by Karen Ranney
And now, she faced him across the room.
Slowly and carefully, well aware her hands were shaking, she slid the gun into her reticule and looked back at the Duke of Harridge.
“I’ve been practicing to kill you,” she said. “I’ve been planning on it for many months. Nearly a year. And then I realized you simply weren’t worth the effort. You weren’t worth the anguish I’d suffer. You weren’t worth the guilt I’d feel. Not because you died, but because I was the instrument of your death. I will not harm another person the way you harmed me.”
“Could you tell me what I’ve done to incur your wrath?”
The Duke of Harridge stepped out of the shadows slowly. His gait was not due to caution but age. His hair was no longer blond, but white, and although his eyes were the same green as the young man in the portrait, they were marked by lines radiating outward from the corners. This man was an older version of the young man she’d painted. Time had been kind to him; there was no doubt of the family resemblance.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“The question is, I’m afraid, who are you?”
“Margaret Dalrousie,” she said.
“Oh yes, the painter. I noticed your name on the corner of the painting of my nephew.”
“Nephew?”
“My late, and very much unlamented, nephew, I’m afraid. The fourth Duke of Harridge.”
“You’re the fifth, I take it,” Margaret said, walking to one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. She really did have to sit down before her legs failed her.
“I take it by your words that my nephew has damaged you in some way? Forgive me if I wished to avoid another tale of his exploits. I’ve spent the last six months being regaled with tales of his deplorable character.”
“What happened to him?”
“The young fool went to France. He was killed by the husband of a Frenchwoman. A woman he’d claimed as a prize in some idiotic game.”
Now she did sit down.
“For whatever he did, I am most apologetic. Is there anything I can do?”
Another man, offering to solve a problem that couldn’t be solved. What had McDermott said? Doing so eased a man’s feeling of being powerless. And a woman? How did she cope?
How strange she wasn’t entirely certain at the moment.
Tom was very conservative in his driving, despite Robert’s expressed need for haste. The roads of Scotland were nothing like the treacherous roads of Amelia’s homeland, but he understood well enough Tom’s caution. The second day, after a short stay at an inn, long enough to obtain a meal and some fresh horses, they were on their way again, and he was grateful to see their speed increased.
They reached London midmorning, and found the Duke of Harridge’s home without too much difficulty.
When Tom pulled the carriage to a stop in front of the town house, Robert ran up the steps, knocked on the door, and was startled to find it immediately opened by a wild-haired and frantic majordomo. Before he had a chance to speak, the man grabbed his lapels and pulled him inside the house.
“Thank God, sir. I must prevail upon you to help him. She is a madwoman, and she threatened my life, sir. Now she is in with the duke. His Grace is in great peril.”
He followed the man down the corridor, and when the majordomo stopped in front of a door and simply pointed at it, Robert grabbed the handle and entered the room. The scene that met his eyes was not what he’d feared.
Margaret was seated on a chair before the fire. Sitting beside her in a matching chair was a white-haired gentleman. The two of them looked as if they were amicably conversing, two friends of different generations sharing snippets of gossip, a knowledge of the financial world, a question about politics.
The majordomo was so close behind him that Robert could nearly feel the man’s breath on his back.
“Margaret?”
She turned her head and surveyed him calmly. Spots of color on either cheek, however, revealed she wasn’t as composed as she appeared on the surface.
“I haven’t killed him, McDermott.”
“So I see.”
The elderly man seated in a chair regarded him with a great deal of interest. “You’re the Earl of Linnet, aren’t you? I heard a speech you gave once.”
He nodded assent as Margaret addressed him.
“Why are you here, McDermott?”
Robert ignored the question, choosing, instead, to view the portrait dominating the room.
The young man pictured there had the haughty stare of those who believed in noblesse oblige. A slight sneer curved his lips, ennui filled his eyes. The sunlight glinted on his blond hair and detailed each single fiber of his blue-wool jacket and embroidered vest. Behind him on one side was a mirror, revealing the back of his jacket adorned with ornate braiding. On the side was a small portrait of two children with their parrot, and even this was so perfectly rendered Robert could see each separate feather on the bird. The tassels on the curtains were so perfectly painted he could see each individually twisted braid.
The Duke of Harridge almost walked out of the portrait, so real did he appear. Even the hound at his feet looked ready to bark any second.
Over the months of knowing her, Robert had become accustomed to Margaret’s braggadocio. He’d excused her for it, never once wondering at the depth of her ability. But this, this, was beyond anything he could have imagined. The portrait with its shadows and light, the colors, so rich, and true to life, awed him.
He’d never seen anything so masterfully done, so beautifully rendered, unless it was the half-finished portrait in her cottage.
Her talent struck him speechless.
“The duke did not give me Blackthorne Cottage,” Margaret said from behind him.
“No,” he said almost absently, turning to face her. “My mother did.”
She appeared surprised, but it was the day for it, wasn’t it?
“Did you come here to prevent murder?” she asked calmly.
Should he give her the truth? She would have to cope with it, sooner or later.
