Highlanders

by Tarah Scott

“Phoebe, darling.” Leticia glided past Gaylon and across the room. “It's so good to have you back.” Upon reaching her side, Leticia placed a hand on her shoulder, then bent and kissed her cheek. “Look darlings,” Leticia glanced over her shoulder at her companions, “isn’t she radiant?” She faced Lord Redgrave. “My lord.” She extended a gloved hand, which he graciously grasped and brought to his lips.

  “Lady Mansford.” He looked over her hand at Phoebe, amusement twinkling his eyes. He straightened and looked at the other two women, who stood near the door. When they didn’t approach, he strode to them. “Lady Carlton,” he said, as he neared them. He grasped her hand and kissed it as he had Leticia’s. “Miss Smith.” He turned to her and bent over her hand, as well. “It is good of you ladies to visit Miss Wallington on her first day back.”

  Phoebe's jaw tightened when Lady Mansford ensconced herself in the chair Alistair had vacated. He offered an arm to each of the other two ladies and escorted them to Phoebe’s side. He released them and looked about the room.

  “Ah,” he said, and hurried to Phoebe’s desk. He picked up the chair there, and carried it to the ladies. He placed the chair beside Leticia's chair. “Now.” He again looked thoughtfully around the room.

  “By heavens, Redgrave,” Phoebe blurted, “seat them on the settee.”

  “Miss Wallington,” he said, his voice brimming with reproof, “the settee is too far from the hearth. There is a definite chill in the air today, and the ladies have just arrived. I strongly advise the four of you stay as close to the fire as possible. Gaylon,” Redgrave’s expression brightened, “be so good as to find another chair for,” he glanced back at Brenda Smith, who still stood, “Miss Smith.”

  “Of course, sir,” Gaylon said, and disappeared into the hallway.

  “What do you want?” Phoebe demanded of Leticia.

  Leticia gave her companions a knowing look, then produced a newspaper clipping from her purse.

  “You naughty girl,” Leticia chided, waving the clipping. “Matty, Brenda, and I were quite peeved that you hadn’t uttered a peep about the marquess’ intentions. Isn’t that right ladies?” They murmured agreement and she went on. “You must tell us all about him.” Leticia leaned forward in her chair, expectantly.

  There was no mistaking the gleam of excitement in her eyes, but Phoebe noted an underlying trace of malevolent jealousy. “There's nothing to tell,” she said.

  “Nothing to tell?” Leticia pouted. “You mean to keep us in suspense?”

  “What I mean—” Phoebe stopped when Gaylon reappeared, carrying a wing backed chair. He set the chair next to hers, and Miss Smith sat down.

  Phoebe glowered at Lord Redgrave who hovered over them like a mother hen. “Have you nowhere to seat yourself?” she demanded.

  “I will do very well standing. Thank you, my dear.”

  “My dear, indeed,” she muttered, then looked at Leticia. “There is nothing to say, because the announcement was a mistake.”

  Lady Mansford studied the announcement. “No,” she pointed with a gloved finger at the text. “It says right here, His Grace, the Duke of Ashlund, is proud to announce the—”

  “I don't care what it says,” Phoebe snapped. "The announcement is incorrect.”

  The room fell quiet. Leticia refolded the clipping, creasing each fold with deliberate precision. She placed it inside her reticule, then looked Phoebe in the eye, and said, “He is no child. He must understand the need for discretion. Also, there are your sensitivities.”

  Phoebe frowned. “What—"

  “A newly married man won't flaunt his dalliances to the world. Never fear,” Leticia patted Phoebe’s knee, “I'm certain his father will take him to task for forgetting he is about to be a married man.”

  Phoebe stared. “You think I am denying the engagement because he dallied with some—" Alistair coughed discreetly. She scowled. “This is rubbish.”

  “His father married that American woman some years ago,” Leticia said. “I don’t recall even a whisper of infidelity.” She smiled. “Yes, I am correct. His father will take him to task. If Lord Ashlund is half as discreet as his father, you will be a lucky woman. I wager this will be settled in time for the two of you to attend the Halsey soiree.”

