The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae

by Stephanie Laurens

  But he was used to being in control of his appetites, not being controlled by them. He was accustomed to tempting and pleasuring his bed partners until they begged him to take them; with Angelica . . . if she’d held back, he would have been the one begging.

  Luckily, she’d been driven by her own desires, her own fierce passions, and had been no more in control than he.

  Last night . . . had matters been normal, he would have had her at least once, if not twice, more. Instead, after their admittedly cataclysmic effort, he’d eventually stirred enough to withdraw from her, strip off his clothes, shift her so she lay with her head on the pillows, then he’d stretched out alongside her and dragged the covers over them both. She’d turned to him, pushed her way into his arms, settled her head on his chest, then pressed a kiss to his skin and slid back into slumber. He’d followed her under, dragged deep by satiation more complete than any he’d previously known, and had slept like the proverbial baby until Griswold had tapped on the door at five o’clock.

  He and she had woken, blinked sleepily, then she’d grumbled something about having to leave so early and tossed back the covers. With her gown in ruins, she’d commandeered his robe; he’d dragged on his breeches, shirt, and boots, then checked the corridor before seeing her safely into her room.

  After a sizeable breakfast—she’d eaten rather more than her usual tea and slice of toast with jam—they’d gathered their bags, and the others, loaded the horses, and set out.

  They rode on as the sun climbed the sky; the day remained fine, with high clouds screening the bite of the sun and a cool wind blowing off the Obney Hills.

  He took care to spell the horses, walking them more frequently now the road had started to climb. They passed through Dunkeld in good time; when they were clear of the town, and the dark stretches of Craigvinean Forest closed around the road, he picked up the pace.

  Angelica shifted Ebony to the longer stride, taking care not to let the filly imagine it was a race. There was plenty of energy under the glossy black hide; she suspected the horse had a good dose of Arab in her.

  As she drew level with Hercules, Dominic caught her eye. “We’ll ride straight through the forest. It’s usually safe, but there are clanless men who call it home.”

  She nodded and looked around. The road they were following was straight enough, but the forest was thick, and back from the road grew sufficiently dense to prevent much light from penetrating. They’d crossed a ridge of hills outside Dunkeld; since then the road had been steadily rising. Leaning toward Dominic, she raised her voice over the drumming of the horses’ hooves. “Have we crossed into the highlands yet?”

  “We passed the boundary a little way back.”

  Resettling in her saddle, she surveyed the country with greater interest. The highlands were frequently described as dramatic and romantic; she was looking forward to judging for herself.

  Dominic noted her expression and felt one of his concerns ease. Not every lady would view an excursion deep into the highlands with eagerness. Looking ahead, he tried to see the scene through her eyes, tried to imagine what was going on in her head . . . admitted he had not a clue. But as the road rolled beneath their horses’ hooves and the way ahead remained clear, he increasingly felt infected by her buoyant, expectant mood.

  He could count on the fingers of one hand the few whose moods had ever swayed him—Mitchell, Gavin, Bryce . . . and now Angelica. Somehow she eased him; she brought sunshine into his day and made his heart lighter.

  She teased him and made him smile, reminding him he’d almost forgotten how to do so spontaneously. The years after his father had died, and Mitchell and Krista soon after, had been filled with hard work and few reasons to smile or grin. The last six months had been hellish. When with the boys, he made an effort, but the fact he was conscious of it told its own tale.

  That Angelica had such an effect on him, had grown that close to him so easily, so quickly, and courtesy of her need for intimacy, was daily growing closer still, was, beneath his apparent outward acceptance, making him increasingly uneasy.

  He didn’t know why she wouldn’t yet agree to marry him, didn’t know what she had in mind regarding their future union. He still didn’t know what, with respect to him, had from the first motivated her, why at the soiree she’d set out to hunt him even before she’d met him.

  Those questions, and the uncertainty they spawned, were there, in his mind, yet while he rode beside her, even with the metaphorical clouds he could see massing ahead, while she remained content he was willing to leave tomorrow’s problems until tomorrow, and instead enjoy the day by her side.

