by Karen Ranney
He thought it was curiosity more than anything else that had Maggie following him. From the way she’d eaten that day, he was right about thinking that she was nearly starving.
He’d suspected that Maggie had earned most of her money as a prostitute, but he’d never asked and she’d never confessed to it. From the beginning he’d wanted to help her. When he thought about it, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was the countess’s influence. There were times when he could almost hear her voice guiding him to do more and to be a better person.
To his surprise, Maggie had become a friend. It was Maggie who directed him to cheap lodgings, and Maggie who first took him to the Alhambra. He’d been fascinated by the acts as well as the fact that the establishment seemed to be a resounding success. Music halls were evidently the newest entertainment in London, and they were filled to capacity with people out for an evening of fun.
For six months he’d attended every music hall in the London area, studied the layouts, made a list of the acts, the fare charged to enter, and the various drinks served at the small bars inside. By the time he’d rented a building himself, he was prepared and determined to duplicate—on a smaller scale—what he’d seen at the Alhambra.
The Midlothian had a small orchestra, a stage where scenes could be changed simply by a quick rotation, and a series of trapezes attached to the framing of the roof. Instead of simply hiring a male trapeze artist, he employed women who’d been trained in the skill. They also doubled as dancers in the last act, appearing on stage clad in numerous petticoats and performing a dance classified as French and therefore moderately scandalous.
He never hired prostitutes and he made that clear to everyone from the beginning. Whatever arrangement they made with the clientele was their business, but he didn’t condone it. Nor would anything of that sort be done on the premises. In addition, he ensured that the women in his employ were always treated with dignity. They had a carriage to take them home, most of the time in the wee hours of the morning. Their safety was important to him, especially when tales came to him of horrendous deeds in other parts of London.
In the past year the Midlothian had been expanded to seat eighteen hundred people. Originally, the only patrons had been men, but over the past two years he’d opened it up to include women, providing entertainment for them as well as during what he called Ladies Fridays. It was a familiar sight to see a group of women seated by themselves, eyes widening as they took in the trapeze artists, roaming singers, or the elaborate show on the stage.
The Dundee was his second music hall, but due to the success of the Midlothian, he’d had it built from the ground up. It had been designed by a Scottish architect with a taste for whimsy. The Dundee had soaring columns and a painted ceiling resembling a heather-strewn glen. A dozen private boxes jutted out from the walls around the stage. The building was filled with gilt and crimson, and attracted every kind of patron from artisans to working men and their wives to young toffs who declared themselves too filled with ennui to be charmed, but were, nonetheless.
The jewel of his empire, however, was the Mayfair Club, a private club catering to wealthy gentlemen. There were strict criteria for inclusion—each potential member had to be vetted by ten current members. Yet the stringent requirements had attracted exactly the sort of clientele he’d wanted. Now the Mayfair Club was the most prosperous of his ventures. A great many peers were members, including one royal personage.
The sixth Earl of Burfield was a member as well. Harrison wasn’t aware that it was Gordon’s club, however. Nor did Gordon have any intention of informing the man that every cent he lost at the Mayfair Club went into his pockets.
As he became successful, Gordon made sure Maggie wasn’t left behind. He’d discovered that she had an affinity for numbers that rivaled his bookkeeper’s. In addition, her knowledge of London had proven to be invaluable. She’d been his first employee and was responsible for hiring the women who worked for him.
In that first year her appearance had changed drastically. She was no longer painfully thin. Her complexion had improved, as had her hair. One day, on walking into her office, he realized that Maggie was a beautiful woman. Her appearance had previously been dulled by her circumstances and something else: a lack of hope.
She wasn’t starving now, but she had that same look in her eyes as when he’d first met her. As if she was trying to figure something out that was alien to her.
“Will you be going back to Scotland?” she asked now.
The letter was indeed bad news. His father was ill. Jennifer had written him again, the second time she’d done so.
