by M C Beaton
Lord Freddie Rotherwood breezed in and Morag went forward and greeted him very warmly indeed, her blue eyes glinting sideways to see how Lord Toby was taking it.
He was looking down fondly at his fiancée. He laughed, said something and patted her hand. Morag blushed from sheer excess of emotion and Lord Freddie’s hopes of marrying this Scottish heiress rose by leaps and bounds.
Toby has really no interest in me—no respectable interest that is, thought Morag. He only wants to have an affair with me. But he is in love with Henrietta. And I hate her with all my heart.
“How terribly funny, Lord Freddie,” she said out loud, giving a trill of laughter although she had not heard a word he had said. But Freddie usually told jokes and so she assumed it safe to laugh. And Freddie, who had been telling her that his favorite aunt had died only the day before, stared at her with some surprise.
Rory began to edge from the room. Miss Simpson had joined the party, making it complete. He wanted to talk to Lord Toby, but he simply had to see that The Beastie had stayed in his room.
“Well, young man. What have you to say for yourself?” It was Cosmo, Laird of Glenaquer, and he had caught Rory by the lapel of his jacket. Rory wondered why Cosmo bothered to single him out since the laird’s eyes always held that strange contempt that he saw mirrored in the eyes of Mrs. Tallant and Hamish.
“I’m very well,” began Rory. Then he heard loud feminine screams and he knew the game was up.
The screams stopped and there was silence. The crowd parted, the ladies holding back their skirts as a huge, mangy tabby with a lopsided grin strolled insolently through the room, went straight to the sofa and proceeded to sharpen its claws.
Unfortunately for Rory, Hamish had left the room to supervise another tray of refreshments and the new footman, Gerald, was handing round the glasses.
“Take that thing out of here,” cried Morag, “and put it in the gutter where it belongs.”
Rory stayed quiet. He would simply creep out into the street and fetch the cat back.
But Gerald said cheerfully, “That’s my lord’s cat, my lady.”
“My lord? Which lord?” demanded Morag.
“Master Rory,” said Gerald.
“Rory!” cried Morag. “Is this true?”
Rory held his arms wide in a gesture that was meant to be appealing, and to his horror, The Beastie jumped right into his open arms, affectionately lolled its great misshapen head over his shoulder and went to sleep.
“Come with me, Rory,” said Morag quietly and led the way from the room.
Henrietta gleefully watched them go. Lord Toby watched also, but he was not sharing his fiancée’s enjoyment.
Morag led the way into a small study at the back of the house.
“Now, Rory,” she said. “You lied to me. What I would like to know is—how many times have you lied in the past?”
“Many times,” drawled a familiar voice from the doorway. Lord Toby Freemantle stood, leaning against the door jamb, his green eyes, so like the cat’s, fastened on Rory.
“This is not your affair, my lord,” began Morag hotly. But Lord Toby paid her no heed, and strolled into the room.
“I do not know why I champion this brat,” he said, flicking Rory’s chin with a careless finger and smiling down at the boy, who still clutched the large and heavy cat to his bosom. “Perhaps because I recognize an intelligent mind going to waste. Don’t be too hard on the boy, Morag. He needs occupation. He should be allowed to run and play and hunt and shoot like other boys of his age. You protect him too much and that is why he lies to you—apart from the fact he is a naturally horrible brat,” he said turning and smiling at her in such a way that she felt breathless.
“First things first,” said Morag, trying to regain control of the situation. “That cat goes!”
“No!” cried Rory. “He—he’s mine. I saved his life. I won him in a fight. I lied, I didn’t fall down the stairs that day. But if I had told you then, you would have worried and you wouldn’t have let me keep The Beastie.”
“More lies!” said Morag bitterly.
“Are you so shocked because your child is normal?” said Lord Toby, looking at her coolly. He turned back to Rory. “Tell me about the fight.”
And Rory, eyes shining, began to tell of the saving of The Beastie. At first, he cast little nervous glances at Morag’s tight face but the flattering attention of Lord Toby made him warm to his story.
