He didn’t wait to see what effect his words had on his housekeeper, no doubt she would revile him now. It was no more than he deserved.
With large strides, he found his room, and began stuffing a few essentials into a bag. He’d get clear of the place, let the dust settle and leave Miss Wycliffe in no doubts as to her uncle’s folly and her own misguided goodness. By the time he returned she’d be gone, likely Mrs Murray with her once the girl confessed what he’d done.
Well, and so be it.
***
“Oh, ye poor lamb. Whatever happened?” Mrs Murray exclaimed as she found Miss Wycliffe huddled in a chair, sobbing her heart out.
“Oh, M-Mrs Murray,” the girl stammered through the storm of her tears. “I’ve been such a fool.”
It took her some time, several cups of sweet tea and many assurances she’d never breathe a word of what she was told, to piece together what had happened, through the girl’s blushes and tears and stilted explanations, but the gist of it was clear enough.
Ross hadn’t been immune to her, just as she and Digby had guessed, but instead of taking the kisses and caresses the young woman had so obviously offered and thanking his lucky stars, the dighted, bottle-headed, benighted eejit had cut and run.
Mrs Murray cursed him roundly, but there were not enough words enough to describe him if she sat cursing him half the night. One thing, however, was clear. Captain Ross Moncreiffe was a fool.
He wasn’t the only one, she thought, the weight of guilt pressing down on her more heavily than ever. She ought never to have devised such a plan.
Yet it tore her heart to shreds to see Ross so alone and isolated. She’d lost all three of her sons, either to war or disease. He was all she had left, and she wanted to see him happy, not wasting the life he’d been given when it was so damned short and all the more precious for it.
He’d always been alone, with none to care for him. She’d done what she could when he was a wee scrap of a thing, all bone and half-feral with it, but it hadn’t been enough. It hadn’t been nearly enough, and she knew it. She still felt the burden of guilt for having failed him, and now she’d hurt the girl too with her harebrained ideas.
Yet, what a fine man he’d become despite it all. Fine and gentle and caring, when he allowed himself to show his true nature, rather than the snarling, scowling countenance he used to keep everyone at arm’s length. It had never fooled her, and she’d suspected it hadn’t fooled Miss Wycliffe either, but perhaps that feral part of him ran deeper than they’d known and would never be tamed, would let no one get close.
“He’s right, it’s all my fault,” Mrs Murray admitted, now the young woman was calm enough to listen.
Miss Wycliffe gave a startled laugh at that, an incredulous expression in her eyes. “I fail to see how you played any part in this,” she said, and Mrs Murray admired the spirit in the wry smile that played around her reddened lips.
“Ross… I mean Captain Moncreiffe, was correct in what he’d said. He wanted me to stay away and I ought to have respected his wishes, never mind what my uncle asked of me. My uncle’s heart was in the right place, but you cannot force friendship on someone who has no desire for it.”
“No desire for it?” Mrs Murray exclaimed, setting her teacup down with a clatter. “Give me strength! I never saw a man in direr need of a friend and companionship, of loving.”
Miss Wycliffe’s eyes glittered with emotion and she nodded. When she spoke again, the words were thick with emotion.
“Need is another thing entirely,” she said, with such regret that Mrs Murray’s heart clenched. “But need and want don’t always go hand in hand.”
“They do with the captain,” Mrs Murray said, her voice firm. Despite her regret for the hurt she’d caused Miss Wycliffe, the facts hadn’t changed. “He wants ye badly, and he needs ye more, and he’s run away because he’s feart ye’ll discover how much.”
The young woman gave a sad smile and shook her head. “You can’t possibly know that.”
“I dae know that!” she retorted. “I’ve known that laddie all his life. It was me he came tae when he returned from the war, all battered and lost and not knowing where he oughta go. He came tae me and I took him in, like I should have taken in him in when he was a wee scrap o’ nothing….”
Her voice broke, emotion and regret too fierce to hold it in any longer, and this time it was Miss Wycliffe who soothed her sobs until she calmed herself once more.