Gordon pushed back his chair and stood before Maggie could hug him. She believed in effusive physical demonstrations of affection.
He glanced at her. “Yes, it’s time I went home.”
Adaire Hall, Scotland
“Are you very certain that this isn’t a new cradle, Lady Jennifer?”
Jennifer directed the footman to place the cradle in the corner of the room, bit back a sigh, and turned to the midwife.
“Yes, Mrs. Farmer. It’s the Adaire cradle. It was the one I was put into.”
She hoped Mrs. Farmer didn’t inquire further about the cradle. The midwife didn’t need to know the tragic history of Adaire Hall.
When her brother was an infant, a fire destroyed the north wing where the nursery was located. A nursery maid had died in the fire and her mother had been severely injured and nearly blinded attempting to save her son. She bore the scars from that night for the rest of her life.
“It’s just that it’s bad luck for the child to be placed into a new cradle.”
She knew that, but she’d been placed in a new cradle. It hadn’t done her any harm.
The midwife had a range of strange beliefs, including her request that a live hen be placed in the empty cradle to ensure that the child was a boy. Jennifer absolutely refused to carry a chicken into Lauren’s suite. The laundress had hand-washed the lace adorning the cradle and, per the Adaire custom, Jennifer had placed a silver coin under the pillow.
She had ordered a wheel of cheese, to be cut by Mrs. Farmer after the baby was born. In addition, she’d given orders to the cook and her staff to prepare a selection of currant loaves. One loaf, along with a bottle of Adaire whiskey, would be given to each visitor to the Hall for a month after the child’s birth.
A great many other traditions—or superstitions, depending on your opinion—accompanied the birth of a baby.
Mrs. Farmer, being the renowned midwife that she was, should depend less on superstition and more on her medical expertise. That was not, however, a comment Jennifer was going to say to the esteemed lady. Mrs. Farmer also had a temper.
The woman excused herself, no doubt to go and badger the cook or Mrs. Thompson, the housekeeper.
Lauren had dropped off to sleep again, being nearly to term. She slept a great deal, which was, according to Mrs. Farmer, a good sign for a propitious birth. Jennifer had every intention of leaving the room without disturbing her sister-in-law, but when she reached the doorway, Lauren spoke.
“Are you going to leave me to Mrs. Farmer?”
Jennifer glanced back at the bed, then at the doorway.
Mrs. Farmer had unexpectedly shown up on their doorstep two weeks ago and announced that Hamish Campbell, Lauren’s father, had hired her to care for his daughter. Since Jennifer had been under the impression that Mr. Campbell was in America, she’d been surprised, at least until talking to Lauren.
“My father plans everything,” she said. “He leaves absolutely nothing to chance.” She’d smiled down at her burgeoning stomach. “Not even his grandchild.”
That is how Mrs. Farmer had come to rule their days and nights. Both Jennifer and Lauren were somewhat in awe of the woman, who didn’t seem to understand the word no. Nor did she accept excuses, regardless of the topic. Therefore, it was just easier—for Jennifer—to avoid the woman.
Poor Lauren had no such escape.
Jennifer walked toward the bed. Lauren scooted over so she could sit on the edge of the mattress.
Her sister-in-law was petite, nearly dwarfed in the massive four-poster. Her hair, black and normally lustrous, had dulled in the past few months. Her distinctive blue eyes were rarely filled with laughter now.
Jennifer put that down to Harrison’s absence. It had been obvious from the beginning that Lauren adored her husband. Unfortunately, it had been as telling that Harrison barely tolerated his bride.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
Lauren smiled. “Like I’m all baby and nothing else.”
“Mrs. Farmer said that the baby should be born shortly.”
Lauren sighed. “I do hope so, if for no other reason than not to disappoint her.” She levered herself up, then swung her legs off the bed. “I feel that everything I do is somehow wrong.”