“Bravely done,” said Lord Toby, after he had heard him out. “I would not have thought you capable of caring for anything other than yourself or your mother. Let him have this cat, Morag. The dreadful animal might be the making of him.” He scratched The Beastie’s heavy head and the cat stretched lazily.
“But all those lies!” cried Morag.
“I think if you let him keep the cat and find him a tutor, he will not lie to you again. Will you?”
Rory hesitated. “Would a tutor teach me all those things you said… st-steamships and insects and… how the stars move and oh… everything?” he asked, stammering in his excitement.
“If your mother will let me find you a tutor, he shall teach you all these things. He will even teach you to box.”
Rory turned his eyes on Morag. She had never seen him look so intense. “I swear, mother,” said Rory. “I’ll never tell another lie. I really promise.”
“Let me think about it,” said Morag faintly. “Go to your room and take that… animal with you.”
Rory walked out, cradling the cat.
There was a heavy silence.
Then Lord Toby shut the study door and turned to face Morag. Her head was whirling with a mixture of emotions. It seemed unfair that, considering the child was not her own, she should suffer all the pangs of maternal guilt and this fit of the oh-where-did-I-go-wrongs. Also, no man should be endowed with such a heavy air of sensuality as Lord Toby Freemantle. The room felt hot and suffocating. She rose to her feet and went across and jerked open the windows which led from the study onto the terrace at the back of the house.
A cold, white fog rolled in, but, oblivious to the weather, Morag walked out onto the terrace and clutched the stone balustrade.
“You will let me choose a tutor for the boy?” came Toby’s voice from behind her.
She nodded her head dumbly.
He hesitated. Henrietta would be wondering where he was. But her shoulders were very white and little beads of mist gleamed like diamonds in the tendrils of her hair.
“I have done the very best I could,” Morag was saying in a low voice. “If Rory had been…” She fell silent and he wondered what it was she had been going to say. The logical end to the sentence was “had been my own,” but that was ridiculous.
“He needs a father,” he said, coming to stand close behind her.
“Is he so very bad?” she asked, looking out to the mist-enshrouded garden.
“I don’t know the full extent of Rory’s iniquities,” he teased, then added in a more serious tone, “I will do what I can to help, Morag.”
She turned then and looked up at him. He looked down at the love and bewilderment in her eyes.
He was being offered the world but he could not stretch out his arms and take it. Obedience to the social conventions was built into every fiber of his body. He made a half move to take her in his arms and then said stiffly, “We must join the guests.”
The light went out of Morag’s eyes. He held out his arm. She put her arm in his and then, just for a moment, rested her head against his shoulder. Then she said lightly, “You have given me a new purpose in life—finding a father for Rory. Perhaps I should marry Freddie. That might answer.”
“You are joking,” he said flatly as they walked from the room.
“No,” she replied, stopping before the doors of the drawing room and looking up at him. “It might answer all my problems.”
She left him to join Lord Freddie and he found himself claimed by Henrietta.
Hamish announced d
inner and Morag and Lord Freddie led the way into the dining room. Beth Charrington saw a glass of milk standing on the side table in the hall and giggled, “You should have that glass of milk chained to the table, dear Lady Murr. So hard to get now what with the celebrations and bands and fireworks in Green Park frightening the cows so much that they will not give any more milk!”
Morag turned in the doorway of the dining room. “Oh, that is Rory’s milk,” she said. “Hamish, see that it is taken up to him.”
“I will take it,” said Miss Simpson. She felt obliged to thank Rory for covering up for her over the matter of the letter and she had been unable to see him alone. Perhaps if she did not, he would change his mind and tell Morag the truth.
“There is really no need…” began Morag, but Miss Simpson was already on her way upstairs.
Rory was sitting up in his bed reading. The Beastie was lying at his feet. He looked up as Miss Simpson came in, bearing the glass of milk.
