“Well, every sitting room, salon, and bedchamber in Baronsford has been turned upside down and shaken twice by the staff,” Jo said, motioning toward Mrs. Henson and Mr. Simons, still squabbling as they made their way out into the yard. “Every window has been opened. Every floor has been scrubbed. Fresh flowers have been cut, arranged, and placed in every room. And they’re still not happy.”
“One growl by my father and that will be the end of their bickering.”
“Don’t scare our friend here with stories of him,” Jo chided.
Hugh saw Grace run a hand down the front of her dress. Her shoulders were stiff, her back ramrod straight. She was nervous.
He went to stand next to her. “Our mother is soft-spoken and gentle. She is the embodiment of affection. She will love you on sight.”
“His lordship has a gruff tone and a strong voice,” Jo started. “He’s direct with his questions to the point of being abrupt. It’s just his way.”
“But when it comes to his daughters, they can do no wrong.” He leaned close and whispered in her ear, “And don’t forget, you’re already one of those.”
The blush turned a darker shade, and she looked down at the tips of her shoes just as two carriages appeared over the crest of the hill.
* * *
Grace thought the flock of butterflies that had taken flight in her stomach would lift her up and carry her away. She almost wished they would.
Lady Aytoun was the first one out of the carriage. No sooner had her foot touched the gravel than Hugh lifted her off the ground and swung her around like a doll. The countess squealed and then protested happily until he put her down.
“Where is your sense of decorum?” she complained, unable to keep the smile from her face.
“You know he has no decorum when it comes to you.” The Earl of Aytoun stepped down from the carriage. Despite his graying hair and a slight limp, his lordship was as tall and broad in the shoulders as his son. He stretched a hand out to Hugh as the countess embraced Jo. “I warn you. If you even think about twirling me about like your mother, we’ll have it out right here.”
Hugh went to him and, ignoring the extended hand, lifted his father off the ground in a bear’s hug, albeit only a few inches. The earl laughed heartily as his son set him down.
The affection which both the parents showed their son and daughter warmed Grace’s heart. Their greeting of Truscott and Violet was no less familial. As the two passed down the long line of assembled staff with the butler at their elbow, they paused to speak with so many. Between the two of them, the earl and countess knew nearly every person by name, and the butler introduced new staff members. They asked about families, wanted to know particulars.
Watching them, Grace realized Hugh’s gray eyes were inherited from his mother, while his height and build had come from his father. And like Hugh, the earl’s face displayed scars that only added to his threatening bearing.
In spite of that, Grace saw how Lord Aytoun stayed close to the countess as they moved along the line toward the main entrance. The caress of his wife’s back when they paused to speak to someone was matched by affectionate glances she directed toward him as he addressed a footman or a maid. Their love for each other was impossible to miss, and Grace recalled Jo saying that their story was one of second chances at love . . . for both of them.
Backing away from the reception line while his wife was speaking to the housekeeper, the earl turned to his son. “So where are you hiding her?” he demanded gruffly.
Grace didn’t realize it until now, but she’d edged behind one of the footmen by the door. She stepped forward just as Hugh reached her.
“Don’t worry, my love,” he whispered, putting a hand on the small of her back. “I’m stronger, and I’ll knock him down if need be.”
Suddenly, the armor of protective confidence fell away. As she stood watching them approach, her heart palpitated, her chest tightened. Grace curtsied as Hugh made the introductions.
The countess handed off her gloves to her husband and took both of Grace’s hands in hers. The woman’s kindly gray eyes dropped to their fingers, which Grace realized had turned to blocks of ice.
“May I call you Grace?” Hugh’s mother asked. “We have a tradition of first names in our family that goes back generations.”
“Of course, m’lady,” she curtsied again, looking up into the warm face that handsomely reflected her age. “I’m honored.”
In the next instant, Grace found herself pulled into the countess’s embrace. And this wasn’t a polite peck on the cheek, or a cursory display of hospitality. She was held in a hug of affection, of reassurance, of welcome, of belonging.
