Highlander in Disguise

by Julia London

  Dudley was right, of course, Grif thought, stepping away from the window. They would eventually be discovered, if not by Lady Worthall, then by someone else. Not one of them believed they could perpetuate this lie forever. The question was, how long could they? A month? A year? A day?

  “I’ve been to the kirkwarden to review the parish registers, sir,” Dudley said as he put Grif’s things away.

  “Aye? And?”

  “Mi Diah! Ye’ve no’ seen such confusion! There’s register after register, and no’ a legible Amelia found in any of them save the ones ye’ve already found!” He picked up a silver tray upon which were two folded pieces of vellum. “I think ye’ll have better luck finding our Amelia among the likes of these,” he said.

  Grif grinned; the vellums were addressed to The Honorable Griffin MacAulay, Lord Ardencaple. Quite honestly, he loved the sound of that.

  He broke the seal on the first one. It was an invitation to another ball, this one hosted by Lord and Lady Valtrain. He had been introduced briefly to Lady Valtrain at the Swindon Ladies Society tea. Apparently, he’d complimented her well enough to be remembered.

  The second vellum was likewise an invitation, to a supper party, extended by Lady Seaton. In her handwritten note, Lady Seaton claimed to be both delighted and thrilled to have made his esteemed acquaintance, and that she very much hoped he could attend, as this would be an “intimate affair.” Grif had been in London long enough to know that intimate meant no fewer than two dozen persons, perhaps even more.

  He turned a broad grin to Dudley and held up the invitations. “We’ll find our Amelia yet, by God. I’ll send ye out with the replies posthaste.”

  “Aye, sir,” Dudley said. “Ye’ll find parchment in the sitting room.”

  Grif happily started in that direction, but was brought to an abrupt halt by the unmistakable sound of a woman’s voice. For a moment, he stood frozen, then slowly turned and looked at Dudley. “MacAlister?”

  Dudley looked to the corridor that led to the kitchen stairs and sighed wearily. “It would seem we’ve gained a cook, sir.”

  “A cook my arse,” Grif growled, and slapped the invitations in Dudley’s hand. “Put them in the sitting room, would ye, while I have a word with me valet.”

  He strode down the corridor to the narrow hallway and the stairs leading to the kitchen below. But as he started his descent, the scent of something wonderfully delicious reached his nose. As he and Hugh and Dudley had failed miserably in the task of cooking, smelling something that delicious slowed him a step or two.

  He saw Hugh first, leaning against a long wooden table, his arms folded across his chest, watching intently as a woman chopped carrots with the efficiency of an executioner.

  “Ah!” Hugh called cheerfully as he caught sight of Grif. “Ye smelled a heavenly aroma, did ye no’?”

  Grif didn’t answer, just slowly walked into the room, his eyes on the young red-haired woman. She did not spare him a glance, just kept chopping.

  “I’d like to introduce ye to our new cook, Miss Brody,” Hugh said, obviously pleased with himself. “Miss Brody, curtsey if ye would to the right honorable Griffin MacAulay, earl of Ardencaple.”

  Miss Brody curtsied without missing a stroke. Hugh beamed proudly.

  But Grif was frowning—Miss Brody was no cook. Miss Brody was a bonny lass, and he’d wager it was her plump bosom that had Hugh drooling. All right, then, it was a lovely bosom, but nevertheless, they’d had an agreement! No gambling, no trawling about, and no women! Grif looked at Hugh, who still wore that silly grin on his face, and said in Gaelic, “I thought we agreed—no women.”

  “Ah—” Hugh interrupted him, holding up a finger. “We agreed no women of questionable character. We said nothing of a cook.”

  “A cook?” Grif laughed sardonically. “I’m no fool, MacAlister!”

  “I agree,” Hugh answered amicably. “Quite the contrary, lad. Ye are far too clever to turn yer back on a woman who can cook.”

  Grif looked at Miss Brody. He could not deny that whatever she was about, it smelled bloody fabulous. Still… “And how do we pay her?”

  Hugh chuckled. “Now that I’ve given some thought,” he said, and there was a wicked glint in his eye. “Leave it to me.”

  While Grif was loath to leave anything to Hugh, his nose and his belly overruled his good sense. “All right,” he said gruffly in English. “More importantly, when might we sample her efforts?”