“I don’t want it,” he said crossly. “Give it to The Beastie.”
“If you mean that creature of yours, no, I will not,” said Miss Simpson. “Milk is too scarce these days to waste on a cat.”
“Nothing is too good for my cat,” said Rory in a pompous little voice.
Miss Simpson forgot that she owed her existence in the household to the cat. She forgot her gratitude to Rory.
“He is a horrible, disgusting cat—only fit for back alleys and NOT for a gentleman’s house. I shall tell your mama you did not drink your milk.”
“You want it! You have it,” said Rory crossly, “and shut the door and take a good look at it from the other side.”
Chapter Eleven
Lord Toby Freemantle lay in bed on the morning after Morag’s dinner party and tried to think the very worst of his hostess.
She was extremely silly when it came to that son of hers. Her treatment of him went against everything he knew of her. Had it not been for Rory, he would have judged her an eminently sensible woman. She had lost that shy, bewildered look of the Scottish days. Perhaps it had all been an act. She had had the managing of a vast fortune for the past seven years and it showed in her poise and slightly autocratic manner. And it was not just her wealth that gave Morag her sophistication of dress, for he had known many heiresses who dressed very badly indeed. Where had Morag come by it?
He would not allow the truth—that Morag had taken to the fripperies and vagaries of fashionable London like a duck to water and was blessed with natural good taste.
He brooded instead on the possible existence of some dashing Scottish lover. She was hot-blooded and passionate. He could not believe in his darker moments that she had remained faithful to the earl’s memory.
Could he rid himself of Henrietta? Did he really dislike her as much as he thought he did, or was his aversion caused by this impossible yearning for Morag?
He was aroused from his uneasy meditations by a soft scratching at the door. In answer to his abrupt “Enter!” his footman sidled in, looking coy.
“There is a lady below to see my lord. She would not give her name.”
Lord Toby stared at the man coldly. “I do not receive women who arrive unannounced. Does she have a maid with her?”
“No, my lord.”
“Then send her packing.”
The footman hesitated. “She is very grandly dressed, my lord. And ever so high in her manner.”
Lord Toby looked at him thoughtfully. “Does she have red hair?”
“Very red, my lord.”
“Show her up to my sitting room. And take that smirk from your face. No news of the visit is to reach the kitchens or the street. Understand!”
“Yes, my lord.”
Lord Toby sprang from his bed and ran his hand anxiously over the stubble on his chin. He would not have time to be barbered. He could ask Morag to wait—if it were she—but she might take fright and leave.
He pulled on his breeches and cambric shirt, his morocco slippers and a chintz dressing gown and pushed open the door of his private sitting room which adjoined his bedroom.
It was indeed Morag, looking very white and shaken. “I did not know what else to do,” she said and he walked forward and took her hands in his. “Oh, Toby, I am so frightened.”
He thought his name on her lips sounded like music. He drew her to a small sofa and still holding her hands said quietly, “Tell me. I will do all I can to help.”
“It’s Miss Simpson,” she gasped. “She’s dead. Poisoned! And the poison was in the milk meant for Rory. He would not drink it and she drank it herself. And now she’s dead! And I only came to London to take Rory out of danger!” Her eyes were wide with apprehension as her tale tumbled forth.
“Has there been a previous attempt!”
Morag nodded weakly. She told him of the shot and then of the attempted kidnapping.
“So I began to wonder whether Lord Arthur had any designs on Rory’s life because he is always short of money and would inherit if anything happened to Rory. And then there’s Cosmo. He dislikes Rory because Rory is not the earl’s natural son…”
She stopped and put a shaking hand to her lips, her face pale. “Oh, I should not have told you.”
“Who is Rory’s mother?” he demanded, his eyes fixed intently on her face.
“Fionna, a kitchenmaid,” she whispered. “My—my husband asked me to take the child as my own.”
“What of this Fionna?”
“Dead—died in childbirth.” And Morag told him of the day when Rory had been born in a field under the hawthorn tree.
