The Groom Says Yes

by Cathy Maxwell

  “I didn’t understand why he didn’t speak to you about me,” Mrs. Bossley answered. “In spite of his best intentions, Richard was apparently very good at secrets.” She pulled the loaf of bread over to her and looked around for a knife to cut it. “I thought you knew about us,” she said to Miss Davidson. “When I found out you didn’t, I knew it was not right. That’s one of the reasons I had to take you aside the other day. I had given him an ultimatum. I said, ‘Richard, you have a week to tell your daughter that we are to marry. I won’t wait any longer.’ After he didn’t say anything to you for two more weeks, then, as you know, I carried through with my promise—I took matters into my own hands.” She rose from the table and crossed to where the cutlery was kept and fetched a knife. She pointed it at Mac. “Leave this alone.”

  He shrugged. He was more interested in Miss Davidson’s reaction to this news that her father might not be the moral paragon she had thought him than he was to being insulted over a knife.

  Miss Davidson’s lips were pressed together as if holding words back. He sensed she wanted to lash out at Mrs. Bossley but knew she couldn’t. Instead, she raised troubled blue eyes to Mac. “What did my father testify to at your trial?”

  “He was the only witness, and he said he saw me beating Gordana Raney to death.”

  That statement sucked the air from the room.

  Mrs. Bossley spoke first. “If Richard Davidson said you are a murderer, then you are a murderer.”

  “I am not. He lied in court,” Mac answered.

  “He would not lie in court,” Mrs. Bossley shot back, emphasizing the words with a wave of the knife. “He might not tell the truth about seeing me, but he takes the law seriously.

  “He would lie, and he did lie,” Mac answered.

  “But that would mean he made false accusations,” Miss Davidson said, placing her hands on the table, her fingers curling into fists. “He would be perjuring himself, something my father is very much against, and he would be sending an innocent man to the gallows.”

  “Now you see my problem,” Mac answered. “Your father is not my favorite person.”

  “Richard would not do what you accuse him of,” Mrs. Bossley stated. “He wouldn’t. We can’t trust this man, Miss Davidson. We can’t take his word over Richard’s.”

  Miss Davidson heard her, but then, perhaps because of the bad blood between them, she looked to Mac. “Was there any other evidence against you?”

  “They presented a cloak that they claimed was mine. It wasn’t. I don’t own a piece of clothing as fine as that cloak was. However, it was covered with Gordana’s blood.”

  “And no one would believe you when you said it wasn’t yours?” Miss Davidson asked.

  “No. It was my word against a magistrate’s and a host of unsavory characters who swore they saw me wearing that cloak.”

  “You say unsavory, but is that only because they testified against you?” Miss Davidson challenged.

  “I say unsavory because they were gamblers, drunks, and thieves,” he answered.

  “Well, that could be a matter of opinion,” Mrs. Bossley said, as if her words explained something, but Miss Davidson sat quiet.

  Her face was pale in the candlelight. Her dog rose from where he’d been sitting on the floor as if listening to their conversation. He nudged her hand. She gave him a scratch behind the ears, and whispered, “I don’t know what to believe.” She looked to Mac. “I thought I knew my father, and now, after hearing he kept so much that was important in his life from me, I feel as if I didn’t know him at all.”

  “But that doesn’t mean we should listen to this, this Irishman,” Mrs. Bossley said. “Yes, your father should have told you about our intention to marry, but the idea of Richard’s lying in court is, why, I can’t even consider it.”

  “Except he is missing,” Miss Davidson replied. “I thought he’d left to see you, and you expected him to come calling. Something happened to him. Perhaps we should reserve judgment against Mr. Enright, at least until we have Father here to answer questions.” She looked to Mac. “But we don’t know where he is.”

  “Aye,” Mac agreed soberly. “And whoever shot the good Reverend Kinnion may have done the same to your father.”

  Mrs. Bossley began making frantic noises again, but Miss Davidson would have none of it. “Silence,” she snapped.

  The older woman gave a surprised start and closed her mouth.

  “Are you certain the Reverend Kinnion is dead?” Miss Davidson said.

