The dowager duchess pounded her cane, and Struan mentally prepared himself for an even more difficult encounter than he’d anticipated. “Miss Wisteria,” she said, grunting as Blanche tucked pillows behind her thin body on the green chaise in her boudoir. “Have you ever heard such nonsense. Zinnia, Dahlia, and Wisteria. Why, any parent who would give such names to her daughters must be weak in the head, or evil-minded. Having met both Miss Dahlia and Miss Zinnia, I tend to think the former is the case.”
“I didn’t know you’d met Zinnia,” Arran said. Wearing a somewhat threadbare silk dressing gown over his heavily strapped chest and a bandage on his head, he sat in a large armchair. “It was Dahlia who came here with the innuendos I told you about, Struan. Something about a journal that could prove Rossmara indiscretions, and that someone or other wasn’t who they thought they were. Oh, and if she married Max, she’d keep it all quiet.” He chuckled.
“Miss Zinnia also made a visit,” the dowager said, setting her bony little frame more comfortably. “While you were all out gallivantin’ and maiming yourselves yesterday. When you came back, with all that commotion, I decided to wait to share what she had to say. Her announcement was that there was a book or some such thing, and that it contained information about a club of some sort. The League of Jolly Gentlemen, if you ever heard anything so foolish. Something to do with the late King George IV when he was Prince Regent. He named names in the book. And disgraceful liaisons between these so-called jolly gentlemen and women who were no better than they ought to be. She implied that a member of this family had belonged to the league although she didn’t seem to know who. And she suggested that the league hasn’t been disbanded but that there may yet be a Rossmara performing some sort of sexual rituals.”
Blanche squealed and fanned herself. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, it’s something to do with the stranger on horseback. Perhaps he’s a Rossmara no one knows about, and he’s doing, well, whatever’s being done.”
“Pah!” The dowager flapped at the back of her companion’s hand with a lacy handkerchief before continuing. “There is no such person, and there is no other Rossmara. Kindly keep tighter control on your imagination.
“Zinnia went on to say Max shouldn’t marry Lady Hermoine because she intended to use the book in some way to bring disgrace upon the family, but she, Zinnia, would find a way to save the day. After Max married her. Seems he has quite a gaggle of admirers—awful though they may be. Anyway, it’s all rubbish. I note there has been no further mention of a journal that might reveal some horrible family secret that would prove the Rossmaras aren’t the Rossmaras or whatever. Really, such wild tales. At the very least the silly creatures might try to tell the same story about their wretched book, or journal, or whatever.”
“We’re a wild lot,” Arran said, but he didn’t look concerned. “I admit I should like to know the identity of that fella that’s riding about on land he’s got no right to ride about on.”
“Bound to move on soon enough,” Struan said, although he didn’t like the idea of the man spying on the castle, either. “I agree with you, Grandmother. It’s all rubbish. These girls are trumping up pieces of nonsense with a view to turning them into cold cash.”
Arran laughed. “And a warm-blooded husband. The little hussies want your Max as a husband, don’t forget. Jealous of Lady Hermoine, that’s obvious. Did you tell Max?”
Struan hadn’t told Arran about the conversation he’d had with Max the previous evening. The ill feeling between himself and the man he would always consider his eldest son troubled him deeply. “I didn’t tell Max,” he said to Arran. “He’s enough on his mind at present.”
“He has indeed,” Arran said, shifting a little in the chair, and wincing.
Blanche rushed to him and stroked back his hair, failing to make her customary mention of its being too long, and the tail unfashionable. “My poor boy,” she crooned. “Thank goodness our dear Grace didn’t witness that terrible fall. She hasn’t a strong mind, and it might have quite unhinged her.”
“Grace has a steel mind,” Arran said shortly, jerking his head from his mother-in-law’s ministrations, and wincing at the pain he caused himself. “Your daughter is the most sensible woman I ever met.” He smiled at Blanche. “She is also the most sensual creature on the face of the earth, thank God. And I shall always be grateful that she’s mine.”
