Highland Rogue, London Miss

by Margaret Moore

  “Why would Mrs. Llewellan-Jones hide any information? And of what sort? If she set the fire, why would she do it? What possible motive could she have?”

  Esme could think of one, for truly, hell had no fury like that of a woman scorned or abandoned. “Since this is a woman of whom we speak, what do you know of your brother’s past indiscretions?”

  Quinn slowly wheeled toward her.

  “Perhaps Mrs. Llewellan-Jones was a victim of his lust.”

  “If that were so, wouldn’t she realize I’m not Augustus?”

  “Would she?” Esme countered. “McSweeney didn’t recognize you. Or she may not have been the victim. It could be that she was related to a woman your brother wronged, or perhaps someone he harmed in another way—a cheated tradesman, or one who thinks he was. Perhaps your brother held a mortgage and foreclosed. Do you know anything of your brother’s business dealings?”

  Quinn shook his head. “No. McHeath would know, but he wouldn’t be privy to information about Augustus’s past love affairs. As I said, my brother has a horror of scandal, so if he kept anything secret, it would be that sort of thing.”

  “Past business dealings will give us a place to start, at least,” she replied. “Unfortunately Mr. McHeath would surely find it odd if you asked him about your own business. I, on the other hand, could reasonably plead ignorance of your financial affairs. Mr. McHeath also hired all the servants, so it would be natural for your wife to ask him about them.”

  Quinn toyed with the edge of the desk blotter. “I see your point,” he conceded, and she couldn’t help feeling a surge of triumph at the admission. It was as if he was finally acknowledging her contribution to this endeavor.

  “Nor do I believe we should assume the fire was an act of violence against us,” she continued. “As I said before, we should also entertain the possibility that it was an accident. Still, I’m well aware it could be otherwise, so I suggest ordering the footmen to keep watch, one at the front of the house, one at the back.”

  Quinn nodded his agreement. “I’ll hire a few more, too. I don’t think anyone will question that after what’s happened.”

  “I’ll visit Mr. McHeath this afternoon and see what I can learn about the servants.”

  “Since he was responsible for hiring them,” Quinn said grimly, “it could be that he—”

  “Deliberately hired a criminal associate or he may be in league with one?” Esme interrupted as her mind leapt to the obvious conclusion. “That perhaps he even hired the perpetrator for that purpose, or to spy on us? Yes, it could be,” she reluctantly admitted.

  “That would mean McHeath is a dangerous man. Perhaps I should accompany you.”

  At least it wasn’t a demand. Nevertheless…” I think not,” she replied. “He won’t be as forthcoming if you’re with me, and I can hardly imply I have doubts about your financial competence if you’re in the room.”

  He sighed and a look of resignation, almost…defeat…appeared on his features. “Very well, Esme. But be careful and if he seems the least bit suspicious—”

  “I’ll leave,” she assured him.

  She rose, ready to go to Mr. McHeath’s without delay, but MacLachlann’s next words made her hesitate. “Your brother will have to be informed of this.”

  Did he? What good would it do to worry Jamie over something that might be immaterial to their reason for being in Edinburgh?

  Or did MacLachlann have another motive? What if, in spite of his apparent change of heart, MacLachlann still wanted her to go back to London? He would surely describe the fire in the worst possible terms, making it sound as if their lives had been in grave danger. Since Jamie would then be worried about her, he would no doubt summon her back to London.

  Unless, of course, MacLachlann’s letter never arrived.

  “If you must, but note that the fire could have been accidental,” she said pertly, as if she hadn’t realized what he might be up to. “I don’t want you to worry him unnecessarily.”

  “And if he wants you to go home to London?”

  She sighed heavily as she proceeded to the door, taking some small satisfaction from seeing through his scheme. “I shall, of course, abide by his wishes, although I sincerely hope he doesn’t.”

  “Good afternoon, Lady Dubhagen. This is a most pleasant surprise. Please, sit down,” Mr. McHeath said as Esme was shown into his office by his clerk, a neatly dressed young man with red hair and freckles.

