Allison walked into the family sitting room. There by the great hearth, thumbing through a recent copy of The Strand, stood Charles Fairgate. Inwardly Allison cringed with mortification. This schoolgirl look was the last image she wanted to portray to him!
“I hope you don’t mind my coming without an invitation,” he said, laying aside the magazine and approaching her.
“Of course not,” replied Allison, trying to sound cheerful. “But if I’d known you were coming, I would have dressed more suitably. As you can see, I just threw something on to keep warm—this dreadful old castle, you know. So drafty!”
“You look exquisite,” said Fairgate.
“Don’t fib, Charles,” replied Allison, trying to hide her embarrassment, not over his comment but from how she looked. “But I am surprised to see you out in this awful weather.”
“It’s settled down quite a bit since yesterday,” he replied. “Even the sea is calming rather nicely. And besides, what’s a bit of weather where friendships are concerned?”
He moved to a sofa where he reclined easily. She sat in an adjacent chair, strangely uncomfortable with his visit thus far, though she couldn’t say why.
“I went directly to Aberdeen after the Bramfords’ ball,” he went on after they were settled. “My family has some interests in the shipyards. Waiting for me there was a telegram requesting my presence in London next week. A friend of mine was about to take his new yacht out on a shakedown cruise the moment the storm let up. I convinced him to take it north. I said to myself that I couldn’t go to London, which would surely detain me for weeks, without seeing Allison once more. So when the winds died down yesterday morning, we sailed stopping off at Peterhead, and here we are. He’s moored down at the harbor right now.”
“That’s very flattering of you, Charles,” said Allison, still uncomfortable, but warming to Fairgate’s charm. He had never been this attentive to her before.
“I didn’t mean it entirely to flatter you.”
“Oh?”
“I must admit I do have an ulterior motive.”
“Sounds suspicious,” she replied, her old coyness gaining the upper hand.
“I hoped I might be able to pry you out of this grim nest. What would you say to an exhilarating sail to Inverness, then a train to London?”
“My, that is a daring proposal! I hardly know what to think.”
“You’ll have a grand time.”
“I’m sure I would.” Allison laughed just at the thought of it. Just to imagine what it might be like sent a tingle through her—the exciting thrill of high society life which Charles was sure to be a part of. “But alas,” she added, inexplicably feeling less regret than her tone indicated, “you know my parents. They are extremely old-fashioned—they hardly let me out of the house without a proper chaperone.”
“The party at the Bramfords’ must have been quite an exception, then,” he said tightly. “I don’t believe I saw a chaperone with you and Mr. Macintyre.”
“Oh, that . . .” she said with a nervousness she couldn’t hide and which Fairgate duly noted, to his further annoyance. “Mr. Macintyre is . . . a trusted family employee.”
“Rather remarkable, isn’t it, for one so young to acquire such trust?” His eyebrow cocked slightly, revealing that he saw only too well through this amplification of the truth. What he tried not to reveal was that the mere mention of Logan Macintyre was an irritation to him. “And it’s funny,” he went on, “I cannot seem to recall ever hearing his name mentioned before in connection with Stonewycke.”
“He hasn’t personally been here long, of course,” said Allison, “but his family has been in the . . . uh, service of our family for . . . er, years. Several generations, in fact.”
“Well, it is remarkable nevertheless,” repeated Fairgate.
“You might say he is a bit remarkable, that is . . . in the area of maturity. He’s rather like . . . a big brother to me. That’s all.”
Fairgate didn’t much care for the look in her eye or the tone of her voice. He had labored under the same reaction with Angela Cunningham two days ago when Macintyre’s name had been mentioned. Angela, however, had been less subtle. She had rambled on incessantly about the dashing newcomer on the drive home, hardly trying to hide the fact that she was attempting to make her beau jealous—and succeeding rather admirably in one so cocky as Charles Reynolds Fairgate III.