“Well,” Blanche said huffily. “Sensual? Oh, really.”
“Perhaps we should deal with this Wisteria person,” Struan said. He wanted to talk to Max, to make things right between them, not that one inch could be given on the question of Kirsty Mercer. Max, however, had made himself scarce since last evening.
Blanche rushed to pull the bell. “My lady must not become excited,” she said, positively bobbing on her toes. “Son-in-law, do tell her that all will be well.”
“Ah, the trials one bears for the women one loves,” Arran said. “Don’t worry, mother-in-law. Like your daughter, the dowager duchess has a steel mind, and a steel will. She will do well enough, I’m sure.”
Just then Shanks appeared and was told to bring up their visitor. He returned and showed in a plump female indistinguishable from her pretty, if vacuous sisters, except that rather than black or red, her hair was white-blond. However, it billowed out around her face in exactly the same manner as her sisters’ hair. With a rush of tiny steps she gained the center of the boudoir and stood winding her fingers together, holding her lower lip in her teeth, and batting heavily painted lashes.
Only by exercise of extreme will did Arran suppress a groan.
“Very well,” the dowager said. “There is no need for any introductions. We know who you are. The only question is, what do you want?”
The creature swayed, and smiled coyly, and dimpled, and made little crooning noises.
“I feel a serious headache descending,” Arran said.
The dowager said, “Be quick, girl. Can’t you see we are not at our best today?”
“You’re the marquess.” Wisteria pointed at Arran and dipped a curtsy. “And you’re the viscount.” Struan got a dip. “The Dowager Duchess of Franchot. Oh, I’m so honored to meet you, m’lady.” Yet another dip.
Blanche got no acknowledgment.
“I’m Miss Wisteria. My mother was Countess Grabham’s dearest friend and when my mother died the countess insisted that she take me to live with her. Of course, I wouldn’t hear of being separated from my sisters, so the countess took them, too. She’s done her best with them, she really has, but you can’t make a sow’s purse out of a silk ear, can you?”
Struan realized his mouth was open and closed it.
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Blanche Bastible said.
“You,” the dowager told Blanche, “will be silent. Now, girl, why are you here?”
“It pains me,” Wisteria said, lowering her heavy lashes. “I’d much rather not ’ave to do this, but a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. I’ve no means but those the countess is good enough to give me, so I need to find my own way, don’t I?”
Struan assessed Wisteria’s expensive fringed, glacé silk shawl. The garment was exquisitely embroidered and of the same pale yellow as her gown. Of silk, the latter creation frothed with rows of exquisite lace. The same lace peeked from beneath the brim of her bonnet.
Poor Wisteria. “The kindness of strangers can be hard to bear,” he said.
She pointed at him rudely. “You understand perfectly. Anyway, I think it would be better if I talked to the old lady on my own—being that Max is her grandson.”
An awful silence followed.
Wisteria opened her blue eyes wide. “Did I say something out of place?”
“We will all be remaining,” Arran told her. “Mr. Max Rossmara is Her Ladyship’s great grandson, her granddaughter’s son.”
“Ooh,” Wisteria said, peering at the dowager. “You are really old, aren’t you.”
The sound of the dowager
’s dry chuckle made Struan start. “Amazing,” she said. “Truly amazing. Tell your tale, please, Miss Wisteria.”
“In front of all of them?” She hooked a thumb over her shoulder.
“Yes.”
“But it’s about you, dowager.”
“Really?” the dowager said. “Then I hope it’s interesting. It’s been a very long time since there was anything interesting to be said about me.”
“Suit yourself.” Wisteria shrugged her rounded shoulders. “There’s a certain book. A journal thing.”
Struan looked at the ceiling.
“It’s been hidden, see, but now it’s come to light, and someone’s got it. And I know who that someone is, and I can get it.”
“A journal?” the dowager said.
Blanche fanned faster.
“Damning, is it?” Arran asked.
Wisteria nodded emphatically. “Oh, yes, very damning. Are you sure I should talk in front of them?” she asked the dowager.
“Quite sure.”
