by Arnette Lamb
Examining the tines, she continued, “Henry’s solicitor sent a man first to Tain and then to Kinbairn Castle, the duke’s estate in the western Highlands. His grace is nowhere about.”
“Perhaps he was simply unavailable to the solicitor’s man?”
“No, the man asked all of the important people, even the duke’s adversaries. Lord Lachlan hasn’t been seen in either place in months. He probably has a mistress somewhere, although he certainly keeps her a secret.”
“How long will Henry continue to look for him?”
She gave Michael a smug smile that he did not understand. “As long as it takes, I’m sure. Henry has the matter in hand. We’re not to trouble ourselves over the poor manners of the MacKenzies.”
Michael let the insult pass. For now, he was curious about the source of his mother’s generous mood. “Am I finally to hear your good news, Mother?”
“Certainly.” She paused while the butler set a dish of toasted custard before her. Spoon in hand, she finished with, “It concerns you, Michael.”
She couldn’t possibly have followed through on her promise to find him a wife. Could she?
The food in his stomach instantly turned to rocks.
“Stop frowning, Michael. It’s wonderful news. I met the most interesting young woman in London.”
Fighting a groan, he prayed his suspicions were wrong. “How fortunate for you, Mother. Who is she?”
“Do you know, I cannot recall her name. Lady Anne? No, that’s not it. Hers was Scottish.” She flapped her hand. “Not that her name is that important to what has happened. She saved my purse from a thief.”
Michael relaxed a little. “A noblewoman accosted a street thief on your behalf and you cannot remember her name?”
“Of course she didn’t fetch it herself, and I’m dreadful with names. I’m sure her footman did the recovering. She simply had the good grace to return my purse to me. Oh, Michael, I despair that you’ve been away from home too long. How will you ever make it in society?”
The clock chimed the hour of nine. Time crept to a snail’s pace. Would she never get to the point so he could get back to the Dragoon Inn and admire that portrait of Sarah?
“You must have a long talk with Henry, and don’t be shy about asking him how to behave. Pride goest not before a fall in the House of Elliot.”
“Did my father say that?”
“No. I did. It’s one of the many aspects of culture I brought to this family. I cannot abide poor manners and disorder. Your father knew that and behaved accordingly.”
By taking a residence elsewhere, Michael suspected. On that thought, he reminded himself of his vow to treat his mother kindly, especially since he now doubted she had gone shopping for a wife for him.
She dropped her spoon into the empty custard dish. The butler snatched it up and refilled both of their wineglasses.
“Have you managed to set that MacKenzie woman up in a residence?”
If she knew how much he wanted Sarah MacKenzie, she’d banish him from Glenforth Manor and strip him of his newly bestowed title. But the loss was minor when compared to a life spent without Sarah MacKenzie.
Hiding the delight the subject brought to him, Michael kept his tone casual. “No, not unless you count the orphanage.”
“You needn’t trouble yourself with her any longer, unless you insist in involving yourself in that charity cause.”
Had Henry changed his mind about marrying Sarah at any cost? Pray yes, Michael thought, for she was determined to break the betrothal, and Michael was just as determined to have her for his own. “Why have you lost interest in Sarah MacKenzie?”
“I care nothing for her at all. It’s only that Henry’s solicitor has assured us that the contract prevails in our behalf where the dowry is concerned.”
Wretched misfortune, as Sarah would say. Worse, the news threatened the progress Michael had made with her. His best hope lay in binding her to him before his family wreaked more havoc. But how? He couldn’t rely on friendship; that would take too long. Passion was his best bet, but could he, in good conscience, seduce her? When faced with the prospect of losing her, the answer came easy.
“I’m certain we’ll be able to collect the money.”
Not without the duke of Ross, Michael thought. “Is that what has you so excited?”
She beamed and flipped her napkin onto the table as if pitching coins to the poor. “Certainly not. It was providence, actually. By way of the young lady who retrieved my purse, I was introduced to none other than Vicktor Edelweiss Lucerne.”
