by Susan King
Meg turned. "Is that what Sir Frederick meant? Oh no! My soliciting firm informed me that they would find some way to delay his work, but I have not met with Sir Edward since my return. I understood that the plan was as yet only a plan. Oh no," she murmured anxiously.
"I thought you were a force behind the decision to revoke his funding, madam. Were you privy to any attempt to discredit him?"
"Never! Oh, never! I was told that delaying the funding was the only way to keep the work crews and construction off the island and the reef. I was never told it might damage his personal reputation."
"Well, it appears to have done just that," Angela said sternly. "Dr. MacBain fears that Mr. Stewart's project cannot recover from serious financial damage, and his name will be dragged down with it. Your solicitors have more than achieved their goal. That lighthouse may never go up, and the engineer may be ruined as well."
Feeling a sickening ache of remorse, Meg strolled beside Angela, showing only outwardly calm. Inside she quaked.
She could no longer bear the weight of her secrets, for they would soon cost her everything. Now, because of her, Dougal stood to lose the lighthouse that meant so much to him, and his reputation, which meant even more.
She had to see him, and soon.
"Angela," she said, making an impulsive decision, "there is something I must do later this evening, after supper. I will need your help."
Chapter 17
"Sir Frederick? I am Dougal Stewart." Inside the dim, smoky interior of Brodie's Tavern on the High Street, Dougal found Matheson easily, although he had met the man only once. In the crowded public room, several groups of gentlemen were meeting for luncheon, engaged in conversation and eating. At one table a man sat alone, a black top hat beside him and a brass-headed cane leaned against the high-backed bench.
Matheson was a tall man wearing a black suit and a vest of wine-colored brocade. He rose to his feet cordially, his gold watch chain swinging as he offered his hand to Dougal.
"Mr. Stewart! Thank you for meeting me here. Please sit down. I hoped you might join me for luncheon, so I ordered two plates of mutton stew in anticipation of your arrival. Beer, as well. The beer is particularly good in this place."
"Thank you." Dougal sat and briefly studied the man across from him. Matheson was a pleasant-looking man, in his mid-fifties or so, a man of obvious means judging by his expensive accessories and well-cut clothing. His graying hair was combed smooth, his long sideburns and mustache stylishly clipped, and his eyes were a very dark brown, unusually shrewd and piercing.
"I posted a letter to you recently while I was in the Isles, sir," Dougal said. He glanced up, smiling his thanks as a serving girl set down steaming plates of thick stew, two glasses of beer sloshing full, and a plate of bread rolls. "Once I arrived in Edinburgh, I was glad to learn of your desire to meet with me. A good idea, sir, to leave a message at the office of the Northern Lighthouse Commission."
"You are not an easy man to find." Matheson sipped some beer and patted his mustache with a cloth napkin.
"I understand that you were recently on Caransay, sir. Had I known, I would have taken time to show you around our quarry site on Guga and to show you the lighthouse site itself."
"Another time will do for that. I was there only for a quick visit to a good friend on the island. Generally I dislike traveling out there from Edinburgh. The journey is too deuced complicated, requiring different vehicles over land and sea. I prefer my life smoothed by convenience." He grinned amiably and gave his attention to eating.
"I understand. No doubt, however, you are curious about the state of your property out there."
"By now you've dug a right-size hole in it, I'll wager."
"We've quarried some excellent gray granite from your isle, sir. The stones have been transported to Sgeir Caran. Recently, we laid most of the foundation for the lighthouse."
"Ah. I am interested to see the progress of that remarkable erection. I plan to travel there again soon. I take a great deal of interest in that lighthouse."
Matheson sipped the stew and curled his lip slightly. "The meat is of good quality, but the vegetables are somewhat plebeian."
Dougal ate in silence for a moment, having no quarrel with the quality of the food. "Might I say, we appreciated your permission to work on Guga, and The Commission is grateful for your offer of a donation to the lighthouse fund."
"And so we come to the reason for this meeting."
"I wondered what you wanted of me, sir," Dougal said cautiously.
"I understand that you have come upon hard times with your project, sir, and more particularly with your charming enemy."
