Scotsman of My Dreams

by Karen Ranney

  “I’ve a note, sir,” his driver said.

  “A note?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Miss Todd isn’t with you?”

  “No sir. She just sent a note.”

  “Shall I read it, sir?” Mrs. Thompson asked.

  When she finished reading the one-­sentence note, he said, “That’s all? ‘I will be unable to assist you in your endeavors’?”

  “Yes, Your Lordship.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Thompson.”

  “Is there anything I can get you, Your Lordship?”

  “No, Mrs. Thompson. Thank you.”

  He was extraordinarily calm at the moment, a fact he noted even as he turned to Daniels.

  She’d sent him a note. She was not going to get away with sending him a note. Bloody hell.

  “I need you to take me to Miss Todd’s house.”

  He’d taken extra care with his appearance this morning, in preparation for seeing the annoying woman. His shoes had been shined by one of the maids, his shirt ironed by another. He’d managed not to cut himself too much while shaving. If he had any mishaps, it was because his mind hadn’t been on his task.

  Instead, he’d been thinking about Minerva, the most irritating woman in the world.

  “Do I look presentable, Mrs. Thompson?”

  “You look perfect, sir.”

  He smiled his thanks for her loyalty.

  A few moments later he and Daniels were in the lane behind his house and his driver was opening the carriage door.

  “It looks to rain, sir, and the air feels funny the way it does just before a storm.”

  At least he wasn’t out in a field somewhere, waiting for the Confederate army to come over the hill, a comment he didn’t make to his driver.

  “A little spot of rain won’t hurt us, will it, Daniels?”

  “Not at all, Your Lordship.”

  At Minerva’s house, Daniels acted as his guide.

  “There are two steps now, then a walk a little farther to the main steps. There are five of those.”

  He really didn’t need Minerva to escort him through London, did he? If he hadn’t asked for her help, though, he wouldn’t have employed her to be his secretary. Things wouldn’t have progressed as far as they had and he wouldn’t be on her doorstep, annoyed and irritated that she was playing coy.

  He’d never chased a woman in his life, didn’t she know that? But he was evidently chasing Minerva Todd, because here he was. No, that wasn’t right. He had a damn good reason for being here: Glynis’s letter about Neville.

  He knew, from Daniels’s description the last time he was here, that the house was dark red brick with white framed windows. The front door, like his own, was black. The steps were framed by a black wrought-­iron railing on either side, and a gas lamp with the same wrought-­iron pattern sat at the curb before each house.

  “The house next door, sir. There are two ladies in the parlor windows downstairs, and one standing in an upstairs window.”

  “The Covington sisters,” he said, smiling.

  “Do you know them, sir?”

  “I know of them. A pity we didn’t bring Arthur’s carriage, the fancy one. I might have given them a thrill. Where are they, Daniels?”

  “Slightly to the right, sir, in the town house next door.”

  He raised his hand and waved.

  A moment later he was at the door and Daniels was trotting back down the steps to stand at the carriage and be stared at by the Covington sisters.

  Only a plain knocker adorned the door, something that felt shiny like polished brass.

  The door opened and the smell of cinnamon washed over him.

  “Yes? May I help you?”

  Was she the cook of the house, the woman responsible for cinnamon scones each morning?

  He introduced himself. “May I speak with Miss Todd?”

  “Oh, Your Lordship, I’m sorry. She’s not at home.”

  Where the blazes was she? That question was answered before he could ask it.

  “She’s gone to Scotland, sir.”

  “Scotland?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He tried to command his features to remain expressionless. The less he revealed, the less vulnerable he felt.

  “Thank you.”

  He stepped back and turned, wishing he knew where the hell the railing was. He didn’t trust his balance enough to sail down the steps without holding onto something. He heard the door close softly behind him and released the breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

  He waved at Daniels, hoped the man knew it was a cry for help, and stood there feeling exposed and foolish.

  She’d gone to Scotland, damn it. She’d traipsed off to Scotland in her trousers skirt and her full lips.

  Why?

  Why had she left him so precipitously?

  No doubt she was tired of being a nursemaid to a blind man. Had she felt the same when she’d come to his house, to his bedroom, to his bed?

  He was damned if he was going to be an object of pity.

  “Are you the earl?”

  The female voice was directly below him.

  He jerked, startled, not expecting to be confronted by a stranger. He grabbed the gold top of his walking stick tighter.

  “You have me at a disadvantage, madam.”

  The odor of mothballs and soap came closer.

  “I’m Amelia Covington.”

  One of the Covington sisters. Did they interview all of Minerva’s guests or had he somehow incited their curiosity by waving at them?

  “Are you the earl?” she asked again.

  He bowed slightly. “Dalton MacIain, the Earl of Rathsmere,” he said, thinking of Arthur when he did so. Would he ever grow comfortable with the title? Or would he continually remember Arthur, who was, he suspected, a much better earl than he’d ever be?

  If Miss Amelia Covington expected more courtliness from him, she wasn’t going to get it. He’d done all he could do.

  “Are your sisters here?” he asked again.

