Caroline stirred in her chair, annoyed with herself for failing to pay attention. “I am sorry, sir,” she apologized, “but would you repeat that?”
“I merely said that as the duke has returned to England, it might well be in your interest to contact him and beg him to intercede with your uncle,” Mr. Garrett responded dutifully. “When your father first drew up his will he spoke of having his father named your guardian, but as His Grace was out of the country more than he was in it, he decided it was best to name his brother instead. A mistake, it would seem,” he added wryly.
The solicitor’s mastery of the obvious usually amused Caroline, but the situation was far too dire for her to find much humor in it. Even now Uncle Charles could be posting the banns, or having the orders for her commitment drawn up, and speed was of the essence. She vaguely recalled hearing that her grandfather, whom she’d met but a handful of times, had retired from the army to spend his dotage in Bath, but it had never occurred to her to seek his aid. Now she wondered that she could have been so foolish as not to have thought of him herself.
“Do you really think he might be able to help me?” she asked, a tenuous plan already forming in her mind.
“He could scarce hurt you,” Mr. Garrett answered with a shrug. “At worst he might side with your uncle, but at best he could petition the courts to transfer guardianship to him. His Grace has many friends in the highest of circles, and it would be an easy matter for him to arrange matters to your mutual satisfaction. Shall I contact him for you?” And he picked up his quill in eager anticipation.
Caroline thought of the look on her uncle’s face as he left the house. It was a look she’d seen before, when he was about to beat one of the hounds who had disobeyed him. The pleasure and anticipation was sickening to behold, and more sickening yet to think of it turned in her direction.
“No, there is no need for you to do that,” she said quietly, her decision made. “I shall contact him myself.”
“Wheest! Will ye stop yer squirming!” Angus Cameron scolded, his thick white brows meeting in a scowl as he struggled to tie Hugh’s cravat. “How am I to arrange this thing in a proper fashion with ye hopping about like a flea?”
“And how am I to breathe when you are determined to strangle me?” Hugh shot back, doing his best to remain still. “The men in England cannot be so foolish as to actually wear these cursed things! I can scarce move my head.”
“English gentlemen dinna move their heads, they have their servants to do their peeping for them,” Angus retorted, still scowling. “Ye saw those painted fops in the taproom and on the street the same as I, and ye’ll look no less elegant than they or it’s both our heads the mistress will have. There.” He gave his creation a final pat and stepped back. “What do ye think?”
Obligingly Hugh turned toward the glass, trying not to wince at what he saw reflected there. At Angus’s insistence he’d used some of his precious gold to purchase a new wardrobe, grudgingly conceding he could scarcely call upon a duke looking no better than a ragged beggar, to quote his newfound valet. His new coat and breeches were of black kerseymere, and matched with his new shirt and elegant waistcoat of black and gold brocade, he supposed they helped him pass muster. He was only glad he didn’t have to wear a wig as well; he hated the pest-ridden things.
“Will the general see ye today, do ye ken?” Angus asked, regarding Hugh with marked interest. “Or is he one of those who enjoys keeping people dangling forever?”
Hugh thought of the blunt, unassuming man he’d come to know in the months they’d spent in America. “If he is at home, he will see me,” he said, reaching out to pick up his sword. He was buckling it about his waist when he caught another of Angus’s disapproving frowns. “What?”
“I dinna believe the wearing of swords is permitted in Bath,” the older man said, picking up a gold-topped cane and showing it to Hugh. “That’s why the men carry these.” He pressed a button, revealing the length of narrow steel concealed in the cane’s hollow case. Hugh stared at it for a moment and resumed fastening his sword about him.
“ ’Tis naught but a bit of foppery,” he said, his gaze returning to his reflection. “If trouble comes, I want to kill my enemy, not tickle him.”
“Aye, as if the way between here and Edward Street was littered with enemies lying in wait for ye,” Angus grumbled, clearly unimpressed with his logic. “Well, if it’s determined ye are to wear that pigsticker, then ye’d best be on yer way. I’ve done what I can wi’ ye.”
