He was also flattered that his father had, for once, confided in him. The twins were very close. Richard was the outsider. They rarely requested his advice or sought his counsel. He wanted very much to resolve this matter for his father. He longed to prove his loyalty.
“Have they told you exactly what charges I make against them?” she wondered. “Did they tell you they ruined my father when they stole money from an elderly woman’s estate and then pinned the blame on him?”
“My father and uncle would never do such a thing. Anyone knowing them would find it impossible to imagine.”
“Truly?” She crossed to her dressing table and picked up a leather sheath. She slid her knife into it. “Her name was Dame Mary Ewing. She was very ill and her only son was serving our country far away. She trusted my father to handle her accounts. He had the bad wisdom to place them in the hands of your father and uncle. They stole it and accused him of the theft. He was sentenced on their testimony.”
“Ah, sentenced in a court of law,” Richard agreed. “And by jury of his peers, I presume. I can sympathize with your desire to prove your father innocent, Miss MacEachin but falsely accusing other men is not the way to go, especially after he was convicted of the crime.”
She didn’t like his rational logic. Her chin came up. “I know about you. I’ve done my best to learn everything about your family.”
“And what do you know about me?” he challenged, intrigued in spite of himself by every facet of this woman.
The truth was, Miss MacEachin was even more lovely up close—but what caught him by surprise was her sense of purpose, her intelligence. Her obvious education. She spoke well and moved with a natural grace one wouldn’t expect of the lower classes.
“I know you are a snob.” She smiled at him as if she’d known what he was thinking.
“I am not,” Richard said, not liking the word.
“It’s your reputation.” She shrugged as if helpless to change her opinion. “You are also known as a fine legal mind, although to the dismay of your mentors, you don’t practice law. The Honorable Richard Lynsted,” she said as if reading his name in the air. “Graduated with high honors from Christ Church College and then took your training and study of the law at Lincoln’s Inn. But you turned your back on it. Instead, you manage your father and uncle’s business and to great advantage. You’ve made them very rich and although you keep to yourself, there are those who have noticed your financial acumen. Do you like that word, Mr. Lynsted? Acumen? It means you have a natural gift, an understanding, a perception for something.” She paused and then said softly, “I have an acumen.”
She moved toward him. Her bodice barely clung to her left breast. Moments before she’d been modest and tried to keep it up. Now, she didn’t care, and he had a damned time keeping his eyes off that curve of flesh.
Miss MacEachin stopped in front of him, standing so close their toes touched…and her impudent, immodest, alluring breast was less than an inch from his chest.
She smiled up at him. “My acumen is that I know men. I’ve always known them from the moment I first started to bud.” She drew a deep breath, the movement lifting her breast and looking down from this angle he could see the edge of her nipple. The scent of roses filled the air.
“Do you know they say you never laugh?” she asked him, her voice husky. She knew what she was doing. She ridiculed him, but not with words.
Richard prided himself on his control, but God had also made him a man. The sight brought the blood rushing to his groin—and she knew it.
With a dismissive laugh, she backed away from him, raising her bodice. Teasing him with not only her body but with her confidence.
In that moment, Richard could have hated her. He chose not to. Here was his enemy and it would behoove him to look deeper.
Her manner sobered. “Your father and uncle are guilty. They are too moral, too upright, too unforgiving. That’s the way men are when they are guilty. I also know that they left London decades ago disinherited by their father. The twins had a violent streak that their father would not condone.”
“You are speaking nonsense,” Richard said.
Her gaze studied him a moment. “You really don’t know, do you? You should. It would explain society’s attitude towards them.”
“My father and uncle are very well respected—”
“What nonsense,” she declared.
“There is jealousy because they are so successful—”
“There is suspicion because of the murder.”
Richard shook his head, his anger like bile in his throat. “The stable lad’s death was an accident. For decades they’ve lived with those rumors. That’s why they are concerned about your insinuations.”
“Yes, because they are true,” she flashed back.
“You have no proof.”
“I do!”
“Then what is it?” he demanded.
Once again they stood almost toe-to-toe but this time there was no attraction. Only animosity. She could have been stark naked and he wouldn’t have cared.
“Where did they earn the start of their fortune?” she wondered.
“They invested.”
“In what? Ships, funds, businesses?”
Richard almost laughed. “They invested in the Wind’s Mistress. She was the beginning of our shipping company.”
“And where, after they’d been cut off from the old duke, did they find money for such an investment? They purchased that ship outright.”
She had been doing her investigating. But Richard knew the answer. “They started with several small investments until they accrued the funds for the ship.”
“Is that what they told you?” she asked, her tone insinuating she thought him a fool.
“Yes.”
“And I suppose they’ve also told you they’ve never been to Scotland?”
He really didn’t like her. “They have.” His father had reiterated as much only that afternoon.
“They are lying.”
“If you were a man, I’d call you out for saying that.”
“Why don’t you do something better?” she challenged. “Why don’t you come to Scotland with me and hear my father’s story? If you don’t believe him, you can walk away. But you won’t. You’ll hear the truth if you are the man they say you are.”