“He thinks ye’ll give up on him now,” she said, staring at Freddie. “And I can’t say if perhaps that might be best for ye. God knows I wouldna blame ye if ye took yourself off, but I know it’s not best for him. Have ye enough fondness in yer heart to stay, lass? To stay and give him another chance….”
Mrs Murray watched the battle behind her eyes, the desire to believe there was still a chance, warring with the humiliation and hurt that was all too fresh in her mind.
“Dinnae answer me yet,” she said, reaching out and clasping Miss Wycliffe’s hand. “Think on it, aye?”
The girl nodded and Mrs Murray let out a breath. She couldn’t ask for more than that, she had no right to ask that much, but that hadn’t stopped her so far.
They both looked up as the door opened and Digby came in. Mrs Murray started as she noticed he had a woman with him—Miss Wycliffe’s chaperone, she presumed—and that he was holding her hand.
“Mr Digby!” she said, a little affronted that he should behave so in her kitchen.
“Forgive us, Mrs Murray, Miss Wycliffe,” he said, looking a little sheepish. “We haven’t seen each other in… well, it must be almost twenty years. It was rather a shock.” He turned to stare at the woman beside him, who looked to be in her mid-forties. She was slender and tall for a woman, almost as tall as Digby, and was gazing back at him with such tenderness it was clear there was a romance there. “A wonderful, impossible shock,” he added, with such a ridiculous grin on his gaunt face that Mrs Murray shook her head.
“Well, and as if the day hasn’t been full enough o’ drama. Well sit down, sit down,” she said, flapping her hands at them and setting out two more cups. “I suppose ye’d best tell us all about it.”
“Freddie?” the tall woman said, suddenly noticing Miss Wycliffe’s red-rimmed eyes. “Freddie, whatever has happened?” She hurried around and crouched down beside the young woman taking her hands. “Oh dear,” she said, as Miss Wycliffe managed a wan smile.
“Don’t scold me, Maggie,” she said, blinking back tears. “I’m doing a fine job all by myself, I assure you.”
Maggie swallowed hard, her jaw tightening but she gave a sharp nod. “We’ll talk later,” she said, patting the girl’s hand. “But whatever has happened… we will sort it out. One way or another,” she added in a darker tone.
“But you must tell us of your romance, Maggie,” Miss Wycliffe insisted with a smile, rallying and showing the strength of character that made Mrs Murray so certain she was the perfect wife for the pig-headed captain.
Well, perhaps her meddling wasn’t quite done yet, after all.
***
Freddie tried to listen to Maggie and Digby’s story of lost love, but her own heart was too raw to take it all in. The gist of it seemed to be that Maggie’s father had refused to allow her to marry Digby, who at the time had been nothing more than a lowly footman, whilst Maggie was from a well-to-do family and her father had betrothed her to a business partner’s son. The lovers were heartbroken but had no option but to separate.
Maggie’s husband proved faithless and useless, in her own words, and died five years later, leaving her in debt and alone. Embittered by her father’s hopeless choice of husband she had become estranged from her parents and had no one to turn to. There had been no children, which Maggie counted as a blessing. With no other options available to her, she’d gone into service, working her way up to the position of dresser.
Digby had never married, never having found room in his heart for another woman once M
aggie had filled the space there. He’d become butler to the Duke of Sherringham and, though he brushed over the reasons for leaving that man’s service, he said that Captain Moncreiffe had found him in difficult circumstances and had been good enough to offer him employment.
“It’s not too much to say I owe the captain my life,” Digby said, his voice solemn as he reached out and took Maggie’s hand again. Freddie smiled, even as her own heart ached. The man couldn’t stop touching her, as though he feared she might disappear if he let go. “And if I’d never come here, I might never have found Maggie again.”
To Freddie’s surprise and delight, Maggie blushed pink with pleasure. “And if I’d never worked for Lord and Lady Cheam, I might never have met Freddie here, and accepted her kind invitation to be her companion.”
“Cheam?” Mrs Murray said, almost dropping the teapot she was holding.