“And you’ll call me Millicent, all right?” she whispered in her ear.
Whatever semblance of control she’d been able to hold onto until that moment imploded. The knot in her throat closed tight, and Grace leaned into the mother’s touch, allowing herself to be held as her tears broke free.
Millicent brushed a kiss on her brow.
Grace didn’t trust her voice to apologize for her emotional outburst in front of everyone. A bubble had burst, and she couldn’t look up or say more for fear the floodgates would open. The countess didn’t let go of her hands.
“Lyon,” Millicent said over her shoulder. “Pray go on to drawing room. We’ll meet you there shortly.”
Drawing Grace inside the door, the countess handed her a silk handkerchief to dry her tears.
“You go too, Hugh,” Millicent said when Grace felt the warmth of his touch on her arm. “I promise to deliver her safely to you in a moment.”
Shielded by the countess, she smiled in embarrassment when Jo joined them, adding another wall of privacy.
“I must apologize,” she said to the two of them. “I’ve certainly failed to make a good first impression. But I was so nervous . . . and your reception . . . your kindness.”
“No more of that, child. And no more worrying about how you’ll be received by us, or by Hugh’s brother and sisters, or the rest of the family.” She lifted Grace’s chin until their eyes met. “When we read his letter telling us of your adventures, and of your courage, and of his love, and most of all, of his intention of marrying you, we were elated. You see, our dreams for him had finally come true. Grace, we’ve been praying for this day.”
“Do you believe me now?” Jo teased, giving her arm a squeeze. She turned to her mother. “We’d better go in or Hugh will send a search party for her.”
Millicent smiled. “Oh, how long I’ve waited for this.”
“Never mind Hugh’s attachment to her,” Jo said, slipping an arm through Grace’s. “I’ve claimed her as my friend . . . and sister.”
“In that case we shall definitely keep her.”
Grace had regained control of her emotions by the time the three of them made their way to the drawing room. She still needed to be introduced to his lordship, but she guessed after the countess’s reception, there wasn’t anything that she couldn’t handle.
The men stood when they entered the room. Grace’s heart warmed at the way Hugh’s gaze immediately sought hers, and a silent message passed between them.
Flanked by the two women, Grace curtsied as Hugh once again introduced her.
Lord Aytoun gazed at her intently for a moment. “My son tells me you’re a Macpherson on your mother’s side . . . and a Jacobite.”
Drat. Not again, Grace thought. She was not going to deny her family or her beliefs. Never again.
“That is correct, m’lord,” she said, holding her head high.
“Excellent,” the earl growled, sounding pleased. “It’s about time we had another in the family.”
Jo leaned over and whispered, “Our Aunt Portia, Pierce’s wife, is a daughter of Bonnie Prince Charlie. But don’t tell anyone.”
Chapter 29
After two days of losing Grace to his family for talks and walks, estate tours and rides, Hugh was more than ready to ship his parents back to Hertfords
hire. His father was charmed by Grace’s stories of all the places she’d traveled to and the battles she’d witnessed. He couldn’t get enough of her tales, and he was fascinated by her incredible memory. Hugh’s mother had found a new daughter. She contrived ways of keeping Grace and Jo with her as much of the day as possible.
Hugh was truly pleased with the well-deserved attention she was receiving. At the same time he enjoyed playing the role of the irritable ignored lover. He especially appreciated all the interest Grace gave him when he slipped into her bed each night after everyone was sleep.
But all of that changed now. Aston MacKay, the law clerk Hugh sent to Antwerp, had arrived in the Borders with the British embassy officials from Brussels.
Hugh had held back from telling Grace he was coming. MacKay had gone to the Continent to search out information about a missing American woman, but after meeting with the two Englishmen, he’d written to Hugh again. An urgent meeting with Grace had been requested regarding an undisclosed agreement between Daniel Ware and the British government. Now they were seeking her help.
