He recalled the issue causing the impasse. If she was not fit to stand trial, she’d be sentenced to an asylum for life. A fate worse than death, in Hugh’s opinion. But if Jean Campbell was fit to stand in court, she had no defense. She’d end up hanging. But keeping her locked away, month after month, because of legal squabbling was not advancing her case, either.
Hugh started a new list for his law clerk. Information he needed. Records of testimonies against her. A report that provided information about where she lived in Glasgow, names of her neighbors and family members. Where were her other children?
He thought about the key issue itself, her inability to communicate. How did her family and neighbors communicate with her? By the time he was done with his instructions, he had enough to keep Kane Branson busy in Edinburgh for a few days. The young man was training to be a barrister. Idealistic and eager, he shared Hugh’s passion for defending those who could not defend themselves. He’d do well on this.
Hugh finished by writing a message to Walter Truscott about the dam. He was to hire whomever he needed, including able-bodied Irish workers.
Putting down his pen, he leaned back in his chair and saw the candles had burned down to stumps. Without his help or notice, the sun had already risen and was shining outside. He felt good. The unsettling start of the night had turned to a productive one.
Done, he thought. But now he needed exercise. Something to get his pulse to match the speed of his thoughts. Leaving the instructions on Branson’s desk, he came back into his study to find Jo knocking and entering.
“This is early, even for you,” she said, glancing at the disheveled condition of his dinner clothes. “Oh, I see. Never went to bed last night.”
“I had to right a few wrongs first.”
“Well, I won’t harass you for working too hard if you agree to do me a favor. Though I hate to ask, considering you haven’t slept.”
“Don’t give it another thought.” Jo rarely asked favors. “What is it you need?”
“You and I were to take Grace out after breakfast riding in the deer park.”
Hugh said nothing. Grace had obviously not seen his sister this morning to tell her of his change of plans.
“You gave me the impression that you did want to go,” Jo said, reading his reluctance. “And I think this would be good for her. She appears much happier when she’s outside. Yesterday, I thought she improved tenfold by just taking a walk.”
Last night, he’d forgotten she’d been at death’s door so few days earlier. The image of her sprawled on the rug, books spread around her, flashed in his mind. Once he knew she wasn’t injured, he readily rushed headlong into an enjoyment of her charm, her beauty. Her dress was far from risqué in comparison to many women’s evening wear, but on Grace it became a standard for sensuality. Her bare arms, the deep neckline that gave him a generous view of her perfect breasts. He’d looked into her face and admired the perfect symmetry of it. As before, her eyes and lips fascinated him.
Hugh had enjoyed enough liaisons in the past to recognize when a woman was interested in him. Grace showed him all the signs. Except, he was the one in possession of his past. He knew what was right and wrong. Whatever temptation either was feeling, he needed to act responsibly.
And he’d done so, in spite of the fact that she appealed to him physically. But then he’d seen the strength of her mind. It was astonishing to realize anyone could glean so much from only one reading, and the blunt power of her argument enthralled him.
“Please tell me I don’t need to disappoint her and postpone the outing.”
Hugh brought his attention back to his sister. “What are you doing this morning?”
“A note just arrived from Lady Nithsdale. She’s planning on paying me a visit this morning.”
“Oh well, the world must change its orbit if Lady Nithsdale is coming to call.”
“You know it’s the truth,” Jo said, smiling. “She’s bringing her friend and houseguest, Mrs. Douglas, with her. Don’t you remember her telling us about it last week?”
Hugh didn’t remember. He paid no more attention to that woman’s endless chatter about social engagements than he paid to her husband’s rambling boasts about his prowess as a sportsman. He only tolerated the two of them because they were neighbors.
“If this were only a social call, I would not be troubled by it.”
“Why is she coming?”
“Her note makes me believe she knows about Grace.”
“How could that be?”
“She could have heard it from Dr. Namby’s wife. She and Lady Nithsdale are confidantes.”