From her reticule she produced a printed broadside from a Paris opera house. The text extolled the talents of the young man from Vienna.
“Keep it,” she said. “I have others. We’ll have hundreds made like it, in English, of course.”
Michael tucked the paper into his waistcoat. He had never heard of the man, but from the expression on his mother’s face, this Lucerne was a fellow of some import. “You are pleased at having made his acquaintance?”
She wilted in exasperation. “Oh, Michael. You are too out of the main. You must catch up on what’s important. Vicktor Lucerne is the foremost composer in all of Europe. His friend was impressed when I mentioned Henry. Lady whatever-her-name-is assured me that Lucerne will gladly come to Edinburgh, for a modest sum, and give a concert. It’s to be in July. We shall sell admissions, make pots of money, and in the doing, curry the favor of the king. I expect he will attend.”
King George come to Scotland? An impossibility. For years, George III had publicly voiced his disinterest in Scotland, save the money the Scots put in his treasury. His ambivalence toward his northern subjects was common knowledge, even a world away in India.
Reminding her of it, however, was unseemly just now. Instead, Michael broached her favorite topic. “How will the king’s attendance aid Henry?”
Patiently, she said, “If the king favors us, he cannot side with Richmond. All that talk of stripping Henry of our lands and title will fade like yesterday’s gossip.”
Stripping Henry of the title could hardly be reduced to gossip; an act of Parliament was serious business. “Mother, if Henry would but take the time to apologize to Richmond, he wouldn’t have to worry about censure. The duke will not carry a grudge. I can assure you of that.”
“Henry will not beg the pardon of that gamester, duke or no. I expected more loyalty from you. The man cheated your brother.”
Beyond the reprimand to Michael, her words were dangerous in any company. “Richmond made it plain that he would accept nothing less than an apology from Henry.”
“I know all of that, but the king is an admirer of Lucerne, who will not perform in London. He visits only because Lady so-and-so has a sister who lives there—in one of the better neighborhoods, I’m sure. Come to think of it, she’s quite handsome. She wore a necklace of the most unusual pink jade. She bought it herself in the Orient, where she’d also acquired her maid. Henry’s not to know about the concert until I see the king. Poor Henry’s had one disappointment after another. A surprise will surely cheer him.”
Fearful that she would resort to matchmaking, Michael said, “The lady with the pink necklace and Oriental servant is obviously content with this Lucerne.”
At her blank expression, Michael knew he’d guessed wrongly. “What will you do?”
“Upon my return there, I’ll gain an audience with his majesty and deliver a personal invitation for the entire royal family to attend our musicale. After he accepts, I’ll petition him to intervene with Richmond on Henry’s behalf.”
“What if he refuses?”
“Nonsense, Michael. He will not pass up the chance to see Lucerne.”
Her disdain smothered Michael’s hope of a pleasant evening. He pushed back his chair. “Thank you for a delightful meal, Mother, and if there’s nothing else at this time, I’ll simply wish you good luck in getting the king to Edinburgh and take my leave of you.”
She moved to rise, and the
butler hurried to assist her. “Oh Michael,” she almost purred, “I’ll require more money this time. I cannot attend the king in anything less than the current style. Do you think you can manage?”
Ready to make good his escape, Michael got to his feet and escorted her from the room. “My luck at whist of late is rather good,” he lied. “I’ve a fistful of markers.”
“More than five hundred pounds?” she artlessly asked.
Smiling to keep from cursing, he called for his hat and cloak. “Just about that, Mother.”
“Will you bring it ’round tomorrow?”
All Michael could do was nod for the footman to open the door.
“Oh, Michael,” she called him back. “There is one more thing. Not that it matters in the least to me, but Henry asked that I bring it up with you.”
A sense of foreboding descended on Michael. “What would that be?”
“He is curious as to why you haven’t disclosed your assets, as the law requires of soldiers returning from India.”
