“Welcome home, my lady,” Givens said.
My lady. Mari smiled. It was a courtesy title since her dear papa hadn’t been nobility and had died nearly penniless due to gambling debts accrued after Mama’s passing. Jillian, through an unusual act of Parliament, had been awarded the title of marchioness in her own right to Newburn once Wesley Alton had been arrested.
“I am glad to be back in Town,” she replied. “Is Aunt Agnes in?”
“I believe Mrs. Stokely is waiting for you in the drawing room,” Givens answered and then raised an eyebrow as Jamie emerged from the carriage.
Before she could introduce him, Jamie held out his hand to Givens. “Jamie MacLeod, the Earl of Cantford’s brother,” he said, “and Mari’s guardian.”
Mari groaned, not sure if the shock washing over the butler’s face was from Jamie extending his hand so informally or the announcement—the incorrect announcement—that he was her guardian. She would have to deal with that later.
The entrance door opened as she proceeded up the steps and Mrs. Fields, the housekeeper, gave her a small smile and a nod. Mari frowned. The housekeeper had always been friendly. Surely all this business of Jillian inheriting the title and marrying an earl didn’t make any difference. Did it? She gave Mrs. Fields a hug and was glad when the older woman hugged her back.
“Is everything all right?” she asked and then felt a sudden chill as the housekeeper stopped smiling.
“You had best see your aunt,” she said.
Mari rushed to the drawing room, praying that her aunt was not in ill health or had fallen. She sighed in relief as she saw Aunt Agnes, steel-grey hair in place, sipping tea, and apparently quite well.
Giving her a hug, Mari sank onto the horsehair sofa beside her. “I hope you did not worry that we were late.”
“With the roads awash, I am rather surprised you arrived so soon,” Aunt Agnes said and set her teacup down, then looked up as Jamie entered the room.
Mari made the introductions, careful to avoid any mention of guardianship. “I hope there is room at your boarding house for Mr. MacLeod,” she finished.
“There is,” her aunt replied, “but he might wish to stay here.”
Mari almost recoiled in shock. Her very proper, middle-aged aunt was suggesting they house a bachelor under their roof? During the Little Season, no less? The chill stole over her again. “Is something wrong?”
For an answer, her aunt picked up yesterday’s post and handed it to her. “Wesley Alton has escaped from Bedlam,” she said.
Chapter Two
Jamie watched Mari’s face pale as she read the news. He sat down quickly beside her should she swoon, although he didn’t think she was really the type to give in to the vapors. But if it gave him an opportunity to hold her again…
Mari took a deep breath and raised her eyes to her aunt. “He’s been loose for two days. How could this have happened?”
Jamie tugged the paper from her clenched hands and skimmed it. “Apparently, the mon had an accomplice. It says here he had a French visitor the day before he made his escape.”
“Do not the guards check visitors for weapons?” Mari asked as she looked at Jamie.
“Aye, I’m sure they do. But the paper says he picked the lock to his cell. Such a slim piece of steel would nae be hard to hide.”
“Why was he allowed a visitor anyway? Wesley was being held for observation. If sane, he will be tried for treason.”
“I dinnae ken, lass. Mayhap a guard was bribed. A gold coin or two could feed a mon’s family for a verra long time.”
“Treason?” Aunt Agnes asked, her pale-blue eyes wide. “I thought he had tried forcing Jillian…well, to have his way with her.”
“He did try, Auntie,” Mari replied, her voice shaky, “but Ian returned in time to stop that.”
“I will be forever grateful that he did,” her aunt said, “but how does that relate to treason? I thought Wesley Alton professed to be a war hero.”
Jamie guffawed. “Aye, the miserable liar did say he helped Wellington secure the bridge at Vitoria, but Alton had been sent away to France by his father for—” He stopped and looked at Mari.
“For having relations with his stepmother,” Mari finished. “Jillian told me.”
Aunt Agnes gasped. “Mercy, child. You simply cannot go around talking about such things in such a bold fashion.”
“Well, that is what happened,” Mari said unapologetically. “Wesley thought Jillian looked like his stepmother too.”
