The Lord's Highland Temptation

by Diane Gaston

  But he would not be expected for over an hour, so he sat to rest. The labour of the day had felt good. It was strangely satisfying to exert oneself physically, then afterwards to survey the results: rows and rows of plantings, baskets of onions, turnips and cauliflower.

  He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. In his stillness, though, the memories returned. And the regrets.

  He shook them off. Tomorrow he hoped to find other chores to perform. Surely Kinley had need of him somewhere in the gardens. He might as well help this family while finishing out his ten days.

  He’d only caught glimpses of Miss Wallace these last couple of days, although her younger sister seemed to find time each day to stop by and complain about being worked to a frazzle.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Lucas called.

  Erwin opened the door. ‘The Baron wishes to see you in the library.’

  This was a novel occurrence. Lucas had not spoken to Dunburn since that walk around the pond.

  He reached for his boots and pulled them on. ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘Not to me.’ Erwin turned to leave.

  ‘Where is the library?’ Lucas asked. He’d not been above stairs in this house.

  ‘Main floor.’ Erwin left before he might have been more helpful.

  Lucas stood and ran a hand through his hair. How odd to feel even this mild unease at being summoned by a Scottish baron, as if he were a mere gardener’s helper. Perhaps he was finally succeeding at losing himself.

  He found his way to the hall and from the hall to the library, where Dunburn sat in a comfortable chair facing the fireplace.

  Lucas knocked on the open door. ‘You wished to see me, sir?’

  ‘Ah, there you are.’ Dunburn swivelled in his chair and signalled for Lucas to enter.

  Lucas walked over to him and stood deferentially.

  The Baron gestured to the chair adjacent to his. ‘Come, sit. Have a whisky with me and tell me again about the charge of the Scots Greys.’

  No, Lucas wanted to protest. Not again. Already the images of the battle flew through his mind. The sounds and smells would certainly follow.

  He straightened. ‘Sir, surely it is not proper for me to share a drink with you.’

  ‘I know. I know.’ The older man smiled as he poured a glass of whisky. ‘But I am in need of company and I did so enjoy hearing an account of the charge from someone who was there.’

  He extended the glass to Lucas, who accepted it gratefully.

  Was there no other excuse he could give to avoid revisiting the memory that was so painful to him? Or did he owe it to the man? After all, Dunburn had allowed him to recuperate under his own roof, even though he could ill afford feeding another mouth.

  Dunburn leaned forward in his chair, eagerness filling his expression. Lucas gulped the whisky and let it burn its way down his throat.

  Dunburn poured him another. ‘Start at the moment the order to charge came.’

  The tension before the charge rushed through Lucas’s body. He took another sip. ‘Ponsonby ordered the Inniskillings, the First Royals and the Scots Greys to prepare to charge.’ The whisky was blunting his emotions. He continued as if by rote. ‘The cavalry were behind the slope so could not see what they would be facing. Before the order was given, the Scots Greys shouted “Scotland for ever” and De Lacy Evans waved his hat—’

  Dunburn closed his eyes and sighed. ‘Scotland for ever.’ He turned to Lucas again and twirled his finger. ‘Go on.’

  Lucas tried to quiet the memories assaulting him. He finished his second glass of whisky. ‘De Lacy Evans waved his hat—’ Lucas saw it all again. How he’d glared at his brother. How his brother had smirked back at him. ‘We started up the slope.’ He was detached no more, instead in the throes of the memories again. ‘We surprised the French.’ And the blood began to flow and the screams filled the air while Lucas slashed at men with his sabre, seeing their shocked faces when his weapon struck, feeling the blood spatter his face before they fell.

  His heart beat faster and beads of sweat dampened his forehead. He seized the whisky bottle, poured himself another drink and drained the contents of his glass.

  ‘And then what happened?’ Dunburn poured a drink for himself.

  Lucas forced himself to speak again. ‘Then the fighting was thick, but the French had no chance. Some tried to run. Some fought.’

  The sound of hoofbeats reached his ears and Lucas was uncertain whether it was memory or real. He lifted his glass to his lips and drank some more. Before he could start talking again, someone pounded on the outside door. He turned his head towards the sound.

