Highland Rogue, London Miss

by Margaret Moore

  She was Lady Stantonby, Esme recalled, a very wealthy widow. Unfortunately, she couldn’t think of a reason why the woman shouldn’t. “Of course.”

  “Are you quite well? You look a little piqued,” her companion said in a sympathetic tone that was more appropriate to a deathbed than a drawing room.

  She would feel better if she had more room, Esme thought; nevertheless, she smiled insipidly and replied with the truth. “I’m not used to such large dinner parties.”

  Lady Stantonby gave her a knowing smile and got a sly look in her eye that set Esme instantly on guard. “I suppose being married to Dubhagen is exhausting, too.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” Esme replied innocently, although she could guess what the woman was hinting at.

  Lady Elvira Cameron, who was sixty-five if she was a day and trying to look twenty in a gown of thin pale pink silk and with powder and rouge on her cheeks, settled on an oval-backed chair opposite and leaned forward as if she’d been desperate to speak to Esme all evening. “No doubt he’s changed since he married. You’re so lovely, he’s surely felt no need to stray. I certainly hope so. He was quite the merry gadabout in his youth.”

  “I’m sure Lady Dubhagen doesn’t need to hear every skeleton in her husband’s family’s closet,” Lady Stantonby mildly protested.

  “Well, she should be glad she married the eldest and not the youngest—Quinine or Quentin or whatever his name was,” Lady Elvira said. “Sent down from school, spending his days in gambling hells and drunken revelry.” She lightly tapped Esme’s arm with her delicate fan made of carved ivory. “Quite the rascal he was, I assure you. No wonder his father disowned him—but I’m sure you know all about that.”

  “Indeed, I don’t. I don’t know very much at all about the earl’s youngest son,” Esme truthfully replied, suddenly glad the men weren’t there and hoping they would be in the dining room a little longer yet.

  Lady Elvira’s eyes widened. “No? Poor man must be too ashamed to speak of him.”

  “Or sorry,” another older woman said as she sat on the other side of Esme.

  Unlike Lady Elvira, Lady Marchmont was tastefully attired in a gown of jonquil silk and satin, with topazes at her throat and a peacock feather in her jet-black hair. Only the few small wrinkles at the corners of her mild gray eyes suggested that she was older than twenty-five. “My husband’s cousin knew Quintus MacLachlann at school. He thinks the poor fellow has been much maligned.”

  “If my son had gotten sent down from school for public drunkenness, I should have disowned him, too,” Lady Stantonby said with a scornful sniff.

  “My husband told me Quintus got drunk because he’d just learned that his mother had died and he wasn’t to be allowed home for the funeral. He thinks Quintus did that so they would have to send him back to Edinburgh.”

  Esme clasped her hands in her lap and her heart filled with sympathy for both MacLachlann and his mother, who had died with her son away at school. “He loved his mother then?”

  “Oh, yes, very much.”

  “They were much alike,” Lady Elvira waspishly observed. “She was very pretty and quite useless, except to bear children, of course. At least there was never any doubt her children were also the earl’s—every son looked just like him. Otherwise, well…she was forever going to balls and parties.”

  “Any opportunity to be out of the house,” Lady Stantonby agreed. “The earl was a hot-tempered fellow and could be most unpleasant, even though it was her dowry that allowed him to keep his estate.”

  If their marriage had been an unhappy one, Esme wouldn’t blame MacLachlann’s mother a bit for wanting to get away from her husband any and every chance she could. Indeed, Esme would have advised the woman to seek a divorce, although she supposed fear of never seeing her children again would prevent that. Women always faced that threat in divorce proceedings, for men had the upper hand in law there, too.

  “Ah, here come the gentlemen,” Lady Stantonby murmured as Catriona’s father entered the room, followed by the rest of the gentleman, including MacLachlann. As before, he seemed perfectly comfortable and at ease in his formfitting, expensive evening dress and looked every inch the noble lord.

