by Cara Elliott
Were they? Anna did not bother to argue, but went back to reading her book on the history of Scotland. Accepting the countess’s invitation had been a stroke of inspiration, she decided. Given the country’s tumultuous past and its wildly atmospheric landscape, she was already envisioning a number of intriguing scenes for the last part of her novel.
“Oh, look!” As if reading Anna’s thoughts, Caro pressed her nose to the rain-spattered windowpane and peered up at an ancient stone fortress. Perched atop a craggy cliff, it overlooked the gray-as-gunmetal waters of a broad loch, looking like a silent, solitary Highland warrior keeping a watchful eye on the surroundings. “Isn’t that romantic!” she exclaimed.
Anna leaned over for a look.
“Surely there are deep, dark dungeons cut into the ancient rock,” went on Caro. “And no doubt there are subterranean passageways that wind down and down to the water’s edge.”
Anna repressed a smile as her sister added, “One can’t help but imagine all sorts of interesting stories taking place within a Scottish castle.”
“Indeed,” she replied.
Lady Trumbull gave a mock shiver. “Really, Caro, how you can wax poetic over a pile of moldering stones is puzzling. And Anna, please don’t encourage such girlish fantasies. I sometimes think that reading all those horrid novels is too overstimulating for a young lady’s sensibilities.”
“On the contrary, Mama,” assured Anna. “Even so high a stickler as the dowager Duchess of Kirtland agrees that such stories are a harmless source of amusement.”
Just as she suspected, mention of Society’s most influential arbiter of style quickly caused their mother to revise her opinion.
“Oh, well, of course I agree with Her Grace that there is nothing wrong with enjoying a diverting tale. I simply meant that they ought to be enjoyed in moderation, especially by someone just out of the schoolroom.”
Caro scowled, though she took pains to hide it.
“It is, after all, an impressionable age, and your sister has not yet gained experience in the ways of Society.”
“I have learned a great deal just by listening to Olivia and Anna,” protested Caro.
“You would do well to emulate your sisters.” Sensing she was on the defensive, Lady Trumbull cut short the conversation by patting back a yawn. “I think I shall take a nap. Let us hope we arrive before suppertime.”
Devlin hunched low and angled the brim of his hat in a vain attempt to keep the chill rain from dripping beneath his coat collar. Swearing under his breath, he turned in the saddle and surveyed the soggy moors. The low, leaden clouds were thick as porridge and with the mists pooled in the low-lying heather, it was impossible to make out anything but a gray-green wash of blurry color.
“Are you enjoying Scotland, Lord Davenport?” The burred voice held a slightly sarcastic note. Alec McClellan, a Scottish baron who had reluctantly agreed to serve as a guide for an afternoon ride, had chosen to halt on a high knoll where the gusting wind hit them with its full force. He was, noted Devlin, wearing an oilskin riding cloak and wide brimmed hat designed to withstand the elements. As for himself, he was soaked to the bone.
“I can’t say that I will echo Robert Burns’s rapturous odes to your country any time soon,” he replied.
“Like our national dish, haggis, our weather is an acquired taste.”
“Sorry, but I find both equally foul,” muttered Devlin.
“That’s not surprising. Few Sassenachs appreciate the unique charms of Scotland or its people.”
Sassenach was the Gaelic term for people from England. And Devlin knew it was not meant to be flattering.
“Shall we ride on to the coast?” asked McClellan. “The nearby cliffs offer a superb vista of the North Sea.”
The mocking tone had become more pronounced. The fog rolling in from the ocean was now so thick that Devlin couldn’t see the ears of his stallion.
“Or have you had enough of the local scenery?” went on his guide.
The baron had arrived at the castle the previous evening, and from his sullen demeanor and abrasive comments to the guests from south of the border, it was clear he had no love for the English. The Germans he had simply ignored.
The countess had murmured a discreet apology for his behavior, explaining that he held strong views on the subject of Scottish independence. Or to put it less politely, her cousin was a flaming radical nationalist, mused Devlin. Which raised the question…
Is he merely a boor who lacks social graces? Or something more dangerous?