“And where are this girl’s parents?”
“They died of typhoid several years before her own death.”
“But my dear girl,” expostulated Toby. “Your husband asked a great deal of you. I wonder you agreed.”
“It was after you left,” said Morag dully. “He knew about you and I—what little there was to know. I felt I ought to try to make amends—for sinning in desire, if not in action.”
“And did you?”
“What?”
“Desire it?”
“I suppose so,” whispered Morag.
He fought down a rising feeling of elation and said quietly, “Tell me about Miss Simpson. Did you call the authorities?”
“Oh, yes,” said Morag. “As soon as I found out. I have not even been to bed. An officer from the Bow Street Horse Patrol was sent for. He said Miss Simpson had probably committed suicide because he said, ‘These old maids do get twitty.’” Her lower lip trembled slightly.
“The Robin Redbreasts are not usually so dense.”
“And he didn’t know what the poison was. He said maybe the milk was bad but, oh, her face, all purple and contorted!”
Morag buried her face in her hands.
“Don’t cry. Please don’t cry,” he said, pulling her into his arms. “I will take care of you. Listen to me! There is a retired boxer I know of. A very reliable and honest man. You will employ him as the boy’s tutor. He may not be able to do much for Rory in the way of book-learning but he will protect him and stay with him night and day.” He looked down at her. “Why did you come to me?” he could not help asking. “Did you not think of Lord Rotherwood?”
Morag’s voice was muffled against his chest. “I-I felt that you cared for Rory. Oh, who can be trying to kill him?”
Any one of the top ten thousand, thought Lord Toby, thinking of Rory’s talents for blackmail and mischief. But he did not say so aloud.
She was wearing a ridiculous, frivolous bonnet with an enormous poke brim. He gently untied the ribbons and took it off. Then he pulled out a pocket handkerchief and, raising her chin, gently dried her tears.
Morag became aware for the first time of the intimacy of their situation. He look heartbreakingly handsome, with his hair disheveled and his chin unshaven.
“And what of your desires?” he asked.
Her eyes flew up to meet his and then dropped.
“You have no right to
ask me such a thing,” she said. She put her hands against his chest to push him away.
“Damn Henrietta!” he said thickly and jerked her into his arms.
But Toby, for all his sophistication and address, could still make the callowest of errors. He should have said he loved her.
For although Morag returned his kisses with passion, she knew that Lord Toby considered her only good enough for idle dalliance—certainly not respectable enough to marry.
But the second mistake Lord Toby made was a forgivable one—for how on earth was he to know that the widow he held in his arms was a virgin? And so when he bent his head and began to cover her neck and breast with impassioned kisses, she let out a cry of outrage and boxed his ears.
“I must go,” panted Morag, seizing her bonnet and tying it at an awkward angle over her red curls.
He stood looking at her strangely. “I do not understand you,” he said.
“Then you have more hair than wit,” snapped Morag, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling. “You are not going to philander with me while your heart and your hand belong elsewhere!”
“Morag!” he cried.
But she ran swiftly from the room, anger lending her feet wings. He hesitated a moment and then pursued her. But by the time he reached the hall, the street door had slammed in his face and he could hardly run after her carriage in his slippers.
For Morag it was the beginning of a nightmarish day. She hurtled into the hallway of her town house in Albemarle Street, to receive the unwelcome news that Cosmo, Laird of Glenaquer, was waiting for her in the drawing room.
“Hamish, is Rory well?”
“Very well, my leddy,” said Hamish. “I have kept Rory and that cat of his with me in the kitchens. He likes playing there and I thought it safer. My leddy, I have received a most unusual message frae Mrs. Tallant…”
“Not now, Hamish,” said Morag, opening the door of the drawing room.
Cosmo rose to his feet and made her a creaky bow. He was a heavyset man attired in frock coat and knee breeches. It was perhaps his nut-brown wig and slightly protruding eyes which reminded Morag so much of her late husband.
