Where Smythe acquired his shaving and valet skills, Lucan never asked. And Smythe never volunteered how he’d made it to London, but when he’d offered to use his ratty shirt to shine Lucan’s shoes for a piece of bread and then gave the loaf Lucan bought to a pair of skeletal children, Lucan had engaged him on the spot.
He’d never regretted the decision.
As he snapped his timepiece closed, a movement across the expanse of green caught his attention. A rider, heavy handed on the whip, cantered his horse through the meadow adjoining Lucan’s property with the neighboring estate, Aldecot Vale.
Frowning, he rubbed his brow and yawned again. Odd.
The place had been closed tighter than a banker’s vault for almost a decade—ever since the owner, Viscount Renishaw, shot Lucan’s brother, Harvey, in a duel. Then, like a cowardly serpent, Renishaw, aided by his own brother, Maurice, escaped punishment and justice by fleeing the continent.
Scurrilous bastards.
Perhaps the viscount had let the place, or one of the myriad of other Renishaw rabble had moved in. No short supply of that riffraff, more’s the pity. Lucan would have bought the place years ago, if not for its entailment.
He climbed the front steps and grinned when the door swung open.
Tibbs teetered inside the entrance, so stooped, the ancient butler’s shock of white hair nearly touched his knees.
Egads, would the man never retire? He was ninety, if he was a day. “Hello, Tibbs. Splendid to see you.”
Upright and still breathing.
Tibbs squinted, wrinkling his nose and forehead until his features squished together like a newborn’s. He worked his tongue in and out of his mouth, across almost toothless gums.
Ought to get him some spectacles . . . and false teeth.
His tailcoat fastened askew, and one side of his breeches falls undone, a blob of jam clung to the butler’s sloppily tied cravat.
Hell, Tibbs needed his own valet. Or nursemaid.
The butler’s features screwed tighter as he strained to identify the new arrivals. “Young sir, is that you?”
“Indeed. It is.” Lucan waved Smythe ahead. “Please take my things to my chamber and see to a bath at once.”
“And a bracing cup of coffee with a dram of whisky for your constitution too, I should think.” Smythe gave a sympathetic nod, his large, black eyes understanding.
Few people knew of Lucan’s fear of enclosed spaces. However, the valet shared Lucan’s dread—Smythe had stowed away in a barrel crossing the Atlantic—and they’d found a degree of comfort in sharing the cause of their mutual phobia aggravated by the miles of enclosed travel within the carriage.
Lucan’s fear originated after accidentally becoming locked in a trunk while playing hide-and-seek. He’d nearly suffocated, and although the event took place two decades ago, irrational terror seized him whenever he found himself enclosed in smallish, dark places.
“How did you get the missive so soon, Your Grace?” Tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth, Tibbs angled his head to peer at Lucan as he shuffled beside him into the grand entrance.
With a hand to the butler’s bony elbow, Lucan steadied the rickety man. A strong breeze would lay Tibbs flat or carry him off.
“We didn’t expect you for at least another day or two.” Tibbs turned, and after three grunting pushes—each of which Lucan feared would either send the wizened man into heart failure or onto his scrawny arse—managed to close the door.
Almost.
Like a hound waiting for his master’s approval, Tibbs grinned at Lucan, revealing the two remaining teeth at the front of his mouth. Definitely pursue the false teeth business. How did the chap manage to eat?
On second thought, Lucan didn’t want to know.
“Your hat, young sir?” Tibbs extended a quaking hand. “Lady Montgomery sent the note round to you just yesterday.”
Lucan paused in handing the majordomo his hat and gloves.
“Note? I’ve been in Scotland, not London, and came straight here from Craiglocky Keep.” He passed the items to the butler while scanning the entry. “I’m afraid I haven’t received a letter from my sister, and what’s Genevieve doing here anyway? I thought she was lying in for another week.”
She’d birthed a second daughter four weeks ago. If ever a woman was meant for motherhood, it was his sister.
