by Julia London
Catriona stopped mid-stride, her breath in her throat. She was staring at Hamlin on the stoop of that house. Her mind couldn’t make sense of it. She couldn’t imagine what he was doing there, of all places. If he was in Edinburgh, why had he not told her? Why was he at this house, and not a grander one on the Canongate? Why was he in Edinburgh at all, particularly knowing she was coming here? She took a step forward, intending to call out, to wave, but before she could, a woman stepped out onto the stoop, too, and this time Catriona’s heart stopped.
She knew that woman. Her portrait had hung in the salon at Blackthorn Hall until recently. Her ginger hair looked almost faded in the morning light, and even her gown seemed to wilt around her. But there was no mistaking Lady Montrose.
Catriona’s heart sank to her toes. Her gut began to churn, turning over on itself to the point she feared she might be ill. Her face burned with shame and humiliation and fury. She wanted to crawl into a corner and hide, but she was standing on the street. She didn’t know what to do, which way to go. She couldn’t head toward Edinburgh Castle without passing him and his wife, who was not gone, thank you, but very here, in the flesh. So she whirled around and began racing blindly down the street, nearly colliding with a woman carrying a basket, who shouted at her.
It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. He’d said she was gone. Gone. What had she thought gone meant? Dead? Out of his reach? Diah, was she his wife yet? Had Catriona’s unpardonable sin been made unpardonably worse with adultery? What had he done, cast his wife out? Had he put a duchess in that small, mean house? And if she was as alive as this, why hadn’t he denied the rumors about her death?
Everything was spinning in her head and gut, but the worst of it was the wrenching pain in her heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
HAMLIN RETURNED TO Blackthorn Hall in a mood that was not as black as when he’d left, but one that would brook no questions. That turned out to be impossible, however, as Nichol Bain was waiting for him. Hamlin could see him pacing in the foyer as he came off his horse and removed his bag from the back of the saddle. He came to attention when Hamlin entered the foyer and handed his things to Stuart. “Welcome back, your grace,” he said evenly.
“Bain.” He looked at Stuart. “Bring a bucket of ale to my study, aye? As big a bucket as you might find, then. Fill it to the bloody top.”
“Aye, your grace,” the unflappable Stuart responded.
Hamlin turned toward his study. Bain followed behind him without invitation. That was the sort of man Bain was—he came whether he was wanted or not. That was the sort of man Hamlin had knowingly employed, and he’d had no regrets until this moment.
In the study, he collapsed into his chair behind his desk with a weary sigh. Bain stood, anxiously waiting. When Hamlin didn’t offer him anything, he sighed. “Will you make me beg for your news, then?”
“I find it remarkable how freely you speak with a duke,” Hamlin snapped irritably.
Bain didn’t blink as much as an eyelash. He steadily returned Hamlin’s gaze, waiting.
“Verra well. I found her, I did.”
“And?”
“And...her lover has left her, and she is desperate. She means to hold me hostage with her threats, but I have turned the tables on her, that I have, sir. I invited her to say what she likes—I donna care.”
Bain seemed frozen for several moments. Then he looked wildly about the room, as if searching for his response. Or perhaps something with which to club Hamlin. “We must contain this,” he blurted. “The seat—”
“Mr. Bain, if you’ve no’ yet understood me, let me speak plainly—I donna give a bloody damn about the seat if it means being held hostage by that woman.”
A knock at the door ended the conversation as far as Hamlin was concerned—Stuart entered with a pitcher of ale and two mugs. He poured Hamlin a mug, then glanced at Bain, who shook his head.
When Stuart had gone out, Bain planted his hands on the desk and leaned across it. “I understand your ire, your grace, God knows that I do. But we’ve worked so hard for this.”
“It was no’ meant to be, apparently,” Hamlin said, and lifted the tankard, drinking deeply.
“Do I have your leave to...to repair this situation?”
Hamlin scoffed. “What can you possibly do about it, lad?” He drained the tankard, and when he had finished, he drew his sleeve across his mouth. He slid the empty tankard across his desk and nodded at Bain to refill it. “You’re fortunate, that you are, Mr. Bain, do you know it? You’re no’ bound to marry and produce an heir in the name of a dukedom. Your freedom is quite real and quite your own. You may seek your happiness wherever you find it and rejoice in it. I must wear this bloody mantle.”
“It may appear so, your grace, but we all have our crosses to bear, aye? Have I your leave?” he stubbornly insisted.
Hamlin waved a hand at him. “Do what you like, then. But on my honor, I will no’ pay her to leave me be.”
“You will lose the seat,” Bain said flatly. “After the work you’ve done, you will lose it.”
Hamlin shrugged. “As I said, so be it.”
“This can be remedied,” Bain said.
“If it amuses you to remedy it, then by all means, remedy it,” Hamlin said curtly.
“Montrose!”
Eula raced through the door and to his desk.
Hamlin grinned. He stood up and caught her before she crashed into him, holding her tightly to him.
“You’re hugging me,” she said, laughing. “You never hug me!”
