A Reckless Redemption

by Laura Trentham

  It was touch and go whether Maxwell was going to allow her to leave him. Finally out of reach, the massive, gaping hole she’d left was clear.

  * * * * *

  A local vicar of some standing escorted Bryn into dinner. He was middle-aged, gone to paunch and a distractible sort, but pleasant and jolly.

  Once in the dining hall, Sutherland took her elbow in a proprietary grasp. “My dear Miss McCann, I have placed you at my table with your sister and Mr. Armstrong. We’re all agog to hear how you’re amusing yourself in Edinburgh.”

  The insinuation wormed through her. Had Sutherland heard about her foray at Molly’s? She recalled Molly’s warning that Sutherland had eyes and ears all over Edinburgh. She was seated next to Craddock and across from Mary and Dugan. The seat to her left was as yet unoccupied.

  The earl took his place at Sutherland’s right and next to Mary. He winked and gave her a bracing smile. She had one ally at the table, and Dugan could hardly drag her away in the middle of a dinner party. She could concentrate on avoiding the sinkholes of their questions.

  Maxwell, Mr. Masterson, and Mrs. Winslow were seated at the farthest table away. Footmen moved forward to fill wineglasses.

  “Miss?” A familiar voice whipped her around. Holding a carafe, Penny stood at her elbow with a raised eyebrow and a barely discernable smile.

  She gasped but covered with a clearing of her throat and a mask of indifference. “Yes, please.”

  Her stomach rejected even the thought of food. Bryn did her best to not look at Dugan, but his gaze never left her. He hated her. Why hadn’t she been strong enough when Mary had blindsided her with the betrothal announcement and say she did not wish to marry.

  Instead, a chain of events she could not have predicted had been put into motion through her cowardice. A measure of remorse was hers to bear. Not for breaking the engagement but for allowing the farce to continue until she’d been so desperate to involve Maxwell against his will.

  As the seat to her left was as yet empty, she turned to Craddock. “How did you leave Cragian?”

  “Same as always.”

  “Has the lambing begun?”

  “How the devil should I know?”

  “You are responsible for your tenants. You should know everything that happens on your land and to your people,” Bryn said.

  As he gestured for the footmen to start serving soup, Sutherland asked mildly, “You care a great deal about the less fortunate among us, do you, Miss McCann?”

  “Shouldn’t we all care, Mr. Sutherland?”

  “Certainly. But instead of worrying about a tenant or two, the greatest change can be instigated by working within the system.”

  Bryn fiddled with her spoon, her appetite nonexistent. “The government, you mean?”

  “The House of Commons, Parliament. There are monies available for roads, bridges, and charitable purposes. With the right influence, those monies can be directed where it’s truly needed.”

  A sound that might have been a warning came from Mary.

  With an undisguised irony, the earl said, “And you’re the man who can justly appropriate the monies and distribute among the needy?”

  Sutherland lounged in his chair like a lion lying in wait for its prey. “Scotland has been too long ignored by those in power. We need strong leadership to demand what’s rightfully ours.”

  “And one man could accomplish such a feat? That didn’t work out well for your bonny prince, now did it?”

  The jab wiped Sutherland’s enigmatic smile away. “Not one man, but many.”

  Before the confrontation had a chance to conclude, Lord Albert MacShane made his way to the seat next to her. “So terribly sorry, Sutherland. Mother felt a bit peaked earlier, and I was late getting off.”

  “I hope she’s recovered.”

  “She is. I rather think those spells are only to keep me close.” His laugh was too high-pitched and grating.

  “Well, no matter, you’re here now and haven’t missed the main course. I believe you’re acquainted with most of the table.”

  While Sutherland introduced Albert to the earl, Bryn quashed her astonishment so it wouldn’t reflect on her face. All the players were in attendance tonight, but what part would they play? Hero or villain?

  “How long have you been in town, my lord?” she asked.

  Albert dropped his fork, the clatter drawing eyes. “Only a few days now.”

  “I’m sorry to hear of your mother’s sickness.” Bryn channeled her resentment of Lady MacShane into the dissection of the quail on her plate.

