Chapter 26
About that same time...
“YOU ASK A LOT.”
“There’s no reason not to if we’re ever going to have a truly equal society.”
A few of the ladies seated around Brontë murmured their approval of her statement. She heard them though her focus was on Tris. For a guy who seemed to blithefully disparage a woman’s capabilities with annoying frequency and of late delight in poking a sleeping bear on the subject, there was a light of approval and admiration in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
It had been there a few hours. Since their creative exploration of the winter garden, in fact. He’d been most approving then, though more vocal about it.
Some of the other men nearby weren’t nearly as appreciative of her arguments. Most refrained from being too vocal about it, however. Dissent to her opinions muted. Funny, she didn’t care so much what they thought.
“That’s rather radical thinking.”
Heath Wyndom again. She wouldn’t be sad to see the last of him when she left this place. From the look on Hannah’s face, she was beginning to think less of her beau as well. Good, she deserved better and Brontë would make sure she knew it. The only reason she considered his suit was because, at twenty-five, she considered herself an old maid without choices. Being the same age and from a time where there were so many more, Brontë knew she had at least one more mission to complete before going back home.
At some point. Perhaps sooner than she’d thought. Even a few hours ago would have been optimal. Unfortunately, while she could turn back time and make these incidents vanish from the memories of others, she couldn’t do the same for herself. Those moments with Tris in the conservatory had shaken her to the core. First his care and consideration for her feelings, then taking her to the edge of oblivion when she’d thought they’d already scaled the highest peaks of rapture.
Her casual fling with Tris had flung itself back in her face, leaving her exposed and vulnerable ever since.
“She reminds me of Mama. Don’t you think so?”
Hazel slid her hand into Brontë’s and squeezed in a display of support she dearly appreciated, not merely in regard to the debate at hand.
The countess of Glenrothes — Eve, she’d asked Brontë to call her — nodded. “Yes. Not only has Miss Hughes the look of the ladies in her family but their fierce spirit as well.”
The unified show of support from these ladies, the last she might have expected to offer it, brought a tear to her eye. She’d engaged in similar debates with her mother over the years without a single gesture of encouragement like this.
Even in the face of overwhelming opposition, Wyndom sneered. “There’s only spirit until the reality of failure strikes. This equality Miss Hughes speaks of will never come to fruition. What I mean to say,” he said when Hannah ribbed him hard with her elbow, “is that as long as a gentleman can support his family in the manner they deserve, there is no reason a lady would need to seek out employment.”
Brontë bit her tongue to refrain from laying him low with a few well-chosen words that probably wouldn’t go over well in this particular environment. Thankfully, Hazel was once again ready to speak up for her, pouncing like a tigress.
“Some ladies are not as fortunate as we, Mr. Wyndom.”
“I’m surprised you would be so narrow minded, Mr. Wyndom,” Hannah said with a steel edge to her normally sweet voice. “I agree with Hazel. There are many women desperate for work. Not only should they have the same opportunities as a man but the training to do jobs otherwise reserved for men.”
These ladies were her new spirit animals.
“Excuse me, Miss Hughes.”
Brontë turned to see her maid at the door, dancing back and forth across the threshold as if drawing room carpet were hot lava instead of knotted wool. “Yes, Maddie?”
The maid looked frightfully excited, even anxious. “I’ve a note to deliver to you, miss.”
So that’s what she was strangling to death in her wringing hands. A note for her, though? From whom? It wasn’t like she knew a great many people here. “Thank you. You can put it in my room.”
Maddie’s face fell with evident confusion and disappointment. “I was told it was most urgent and to see you get it straight away, miss.”
Okay. She excused herself and crossed the room. She took the folded paper Maddie held out to her. “Who is it from?”
The maid frowned. “Why, it’s from you, miss. I did exactly as you asked. Waited until you returned here and...and —”
Exactly as she what? Oh. Oh, shit. It didn’t take long for her to scramble for and find the answer. “And you did exactly that,” she assured the girl, clasping her hands with a forced smile. “Well done, Maddie. Thank you.”
