The Devil Wears Kilts

by Suzanne Enoch

  He needed to think, and he needed to plan. He could force his sister to return to Glengask, but he couldn’t make her wish to be there. Ordering Charlotte to keep her opinions about him to herself wouldn’t cause her to change them—if he could order her to do anything. A bit of persuasion would seem to be in order, but first he would have to see about persuading himself.

  Evidently he needed to make the acquaintance of London and the haute ton before he could decide whether they were actually worth knowing or not. And he needed to decide if he was willing to risk becoming better acquainted with Charlotte, given that in five days she’d already managed to upend his life. In a fortnight she could well kill him—unless she were correct in all this, and meant to save him from himself.

  When he returned to Tall House, Owen and Debny were standing on the front portico, ignoring the rain and arguing over whether they needed to go out searching for him or not.

  “M’laird,” the footman said, relief showing in every muscle of his stocky body. “Ye had us near frighted to death. Debny should never have left ye to go oot on yer own.”

  “I didnae—”

  Ranulf silenced them both with a look. “Debny did as I asked him to. End of discussion.”

  “Fine, fine. But ye and Fergus are wetter than the ocean.”

  “Dry off Fergus,” Ranulf returned, heading for the stairs so he could change his clothes. “And then go find that solicitor—what was his name?—and bring him here.”

  “Mr. Black?” Owen offered stiffly. “The soft fellow with the damp hands?”

  “Aye. And don’t insult him when ye’ve fetched him.”

  He couldn’t see the look the two servants exchanged, but he could feel it. They could think him mad if they wished; for all he knew, he might be.

  “Why am I fetching him, m’laird, if I might ask?”

  “Ye may not.”

  * * *

  Arran MacLawry took the letter Cooper, the butler, handed him and opened it as he reached the breakfast room. Ranulf generally wrote short, pointed letters, instructions about what needed doing and when, without much other flourish or description.

  As he opened this missive, though, a second page fell to the floor, both pieces filled to the very edges with ink in their oldest brother’s spare hand. At the first sentence he stopped in his tracks. “Munro!” he yelled. “Bear!”

  A moment later his younger brother, half dressed and dark hair sticking out from one side of his head like a crazed weed, stumbled into the breakfast room. “What the devil’s got into yer bonnet?” he demanded, dropping into a chair, thunking his head onto the table, and gesturing for coffee.

  Arran cleared his throat. “‘Arran,’” he read aloud, “‘In future correspondence you’ll find me at Gilden House, 12 Market Street, the residence I’ve purchased in London.’”

  Munro’s head shot up from the tabletop. “What? That’s from Ranulf? He’s bought a house? In London?”

  “Aye. That’s what he says.”

  “Why, in God’s name?”

  “Let me go on, will ye? To continue, ‘Rowena has declared that she means never to return to Scotland. I may therefore be here for longer than we’d anticipated, until such time as I can persuade her otherwise.’”

  “‘Persuade’?” Bear echoed, scowling. “Put her arse into a coach and drive her home, is more like.”

  “Evidently not.”

  “I wonder what Lach’ll have to say about that. Yesterday he complained that Winnie didnae send him a letter.”

  That was interesting, Arran decided. “Wasnae he complaining that she wrote him every day?”

  “Aye. He said she was too full of girlish glee, and now he wants to know what she’s up to that keeps her from writing.”

  “She’s up to refusing to come home. Tell him that, and see what he does.”

  “I’m nae certain I want to know.” Bear grunted. “Ran wants a love match, but poor Lach’s caught between his chief and a lass who’s been chasing after him since she could walk.” He shook his dark, disheveled head. “If Ranulf’s nae dragging her home, then what’s he up to?”

  Arran perused the rest of the letter, three sides of closely written instruction, then sat down heavily at his brother’s side. “He’s gone mad.”

  “What else does he say?”

  “That Berling’s in London, along with the Campbells’ grandson, that we should remain here, and that some lass named Charlotte is full of herself and needs a lesson or two as to why she shouldnae scold a MacLawry.”