“That’s because you’re rarely far from my side, are you? I’ve missed you, Eula.”
“Guess what? My gowns are almost finished. Do you want to see my painting of a teapot? Mr. Kenworth says I am verra talented.”
He smiled and kissed her cheek before putting her on her feet. “Perhaps after supper, aye? Go now, finish your lessons, and you may tell me all about your painting then.”
“All right,” she said. She kissed his cheek in return. It surprised Hamlin, for he was not the only one who suffered from an inability to show affection. She skipped out, pausing to poke Bain in the belly. Generally, Bain smiled at her or rolled his eyes. But today, he hardly seemed to notice her. His gaze was fixed on Hamlin.
It was for Eula’s sake that Hamlin had felt such a surge of red fury when the bumbling messenger had arrived at Blackthorn Hall with Glenna’s message of extortion. What had Glenna paid that fool to deliver her threat? Hamlin had demanded to know where Glenna was, but the man claimed not to recall. Hamlin had left for Edinburgh that very afternoon, seething with indignation.
Neither did his solicitor know precisely where Glenna lived. But Hamlin had his own ways, his own men, and he’d found the lying wench. She was living in a house much smaller than any house she’d ever lived in, but Glenna was haughty. She liked it there, she’d said.
He had asked Glenna, in the midst of their heated argument, how she could be so callous when it came to the lass. “She is your cousin’s daughter, your only living relative,” he’d said. “How can you turn your back on her?”
“I hardly knew my cousin, much less her bairn,” Glenna had said haughtily. “And besides, the lass is well cared for at Blackthorn Hall, better than I could care for her. It’s hardly fair, really—I’m the one with no one to look after me.”
He’d found the sheer depth of her selfishness breathtaking. Glenna was not a well woman—she was lacking any sort of compassion for anyone but herself.
“What do you want?” he’d asked her, curious as to how far she would go to torment him.
“Five thousand pounds,” she’d said without a moment’s hesitation.
Her audacity was staggering. “No,” he’d said flatly.
“Five thousand pounds and I’ll leave you be, Hamlin. Is that no’ what you want?”
“A
ye, it is what I want,” he’d agreed. “God save me, I want it more than I could possibly convey to you. But I know you’ll no’ end it there, Glenna. You’ll come round again, just like a rat. But know this—you’ll no’ intimidate me with your demands.” He’d quit the room, disgusted, uncertain of why he’d come at all, of what he thought he might have possibly accomplished in appealing to the worst sort of person.
But Glenna was a desperate woman and had rushed after him, onto the stoop. “You will regret this, Hamlin. Everyone will know you’re a cuckold, they will! You’ll lose your precious seat in the House of Lords and no one will care! No one!”
“Do what you please, madam,” he’d said coolly. “I donna give a damn.”
“I’ll come to the vote,” she’d threatened him. “I’ll make sure that everyone knows the sort of man you really are!”
He’d tipped his hat to her. “Farewell, Glenna.” He’d started down the steps, away from her.
“I hate you,” she’d said to his back.
Hamlin had actually laughed at that remark. There was one thing, and one thing only, that he understood about Glenna, and it was that she hated him.
He’d returned to his townhouse in Edinburgh and had stormed around his study with great agitation. That agitation had given way to drink, and he’d gotten pissed that night, allowing himself to wallow in pity. But the next morning, he’d risen as himself once more. He was resigned to the fact that he would not have his seat in the House of Lords. It was a blow to his heart—there were many things he’d hoped to accomplish, that would have given his life true purpose.
Once he realized there was no way to salvage his reputation if she were to come forward, he didn’t bloody well care what Glenna did.
But Bain cared. He rode out that evening with some vague vow to return with a solution at hand.
That evening, Hamlin was pleased to dine with Eula and realized how her girlish chatter was a salve to the old wound Glenna had opened again. He watched the lass as she told him her news with great animation and wondered how he’d ever thought her a burden. He was glad he’d never located a distant relative to take her. He was thankful that he’d had her to share the last awful year of his life.
“Mr. Kenworth says I’m verra talented,” she said, as if it were fact and not the least bit boastful.
“I donna doubt it.”
“Do you like my gown, then?” she said, and held her arms out on either side of her, as if he could appreciate her gown in spite of her being seated behind a table.
“Aye, it is beautiful, Eula. You are beautiful.”
She nodded, apparently pleased with that, and picked up her fork again. “I think I shall be an artist and no’ an archer.”
“The world will rejoice.”
She smiled at his quip. “Aubin says if I want to shoot arrows, he’ll take me far from man or beast.”
“A wise man.”
“Do you think Miss Mackenzie will mind, then, if I donna take up the archer’s bow?”
“I think she’ll be pleased with your decision to be an artist, that’s what,” he said. “You must ask her next time she comes round, aye?”
“Aye. But she’ll no’ come for a time. She’s gone to Edinburra.”
Bloody hell, he’d forgotten it—he was struck with a pang of conscience that he’d not sent word to her about his absence. She was surely wondering what had become of him these last four days. But the attempt at blackmail had filled him with such blind rage he’d not thought everything through.