Aunt Agnes reached for her smelling salts.
Jamie refrained from grinning. Mayhap proper London Society would be in for a wee surprise this fall. “Alton took the name Gerard Fontaine and offered to spy for the English, since he was well-accustomed to French ways.”
“And Jillian said—”
“I do not think I care to know any more of what Jillian said,” Aunt Agnes interrupted, managing a stern look at Mari.
“’Twas a wee bit of luck that Ian has two Frenchmen bordering his lands—exiles from the revolution—but with ties to former countrymen,” Jamie continued, “’Twas they who discovered Alton was working for Napoleon and had even helped him escape from Elba.”
“Oh, my.” Aunt Agnes fanned herself furiously. “I had no idea such intrigue was being played out.”
Mari looked at Jamie. “Jillian should know about Wesley escaping.”
“Aye. Chances are the mon caught the first vessel to France, but ’tis better to warn Ian.”
“With Napoleon defeated, would it be safe for Wesley to go back?”
Jamie shrugged. “Safer than to stay here, lass. In France, he’s not a wanted mon. I will speak to Givens about finding someone who can ride north. Snow sets in the passes early in Scotland. The sooner the message is relayed to Ian, the better.” He didn’t even want to think about the blistering he would get from his brother for not being on the estates with this happening, but what choice did he have?
“You are not planning to go yourself?” Mari asked, a little too brightly.
Jamie paused. Was that hope in Mari’s voice that he would go or that he would stay? He was hard-put to decide since her face, usually expressive, remained as impassive as a faro player’s. If she really wished him to go, then that was a direct challenge to convince her she wanted him to stay. He never turned down a challenge.
Jamie gave Mari an easy grin. “Dinnae fash, lass. I will nae leave. How else could I be by yer side, day and night?”
Mari stared at him. “Are you implying you’ll be sleeping in my bed, sirrah?”
His grin widened. “Nae, but if ye wish me to…”
Aunt Agnes made a strangled sound and reached for her salts again.
Whatever possessed me to blurt that out, Mari thought as Jamie left the parlor in search of Givens. Her dear aunt’s face had turned an unlovely shade of near purple. It would not do to give her an apoplexy because Mari’s tongue ran ahead of her brain. How many times had her aunt—and Jillian—warned her the gentlemen of the ton expected charm and decorum from young ladies? Never mind the snippy, snide remarks married women were allowed to make.
She would simply have to stop being so outspoken.
Somehow, though, Jamie MacLeod managed to provoke her at every turn.
What in the world had he meant by staying at her side day and night? She should have realized Jamie had been baiting her—again. Not even a semi-wild rogue from some far north isle inhabited mostly by sheep would presume to bed a virginal innocent—would he? Not that Mari was exactly an innocent. She had allowed a distant cousin to kiss her at a house party last year. That kiss had landed somewhat clumsily only halfway on her lips. Truth be told though, it had left her wondering what all the excitement was about.
Mari felt her face heat as she recalled how her body had reacted to Jamie’s touch in the carriage. And when he’d mentioned kissing her, why had her insides gone all soft, mushy and warm?
Pushing the thought from her mind, Mari refocu
sed on what Jamie had just said. Did he intend to be her escort to every invitation she received? That would not do. Mari’s intent was to find a suitable husband—someone genteel and sophisticated who could smoothly host a soiree in Town or a weekend house party in the country. Someone not given to solving problems with his fists or other violence. Certainly not someone who carried a knife in his boot and another on his belt and preferred to have a huge claymore strapped to his back. Would the man sleep with those weapons on his wedding night?
Good heavens. Where had that thought come from? Jamie MacLeod was the most unsuitable man she could ever consider—unpredictable, opinionated, obstinate—
“Your houseguest seems to be somewhat presumptive,” Aunt Agnes said, interrupting Mari’s thoughts.
An understatement if she’d ever heard one. “Auntie, I do not think it wise to allow Mr. MacLeod to stay under our roof. I would not want to create a scandal.”
