by Ann Stephens
Kieran entered shortly afterward. “Jarrard said everyone had gathered here. A capital idea on such a dreich day.”
“If that means dismal, yes, I thought it would be cheerier to welcome people here.” Diantha did not look up from her needlepoint.
Her brothers, playing a listless game of backgammon in the corner, greeted him more enthusiastically.
“I say, old boy!” Thomas’s poor imitation of a British accent grated on her ears. “Rotten weather today, isn’t it? I hoped to go out for a day’s shooting. Maybe we’ll have better luck tomorrow.”
“Grouse season commences on August twelfth.” Kieran smiled, but his voice brooked no argument.
Thomas chuckled. “What’s a day or five early matter when you’re the landowner? It’s not as though anyone is going to turn you in.”
Barclay entered in time to hear both men. “Shooting before the twelfth is out of the question. It’s not done.” He sauntered over to the table at Diantha’s elbow and picked up a book. As he sat down across from her, he mouthed “my sympathies.” She bent farther over her canvas so no one would see her struggle not to laugh.
Kieran overrode her brother’s protest. “I fear the matter is closed.”
As Papa’s favorite, Tom normally got what he wanted after a minimum of teasing. She would have to watch his mood now, for he often lost his temper when balked.
Kieran frowned as his glance fell on Barclay in the chair nearest to Diantha. Changing course, he moved to sit down near her grandmother. “And who are you writing to, Mrs. Helford?”
“The Dowager Comtesse de Pontrevault.” She blotted her letter. “She’s invited me to winter with her in the south of France and sends you her love, Dina.”
Iona and Barclay’s jaws dropped. Diantha pushed her needle into the canvas. The day might not be as bad as she dreaded.
That day’s guests lived nearer than Aberdeen and arrived after luncheon. The maligned Cousin Francesca proved a particularly pleasant surprise. Instead of the middle-aged dragon conjured by Iona and Barclay, a woman of perhaps twenty-eight years swept into the hall on Kieran’s arm.
“Thank you so much for inviting me, Lady Ross-burn. Kieran has never snubbed me, but I did not know if you would be willing to have a mere colonel’s widow under your roof.” She accompanied the words with a dazzling smile.
Diantha liked her at once. “As the daughter of a mere ‘mister,’ I can hardly object.”
“You’re very kind.” She removed her mantle, bonnet, and gloves, handing them to Jarrard. She wore a neat poplin gown in the gray of half-mourning.
The butler bowed. “If I may say, it is a pleasure to see you again, Lady Francesca.”
“I am delighted to visit Duncarie again after so many years. But I prefer to be called Mrs. Urquhart.”
“Lady Francesca?” Diantha looked from her to Kieran.
“My father is the Earl of Turbury.” Her lips thinned. “He cast me off when I eloped with the man I loved and refused all contact with me even after my poor William was killed five years ago.”
“Iona and Barclay are doubtless having palpitations at this moment.” Kieran chuckled. “However, my mother wishes to see you during your stay.”
“They have never found me sufficiently servile.” She and Diantha fell into step behind Kieran. “I do hope you stand up to them.”
While Iona made no secret of her disapproval, she did not cause any ugly scenes in front of the other guests.
Two days later, her glacial calm cracked as she hastily entered the drawing room. Several ladies had enjoyed a lively game of lawn tennis and now occupied themselves with gossip and fashion periodicals.
“Diantha, there is a tradesman in the front hall! And he is opening several crates that he insists are paintings and are nothing but blots! Send him about his business at once!”
“Splendid!” Diantha brushed past her and scurried to the main stairway as quickly as one could in a bustle and corset. She paused at the landing that overlooked the entry hall and grinned.
Sir Harry Emerson stood in the middle of a pile of wood and packing material. Two paintings leaned against the wall and two footmen lifted another out of the last crate under his supervision.
“Oy, careful! That’s canvas, not a piece of steel.”
“What an intriguing man.” To her surprise, Francesca stood at her side. She replied to Diantha’s raised eyebrows with a shrug. “You didn’t think I was going to stay for another of Iona’s lectures, did you?”
