“Are you?”
Struan glowered. “Am I what?”
“Overreacting,” Arran said in the calm tone he adopted when baiting his younger brother.
“Have you condoned behavior on my son’s part that would not have been acceptable to me?”
Arran smiled at Max. “I rest my case. Not a scrap of evidence to go on, yet he accuses me of some sort of crime against his judgment.”
“Very well.” Struan marched over fallen volumes, all but losing his balance on his way to drop into an armchair. “Enough of this shilly-shallying. You, my boy”—he pointed at Max—“waited until I was out of the way and installed Kirsty Mercer right here. Right here. Here in this tower where you are the only inhabitant. You are the only inhabitant because you perform the most important task to this estate—to this family—and your wish for privacy has been respected by us all.”
“Masterful, he is,” Arran said. “Best thing that ever happened to us, Max is. I give thanks for him every day.”
Struan drummed his fingers on the arms of the chair. “He knows his mother and I have certain ambitions for him.”
“Wouldn’t be natural if you weren’t ambitious for your children,” Arran said. He picked up books and began shelving them. “Grace and I have ambitions for ours, I can tell you.”
“No doubt,” the viscount said. “And I don’t suppose affairs with peasants are among them, eh?”
“Very important to get along well with everyone, old boy,” Arran said, checking titles. “A successful estate commissioner takes care of the affairs of every man, woman, and child, and feels responsible for their happiness.”
“That’s it,” Struan thundered. “You are in an impossible mood, Arran, and I refuse to waste my time on you.”
“I say.” Arran planted his big hands on his hips. “Overly aggressive this morning, aren’t we? You know full well that I prefer my own company at this hour of the day. I came to join you out of filial affection.”
“Stop it!” Blood pulsed at Max’s temples. “Stop it, I tell you, or I’ll not be responsible for my actions.”
Father smacked the arms of his chair. “Don’t take that tone—”
“I said, stop it,” Max said, and kicked a heap of books with enough force to send several into the air. Arran took one against his thigh. Another knocked a Staffordshire dog to the floor, where it broke into many pieces.
Struan leaped to his feet. “In God’s name, Max! Control yourself. You’re a man, not a boy—to lose your temper so.”
“I’m a man,” Max shouted, rubbing his brow. “A man. My decisions are my own to make. I’ll damn well do—”
“Max,” Arran said loudly, “it’s all right, old chap. Your father’s tired from the journey.”
Struan pounded a fist on Max’s desk, and said, “Don’t make excuses for me,” to Arran. “And don’t take his side against me. I’d have thought you of all people would be concerned for little Kirsty Mercer. We’re not the kind of men to use those who rely upon us not only for their living, but for moral guidance.”
“Damn righteousness,” Max growled. “You’ve tried me for some sin and found me guilty. Now what? The sentence?”
“My darling Justine will be devastated.”
“Why?” Max flexed his fingers. They shook, and curling them into fists didn’t stop them from shaking. “Mother has no reason to be devastated by anything to do with me. I serve you all well.”
“You speak as if what you do is only to our advantage,” Arran said. His arched brows rose.
“Not so,” Max responded. “You know what my work means to me. You know how dedicated I am to this estate, to you, the family—all of it. This has become my life.”
“What do you think will happen if unrest breaks out among the tenants?” Struan turned cold eyes on Max. “Have you considered that? We have maintained the best of relationships between ourselves and those who live on our lands. Those relationships are responsible for our success during times when other great estates have struggled. We could have chosen to become part of the clearings. We could have driven people away in favor of sheep, but we curse those lairds who have committed such crimes against humanity. And we have drawn strength, and we have prospered for this. But our people are proud. They will react to any suggestion that we have ceased to respect them and theirs.”
“There is no unrest,” Max told him. “And there will be no unrest. Not because of any fault of mine.”
“Use an innocent girl who is loved and respected by many, and you’ll eat those words. We’ll all eat them with you.”