  Phoebe shot to her feet. “I assure you, Lord Ashlund has not been unfaithful. It would be impossible.”

  Leticia made a tsking sound. “I wish you all the happiness in the world, but don't delude yourself as to the nature of the male of our species.”

  “Nature of the male of our species?” Phoebe looked helplessly at Alistair.

  “Perhaps we should leave Lord Ashlund’s reputation to him?” he offered.

  “Indeed,” Phoebe agreed. “Considering he has dragged my repu—”

  “Miss Wallington.” Redgrave’s voice was low, but firm.

  Phoebe glanced from him to the two women who had remained mute throughout the meeting. “Ladies,” she said, “I had not intended to entertain today. Good day.”

  With that, she quit the room.

  *****

  Three days later, Phoebe closed the door to the drawing room and Alistair turned from the window overlooking the gardens.

  "Where is Susan?" he asked. "Isn't she to accompany us to Lady Halsey's party?"

  Phoebe hurried across the room.

  "You look beautiful," he said, when she reached him.

  She shook her head. "I have decided not to go."

  "But you're dressed."

  "Alistair, you are well aware that the only reason I received this invitation is because of my engagement to Ashlund. Lady Halsey has never before invited to me to one of her parties. I don't move in her circles."

  "That has changed," he replied.

  "I'm in no mood for a party."

  “So you have said for the last three days. It's time you resign yourself to the notion.”

  “Resign myself to the notion of spying on the marquess, you mean,” she said in a whisper.

  “Your engagement will circumvent the gossip that is sure to ruin you. Cut off the beast at its head, sort to speak.”

  “That is not the head I would choose to cut off."

  "I understand your consternation."

  "Consternation?" She grimaced. "You have a talent for understating a situation, my lord."

  "Better that than melodrama," he replied

  "You haven't heard anything on Ashlund's whereabouts?" She would have liked to believe the marquess had changed his mind about marrying her, but that, she suspected, would be too good to be true. "I don't like the fact that we haven't heard anything from him." Or her uncle, for that matter.

  "Once I hear from my man, I'll fill you in on the marquess' movements. Alistair's expression gentled. "We have no proof that Ashlund has committed any crime. If he is an honorable man, you could do worse."

  “By all accounts I have made the match of the decade," Phoebe said, "perhaps even the century.” She was suddenly struck by a thought. "You don't believe he's guilty." Redgrave didn't immediately answer, and she said, "I've known you all my life, Alistair. You would never try to marry me off to a criminal." Would you?

  "I am slow to come to judgment in such matters." He smiled. "You, of all people, can understand why."

  "I do. Only, you weren't there, you didn't see what I saw." Kiernan MacGregor telling her to mind her own business…Kiernan MacGregor blind with rage when he attacked Robbie, and Kiernan MacGregor holding her until her dizzy spell passed…then him tucking her into bed.

  “Is marriage so terrible?” Redgrave asked.

  Phoebe stirred from the memories. “Marriage isn't in my plans.”

  He sighed. “Have you considered putting the past behind you, letting your father’s memory rest?”

  Stafford’s letters came to mind. The memory of what she read in the remaining documents brought a chill just as it had the first time she read them. Was what Stafford said true? Had Alistair kept her in the dark all these years about the truth con
cerning her father?

  “No,” she replied. “I won't stop until I have my answers.”

  “As you wish. Cry off from the marquess—when the time is right, not before.”

  “Yes,” she replied caustically. “I understand my duty."

  "Do you?"

  "I agreed to spy for England, now I can't renege because it's too hard."

  "Or too personal."

  She gave a deferential cant of her head.

  “Whatever transpires with Ashlund, I advise you to forget the past," he said. "Keep the memory of your father with you always—though we both know his memory has interfered with your life. If not for this obsession, you would have married long ago.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You changed after Brandon.”

  Phoebe felt as if she’d been slapped. There was no denying his words, though she hadn’t thought anyone knew. Redgrave must have read her mind, for he said, “Don't look so surprised. I am a master at keeping secrets. I may have taught you all you know, but I haven't taught you all I know.”

  Indeed? her mind fired back.

