“Thank you.” Etta walked into the parlor, looking about her. The room looked more or less as she’d left it. “But this is most unusual around here, is it not? Did you recognize this man? Men?”
“Can’t say I did,” Mr. Ross replied, following her. “There were three of them, not local men so far as I could see, though, of course, it was dark and they blew their light out as soon as they saw us. Honestly, I’d be surprised if they were from these parts.”
“So would I,” Etta agreed. The ordinary people were hardly well off, for the most part, but they all seemed honest and proud. “Only…why would strangers come here to rob this house?”
“Must have heard that you’d be away at the Roxburgh ball. Everyone knows there are no servants sleep here. Or were none.” He coughed. “Apart from my wife and me.”
“What did they steal?” Etta demanded, hurrying from the parlor across the hall to the library where she’d placed the majority of the money she’d brought with her, and where she’d discovered several valuable books.
“As far as I can tell,” Mr. Ross said, following at her heels, “they took nothing. We must have chased them off in time.”
The pile of books on the desk had tumbled over onto her accounts and papers, and she saw at once that books had been pulled off shelves and put back in the wrong order. “Did you tidy up in here?” Etta asked Mr. Ross.
“Yes, they’d pulled out a lot of the books. This is where we found them. They ran off through the window, which they must have unlocked in advance.”
Etta frowned. “But this makes no sense. They had time to tear up floorboards, uncover bookshelves and break things, but not to pick up any number of trinkets scattered in these rooms and the hallway? They didn’t even break into my desk,” she added, checking the drawer, “where there is a considerable amount of money.” She shut it again with a snap and locked it.
“They were looking for Prince Charlie’s gold,” Mrs. Ross said in despair.
Etta sat behind the desk and regarded her doubtfully.
“You don’t know that,” Mr. Ross soothed.
“What else could they have been doing?” Mrs. Ross demanded. “Did they break into Lochgarron House, too?”
“No,” her husband admitted. “For I sent Archie over to check.”
“Well, Rob Ogilvy was at the ball, along with us. Surely if some opportunist burglars had arrived in the area they would have tried his house, too? But no one ever accused him of hiding Jacobite gold!”
Etta blinked. “Actually, no one’s ever accused me of such a thing, either.”
“It’s an old legend, ma’am,” Mr. Ross explained apologetically. “That after the Jacobite rising in 1745, lots of the gold and monies collected for the cause were hidden in this house. Ardbeag belonged to a Jacobite before the Derwents bought it. But the story is, the soldiers never found the treasure, and they were only the first people to tear the house apart looking.”
Thoughtfully, Etta untied her bonnet and dropped it on top of the books on her desk. “And you really think our villains were looking for this gold? Why now, when the house is finally in use? Why not last week, before I arrived? Or any of the last decades when the house stood empty? Save for yourselves, of course.”
Mr. Ross shrugged. “I suppose the story was discounted and forgotten. I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t revived in some Inverness tavern when the gossip reached them of your arrival at Ardbeag. Or your desire to sell the place. Something like that could have inspired them, I suppose. But we can only guess.”
He scratched his head. “Anyway, now that you’re back, I’ll have a quick ride around and make sure no strangers are skulking in the neighborhood. And I’ll drop in at Lochgarron and have a word with Himself.”
“Himself?” Etta repeated with a flicker of amusement.
“Local habit,” Mr. Ross said apologetically. “Hereabouts, the Ogilvys of Lochgarron used to be more important than the Roxburghs. They lost most of their lands in the Rebellion, too, though by some loophole they managed to hang onto a corner of Lochgarron.”
Etta gave a half-smile. “Perhaps they stole our gold,” she said flippantly, “and that’s why no one ever finds it here.”
***
The following morning, Mrs. Ross burst into the library, where Etta was poring over books and lists. “Lochgarron is here!”
Etta glanced up, blinking. “I beg your pardon?”
“Rob Ogilvy of Lochgarron has just ridden up the drive.”