Too many people passed through Baronsford. There were few things that remained secret, and the news of Grace was too extraordinary to expect anyone to keep it to themselves.
“I need to receive them. And I don’t want Grace here.”
“No sense throwing her unprotected into a den of vipers,” he agreed.
She motioned to the door. “Which means you barely have enough time to change and have breakfast before meeting our lovely guest outside.”
“You’re assuming that I am going.”
“I saw the way you were looking at Grace yesterday.” Jo’s eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief. “You’re definitely going.”
“Only as a favor to you.”
Hugh knew his sister saw through the lie by the look she gave him.
“But you might want to keep in mind that, any day now, we could have a husband showing up at Baronsford to claim her.”
* * *
It wasn’t for fear of losing the Pennington family’s protection that Grace tossed restlessly in her bed for much of the night. It was because of her own imprudence in speaking out when she’d hardly been provoked.
She could have let the viscount’s opinions on James Macpherson drop unchallenged. The writer was dead and buried; he needed no protecting. She shouldn’t have allowed herself to be riled. Who was she to lecture him on justice in this country? She was an accidental trespasser in these people’s lives. A former member of the French emperor’s court. An enemy. How Hugh Pennington dispensed the law, equitably or not, should not have mattered to her at all. She’d given him the credit he deserved, but she had no right to be so critical.
Guilt’s sharp-edged teeth continued to rip away at her. Considering all the good he did and continued to do, the charges she leveled at him were unfair. She’d been petty in striking out at him. Her passionate nature had once again run away with her. With all the good things she’d inherited from her father, she’d also been cursed with his temper.
As she descended the steps to the door, her thoughts turned to the diamond that sat in Baronsford’s iron chest. The jewel had brought violence and sorrow to her door. She had no possible use for it, either. She couldn’t even use it to secure a passage out of Scotland without bringing far too much unwanted attention on herself.
She’d be content never to see it again. Joseph Bonaparte had with him in America a fortune in jewels like this one. In sewing that diamond into her dress, they had lied to Grace and used her. Far worse, her father was dead because of it. It didn’t matter to her if the diamond was a gift from Joseph to his wife. If she were ever fortunate enough to make it to Brussels, she’d tell the Bonapartes it had been left behind with her dress. Lost. Gone forever.
Stepping outside, she breathed in the fresh morning air and shrugged off her troubles. Grace would have liked nothing better than to walk away from Baronsford today, but she had to bide her time and do it in a way that would allow her to reach the Continent. This ride would give her a clearer understanding of the countryside, and that would help her to escape when the time came.
She was too early for her ride with Jo, so she walked around the corner of the house and up a slight incline to where the gardens lay glistening in the morning sun.
Wandering along the green paths between bordered beds filled with flowers, Grace breathed the scent of thyme and peonies. In one large sec
tion, the rosebuds on dozens of plants were getting ready to open, and a sundial gleamed at the center. Two gardeners were busy digging in a far corner, where spring cutting flowers of every hue were in bloom. In a protected corner, she found a section of azaleas ablaze with red and pink flowers.
Slowly, she retraced her steps. She was to meet Jo by the stables at nine, and she was still early. Walking down the path, she passed the carriage barn and remembered the basket inside. She was alive, she told herself. She’d survived. Now it was time to take control of her future.
Grace thought about the viscount, wondering if he’d told his sister that he wasn’t riding with them. She blushed to think he might have already told Jo about the lecture he’d received from the ungrateful woman they snatched from death’s door.
In the yard across from the stables, a blacksmith was shoeing a huge Irish draught horse. He was a beautiful horse, chestnut-colored with a white blaze and half stockings. The smith came around the animal and tipped his cap to her, and she smiled back. This had to be the new man Anna told her about.
As she watched him work, a groom came out of the stables leading a small gray. Exchanging pleasantries with the man, she stepped toward the pretty mare. The mount turned her head to Grace, and her ears pricked forward alertly.
