Betrayed

by Arnette Lamb

  Braced for a boring demonstration of male power, Sarah sighed. If he demanded that she explain herself, she’d throw something at him.

  Turning to face him, she said, “You bellowed, Lord Michael?”

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  The flintbox hit Michael squarely in the chest, but he hardly noticed. The fire in Sarah MacKenzie’s eyes held him captive. This Highland lass had spirit to spare, and his hands itched to harness her excitement and keep it for his own.

  If we tend them, they will make nothing new of themselves.

  Watching her stand proudly and fearlessly before him, Michael grasped the meaning behind her statement. Love for humankind was another of the many heartfelt virtues of Sarah MacKenzie. He wanted to know them all. But first, he must give her room to move about, and most importantly, he must respect her. So that ruled out any attempt to do what he really wanted to do: kiss her senseless and feel her surrender in his arms.

  Overruling his base desires, he elected truthfulness. “I’ve angered you.” But it wasn’t her wrath that he feared. Disappointing her troubled him more. “Will you please tell me why?”

  “No.” Her gaze slid to the fallen flintbox. “Not today.”

  In a rustling of petticoats and pride, she left the room.

  Give her to the count of ten to ponder an answer, and you’ll rue ever asking the question.

  Michael understood another of Henry’s assessments of Sarah. But in this instance, one man’s displeasure was another’s joy.

  He picked up the flintbox and examined the heavy scrollwork, but his thoughts stayed fixed on her. She hadn’t said “never” in response to his question; she’d said “not today,” indicating that she would in the future reveal her feelings and explain what he’d said that riled her so.

  A future. It sounded sweet to him. A life spent with Sarah MacKenzie promised extraordinary excitement. He imagined her passing on that courage and intelligence to the daughters she would give him. He pondered that happy dream until the silver box grew warm in his hands.

  “Lord Michael?”

  She appeared in the doorway and her smile boded disaster.

  “Yes?”

  “A footman just brought a message for you from the countess of Glenforth.” Her smile turned spiteful. “She’s returned from London and commands you to dine with her tonight.”

  Tender thoughts of a happy life with Sarah MacKenzie fled, replaced by dread over the evening to come. Unless Sarah had colored the message.

  “I doubt she truly commanded me.”

  “Rose took the message straight from your mother’s footman, who left similar instructions with the doorman at the Dragoon Inn.”

  “Who told you the footman had been to the Inn?”

  “Notch, who heard it from your friend Cholly, who was conversing with the doorman at the time. Cholly questioned your mother’s servant. The lad said the countess was fairly chirping with good humor.”

  “What will you do tonight?”

  She gave him another of her superior smiles. “Womanly things, of course.”

  11

  Hours later, dressed in the drab and prickly clothing of a scrubmaid, Sarah moved cautiously up the back stairs of the Dragoon Inn. A wall lantern in a rusted sconce provided faint light, but for safety’s sake, she extinguished it.

  Darkness settled around her, and fear rippled in her breast.

  The opened door above led to the well-lit second story and Michael’s room. As she made her way there, the stairs squeaked loudly, grating on her already frayed nerves.

  Why hadn’t she worn slippers?

  On that thought, sick laughter threatened to burst from her. She had schemed to play the thief tonight. She’d borrowed clothing and planned the crime. She’d gone so far as to allow the children to conspire with her, and all she could think about at this crucial juncture was her poor choice of footwear.

  Conjure up the rewards, Notch had advised her. Dwell too long on the trouble to be had, and you’ll find yourself in it. Rather than easing her, his remembered advice brought a new wave of guilt.

  Then she envisioned Mary’s painting and took heart.

  Achieving the last step, she spied Notch, who made an admirable attempt at looking busy polishing the oaken bannister with his knitted cap. He even whistled a popular tune about the trials of a heartbroken titled lady and her charming but penniless common beau.

  Seeing Sarah, Notch winked.

