Forgetting the Scot (Highlanders of Balforss)

by Jennifer Trethewey

  Bull shoved a jam-laden triangle of toast in his mouth and talked around the wad of bread. “Aside from the fact that all my friends are calling me Bull, now, thank you very much, we did rather well.”

  Magnus resisted laughing.

  Bull continued. “Better than I had hoped. Got us six votes.” He swallowed. “Those six will pass the story on and convince six more and then six more, etcetera.” He drained his teacup. “Step one accomplished. On to step two. I’ll find us a ride.” Bull jumped up from the table, retrieved his hat, and strode toward the door calling, “Chop-chop, Sinclair. We’re late.”

  Magnus met Bull outside The Star and Garter. The street didn’t look nearly as sinister during the day as it did last night. “We’ll stop at St. James Street first. I want to check on Lady Langley.”

  Bull climbed into another impossibly small hackney, this one having only one seat with barely room for two men their size to sit comfortably shoulder to shoulder. At least they could leave the front flaps open to make way for their legs.

  “No time,” Bull said. “We need to see Snowman first.”

  “Nae. I need to see Lady Langley.”

  The carriage lurched forward and Bulford shot an even look his way. “That’s what you want to do. What we need to do is deliver that letter to Langley before word reaches him that Her Ladyship has returned.”

  The back of his neck simmered with the desire to knock the ridiculous-looking tall black hat off the Englishman’s head. Christ, he hated it when Bull was right.

  The wee carriage rattled down Parliament Street, and Bulford pointed out landmarks. “That’s Whitehall there and the Bank of London over there. And that building just beyond the rooftops would be Westminster, of course.”

  Magnus clenched his fists. This wasn’t a sightseeing tour. It was war, and they were preparing for battle. The sooner Bull recognized that the better.

  “Do ye ken Langley well?”

  “We were schoolmates at Eton and then Cambridge. Bit of a bully, really. Not the sort you’d want as an enemy, so I kept on his good side. Until, well…rumors, you know. Only, they weren’t rumors. He’d joined a club whose activities I couldn’t abide.”

  Magnus had no patience for delicacy. “Be plain with me, man. What activities?”

  Bull pressed his lips together and nodded. “I’m certain you’ve come across men who enjoy inflicting pain on others so much so it becomes a sort of passion for them.”

  He did. He’d known one such man while in the army. He had boasted of how, when visiting a Spanish bordello, he’d beaten a whore with his belt until she bled. When asked why, his only reason was that he’d enjoyed it. To think of Virginia spending one night, much less three years, with such a devil chilled his guts.

  “I’m going to kill him.”

  “I have a better idea.” Bull faced him, his blue eyes turned flint gray. “Allow me to be your sword, and I vow to you, friend, we will make Langley pay in a way that will hurt far more than broken bones. You and I will see him ruined.”

  Magnus recognized the look in the man’s eyes. Bloodlust. Bull had as good as pledged his service to him. He had an ally in the Englishman, an interpreter of sorts, one who knew the way through this maze of London Society, and he was glad of it. He lifted an eyebrow and smirked. “Broken bones would be more satisfying.”

  Bull exploded in laughter. “Right you are. But this way, Langley’s downfall will be swift, painful, and permanent.” The carriage slowed to a stop. “Ah, here we are. Richards and Bedbug, et al.”

  Snowdon met them at the door, his face drawn and ashen. Was he still ailing from the voyage? “Good morning, gentlemen.”

  “Are you unwell?” Magnus asked.

  The wee clerk couldn’t make up his mind where to look, him, Bulford, or the floor. “I’ve received distressing news from Her Ladyship.”

  Magnus’s hand reached reflexively for the hilt of his dirk and found nothing. Ian had made him leave his weapons behind. “What’s happened? Is she hurt?”

  Snowdon rubbed the side of his nose, “She’s…she’s fine, as far as I know. But she sent a message by courier just now saying she’s changed her mind.”

  Changed her mind? The words sent him reeling back on his heels. What did she mean? She no longer wanted the money, the house, a divorce? Or did she no longer want him? Had she never meant to divorce and had been too afraid to tell him to his face?

  “Did she say why?” Bulford asked.

