At the station, she made inquiries and set out in the direction indicated. She had coin enough for a room on the outskirts of the city—a long way from the castle she’d been living in. Six months of luxury and security had given her a burning desire to have that forever for Isobel as well as herself.
If marrying Awful Arthur would give her wealth, she could do it.
A neat row of townhouses revealed several Rooms For Let signs. Calling herself Nan Jones, claiming to be a teacher, she found a garret that would suffice.
Miserable, missing her bees, terrified for her twin, Iona wanted to go to Isobel immediately, but it was much too late in the day. She washed, changed her attire, and set out to find food.
While she was wandering unfamiliar streets, she spent a few precious coins on stationery. One did not address a queen or her cabinet with cheap note paper.
Along with bread and cheese, she bought cheap wine, walnuts, and salt. Back in her room, she began the laborious process of dying her distinctive golden-brown tresses to the deepest brown she could achieve. She would almost match Isobel, unless her sister had let hers wash out. If Isobel cut hers, there might be an advantage in playing each other as they had as children.
Accustomed to lonely nights, Iona still missed the company of Wystan’s ladies. She ate her solitary meal, washed, dyed her hair, and let it dry while she drafted letters in her notebook. She would save her precious stationery for the final product. Writing a queen couldn’t be done in a slapdash manner.
She hesitated even more over how to write Isobel. She didn’t want her sister vanishing out of fear, but it had been nearly a week since that last letter had been posted.
Deciding final drafts would wait until morning, when she was less tired, Iona retired to her lumpy bed. Train whistles woke her through the night, and she nearly wept in frustration and fear. It had almost physically hurt to run away from the earl and his promises. She was no doubt better off leaving him behind before she came to rely on him too much.
In the morning, she boiled water for tea, toasted the last of her bread, and copied off the final letter to Queen Victoria. Then deciding she needed to see Isobel before making any further decisions, she wrote a reference letter for Nan Jones, master gardener, and signed it with the name of the Craigmore minister so Isobel would recognize her. Since she only intended Isobel to see the letter, Iona didn’t worry about impressing anyone with proper paper.
In the wee dark hours, she’d dreamed of noble knights—in the form of the earl—riding to her rescue. But despite his kisses and lust, Ives was a busy man. Now that she was out of his demesne, he had no reason to care what she did.
She might long for a shining knight, but she and her sister were all they could count on. She posted the letter to the queen.
With regret, she cut off another pearl from her mother’s wedding necklace. The countess had been justifiably proud of the exquisitely matched pearls, but she’d had the long chain cut in two to provide chokers for both her daughters for their one season.
And now they were using the heirloom to sustain their freedom. Iona had become inured to cutting up her mother’s legacy, but a tear still crept down her cheek as she took money in exchange for precious memories.
Then she bought a train ticket to the Calder station. In Calder, she found a carter waiting to see if there were any guests for the castle. She climbed in with a load of building supplies heading that way.
Calder Castle wasn’t as impressive as Wystan. It was an ancient stone fortress with crenellations, a Gothic exterior, and an incredibly large tower keep. The courtyard teemed with men carrying tools and building materials.
Hoping to avoid being seen by Lydia, the Malcolm Librarian, or Mr. Ives, her husband, Iona pulled her old-fashioned bonnet closer and aimed for the kitchen door in the rear. It helped that she and Isobel knew more about kitchens than ballrooms. Going in through the kitchen also meant her sudden appearance wouldn’t startle Isobel—always a bad thing.
She handed the reference letter to the elderly butler to whom the scullery maid presented her. He carried it off into the depths of the house, leaving Iona twiddling her thumbs and wondering if she could afford a night in the village inn if Isobel were not here.
To her relief, her sister rushed in with no sign that her arrival had caught her by surprise. “Iona, thank the stars! I was so worried. Let us go to my room. The castle doesn’t have a steward’s cottage, but I have my very own lovely room.”
“Don’t you have an office?” Iona asked worriedly. “Won’t people think it odd if you interview me in your chamber?”