  A door opened and slammed shut. The lad froze and shot her a warning glance. Footsteps sounded, but from her vantage point, Sarah couldn’t see who trod the hallway above. When Notch turned toward the sound of the footfalls, Sarah paused, one boot braced on the next step, both hands shaking in terror.

  Desperation had driven her here. Mary’s obscene painting was the cause. Had Michael done the proper thing and yielded the painting, Sarah wouldn’t have been forced to thievery on the eve of her birthday. She’d be safe at home, her conscience clear, her thoughts dedicated to how she would celebrate tomorrow. She prayed it did not find her in Tolbooth Prison.

  Scars and freckles—Sarah falsely depicted for the world to see. She cringed at the thought.

  A loud belch from beyond the door set her knees to knocking. She felt like a winded fox trying to elude a pack of fresh hounds.

  Michael had left the inn at eight o’clock, an hour ago. By now, he would be taking the first course of his meal with the countess.

  The plan to go immediately into his room had been foiled by a slow Turnbull. Not until moments ago had the valet descended the stairs for his evening meal and customary game of whist with the inn’s baker. William was stationed on the landing of the front steps to keep watch in case Michael returned unexpectedly. Under the guise of learning to make a stew, Peg had stationed herself in the kitchen.

  A drunken guest staggered into view, his waistcoat buttoned crookedly and his wig askew. Sarah dashed behind the open door and flattened herself against the wall. Through her narrow line of vision, between the door and the jamb, she watched the man weave his way to the main steps where Notch stood.

  The smell of fresh wax and old plaster assaulted her nose.

  Glancing at Notch, the man came to a wobbly stop. “What’s yer business here, rogue?” he demanded, his speech slurred from too much ale. “You look like a lad o’ the streets.”

  Sarah’s heart pounded. From the landing of the front steps, she heard young William curse.

  Would Notch challenge the man?

  Please, no, she silently begged.

  “Pitchin’ in to help, m’lord,” Notch said, rubbing more furiously at his task.

  “You look like a cutpurse to me.”

  “Oh, no, m’lord. I’m too proud to beg and too dumb to steal. An’ have a care on those steps. The railing’s as old as Robert the Bruce.”

  Satisfied, the drunken fellow started down the steps. With a quick wave of his hand, Notch urged Sarah to hurry.

  Tied beneath the borrowed wool dress was a pocket apron filled with the tools she’d need to prize the canvas from the frame. She’s seen Mary assemble hundreds of canvases; destroying one should be easy. She’d also brought flint, steel, and kindling.

  Pressing the bulky pockets to her thighs, she hurried from the stairwell and followed Notch to the door of Michael’s rented room.

  “Be quick, my lady,” Notch whispered, opening the door for her. “Two knocks, an’ someone’s comin’. One knock, an’ it’s the general himself.”

  So scared she could barely breath, Sarah said, “If he comes, you’re to hide yourself. I won’t have you getting in trouble over me.”

  “As if you ain’t faced a devil or two for us.”

  “I mean it, Notch.”

  “You stand here grousing much longer, and you’ll be caught for certain. I ask you again, my lady. Won’t you let me lift whatever it is you’re wantin’ from in there?”

  He and Pic hadn’t questioned her reasons for this excursion into
theft. “No.”

  “Then be quick and quiet about it.” He pushed her inside. “An’ don’t break anything or the maids’ll suffer for it.”

  Feeling more alone than ever before, Sarah slipped inside Michael’s room.

  * * *

  Having finished the fish course, Michael put down his knife and fork and wiped his mouth. “Now will you tell me what has made you so happy?”

  His mother twittered like a maiden at court, setting the diamonds in her earbobs to twinkling and bringing a smile to the face of the footman who stood behind her.

  “Not until after the beef,” she playfully chastised Michael. “Good tidings before the beef can bring on bad humors. No such occurrence will spoil our evening.”

  Resigned to the wait, Michael nodded to the butler to take his plate and refill his wineglass. As the servant poured, Michael tried to anticipate the favorable news his mother had to share. Without doubt it involved Henry, for her firstborn son was her foremost concern. But tonight she was the merry mother he’d always imagined her to be. Michael intended to enjoy it.

