Scotsman of My Dreams

by Karen Ranney

  Now, sir, let me get some sticking plaster for you. Sit right there and we’ll get you set to rights.

  He’d always been an independent sort, wanting to do for himself rather than rely on others. Yet here he was, waiting on Mrs. Thompson to be his mirror.

  “Oh, Your Lordship, it’s a sight you are,” she said now. “If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, you’re still as handsome as ever.”

  He wanted to grab the older woman, hug her, and give her a kiss on the cheek in thanks for her kindness. She might be lying to him, but at least she’d done it well.

  “No spots? No stains?”

  “You’re quite the sartorial gentlemen, Your Lordship.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Thompson.”

  To his surprise, she reached out and grabbed his arm. “Would you allow me to accompany you to the stable, Your Lordship?”

  Damned if she hadn’t done it again. If he were the weeping kind, she might’ve brought a tear to his eye. Still, he felt his chest expand a little at her kindness. He had worried about navigating the path from the kitchen to the stable. With one simple gesture, she’d taken that fear from him.

  “I would be honored, Mrs. Thompson.”

  Before he left the house, he grabbed one of the walking sticks in the umbrella stand. He’d never used one before and he didn’t know who they belonged to, but over the years he’d accumulated at least a dozen of them. He thought they might aid his balance.

  The journey across the garden and the alley was done without incident. Mrs. Thompson alerted him to a step down or up by simply saying so, without drama or exhortation.

  “You’ll need to turn left here, sir,” she said.

  He could tell by the smells that they’d entered one of the bays. The odor of horses, manure, and the pungent chemicals used to polish the carriage assaulted him all at once.

  “And here is Daniels, your driver,” she said. “All ready for you.”

  For the life of him, he hadn’t remembered his driver’s name, but she eased him past that barrier as well. Still, it bothered him that he couldn’t recall the man’s face. For that matter, none of the rest of the servants were memorable to him.

  “Mrs. Thompson,” he said, prompted by a sudden impulse, “would you provide me with a list of everyone employed here?”

  “A list, sir?”

  “Yes, and their occupations as well.” He’d get Howington to repeat it to him often enough that he could memorize it. “How many ­people work here?”

  “Twelve, sir. It really should be thirteen what with needing another upper maid, but I’ve always thought thirteen an unlucky number, don’t you?”

  “I never would have considered you superstitious, Mrs. Thompson.”

  “Well, there’s no sense in taking chances, is there, sir?”

  He didn’t have an answer for that remark. He’d taken chances all his life and look where it had gotten him.

  Chapter 10

  “Let me follow the earl on my own,” Hugh said. “I’ll make note of where he goes and let you know.”

  Minerva shook her head, unwilling to continue arguing with him.

  “Isn’t it time for you to go on an expedition?” he asked her. “Don’t they have ruins in Scotland anymore?”

  Hugh didn’t understand her work even though he assisted her. He called it digging for a bunch of bones, but he didn’t know how much it meant to her.

  She’d never found anyone who truly understood. Sir Francis’s widow, Lady Terry, bless her, was the only person who did.

  She had grown accustomed to being considered slightly odd, even by ­people who were close to her. Neville called it her hobby. It wasn’t a hobby but a genuine desire to learn, to know, to take what she suspected was true and have it proven.

  Besides, what would she do with herself all day if she didn’t pursue her interests? She had absolutely no talent in needlework. She found those women who involved themselves in good works for the poor annoying in the extreme. Affluence didn’t give you the right to tell anyone else how to live or raise their children.

  If Neville hadn’t been missing, she would have been in Scotland by now. In her last letter, Lady Terry had written asking when she was going to return. She hadn’t known how to answer.

  After climbing into the carriage, Minerva settled her skirt. She couldn’t abide some of the new styles that made skirts so wide it was difficult to go through a doorway. Consequently, she rarely wore as many petticoats as was proper, which made her hem drag a little. She would much rather have worn her trousers skirt, but it was daylight and ­people would notice.

  She turned and looked through the carriage window at the Covington house. She didn’t see the glint of the spyglass but knew better than to assume she was free of curious eyes. One or more of the sisters was bound to be standing at a window, just out of sight.

  Would she be the same as she aged? Would she find delight in the happenings of her neighbors? Would she live vicariously through other ­people? Good heavens, she hoped not. At least let her get a cat or dog or some kind of companion, four-­legged or two, to keep her company.

  When the carriage began to move, she reached for her journal. She had notes to make of new equipment to purchase before she traveled to Scotland again. In addition, she had several lists she needed to compile to give to Mrs. Beauchamp. Though not exceptionally frugal by nature, she was very conscious of the fact that the money she’d been left by her parents had to last her lifetime. Therefore, she practiced economies where she could, surveying the household accounts every month.

  Hugh parked not far from MacIain’s home, close enough to see if the man left the house but far enough away not to be obvious. They might be sitting here for the entire day. She didn’t care. Tomorrow she would do the very same thing. She was not going to allow the Earl of Rathsmere to find Neville without her knowledge.