Knowing his fearsome valet only too well, Hugh didn’t waste time arguing, but quickly took his leave. He still wasn’t precisely certain how Angus had come to accompany him on his journey southward, but ruefully accepted that he was stuck with him until they returned to Edinburgh. The little valet had been waiting in the coach Aunt Egidia had hired for him when he’d left Scotland, and would not be budged by threats or pleas. His aunt had given Angus orders to look after him, and look after him the man would, despite Hugh’s feeling on the matter.
Hoping to save money, Hugh had taken lodgings along the river, and now he kept a wary eye open for cutpurses who might mistake him for some useless fop and think to attack him. But after a few blocks it was obvious that the denizens of the area were sharp enough to know their business, and none made to stop him as he strode toward the new bridge crossing the river above the weir.
The wide expanse of Great Pulteney Street, with its rows of elegant homes, put him in mind of the houses being built in the new part of Edinburgh. He wondered cynically if the English meant to make the ancient city as pretty as this one, and if so he wished them luck with it. Edinburgh was like a cantankerous old Scot, and would not take well to taming.
Edward Street was located almost at the very end of Great Pulteney, and a few minutes later he was knocking on the door of number 12. An aloof butler with a haughty expression that put even Gregors’s imperious manner in the shade gazed up at him.
“I am Hugh MacColme, laird of Loch Haven, to see the duke,” he said, not waiting to be asked his business. “Will you be so good as to tell him I am here?”
A thin eyebrow arched. “His Grace is not at home to those who have not made an appointment,” he informed Hugh coolly. “If you would care to leave your card, I shall give it to his valet.”
“Bundhi?” The name slipped out as Hugh recalled the Hindu body servant the general had brought with him from India after purchasing him in a slave market.
The butler’s supercilious expression faded to uncertainty. “You are familiar with the duke’s household?”
“We served together, both in Canada and America,” Hugh said, wondering if he should have tried this approach first. “He was commander of the battalion.”
The butler’s haughty look vanished as if by magic. “You are a fusilier?” he asked, fairly beaming at Hugh.
“Aye, that I am,” Hugh answered, judiciously ignoring the fact he had been dismissed from service weeks ago.
“His Grace is always at home to members of his old regiment,” the butler said, stepping back from the door to admit Hugh. “What is your rank, sir, if I may ask?”
“Sergeant major,” Hugh provided, hoping the general’s democratic sensibilities hadn’t undergone a change since his retirement. The man he recalled was just as likely to give a junior officer a quick kick to the backside as he was to offer a tankard of ale to an enlisted man whose opinion he valued.
The butler gave a magnificent bow. “Very well, Sergeant Major, if you will come with me, I shall conduct you to the morning parlor. His Grace is dressing, but I shall send him word you are here. I am sure he will wish to speak with you.”
The room to which Hugh was directed was a far cry from the drab and dreary quarters he and Angus were sharing, and as he waited for his host to arrive, Hugh made a quick study of the room. The walls were lined with gold brocade, the warm, honeyed color reflected in the richly woven Aubusson carpet covering the highly polished floors. A pianoforte stood in one co
rner, and the rest of the room was taken up with a variety of chairs and a settee of gilded wood and vibrant scarlet damask.
Normally such things did not concern him, but Mairi had charged him most faithfully to pay close attention to such details, as she was hopeful of convincing Aunt Egidia to have her rooms redone in the new fashion. Hugh wished her luck with it. He doubted his clutch-fisted aunt had replaced so much as a chair cushion since a Stuart had sat upon the throne.
He was admiring a pretty table of inlaid wood with daintily scrolled legs when the door opened and General Burroughs came striding in. Training had him leaping to his feet and snapping to rigid attention, an action that clearly delighted his host.
“At ease, Sergeant MacColme, at ease,” he said, blue eyes bright with pleasure as he advanced toward Hugh with his hand extended. “No need to act the wooden soldier with me. I should hope we know each other better than that. How are you?”
