Highland Rogue, London Miss

by Margaret Moore

  “Don’t worry, my lady,” MacLachlann assured her. “We’re here to help you, and it may be that you’re worried for nothing. Men can sometimes say things without considering the effect on others and imply a situation is worse than it is. Without all the information, it’s easy for a woman to worry.”

  “If a man’s father was losing money and he wouldn’t tell him the exact details of the situation, I daresay his son would worry, too,” Esme coldly observed.

  MacLachlann ignored her. “For tonight, I think it will be enough that we meet this McHeath fellow and get into your father’s library to examine any documents we can find. If we find evidence of suspicious dealings, we’ll figure out our next step.”

  He gave Catriona another encouraging smile. “But as I said, it may well be that by keeping you ignorant of his business dealings, your father has worried you unnecessarily. Let’s hope so, shall we, my lady?”

  Looking almost as youthful as the Catriona Esme remembered, the young lady stood up and held out her hand to MacLachlann. “Thank you so much—both of you,” she added with a glance at Esme, as if she—and by extension, Jamie—weren’t as important.

  “Jamie’s the one who deserves your thanks,” she said as she, too, got to her feet. “We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him—and his money. He’s paying all our expenses.”

  Catriona had the grace to blush. “Of course I’ll see that he’s repaid out of my own funds.”

  “I’ll make sure he sends you a bill.”

  Catriona nodded and, still blushing, gave them another tremulous smile. “Until tonight, then,” she murmured before she glided from the room.

  The moment the door closed behind her, MacLachlann turned on his heel and glared at Esme. “What the devil was that all about?”

  Esme was fairly certain she knew what his question referred to, but she was in no mood for his criticism. She had seen too many men fall under the spell of a pretty young woman to be surprised that it happened. The only surprise today was that a man like MacLachlann would be susceptible. She had assumed he would be too worldly and have too much experience with women to succumb to any woman’s charms. Obviously, she was wrong.

  “As it was a long conversation, please clarify to which point you refer,” she replied as she went to the writing desk, sat down and opened the lid.

  “Why did you have to mention money and bills?”

  Refusing to be ashamed of anything she said to Catriona McNare, Esme swivelled on the chair to regard MacLachlann. “It was simply a reminder that this is costing Jamie money and he should be repaid. Or do you think he should pay all the costs himself? She did jilt him, you know, and it didn’t look as if she’s lacking for pin money.”

  “Did you have to raise that subject today? At our first meeting?”

  “Why delay? Better she should understand her obligations at once than claim ignorance later. Indeed, if I had my way, Jamie would have written a contract for her to sign outlining exactly what we were to do and how he would be reimbursed.”

  “God!” MacLachlann exclaimed, throwing out his arms. “Women and the law—what a combination! It’s a damn good thing women can’t be lawyers, or we men would have our heads handed to us on a legal platter!”

  “If you deserved it, I should hope so,” Esme calmly replied. The more he lost control of his emotions, the easier she found it to restrain hers. “If women could be lawyers, the world would be a different place—especially for women. And it would also be better if men didn’t keep unnecessary secrets. Why didn’t you tell me that your father was a good friend of Catriona’s and that your family used the same firm of solicitors?”

  “I didn’t think of it,” MacLachlann growled.

  “If this is how you conduct your business, I should warn Jamie that he might not be getting all the necessary facts.”

  “He gets all the necessary facts. And so do you, when you need them. I’m in charge of this investigation, Miss McCallan, not you. You are here to provide legal expertise regarding documents, and nothing more.”

  Esme could hardly contain her anger. “Oh, so you are captain of this ship?”

  “Yes! And you know it, Esme, so don’t try to tell me I’m overstepping.”

  “You’ve been overstepping since we started. And if you’re the captain, I shall ensure I have a lifeboat and my own compass, because you’re sure to run us aground!”

  “I’ve had enough of your insolence,” he snapped.

  “My insolence?” she replied. “You’ve been nothing but insolent since the day we met—as well as disrespectful and rude and uncouth, with your countless, unwelcome innuendos.”

