Kerry merely smiled and looked out the dingy, gray window.
Arthur frowned, straightening himself against the squabs. Two days ago, Kerry would have laughed. This quiet, contemplative demeanor of hers had come about the moment he told her they were sailing into the harbor at Kingston. Not that he was any sort of expert in the ever-changing dispositions of women—nor did he have any aspiration to be—but he had noticed it then and had guessed that the change had to do with memories of Scotland—and Thomas. In the course of the last several days she had worried aloud more than once about her cousin. Privately, Arthur thought her worries a tragic waste of good humor; Thomas, that horse’s ass, would make his way in this world. Bloody hell, Arthur wouldn’t be surprised to see the obstinate goat rise to great fame and fortune on some lark. That was always the way with men like McKinnon—
“Your friend, the earl? He willna think we are imposing, truly?”
Kerry’s small voice roused Arthur from his ruminations; he saw the worry on her face, and immediately leaned across the coach and put a comforting hand on her knee. “Trust me, Albright shall be delighted to receive us.”
Kerry glanced down at her worn black skirt; a faint grimace creased her brow.
Arthur suddenly understood. For perhaps the first time in his life, he wished for an entire kingdom at his disposal and the instant means to give Kerry her choice of gowns and jewels and shoes, right there in the bleak country of the north. He would do anything to please her, anything to raise her joyous smile once again.
He had, of course, given trinkets to lovers or little gifts to appease ruffled feathers for one perceived slight or another. But he had never so much desired to give a woman something until now, never felt such burning need to make her happy. And never had he felt so hopelessly inept at doing so. In spite of his considerable influence and resources, in the rural north as they were, without any ready funds left to speak of, there was nothing he could do—they would be accepted at the door of Longbridge as they were. Or not … Arthur was not quite certain what he would do if Lilliana objected to their unannounced and untoward arrival. Worse, he realized that uncertainty about every bloody thing was a feeling that was becoming quite familiar to him of late.
Such was life with Kerry McKinnon about.
By the time they reached the mile-long drive leading to the house and grounds of Longbridge, Arthur could not have possibly cared less how they might appear to Albright, or the whole bloody ton for that matter. They had been stuck twice, which naturally meant he had to push. A cold rain had started up again, chilling him through to his very marrow. He had never in his life been as tired or cold or ravenous as he was at that moment, and by God, Adrian Spence would receive him.
The driver, naturally, flatly refused to attempt the drive to the house when the deluge of rain began anew. Arthur and Kerry had, therefore, stood under a very slim space of shelter built into the massive brick gate until the rain had abated. Somewhat abated. As it appeared to Arthur that the sun would never shine again, he had taken up their bags, forced a smile for Kerry’s benefit, and had started down the muddied road to the house, pulling one foot after the other from the muck. It was a miserable trek—but not once did Kerry complain or suggest that she could not go on. Hers was a valiant soul, he would certainly give her that, more valiant than he, for he was on the verge of sitting on his arse next to the road and wailing like a baby.
They walked until they were standing side by side on the huge round porch that surrounded the massive oak entry to Longbridge, staring at the gruesome face fashioned on the brass knocker. Neither of them spoke for a long moment. When Arthur finally glanced at Kerry from the corner of his eye, she turned and gazed at him with a look of such dismay that he could not, no matter how hard he tried, summon words of encouragement. He shifted his gaze to the ugly brass knocker, and might have studied the workmanship of the thing all bloody evening had the door not swung open so suddenly that he and Kerry were blinded by the bright light behind it. Arthur blinked until he could clearly focus on the marble tile and gilded fixtures that adorned the foyer.
“Oh my. Oh my!”
That voice Arthur instantly recognized as belonging to Max, Adrian’s fastidious butler. “Max,” he drawled, focusing his bleary gaze, “I don’t suppose Albright is about?”
A good six inches shorter than Arthur, Max gaped up at him, his round eyes clearly relaying his shock. “My Lord Arthur!” he squealed. “What tragedy has befallen you?”