“Well, it’s about how you were a live one when you wasn’t so old.”
Struan shook his head, met his brother’s eyes, and suppressed a laugh when he saw how Arran struggled with the same problem. One wondered why the daughter of the countess’s closest friend spoke in such a manner—and possessed no social grace.
“You was quite the one in London back then.”
“Was I?”
“You know you was. I’m afraid to come out and say it. It’s so awful.”
“Oh, good,” Struan remarked.
“You shouldn’t make fun of an old lady,” Wisteria admonished him. “Especially when she’s being told how her reputation’s going to be ruined if she doesn’t do as she’s told.”
“Well, I never,” Blanche exploded. “I’m calling Shanks to have her thrown out at once.”
“Hush,” the dowager said. “This is most entertainin’. Let Wisteria finish.”
Wisteria affected wounded sensibilities and even managed a tear or two. “I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t ’ave to. You ’ad an affair with the king. There, ’ow about that? That should be worth something to all of you to keep me quiet.”
“Which king was that?” the dowager asked, and the rest of the company—with the exception of clearly confused Wisteria—burst into laughter.
Wisteria’s confusion turned her face red. When the laughter subsided, she said, ” ’Ow many kings did you ’ave it on with, then?”
“Answer the question,” Struan told her. “And be quick about it. You’ve already overstayed your welcome—you had when you arrived.”
“Well, it was King George III, of course. The mad one. Long before my time, of course, but I was told ’ow they used to meet at Windsor Castle and use the King’s own bedchamber, the one he shared with his wife. And quite often ’is wife was with them. Isn’t that one that’ll rock the ton.”
“Oh, rock it, rock it,” Arran said, and hummed. He tapped a rhythm on the arm of his chair with his free hand. “Rock it, rock it. There could be some form of primitive verse there. Perhaps I could write a tune to go with it.”
“Anyway,” Wisteria said, her lips thinned, “I’m prepared to bargain.”
“Blackmail, you mean,” the dowager said. “Your terms?”
“A girl like me ’as to look after herself. I need something permanent. Now, Lady Hermoine wouldn’t be any good at all for Max Rossmara. I want you to make sure he marries me instead.”
• • •
Max returned to the castle soaked, from a rainfall in the early hours of the morning, from dew later, and from his own sweat once the sun came up and he’d become too heated by his efforts.
He’d walked the moors all night since leaving Kirsty, and come daylight he’d climbed to a high vantage point on Kirkcaldy to think and wait for a vicious headache to pass. He’d decided that he had no driving need to drink, and in future he would not do so except in moderate quantities. And he would control this habit of venting his temper. After all, before he became so desperate about the situation with Kirsty he had neither drunk to excess, nor lost his temper unnecessarily. But now he returned with no more idea of how to proceed with Kirsty than he’d had when he left. Her soft voice whispered over and over, Ye bad man, ye. Threatenin’ someone ye know is weaker. Words spoken through a door. And, Max, please, as, naked and so lovely, she’d offered herself to him, and he’d denied her.
At that moment he’d felt crushed by his inability to comfort her as she deserved to be comforted. His own confusion had disgusted him. He was unfit to breathe the same air as that poor, dear girl and he must find a way to beg her forgiveness.
When he passed her rooms, he crept, ensuring he made no sound. No doubt she remained there, hiding, too embarrassed to show her face.
He reached his own door and stopped. He could not face going in yet. Not to be shut away alone with the knowledge of what he had done to her. And knowing that she was so close yet there was nothing he could think of to ease the humiliation he’d heaped upon her sweet head.
Like Kirsty, he was without choices that were possible to make. She’d left her family thinking they would never turn their backs on her. She’d been wrong. If he denied his parents wishes now, he was certain he would be severed from their love. After all, his real parents had found it simple enough to turn their backs on him. He didn’t even have a blood relationship with the Rossmaras.
He hadn’t eaten since the previous day.
Retracing his steps, he made his way belowstairs to the kitchens. Mrs. Moggach didn’t like intrusions from “themselves,” and still regarded Max as an interloper anyway— what she termed, an upstarty laddie—but she now made sure she didn’t openly offend him.