“The scenery is splendid,” replied Devlin. “By all means, let us continue on to the cliffs. I look forward to you pointing out all the local landmarks.”
That drew a bark of laughter from McClellan. “You’re not as soft as you look, milord.”
“That depends.”
“On what?” asked the baron
“On how much whisky I’ve imbibed,” drawled Devlin. “Usually I loathe exposing myself to any physical hardship. But having enjoyed a few wee drams at breakfast, I’m currently feeling no discomfort.”
“In that case, let us return to the castle,” came the barbed reply.
“Because there’s no sport in tormenting a Sassenach if he can’t feel the pain?”
McClellan didn’t respond to the quip. “Stay close, Lord Davenport,” he said brusquely. “There are dangerous peat bogs close to the trail and it would be a great pity to see you swallowed by the Celtic mud.”
Thankfully, his frigid flesh was soon submerged in steaming, pine-scented bathwater rather than slimy muck. Flexing his stiff shoulders, Devlin leaned back in the tub and stared up at the massive age-dark oak beams set in the plastered ceiling of his bedchamber.
Only half of the invited guests had arrived as of yet—the rest were expected over the next few days—and aside from the ill-tempered baron, the other gentlemen seemed pleasant enough. A trifle dull, but inoffensive. Save, of course, for the fact that one of them might be a cold-blooded assassin. As for the German prince, he and his entourage were cheerful fellows who talked enthusiastically about the upcoming hunting opportunities and flirted politely with all the ladies.
So far, the feminine presence numbered ten—six had arrived together from London, while two French noble ladies-in-exile had come from Bath, and the final pair were the wives of the prince’s military attachés. Five more were expected, making a total of fifteen to balance the same number of men.
Thirty guests in all.
Devlin pursed his lips and blew out a sigh. Thorncroft hadn’t bothered to mention the exact number, no doubt secretly enjoying the fact that it would require a great deal of effort to become acquainted with everyone and assess what possible threat they might present to the prince.
Damnation. He would have charged double for the mission had he known the facts.
He consoled himself with the thought that an attempt at murder seemed even more implausible now that he was here than it did in London. Aside from McClellan, whose surliness and overt Scottish nationalism made him too obvious a suspect, none of the other guests seemed out of the ordinary.
The most likely danger was that he might expire from ennui.
Lathering a sponge, Devlin circled it slowly over his chest and the soft caress stirred a more pleasant thought. There were several strikingly pretty ladies here already, including the young London heiress and a sultry Parisian widow who was part of the French party from Bath.
The heiress was under the watchful eye of her Mama, so the chances of gaining any intimate acquaintance with her fortune seemed slim. As for the other plump-in-the-pocket English pigeon that Thorncroft had mentioned, she had not yet arrived.
No doubt she would be just as closely guarded…not that he had any interest in seducing an innocent. Despite Thorncroft’s low opinion of his morality, he did have some scruples.
For an instant, his thoughts strayed to Anna, but he quickly reeled them back. Thank God she was in London—that should be far enough away to kee
p her from being a constant distraction.
Forcing his mind back to the mission, he decided the best prospect for an enjoyable interlude lay in la magnifique Marie- Hélène de Blois. After all, everyone—even the ladies—had to be considered a possible suspect, so a closer acquaintance with the comtesse was part of his mission. If a casual dalliance developed, well, both of them were experienced enough to know the rules of the game. There would be no expectations, no recriminations, no tears when it was over.
The prospect served to warm the last lingering chill from his limbs. Devlin dressed quickly and, after combing a careless hand through his hair, he made his way down to the drawing room.
“I hope you did not venture out for a ride today, Lord Davenport,” said Lady Dunbar in greeting, as she placed a hand on his sleeve and steered him to the drinks table. “The moors can be dangerous if one loses the way and strays off the trail in one of our North Sea gales.”
“Actually, I did,” replied Devlin. “Lord McClellan was kind enough to accede to my request when I asked at the stables whether I might accompany him.”
