“I regret to say his lordship is not at home, sir.”
His lordship, if the aristocratic-looking person were he, peered down at them from a first-floor window. When he caught Josette’s eye on him, he stepped back and vanished.
There was a flurry behind the footman, and a retainer with white hair and more seniority pushed past him and wrenched the door wide open.
“Forgive me, Captain. We did not recognize you. His lordship would be pleased to speak to you.”
The footman, abashed, stood back to admit the captain. He tried to close the door on the rest of them—servants either used the staff entrance or should wait in the street—but Will ducked inside and gently moved the footman out of the way.
“They stay with me,” Captain Ellis said.
The butler raised white brows in disapproval, but Will ignored him. Bhreac strode in without worry, and only Henri hesitated, uneasy.
Josette gave Henri a reassuring look and spoke quietly to the footman. “Perhaps you could take Henri below stairs and give him an ale. It’s been a thirsty journey.”
Henri brightened at the suggestion, and the footman, recognizing the voice of authority and a lad of his own status, jerked his head for Henri to follow him to the back stairs.
The severe butler led the rest of them up the staircase that bent around the narrow entrance hall. He behaved as though only Captain Ellis existed, clearly unhappy that lowly servants were accompanying the captain upstairs.
The master of the house waited for them in the center of a lavishly furnished study—behind him lay the window Josette had spied him through.
He was a small man and rather thin, with a neat wig with three white curls on either side of his face. His suit was of the latest fashion, but unlike Sir William’s layers of ribbons and lace, his coat was plain and dark brown, his breeches the same.
The understated clothes went with the compactness of the man’s face and the watchfulness of his blue eyes.
“Thank you, Upton,” his lordship said. “You may leave us.”
The butler gave a cool bow, bent a sharp eye on Will, Josette, and Bhreac, as though admonishing them to behave themselves, and departed.
Captain Ellis began, “I must beg your pardon, your lordship, for springing upon you in this fashion. Had I known this was our destination, I would have sent word ahead.”
“Which might have been disastrous,” Will put in.
The aristocrat gave Captain Ellis a civil nod before moving his pinched gaze to Will. “You,” he said. “You turn up in the most interesting places, looking like a beggar and a thief. What is your game this time?”
“Ah,” Bhreac said, brows rising. “You’re well acquainted then.”
“We are indeed,” Will said smoothly. “Josette, my dear, may I introduce you to his lordship, James Lennox, the Earl of Wilfort. His eldest daughter made the rash decision to marry my brother Malcolm. Wilfort, this is Mrs. Oswald, an extraordinary woman who can ride across the whole of Scotland without a whimper and then glide into a banquet full of the highest in society and speak with ease.”
Lord Wilfort was every inch an English aristocrat. He made Josette a formal bow, respect in his bearing, and then returned his attention to Will.
“I have no doubt you coerced your friends into coming here,” Lord Wilfort said. “You must have a reason. You do not make social calls.”
Will pressed his hand to his heart. “You wound me, Wilfort. How do you know I haven’t longed for a chinwag with my brother’s father-in-law about their new wee bairn? He’s a bonny lad.”
“I know. I’ve seen him.” A fond light flashed in Lord Wilfort’s eyes, quickly suppressed. “What do you want?”
From what Will had told Josette when she’d asked about Captain Ellis’s confinement at Kilmorgan, Lord Wilfort had been a prisoner of war in the Mackenzies’ castle along with him. It had been a civilized sort of imprisonment, Will had said, with both men given their own bedchambers and joining the family for meals. Wilfort and the Mackenzies had become friends during his captivity, and then family when Mary had wedded Malcolm.
“I crave a boon,” Will answered. “But first, can ye give Mrs. Oswald a soft bed and a decent meal? The poor woman has been living on bannocks and sleeping in boxes all the way across the Highlands.”
* * *
Will admitted that a bath and clothes that didn’t rub his skin raw was a nice change. He emerged from a chamber in a brown coat and breeches he’d had Henri run and purchase for him secondhand—nothing Lord Wilfort owned would ever fit him. The clothes were a bit tight, but Will couldn’t complain.
Josette was lovely in a pink and gold gown Henri had procured, the colors suiting her dark hair and eyes. So lovely that Will wished he could shut himself into her bedchamber with her and never mind about the business at hand.
