Moira reached for the arrows in her quiver that her father would most appreciate. “Regardless of Sir Robert’s behavior, my reputation is already suffering. How much more will my name be tarnished if we let this matter go to court? How much more money might we have to pay our solicitor to defend my decision?”
The earl pulled away, but not before his expression softened. “Aye, daughter, I have to admit you’ve got a point. If we’re stubborn, it could cost us even more and not just in pounds—not that I want to pay him a cent.”
“Neither do I, Papa. But it may be more prudent this way. I’ll arrange a meeting with his solicitor to test the waters.”
“No, daughter. Let me deal with the rascal who’s representing that blackguard.”
It was on the tip of Moira’s tongue to protest, until her rational mind reminded her that she was apparently unable to act in a dispassionate manner around—and with—Mr. Gordon McHeath. “Yes, Papa. More tea?”
“Checkmate,” Gordon said as he moved his piece into position.
He’d suggested chess as a way to keep Robbie occupied and away from the whiskey.
He’d been partly successful, for Robbie had only had one drink during the game, leaving his empty glass sitting on the table in the library.
“Good God,” Robbie muttered as he studied the chessboard. “You’ve obviously been playing more than I have since we last saw each other.”
Given how poorly Robbie had played, Gordon could believe Robbie hadn’t played at all since their last game, nearly six years ago.
Robbie slouched lower in his chair and reached for the cheroot that he’d lit a few moments ago. “I didn’t realize you had such an easy life that you could play chess frequently.”
“My practice consumes most of my time, but I do go out to my club a night or two a week.”
“I trust you also get invited to dinner parties and such.”
“Occasionally,” Gordon replied, not anxious to talk about the last dinner party he’d attended, because Catriona McNare had been in attendance, as well. Instead, he busied himself returning the chess pieces to their starting places on the board.
“Still, I envy you,” Robbie said, leaning his head back and blowing out a puff of smoke. Gordon wasn’t partial to the odor, so he rose and opened the nearest window.
Robbie didn’t seem to notice, or else he didn’t care that his smoke was bothering his friend. “Yes, I do envy you,” he mused aloud. “Your quiet life. Your clear conscience.”
Since meeting Moira and deciding not to tell Robbie about it, his conscience hadn’t exactly been clear.
“Next time I’m thinking of getting married, Gordo, old sod, I’m going to have you to meet the gel first. A judicious, serious fellow like you will make sure I don’t get jilted again.”
Even if he hadn’t had troubles of his own, the last thing Gordon wanted was to become Robbie’s romantic consultant or vet his potential wives. “I’m no fit judge of women.”
Robbie’s brows rose as he sat up straighter and his eyes gleamed with interest. “If a solicitor isn’t a good judge of people, who is?” He tilted his head and regarded Gordon with a studious expression, which was rare for Robert McStuart. “There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there, Gordo? I can see it in the set of your jaw.”
He should have been more careful. He wondered what he’d say, until Robbie solved his dilemma by speaking first. “You know all my romantic woes. It’s only fair you tell me yours.”
Gordon didn’t want to tell Robbie about Catriona; on the other hand, it might do Robbie good to hear he wasn’t the only man with romantic troubles. “There was a young lady who I thought cared for me, but I discovered I was wrong.”
“Good God, Gordo!” Robbie cried, swiftly stubbing out his cheroot in his empty whiskey glass. “A woman rejected you, too? Who was she?”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s all over and done with, Robbie. She was already in love with another man. I wish her every happiness with her husband.”
“How long has it been since she married somebody else? A month? A year?”
“A few months.”
Months that had seemed like years, until he’d met Moira MacMurdaugh up in a tree.
Ever since then, he’d been realizing just how different his feelings for Catriona had been, even from the start. She had been more like a pretty doll he wanted to have in the drawing room to admire than a woman with whom he could build a life.
Moira MacMurdaugh was very much a woman, and he could easily imagine tackling life’s woes as well as its joys with her by his side.
