The door opened anyway and his uncle stepped inside. “I left Herbert with your father. Gregory should never drink. He doesn’t handle it well.”
“Fortunately, he doesn’t do it often,” Richard said, leery of his uncle’s visit. They rarely talked alone.
“I sense you don’t trust me,” his uncle said flatly.
“Of course I do,” Richard answered.
Uncle Stephen wagged a finger. “Shall I accuse you of lying? I think not. The truth is, nephew, you’ve impressed me this evening. I know my brother wishes only to protect you, but I admire what you did. Confronting the tart was a bold move and you called her bluff. You must know, I mean no harm to her.”
“Of course not.”
His uncle gave a relieved smile. “Good. Well, now the hour grows late and I should see to my bed.” He lived two blocks away. “However, I do have one piece of advice. A word of caution from your bachelor uncle, if I may indulge myself?”
Richard nodded.
“Watch out, nephew, for the likes of this Miss MacEachin. The Lord has warned us of women who use their looks to prey upon a man. Remember the story of Samson, a strong, good man, who was destroyed by Delilah’s charms. You are like Samson, Richard. A seeker of truth. Your heart is like his. You are good and assume the goodness of others. Beware the Delilah. Beware the woman who offers a man her body and steals his soul.”
Richard would have laughed if he wasn’t so uncomfortably aware of his attraction to Miss MacEachin. Delilah. The temptress. The label suited her. God had fashioned her for such a calling.
“You needn’t worry, Uncle.”
“I don’t? Are you saying she isn’t as lovely as the papers claim?”
“Oh, she is lovely,” Richard to admit. “But she’s plotting to ruin my family. My loyalty is with my father.” He chose those last words deliberately…because if there was some truth to her story, then he was certain his uncle was the one who stole the money. His uncle was the bolder of the twins.
“As it should be,” his uncle said without any sign of taking offense. “And again, I am proud of you for taking the lead on this.”
He started toward the door and then stopped. “By the way, how are matters between yourself and Abigail Montross? I fear I’ve failed to keep track.”
“We sense no hurry.”
His uncle shrugged. “Well, you may find what I was going to suggest a bit offensive but we are speaking man to man here?”
Richard nodded.
“You should have married by now, Richard. I don’t know why you haven’t—”
“There is no rush.” Or desire. Their betrothal had been arranged by their fathers. It was the custom…but for some reason, Richard found he resented that fact.
“No one understands better than myself. Marriage is a chore. Fortunately, my brother’s marriage saved me from the obligation. However, I do have a suggestion. Just a thought, actually. Since you are going to be traveling with Miss MacEachin and since she doesn’t worry, obviously, about her reputation, you might want to give her a poke. Prepare yourself for your wedding night.”
Richard almost fell over at the suggestion coming from his straitlaced uncle, who always seemed slightly puzzled as to why God had bothered to create women.
“Ah now, I’ve shocked you,” his uncle said.
“It’s…unexpected.” Richard was at a loss to explain further.
“Is it? We’re both men. We understand needs. You have needs, don’t you, Richard?”
Richard hesitated. “Of course,” he said quietly.
“And I’d wager Miss MacEachin brings out those needs,” his uncle guessed accurately. “Probably more so than Miss Montross.”
Richard didn’t answer. The conversation shamed him. He didn’t want to think about using Miss MacEachin. The need to protect was very strong within him…and surprisingly, especially in relationship to her. Perhaps because he’d already fought twice this night in her defense…
“Play with her,” his uncle advised, “but be wary. That’s all I want to say. Remember Samson.” He tapped on his temple as if wishing for Richard to ingrain his words in his memory. “After all, you are marrying this summer, and Abigail Montross will expect you to know what’s up.” He laughed at his own joke.
“I’ll think on it, Uncle,” Richard murmured, uncomfortable with this new side to his relative…and what more it could mean.
His uncle laughed. “You are a good lad and someday I’ll dance at your wedding. Well, good night. Have a safe journey. I shall look forward to hearing your report.”
“If weather is with us, I should return in two weeks time, maybe less,” Richard promised.
“Good. We have that meeting with Hockingdale on the twenty-fifth. A pretty penny rests on our filling his ships with our cargo.”
“Absolutely.”
“By the way,” his uncle said, hesitating by the door, “with that coach, you’ll be home well before the end of the week. She’s a sweet goer. Flies across the ground.”
“I am looking forward to the ride.”
“Yes, well, I’m anxious to hear your report upon your return. Good night, Richard.”
His uncle left and Richard drew his first relaxed breath since the man had entered the room. What a strange conversation.
Richard walked to the window overlooking the street and watched his uncle leave the house.
Something was amiss. His earlier disquiet returned. His father didn’t overimbibe spirits. His uncle never ingratiated himself to Richard. Ever. And the advice to “poke” Miss MacEachin was at odds with his uncle’s usual virulent stance against fornication when he spoke as a deacon of the church.
And the possibility that MacEachin’s story could be true raised its ugly head.
Richard’s mission for this trip changed. He needed to know the truth. Charges of embezzlement could ruin his father, their businesses…and himself by implication. Opinion was fickle. Everything he’d worked for these past years could be destroyed, and then what would he have left?