“Where did you go, your grace?” Eula asked.
Hamlin shifted his gaze to her. “It doesna matter,” he said simply.
She looked at her plate. “I should like to see Edinburra one day. My cousin promised to take me there.”
“Did she?” Hamlin asked curiously. “When did she promise it?”
Eula looked at her plate. “She promised before she left. She said she would have a new house there, and when she was settled, I should come and live with her and her friend.”
This news astounded Hamlin, and he stared at Eula in disbelief. “Why have you no’ said this to me before?”
Eula shrugged and pushed her potatoes around her plate. “I didna remember it.”
Didn’t remember it, indeed. He watched her moving her potatoes around her plate, rolling them from one side to the other.
“Eula? Why did you no’ tell me that she’d made you this important promise?”
Eula glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “I was afraid.”
“Of your cousin?” he asked, not understanding her.
“No’ of her. Of you.”
He blanched. He reached for her chin, forcing her to look at him. She had never shown him the slightest hesitation, or the slightest fear of him. “You were afraid of me?”
“I was afraid you’d make me go to her and her friend,” she said softly.
Something warm sluiced through his veins. “Eula, lass.” He took her hand in his, squeezing it. “You’re here at Blackthorn Hall, with me, aye? And here you shall remain.”
She gave him a look of unusual cynicism. “Always?”
“Always. Do you understand, then? No one can take you from me.”
She slowly smiled. She sat up straighter. “May we invite Miss Mackenzie to tea when she returns from Edinburra?”
He let go her hand. “We may. I’ll ask Stuart to discover when she will return and send an invitation round.”
Eula picked up her fork and speared a potato, her appetite suddenly returned.
Everyone had secrets, it seemed. He wondered what all the lass had seen, what had made her fear being sent to Glenna. He resented Glenna all the more for it. Eula was her blood. How could she be so callous in her affection for a child?
* * *
TWO DAYS LATER, Stuart informed the duke that Norwood and his niece had indeed returned to Dungotty the previous day. An invitation to tea was dispatched, inviting Miss Mackenzie to join Miss Guinne for tea at Blackthorn Hall the following afternoon. The reply was swiftly relayed back to him in the flowing, blotted script he’d come to recognize as Catriona’s. Please thank Miss Guinne for her kind offer, but alas, I am far too occupied with the preparation for my return to Balhaire and cannot possibly attend. CM
Not only was the note quite distant and cold, the words return to Balhaire startled him.
Hamlin rode out that very afternoon for Dungotty. When he arrived, the butler informed him, “His Lordship has ventured into Crieff on this fine afternoon, your grace. He is not expected to return before the supper hour.”
“Then I’ll have a word with Miss Mackenzie, aye?” he’d said.
The butler had seemed a bit uncertain about that but had taken his hat and gloves, had shown him to a small salon and had gone to fetch the mistress all the same.
Hamlin heard her coming down the hall. She was not walking daintily, but in great strides, and at a wee bit of a clip, as if on a march. She shoved the door open and fairly burst into the room. He expected her incandescent smile, a cry of delight. That was not at all how she greeted him.
Hamlin smiled.
Her brows dipped into a dark frown.
“You’re cross,” he said, confused. “I beg your pardon, I should have sent word I’d be away, but a matter had arisen verra quickly—”
“You think I’m cross that you disappeared?” She laughed coldly.
What in blazes was wrong with her? She confounded him. “Aye,” he said. What else could have created such a pique in her as this? And why did she laugh at him with such derision?
“I will grant you it was badly done to go off without so much as a word, aye,” she agreed as her hands found her hips in a manner he did not care for at all. “But I would have forgiven you that.”
“Then...what?” he asked, helplessly casting his a
rms wide. “Do you really mean to return to Balhaire?”
“What if I am? What do you care?”
“I care!” he said, surprised by that. “Catriona, I—”
She suddenly launched across the room and hit him squarely in the chest with the flats of both palms with such force that he took a step backward. He saw it then, the sheen of furious tears in her eyes. He caught her by the arms before she could strike him again. “My God, Catriona, what has made you so cross?”
“I saw you,” she whispered, and squirmed out of his hold.
“Saw me? Saw me where?”
Her eyes were glistening with the sort of fury that he’d only ever known a woman to bear. “She’s no’ gone, Hamlin. She is verra much alive! I saw her, as pretty as a portrait in Edinburra, and I saw you with her!”
It felt like his insides were tumbling down into rubble. How was it possible that Catriona had seen him? “Did you follow me?” he asked incredulously.
“What? How could I have followed you? I didna know you had left!” she said, her voice raised with frustration.
Hamlin glanced at the open door. He moved swiftly to close it, then turned around to face her. “’Tis no’ what you think, Catriona.”
“Ha!” she said. “Is it no’, Hamlin?” she challenged him. “You’ve turned her out! Admit it! You’ve cast her aside as if she were so much rubbish! Why did you no’ tell me? Why have you allowed everyone to believe you murdered her? Why did you allow me to believe—”