Damn Pitt the Younger and his obnoxious India Act. Michael bit his lip to keep from shouting at her that his assets were his own affair. She’d been pleasant for the most part of the evening; now she’d reverted to the conniving, prying woman. He was tempted to buy himself out of one or two ventures and give her the money to free Henry. But that would be tantamount to buying her affection and going against his principles. He would do neither.
But he was caught in a trap of his own setting.
“Don’t look so aggrieved, Michael. Henry only asked a question.”
He chose the safest reply. “I cannot imagine what good that will do, save embarrassing the family more. Better we should let it out that I have amassed a considerable fortune.”
He’d snagged her interest, for she gave him a rare motherly smile. “Have you?”
Her words clanged against his nerves like a temple drum. “On an officer’s pay?” He forced a laugh. “You speak as if I’d achieved command in his majesty’s army, rather than serving the company’s forces.”
A frown revealed her confusion.
Michael rejoiced and bid her good night. As he traced the familiar path to the Dragoon Inn, he couldn’t stave off the rage her question had wrought.
The problem of his majesty’s unfairness stemmed from the complications of having two separate armies in India, each under different leadership. Advancement was slow in the Indian army, the forces under the control of the East India Company. Michael had prospered there, but that was before the arrival of large numbers of the crown’s forces. The latter enjoyed full pay, even after retirement, and their assignments were less hazardous.
Pitt’s disastrous act, passed last year, did not apply to Michael, for he’d cashiered himself out to join the Complement.
Why had Henry broached the subject?
Michael was still pondering the question when he started up the stairs at the inn and almost tripped over William Picardy.
12
Thump.
At the sound of the knock on the door, Sarah stilled her hands on the half-rolled canvas. She glanced at the empty frame and the concealing drape beside it on the floor.
One knock—Michael had returned.
Her feet moved, but her mind went blank with fear. Rolling the canvas into a manageable shape, she raced for the door and threw it open. Notch stood nearby, his gaze fixed on Michael, who was walking up the stairs, a chatting William on his heels.
Michael hadn’t reached the landing, so he still faced away from her. A few more steps and he would grasp the newel post and turn—toward Sarah.
Notch gripped her arm and gave her a push. Her skirt caught in the door, yanking her to a halt. She stifled a whine of anguish.
Frozen in terror, she counted the loud tramping of his boots. Or was it the thumping of her heart? Time slowed to a crawl.
Notch fumbled with the latch. Michael kept walking.
“Ladies’ petticoats!” the lad hissed, then said, “Go.”
Sarah dashed for the exit. Notch closed the door.
“You there!” Michael called out.
Her toes tangled, and she almost tripped.
“Bother the wench, general,” Notch said. “She ain’t nothin’ but a laundry maid. Off with you, girl. Have a nice evening, did you, general? The clockmaker swore we’d have rain, but I see you haven’t a speck on your fine cloak.”
“You’re awfully congenial tonight, Notch. If I heard you correctly, you were discussing ladies’ petticoats with a laundry maid. An interesting subject.”
The resonance in his voice floated around Sarah. Her mouth went dry. She eased her foot forward, sliding slowly to gain the smallest distance from him without drawing attention to her flight.
“Petticoats? Ha! You heard it right, but you got it wrong, general. Ladies’ petticoats is my new swear-by. Ain’t it so, Pic? I swear by ladies’ petticoats at least a score o’ times a day.”
William stuttered an agreement.
Casting his voice toward Sarah, Notch said, “Get on with you, girl.”
Staring straight ahead and praying for divine intervention, she inched closer to the door.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask her to stay, Notch.” The apology in his voice rang hollow. “I’d like to speak to Lady Sarah alone.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. A groan escaped her lips.
“Hear her moanin’? That’s nothin’ but a laundry maid sick to her spine from eatin’ turned-bad bannocks. Off with you, girl.”
“What’s that in your hand, girl?” Michael demanded.
Sarah peered down. The narrower skirt of the servant’s dress did not completely conceal the rolled-up canvas, which was quaking in her unsteady hand.
