“I’ll go with you.” Yvette drew the drapes partway before crossing to the door. “Gwendolyn, I’ll send a maid up to let you know if the matter pertains to something else. That way you can take your nap directly.”
Aunt Barbara rose, then kissed Gwendolyn’s cheek. “I need to rest my eyes a few moments myself.” She patted Gwendolyn’s shoulder. “I’m so grateful you’re not seriously injured, darlin’.” She blinked, her eyes glistening.
“With such diligent care, I’ll be right as rain in a day or two.” Gwendolyn dabbed her mouth with the serviette. She’d managed to eat half the soup and even a couple bites of the scone and cheese. “Would you be so kind as to take the tray too, Aunt Barbara?”
The others had scarcely left the chamber before curiosity overcame her, and Gwendolyn lifted the bundle to her lap. She slid the paper out from beneath the string and unfolded the foolscap.
Written in neat, tidy strokes was a single paragraph.
Miss McClintock,
Whilst cleaning the chambers at your behest, I found this journal beneath the wardrobe. Since everything at Suttford House belongs to the young laird, and you are his guardian, I thought it best to send it directly to you.
Your Faithful Servant,
Mrs. Morag Norris
Why would someone hide a journal beneath a wardrobe? How long had it been there? Unless . . .
Could it be Heather Abernathy’s?
Gwendolyn unwrapped the old, rather decrepit diary. Frowning, she turned the slightly musty, nibbled-about-the-edges, deep-blue leather-bound journal over.
The letters H A embossed in gold script, stood out boldly.
She stared at the initials, curious and yet reluctant to intrude upon something as personal and private as someone’s journal.
Biting her lip, she gingerly opened the cover.
To my darling daughter on her sixteenth birthday.
Heather, may these pages be filled with your happiest memories.
With love, Papa
18 October 1773
Did Mr. Abernathy know what had become of his cherished daughter?
Gwendolyn traced her fingertips over the faded writing and hesitated only a moment more before flipping to the first page.
By the time Dugall and Ewan knocked on her door twenty minutes later, she’d read the last of the few, sporadic, increasingly shorter and more distraught entries.
Short until she reached the last one, that was.
Tears blurred her eyes as she stared at the final entry.
3 August 1774
At long last, after almost nine agonizing months, I shall escape this hellish gilded prison!
My beloved Lloyd has arranged it with the help of his sister and Miss Dolina. No one suspects them. Deizi has acted as my maid these long months but has proven to be a true and dear friend, and Dolina despises McClintock as much as I do, though she’s never revealed why.
We’ve practiced the escape over and over, and now we are ready. I’m giddy in anticipation of being free! Of never having to endure McClintock’s vulgar attentions again.
May God condemn his black soul to hell.
I care not that Lloyd’s a simple sheep farmer. I love him, and would rather live in poverty than enjoy the luxuries McClintock showers upon me.
My greatest sorrow is that I am now certain I carry McClintock’s bairn. He must never know, or he’d force me to marry him, and I’d never be free of that monster.
Lloyd doesn’t care, and I adore him all the more for it.
The writing smeared here, as if tears had splattered the foolscap.
Papa, I forgive you.
McClintock cheated you at cards that night. He told me so himself, boasting how gullible you’d been. I hated you at first for sacrificing me to save our home and keep Mama and the other children from the workhouse.
It’s time. I must go—
A streak of ink dripped down the page from the last word.
Why hadn’t Heather taken her journal? Had she left it behind accidentally? Was she still alive?
Possibly.
Gwendolyn’s Cousin Lloyd—named for his grandfather?—would know.
But how had Gerard learned of Lloyd’s existence if Heather hadn’t told him of her pregnancy?
A soft knock disturbed her reverie, and with a sad, closed-lip smile, Gwendolyn shut the diary. Lloyd ought to have it. After all, the journal was his grandmother’s.
“Come in,” she called, setting the book and note on the nightstand.