“Himself?” Etta said with a hint of sardonic humor. “Excellent.”
“What do you mean, excellent? What is he doing here?”
Etta was not used to being spoken to in such a manner by anyone, let alone by a dependent, whatever privileged position she appeared to occupy in the neighborhood. But the sharp set-down died on her lips, for it came to her that Mrs. Ross was genuinely upset by Mr. Ogilvy’s arrival.
“I invited him,” Etta said mildly. “Pray, what is there to excite you in that?”
“Nothing, of course,” Mrs. Ross muttered, dropping her gaze and smoothing her apron with unnecessary violence.
Etta regarded her curiously. “I’ve heard nothing bad about the man. Except his ancestor’s Jacobite tendencies. Do you know differently?”
“Of course not. He works hard at Lochgarron—with his own hands, too—and all his people are better off for it. A bit too fond of the lassies, perhaps, but that’s men for you.”
“Indeed, it is,” Etta said politely. “Then you’re not afraid of him?”
Mrs. Ross glowered. “Afraid of Rob Ogilvy? I should think not!”
Relieved, Etta smiled. “No, I should think it’s the other way around.”
A maid stuck her head around the library door. “Mr. Ogilvy of Lochgarron is here, m’lady. He says you’re expecting him.”
“Show him in, Morag, and bring tea, if you please.”
Before she’d finished speaking, a man strode past Morag and into the room. He was tall and very dark, younger than she expected, his too-long black hair blown by his ride into a fetching tangle. He wore a black coat and buff breeches, both too loosely fitting to be fashionable, and a very plainly tied neckcloth. In all, he was quite the wrong shape and coloring to be the man Mrs. Ross had pointed out to her at the ball as Ogilvy of Lochgarron.
“Mr. Ogilvy,” Etta said, rising and advancing upon him with outstretched hand. “Thank you for coming. I’m Henrietta Derwent.”
“How do you do?”
There seemed to be something about Scottish voices that affected her. Or perhaps it was the fact that he turned out to be quite devastatingly handsome. His fingers felt rough as they grasped hers and he bowed politely over her hand before immediately releasing it.
“Please, sit,” Etta invited, peculiarly flustered. “That will be all, Mrs. Ross.”
“Aye, but I think I’ll just sit over here to observe the proprieties,” Mrs. Ross said.
Etta turned and looked directly at her. She’d never commanded Mrs. Ross before, at least not against the woman’s own inclinations, and she was far from sure it could be done. Indeed, the outcome seemed to hang in the balance for a moment before the housekeeper’s eyes fell and she walked in silence from the room.
From the worn sofa, Mr. Ogilvy watched her go with something approaching admiration. “Good Lord. What spell have you cast over Mrs. Ross?”
“I’m sure it’s only temporary,” Etta said ruefully. “She is very…decisive for a housekeeper.”
“For anyone. She keeps us all in order around here.”
“Why?” Etta wondered.
Mr. Ogilvy shrugged. “History, I suppose. We all allow her the place her family once held. So far as we may.”
“And what place was that?”
“Her family used to hold Ardbeag—before the ’45. They lost everything in the Rebellion.”
Etta’s eyes widened. “This, Ardbeag, was her family’s home?” she said in wonder.
He nodded.
“Now you’ve lost me.”
Etta sank onto the other side of the sofa. “She knows I’ve come here to sell the place and that I mean to offer it first to you.”
He blinked. “You do?” For some reason, his eyes danced with mirth. His breath hissed out in silent laughter. “That is your proposition?”
She frowned, uncomprehending, although something in his words caught at her memory.
“Well, yes. I’ve come north specifically to sell Ardbeag. His Grace the Duke of Roxburgh suggested I speak first to you. He seemed to imagine you would be interested in buying, since the land marches with yours. Would you?”
He looked at her in silence for a moment, the dying smile lingering on his lips. “You are very direct.”