  “Read it for yourself.” Snowdon gave Bulford the parchment but Magnus snatched it away.

  Dear Mr. Snowdon,

  Please stop all legal action on my behalf. There has been a change of circumstances, and I have decided to remain married to Lord Langley. I require only that he have his second marriage annulled.

  Most Sincerely, Virginia Langley

  “Bloody hell.” Bile rose in Magnus’s throat. This was why she was so adamant he not kill Langley. This was why she insisted he return to Scotland with the ship. She wanted Langley. Of course, she would want Langley. He was a viscount. She was a viscountess. Better to remain married to nobility and abuse than live in obscurity in Scotland with some untitled brute of a farmer. He supposed he’d always known it to be true, but he’d let her beauty, her sweet lips, and her sultry voice convince him otherwise. She had started to tell him something last night. Was it this?

  Bull took the letter from him and read. “Well, that’s dashed bad luck. Sorry, Sinclair.”

  Sorry didn’t even begin to cover the surge of anger and betrayal raging in Magnus’s chest. Sorry was for broken teacups and stained cravats. This was like a knife in his heart. He rubbed at his chest, half expecting to find a hole where the divot had been.

  “I’ll kill him,” he said, not meaning for anyone to hear him. “Where is he?”

  “Langley?” Snowdon asked, still rubbing his damned nose.

  “Not a good idea, Sinclair. Not now. Not in your state,” Bull said.

  Magnus grabbed Bull by the lapels and shook. “Where is he?” he ground out.

  “I’m not going to tell you. So, you might as well let it go.”

  He shoved Bull aside. He’d had it with this place, this filthy, suffocating city and everyone in it. This must be what the Romany woman meant. This place would kill him if he didn’t leave now. He stormed out of the office, Bulford and Snowdon calling after him.

  …

  It took the better part of the morning to reach Bromley Hall, a place Virginia had hoped never to see again. She shivered at the sight of the gray stone towers, the dark windows, and the dismal black woods surrounding the grounds. Bromley had no gardens. It was as if everyone knew nothing beautiful would grow here.

  Garfield had hired a coach for fear Langley might recognize the St. James barouche. He craned his neck to look out at the sight. “You best remain in the coach until I’ve determined whether Langley is at home.”

  Virginia removed her spectacles, put them in her pocket, and lowered her veil. She’d worn her mourning attire—a nondescript gown Langley would not recognize instantly as one of her own. The Bromley Hall butler, Cutter, met Garfield at the door. She couldn’t hear their conversation. They’d decided in advance that Garfield would announce her as Mrs. Alexander Sinclair to be certain Jemima would receive her. Cutter was reluctant to allow entry. Still, Garfield persisted until, at last, the man nodded and disappeared.

  Garfield called to the coachman who opened the door and lowered the steps. Taking her hand, Garfield led her toward the door, stating in a voice meant only for her, “Langley is away. The earl is here but he is indisposed.”

  Cutter appeared at the door again. “Her Ladyship will see you in her solar.”

  Virginia made no remark and kept her head lowered. She hadn’t worn her spectacles, afraid they might give her away. The veil hid her features well, as she couldn’t risk Cutter detecting her identity. Cutter wasn’t Langley’s man. His allegiance was to Langley’s father, the earl. But he had shown her contemp
t equal to Langley’s when she’d lived here. She doubted his opinion of her had changed. Indeed, none of the Bromley Hall servants had shown her deference, as they were in constant fear of losing their positions.

  She trembled violently, remembering Langley’s voice, his drunken rages, and half expected him to step through every door they passed. Pull yourself together. He’s not here. You must do this. You must.

  She stepped into what had been her only safe haven for the three miserable years she had lived in this house. Still, the familiar paintings, upholstery, carpets, and draperies offered no comfort. Garfield murmured a promise to remain outside the door until she needed him, then closed the door behind her.

  The silhouette of a woman stood in front of the north-facing window outlined in the afternoon sun. She hurried toward Virginia, skirts swishing and arms reaching out. “Lucy. Oh, darling Lucy. How good of you to come.”

  Jemima’s trembling voice betrayed her desperation. When Virginia revealed her deception, the poor woman was likely to crumble to pieces entirely. Jemima embraced her, but pulled away almost immediately.