Wilfort, being Wilfort, invited them to stay for the night and served them a lavish supper. Will had a quiet word with him before the meal, telling him about the gold, the ladies at Strathy, and the list Macdonald had given him. Wilfort listened without changing expression, typical of him.
Though the man lived alone here—his sister and second daughter and son-in-law were currently in the Lennox ancestral home in Lincolnshire—the dining room was laid out with fine porcelain and gleaming silver, glowing in the light of dozens of candles.
After days of nothing but oatcakes and the occasional fish from the clear rivers, Will found it difficult not to shovel the food into his mouth—turbot in lemon sauce, hens stuffed with sausage, a saddle of beef, and rolls so soft they melted on the tongue. Everything a highly bred Englishman could want.
The wine was delicious too, straight from France. Will detected Mal’s hand in that—he always knew where to find the best.
Josette ate with grace, as though he hadn’t half-starved her for a week. She so easily glided between worlds, but he preferred to see her like this, comfortable and content—herself.
Characteristically, Wilfort conversed on anything but why they’d come. He and Captain Ellis spent an agonizingly long time asking about each other’s families and what each had done in the past year. Bhreac, almost respectable in unpatched clothes and combed hair, listened as he inhaled food. Josette ate quietly, politely answering when Wilfort spoke to her.
Finally, after the footmen whisked away the last plates, and Upton, betraying no surprise that the peasants turned out to be highborn friends of his master’s, served sweet wine and withdrew, Wilfort bent his eye on Will.
“What is this boon?”
“Something that will please you.” Will lounged back in his chair and savored the mellow sauterne. “Return your daughter and Mal to Britain. Scotland to be precise. Kilmorgan.”
Wilfort eyed him intently. “The duchy of Kilmorgan has reverted to the crown.”
“So I understand. But not if you prove the last heir is alive.” Will turned his goblet on the lace tablecloth. “And that he is not a traitor. Malcolm Mackenzie isn’t to blame for what his brother Duncan got up to. Brothers in many families fought one another in this skirmish.”
“True, but Malcolm Mackenzie captured guns and a cavalry officer at the Battle of Prestonpans.” Wilfort shot a pointed look at Captain Ellis, the officer in question. “He also fought at Culloden, on the side of the Jacobites, and was killed there, according to the accounts.”
“Do you have witnesses to this death?” Will asked. “Culloden was a mess.” The vision flashed to him of himself standing by a wall at the end of the field, watching helplessly as British soldiers shot and skewered his friends and family. Men he’d been fond of, men he’d disliked, and men he’d barely known had died the same, with bullets or bayonets in their chests as they’d tried to surrender.
His eyes grew moist as though smoke from the battlefield still stung them. “Did anyone actually see Malcolm there?” he went on.
“Captain Ellis fought your brother hand to hand at Prestonpans,” Wilfort said dryly.
“And lost,
” Ellis put in. “I remember quite clearly.”
“Perhaps your memory can be allowed to fade,” Will said to him. “Duncan was at Prestonpans, definitely, in all his glory. No denying that. Mal only went to latch on to Duncan’s cloak and drag him home. Perhaps Duncan captured the artillery and the captain, while Mal only observed.”
Captain Ellis sipped his wine and barely hid a grimace. He preferred whisky and brandy to sweet wine. “I have difficulty lying,” he said. “I’m not certain I could stand up in court and claim a bad memory.”
“We won’t make ye take an oath, then. Wilfort, you were a guest in our home for a time and came to know Malcolm well. You know he did not have Jacobite sympathies. In fact, I recall him railing at the Uprising for needlessly killing so many and disrupting our lives—so often, we started leaving the room when he began a rant.”
“I do remember,” Wilfort conceded.
“As do I,” Ellis said with a wry smile.
“Mal was dragged into the conflict against his will. He escaped Culloden by clawing his way to the edge of the field—true. He told me. Knew he could not go home and so sailed with his wife to France and self-imposed exile. Also true. I helped them get there. But Mal belongs in Scotland, and at Kilmorgan—more than any of us. He’d begun building his manor house there, which the army destroyed. If you could see him in his rooms in Paris, pouring over his plans, dreaming of the day he can return … It would break your heart, gentlemen.”
It had broken Will’s the last time he’d visited. Malcolm had shown Will what he and Alec had come up with for the gardens, the two of them pleased with themselves. Will had been admiring the drawings, when abruptly Mal had crumpled them and thrown them across the room.