  ‘Erwin will see to it.’ Dunburn twirled his fingers. ‘Continue. Tell me about the Greys.’

  The French had been helpless at this point, but Lucas could find no glory in recounting their fear and their deaths. He tried to think of what to say that would appease this man.

  ‘The Greys were in the thick of things,’ he said, although at the time he’d taken no notice of anything except what was around him—and finally of his brother. ‘They gave a good accounting of themselves, even though this was their first battle.’

  ‘I knew it.’ The older man gave a pleased look.

  Erwin rapped on the library door. ‘Beg pardon, sir, but a messenger just arrived. He gave me this letter for you.’

  Dunburn looked annoyed, but he gestured the footman over and took the letter from his hand, opened it and read.

  Erwin’s brows rose when he saw Lucas in the chair next to the Baron, a whisky in his hand.

  ‘Oh, dear!’ Dunburn shot to his feet.

  Lucas stood as well. ‘Bad news, sir?’

  ‘Oh, dear. Oh, dear. I must speak with Lady Dunburn right away.’ Dunburn gave Lucas no heed and simply left the room. ‘Jane! Jane!’ Lucas heard him call.

  He and Erwin followed Dunburn into the hall.

  Lady Dunburn, followed by Miss Wallace and Davina, came rushing down from the floor above. Miss Wallace locked gazes with Lucas and frowned.

  ‘What is it, Rory?’ her mother asked. ‘What has happened?’

  ‘A messenger from Lord Crawfurd—’ Dunburn said.

  ‘Oh, no!’ she cried. ‘Has something happened to Niven? My poor Niven?’

  ‘No. No. Nothing like that.’ Her husband gulped. ‘They are bringing Niven home tomorrow and Niven has invited them to spend the night rather than stop at an inn on their way to Lord Oxmont’s.’

  ‘Spend the night?’ Lady Dunburn cried. ‘Who is coming to spend the night?’

  ‘Lord and Lady Crawfurd,’ her husband said in exasperation. ‘And their son.’

  ‘We cannot take guests.’ Miss Wallace, still standing on the stairs, spoke with finality.

  Her parents ignored her.

  ‘What will we do?’ wailed her mother. ‘They will certainly see how it is here. Everyone will know.’

  ‘We must contrive something,’ Dunburn said.

  They seemed heedless to their audience—their daughters, their footman and Lucas, a virtual stranger to them.

  Miss Wallace raised her voice. ‘Send a return message that we cannot accommodate them.’

  Lady Dunburn glared at her husband. ‘I told you to hire more servants! I told you we must have a butler. What will they think that we do not have a butler?’

  ‘I have tried,’ Dunburn shot back. ‘The agency writes that they have no one to send.’

  In these times of high unemployment? That seemed unlikely.

  ‘Please do not quarrel!’ Davina cried.

  Lady Dunburn paid no attention to her either. ‘You ought to have insisted,’ she said to her husband. ‘At least to hire a butler.’

  Miss Wallace broke in. ‘The agency did not send a butler because we cannot pay for one.’

&nb
sp; Both her parents whirled on her.

  Her mother’s eyes shot daggers. ‘Mairi!’

  ‘Hold your tongue, girl!’ her father scolded.

  Davina whimpered. Miss Wallace flushed and her hand gripped the banister. Lucas hated seeing her distress.

  He stepped forward. ‘I could help.’

  Miss Wallace’s eyes darted to him.

  He glanced back to her. ‘I could masquerade as your butler. I have knowledge enough of the role to pass muster.’ He’d grown up with Burton as his family’s butler. He knew enough of what a butler must do.

  Miss Wallace’s eyes widened. Her parents turned to him as if he’d plucked them from the very gates of hell. Erwin’s brows rose.

  ‘Could you do that, Lucas?’ Dunburn had already fallen into calling him by what they supposed was his family name, which was how a butler would be addressed.

  ‘I can try,’ he replied.

  ‘You are the Englishman, are you not?’ Lady Dunburn had not appeared to take notice of him before this. ‘You would take the position of butler for us?’

