Proceed henceforth all you want, you contemptuous windbag, but I’m not done in yet.
“And naturally, I shall insist my solicitor be present when we do.” With as much poise as Gwendolyn could marshal, she nodded at Dugall and Lloyd before vacating the study and nearly plowing into the housekeeper outside the doorway.
Her ears red-tipped, Mrs. Norris suddenly applied herself to polishing the hall table with commendable vengeance, while Lowry just as studiously fussed with a fresh floral arrangement. For someone who’d never touched the apparatus before in her life, even Aunt Barbara wielded a feather duster with admirable finesse.
A trio of well-intended eavesdroppers.
How much had they heard?
Enough to fan the edges of their eyes with concern.
Movement drew Gwendolyn’s attention to the upstairs landing. Elspeth and Miss Dolina, arms entwined and heads bent near, slowly approached the risers.
“Would you please accompany me to the kitchen?” Gwendolyn included all three in her request, knowing full well Mr. Christie was but a few steps behind her and wouldn’t hesitate to intrude.
Fiddling with the feather duster, Aunt Barbara fell in step beside Gwendolyn, and the contrite butler and housekeeper followed. No one spoke, and their footsteps rang flatly on the parquet floor.
Gwendolyn ought to reprimand the servants for eavesdropping and Aunt Barbara for being a poor example, but for what she schemed, she’d need their cooperation. Besides, their lives were affected, too. No sense in pretending false affront when she might’ve done the same thing had she been in their positions.
As they descended the stairs to the kitchen, she glanced behind her.
“Mrs. Norris, I’m afraid Mr. Christie’s current room is unsuitable.” Gwendolyn swung her gaze to Lowry, not at all surprised to see his eyebrows inch upward. “His accommodations should be appropriate for someone of his station, should they not?”
Befuddlement notched deep grooves in Mrs. Norris’s forehead, but she nodded, nonetheless.
“Though it poses an inconvenience,” Gwendolyn said with an apologetic smile, “we’ll need to move him to another chamber.”
“Indeed, Miss, I quite understand.” Lowry agreed, a distinct twinkle in his azure eyes. “I shall have the footmen move his possessions at once. Where might I ask to?”
“Perhaps . . . one of the bedchambers in the unused wings?” Understanding dawning, Mrs. Norris ventured tentatively. Growing bolder, she squared her shoulders. “The one popular with uninvited guests?”
Oh, well done you, Mrs. Norris. No dull nib, there.
Merriment cavorting in his eyes, Lowry smothered a chuckle.
“Precisely.” It would be a goodly distance from the rest of the household too, although Gwendolyn would still have the McTavish men positioned to watch the bedchamber.
They reached the kitchen, and the delicious aromas of tonight’s dinner swathed them. Hopefully, Cook wouldn’t be too put upon with what Gwendolyn was about to request.
Aunt Barbara selected a sweetmeat from the dessert tray and eyed it thoughtfully. “Gwendolyn, sugah’, don’t uninvited guests have a particular fondness for sweets?” She held up the confection, and blinked innocently.
Ah, Aunt Barbara was on to her game as well.
Gwendolyn grinned. “They do indeed. Lowry, will you see that an assortment of delicacies are left in the chamber Mrs. Norris selects for Mr. Christie?”
With any luck, the varmints would partake of the offerings whilst Mr. Christie was present. Ought to make him feel right at home, the oversized rodent.
“Oh, and Cook, you’ll be pleased to know, the baked trout is back on the menu for tonight.” Gwendolyn offered her most beguiling smile by way of an apology. “Perhaps you could manage salmon too? And even a vegetable dish? That scrumptious cabbage, potato, and onion one you served the other night—rumbledethumps, wasn’t it?—would be simply marvelous.”
Mr. Christie would find the hospitality so lacking at Sutfford House, he’d be eager to leave at first light in the morn.
“But Mr. Christie dinna care for fish or vegetables.” Holding a spoon coated in something green she’d been stirring in a large bowl, Cook’s full brows wrestled each other.
