The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae

by Stephanie Laurens

  Dominic waved at the area she’d indicated, the space between the north and east towers. “That’s the danger area—the gardens. The kitchen garden is at the back, against the castle wall. I can’t imagine Mirabelle would ever go there, and I’m not even sure she can see into it from her sitting room. The rose garden circles the east tower—where my rooms are—and the northwestern half of that is clearly visible from her sitting room. All the rest is the Italian garden, which stretches between the towers and can be reached from the drawing room via the terrace that runs between the bases of the towers. On the rare occasions when she decides to get some air, Mirabelle walks in the Italian garden, and all of that garden is visible from her sitting room.”

  Angelica nodded. “So no strolling the gardens for me, not unless I want her to see me.” Elbows on the table, chin propped in her hands, she studied the model. “So tell me about inside.”

  Together with Mulley, Griswold, and Brenda, Dominic figuratively walked her through the main rooms on the ground floor—the foyer, the great hall, the long galleries running around it, the drawing room, his study, the library, the breakfast parlor, the huge kitchens, the armory—and then through the towers. His rooms were in the east tower, those of the boys in the west. The south tower was the province of the senior household staff, several of whom she’d yet to meet. The floor above the gallery and reception rooms, kitchens and armory, circling the vault of the great hall, contained guest chambers and, above the kitchens and armory, more accommodations for household staff.

  “In addition,” Mulley said, “there are two lower levels, but even in the towers, those rooms are used for storage. I’ve never seen her ladyship venture down there.”

  Dominic caught Angelica’s eye. “In winter we can be snowed in for months.”

  She nodded. She stared at their “castle,” picturing it in her mind and placing Mirabelle within it.

  They’d finished their meals. The serving girls came up, hovering, wanting to clear the table.

  Feeling Dominic’s gaze on her face, Angelica glanced up, read his impatience to get on, and nodded. “Yes, all right.” She eased her chair back.

  The girls swooped and commenced clearing. Dominic rose, drew out Angelica’s chair, then went to pay their host. Underneath his impatience he was pleased, not just by her focus on gathering the information necessary for her to help him reclaim the goblet but also by the way she interacted with his staff. She might not have been born to any clan, yet she’d absorbed the dynamics and had already gained the acceptance and support of those with him. Admittedly, she was working to assist him and they would die for him, but they were all—even Jessup, a hard man to win over—starting to view her with not a little pride.

  His people would have accepted whoever he had chosen as his countess, but that they were already viewing her as worthy of the role, and more, as theirs, was a testament to her true mettle, to the summation of her skills.

  Fronting the counter at the rear of the room, he smiled at the innkeeper. “What do I owe you?”

  Rising from the table, Angelica had joined the others. Jessup and Thomas strode out to fetch the horses; with Mulley, Brenda, and Griswold, she walked more slowly to the door. Halting before it, she glanced at them. “One last question. How much control does the countess exert over the household?” When they looked at her uncertainly, she elaborated, “Does she decide the menus, oversee the household accounts, interview and select new staff?”

  “Oh, no, miss, m’lady.” Brenda appeared scandalized by the thought. “She might’ve done afore I came to the castle, but in the five years I’ve been there, she and Mrs. Mack, they’ve barely exchanged a word.”

  “Aye,” Mulley said. “Mrs. Mack runs the household, and John Erskine, he’s steward, and the rest of us take care of anything else that needs doing. No need for the countess to bestir herself, and I can’t remember that she ever has.”

  “Nor me,” Griswold said.

  Angelica got the distinct impression they were all perfectly happy with the countess’s aloofness. “So she, the countess, has no real idea what goes on in her own household. No, wait, what about her maid-companion?”

  “Elspeth?” Brenda looked at Angelica as if she’d missed some vital point. “Elspeth’s one of us—clan. Poor girl has to make her way, but she’d never tell her ladyship anything she wasn’t asked about.”

