Highland Heiress

by Margaret Moore

  Then something did.

  A familiar voice came roaring from the foyer below. “I want to see them both, by God, and I want to see them now!”

  Chapter Twenty

  Their startled gazes met as they recognized Robbie’s slurring shout before simultaneously starting for the door.

  “I have to get to my room and dress,” Moira said, reaching it first. “Stay here. I’ll see what he wants.”

  “No, let me speak to him.”

  “I think the butler’s coming upstairs,” Moira whispered as she opened the door and peered into the corridor. She glanced back at him. “Whatever his reasons, Robbie has no right to come here and demand anything,” she said before she slipped from the room.

  She was right about that, of course, yet that probably wouldn’t occur to a man like Robbie, who was used to getting his own way in everything.

  So he had best make haste and get to him first. He certainly wasn’t going to hide up here and leave Moira to deal with Robbie alone.

  Determined to do so, Gordon got dressed as quickly as he could. Shaving would have to wait.

  He was buttoning his shirt when there was a knock at the door, and he opened it to find the agitated butler.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,” Walters said, “but Sir Robert McStuart has arrived and wishes to speak to you at once.”

  That was a polite way to put Robbie’s shouted demand. “Where is he?”

  “The drawing room.”

  “Tell him I’ll be down directly.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Thankfully it would take Moira longer to dress, so hopefully he’d be able to get Robbie out of the house before she had to see him, let alone speak to him. “Is he drunk?”

  Walters gravely inclined his head. “I believe he is, sir.”

  “Thank you, Walters.”

  Gordon ducked back into the room to finish doing up his shirt. That done, he abandoned his cravat and was sure he was ready before Moira. Nevertheless, when he left the blue bedroom, she was dressed and coming out of hers. She now wore a day gown of pale green muslin, and her hair had been simply coiled around her head.

  “Moira, there’s no need for us both to go below,” he said. “He was my friend. Let me deal with him.”

  “I’m not a child, Gordon,” she resolutely replied. “Whatever Robbie wants, it must involve me, too.”

  He should have known she wouldn’t shirk from facing this difficulty, either. “Very well, but according to Walters, he’s drunk.”

  “I do have some experience dealing with drunken men,” she grimly reminded him as they started toward the stairs.

  How he wished she didn’t! How he wished he could somehow erase that part of her past or at least make her forget anyone who had ever caused her grief.

  He couldn’t. All he could do was be with her and hold her hand as they went down the stairs to the drawing room, regardless of who might see them.

  The butler waited just outside the drawing room door, and two more footmen stood at attention nearby.

  “Reinforcements, should we require them,” Moira murmured with relief as they went through the double doors.

  To find Robbie in a state of extreme agitation, as jittery as any prisoner in the box Gordon had ever seen.

  He wasn’t alone. Standing almost in the corner was a slender, slim-featured man of indeterminate age, wearing a severely plain black jacket and trousers, his shirt white linen, his cravat simply tied, his hair slicked down and combed back from his forehead.

  Pointing and glaring at them, Robbie turned to this unknown fellow and cried, “You see? They are in league together!”

  “Robbie, calm yourself,” Gordon sternly commanded as he moved forward as fast as he could, ignoring a twinge of pain in his side.

  “That’s fine advice coming from a traitor!” his friend declared. “How long have you been lovers? Since you were supposedly hurt? Or before that? Maybe you met in Edinburgh. Maybe that’s why she broke our engagement.”

  “Breaking our engagement had nothing to do with Gordon,” Moira forcefully replied. “It had everything to do with the state you’re in now. I discovered you’re a sot, and a philanderer. That’s why I wouldn’t marry you.”

  Robbie’s lip curled up with scorn. “Are you going to try to tell me you aren’t lovers?”

  Moira drew herself up. “No, I’m not going to tell you anything that isn’t any of your business.”

  “Robbie,” Gordon began in a mollifying tone, “we can discuss this—”

  “Later? No, we can’t. You’ve played me false, Gordo. All this time, I thought you were my friend, looking out for my best interests, and instead, you’re sleeping with the enemy. And don’t you dare try to deny it! I saw the look in her eyes when she told me you were too sick to be moved. The hell you were! It was an excuse for you two to be together, right under everybody’s noses! Well, you might have fooled them, but you can’t fool me!”