Dugall stepped into the room, followed by Ewan. Arig, one of the humongous gray-blue boarhounds, accompanied them. Though they had different fathers, with their coal-black hair and vibrant blue-green eyes, the men greatly resembled each other.
At the moment, they both wore concerned smiles.
Her stomach quivered.
Bad news, then.
“I thought perhaps ye’d fallen asleep after all, and I didna want to wake ye if’n ye had.” Dugall gave the journal a cursory glance, and bold as freshly polished brass buttons, sat on the bed.
A flush heated her face, and she veered Ewan a swift, embarrassed glance. What must he think?
His expression remained kindly as he made his way to the armchairs flanking the fireplace. He gestured toward one. “May I?”
Truth be told, she wouldn’t object to another log on the fire. The chamber had grown chillier, despite the cavorting and crackling fire in the hearth. A quick glance to the windows revealed low-hanging pewter clouds. She’d bet her boot buttons the puffy gray masses portended an early snow.
“Of course.” Gwendolyn nodded while covertly assuring she was modestly covered. Once satisfied, she drew the bedcoverings higher, too acutely aware of the impropriety of entertaining gentlemen in her bedchamber. “If you’ll pardon me, Dugall, I’m a trifle cold.”
He lifted his hip to allow the blankets to shift upward.
Only then did Ewan’s mouth twist into a droll smile, and he pointedly looked between his brother and the other chair. The dog turned in three circles before settling onto the floor before the fire and released a contented groan.
Dugall grinned, and rather than heed Ewan’s broad hint, took her hand in his.
Because he wanted to touch her as much as she longed to touch him, or as a gesture of defiance? Or perhaps, what he and Ewan had come to discuss she’d find distressing, and he sought to lend her strength and comfort.
Suddenly nervous and uncertain, and not wanting to bring Ewan’s censure down upon her and risk losing her governess position, she withdrew her hand and pointed to the journal. “That proves Lloyd is Gerard McClintock’s grandson.”
Across the bridge of their noses, Dugall’s and Ewan’s midnight brows crashed together.
“We have proof he isnae.” A hint of apology or perhaps pacification fringed Dugall’s denial.
Gwendolyn jerked her head upward from her drowsy contemplation of his strong hand lying atop his preposterously masculine thigh. “Pardon?”
Ewan casually laid an arm across the back of his chair and hooked a booted ankle across his knee. “Dugall asked that I have a man prod around Hollingsworth’s background. It’s true he was taken in by an aunt when his father died, but his father wasn’t Gerard McClintock’s by-blow.”
“But it says, right there in her own writing,” Gwendolyn pointed at the diary again, “that Heather Abernathy carried Gerard’s child.”
Taking her hand once more, Dugall gave her fingers a little squeeze. “The aunt lied. She’s still alive and confessed all. Desperate for funds with a drunkard for a husband, she wrote McClintock claiming Lloyd was his grandson. Seems her sister had shared a tale about her mother-in-law, Heather Abernathy Hollingsworth, and how she’d fled old McClintock�
��s in the middle of the night after a maid drugged his ale.”
“She did flee. It’s the last entry. And she also says she’s expecting Gerard’s child. It’s a horrid, sad tale.” Weariness and sorrow weighted Gwendolyn’s eyelids. Sorrow for the young woman who’d suffered so at Gerard’s hands but also for Lloyd.
“Aye, she was with child, but she lost that bairn.” Ewan stood and took a poker to the fire, encouraging the flames higher. “She kept another journal afterward and it documents everything. She didn’t bear Lloyd’s father until almost a year after fleeing. The birth is recorded at the Church of the Holy Rude.”
What did that mean for Gwendolyn’s new cousin? Would Christie permit Lloyd to stay at Suttford when he learned the truth? She cradled her arm. “Lloyd needs to be told. Is he even related to Gerard?”
Dugall and Ewan exchanged a guarded look, but Dugall answered. “Nae. It dinna look like it.”
“Unfortunate man.” How utterly unfair. She’d been so prepared to dislike Lloyd—he had been rather a rotten turnip when they’d first met—but after she’d gotten to know him, she’d come to admire her cousin.