  “Mother is well enough. She’s an old dragon, but she can still spit fire.” A cynical amusement tinged his voice. Dark circles ringed low under his eyes, and he had lost weight, his face gaunt and his jacket loose.

  “Are you quite all right, Lord MacShane?”

  Staring dispassionately at the quail lying on his plate, Albert asked, “Are you staying with Mr. Drake?”

  “Aye, with Mrs. Winslow as my chaperone.”

  “What’s he like? Is he a good man?” It seemed Albert’s appetite matched her own. He skewered the quail, methodically pulled off the meat, and set it neatly in a pile to the side, not taking a single bite.

  Was this simple curiosity about his half brother or something more sinister? What would the truth hurt? “He’s remarkable. He overcame a childhood of deprivation and amassed a fortune.”

  “I didn’t know who he was when I was a child, you know.”

  “If you had, would you have crossed your mother and father to help him?”

  He hesitated, moving the food around on his plate. “I don’t know. But I asked for a brother more times than I could count. Mother never told me I already had one. Is he like our father, or is he a kind man?”

  A wash of sympathy came over Bryn. Albert had not been deprived of food or shelter as a child, but he’d lacked something Maxwell had been rich with. Love. “Very kind. Funny too in an ironic kind of way. He doesn’t laugh often, but when he does—”

  Bryn took a gulp of wine. She’d said too much. If Albert was out to hurt Maxwell, her nattering could put him in danger. The way his smile and laugh could turn her inside out and put her heart on offer was of no consequence to Albert.

  Tracing the tip of her knife around the edge of the plate, she continued. “He’s tough from his time in the war. Good with a pistol, knife, or his fists. Ruthless with those who cross him.”

  Albert pulled at his collar as if it were strangling him. “Excuse me, Miss McCann.”

  Bryn turned to watch him leave, crossing glances with Maxwell. Returning her attention to the pit of vipers that doubled as a dinner table, she found Dugan whispering to Mary, but Mary aiming daggers with her eyes at Bryn.

  “What were you and Lord MacShane discussing so intimately, Bryn? Are you already bored with my castoffs?”

  “Mind your tongue, Mary,” Craddock said harshly.

  The undercurrents of anger and danger and secrets were as complicated as a Jacob’s ladder, tying them all together in a myriad of ways.

  Stilted small talk about the weather, politics, and horses accompanied dessert. Albert never returned. Dinner ended, and the after-dinner rituals commenced. She had no time to discuss matters with Maxwell before the men closeted themselves to drink brandy and smoke.

  Bryn followed Mary into the drawing room, where the ladies would gossip and drink port. She felt a bit like an insect flying straight into a spider’s web.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Maxwell stepped into the billiard room, a tingle setting his nerves on edge. Albert MacShane leaned against the window sash in the far corner, looking out into the dark. His late entrance and early exit had raised alarms. But the final piece to the puzzle had been his slight limp.

  As soon as the brandy had been passed around, Maxwell wasted no time in approaching Albert. The man snipped the end of a cigar.

  “Lord MacShane, I was hoping to join you, but I’m afraid I’m fresh out.” Maxwe
ll projected what he hoped was an open, honest air while MacShane rifled his jacket for another cigar.

  “Certainly. My pleasure.” MacShane fumbled the handoff and apologized profusely.

  Maxwell ran it under his nose and sniffed. Mild, expensive, familiar. “An excellent cigar.”

  “Mother detests the habit, but smoking helps settle my nerves.”

  “Are you nervous now, my lord?” Maxwell said blandly.

  “No, of course not. Why would I be?” The tremble in his hands as he lit a match belied his words.

  “The officers in my unit would smoke this same type of cigar before battles.” Maxwell made no move to light the cigar. “The smell brings back memories.”

  “Good or bad ones?”

  “Like most of life, some of both. Tell me, Lord MacShane, how did you hurt your leg? Did you fall off the side of a building perchance?”

  The man swayed and grabbed the back of the nearest chair. “What are you going to do? Have me arrested? K-kill me? It was foolish, but mother insisted. Oh Christ—”

  “Calm yourself, MacShane. I’m not plotting revenge against you.” Maxwell interrupted when heads swiveled in their direction.