They all turned to stare at her, to see her ashen faced.
“Yes,” Freddie said, startled by her reaction. “Viscount Cheam. You know of him?”
“Oh, aye,” Mrs Murray said bitterly. “I know of him.”
No one else had asked so Freddie did, leaning closer. “How do you know him, Mrs Murray?”
Her face tightened, fury pinching the lines around her mouth until it settled into a grim line. “Because he came tae Scotland once, years ago, and proved himself tae be a vicious, callous bastard.”
They all jolted at the harsh language, more startled than ever when Mrs Murray reached for her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes as tears began to fall.
“He took the innocence of a sweet young girl and ruined her life, and the life of the bairn he gave her.”
“Oh, no,” Freddie breathed, cold rolling down her spine in a chilling wave as she knew the words the woman would say next before she spoke them.
“That evil, vile man is Captain Moncreiffe’s father.”
Chapter 12
“Wherein Ross learns a hard truth.”
Ross headed back from his glass house. It pained him to leave his beauties unattended, but he knew Digby would do his best. It was his own fault. There was no one else to blame for his vile behaviour, no matter how he railed at Mrs Murray.
He snatched up the bag he’d packed, stalking back through the castle, until voices drifting from the kitchen caught his attention. They had left the door ajar and he heard Freddie’s voice.
“Don’t scold me, Maggie,” she said, the tremble in her voice making his heart clench. “I’m doing a fine job all by myself, I assure you.”
Though it only confirmed the deficiencies in his character, Ross couldn’t force himself to move away. No doubt they’d all agree was a callous, wicked bastard though, and he ought to hear that for himself. Perhaps it would sink in this time.
Instead they never mentioned him at all, but the woman, Maggie, helped Digby explain a rambling story about their broken love affair.
Well, well, Digby, he thought, shaking his head with a wry smile. She’s the lass who broke his heart, then.
Ross was about to move away, to leave them to their happy reunion, when Mrs Murray exclaimed.
“Cheam?” The name of Freddie’s former employer seemed to mean something to her, to be a dreadful shock, in fact, as she almost dropped whatever she was holding and there was a clatter of china.
Ross edged closer to the door, wondering what had startled her so.
“Yes,” Freddie replied to her, sounding as curious as Ross now was. “Viscount Cheam. You know of him?”
“Oh, aye,” Mrs Murray said bitterly. “I know of him.”
How do you know him, Mrs Murray?”
Ross waited, wondering why he cared, why he didn’t just walk out of the door and leave them to it, but there was an empty part of him that wanted to join the conversation, to sit around the table in the kitchen's warmth and act like he belonged somewhere.
“Because he came tae Scotland once, years ago, and proved himself tae be a vicious, callous bastard.”
His eyebrows rose at Mrs Murray’s vehemence. She’d talk to him without holding back if he deserved it, but for her to use such language in front of Freddie….
“He took the innocence of a sweet young girl and ruined her life, and the life of the bairn he gave her.”
Ross stilled, a strange tightness in his chest as he stiffened, alert to her next words.
“Oh, no,” Freddie said, as if she too felt the weight of truth, of the way the next words would change fate.
“That evil, vile man is Captain Moncreiffe’s father.”
Ross couldn’t take it in for a moment. No one had known who his father was. No one. Everyone said his mother had given herself away cheap, she’d lost her heart to a man and shamed herself. That was why she’d taken her own life, because she couldn’t bear the disgrace of the child she’d born.
Yet Mrs Murray had told him otherwise. She’d said his mother was sweet and kind and she’d been badly wronged, that a man had forced himself upon her. She’d never hae left ye had she been in her right mind, laddie, she’d said to him often as a boy. He’d never believed that. He’d known he’d been a thing to be ashamed of, a vile thing she could not bear to live with, so she’d preferred death to a life where he’d remind her of her of his father’s sins.
Ross dragged his attention back to the conversation with difficulty.
Mrs Murray was giving a tearful explanation.