“You, of course, never bedded a woman until you married Mama,” Max said. He saw Arran tense but would not stop now even if he could. “When you found my sister in a brothel—a happy night for her, and for me—but when you found her, you were not there to save souls, were you? Were you perhaps partaking in what it is that those places offer?”
“Max,” Arran said quietly, “that’s enough, boy.”
“Oh, no,” Struan said, a jeering note in his voice. “Let him say what he really thinks of me.”
Max swallowed. He held his father’s eyes as long as he could before having to look away. “I think you’re the best of men,” he muttered. “You saved my sister, and you saved me, and you owed neither of us anything. You are good to your very core, and I regret causing you concern.”
Arran slapped his hands together and rubbed his palms so that they squeaked. “There, then, all is forgiven and forgotten. We are ourselves again. I suggest we ride out toward the north and take a look at things there.”
“All is not forgotten,” Struan told his brother. “I appreciate my son’s pretty speech, but we will make things clear between us now. Max, you know that your mother and I have received the overtures of Countess Grabham on behalf of her niece, Lady Hermoine?”
Max leafed through a book, dropped it, and selected another.
“You do know this,” the viscount said. “We have given them to believe that we look favorably upon a match between you.”
“A man of my age may hope to make such decisions for himself,” Max said.
“I’d prefer never to mention this, but you are not like most men of the standing you’ve come to regard as your due.”
Max looked at him sharply. “Most gentlemen are not bastards from the gutters of London,” he said. “Is that what you mean?”
“It is not what I mean,” Struan replied. His lips were white and drawn tight. “I mean that we have done our best to bring you up as a gentleman and, in fact, that is what you are. But now it is of the essence that you have a suitable wife. A lady. Someone who will help you by opening doors that might otherwise be closed to you.”
“I’m able to go wherever I choose,” Max pointed out. “Why should I need to marry to continue to do what I already do?”
“Because we demand it,” Struan said, visibly restraining himself. “Justine and I demand that you prove us right. We have spent all the years of your growing up defending our right to choose you as our son. Now we want to be certain there can be no more question.”
“I didn’t think you cared what people thought—”
“Not for ourselves! Think, Max, think. You will have children. They deserve the same chances Ella and Saber will give their children. And what of your younger brother and sister? They love and respect you. They think of you as their brother in every way. It would not be tenable for them to be forced to acknowledge you in the circles in which they will move if you insist upon being drawn to lower stations.”
Max wanted to walk out. He wanted to take the very clothes from his back and toss them aside, saying he would keep nothing that had been granted him with a price attached. He wanted to punch his father for the snob he was, and for shattering the high regard in which Max had always held him.
“Max,” Arran said, and Max glanced at him. “Time, boy, time. Give it time. Many things are said in the heat of emotion that would not otherwise be said. Or, if they were,
they would be said differently.”
“I asked the dowager a direct question,” his father said. “I asked her if she had seen you during the night. She is a difficult woman, but an honest one. She said she had.”
“True,” Max told him.
“She is also far too attached to you and your sister,” Father said. “I asked her where she had spoken to you, and she was evasive. But I had already been told, in a very discreet manner, of course, about Kirsty’s presence here. The servants are talking, dammit. You were with Kirsty when the dowager came to you, weren’t you?”
“I hardly think I have to account for my actions.”
“Yes, of course you were with her. Thank you for admitting as much so easily. The question is, where were you with her? The hour was exceedingly late. The dowager should not have insisted upon going to you, but she will always have her own way. Where were you so late in the evening, my son?”
Arran opened Max’s violin case and removed the instrument and the bow. As easily as most men raised a glass, he raised the violin and began to tune it.
“That diversion won’t work, Arran,” his brother said. “ Where, Max? In bed?”
“Yes.”
“Your own bed.”
Max laughed. “What would constitute positive proof of what you evidently believe? The bed I slept in last night?”