  Munro’s brow furrowed. “Charlotte. Isn’t she the other Hanover lass? Jane’s sister or someaught?”

  “I dunnae know. I didnae pay that much attention to it all.” Now Arran was beginning to think he should have paid quite a bit more attention to what was happening in London. “Does any of this make sense to ye?”

  “Nae. Let me see it.”

  Arran handed Munro the letter, watching as his younger brother read through it with much the same expression of confusion that he’d likely worn himself. “Did ye notice how many times he names this Charlotte?” he asked

  “Aye,” his brother returned. “More than he mentions Rowena.” Bear pushed to his feet and handed the letter back. “Well, that settles it.”

  “Settles what?”

  “I’m going to London.”

  Bloody hell. “Ye are not. Ran says we’re to stay here.”

  “Someaught’s afoot down there, and half the bastards we’re looking out fer here are doon there. Ye can stay behind.”

  Arran took a breath. “Bear, ye need to stay here. I’ll go.”

  “And why should ye be the one to—”

  “He says Rowena’s embarrassed by us. Who’s more ‘us’ than anyone?”

  Bear frowned. “I can behave.”

  “Ye gave her a saddle for her eighteenth birthday. And I’d wager the reason ye were still to bed at nearly noon is that ye’re sharing a pillow with Flora Peterkin. Or is it Bethia Peterkin? If ye cannae keep yer own affairs straight, ye cannae expect to be of help to someone else. Especially not Ranulf.”

  “Fine, then.” Bear slumped back into his chair. “Ye’d best see this straightened oot, Arran, or ye’ll find me riding down on yer heels. Or I’ll put a wee whisper in Lachlan’s ear and turn him loose.”

  “I’ll see to it.” And he would also see who this Charlotte lass was, and discover why Ranulf couldn’t seem to stop talking about her even when he clearly had more trouble than he could wish for on his hands.

  * * *

  Jane tugged Charlotte into the morning room and gestured at the floor. “Help,” she said with a laugh.

  She and Winnie had laid out every invitation they’d received, for breakfasts, luncheons, recitals, picnics, dinners, the theater, soirees, and even a proposed excursion in rowboats up the Thames. Seeing them all arranged by date and time like that, the sheer volume was stunning.

  “What do you need help with?” she asked, reaching down to pet Una as the hound sat on her foot.

  Winnie, on the far side of the stacks, pointed. “For the seventeenth we have one breakfast invitation, two for morning excursions, four luncheon invitations, three more for afternoon visits or shopping, and a soiree and an evening at the theater. What do we do?”

  Charlotte looked from one of them to the other. Not for the first time she felt old, or at the least, jaded. Each year seeing the same people, some of them pairing off in marriage, but others—like her—simply growing older and smiling the same forced smiles and talking about how very young and silly the new crop of debutantes seemed to be, felt as heavy as lead in that moment. And she’d driven off the only man who’d showed any interest in her, even if his aim had been for the bed rather than the altar.

  “Char?”

  She shook herself. “Firstly, you need to ask Mama and Papa if there’s an evening event they particularly want to attend—or to avoid. And then look to see if you’re attending other events that same day or week with the same peo
ple, and choose which one you prefer.” Bending down, she picked up a luncheon invitation. “This is a picnic with Lord Harold Onless,” she said, stifling her scowl.

  “Yes. He’s very handsome,” her sister said, fanning her face with one hand.

  “And his second cousin is Donald Gerdens.”

  “What does that signify?” Winnie returned, her cheeks reddening. “There’s Parliament that day, so Berling won’t be at the picnic.”

  “Rowena, your brother wouldn’t like it.” Evidently she’d become a nanny after all, and to both young ladies.

  “I don’t care what my brother thinks,” Winnie said, too shrilly. “I haven’t even seen him for a week.”

  Charlotte hadn’t, either, but she’d been listening. And she’d heard rumors, rumblings that didn’t make much sense. “You said you didn’t want to see him. He’s honoring your wishes. That doesn’t mean you should disregard his, does it? This is a matter of your safety.”

  “Well, he won’t know, and I’ll be fine, so that doesn’t signify.”

  “Winnie.”