“Ordinarily, I would agree with you, Marissa. However, we do not know the whereabouts of Mr. Alton nor the state of his mind. Given the circumstances, it would be better to be safe than sorry. I doubt either Givens or Dobbs has ever handled a gun, let alone used one.”
Just give Jamie a little time, Mari thought grimly. He’d probably have both of them in the courtyard sparring with the footmen. This was probably not the best idea to share right now. “Mr. MacLeod fights with a huge sword,” she said. “We can hardly allow him to wander about London’s streets brandishing that.”
Her aunt smiled for the first time since Mari had arrived. “My dear, I have a feeling Mr. MacLeod is just as adroit with a pistol or his hands, for that matter.”
A host of butterflies Mari hadn’t known to be roosting in her stomach suddenly fluttered to life as she recalled Jamie’s hands—around her waist, on her shoulders, holding her tight against him in the carriage… Merciful heavens. What was wrong with her? She needed to stop thinking about Jamie MacLeod.
“Besides,” her aunt continued, “he is the brother of the Earl of Cantford and the brother-in-law of the Marchioness of Newburn. I doubt the ton would dare look down their collective noses, considering the relationships.”
Her aunt was probably right. The ton revered titles above all else. The bright side was all the matrons would know Jamie’s ties too, which meant they would practically hurl their eligible daughters at him.
Mari smiled. Jamie would be too busy dealing with determined mamas at the balls and parties to pay much attention to her.
Which was exactly the way she wanted it.
“I am so glad to see you.” Madeline Winslow threw her arms around Mari in the foyer two mornings later, dancing a happy jig with her.
“I am glad you are here, Maddie,” Mari replied, dragging her friend into the drawing room. “I want to hear all the news.”
“Of course, but first tell me who was that devilishly handsome man leaving your house as I was coming up the stairs? At this early hour, his departure really could be quite scandalous if any of the gossips saw him—your aunt is here to chaperone, I presume? I would not—”
“Stop, Maddie.” Mari held up her hand, smiling at her friend’s non-stop questions. “He is Ian’s brother. And devil is a good description. He enjoys tormenting me.”
“Ooooh. You are so lucky, having someone like that in the family.” Maddie’s green eyes sparkled with mischief. “He does have a dangerous look with those golden, wolfish eyes and that long, dark hair, but it is quite alluring. Violetta and Amelia will be so jealous of you at the first party Friday.”
“This Friday?”
“Yes, Lady Tindale is having a soiree as a sort of ice-breaker for the Little Season. The invitation came a few days ago.”
“I have not received one.”
“Oh, I am sure you will, once Lady Tindale knows you are in Town. Have you left calling cards yet?”
“I wanted to, but Jamie insisted on accompanying me. I tried to explain that was not how it is done. I told him a lady makes morning rounds simply to leave her card with the butler, not actually expecting to see the person in question. He snorted at that, calling it a waste of good time. I tried telling him—with extreme patience—the card was merely a way of letting friends know I would be receiving.” Jamie had given her a strange look and asked what she expected to receive, if she wanted something he could go get it for her. Mari had summoned a last shred of patience from somewhere and told him receiving was a custom to which one must strictly adhere, and that she would be perfectly safe with the driver and Effie.
Jamie’s jaw had squared in a way Mari was finding all too familiar. Either he accompanied her, or she did not go.
“So I sent Dobbs around in my place,” Mari finished.
“Oh.” Maddie frowned slightly and then smiled. “I am sure no one will take that as a slight. It does take several days to adjust to Town’s schedule.”
“I hope everyone understands,” Mari said. The ton was not exactly known to be benevolent, especially when it came to courtesies. She simply had to make contact personally. Hmmm. Jamie had gone to talk with the man Givens had found to ride north. She tilted her head and studied Maddie.
Her friend smiled. “What is it? Your face tells me you are up to something.”
“Is your driver still here?” Mari asked.
“Yes. He is probably in the kitchen with Effie and my maid enjoying a spot of tea. Why?”
“I could use a new bonnet,” Mari replied. “The shops should be opening. Do you want to go?”