“You don’t know me,” Richard shot back. “Nor do I answer to you.”
“Poor Richard Lynsted,” she mocked, “always behind his ledgers and locked up with his accounts.”
Her mark hit home. He did spend hours each day poring over the accounts he managed. The businesses had taken on a life of their own. He’d been very successful and made lots of money, but was increasingly finding himself imprisoned by that success.
“Who told you that?” he said, annoyed that she knew so much about him.
She smiled, an expression much like that of a cat who’d found the cream. “Whispers. Rumors.”
“Lies,” he added.
“Truly?” she wondered, daring him to answer.
“Yes.”
Miss MacEachin laughed. “Then what difference would it make for you to come to Scotland and hear my father’s story? Or are you afraid of the truth?”
“What do you gain from my doing so?”
“Justice.” The lines of her mouth flattened. “This isn’t about money, although I believe my father deserves something for the suffering the twins have caused him. They destroyed his reputation, his marriage…” She paused as if catching herself from revealing more.
Richard filled in the space. “Are you and your father close?”
“No.” She crossed her arms as if suddenly cold and then reached for a shawl draped over a packed valise on a chair. Tossing it around her shoulders, she covered herself. “We haven’t been.” She raised her gaze to his. “We could be.” She paused and then added, “I owe him this.”
So, it really wasn’t about money.
The understanding shifted the situati
on for Richard. He ran a hand through his hair, realized that when he’d entered the room and grabbed the scoundrel attacking her, he’d lost his hat in the fray. He spied it on the floor by the door and reached down to pick it up. As he did so, he came to a decision. “I’ll go with you to Scotland. Of course, I have work here—”
“Work that is more important than the truth, Mr. Lynsted?”
God, she was like a conscience.
“We can travel fast,” she assured him as if realizing she should have held her tongue. “With good weather, the post can make the trip to Inverness in four to five days. You listen to my father’s story and leave. To hear the truth will take a little more than a week of your life.”
“I could ride alone faster.”
“But my father won’t trust you. He won’t tell you all.”
Richard frowned. “You just said you were estranged. Does that mean he’ll speak the truth in front of you? Perhaps you are the one who has been lied to.”
Her shoulders tightened. She hugged the shawl closer. “Perhaps,” she conceded. She stood for a moment in indecision and then confessed, “I want to go home.”
“So, I take you home, listen to your father, and whether I believe his story or not, you cease making these unfounded accusations.”
“They aren’t unfounded, but yes, I will agree to those terms.”
“And money?” he asked pointedly. “Did you not want a healthy sum from my father and uncle?”
Her brow knit together as she considered the matter. “If my story is true, then yes, I believe my father is owed something, do you not?”
“If it is true, there should be recompense.”
“Just so,” she agreed, smiling. “I am not lying, Mr. Lynsted. And I know it appears I am attempting to blackmail your father, but I truly want what is just and rightly my father’s. He lost everything he had in paying back Dame Ewing’s estate and still owes more. Time has passed but my father has a heavy conscience.”
She held out her hand for him as if wanting to shake. “So, it is agreed?”
Richard eyed her hand suspiciously. He’d shaken many a man’s hand during a business transaction but never a woman’s. “That’s not necessary.”
“Yes, it is,” she insisted. “We have an agreement. A handshake will bind us, or at least that’s the way we Scots look at it. You can’t trust a man who won’t shake your hand.”
“Some would say you can’t trust a Scot,” Richard murmured.
She laughed, the sound as musical as her singing. “Don’t believe everything they say about the Scots,” she advised him. “So, do you take my hand?”
“Very well.” Richard took her hand in his own gloved one. Hers felt small next to his but there was strength there, too…and something else. It was almost as if sparks shot from the tips of her bare fingers and up through his arm, even in spite of his gloves. He could feel her warmth, her spirit.
His initial reaction was to release her fingers immediately and yet he had to hold on. He wanted to hold on.
And he wanted to kiss her, too. The desire primitive and demanding.
This was not like him.
He released her hand, his action abrupt.
Miss MacEachin noticed. She was too clever not to. Her smile grew tight.
“When shall we leave?” he asked to cover the sudden silence.
“Tomorrow?” She shrugged. “The man you threw out of my dressing room was the stage manager. I’d already quit, but I’m certain after you showing him the door, I am definitely not welcome back now.”
“Tomorrow?” Richard tested the idea, and discovered the first stirring of excitement over the idea of adventure.
She was right. He did spend too much time with his ledgers and accounts. His initial enthusiasm for making money and brokering new deals had lost its appeal years ago. Now, his work had become a chore, a daily drudge to be endured. He’d recently taken up the sport of boxing and had found the physical exertion the only way he could cope with a growing restlessness.
“Tomorrow would be good,” he heard himself say.
She rewarded him with another one of her smiles. “Excellent. What time should we leave?”
“Early morning. Say around eight?”
“I’ll be ready. Will we go by coach? I can pay my own way—”
“My family has a coach. We might as well be comfortable.”