  Hugh laughed, clapped him on the shoulder. “Soon, mo caraid. Soon.”

  Seven

  B y the time the Valtrain ball rolled around, Grif’s trousers were a wee bit tight.

  It turned out that Miss Keara Brody was indeed an excellent cook. She was not, however, a woman who was easily seduced by the likes of Hugh MacAlister. Miss Brody was Irish, had come from Dublin with her older brother in search of work. “Our parents are dead and gone,” she’d told Grif one morning over a plate of eggs. “Our sister looks after our younger siblings.”

  There were six younger siblings at home, dependent upon what Miss Brody and her brother were able to send back. She seemed rather single-minded in her purpose and had no patience for Hugh’s interest.

  But Grif and Dudley were too fond of her cooking to let Hugh’s lack of sexual triumph chase her away, and were, in fact, quite content to let his whining fall on their deaf but fully sated ears.

  Unfortunately, Hugh had grown quite smitten with Miss Brody, and he was incorrigible. Miss Brody had, in fact, banned him from the kitchen entirely, which was why he was seated on a chaise longue in the master suite of rooms the night of the Valtrain ball, smoking a cheroot and eyeing Grif critically as he buttoned a white waistcoat.

  “Diah, ye look like a bloody Sassenach, ye do,” Hugh said irritably as Grif donned the black-tailed coat.

  Grif glanced at Hugh over his shoulder—his shirt-tails were out, his neckcloth dangled haphazardly down his chest. “And ye look like a man who’s hired his very own cook only to discover she willna touch his sausage and eggs.”

  Hugh snorted, picked up a whiskey glass from which he had been sipping, and tossed back the contents. “She’ll come round,” he said, pointing the cheroot at Grif, and in the very next breath moaned, “Ach, I give the lass a bloody occupation, and this is the thanks I get? She’s such a bonny thing, Grif! Did ye see her? Hair the very color of a Scottish sunset? Eyes as green as moss?”

  “I hadna noticed,” Grif said cheerfully, and straightening his snowy white neckcloth, he stood back, admiring himself in the full-length mirror.

  “’Tis hardly fair,” Hugh continued morosely. “Night after night, ye have quite a time of it, while I’m forced to sit behind these walls as if I were a wretched servant!”

  “But ye are a wretched servant, lad,” Grif reminded him. “Perhaps the most wretched valet in all of England’s history.”

  Hugh cursed him in their native tongue for that, but Grif just laughed, adjusted his neckcloth once more, and strode out of the master suite, whistling a cheerful tune.

  Fynster was waiting at the Fordham Gentlemen’s Club of Leisure on Regent Street, as they had previously agreed, and from there they took Fynster’s carriage to the Valtrain residence.

  There was the usual mad crush of carriages and horses and people dressed in the latest finery, and that sent Grif’s spirits soaring. Unlike his brother, Liam, Grif loved balls. He loved women whose pastel-colored gowns swirled about their legs on the dance floor, loved their bright glowing faces and the shiny baubles they wore, the way they felt in his arms when he danced, so small and delicate, moving at the command of his body.

  And he loved to be surrounded by fine things. In the weeks he’d been in London, Grif had seen splendor that went beyond anything he’d ever known or imagined. And Grif had imagined—he and Hugh both. They used to talk of owning their own bank or lending company, or perhaps shipping goods from Scotland across the Atlantic to Caribbean ports. As young men, they believed they’d be wealthi
er than their wildest dreams, that they would live a life of luxury. A turn of the economy in Scotland had grounded their dreams, but Grif still imagined himself in a position of importance one day, a man who would be invited to all the right events, attached to all the right women. He had imagined something like his life in London thus far….

  But this ball—held in honor of young girls who had just been presented at court—surpassed anything he’d seen to date.

  Crystal flutes of champagne and wine seemed to float on silver trays, carried high above the crowd by skilled footmen. Pristine white floral arrangements, made up of roses, orchids, daisies, and irises, littered the corridors and ballroom in enormous porcelain vases. Beeswax candles burned brightly in silver chandeliers. The strains of a six-piece orchestra floated throughout the mansion, and a dining room had been set up with three rows of long, cloth-covered tables upon which dozens of china settings had been placed.