  “And not even then,” Griswold muttered. More loudly he stated, “Her ladyship is not the sort to inspire devotion, much less confidences.”

  Angelica shook her head. “This is sounding all too easy, and I know it won’t be . . . what about the boys? The earl’s wards?” Little boys were fonts of information, which usually spilled from them with no discretion at all. “The countess might not involve herself with their day-to-day activities, might not approve of them, might even actively dislike them, but out of duty, if for no other reason, she must take an interest in their welfare . . . at least spend a little time with them?” In her experience of small boys, a little time was all it took.

  “No.” The word came from behind and above; Dominic had rejoined them.

  She swiveled to face him.

  He met her eyes. “My mother has no contact with the boys, and that’s the way I, and the two of them, prefer it.”

  She studied his eyes, then nodded. Turning, she followed the others out of the door.

  Stopping on the step to pull on her gloves, she said to Dominic, who’d halted by her shoulder, “Despite living in a crowded castle surrounded by an entire highland clan, your mother is living in total seclusion. And that’s going to make our task much easier.”

  “How so?”

  “Because if she’d had any friends, any confidantes at all, we would have had to convince them—or at least convince her enough for her to convince them—as well. Your mother doesn’t sound entirely rational, so convincing her will be easier if she has no one else’s shrewdness or insights to fall back on, to use as a guide in judging me ruined.”

  He didn’t reply, just set his hand to the back of her waist and guided her to where Ebony was dancing. Thomas held the filly’s bridle. Reaching the horse, Angelica turned, raised her hands, and let Dominic close his about her waist and lift her to her saddle.

  She loved the instant of being effortlessly lifted, then gently, so gently, set down; her lips curved with the simple pleasure.

  When he didn’t immediately release her, she looked at him, saw the deadly serious expression in his eyes and arched a brow.

  “Mirabelle may not be rational on certain subjects, but she’s not lacking in wits. She’s clever, clearly cunning, and in her own fashion intelligent—fooling her for long enough for her to deem herself convinced won’t necessarily be easy.”

  Angelica looked into his eyes, then picked up her reins. “You’ll have to tell me all you can about her before we reach the castle.”

  His lips tightened, but he nodded, then turned to Hercules.

  Jessup, who’d been talking with a group of riders just dismounting, came striding back. “The road’s clear from here to Dalwhinnie. With luck and hard riding, we’ll make Kingussie like you wanted.”

  “Good.” Dominic planted his boot in Hercules’s stirrup and swung himself up to the chestnut’s broad back. “Let’s get going.”

  Angelica brought Ebony alongside Hercules and they walked out of the yard. When Dominic paused, waiting for the others to form up behind, she asked, “Why Kingussie?”

  “You’ll understand when you see the other so-called towns on the other side of the pass. They’re drovers’ towns, often with nothing more than a hedge tavern for travelers. Once through the pass, Kingussie’s the next decent halt—stopping anywhere else . . . only if we’re desperate.”

  “Ah. I see.” And she unquestionably agreed. Whatever else their halt for the night provided, she needed it to have a good bed.

  T
hey thundered down from the pass at Drumochter with enough daylight in hand to make for Kingussie. Hours later, they entered the small town with the sun dying in a blaze at their backs.

  Angelica was still practicing saying the town’s name when they drew rein in the forecourt of the one and only inn. “King-eeu-sie. No—King-ew-see.” Halting Ebony alongside Hercules, she regarded the sign above the inn door. “The King-ew-sie Inn.”

  Set in a clearing beside the road, the inn was neither large nor distinguished, but having now seen the alternative accommodations, she was even more grateful Dominic had made them ride the hideous distance to reach there.

  “Better.” Having already dismounted, Dominic came to lift her down. “But no one will ever believe you’re a native.”

