Triumph and Treasure (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 1)

by Collette Cameron

  He cast a practiced gaze the length of the lane. “Hodges, wait for us. I don’t expect it will take us long to pack what they’ll need for tonight. We’ll send for the rest of their things tomorrow.”

  He considered the carriage rounding the corner. “Tell the other driver for me, will you, please?”

  “Yes, sir.” The gangly driver made his way to the coach clamoring to a stop behind theirs.

  “Let’s get you indoors. It’s rather cool. It won’t do for you to take a chill.” Flynn grasped Angelina’s elbow and guided her toward the building.

  He looked up at the boardinghouse. “Devaux told me their rooms are on the second floor—more difficult for someone trying to sneak in.”

  Angelina eyed the narrow upper windows.

  There didn’t appear any way to easily reach them. The baron was rather shrewd. He promised to call when he returned to London and update her on news of Pierre.

  Flynn clapped the knocker twice.

  A weary, white-capped maid, wearing a less than pristine apron, ushered them inside.

  Mrs. Laroche, the proprietress, reeking of perfume and attired in a blood-red and black gown several seasons past the height of fashion, eyed them suspiciously. The immense red plume poking from her gray hair titled forward a fraction more each time she spoke.

  Angelina tried not to stare. The heart-shaped mouche above the left corner of Mrs. Laroche’s mouth had come loose and wiggled like an oversized fly in the throes of death.

  Flynn flashed the woman his irresistible smile and spoke to her in fluid French. “La mère et les soeurs de ma femme sont ici. Seigneur Devaux a fait les arrangements.”

  The woman’s cool demeanor evaporated as fast as droplets of water on a hot iron. Her keen gaze raked Angelina. “Oui, je vois la ressemblance. Elle est une beauté, non?”

  “I’ll have to take your word about the familial resemblance. I’ve never met the others.” Flynn drew Angelina a step closer. He had the audacity to boldly wink at Mrs. Laroche. “But I do know it takes a beauty to recognize one.”

  The woman swatted his arm in what could only be interpreted as a flirtatious manner. She made a moue with her mouth and batted her stubby eyelashes.

  Angelina feigned a cough into her gloved hand to disguise a giggle. Gracious, the woman was sixty and ten if she was a day.

  Mrs. Laroche pointed up the dimly lit stairwell. “Zah second door on zah right.”

  Angelina found herself hurrying up the stairs, Flynn one step behind her. Taking a deep breath, she tapped on the door.

  No one answered.

  “Are you sure this is the correct room?” She stepped back and checked either side of the faded yellow door before her. “She did say the second door, didn’t she?”

  Flynn nodded. “I’m sure they’re merely being cautious. Perhaps we should have requested one of Devaux’s men accompany us so they’d know there’s nothing to fear.”

  He stepped closer and gave a firm knock.

  A bit of scurrying could be heard on the opposite side before silence commenced once more.

  Angelina pressed an ear to the door. Giving a trio of rhythmic raps, she raised her voice. “Lily, Iris, it’s me, Angelina. Please, open the door.”

  The door flew open so swiftly, it banged against the wall. Angelina grasped the frame to keep from pitching headfirst into the room. Amidst exclamation of surprise and delight, she was enveloped in exuberant hugs and kisses.

  “Lina! We have been dreadfully worried about you,” Lily gushed, diving in for another hearty squeeze.

  Iris angled away and dashed at the tears trickling from her eyes. “Yes, it’s been simply awful, not knowing if you were safe and with Mama being ill.”

  Angelina grinned at her sisters.

  “You missed me so much you came to England to see me?” She teased to lighten the mood.

  Her sisters’ once vivid blue eyes held a haunted glint. Dark shadows lurked beneath their lower lashes, and a haggard look lingered about their mouths. They’d lost weight, no doubt the result of being hunted by Pierre in addition to worrying about Mama.

  Angelina embraced them again. She’d missed the twins terribly. A swift scan of the shabby chamber showed no sign of her mother. Unease whispered rude speculation. Was she too sick to leave her bed?

  “It’s glad I am to see you, Miss Lina.” Martha had been with the family since shortly after Angelina’s birth, The servant stood beaming near a door on the other side of the cramped sitting room.

  Fresh tears stung Angelina’s eyes. She didn’t care if it was proper or not, she dashed into her old nursemaid’s arms. “Oh, Martha, I’ve missed you so.”

  Suddenly aware she’d left Flynn stranded at the doorway, Angelina waved for him to enter. “Please, come in.”

  He waited on the threshold, hat in hand, patiently watching the emotional reunion with her sisters.

  “I want to introduce you.” She attempted a watery smile, digging in her reticule for her handkerchief.

  His handkerchief appeared beneath her nose while she rummaged in her reticule. How did he continually manage to have a clean linen square on him when she could seldom find hers?

  “Thank you.” She dried her tears and wiped her nose.