Mrs. Moggach wasn’t in the kitchens.
Much giggling greeted Max as he entered and some moments passed before a group of maids, a groom, and a male servant he didn’t recognize became aware of him. They’d been huddled together around one maid who sat in a chair near the great fireplace. When they looked up, the seated maid stuffed a small book into her apron pocket and leaped to her feet.
Max nodded in response to their chorus of greeting. He made no comment about the groom’s presence, nor did he comment on their rowdy behavior. “Coffee?” he asked. “And some of the apple pie from yesterday, if there’s any left.”
The maid with the book, a tall, pretty, dark-haired girl, put herself forward and said, “There’s no’ any pie, Mr. Rossmara, but we’ve a fresh lemon tart if ye’d care t’try it.”
“That will do very well, thank you. Make it a large piece, and I’ll take two cups of coffee and plenty of cream.”
The slightest giggle was quickly snuffed out, but he didn’t miss the knowing glances that passed between the servants. There must already be talk about his relationship with Kirsty. Let them think what they might. He must make certain she didn’t suffer more than she had already.
“Where will ye be takin’ it then, sir?” the maid asked, suppressing a smile. “It’ll be along very shortly.”
“I’ll carry it with me, thank you.” He smelled the coffee bubbling on the hob. “If that’s not too much trouble?”
While a tray was assembled, Max wandered around the kitchen, and stopped before the closed door to the butler’s pantry. Curtains were drawn across windows that overlooked the kitchen. Almost drawn. Through a narrow gap in the curtains he saw Shanks and Moggach seated close together and reading from the same book, a small book. From time to time they slapped their own, or each other’s thigh, winked, and snuggled close.
Max frowned, unable to believe what he saw. He was actually witnessing some sort of romantic encounter. Between Shanks and Moggach. And what the devil was this reading craze that had overtaken the staff?
“Mr. Rossmara? It’s ready if ye please. Are ye sure ye—”
“Quite sure, thank you.” He picked up the tray and carried it to the main floor, then crossed to the Eve Tower and climbed to the corridor leading to the rosy
rooms.
He balanced the tray in one arm and knocked. When there was no response he put his face to the very door and said, “Kirsty. It’s Max. May I come in, please.” A quiet and rational approach would be best.
After several attempts to get an answer from her, he tried the door and was surprised to find it unlocked. Inside, the sitting room was entirely neat. Not a sign of his childish breaking spree remained except for the bare tabletop near the chair where he’d sat.
She’d cleaned up after him and gone to bed—and been unable to make herself get up again.
On the balls of his feet, he went toward the bedroom where the door stood open. “Kirsty, it’s Max. I’ve come to beg you to forgive me. I’m a fool. I don’t deserve you. I never have. I should be horsewhipped for the way I treated you last night.”
Of course she didn’t answer him. She must be exhausted from crying and sleeplessness.
With the tray in both hands, he went cautiously into her bedroom and looked at the bed.
Not a wrinkle showed in the counterpane. The bedroom was as immaculate as the sitting room. And Kirsty wasn’t in either room.
For an instant he thought she might have left. Gone to beg her parents to take her back, perhaps, or if he was truly unlucky, simply taken off with no idea where she was going.
But he soon discovered that her clothes were still in the wardrobe and her cheap, worn Bible with its cardboard covers was in its place beside the bed. The nightgown she’d worn the previous evening was carefully folded in the top drawer of a chest where her pathetically few personal possessions had been put.
He picked up the tray from the chest under the window and sat on the same chest with the tray on his lap.
Where was she?
Had she made the room neat so that no one would think there was anything amiss, then gone to do something awful? Would she take her own life?
Max didn’t know where to start looking for her. He picked up a cup of coffee and drank it to the dregs in two mouthfuls. The tart he ate by breaking off pieces with his fingers. He finished the huge piece, barely noticing its taste, and topped it off by drinking the second cup of coffee.
The Wish Club Page 27