  “I’m not concerned with being taken for a native, just in being understood.” Set on her feet, she stroked Ebony’s nose, then walked with Dominic to the inn door. “As I can’t make out half the place names—can’t relate the sounds when Scottish folk speak them to the way the names are spelled—I assume the reverse is true, and they won’t understand me if I ask for directions.”

  They reached the inn’s front stoop; Dominic opened the door and held it for her to precede him. Pausing, she glanced up at his face, expecting some response. When he simply looked back at her, his expression impassive, she narrowed her eyes at him. “Let me guess—the notion that, if I do decide to bolt, I won’t be able to get very far meets with your unqualified approval.”

  He smiled. With one arm he swept her over the threshold and followed her in.

  He spoke with the innkeeper, organizing rooms and meals. Their requirements arranged, Dominic waved her to the stairs; she inclined her head graciously to the bobbing innkeeper, then let Dominic escort her to the best bedchamber the inn possessed.

  Jessup was leaving the room as they neared. Entering, she noted Dominic’s bags sitting by the tallboy, while her bags and bandbox had been left by the dressing table. Pulling off her gloves on her way to the dressing table, she heard the door shut. “Only one room tonight?” Her tone was purely curious, not in the least disapproving.

  Dropping his gloves on the tallboy, Dominic shrugged. “They don’t have many rooms, and—” He broke off at a light tap on the door.

  Returning to it, he admitted two girls, each carrying an ewer and basin. After depositing their burdens on the washstand, the girls bobbed and hurried out. Dominic shut the door behind them, then, very deliberately, slid the bolt home.

  Turning, he strolled—in the manner she always thought of as a predator’s stalking prowl—toward her; his lids were low, his lashes screening his eyes. “As I was about to say, now that we’re well into the highlands, there’s no reason to hide our connection.” Halting before her, he looked into her upturned face. “To bother concealing that we’re sharing a bed.” He searched her eyes. “Does not concealing that worry you?”

  “No—not in the least.” She studied his face. “Just as long as no hint of our intimacy reaches your mother, and given what you and the others have told me, I can’t see how it would.”

  His lips slowly curved, but the tension she could sense in him eased not a jot. “Good.” His gaze caressed her face, then fixed on her lips. “In that case . . . do you need help getting out of those clothes?”

  They were late down to dinner, not that anyone mentioned it. Indeed, the others seemed to view their tardiness in a manner that suggested they considered the reason for it entirely acceptable, as an understandable outcome of how things should be.

  Seated by Dominic in the chair beside his, Angelica strove to ignore the understanding in the others’ expressions; highlanders, she was fast learning, were far less reserved over matters of the flesh than peoples further south.

  Despite the water in the ewer being cold by the time she got to it—or perhaps because of that—she was feeling refreshed, and also hungry. The innkeeper’s wife laid a simple but hearty repast before them. While they ate, they discussed their plans for the following day.

  “I spoke with the stableman,” Jessup said. “No one passing through has mentioned any difficulty along the Inverness road.”

  “Regardless, we’ll have to stop there for the night.” Dominic glanced at Angelica. “No matter how quickly we make Inverness, the castle is at least five hours further on, and I’d rather not arrive in darkness.”

  She nodded. “Indeed.” Quite aside from wanting to get a clear first look at her new home . . . “I’d prefer to see the place in daylight and get my bearings from the first.”

  The others talked of the route, about which inn they could stop at for luncheon. After due consideration—and a glance at her—Dominic declared that they could take the time for a decent breakfast before departing at nine o’clock. “We should still make Slochd not long after midday.”

  Mulley asked Jessup about their sumpter horses; Dominic joined the resulting discussion. Angelica listened with half an ear, absorbed with the topic the others hadn’t, and wouldn’t, broach: exactly how they were to convince the sometimes-rational, sometimes-less-so countess that she, Angelica, was ruined.

  The others didn’t know what Dominic’s mother had demanded beyond having a Cynster sister brought to the castle and paraded before her, but they would follow Dominic’s lead without question; that, however, presupposed that he and she had come up with a workable plan.