  “Your husband is certainly the handsomest fellow here,” Lady Elvira said, drawing Esme’s attention once again, “so I suppose that even if he has his father’s temper, there are certain compensations.”

  “I suppose,” Esme agreed with a giggle even as she tried not to imagine exactly what those compensations might be or how it would feel to be receiving them.

  Catriona immediately went to her father, leading him to the choicest seat by the hearth. The other gentlemen, with one notable exception, scattered around the room.

  MacLachlann strolled directly toward Esme and she rose to meet him. With what looked like an eager gleam in his eye, he immediately drew her away from the others toward a shadowed alcove. She had no choice but to go with him, she reasoned, with so many people in the room. The young ladies watched every step and began whispering eagerly, while more than one regarded her with blatant envy.

  But what was he doing, and why, and why did he have that particular expression? And where was the solicitor? So far, all she’d discovered was that he enjoyed his work and found the differences between Scots and English law fascinating.

  “What happened to Mr. McHeath?” she asked in a whisper.

  “He had business that couldn’t wait,” MacLachlann quietly replied.

  “That’s most unfortunate. I shall have to arrange a meeting with him some other time.”

  MacLachlann’s expression turned to irritation. “Why?”

  She thought this should have been obvious. “As the earl’s solicitor, he has a lot of influence over the earl’s decisions—or could have, if he chooses to exercise it,” she explained. “I hope he’s not involved in any bad dealings with the earl, but I’m not so naive as to believe he couldn’t be simply because he’s a solicitor. If he is a swindler, I intend to give him the opportunity to attempt to ensnare us, as well, and how better than through your rather dim wife?”

  “What reason would you give to meet with him?” MacLachlann asked, his brow furrowing.

  “I shall tell him I have concerns about your disposal of my dowry.”

  “You would have no say in such a matter,” he pointed out.

  “I’m well aware of the limits of a wife’s rights under the law,” Esme replied. “However, given how I’ve been acting, I doubt Mr. McHeath will be surprised if I profess complete ignorance as to what’s become of it.”

  “And if he tries to seduce you?”

  As if she was some gullible innocent fresh from a convent!

  “As you should know by now, I’m not easily swayed by looks or a charming manner. I simply mean to provide him the chance to expose any criminal enterprises in which he may be involved.”

  “He might be keen to expose something,” MacLachlann sourly agreed.

  “Don’t be disgusting.”

  “That’s a warning,” he murmured, running a finger along her cheek.

  She flinched, not because his touch was unpleasant, but because it was unexpected—and too pleasant. She lowered her eyes, blushing. She could smell his cologne, a wonderfully woodsy scent that mingled with the starch of his shirt and the wool of his coat, and felt his body close. “What are you doing?” she demanded with quiet annoyance.

  “Being about the business of acting like your husband, and giving those old cats something to talk about,” he murmured, leaning closer, his body mere inches from hers. “What’s the matter, Esme? Are you afraid I’m going to kiss you again? Or are you hoping that I will?”

  His last words were too close to the truth. Much too close. “Stand back,” she warned.

  “Have no fear, little plum cake. Even I wouldn’t kiss you with those gossips looking on.”

  She breathed again and raised her eyes to find him looking at her with the most unusual expression on his face. Why, h
e looked almost…wistful. “McHeath will probably jump at the chance to meet with you, even if he’s tempted to withdraw his services after our little discussion in the dining room.”

  She had to ask, had to know. “Were those your opinions?”

  “Gad, no—my brother’s, and they would be well known, so I had no choice but to say what I did. And I didn’t expect McHeath to get so angry. I thought all solicitors could keep a cool head.”

  Usually so could she, except when she was around MacLachlann.

  “It may well be that there’s nothing illegal going on with the earl’s affairs,” MacLachlann continued, still close enough to kiss. “Did you notice how much wine he drank at dinner? Perhaps if he’s having financial difficulties, it’s because wine is clouding his judgment.”