  In the ballroom, Grif’s smile of pleasure deepened. There she was, Miss Lucy, a vision of beauty, waiting for the dancing to begin. Not surprisingly, she was surrounded by men. Foppish, overly elegant men. Men who wouldn’t last a day in the Highlands, who could not, by the look of them, even wield as much as a fencing sword without spraining a wrist.

  It was into that petit-maître milieu that Grif confidently strode, smoothly stepping around the many debutantes being honored tonight with nothing more than a smile for their hopeful looks.

  As he neared Miss Lucy, she smilingly tried to extract herself from the attentions of one of the bothersome gnats that surrounded her.

  Grif ignored them all, walked straight to her, boldly extending his hand for hers. “Miss Lucy,” he said, bowing over the hand she graciously gave him and kissing her gloved knuckles. “How bonny ye are this night.”

  “I’m charmed, Lord Ardencaple,” she said silkily, withdrawing her hand.

  “I had hoped to find ye here,” he said meaningfully, smiling down at her. “There is, I hope ye will recall, the matter of a dance.”

  “Of course I do recall.” She glanced demurely at her dance card. “As it happens, I am without a partner for the fourth dance,” she said, lifting her gaze to him. “It’s next. A waltz.”

  “I’d be quite honored if ye’d allow me to put me name just there.”

  Miss Lucy smiled, held out her arm, and as Grif wrote his name with the little pencil that dangled from her wrist, she looked past his shoulder and lit up like a bloody lighthouse. “Mr. Lockhart,” she said happily, turning from Grif. “Might I assume, sir, that you deigned to come and take a peek at my dance card after all?”

  “Is it necessary?” Lockhart asked. “I thought we had an agreement, you and I. A waltz, was it not?”

  “Oh yes, that’s right,” she said clasping her hands together. “Unfortunately, I’ve just given away the last one,” she added with a deceptively sweet smile.

  A look passed over Lockhart’s face that was not the least bit pleasant. Miss Lucy, however, seemed to enjoy his displeasure. “Ah, there it is now, they are playing the fourth dance,” she said, looking wistfully at the dance floor before turning her smile to Grif and extending her hand. “Lord Ardencaple?”

  Grif took her hand, laid it on his arm, put his hand protectively over hers, and flashed a smirk at Lockhart for good measure before leading her to the center of the dance floor. The music began; she curtsied, placed her hand very lightly on his shoulder. Grif slipped his arm around her back and pulled her close to him as he swept her into the rhythm of the music.

  She smiled politely and looked away.

  Grif took the opportunity to smile at her cleavage. “Now that I’ve succeeded in standing up with ye, I must gain yer promise for a walkabout.”

  Miss Lucy kept her gaze on the dancers around them. “Perhaps you will call one afternoon when we might enjoy the sunshine.”

  “But I had in mind the moon. On the veranda this very evening, I’d hoped we might gaze together at the moon. Perhaps we might stroll the grounds, aye?”

  “I suspect you’re rather indecorous beneath that charming exterior, my lord,” she said coyly.

  “Would ye like me to be?” he asked low, squeezing her hand a little. “I’d be happy to oblige ye.”

  She tilted her head and glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “You’re quite bold! I shan’t take as much as one step onto the veranda without your solemn promise to be a perfect gentleman.”

  “Ye ask too much, lass. I can only promise I’ll be perfect,” he said with a grin, and winked.

  “My lord!” she exclaimed, feigning shock. “I insist you speak of something else altogether!”

  Grif laughed at her false modesty. “All right, then. Perhaps ye might help me. My friend Mr. Fynster-Allen is quite smitten with a lass, and it would be me pleasure to put his name on her dance card.”

  “Then why don’t you?” Miss Lucy asked, her gaze drifting to the other dancers again.

  “Because I donna know who she is. He’s only mentioned her by her given name.”

  That instantly gained Miss Lucy’s attention. “Her given name?” she repeated suspiciously. “How very odd! Pray tell, what is the given name?”

  “Amelia.”

  Her brow wrinkled as she thought of it. “Amelia,” she repeated. “I don’t believe I know any Amelia. Perhaps one of the debutantes? But why should Mr. Fynster-Allen be interested in a debutante? He’s practically… old.”