  “I confess myself surprised that, given your limited experience, you can even understand my innuendoes.”

  “I most certainly do—and they’re disgusting, just like you.”

  With a muttered curse, he marched to the door.

  “Where are you going?” Esme demanded.

  “Back to bed.” He turned around and jabbed his finger at the writing desk. “If you’re writing a letter to Jamie, tell him that he should be paying me double for putting up with his martinet of a sister.”

  His insult stung, but she wouldn’t let him see that. “Are you attempting to change the terms of your employment arbitrarily and without prior agreement? If so, Jamie could sue you for breach of contract.”

  MacLachlann wrenched open the door. “Women and the law!” he muttered as he strode from the room.

  Esme flounced onto the chair and stared at the letter she had yet to finish.

  What else didn’t she know, about MacLachlann and the earl, Jamie and Catriona…and her own wayward heart that, even when she was enraged, still found Quintus MacLachlann so attractive?

  Gad, this place hadn’t changed at all, Quinn thought as he walked into the gambling hell that Augustus had frequented. Although at one time the establishment had been well-maintained, the wallpaper was now shabby, the rugs on the oaken floor worn and the smoke-laden air smelled as if a window hadn’t been opened since Quinn had left Edinburgh ten years ago. The noise was the same, though—the half-drunken cheers when somebody won, the mutters of discontent when somebody lost, the hushed conversations in other parts of the room, the low rumble of men’s semi-embarrassed laughter that suggested a bawdy joke had just been told. And, as always, one or two men slumped in the corner, either passed out from drink or too dismayed by losses to do anything but stare.

  Esme probably believed this sort of place was his preferred habitat. Although he’d gambled in his youth, he hated hells like this, with the noise and the stench and the thinly veiled air of desperation. He’d gambled at more private, exclusive places…the better able to delude himself that he wasn’t doing anything disgraceful, not even when he was down to his last farthing. Before he’d lost the respect of his family and all his friends except the one who had saved his life.

  It wasn’t as if Esme was without fault. Would it have hurt her to be polite to Lady Catriona? Did she have to regard the worried young woman like a judge at the Old Bailey about to pronounce a sentence of death?

  Legal expertise or not, he never should have agreed to let Esme accompany him to Edinburgh. He should have insisted he come alone. He could have found a way to make copies of documents and taken them back to Jamie, or at least the pertinent parts. He did know how to read. How hard could it be?

  “Good God, is that you, Dubhagen?” a man shouted from across the room.

  Fervently hoping he’d recognize the speaker, Quinn peered through the smoke, trying to identify the stocky figure hurrying toward him through the tables of card players, most of whom barely glanced up from their games. The man looked vaguely familiar and he wracked his brain for a name.

  “Ramsley?” Quinn suggested as the fellow who appeared roughly the same age as Augustus came to a halt in front of him, narrowly avoiding a collision with a waiter carrying a tray of drinks.

  “Yes, b’God, it’s me,” Ramsley cried, his eyes watering and
his nose red, more than half in his cups although it was barely noon. “I never thought to see you again! We all thought you’d stay in Jamaica for good. What brings you home?”

  Quinn suppressed a sigh of relief that this fellow thought he was Augustus. On the other hand, perhaps he needn’t have been so anxious. He’d tricked McSweeney, after all, although there’d been a brief instant when he thought McSweeney was starting to smile. The butler never would have smiled if Augustus had returned.

  “I’ve come back to Edinburgh to see about some investments,” Quinn explained as Ramsley threw his arm about Quinn’s shoulder, as if they’d been the best of friends before Augustus had sailed. Quinn, however, knew for a fact that Augustus had hated the man. He’d only tolerated Ramsley because of his family connections, and the money Ramsley had inherited.

  Probably not a lot of that left, Quinn thought, if Ramsley was in a gambling hell and drunk before noon.

  “Investments, eh?” Ramsley repeated as, with his free hand, he grabbed a passing waiter’s arm.