  “No, they’re at home. They chose me to come and speak with you.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Minerva’s gone off to Scotland, Your Lordship.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Can you not go and fetch her?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “She’s the sweetest girl, but sometimes we think she needs someone looking after her. Just imagine, going off to Scotland on her own, with no maid and only that driver of hers.”

  “Hugh,” he said.

  She came to his side and grabbed his arm, startling him again. “Come to tea, please, and we’ll tell you why we think she’s in danger.”

  “Danger, Miss Covington?”

  “Danger, Your Lordship.”

  AT THE bottom of the steps Daniels greeted him, grabbing his right arm as if to pull him away from Miss Covington.

  The woman, however, was relentless.

  A moment later he was going up an identical set of steps, Daniels on his right side and Miss Abigail Covington clinging to his left arm.

  At the top of the steps, Daniels whispered, “Sir, do you want that I should go inside?”

  “There’s no need,” Miss Covington said brightly.

  She grabbed Dalton’s hand as if he were a child, holding onto it with the grip of a paranoid mother.

  “His Lordship will be fine with us.”

  Heaven help him.

  “If you’ll remain here, Daniels, I’d appreciate it. I won’t be long.”

  That last sentence was both for his driver and Miss Covington. This wasn’t going to be an extended visit. He would remain long enough to understand what she was saying about danger and then leave.

  The
minute the door was open he smelled more mothballs and something thick and rich like marmalade.

  “There’s a table here, Your Lordship,” she said, but not quickly enough for him to avoid it.

  He stumbled, righted himself, and pasted an appropriate social smile on his face. They walked down a long hall and then into another room, one almost uncomfortably warm.

  Someone pulled his walking stick away from him and grabbed his arm. Maybe he should have made Daniels accompany him.

  The room felt suffocatingly small. He enlarged it in his imagination, had the Covington sisters looking somewhere else other than at him. But he didn’t doubt they were staring directly at him, probably measuring every twitch and muscle flex.

  “This is my sister Gladys,” Abigail Covington said. “And my sister Helen. This is the Earl of Rathsmere,” she continued, obviously addressing them. “The man Minerva’s been going to see each day.”

  “Do you have a spy in Miss Todd’s household?” he asked.

  “A spy?”

  A different voice spoke, one without the sweetness, but with a more acerbic tone. He didn’t know if it was Helen or Gladys.

  “That makes us sound very nefarious.”

  “Instead of simply interested. It’s Minerva, after all.”

  “We knew her mother and father.”

  “And Neville as well.”

  Instead of three women, he felt like he was surrounded by thirty.

  Abigail—­at least he thought it was Abigail—­directed him to a chair. He sank down into it gratefully.

  “Here’s your walking stick, Your Lordship,” one of the sisters said. Helen?

  “Of course,” Abigail said, “we are very close friends with Mrs. Beauchamp.”

  “Mrs. Beauchamp?”

  “Minerva’s housekeeper. The most sturdy and reliable woman that ever was. Why, she could give lessons to our own housekeeper.”

  “And has, on many occasions,” one of the other sisters said.

  “Very generous in her training.”

  And her information, evidently.

  “What’s this about danger?” he asked, trying to steer the conversation back on course.

  “Because of Hugh, of course.”

  “We tried to tell her—­through Mrs. Beauchamp, of course—­that it was not the proper thing to do.”

  “Gladys has made pumpkin bread, Your Lordship. Would you like some? I’d be more than happy to feed you.”

  Good God, no.

  “Thank you, Miss Covington, but that’s not necessary.”

  “But you will partake, won’t you? Gladys will be offended if you don’t.”

  The Covington sisters were gentle tyrants. He didn’t want anything to eat or drink. He was here because Abigail had whispered of danger to him.

  He put a polite smile on his face, one that reminded him of his childhood and lessons in manners. Arthur was much better at events like this, always knowing when to say the proper thing.

  “Here’s your tea, then, Your Lordship,” Abigail said with a hint of disapproval in her voice.

  If she was annoyed at him, she wasn’t going to share what she knew.

  “I do apologize, Miss Covington,” he said. “I’d love some pumpkin bread.”

  He took the plate she gave him and wondered if he could get away with simply holding it.

  “You were mentioning danger?”

  He was having a difficult time wading through this marsh of words, a clear sign that he’d been a recluse for too long. Strange, that he didn’t have any difficulty verbally sparring with Minerva.

  “Why ever would she go to Scotland alone with only her driver?” one of the women asked.

  “I believe Miss Todd has an interest in archaeology,” he said, wondering if he was giving away any secrets. If so, Minerva would not be pleased with him.

  “Of course she does. But are there not enough places in England to interest her?”

  Dear God, had he found himself in a nest of anti-­Scottish women? Perhaps he should tell them his family name, and inform them he was descended from Highlanders, Scottish Highlanders.

  “Is there nothing you can do, Your Lordship?”

  “What would you have me do, Miss Covington?”

  “Go after her, Your Lordship. Keep her in England where she belongs.”

