Edward couldn’t meet her eyes. “Celia, you are unseemly.”
“I am practical,” Celia said. “The marriage is true and will remain so. Not the brilliant match everyone expected, I know. I’m certain Mama will write reams to you about it, once she ceases raging. But I am happy. I hope that is enough to assuage your anger. ”
Mrs. Reynolds broke in gently. “Perhaps an inn yard is not the place to quarrel about it. Lady Flora speaks highly of the man. Would you be willing to shake his hand?”
Celia did not want her brother, a soldier who’d fought under Cumberland to come face to face with Alec Mackenzie, but on the other hand, the sooner, the better. No one knew Alec as Alec—as far as most of the population of Britain was concerned, Lord Alec Mackenzie was no more.
Alec turned from the horses and came forward, hand outstretched. He’d pressed his hat firmly down to his ears, and took on the befuddled expression he’d been using with the innkeepers.
“Good afternoon, sir,” he said to Edward. “How do you do?”
Edward peered under the shadow of Alec’s hat as he accepted his outstretched hand, as though trying to decide what to make of him. “So you have married my sister, have you?” he asked in a stern voice. “Is she correct that you make her happy, or will I have to call you out?”
Alec flinched, the very picture of alarm and confusion. “Good heavens, no. Of course not. I am very much in love, sir. Very much in love. I wouldn’t know one end of a sword from the other.” He chortled nervously. “I believe Mrs. Finn is pleased with me. At least, she has said so.”
Celia, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, could say nothing at the moment.
Edward withdrew his hand, disapproval in his eyes. “A drawing master, eh? That sounds as though you don’t have many coins to rub together. How will you support her?”
Alec produced a convincing blush. “Oh, ah. Her ladyship, Lady Flora, has found me well-paying pupils, and I do have a small inheritance from my father. Enough to keep Mrs. Finn in fresh linen and decent wine, don’t you know.”
“Finn. Sounds Irish.”
“My father has a small landholding in that country. Very small. Nothing to what your father has. No, no.” Alec gave a breathy laugh, his expression holding just the right amount of humility.
Edward peered again beneath Alec’s hat brim, and this time, his eyes widened. “But you—”
He stood staring at Alec, mouth open, while Celia held her breath. Mrs. Reynolds had her hand in her muff, where Celia knew she kept a pistol. Alec had tensed, his hand edging to the top of his boot.
Then Edward shook himself. “No, no. Forgive my bad manners, Mr. Finn. I understand now why you didn’t continue to the house, Celia. Best to stay apart, let Mother and Father grow used to the idea—am I guessing correctly that they did not condone this marriage? That you eloped?”
Celia dropped her gaze, pretending shame, which was what Edward would expect. “We did. Mama was going to push me into yet another unfortunate match, and I’m afraid I ran away. I had already developed an attachment to Mr. Finn, and he had the kindness to help me.”
Every word true, except Alec’s name.
Edward kept his reproving expression but at last gave Celia a nod. “I understand. But you, sir, if you cause my sister any unhappiness, you will have to discover which end of the sword to hold and answer to me.”
“Yes, yes, indeed.” Alec bowed nervously. “Of course, your lordship. I am quite aware of the honor, Lady Celia has bestowed upon me, quite aware—”
“Enough.” Edward took on his bluff, superior tones. “Good day, Celia. Mr. Finn. Mrs. Reynolds. I hope we all may meet again in happier times.”
Edward tipped his hat then swung around and strode again for the gate, the tails of his red coat stirring.
Celia let out a long breath. Mrs. Reynolds moved swiftly into the inn, requesting rooms for them, and Celia followed. Alec hung back to confer with the coachman, who’d also watched the conversation with great uneasiness. Celia realized that all three of them—Mrs. Reynolds, Alec, and the coachman—had been prepared to kill or at least incapacitate Edward if he’d guessed who Alec was.
The knowledge shook her. She had married Alec, and she was falling in love with him, but Edward was her brother. Would it come to making a choice between them?