Isobel huffed a sigh. “I hate this. Of course, you’re right. My office is a cubbyhole full of moldering old bookkeeping journals. Let me take you out to the kitchen garden.”
She pulled on a cloak and they walked into the cloudy, windy afternoon.
“I’ve written the queen,” Iona said without preamble. “Mother always said we should if we needed help. I have asked her to grant one of us a letter patent.”
“What good will a useless title do?” Isobel asked bitterly. “We can’t go to London and vote that Mortimer be hanged.”
“Aye right, the country has gone to the verra dogs since the Brits took over,” Iona said in amusement. “All good Scotsmen should be allowed to hang thieves.”
“Yes, quite. So I repeat, what will we accomplish?”
Iona took a deep breath. “If I can find someone to negotiate for us, I could marry the American swine and take a large settlement in return for his calling himself Lord Arthur. We could use the money to return to Craigmore. We’d put new locks on the doors and hire guards to heave Mortimer out. Or we could go to Canada. You could dress in silks and pearls and find a real husband. With money, we have choices.”
“I’d rather muck pigs than wear silk,” Isobel said. “You’re the eldest. I suppose it’s only proper for you to take the title. But oh, Iona—it would be such a lonely life! Can you lock out a husband as well?”
“That would be part of the settlement,” Iona said grimly. “He could take his title and return to the Americas. Or parade about London, I don’t care, as long as he stays away from us. We wouldn’t be part of the agreement. I know you would make a better countess. You’ve always wanted to return Craigmore to our grandfather’s glory, but you want a husband and children as well. I’d rather see the world. I don’t think I’d mind living in sin should I ever find a man worth having.”
Isobel grimaced. “Let’s go back to that point about negotiating a settlement. How in all the world would we do that?”
“Therein lies the difficulty—we must choose whom to trust with our identities. At the moment, the only people who know both of us are the Librarians. The Earl of Ives and Wystan knows only mine.”
* * *
As the train pulled into the Edinburgh station, Gerard set aside his newspaper and gathered up his hat and coat. Lowell had already gone in search of the baggage, proving his usefulness again. At least a valet didn’t cost as much as a new roof.
“The Royal, sir?” Lowell asked, juggling both their valises.
“It’s a place a wealthy American might stay if he wished to hobnob with princes, isn’t it?” Gerard said in resignation. It would also put a pretty hole in his pocket.
“Indeed, sir, if they are not actually staying with princes,” Lowell said in the dry manner Gerard was learning to appreciate.
In comparison to London’s older, more grandiose hotels, this pragmatic Scots one lacked opulence, but the staff responded to aristocratic titles with the same alacrity. Gerard asked if Rainford happened to be staying there and was assured the clerk would let the marquess know of his arrival. He asked for a copy of DeBrett’s to be sent up with his tea.
A plan ground in the back of his brain, but he needed to find the damned countess for her approval. The Roman soldier in his head grunted. Was the spirit psychic or simply disagreeable?
After he reached the suite he’d been assigned, Gerard s
ent off several notes to family and acquaintances. The DeBrett’s list of the aristocracy merely confirmed what he already knew. He didn’t want to reveal anything that wasn’t available to all.
He paced the chamber impatiently until a servant knocked with a reply from Rainford. Lowell made an attempt to protest that he hadn’t dusted off his travel dirt, but Gerard didn’t have time for niceties. He had to find Iona, and he needed to set his half-baked plan in motion before he set out.
Dressed in impeccable gray evening attire, Rainford raised a quizzical brow at Gerard’s travel clothes but unquestioningly followed him to the hotel’s spacious tavern. Dark-panels, dim lights, linen tablecloths all spoke of a sophistication not to be found in a normal pub. It looked like just the place to find a wealthy American and bad food.
Gerard studied the company as they entered and chose a table visible to the other occupants but far enough away not to be overheard.
“You have news about the missing heiresses?” Rainford asked.
