Highland Rogue, London Miss

by Margaret Moore

  These were some of the same qualities that made him so useful to Jamie, and another reason she should keep her distance. Not only was she doing things with him no morally upright woman should, but she could also be jeopardizing her brother’s relationship with a man who was of great use to him.

  The bedroom door began to open. Esme held her breath.

  It wasn’t MacLachlann.

  Her face smudged with soot, holding the coal scuttle and a brush, the chambermaid dipped a curtsey when she realized Esme was awake and watching her. “I—I’m sorry, m’lady! I didna mean to wake ye,” the girl stammered. “I’ll come back later.”

  Esme sat up after a brief glance at the small gap in the drapes confirmed that the sun was rising.

  “No, it’s all right. Make up the fire, please,” she said as she got out of bed and washed as she waited for her abigail to arrive to help her dress and do her hair.

  As her maid attended to her, it was on the tip of Esme’s tongue to ask if MacLachlann was home or if he’d gone out, or if he’d said anything about packing his bags and heading back to Town. However, her reluctance to appear ignorant of her own husband’s plans prevented her.

  After she had breakfasted alone except for the footmen and butler, she went to the countess’s morning room, picking up the Edinburgh newspapers and several invitations from various people that waited on a table in the hall along the way. Judging by the quality of the envelopes, the invitations were to more dinners and parties and balls. The Earl of Duncombe and his wife were already very popular, it seemed, although whether it was because people were curious about them, or because Quinn was handsome and charming, she couldn’t say.

  As for the newspapers, she supposed the real Lady Dubhagen didn’t read them, but she had to do something until MacLachlann returned.

  If he returned.

  The countess’s morning room was oppressively feminine and full of reminders of the sort of life Esme had never lived and never wanted to. There was a sewing box in a corner with a piece of unfinished embroidery poking out. Several examples of painted china stood on delicate wooden shelves, and some of the watercolors were obviously amateur efforts. A spinet was in one corner and a harp in another, and a wooden box containing what appeared to be items for trimming hats was on a small table by the window. Another large pedestal table, suitable for the serving of tea, rested in the middle of the room, surrounded by well-cushioned sofas and chairs, except for the side nearest the tiled fireplace.

  Such an existence—of little hobbies and crafts, social engagements and meaningless gossip—would be too dull for her. She would much rather help Jamie with his legal practice.

  Yet as she sat in one of the Louis XVI chairs upholstered in velvet and looked through the invitations, she realized there were some things that might, perhaps, provide some compensation for a wealthy woman’s circumscribed existence—fine food and clothes, servants and other creature comforts. And if she were the wife of a loving and devoted husband, there might be even more: the feel of a man’s lips on hers, the sensation of being in his arms.

  Such speculation was useless, she told herself as she set the invitations aside to be answered later. Her life here was an aberration and soon enough she would be back in London living the life she knew.

  And preferred.

  Rain began to splatter against the windowpanes, and outside the sky was dull. Where could MacLachlann be in this inclement weather? One of the gentlemen’s clubs, warm and cozy? Or with a woman?

  Rising, Esme went to look in the mirror hung over the mantel, studying her reflection as if it belonged to another woman, one who was used to having her hair dressed daily and expensive gowns to wear, like this pretty one of Nile green muslin with three rows of darker green and brown ribbon along the hem. The sort of woman who didn’t have ink-stained fingers or spend hours poring over law books.

  She wasn’t as beautiful as Catriona, but she wasn’t as homely as some of the other young ladies she’d met. Her brown hair done up in that simple manner suited her heart-shaped face, and her cheeks weren’t overly pale.

  She put her fingertips to her lips. They were full and soft, and ruddy. MacLachlann’s were full, too, and when they touched hers—

  Somebody rapped on the door.

  MacLachlann?

  She hoped, but in case it wasn’t, she hurried back to the chair and shoved the unread newspapers under the cushion.

  “Come in,” she said, sitting down on the blue velvet cabriole sofa and doing her best to keep her voice steady.