“Lucan, I’m glad you’re here.” Genny, the picture of health, other than vague shadows beneath her pewter-gray eyes, sped along the corridor, her arms outstretched. Her navy and white striped gown swished about her ankles, and her shoes clicked rhythmically on the marble as she rushed to him.
After embracing Lucan for a long moment, she angled away, a tremulous smile on her mouth. Her eyes rounded when her gaze alit upon his face. She tenderly touched the corner of his discolored eye. “Whatever happened?”
Smythe ducked his head differentially. “His grace’s attempt to befriend a Highlander met with a degree of distrust.”
Truthful, yet not as humiliating as having Genny know a slip of a girl planted him a facer.
Lucan sent the valet a grateful smile.
After a partial bow, his brow cocked in a superior manner, Smythe turned and marched up the grand curved staircase. Couldn’t fault the servant for being confident of his worth and position.
“Not agreeable of the Scots fellow, was it?” Genny looped her arm through Lucan’s.
He inclined his head in answer. “I saw a rider at Aldecot Vale. Has the place been rented?”
“No.” She pursed her lips then sighed, her shoulders slumping. “You might as well know. Maurice Renishaw returned a fortnight ago. Leonard died in a duel over some woman’s honor, and now Maurice is viscount.”
“The devil, you say!” Every muscle in Lucan’s body contracted. How dare the knave return to England, and most especially, Aldecot Vale? He probably thought his new title protected him. Not from Lucan, it didn’t.
“No, and Lucan, there have been a few peculiar mishaps since he returned.” She brushed a hand across her forehead, and fine fatigue-borne lines formed at the corners of her eyes.
In his joy at seeing her, he’d missed the subtle signs of weariness she displayed. Unease nipped at Lucan’s anger. “Such as?”
“Mr. Yeager has found fencing damaged more than once. A few head of sheep and cattle have gone missing, and a haystack burned Saturday.” She leaned nearer a fraction and tempered her voice. “He’s expressed concern the incidents may not be coincidence.”
Honest and competent, Chattsworth’s steward, Charles Yeager, didn’t speculate idly.
Lucan nodded. “True, such occurrences might have happened naturally or have been helped along. I shall speak with him tomorrow.”
Just like Renishaw to play vengeful, childish pranks. As a boy, he used to do the same, frequently at the expense of some unfortunate animal.
“That’s not all,” Genny said while eyeing a tottering Tibbs. “Yesterday, Jeremy escaped his manservant and wandered to Aldecot’s stables. Johnstone eventually found him, but I’m afraid he exchanged harsh words with a groom. And then Renishaw took it upon himself to call here afterward.”
Gentle, sweet-natured, and two years Lucan’s junior, Jeremy suffered physical and mental crippling due to complications during his birth. Their parents refused to sequester him with a family in a remote village because, through no fault of his own, providence rendered him a pair of unfortunate blows.
Genny set her jaw, her eyes hard as slate. “That fiend called Jeremy a drooling imbecile, and threatened to have him arrested and imprisoned if he ventured onto Aldecot’s lands again.”
Renishaw would, the blasted cull.
“Why is Jeremy bent on venturing to Aldecot?” Not like his brother at all. He feared new places.
She shut her eyes for a second. “According to Johnstone, Jeremy’s meandered over there several times of late. Hound puppies were born a month ago, and he desperately wants one. With Renishaw’s return, I fear for our brother.”
Lucan didn’t underestimate the threat for an instant. He had half a mind to storm over to Aldecot and give Renishaw an earful. Or punch him to a pulp, except Mother would ring him a peal if he did.
Sucking in a calming breath, Lucan unclenched his hands. In his rage, he hadn’t realized he’d fisted them. He’d have time enough to confront the cur later—either here or in London.
Yes, wiser to attend the task in Town.
Mother wouldn’t know and become agitated or have one of her spasm spells, and he would have time to temper his anger and construct a plan.
“I shall see to engaging an additional companion for Jeremy.” Would two more guardians be a better idea? Perhaps a couple of local fellows would be interested in the positions. Best see to hiring a few when he spoke with Yeager tomorrow. Jeremy wouldn’t survive a day in prison.