“Well, sir,” Hugh said, breathing a mental sigh of relief as he shook the older man’s hand. “And you?”
“On my last leg, or so the sawbones of Bath would have it,” the general chuckled, waving Hugh toward one of the chairs. “Of course, if they said I was healthy as a strapping young man like you, I should hardly be willing to pay the outrageous sums they charge for their dubious services, would I?”
A servant arrived with a bottle of claret and a tempting array of sweets before Hugh could answer. The next several minutes were taken up with idle chatter, as Hugh fought back his rising impatience. He was trying to think of some polite way to broach the reason for his visit when the general took the matter out of his hands.
“But what brings you to Bath, Sergeant?” he asked, handing a glass of the sweet red wine to Hugh. “I should have thought you would have been back amongst the Highlands and heather of Scotland by now. You are from Loch Haven, if memory serves.”
Hugh set down his glass of wine untasted. “That is why I am come, sir,” he said. Knowing the general’s distaste for dissembling, he began laying out the bare details of all that had transpired four years earlier. By the time he was finished, the general was frowning thoughtfully.
“Like that, is it?” he said, tapping a slender finger to his chin. “Oh, dear, that does not sound at all promising.”
“I have the oath I signed when I joined the army,” Hugh said, refusing to be discouraged by the general’s response. “I am hoping that it, along with a letter from a commanding officer giving details of my service, will help persuade the courts to return the castle and lands to me. And naturally I am willing to pay any fines which may be entailed,” he added, doing his best not to choke on the words.
“But not happily so, eh, Sergeant?” the general drawled, then held up a hand when Hugh opened his lips to speak. “No, do not bother denying what I can read in your eyes,” he said, his own eyes twinkling. “And rest assured, I do not blame you for being angry. Paying for the return of one’s own property is rather like being asked to pay for one’s own noose. A double insult, I should think.”
“But can it be done, do you think?” Hugh pressed, his hands clasped in front of him as he leaned forward. “I can reclaim that which was taken from me? From my clan?”
General Burroughs’s expression grew even more pensive. “It is possible, I suppose,” he said slowly. “I should happily give a most glowing report of your service under my command, and if that is not enough, I have friends aplenty in the courts I could approach for help. Naturally, the fact that the castle and the lands have already been purchased provides a bit of a challenge, but it should be easy enough to overcome. We’ve stormed more than one such obstacle in our day, have we not, Sergeant MacColme?” he added, sending Hugh a grin that was surprisingly boyish.
For the first time in a fortnight Hugh felt a stirring of hope. “Aye, General,” he said, his own lips lifting in a rueful smile. “And so we have.”
They spent the next twenty minutes laying out their plans, and Hugh was pleased to note the general was as sharp a strategist as ever he was. In Canada they’d called him the White Fox, for his ability to outrun and outthink the bands of rebels and Indians they pursued through woods so dangerous no other commander would have dared enter them. They were poring over a list of other officers they might approach for help when the sound of a disturbance in the hallway brought their heads snapping up.
Hugh rose to his feet, his hand reaching automatically for his sword as the door opened and a stunning blonde came dashing into the room. She paused on the threshold, her sharp blue gaze brushing past Hugh before coming to rest on the general.
“Grandfather, I must speak with you!” she said, hurrying at once to the general’s side. “Uncle Charles is trying to force me into marriage with one of his friends, and he is threatening to lock me up as insane if I do not agree! You must help me!”
“What the devil?” The general gazed down at her in amazement, confusion giving way to slack-jawed astonishment. “It cannot be,” he said, his voice rough as he raised shaking hands to cradle the blonde’s face. “Upon my soul … Caroline?” His gaze scurried over her face. “Caroline, is it you?”
She gave a brisk nod, sparing Hugh a frowning glance before continuing. “I am sorry for bursting in like this, but I fear there is little time. Uncle Charles may even now be preparing the writ for my confinement, and I’ve no doubt he will use it if I do not do as he says and marry Sir Gervase. You must help me, Grandfather; you are my last hope!”