  She did as the solicitor asked, noting the quality of his desk—carved oak with mahogany inlays, as well as the fine oak panelling and shelves of law books. He had a few papers on his desk and the silver ink set was polished as bright as a mirror. The windows of his chamber were large, although no sunlight could penetrate the fog outside, so clean-burning lamps that were as shiny as the ink set had been lit to provide more illumination.

  “What can I do for you, my lady?” Mr. McHeath asked as he took a seat behind his desk, concern in every feature.

  Was it really possible he was a scoundrel? That despite his apparent solicitude, his kind demeanor, that he sought to steal from his clients and even do bodily harm? Every instinct, every bit of experience and intuition Esme possessed, told her that it couldn’t be so. Nevertheless, she must be wary and careful, and give him no cause to suspect she was anything except what she claimed, in case MacLachlann was right and she was wrong.

  “I’ve come to ask you about our servants, Mr. McHeath, particularly Mrs. Llewellan-Jones,” she said, chewing her lip to denote anxiety. “You see, there was a fire in our garden shortly before dawn—a small one,” she hastened to add when she saw the shock on his face.

  “What happened? Was anyone injured?”

  If he was feigning his reactions, he should be on the stage of the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane.

  “Everyone was quite all right, thank heavens, and we aren’t sure what happened,” she said, twisting her reticule in her hands. “It was started by a dropped lantern, although who had it and what they were doing there at that time of night, I have no idea! I thought it must have been a servant, but none of them have confessed, so I thought I ought to check their references.”

  Mr. McHeath immediately rose and went to a wooden cabinet with brass handles, from which he produced a sheaf of papers. “Here are the letters of reference for all your servants, if you’d care to examine them, although I assure you I made the usual inquiries about them.”

  She eagerly accepted the references. “Thank you.”

  She immediately began to the read the first one, which pertained to Mrs. Llewellan-Jones. If this reference was credible, she was indeed a paragon among housekeepers.

  The next one referred to Mr. McSweeney and the next to the head footman. It soon became apparent that every servant came with an excellent character and recommendations from past employers, right down to the scullery maid.

  As she read, Esme realized that Mr. McHeath had come closer. A bit too close, perhaps—at least close enough to make her uncomfortable and begin to wonder if Quinn was right about Mr. McHeath’s attraction to her. As for her feelings for the solicitor…

  To be sure, he was a good-looking man about the same age as Quinn, respectable, intelligent, a fellow Scot and a solicitor to boot, yet he didn’t stir her heart in any way. Nor, she had been sure until this moment and despite whatever Quinn suspected, did she stir his.

  She got quickly to her feet. “I shouldn’t take up so much of your time.”

  “There’s something else the matter, isn’t there?” the solicitor gently prodded as he took the papers from her and put them on his desk.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, wishing he wasn’t standing between her and the door, wondering if that position was a deliberate attempt to block her exit.

  “There is another explanation for the lantern and the fire,” Mr. McHeath said. “Might I ask where your husband was when the fire broke out?”

  She wasn’t sure what to say. She could lie and say he’d b
een home, but there was the chance that Mr. McHeath had heard about MacLachlann’s nocturnal activities from other clients or members of the clubs. “He was…out,” she said.

  The solicitor looked at her with sympathy. “I’m afraid that confirms other things I’ve heard, my lady, and leads me to wonder if it was your husband who dropped the lantern.”

  Quinn would have told her if he’d dropped the lantern while returning from one of his investigative escapades in a men’s club, wouldn’t he? Why would he pretend otherwise to her?

  Unless he hadn’t been alone. Perhaps he had been with a servant.

  Or maybe he thought the potential threat of physical harm would be a good way to make her leave.

  As she sank back onto the chair, Mr. McHeath spoke with gentle compassion. “I’m sorry to distress you so, but I’m afraid we must consider that possibility and if so…”

  If so, what?

  “My lady, I’ve seen the way he treats you. I’m very concerned for your safety as well as your happiness. Please, let me help.”

  The last person she wanted to talk to right now was Mr. McHeath. She wanted to get away from him, to be alone to think. “Thank you for your concern,” she said, getting quickly to her feet, “but now if you’ll excuse me, I ought to go home.”