  She hadn’t noticed, although she should have. She shouldn’t have been so distracted by the urge to discuss the difference between Scottish and English law with McHeath, or been so acutely aware of how fine MacLachlann looked in evening dress, or how often he leaned close to Catriona to hear what she was saying.

  He nodded toward the far end of the drawing room, where Lady Marchmont was preparing to play the pianoforte and some footmen were moving chairs to clear a space for dancing. “Once the dancing starts, we should go to the earl’s library. You leave the room first, and I’ll follow a little later. Catriona says the library is toward the back of the house. The door is to the left of the painting of Edinburgh Castle.”

  Mercifully he drew back without touching her. “Until then, I suggest you talk to those biddies who are no doubt deciding that Jamaica was not good for my health, you’re too thin and our marriage is a disaster. I shall engage the earl in a discussion about his estate in the Highlands. After a little while, excuse yourself and head for the library. I’ll follow shortly and meet you there.”

  “Very well,” she replied, having no alternate plan and finding it difficult to think with him so close.

  He cupped her cheek with his palm. “Don’t worry. Just ask them questions about their families and you won’t have to say a word about yourself.”

  His touch and reassuring words were more welcome than she cared to acknowledge. “Until later, then.”

  He nodded and sauntered off toward the earl and Catriona, who was sitting beside her father and surrounded by a bevy of young men who were all from rich, upper-class families. More than one had a title and stood to inherit an estate.

  Yet not a one of them commanded attention the way MacLachlann did simply by walking across the room.

  At the first opportunity and after making sure nobody was watching her, Esme slipped out of the drawing room and into the main corridor. Her heart pounding, she made her way down the hall toward the back of the house, looking for a picture of Edinburgh Castle.

  However did thieves stand the strain, the fear of discovery at any moment, the dread of being caught, especially knowing the usual consequences under the law?

  At last she spotted the painting of the castle and hurried closer to the earl’s library door. She tried the handle and discovered it was indeed locked.

  At almost the same time, she heard voices coming toward her from the drawing room. What excuse would she give if someone saw her?

  If she said she was lost, that might work.

  Or she could say she was admiring the painting of the castle. She tilted her head and walked forward to study it as the voices mercifully receded. The perspective was off and those clouds looked more like wool than—

  “You’d never make a spy.”

  With a gasp she whirled around, to find MacLachlann right behind her. “Where did you come from?” she demanded in a whisper.

  “The servants’ stairs,” he calmly replied.

  “It’s a miracle nobody saw you skulking about and raised an alarm.”

  “Nothing miraculous about it. Good timing and experience,” he said as he looked down at her.

  “Then I suggest you use some of that experience to get into the library,” she replied, anxious to get their task completed. This dreadful excitement was a far cry from her usual thrills—finding obscure legal precedents or the perfect wording for a contract—and it was as disagreeable as she’d expected.

  MacLachlann drew something from his breast pocket that he inserted into the keyhole in the door.

  She shouldn’t be surprised that not only did he know how to pick locks, but he also possessed the tools to do it.

  He wiggled the pick until she heard a soft click, then eased open the door and nodded for her to precede him inside. Hoping she wouldn’t hit a piece of furniture or knock something over, she sidled into the dark room.

  MacLachlann followed her, apparently with no such worries. He walked swiftly across the room to the window and opened the thick drapes. As she closed the door behind her, a shaft of moonlight fell directly onto a secretary cabinet by the door.

  As her eyes adjusted to the available light, Esme noted a beechwood pedestal desk with a cushioned Charles II chair behind it in front of the windows and a dark chaise by the fireplace opposite. The walls were lined with shelves of books and portraits, including one of Catriona over the black marble hearth. It must have been painted around the time Jamie had met and fallen in love with her, for it uncannily depicted the beautiful young woman Esme remembered. In the portrait she was standing in a garden and holding a bouquet of white roses as lovely and fresh as she.