  A tear ran down Rowena’s fair cheek. “How am I supposed to ignore him and be mad at him if he won’t even show himself?” she managed, sinking onto the couch. “No one cares that I’m here all alone in London!”

  Oh, dear. Charlotte had no idea how to answer that, especially when she’d been the last one from the household to speak with Ranulf. Or to speak at him, rather.

  “You’re not alone in London, Winnie,” Jane said briskly. “And that Lachlan MacTier doesn’t deserve your affection if he can’t even be bothered to send you a note. As for Lord Glengask, you know he adores you. It’s as Charlotte says; he’s honoring your wishes.”

  Actually, Charlotte had more than a suspicion that she was the reason Ranulf had made himself scarce. But he’d made her so angry, and even jested about the brawl at the Evanstone party—a brawl the wags were still gossiping about, for heaven’s sake. And the kiss, then suggesting they simply … become lovers, because of course they were all wrong for each other otherwise—not giving him a piece of her mind would have been wrong of her. She’d actually said more than she’d intended, but once she’d begun she hadn’t been able to make herself stop. Oh, he aggravated her.

  And then he’d vanished from public view for a week. Not completely; evidently he’d gone riding in the early mornings and had taken several meetings with various people, but he hadn’t attended any parties at all. Of course she wasn’t certain he’d been invited to any, after what had happened last week.

  But as for this picnic, if she allowed something to happen in his absence that endangered his sister, then all her talk about how he was the one making trouble and how Rowena was safe among the English aristocracy would become a lie. And if that caused him to discount her words, then she would have ruined the most interesting … friendship she’d ever had, and for no good reason. “Yes, he does adore you. So you can be mad at him and not risk your safety at the same time, can’t you?” she persisted. “You have two other overlapping invitations for that same day.”

  “Two so far,” Longfellow intoned from the doorway. The butler produced a silver salver laden with still more invitations and correspondence.

  All the doldrums forgotten, the girls dove into them, laughing and squealing as they recognized a name here or an address there. Charlotte supposed she couldn’t begrudge them their excitement; she’d had a splendid debut Season, herself, culminating with her betrothal to very pretty James Appleton.

  “This one’s for you, Char,” Janie said, handing over a folded missive.

  She didn’t recognize the address, but broke the plain wax seal and unfolded the note, anyway. As she read the brief paragraph her heart skittered to a stop and then unsteadily resumed again. Taking a breath, she read it again, to make certain she hadn’t missed anything. Then she cleared her throat. “Winnie, you should read this,” she said, holding it out with shaking fingers.

  Rowena took it from her and read it, then looked up again. “He … he bought a house?” she whispered, tears glistening in her eyes again. “He bought a house? In London?”

  “I only know as much as you do, Winnie. It does lend some sense to a few odd rumors I’ve been hearing.”

  “Well, what does it say, for heaven’s sake?” Janie asked.

  Winnie didn’t look capable of answering, so Charlotte did so. “Ranulf—Lord Glengask—purchased Gilden House on Market Street. He’s invited our family to dinner there tomorrow evening, if we are available.”

  “My goodness,” her sister exclaimed. “I thought he hated London.”

  “He does,” Rowena finally put in, wiping her eyes. “I don’t understand.”

  Charlotte thought perhaps she did, but she had no intention of telling either of the young ladies that she’d taken the marquis to task about his unfounded prejudices. Not ever. “Do you want us to accept the invitation?” she asked, rather surprised at how desperately she wanted Rowena to say yes. Had her arguments had an effect on him? Had he listened to what she’d said? It seemed that he had, but she wanted to know for certain. And she wanted to know what that meant.

  “I suppose we should,” Ranulf’s sister said slowly. “It would be rude to ignore a direct invitation after all, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, I think it would. And we don’t wish to be rude.” Not when she’d already exceeded her quota for that particular behavior to that particular man.

  She should barely have noticed that he’d been absent for a week, a mere seven days. The Season was in full swing, and she attended dinners and soirees and recitals nearly every night. But she had noticed. And she didn’t want the last words they’d exchanged to be the last words they ever exchanged. No, she didn’t seem to be finished with the Marquis of Glengask just yet. Whether that was a good thing or not, though, she had no idea.