  They emerged from the forest and he slowed, once again walking the horses. Pulling out his fob watch, he checked the time. Tucking the watch back, he saw Angelica’s questioning look. “We’re making good time. We’ll be early into Pitlochry, but we’ll stop for lunch regardless.”

  “As I recall from the map, we’ve a long afternoon’s ride.”

  He nodded. “On to Blair Atholl and up the length of Glen Garry, but after that the pass at Drumochter will slow us significantly. Where we spend the night will depend on how soon we can get over the pass and out on the other side, so the sooner we leave Pitlochry the better off we’ll be.” After a moment, he added, “You’ll be seeing the real highlands from Pitlochry on.”

  She smiled. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  A hare, startled, skittered off the verge. Ebony pranced, but Angelica immediately drew the filly in.

  He hesitated, then said, “Your sister Eliza.” When she met his gaze, arched a brow, he asked, “Exactly how far does her antipathy toward horses extend?”

  Angelica laughed, the sound like bells pealing. Eyes shining, she replied, “Let’s just say that you should feel extremely lucky Jeremy rescued her. Some deity was looking out for you that day.”

  “She really can’t ride?”

  “She can sit a horse and is comfortable enough at a walk—which is really all she needs in London. She might manage a slow trot for a short distance in the Park, but at a brisk trot, she’ll gradually lose confidence, and then she’ll panic, and that sets off the horse, and”—she waved—“disaster ensues.” After a moment, she added, “Mind you, she’s always been lucky and as far as I know has never truly been thrown.”

  “I take it you have?”

  “Several times.” She met his eyes, confidence in hers. “But I always get back on.”

  He bit his tongue against any salacious riposte his libido might think to make.

  A moment passed, then brazenly she said, “You should be very glad you ended with me instead.”

  “Believe me”—he held her gaze—“despite having to go to London and fetch you myself, despite the ordeal of the pit at the Theatre Royal, I am, indeed, exceedingly thankful that it’s you rather than either of your sisters riding into the highlands with me.”

  Her eyes searched his. He’d meant every ambiguous word, and she saw it.

  Suddenly, she grinned. “Have we walked enough?”

  He glanced at the others, then nodded. “For now.”

  “Good—because Ebony and I need to run.”

  With that, she just went—streaked off, straight into a gallop.

  Before Dominic had even thought, Hercules was thundering in her wake.

  As he followed her down the road, admiring her seat, more specifically her heart-shaped arse as she leaned forward and urged the filly on, he wondered whether this was how his life henceforth would be—her leading and him chasing after her.

  He assumed he would feel revolted by the thought.

  Instead, he discovered he was smiling.

  As arranged, the Cynster men of the current generation, and several males related by marriage, returned to St. Ives House to piece together the information they’d gleaned from the various grandes dames they’d managed to intervi
ew.

  It was midmorning when Sligo shut the door behind Martin, the last to arrive. The others were all present, lounging about the room.

  “So.” Martin sat in the vacant armchair facing Devil’s desk; his face looked older, more drawn. “Do we have any clues?”

  Devil nodded. “Several of the ladies reported seeing a gentleman they described as a friend of your family introduce Angelica to a very tall, very large, black-haired gentleman during the soiree. Said gentleman was leaning on a cane, but beyond that, his general description bears a striking similarity to that of our elusive laird.”

  Michael Anstruther-Wetherby, perched on the wide windowsill to Devil’s left, started. “You’re not telling us the blackguard came into the heart of the ton and whisked Angelica off under everyone’s noses?”

  “No.” It was Vane who answered. “Despite the similarities, Lady Osbaldestone named the black-haired man as Viscount Debenham. I checked with Horatia, and a few minutes ago I spoke with Helena. All of them saw Angelica speaking with Debenham, and while all agree he’s in general terms a good fit for the laird, he’s definitely English and, most telling, has a bad limp—hence the cane. He’s apparently had the injury since he first came up to town more than a decade ago. And, of course, they’ve all known him for that long, at least to nod to. His principal estate is Debenham Hall, outside Peterborough. None of the ladies could immediately supply his family and background beyond that, but they all know who he is.”