  “For what it’s worth, the night I sh-shot at you, I didn’t even mean to hit you. I closed my eyes and squeezed the trigger. I was a nervous wreck.”

  Was that news supposed to console him? “Is what’s in our father’s will worth killing me over?”

  “I don’t know,” Albert said heavily.

  “What?” Stupefaction sailed Maxwell’s voice higher. “Are you telling me you haven’t read it either?”

  “Mother’s kept it under lock and key. Told me not to worry, that I was heir to the house and fortune. I didn’t think anything of it, to be honest, until you came calling. She went around the bend after you and Miss McCann left.”

  “Did you follow us that day and ambush us in the forest?”

  “No, of course not.” Horror-tinged surprise was written large on his face, even though he himself had shot at Maxwell the night before.

  Although it would have tied things up neatly, Albert’s amateurish attempt on his life didn’t align with the ferocious attack in the forest.

  It seemed Albert was after the same thing he was. Information. “Did you locate the will in Pickett’s office?”

  “I pulled all the files out of the cabinets, checked his desk drawers. Nothing.”

  “Did you check on top of his desk?” Maxwell asked drily.

  “Mother had warned him you might come calling. Why would he leave it out for anyone to see?”

  Maxwell barked a humorless laugh. “A quick tip: don’t leave your estate to start a career as a thief or assassin.”

  “Bloody hell, I won’t, Mr. Drake. You have my word. The past few weeks have taken a decade off my life. All I want is to go home and study my plants. I have some interesting experiments going on in my greenhouse that need attention.”

  “That’s for the best, I’d say.”

  “I plan to get my hands on Father’s will one way or another.” Albert chewed on the inside of his mouth and cast him a look from under his lashes. “If you would like, I’ll make notes of the pertinent parts and send them on to you.”

  “Why would you do that for me?” Although Maxwell didn’t consider Albert a threat to his life, neither was he ready to bestow his trust.

  “You’re my brother.” The simple statement skewered Maxwell.

  For years he’d secretly wished for MacShane the elder to acknowledge him. He’d wanted a family. He’d wanted a brother. But he’d given up on such foolish dreams during sleepless, hungry nights in their cottage. He opened his mouth, but words failed him.

  Albert had no such misgivings. “Miss McCann sung your praises at dinner tonight, minus a rather ominous threat as to your abilities to maim a man. I fear I’ve judged you based on Mother’s opinion, and I’m coming to understand she’s unable to be objective where you’re concerned.”

  “What exactly did Miss McCann say about me?” The words were out before Maxwell could stop them. Albert’s eyebrows rose in a mirror image of his own, and Maxwell’s breath caught painfully.

  Albert only smiled. “I appreciate your forgiveness and understanding, Mr. Drake.”

  “Call me Maxwell.”

  “And I’m Albert.” They shook hands. “I’ll take my leave now. I have a feeling I might get my first decent night’s sleep in an age.”

  Could they perhaps become friends? The odd turn of events tipped Maxwell off-balance and made him fear their plans wouldn’t withstand the unexpected.

  Maxwell maneuvered to the earl and Mr. Masterson, who were at the mantle in discussion.

  “Drake. Did you make a new friend?” The earl swirled the brandy in his glass, his eyes twinkling.

  “Mayhap I did. Although the blighter did try to kill me.”

  “Lord MacShane was the mysterious pistol-wielding man in the alley?”

  “None other. And he was the intrepid burglar that mucked up Pickett’s office. He claims the shenanigans were all his mother’s doing, and I tend to believe him. All poor old Albert wants to do is go home to his greenhouse.”

  Mr. Masterson asked, “What about the will? Did he clue you in to its contents?”

  “He hasn’t read it either, if you can believe it.”

  “I’m not sure that I do,” the earl said.

  “His dear mama has kept it under lock and key. He’s promised to obtain a copy and send me the pertinent parts, but I’m not sure he’s strong enough to wrest it from her hands.”

  “Dear Lord, I worry for the future with the number of milksops running around.” The earl’s mouth tightened with real annoyance.