She prayed not. She also sent up a brief thanks to the Deity that no other soldiers were in the halls of the inn, or the taproom—she glanced inside as she passed. Edward had been alone.
And then that fact bothered her—Edward was always accompanied by his batman or some servant, and usually a friend or two. So what was he truly doing here, alone in this inn, instead of riding straight for Hungerford Park? She mulled this over as she followed the landlady to her rooms above to wait for Alec.
Celia was washing her hands and face in the basin when Alec came in. Celia turned to him, her face dripping, and reached for the linen towel that hung at the washstand.
Alec closed the door quietly and tossed his hat to a hook, but his face held grim tightness, and his eyes sparkled with fury.
“It’s here,” Alec said as Celia dried her face and came to him. “Will is in that house, Celia. I feel it in my bones. And your brother knows all about it.”
Celia’s distress reached Alec as they ate the meal he barely tasted and on into the darkening night, but Alec couldn’t concentrate enough to reassure her. He knew in his heart Will was in that old manor house, and it was all he could do not to ride off immediately and rescue him.
At a certain time in his life, Alec would have torn off at once, damn the consequences. Only experience and what he’d learned from Will himself stayed his hand.
If he charged through the woods, no matter how stealthily, the guards who were certain to be posted would stumble upon him, and if he wasn’t shot outright, he’d end up inside the prison, keeping Will company.
He needed a cool head, and a plan.
Alec stared out the window, though he couldn’t see much but the corner of the yard. He half expected Edward to return, bringing a contingent of soldiers with him. He was certain Edward had realized Alec was a Highlander, and had thought one of the prisoners had escaped.
Celia remained on the stool at the fire, staring into the flames, an untouched cup of coffee on the table.
Alec pried himself from the window and went to sit with her. “I’m sorry, love.”
Celia looked up at him, and Alec was startled to find her eyes full of anger. “Not your fault if Edward has a part in locking men into secret prisons. Oh, Alec, if he has done this, what am I to do?”
“I wish I could tell you.” Alec rested his hand on her cold one. “My only worry at the moment is to decide how I rush in and take my brother out. I won’t have the wherewithal to ponder the grand implications of it all until later. That’s why I’m sorry.”
Celia let out a breath. “I’ve always admired my brother. So proud when he decided to become an officer instead of idle away his time like so many first sons do, waiting to inherit. We were so fond of each other as children. He was angry at me, yes, when I wouldn’t marry Lord Harrenton, but I held out hope that we’d reconcile.” She shivered. “But I couldn’t forgive this.”
“We don’t know for certain your brother is involved,” Alec said. “I know I said that, but I could be wrong.” Alec didn’t think he was, but Celia’s anguish cut at him.
“He was very nervous,” Celia said. “Far more worried about me catching him here than I was of him. It took him a few minutes to realize he ought to wonder why I’d come. Then when he looked at you …”
“I know,” Alec answered. “It was a bad moment.”
“So, what do we do?”
Alec lifted Celia’s hand and kissed it. “For that, I have a few ideas. We need a council of war—I’d like Mrs. Reynolds in on it, if ye don’t mind. She and Lady Flora are a devious pair.”
Celia agreed. Not long later, Mrs. Reynolds entered the room and they gathered ar
ound the small table, speaking in low voices.
Mrs. Reynolds, now that they were in private, lost the quiet deference she assumed even in Lady Flora’s house. She gave Alec a blunt stare and declared they should all return to London at once.
“Aye, I was thinking so,” Alec said.
Celia flashed him a look of surprise. “I thought you wanted to investigate the house. You said you felt it in your bones—are you thinking that perhaps your bones are unreliable?”
Alec gave her the ghost of a smile. “No, I still believe Will’s here. I can feel it. Mal’s theory is that because I’m quick to learn the layout of a place and remember it that I catch clues that most people miss—even I miss them until I reason out what I’ve seen. However, you are right. I can’t say for certain he’s there. But it’s only a matter of getting close enough to find out.”
Celia shuddered. “Please go no closer than this, at least not tonight.”