“Caitlin, she was called. Caitlin Moncreiffe. Viscount Cheam saw her when she was away in the south visiting her parents. She was a pretty lass, fine and slender with hair like barley.” Her voice grew wistful for a moment and Ross felt his throat tighten at her words. “He saw her, and he wanted her. So, he forced himself upon her. He took what he wanted and then walked away.”
There were gasps of horror and he thought he heard Freddie give a little sob before she asked, “Does Ross… does he…?”
“Na,” Mrs Murray said, her voice bleak. “Caitlin only told me, and I could never tell him. I ken too well what he’d do with such information, and it could only hurt him further to hear it. He must never know,” Mrs Murray sounded urgent now. “I ought never hae spoke but… it was a shock, to hear the man’s name again after all these years.”
“Oh, Freddie,” Maggie said, an edge to her words that Ross could not like. “Thank God you got out.”
Ross felt his breath catch, his mind spinning. He reached out, and grabbed at the wall, steadying himself as anger and revulsion filled him. His stomach churned, his heart so full of anger, regret, and pain. It had never surprised him that his mother had rather kill herself than care for him.
His eyes burned, knowing—as he’d always known—that it made perfect sense. His devilish temper and the rage he’d always struggled to control. He’d been born full of rage and only a violent life in the army had thrashed the worst of it out of him, because he was that man’s son. A man who could force himself on an innocent girl and leave her without a backward glance. Then Maggie’s words hit him.
Thank God you got out.
He sucked in a breath, remembering what Freddie had told him.
I am not ignorant, however, thanks to the rather lewd employer who deemed it necessary to tell me the facts and all their variations, and further illustrate the picture by describing how he’d use me himself, given half the chance.
The anger he’d spent so much of his life trying to rein in came back to him now, but this time it was different. There was no explosion of fire and rage. It was a pure, cold calm that settled over him now, as he knew what he must do.
He would go to London, hunt down Viscount Cheam like the dog he was, and then….
Then he would kill him.
***
Freddie wanted not to believe Mrs Murray’s words, but she was all too aware of the truth in them. She’d known Viscount Cheam was a deeply unpleasant man, a dangerous one, but it was worse than she’d ever known. She shivered as she realised how close she’d come to ending up in the same state
as poor Caitlin Moncreiffe.
“He must never know,” Mrs Murray said, staring around the room, her expression urgent. “I ought never hae spoke but… it was a shock, to hear his name again after all these years.”
“Oh, Freddie,” Maggie said, clutching at Freddie’s hand and staring at her. “Thank God you got out.”
Freddie nodded, too numb to speak. All she could think of was Ross. He’d been denied the loving parents he’d deserved—been robbed of his mother and all the kindness she would have given him—by an evil man’s desire to take something for himself.
Though it pained her to admit it, she could see the resemblance between them now, in their colouring, in the green eyes. Yet the viscount’s eyes had been cold as glass, lacking anything resembling kindness or understanding.
Ross was different. So different. There was heat and compassion in his eyes, and she knew he was a good man. Though he’d hurt her badly, she understood that he had done so to keep her at a distance, to protect her from his own desire.
That, if nothing else, that showed how different he was from the man who’d sired him.
Maggie was explaining to Mrs Murray how Freddie had paid one of the footmen to put a heavy lock on her bedroom door when she’d worked for Viscount Cheam and his family.
Freddie sat, wondering what she ought to do, whilst Maggie carried on, her voice low, speaking of how the maids in the house left so quickly. Freddie had tried to warn the girls who came, either to find work elsewhere if they could, or at least be vigilant, but now it seemed like she ought to have done more. She’d thought him a lecherous old man, one best avoided to be certain, but … she’d not realised how dangerous he truly was.
Those poor girls.
“Where will he go?” she asked, once Maggie had finished her story.
Mrs Murray shrugged. “Sometimes he takes himself off into the hills for a bit, or mayhap he’ll go an’ find some o’ the lads from his soldiering days. Mind, there’s few enough o’ those left.”
The Scent of Scandal (Rogues and Gentlemen Book 16) Page 12