  “Two brandies for my friend and me,” he ordered as he started steering Quinn toward a corner of the room. “Nothing wrong, I hope? I’d heard you married a rich girl over there.”

  “Oh, I did,” Quinn answered as they reached a velvet sofa that had clearly seen better days. “That’s why I’ve come. I’ve got to make sure I invest the dowry well, don’t you know.”

  “Substantial, was it?” Ramsley asked.

  “Considerable,” Quinn agreed.

  Ramsley got a greedy gleam in his eye. “I don’t suppose she has a sister?”

  “No,” Quinn answered, thinking Ramsley was the last man on earth he’d ever want to marry any relative of his. “Aren’t there any suitable young women in Edinburgh anxious to ally themselves with an old, established family? What about that daughter of the Earl of Duncombe? She’s not married, I heard.”

  Ramsley scowled. “I’d take the girl and her dowry in a heartbeat. It’s the father I can’t stomach.”

  As if the lady was simply waiting for him to ask. Nevertheless, Quinn looked suitably concerned. “What’s wrong with him? I always thought he was a genial sort.”

  “He is, unless you pay attention to his daughter,” Ramsley replied, leaning back against the sofa. “Then he treats you like a leper.”

  “I did hear something about a young man who wanted to marry her. Nothing came of that, eh?”

  “I should say not. The fellow was only a solicitor. Talk about gall!”

  It sounded as if in some things, Ramsley would side with Catriona’s father.

  Again Quinn wondered how Jamie could find it in his heart to want to help a woman whose father held him in contempt.

  What would it be like to love a woman so devotedly?

  He’d never been in love. He’d experienced lust, of course, a few times. And he certainly wasn’t celibate. But to love a woman as Jamie must have loved Lady Catriona… That was something he’d probably never know, just as no woman would likely ever feel that sort of love for him.

  So although Esme would probably call it foolish sentiment, knowing that Jamie was capable of such devotion made Quinn that much more determined to help him.

  If that meant putting up with Esme, so be it. He would ignore her as best he could, or at least not let her upset him, as she was particularly capable of doing. And he certainly wouldn’t kiss her again, not even if he wanted to.

  Even if her kisses were surprisingly…excellent.

  “The earl’s turned into a regular hermit, too,” Ramsley said, reminding Quinn he was there. “Hardly goes to balls or parties and keeps his daughter close to home, too.”

  Quinn decided to put out a little bait. “I wonder…?”

  “What?” Ramsley demanded as the waiter brought their brandies.

  Quinn lowered his voice to a confidential whisper as the waiter moved away and Ramsley downed his drink in a gulp. “I’ve been hearing rumors that the earl’s financial situation might not be as good as it used to be.”

  Ramsley laughed with scornful derision. “Whoever told you that is a fool. My father’s gone to the earl for advice about investing his money for years and never had a moment’s regret.”

  “Not even this year?”

  “Never.”

  Ramsley sounded absolutely sure of that.

  But then, he was more than a little drunk and had never been particularly bright. It wouldn’t surprise Quinn to learn that Ramsley was as ignorant of his own family’s financial situation as Catriona was about her father’s.

  Chapter Seven

  Several hours later, after Quinn had managed to get away from Ramsley and the gambling hell without drinking more than two brandies or betting a penny, he waited for Esme at the foot of the staircase.

  McSweeney stood by the door and the French valet McHeath had also hired was ready to hand Quinn his hat and assist him with his greatcoat.

  As much as he enjoyed having servants and fine clothes, there was much about this assignment that made it unpleasant, not the least of which was having to endure the company of men like Ramsley, in places like that gambling hell. He was absolutely determined to get this job done as quickly as possible, and to pay as little attention to Esme as he could while he did.