  And then he threw a punch at Gordon.

  As Moira cried a warning, Gordon instinctively ducked the blow. The butler and the footmen rushed into the room and pinned the nobleman’s arms at his sides.

  “Get out!” Moira ordered, pointing at the drawing room door. “Get out of this house!”

  “Not until I tell you why I’ve come,” Robbie retorted as he twisted and turned, trying to free himself from the servants’ grasp.

  “I don’t care why,” Moira returned. “Take him out,” she ordered the footmen.

  “My lady, a moment if you please,” the unknown man said, stepping forward. He cut a glance at the still-struggling Robbie. “Although I can appreciate that you are quite distraught, Sir Robert, if you’ll compose and pacify yourself, we shall be able to make our intentions known, and the sooner we do, the sooner we shall be able to come to terms. Mr. McHeath, there is an important matter of legal business we need to discuss.”

  The man had to be an attorney, Gordon thought as Robbie stopped struggling. Moira nodded at the servants, who released him and stepped back.

  This was hardly the time or place for any sort of legal business, especially when Robbie was in a rage. “I don’t know who you are, sir, but if Lady Moira wishes you to go—”

  “I do!” she interjected.

  “Then I suggest you do so. If you leave your card, she can contact you for a more appropriate interview, without Sir Robert’s volatile presence.”

  “Gad, you have changed sides!” Robbie growled as he wrenched himself free. “After all I’ve done for you, I never thought you’d desert me, and over a fickle woman, too!”

  “Robbie, you’d better go, and take this fellow with you,” Gordon said, his hands balling into fists as he tried to contain his temper.

  Moira glanced at the butler, the look a summons, and he and the footmen came forward again.

  “Oh, we’ll leave,” Robbie retorted, “but not just yet. Go ahead, McBean, give him the papers.”

  The solemn McBean reached into his jacket and drew out a packet of folded foolscap.

  “Not only am I maintaining my suit against Moira, I’m hoisting you on your own petard and suing you, too,” Robbie declared, his expression triumphant. “As you ought to know, Gordo, old chap, the Scots have a charming little thing called the Law of Delict, which means I can take you to court for conduct that harms the interests of another. You’re supposed to be representing my interests, not Lady Moira’s. Instead, what do you do but turn traitor and try to persuade me to drop a suit I have every chance of winning, as McBean here agrees. How did she manage to get you to do that?” He ran a scornful gaze over her. “I think we all can guess.”

  Moira stepped toward him. “Enough of your sordid implications! Say another word like that, and I’ll sue you for slander!”

  She realized the moment the words left her mouth that that was not a wise thing to say. Robbie’s face flushed with even more outrage.

  Gordon hurried forward, getting between the two of them. “Robbie, enough. Sue
me if you will—that’s your right—but we’ll discuss this later, when we’re all more calm.”

  “So you aren’t going to try to deny the charge? Good for you,” Robbie said, his voice dripping with angry disdain. He curled his lip as he looked at Moira. “Thank God I didn’t marry you, or I would no doubt have been cuckolded within the year.”

  “You…you cur!” Moira cried.

  “Go, Robbie, now, or I’ll drag you out of here myself,” Gordon warned.

  “If you do, I’ll have you charged with assault!”

  “I’ll risk it.”

  Gordon’s coldly, fiercely spoken words made the color drain from Robbie’s face.

  “I’ll meet you anywhere and any time you name, except here,” Gordon continued, “where I hope we can talk like civilized gentlemen.”

  “The only place I want to see either of you ever again is in court,” Robbie declared. “And let the best man win—so you’re going to be broken and bankrupt, Gordo, probably within the year.”

  “I doubt it. I can, after all, represent myself,” he replied, his rage ebbing as he remembered Robbie’s financial straits. “I trust he’s paid you a retainer, Mr. McBean. If not, I suggest you insist upon that immediately.”