“She’s a lazy old girl, mistress,” the groom said. “But she likes the exercise, and she’s kindly enough with a body who don’t know riding.”
Grace held out her palm and waited until the mare stretched down to smell it. She was not new to horses or riding. As the only daughter of a cavalry officer, she’d learned to ride at a young age and was an able rider. She glanced dubiously at the sidesaddle on the horse. Death traps, Daniel Ware used to call them. He would never allow her to ride one. She always rode cross saddle.
For what she wanted today, Grace decided it made no difference. This was her first opportunity to travel any distance from the castle. She was hoping she could convince Jo to forget about taking her to the loch, and instead perhaps ride to Melrose Village.
“Would ye care to give her a treat?”
She accepted a chunk of an apple from the groom. The mare took it from her palm and turned her soft brown eyes toward Grace. Whispering sweet nothings, she nuzzled her cheek against the horse’s neck. She missed this smell. The bond that existed between horse and human was unique. Her fingers combed through the coarse mane. She’d had horses to ride her entire life, but never one of her own. They were always moving on to another palace or army encampment, and when she had to part with a horse she’d grown fond of, she’d left a piece of her heart behind.
“I’m thinking ye are a natural, mistress. Ye must be a rider.” The groom’s voice jerked Grace out of her daydream. “But I’m thinking she might be too tame for ye.”
Before she could reply, another groom led a majestic black stallion out into the yard.
“If you’ve a mind, I’ll take her back in and bring you another more likely mount. Ye’ll be wanting to keep up with his lordship’s stallion.”
She stepped back. “There must be some mistake. I am riding with—”
“Good idea, lad,” came the deep voice from behind her. “Change the mistress’s horse and be smart about it.”
“Right away, m’lord.”
The sound of Hugh’s voice lit a flame of embarrassment deep inside her. Grace watched the groom lead the mare away, and she was left staring at the restless stallion. She’d watched the viscount ride the beast up from the meadow the first day she was well enough to look out the window.
He was standing too close. The sharp words she’d spoken last night, the cold glare he’d directed at her as he’d walked out of the library were lying heavy on her.
“M’lord,” she said as she turned and curtsied.
“Miss Grace.” He doffed his wide-brimmed hat and bowed.
A knot was quickly forming in her belly, but Grace forced herself to look into his face.
His eyes were tired, but they showed none of the resentment she’d seen last night.
They studied each other in silence for a long, ponderous moment. She felt awkward at his scrutiny of her gray riding habit and feathered hat. All of it a gift from the Penningtons. And Grace was wearing them the morning after insulting the master of the house.
“I was expecting Lady Jo.”
“My sister sends her regrets. She had some last-minute visitors coming. She asked me to pass on her apologies to you. I’m here as her replacement.”
She looked in the direction the groom had disappeared.
“I don’t want to inconvenience you, m’lord. I’ll take a walk toward the river. I know the way now. You needn’t bother.”
“This is no bother.”
“No, we mustn’t go. Surely, there’s no need for us to go riding this—”
“We are going. It’s settled,” he said, glancing at the horse that was being led out of the stables.
The entire situation was awkward, to say the least. She couldn’t refuse him, however, without delivering another insult. And she did want to go. The apology she’d practiced during the night started rolling off her tongue. “Then before we start out, I need to retract the wor—”
“Not now,” he commanded. “We’ll have time to discuss that later.”
Chapter 12
Loud to the point of bombastic. Pushy and intolerant. And not least of all, a highly accomplished gossip.
Jo’s caller had never encountered a topic on any subject that she didn’t have an opinion. Lady Nithsdale was a woman who believed—with a fervor that the most devoted religious zealot would envy—that it was her heavenly ordained duty to learn everyone’s business and interfere with it as much as she possibly could. And if she could ruin a reputation or run down something of value, all the better.
Jo was not looking forward to this visit, but she would try to bear it with stoic civility, as always.