“No,” he said. “I came to protect you, regardless of what you chose to do.”
He liked the sight of Margaret confused. He liked that look of uncertainty in her eyes, the tremulous curve of her lips that wasn’t a smile but was very nearly there. Once in a while, it would be a good thing to confuse her.
Wait until she discovered what he planned next.
He had that look on his face again, an expression that warned her he was up to something. At this moment, however, she could have forgiven him anything.
I came to protect you, regardless of what you chose to do.
As a declaration of affection, it lacked a good deal, but she’d never before had anyone offer to protect her. There were times when she didn’t want to be the indomitable Margaret Dalrousie. Let someone else be strong for a little while. Let someone else be capable. She would be weak and revel in it—at least for a few hours.
“Are you ready to return to Glengarrow?” he asked.
Even the sound of home was lovely.
“On your horse?” she asked.
He smiled, and it was a crooked, almost boyish expression, one she’d never thought to associate with McDermott. “Tom is outside. I’ve brought a carriage.”
Their gaze met, and she wanted to kiss him for what he’d done. It could not have been easy for him to ride in a carriage, but he didn’t brag of it.
“Yes,” she said, smiling at him. “I’m ready to return to Glengarrow.”
She turned away from McDermott, making her way to the door. The outraged majordomo still stood there, visibly shaken about the day’s events. Not any more than she.
McDermott followed her, placing his hand on her shoulder. She glanced up at him and wished she didn’t have the absurd desire to cry. She especially never cried before such an interested audience.
They said their farewells, McDermott preceding her out the door. At the threshold she stopped, turned, and
sending an apologetic look to the elderly duke, withdrew her pistol from her reticule.
Extending her arm, she shut her left eye, and with the aim she’d perfected over the last year, shot the fourth Duke of Harridge right in the middle of his forehead.
“You shot your own painting,” McDermott said.
“Yes,” Margaret said, lowering the pistol. The stench of gunpowder was thick in the room. “I gave that portrait life,” she said, holding the smoking gun away from her with two fingers. “I can take it away.” She glanced up at him. “That, McDermott, is playing God.”
Chapter 27
They descended the steps in silence, McDermott’s hand on the small of her back. She could feel the warmth of it there through her cape.
When they reached the carriage, he called up to Tom, who nodded and greeted her with a smile.
“See Miss Dalrousie home to Blackthorne Cottage,” he said, then stepped back, dropping his hand.
“Where are you going?” she asked, pushing back the incredible surge of disappointment. So, she wasn’t to share the journey with McDermott. It was just as well, anyway. They might have become overwhelmed with passion, she in her soot-stained clothes and McDermott looking as sartorially perfect as usual. How did he do it? She must ask him sometime.
Not now, however. Not with that smile playing around his lips, and his gaze on the spires of the Palace of Westminster.
The sense of abandonment was so sharp she could feel the talons of it shredding her skin. Especially today. Most especially today, when her nerves were raw, and she was too close to weeping.
She stood tall, breathing as deeply as her tightly laced corset would allow.
“First I must compensate the duke for the loss of his painting,” he said, his gaze revealing only amusement. “Then I have some business to attend to. Tom will keep you safe. Not to mention your skill with a pistol will serve you in good stead.”
She looked down at the gun still in her hand and slipped it into her reticule.
“I don’t require the services of a nursemaid, McDermott,” she said. “Go about your business. Take care on the journey home.”
With that, she turned and mounted the steps into the carriage, deliberately not looking in his direction as Tom drew away.
A week later McDermott had returned, but Margaret hadn’t seen him. He had not called upon her. Nor had she seen him on her walks. And he had certainly not been waiting in the woods at nightfall.
He was very distracted, Janet said, with all manner and sorts of activity happening at Glengarrow.
Janet was the one who alerted her to the first visitor four days ago, knocking on the door of the trunk room and peering inside.
“There’s a man come to Glengarrow, Miss Margaret. He says he’s an architect, here from Edinburgh. He says he’s going to change Glengarrow.”
“Is he? Perhaps the earl is bringing a new countess home,” Margaret said, feigning concentration on cleaning her brush.
Janet’s eyes narrowed. “And who would he bring home?”
“Someone he met in Inverness, perhaps?” Margaret said. “He stayed there long enough. Someone he’s always known? A marriage of convenience?” Frankly, she didn’t know and didn’t care. Let McDermott wed whomever he pleased.
Janet looked as if she would say something further, but she just pursed her lips in silence and closed the door, leaving Margaret to frown at the painting in irritation.
She thought he was causing this chaos in his life in order to make room for a new countess. Margaret had always been quick-witted. How like her to figure it all out so soon. And how like her to muddle it up just as fast.
Robert stood atop Glengarrow’s roof. He hadn’t come here to stir the cistern or check the water supply. His only reason for being here, buffeted by the spring-scented wind, was Margaret Dalrousie, lately turned hermit in her snug little cottage.
Janet reported that she refused to take her daily walks. Nor had she discussed anything that had transpired in London. Instead, she holed herself up in the trunk room, working night and day on the portrait he’d commissioned.