  McSweeney entered the room with silver salver in his hand. “A gentleman has called, my lady.”

  By rights, he should have announced a gentleman’s arrival to her supposed husband first, which told her that MacLachlann must not be in the house.

  Keeping disappointment and worry from her face, she took the card and read the name upon it. “I shall be pleased to see Mr. McHeath.”

  After the butler departed, she smoothed down her skirt and prepared to meet the solicitor.

  Mr. McHeath entered the room and bowed with the perfect mixture of pleasure and deference. He was attired exactly the way a prosperous young attorney should dress, too, in clothes that were of good material, but not ostentatious. His jacket was a dark blue wool with silver buttons, his vest a subdued stripe of blue and gray, his trousers likewise gray and his boots were brightly polished. He was as tall as MacLachlann and good-looking, although there was something rather…tame…about him, too.

  “I hope I’m not intruding too early in the day, my lady.”

  His brogue was heavier than either hers or MacLachlann’s, no doubt because he’d stayed in Scotland while they had gone to England. His deep voice also lacked the velvet smoothness of MacLachlann’s.

  “Not at all,” she replied. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. I was sorry you left the dinner party so early.”

  “So was I. I’m afraid there are times I find it difficult to restrain my temper, and last night was one of them. Under such circumstances, I thought it best to go.”

  She moved to make way for him on the sofa. “Please sit down, Mr. McHeath.”

  He did as she asked, keeping a proper distance between them.

  Remembering she was supposed to be dim, Esme adjusted her skirts before heaving a wistful little sigh. “Politics makes for a lot of quarrels. I think such subjects should be banned from social conversation, don’t you?”

  “I don’t wish to cause any further offence, but no, I don’t,” he replied. “Discussion should always be encouraged. I regret only that I wasn’t able to remain calm, not the choice of subject.”

  “You don’t want to talk about slavery again, do you?” she asked as if the notion horrified her, although in truth, she would dearly love to tell him that she agreed with his opinion about slavery, as well as the rights of women, and all the reasons why.

  “I came to ascertain if your husband wishes to find another solicitor to handle his affairs,” he admitted. “Naturally I shall understand if he does.”

  “I haven’t seen him this morning,” she confessed, “but I hope he continues to do business with you.”

  After all, they still had to find out if Mr. McHeath was involved in any wrongdoing, although that seemed more and more doubtful.

  “Lady Catriona speaks very highly of you,” she added.

  The young man blushed and, even though she couldn’t be absolutely sure he was innocent of any crime, she nevertheless felt duty-bound to try to spare him the same fate as her brother. “She’s a sweet girl, isn’t she? Such a pity she won’t marry anyone without a title—or so I’ve heard.”

  The solicitor’s blush deepened. “I’m sure whoever she marries will be a fortunate man.”

  “You would be writing the marriage settlement for her, wouldn’t you?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Esme again smoothed down her skirts and gave him an encouraging smile. “I thought you wrote all the earl’s contracts and things.”
r />   “I do.”

  “I’m sure that keeps you very busy.”

  “Busy enough, my lady.” Mr. McHeath got to his feet. “I’ve taken up enough of your time this morning, my lady, so I’ll bid—”

  “Why, Mr. McHeath, what an unexpected pleasure,” MacLachlann declared as he sauntered into the room, making Esme start as if she’d been found pilfering the silver.

  Obviously he hadn’t left for London. But where had he spent the night? Wherever it was, he had returned in time to change, for he now wore clothes more appropriate to a day spent on errands or an outing—blue jacket, buff trousers, gray waistcoat and riding boots.

  Whatever he’d been doing, they both still had roles to play, at least for the time being.

  “Look, Ducky!” she cried, hurrying toward him and taking his arm. She could feel the muscle of his forearm clench, as if her touch was anathema.

  She would not let that trouble her. “Here is Mr. McHeath, all concerned you’ll dismiss him over a simple difference of opinion. You won’t, will you? After all, we disagree on so many things and yet you still love me, don’t you, Ducky?”