  “You force me to guessing games, Mother. I predict Henry has won enough at the gaming tables to set himself free.”

  She fairly cooed with delight. “No, but that may not be necessary.”

  If not at cards or dice, from where had Henry received a windfall?

  Even though the servant remained close by, Lady Emily rang the bell to summon him. When he appeared beside her, she told him to serve the beef.

  Michael rejoiced; the sooner the meal was concluded, the sooner he’d learn the source of his mother’s happiness. She had yet to ask him a single question about himself or what had occurred during her absence. Most odd, she had not once mentioned money, or rather, the lack of it, which usually formed the basis of her conversation.

  But all in all, he had to admit that the evening was a definite improvement over their past meetings.

  When the plate of beef collops was set before him, he speared one of the shilling-sized morsels and found it tender and juicy. Leeks and carrots swam in the thick brown sauce. Michael thought it the best meal he’d eaten since leaving India, where curried mutton and rice dominated every menu, even among the English.

  The lacquered case clock in the corner chimed the time—half past eight. The mechanical noise brought to mind Sarah’s comment about the quiet dinner she’d spent with Henry at Trotter’s Club.

  Jealousy stabbed him. On the heels of the fierce envy came the inevitable and troubling question: why had she agreed to the betrothal? Although she skillfully avoided the question, Michael suspected he’d been correct in assuming she wanted to move to Edinburgh, and a marriage to Henry provided the means.

  Many aspects of Sarah MacKenzie left Michael mired in confusion. Comfort came with the knowledge that he had plenty of time to gain the answers. She cared for him, of that he had no doubt, and had they met under ordinary circumstances, their courtship would have taken a different, smoother path. Enough of dreams, his practical nature commanded. Managing the present and coming to understand the woman across from him must be his primary concern.

  Silence, save the wielding of knife and fork, pervaded the room.

  Were all of the meals at Glenstone Manor eaten in this fashion? Probably so, for his mother was not inclined to converse, a custom she had obviously passed on to the family’s heir. The quiet unsettled Michael. What better time and place, he wondered, to foster familial camaraderie than at the simple ritual of breaking bread? It was almost a crime against human nature to ignore the opportunity at hand.

  He tasted the onions and carrots and found them perfectly cooked. The buttered scones were crusty, the bitter orange marmalade a welcome delight he remembered from childhood. But the need to communicate overwhelmed him. “My compliments to your chef, Mother.”

  She nodded and lifted her eyebrows in agreement. Around a mouthful, she murmured, “Henry brought him over from Paris five years ago. The lord provost and the dean of guilds couldn’t wait to get themselves to France and follow Henry’s lead.”

  Her preference for her older son was expected. Henry spoke for the family. Henry provided for her. Michael couldn’t help imagining how dissimilar this evening would be had Henry contracted with someone other than Sarah MacKenzie. But since he could find no logic in the betrothal, he satisfied himself with the knowledge that a wedding between Henry and Sarah would never come to pass.

  Michael wanted her for honest reasons, and if he ever set eyes on the elusive duke of Ross, he intended to tell him that and much more.

  The annoying silence grew.

  Yet Michael hadn’t come here for lively conversation. For that, he would seek out Sarah. He filled the void by recalling her impassioned discourse this afternoon on the failings of man. Henry named her a thinker, and Michael completely agreed.

  He tried to picture Henry and Sarah together, but another wave of jealousy colored the image. He saw Henry, standing at the head of the table, sharpened knives in hand, carving a holiday goose. He saw Sarah, sitting at the opposite end of the table, holding forth on the plight of the orphans in Reekit Close.

  In Michael’s imaginings, Henry tried to close his ears to her unsolicited sermon on Christian duty. He wasn’t up to the task. The knife ripped through the bird, not in neat head-of-the-family-quality slices, but in ragged hunks unfit for the servant’s table in a nobleman’s house.

  Sarah announced that she was putting up Notch for Cambridge.

  Henry growled.