“Of course I shall help you, child!” the general soothed, obviously much-shaken by her pleas. His gaze drifted to Hugh, and at the look of apology he saw reflected there, Hugh’s hands clenched in impotent fury. He was being dismissed.
“Shall I call upon you tomorrow, sir?” he asked, accepting the inevitable even as he was fighting the urge to throw the chit bodily from the room. The general might be taken in by her dramatic pronouncements, he thought derisively, but he was not. He’d seen her sort before, among the spoiled and pampered wives of officers who indulged in such theatrics to win their way. Doubtless this Uncle Charles of hers had refused to buy her a new gown, and she’d come running to her grandfather with some wild tale of cruelty on her lips.
“That might be best, Sergeant,” General Burroughs said, sounding relieved. “Leave your direction with Campton, and I shall send you word. Good day to you.”
“As you wish, General,” Hugh said, executing a stiff bow. Frustration and resentment devoured him, and he slid a furious glare at the lady who had usurped his place. She was standing beside the general, her cool blue gaze meeting his with a surprising directness. Her eyes were wary to be sure, but the satisfaction and intelligence he saw reflected in their jewel-colored depths confirmed his suspicions. The little witch was acting.
He continued holding her gaze, making no attempt to disguise his contempt of her. At first he thought she meant to brazen her way out of their silent duel; then he saw her eyes widen first in confusion, and then in horrified understanding. Good, he thought, his mouth curving with bitter satisfaction. At least she now knew he had not been fooled by her pretty performance. Taking from that what pleasure he could, he turned and left the room.
“Are you all right, dearest child?” her grandfather demanded the moment the door had closed behind the red-haired stranger. “Shall I send for the smelling salts?”
“No, Grandfather, that shall not be necessary,” Caroline assured him, annoyed he should think her so weak-willed a creature as that. “I am fine, I promise you.”
“If you say so,” he replied, his tone anxious as he continued hovering over her. “But at least let me send for some tea, eh? You are looking dashed pale.”
“As you wish, sir,” Caroline agreed, more out of the desire to placate him than out of any genuine desire for food. And, she silently admitted with a guilty sigh, because it would give her a few minutes in which to compose herself. A few minutes she realized she desperately needed.
While the duke was off seeing to the food,
Caroline hurried over to the mirror hung above the mantelpiece to repair the damages to her appearance. Her first glimpse of her reflection did little to improve her spirits, for she looked a perfect fright. She’d fled from London with little more than the clothes on her back, and the long and dusty ride had had a detrimental effect upon her person. Why was it ladies in novels could indulge in such adventures and emerge looking dewy-eyed and delicate, while she looked as if she’d been pulled through a hedgerow backwards? It simply wasn’t fair.
When she’d done what she could to restore her appearance to some semblance of order, she returned to the settee to gather her thoughts. Now that she’d achieved the first part of her objective and had won her grandfather’s promise to help, all that remained was convincing him to become her guardian. Certainly he seemed sympathetic to her plight, she thought, recalling the concern on his thin face. If she but continued playing upon that sympathy, she was certain he would agree to whatever she suggested.
Such machinations were foreign to her usual direct nature, and her pride burned at being forced to employ the feminine posturings she’d always disdained. But during the long ride from London she’d had a great deal of time to think, and she decided it might be best to immediately impress the duke with the desperation of her situation, rather than attempting to reason with him. Her grandfather was all but a stranger to her, and she had no way of knowing how he might respond. She knew she had to be very clever in her approach, and had planned each word and gesture with the studiousness of an actress preparing to walk out upon a stage.
At first she feared she’d overplayed her hand with her startling bluntness, but to her relief he had believed her at once. Which was more than could be said of the hard-faced stranger who’d been with him, she brooded, remembering the contempt she’d seen gleaming in his silver-green eyes as he’d held her gaze with a boldness that was just short of insolence.
Rose In Scotland Page 4