As instructed, MacKay had situated the men at the George Inn. This morning, Hugh mentioned the names to his father. As a longtime member of Parliament, the earl’s knowledge of families connected with the government extended far beyond Hugh’s.
Stealing Grace from the clutches of Jo and his mother, Hugh led her toward his study, where the travelers were waiting. On the way, he explained to her what information he’d gathered about the two men.
“Sir Rupert Elliot, a career diplomat, is serving as an envoy to the Netherlands. He’s stationed in Brussels,” Hugh told her. “The other man, Captain Thomas Rivenhall, has served in many capacities since the war with Napoleon ended. Formerly an officer on Wellington’s staff, he now has some vague position in the Foreign Office. His explanation to MacKay was imprecise regarding his exact responsibility at the present, but my father believes he’s been employed to dig skeletons out of closets.”
“Lovely,” she said uneasily. “But what could my father possibly have had to do with them?”
Hugh understood her discomfort. “The only way to know is the speak with them.” He pressed a kiss on her forehead. “But it appears they need you. And regardless of whether you can help them or not, I plan to use their influence to expedite the pardon I’ve sought from the Prince Regent. Both of these men are in a position to make that petition move forward.”
He took Grace’s cold fingers into his hand and brought them to his lips.
“Also, it’s possible they can shed some light on the motivation for the attack on you.”
She drew a deep breath. “Lead me to them.”
* * *
Grace was happy that Hugh was with her in that meeting. He was still concerned about her safety. His presence bolstered her confidence. Still, she had spent a lifetime learning how to deal with men of power, especially politicians. Sitting and listening to these two begin, Grace found that she was perfectly calm.
MacKay, Hugh’s clerk, was asked to wait outside because of the privileged nature of the conversation, and Captain Rivenhall hinted that Hugh’s presence might be questionable, as well. After receiving a deadly glare from the viscount, however, the two men exchanged a glance and proceeded, obviously deciding it would be futile to pursue that course.
“Our deepest condolences, Miss Ware, on the death of your father,” Sir Rupert offered solemnly. “Dreadful business in Antwerp.”
Grace had so many questions for these men regarding what had happened to the remains of her father and their servants. She wanted to know where were they buried and how these men had learned of the attack. But she followed Hugh’s example. Burying her emotions deep within, she donned a mask of indifference and waited. First and foremost, she needed to know what they were after.
Captain Rivenhall addressed the issue first. “As you may already know, this past winter, Colonel Ware directed two letters to our respective offices in Brussels and in Westminster.”
“The two missives were identical,” Sir Rupert added. “The colonel did not want any bureaucratic foolishness to hinder his message from reaching the proper authorities. He didn’t want his offer to be missed.”
“Your father’s letters were not missed, Miss Ware,” Captain Rivenhall said. “They attracted our immediate attention.”
“So you knew of Colonel Ware?” Hugh asked.
“Naturally,” Rivenhall replied. “It is in the greatest interest of the crown to keep track of those closest to Napoleon’s family. The colonel’s military record was well known to us, as was his continuing service to Joseph Bonaparte, the king of . . . the former king of Spain and Naples. His letter drew the attention of the highest levels of our government.”
“Why did the colonel contact you?” Hugh asked.
Captain Rivenhall hesitated to reply, but Sir Rupert did not. “Colonel Ware was seeking a pardon for himself and for his daughter.”
“A pardon?” Hugh asked.
Rivenhall spoke up. “Yes, he wanted an unconditional pardon, along with the return of properties belonging to himself in Ireland and to his late wife’s family in Scotland.”
Grace stared at the men. How was it possible that her father had actively pursued this and not spoken with her about it? They said he sent the letters during the winter. She thought about the wound to his leg. It was already worsening.
It wasn’t for himself that he was requesting the pardon, she realized. He knew he was dying. He was doing it for her.