  ‘While you have guests.’ He preferred the manual labour, the physical exertion that seemed like a fitting penance, but he could do this for the people who had saved his wretched life.

  Davina clapped her hands. ‘This is wonderful!’

  Lady Dunburn tapped her finger on her cheek. ‘You will need clothes.’

  He wore his oldest country clothes, made shabbier by his weeks of dissipation. He had no doubt they thought him a man of simple means.

  ‘Of course he will need clothes!’ Dunburn’s voice turned cheerful.

  Lady Dunburn turned to her eldest daughter. ‘Mairi, you will find some clothes for...for...’ She did not recall his name.

  ‘Call me Lucas, ma’am.’ He spoke in tones like Burton might have done.

  ‘Lucas!’ She beamed.

  Both the Baron and Lady Dunburn seemed to have forgotten their sharp words to their daughter a minute before. Now they assumed she would solve the problem of his clothes.

  Miss Wallace descended the stairs and turned to Erwin. ‘Do you or Robert have any clothes that will do?’

  Erwin shook his head. ‘We can look to see what was left in the butler’s room.’

  ‘There were the breeches I wore before,’ Lucas offered.

  She turned to her father. ‘Do you have anything?’

  Her father winced. ‘I cannot give up any of my coats—’

  ‘Papa!’ Miss Wallace cried. ‘You can sacrifice one old coat! We all have to sacrifice if we are to work our way out of this mess. You and Mama must grasp how serious this is!’

  Her father scowled at her again. ‘I do not need my daughter to lecture me!’ He sighed. ‘Very well. I will give up the clothes off my back. See Wilfred. He will know which coat I might spare.’

  Lucas had met Wilfred, Dunburn’s valet, at the servants’ dinner the night before. Wilfred was another old retainer who, like Cook and Kinley, the gardener, was of an age to be pensioned off.

  Miss Wallace pressed her fingers against her temple. ‘I cannot believe I am agreeing to this folly.’ She glanced towards Lucas. ‘Follow me, Mr Lucas.’

  ‘I’ll come, too.’ Davina started up the stairs with them.

  ‘Oh, Davina, you must not go,’ her mother said. ‘I need you to play cards with me. If I don’t have some distraction, I’ll suffer more palpitations.’

  ‘But, Mama,’ Davina protested, ‘I want to help.’

  Miss Wallace put a kind hand on her sister’s arm. ‘I’ll find you later. I will very much need your help with the sewing. We must be done by morning.’

  Davina appeared a bit mollified. ‘I can help sew.’

  Miss Wallace glanced towards Lucas and they continued up the stairs. Lucas was wafting in an all-too-familiar dreamlike fog from downing three glasses of whisky. Perhaps that was why he had volunteered for this—what had Miss Wallace called it?—this folly.

  Or had he volunteered because Miss Wallace’s parents had spoken so harshly to her?

  They reached the first floor and walked past a large drawing room to her father’s bedchamber.

  She opened the door. ‘Wilfred? Are you here?’

  They stepped inside a lavishly decorated bedchamber, done in the latest style, with a huge walnut bed.

  Wilfred emerged from what Lucas suspected was Dunburn’s dressing room. ‘Miss Mairi?’ The old valet’s wrinkled face looked surprised. ‘What is it? What may I do for you?’

  She took a deep breath as if gathering courage. ‘I will let Papa explain the details to you, but we need to find decent clothes to fit Mr Lucas.’ She glanced towards him with a look of apology. ‘We are to have guests tomorrow and Mr Lucas will act as our butler. He needs something fitting to wear.’

  ‘Of the Baron’s?’ Wilfred asked.

  Lucas could not blame him for not immediately grasping the situation.

  ‘Papa said you might know what clothes would do,’ Miss Wallace responded. ‘He will need a coat and waistcoat and neckcloth—’

  ‘And shoes?’ Wilfred added.

  ‘Shoes.’ Miss Wallace’s face fell. ‘Where are we to find shoes?’ She waved a hand. ‘Never mind. We will address that problem later.’