“Oh, dear,” murmured the countess.
Devlin arched a brow. “Is he in the habit of disposing of your unwanted guests in the peat bog?”
“Horrid man—Alec, that is, not you,” responded Lady Dunbar. “Did he try to frighten you with that farrididdle?” She chuffed an exasperated sigh. “They aren’t nearly as dangerous as he claims. But it’s easy to take a nasty fall if your horse gets entangled in the heather or gorse.”
“It wasn’t fear that had me quaking in my Hessians, Lady Dunbar, it was the toe-curling cold of your Scottish squalls. Do you not have summer here?”
“The seasons are different from what you are used to in London.” She lowered the lens. “As are a great many things.”
Devlin sipped his champagne. “Thank heaven that sparkling wine is not one of them. This is an excellent vintage.”
The countess accepted a glass from one of her footmen and then drew Devlin aside to a quieter spot by the diamond-paned windows. “I apologize again for my cousin. He is rather passionate about his political beliefs and doesn’t much like the English.”
“So I gathered,” he said dryly.
“But he is an excellent shot and knows the moors like the back of his hand,” explained Lady Dunbar, “So I pressed him to be part of the party and to serve as a hunting guide to the prince and his companions.”
“I’m surprised he accepted,” said Devlin, making private note of the baron’s proficiency with firearms. “McClellan doesn’t appear to give a fig for social niceties.” The irony of his observation was not lost on him. It was, he thought wryly, rather like the pot calling the kettle black.
“No, he doesn’t,” agreed the countess. “But I am a very generous donor to his local charitable initiatives for the crofters, so he humors me.”
To a degree, thought Devlin.
“And now, enough about Alec. Let us mingle with the others.” The French trio had just entered the room, followed by several of the German nobles. “The last of the guests arrived this afternoon, so everyone is now here.”
Devlin watched as Madame de Blois turned and held his gaze for a moment before joining a group of gentlemen clustered by the marble hearth.
“But of course,” he murmured. Between having ample quiet time for his own private project and an attractive widowed lady with whom to play provocative games, the decision to accept Thorncroft’s assignment was beginning to seem like a stroke of genius. No tedious creditors to disturb his work, no beguiling blonde beauty to torment…
“By the by, Lord Davenport,” said the countess, “I hadn’t realized you were such an avid sportsman. Had I known you were so fond of grouse shooting, I would have invited you to our annual hunt parties before now.”
“Ah, we all have our little secrets,” he replied lightly.
“Well, I am glad that Sir Thorncroft made mention of the fact to my husband. I do hope you will find your stay a rewarding one.” With that, she drifted off to greet a contingent of local gentry who had just entered through the side salon.
A small smile played on his lips. Rewards came in many guises, and although a rich heiress was not likely to fall into his arms, the sojourn was still going to prove highly lucrative, assuming all went according to plan.
But no sooner had the thought popped into his head when a sudden flutter of moss-green silk at the drawing room’s main door knocked all such assumptions to flinders.
Anna smoothed at her skirts, feeling unaccountably reluctant to join a crowd of strangers. Her mother’s constant carping had provoked a dull ache in the base of her skull, and for a moment she was tempted to cry off from the gala welcoming supper and retreat to her room.
But good manners triumphed over the longing to curl up in bed with a cup of tea and her book on Scottish history. Heaving an inward sigh, she pasted on a smile and made herself step over the threshold.
“Oh, look,” said her mother a bit smugly, “here is the Lady Dunbar coming to greet us. No doubt she wishes to introduce you to the prince. I wonder which one…” Her words trailed off in an aggrieved huff as she caught sight of the figure by the arched windows. “Good heavens, what possessed Miriam to invite him to Scotland?”
Anna followed her mother’s gaze and suddenly felt the ache in her head turn into a stab of fire. An imp of Satan, perhaps? A strange crackling heat seemed to spread through her limbs.
“Who?” asked Caro, trying to see over her mother’s shoulder.
