by Julia London
The man had a mean way of speaking. An uneducated English accent. Nichol glanced at Dunnan.
“Mr. Cockburn!” his mother said sharply. “Is this true?”
Dunnan turned to his mother, his expression that of a child who had been caught being naughty. “Mamma, you must forgive me,” he said desperately.
That settled it—Dunnan was a weak fool, and Nichol wanted to kick himself for ever having thought to marry Maura to him.
The man in the green cloak began to walk around the room, studying the guests, his eyes on the women’s jewels. “Now, I could rob you all of your jewelry,” he mused as he moved by them. “Alas, all I see is cheap costume.” He turned his head and looked at Maura. Nichol imagined that her necklace shone like a beacon across the room.
“Except for that one,” he said, and strolled across the room.
Maura’s hand instantly went to her throat.
Nichol stepped in front of her. “Who are you?” he demanded of the man.
“Me? Why I am Julian Pepper, at your service, milord,” he said with a sneer, and bowed with exaggerated flourish. “Purveyor in hard to obtain goods, moneylender and governor of justice and truth.” He laughed.
His clothes were expensive, yet worn. He was wearing a wig made of horsehair. His shoes were muddied, his chin rough with stubble and he smelled of smoke.
“What business have you here, before Cockburn’s guests and mother, then?” Nichol asked.
Julian Pepper put his hand to his chest and reared backward. “I beg your pardon, sir, but are you the man responsible here? I thought it Mr. Cockburn.”
Dunnan looked almost tearful, as if he thought he was about to meet his Maker. “I didna know how to put it all to rights, Bain, on my word, I didna know.”
“Put what to rights?” Nichol asked, although he already knew the answer. He wanted to hear Dunnan say it.
Mr. Pepper looked at Dunnan, who was having trouble answering the basic question. “Shall I say?” he asked cheerfully. “He owes a bit of money, he does, due to his wagering. Uncontrollable wagering, I should amend. He borrowed a tidy sum from my benefactor.”
Dunnan winced, but offered no alternative explanation.
“I told you no’ to go to London,” Nichol muttered.
“I didna listen!” Dunnan said tearfully. “’Tis my fault. All my fault.”
“There is no dispute as to that,” Nichol said coolly.
“Now then,” Mr. Pepper said. “How shall we see this debt repaid, sirs?”
Someone in the troupe moved or spoke, and one of Mr. Pepper’s ruffians shouted, “Stop there, lad, or I’ll blast your bloody head from your shoulders, I will.” The troupe sounded like a flock of morning wrens as they made little mewling cries and huddled closer together.
“See here!” Mrs. Cockburn said, and hauled herself to her feet and strode across the room to Mr. Pepper and grabbed his arm. Mr. Pepper twisted around and slapped her hard across her cheek.
Everyone gasped. Nichol was stunned, and he put his arm out, reflexively, across Maura. “Donna lay another hand, sir,” he said low.
“Or what?” Mr. Pepper asked loudly. “You’ll single-handedly fight us?” He laughed. “All right then, lovie, lets have the necklace,” he said, and gestured to Maura’s neck.
“No,” Maura said.
Pepper arched a brow. “I beg your pardon?”
“Just give it to him, Miss Darby,” Dunnan pleaded.
“No,” she said again, and covered it with both hands.
Mr. Pepper lifted his hand, no doubt with the intent of striking her, too, but Nichol caught his arm with strength that felt almost unnatural and squeezed tight. “You donna want to do that,” he said.
“Do I not?” Mr. Pepper sneered.
“No,” Nichol let go of his arm. “You’d no’ get what you want for the jewelry around here. You’d need go to London to ask a proper price, and would there no’ be questions about how you came upon such an astounding piece of jewelry?”
Mr. Pepper’s eyes narrowed.
“What is the debt?” Nichol asked.
Pepper paused. “Two thousand pounds,” he said, eyeing Nichol curiously.