“He doesn’t.” Gwendolyn accepted the shortbread Aunt Barbara offered.
Cook glanced between Lowry and Mrs. Norris before returning her attention to Gwendolyn. A slow smile framed her mouth as she nodded. “Aye, I can make rumbldethumps. Clapshot be neeps, tatties, and onions, and easy enough to prepare if’n ye like that too, lass.”
Charming, how ready the staff was to ensure their guest didn’t overstay his welcome.
Warming to the occasion, Cook wobbled the dripping spoon. “And I’ve peas ready for mushy peas.”
Mushy peas? Sounded revolting, and from the thick greenish glops dropping from the spoon, disgusting enough to puke a dog off a gut wagon.
“Absolutely perfect.” Gwendolyn bit into the light shortbread. This was one aspect of Scotland she quite liked. “As is this shortbread. Heavenly.”
She winked at Cook and was rewarded with a toothy grin.
“Mrs. Norris,” Gwendolyn said, “if you’ll show me the chambers we discussed when I first arrived, we’ll select the most fitting for Mr. Christie.”
And then . . . Gwendolyn must have a word with Dugall about that other disconcerting matter.
Chapter 20
Dugall handed the last parchment to Hollingsworth. “What do ye think?”
The original will, and at least a portion of the amendments, appeared authentic, but amongst the documents were pages that appeared newer. The papers were crisper, less yellowed, and the ink less faded.
Would Hollingsworth conclude the same? Especially since the agent appointment stipulation was detailed in a newer document?
Christie might explain the discrepancy away by claiming those were the final codicils McClintock added. Hard to disprove that, truth to tell. They’d need to know the last time Christie met with McClintock.
Hopefully, there’d be a record of some sort of Christie’s appointments at his Edinburgh firm.
Hollingsworth set the final sheet down, then bowed his head and rubbed his nape. “I think we need an expert to examine the lot, Ferguson. I suspect Christie’s added pages after my uncle’s death.” He pointed to a signature. “This signature isnae quite the same. See the G and M? Could be because my uncle was ailin’, but . . .”
Interesting he hadn’t referred to McClintock as his grandfather. That Hollingsworth acknowledged the amendments naming him agent were likely forged, made Dugall regard his old nemesis from a new perspective.
And Hollingsworth had also agreed about the signatures. Dugall had noticed the slight difference as well. Unfortunately, an accomplished liar like Christie could easily explain the discrepancy.
Nonetheless, nothing could’ve lifted Hollingsworth higher in Dugall’s estimation, nor given him more cause to trust him, than that statement. Nevertheless, Dugall was no fool, and he wasn’t ready to put his complete faith in Hollingsworth just yet.
Why, only an hour ago, his hushed conversation with Miss Whitworth in the corridor had raised Dugall’s qualms.
What had Miss Whitworth meant when she’d said Hollingsworth promised her something? What, exactly? Why had circumstances changed?
And why was she lurking in the passageway afterward?
Spying for Hollingsworth? Or was she up to some other mischief?
Dugall needed to make Gwendolyn aware of that tidbit. She couldn’t be too careful.
“So we’re in agreement?” Dugall ruffled the edges of the stack. “Some of these are counterfeit?”
“Aye, though I have to be honest with ye. I dinna ken how we’ll prove it. Unless there’s an
original hidden somewhere. And even then, it’s not unusual to amend one copy and not the others.” Hollingsworth scratched behind his ear. “We need a witness. A clerk perhaps who can testify to Christie’s deceit.”
Dugall wandered to the window, and after edging the crimson drape festooning the tall pane aside, nodded. “He might’ve written the amendments himself, but I’d be willin’ to bet my stallion, a clerk filed the documents. Christie’s kind thinks he’s above menial tasks.”
He touched his coat pocket where the letter he’d been awaiting lay tucked. He’d discovered it on his nightstand after Gwendolyn had left his chamber.
The news came as no surprise.