“Have you even checked your DeBrett?” Gerard asked. “Craigmore isn’t the earl, and he isn’t their father. I am not catching those women for his sake.”
“Not even for the reward?” the marquess asked cynically.
“My family would hunt me to ground and torment me until death if I turned those women over to a man they’ve had reason to run away from. The question becomes, why did they run away and how can we assure their safety?” Gerard surreptitiously studied the tavern’s patrons as he sipped the whisky they’d ordered.
“I’ve made my own inquiries,” Rainford admitted. “Craigmore, or whoever he is, is in debt well over his head. He doesn’t have money for a reward. Half the fellows who followed me up here have gone home after we discovered that.”
While pretending intense interest in this conversation, Gerard spotted the surreptitious glances sent their way. Aristocracy was easily recognized when they set out to do it, as he had. People were predictable. He watched with cynicism as word spread around the tavern and heads swiveled in their direction.
“Dullards. Two marriageable aristocrats with the potential of titles and probably access to the queen. . . who would want women like that?” Except like Gerard, Rainford’s friends needed heiresses.
The marquess glanced in the direction of Gerard’s interest. “Any of those crass fellows might want a penniless aristocrat, I would guess? We’re rare breeds, and the uninitiated think peers have access to wealth and power untold. So my answer is—a wealthy Cit.”
“No one uses that term anymore,” Gerard said with a laugh. “Everyone is a merchant, but I’d add a wealthy American. Any of those around that you’ve noticed?”
“You know something, don’t you?” Rainford narrowed his eyes and waited.
“I do, but it’s not my information to impart. You can work it out without me saying more. So our problem is two-fold—finding the women and cutting off their stepfather’s access to them. Can you find out more about Mortimer? He’s the man posing as the Earl of Craigmore.”
“I’ve already located him. He’s living above a gambling house over in Old Town.” Rainford nodded his blond head toward a table of well-dressed gentlemen. “Coincidentally, the stout American over there in the plum waistcoat has been seen regularly at the tables in the same house.”
Gerard sat back and smiled in satisfaction. “I’ll set Lowell on the trail. The servants are far better at this than we are.”
“I suspect the Cits are working up their courage to approach.” Rainford threw back his whisky and rose from his chair. “Don’t find the girls too soon. I’m enjoying this.”
Before any of the gentlemen at the other table could reach him, Gerard rose, put on his hat, and walked out—giving them the cut direct as his father would have said. Some days, it almost paid to be a titled lord—if only it paid in cash.
Back in his suite, he had telegrams and messages waiting. Sorting through them in satisfaction, Gerard realized Rainford was right. This was almost fun—if he weren’t so stupidly worried about an independent female who couldn’t wait for his help.
If it weren’t for the fear and panic he’d sensed on her map, he’d say to hell with her and head back to London to see if he could raise funds there.
Now was a bad time to develop new eccentricities.
Satisfied that his local relations were apprised of his arrival and working on the situation, Gerard grudgingly took a bath using the hotel’s inadequate resources, ate his supper, and ordered Lowell not to unpack.
The train to Calder left in the morning.
* * *
Lowell gazed upon the stone edifice Gerard’s cousin Max euphemistically called Calder Castle. “You left a luxury hotel to stay in a medieval fortress? Will we have to boil our water?”
Gerard chuckled. “You have much to learn about my family. I can assure you these accommodations are vastly preferential. The only downside is that they contain family.”
Lowell snorted in appreciation and shut up.
“I need to do some reconnaissance. Tell anyone who asks that I’m stretching my legs and will be in shortly.” Leaving Lowell and their mounts at the stable, Gerard strolled through the busy courtyard toward the back of the castle.
Max had showed him all around the last time he’d been here. The castle sat at the top of a high hill. The front overlooked a steep bluff. The back was where the fields started. They had no orchard, but there were stone fences that might protect hives.