  Sarah intended to have a presentation ball for the maiden orphan, Peg.

  His patience as ragged as the meat before him, Henry plunged both of the blades into the already mangled carcass, and ran screaming from the room, the house, and his vows to Sarah.

  “What humors you?” his mother asked.

  Yanking himself away from the illusion, Michael scratched his nose to mask his mirth. “I was thinking of something John Lindsay said.”

  “Who is John Lindsay? A friend from India?”

  Sweet good fortune. She at last broached a topic germane to Michael’s life. “John’s a wheelwright from Fife. I visited there while you were in London.”

  “The estate is in good order?” she asked. “The servants haven’t turned laggardly, have they?”

  Michael sat taller in his chair. “No. The house itself is well kept. The Lindsays came with me to Edinburgh. They’ll live at the orphanage and help out with the children.”

  She frowned, but past meetings considered, her displeasure was comparatively small. “I want nothing to do with that place. And I must warn you, if you put the Elliot name on the building, I’ll send a workman to remove any trace of it.”

  On second thought, Michael would name the place Sarah’s House. Yes, that was fitting. The idea had been hers; she should receive the recognition. He’d rather not have his mother involved in the project; he faced too many other obstacles in his quest for Sarah’s heart. What would she say when he told her about the name? He wouldn’t. After a visit to the stonemason, he’d surprise her instead.

  “Michael, I do hope you went to Saint Andrews and paid the family’s respects.”

  He certainly hadn’t surveyed the estates that had come with his title; there were none. But his mother wasn’t to blame; the estate hadn’t come from the Fletchers.

  Michael dusted crumbs from his hands. “I saw the mines while I was there. It’ll take a tidy sum, but once the improvements have been made, we can be assured that the coal concerns will turn a profit for at least a decade. New equipment—”

  “Go to London and discuss it with Henry. He’ll be the one to make any decisions. In all events, we shouldn’t decide business matters at table. We’re not a merchant family, you know.”

  He felt like a lad, given a set-down for a drastic blunder such as breaking wind in mixed company or eating with his hands. He would not let the insult pass. Not tonight. “What purpose does it serve to disparage the merchant class, Mother? I’ll wager t
heir accounts are solvent, whereas the Elliots’ are not.”

  “Ours will be, too,” she said, breezing over his reply. “I must return to London in a week or so.” She pushed her empty plate away. “Perhaps you would care to accompany me?”

  The offer to travel with her pleased him, but he wasn’t about to leave Sarah again so soon. He was still unsettled that his mother didn’t appreciate his efforts on behalf of the family.

  “Thank you, but I cannot. Another time perhaps. Did Henry send you home to Edinburgh?”

  “Righteousness, no. Henry enjoyed my visits. I hadn’t the money to stay longer. And I have arrangements to make.”

  “Arrangements for what?”

  “For the concert I’m sponsoring in July.”

  “A concert. How interesting.”

  She rang the bell. When the butler stepped forward, she held out her glass for more wine. “You may serve the dessert now.”

  “None for me.” Michael strummed his fingers on the arm of his chair.

  “No? Well, Henry has the veriest sweet tooth. I brought him a box of marzipan, from that confectioner in Binderstock Row, and he was so thrilled you would have thought I’d bought him a dukedom.” She laughed with glee. “He could go on about nothing else for days. I insisted that he have a new suit of clothes. Yes, we indeed got along very well.”

  It was almost as if she were trying to convince Michael. Odd, since she’d never given him reason to doubt the closeness of her relationship with the family heir. At least Michael knew where she’d spent the money he’d given her.

  She had yet to ask about Sarah MacKenzie, which surprised him. “Then Henry is prospering at the gaming tables?”

  Humor fled and her lips formed a thin line. “Luck has forsaken him, I fear.”

  An eerie feeling came over Michael. “But you said you had good news. Have you located the duke of Ross?”

  “Who can find him?” In exasperation, she flipped her wrist, sending the fork sailing over her shoulder. The footman snatched it up and handed her another.