“But you...?”
“I couldn’t look as if I knew, could I?” Brontë winked and smiled as kindly as she could manage.
“Right!” Maddie perked up then lowered her voice to an excited whisper. “Oh, yes! Well done yourself, miss!”
The maid handed over the note and bounced away. Across the room, Brontë could hear Wyndom still talking out of his ass. She’d love to set a firm foot to it to smother the bilious flow.
Stifling the unladylike urge, she unfolded the message and absently skimmed the words written in a looping scrawl that was all too familiar. Her own. With a gasp, she read the words in earnest.
What?
“This fine day has kept the rain at bay after all,” Wyndom was saying. “I say a spirited shinty match is just what we all need. Aye, chaps?”
Shinty? Her gaze homed in on that particular word scribbled on the page. Then, You must stop him!
Henry rose to his feet, agreeing with hearty enthusiasm. “Aye, that’s the ticket. Precisely what we need to work up a healthy appetite for dinner. What do you say, eh mates?” He turned around the room, rallying the support for the idea that Wyndom’s suggestion hadn’t managed. “Shaftesbury? Merrill? Aye, all of you! Are you up for a match?”
Male approval built and compounded. Brontë clutched the letter to her chest with a flare of panic that set her heart racing and head pounding. “Ah, er...Henry?” God, her voice was shaking. “Must you go? I was hoping you might walk out with me to the lake.”
He smiled, ever congenial. “I’d love to accompany you. Perhaps later? Or I’m sure Tris would be happy to escort you now.”
The assurance was punctuated with a wink and complacent smiles wreathed the faces of all those around. Even Tris’s mother. What a lot of matchmakers! It did give her an idea though.
Tris nodded and stood, buttoning his coat. “Certainly, I’d —”
She touched his arm and he broke off at the miniscule shake of her head. With a tense, pointed glare, she tried to relay the urgency of her request. Damn it would be easier if she truly was clairvoyant. “Oh Henry,” she teased tautly. “You can keep trying to play matchmaker. You know Tris wouldn’t court me...even if his life depended on it.”
The last bit she added in a darker tone as she cocked her head at Tris and bounced her gaze from him to Henry in hopes of a miracle.
Thankfully Tris was bright and quick. His eyes widened, then narrowed. “She’s got a point, Henry. Besides, Miss Hughes mentioned some interest in the upcoming session of the Lords. As I don’t have a seat, you’d be far more knowledgeable on the subject.”
Wyndom, that bastard, grunted impatiently. “Come on, chaps. Let’s get on with it.”
Henry turned pleading eyes on her. “I’d love to accommodate you. Truly. One match first? Then you’ll have my full attention. The shinty field calls and I haven’t played in an age.”
Brontë groaned in defeat. Persisting when everyone was already looking at her oddly would get her nowhere. “Do you know, I’ve never played? I should love to give it a go. Would you mind if I join in?”
“The shinty field is no place for a woman.” Wyndom curled his lip.
“Not the reason I’d use,” Tris said unde
r his breath. “She’s tetchy about things like that.”
She wrinkled her nose at him, then ignoring that jackass Wyndom, turned to the other ladies. “We should all play, shall we? See what the fuss is all about?”
“We should!” Hazel agreed. “What fun!”
“Hazy, darling...” Henry began to argue, his enthusiasm for the game deflating before Brontë’s eyes.
More of the ladies expressed an interest for trying it.
More of the men drifted off to other pursuits.
Ten minutes later, Brontë strolled down the woodland path on Henry’s arm. “I’m so sorry I ruined your fun, Henry.”
He patted her hand with a smile. Not one to hold a grudge. “I’m sure there will be another opportunity in the days to come.”
Not while Wyndom was present if she had anything to say about it.
“ALL I’M SAYING IS THAT I like her.”