  “Let’s look at the bright side. One faction out to kill me has been eliminated.”

  Raucous laughter and a fist pounding on a nearby table drew their attention. Sutherland sat in an armchair flanked by Craddock and a local magistrate. Armstrong and a handful of others formed a semicircle around them.

  “But what about the vote? Men will decide at the polls.”

  Sutherland flicked a hand. “I’ll help the men decide. Most of them don’t care as long as their families stay fed and warm through the winter. Craddock has Dumfries well in hand, and I own Edinburgh,” he said with such relish that Maxwell imagined him with a conquering army. “And if we can clear up a little matter soon, we’ll control even more.”

  The slight glance between Sutherland and Dugan Armstrong hit Maxwell like a gunshot.

  Sutherland rose gracefully and announced, “I believe it’s time to rejoin the lovely ladies in the drawing room, gentlemen.”

  * * * * *

  Bryn stood in the corner of the drawing room and wished she could call for the carriage and go home. But tonight wasn’t about her comfort. She had to keep her eyes and ears open. The trouble was Mary had given her the cut direct, which had emboldened the ladies of Edinburgh to do the same. Not that Bryn blamed the ladies for following Mary’s lead. Any woman who treated her with a modicum of kindness would be subjected to Mary’s sharp tongue.

  Mrs. Winslow, who had circulated in Edinburgh for several weeks now, was still included in conversations, but it was stilted. The women gathered on settees or at card tables, laughing and talking, and were doing such a good job ignoring her that Bryn felt invisible. She was a child again, on the outside looking in.

  But was being invisible so bad? She could slip out with everyone none the wiser and perhaps discover what Mary and Craddock had promised Dugan. If she could unravel the betrothal, she’d be free.

  She meandered to the door and out. The plans Penny had drawn up had been thorough and clear. She bypassed the staircase and tiptoed down a dim hallway to the last door on the left. Pressing her ear against the cool wood, she heard nothing and cracked it open. Sutherland’s study was empty.

  First, learning from Albert’s mistake, she riffled through the papers out on the desk. Nothing pertaining to her and Dugan’s marriage,
but she did find a list of names she recognized with a number associated with each man. All the men listed were either peers or political appointees. A few were crossed through with a thin black line. Bryn hesitated and then folded the paper and tucked it down her bodice, well into her stays.

  All but one of the drawers of his desk were locked, and the one that wasn’t contained nothing of interest. The walls were lined with bookshelves and a handful of pictures. There had to be a hiding place somewhere. She spun, examining the space. Her eye caught on a vibrant oil painting of a woman in dishabille. It was lovely and tasteful but stood out because it was so different from the rather mundane watercolors.

  On instinct, she ran her fingers along the edge of the frame. A small lever clicked, and the picture swung open on well-oiled hinges. A wooden box was built into the wall with an elaborate locking mechanism. Her heart accelerated. She hadn’t expected to get this far. Now what?

  Footsteps in the hall rippled panic through her like thrown pebbles in a puddle. She secured the picture and darted to a full-length corner wardrobe. Taking a deep breath, she pushed inside and closed it as the study door opened.

  Whoever had entered was being very quiet. Was it Maxwell? Or Penny? She pressed her eye to the narrow crack where the hinges attached, but it was well jointed. So much so, very little light seeped into the darkness.

  What if the door jammed? Would she suffocate and die? Was this to be her coffin? Closing her eyes, she took deep breaths and imagined herself in the Cragian stable under the hay.

  Noises penetrated her spiraling terror. Men’s voices, muffled but growing louder. The doors to the wardrobe opened, and a big body pressed in. She lashed out, catching the man on the shoulder. A whispered epitaph stilled her.

  She breathed his name, “Maxwell.”

  He shushed her.

  Several men poured into the room. Only a few planks of wood separated them from a fate she didn’t want to contemplate.

  Maxwell slipped an arm around her waist and aligned himself behind her. It was a tight fit. Clothing hung behind and around them, and the corner of a shelf poked into her leg. If this were to be her coffin, at least she shared it with the man she loved.