Diantha chuckled. “Come along then.” She descended the rest of the stairs. “Harry! You’re making a mess.”
“I expected you needed a diversion.” His easy smile widened to include her companion. “Besides, you brought reinforcements.”
“Francesca, please allow me to present Sir Harry Emerson, a dear, if untidy, friend of my family’s. Harry, Lady Francesca Urquhart.”
He bowed. “My pleasure, your ladyship.”
A flush spread across her new friend’s face, but she kept her composure. “Don’t let Diantha frighten you off with my title. Your accent tells me you are from Yorkshire, sir.”
Harry straightened, his face neutral. “Aye.”
“I grew up not far from Helmsley.” Francesca bestowed one of her wonderful smiles on him.
The industrialist gave her one in return that Diantha could only describe as foolish. “I’m from Hull myself.”
“Harry! I thought I heard your voice!” Her father emerged from the billiard room at the back of the house, looking genuinely pleased for the first time since his arrival.
Kieran followed him, a frown marring his face. “Emerson. I did not know Diantha invited you.”
She had prepared herself for this reaction. “I invited him for Papa’s sake.”
“Thankee, my girl.” Her father patted her shoulder in an awkward gesture of affection.
“What do you think?” Harry waved a hand at the paintings. “Dina commissioned me to purchase these before she left Paris.”
Papa peered at them. “Can’t tell what they’re supposed to be.”
“They do seem to have rather a lot of daubs.” Francesca tilted her head to one side.
Kieran came to Diantha’s side. She could smell the lavender and bay of his soap. “That’s what you asked him about at the Opera?” His eyes twinkled. “Dina?”
Her father harrumphed. “Silly pet name, Mrs. Quinn’s mother started calling her that in the nursery.”
“Hetty always swore the name suited her.” Harry cleared his throat. “My late wife.”
“It’s called impressionist painting. Step back here.” The words all but squeaked out as she led them nearly to the front door. At a distance the paintings resolved themselves into outdoor scenes that captured sunlight and shadow as it fell on buildings, meadows, and people.
“How clever.” Francesca sighed wistfully. “It’s been ages since I’ve been to a proper gallery.”
Kieran nodded. “We’ll have to find a place to hang them where they’ll show to best advantage. For now, we should put them in the study and let the rest of our guests take a look at them.”
“I am so gratified that you like them.” Her heart danced at his approval, though, of course, she did not dare throw her arms around his neck as she wished. “Of course, Harry deserves the credit for finding them.”
“Indeed.” Kieran held out his hand. “You’re quite the connoisseur, Emerson.”
“Self-taught, no more.” Despite the gruff words, the Yorkshireman failed to hide his pride.
Her guests occupied her time over the next days. Advised by Kieran’s mother, she had prepared activities for both sunny and inclement weather. Sunny days brought walks through the garden, and sketching parties for the ladies. Kieran oversaw fishing excursions and practice shooting sessions for the men.
On rainy days and in the evenings, guests occupied themselves with cards, charades, or games like “Twenty Questions.” Others played the piano in the drawing room or
sang.
The day before grouse shooting started featured a picnic near the estate’s fishing village. The community welcomed Mr. Quinn particularly, and he responded by becoming as human as Diantha had ever seen him. Under her mother’s horrified eyes, he and Harry examined the existing fleet of boats and bantered with their crews.
Mrs. Quinn pressed a scented handkerchief to her lips. “Everyone else is staring! I shall die of mortification!”
Diantha barely heard her, for she could not take her eyes off Kieran.
He spoke to nearly every man, calling them by name and asking after their families. The wind blew his dark waves of hair around his perfect profile as he spoke to one of the youngest fishermen.
They seemed to be arguing about something and she wondered what the trouble could be.
Iona bustled up, scowling. “Come away, it’s time to leave.”
Diantha’s brows snapped together. “I do beg your pardon, Aunt, but as hostess I believe that is my decision.”