“Not with your brother roaming about. He might have alerted the soldiers.” Alec leaned across the table to her. “I have an idea how we might search. You won’t like it, love, but I can think of no other way.”
“What?” Celia asked, torn between curiosity and anxiety. “Disguise ourselves as farmers and pretend we’re looking for lost cows?”
Alec’s eyes crinkled. “I like that, but I don’t believe I could be convincing. No, lass, I was thinking we’d return to London, as Mrs. Reynolds suggests, and you face your mum and dad, and ask for their blessing.”
Chapter 24
Celia sat in cold shock while Alec outlined his plan, which was both calculating and terrifying.
She knew he was right—she would have to face her parents sooner or later. What she’d hoped was that they’d find Alec’s brother, fetch Jenny, hop into a boat for the Continent, and from there she could write a long letter to her father, a lengthier version of the note she’d sent him from Josette’s boarding house.
She and the duke would correspond for a time, years perhaps, before she returned to London. By that time, the scandal of her elopement would have worn off, and she and her father could laugh about it.
“What if they refuse to see reason?” she asked in near panic. “Have you arrested for abducting me?”
Mrs. Reynolds broke in. “Do not fear, my lady. We will have Lady Flora on our side. She will make your mother understand that accepting Mr. Finn and blessing the marriage will be the least embarrassing course for her all around. Who knows? If your father declares he will make something of Mr. Finn, groom him as an MP or some such, then your marriage will be seen as a boon rather than a misalliance.”
It was not a misalliance. Celia’s father and Alec’s were of equal rank—whatever the English might think of a Scottish title—but that was hardly the point.
“Until my father’s men of business discover there is no Mr. Finn, small landholder in Ireland,” Celia pointed out.
“But there is such a man,” Alec said calmly. “I’ve a friend called Alden Finn, whose father recently passed and left him a bit of land in County Cork. There’s even a ruined castle on it to give it éclat.”
Celia let out her breath in irritation. “I ought to have guessed. You have friends who lend you uniforms, boats in which to escape, and now a name and family history.”
Alec nodded, far from contrite. “I knew there’d be a risk that some clever-wit would look into the background of Mr. Finn. So I made certain he had one.”
“Bloody cheek,” Celia growled.
Alec grinned at her exasperation. “You’re very beautiful when ye glare at me like that, lass.”
“If we may resume,” Mrs. Reynolds interjected, while Celia’s face heated. “Lord Alec is correct. We must return to London, make your parents swallow your marriage without fuss, and carry on with the plan. Lady Flora, as I say, will be a great help. She can be very persuasive.”
All three of them nodded thoughtfully.
“Well then,” Alec said. “We leave at first light. If we change horses often enough, we’ll reach London by midnight. My daughter is waiting there, impatient for her da’.”
And Alec keenly felt the separation, Celia could see.
Mrs. Reynolds departed then, and Alec ate heartily of the supper the landlady had provided. Celia’s interest in food revived as well—deciding to act was certainly preferable to brooding.
She and Alec made love well into the night, and both were red-eyed and exhausted by the time they piled into the coach, driving out of the inn’s yard as dawn broke.
The journey to London was silent, no one wanting much to speak now that plans were laid. Celia went over and over the speech she’d give her father when they arrived, telling him how she’d allowed her heart to decide her happiness, how her natural prudence had first made certain Mr. Finn would make a good husband.
With Alec, Lady Flora, and Mrs. Reynolds playing their parts, Celia believed they’d get away with the deception for now. But how long would that last? One day, Alec would be known as a Mackenzie—they could not live a lie forever.
One thing at a time, Celia told herself. First, they must see that Alec’s brother was safe, then they would decide how they would live. Exile was the most likely choice. Celia’s heart sank at the thought, but she steeled herself. She was no wilting weed—her family was old and powerful, and she possessed their strength and steadfastness that had let them survive for centuries.
The first stop when they reached London was Josette’s house. Alec declared he and Celia would not be going back to stay with Lady Flora, and he wanted to make sure Jenny was well. Celia had a wash before she climbed to the nursery to find Alec holding his sleepy daughter, speaking in a low voice to her.