"If you mean Lady Strathlin, I cannot attest to her charm, though I have experienced her hard nature."
"I can assure you she is quite winsome."
Dougal frowned, doubtful. "Be that as it may, I know that the lady's advocates are a conniving bunch, whether or not she is part of it."
"Are you aware that she ordered her lawyers to stop you from setting foot on her island or putting up the light at any cost?"
"Ah. Now, that I had not heard in particular."
"What is the current state of your project, sir?"
"As of yesterday," Dougal said, "we've lost more than half our willing contributors. They were informed by Matheson Bank that the Caran lighthouse was a poor investment, destined to cost twice its estimate and destined to fail due to impossible conditions and faulty engineering."
"Ah, yes. I believe they were informed that if the Stevensons had supervised it, rather than entrusting the project to Dougal Stewart, this would not have been handled so incompetently."
Dougal fisted a hand and knocked the table in angry but controlled frustration. "I have personally visited as many contributors as I could. Previously they had no quarrel with me, but they are unaccountably distrustful of me now. I am baffled."
"The bank said their funds would not be dispersed to you on suspicion of fraudulence. The lawyers claim that you plan to abscond with the funds and make off for the Continent."
"What!" Dougal leaned forward. "That is preposterous. How do you know, sir? Were you approached, as well? Are we meeting now," he asked suspiciously, "so that you can withdraw your offer?"
"I am a member of the bank board, which is how I know their dastardly scheme," Matheson said. "And you and I are meeting so that I may double my offer to you."
"Double it? That's exceedingly generous. But why do this?"
Sir Frederick leaned forward. "Because, sir, I am one of the few who wants you to build that lighthouse there."
"Lady Strathlin wants the island kept private. That is the crux of the problem. Are you willing to join that dispute?"
"Given time, I can end this dispute," Matheson answered bluntly. "The baroness will not prevail, nor will that island be private for long. Someday I will be making the decisions about Caransay, I assure you. Such a spectacularly lovely place could be an excellent resort to suit the very wealthy. Besides, Lady Strathlin has no need for a private island. She has too much freedom there," he added darkly.
Dougal sat back. "You own the Isle of Guga, adjacent to Caransay. Have you discussed your thoughts with Lady Strathlin?"
Matheson waved a hand. "Guga! That damned rock is useful only for birds and seals and for quarrying. I bought the lease because of its single virtue." Matheson sipped, then wiped his mouth again fastidiously. "It is nearest to Caransay."
"Why is that significant?"
"Lady Strathlin and I have property in common," Matheson said. "And affection in common, as well. We have become... very close. When she holidays on her island, she pines for the company of friends. Her island is a pretty place, but it is essentially a fishing village now, and she is accustomed to a sophisticated existence. It will take time to convince her, but I will."
The sleek confidence in the man's voice made Dougal wary. "Lady Strathlin apparently values the simple lifestyle of Caransay. She acts the recluse when she is there,
and allows no one to interrupt her peace... not even to allow a lighthouse that would save hundreds of lives," he muttered.
Matheson chuckled. "I suppose she seems the hermit to those who do not know her well. The lady prefers my company, though." He lifted a hand in a modesty that smacked of falseness. "She could not bear for us to be separated while she was on Caransay, so I indulged her for the day. What fools these mortals be, eh?"
"Indeed," Dougal murmured, convinced that Matheson was ten times a fool. There was something cunning about the man. He could not imagine that Matheson cared so very much about setting up a resort for the wealthy on Caransay. He suspected something else but could not discern what it might be.
"Did you say you have not yet met the lady?" Matheson asked.
"Never formally. I saw her on Caransay, but only at a distance. It was not a moment to introduce myself, and she proved an elusive creature otherwise."
"Let me assure you that she is delectable and charming."
"Ah." Remembering the portly woman bobbing in the water like a seal, he frowned. Matheson had the focus of affection, he told himself. Perhaps the lady was lovely in the face and charming to friends. But she used her influence to strike hard at supposed enemies like himself.