“You’ll have to tell me the cure, because by God, Gordo, I’ve never been more wretched in my life!”
Robbie actually sounded serious.
How could he explain that the cure for a broken heart was the realization that you were never truly in love before? “Getting on with your life,” he offered instead.
“Well, then, let’s get started!” Robbie cried enthusiastically. “Tomorrow’s market day in Dunbrachie. To be sure, it’s nothing like London in the Season, or even Bath, but there’s always some sort of traveling entertainers and plenty of pretty girls, too.”
Gordon could foresee one possible fly in the ointment, for both of them. “Will Lady Moira be there?”
Robbie waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t give a damn if she is, and neither should you. Besides, she’ll steer clear of us if she is, I’m sure. Come on, Gordo! Say you’ll go!”
They probably shouldn’t. Robbie might get drunk, or try to seduce a barmaid or some other woman. He might do something else that would be embarrassing. And he really didn’t want to see Lady Moira again. She was making his life so…complicated.
On the other hand, she might not be there, and raising Robbie’s spirits might be one way to convince him to drop the suit. “All right, Robbie. I’ll go.”
Chapter Six
Dressed in a gown of green-and-blue-stripped muslin, with a blue velvet Spencer jacket and straw bonnet with matching ribbon on her head, her reticule slung over her arm and wearing her second-best kid gloves, Moira strolled down the main street of Dunbrachie toward the green. At one end of the street was the church, with its square belfry. At the other was the tavern and livery stable.
Between the church and tavern were several stone buildings whitewashed or not, with slate roofs and smoke curling from their chimneys. She passed the baker’s and the bookseller’s, separated by a narrow lane leading to yards in the back, the milliner’s, the tea shop and the candle maker’s.
Since it was market day, temporary stalls surrounded the green. Some were no more than the open back of a wagon and some, belonging to traveling peddlers, were more elaborate.
It was pleasantly warm and sunny, and the delicious scent of bread and pastries from the baker’s drifted on the breeze. Small children and dogs chased each other around the stalls, or stood and watched the puppet show that had been set up near the middle of the green.
None of the dogs she could see were as big or as black or as ugly and vicious as the one that had chased her up the tree.
Perhaps that had been a stray or a wild dog, abandoned or lost by its owner.
Indeed, today Dunbrachie was like a rustic idyll, far removed from the teeming, bustling, aggressive market in Glasgow where she’d shopped before her father had become prosperous enough to have food and other goods delivered to their home. In some ways, she missed that market, for there she would be relatively anonymous except to those merchants whose stalls she frequented.
In Dunbrachie, everybody knew who she was, as well as the story of her father’s unforeseen inheritance and her broken engagement to Sir Robert McStuart. Here she was subject to more than the glares of angry men who saw her school as a threat; there were the furtive looks, the scandalized whispers, the knowing glances and scornfully curled lips of the women, epitomized by the three young women she thought of as the Three Geese.
It might have been easier to stay at
home, except that she had no intention of allowing gossip and rude behavior make her a prisoner in her own home.
Nor was she going to be intimidated by the glares of the men who didn’t want her to build her school, most notably Big Jack MacKracken, who stood six feet tall in his bare feet. At the moment he was among the several men gathered at the tavern, where benches and tables had been set outside on such a fine day. If looks could wound, his glower would have had her writhing on the ground.
However, his angry gaze couldn’t hurt her, so lifting her head high, she marched past, heading for the wagon belonging to Sam Corlett, which was bedecked with ribbons, feathers, laces and trims as if it were a huge hat.
A shadow crossed her path. A broad-shouldered shadow.
“What do ye think yer about, anyway?” Big Jack demanded.
Obviously, he was no longer at the tavern. Just as obviously, judging by the odor of ale emanating from him, he’d been drinking for some time.
She wasn’t afraid of him. They were in too public a place for him to do her any real harm, and now there was her title to offer additional protection. A man like MacKracken would appreciate that his punishment would be severe if he physically attacked a lady.