He was to report to the Diplomatic Corps’ office within the week to complete the necessary documentation, and he’d start his training a fortnight later.
Oughtn’t he be jubilant? His lifelong dream had come to fruition. He’d soon be an agent for the War Office. Perhaps more. Maybe eventually a spy as Ewan had been.
The timing couldn’t be worse, however. For Gwendolyn, that was. How could Dugall leave her when fresh havoc had been wreaked upon her and things looked to become even more complicated?
No matter how many times he tried to tell himself she wasn’t his responsibility, that he couldn’t risk foregoing his career until she was in a safe position, he couldn’t put aside his concern for her.
It’s more than simple concern.
It couldn’t be.
Too late.
From the moment he’d looked into her startling green eyes and she’d spoken in that irritating, endearing drawl, she’d burrowed her way beneath his skin and tunneled a path to his heart.
Nae, she had done more.
She’d touched his spirit. A man as experienced with carnal delights as he, recognized the rarity.
Such utter hopelessness had swept her delicate features when Christie announced he controlled the estate and monies. Not for herself, Dugall would be bound, but for what the news would do to her family. For the people whose lives she’d upended, only to discover they’d been falsely played.
And then the bravery she’d shown as the solicitor delivered blow after blow. She hadn’t wilted under the onslaught, and neither had she dissolved into tears.
She possessed a Scot’s fortitude.
Could old flinty McClintock really be her grandfather?
That made Hollingsworth her first cousin, the eldest heir, and in Scotland, even though illegitimate, he could inherit everything but the title itself. He could also petition for Jeremiah’s custody, and the notion didn’t sit well with Dugall despite his burgeoning trust and respect for Hollingsworth.
Swiping a hand across his face, Dugall sighed. Bloody fine kettle of smelly fish, all this.
He’d wanted to cheer Gwendolyn when she’d mustered her courage and gone on the offensive, challenging Christie about the guardianship. Her concern first and foremost was for the wellbeing of her wards. Not the estate or monies. Not even the title. And he bet she had no idea Hollingsworth could inherit or seek guardianship.
Christie had conveniently left those trifles off. This ridiculous stringing them along. Was that truly McClintock’s doing or some perverse game of Christie’s? No telling what sort of sculduddery the cur was capable of.
Come to think of it, might be worth digging into his past, too. Ewan would know someone Dugall could ask to poke around.
Something was off about the solicitor. Something Dugall couldn’t quite put his finger on but which raised his nape hairs and sent his protective instincts into full gallop.
A naked trollop dancing in Roselyn Chapel was less conspicuous than Christie’s hint—if Gwendolyn were agreeable, he might permit her to retain the guardianship.
Agreeable, as in becoming his mistress, the scunner.
Not bloody likely.
That affront had almost earned the scourge of humanity an affair of honor challenge.
Of course, Gwendolyn wouldn’t accept Christie’s proposal, and Dugall would make sure that no matter how frantic she became, she never considered such an unfathomable option. But even had she been so desperate, surely she knew Christie would then use that indignity to snatch the guardianship from her.
Would she remain at Suttford now?
She’d be under the solicitor’s thumb if she did, and in another respect, Hollingsworth’s, too. As long as she remained in Scotland she’d be subjected to Christie’s whims, no matter what she did or where she went. If only she had a husband to protect her from Christie’s meddling and manipulations.
The man was a crafty cull. Mayhap, he’d played old McClintock, too?
Now there was an interesting notion.
Just how long had Christie been McClintock’s solicitor?
The oldest date on the documents was only five years ago.
Dugall made a mental note to investigate that detail as well. While nosing about, he might as well retain someone to delve into Hollingsworth’s birth and that story about the aunt, too.
Dugall wasn’t foolish enough to take Hollingsworth at his word, yet.
“What do ye suggest then, Ferguson? Gwendolyn and the children’s situation be delicate, and I’m worried what Christie might do.” Hollingsworth’s statement rang with sincerity.
Dugall almost smiled at the incongruity that he and Lloyd Hollingsworth would ever agree on anything, let alone work together on solving something as important as forged documents.
