Scotsman of My Dreams

by Karen Ranney

  “Or cinnamon. But this morning you don’t smell of cinnamon, but that curious dusty odor.”

  “I was in my storeroom,” she said. “It’s where I keep all of my finds. What you’re smelling is probably age. Or the past.”

  “Perhaps one day you can show me this treasure trove.”

  With anyone else, she might have immediately demurred or said something like she didn’t share the space with anyone. But she could see herself leading him into the room and explaining what each of the boxes held.

  She pushed that disturbing thought away and sat on the settee opposite him. Sunlight crept into the room from the windows to her left, puddling around him like a yearning lover.

  Had he come to tell her that her ser­vices were no longer needed?

  She folded her hands, one atop the other, and tried to compose herself.

  “I received a note last night,” he said. “Something that jarred my memory. We have another place to go, another person who might have heard from Neville.” Then he asked, “Are you wearing your trousers skirt?”

  “No,” she said. “A blue dress.”

  “Pity.”

  “Are we going somewhere disreputable?”

  “You really shouldn’t sound so delighted by the prospect. No. Besides, what would the Covington sisters say?”

  “No doubt they’ve noticed your carriage and I’m already being discussed in horrified tones.”

  “Does that mean you won’t come with me?”

  “Of course not. Give me a moment,” she said.

  She passed Mrs. Beauchamp in the hall and apologized for the sudden change of plans.

  “Are you going out this early, Miss Minerva?” the housekeeper asked, her words swimming in an ocean of disapproval.

  “I am, Mrs. Beauchamp,” she said brightly.

  With that, she grabbed her reticule and her bonnet and prepared herself for another adventure with the Earl of Rathsmere.

  Chapter 23

  “Where are we going?” she asked when they were in the carriage. “And why so early?”

  “To a woman I know. The time is early for us, but late for her. She normally goes to bed around nine.”

  “Who is she? Another member of the demimonde?”

  “I would hesitate to call Lucille Grampton any name at all. She defies explanation and description.”

  His smile effectively stole her words. She stared at him, wishing her experience of his world was greater.

  “You think she might know Neville.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because young men gravitate to Lucille like a child to candy. Neville wasn’t an exception.”

  She hadn’t eaten anything for breakfast, which she told herself was why her stomach clenched. She was most definitely not affected by his words or the hint of admiration in his voice.

  Of course the Rake of London would admire a woman of ill repute.

  “Why is it necessary for me to come with you?”

  “You’re my chaperone,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Lucille is very . . .” His voice ground to a halt. His grin startled her.

  She waited, curious.

  “Insistent.”

  “Insistent?” Her eyes widened.

  He wouldn’t say another word until they arrived, the carriage halting before a town house in a prosperous square.

  She left the carriage first, and when he extended his hand, she gripped it with one of hers, helping him leave the vehicle.

  All the way to the front steps she was rethinking her decision to be here. But then, it hadn’t been her decision, had it? Dalton simply waved his hand and here she was.

  Who did he think he was? He acted the dilettante made a hermit by injury, a recluse because of circumstance. It wasn’t as if he wished to reassess his life and change his direction. No, he hid from the world because he was no longer as perfectly handsome as he had once been.

  What balderdash.

  He was a charming wizard, capable of convincing any woman to do almost anything. Look at her. She was acting as his eyes and his secretary and neglecting her own work. No doubt experienced women gazed after him with longing. The unsophisticated girls of the world probably sighed after him, as if realizing that MacIain was not for them. Wait until they were matrons, bored with their husbands, and then he would be there to assuage any desires they might have.

  She was not among that group.

  No, she knew entirely too much about Dalton MacIain to fall victim to his sorcery. Nor did she pity him.

  She’d never known a less pitiable man.

  “We’re at the front door,” she said. “Would you like to knock, or shall I?”

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, turning his head in her direction.

  “Nothing.”

  “I sincerely doubt that, Minerva. Your voice has a coating of frost that wasn’t there when we were in the carriage. Are you annoyed because I said that Neville was fascinated with Lucille?”

  She didn’t answer, only lifted the knocker and let it fall.

  When no one came to the door, she began to tap her foot.

  “Is there a rope to the right of the door?” he asked. “About waist high, I think, emerging from a small hole?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you’ll pull on it, it will ring a bell inside the house. If no one answers, then I’ve miscalculated and Lucille has retired early. We’ll simply have to return around midnight.”

  She yanked on the rope, hearing a bell peal from deep inside the house.

  A moment later the door was pulled open by a thin scowling woman in full skirts and a white apron, a perky white cap on her crown of black hair.

  “Yes?”

  “Dalton MacIain here for Lucille. I hope she’s still receiving.”

  The woman turned and disappeared into the house, leaving them standing on the stoop.

  She’d never been so summarily dismissed, and in seconds. Before she could question Dalton, she heard squeals of excitement as footsteps raced down the hall. A flurry of red, perfumed silk enveloped Dalton, nearly knocking her over in an attempt to reach the man. Minerva heard his laughter, then the tinkling tones of a female as she rained kisses over his face.

