A copper key gleamed at the bottom of the vase. Reaching inside quickly revealed her arm wasn’t long enough, so she upended the ancient porcelain. The clatter of the key on marble sounded out like a bullhorn. Charlotte froze.
No one called out. No one came running. With care, she righted the vase and returned the blue-and-white porcelain to its stand. The soft green fabric of her skirt billowing around her, she crouched and gathered the key. After a glance in each direction, which revealed no one, she let herself into the room.
It was a ballroom. Vast, gorgeous, and empty. Here, too, marble gave way to wood, but the floor of the ballroom was a beautiful inlaid pattern culminating in expertly crafted roses at the center, lovely even under a sheen of dust. From the domed ceiling above hung a massive chandelier, dripping crystals and cobwebs. Three of the walls were lined with sheet draped chairs, except where two carriage-sized fireplaces gaped. The fourth was made up of a long row of glass-paned doors, which would permit in light and fresh air in equal abundance.
Charlotte wandered to the center of the room, dazzled by the majesty of the space, even when so neglected. There was an arched doorway, likely leading to the refreshment room. Another, set across from the first, would lead to a plush, more intimate space for ladies to mend their hems, or simply escape the press for a moment. Gentlemen would linger on the terrace without, talking in groups, while eager mamas rested in the chairs, eyes alight with hope each time their daughters were escorted in a dance.
She could picture the room alive with people, music and light. A smile played across her lips. Head tipped back to take in the chandelier, sparkling despite its layer of dust, she turned in a slow circle. The smooth toes of her boots slid across the polished floor with ease. Smile widening into a grin, she threw her arms wide and spun.
“What the bloody blazes are you doing?” a masculine voice growled.
Charlotte let out a startled squeak and skidded to a halt, arms flailing. She dropped her chin. Her gaze collided with gray eyes that burned like coals. Gaining control of her limbs, she wrapped both arms about her. “You scared me,” she gasped out.
“I also asked you a bloody question,” the man growled.
Charlotte cast a quick glance over her shoulder at the relative safety of the corridor without. The man, a kilt-clad, hulking brute with a shock of gray-streaked auburn hair, filled one of the now-open terrace doors. To her horror, she realized several dead weasels hung from his belt.
She took a half-step backward, sure she could gain the ballroom doors before he reached her. Then, the import of the weasels hit her. Why, he was a farmer. One of Lord Edward’s bondsmen. He certainly had no right to speak to her that way. Likely, he ought not even be on the grounds.
She squared her shoulders and dropped her arms to her sides. “I beg your pardon?”
“As well you might,” he muttered. He stepped inside, calling attention to the lengths of shapely and mud-spattered legs protruding from his kilt. “I ask again, lass, what are you doing here? I won’t have any lies from you.”
“What am I doing here?” she snapped, anger rising. Were all Highlanders so… so… rude? “I am renting this manor, and I am no lass, thank you very much. I have every right to be here, though I doubt you do, so why don’t you return to whatever pig sty you were frolicking in, before I call Mister McAullum to sort you out.”
Even from halfway across the room, she could see his gray eyes narrow, but she refused to take a second step back. She tilted her chin up another notch, though it was difficult to look down her nose at a man who towered over her. She could see the muscles at work in the clenched, hard planes of his jaw.
“The Widow Fairhaven, then, and not a wayward maid.”
He said the words more to himself, she felt, than to her. What sort of buffoon couldn’t differentiate between her best travel dress and a maid’s garb? “Yes, I am Missus Fairhaven, and as such, this is my home from now until autumn.” She made a shooing gesture. “I require you, sir, to vacate it.”
He eyed her for a long moment. She worked to keep her expression the perfect combination of haughty and unconcerned, and hoped he couldn’t see the slight tremble in her frame. Finally, he bowed, with far more grace than she expected from a man with dead rodents tied to his belt.
When he straightened, he stepped backward through the glass-paned terrace door. “Don’t forget to lock the ballroom on your way out,” he said as he pulled the door closed between them.