Cousin.
But he wasn’t a cousin, and that meant he couldn’t petition for Jeremiah’s guardianship.
How could she be simultaneously relieved and troubled?
Suspicion trotted up her spine when instead of preparing to leave, Ewan resumed his seat. He needn’t have accompanied Dugall here in the first place. Dugall could’ve easily relayed this information. Perhaps Yvette, concerned for propriety, had encouraged her husband to act as chaperone.
That must be it. They didn’t want their governess in a compromising position. And neither could she afford to lose the post.
“There’s something else.” Not a question.
Gwendolyn could see vexation in Dugall’s eyes. Something had put thunder on his face, and trepidation sent her pulse frolicking.
“Aye.” The great dog raised its massive head, and Ewan scratched behind his charcoal-colored pointed ears. “Miss Dolina escaped her chamber last night. She drugged the footman assigned to guard her room. Stupid fool. She claimed she wasna hungry and offered him her mutton stew dosed with laudanum.”
Fear stabbed Gwendolyn, the icy tendrils coiling around her ribs, and she jerked upright. “Where are the children? Are clansmen guarding them?”
Dugall answered. “The children are perfectly safe.”
“I expect the guard was reprimanded for his carelessness?” She pressed her palm to her forehead to calm her tumultuous thoughts. It would be difficult for Dolina to sneak into Craigcutty. Nevertheless, Gwendolyn would insist on a watch round the clock. “She’s being pursued, of course?”
“The guard roused soon after and alerted the others. They found her in the bogs.” Dugall tapped his fingers on his thigh, the lines of his face gone stern. “Whether by accident or deliberate intent, she drowned in a bog pool.”
“Better that than wasting away in a prison, I should think,” Ewan offered.
“I should feel pity for her, but at this moment, I cannot dredge any sympathy. Her crimes are too fresh in my mind.” Prior to this, Gwendolyn had always been quick to forgive, but she couldn’t get beyond the evilness of Dolina targeting Jeremiah.
“There’s something else you should know.” Ewan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and steepling his fingers. “Citing unethical practices, McClintock discharged Christie two years prior to his death. Dugall’s man unearthed that information.”
“I’d say forgin’ documents and namin’ himself executor or representative for a number of deceased clients qualifies as corrupt.” Dugall shoved a hank of his midnight hair behind his ear, his exhaustion tangible.
Gwendolyn yearned to brush the lines of fatigue from his face. No, she wanted to put her arms—well, her good arm—around him, pull him down beside her, and for them both to sleep until tomorrow. For a few hours, forget all of this ugliness and pretend that they had a future together.
After she’d so firmly forbade her heart not to succumb to Dugall’s dashing manliness, the imprudent organ had ignored her sage and learned advice and done precisely that. And despite the rash impossibility of it all, she’d seize every moment she could with him.
“My intuition told me not to trust that man, and now I know why.” She swallowed a yawn and, fingertips pressed to her lips, shook her head. “Surely he had to have known he’d eventually be caught. Why would he take such a risk? Can’t he go to prison for this?”
“After he succeeded the first couple of times, he became careless. The cull has a gamblin’ problem and debts up to his beady eyeballs,” Dugall informed her. “A few years ago he faced debtor’s prison. Then suddenly, clients started appointin’ him executor and, voilà,” he snapped his fingers. “Christie paid all his vowels off in a matter of months.”
“He’ll spend a long while in prison now, or if he’s fortunate, he’ll spend the remainder of his life in a penal colony.” Ewan bounced his foot lightly upon his knee. “The authorities have been advised, and I shouldn’t be surprised if he hasn’t already been detained.”
Waves of pain riddled Gwendolyn’s arm, and it took great effort not to let on how much it hurt. She might yet succumb to the laudanum. Or another toddy. “So how do we know what part of the will is legitimate and what’s not?”
Dugall grinned, the flecks in his eyes glittering with delight. “That’s the beauty of it. McClintock retained another solicitor—Cyrel Pinfield—and Pinfield possesses McClintock’s most recent Last Will and Testament.”