“What is that language?” Celia asked as Alec’s musical words washed over her. “You told me Irish when I first met you—after you tried to make me believe it was Greek.”
“Erse,” Alec answered. “Which is similar to the Irish language—I did not mislead you much. Both tongues have a common origin. Erse is the language of my fathers, and I want Jenny to know it.”
“It will be banned, won’t it?” Celia said. “Everything about being Scots will.”
“Yes.” Alec’s tone was grim, yet he showed nothing but tenderness as he looked down at Jenny. “But this little one won’t grow up in fear, denying who and what she is.”
“We’ll have to live on the Continent a long time then,” Celia observed.
Alec sent her a startled look, followed by a grin. “My ever practical Celia. One thing I love about you.”
Love. Celia suppressed the jolt that ran through her. He’d said the word when he’d spoken to Edward—I am very much in love, sir. Very much in love.
But he’d been playacting, hadn’t he? Saying what would keep Edward calm, and fooled. Alec tossed the syllable out as though it was nothing.
It was everything to Celia.
And yet, Alec was a loving man. He demonstrated it all the time with Jenny, showed it in his terrible fear about his brother, and in the fact that he had raced across the Channel to find Will, leaving his younger brother safely behind. He’d also been married before, and grieved his wife’s passing.
“Tell me about Jenny’s mother,” Celia said softly. “What was she like?”
“Genevieve?” Alec opened his mouth, paused, closed it, and frowned. Jenny burrowed into his shoulder, making contented noises.
“The truth is, I barely knew the lass,” Alec said, candlelight playing shadows across his face. “She was a dancer in the opera. A wild thing, flittering and fluttering, her feet never touching the ground. I chased her—she chased me. We had an exciting affair, and I talked her into marrying me—I suspected she was carrying my child.” He splayed his hand across Jenny’s back. “We married but we never settled down. I thought there’d be plenty of time for that later. I went back and forth from France to Scotland, and when Prince Teàrlach crossed to Scotland and stirred up trouble, I told Genevieve to remain in Paris. We’d reunite after the Up
rising was settled one way or the other.”
He let out a breath, his gaze going remote. “And then she was gone. A man brought a letter to me while Mal and I stood in the street outside our house in Edinburgh. The letter said Genevieve died bringing in our babe but that Jenny was alive and well. Malcolm put me on a ship, and I went to find Jenny.
“Genevieve’s family had already buried her by the time I reached Paris, and I realized how little I knew about her. I didn’t even know her sisters and brothers or her friends, and most of those friends weren’t aware she’d married me.” Alec shook his head. “It was like a dream, or a play. Just when you begin to know the actors, the curtain closes, and the fantasy dissolves.”
He trailed off, his voice glum, his words blending into the shadows closing on them.
“Jenny didn’t,” Celia said quietly.
Alec’s eyes softened. “Except Jenny. Aye, she’s real enough. The first night I knew her, I changed her nappy three times, and her screams went right through my head. She’s a Mackenzie all right, making sure she’s center of everyone’s world.” Alec kissed her hair, and Jenny gurgled.
“You are good to her.”
Alec’s brows went up. “Of course I’m good to her. I’m her dad, aren’t I?”
Celia knew full well that many a gentleman wouldn’t bother with an unexpected child, especially a girl. Alec could have denied Jenny was his and thrust her upon Genevieve’s family, or left her with a parish as a foundling.
Or he could not have gone to Paris for her at all, leaving Jenny’s fate in others’ hands. Instead, he’d rushed across the water to find his daughter, to make sure she was taken care of. Alec was a rare man, and Celia’s heart warmed.
He held Jenny close and spoke to Celia over her head. “You should go down to bed, love. It was a long journey.”
“I know, but I wanted to say good-night to Jenny.”
Alec’s eyes flickered. “You’re the one who’s good to her, lass.”
Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction: Mackenzies (Mackenzies Series Book 9) Page 22