  “My darling Dalton. Where have you been? What have you been doing? What is this ugly patch for? Who wounded you so dreadfully? You must tell me. I’ll set my dogs on him. Was it a duel? Did you fight for a woman? No, no, I do not want to know. I would be crushed. No woman must hold your heart more than Lucille. I will not hear of it.”

  Minerva moved farther to the left, the better to allow the reunion. What a pity Dalton couldn’t see the woman. She was practically spilling out of her décolletage. Or perhaps eyes weren’t necessary, the way Lucille was pressing herself up against him. She wouldn’t be surprised if the woman took his hands and brought them to her bosom.

  After a quick, dismissive glance in Minerva’s direction, Lucille put her arm through Dalton’s and pulled him forward.

  “You must come inside. How bad of Pansy to leave you standing on the doorstep like a peddler. Come, my darling. Come.”

  Lucille was evidently French or affected a French accent. If she wasn’t mistaken, the woman’s perfume was also French. It followed her like a noxious cloud, providing an olfactory trail to follow.

  Minerva entered the house behind them.

  The parlor was lovely, decorated in restrained taste in pale blues. No gaudy crimson here, or abundance of tassels and fringe. Only a settee in silk upholstery in a shade so pale as to be almost white, and a matching chair and ottoman sitting at a right angle. Ferns sat on pots in front of the large bay window, and porcelain knickknacks with a French flair sat on the tables and mantel.

  “If you wish,” Lucille said,
glancing at her, “you may go and take tea with Pansy in the kitchen.” The other woman wiggled her fingers at her. “Go on now.”

  Go on now?

  “Lucille, if I may, I’d prefer her to remain with me.”

  “But, my darling—­” she began, only for Dalton to interrupt her.

  “She’s indispensable.”

  That was nothing more than a bald-­faced lie. She was almost tempted to retreat to the kitchen, but she was too curious to leave the room.

  Dalton had been led to the settee and was now joined by Lucille, whose red hair had fallen to her shoulders in a style more applicable to early rising than entertaining guests. But then, her attire was hardly acceptable, either, with the silk garment leaving little doubt that the woman was nearly naked underneath.

  Sitting beside Dalton, Lucille wound herself, kittenlike, over him. Her right hand patted his chest, which made Minerva wonder what her left hand was doing. One leg stretched up, her calf beginning a slow rubbing motion on Dalton’s right leg.

  Insistent? Yes, the woman was definitely that.

  Sitting in the adjoining chair, holding her reticule in front of her, Minerva felt rendered invisible by Lucille’s cooing and stroking.

  Dalton was clutching his walking stick in what looked to be a death grip.

  Minerva’s mood suddenly lightened and she began to smile. Now she understood why she was Dalton’s chaperone.

  “Lucille, my dear,” he said, reaching up and slowly removing her hand from his chest.

  “You have not called on me, my darling. You have not let Lucille know you were all right. I worried so about you. I wept many nights. Many, many nights.”

  Every time he moved Lucille’s hand away from him, it crept back in place. Plus, the woman was kissing her way up his shoulder and would hit his ear any moment. He’d tried to stretch away from her, but her leg had trapped his.

  “I’m sorry, Lucille. I’ve been a bit of a hermit.”

  “I could have soothed you in my way, Dalton. You know that. Give me a chance.”

  “Yes. Well. I’ve come to ask about some friends,” he said. “Men you might know.”

  Lucille reared back. “Friends? Who are these friends of yours?”

  He gave her five names, one of which was Neville’s.

  “Have you seen them lately?”

  The question did what his hands had not been able to do. Lucille moved to the end of the settee, frowning at him.

  “Why is this? Why do you wish to know?”

  “Let’s just say I’m renewing my acquaintances,” he said.

  Lucille suddenly looked at her, the green-­eyed gaze like chips of glass.

  “This involves you?”

  “Yes,” she said at the same time Dalton said, “No.”

  Lucille looked from one of them to the other.

  Minerva could see Dalton’s irritated look all too well. The trouble was, he couldn’t see hers.

  “It’s no good, Your Lordship,” she said, sitting forward. “My shame must be told.”

  She withdrew a handkerchief from inside her reticule, grateful her mother had insisted that all ladies carry one in case of unforeseen emergencies. She also had smelling salts, but thankfully had never needed them.

  Blotting the handkerchief to the corner of one eye, she made a sound remarkably like a sob. Who knew she was that good an actress? For that matter, who knew that she would be in the presence of someone like Lucille and need acting skills?

  “He doesn’t know about the little one. I shall be banished from my home. But I think he would want to know. I know he would.”

  Lucille’s frown deepened. If she didn’t take care, those lines would become permanent. As it was, she had the distinct impression that the woman wasn’t as young as she’d originally appeared.

  “Who is this man you seek?” she asked.

  “Neville Todd,” Dalton said.