"Lady Strathlin has a refreshing character," Matheson went on, "with a certain... coyness that is intriguing to a man of a hearty masculine appetite. I am sure you take my meaning, sir." He smiled, lifted his beer glass in salute, and drank.
You are a pig, sir, and most certainly a fortune hunter, Dougal thought. Although Matheson seemed at first to be a well-bred gentleman, Dougal was fast realizing that he was smug, self-centered, and quite possibly dangerous.
Some instinct told him not to trust the man's generous offer of help with the lighthouse. He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.
"There is no question that Lady Strathlin has all the wealth and status a man could possibly desire in a woman," he said.
Something flashed in Matheson's dark eyes. "Do you take me for a Don Juan, sir? I give no thought to her wealth. Her kind heart and beauty are what matter to me. She is my goddess. I worship her, even when she goes around like a barefoot fishwife."
Dougal blinked. "Barefoot?"
"She adopts their quaint style when on holiday," Matheson said. He raised his glass and drank, then wiped his lips. "Surprising you never met her, sir. She moves about quite freely on the island, and everyone knows her there. She is quite the little naturalist, as well."
"She managed to avoid me, but then, we are not fond of each other." Dougal pushed his bowl of stew, half finished, away.
"It is possible she finds your contest of wills disturbing to her delicate sensibilities. That may explain why she turned over your argument to her advocates."
"Perhaps. I bow to your greater appreciation of the lady."
"I will speak to her on your behalf. As I said, I have an interest in putting the lighthouse through. When we are married, I hope to have a better influence with her. She can be quite stubborn in a delightful way."
Dougal frowned. "Married?"
"It is premature of me to speak openly, but a happy heart loosens the tongue. I have asked the lady to marry me, and her coquetry gives me hope that she means to accept."
Dougal stared at him. "Her coquetry... Sir, forgive my confusion. We are speaking of Lady Strathlin, of Strathlin Castle and Charlotte Square in Edinburgh?" A lady fond of swimming in large hats, fond of her privacy, and very fond of sinking lighthouse engineers, he felt tempted to add.
"Yes. Margaret—Lady Strathlin." Matheson nodded. "I would accept your congratulations now, but it is more seemly to wait until my darling makes the announcement herself. Therefore, I must ask you to say nothing of this to anyone."
Dougal felt a cold sensation seeping through him. Beautiful. Charming. Winsome. A naturalist. Barefoot. "Margaret... Lady Strathlin," he repeated softly.
"On the island she goes by Meg MacNeill. Perhaps you have met her by that name?"
Dear God. He had been a supreme fool.
* * *
Dreary rain and the voluminous folds of a dark blue cloak wrapped Meg in shadows inside the hired coach as it rolled through the streets of Edinburgh. Swaying with the vehicle and listening to the steady clop of horse hooves, she glanced at Angela Shaw, seated across from her. Then she peered again through the window at the rain-washed street.
"The driver is slowing," Angela said. "We are nearly there. Oh dear, was a hired coach truly necessary? If we should be seen this way, your reputation would be ruined, madam. And I'm just not certain this is safe."
"I'm here to protect you, ladies," Guy Hamilton said. He sat in the shadows across from Meg and beside Angela, one booted foot propped on his knee. His expression was grim and dubious, but he had agreed to accompany them—had insisted on it when he had accidentally discovered Meg and Angela trying to slip away from the Charlotte Square address for an evening rendezvous.
"One of my own carriages might be recognized," Meg said. "And I simply must speak with Dougal in private."
"Dougal, is it? So you do hold some affection for him. My intuition told me so," Angela said. "I saw it in your eyes, in your wistful expression and your blush whenever he was mentioned. Obviously something wonderful happened on the Isle of Caransay," she added in a soft murmur, her eyes sparkling.
Meg looked out at the glinting rain. "Yes—wonderful, but unexpected. And I have made a thorough mess of it. I want to try to fix it now, if it can be fixed at all."
"Dougal Stewart?" Guy muttered. "It's incredible, really."
"Meg, I hoped such a blessing would come into your life someday," Angela said. "Does Mr. Stewart return your affection?"