Maybe Lucan ought to put a word in the local magistrate’s ear about the odd goings-on and have the stable hands patrol the estate’s borders too.
“Come along, I shall take you to Mama.” Genny’s voice hurtled Lucan back to the present.
“I hoped to bathe and rid myself of travel grime before seeing her. You know she’s a stickler for appearances.”
“But, Lucan—”
He patted Genny’s hand. “Twenty minutes at most, and I shall meet you in the drawing room for a glass of wine before we eat. Then you can tell me why you’re here and not at home recovering from Sarah’s birth.” He touched her cheek. “You look tired, Gen.”
A pinched expression settled upon her features, and she drew her reddish-blonde brows into a tense line. “No, Mama knows you’ve arrived and insists upon seeing you at once. She sent me to fetch you. You know how stubborn she can be when she’s set her mind to something.”
“Where are your husband and the girls?” He searched the corridor again. “And Jeremy?”
“Veronica and Sarah are in the nursery, and Langley, bless my husband’s kind heart, took Jeremy for a walk to the stables.”
The Earl of Montgomery likely wanted to take a gander at Lucan’s newest stallion too.
“There’s a litter of kittens there.” She crossed her arms as if chilled. “We thought the cats might distract Jeremy. You know how dependent he is on Mama, and he’s been most upset that he’s not allowed in her chambers at present.”
Lucan frowned and rubbed his nape, gone stiff from the awkward angle he’d slept in the carriage. Or maybe poking his head out the window, rather like a hound enjoying a cart ride, had caused the crick.
“Why isn’t he allowed? Mama always permits Jeremy to visit her sitting room.” This didn’t make sense. “Why the sudden change?”
“I don’t want her agitated.” Genny urged Lucan along the passageway. “Doctor Philpott says her heart is quite fragile and advised against upset until she is stronger.”
“Her heart?” Lucan immediately advanced toward the winding marble staircase. His bath would have to wait. “Has she been ill?”
Genny hesitated and glanced at Tibbs hovering nearby, wringing his gnarled hands. “Tibbs, you may have your tea now. Take your time. No need to rush. We have things well in hand.”
“Thank you, Miss Genevieve.” He wobbled the passage’s expanse, his gait as unstable as a week-old puppy.
“My God, why does Mama permit him to act as the majordomo?” Lucan suppressed a yawn. He needed his coffee.
She waited until Tibbs left their sight to answer. “The poor dear has nowhere to go. Last month when Mama suggested he might stay here without duties, he cried, arguing he wasn’t a charity case.”
“Well, I’m hiring another butler to make sure Tibbs doesn’t hurt himself doddering about the place.” Lucan winked at his sister. “Now, what’s this about Mama?”
Apprehension clouded Genny’s eyes. “Lucan, she suffered a serious seizure. Something about her heart. I think the doctor called it angina, whatever that may be.”
“Has to do with chest pain, I believe.” He waited for her to ascend the stairs before him.
“She’s been asking for you.” Genny touched his forearm. “Lucan, we came very close to losing her.”
Chapter 7
“What do you think they’re discussing?” Tasara, her arm looped through Seonaid Ferguson’s, halted in the kitchen courtyard to nip a few sprigs of mint. “Laird McTavish said he would summon me when he and Dat finished.”
Try as she might, she couldn’t quell the anxiety ebbing and flowing through her, hence the mint. She thought to brew some tea to calm her stomach, though sipping lavender tea might prove more beneficial for her fraught nerves.
For more than a week now, she’d been a guest at Craiglocky Keep. If that’s what her position here could be called. The day she left the gypsy encampment, Father had given her a scant moment to kiss and hug Lala and György before he insisted they leave for Craiglocky Keep. Jamie and several other band members stood by as she and Dat rode away.
Tasara had assumed they would call on the laird, tell him her tale, and then she would return to the traveller’s camp until matters were settled. But, after a brief, private word with his lairdship, Father had pecked her cheek and hurried on his way, leaving her with strangers and no explanation why she wasn’t returning to the tinkers.