  Her brother wouldn’t stand a chance against a peer of the realm. Nobody would want to know Neville’s side of the story. That could be the very reason Neville hadn’t come home. He didn’t want to involve her in his troubles with the earl.

  Something had happened in America. She just didn’t know what. It certainly wasn’t Neville trying to kill the earl.

  THIS NEW world terrified Dalton, alone as he was. He dared himself, therefore, in the same spirit he had challenged himself on countless occasions in the past.

  He knew that James was somewhere in a carriage behind him. If he had invited James to share the carriage, he wouldn’t be as lonely. Nor would he be beset by introspection. Instead, they could’ve talked about their school days, the weather, a dozen different topics to get his mind off his fear.

  But that would hardly be courageous, would it? At least this way he faced down the terror himself.

  He knew what the inside of his carriage looked like. Yet he had never felt the space before as he did now. He could recollect some of the scenery outside the window. London truly didn’t change. Yet he wasn’t knowledgeable about the way to their destination. Nor did he know what Sarah looked like or where she lived.

  Almost everything outside him was amorphous, unformed and only speculation. That’s what terrified him. He couldn’t see a smile or danger, a pretty girl’s face or figure, or something amusing. The world was black, as if it had ceased to be, and yet he heard it, smelled it, and sensed it.

  Traffic was as it had always been in London—­congested. The stops and starts of the carriage made him uncomfortable at first. Gradually he became used to the rhythm, leaning forward when he anticipated a sudden stop, allowing himself to rest against the squabs when the carriage took off again. He smelled the horses, the odor of manure that always accompanied his memories of London streets. The occasional scent of straw laid down on an adjoining street indicated a quiet zone. The stench of the Thames meant they were close to the river.

  The sounds were
the same, recollections assembled from years of living in London. The jangle of harness, the rumble of wheels on cobblestones, hawkers and tradesmen either shouting their wares or arguing with each other. He could almost pinpoint where they were now, near the center of the city.

  At least if someone recognized his carriage or noticed him, he wouldn’t know. He’d be unable to see pointing fingers or incredulous glances.

  No doubt there were a goodly number of ­people in London who wouldn’t be displeased should they hear of his condition. All the straying wives and widows of England were safe.

  He would become known as the Celibate Earl, an appellation that would’ve made him laugh in the past. Or perhaps he would just become an object of horror for the neighborhood children. Eat your porridge, little Jimmy, or I’ll tell Rathsmere. Would his name become a verb? To Rathsmere someone would be to render them sightless and scarred.

  The carriage slowed to a stop, but this time it wasn’t traffic. He felt Daniels dismount from the driver’s seat. A few moments later the door opened.

  “We’re here, sir.”

  “Would you mind walking me to the door?” he asked after he left the carriage.

  “Right you are, sir.” Daniels grabbed his arm and directed him over the cobbles to a set of steps. “It’s eight steps up to the door.”

  Whatever he paid the man wasn’t enough. He made a mental note to tell Howington to raise Daniels’s salary plus an extra stipend for tact.

  He held onto the rail, trying to assume a nonchalance he didn’t feel.

  Perhaps he should have sent Sarah a note to warn her he was coming. Or even asked her to come to his home? No, that wouldn’t have been right. But what if she didn’t want to see him? What if anything that reminded her of Arthur was disturbing and disconcerting?

  Yes, he most definitely should have sent her a note to prepare her for this moment.

  Why had he overlooked such a simple polite gesture? Because simple and polite gestures were beyond him of late? Or perhaps they’d been beyond him for a great many years. A hellish thing to realize as he climbed the final step and stood before her door.

  What if she were greedy and grasping and he’d made a huge error in judgment by appearing on her doorstep?

  “Would you like me to knock, sir?”

  “I presume the door is right in front of me,” he said.

  “Right you are.”

  He placed his hands flat on the door, fingers splayed. Reaching up a little, he found the knocker and let it fall twice.

  “It’s all right, Daniels, you can wait for me at the carriage.”

  He didn’t want an audience if Sarah refused to see him. Some of his pride was still intact.

  “Right you are, sir.”

  The door opened and he was suddenly wishing he had forgotten all about Sarah.

  THEY FOLLOWED the earl for ten minutes, their destination unknown. Fascinated by the journey, Minerva didn’t bother opening her journal again. Just when she thought they were going into the city proper, they turned and entered another square. Not as prosperous as Tarkington Square or her own home, but a pleasant place with older town homes and a park protected by a tall wrought-­iron gate topped with spikes.

  The trees there were full grown and lush, home to a bevy of squirrels running from the upper branches to the ground and back.

  Once Hugh parked at the curb, she opened the door, making no secret of the fact she was watching the other carriage. The earl’s driver dismounted, opened the door, and the Earl of Rathsmere emerged.

  Dalton stood, his shoulders straightening, his head lifting as if to scent the air. He kept his head level as if he could see in front of him.

  Who lived here? she wondered.

  Chapter 11

  “Yes?”