"He returned it to Meg MacNeill, but... I am not certain that he will share it with Lady Strathlin."
"If it is true love, your name and fortune will make no difference," Angela said. "Love finds a way, so it is said."
"In this case," Guy said, "love's way may be littered with lawyers and bankers. It is indeed a thorough mess. The man has a great deal of pride, my lady. It will take more than a simple explanation to win his affection after he learns the truth."
"I do wish we'd left you at home," Angela said.
"You cannot do without me, dear Mrs. Shaw," he quipped.
"I have to confess the truth to him," Meg said. "I have to. I cannot live with this any longer. It was never my choice for it to continue like this and become so very complicated." She felt dizzy, staring into the darkness and rain, as if she poised on the brink of a cliff. She gripped the leather loop on the door.
"You surely must tell him in private, before he comes to the soiree and learns it in public," Guy agreed.
"I fear Sir Frederick may have already told him," Meg said.
"Matheson knows that Stewart thinks you are no more than a girl of the Isles?" Guy said.
Meg shrugged, for she was not sure.
"In all fairness, she is a girl of the Isles," Angela pointed out. "We should not forget that. Meg never truly lied to Mr. Stewart. She simply... omitted a few details."
"Thank you, Angela," Meg said.
Guy huffed. "I doubt Stewart will see it that way. What does Matheson know about all this?" he asked curtly.
"I wish I knew. He visited me on Caransay, and he saw that I wanted to be simply Meg MacNeill there. He could easily find out that Mr. Stewart never realized my identity. Sir Frederick might have told him already. They were to have a meeting today."
"Matheson will be too busy puffing his own feathers to waste time talking about anyone else," Guy remarked. "I wouldn't worry."
"I do worry. Guy, Angel, I must tell you. Everyone will know, sooner or later. I have... decided to marry Sir Frederick."
The silence, immediate and profound, did not last. "You what!" Guy exclaimed, while Angela gasped.
"I must. It's best for all concerned, I think."
"Best! It's plain foolish," Guy growled from the shadows.
"Why do this, dea
r? I do not understand," Angela said. "He was once a friend and supporter to you. I know that. But over time he has revealed himself to be a rather unsavory man. You cannot abide him. How can you accept him as a husband?"
"Because," Meg said, looking at Angela in the darkness. She could feel her heart pounding. "He knows about Iain."
"Oh, my God," Angela murmured.
"Who?" Guy asked.
"I will explain later," Meg said. Angela and Mrs. Berry, her closest confidantes, knew about Iain's existence, but Guy had never guessed. Now, for some reason, she felt ready to let Guy learn about it. She wanted to confide in her friends about Sir Frederick's evil threats, but she could not bring herself to explain Iain's existence to Guy directly. She leaned to look out the window. "We are nearly there."
"Who is Iain?" Guy asked. Angela waved her hand to hush him.
The coach slowed to a stop. "Calton Hill," the driver called. "Number Thirty-nine Calton Hill."
Meg felt the lurch as the driver climbed down. She looked at Angela and Guy. "Wait here. I will not be long. Once I tell Mr. Stewart the truth, he will not wish me to linger."
Angela reached out to squeeze Meg's gloved hand. "Courage," she whispered.
Glancing at her friend, Meg drew up the hood of her cloak and shifted to stand as the driver opened the door. Guy stepped out first, offering his hand in assistance to her.
"Tell me what is going on," he murmured.
"Angela will tell you. Go back and stay with her. Tell her that I want her to explain it all to you."
He nodded and walked her toward a stately stone house surrounded by an iron fence. Light warmed the wide bay windows of the first and second levels of the house. "Let me go in with you," Guy said. "Let me help you in this."
"I must do this myself. Go back to Angela. Do not leave her alone in the coach. Stay with her. Stay with her always, Guy," she added fervently.
"I intend to, if she will have me," he murmured.
"She will," she said. "Love finds a way. Even when hearts have been bitterly broken, they can heal."
He gazed down at her, then tipped his hat. "Sound advice, my lady," he said. He opened the gate for her and turned, leaving her standing in the darkness and mist.