Until now Charles had had things pretty much his own way. Though he had been working his way toward the heartstrings of Stonewycke slowly, the future earl of Dalmount was anything but subtle when it came to his ultimate design. He already dared to envision himself as the future laird of Stonewycke, and looked forward to the time when he might once again extend its boundaries and reestablish its preeminence in northern Scotland. If neither Alec nor Joanna dreamed what was in the mind of the young man who came calling upon occasion, neither did Allison, despite all her seemingly worldly wisdom. She enjoyed his company, and flattered herself that he seemed moderately interested in her. But she had no true sense of his eventual aspirations.
Fairgate, on his part, had enjoyed himself juggling the attentions of the two very lovely and high-bred young women. Angela was pretty enough, but her family was no match for Allison’s in prestige and status. She was a pleasant distraction while Fairgate was biding his time. He could afford to wait a year or two until Allison matured. He would gradually work himself into a more intimate friendship with her simpleton vet of a father, until the appropriate moment came. He knew he was the most eligible and sought-after bachelor in his social circle—though he wondered why the people at Stonewycke did not seem aware of that fact—and had the pick of the available debutants. He could thus afford the impropriety of being seen with two women at once.
Such had been his plan, at least. But he hadn’t planned on this Macintyre fellow suddenly coming in and brazenly rocking his comfortable little boat. Most provoking of all was that in a single evening, Logan had threatened him on both feminine fronts and came dangerously close to cleaning him out at cards. It was just lucky for him he’d drawn that straight on the last hand.
He didn’t like being put in this position by anybody, even a nobody who would never get far in his pursuits. The fact was, no matter how far Logan might reasonably get, he had already cast a shadow on Fairgate’s parade. And Charles Reynolds Fairgate was not the sort to share anything, especially the limelight. Thus he arrived at this madcap idea of attempting to spirit Allison away for a visit to London. He knew it could not hope to succeed. But perhaps the mere thought of a romantic flight south with him would implant sufficient thoughts of him in Allison’s mind to waylay the wiles of Macintyre. If only he could recall why he was so certain he knew him!
“We shall miss you,” Fairgate said coolly. “Perhaps when you are a little older . . .”
The jab struck its mark, and Allison pulled herself up with all the self-importance a seventeen-year-old could muster. “I can jolly well go to London whenever I please,” she asserted with emphasis, “chaperone or not. It’s high time my parents got out of the Dark Ages, anyhow. But as it happens, I don’t fancy a sail anywhere in this weather, or a long train ride either. And I was already considering traveling to London later in the year.”
“Then perhaps I shall meet you there,” said Charles, a bit more warmly.
“Perhaps . . .” Now it was Allison’s turn for a calculated cooling of her tone.
The conversation drifted to more benign topics while they had tea. Then Allison invited Fairgate to accompany her on a walk about the place. As they walked through the gallery, he could not help but be impressed at the originals by Raeburn, Reynolds, and Gainsborough. On the wall hung the sword reputed to have been a gift from Bonnie Prince Charlie to Colin Ramsey, who gave his life in the would-be king’s futile cause.
But Fairgate’s mind was only half on the valuable antiquities, though he had to admit he wouldn’t mind possessing them. He could not keep himself from sulking vengefully
over the impertinent so-called trusted servant Logan Macintyre. Not only was Logan’s position right on the estate and so close to Allison dangerous, but as Angela Cunningham had left him she had slipped in a final crafty thrust with her incisive tongue. “I really must renew my acquaintance with Allison MacNeil,” she had said with a more than knowing glint in her cunning eye. “I think I’ll run up there next week while you are gone, Charles dear, and pay a little visit.” She well knew that Charles had not missed the underlying message that it wasn’t Allison she was particularly interested in seeing.
So, Macintyre would have both young things within his clutches, would he? And Charles himself did indeed have to go to London—it could not be avoided. Lucky in cards, lucky in love. Charles mused as he pretended to keep up a passing interest in what Allison was showing him.