Tris offered his mother a small smile and did his best to refrain from rolling his eyes. The women in his family were a miserable lot of matchmakers. As they’d proven once again moments ago. “I could have sworn a few days ago it was Miss Hamilton you liked and preferred. Or haven’t you been throwing her at me for several years now?”
With a merry laugh, she hugged him around the waist. Sighing his surrender, he bent to embrace her since the top of her head hardly reached the middle of his chest. “You’ve seemed so happy these past few days,” she said. “I’ve enjoyed seeing so much of your smile. Besides, she’s certainly added some excitement to the party.”
She had at that.
Excitement of all sorts. And a fair amount of trouble.
Escaping further interrogation and meddling in his life, Tris left his mother and strode down the hall from the drawing room ignoring the lure of the winter garden doors at the other end and the recent memories he’d created there. Instead he made his way through the gallery, heading in the opposite direction. While tea time might be right around the corner, missing luncheon had left him rather peckish despite the sandwiches he’d consumed. In the kitchens, he might convince the cook to take pity on him and feed him something with more substance as she had when he was a la —
“Tris, there you are!”
He turned and to his surprise saw Brontë running toward him. She appeared a bit frazzled. Tangled wisps of hair floated around her face. “What is it? I thought you were going walking with Henry.”
“I was. I mean, I am.” She drew in a long breath and rocked her head from side to side. “I needed to talk to you first. Right away. I’ve only got a few more minutes until time catches up with me.”
“Time cat —”
She shook her head and grabbed his hand. “Never mind that. It’s important.”
“It’s Henry again, isn’t it?” He’d thought to set the matter from his mind as coincidental paranoia. Hope he’d taken her words the wrong way. Och, he hated to be right. “Was something once again going to threaten him?”
“Not something. Someone.”
“What do you mean?”
“That Heath Wyndom. He’s trying to ki — God, he’s trying to murder Henry!”
“Wyndom?” Tris shook his head, rejecting the notion. “I’ll admit he’s something of an arse, but you cannot think he’d do Henry any harm. He’s been courting Hannah for months. We all know him.”
“Not well enough,” she insisted. “I swear to you, Tris. He wants Henry dead. Please trust me on this. I think he’s responsible for the car accident as well.”
He swayed his head from side to side in denial once more. “I told ye, I dinnae recognize the driver. Nor did Henry. It wisnae Wyndom.”
“Then he hired someone to do it!” She closed her eyes, frustration etched on her bonny face. “Talk to Sung-Li. Ask him about that bee sting. I don’t think it was. I think it was Wyndom. An injection maybe. Poison. Hannah said he was right there when it happened. And he was there today.”
“Today?” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Yer making nae sense, lass.”
“And I don’t have time to explain it.” Her fingernails bit into his hand. “He must go, Tris. You have to make him leave before something else happens. Please, trust me.”
He arched a brow at her. “How can I? When ye constantly refuse to tell me anything I can believe? I need an explanation, lass.”
Some sort of buzzing sounded from her pocket and she nearly strangled on a screech of fury. “Just do it. For Henry!”
Before he could argue against the demand, Brontë turned and fled around the corner. Tris ran after her only to find, as he had a couple times before, she’d vanished from sight.
Chapter 27
“UNCLE FRANCIS?” TRIS knocked on the door to his uncle’s study after tea concluded and opened the door. “Da, you’re here, too. Good. And Jack. All the better.”
Jack Merrill was Hannah’s father. If Wyndom were involved in a nefarious plot to end Henry’s life, he should know about it as well.
Was he though?
The urgency and desperation in Brontë’s voice had set him on edge and searching for evidence of a truth that may not even exist. Through tea time, Wyndom hadn’t shown any outward sign that anything was amiss other than the precarious state of his courtship of Hannah. She shunned his company with the icy hauteur only a lady’s displeasure could convey. He’d be wise to leave her be and hope his pompous comments would fade from her memory. For the most part, he’d worked his way around the room, flitting from one conversation to the next with his thoughtless babble. Overall, he’d presented himself as nothing more deadly than an utter bore.