She appeared ready to argue, and then thought better of it. “I’ll see you on the morrow at eight then.” She began gathering her things. The shawl fell open and she remembered her torn bodice. She heaved a heavy sigh. “Please, I have another favor to ask. Would you wait for me to change and then escort me to the stage door? Mr. Drayson has a nasty temper and I have no desire to run into him again.”
“Of course,” Richard said. “Shall I wait in the hall?” he asked, realizing as he said it how silly that sounded. “Of course I should wait in the hall,” he mumbled, rushing out the door before he added to his awkwardness.
Grace was charmed. Richard Lynsted was not what she’d expected. Yes, he was stuffy, but so was his sire. However, unlike his father, there was an honesty and a bit of naiveté about him.
She slipped behind the dressing screen in the corner of the room and changed from the torn costume into a blue sprigged day dress with a demure bodice trimmed in lace. After repinning her hair, she set a gold velvet cap at a flirty angle over her curls, and threw her cape over her shoulders.
Grace was not displeased with her agreement. All she wanted for her father was the chance to tell his story, a chance for justice to be served.
Would Mr. Lynsted give him a fair hearing? She thought so. After all, the man had shaken her hand. She pulled her gloves on.
Nor was she afraid of him. One thing Grace had confidence in was her ability to handle men. She could keep him in his place for the space of the ride to Scotland.
Before picking up her valise, she took a moment to strap her dirk in its sheath to her wrist. A woman couldn’t be too careful.
Mr. Lynsted waited outside her door. He’d been leaning against the wall, his head nearly brushing the ceiling. He straightened as she came out of her room. His gaze traveled over her, but he looked away before she could tell if he approved of her more modest attire or not. She’d assumed he would and was surprised she was a bit annoyed he hadn’t offered a compliment.
Perhaps Mr. Lynsted would present a challenge as well. It had been a long time since Grace had met a man who ignored her. The trip to Scotland might prove entertaining.
“Let me carry your luggage,” he said.
“I’m fine. I carry it all the time.”
“I’ll carry it,” he repeated in a voice that brooked no disobedience. Grace let him have it.
She led him up the stairs. As she’d anticipated, Mr. Drayson lingered backstage, waiting for her. As she came up the stairs, he moved forward, saw Mr. Lynsted, and then hastily retreated.
Grace didn’t wait for an invitation but tucked her hand in the crook of the big man’s arm. She liked standing next to him. She liked big men. They made her feel protected.
Chester had never delivered the flowers to her room. Instead, they had been dumped in a rubbish bin by the backstage door. They filled the bin to overflowing.
Other than Mr. Drayson and a few stagehands, the theater was empty, the other actors and actresses having left while she’d been arguing with Mr. Lynsted.
Walter, the watchman, nodded to her. “Hear you are leaving, Miss Grace.” He was Scottish, too, and they’d formed a fast bond.
Grace released her hand from Mr. Lynsted’s arm and gave the watchman a peck on the cheek. “I’m going home, Walter. I’m returning to Scotland, where I belong.”
“God go with you, lass,” he said.
“And be with you,” she answered. “And, Walter, thank you for all of your help these past weeks.”
“I wish I could have done more.”
“You did enough.” Grace opened the backstage door
and went out into the night.
The alley behind the theater was deserted. The only light was that of a half moon and the lamp by the stage door. She usually left at this hour and had no difficulties. She turned to Mr. Lynsted. “I’ll take my valise now.”
He looked up and down the alley. “How are you going home?”
“I walk. It’s not far from here. My valise?”
Mr. Lynsted held on to it. “London is not safe at this hour of the night. Not for you. Don’t you have a maid or someone who can accompany you?”
“I don’t have a maid. I don’t need anyone to help me dress.”
“You should have a companion,” he assured her, giving another glance toward the street.
“My Scot’s nature is too frugal to spend money on such silliness, Mr. Lynsted. Now, I appreciate your help leaving the theatre but I must go home and pack for the morrow. Please hand my valise to me.”
“I’ll walk you home,” he answered, taking her arm without invitation and sweeping down the alley toward the street.
Grace didn’t mind. In truth, she was glad for the company and this way he could see where she lived for when he came to pick her up in the morning.
The March air was heavy and damp. This wasn’t her favorite month. It seemed to rain all the time.
The street beyond the alley was dark. Grace noticed the globe on the lamppost was broken. “I can’t believe that is out again. They only recently repaired it.”
Mr. Lynsted grumbled something about “lamplighters not being worth a shilling,” and Grace laughed.
“Why do I sense you are one of those people who sees danger everywhere?” she suggested, making conversation.
He frowned at her. “What do you mean?”
“What I said. Some people, like myself, aren’t afraid of the dark. We don’t believe in beasties and ghosties and, well, so far, at four and twenty, I’ve managed to keep myself safe. Whereas you are more cautious.”
“Caution is a wise thing,” Mr. Lynsted answered with his usual brisk tone of decision. “Keeps one safe from angry stage managers and an overeager public.”
“Touché,” she said. “Although it doesn’t seem fair I must live my life expecting the worst because I am female.”
The Marriage Ring Page 3