  Would her father’s oldest friend really keep quiet and allow him to keep the name of traitor? What would her father think if he knew she was being forced to marry a man who was in all likelihood a traitor?

  Phoebe passed through the French doors of the overcrowded ballroom out onto the balcony. The hour was half past one in the morning. Early by London Society standards. The echo of the orchestra receded as she crossed to the low stone wall overlooking the gardens. Soft moonlight soothed her tired eyes after the bright lights of the room. Her ears roared with the buzz of the crowd occupying a room meant to accommodate two hundred, instead of the nearly three hundred that now milled about the space. The soirée would likely prove to be the crush of the season. Phoebe grimaced at the thought that the success of the party had something to do with the fact the future Marchioness of Ashlund was present.

  She leaned against the stone wall. Darkness blurred sculptured bushes that outlined the grounds while bare-limbed trees in the arboretum beyond them reached heavenward. The cold of the stone penetrated her full gauze over-sleeve, and the stifling heat that had driven her outside began to dissipate. She took a cleansing breath, thankful she had foregone the torture of the corset Molly had tried to force onto her.

  “Certainly God will avenge us that one,” she said into the air.

  “Avenge us what one?”

  Phoebe turned to face Jane Halsey. “Lady Halsey.” She inclined her head. “Forgive me for not speaking to you earlier. As always, you’ve outdone yourself.”

  Jane gave a low tinkle of laughter and glided across the terrace to Phoebe’s side. “It was not I. This is my mother’s home and her affair.”

  “True,” Phoebe agreed, “but all of London knows it is you who makes it the gala of the year.”

  A flush of pleasure reddened her cheeks. “I do try.” She leaned stiffly against the banister.

  Lady Halsey, Phoebe noted with amusement, did wear a corset.

  Jane gazed out over the garden. “Forgive me for being so blunt,” Jane said, “but I was shocked to hear of your engagement.”

  No more than I, Phoebe mentally complained, but said, “Were you?”

  “I understand your reticence. Did your uncle bother to consult you in the matter?”

  Phoebe regarded her. “What exactly do you understand, Lady Halsey?” She should have beaten Leticia Mansford when she’d had the chance.

  Jane straightened. “You needn’t pretend with me. It is true, Lord Ashlund is rich, and he does possess a certain charm.”

  The memory of Kiernan MacGregor’s charm ignited a warmth inside her stomach. “A certain charm, you say?”

  “He is large,” Jane gave a shiver that Phoebe sensed was not revulsion. “Imagine,” Jane went on, “if he decided to beat you.”

  Phoebe recalled the night Kiernan had tied her to her bed and wanted to laugh. “I, er, hadn’t noticed that inclination in him.”

  “You'll live in luxury," Jane went on, "but is it worth being forced to bear Scottish children?”

  Phoebe’s amusement vanished. She regarded Jane. “I was sure you were going to repeat Lady Mansford’s ridiculous rumor that Ashlund had been unfaithful.”

  “That is to be expected.”

  Phoebe gave her head a slow shake. “In these past weeks, I have met far more fools in England than in Scotland.”

  Jane gasped.

  “I wonder, Lady Halsey, if Lord Ashlund had offered for you—”

  “I would never entertain such an offer,” she interrupted with a lift of her chin.

  “Indeed not,” Phoebe agreed, “when you have such illustrious offers as Lord Phillips. How old is he, sixty-two?”

  “It does not signify,” Jane hissed. “His family ties are impeccable.”

  “What happened to that fellow, what’s his name, ah, yes, Andrew Paxton. Young fellow, about thirty-three or thirty-four, if I recall.

  “He wasn't suitable,” Jane fired back.

  “I should say not,” Phoebe replied. “He is just the sort to demand his husbandly rights.”

  “When your Scottish bastard of a husband beats you, don't turn to me for help,” Jane whispered in a voice shaking with anger.

  Phoebe blinked in genuine surprise, then grinned. “You err in thinking he is a bastard. The Ashlund line is also impeccable. As for my coming to you for help should my husband entertain the numskull notion to beat me, that isn't possible, as I shall likely end up in Newgate for murder.”