  “I heard the shot. I saw him on the ground. I started to stop for him, but the sound of the pistol drew a crowd. If I was going to escape, I could not linger. He could be alive, but where is he?”

  Miss Davidson thought a moment, then said, “There is no evidence that Father has been harmed. There is no body. He, too, might be alive.”

  “That is my hope,” Mac answered. “He is the only person who can clear my name. And I believe he wants to do so. He may be the honorable man you both think him.”

  “Why do you say that?” Miss Davidson asked.

  “The Reverend Kinnion came to my cell at the request of your father. He said a friend with a conscience had sent him. He helped me escape, and someone had bribed the guards to look the other way. Of course, they were not so honorable. They sounded an alarm.”

  “My father was one of the Reverend Kinnion’s benefactors.”

  “So is your uncle,” Mrs. Bossley said. “Actually, the reverend receives his living from the earl, and Richard is merely a strong supporter of the clergy.”

  “My uncle wouldn’t rouse himself for anyone. Unless he was personally inconvenienced, he would be happy to let Mr. Enright hang. But I’d like to think that a miscarriage of justice would weigh on my father’s conscience.”

  “Did he seem particularly quiet or disturbed this summer?” Mac wanted to know, ready to give the man any credit.

  Miss Davidson shook her head.

  Mrs. Bossley looked at her with some sympathy. “I did not notice him being quiet. However, when he returned from his last trip to Edinburgh in July, he asked me if I would do him the honor of being his wife.”

  “That long ago?” Miss Davidson said, surprised.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Bossley returned stoutly. “Now you know why I was growing impatient for him to say something to you.”

  Miss Davidson reached for her glass and drained it. Mac began to understand the undercurrent of animosity between the women. The fairer sex could be worked up over the smallest of things.

  “I’d take another dram,” Mrs. Bossley confided. She’d made quick work of her whisky.

  “The bottle is in the cupboard. Bring it to the table.” Miss Davidson sounded as if the turn of events threatened to destroy her, but then she stirred in her chair as if thinking. “You haven’t seen Father since before the luncheon?” She addressed this to Mrs. Bossley.

  “No. As I said, I expected him last night. When he didn’t come to my door, I assumed you had raised a fuss and he didn’t want to upset you so he avoided me.”

  “We did talk. He was very firm in his decision to marry you. We had strong words. However . . .” she started, as if struck by an idea, but then her voice trailed off in memory.

  “However?” Mac prodded.

  “However, he acted more upset when I mentioned that the Reverend Kinnion was missing.”

  “You told him?” Mac pressed. “How did you know?”

  “Mrs. Kinnion spoke to me after the luncheon. She hadn’t heard from her husband, and she was worried. Since she felt she isn’t accepted by her husband’s relatives, she asked me to say something to Father. She was hoping Father would send a letter to her husband’s uncle—what was his name? It was . . . Ebenezer Kinnion. She said her husband had gone to Edinburgh at his uncle’s request.” Miss Davidson shook her head. “The poor woman. I need to say something to her.”

  “Not yet,” Mac advised. “We need to know more before we let her know. I wonder if his uncle had truly
sent for him or if that was the excuse he gave his wife? I am assuming your father asked him to go, perhaps as a favor, but I could be wrong.”

  “Or you could be right.” Miss Davidson held up a hand as if to sort the chain of events out in her mind. “Father and I argued about the Widow Bossley, but when we were done, he returned to his work. Like I said, he was very firm in his decision to marry her—”

  “My Richard,” Mrs. Bossley said, a sniffle coming to her. “Ever true.”

  Miss Davidson continued without comment to her. “I started for the kitchen, but before I did, I remembered my promise to Mrs. Kinnion and passed on her request to Father. The news upset him. Before I knew what was what, he was out the door. He saddled his horse and left. I assumed to see Mrs. Bossley.”

  “I never saw him.”

  “Then where did he go?” Miss Davidson asked.

  “To see Mrs. Kinnion?” Mrs. Bossley offered.