William fretted. “The ruse is botched.”
“Haud yer wheesht!” Notch hissed.
An obedient William grew silent.
“Gentlemen, you are dismissed.” Each word of Michael’s command dripped authority.
Now serious too, Notch cleared his throat. “We couldn’t be after condonin’ leavin’ you with her unchaperoned, general. ’Twouldn’t be proper.”
Sarah started moving again. If she could just get through that door.
“Sarah? Will you leave your accomplices to answer for your ‘botched ruse’?”
“She ain’t done nothin’.” Notch spoke harshly. “Hurry out that door, my lady. We’ll hold him off here till you’re back at home, safe and sound.”
“Yes, Sarah. By all means, act the coward.”
The toad. She hoped Michael Elliot fell into a ripe bog and stayed there till All Hallow’s Eve.
“Sarah?”
Resigned, she blew out her breath and turned around.
Feet planted, his hands on his hips, Notch bravely faced Michael, whose attention was fully focused on Sarah.
William dawdled at the head of the steps.
Her heart went out to these fearless children. Her eyes locked onto Michael Elliot.
“Notch,” she said. “I’m afraid Lord Michael has a point.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Notch winced in agony. “Sorry, my lady, but he almost run Pic over with his long strides. The lad hadn’t time to give me his signal.”
“You both did your best. Thank you.”
“How could you tell ’twas her?” William asked.
Michael’s consuming gaze mapped Sarah’s form. “I’d know her in a monsoon.”
“What’s a monsoon?” Staring at the end of his nose, William puckered his lips around the foreign word.
Disregarding the satisfaction gleaming in Michael’s eyes, Sarah said, “A monsoon is a seasonal event, characterized by extended torrents of rain, common in India.”
Notch looked from Sarah to Michael. “Meaning you’d know her anywhere, sir?”
“In the darkest cave on the bleakest night.”
The lad was quick to catch the meaning; his young-old eyes took in the adults and the situation. Sarah was certain he would not des
ert her, but did Michael know that?
“You’ve a quarter-hour before the curfew drum sounds.” Michael pointed to the front stairs. “Just enough time to get to the customs house before the magistrate catches you.”
Sarah must find a way to tell Michael that Notch would seek help on her behalf. But how could she without jeopardizing her position?
Finesse was her only option.
Catching Michael’s attention, she slid a meaningful glance at Notch. “Notch is a very bright lad.”
Michael studied her. “Very bright,” he said much too confidently. “Notch has seen many things in his young life.” He glanced pointedly at the canvas. “I doubt he understands them all, and exposing him to adult matters could prove harmful. To a lad of his age, seeing is believing.”
Silent rage stiffened her back. “I understand completely.”
“Well done, Sarah.” He pulled off his gloves and touched Notch’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Notch here dashes down those stairs and summons the magistrate.”
“Don’t think I won’t,” the lad boasted. “Lady Sarah’s suffered her share and more o’ trouble ’cause o’ the Elliots.”
Michael’s reaction was immediate. His eyes narrowed at being grouped with his family. In spite of her situation, Sarah knew she couldn’t allow Notch to judge Michael guilty for the crimes of his kin. She’d learned the folly of that early in her association with him.
“I brought this trouble on myself, Notch,” she admitted. Mary should shoulder the lion’s share of the blame, but she wasn’t here to answer for her part.
Notch stared at his feet. “You cannot be gettin’ out of it by yourself, my lady. The magistrate’ll take your side when you tell him the truth.”
“The truth,” Michael drawled.
“Aye, general. Lady Sarah wanted to surprise you with a new frame for your favorite paintin’. That’s it she’s got in her hand.”
“How thoughtful of you, Sarah dear,” Michael began in his courting swain’s voice. “I’ve also heard the magistrate is a great admirer of biblical art. Have you heard that, too?”
Biblical art. Eve in Eden. Sarah’s scruples fled. He did not deserve fair treatment from her. In his sly way, he was all but promising to parade the nude before any and every man who came to her aid.