What tragedy? What tragedy? An adventure so bizarre as not to be believed had befallen him, but a tragedy? This was no tragedy; this was a blasted comedy! Arthur could not help himself; the situation suddenly struck him as full of hilarity, and he laughed hard. “A thousand stars have befallen me if you must know,” he said through his laughter, knowing full well he looked quite mad. “A thousand stars, right on top of my noggin, Max. Now if you would be so kind, let the old boy know that I’ve come to call, will you?”
Max flicked his gaze down the length of Arthur’s body, then looked at Kerry. “He is indeed in residence, my lord. Please forgive me,” he said, and stepped aside, gesturing weakly into the foyer. Still chuckling, Arthur put his hand on the small of Kerry’s back to usher her inside. But she surprised him by pushing back against him and refusing to move forward. “It’s quite all right. Just step inside,” he murmured.
“No,” she muttered, and shoved back against him so hard in her attempt to back away from the door that she unbalanced him.
Max looked mortified; Arthur plastered a smile to his face for the butler’s benefit, and slowly leaned to one side so that his mouth was just above Kerry’s ear. “What would you do, stand out here all night?” he whispered through his smile. “Come on then, just step inside.”
“No!” she hissed, and elbowed him in the ribs. “I will not go in there looking like this!”
Oh fine. Just bloody fine. He had dragged her all the way from Scotland and she would choose now for a tantrum? All right, all right, he could see why she might be a bit reluctant—Albright never did anything halfway, and the elaborate foyer with its painted ceiling moldings, gilded door and window fixtures, marble tile, and great sweeping staircase was merely a sample of what one would find in the rest of the mansion. Nevertheless, it was the only shelter within miles of where they stood, and wet to the bone as they were, Arthur was in no mood to argue the point. “Step inside,” he said, the tone of his voice brooking no debate. “We can argue in warmth just as effectively as we can in the rain.”
“No!”
With a sharp sigh, Arthur turned and grabbed Kerry by the shoulders, not caring what Max heard or saw now. “You have no choice, Kerry! It is either this house or the stable, and trust me, you will not want to share a stall with the likes of Thunder!”
Kerry defiantly tipped her head back. “I prefer the stables!”
“That can definitely be arranged!” he shot back querulously.
“Good! Then please point me in the proper direction as 1 should very much like to be gone before another living soul lays eyes on me!”
“Arthur?”
Startled by the female voice, Arthur and Kerry simultaneously jerked their gazes toward it. Lilliana Spence stood in the foyer, looking very elegant and very bewildered. Her green eyes flicked the full length of his personal disarray, then to Kerry’s. One sculpted blonde brow lifted above the other in silent question.
Bloody hell. Arthur cleared his throat. “Lilliana. I must apologize for arriving so … ah, so … no doubt you are wondering—”
“Please come in, won’t you? You must be very cold,” she said to Kerry, and extended her hand as she suddenly moved toward them.
“N-no thank you,” Kerry muttered, stepping backward and putting her heel down on Arthur’s toes. “I wouldna think of spoiling your house—I mean, the mud—”
“Nonsense. It’s merely a floor and you could not spoil it if you tried, Miss … ?”
“Lady Albright, may I introduc
e you to Mrs. McKinnon of Glenbaden, Scotland,” Arthur quickly interjected.
“Scotland!” Lilliana’s face lit with her smile. “I thought I detected a bit of an accent! Ooh, how very lovely, Mrs. McKinnon! I have been desperate to travel to Scotland, and I have read all the beautiful poetry of Wordsworth. My husband promises to take me there once our children are a bit older.” Lilliana paused to peer at the gray sky through the open doorway, then at the grimy red satchel before bestowing a warm smile on Kerry. “We must get you into some dry clothing,” she said, motioning for Max to close the door.
“No,” Kerry said instantly, “I wouldna impose—” “It is no imposition, Mrs. McKinnon. It is a wonderful treat for me to have a true Scot in my very own house. And Arthur,” Lilliana said firmly, “you are in need of a bath, if you will pardon my saying so. Max, do have two baths drawn at once, please,” she said as she extended her hand and wrapped it around Kerry’s, seemingly oblivious to the mud caked to her wrist. “Please come in, Mrs. McKinnon. You will catch your death.”