“I’ve never seen the point in being anything else. If we can agree a price, I think I must also stipulate that you keep Mrs. Ross as housekeeper.”
“Must you?” he said without emphasis.
“And Mr. Ross as the estate manager,” she added apologetically.
“I manage my own estates.” He turned up his calloused palms on his lap. “In fact, as you can see, I work them, too.”
“Yes, but if you expand into Ardbeag it will surely be too much for one man. Even you.”
His lips twitched. “Even me? Are you mocking me, Lady Derwent?”
“I wouldn’t dream of mocking Himself. Have we met before, Mr. Ogilvy? At the Duchess’s ball, perhaps?”
“I don’t go to balls.”
“Well, you’re certainly not the man Mrs. Ross pointed out as Mr. Robert Ogilvy.”
“Is that bad?”
“Not now that I understand why she did it. So, what do you think, sir? Obviously, I don’t expect an answer today, but will you consider buying?”
He leaned back, thoughtfully, his gaze still on her face. He had very dark, rather beautiful eyes for a man, with thick, black lashes.
Morag came in after the briefest of knocks, bearing a tea tray. In silence, very conscious of his steady regard, Etta poured the tea. “Sugar and cream?” she asked.
“No. Thank you.” Straightening, he took the saucer from her. “Do you know what they call the Duke of Roxburgh these days?”
“Your Grace?” she hazarded.
His lips quirked in acknowledgement. “Yes. They also call him The Marriage Maker.”
“Why?” she asked in surprise.
“It’s something he has the knack for. Apparently, it was he and not the old Duke, or even Chastity, who found husbands for his sisters-in-law. And others.”
“He is certainly an interesting man,” Etta allowed with perfect honesty. “I like him.”
“Most people do. Though God knows why. I’ll consider your offer.”
Etta blinked, bewildered by the sudden changes of subject. She found herself watching his lips on the rim of his cup as he drank, and hastily dragged her gaze free. “Thank you.”
“If the price is very good. And if you ride around the property with me tomorrow.”
“Gladly,” she said. “Though I’m sure you already know it far better than I. Then there is the house, too. This library alone is very fine, if you care for such things.”
“I do. I gather you do not?”
She blinked. “Why would you say that?”
He shrugged. “You’re selling it.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate it. Along with the house and the land.”
“And the people who live on it.”
“I imagine they will do better with a landlord who lives here than with an absentee.”
“True.”
She met his gaze, brows raised. “What exactly is it you are accusing me of, sir?”
“Nothing.”
“I inherited this land from my husband. It was not entailed and so does not pass to the new Lord Derwent.” Why was she telling him this? She had no need to be so defensive. She doubted he was even interested, for he was looking about, until his gaze paused on the books and papers on the table.
His gaze returned to her, suddenly, catching her stare. “Why are you selling?”
She shrugged. “It’s the sensible thing to do since I cannot live here.”
“Why not?”
Her lips parted, then she closed them again. He followed the movement without comment.
“My life is in the south,” she said at last. “In England.”
“You have children?”
“Sadly, no.” Derwent had spent his best—in every way—with his mistresses. “But I have other ties of family and friends.”
“Of course. Perhaps you know my sister, Lady Beddow.”
The blood drained from her face. “Lady Beddow is your sister?”
“Is that a problem?” he asked lightly.
“Of course not. Why would it be? But no, I am not acquainted with her, though I know her son slightly,”
“Stepson,” Mr. Ogilvy corrected.
The more distant the relationship, the happier Etta was, although why it should matter was beyond her. It came to her now that one of the reasons she’d been so eager to come to Scotland and attend to the sale of Ardbeag personally, was a desire to leave the silly games of men like George behind her. A civil, sophisticated liaison could be delicious, but with rejected lovers souring things, one could tire very quickly.
“I heard he was in Scotland,” Mr. Ogilvy said.
“I heard he was travelling back south,” Etta returned. “I trust you met him while he was here.”