  “She is not my ward, Miss Covington. She merely acts as my secretary from time to time.” He had planned on asking her to perform the task full-­time, at least until he replaced Howington.

  “Is there nothing that can be done to protect her reputation, Your Lordship?”

  The irony of someone asking the former Rake of London how to protect a woman’s reputation was not lost on him. Especially since he’d done everything he could to ruin her himself. Granted, he had not instigated the affair, but he hadn’t gently guided Minerva back home when she’d come to him, either. Instead, he’d taken advantage of the situation—­and her.

  “Minerva is a force to herself,” one of the Covington sisters said. “She is the epitome of a modern woman, an example for any young woman to follow. Why, her escapades keep us entertained for hours at a time.”

  “You admire her, Miss Covington?”

  “Indeed, Your Lordship. She is someone to emulate for her fashion sense alone.”

  “Her fashion sense?”

  Was he stuck with asking questions?

  “She wears trousers, Your Lordship. I’m not sure if you were aware.”

  “Yes, Miss Todd informed me.”

  “See? Does that not explain how courageous she is?”

  He couldn’t wait to tell Minerva that the Covington sisters were fascinated by her, that they weren’t nosy as much as filled with admiration.

  “But we know full well that while we might be forward thinking women, the rest of the world is not so forgiving. Why, ­people might even think things about Minerva’s work for you each day. But to go off with only her driver to Scotland, to an abandoned castle, well that’s just asking rumors to fly, don’t you think?”

  Evidently, they thought so.

  “Someone will believe the worst.”

  “That she’s involved with her driver.”

  “He is a magnificent specimen of man.”

  “Like the prince of Persia in that new novel.”

  “Or the count of Montrose.”

  He was adrift in a sea of words. Or imaginations.

  “I’ll go to Scotland,” he said, forcing himself to take a bite of bread. The second bite was easier, since the bread was more a pastry and delicious.

  “Is that entirely necessary, Your Lordship?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t understand. Don’t you wish for me to rescue Miss Todd?”

  “Of course, Your Lordship, but Minerva’s taken the train, and we know for a fact that it doesn’t leave for another two hours.”

  “The Caledonian Railway,” another of the sisters said.

  He was beginning to tell them apart. The acerbic one was Helen, while the one with the sweet voice and the cooking skills was Gladys.

  “Quite a marvelous thing. Did you know that you could travel to Scotland without stopping?”

  He held out his plate, and thankfully one of the sisters took it.

  “If you’ll excuse me, then, ladies, I will be about the business of rescuing Miss Todd.”

  He heard whispering.

  “We most definitely approve,” Abigail Covington said.

  Did they realize that he didn’t give a flying farthing for their approval? Evidently not. Besides, he had an excuse for plucking Minerva from the train: Neville’s whereabouts.

  A much better reason than the truth: I missed you. I thought of you endlessly. You can’t leave me.

  Chapter 29

  King’s Cros
s Station was only ten years old and awe-­inspiring in size with its two arched roofs. No doubt the design of the building was responsible for the noise: echoes of clicking machinery, the hiss of steam, and the humming drone of conversation.

  Minerva sat on a bench not far from the departure platform, wishing Hugh wasn’t pacing a few feet away.

  The journey to Glasgow took nearly thirteen hours, and she was prepared to nap during some of it. However, waiting for the train was always the most onerous part of the entire trip.

  She couldn’t wait to get to Scotland. She liked everything about the Scots: their language, their way of speaking, their hospitality, and their humor. Most of all, she admired their independence.

  How strange that Dalton MacIain’s heritage was Scottish.

  Three times she’d gone to Partage Castle, and each time Lady Terry had invited her to stay in the house she’d built not far from the ruins.

  The stately manor house with its white brick and blue painted shutters would have been at home in any English county, but in that area of Scotland it looked too large, too square, and too, well, foreign. In addition, the trees planted on either side of the drive from the white stone gate were too manicured. The rest of the land around the castle was wild, untamed, and more Scottish.

  She preferred to remain at the site in order to begin work at dawn, but she would stay with Lady Terry this time to assuage Mrs. Beauchamp’s concerns. Besides, she really didn’t want to be alone with a sullen Hugh.

  She had begun the journey this morning attired in a proper dark blue dress with white cuffs and collar. She couldn’t wait to change into her trousers skirt and a dark blouse and begin work.

  By tomorrow she’d be at Partage Castle.

  The rain, now beating on the arched roof above, added to the cacophony around her.

  Hugh refused to share her first-­class accommodations, insisting on riding in the second class compartment. She’d given up arguing with him; during their expeditions to Scotland, he wasn’t just her carriage driver. He was her assistant. She couldn’t do what she did without his help.

  What did he mean, she wore on a man? She was most definitely not a moth.

  Dalton MacIain was not her flame. No, it was better if she didn’t think about the man. Easier said than done, however.

  He had proven surprisingly intelligent and thoughtful. She didn’t know who he’d been before his experiences in America, but from the rumors, she suspected she wouldn’t have liked him very much. But this man? This man with his black eye patch and his defiance toward the world held too much fascination.