  Phoebe felt the presence of someone behind her even as Lady Halsey stiffened. When Jane’s eyes widened, Phoebe cursed silently, for she knew exactly who stood behind her.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Kiernan kept a straight face when Phoebe faced him, despite the expression on her face that said I may yet end up in Newgate for murder.

  "Lord Ashlund," she said, "what kept you?"

  Kiernan sauntered to her side. The flick of her attention to his leg, then the gleam in her eyes told him she noticed his slight limp. That was the price he paid for cutting his convalescence short. The ride to London hadn't helped and, if he'd had his way, he would have rested instead of attending this party. But his discomfort was worth the element of surprise. And Phoebe was definitely surprised.

  “Will we dance tonight, my lord?” she asked sweetly.

  But she'd taken back the edge—fast.

  He lifted her hand and caught a whiff of the violet soap she used to bathe as he brushed his lips against her skin. “I insist upon the first dance.” She shot him a look that said that first dance would be taxing on more than just his sore leg.

  He released her, then addressed Lady Halsey. “Jane.”

  She curtsied, gripping her skirts with such ferocity it was obvious she meant to keep from offering him a hand. Kiernan grasped her hand and pulled her up. He fixed his gaze on hers and brought her fingers to his mouth.

  Her face reddened and she snatched her hand back. “I-I have guests,” she stammered.

  “But of course.” He stepped aside.

  She hurried across the balcony toward the ballroom.

  “Strange girl,” he said as she cast a backwards glance at them before blending into the crowded ballroom. “One would think she didn’t like me.” He faced Phoebe.

  Her narrowed eyes didn’t quite hide her amusement. “How long were you eavesdropping?”

  “Long enough," he replied. "You look especially lovely tonight. The bodice of that dress is particularly fetching.”

  She glanced at the tightly fitted beaded bodice of her olive green damask gown. "For a man, you have an unusual interest in women's dresses, my lord."

  “I have an interest in how you look in them. I like your hair up.”

  "Lord Ashlund, if you think you can charm me with sweet words you are quite mistaken—and that devilish smile will not aid you either."

  "Indeed?"

  A blush crept u
p her cheeks.

  "Lovely," he murmured.

  Her mouth parted in surprise. Good.

  "I suppose we would return to the party," Kiernan said. “My father is looking forward to seeing you. We'll have to greet Lady Halsey first. We weren't officially invited. I'm sure she'll understand that we couldn't bear to remain parted.” He winked.

  "Ashlund, I'll murder you with my own hands."

  “Missed me that much, did you?" He grinned. "We'll take care of that later. Your uncle is anxious to see you as well."

  She paled.

  “Phoebe, love, it’s not as bad as all that.” He smiled gently. “Is it?”

  “I can imagine what my uncle thinks,” she cast a glance toward the ballroom, “considering the rubbish you must have told him.”

  “Actually, it was the rubbish my father told him that saved my head.”

  “My uncle wouldn't waste time with a scoundrel like you.”

  “That's exactly what your uncle said about you.” Kiernan grinned. “Of course, that didn’t stop him from wanting to cut my heart out.”

  “Would have served you right,” she retorted.

  “That's what my father said. Nonetheless, he convinced your uncle to give me a chance. Though, I did have to agree to certain…terms.”

  Her eyes widened, then narrowed with suspicion. “What terms?”

  “That I take excellent care of you.”

  “Rubbish,” she muttered.

  “In fact, he was adamant on the point.”

  “How is a forced marriage taking excellent care of me?” she demanded.

  “I am saving you from yourself, Phoebe. If you"—a woman halted near the open doors and Kiernan cupped Phoebe's elbow and urged her to the far corner of the balcony. “If you care anything for your reputation, you'll marry me,” he said. “After what's happened—”

  “If you are referring to the fact you held me cap—”

  “I'm referring to the fact you will be seen as a loose woman.”

  She gave him a smug smile. “I have been seen as a loose woman for some time.”

  “Indeed?” He leaned his hip against the balcony wall.

  “It may interest you to know I eloped when I was young. As far as the polite world is concerned, my innocence ended then. If it is a virgin you have your heart set on…”