Mr. Ogilvy smiled as though with fond remembrance. “Briefly.” He set down his teacup and saucer on the table in front of them. “Shall we say ten o’clock tomorrow morning?”
“Of course. Come up to the house and we’ll begin from here.” She rose as he did and once more offered her hand. “Goodbye until then.”
He took her hand in his rough fingers, his gaze once more intent upon her face. “I hear you had some trouble the other night,” he said abruptly. “I’m sorry for it.”
“Thank you, but I cannot believe you were responsible.”
“I can still be sorry you were subjected to such a crime, especially in my country. I’m making what inquiries I can.”
“Thank you,” she said, a little bewildered.
“Goodbye,” he said in his abrupt way and dropped her hand before striding to the door.
Again, familiarity stirred, but this time it had a face. Or, at least, a mask. “Mr. Ogilvy, do you have a brother?” she blurted.
He paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “No. Why?”
“No reason. You just remind me a little of someone I met once. Goodbye.”
He nodded. “Goodbye.”
***
Whether or not Mr. Ogilvy had anything to do with the masked stranger who’d danced with her and kissed her at the Roxburghs’ ball, Etta looked forward to her ride the following morning. Despite the nasty moment when he’d revealed his connection with George Beddow. There seemed to be something mysterious and exciting at work here, almost part of the sylvan beauty that surrounded her. For once in her life, she felt no urgency about anything, either to solve the mystery of the break-in, identify the masked stranger or sell Ardbeag.
After breakfast, Etta went to the kitchen and ordered a luncheon to carry on the day’s expedition.
Mrs. Ross nodded, though she sniffed with inevitable and obvious disapproval. “You’ll take Ross with you?” she suggested. “If you don’t care for the proprieties, he knows the land better than anyone.”
“Yes, he does, and I shall,” Etta agreed amicably. “Which is why I intend to make it a condition of sale that both you and Mr. Ross continue to be employed in your present positions by the new owner.”
Having said what she really came to, Etta departed again with an amiable nod in the stunned Mrs. Ross’s direction, and went to change into her riding habit.
She had just mounted her favorite mare and ridden h
er around to the front of the house when Mr. Ogilvy rode up the drive on a large, white stallion.
“What a beautiful beast!” she greeted him. “But you need some shining armor to do him justice.”
“Are you in need of a knight?” he inquired.
“No, but I like to keep one in reserve, just in case. Shall we go?”
“By all means.”
“I’ve sent for Mr. Ross, so presumably he’ll catch up with us,” Etta said, leading the way toward the wood and the river that ran through it. “You’ll already know what can be fished and hunted here?”
“Intimately. I poached here as a child. In fact, nearly all the children for miles around have poached here at one time or another.”
Etta cast him a quick smile. “Well you won’t need to poach any more if you buy.”
“That will be a comfort. How much of the estate have you seen? Have you discovered the waterfall?”
“Waterfall? No,” she said, intrigued. “Is it far?”
“Not if you’ve brought food.” Tugging on the reins, he turned his horse toward the hills and broke into a gallop. Etta, never one to lag behind, quickly caught up and they rode side by side at an exhilarating speed until the ground grew too difficult and they were forced to slow, panting from their exertions.
It wasn’t quite how Etta had imagined the day, conducting him decorously around the hunting and fishing grounds, the village and the farmlands, leaving Mr. Ross to answer awkward questions. Instead, Mr. Ross never appeared at all, and it was Robert Ogilvy who did the showing. The villagers and farm servants they met on the way all seemed to know him, addressing him by name in quite unawed manners. They bowed to her, too, gazing at her curiously, as though wondering about her connection to “Himself”. After all, even those who hadn’t met her must have known who she was.
“There are improvements that can be made to the land,” Ogilvy said once, as the horses picked their way uphill from two small farms growing oats and potatoes. “It could yield more than it does, to the benefit of all.”
“When it’s yours, I hope you will improve it all you like.”
Widow's Treasure (The Marriage Maker Book 19) Page 3