Charlotte let out her breath. So, he knew the baron kept his ballroom locked, which somewhat justified his harshness, but only somewhat. Outside, a low whistle sounded, answered by the yapping of dogs. She resisted the urge to hurry to the window to watch the uncouth, disconcerting Highlander stride away.
Instead, she followed the trail of footprints she’d left through the dust and slipped back into the corridor. Hastily, she closed and locked the ballroom, then dropped the key back into one of the vases. It landed at the bottom with an incriminating clatter. Hoping no one was near enough to hear, she hurried toward the front of the manor.
Tom McAullum was entering the foyer as she reached it. She adopted her most efficient expression and went to meet him. “Mister McAullum, may I assume my staff have been pointed in the correct direction?”
“They have, missus,” he said as he pulled off his hat and dipped his head. “I came to see if there were anything else I could do for you, missus, before I head off.”
“Indeed, there is,” she said, realizing she should have been attending to the business of settling in rather than sneaking about. “To whom may I speak about my staffing requirements?”
Tom nodded along as she spoke, as if anticipating the question. As well he might, having seen how few people she’d brought. “That would be the baron, missus.”
The baron didn’t employ a man to handle such things? She felt a twinge of pity for the impoverished aristocrat, especially if he had to spend his days with men like the uncouth Highland barbarian who’d barged into the ballroom. “And when will I be meeting Lord Edward?”
Tom pulled an envelope from his coat. “There’s a gathering at the Nevilles’ this evening.” He offered the invitation. “The baron arranged for you to be invited, to meet some members of the community. He’ll be in attendance, but he said he’d call here tomorrow if he doesn’t meet you there. He didn’t know when you’d be arriving or if you’d be feeling rested enough to socialize this evening.”
“Thank you,” she said, accepting the letter. “Is there aught else?”
“No, missus, unless you’ve a need for something?”
Charlotte offered Tom a smile. “If my staff are satisfied, I am well enough for now. Thank you, Mister McAullum.”
With a bow, much less practiced than the weasel-draped farmer, Tom took his leave. Charlotte spared another lingering glance about the magnificent foyer, then headed off in search of her housekeeper. As she hadn’t brought a maid and, as of yet, couldn’t hire one, that faithful elderly servant would be required to help her dress. Something fashionable, but not too dramatic, was called for. Charlotte wanted to make a favorable impression with the baron and her new neighbors.
Chapter Four
Charlotte stood back from the entrance to Mister and Missus Neville’s parlor to permit other guests to greet their hosts while she studied what she could glimpse of the room. Firelight and laughter, mingled with the rolling accent of the Highlands, spilled forth into the ancient receiving hall. Neville Manor was old, stately, and obviously hadn’t been redecorated in well over a century. That, coupled with the agog stares garnered by her fashionable, low-cut evening gown, made Charlotte feel as if she’d stepped out of time.
Not that she minded. Well, the stares, a bit. She’d grown accustomed to sideling looks and whispers since falling under Vivian’s tutelage, but these were different from the usual. These stares had little to do with her reputation and everything to do with the extent of her décolletage, apparently heretofore unseen in this
remote region.
What she didn’t mind, in fact adored, was the stately old manor. Like a painting of ancient times come to life, the deep reds and dark wood created a festive, cozy atmosphere. The Nevilles’ guests obviously felt as she did, for the joy bubbling from the room before her brought a smile to her lips.
Of the occupants, she could see little, so she moved forward into the receiving line. From there, being somewhat taller than average, she glimpsed a room where as many men appeared in kilts as trousers, and where women wore rusty or forest shades in stiff silk and brocade, even the young ones. Nowhere was the insipid palate of pastels and high wasted, Greek-inspired gowns currently in fashion. Charlotte was pleased she’d elected a deep shimmering blue, even if the cut was quite modern.
As she drew near the front of the line, she caught sight of a modish young man near the center of the parlor. Handsome, but with an unbecoming arrogance that bespoke of one who knew as much. His golden curls, which she would wager twenty pounds were the product of a hot iron, gleamed in the firelight. One Hessian-booted foot propped on the low table before him, he spoke to a ring of onlookers, wild gestures and lean frame holding them in thrall.