Brontë, too, acted with extraordinary calm given the harried state he’d last seen her in. No outward fretting or a single mention of their conversation in the hall. Oddly, she seemed confused when he alluded to it. On the other hand, she had looked tense and worried, casting uncertain glances at Henry from time to time.
There was truth in her caring for him if nothing else.
“What is it, Tris?” Francis asked as he entered. As none of them appreciated the offerings at tea, the three men all cradled glasses of Scotch in their hands. Feeling the need himself, Tris made his way to the sideboard and poured himself several fingers of his uncle’s eighteen-year Glenmorangie. “Must be something serious, I see.”
The trio laughed while he took a healthy swallow of the whisky. “It is rather, in fact.”
“Come to inform us of your intentions to ask for Miss Hughes’s hand?”
Though he’d spared his mother the same, Tris rolled his eyes at his father’s jest. “You ken I’ve scarcely known her for a more than a fortnight, aye?”
“How long does it take?” Jack joked.
“Not long at all for some of us,” Francis offered in all seriousness.
Tris had heard all the stories and didn’t need a recap in his present mood. His situation was nothing like any of theirs. Besides, he had far more serious matters on his mind than courtship rituals in the MacKintosh family tree.
Namely the two things that had driven him to the study now.
The first had been his conversation with Sung-Li regarding the bee sting. How could it be anything but? To his surprise, the older man had wavered in his conviction that it had been a bee at all. The severity of the sting through layers of clothing baffled him. He added that while the outward symptoms were similar to an allergic reaction, the lack of inflammation and redness around the sting had been unusual.
As had been the lack of aggressive varieties of bees in the area. He’d noted that beyond the immediate garden area, no one had been stung in several years. None of the gardeners or the many children who played there.
Suspicious perhaps, though hardly enough for a conviction.
It had been Wyndom himself who’d driven him to comply with Brontë’s request. Not as a threat to Henry, rather because of the chilling manner with which he looked upon her. Attraction, even lust, he might have been able to stomach, distasteful as it might be. The man’s narrowed
look, when he’d thought no one was watching worried Tris. Something bordering on malice settled in his eyes. As if he knew of her misgivings. Or considered her the threat.
The possibility that some harm might fall upon her was enough to take her at her word.
This once, at least.
Even if it chafed his arse every step along the way to do it.
As much as he would have preferred otherwise, he could think of no way to bodily throw Wyndom out without raising comment or protest. Without evidence enough to call upon the authorities for justification, he’d been forced to come crawling to the elders in power.
It served his manhood no good turn to do so. For a number of years now, he’d fought to make his own way in the world. To ask for nothing, not the tiniest favor, in hopes they would come one day, someday to treat him as an adult. See him as a man.
“I’d like for you to eject Wyndom from the remainder of the party.”
“Wyndom?” Jack frowned. “I’d say he’s on the verge of a proposal even if you aren’t. Why would I want to give him the old heave-ho?”
“Beyond the fact that Hannah would probably thank you for it?” Tris retorted and took a bracing sip from his glass. “I have reason to believe Wyndom may intend bodily harm to persons at this gathering.”
His father, Richard, looked to his uncle, though it was Jack who laughed. “If you don’t like other men making eyes at your lass, you should make an honest woman of her. And I do mean honest.”
Despite his efforts, Tris’s face flamed at the hint that his nocturnal activities in Brontë’s room might have been noted. “It has nothing to do with that.”
Bugger but the elder generation couldn’t take a man seriously! They gossiped like women and had no idea what was in his mind and heart. What drove him and called to him. While Brontë did that aplenty, long nights of bedding her weren’t the only passions he wanted to pursue.
His father set his drink aside and crossed his arms over his chest. “What makes you believe such a thing might be possible, son? While Wyndom is in no way what I’d hope for in a son-in-law, he’s never shown himself to be prone to violence.”
A Scot to Remember Page 24