Her belongings, other than her knife always sheathed in her boot, and the moldy bag containing the items she had when Forba found her, remained with the travellers. She hadn’t even been permitted to take her violin, her most cherished possession except for the locket she now wore about her neck. The instrument had belonged to Forba, but after she died, Dat gave it to Tasara.
So much for Edeena’s claim Tasara wouldn’t be cast from the tribe. What else would one call it? The injustice pinched severely. Left alone, abandoned without a word of explanation from the man she’d called father most of her life, Tasara didn’t have an inkling what to expect . . . or what her future held.
Maybe she ought to ask Seonaid if she had a premonition in that regard.
When Tasara had asked her about the unusual gift, Seonaid had lifted a slim shoulder. “I’ve always had the second sight, but I have no control of my visions. Sometimes I know things in advance, and other times, I am as surprised as everyone else. Don’t fret. All will be well.” Seonaid gave her a reassuring smile. “Ah, Fairchild comes to get you even now.”
She regularly did that, knew things before they happened. A trifle disconcerting, but never frightening.
Tasara twisted round to comb the kitchen entrance.
“Miss Faas.” The butler stood framed within the door’s opening. “His lordship requests your presence.”
Seonaid gave Tasara a brief hug. “I shall wait outside the study, and when you are done, we shall enjoy mint tea and shortbread.”
A few minutes later, Tasara sank into a well-used leather wingback chair facing Laird McTavish’s desk. She pulled her fringed shawl tighter around her shoulders, then fingered the fine cream muslin of her borrowed gown to calm her jitters.
This gloomy room, with its dreary stone walls and ancient weaponry, made her uneasy. The urge to peek inside the suits of armor to assure herself no ghosts or skeletons of long-dead McTavish ancestors hid within, overwhelmed her.
Folding her hands upon her lap, she slid Dat a sidelong look. She’d never seen her father this anxious or unsure.
Jaw taut, he sat rigid and tense, his attention directed straight ahead. He seemed to avoid her gaze.
Silly. Of course he’s not doing any such thing.
Laird McTavish relaxed against his chair, drumming the fingertips of one hand on h
is bent knee. His expression solemn, his gaze wavered between Tasara and her father.
If she knew what had transpired before her summons, she might put aside her disquiet. Thank goodness for Seonaid. Slightly younger than Tasara, the sweet girl took an instant liking to her, and became her almost constant companion, easing Tasara’s loneliness and confusion.
Not that she spoke of her feelings. Baring her emotions or burdening strangers with her troubles served no purpose. Neither did complaining, but Seonaid seemed to know what bothered Tasara without being told.
The epitome of kindness and hospitality, everyone at Craiglocky tried to put her at ease. Seonaid had gone so far as to lend Tasara clothing and even now, waited outside the study as promised.
Tasara looked directly at Dat, but his focus remained on Laird McTavish. She didn’t know if she’d be permitted to go home today. His lairdship had sent for her father, and once he’d arrived, straightaway sequestered them in the study for an hour before inviting her to join them.
She crossed and uncrossed her ankles then huffed an impatient little breath.
Come on. Out with it.
Why didn’t Laird McTavish say something? She cleared her throat.
Neither man spoke.
Oh, for heaven’s sake. What are they waiting for?
“My laird, do you believe me this person my father thinks I am? This Baroness Alexandra Atterberry?” She twisted her mouth in irony. Was baroness right? Why the Scots insisted on calling a title holder equivalent to an English baron a Laird of Parliament boggled the mind. Who concocted such poppycock? Keeping the title balderdash straight proved nearly impossible.
She crossed her ankles again. She needed to stand and move about. When agitated, sitting never served her well. “Well, do you, Laird McTavish?”
“Quite possibly.” Smiling, he straightened and picked up a letter. He raised it for her inspection. Rows of neat writing covered most of the page. “This came in today’s post. Hugo and Bridget Needham—I suspect she is your maternal aunt—will be arriving any day.”
Heartbreak and Honor Page 5