Was this, then, the baron? His tailcoat alone was extravagantly expensive, obviously acquired in Edinburgh. The overdone brocade decorating every edge of the green monstrosity ranged from yellow to pink, with an abundance of gold thread. His cravat, which she would allow was expertly folded, was at least white, but what his wild gesticulations revealed of his vest showed the item to be a rather garish orange. Certainly, the gentleman liked to spend, which fit the image she was building of the baron. It must be his wife who exercised the good taste shown in decorating Talla Gaoithe.
Charlotte reached the front of the line leading into the parlor and met the blank stares of the gray-haired couple that waited there with a deep curtsy. “Mister and Missus Neville, I’m Charlotte Fairhaven. Thank you for so kindly inviting me into your home.”
Missus Neville’s expression cleared. “Missus Fairhaven,” she exclaimed. “How lovely to make your acquaintance.”
“This is the widow Fairhaven?” Mister Neville said, frowning. “Edward gave me the impression she was an old crone.”
“Graham,” Missus Neville hissed. A bony elbow jabbed into her husband’s ribs. She turned a bright smile on Charlotte. “I’m sure Lord Edward said nothing of the kind.”
Charlotte smiled to convey her lack of offense. “The baron and I have not met.” She nodded toward the brightly clad young man in the center of the room. “If that is he, perhaps his youth made him consider one of four and twenty to be one foot on the other side.”
Missus Neville looked over her shoulder. The smile she returned to Charlotte was slightly strained. “No, no, dear, that’s not the baron. That’s Mister MaClagan, and I daresay he’s no younger than you are.”
“Aribert MaClagan is two and twenty,” Mister Neville supplied, earning another elbow to his ribs.
“Graham, see to greeting our guests,” Missus Neville said. “I must introduce Miss… that is, Missus Fairhaven, about.” She offered Charlotte a shrug. “You’re so young and pretty, dear, I shall have a difficult time remembering to call you missus.”
“You are too kind, Missus Neville.” Charlotte permitted her hostess to lead her about the room, displaying her like a prized hound. She didn’t mind, aware of how rare newcomers must be to this remote society. A smile pinned on her face, she did her best to take note of something personal about each new acquaintance, and to keep a mental list of names.
As they moved around the perimeter of the room, Charlotte was aware of Mister MaClagan’s eyes on her. In him, she sensed a kindred spirit. Someone who sought the entertainments life had to offer, and not the troubles. If he wasn’t wed, perhaps the Highlands would prove more interesting than she’d anticipated.
“…terrible of Lord Edward not to greet you himself,” Missus Neville said.
Realizing she’d permitted her mind to wander, Charlotte could only nod. “I’m sure he has many responsibilities aside from greeting guests.”
“Well, yes, there were the chickens, certainly, and he’s very diligent with Hetty.”
They’d nearly completed their circuit of the room, and Missus Neville had yet to introduce Charlotte to Mister MaClagan or the elusive Lord Edward. “Hetty is Lady Waverly?”
Missus Neville cast Charlotte a startled glance. “No, dear, Hetty is Edward’s daughter. Lady Waverly hasn’t been with us for some time, and with Marian, that’s Hetty’s older sister, away, well, Lord Edward must give extra consideration to his younger daughter. He’s all the poor dear has right now.”
A widower, then, with two daughters. Charlotte frowned, unsure how those facets fit into her image of the baron.
“Missus Neville, you sly thing.” Mister MaClagan’s jovial tones were jarring as he stepped into their path. “Are you trying to keep this lovely creature from me?”
“Now Mister MaClagan, you know I wouldn’t do that.”
Despite the man’s friendly smile, Charlotte caught a hint of distaste in her hostess’s tone. She offered a deep curtsy, aware that MaClagan watched her descent. His eyes were still on her as she straightened.
He captured a hand, blue eyes meeting hers, and grazed her gloved fingers with his lips. “I’m sure Missus Neville was merely saving the best for last, Miss…?” He turned to their hostess with questioning eyes.
“This is Missus Fairhaven,” Missus Neville belatedly supplied. “Missus Fairhaven, allow me to present Mister MaClagan. Mister MaClagan is the son of Wick’s wealthiest fleet owner.”