That announcement was met with gasps of shock from the troupe. God curse Dunnan. Nichol couldn’t believe he’d actually been tolerant of the bloody fool, had believed his vows that he would keep his purse in Luncarty. His estate was entailed—he couldn’t draw from it. He bloody well did not have two thousand pounds to squander at a gaming hell.
“Diah save us,” Mrs. Cockburn whimpered, and stumbled backward, falling into a chair so heavily that the card table was tipped over and upended with a clatter of glasses and coins.
“Bloody hell, will you allow a man to think?” Mr. Pepper shouted, then turned a glare to Nichol. “I may not get what the necklace is worth, but I’ll get something,” he said, and tried to step around Nichol.
But Nichol blocked him, putting himself fully before Maura. “There are other ways to get what is owed.”
“And what would that be?”
“Ransom,” Nichol said. His thoughts were jumbled, and he grabbed at the first word in his head.
Pepper laughed.
“He’s right,” Dunnan said suddenly. “He is the son of the Baron MacBain of Comrie!”
Regrettably, the only other person Nichol had ever told the truth of his identity, besides Maura, was Dunnan. The man he had considered his friend, in a loose moment of inebriation, had betrayed him.
Behind Nichol, Maura gasped. She tried to move around him, but Nichol put his hand on the side of her leg, stopping her. He cast a withering gaze at Dunnan. He had been prepared to offer himself up, if only to remove this debacle from the salon and away from Maura’s necklace. But the fact that Dunnan had just betrayed his trust only served to anger him more.
Pepper looked curiously at Nichol.
“Aye, it’s true. First born of the Baron William MacBain of Cheverock. Now there is a man who has built his wealth and has no’ squandered it on useless cards and games of chance. You may inquire of anyone in Scotland if you donna believe me.”
“It’s true,” Dunnan said.
“Why in blazes would you offer yourself as ransom?” Pepper said.
Nichol shrugged. “There is no love between my father and me, and I donna care that he would lose two thousand pounds from his vast fortune. But I care that these people go unharmed. They had naught to do with what happened in London.”
“No, Nichol,” Maura said, her voice shaking. She gripped his arm, her fingers squeezing into his flesh. “Please donna do this.”
“Quiet, woman,” Pepper said, and looked at Dunnan.
Dunnan, the coward, nodded quickly. “It is true. A wealthy man, the baron. Verra wealthy.”
Still, Pepper eyed Dunnan and Nichol with suspicion. He moved to stand in front of Dunnan, towering over him by a foot. “Be advised, Mr. Cockburn, that if this is some sort of trick, I’ll come back to slit your throat. Don’t doubt it.”
“No,” Dunnan said, and swallowed. “I donna doubt it.”
“Well, then, lads, bring him along,” Pepper said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at Nichol. “If his father is as wealthy as that, perhaps he’ll pay three thousand pounds for him, aye?” He laughed.
“No!” Maura said. She clung to Nichol’s arm. “They can have it,” she begged him, but one of the ruffians jerked him hard away from her.
“No!” Maura shouted again.
Nichol glanced back at her and smiled. “Uist, lass,” he said, telling her to hush. He had a far better chance of finding his way out of this debacle without her and the others to think of. But for the first time since he’d met her, she looked frightened. Terrified, really. He realized she was terrified for him, and it speared him. No one had ever cared so much for him. All his life, h
e’d yearned for affection, for someone to care, but had been too fearful to allow it to happen. And now that he had it, he’d been on the verge of giving it away. If he found his way out of this mess, he would never make that mistake again. He’d wanted to tell her in the hall—he would never let her go. “Trust me, aye?” he begged her. “Donna fret, lass. Tout est bien.”
All is well.
But Maura, her face contorted with her terror, shook her head. She knew better than that. “Es ist nicht,” she responded in German. It is not.
It didn’t matter—they had him in hand, were dragging him from the salon as everyone exclaimed and threatened the men. Yet not a single one of them moved. Only Maura followed helplessly behind.
“Bain! Bain, you must believe me, I am so verra sorry for it!” Dunnan cried.