“Nonsense, you’re perfect. I’m the one who gets lectured every hour of the day. Adaire Hall is too large, too sprawling, too cold, too hot, too isolated, too filled with strange noises. We have creatures, in her words. Animals creeping past her window all hours of the night.”
“She’s in the room next to me,” Lauren said, her brow furrowing.
“Exactly. How can anything creep past her window on the second floor?”
Lauren’s smile was delightful to see. “Maybe it’s a bat.”
“Or a bird. Maybe some type of Highland monster ferret with wings.”
“She truly doesn’t seem to enjoy the Highlands very much,” Lauren said.
“Or Adaire Hall.”
“Silly woman. It’s a beautiful place.”
Jennifer smiled at the other woman, feeling in perfect accord. She loved her home, and it had been evident from the beginning that Lauren had taken to the Hall as well.
She’d been as surprised as anyone when her brother announced, two years ago, that he was about to be married. She’d learned later that Harrison had met Lauren because of an introduction from Jennifer’s godmother. Normally, he went out of his way to be unpleasant to Ellen whenever she visited Adaire Hall. However, Ellen knew a great many people in Edinburgh, with the result that Harrison had married an heiress, the only child of a wealthy Scottish industrialist.
From the moment Jennifer was introduced to Lauren, the two had been friends. In all honesty, she thought Lauren was a better wife than Harrison deserved. The fact that he had ignored his bride for the past eight months was proof.
Jennifer helped Lauren on with her shoes. Although Mrs. Farmer would have been content for Lauren to remain in bed until her confinement, the younger woman refused. She very carefully navigated the grand staircase once a day and back up in the evening. Although the trips were becoming more difficult, Lauren had a streak of stubbornness that was nearly the match of Mrs. Farmer’s.
“How long do you think she’ll stay?”
“After the baby is born?” Jennifer asked. When Lauren nodded, she added, “Much longer than we want her to.”
It was the perfect moment for Mrs. Farmer to enter the suite again.
“I’ve been told to tell you that a carriage is approaching, Lady Jennifer.”
She glanced at Lauren. Her eyes were lighting up even as she reached for the brush on the table beside the bed.
With any luck it was Harrison, having remembered he was about to be a father at last.
Chapter Two
Gordon had dreamed of returning to Adaire Hall in triumph like Caesar home from a successful battle. In his imagination he saw all of them standing at the front entrance: his father, his mother, McBain and Harrison, as well as all of the servants from the lowest to the highest. Most importantly, Jennifer would be there, smiling at him.
He would drive up in his new carriage, ebony with dark blue upholstery, four brass lanterns hanging on the outside. The horses would be two matched pairs with the driver resplendent in livery. He would be welcomed with awe and apologies.
The only plausible item in that daydream was his carriage.
Peter hesitated at the top of the hill as if Gordon had instructed him to stop there.
Five years ago, the carriage carrying him to Inverness had stopped in almost this exact spot. He’d looked back for long moments, the sense of loss nearly suffocating him. Not for the house or even most of its inhabitants. Only for Jennifer.
For him, the grand house in the glen had been the source of all the misery in the world.
He tapped on the grate and waited for Peter to open his side of the window.
“I’ll get out for a few minutes,” he said.
Peter, like all well-trained servants, didn’t question him further. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d requested something odd from his driver. Peter had been in his employ for the past three years, ever since he’d begun to make his mark on the world.
He’d never thought that his driver would take him this far from London, however. He couldn’t help but wonder if Peter thought it odd as well. However, bringing his own carriage on a flat car from London was easier than having to rely on a hired vehicle.
After opening the door, he kicked the steps down and strode to the middle of the road.
The gardens his father had worked on all his life were dormant now in the autumn of the year. Yet the approach to the Hall was carefully manicured, laid out over plans executed in the last century. The oaks had been planted decades earlier and created a shadowed approach for the visitor.