  Instead of going to the door and opening it for her, as she expected, McHeath took hold of her hands and gazed anxiously into her face. “If he’s mistreating you in any way, I can help you get away from him. If you fear retribution or that you will be left penniless because he has control of the estate, there are means to get an income for you, or even a divorce.

  “Let me help you, my lady,” the solicitor pleaded. “No woman deserves to be miserably married.”

  “Please, Mr. McHeath, let me go!”

  He did, but he nevertheless stood between her and the door. “Then before you go, please answer me this,” he said, regarding her intently. “Why are you trying to deceive me and everyone else in Edinburgh?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Desperately trying to keep her wits about her, Esme did the only thing she could—she continued pretending to be Quinn’s vapid wife, regarding Mr. McHeath with apparently mystified confusion. “Whatever do you mean, Mr. McHeath?”

  The solicitor took a step closer, his expression not angry or upset, but compassionate and sincere. “Why are you pretending to be stupid? Is it to pacify your husband? Do you fear him? Does he fly into a rage if you express an opinion that contradicts his own?”

  It hadn’t occurred to her that her portrayal of a dim-witted, slightly intimidated wife would arouse any man’s sense of chivalry. What should she say? How could she explain her relationship with Quinn without giving away too much of the truth?

  “I’m very touched you’re concerned about my welfare,” she answered honestly, “but you needn’t be. I fear I’ve given you the wrong idea, Mr. McHeath. I wouldn’t want to stop being the Countess of Dubhagen. I only wanted to find out about Mrs. Llewellan-Jones. A man will have his recreation, after all. I just wouldn’t like it to be with a servant in our own house.”

  She saw the solicitor’s respect for her dwindle and was sorry for it, but what else could she do?

  “Now you really must excuse me, Mr. McHeath,” she continued as she hurried to the door.

  Once more he stepped in front of her to block her exit. “My lady, if your husband is the callous brute I fear he is—”

  “No, he’s not,” she insisted just as the door to the office burst open.

  “What the devil are you doing with my wife?” Quinn demanded, glaring at Mr. McHeath as if he’d gladly kill him.

  Esme stared at him with stunned dismay. He had known she was coming here and why, and he had agreed, so why had he followed her? Did he think she was incapable of conducting an independent investigation? Or was he really that convinced Mr. McHeath had seductive designs on her—and that she might succumb?

  “I’m telling her that if she wishes to be free of an unhappy marriage, I’ll help her,” the solicitor admitted without fear and with reproach.

  “Get away from her,” Quinn warned.

  “Don’t be upset, Ducky,” Esme said before she turned to the solicitor, who was glaring at MacLachlann as if he wanted to have him arrested. “It’s all right, really, Mr. McHeath.”

  “What’s he been accusing me of?” Quinn demanded.

  “Nothing, Ducky, really.”

  “I have been hearing some very disturbing accounts of certain visits you’ve made to various unsavoury establishments in Edinburgh since your return,” McHeath said, regardless of Esme’s interjection. “Establishments that may not only cause financial and social embarrassment for your wife, but possibly harm her health.”

  Esme slowly turned to face Quinn. “What does he mean?” she asked softly, although she was worldly enough to understand the implication of Mr. McHeath’s words.

  “We’ll discuss this in private,” Quinn said through clenched teeth, reaching out to take her hand.

  McHeath moved between them.

  “Get away from my wife,” Quinn growled, “and mind your own business.”

  “If your wife requests my aid, she’ll get it,” McHeath returned just as sternly.

  Jamie had often said that Quinn was a fierce and skilled fighter with more lives than a cat, so Esme hurried to intercede, moving to stand in front of Quinn and splaying her hands on his chest to hold him there. “Calm yourself, Ducky.” She looked back over her shoulder at the indignantly angry McHeath. “I’ll be quite all right, although naturally I’m touched by your concern. Come along, my dear,” she said as she took Quinn’s arm.

  For a moment, she feared he wasn’t going to move, but he did, mercifully letting her lead him from the office.