Nothing. His family’s reputation was his.
Sleep didn’t come quickly for that night. He dreaded what he might learn in Scotland and yet he would go. He was no coward.
And in the middle of his doubts and concerns, tossings and turnings was Grace MacEachin.
His uncle had seen right through him. He knew Richard was infatuated with the woman.
What Richard had to ensure is that Miss MacEachin never did.
Chapter Six
People often didn’t receive second chances in life. At least, that had been Grace’s experience…and yet now she had one.
She was going home, and she was bringing with her an opportunity to clear her father’s name. For a reason she didn’t quite understand herself, she did believe once Mr. Lynsted heard her father’s story, he would realize the great injustice done to him. In spite of being related to Lord Brandt, Mr. Lynsted struck her as a fair man. He’d demonstrated his character the night before, when he’d fended off Drayson and her attackers.
Grace was also looking forward to hearing the story from her father’s lips. She’d heard the tale repeatedly from her mother but had yet to hear her father speak of it. Her mother had run away right after her father had returned from prison, creating more turmoil in Grace’s life. Her mother had been her support, her one companion. Her leaving so abruptly had confused Grace. She’d blamed herself, blamed her father.
Grace looked back on that period of her life with shame. Granted, when she’d left, she’d been too young to understand all the nuances of what had been happening then or to realize that sometimes couples have problems that have nothing to do with the children or the outside world. Still, that didn’t erase all of the hurtful charges she’d made against her father. Not only had his wife abandoned him…but his daughter had as well.
The time had come to make amends and clear her conscience. Then perhaps she could forgive herself for all that had happened.
Going to Invern
ess was the first step.
After that? Grace didn’t know what she would do. She had hazy imaginings of taking care of her father. She could see him in her mind’s eye, alone and bitter. She would change that. She’d take care of him, cook for him, and prove herself a loving daughter. What happened next to her would be in God’s hands.
Grace hadn’t spent much time packing. Other than clothes, she had few material possessions. Everything she owned fit in her valise and one small trunk, and it wasn’t heavy. She carried it out to the street and stood beside it, anxious for Mr. Lynsted’s arrival.
She had taken extra care with her toilette. This was a new beginning for her and she wanted to set the right tone.
Her long-sleeved traveling dress was a heavy cotton in a cornflower blue and trimmed in off-white lace. The neckline, filled in with the same lace, was so prim and proper a parson’s wife could have worn it.
Styling her hair had been a trial. She’d attempted a sophisticated chignon but her curls would not obey. Finally, she’d admitted defeat and gathered them up in a ribbon that matched her dress. The effect was more feminine than what she’d wished, but a woman’s hair was what it was.
Grace finished her costume with her marine wool cape, gold velvet cap, and beige traveling gloves.
Her one vanity was her decision to wear kid slippers instead of good sturdy walking shoes. Grace couldn’t help herself. She adored those soft leather shoes and had them in every color she could afford. They weren’t practical but they were stylish.
Of course, there was nowhere to hide her dirk, which she usually tucked into her boot when she traveled. Her solution was to strap the knife to her leg just above the knee.
She’d given her key along with a letter to the landlord to Mrs. Nally, her neighbor. She’d included with the letter the final rent and that was it. There was nothing tying her to London.
Now, cooling her heels waiting for Mr. Lynsted, she admitted to herself she didn’t know what to make of him…and that possibly part of her reason for taking so much care with her dress was to impress him.
She wanted him to respect her—and not just because he was Lord Brandt’s son. She was attracted to him.
So many men in London were perfumed and pampered. In contrast, Mr. Lynsted’s style was strongly masculine. Unapologetically so.
But there was something else that drew her. Something she’d not expected to find in Lord Brandt’s son. Mr. Lynsted seemed kind. Gallant even.
He hadn’t needed to walk her home last night, except it wasn’t in his nature to let her go alone. He had the quaint notion of defending women. And he hadn’t hesitated to fight with the thugs that had jumped them but had bravely placed himself in front of her.
Looking back over the incident, Grace could admit that he was right about her foolishness for joining in the battle, and yet she’d spent so many years fending for herself, she’d not expected his assistance.
Or his insistence in searching her house to see she was safe. At first she’d been suspicious. However, when she’d turned in for the night, she’d slept better because he chased all the dangerous possibilities away.
And now she was going to be spending the next few days with him.
It had been a long time since Grace had been attracted to a man. A fluttering of anticipation at the prospect of seeing him kept her on edge. She wanted to tell herself it was only nerves over the trip and what it signified. Some of that was true.
But a larger portion of it was that Mr. Lynsted was a well-built man whose muscles were his own and not the result of padding.
The day was damp and chilly but there was some hope for sun and a hint of spring in the air. A good day for travel. The mood on the street was lively. People bustled around after morning errands. An orange girl on the corner called out her wares while a gaggle of gossiping maids in mobcaps hurried toward the market street to do the shopping.
The whinny of a horse caught her attention.