  Fynster was a year or two older than Grif. “Ah well, perhaps he’ll manage fair enough on his own, then,” he said, and twirled her about.

  Grif attempted to make small talk, but Lucy was too intent on the others on the dance floor to converse much. When the music at last came to a halt, Grif brought them to a full stop. “Ye willna forget me, lass, on the veranda, aye?” he asked as he let go her hand.

  “How could I ever forget you?” she demurred, dipping into a curtsey.

  How indeed. Grif led her back to the edge of the dance floor, and just before they reached her contingent of admirers, he nodded toward the doors on the opposite end of the ballroom, whispering, “I’ll meet ye just there,” before he bowed and walked away.

  He found Fynster, who was, as usual, staring wistfully at a woman on the dance floor. Grif felt a little sorry for the man, and passed a bit of time remarking on the lovely gowns as the ladies passed, exchanging smiles with more than one of them. But when he began speculating about the color and shape of their drawers, the gentleman in Fynster would not engage in Grif’s play and excused himself, wandering around the edge of the room until he came to where Miss Crabtree was sitting. How odd, Grif thought, that Fynster flipped his tails and took the seat next to the little mouse.

  Never mind that—Grif was ready for his moonlit stroll, and looked across to where Lucy was standing, catching her eye. He nodded almost imperceptibly at the doors leading to the veranda. The lass nodded slyly and opened her fan, which Grif took as a positive sign. He walked the length of the ballroom floor before slipping outside.

  It was a wee bit chilly out, and there were only a few hardy souls about on the veranda. Grif withdrew a cheroot from his pocket and lit it, then made his way to the corner to have a look at the gardens below.

  Before too long, he’d smoked half the cheroot, and wondered idly what could be keeping Lucy. The orchestra had begun a minuet, and a few more people strolled out onto the veranda for a breath of the cool night air.

  When the minuet ended, it was painfully clear to Grif that Lucy was not going to join him as she had said. He tossed what was left of his cheroot into a planter in the corner, tugged on his waistcoat, and was about to return to the ballroom and find the wench when he heard the sound of a woman’s footfall behind him. Lucy. With a smile, he turned about—but his smile instantly faded.

  “Lord Ardencaple, how do you do?” she drawled.

  It was not Lucy at all, but her older and permanently vexing sister, dressed in a pale pink gown of shimmering satin with a very modest déco
lletage. Her hair was simply done up at the crown, and from her ears single pearl drops hung.

  Grif bit back the frown of disappointment, trying not to scowl impolitely as she dipped into a curtsey.

  Miss Addison rose and clasped her hands behind her back before stepping to the railing to stand directly beside him. From there she looked out over the garden. “How surprising to find you wiling away the time here—after all, you seem to enjoy dancing so.”

  Grif gave her a sidelong look. “Yer powers of observation are quite keen, are they? Why is it ye’re no’ enjoying the dance instead of standing off in the corner?”

  He meant to startle her, but she just laughed and gave him a bright smile. “I’m not as enamored of stiflingly crowded ballrooms as my sister. She enjoys them enormously, you know—why, I believe this is her third waltz, and her second dance with Mr. Lockhart,” she said, and snapped her fan open, waved it lazily at her face, smiling a little at the frown Lockhart’s name brought to Grif’s face. “Dear Lucy, she must be exhausted—she’s not missed a dance, I think, and there are so many more to come.”

  Envious, was she? Well, she should be—Lucy was light and angelic to her darkly exotic look, Lucy’s eyes bright where this one’s dark copper eyes glistened with a devilish gleam. There was something about her that seemed almost forbidden—an exotic woman dressed in such an angelic color.

  “How fortunate for yer sister that ye enjoy keeping count of her dances.”

  Miss Addison just smiled and looked away, but her fan went perceptibly faster. “I pay her dancing no mind, my lord.”

  “Aha. Just Lockhart, then.”

  Did he detect a wee bit of spine stiffening?

  “Apparently, so do you.”

  “No’ in the least,” he said with a wry smile. “My attentions are only for the ladies.”

  “Or their décolletages,” she muttered.

  That cheeky comment startled him so that he laughed. “Ye’re no’ one to mince words, are ye, lass?”