  “I believe I can look after my own interests,” the solicitor replied. “I also think it would be advisable, Sir Robert, if we took our leave. Quarrelling like fishwives will get us nowhere.”

  “I agree,” Gordon said, reaching out to take Moira’s hand again. “Good day, Mr. McBean.”

  He said nothing to Robbie while Mr. McBean made a slight bow, the very model of politeness, as if they’d just experienced a calm, rational conversation.

  With a scowl, Robbie started for the door, followed by his solicitor, until they all heard the unmistakable sound of carriage wheels coming to a halt at the front of the house. Walters hurried away, followed by one of the footmen; the other remained behind, keeping an eye on Robbie and his new attorney.

  With Gordon right behind her, Moira hurried to the window and looked to see who had arrived.

  She gasped when she saw the coat of arms on the door. “Papa! He’s home!”

  She was both glad and afraid. Could there have been a worse time for him to return?

  “Well, now, isn’t this interesting,” Robbie said with a sneer as he turned back into the room. “Judging by the guilt in both your faces, I gather the new-made earl doesn’t know about your little love affair. Rather selfish of you, wouldn’t you say, my high-and-mighty and oh, so judgmental lady? And not exactly proper, is it, Gordo? It’s a damn good thing McBean and I are here. The poor man should be made aware of the viper he’s been harboring in his house.”

  “Robbie, say a word to my father, and you’ll regret it!”

  “You heard her, McBean!” Robbie charged, turning to his solicitor. “She threatened me! Surely there’s something in the law about that!”

  “If you leave without speaking to the earl, Robbie,” Gordon said before McBean could answer, “I won’t contest your suit and I’ll pay whatever damages you seek.”

  “You heard that, too, McBean!” Robbie crowed. His lips turned up in a cruel smile. “Maybe I’ll do as you ask, Gordo, and maybe I would rather see the earl’s face when he finds out what his oh-so-wonderful daughter has been up to under his very own roof.”

  If Robbie or McBean expected Moira to simply stand and do nothing, they were wrong.

  Her back as stiff as that of a captain on the bridge of his ship, she addressed the footmen. “Take Sir Robert out of this house by the kitchen entrance. Drag him if you have to, but get him out of here at once.”

  Robbie flushed bright red. “You wouldn’t dare lay a hand on me.” He stabbed his finger at Gordon, his whole body shaking, his voice quivering with rage. “As for you, you ungrateful wretch, I befriended you when nobody else at school would. I took you into my confidence. I treated you as an equal, and this is how you repay me?”

  “You never treated me as an equal,” Gordon said. “You treated me as your lackey, your prize, perhaps even your pet, but never your equal.”

  “I’m going to take you for every cent you’ve got, Gordo—every penny you earned because I took the blame for you all those years ago. But you’ve forgotten that, haven’t you? Forgotten what you owe me between that woman’s thighs.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Gordon returned. “I haven’t forgotten how you used me to fight your battles, and made money betting on me—even here. I haven’t forgotten all the jokes at my expense. I am grateful that you took the blame for that theft, but it was my hard work that got me my post as a solicitor’s clerk and my own practice. I won’t let you take that away from me without a fight, Robbie. But worst of all, you tried to use me to hurt Moira.”

  “Hurt? What do you think she did to me when she rejected me after accepting my proposal?”

  “If I hurt anything, it was only your pride,” Moira said. “You never loved me. You never really wanted me. All you wanted was my dowry. Because you need the money.”

  Robbie, staring incredulously, stumbled backward. “How did you…? Gordon! You told her?”

  “I’ve told her nothing about your finances, Robbie.”

  “I don’t believe you! You told her. You told her everything and now everybody in Scotland’s going to know Sir Robert McStuart is bankrupt! Scorned by a woman and bankrupt!”

  He reached into his jacket and pulled out a gun.

  “Robbie, what are you doing with my pistol?” Gordon asked warily, shoving Moira behind him while keeping his eye on the weapon he had carried in his greatcoat from Edinburgh.

  Robbie’s eyes filled with tears as he put the end of the weapon to his temple. “What do you care what I do? What do you care if I live or die? You’ve got your career and now you’ve got Moira and I’ve got nothing. Nothing but debts and humiliation and shame.”