  Lucifer leaned forward. “So he’s not the laird. However, he does seem to be the last man any of the ladies saw Angelica with—I got the same description from Louise this morning.”

  “Yes, but,” Demon said, “this morning I asked Mama—Horatia—if she’d noticed when Debenham left, and she was quite clear in her recollection that he was there, in the drawing room, chatting as calmly as you please, long after they’d realized Angelica had vanished.”

  “I had some luck with Lady Osbaldestone and Helena in that regard—they both said Debenham left much later, with a friend.” Vane glanced at Devil. “Rothesay.”

  Silence followed while they considered the possibilities.

  Gabriel looked at Vane. “Who was the family friend who introduced Angelica to Debenham—do you know?”

  “Horatia and Helena named him as Theodore Curtis,” Vane replied.

  Gabriel and Lucifer exchanged glances. “We know him,” Lucifer said.

  “Perhaps”—Gabriel looked at Devil—“Lucifer and I should pay a call on Curtis and see what we can learn, even if all it does is rule out Angelica’s speaking with Debenham as being of any consequence.”

  Devil slowly nodded, then glanced at Vane. “Vane and I will run Rothesay to ground and see what he can tell us of this very large viscount.” Looking at the others, he said, “Debenham’s is the only name we have at present—if, as seems likely, all we accomplish is to rule him out, we’ll need to look further.”

  Breckenridge, leaning against the back of a sofa, said, “Jeremy, Michael, and I will keep searching, especially for any hint of a mysterious Scotsman being in town, and possibly around the Cavendish residence that night.”

  Jeremy nodded. “The street-sweepers or one of the jarveys might have heard an accent, might have driven a fare to some address—who knows?”

  Demon sighed. “I have to go to Newmarket to check on things—I’ll be back later tomorrow.” He glanced around. “Don’t do anything rash without me.”

  A round of frustrated snorts answered him.

  Devil pushed back from the desk. “Should anyone find anything, even the merest whiff of a scent, send word here.”

  Nodding, the others rose, and headed, a herd of dissatisfied males, for the door.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Because they reached Pitlochry so early, they had the inn’s dining room to themselves. Their party sat together about a large rectangular table; given they were in the highlands, that raised no eyebrows.

  Angelica wanted to avail herself of the opportunity the larger group posed. She waited while the inn’s staff laid a substantial repast before them and withdrew, then held her plate for Dominic, on her right, to serve her slices of roast beef, and said, “As you all know, I intend assisting the earl to convince his mother, the countess, to return the goblet she’s taken. To do that, I need to know more about her—for instance, how she spends her days. What she does, where in the castle she goes, where she doesn’t. Who she visits, who visits her—that sort of thing.” Turning her head, she met Dominic’s gaze. “If I don’t know what to guard against, and what framework we have to work within, it’ll be much more difficult to succeed.”

  He held her gaze for a second, then nodded. “Ask away.”

  She looked across the table at Brenda. “So how does the countess spend her days? Start in the morning.”

  While the others served themselves, Brenda said, “She’s rarely up before midmorning—usually closer to noon. She comes down to the great hall for meals and sits at the high table with the laird. After lunch, she goes to her sitting room—far as I know she spends most all of her day there. She embroiders a lot and sometimes plays an old clavichord. She calls for tea midafternoon—religious about that, she is, always has to have scones and a big teapot, very fussy about exactly how it all has to be on the tray. She’s . . . well, finicky—about who can set foot in her rooms, what can be touched, and so on. She changes her gown for dinner, and afterward sits in the drawing room and embroiders, or has Elspeth read to her. Her ladyship calls Elspeth her maid-companion, but there’s never been much companionship to it, if you take my meaning. Then about ten o’clock or so, her ladyship goes up to her bedchamber, and that’s that, until the next day.” Brenda accepted the plate Jessup had piled with beef and vegetables for her.