Charlotte turned a questioning look on Mister MaClagan, unsure what the seaport of Wick had to do with wealth, or Missus Neville’s subtle dislike of the man.
“Herring,” he supplied with his easy smile. “What Missus Neville is attempting to alert you to is that my family’s fortune is made in fish.”
Charlotte raised her eyebrows. Not the most fashionable of pursuits. “I see. I’m being apprised, with gallant subtlety, that you are not a romantic figure.”
Mister MaClagan’s smile didn’t waver. “Yes, but the notion is a mistaken one on Missus Neville’s part, for fishing is, at its heart, romantic.” He leaned near Charlotte. His lips nearly brushed her ear. “Have you ever stood on the deck of a ship and watched the sun rise?” he whispered.
Normally, Charlotte would have laughed at his forwardness, perhaps shaken her head to permit those lips to brush her smooth skin. Instead, leery of her hostess’s marked ill-favor, she took a step back under the guise of turning a friendly smile on him. “I have not. Nor, I daresay, have you, sir.”
“Alas, you are now in the wrong, as well, Missus Fairhaven.” He accompanied the words with a wink. “For I most assuredly have.” He leaned near again. “If you’re lucky, someday I shall show you.”
“But not today,” Missus Neville said brightly. She captured Charlotte’s arm. “She must still meet Lord Edward.”
MaClagan snorted. “Come back once he’s bored you near to tears.” He pulled free a gold pocket watch. “Which will occur in under three minutes, mark my words.”
MaClagan bowed as Missus Neville turned Charlotte away. With quick strides, her gray-haired little hostess marched them across the room toward closed garden doors. Charlotte hadn’t realized anyone stood without. Now that she looked, she could see a tall frame, blending into the evening sky by virtue of a black tailcoat and equally dark trousers.
“I did, indeed, save the best for last,” Missus Neville whispered as they reached the doors. “Though not in the way that young upstart believes. I’ll remain on guard in case he comes after you, dear. That young man has but one thought on his mind and, if you don’t mind me saying, lovely as you look, you’ve encouraged him terribly. Now, you go meet Lord Edward and never you fear, I can see out, so there’s nothing improper.”
So saying, she pulled open one side of the double doors and all but pushed Charlotte out into the n
ight. She stumbled to a halt, unable to see after the brightness of the parlor. The door clicked closed behind her.
The tall, broad shape before her shifted as the gentleman turned from his silent perusal of the dark garden and came around to face her. There was a flash of even, white teeth, but not what she would call a smile. “Missus Fairhaven.”
She recognized that deep, rumbling voice. The farmer with the weasels. “Where is Lord Edward?”
He bowed with enviable elegance, especially in so strong a frame. “At your service.”
Her eyes adjusting, she could make out his features now. The square jaw. Unforgiving lips. Eyes, gray if she recalled properly, that bespoke of an equally exacting personality. Even dressed as he was now, to the height of sophisticated fashion instead of appearing as a warrior of old, he was still daunting.
Not that she would permit him to realize as much. She squared her shoulders and crossed to stand before him. His eyes traced a lingering trail along the low neckline of her gown. The blush that heated her cheeks surprised her. Thankfully, the terrace was dark.
“The Baron of Gaoth, then, and not a wayward farmer,” she murmured in mimicry of his earlier words, to further show him that she was in no way intimidated. Did she imagine the smile that flickered across his lips?
“Yes, I am Baron of Goath, and as such, it is my duty to welcome you and offer what assistance I may to make your stay in Caithness pleasant, even if that means vacating my property with immediacy.”
Charlotte stared at him for a long moment, trying to reconcile the sophisticated gentleman before her with the mud-spattered, rodent-bedecked, kilt-clad barbarian of that afternoon. He leaned against the balustrade and folded his arms across his chest, waiting. There was no mistaking the gleam of amusement in his gaze now.
“I apologize for my error earlier, Lord Edward,” she finally allowed. “I should not have ordered you from your own home.” She tried to hide a grimace as she realized that was her lesser crime. “And I should not have entered the ballroom, which you’d clearly locked.”
Scandalous Lords and Courtship Page 13