That card game the other night at Bramfords’ still stuck in his craw. Even if he had won, something in Macintyre’s supercilious manner had annoyed him, and it only added to Fairgate’s account against him. He did not like losing, at cards any more than with women, and he was the type who did not easily forget his losses at either. But to win, and yet to walk away with the distinct impression that the other had nevertheless maintained some unspoken and invisible advantage over him—that was worse than an outright defeat.
Lucky at cards . . .
Subconsciously Fairgate began to tick off his past losses at the gaming tables. Something about Macintyre had unsettled him since the moment he had laid eyes on him. Why could he not shake that nagging feeling that they had met?
Of course—they had met! All at once the scene flashed through his mind’s eye as if it were yesterday.
How could he have possibly forgotten?
The recollection struck him with such impact that he gasped audibly.
“What is it, Charles?” asked Allison in the midst of an explanation of the history of the fine Raeburn clan chieftan hanging in the formal parlor.
“What?” replied Charles in a detached tone, then suddenly recalling himself, “Oh . . . nothing . . . I—I just banged my shin on this chair.” He laughed lightly, trying to cover himself.
“My great-grandmother always makes over this portrait,” Allison went on. “It’s of her great—let’s see, it would be her great-great-grandfather Robert Ramsey. Tradition has it that he and his mother helped hide Prince Charlie for a few days after the ’45, on his way from Skye to France.”
“Very interesting,” commented Fairgate politely. Then, as if his mind had not been intent on the very subject for the last hour but it had just occurred to him, he added casually, “I say, it just crossed my mind that it would be terribly impolite of me to come all this way and not give my regards to your Mr. Macintyre.”
An hour earlier Allison would have gone to whatever lengths she could manage to avoid such a meeting, and to avoid having to lay eyes on Logan herself. But her brief foray into the regions of healthy self-reflection had already faltered as a result of Fairgate’s presence. The threat to her emotions was not nearly so great now. It might even be enjoyable to watch the two men spar because of her.
After a brief pause as Allison considered the implications of Fairgate’s statement, she smiled, and led him toward the corridor which would take them to the ground floor and outside to the stable.
“How well do you know Macintyre?” asked Fairgate, diligently trying to keep his voice sounding indifferent.
“Well . . . he is, as I said, of a family which has been—”
“But he hasn’t been here long?”
“No . . . not long, really.”
“So you personally haven’t been acquainted with him for many years?”
“Not really . . . No, not exactly. Why all the sudden interest in a mere hired hand?”
“Oh, just curious. His face struck me the other night somehow, that’s all. Just curious.”
Without another mention of him they made their way outside, Fairgate anticipating the encounter with relish.
38
Confrontation
Logan had noted Fairgate’s arrival. Whether it irritated him because of Allison, or whether it worried him because of himself, he didn’t exactly know. But he did know that the heir’s appearance at Stonewycke was not a welcome sight.
Allison was growing to mean something to him.
He could scarcely admit it to himself, but he had hardly stopped thinking of her since yesterday. Her abandoned laughter in the rain and mud beside the broken-down Austin still lingered in his ears. To find himself stymied with his work because his mind was filled with the pretty face of a young lady was an altogether new sensation to Logan Macintyre. Even her petulence reminded him of a jewel that, with the rough edges smoothed out, would be precious beyond price. He had enough of his own rough edges to worry about, so he could hardly be too critical. What was it old Skittles used to say? “Molly and me are like two rocks in a tumbler sometimes. But if we stick together we’ll soon end up smooth and shiny.”
Like rocks in a tumbler . . . yes, that could describe his relationship with Allison—if he wanted to presume so far as to call it a relationship at all. Up and down, now arguing, now laughing, now self-protective, now opening up. The process was as new to Logan as it was to Allison.
Logan was still valiantly trying to maintain his single-mindedness toward his goal. But it was becoming more difficult with each passing moment.