With a scowl for Arthur, Kerry allowed Lilliana to pull her deeper into the foyer. “Arthur, Max will attend you momentarily,” Lilliana called over her shoulder, and began a march up the spiraling staircase, dragging Kerry behind her.
Arthur could see why Adrian loved the woman so—she never once looked back to see how Kerry’s soiled skirts dragged the blue carpet of the stairs, nor did she look at her hair or stained clothing. She spoke to Kerry as if she were an equal, and for that alone, Arthur would adore Lilliana Spence for the rest of his days.
“What in God’s name has happened to your boots?” Arthur closed his eyes and prayed that the rest of his days would not include many like this. He opened them slowly, turned reluctantly to see Adrian leaning negligently against a wall, one ankle crossed over the other, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, observing Arthur with a very pointed look of amusement on his face. “If you don’t mind me saying, you look like hell.”
“Why thank you, Albright, for the kind compliment.” Adrian ignored that, and inclined his head to the floors above where Lilliana and Kerry had just disappeared. “I suppose you know that I am all aflutter with anticipation of the tale of how you have come to be here—looking like that, naturally—and with a new charge.”
Yes, Arthur rather imagined he was all aflutter, and with an impatient sigh, he raked a dirty hand through his tangled hair. “I’d be right happy to oblige you in exchange for a hot bath and a bottle of your best whiskey.”
Adrian’s brows lifted. “A bottle, is it? Very well then, I shall have Max fetch our best—I shouldn’t want to hear what I am quite certain is a delightful tale with anything less than that.”
And he apparently meant to hear it at once, seeing as he followed Arthur into the bathing room when Max had announced his bath ready. Arthur ignored Adrian; he was too busy luxuriating in the steaming waters. With his eyes closed and his head propped lazily against the edge of the porcelain tub, he let the water seep beneath his skin and scald the grime of the last ten days from his body. Every now and again he would open one eye to see Adrian sprawled along a long, silk-covered window bench, one leg bent at the knee and heel propped against it without regard for the fine fabric. In one hand, he held his head; with the other he held a crystal glass from which he languidly sipped aged Scotch whiskey when he wasn’t peering intently at Arthur.
Arthur was just beginning to feel human again when Adrian at last asked, “Well then, let’s have it.”
Arthur merely snorted, kept his eyes closed.
“Ah, Christian, you don’t mean to taunt me, do you? Really, you must consider this from my point of view. You appear from nowhere after a strange foray into Scotland and a lengthy absence, inexplicably covered head to foot with mud and a Scottish woman on your arm to boot. And now you would play coy? Tsk, tsk.”
Arthur chuckled. “You act as if you never appeared at Mount Street under suspect circumstances, Albright. You can’t deny that you have and you must acknowledge that I did not insist on interrogating you on those occasions,” he responded, and sank lower into the water.
“Yes, well, perhaps. But you are Arthur. And besides, I never appeared with a strange woman on my arm—you surely have me confused with Kettering.”
That earned another chuckle—Julian had, indeed, appeared at his door on several occasions with unknown women on his arm … and some quite well known. “Nor did I interrogate Kettering, though God knows I should have.”
“Come on, then. Your brother has sent two letters asking if I have had occasion to see you. We were all beginning to fret a bit—so who is this woman, where in the hell have you been, and what have you done to those fine boots?”
Funny, but Arthur had not, until this very moment, imagined what words he might use to explain Kerry. Or his whereabouts the last few weeks. Or why he had risked his bloody neck to bring her here. He slowly opened his eyes and glanced at one of his oldest friends.
Adrian had righted himself, was leaning forward with his arms propped against his thighs, the glass dangling carelessly from one hand, watching Arthur closely. “Who is she, Arthur?”
God, if only he knew! He sank lower until his chin skimmed the surface of the hot water, contemplating that. What was he doing? What madness had overcome him, what demon had possessed him and allowed him to believe that he could bring Kerry here, no questions asked, no explanations?
