only good for rags now. It’s far too badly ruined for anyone to wear.”

  “Then be agreeable when the seamstress comes in,” Jo ordered good naturedly. “My brother insists that you have a selection of clothes while you’re with us.”

  Hugh Pennington. Grace squirmed at the thought of having to spend time in his company, now that she knew his profession. She tried not to think of him as the fiercely handsome man she’d just seen outside.

  “But there’s more,” Jo said. “The secret pocket we found in the dress.”

  “A secret pocket?” It was her dress, and Grace knew there was nothing unusual about it. Certainly, there was no secret pocket.

  “We found a pouch sewn into the waistband.”

  Grace had worked with the seamstress. She had overseen the design herself, chosen the fabric and the trim, ordered the accessories. There was nothing about this dress that she didn’t know.

  Curious, she watched Jo take a black velvet pouch out of the reticule. She’d never seen this before.

  Jo proceeded to take a large jewel out of the velvet bag.

  “This is what we found.”

  Grace stared in disbelief at a huge diamond that Jo placed in her palm.

  Understanding brought a stab of anguish, and she fought back tears. She’d never seen this stone, but she could guess what it was. And now she knew why her father was killed. This was what those men were searching for.

  They’d been carrying a piece of Bonaparte’s treasure. This diamond must have been from the vast treasure Joseph Bonaparte took with him to America. Her father had to be delivering it from Joseph to his wife, Julie, in Brussels.

  With Napoleon locked away on the island of St. Helena, treasure hunters were searching for Bonaparte’s gold and jewels, even as the emperor’s loyal followers were organizing themselves to free him once again. One of those factions was responsible for Daniel Ware’s murder.
Why hadn’t her father told her what they were secretly carrying? It made no sense that he would hide this from her when he trusted her with so much more.

  Grace thought how differently she could have planned their journey if she had known. They would have been traveling with more men to protect this treasure. She’d have been far more cautious. And this dress. She’d just suggested that it be discarded for rags; the diamond would have been lost forever.

  Cold sweat broke out on her back. Perhaps that would have been best. Considering everything she’d lost, she wished the jewel was never discovered.

  Realizing she was being watched, Grace let out a frustrated breath. “I’ve never seen this before. I can’t tell you how amazed I am.”

  “No memory of it at all?”

  She stared at it and shook her head. “If it was in the dress, then I suppose it must be mine. But I don’t recollect having it.”

  Grace put the diamond back into Jo’s hand.

  “Can you keep it safe for me?”

  The tight lines around Jo’s mouth softened. Her gaze gentled and her face showed her astonishment at the trust Grace was placing in her.

  “We can lock it in my brother’s iron chest. That’s where it’s been since we found it.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Jo slipped the diamond into the velvet pouch and dropped it back into her reticule.

  Grace stood and went to the open window. The viscount and his horse had disappeared, and she looked out at the dark clouds gathering on the horizon.

  Everything had changed. Before the discovery of this diamond, she had simply been the daughter of a so-called traitor. Now she was a conspirator. In carrying this jewel, she had become an agent serving Napoleon and his family, and there was no way she could ever convince these people otherwise.

  Chapter 8

  Hugh stood back and wiped the sweat from his face with the back of his hand. He was making progress in the carriage barn, but the afternoon sun was crossing the sky too quickly.