  Swallowing a mouthful, Angelica frowned. “She must go wandering the castle, or at least the keep, sometimes.”

  But Brenda and all the others shook their heads.

  “Her ladyship is rarely seen outside her sitting room during the day, or the drawing room of an evening,” Griswold said.

  “She doesn’t ride?” Angelica looked at Jessup.

  “Never has to my knowledge.” Jessup glanced questioningly at Dominic.

  Who shook his head. “I assume she could, but hasn’t while she’s been at the castle—I can’t remember her ever having a horse. In fact, I can’t remember ever seeing her in the stables.”

  “What about visiting? She must drive out to visit other ladies in the district? Tenants? The sick?” When that elicited nothing more than head shakes, Angelica stared. “I can’t believe she never sets foot outside the castle.”

  “Och, but you asked about visiting,” Jessup said. “As to venturing forth, her ladyship goes to church every Sunday morning. I drive her and Elspeth in the carriage, there and back, never any stops or detours along the way. No visiting involved. And Scanlon mentioned that he’s occasionally seen her walking the paths on the loch’s shores. Sometimes with Elspeth, or the old steward McAdie, other times alone.”

  “That’s all?” Angelica could barely credit it, but they all agreed that the countess otherwise did not stir from the castle. “Well, then—what about visitors?”

  “None that I know of.” Dominic looked at the others, but all shook their heads.

  “Good Lord, she might as well be an anchoress.”

  No one argued.

  After several minutes of eating and thinking, she said, “I’m not as yet sure exactly how we’ll convince the countess to do as we wish”—to believe that I’m ruined and hand back the goblet—“but whatever our eventual plan is, I’ll need to know where in the castle and around it I might encounter her or be within her sight.” She glanced around the table. “Never having been to the castle, I need you to help me and think of all the possibilities. Where will I be safe, out of her sight, and where will I need to be on guard?”


  Dominic shuffled several platters aside, then set the salt cellar and the mustard pot in the cleared space. Mulley retrieved the salt and mustard from another table and handed them to Dominic; he set them down to represent the four towers of the keep. Between them, the others gathered and arranged various condiment pots, then set cutlery fetched from a nearby sideboard to join the pots in the outer circle.

  Angelica pointed. “Those pots are towers in the castle wall, and that’s the gatehouse, and those four represent the towers of the keep?”

  Dominic nodded. “This”—he placed a fingertip on the salt cellar representing the keep tower most central to the castle as a whole—“is the north tower in which Mirabelle has her rooms. Her bedchamber is on the upper floor, her sitting room below it. From her bedchamber she has a decent view over much of the bailey, an excellent view of the gatehouse, and a reasonable view of a section of the castle walls. However, she rarely looks out that way—the curtains on that side are often left closed. She prefers the view on the other side, over the loch to the forests. As for her sitting room, where, as Brenda said, Mirabelle spends most of her day, that only has windows to the gardens.”

  “So,” Angelica said, “she’s unlikely to see me if I’m in the bailey, or at the gatehouse, or up on the battlements . . .” She looked at him. “I’m assuming you have battlements, walkways along the top of the castle walls?”

  The others all smiled.

  He kept his lips straight and nodded. “The castle wall has battlements all the way around.”

  “What about the keep? Does it have battlements that she might go up to and so get a wider view?”

  Mulley leaned forward. “The keep towers and the keep itself have battlements all around, but I was up there recently, checking the doors were locked against our scamps, and I’d take an oath the door at the top of the north tower hasn’t been opened in years.”

  “All right. Let’s assume she isn’t likely to suddenly decide to go up there.” Angelica considered the structure, the layout. “From what you’ve said, outside the keep, other than there”—she pointed to the area overlooked by the countess’s sitting room—“I should be safe.”