  Three curious gazes swung between her and Flynn. Wadding his handkerchief into a tight ball, Angelina stuffed the cloth into her reticule and took a fortifying breath.

  Gads, how awkward. Introducing a new husband, when the last time she’d seen everyone had been at her wedding—to another man. Nothing for it. Best to dive right into the chaos, like rats in a rubbish bin. “I’d like to introduce you to my husband—”

  “Husband?” the twins gasped in unison. Their stunned blue eyes meshed in confusion.

  “Yes, we married almost two weeks ago.”

  Lily and Iris burst forth with a slew of questions.

  “Where did you meet him?”

  “How did you meet?”

  “Was it at a ball?”

  “Was it love at first sight?”

  “Shush, girls. Let your sister finish.” Martha gave Angelina an encouraging flick of her hand. “Go on, dear.”

  Angelina grasped Flynn’s hand, needing his strength. Thank goodness the twins had been sensible enough not to mention Pierre. Mayhap this ordeal had matured them a degree.

  “This is my husband, Lord Bretheridge. Flynn, these are my sisters Angelisa-Lily and Angelica-Iris, and,” she gestured to the servant, “this is a longtime family friend, Martha Gibson.”

  After a stunned pause, the three women dipped into deep curtsies.

  “A lord? Does that mean you’re a lady, Lina?” Excitement glittered in Lily’s eyes.

  She’d always been enamored of anything to do with royalty or nobility.

  She gaped at Flynn. “What is he? A viscount? Earl? Duke?”

  “Lily, do hush. You’re being rude and impertinent.” Iris elbowed her sister none too gently in the ribs.

  And Iris had always been overly concerned with appearances.

  Flynn’s lips twitched as he bent into an exaggerated bow. “Flynn, Marquis of Bretheridge, at your service.”

  “A marquis,” Lily breathed, awestruck.

  Even Iris seemed suitably impressed, gawking at Flynn, her eyes rounded in wonder.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, your lordship.” Martha bowed her head respectfully.

  “Martha? Girls?” Mama called weakly from behind the closed door. “Do I hear visitors? You know what the baron advised—”

  A fit of coughing erupted from the other room.

  Angelina grabbed the wobbly handle and swung the warped door open. “Mama, it’s me. I’ve come to take you home.”

  Her mother, ashen as the linens she recl
ined upon, lay on a narrow cot. Pillows at her back and a worn quilt folded at her feet, only a single candle lit the meager room.

  She tried to push to her elbows. “Angelina?”

  “Yes, Mama. I came as soon as Lord Devaux told us you were in London.” Sinking to her knees beside the bed, Angelina clutched her mother’s hand. “Oh, Mama.”

  She kissed the cool papery skin as tears flooded her eyes once more. “I’ve missed you.”

  “As I have you, child.” Another round of coughing wracked her mother’s thin frame. “Why, what day is it? The seventeenth of July?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “Canty birthday, my dear.” Mama touched Angelina’s cheek. “One and twenty.”

  She sighed with a far-off expression in her eyes. “My, how swiftly the time has passed.”

  “I prayed you’d be well by the time we arrived.” Angelina perused the sparse room again. The air hung thick and cloying, smelling slightly of cabbage and onions. No doubt from someone cooking on the lower level.

  “Have you seen a physician?” She brushed a tendril of graying hair off Mama’s cheek. “You sound awful.”

  Her mother gave a feeble nod. “One paid a call last week. He left an elixir, and Lily has her herbs.”

  Mama waved weakly toward the rickety table nestled beneath the lone grubby window. A hat-sized basket and a pestle in a mortar sat atop it. “She’s been steeping them for tea and poultices. I think they’re helping more than that foul stuff the doctor ordered me to take.”

  She patted Angelina’s hand and formed the faintest smile, as though the effort cost her a great deal.

  “Who’s that you have with you?” Mama peered at Flynn outlined in the doorway. “Please, come in and introduce yourself. The doctor assures me I’m not contagious and well onto the road to recovery.”

  She chuckled, a rattling cackle deep in her chest. “That featherbrain also thought a swallow of whisky every hour would help my condition. Given his slapdash appearance, I’d guess he abides by the practice himself, except he likely indulges in a nip every quarter hour.”

  Flynn strode to the side of the bed and made a half bow. “I’m Flynn, Lord Bretheridge.”

  He helped Angelina to her feet. “Angelina is my wife.”

  Surprise flashed across Mama’s features, even as her pale lips curved. “So, Lina, you took my advice after all and found yourself a handsome young lord.”

  Chapter 20

  “It’s been a week, Yancy.” Flynn tossed the playing card onto his desk.

  He’d waited an entire week after moving the Ellsworth women to his house in Berkeley Square for Yancy to finally appear with the promised evidence. Propping one booted foot on his knee, Flynn relaxed against the plush chair and drummed his fingers on the arms.