  The woman who answered the door smelled of yeast, flour, and strawberry jam. He was suddenly eight years old and scrambling to sit on a stool in the kitchen and savor cook’s newest batch of scones.

  “Is this Miss Sarah Westchester’s home?”

  “It is.”

  Dalton pulled out one of his calling cards, trusting that Howington hadn’t lied. His new title was inscribed on it as well as his given name. For all he knew, Howington could have made them read Dalton MacIain, King of All the Fools.

  “I’m Arthur MacIain’s brother,” he said.

  He held the card out, relieved when she took it. He had no idea if she was the housekeeper, the cook, or one of the maids.

  “I will tell her you’re here, Your Lordship,” she said, answering one question. Howington had gotten his calling cards right. “If you’ll wait in the parlor, it won’t be a moment.”

  Since he didn’t have the slightest idea in hell where the parlor was, let alone how to get there, he simply stood where he was.

  Very well, if he must be blunt about it, he would be.

  “I’m afraid I’m blind,” he said.

  Her indrawn breath was enough of a comment. He wanted to ensure her that in all other ways he was in perfect health. But all he did was smile or at least attempt to do so. He was afraid the expression was perfunctory, the same wisp of a smile that indicated to a society hostess that he was utterly bored or completely annoyed. Fortunately, the woman at the door didn’t seem to take it as such.

  She grabbed his left hand and pulled him with her. He had no choice but to go along, a dinghy in the wake of a steamship.

  The room they entered was hideously cluttered and his guide wasn’t the least helpful. He ran into at least two tables by the time he nearly toppled into an overstuffed chair.

  Once the woman at the door had deposited him in the parlor, she left without another word, leaving him adrift in an ocean of smells.

  The most overpowering scent was oranges, followed by something heavy like French perfume made of old roses. The odor of tobacco was layered over that, one lingering like a memory. He had never considered it, but was Sarah married? Had she married soon after Arthur’s death just like Alice? Or was there a male relative in the household, someone who might take umbrage to his suddenly showing up today?

  He really should have written the woman a note.

  What would he have said?

  Dear Sarah,

  You seem to have loved my brother, enough to bear him a child. May I call on you one day to discuss the relationship, you, and the child’s future?

  No, he doubted the woman would’ve answered that letter.

  Nor had he wanted to go through Howington to write it, either. There was his pride again.

  As he sat waiting, he had no idea how much time had passed. Another thing about blindness. Time could pass with alarming speed or tick along with arthritic slowness.

  He heard a clock whirr then strike the hour. He hadn’t made note of the time when he left his house, so it didn’t matter what the time was now. Besides, he had nowhere else to be.

  Due to the silence in the room and the lack of traffic outside, he heard her footsteps. First, she came down the stairs. Then, she hesitated and walked down the carpeted hall. He sensed that she stood at the open door of the parlor. Did she take a deep breath? Or say a prayer before she entered?

  Why had he come?

  For Arthur. He mustn’t forget that. He was here for Arthur.

  “Dalton?”

  His smile was more natural now. He placed his hands on the arms of the chair and stood.

  “Miss Westchester.”

  “Sarah,” she said softly. “I feel as if I know you. Arthur spoke of you often.”

  He spoke of you not at all. Words he wouldn’t say.

  “You look so much like him.”

  “Do I? Arthur was always so much more dignified,” he said, for lack of anything else to say.

  She came and sat not far away. Was there a settee opposite him? He sat again as well.
/>   “My housekeeper said the most distressing thing. Pardon me, but I must ask. What do you mean, you’re blind?”

  He’d already endured Minerva Todd’s bluntness. Answering Sarah seemed so much easier.

  “I was wounded in America,” he said.

  “How utterly terrible for you.”

  Her voice held a note of sadness he suspected was not just for him.

  “Thank you,” he said, and because he wanted to ease her in some way, he added, “it could have been worse, I suppose.”

  Could it have been?

  You could have died, you bloody fool.

  Suddenly, Arthur seemed to be in the room with them.

  “I’m so sorry that happened to you, Dalton. You do not mind if I call you Dalton, do you?”

  “No,” he said, and it was the truth.

  He had the impression she was delicate, fragile in her beauty, a sylph of a woman with grace in each of her movements. He pictured her with blond hair, soft blue eyes, and perfect features. She would be of average height, slender with a willowy way of moving that managed to be both serene and seductive at the same time.

  “What color are your eyes?”

  She hesitated for just a second, but answered him. “Brown,” she said.

  He mentally replaced her soft blue eyes with brown, nodding when the portrait of her was complete.

  “I didn’t know about you,” he said, deciding to be honest with her. A curious sentiment and one he’d rarely had in the past. But he’d found that the truth was easier than a succession of lies. “Arthur’s solicitor sent me the rest of his documents and your letters were there.”

  When she didn’t respond, he cursed himself for saying something that obviously embarrassed her.

  “He saved them?” she asked, her voice holding tears.

  “Yes,” he said. “Would you like them back?”

  “Would that be possible?”