“I can’t imagine what happened in Scotland, but I think she must be someone rather dear for you to have gone to such trouble,” Adrian said.
If only he knew. “Dearer than my own life,” Arthur muttered. The admission surprised him far more than it seemed to surprise Adrian. He had not meant to say any such thing, but it had sprung involuntarily from his lips, had escaped him before he could pull them back.
“She is Scottish. And the widow of a poor, landless one at that. She is … no one.”
“I beg your pardon,” Adrian drawled, “she is clearly someone to you.”
Arthur looked at his friend then, searching his face for any sign of condemnation, any hint that he would not accept her.
He saw none.
But he saw the lines of aristocracy in Adrian, the placid expression and years of practiced indifference in his voice. Undoubtedly, he was trying to be accepting of this strange situation, trying to understand, but how could he possibly make him see? How could he explain to Adrian that Kerry had taught him how to live?
“Do you recall,” he asked slowly, “the evening the four of us accompanied Alex to the opera? It was the night he unveiled his newly appointed box.”
Adrian stared at the whiskey in his glass for a moment. “I recall clearly,” he said, looking up from his glass. “Quite clearly. Phillip had drunk far too much brandy as usual.”
“You will surely recall, then, how he angered Alex beyond compare by bringing Miss Daphne into the box.”
Adrian nodded.
Arthur looked toward the fire. He could almost see Phillip there, his blond head bent over Daphne, explaining the opera to her. Alex—a duke, a man of propriety—had been livid. Daphne was one of Madame Farantino’s charges, a woman who pleasured men of the aristocracy in a discreet brothel behind the Tam O’Shanter. She was Phillip’s favorite, and indeed, he had developed quite an attachment to her in those days, one that almost rivaled his attachment to brandy.
Alex had invited the four Rogues of Regent Street to his box on the opening night of the opera. That was their era, the days when the Times hardly went to press without some mention of their exploits. Phillip had disappeared during the opening act, reappearing with Daphne on his arm at the most inopportune time of all—at intermission, when everyone was crowding the box to pay a call or request introductions. Alex was furious with Phillip and quite embarrassed, but there was nothing he could do without causing a scene.
“I was quite angry on Alex’s behalf,” Arthur continued. “When I later confronted Phillip about his reprehensible behavior, he looked a
t me as though I had disappointed him somehow. I remember thinking that it was a rather odd reaction to my anger. ‘You consort with women just like Daphne,’ he said to me. ‘Do you think the women you ride like a dog are so insignificant beyond your bed that you would deny them the very simple pleasure of music?’ ”
Arthur paused, remembering how the question had mortified him on many levels, not the least of which was the grain of truth in it. Adrian said nothing, remained very still, waiting for him to continue. “Of course I held more regard for the woman than that,” he said, silently questioning whether or not that was entirely true. “But Alex’s opera box? It was unimaginable, incomprehensible. I had to think of his reputation—a young duke, so much he was trying to accomplish, so many who would have delighted in seeing him fail. I said as much to Phillip, and reminded him that Daphne was not of suitable situation, that her very presence tainted the important work my brother was trying to accomplish in gaining the social reforms that would help women like her.”
“I’ve no doubt he responded with something terribly mocking,” Adrian muttered.
“He said, ‘Then your brother touts false reform, Arthur, if it is people like Daphne he professes to save, for Daphne is a living, breathing human being, as much God’s child as you or I. She is as deserving of his esteem as anyone, but if she is not good enough to sit in his box, then there is no hope that she can be saved from men like your brother.’ ”
Arthur looked at Adrian. “Kerry is someone to me—she is someone I never dreamed could touch me, someone not of my class, someone whose situation could taint my family’s good name. Yet she did touch me—she touched me in a way I can scarcely understand, much less describe to you. She is someone to me, all right. She is everything to me—she is a living, breathing human being, as much God’s child as you or I, and as deserving of my esteem as anyone.”
Julia London 4 Book Bundle Page 95