“What was Colonel Ware giving you in return?” Hugh asked. “He wasn’t so naïve as to think the crown would grant him a pardon without offering something of value in exchange.”
“You’re correct,” Rivenhall replied. “He had in his possession something of interest to us.”
Grace thought of the diamond.
“What exactly are you looking for?” Hugh demanded.
“A letter,” Rivenhall replied after a long pause.
A letter. Not the diamond. All along, she’d thought the jewel was the cause of her father’s murder.
“A letter containing what?” he pressed.
Captain Rivenhall’s lips had formed a tight, thin line. His eyes searched the room for the answer he clearly didn’t want to give.
Grace’s mind raced. Of all the correspondence she wrote out for her father, several missives had contained sensitive information regarding Bonaparte business. But nothing was as important as to warrant what her father had requested . . . and what the British government was willing to grant.
“My father was carrying many letters and documents,” Grace told him. “You must be more specific, Captain. To which letter are you referring?”
“It’s a list,” Rivenhall told her grudgingly. “A list of names.”
“Names of whom?” Hugh demanded.
Sir Rupert spoke up. “Colonel Ware was to supply us with the code names of people working in the British government who supplied the French with sensitive information during the Peninsular campaign.”
“Englishmen? Working as spies for Napoleon?” the viscount asked.
“Yes, m’lord,” he replied. “We now have the key to trace them to individual operatives.”
Spies, Grace thought. Fighting between the nations had ceased, but many who betrayed their allegiance and worked for the enemy were still at large. In her mind’s eye, the painted face of Mrs. Douglas appeared. The woman who knew everyone. Who traveled in the highest circles of ministers and generals. Who socialized with their wives. Grace saw her and her husband, himself a minister in the British government, in Paris at the christening of Napoleon’s son. Her letter came back to Grace: old foes are now the closest of allies. She wondered if Mrs. Douglas’s name was on that list.
“The question still remains,” Captain Rivenhall said, directing his words at Grace, “whether you have the document.”
“We came here on the slimmest chance that you have it,” Sir Rupert explained. “When the bodies of t
he colonel and the others were found—and I beg your pardon for being so insensitive, Miss Ware—their personal belongings had been stolen. We don’t know if the document was taken by those villains. We only hope you have it.”
“This trip may have been for nothing,” Captain Rivenhall added. “But Sir Rupert felt that we must pursue every possibility, for the security of the realm.”
She had no such list. She had arrived with no letter. Grace exchanged a look with Hugh.
“And if she produces this document,” he asked, “what is she getting in return?”
“The pardon, of course. As agreed upon.”
This was the key to her future. She pressed her sweaty palms against her skirts.
“Where is this pardon? We’d like to see it.”
“Well,” Rivenhall replied. “We don’t have it with us. The document needed to be redrawn following the unfortunate death of Colonel Ware. We expect a rider to arrive with it from Westminster at any moment. But certainly you will take us on our honor that we—”
“Perhaps Miss Ware will accept your word, Captain, but I certainly do not.”
“M’lord, you are a peer of the realm and a Lord Justice of the King’s Bench. A decorated cavalry officer of the French wars. We would expect you, of anyone, to trust—”
“Because of all those titles you refer to, it is my duty not to trust you.”
Hugh raised himself to his full height, and Grace saw the lord justice emerge.
“You said that Colonel Ware sent a copy of his request to Westminster and to Brussels,” he said. “And that this letter was seen at the highest levels of government.”
“It was,” Rivenhall replied.
“And what steps were taken to ensure the safety of Colonel Ware when he arrived in Antwerp? What steps were taken to see that this valuable document did not fall into the wrong hands?”
The two men stared at Hugh as if they were struck dumb.
“Men died because Colonel Ware put his trust in you. You failed to protect them,” Hugh barked. “We have no reason to trust that you will even produce this pardon you promise. So when your rider arrives—if he indeed does arrive—you produce the pardon and Miss Ware will give you the list.”
Romancing the Scot (The Pennington Family) Page 24