Lady Nithsdale considered herself a Londoner, and only deigned to leave it when the fashionable crowd had deserted its clubs and salons and theatres and pleasure gardens. The only exception she made was for a month in Bath and a trip to the Borders in May and June. She would never dream of missing the ball at Baronsford. The crowd that attended included many of the ton’s most elite echelon, and she could sail about amongst them as if she herself were hostess of the festivities.
Jo spent very little time in London and divided the rest of the year between Scotland and Hertfordshire. Happily, there was only a short period when both of them were here. And that was a blessing. Jo saw it as her responsibility to keep relations between Baronsford and its surrounding neighbors cordial, and she’d been reasonably successful in that effort for years now. And with most of their guests, she enjoyed the quiet pleasantries of country dinners and morning calling hours.
Lady Nithsdale, however, was a challenge. And Jo feared today would be far worse than usual.
The callers arrived earlier than expected and were situated in the drawing room. As she descended the winding staircase, Jo paused and took a deep breath to ease the tension in her shoulders.
Receiving Lady Nithsdale was bad enough, but she was bringing her houseguest. As much as Jo tried to overcome her apprehension, she never found it easy meeting new people. She knew Mrs. Mariah Douglas only by reputation. The widow of a former Cabinet minister, the woman now traveled from drawing room to drawing room, commentator of the style and fashion, an arbitrator of haute couture, a modiste of the highest order, but one whose fingers would never be sullied by the banality of the shop. From what Jo had heard, she traveled mainly in the rarified air inhabited by the Prince Regent and his royal entourage, and the duchesses and marchionesses and countesses under her wing would never pick out a dress style without her expressed approval. Why she was in Scotland during the Season was a mystery.
Nonetheless, Jo could think of little to say to this woman. She wasn’t particularly interested in the latest changes in style. She didn’t bother to update her wardrobe with
every tick of the fashion clock. With the exception of the balls at Baronsford in June and at Christmas, Jo rarely attended parties or assemblies. Her enthusiasm for such occasions had been crushed long ago. During the same time, she had come to terms with the fact that the life she now led had little room for women such as Mariah Douglas.
The loud bark of laughter from Lady Nithsdale made Jo pause and grip the polished railing. Some things could never be forgotten. She’d never told Hugh. She’d never told her parents or any of her other siblings. Fifteen years ago, Lady Nithsdale had been a leading voice in the chorus of gossips who contributed to the destruction of her happiness. The frenzy of rumor and falsehood that polluted the drawing rooms of their acquaintances had been directly responsible for Wynne Melfort withdrawing his offer and putting an abrupt end to their engagement.
Jo set her jaw and started down. She couldn’t change her life. She couldn’t blame spectators and gossips for the uncertainties of her origin. It was true that she was adopted at birth, and she grew up surrounded by the love and fortune of the Pennington family. At the time of her engagement, her parents had endowed her with a sizable dowry. But for all that Jo offered, she still wasn’t good enough for the Melforts once the avalanche of conjecture and vile innuendo began.
When she entered the room, her intention of maintaining an air of cool formality was immediately dashed. Lady Nithsdale leaped from her chair with agility belying her age and weight. In a false show of intimacy, she placed a kiss on each of Jo’s cheeks. Clearly, to the world, they were the closest of friends.
“Here you are, dearest. The very angel of empathy. The kindest of souls.” She pulled Jo toward the small table and chairs as if she were welcoming a guest. “I want you to meet my dearest friend, Mrs. Mariah Douglas.”
From the hat to the walking dress to the accessories, Mrs. Douglas was an impeccable advertisement of her vocation. But the woman’s arched brow and the shadow of a smile at the corners of the rose-painted lips landed like a punch to Jo’s stomach. Lady Nithsdale had no doubt shared Jo’s personal history at length, for she was now being appraised as if she were a street dog begging at a kitchen door.
Romancing the Scot (The Pennington Family) Page 10