  ‘A coat, waistcoat and trousers...’ Wilfred walked around Lucas as if measuring his size. ‘You are taller than the Baron, sir, but he is rounder. His coats might fit, but his trousers will be much too short.’

  ‘The butler left a pair of breeches that could be altered,’ Lucas said. ‘They are loose in the waist.’

  ‘Mr MacLeish was a bit rotund.’ The valet looked up at him. ‘What colour?’

  ‘Black,’ he responded.

  ‘Excellent. Black will do quite well.’ The old man frowned. ‘It would help to have them here to match with a coat.’

  Miss Wallace spoke up. ‘I will get them. Where will I find them, Mr Lucas?’

  He felt he should spare her the trip, but she was already at the door. ‘In the chest by the bed.’

  As she left, Wilfred extended his arm towards the dressing room. ‘Come with me, Lucas.’

  Chapter Seven

  Mairi took the servants’ stairs to the lower floor.

  How could any of this work? This whole scheme was a terrible idea. It would merely be one more way her parents could avoid tackling their real problems. They needed to economise. They needed to take stock of their possessions and sell everything they did not absolutely need. They needed to stop spending money on anything but necessities. How many times had she begged them to economise this way? Pay off their debt? They should pay the poor servants and workers who toiled on their behalf, receiving nothing for themselves. They certainly should not—and could not—hire more help until they had the money to pay them. Having a pretend butler would not accomplish any of those things.

  She’d been stunned that Mr Lucas had volunteered to act as their butler. It was so very kind of him to want to help, but they all would be acting out a lie, would they not?

  She feared her family was on the brink of financial collapse, although she could not know for certain since her father refused to show her his ledgers. She had no idea how close they were to her father having to sell his title and land, but she feared the worst.

  It did not seem fair that an English baron could not sell his entailed land or his title, even if he were forced into bankruptcy. In England the title of baron was attached to the person, not to the land. Whoever carried the title owned the land. In Scotland, though, the title of baron was attached to the property, the caput. Whoever owned the caput carried the title. A Scottish barony, the property and the title, could be bought and sold.

  She encountered Robert in the hallway on her way to Mr Lucas’s room.

  She stopped him. ‘Robert, did Erwin tell you what is happening?’


  ‘That Mr Lucas will be our new butler, do ye mean?’ he replied.

  ‘That he will act as our butler while our guests are here,’ she clarified. ‘We are finding him some clothes. We need shoes, though. Do you know of anyone who might have some suitable for a butler? That would fit him, that is.’

  Robert looked down at his own shoes. ‘Mine, maybe?’

  She touched his arm. ‘Oh, no, Robert. You need those. Never mind. Something will turn up.’ She started for Lucas’s room again, but turned back. ‘Would you tell the others? About Mr Lucas acting as our butler?’

  His face relaxed. ‘Oh, everyone knows, miss.’

  She nodded. How efficient of Erwin.

  She entered Lucas’s room. In her mind it had become his room, not the butler’s room. It smelled of his soap and of...him.

  She hurried over to the chest by the bed and quickly found the breeches. Folding them over her arm, she hurried back to the stairs. When she reached the floor for her father’s room, she paused. Best she also bring her sewing basket. She ran to her bedchamber and back down the main stairs to her father’s room.

  When she entered the room, Wilfred was just coming out of the dressing room, Mr Lucas behind him.

  ‘What do you think of this? Will it do?’

  He’d put the soldier in one of her father’s coats, black as the night, contrasting with the waistcoat and neckcloth, which were white. The knot of the neckcloth was tied very simply.

  Mr Lucas, in civilised clothes, was quite transformed. Mairi could not quite look at him, he affected her so. But she also could not quite look away. Her gaze locked with his.

  She quickly blinked and glanced away. ‘I’ve brought the breeches.’

  She handed them to Wilfred, who brought them over to Mr Lucas and held them against the black coat. ‘The cloth is not as fine, but I think these will do nicely. If we can make them fit.’

  She glanced at Mr Lucas again. His lips stretched into a half-smile.

  Wilfred tossed the breeches aside and pulled at the coat’s shoulders and sleeves. ‘The fit is all wrong, but some alterations should improve the look.’