“The Devil,” grumbled Lady Trumbull. However, the approach of their hostess forestalled any further complaint.
Anna performed the rituals of introduction by rote, for her thoughts were knotted in a tangle. Davenport is here? Not in her wildest dreams had she imagined that the marquess might be part of Lady Dunbar’s house party.
The idea ought to appall her, and yet…
She slanted a sidelong look at Devlin and felt her pulse skitter. With his dark, disheveled hair and his dark, disheveled evening clothes, he looked like some wild Celtic wraith from the black-misted moors. In contrast, all the other gentlemen looked tame as well-fed tabby cats.
Yes, that was it, she realized with a jolt. The marquess always looked hungry for something, though God only knew what it was. His predatory gaze was always hunting, hunting—
Their eyes locked for just an instant, and then she quickly looked away.
“…What lovely daughters, Hermione.” Anna caught the last of Lady Dunbar’s compliments to their mother. “Come along, girls, I must introduce you to the other guests, starting with visitors from the German principality of Schwarzburg-Rudolstadt. Prince Gunther has not yet come down, but his friends are a very amiable group of gentlemen.”
Anna listened with only half an ear as the countess rattled off several names and titles.
“Did you hear that, girls?” said their mother in a hushed whisper. “Not only a prince, but a margrave and a graf. That is the equivalent of an English marquess and an earl.”
“I think Mama is already hearing the ringing of church bells,” murmured Caro, as Lady Trumbull turned back to converse with her old friend. “Which title would you prefer to wed? As the elder sister, you ought to have the first choice.”
“Hmmm?” answered Anna absently as she checked the reflection in a large glass-front curio case, trying to spot Devlin among the blurred shapes and flickering light.
A playful smile tugged at her sister’s lips. “Or have you decided that you will settle for nothing less than the prince?”
“Hmmm?” He seemed to have melted into the shadows.
“You aren’t paying the least attention, are you?” Caro raised a quizzical brow. “What are you looking for?”
“Nothing,” she replied, forcing herself to push aside the distraction. “I was simply making mental note of the details. It’s an unusual room.”
It was far larger than a traditional London drawing room, with soaring stone
columns rising up to a vaulted ceiling. Beneath its arch, massive oak beams ran the length of the space, and from the center beam hung an ornate chandelier wrought of stag horn and silver. Tapestries of hunting scenes hung on the honey-colored pine paneling—rather fiercely graphic scenes that were not for the faint of heart.
The Scots appeared to be a bellicose, bloodthirsty people, noted Anna, as her gaze came to rest on a display of ancient claymores and crossbows.
“The fireplaces look large enough to roast an ox,” observed Caro. There were two set at opposite ends of the room, with high granite mantels and fanciful fire-breathing dragons carved into the decorative stone work above them.
“Or two English nobles,” said a deep, hard-edged voice.
“That is not amusing, Alec.” Lady Dunbar whirled around and fixed the sandy-haired gentleman who had just stepped out from the recessed book alcove with a reproving glare. “Miss Sloane, Miss Caro, please forgive my cousin. His sense of humor can be a little rough around the edges.”
“You don’t like the English, Lord McClellan?” asked Caro, once Lady Dunbar had performed the introductions.
“No,” came the blunt reply, which earned another pained look from the countess.
“Why?” demanded Caro, ignoring their mother’s surreptitious warning pinch to maintain a ladylike silence.
“Don’t you south-of-the-borderlands schoolgirls study history?” he shot back. “If you did so, you would know that the history between our two countries is a violent and bloody one.”
If sufficiently provoked, Caro could display a fiery temper to go along with her flair for drama. Sure enough, her sister was quick to fling back a retort. “Don’t you north-of-the-borderlands nobles study social etiquette?” she asked. “If you did so, you would know that I would not be a guest at your cousin’s house party if I were still in the schoolroom.”
Hoping to forestall further pyrotechnics, Anna took her sister by the arm. “Perhaps we ought to move on, before Lord McClellan decides to roast us as a sacrifice to the Celtic God of War.”