“You may live to regret your lack of respect, my boy,” his father said. “Answer my question. The sooner we clear the air, the sooner we can decide how to proceed.”
Max met Arran’s eyes. Arran nodded slightly.
“Very well,” Max said. “I was in bed when Great-grandmama came. In the bedroom in the rosy rooms. I was with Kirsty Mercer. I’m glad I was with her.”
“My God,” Struan muttered. “And the staff all suspect as much. It will be all over the countryside in no time. What if she’s with child?”
“He’ll have to marry her,” Arran said promptly, and with no hint of a smile.
“Kirsty isn’t with child,” Max said, seething at this inquisition. “A certain act would be necessary for that to be the case. I have lain in the same bed as Kirsty Mercer—and pray that I shall do so again—but I have not known her.”
“You must think us weak-brained,” Struan said.
Max approached until he stood toe-to-toe with the man he loved as he loved no other. “I think I would like to believe you are not calling me a liar. I have not copulated with Kirsty—although I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to.”
“Praise be,” Struan said. He punched Max’s arm lightly. “I don’t want you to think I am callous, my boy. I know how it is to love, and love deeply, and I wish it were sensible for me to encourage you in what I know you want. It isn’t. But you are a man of finer feelings. You will be happier when you know your Kirsty is well taken care of.”
Max said, “Meaning what?”
His father smiled, but not, Max noted, with any great assurance. “Why . . . Sometimes I forget you’re not accustomed to all aspects of a gentleman’s way. We must put family and family connections first. We’ll get you married to Lady Hermoine. It’ll do wonders for your stock, boy. And we’ll find a suitable husband for Kirsty. Someone solid, who will respect and look after her. She’ll soon be too busy as a wife and mother to remain in this position you’ve fabricated for her, and she’ll leave. You may not believe it now, but there is some truth in the saying, ‘out of sight, out of mind.’ ”
“Damn you!” Max lunged at his father.
Arran’s unyielding arm wrapped around Max’s body, bound his arms to his sides and stopped him from striking the man he loved most.
• • •
“You’ve got to come at once, son-in-law,” Blanche Bastible said, her unfashionable blond ringlets bobbing. She held up her voluminous red, green, and gold tarlatan skirts and surveyed the mess in Max’s library with distaste. “Her Grace sent me. Or rather I know she wanted me to come for you. What is the matter with you, Viscount Hunsingore? Are you feeling unwell?”
Arran filled his lungs and prayed for patience. “Everything is perfectly fine, mother-in-law,” he said. “Why not return to the dowager and see what you can do to make her more comfortable. She undertakes journeys that are too strenuous for a woman of her age.”
“Too strenuous? Hah, so you think. My dear lady will outlive us all, you see if she doesn’t. And you have no need to think any of you will see a penny of her fortune. Oh, no, she won’t be wasting her fortune on any of you.”
Blanche’s talent for switching topics never ceased to irritate Arran. “Well, since we’ll all predecease the good lady, we need not concern ourselves with such matters. Please close the door as you leave.”
“Oh, you don’t understand. That dreadful female is here. She’s with the dowager now, chattering and fussing. And she’s demanding to see you.” Blanche smiled adoringly at Max. “I’m sure it would be all right if the marquess went alone, though. There’s no need for you or your father to be bothered with the nasty creature, my dear boy.”
“Which nasty creature would that be?” Arran asked, smiling indulgently. Blanche was annoying but had proved her loyalty to the family on more than one occasion—and she was his beloved Grace’s mother.
“She says she has information you won’t want spread around. There is a threat in the way she talks, I tell you. Most distressing.” Blanche fluffed her curls, tweaked the ribbons on her cap, and smoothed her bodice over very considerable curves. There was about her a youthfulness that belied her more than sixty years.
“I’ll go down with you, Arran,” Struan said.
“You’ll do no such thing, young man,” Blanche said, showing her ongoing disapproval of Struan, whom she considered to have supported Arran in keeping her from a suitably elevated position in local society. “I said she wants the marquess only. He is the one who stands to suffer if that creature doesn’t get her way.”