Graced turned in the direction of the sound. Carts and wagons often went up and down her narrow street, but the horses pulling them were a dispirited, quiet lot. She noticed people on the corner halt mid-step and then move back on the curb, their necks craning to look down the intersecting street. Even the orange girl went silent, still holding a piece of fruit.
A moment later, the handsomest team of prancing grays Grace had ever seen came around the corner pulling a lacquered red coach with green spokes and yellow wheels. The brass fittings on the harnessing were so new and shiny they brightened the day. Sitting on the box were two coachmen dressed in black-and-gold-braided livery and wearing cocked hats on their heads.
Grace could only stare, too. She’d never seen a rig so well tricked out. No wonder people stopped and noticed.
And then the coach pulled right up in front of her.
The door opened.
Mr. Lynsted unfolded his big self and stepped out on the street. He was dressed for travel in buff-colored breeches and Hessian tall boots polished so shiny Grace could almost see her face in them. He wore the same black greatcoat of the night before draped over the shoulders of a very handsome hunter green jacket and brown vest.
All in all, especially standing in front of such a fine coach, he was the very model of a wealthy and fashionable gentleman.
“It’s good to see you are punctual, Miss MacEachin,” he said by way of greeting.
“Good morning to you, too, sir,” she replied, reminding him of the civilities.
He had the good grace to appear momentarily embarrassed, but then he barged on. “This is Dawson,” he said, introducing the driver, “and up with him in the box will be Herbert, my valet.”
Herbert had climbed down and picked up her valise and trunk, wrinkling his nose in distaste as he did so. Grace wanted to snatch them back from him, noticing how shabby they were against the magnificence of the coach.
Instead, she put on her own mantle of hauteur and warned, “Be careful with that.”
The valet raised an eyebrow.
She raised one right back.
“Yes, miss,” he murmured, barely polite.
“Are you ready?” Mr. Lynsted asked, sounding impatient and slightly bored.
So. This was to be the tenor of the trip.
Grace experienced a stab of disappointment. The letdown was her own fault. She’d started to build Mr. Lynsted in her imagination into a better man than what he obviously was. She realized she’d begun to romanticize the trip. ’Twas her nature, a foolish side of her that life experience should have eradicated by now.
Apparently it hadn’t.
No matter. She was made of stern stuff. They’d make this trip cold shoulder to cold shoulder.
“Of course I am,” she said briskly and removing her cape from her shoulders, climbed into the cab.
The interior was close quarters, albeit comfortable ones. The leather of the seat was as deliciously soft as her kid slippers and there was a wooden bar on the other side of the coach to rest feet on in comfort like a footstool. Hooks were built in to the silk lined wall for hats and other personal items.
And then Mr. Lynsted climbed into the coach.
For the briefest moment, his gaze flicked over her and she sensed he was both surprised by her conservative dress and approving. Men always developed a certain intensity in their eyes when they liked what they saw and Mr. Lynsted was no different, although he quickly looked away.
His body took up more than its share of the coach. He settled in, hanging his hat on a hook. Grace moved over, all too aware of his thigh resting alongside hers and how broad his shoulders were. The air filled with the spicy, crisp scent of his shaving soap. Grace approved. She didn’t like the sweet, occasionally flowery scents many men wore. She liked a man to smell like a man.
“Excuse me,” he murmured as if uncomfortably aware of her, too. He leaned into his corner but he couldn’t move his legs. They were too long for the footrest to be of service.
“I’ll angle this way and yo
u can stretch out,” she offered.
“I’m fine,” he said, not looking at her. Instead, he reached up and knocked on the roof. “We’re ready to go, Dawson.”
There was a crack of a whip and the grating sound of wheels rolling over cobbles. They were off. Grace looked out the glass window at all the people staring as they drove by, envy in their eyes. At least she was leaving London in style.
“This is a nice rig,” she said.
He grunted an answer and reached under the seat to pull out a thick black leather satchel. He opened it and pulled out several ledger books and a pair of spectacles. Ignoring her, he settled the spectacles on his nose, opened the ledger and began reading.
Grace watched him for a moment. The glasses surprised her. Most people she knew avoided their use out of vanity. Perhaps the reason Mr. Lynsted was so surly was because he felt self-conscious about spectacles.
She considered the matter as she watched the passing scenery. Inside an hour, the city gave way to countryside. All was very green because of the good rains they’d been having.
Besides, if he could ignore her, she could ignore him.
Or so she thought.
The dirk strapped to her leg began to irritate her. Using her cape as a cover for modesty’s sake, not that Mr. Lynsted would have noticed, she un-strapped it and stashed it under the seat.
For a good three hours, Grace was a dutiful traveling companion. She contemplated the passing scenery, daydreamed the scene when she would see her father again, and then grew silly with boredom and composed limericks in her head about Mr. Lynsted. She hadn’t brought a book. She didn’t own any. Nor did she have any needlework. She’d been working for her living, not indulging herself in pleasure pursuits.
But her temper was alive and well.
He was deliberately treating her poorly, his behavior contrary to what it had been last night. He was setting her in her place and she wasn’t pleased.
“I like your spectacles,” she said, deciding to interject herself into his life.
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