She gave him the same cold look she gave to merchants who tried to cheat her. “My purpose here is none of your business, Mr. MacKracken.”
“Mister, is it? Think you can sweet-talk me, do you, with yer ‘misters’? Not likely—any more than any of my bairns’ll ever set foot in that school you’re building.”
He had seven children, the oldest a girl of eleven, and all of them could benefit if they went to school. “Education is something to be cherished, Mr.—”
“If ye wants yer children growin’ up wantin’ things they can ne’er have,” he retorted. “What good is readin’ and writin’ to a man does a man’s work on a farm? Aye, or his wife?”
“None, perhaps,” she replied, keeping her voice level, “unless they have to sign a bill of sale, or a will, or some other legal document. And who’s to say your boys will want to be laborers? My father was born poor and yet he’s achieved great success, which he wouldn’t have been able to do if he hadn’t learned to read and write.”
“He got a title because some cousin he ne’er even met died.”
“He was successful in business long before that.”
And before he’d started drinking too much. Mercifully his drinking had been confined to overimbibing at night, at first rarely, but in the last few months, more frequently. However, he had never stayed drunk for days in a row, for which she was grateful, and that meant his business hadn’t suffered. Yet.
MacKracken scowled. “So you say, m’lady.”
“Aye, so I do,” she replied. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some purchases to make.”
She started forward without waiting for the big man to move. Fortunately, he did, or she didn’t know what she would have done. She couldn’t count on Mr. McHeath coming to her rescue again, even if he were here.
She had already ascertained, by a swift perusal of the green, that he was not.
She joined a group of older girls and women already gathered at Sam Corlett’s wagon. If they had witnessed her encounter with MacKracken, they gave no sign, although none ventured more than a greeting and a curtsey, and all kept a careful distance from her.
“Good day, my lady!” Sam cried in his Cockney accent when he spotted her, tugging his forelock and grinning, for she’d bought from him before. “I was hopin’ you’d be here today. Got some lovely bits o’ ribbon today. Perfect for a lady like yourself.”
“I need some green ribbon, Sam. Light green.”
His eyes lit up like a candle in the dark. “As a matter o’ fact, my lady, I’ve got just the thing!”
He reached into the back of his wagon, moving some cotton thread and what looked like dyed goose feathers out of the way before producing a bolt of apple-green grosgrain that was exactly what she required.
But betray too eager a countenance she would not. “How much?”
“Tuppence a yard.”
Ah, Sam, she thought with pleasant respect. Always trying to get the better of her in a bargain—as well he should. Nevertheless, he had named a price at least twice what the ribbon was worth, and probably four times what he’d paid for it.
Happily playing the game, she kept her expression grave as she raised an inquiring brow. “Is it from France?”
His visage assumed an equally grave, somewhat dismayed, appearance. “No, miss, no. Good British ribbon, that is.”
Both her brows rose. “Really? I thought it must be foreign for you to charge such an outrageous price.”
“Well, now, my lady, there’s transport involved, that’s for certain, feed costin’ what it does these days. And the effort to find the best, o’ course. I don’t just buys any ribbon, as you know. That’s the best to be had in Scotland at any price.”
“I don’t need the best, Sam,” she countered.
“I have this, then,” he said, reaching into his wagon and pulling out a roll of a green ribbon of a shade that surely didn’t exist in nature, or anywhere else except a dyer’s, if the dyer had terrible eyesight.
“That’s quite an interesting color, but this one will match better,” she said. “Still, at tuppence a yard, it’s too dear for what I intend.”
She turned away as if planning to leave.
“I suppose, since you’re such a pretty lady, I could let you have two yards for a tuppence,” Sam suggested.
Keeping any triumph from her expression, she turned back. “Really? Oh, that would be wonderful,” she said, giving him a smile. “It is lovely ribbon.”
Sam’s answering grin told her she was paying exactly the amount he wanted and had expected, satisfying them both.
“Listen to her haggling like a fishwife, and her father rich as Croesus!” a peevish feminine voice muttered nearby.