  “Possibly,” Miss Davidson said. “But apparently that was the last either you or I have heard from him. And he’d be home by now if he’d called on the reverend’s wife. There would be no reason for him to stay the night.”

  “He could have gone to Edinburgh,” Mac pointed out—which was one place he did not want to revisit for a while. Out here in the countryside, word of his being wanted for murder might not have gone round. However, considering how many people in Edinburgh were anxious to see him hang, he was certain there were posters there.

  And there would be posters here, sooner or later. It was only a matter of time.

  “What I don’t understand,” Miss Davidson said, “is why Father would be gambling?”

  “For money,” Mrs. Bossley answered.

  “He never has before, and we’ve always needed money. It must be something my uncle put him up to.”

  “Well, he won that bit of cash against Owen Campbell’s horse,” Mrs. Bossley said. “You know the race, the one where Owen was caught cheating?”

  “Yes, against my cousin’s husband—”

  “Wait,” Mac interrupted. “Owen Campbell?”

  “Yes,” Miss Davidson said, confirming the name.

  “He owns the Rook’s Nest.”

  The reaction from the two women was immediate. “He owns a gaming den? That sorry worm,” Mrs. Bossley said.

  “He is unsavory,” Miss Davidson agreed. “I’m not surprised.”

  “Who is he?” Mac asked, wanting to know more about Campbell.

  “He is a greedy lad who grew up in these parts and supposedly made his fortune in India,” Mrs. Bossley said.

  “Why do you say supposedly?”

  “He spends a frightful amount of money, and there are rumors that he isn’t as well-heeled as he pretends,” Mrs. Bossley answered.

  “One doesn’t have a good feeling off of him,” Miss Davidson confided. “Then he tried to cheat over the horse race. He ran away before people could take their anger out on him.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t make his money in India,” Mrs. Bossley said triumphantly. “I told Dame Agatha a year ago I couldn’t believe Owen would work hard enough to have made the money he spends in the Orient. I’ve known him since he was this tall.” She raised a hand to the height of the table. “He was a schemer then, and he’s a schemer now. Any family with sense keeps their daughters away from him.”

  “Although if Owen owns the Rook’s Nest, I’m not surprised that my uncle would search him out. And perhaps my father was trying to protect his brother.”

  “Are you suggesting that your uncle could have killed Gordana Raney?” Mac wondered.

  Miss Davidson shook her head. “He is as lazy as Campbell. Murder would call for far too much work for him. He might let her die from benign neglect but never because of something physical.”

  “She has a good point,” Mrs. Bossley agreed before saying darkly, “However, murder is in the Campbell blood. The stories they tell about them. Centuries of murder.”

  “The stories they tell about Owen,” Miss Davidson agreed.

  “Would your father perjure himself for this Campbell?” Mac wanted to know.

  Mrs. Bossley snorted her disbelief, but Miss Davidson was more thoughtful. “I honestly do not know.” She sat a moment, the wheels of her mind working, then looked to Mac. “We have two missing men and no bodies.”

  He nodded.

  “Beyond a gaming den, what role did the Rook’s Nest play in this unfortunate young woman’s murder?”

  “She sang there, and her body was found in an alley close to it but also in the vicinity of other places. I was staying at the Rook. They have rooms there that go cheap.”

  “You chose bad company?” Miss Davidson said.

  “He was staying where it was cheap,” Mrs. Bossley observed. “Maybe he didn’t have many choices.”

  Miss Davidson shook her head. “He’s too well-spoken to not have choices. And did you not say you were a colonel, sir?”

  Now it was Mac’s turn to feel uncomfortable.

  Her direct, clear gaze was upon him. If she had been anyone else, he would have fobbed her off. Cormac Enright didn’t answer to anyone, not when he had a mind to keep his own counsel . . . except she was different.

  “I studied surgery at Trinity College. I’m not completely down on my luck.”

  “Did you finish your studies?” Miss Davidson asked.

  “I did.”

  “Soldier . . . surgeon,” she murmured, an acerbic note to her voice. “What is left to do in your life?”

  He could have added that he was an earl, but he kept silent on the matter. He brought no honor to the title.