  Annoyance flashed in MacLachlann’s eyes before he gave her a condescending smile.

  Then he looked at Mr. McHeath.

  Although the two men regarded each other with outwardly mild expressions, she could feel the animosity between them. It was like being in a small room with two rams about to butt heads.

  If Mr. McHeath disliked MacLachlann so much, why would he regret the loss of his business? Perhaps he couldn’t afford to lose any of his clients, and if he was in financial difficulties…

  “I see no reason to seek another solicitor,” MacLachlann calmly replied.

  That didn’t sound as if MacLachlann was planning to leave Edinburgh, either, she thought with relief.

  “I’m pleased to hear it, my lord,” Mr. McHeath replied, although his expression didn’t suggest any pleasure as he gave a bow as stiff as a bow could be.

  “Pardon me, my lord,” McSweeney intoned from the threshold. “Lady Catriona has—”

  Her bonnet askew, her hair dishevelled, her pelisse not completely buttoned and without gloves, Catriona pushed past the startled butler and ran into the room.

  Chapter Ten

  Catriona came to an abrupt halt when she saw that Esme wasn’t alone. “Oh! Excuse me! I—I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “It’s quite all right,” Esme assured Catriona as she led her to the sofa, while MacLachlann ordered McSweeney to have tea brought at once.

  Mr. McHeath started toward her, then hesitated and stayed where he was.

  “No, please, I’m sorry. I should go,” Catriona protested. “I shouldn’t bother you with my troubles, but I didn’t know what else to do, who else I could confide in. So many of the older ladies gossip so and Lady Marchmont said she’d be visiting her daughter this morning, so I…I came here. It’s Papa.”

  “Is he ill?” Esme asked, mindful that Mr. McHeath mustn’t realize she knew anything about the earl’s financial situation and hoping Catriona would have the presence of mind to be aware of that, too.

  “Not physically. Not really, although he’s much distressed. I fear he’s suffered a serious financial loss, but he won’t confide in me.”

  As her large green eyes filled with tears, Esme darted a glance at the young solicitor, who appeared genuinely distraught. She’d seen enough bogus emotions from her brother’s clients to convince her that unless she was very much mistaken, or Mr. McHeath a superior actor, his distress was genuine.

  However, it was possible that he was a superior actor and if so, they should suggest he leave.

  She gave MacLachlann a pointed look but he merely leaned his elbow on the mantel and watched dispassionately, as if everyone else was a character in a play.

  Either he didn’t care if Mr. McHeath heard what Catriona had to say, or he didn’t think the lawyer was involved in any skulduggery. She didn’t want to suspect Mr. McHeath, either, but wasn’t caution the wiser course?

  Unfortunately, since neither Catriona or MacLachlann seemed to think the solicitor should go, and she wasn’t sure how she could make the suggestion without rousing Mr. McHeath’s suspicion that all was not as it appeared, he would have to stay for the time being.

  Mrs. Llewellan-Jones arrived at the door carrying a large tray bearing a silver teapot, pitcher of cream, sugar and four Wedgwood cups and saucers. Without a word, and as if the sniffling Catriona were invisible, she set the tray upon the round pedestal table in the middle of the room and glided away.

  Esme poured Catriona a cup of tea. She didn’t know if the young woman took sugar, but dropped a lump in anyway. “Drink this. It’s nice and hot,” she said, handing her the cup.

  “Thank you,” Catriona whispered. She had a few sips of tea, then drew in a deep, quivering breath before continuing. “Papa was very agitated at breakfast this morning. He hardly touched his food, and that’s most unusual for him. There were some papers on the table, and he kept glancing at them.”

  “Were they legal documents?” Mr. McHeath asked.

  Catriona shook her head. “No, they looked like letters, although when I drew near, he folded them up quickly, so I couldn’t see anything of the contents.”

  She sniffled again and Esme wordlessly took the cup and saucer when they began to shake in her trembling hands.