  Chapter Eight

  Ranulf paused at the top landing of the main staircase—his staircase, now—and took a deep breath. In the foyer, below, Owen and Peter seemed to be having the same trouble accepting the move to Gilden House as he was.

  “… more Sasannach servants traipsing aboot,” Peter was saying in his hoarse whisper. “I might as well have stayed on at Hanover House.”

  “Ye are staying on at Hanover House,” Owen returned. “Ye’re here tonight to help us look civilized. So stop bellowing about Sasannach and move those posies into the drawing room.”

  “But why’d the laird go and buy this place? Do ye think he means to abandon Glengask?”

  “Nae. Never. There’ll always be a MacLawry at Glengask.”

  This was the gossip Ranulf had been hoping to avoid. Pushing upright from the railing, he descended the staircase. “Everything ready for tonight, lads?”

  “Aye,” Owen returned, sending his partner a sharp look. “We’ve nae done much in the way o’ formal dinners, but I’ve been reading them etiquette books. We’ll do ye proud.”

  “I know ye will.” Deliberately he clapped Peter on the shoulder. “The English look at us as barbarians and devils because they don’t know us or our ways. I’ve caught myself making some broad assumptions about them, through the same ignorance.” He gave a brief grin. “I’m knowing my enemy.” And if some of them proved to be other than enemies, well, all the better for him, he supposed.

  As Peter hurried upstairs with the flowers, Owen peered around the edge of the narrow foyer window’s curtain. “Coach coming up. Ye should be in the drawing room, m’laird. Sas—Englishmen—dunnae greet their guests in the doorway.”

  With a nod, Ranulf retreated back up the stairs. When he’d begun this, he’d been angry and resentful—mostly at Charlotte Hanover. Now that he’d moved past the point of no return he remained half convinced that the evening would be a disaster. At least, though, it was likely to be an interesting one.

  In the drawing room, he poured himself a glass of whisky and took a generous swallow. He’d been drinking the stuff practically since he was five, and a glass or two w
ould leave him more sober than a preacher, but he did hope it would settle his nerves some. He wasn’t accustomed to being nervous, and he didn’t like the sensation.

  Owen stomped into the doorway and stopped, standing ramrod straight. “M’laird,” he intoned, “Laird Swansley.” With that he ducked a step backward. A moment later an amused-looking Myles walked past him and into the drawing room.

  “Ranulf,” he said, continuing forward and offering his hand. “Thank you for inviting me. It was … unexpected. And exceedingly welcome.”

  Ranulf shook his uncle’s hand, then released him again. “Ye’re family,” he said slowly, full knowing he was reversing the decree he’d made three years ago. “And Rowena will expect to see ye here.”

  Visibly swallowing, Myles nodded. “This is a fine house. Should I say I’m surprised you’ve brought a property in Mayfair, or are we avoiding those discussions?”

  “I’m walking a mile in English boots,” Ranulf returned. “They’re wee and they pinch, but I’m still doin’ it. Let’s leave it at that, shall w—”

  “M’laird, I’m pleased to present Laird Hest, Lady Hest, Lady Rowena MacLawry, Lady Charlotte Hanover, and Lady Jane Hanover.”

  “Thank ye, Owen.”

  The footman did his backward step and gestured. He’d donned white gloves, Ranulf noticed; Owen had been reading etiquette books. As Hest stepped into the room, though, Ranulf set aside his … wariness over what Owen might have in store for them next.

  He walked forward to shake the earl’s hand and bow over the countess’s. All his attention, though, remained on the doorway. Yes, he’d missed his sister, missed seeing with his own eyes that she was safe despite the twice-daily reports from Peter Gilling, but Rowena wasn’t the lass about whom he’d dreamed for the past seven nights. No, a golden-haired, hazel-eyed beauty continued to torment his thoughts as much as she’d tormented him in person a week ago. He remained uncertain how he felt, and even less so about how she felt, except that he knew he wanted—needed—to see her.