Nichol rolled his eyes, and Pepper laughed. They carried on, pausing in the foyer when Nichol insisted he be allowed to fetch his greatcoat. “And where do you mean to hold me, then?” he asked casually as he shoved into his greatcoat.
“You’ll see soon enough, won’t you? So, what do you say your father has a year? Twenty thousand?”
“At least,” he said. Nichol had no idea what the baron was worth. He looked around him, saw the butler hiding in the hallway, watching warily. “Fillian, is it?” he asked.
Fillian cleared his throat and stepped into the foyer. “Aye, sir.”
“Rouse the lad, Gavin, and tell him to prepare to ride.”
“What? This isn’t a bloody holiday, Bain,” Pepper said.
It certainly was not. “He’s my groom. He knows where to take the ransom demand, aye? Or, if you like, you can send one of your men, but my father’s home is rather remote—”
“Fine, fetch him,” Pepper commanded with a flick of his wrist. “Come on, then, enough talking,” he said, and yanked open the front door. Frigid air rushed in as Nichol was ushered outside.
He felt strangely composed as they pushed him down the steps to waiting horses. He wasn’t frightened—that would come later, when they discovered his father wouldn’t pay as much as a pence to save him before he could think his way out of this. What he felt was the deadly calm of uncontrollable fury. The heartbreak of realizing when it was too late that love was possible for a man like him.
If he survived this, he would come back and kill Dunnan with his bare hands.
And then, he would settle things with Maura. Dunnan may have left him in quite a predicament, but he’d left too many things unsaid with Maura. He’d created a problem that he needed to fix. For all of eternity. He would figure something out, because that’s what he did.
If he survived this.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THEY HEARD THE front door slam shut, and all of them leaned forward, listening, perhaps expecting them to come back. But when no one came, the room erupted into shouting.
Shouting at Mr. Cockburn for having brought them here and exposing them to this. Shouting at each other to gather their things. Shouting, shouting, angry shouting.
In the midst of it Maura stood, her fists clenched, her breath coming in gulps. She had never been so frightened in her life. Not when she was taken from the only home she’d ever known to go and live as the ward of the Garbetts. Not when the Garbetts sent her away to live with David Rumpkin in that nightmare of a house. Not when she’d escaped Nichol in the dead of night and fled. This fright was much deeper than any of those times. This fright was tinged with the sense of looming loss, the fear for someone else and her own inability to affect his fate.
He had sacrificed himself to save her necklace. He had done that for her. For her.
He really did love her, and he couldn’t pretend any longer that there was a better life for her without him.
Maura was also furious. She felt a fury so great that she could scarcely contain it. She slowly turned to look at Mr. Cockburn, who, like her, was oblivious to the flurry of activity around them. He stared at her, wide-eyed, as if he expected her to strike him and couldn’t seem to brace himself for it.
“Be prepared to leave at first light!” Mr. Johnson bellowed at his troupe.
“Should we not flee tonight?” someone asked, and the group descended into a round of arguing about what they ought to do.
Maura took a step closer to Mr. Cockburn. He flinched. She took another step.
“Maura! It’s decided! We leave at first light,” Susan said, appearing at her side. She grabbed Maura’s arm. “You’ll be ready, won’t you?”
Maura did not answer. She did not remove her gaze from Mr. Cockburn.
Susan disappeared with the rest of them, all of them clambering up to their rooms, arguing and shouting, some of them reliving the terror from their own unique perspective about what they’d just witnessed.
When they had gone, only Maura, Mr. Cockburn and his mother remained.
Mrs. Cockburn was sitting at the table someone had set upright, staring morosely at the floor. Somehow, half her hair had come out of its coif. She had an angry red mark on her cheek where Mr. Pepper had slapped her. She seemed suddenly much older. As Maura stood seething, Mrs. Cockburn glanced up at her son. “Two thousand pounds, Dunnan?”
He dropped his head forlornly.