Barclay, following his mother, attempted to placate both of them. “That was a bit abrupt of Mother, but indeed, there’s no need to linger. I daresay Kieran can bring your father and Sir Harry along after they’ve finished with their new acquaintances.” He drew the final word out in a sarcastic manner that set her teeth on edge.
She dug in her heels at his condescension until she caught sight of the others aimlessly sitting and standing near the carriages. “Very well, Barclay.” She stretched her lips into a saccharine smile. “You may escort my mother.”
She took Iona’s arm, which she knew the other woman would detest. “Shall we go, Aunt?”
Several of their guests looked askance when Kieran arrived at the picnic site with Papa and Harry, but the three men ignored the stares.
After the meal, Kieran signaled the footmen. Grinning, they produced several long bags from under carriage seats. Their owners pulled out long clubs that ended in thick wood knobs or narrow iron blades. Alarmed, Diantha wondered if the Scots were about to engage in some sort of ritual combat, like fencing.
One of the friendlier Rossburn relatives rubbed his hands together. “Now for the entire point of the day! Did you bring the gutties, laddie?”
With a grin, her husband opened a box filled with small, pale spheres. “Hard to play golf without them.”
They offered to teach the game to those unfamiliar with it. Diantha declined, but her brothers tried their hands at it. To Diantha’s amazement, the Scots, male and female, spent the next hours whacking the balls into a series of holes among the heath that grew just beyond the seashore.
“That is the most absurd thing I have ever seen.” She addressed the remark to Mama as they sipped lemonade some distance away from the course.
“Lawn tennis is more enlivening. But I’m told that royalty patronizes some golf clubs. Perhaps you should take up the game.”
Iona sat nearby, watching Barclay play. “That would be most suitable. The dowager baroness never did take up the game.”
Which only demonstrated her mother-in-law’s good sense. Diantha kept the words to herself to preserve the rare accord between the two women.
Chapter 12
Buoyed by an afternoon of fierce competition on the links, Kieran decided to look in on his mother. Poole beamed at him when she opened the door.
“Her ladyship will be pleased to see you, my lord. Will you be joining her for tea?”
“If your wife can spare you.” The dowager set aside the book she had been reading and held out a hand to him.
He kissed her cheek. “You look very well this afternoon.”
“I took advantage of the empty house to spend some time on the terrace.”
“I’m sorry, do you feel terribly hounded?” He took the seat next to her daybed.
“Not at all. If any of the more encroaching guests stop by, I simply feign a bad turn.”
He chuckled at the mischievous twinkle in her eyes. She patted his hand. “Never mind, my dear. Nearly everyone who has visited me commends Diantha’s skill as a hostess. Once that piece of gossip makes the rounds, she will be much in demand next Season.” She quirked an eyebrow at him. “Unless she is occupied with more domestic matters.”
Kieran helped himself to a scone. “You are quite as bad as Iona and Mrs. Quinn.”
She straightened against the pillows at her back. “And why not? You are nearly thirty. Surely it cannot be a lack of attraction between the two of you.”
Kieran choked on his tea. Once the pain caused by the hot liquid in his nostrils receded, he glared at his parent. “Mother! That is a highly improper speculation.”
She sniffed. “Pooh.”
He escaped shortly after that, torn between exasperation and amusement. His amusement abated as he rounded the corner to the corridor leading to the best bedchambers. A series of muffled thumps greeted him. Sprinting, he reached the room the noise came from and wrenched the door open.
And jumped aside as Thomas Quinn erupted into the hall and landed on the crimson runner carpeting the floor. Blood oozed from a split lip. Colin, the footman, stood in the doorway panting and nursing the skinned knuckles on his right hand.
Kieran peered past the servant. A maid sat crumpled on Thomas’s bed, cap askew as she wept. That and the torn dress gaping open from her neck to her waist told Kieran all he needed to know.
“I’ll have your job for that, you insolent bastard!” Thomas, having climbed to his feet, bellowed the words as he flew toward the footman, hand raised to strike.