Robert smiled. She couldn’t help but think of him. Was she annoyed? Hurt? A touch of both, if Janet was to be believed.
What a complicated woman Margaret was and how fascinating it was proving to learn about her.
Amelia had loved without reservation; Margaret had reservations about loving. Margaret was restrained, so private that the world never knew the degree of her pain. Amelia had lived her life with unbounded enthusiasm, carrying a buoyancy into each day. Would she have been able to recover if she’d had to face the same circumstances Margaret had? Unfair perhaps, to ask those questions, since they were two different people, two unique women.
Very well, today was the day. The messenger had come from his solicitor, and Janet knew her part.
Everything was in place.
The portrait was done, and normally that was a cause for celebration. Not this time, however. This time, Margaret wanted to crawl into her bed and spend days weeping simply because the work had taken so much from her.
Each painting was draining in its way, drawing from her reserves of emotion. This commission, however, had been the most difficult of her entire career. She’d infused this painting with all the confusion, desire, grief, and rage she’d felt over the last three months. The toll it had taken on her was enormous, but then, it might well be her best work.
How very sad, since no one would ever see it.
She would keep it for herself alone, and whenever she was tempted to think fondly of Glengarrow, she would look at it and force herself to see the truth. She would not remember the sight of McDermott angry, with his tortured eyes and his face ruddy from the cold, or the wind tossing his hair over his brow. Nor would she recall the sight of him in moonlight, his body not perfect but still endearingly beautiful.
Her stomach clenched, and she pressed her fists against her midriff. Blinking rapidly, she stared out at Glengarrow. Spring was nearly here, the trees budding. In a month, she’d be unable to see the house.
Glancing back at the portrait, Margaret wished she might have known Amelia. But then, if she had, she might have envied her as well. She might have coveted the relationship between her and McDermott, or even coveted McDermott.
She would probably have embarrassed herself by parading her accomplishments before Amelia in an attempt to make the other woman appear less talented, less important. She knew herself only too well, and when challenged or feeling inept, she had a tendency to do foolish things, stupid things.
Amelia, no doubt, would have simply smiled at her gently, forgiveness in her eyes, her sweet nature excusing all of Margaret’s faults and frailties.
That was the problem with ghosts. They were perfect. They never changed. Nor could you argue with them or best them in any way.
She slowly draped the covering over the painting, wondering if she would ever have the courage to look at it again. Perhaps it would be better simply to destroy it.
A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, and she walked to the door to find Janet standing there, her usually placid expression replaced by a look of confusion.
“I’ve been meaning to take this back to the earl, Miss Margaret. But I looked in the box a minute ago, and I think it’s for you.”
“What is it?”
“A lovely coat, with the softest collar and a hood. In the prettiest blue wool.”
She opened the top of the box to show Margaret.
“He left it here, Miss Margaret, the day he went to London after you. I’m thinking it’s a gift.”
Margaret reached out her hand and touched the fabric. Janet was right, it was the prettiest blue wool, and soft as well. Even in spring she might be able to wear it. If she accepted it.
Who was McDermott to give her presents?
She’d always returned those items sent by wealthy admirers lest they believe she was the type of woman easily seduced. The Earl of Linnet would receiv
e the same treatment, but this time, she would not simply have a messenger return the offending gift. No, this time, she would take it back to him herself.
She donned her serviceable cape and made one last check of her hair in the small mirror beside the door. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkling. Anyone looking at her would think she was excited about the coming confrontation.
How absurd.
She left the cottage, began to walk toward Glengarrow.
A squirrel chattered at her from the side of the lane. She stopped for a moment and watched him, completely and utterly charmed, and grateful for the respite from this task.
“Are you lecturing me, Mr. Squirrel?” she asked.
He stood on his hind legs, holding up both paws. His scolding did not cease, and she found herself amused to be chastised so fervently.
“I shall remember my decorum around him. On that, you can be assured.”
He turned and, in a flash of bushy tail, disappeared up a tree, leaving Margaret alone again.
She looked to the left, where Glengarrow was visible through the trees, perched in front of Ben Mosub, then to the right, where the lane led to the main road.
The day was beautiful, the afternoon bright and, although chilly, the foretaste of spring was in the air. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see the first of the spring flowers poking their heads up from beneath the snow. One brave bird perched on the fence post as she walked by and sang to her for a scant moment before flying away.
The snow in the lane had melted, leaving muddy puddles of gravel and water. She avoided the larger ones with ease, but by halfway along the lane, her shoes were damp and streaked with mud.
Perhaps one day McDermott would go back to France, and Glengarrow would once again be a silent, almost watchful, structure. Not the home of an arrogant earl who summoned up passion as easily as anyone else might call for a servant.
If he left, she’d use the path around Glengarrow once again. At least it was paved with gravel. If he left, she would occupy her days with painting again, but she doubted she’d have the heart for portraits. Instead, she’d paint birds and squirrels and perhaps Glengarrow itself.