  From beneath her lashes, she studied his face. They had only two more days, two more nights, before they reached the castle; they needed to work out their strategy, define the details, and agree on them before they arrived at the gates.

  They needed to make a start on their plan tonight, but they needed privacy for that.

  She bided her time until, all decisions for the morrow made, the group rose and headed up the stairs. Dominic turned her to their door, opened it, and ushered her inside. She walked to the armchairs flanking the fireplace, heard him lock the door as she sat and settled her skirts.

  Looking up, she discovered him standing by the door regarding her.

  She waved to the chair opposite. “We need to discuss how we’re going to pull the wool over your mother’s eyes.”

  Dominic hesitated. He’d been putting off the moment, more or less since the night she’d agreed to help him. Despite his desire to regain the goblet, he’d wanted to keep his mother’s madness from in any way touching Angelica . . . irrational, given the situation, but when it came to her, his protectiveness was difficult to deny.

  But she was right—they needed to face the approaching challenge and decide how to meet it. Walking to the other armchair, he sat. “What did you have in mind?” Evidently, she’d been thinking of it, even if he hadn’t.

  “Me, ruined—that’s what your mother wants. The most straightforward approach is to determine what she will accept as proof of my ruination, and then deliver that to her in as convincing a manner as we can, so that she accepts it, believes it, and hands over the goblet.” She met his eyes. “Has she ever specifically told you what she means by ‘ruined’?”

  “No. I was to bring you to the castle, thus effectively ruining you—that was how she and I both phrased it.” After a moment, he added, “As I told you in London, she appears to believe that the mere fact of you being kidnapped and brought to the castle will be sufficient to ruin you.”

  “Which it would if I wasn’t me, a Cynster.”

  “Indeed.” When she compressed her lips, her gaze growing distant, he said, “I would suggest that our most straightforward plan will be to do exactly as she’s asked—for me to turn up at the castle with you in tow, parade you before her—and see what happens.”

  “Yes, but how likely is she to clap eyes on me and . . . wait, wait.” She looked at him. “How will she know I’m me?” She blinked. “For that matter, given her seclusion, why didn’t you just hire an actress to impersonate one of us rather than go to all this trou
ble?”

  Abandoning impassivity, he grimaced. “My apologies. With all the rest I had to tell you that night, I forgot that point.” He met her eyes. “When my father lay dying, while I was sitting by his bed, Mirabelle ransacked his private papers—he kept them in his study. By the time I realized all his journals on your family were missing, more than a month later, there seemed little point in retrieving them. I assumed she would eventually destroy them, but according to Elspeth, Mirabelle still had them when she stole the goblet.” He paused, then went on, “I could have taken them back then, but as she’d apparently been studying them preparatory to making her demand, I decided it would be wiser to let her keep them. The collection contains artists’ drawings—in the case of you and your sisters, my father had commissioned sketches of each of you on or around your fifteenth birthdays. I’ve seen them, years ago, and although I can’t recall enough to be certain, I think we can assume that Mirabelle will be able to recognize you by sight.”

  Angelica stared at him. “You’re telling me she knows chapter and verse about my family?”

  “Up to five years ago. She knows more than enough to ensure that I couldn’t use an actress, that the lady I bring her has to be one of Celia’s daughters. I reasoned that whichever of you I persuaded to help me, you would be able to correctly answer any question she chose to ask.”

  “In other words, you left her with the means to assure herself that I am, in fact, Celia’s daughter.” She nodded. “Yes, that was sensible.”

  “So I thought.” After a moment, he went on, “But as to your interrupted question, How likely is Mirabelle to clap eyes on you and instantly hand back the goblet?—” He paused, then admitted, “I can’t tell. It’s possible. However, I suspect we should assume you’ll have to weather a catechism at least, and perhaps a day or two of supposed ruination while she convinces herself that she’s truly got what she wanted.”