  “Yes, well, I was a trifle delayed in leaving Craiglocky.” Yancy twisted his mouth into a mocking grin. Not a jot of repentance registered in his expression.

  “No doubt a turquoise-eyed, tawny-haired beauty distracted you,” Flynn muttered, irritated. He stared at his friend, before turning his focus to the playing card lying atop his desk. “It’s marked, yes. How do you know it’s the duke’s?”

  “A footman found it wedged beneath the cushion of the chair Waterford sat in.” Yancy scratched his chin. He leaned forward and flipped the card over, tapping the illustration. “And it’s hand-painted. Notice the fine red diagonal line on our friend, the king, here?”

  He ran a manicured nail along the narrow crimson strip.

  Flynn bent closer, then rolled a shoulder. “So? Custom cards always differ somewhat.”

  A satisfied grin split Yancy’s face. “How many have family crests boasting a red banner? Waterford couldn’t resist having that detail added, the pompous arse.”

  “You’re familiar with his crest?” Flynn picked up the card again. His father had no doubt touched this very one, unaware it was marked—or that he would be compelled to take his life as a result of the duke’s cheating.

  The marking was clever. An insignificant scratch, really. Unless one knew what to search for.

  Flynn and Yancy did.

  “Waterford’s such a pretentious old bugger, he uses every excuse to flaunt his position and wealth.” Yancy laughed harshly. A ruthless glint entered his eye. “I’ll wager I can find the artist who painted it. Maybe even the deck missing this card. You could squash Waterford like an ant beneath your toe with either of those. If you wanted to.”

  He casually reclined in the leather wingback and took a sip of brandy, waiting for Flynn’s reply.

  Do I want to?

  Fingering the card, Flynn directed his attention to the window beside his desk. Above the hedge paralleling the house, he spied Lily and Iris. Arms linked and heads close together under a single parasol, they circled the compact side garden, enjoying the late afternoon sun.

  An iron fence, nearly hidden behind the tall hawthorn hedge, led to the street. On the opposite side of the garden, a scrolled cast iron arbor covered in jasmine and honeysuckle, under which sat a marble bench, provided a fragrant boudoir for those hoping to escape the sun.

  Rained had pelted London for the last five days. A few tenacious clouds lingered overhead, threatening more showers. In the distance, ominous black billows gathered—likely a thunderstorm.

  Standing in the lone patch of grass, Gregor guarded the women. Arms folded, he yawned, boredom evident on his face. Not a man accustomed to idleness.

  The giant Scot’s knowledge of healing plants caused friction between him and Lily. He insisted Mrs. Ellsworth drink a tea of licorice root, ginger, and horehound for her cough and ailing lungs. Lily wouldn’t permit the brew, arguing mallow and slippery elm were far better for treating such symptoms.

  And Doctor Tuttle, the incompetent cod’s head, wanted to bleed Mrs. Ellsworth and prescribe laudanum for her putrid sore throat.

  An irate Gregor and Lily practically chased the man from the house. They eventually came to some sort of an agreement concerning Mrs. Ellsworth’s treatment. Nevertheless, neither seemed inclined to wholly trust the other.

  Why hadn’t Gregor ever continued his studies and become a physician or alchemist? He certainly entertained a fascination for treating the ill.

  Flynn chuckled as Gregor heaved a sigh, rolling his eyes skyward.

  Yawning and stretching his massive arms overhead, the Scot followed the twins indoors.

  Flynn supposed Angelina’s absence in the garden meant she tended her mother. Mrs. Ellsworth hadn’t rebounded as they’d hoped she would. Her condition didn’t worsen, yet didn’t improve either.

  Angelina wrote the duchess and told her aunt of Mrs. Ellsworth’s arrival and her weakened state of health. A reply couldn’t be expected yet.

  It struck him rather odd that the duchess and her sister hadn’t seen each other in two decades.

  Concern for his mother niggled as well. Torn between staying in London to make sure his wife and her family remained safe and taking a short visit to Lambridge to look in on his family, he’d opted to wait. In another few days, and if Mrs. Ellsworth hadn’t improved enough to travel, he would send someone to check on Mother’s well-being.

  In fact, he would do that anyway. No sense in delaying. But Flynn couldn’t—wouldn’t—leave Angelina.

  His attempts to woo her were paying off by paltry degrees. At least he thought he made headway. The sweet smiles always on her lips made progress difficult to ascertain.

  He’d never been this unsure of a woman before. Prior to meeting Angelina, the ladies had always thrown themselves at him. He had simply chosen the one he favored at the moment.

  Zeus, I sound like a shallow cull.

  The evening they arrived at the Mayfair house, after everyone settled into their respective rooms, Angelina found him nur
sing a brandy in his study.

  Clasping her hands, her nervous gaze cavorting about the room, she blurted, “I want you to know that Mama misspoke when she suggested I had taken her advice. Before I sailed for England she jested about me someday finding another husband.”