  “You’re wearing mourning clothes. Dear Lucy, is it your father?” Jemima gasped.

  “I beg your forgiveness, my lady.” Virginia raised her veil and Jemima stiffened. “I’m not Lucy FitzHarris Sinclair, but I come to you on her behalf.” She pulled her spectacles from her pocket and put them on.

  “I don’t understand.” Jemima backed away. She was a pretty young woman, but fragile looking, like a bird. Far too fragile to be subjected to Langley’s punishing temper. She wouldn’t last long unless Virginia saved her.

  Before she bolted altogether, Virginia said, “Please, I’m here because Lucy is a dear friend of mine, and she would want me to help you.”

  Jemima tugged the edge of her sleeve down as if hiding something. “What do you mean, you’re here to help me?”

  “Langley is a monster. He abuses you. I know.”

  Jemima’s eyes flew open, clearly alarmed. Shaking visibly, she stepped behind the safety of a settee. “You have to leave. Leave now before I call for help.”

  Virginia gentled her voice. “Please, my lady. Let me help you. Let me take you from this horrid house. I’ll find you a safe place to stay until—”

  “Until what?”

  “Until we have your marriage to Langley annulled.”

  Uncertainty replaced the fear in Jemima’s eyes. “How could you do that? And why would Langley ever agree to, to, to—”

  “Because he will be tried for bigamy if he does not.”

  Jemima’s head tilted at a questioning angle.

  “I am First Viscountess Langley.”

  Lady Jemima shook her head adamantly. “No. No. She’s dead. Everyone knows she died in March. That story in the newspaper is—”

  “The absolute truth. Langley ordered my abduction, buried a body dressed up to look like me, and claimed the insurance on my life. Then he married you, knowing I still lived.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You should. Lucy believes me. She recognized me from when we were in school together.”

  “I still don’t understand why you would…I mean, I don’t know you.”

  “I had intended to sue for my own divorce. But that would leave you alone with him. I don’t think I could live with myself knowing I could have saved you but saved myself instead.”

  “Why would you do that for me?”

  “For you and for the love Lucy has for you. I owe her and her family a great debt. They saved me and several other women who had been kidnapped. Please let me do this for you, for Lucy. She is here, you know. She’s visiting her father at Maidstone Hall. She and her husband and daughter, Jemima.” Virginia saw an inkling of a smile. “Didn’t you know? She named her daughter after her best friend.”

  “I’ve written to Lucy, but I haven’t had any letters from her.”

  Virginia never had any letters while she lived with Langley, either. She’d always suspected he kept them from her. “Would you like to see Lucy? And meet her Jemma?”

  All Jemima’s reserve suddenly melted and pure joy swept her face. “Yes! Oh, yes please. I’d like that very much.”

  The muffled sound of men’s voices echoed in the hallway outside the solar. Virginia’s heart jumped and skittered in her chest as she lowered the black lace veil again.

  “Oh God,” Jemima gasped. “He’ll kill us. He’ll kill us.”

  The solar door banged open and the earl stormed in, Garfield on his heels. “What’s all this about, Lady Langley? I demand you tell me this instant.”

  Virginia modulated her voice in an attempt to disguise it. “I beg your forgiveness for my unannounced visit, Your Lordship,” Virginia bobbed a curtsy. “My name is Lucy FitzHarris, a girlhood friend of Lady Langley’s. I’m in England only a short while, so I took this one opportunity to see her.”

  “Ah, yes. One of Chatham’s bi-blows.”

  Virginia resisted reacting to his crass reference to Lucy’s illegitimacy.

  He pointed to her mourning gown. “Is the duke dead?”

  “Actually, I’ve come from the funeral of a longtime servant,” she lied.

  Bromley grunted, looked her up and down, then gave Jemima a stern look. “In future, you will clear all visitors with me first.”

  “Of course.” Jemima lowered her eyes and dipped a low curtsy.

  Bromley spun around and marched out. She and Jemima exhaled their relief together.

  Garfield cleared his voice. “My ladies, I think it best we make our departure before any more unwelcome interruptions.”