With a final glance at the will, he brushed his hair off his cheek. “I’ve been summoned to London. I’ll accompany Christie to Edinburgh when he departs tomorrow and spend a couple of days there before continuing on to England. I’ll see what I can uncover.”
He didn’t like leaving Gwendolyn so soon, but he had no choice. The Diplomatic Corps wouldn’t wait and provided the perfect excuse for leaving with Christie. One that wouldn’t raise the solicitor’s suspicions or that he could object to.
No better time for Dugall to start using his sleuthing skills. He hoped to be able to persuade the Corps to permit him another couple of weeks or a month to help Gwendolyn decide on a course of action.
He needed to speak with her, and there wasn’t time to waste. They must concoct a plan. Ideally, one she could start putting into effect tonight.
One that would put Christie off his pace.
As if thinking of the unpleasant man had conjured his presence, Christie sauntered up the path from the stables like he owned Suttford. Probably he wished he did, and with the control of the finances, he pretty much could do what he bloody well wanted.
In many respects, controlling the estate for the next dozen years granted him the same privileges as ownership. He’d not like relinquishing them when Jeremiah reached his majority.
“So, what do you two think?” Gwendolyn glided into the room, leaving the door partly open behind her. Other than two neat furrows lining her forehead as she stared at the documents causing her so much turmoil, she seemed collected.
Dugall and Hollingsworth exchanged a cautious glance.
“We think some of the will may be forged,” Hollingsworth volunteered. “Ferguson’s goin’ to accompany Christie back to Edinburgh tomorrow and do a bit of detective work before he continues on to London.”
Gwendolyn faltered to a stop and ducked her chin to her chest. Though it was only for a fleeting moment, devastation and accusation had shadowed her eyes.
“Gwendolyn . . .?” Dugall had taken a half dozen steps her direction before he caught himself. Or rather, Hollingsworth’s keen regard did.
Not how Dugall would’ve chosen to tell her, but Hollingsworth had no way of knowing there was something—anything—between him and Gwendolyn.
Even Dugall couldn’t put a name to it.
Didn’t know what to call it b
esides a compelling, unyielding attraction that grew with each passing day. He wasn’t entirely convinced that had he bedded her, it would’ve disappeared either. Gwendolyn McClintock wasn’t the type of woman a man dallied with and then went on about his life.
Not once she’d surrender to his seduction. Their souls would fuse. And that troubled him night after night as he lay awake staring at the flickering shadows on his bedchamber walls.
Nae. It scares the hell out of me.
Christie’s annoying, nasal voice rang in the entry. “I wish to speak to Miss McClintock about postponin’ my departure for a day or two. Perhaps as much as a week.”
Och. Damned if he would.
“She’s unavailable at present,” Lowry said as the entry door clicked shut.
Gwendolyn’s eyes widened, and she shook her bright head, the ringlets framing her face bouncing with her agitation. “Not on his life. I want that man gone first thing tomorrow morning. He’s as unwelcome as the back side of a raised-tail skunk.”
“Where did ye say she was?” Christie wasn’t giving up easily, the boor.
“I didn’t, sir.” Distinct coolness had seeped into the butler’s tone. “Permit me to show you to your chamber where refreshments have been provided for your enjoyment. Perhaps you wish a bath drawn?”
“Nae, but I would like to speak to the lass. It’s verra important. I must insist.” A mixture of rudeness and irritation tinted Christie’s speech.
“Regretfully, that’s impossible. Miss McClintock is otherwise engaged until dinner.”
“Ye do realize who pays yer wages now . . .? What’s yer name?” No surprise that Christie had abandoned any pretense of tact and resorted to threats.
“What a colossal arse,” Hollingsworth muttered.
“It’s Lowry.” A glacier held more warmth than the butler’s crisp voice. “And if I understand Scottish law, the estate of the Laird of Suttford pays my wages. And Master Jeremiah would be that laird.”
Seductive Surrender Page 17