  “Robbie, please,” Moira pleaded, “put that down.”

  “Why? It’s not as if you care, either.”

  “I do! I don’t want you to die.”

  Robbie’s expression hardened as he turned the pistol to point at Gordon. “I don’t think you do, but you do care about him.”

  “What the devil is the meaning of this?” the earl demanded from the doorway.

  Taken aback, Robbie half turned—and the pistol exploded in a burst of heat and flame and the smell of gunpowder. Moira screamed and McBean shrieked. Gordon threw himself at Robbie. He got one arm around his former friend and grabbed Robbie’s forearm, trying to wrestle the gun from his grip.

  A low groan came from the doorway as Moira rushed to her father. His face pale as paper, the earl held on to the door frame, while a splotch of red grew on the side of his neck, spreading across his white linen cravat.

  “Papa!” Moira cried as she grabbed him around the waist, trying to hold him up. “Papa!”

  Gordon wanted to help, but he didn’t dare let go of Robbie, not until he had the gun. Holding on to Robbie’s arm with all his might, he pushed him toward the wall, determined to smash his hand against it to make him let go.

  Robbie dug his heels in, but his feet were on a waxed floor and the leather soles of his boots gave him no purchase. As if engaged in some sort of bizarre dance, Gordon moved him gradually backward until they reached the wall.

  Gordon shoved Robbie’s hand against the painted plaster. Finally Robbie dropped the gun and for one brief instant, Gordon thought he meant to surrender.

  He was wrong, for when Gordon relaxed his grip for that mere moment, Robbie charged forward, knocking Gordon off balance. As he tried to right himself, he felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his side from his wound. Robbie, half stumbling, ran for the open door past the earl lying on the ground and Moira kneeling beside him. The footmen tried to block him, but with a desperate strength, he shoved them out of the way.

  “Let him go! Fetch the doctor!” Moira shouted at the footmen as they started to give chase.

  His hand on his side, Gordon
ran to the door. A swift glance confirmed there was nothing he could do here. The earl’s eyes were closed, and his shirt was bloody, but mercifully he was breathing.

  “Gordon!” Moira cried as he continued past them.

  “I’ve got to find Robbie,” he shouted over his shoulder. Whatever Robbie had done, whatever was going to happen, he didn’t want Robbie to end his own life, and he was afraid that would be Robbie’s next and final, desperate act.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Two drivers and more liveried footmen waited by the earl’s and Robbie’s carriages, clearly wondering what on earth was happening.

  Two drivers and two vehicles, so Robbie must have fled on foot, either too distraught to take his carriage, or fearful that the driver would refuse to move the vehicle, even if ordered. “Where’s Sir Robert?”

  “He stumbled off like a madman that way,” one of the drivers eagerly replied, pointing toward the yew hedge. “Hardly upright and I think he was cryin’. We heard a shot inside. What’s going on, sir?”

  Gordon ignored the question. “Fetch Dr. Campbell at once,” he said to the earl’s driver. “You go to the village with him,” he ordered the footman standing beside the driver. “Find the constable and tell him the earl’s been shot. Have him bring a search party here and send men to Sir Robert’s. Tell him they should see that Sir Robert doesn’t leave if he comes home and he should be arrested if he’s found anywhere else.”

  He turned to the footman who’d followed him out of the house. “Get the other footmen and grooms and stable boys and start searching the grounds for Sir Robert. Take guns, but don’t shoot at him unless he draws a weapon. I doubt he has one, though.”

  “Aye, sir,” the footman said, bobbing his head before he ran into the house.

  The driver likewise nodded and climbed aboard the earl’s carriage. With a cry and a snap of his whip, the carriage leaped into motion.

  Keeping a hand on his aching side, Gordon started to jog after his friend, who clearly wasn’t in any condition to run fast or far.

  And who was going to be charged with attempted murder. Or perhaps manslaughter. He’d been drunk, after all—was still drunk as well as distraught, judging by the footprints and occasional handprints visible in the dewy grass leading to the hedge.