  “What? Go with you now?” Jemima whispered in disbelief.

  “It won’t be long before Langley hears of my arrival. We both know you don’t want to be here when he comes home in a rage.”

  Chapter Eleven

  It wasn’t easy, but Magnus managed to shake Bulford after a dozen twists and turns down dark alleys and narrow wynds. He had come to a shabby-looking neighborhood speckled with wooden buildings in disrepair: sagging roofs, broken windows, kicked-in doors. One house leaned against the brick shop next to it like a drunk. He dodged hand-drawn carts, gangs of beggar boys, poxy whores, a dead horse, horse shite, and garbage. He turned down offers of rancid-smelling meat pies, a chance to peek at a man with three arms, and a woman old enough to be his mother who would “dance on his Maypole for thrupence.”

  She’d changed her mind. I have decided to remain married to Langley. The words in her letter clawed at the sore spot on his chest. Had she been playing with him all along? Had it all been a game to her? He needed to think, he needed a drink, he needed a bloody tavern. Christ, he’d seen enough drunkards, there must be one nearby.

  There. He could just make out the words on the worn sign over the door. He stepped inside McGinty’s Public House. Jesus. Crowded. And it wasn’t even noon. Every face turned to look him over, all of them assessing him, probably wondering how big a purse he carried, could they take him on, maybe cut his throat before he cut theirs? Not a friendly face to be found. Not even the publican, and you’d think he’d be happy for new custom.

  “Whisky,” he said and put six pence on the bar.

  “You can have the bottle for a guinea,” the publican said, as if that was his only choice. Was he testing him to see how much money he had in his purse? A man who would offer a guinea for a bottle of spirits without flinching was surely one worth the trouble of robbing.

  “I’ll have a dram, if you please.” The unspoken threat, I will kill you, if you don’t.

  The grizzled-looking publican reached for something under the bar, his thoughts as easy to read as if they were written on his warty, mushroom nose. Can I crack this bloody Scot’s head open before he breaks my frigging neck?

  Thank God, Magnus was born with eyes in the back of his head. Sensing something approaching from behind, he ducked. A chair went sailing over him and crashed into the publican. Someone shouted, “Get him!” Two men jumped on Magnus
’s back. He threw them off and punched another man in the throat. A big man, not in height but in weight yelled, “Kill the bastard!” He landed a solid blow to Magnus’s kidney, making him cry out in pain, but he was in his glory. This is what he needed, more than whisky, more than sleep, more than anything, he needed a fight.

  A strapping younger man missing his front teeth and brandishing a knife, took a few swipes at him. “Come on, thcotty. Want a tathte of me blade?” Magnus dodged each swing until he saw his chance, stepped in, and broke the lad’s arm. The fool crumpled to the ground screaming. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of the brawl. Another two men dove at him and took him to the floor. One sat on his chest and landed blow after blow to his face. Shite, he was going to lose. The Englishmen were going to kill him, and the pretty lady wasn’t anywhere near to kiss him back to life.

  A crack reverberated in the bar and the man sitting on his chest fell sideways. A blurry figure tossed aside a chair, grabbed him by the coat lapels, and yanked him to his feet. “Chop-chop, Sinclair. We’re getting out of here.”

  Magnus smiled, blood streaming from his nose into his mouth and beard. “Bull, when did you get here?”

  Bulford half dragged him out of the tavern into the street. “Get in the bloody carriage, you fool.” He loaded Magnus into the coach like so much cargo. He was vaguely aware that this coach had room enough for him to sprawl on the seat.

  He probably lost consciousness for a while because the next time he opened his eyes, Bull was helping him out of the coach and into The Star and Garter. As they stumbled up the stairs together, Bull shouted, “I need hot water and some bandages.”

  Twenty minutes later, he sat on the edge of his bed, barely able to see out of the same eye Alex had bruised only days ago. The plump and sugary sweet-smelling upstairs maid finished applying a salve to his lip and took away the wash basin and bloody rags.

  “Thank you, Sally,” Bull said, passing her on the way into Magnus’s room with a bottle and glasses in hand. He poured Magnus a glass of whisky. “I expect this was what you were looking for in that tavern. Or were you looking for the fight?”