Fairgate had added a whole new dimension to the scenario—jealousy, although Logan would have disdained giving it that name. He tried to look at it more pragmatically, like a card game. Did he want to fold or raise? The stakes were clear. It was a simple decision, not some emotional ordeal, he desperately tried to convince himself. Could his three jacks beat whatever Fairgate held? It would cost him to find out. It could well cost him Allison. But even so, he could retreat and nothing would be changed. Logan could still get his treasure, and leave Fairgate with Allison.
Thus he tried to reason with himself. But the fact of the matter was that it was an emotional response. He could not be entirely pragmatic about it. The price of losing Allison to a contemptible fellow like Fairgate was enough to raise the hair on the back of his neck. Therefore, when he saw the two approach, looking every inch the ideal aristocratic couple, foolhardy though it would be and little chance as he had, he knew he would call Fairgate’s bluff. He pretended not to see them coming and went on with what he was doing.
Logan glanced up from his work on Jesse Cameron’s power winch as they pushed open the stable doors. He didn’t like the fact that they had apparently sought him out. Fairgate did not strike him as the type to make friendly calls, and the look on Allison’s face displayed not a hint of any previous familiarity with him; the glassed-over look of her former shell was firmly back in place. Regardless, Logan attempted the gesture of a friendly welcome, not unlike he supposed his uncle might have welcomed visitors to his stables.
“Hello,” he said, wiping his hands on a cloth. “What brings you all the way out here?” He extended his hand to Charles, who took it in a gentlemanly fashion. The handshake was firm and sincere, if one judged merely by the feel of its grasp. But over the years Logan had developed the habit of assessing a man more by the look in his eye, and Fairgate’s glance was cold and hard, with a hint of cunning, which Logan did not like.
“Charles dropped by on his way to Inverness,” said Allison lightly, “and he wouldn’t have forgiven himself if he had not at least given you his greetings.” Her voice was too pleasant, too easygoing. She and Fairgate did indeed seem most suitably matched.
“Very considerate of you, Fairgate,” Logan replied, on his guard.
“Well, I’ve always thought a night of gambling instills a certain bond between men,” said Charles. “Don’t you agree?”
“I suppose so,” replied Logan warily.
“Charles sailed here from Aberdeen,” put in Allison. “Isn’t that daring?” She was playing her own little game, pitting the sensitivities of the two aga
inst one another, unaware of the more perilous war of nerves going on between the men.
“It must have been—for you, Fairgate,” said Logan, “especially in this weather.”
“It heightens the challenge, but then you’d know all about that sort of thing, wouldn’t you, Macintyre?”
“I’m afraid I know nothing about sailing.”
“I was talking about challenges.”
The real intent of Fairgate’s words was becoming clear, assisted by the sly glow of anticipated victory in his eye. So, he had at last remembered their former acquaintance and was now going to make his adversary pay! That had to be the purpose of this contrived little meeting. Well, there was no way out of it. There was nothing for Logan to do except remain cool. “Whatever ’appens,” Skittles always said, “don’t bolt. Always play the dodge to the end—unless the Bobbies are breathin’ down your neck.”
“Ah yes . . . the challenge of the sea,” said Logan. “I was on a fishing vessel recently and almost lost my neck from the challenge.” He laughed, trying to divert the attention from Fairgate’s probing remarks.
“A fascinating life—the sea,” replied Fairgate. “But then it runs in my family. It has since the days we built frigates for Queen Elizabeth. Drake sailed one of our vessels.”
“How positively intriguing.”
“In fact, I’m off now for Glasgow to oversee the launching of our new liner.”
“You didn’t say anything about Glasgow,” intruded Allison, a bit confused at the direction and stilted quality of the conversation. Around her eyes could be seen a slight cracking of the shell. She wasn’t sure she liked what Fairgate was doing to Logan.
“I don’t look forward to it, though,” continued Charles, heedless of Allison’s remark. “It’s a rum city, that. Have you ever been there, Macintyre?”
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