“Do you no’ have something you can sell to repay the debt, then?” Maura heard herself ask. “Acreage? Livestock? Your linen factory?”
Mr. Cockburn shook his head. “The property is entailed, aye? Bain sold what I could legally sell the last time.” His voice was quivering, and he looked close to collapse. “Our linen manufacture has been hampered by competition from Glasgow.” He lifted his head and looked at the both of them. “I should have told you, Mamma, that we’ve been struggling in the last year.”
“Then why?” Maura demanded angrily. “Why risk what you donna have to risk?”
“I donna know,” he said, sounding pathetically tearful now. “I canna seem to stop myself.”
That only made her angrier. “Were you going to tell me the truth, Mr. Cockburn? Or did you intend to offer knowing that you had lost so much?”
He didn’t answer her, but looked down at his feet.
“What are we to do?” Mrs. Cockburn asked.
“We have to help him,” Maura said, uncertain if the question had been asked of her. “You must have something, sir. What of this?” she asked, and with both hands, picked up a heavy gold candelabra. “You’ve several of them. Surely you’ve enough gold in this house—”
“Gold plate,” Mrs. Cockburn said.
“Pardon?”
“It’s gold plated. No’ gold.”
“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Cockburn sputtered. “It was to be gold!”
“I know what it was to be!” his mother said sharply, and looked away.
Maura set it down. “Then what of your china?” she asked. “Your paintings?” She looked between mother and son, wanting an answer, but both of them avoided her gaze by glaring at each other. “None of it is authentic?” she asked disbelievingly. The trappings of wealth in this house were counterfeit? They’d flitted away their fortune and had nothing to show for it? “Diah save you,” she said, and started for the door. “An innocent man could be killed for this.”
“Donna be so dramatic, Miss Darby,” Mrs. Cockburn said harshly. “His father will pay his ransom.”
“His father?” Maura laughed with impotent rage. “His father willna pay his ransom, madam! He does no’ claim him as his son! He has all but banished him from his life.” She looked at Dunnan Cockburn. “And you knew it. He told you so. You knew it, and still you offered him up for a ransom you knew would no’ be paid.” Mr. Cockburn’s chin began to tremble.
Maura could hardly look at him and whirled around.
“Wait!” Mrs. Cockburn called. “Where are you going?”
“To determine how to save him, aye? I need to think.
You,” she said to Mr. Cockburn, “have destroyed me. You have taken the only thing that mattered to me, aye? You have ruined my love.”
“I beg your pardon, but I donna understand,” he said.
She wasn’t going to waste her breath explaining to him. She walked out, striding down the hallway. Then running. Running up the stairs, down the hall where everyone was madly moving about, packing, preparing to escape.
Maura went directly to Nichol’s room, throwing the door open, madly hoping that by some miracle, he had escaped, and he was there, waiting for her.
He wasn’t there.
She looked wildly about, uncertain what to do. His few things neatly stacked on a stool. His plaid, which she took and wrapped around her shoulders. She went down on her knees and went through his leather bag. A few items of clothing, shaving implements. His book, An Enquiry Concerning the Principle of Morals. She pressed her forehead against that book and thought of him that night under the stars, casually reading as if he was seated at his hearth. There was his purse with a few pounds, a key to heaven knew what.
She gathered all his things and took them to her room. And then she paced. She paced back and forth in that small space, racking her brain for how to help him. She couldn’t leave Nichol like this. He had no one. It was a horrible feeling to know one was alone in the world—the good Lord knew she understood. Nichol was just like her, he had no one.
You’re a bloody fool, Nichol Bain. How could he not see that this was what made them so perfect for each other? They had only each other. He loved her—he loved her. And she loved him.
Maura paced until she was certain she’d worn a hole in the carpet. But when she had exhausted herself, she calmly packed her few things, and his, then lay on her bed in the pink silk gown with the white petticoat.
She didn’t know how this would go, or what to expect. She was Nichol’s only hope and had to fix this for him. She loved him enough to sacrifice, too.
* * *