  As if they had all the time in the world and had only to ascertain the earl’s reading habits, MacLachlann wandered around the room studying the shelves, while she went directly to the desk. She tried to pull open a drawer only to find it didn’t budge. “Can you open this, too?” she asked in a whisper.

  MacLachlann didn’t cease his circumnavigation of the room. “He won’t keep anything important in there. Letters and receipts, perhaps, but not legal documents.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because it’s too obvious. While the earl may have lost some of his mental capacity, he was always a wily, suspicious sort of fellow, or so I remember my father saying during one of the few times I recall him speaking of something other than my own faults and failures.”

  This didn’t seem quite the time to tell him what she’d heard about his family. Besides, what exactly would she say? I’m sorry your father was a brute? I’m glad to know you loved your mother?

  “It’s more likely there’s some sort of hidden cupboard or perhaps even a fireproof cabinet hidden in the wall or shelves or behind a sliding panel. Look for anything that seems odd or out of place or something unusual in the woodwork.”

  “I don’t think I can see well enough,” she admitted.

  He held up his hand and waggled his fingers. “Use your fingertips.”

  Trying not to envision those same fingertips grazing her face and naked body, Esme did as he suggested, starting with the decorative edge of the desk. “How can you see so well when I can’t?” she wondered aloud.

  “Perhaps because I don’t spend all my time pouring over law books in bad light.”

  Maybe he had a point. In future she would make an effort to ensure she had better lighting when she did her research.

  Unfortunately, her exploration of the desk and the outside of the drawers didn’t yield anything that could be considered unusual, nor could she open any of them. Thinking she should feel around the bottom edge of the overlap of the desktop, she sat on the chair—and heard the familiar sound of crinkling paper.

  From beneath her.

  Standing, she felt around the edges of the chair’s bottom cushion and first found a loose thread, then a hole in the seam large enough to slip her hand into.

  “MacLachlann, come here!” she whispered excitedly. “I’ve found something!”

  As he hurried to join her, she pulled several documents of both foolscap and vellum from inside the seat cushion and laid them on the desk. Some were merely folded, while others were folded and sealed with wax and ribbon, with an identifyin
g notification on the outside. The writing was just barely legible in the dim light. One was the last will and testament of the present Earl of Duncombe and another was the last will and testament of his father. There was the marriage settlement between the earl and his late wife, too. She unfolded the papers and discovered several promissory notes and mortgages that the earl had given, some for very large sums.

  “Gad, I knew the man was rich, but I had no idea,” MacLachlann muttered as he stood close beside her and looked over the notes and mortgage agreements.

  “Everything looks completely in order,” Esme said. Indeed, from her swift perusal of the papers, she would say that not only were these documents fully legal and legitimate, but they were also as good as anything she—or Jamie—could have drawn up.

  “It all looks aboveboard to me, too,” MacLachlann agreed.

  “None of these involve funds received by the earl,” she noted. Indeed, in every case, it was the earl who had provided the money for the promissory notes or mortgages. “Could his financial problems stem from people defaulting on the repayments?”

  “Perhaps,” MacLachlann said, “assuming these loans were made to actual people.”

  Esme didn’t have to ask him what he meant. Having the earl lend money to nonexistent individuals would be one way to rob him, and it would be a way that would necessarily involve his solicitor.

  “We’ll have to find out if these are real people,” he continued. “If not…”

  “Catriona will need to make a formal accusation against Mr. McHeath,” she answered for him, and firmly. Although she hated to think a solicitor would abuse his client’s trust that way, if he had, he must be stopped. “If they are real people, we’ll have to try to learn their financial status, too.”

  “We’ll need a pen, ink and paper to make note of the names,” MacLachlann remarked, surveying the barren desktop.

  “There’s no need for that,” she told him as she began to refold the documents. “I’ll remember the names.”