Miss Sarah Taggart. And no doubt her two acolytes were with her.
Miss Sarah Taggart, an ironmonger’s daughter, Miss Mabel Hornby, sister of the local miller, and Miss Emmeline Swanson, niece of a prominent distiller, had been keen to be Moira’s friends when she’d first arrived in Dunbrachie. Once Robbie started to pay more attention to her than to them, however, and especially once she was engaged to him, their attitude had turned frosty.
After the engagement had been broken, she’d wondered if they’d try to befriend her again. They had not, choosing instead to cut her.
Or rather, Miss Sarah Taggart had chosen to cut her, and therefore so did her comrades.
However, she had no intention of giving Sarah the satisfaction of letting her know she’d heard her.
Instead, she paid Sam and, with her ribbon, started back toward the livery stable. Her steps slowed as she drew near the baker’s. Baked goods were plentiful at home, so she had no need to purchase anything; it was just the wonderful rich smell of fresh bread and pastries that made her linger until she heard two familiar male voices, one jovial and jesting, the other more sedate.
Sir Robert McStuart and Mr. Gordon McHeath—two people she wanted to meet even less than Big Jack MacKracken and Sarah Taggart.
Trying to look as if she were doing nothing out of the ordinary, she darted into the narrow lane between the baker’s and the bookshop before Robbie and McHeath walked past.
Although her instinct told her to avoid them both, she couldn’t resist looking at McHeath as he passed.
This morning he didn’t look at all like a solicitor. He wore a comfortable-looking wool jacket and trousers, with a plain vest and loosely knotted cravat, his tall hat shoved back on his head, revealing his thick waving hair. Dressed thus, it was far easier to see him as the man who had come to her aid instead of the solicitor representing the man for whom she’d lost all respect and whom she could never love.
However, he was that solicitor, and it occurred to her that if they were going to offer to settle, it might be best to start negotiations as so
on as possible, without her father.
Even if that meant risking being alone with Mr. McHeath.
Seeing the way the villagers of Dunbrachie reacted to Robbie’s presence, Gordon could understand the origin of his friend’s arrogance. People smiled and nodded and tugged their forelock as he passed. Men moved out of his way as if he were a conquering hero, and women of all ages blushed if he so much as glanced their way. Small children stared in openmouthed awe and older boys with envy. Older girls giggled and looked modestly at their feet. Even the dogs seemed to regard him with deference—and Gordon duly noted that none of the dogs were huge and black.
Robbie seemed to accept the attention of the crowd as his due, reacting with the same sort of noblesse oblige he’d displayed toward Gordon when they were boys at school. Then Gordon had felt as if he’d been the chosen of the gods, and he hadn’t experienced anything quite so thrilling since.
Except once, when Lady Moira had kissed him.
He had to stop thinking about that, just as he ought to stop looking for her here. After all, why would she come to a village market? Merchants and tradesmen would be only too delighted to bring anything she might need or want to purchase to her father’s manor house.
“Oh, God, go left. To your left!” Robbie muttered under his breath, shoving Gordon in that direction with his elbow as they neared a wagon decorated like it was part of a May Day celebration imagined by a madman.
“Why? What’s wrong?” Gordon asked in a whisper, although he could think of only one possibility, and it was one that made his heart race, although he shouldn’t be excited by the possibility of another confrontation with Lady Moira.
Especially when he was with Robbie.
A swift glance over his shoulder brought a disappointment equal to his previous enthusiasm, for instead of Lady Moira, three young women dressed in what was probably the height of fashion in Dunbrachie were bustling toward them. The young woman in the lead was tall, bright-eyed and auburn haired, and possessed a wide smile that revealed slightly crooked teeth. Her pelisse was light blue, and her bonnet was decorated with flowers and ribbon to match. Trailing her like faithful handmaidens were a shorter, blonde, slightly plump young woman in a pelisse with frog closings and a smaller bonnet, as well as another dark-haired companion, who was dressed in a green gown, dark green Spencer jacket and a very wide-brimmed, overembellished hat.
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