  “Hopefully a great deal,” Mac answered, “if I can manage to avoid a pesky problem of the Scots wanting to hang me.” He paused a moment, then for no reason that he could discern, he admitted with more honesty than he had to anyone else, “I wasn’t in a good place when I arrived in Scotland.”

  “Why is that?” Miss Davidson asked.

  He leaned toward her, shutting Mrs. Bossley’s presence from his mind, speaking as if there were only the two of them. “I’d just returned from seeing my family outside of Dublin. I hadn’t been home in over a decade, and when I arrived, I learned they were all gone. Dead. Typhus took them.” He stared at the table a moment, then said, “I was the prodigal son, the one who went away. I’m here to tell you, not once did I fear they wouldn’t be there when I decided to return. That is a twist to the story that no one should have to live.”

  “And you chose not to stay in Ireland?”

  “There is nothing for me there. However, there is nothing for me here.” He made a self-deprecating laugh at his own foolishness. “The Enrights are not wealthy. Hence, my gram quite wisely told me I needed to learn a living.”

  “But you didn’t stay in Ireland. You chose the military.”

  There was a question in Miss Davidson’s voice. Mac sat back in his chair. She had a sharp mind.

  “I was in love with a lass named Moira O’Dea. That’s why I went for my studies. I wanted to be a good husband to her.” The hint of Ireland grew stronger in his voice as he spoke, as he remembered. “When I returned home, I found she had chosen my brother. They were married and one on the way, and yet no one, not even my parents or gram, dared say as much to me. I suppose they felt I would find out soon enough.”

  “And so you left.”

  He shrugged. “There was no reason to stay. I did what most other heartbroken lads do, I joined the military and went out into the world. I doctored some and fought a great deal. I was very angry.”

  “Are you still angry?”

  Her question surprised him. He’d been angry for a long time, even after he’d come to Edinburgh. There had always been something to rage against—the powers that be, his family’s deaths, the irresponsibility of his father and brother that left the family estate bankrupt . . .

  “I want justice,” he answered.

  She nodded as if she understood what he wasn’t saying.

  “And the blu
e devils that had been chasing me before Gordana Raney died seem insignificant now. It was a harsh way to be brought to my senses, but now that I have them, I’ll keep my wits about me. I will need them to win my freedom.”

  “And I want to find my Richard,” Mrs. Bossley said, reminding him, and apparently also Miss Davidson of her presence, because, for that exchange between them, their connection had been strong enough for everything else around them to fade in importance.

  “Well then,” Miss Davidson said, “we need to talk to the two men involved in this who are here in Aberfeldy—my uncle and Owen Campbell.”

  “Which one of us will talk to them?” Mrs. Bossley said. “We can’t all go. Won’t that look suspicious if they have something to hide? Us, quizzing them?”

  “But it would be perfectly reasonable for Miss Davidson to make inquiries after her father,” Mac said. “Chances are the earl and this Campbell know he is missing. They may be looking for him as well.”

  “Or they may not,” Miss Davidson replied. “I spoke to my uncle today. He didn’t seem concerned. He suggested I check Mrs. Bossley’s bed.”

  Mrs. Bossley smiled, unbothered by the suggestion.

  Mac decided he liked the woman. She was overwrought at times, but not without just cause.

  And he knew he was very attracted to Miss Davidson. Definitely intrigued.

  He caught a sidelong glance Mrs. Bossley slid to him. She had read his feelings accurately as well. Yes, when she wasn’t giving way to hysterics, she was a wise old bird.

  “Both men could be completely innocent,” Miss Davidson pointed out.

  “They could,” Mac agreed, but he doubted it. Miss Davidson’s description of the earl of Tay had been at odds with his memory of the man. He remembered a very sober lord who had been intensely interested in how the trial had played out.

  Had Richard Davidson lied to protect his brother? Brothers were known to stand up for each other. That hadn’t been true of him and Lorcan, but other families were different.

  Of course, he wouldn’t share his suspicions with Miss Davidson, not when she was kindly doing exactly what he wanted her to do.