Arran looked from Max, to Struan. Struan frowned. His steady stare in his son’s direction suggested they were far from done with their conversation. “What does she want?” Struan asked. “Whoever she is?”
“Satisfaction, she said.” Blanche flapped her soft hands. “How should I know what that means? But she wants satisfaction because she hasn’t talked out of turn like some people, she says. The dowager is obviously detaining the silly woman until Arran gets there.”
At last Max turned from his father and gave his attention to Blanche. “What are you talking about, Mrs. Bastible?” His tone wasn’t unkind. “Is Lady Hermoine here so early? I can’t think why she would go to Great-grandmama.”
“Lady Hermoine? Oh, no, not that charming, cultured creature—who, by the by, will make a most welcome addition to this household. This is a person of quite a different sort, apparently the daughter of an acquaintance of the countess’s—undoubtedly someone of the lower classes. A Miss Dahlia, or so she calls herself. The countess, saint that she is, has undertaken the care of this Miss Dahlia and her two sisters.”
“Thank you, mother-in-law,” Arran said. “Most kind of you to put yourself out so early in the morning.”
“It isn’t good for my constitution to rise before noon,” Blanche said, but she simpered. “However there is nothing that is too great a sacrifice for my dearest lady—or for any of you, and I must say that the girl, Mairi, has come along quite nicely. She accomplished my toilette in a remarkably efficient manner.” Mairi would not see her thirty-fifth birthday again, yet she remained a “girl” to Blanche.
“I’d best go to the dowager at once,” Arran said. “You two have considerable work to accomplish,” he told Struan and Max, weighting his words with meaning.
“I shall accompany you, son-in-law,” Blanche said, nimbly making her way through debris to the door. “The dear dowager will be quite exhausted by now.”
“I’m right behind you,” Arran said, and before closing the door told Struan and Max, “I shall expect to find you both here when I return. I don’t anticipate
a long interview with the fair Dahlia. Put your differences aside. Together we are a formidable power. We will not jeopardize that for the sake of misunderstanding and pride.”
He didn’t wait to see their reaction to his words, but followed Blanche’s girlish tripping down flights of stairs to the entry hall, through a series of corridors, and up more flights in the Adam Tower to the rooms the dowager preferred to use on her visits. She awaited them in the Green Salon.
Seated beside her on a velvet divan, the woman Arran recognized as one of three sisters who lived at The Hallows sat with every appearance of one at war with her conscience. Her brightly rouged lips trembled, as did her hands, the fingers constantly winding the handle of the woven silver reticule in her lap. Large brown eyes shone with moisture, and she blinked repeatedly.
God, Arran thought, please don’t let the hussy start blubbering . “Good day to you, miss,” he said formally. “I understand you have requested an audience with me.”
“Audacity,” the dowager said. Still in her nightgown, robe, and cap, a large black shawl draped over all made her appear even smaller and more frail. “To push her way in here at such an hour, then to refuse to come out with what she thinks is so important. Audacity.” She held her ebony cane before her and this she thumped on the floor—not, from Arran’s experience, a happy sign for things to come.
“Oh, Your Lordship,” the young woman said, rising, then sinking into a low and somewhat wobbly curtsy.
Arran said, “Yes, yes. Very well. What seems to be the trouble?”
Hair the color of carrots past their prime puffed out around Dahlia’s face, and looped into many intricate braids. A jaunty chapeau in rose satin clashed badly with the ripe carrot. Her military-style Crispin mantle, trimmed with brown velvet braid, suggested that no expense was spared on Miss Dahlia’s wardrobe.
Blanche Bastible fussed around the dowager, who continued to amaze Arran in her open affection for his mother-in-law.
“You see,” the dowager said, pounding the floor with her cane again, “the foolish creature has come here and made a great many veiled threats and will not explain herself fully.”
The Wish Club Page 18