Adaire Hall was known throughout this part of Scotland. First of all, it was the largest of the great houses. Secondly, it was the seat of the Earls of Burfield, men who’d been prominent in Scottish history for generations.
The house spread out below him like one of the queen’s castles. The sprawling red brick Hall was the third structure to grace this particular spot, the first having been razed in battle in the eleventh century, and the second torn down to make way for the new home in the fifteenth. This version of Adaire Hall was only three hundred years old, but looked to last a thousand years.
Over the years the red brick had deepened in color. The white of the window trim had dulled like an old lady’s white lace collar fading to a pale yellow.
The oldest part of the house was the largest, with two wings built later, making the Hall look like three sides of a square. The north wing had been destroyed years earlier and never rebuilt. In the middle of the open space was yet another garden, one he knew well. To the rear of the Hall was the river and beyond that Loch Adaire, a spot that had been a haven during his childhood.
Two dozen chimneys spewed clouds of smoke into the pristine Highland air. Hundreds of windows watched him in the afternoon light, seeming to blink in the gold reflected glare.
He’d never had a future here, but when he said that to his father one day, Sean had turned on him angrily.
“What do you think you’re going to do with your life, then, boy?”
“I’m going to be rich,” he’d said.
The sound of Sean’s derisive laughter echoed in his mind.
He was no longer Gordon McDonnell, gardener’s boy. He was McDonnell, wealthy, successful, and, according to the gossips, ruthless. A Highland rogue, someone who was determined to succeed at whatever he chose.
He was back for more than one reason. He’d give his father whatever he needed before he died, be it absolution or compassion. He understood Sean as he hadn’t five years earlier. Some men did not possess the capacity to love another human being. Sean hadn’t any interest in the gardeners under him, or even his wife or son. Any emotions he had were directed toward the flowers he grew and the vegetables that flourished in his care.
That didn’t make Sean a bad person. Nor did it make him someone to pity. His father was perfectly happy being who he was, and if he had any regrets now, Gordon doubted they centered around people.
He didn’t want to be like Sean, however. Nor had he been for the past five years. He had friends, both male and female. He had men working for him that he cared
about. He knew their wives, their sweethearts, and their children. Sean might have chosen plants, but Gordon preferred people.
Turning, he walked back to the carriage, nodding at Peter before opening the door once again.
A few minutes later they descended the hill.
Jennifer glanced at Mrs. Farmer. “Will you be all right without me for a few minutes?”
“Of course we will, won’t we, Your Ladyship?” The frostiness in the midwife’s voice was unmistakable.
In other words, Jennifer shouldn’t have asked. Of course Mrs. Farmer didn’t need her. How dare she assume such a thing?
How was she supposed to endure the woman’s company until the baby was born?
Jennifer made it down the sweeping staircase in record time, remembering when she was a child and the three of them had made a game of trying to slide down the wooden banister. They’d been lucky they hadn’t fallen and injured themselves. Gordon was the bravest one, Harrison next, while she, as the youngest, often won the race.
The years had brought about a great many changes. Gordon had left Adaire Hall. Harrison had discovered vice and occupied himself with all types of debauchery. She was the only one who hadn’t changed, other than growing older.
She got to the front of the house just as Michaels was opening the door. The carriage at the bottom of the wide steps wasn’t one of theirs. She’d expected Harrison, since she’d sent him a scolding letter reminding him of his responsibilities. Instead, the vehicle was a shiny black, obviously new and well equipped. At first she thought her godmother had come to visit, but Ellen hadn’t written to expect her.
A man stepped out of the carriage and time telescoped in on itself. She wasn’t five years older. Instead, she was a young woman flush with love.
She could barely breathe for the memory of it, of him. He was older. His shoulders looked broader, his chest wider. He looked as if he’d grown two inches. He’d always been so much taller than she, but now he dwarfed her.
Gordon.
She was certain that she said something to the majordomo. She must have made some comment, but she had no idea what it was.