  He hadn’t expected his resolve to be tested the moment he looked up to see Esme descending the stairs. She wore a soft, shimmering concoction of pale pink silk with a low, rounded neck that revealed her cleavage. The ribbon beneath her breasts seemed designed to accentuate their plump fullness. The puffed cap sleeves and long evening gloves covered most of her arms, save for a tantalizing glimpse of flesh in between. Her hair, piled on her head in an intricate style of braids and curls, with a ribbon the same pale pink as her gown woven through it, made her look like a goddess. Venus. No, Athena, the goddess of wisdom, come to Scotland in mortal form, beautiful and serene, calm and confident, able to deal with any problem, whether human or supernatural.

  He immediately wanted to kiss her again, and to do more than that. He wanted to caress and excite her, to show her all the intimate joys a man and woman could share, to lay her down on his bed and make love with her until they were both sated and completely satisfied.

  “Is something the matter with my gown, Ducky?” Esme asked, her brows knitting with concern as she reached the bottom step.

  He reminded himself that this was still Esme McCallan, the same woman who usually treated him with scorn and derision and disrespect.

  “I was just thinking that pink suits you,” he replied. “It makes you look…younger.”

  A brief flare of annoyance flashed in her eyes. Thank God. He had to do something to quell his desire, and making her angry would surely work. It had to. “Nobody would guess you’re twenty-seven, my dear. You don’t look a day over twenty-six.”

  Esme McCallan had, as he well knew, recently turned twenty-two.

  Instead of replying with a sharp retort, she giggled.

  He’d never before found giggling appealing, yet he found hers unexpectedly pleasant, like water bubbling over rocks.

  Then she spoke. “And you don’t look a day over forty, my love. Losing five stone on the voyage home has made such a difference!”

  Five stone? Seventy pounds? He would have been as fat as a hog ready for market.

  “I feared you’d never be able to eat a full meal again,” she continued in that slightly daft manner she’d adopted while a maid helped her into her cloak and he allowed the valet to assist him into his greatcoat.

  “It was only seasickness,” he lied for the benefit of the servants while McSweeney went to open the door.

  Was that a smile twitching at the corners of McSweeney’s lips?

  “We’re going to be late,” Quinn snapped, leading Esme outside.

  Mercifully she didn’t say another word as they got into the waiting barouche that belonged to his brother. Once inside, he settled into the corner, arms crossed, while she adjusted her skirts with the most smug express
ion he’d ever seen on her face.

  “I had no idea you could play the fool so well,” he frigidly remarked.

  “Neither did I,” she replied. “It’s quite easy, really. I simply pretend I’m about five years old. How do you manage it?”

  He scowled and slouched lower in the seat as the carriage lurched into motion.

  “Sit up straight or your clothes will be wrinkled.”

  He neither moved nor answered.

  “Now who’s acting like a five-year-old?”

  “Why shouldn’t I act like a child when you’re acting as if you’re my mother? ‘Sit up straight, mind your manners, what’s wrong with you?’”

  He hadn’t meant for that last to slip out.

  “Enough, my little plum cake,” he growled. “I owe Jamie my life, but I won’t be made the butt of a joke by you, or anyone.”

  She glared at him as if he’d asked for the Stone of Scone. “You dare say that to me, when you make a joke out of everything I say?”

  “I do not!” he protested.

  “As good as,” she returned. “You ignore me, keep important information from me, insult me and have the effrontery, the insolence, to kiss me—and yet you then insist I treat you with the same respect I accord other men?”

  Quinn crossed his arms and glowered. She’d probably be quite happy to shoot him and spit on his corpse, if only it wasn’t against the law. “If you’d rather that I treated you like a vestal virgin, so be it. That will be no hardship for me, I assure you.”

  The carriage stopped outside a brightly lit mansion of dark gray stone and bow windows, even more immense than Quinn’s family’s town house.

  “We’ve arrived,” he unnecessarily growled. “Remember why we’re here.”

  “You remember that, too—and that I’m Jamie McCallan’s sister.”

  As if he could ever forget.

  Once out of the barouche, Esme took MacLachlann’s hand with a vicelike grip and marched stoically beside him into the house, looking neither to the left or the right. How dare he speak to her that way? What unmitigated gall to demand that she treat him with respect, when he mocked and teased her, chided and…and kissed her!