  “Thank you,” the distraught young woman said again before continuing. “Papa finally told me, with great agitation, that we wouldn’t be going to London for the Season this year.” She looked at them with an air of desperation. “You should have seen his face when he said it! I didn’t ask him why not—I was too afraid of upsetting him more—and then he said we…we couldn’t afford it!”

  Mr. McHeath couldn’t have looked more shocked if Catriona had announced her father had robbed the Bank of England. “You couldn’t afford it?” he repeated incredulously. “He used those very words?”

  This response didn’t seem feigned, either, although it could be that Mr. McHeath wasn’t so much shocked by the loss as that the earl had revealed even that much of his financial situation to his daughter.

  Catriona mournfully nodded her head.

  “Did he say he couldn’t afford, or you couldn’t afford it?” MacLachlann inquired.

  “He said we couldn’t afford it,” Catriona clarified.

  “You assume he meant financially.”

  “What else could he mean?” Esme asked.

  MacLachlann clasped his hands behind his back and rocked forward on his toes. “There are many ways to pay for something, and money is only one of them. Perhaps he meant he didn’t think you could spare the time, for instance.”

  “What else have they got to do?” Esme demanded, too late remembering she was supposed to be dim. She quickly widened her eyes and spoke as if completely baffled. “It’s the Season, Ducky. There’s nothing more important than the Season!”

  “It may be important for a young woman desperately seeking a husband, but the earl’s heiress is hardly in that position,” MacLachlann calmly replied. “Perhaps the earl was referring to the cost of living in London. It has gotten outrageously expensive.”

  “But he’s rich!” Esme protested in that same bewildered manner. “Surely he can afford it—unless something terrible has happened.”

  Instead of replying to Esme, Mr. McHeath addressed Catriona. “I doubt that whatever’s happened, it’s as bad as the earl thinks,” he said with what sounded like sincerity. “I fear your father tends to take the most pessimistic view of a situation. I’ll go to him at once and see if I can find out exactly what has occurred. He may be more forthcoming to his solicitor than he would be to his daughter.”

  “Oh, thank you! I’d be so grateful if you would!” Catriona cried, clasping her hands together as if he were the answer to her prayers.

  “I can take you both in my carriage,” MacLachlann offered. “Perhaps I, too, can provide some assistance to the earl if h
e’s deeply distressed.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Esme quickly added, and not just because this could be a good opportunity to find out what was amiss with the earl’s finances. Whatever Catriona had done to Jamie, she was clearly at the mercy of her father, a situation that always roused her sympathy.

  “I’ll gladly accept the offer of the carriage. However, I believe the earl would prefer to keep his financial business private,” Mr. McHeath replied, his tone amicable but his expression determined—a most interesting change and one that made Esme wonder if she’d been too quick to absolve him of being involved in any financial wrongdoing.

  “Indeed, I think he would,” Catriona agreed as she rose. “I fear he won’t want to speak of business at all if you return with me, Lord Dubhagen, or you, my lady, and my own carriage is waiting outside.”

  Which meant they had no choice but to remain behind.

  “Good day, my lord, my lady,” Mr. McHeath said. He turned to Catriona with a gentle smile. “Shall we, my lady?”

  With her eyes downcast and a mumbled “goodbye,” Catriona let him lead her from the room.

  As soon as they were gone, Esme sank onto the sofa, not at all pleased with what she had just witnessed. “If Catriona trusts Mr. McHeath as she apparently does, why did she bother to write to Jamie and ask for his help? And if she doesn’t trust him, why didn’t she let us go home with her? This would have been an excellent opportunity to learn something of the earl’s business dealings, and to observe his relationship with Mr. McHeath. We might have been able to determine once and for all if his solicitor is acting improperly.”

  MacLachlann strolled toward one of the watercolors of a landscape of the Highlands with some ruins in the foreground, then turned to address her. “As you say, it would have aided our investigation, but it was better that she didn’t accept our offers. It would have been too unusual if she preferred our assistance when her solicitor was immediately available. We are, after all, supposed to be new acquaintances. It looks odd enough that she came here as she did.”