Of course, his chance of finding Iona was slim and catching her by surprise almost none. He simply followed the idiot voice chanting Treasure in his head that drew him down an uncultivated lane behind the wall. Far down the hill, a stand of head-high bushes provided a nice windbreak—
And there she was, murmuring to the hives as she wound binding around the straw hackles to protect the bees through the winter. She wore the familiar short gown over trousers and boots, but she’d let her bonnet and veil down in the noon sun.
He winced at the dark brown she’d dyed her hair, but he was too exultant at finding her to complain.
Before he could come within shouting distance, she slipped into the bushes and vanished—as if the bees had warned her of a stranger. Cursing, Gerard shouted anyway, but the wind carried off his calls. Even if she heard him, she’d probably run. She had no reason to know who approached.
At least he knew she was here and safe, he grumbled as he trudged back to the castle. That should be enough.
It wasn’t. Memories of a heated kiss, tears of despair, and courageous vows—and fear—rubbed at his formerly distant soul.
Max Ives met him as he reached the courtyard. A giant of a man, Max swatted Gerard on the back in an attempt to make him stumble. Familiar with his cousin’s tactics, Gerard side-stepped and punched a massive bicep.
“Good to see you, too,” he said dryly. “How is family life treating you?”
“Better than my vagabond days,” Max crowed, gesturing at the yard full of workmen. “Who knew I could stay home and still engineer?”
“Wealth has some privileges,” Gerard said, following his host inside. “Has your bride located the missing heiresses yet?”
“And do you think Lydia would tell me if she had? Until the runaways are ready to make themselves known, we can only hope they’re safe.” Max led the way to a dark room of heavy furniture that he’d claimed for entertaining his male guests.
Currently assured that Iona was safe, Gerard examined his surroundings. “I like what you’ve done with the place. The building blocks on the billiard table are particularly unique.”
He strolled over to the table of artifacts Max had dug out of the sewers and dungeons beneath the tower. Poking around in pot shards, coins, and utensils he couldn’t identify, Gerard didn’t find one that called to him as the medallion had.
Max grinned and circled his handiwork on the table. “It’s a model of the keep. I want to shore it up so it won’t lean again. Lydia can’t picture what I mean to
do unless I show her.”
And since Max could barely read, he liked working with his hands. Gerard didn’t feel quite so uncomfortable with his own peculiarities when he was with someone who understood. That didn’t mean he had any intention of mentioning voices in his head.
One of these days he might explode with all the secrets he hid. “When you run out of projects here, you can probably hire yourself out to repair all our crumbling edifices. You’ll never need to leave for foreign shores again. Will you miss the travel?”
Max poured a finger of Scotch and handed it over. “Ask me again after the babe arrives. So what mysterious errand brings you up here? Do you think we hide heiresses in our cavernous and empty rooms?”
Gerard disliked lying, but until he had Iona’s permission to tell her tale, he had to fudge the truth. “I sacked my estate agent. The women want me to hire a female steward like yours. I’d like your opinion of how she handles the workers, and I’d like to talk with her.”
“Nope, you can’t have Bell. Lydia swears by her.” Max circled his building blocks, poking at them here and there.
“I already have someone in mind, so no, I’m not stealing her. I just need some idea of how she manages the laborers. Did I meet her when I was up here for the wedding?” Now that he thought about it, he had some recollection of a small, dark female being introduced as the new steward. He hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. Calder Castle wasn’t a working estate. It had a few tenant farmers, and the steward mostly handled rents and maintenance. An accountant could do it.
“Most likely. Bell came to us just before the wedding.” Max stopped sipping and narrowed his eyes. “The ladies at the school sent her. You think she’s one of the heiresses? I’m not letting you have her for the reward.”
“The so-called earl can’t afford a reward. They’re being hunted. Keep your steward safe, and she’s all yours—or Lydia’s. I would simply like to speak with her.” Gerard knew his family was quick. He hadn’t had to reveal a thing.
Max raised his eyebrows, pulled a bell rope, and sent a servant in search of his new steward.
Entrancing the Earl Page 11