Gwendolyn’s relief was almost dizzying. Of course, that might be the whisky, too.
He withdrew a letter from his coat pocket and passed it to her. “He wrote ye’,” Dugall said.
Laying the letter aside to read at her leisure without two pairs of curious eyes regarding her, she asked, “Why haven’t I heard from him prior to this?”
“He returned from America just this week. He’d personally gone to find Suttford House’s heir. I ken the mon.” Dugall yawned behind his hand. “Met him in law school. A good sort. So straight-laced, he’d sooner bite off his own tongue than tell an untruth.”
Full of questions and more than a bit befuddled, Gwendolyn shook her head. “Why didn’t Mr. Pinfield just send a letter to Thistle Glen? And why the delay? It’s been months.”
“He was in India recoverin’ from a severe case of malaria, and Christie took advantage of his absence. In fact, Pinfield, upon hearin’ of McClintock’s death, was quite frantic to contact ye, lass.”
Christie probably hoped Mr. Pinfield would die and no one would be any wiser.
“He wrote ye straightaway, but he either had the wrong address, or his letter and yer passage to England intersected on the Atlantic.” Dugall picked up the journal and after a moment, thumbed through the pages. “Why do ye suppose she left this behind?” He raised the volume chest-high.
“I’m not sure.” Gwendolyn lifted her good shoulder. “Perhaps she dropped it in her haste.” She peered between Dugall and Ewan. “So precisely where does this new information leave my family and me?”
Arig lifted his great head, then stood. After yawning and stretching, he padded over to the bed. The size of a small pony, he laid his muzzle on her lap.
“Greedy laddie, begging for pets,” Dugall admonished even as he leaned over and ran a big hand across Arig’s neck.
Gwendolyn, always fond of dogs, played her fingers through the boarhound’s short fur.
“I’d guess exactly back where you were when you arrived. You’ll know more after you meet with Pinfield. He’s expected here tomorrow, unless the weather turns waffy.” Ewan smiled and slapped his hands on the chair’s arms. “And this likely means, you’ll no longer need to remain as governess. My children will be disappointed, and even more
so that their new friends are leaving so soon. We’ll all miss your company at Craiglocky.”
“Let’s no’ get ahead of ourselves.” Dugall scowled at his brother. “Best to wait and see what Pinfield has to say. There still may be stipulations we’re no’ aware of.” He cut her a mollifying look. “I’m sure ye’ll agree, lass.”
“That does seem wise.” She loathed carting the children back to Suttford prematurely. “At least we know now that Lloyd’s fully capable of overseeing Suttford, so the estate will trot along quite well.”
“Aye, he’s done a commendable job,” Dugall agreed.
All this turmoil to come full circle. Still, better to be at Suttford as soon as possible where everything didn’t remind her of him—of what could never be. She managed a cheerful smile. “You must be very excited to start your training. When do you return to London?”
“That depends on ye, lass.” Dugall leveled Ewan a speaking glance.
Ballocks and bluebells.
Had he delayed his departure because of her injury? Would his superiors reprimand him? He’d only been here one day, so she hardly believed they’d kick up too much of a dust. Would a missive from her help at all?
“And that’s my cue to leave.” Ewan slapped his thigh, and at once Arig lumbered to his side.
The door slid closed much quieter than one would expect on the centuries-old hinges.
“I apologize if my recuperation has hindered your plans, Dugall.” Steeling herself, Gwendolyn raised her bandaged arm. “I must be up and about tomorrow to receive Mr. Pinfield in any event. You needn’t postpone leaving on my account.”
No one would be coming or going from Craiglocky if the portly clouds released their flaky burdens.
“Wheesht, sweet Gwenny.”
Dugall gave her one of those stomach-tumbling sideways smiles, making it ever so difficult to be curt or cross with him for telling her to shush as if she were a rambunctious toddler.
She tilted her head and after raising her eyebrows gave him an extended, expectant look.
Seductive Surrender Page 21