  The moment they were seated in the carriage, and regardless of Quinn’s defensive sulking in the corner, Esme demanded to know what on earth he thought he was doing, coming to the solicitor’s office. “Or do you think me incompetent to ask questions?”

  “Of course I think you’re competent,” Quinn growled in reply. “I wanted to see what he’d do if I arrived unexpectedly. Surprise generally results in an unguarded reaction and so a better understanding of the person I suspect.”

  “And what of me? What of my unguarded reaction?”

  That earned her the sort of smirking grin she hadn’t seen on Quinn’s face for several days, and hadn’t missed. “I assumed you would continue to play your role, which you did, and very well.”

  She warmed beneath his steadfast gaze, but wasn’t prepared to relinquish her indignation just yet. “What do you make of Mr. McHeath’s reaction then? I hope his chivalrous behavior has caused him to rise in your estimation, as he has in mine.”

  MacLachlann regarded her as if she had completely missed the point. “Chivalrous? Is that what you think?”

  She had just said so, hadn’t she? “What else, when he was so keen to help a woman he believed trapped in a terrible marriage?”

  “The man doesn’t see you as some sort of damsel in distress,” Quinn replied as if she were a simpleton. “He wants you in his bed.”

  She didn’t believe that for an instant. “Just because he tried to help me—or rather, the woman he believes is your brother’s wife—you assume he has selfish motives. And can’t you see that if there is a woman he wants, it’s Catriona, not me?”

  “If you had any real experience of the world, you’d know that I’m right.”

  “I do have real experience of the world, as you call it,” she retorted. “How could I not, hearing what Jamie has to deal with every day? Unfaithful, lazy husbands who abandon their wives, leaving them to the mercy of their creditors. Poor widows and orphans left destitute. Servant girls who are turned out, often with a child to support because their employers raped them. Women shopkeepers who must sue to get what they’re owed because men think they can cheat women without consequences. I assure you, MacLachlann, I’ve seen a great deal of the world and much I wish
I had not, including what can happen to the health of a wife whose husband frequents brothels.”

  Quinn had the decency to blush.

  “Yes, whatever you may think, I’m worldly enough to have understood what Mr. McHeath meant. You’ve been going to brothels.”

  “Just one,” Quinn defiantly replied. “And only to ask questions.”

  This time, it was Esme who smirked. “No doubt.”

  His gaze hardened. “That’s the truth, Esme. The only reason I went to that place was for information. And how did Mr. McHeath come by the knowledge of my activities, do you suppose?”

  “I suspect he has his sources, the same as you,” she replied.

  “And one of my sources is Mollie MacDonald, who happens to be a whore.” Quinn crossed his arms and regarded her without shame or remorse. “Maybe in some things you aren’t as naive as I thought, but I still don’t trust McHeath. He either wants you, or he wants something from you. I’m sure of it.”

  “Perhaps all he seeks is the satisfaction of being kind and helpful.”

  MacLachlann made a disdainful sniff.

  “Why do you persist in seeing vulgar or untrustworthy motives everywhere?”

  He straightened and slid forward on the seat. “Because, my little plum cake, you’re a beautiful woman and it’s my experience that no man wants to be merely a friend to a beautiful woman.”

  She wasn’t beautiful. She was plain Esme McCallan, so he had to be lying, or exaggerating in an attempt to excuse his own ridiculous behavior in Mr. McHeath’s office.

  He frowned and his brows lowered as if with confusion. “What’s the matter, Esme? Hasn’t anybody ever told you that you’re beautiful before?”

  “Of course not,” she retorted, “because it isn’t true.”

  “Yes, it is,” he said, his voice low but resolute, as if the words must be spoken whether he wanted to say them or not. “You’re beautiful, Esme, and you always have been in spite of those hideous gowns you usually wear and your ink-stained fingers and poker-straight hair.”

  “That’s a lie,” she insisted. It had to be. No man had looked at her twice, except to complain that, like a child, a woman should be seen and not heard. No man had ever complimented her on her beauty, and certainly no man had ever tried to be intimate with her, except for Quinn, of course.