“Oh, yes. It has been ages since I have shopped.” Maddie stood. “I will just gather the maids and have the driver bring the carriage around.”
Mari smiled as she went to get her wrap. A leisurely stroll along Bond Street would be just the thing to let everyone know she was in Town, just in case her calling cards had been misplaced. She really would hate to miss Lady Tindale’s party.
“What do you mean, the lass went shopping?” Jamie had gotten no farther than the foyer before he sensed Mari was not here. He scowled at Givens who blanched but managed not to retreat. “Did ye nae remember me saying the lass should nae go out without me?”
The butler adjusted his jacket, lifted his chin and stared at a space past Jamie’s shoulder. “Miss Barclay and Miss Winslow decided they needed new bonnets, sir. Their maids accompanied them.”
“Mrs. Stokely gave them permission to go?” Jamie thought Mari’s aunt had more sense than that. After all, she was the one who suggested he stay here.
Givens’s gaze faltered. “Mrs. Stokely had business to attend to at the boarding house this morning.”
Jamie groaned. Fine protection two unarmed maids would make. Did the wee vixen not understand the danger that lurked in this sooty city? Apart from not knowing where Alton was hiding, London was filled with street ruffians, petty thieves and swindling scoundrels, not to mention the barmy scum who lurked around the docks.
Jamie hated the docks. His cousin, Shane, owned a shipping line. Jamie had worked as crew enough times to know what drunken sailors on shore leave looked for. True, there were doxies to be had, but abducting aristocratic ladies for ransom was a lucrative income, especially if the ship’s captain was a blackguard himself and shared the profits.
Jamie would never forget trying to rescue a lady from a dozen thugs right here in London nearly six years ago. Shane had found him unconscious in an alley the next morning. The girl had disappeared.
Those ladies did nae return to their families as innocents.
Bloody Hell—an English term that Jamie had grown quite fond of—Mari Barclay was going to cause him grey hairs before his time. Jamie rubbed his temples, feeling the beginning of a nagging headache coming on. Or maybe it was a nagging thought about the little vixen he was supposed to protect.
Jamie retrieved his claymore from behind the coat rack and strapped it to his back as Givens’s eyes widened to saucers. Checking to make sure he had both his sgian dubh in his boot and a dirk in his belt, Jamie turned and stormed ou
t the door.
Wesley Alton stepped back into the shadows of a shop entryway, hardly able to believe his luck. Marissa Barclay strolled with a friend not half a block away. He had not expected her in Town until after Christmas, but he could move his plans up easily enough. Wesley had already dispensed a missive to his son in France, whom he’d always thought a rather unfortunate accident. He’d sired his bastard son shortly after he’d been sent to the continent at the tender age of fourteen years by his cold-hearted, sadistic father. The boy was seventeen now—or perhaps eighteen—Wesley hadn’t really kept up with Nicholas or Richard, another brat spawned before Wesley had learned about using lambskins to keep from having by-blows.
He scratched the beard he’d grown and adjusted the fake spectacles. He hated both as much as he hated powdering his hair and letting it grow to an unfashionable length. Wesley smiled bitterly. The last thing he needed to worry about was fashion since he could hardly make an appearance at White’s or Brooke’s or any of the social events, for that matter. At least not until the furor about his escape died down. For now, he would have to live in second-rate establishments near the docks on London’s east side.
If his plan worked, he’d be a wealthy landowner in France within a few months. All Nicholas had to do was court Marissa Barclay, set her up in a compromising position and then demand a large dowry for accepting spoiled goods. Once they had the money, Wesley and Nicholas would be gone, leaving the chit standing at the altar.
If that didn’t work, abduction for ransom was always an option. His accomplices, Louis and Jean, could handle that without exposing him.
The Cantford and Newburn estates were worth a great deal of money. He had no doubt the damned Highlander would pay either the dowry or the ransom. No doubt at all.
Maybe he could arrange for both.
Wesley stepped out of the dim entry, adjusted the frayed collar on his worn top coat and followed discreetly behind the two unsuspecting girls.
Rogue of the Isles Page 2