He staggered backward as Kieran’s fist drove into his solar plexus. Thrown the width of the corridor, he slammed into an occasional table and collapsed against it, gasping for air.
The noise brought observers. Kieran found himself the cynosure of the rest of his wife’s family. Diantha hurried to his side from the opposite end of the hall, followed by Iona and Barclay.
“What is the meaning of this? Thomas, are you all right?” Mrs. Quinn pushed forward to inspect her son.
Catching his wife’s eye, Kieran jerked his head toward Thomas’s chamber. She took one look inside, shooed Colin out and entered, shutting the door behind her.
“That scum attacked me.” Thomas spat the words out as he pointed a shaking finger at the footman. “I want him dismissed. Now.”
Colin broke his silence. “I did naught but lairn the muckle feardie not tae lay hands on a poor lass.” Kieran crossed his arms and stared the younger man down. “The only thing that is going to happen now is that you are going to wait until your sister can ascertain how badly you hurt that girl.” He did not bother to hide his contempt.
Mrs. Quinn drew herself up. “Lord Rossburn, you cannot mean that you would take the gibberish of an ignorant menial over the word of a gentleman.” “On the contrary, I’m taking the word of the only gentleman involved in your son’s disagreement.” He turned to the servant and grasped his shoulder. “Brawly done, my lad.”
While the Americans stared in confusion, the footman relaxed. “Thank you, my lord. It’s Gaira Wallace, we grew up together.”
His father-in-law blustered. “This is an outrage! No doubt the girl threw herself at my boy. Pay her off and haul this miscreant to jail.”
Diantha emerged in time to hear her father. Her face paled, but she remained composed. “On the contrary, Papa. Tom tried to force himself on the poor girl and would have succeeded had Colin not intervened.”
Her mother’s narrow face contorted. “Diantha! She’s a servant, for heaven’s sake.”
“And that makes Tom’s action somehow acceptable?”
Quinn’s face took on an ugly red hue. “By God, Rossburn, we’ll see what the authorities have to say about this.”
Despite the serious situation, Diantha bit her lip to prevent a smile.
Kieran twitched his cuffs into place. “This is Scotland, Quinn. I am the local authority.” He nodded to the grinning footman. “I think this calls for a bonus, Colin. Now get downstairs and have someone look at
those knuckles.”
With a tug of his forelock, the servant took himself away. Kieran fixed his gaze on his furious brother-in-law. “I ought to turn you over to the courts and request transportation for you.”
Mrs. Quinn turned to her daughter. “How can you permit him to speak to us so? Have you no proper feeling for your own family?”
Diantha stepped past Kieran and planted herself in front of her mother. “After you invite yourself to my home and accost my servants?” Her voice shook. “The only reason I am not ordering you to leave at once is because doing so would worsen the scandal Tom created.”
“You do not give orders to me, my girl.” Mrs. Quinn’s hand whipped out to slap her daughter, hard.
Kieran pulled Diantha back against him. Keeping one arm around his trembling wife, he gripped the older woman’s wrist until she cried out.
“I suggest you exercise some self-restraint, madam.” Or he’d kill the bitch before he let her strike Diantha again.
Like every other bully he’d come across, Mrs. Quinn backed down at the first threat of danger to her person. “No gentleman would think of harming a lady!”
Diantha, large-eyed, slipped to her grandmother’s side.
“I’ve never harmed a lady in my life.”
Mrs. Quinn gasped at the insult and he released her. “I suggest that everyone dress for dinner. I have no intention of putting the meal back for the likes of you.”
Iona had watched the entire scene in silence. Now she stepped forward. “I shall accompany Gaira to Mrs. Menzies and issue an order that no female servant waits upon either of her ladyship’s brothers.”
She gave Diantha a withering glance. “Then Barclay and I shall attempt to curtail the damage you and your dreadful family have caused ours.”
Kieran rounded on his aunt. “By all means do what you can for the poor girl, but if you belittle my wife one more time, you can pack your bags as well.”