  Lucille’s considerable eyebrows arched northward. “This man? Isn’t he too young for you?” she said to Minerva, who buried her face in her handkerchief and managed another credible sob.

  “Do you know where we can find him, Lucille?” Dalton asked.

  “My darling, was he not with you? One of those men you took to America? I have not seen him since. But he is not like you. If he were in London, he would come to see Lucille. I know this. He has not come.”

  A few minutes later, having declined refreshments, dried her nonexistent tears, and attempted to summon the last of her composure, she and Dalton made their way to the front door.

  Their departure was delayed by Lucille’s version of a farewell, consisting of numerous kisses rained over Dalton’s face and one very long one on his lips. In addition, her hands roamed from his shoulders to his hips, with one grabbing his backside in a proprietary manner.

  Lucille had all the promise of sticking to Dalton like an extra appendage or a barnacle.

  Minerva separated them by beginning to cry again, the masquerade surprising her because she was strangely close to tears. Because Lucille had no news of Neville, she told herself. That’s the only reason she was feeling weepy.

  Once in the carriage, having made their escape, she turned to Dalton as he wiped his mouth with his handkerchief.

  “I thought you never paid for a woman.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Doesn’t Lucille charge you?”

  “Appearances to the contrary, I have never utilized Lucille’s ser­vices.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you. She seems very . . .” Her words trailed off.

  “Interested? She is. She nearly attacks me every time I see her, which is, blessedly, not often.”

  She narrowed her eyes and studied him.

  “She’s a madam.”

  “She is that,” he said.

  “You took me to a bordello,” she said, amazed.

  “I haven’t taken you to a bordello. Lucille’s establishment is run very differently. Her clientele requests companions for the evening and Lucille sends the girls to them. She bills them once a month for her ser­vices, and most of them pay immediately. Those who don’t, well, let’s just say that’s the last time they use Lucille’s ser­vices.”

  “And Neville did.”

  He nodded.

  She stared out at the passing scenery.

  “What, no outcries that your brother is a saint?”

  “No.”

  He reached over and found her hand where it was resting on the seat.

  “He’s a man, Minerva. Men have needs.”

  “Do you?” she asked, turning to look at him. “How long has it been since you were with a woman?”

  His laughter caught her off guard.

  “I should have guessed that would be your response, but you never fail to surprise me, Minerva. What possessed you to claim to be a girl in trouble?”

  “A more sympathetic ruse than being an older sister,” she said wryly. “What happens now? Are we going somewhere else?”

  “I’ve explored every single haunt your brother might visit. I’ve left my card. All we can do now is wait.”

  “Truly?”

  “I know you’re disappointed,” he said.

  “I merely want to find Neville.”

  “We will.”

  For the first time, he said it in such a way that she didn’t feel as if her brother’s life was in danger. He still held her hand, and as they drove back to his home, he gently squeezed her fingers.

  She would not let him know how close she was to real tears this time.

  Chapter 24

  Dalton stood at the library door, listening to Minerva’s footsteps in the corridor as she headed toward him. Even her steps were confident and assured, but of course she knew the way by now.

  This was the third week of their a
rrangement, and he knew he had to end it soon. Otherwise his fascination with her would only grow, and nothing could come of that.

  What woman would want a blind man?

  He had a fortune, but she didn’t need it. Any charm he might have once possessed had been drowned in the months he was mired in pity.

  He couldn’t even dance with her.

  “I thought of an idea,” he said when she reached the door.

  She was wearing a new perfume, something that reminded him of lilies and other spring flowers. He sniffed audibly, smiling when she laughed.

  “I decided to smell of something other than cinnamon,” she said.

  “What is it called?” he asked.

  “Spring in Scotland,” she said. “It’s supposed to remind the wearer of thistles and heather, but I can’t smell it myself.”

  “It doesn’t smell like Scotland to me, but an English wood.”

  “Perhaps I’m a wood sprite come to visit.”

  He suspected she was smiling. He wanted to place his fingertips on her face and feel her smile.

  “What’s this idea?” she asked.

  She took his hand as naturally as if she’d done it before, leading him to the two wing chairs in front of the fireplace. She sat and then he did, wishing he could see her.

  “I have a cousin who recently returned from America. Her husband was with the British Legation. I know she must have contacts. There is every possibility that Neville never came back to England.”

  “Would they know if he was dead?”

  Her voice was a careful monotone. Perhaps she thought it revealed nothing of her emotions, but he’d had days to listen to her, to study her inflections. He probably knew her better than anyone on his staff. Or anyone else, for that matter. Fear lingered in her tone along with a grief he hoped she’d have no cause to express.

  He stretched out his hand, unsurprised when she placed hers on it. She could read gestures and moods better than anyone he’d ever known. Or perhaps she was just learning him, too.

  “Let’s not think that, but since we haven’t found him, perhaps he hasn’t returned to London.”

  Her hand gripped his firmly. “I didn’t want to think that Neville would avoid me,” she said. “The last time I saw him, we argued.”