Don’t know why I’m bothering, he’d declared in a red rage. I’ll never have a chance to use the bloody things. Alec had stood quietly by, his unhappiness and commiseration apparent.
“I know,” Lord Wilfort said quietly. “Mal showed me.”
“My father has let the past go,” Will went on. “He’ll live out his days in Paris with the cronies he’s made there, and be as content as he can be. Since our mother died, he hasn’t much cared where he was. Alec is happy being the toast of Paris as the next great artist, beloved by the king. Madame de Pompadour is now sponsoring him, and making him fashionable. Me, I’m a roamer and always will be. But Malcolm.” Will lifted his glass to his absent brother. “He needs a home. Put him back in Kilmorgan to build his house, fix up his distillery, and repopulate the family with Mary, and he’ll be happy. And so will the rest of us be.”
Will drank to Mal and thumped his goblet to the table. He felt Josette’s eyes on him, understanding in her gaze.
“I agree with you,” Wilfort said. “I comprehend that you are asking me to use my influence at the court of St. James’s to clear Mal’s name and allow him to return to Scotland as Duke of Kilmorgan. The rest of the family is officially dead, and Malcolm can be brought to life as sole heir. But it may take more than my word, and Captain Ellis’s. Malcolm will have to prove himself—somehow make clear he was never a traitor.”
“I’ve thought of that.” Will leaned back, stretching out his long legs. “My solution is simple. Malcolm can give me up as a spy and a traitor, and the king, bolstered by your word and your support of Malcolm, will embrace him and give him back our land.”
His words were barely out of his mouth before Josette sprang to her feet with a cry of fury. As Wilfort and Ellis stared at Will as though he’d lost his wits, Josette faced him, her eyes flashing fire.
“The devil I’ll let you do that, Will Mackenzie.”
Chapter 21
Josette shook with anger, the too-rich meal roiling in her stomach. Will, damn and blast him, lounged in his chair as though none of this mattered.
“Will has a solution, and all is well?” she demanded, voice resounding. “And we are to jump to it and obey, no matter how ridiculous it is? Give yourself over to the king? When the horses are pulling you from limb to limb, will you rejoice that your plan worked?”
Will came slowly to his feet. Wilfort and Ellis had risen when Josette did, polite to the letter. Bhreac was the exception. He remained seated, drinking his wine, enjoying the drama.
“I never said I’d stay a prisoner, love,” Will said quietly.
“Oh, yes? How many times can you escape? Your luck will run out sooner or later—they’ll put you in a dungeon so deep you’ll scarce be able to breathe, and they’ll keep you chained until they cut you to bits.”
“It doesn’t matter how stout the lock—it matters who guards the door,” Will said, sounding too reasonable. “I’ve taught you that.”
Josette thumped the table with her fists, making the silver cutlery dance. “What you’ve taught me is you do as you please, devil take the hindmost, because it suits you. While the rest of us worry until we’re sick whether you’re dead or alive, you go merrily on. But you’re not bothered, because you know you’re well. Your friends can go hang.”
“Josette.” The confusion in his eyes was unfeigned. “What happens to me is not important—don’t you understand? It never has been. I never wanted to be duke, and I’ll never be the caretaker of Kilmorgan that Mal is. I’m just Will. The spare. Doesn’t matter what I get up to, does it?”
He spoke lightly, but Josette read the bitterness behind his words.
He’d told her this before—that he was the appendage Mackenzie. Duncan was the heir, Angus had looked after their father, Alec was the artist, and Malcolm kept the distillery running and the farm producing. Will had felt at loose ends, and ran off at an early age to see the world. He’d stayed in the world, finding exciting things to do, people who needed him—far better than kicking around at home in the way, or so he said.
“What happens to you is not important?” Josette heard her voice rise to the full-voiced shout that her daughter knew meant trouble. “Is that what you are telling me, Will Mackenzie, that no one will care if you live or die? Do we mean so little to you?”
She said we, but Josette meant herself. She knew Glenna would grieve hard if something happened to Will, and the men in this room would be sorry, but Josette would descend into a well of pain she might never climb out of.
To Will’s steady gaze, she said, “You’re a bloody selfish bastard, and I’m sorry I ever spared time for you.”
“She’s pegged you right,” Bhreac said. “Don’t fret, sweetheart. When he’s swinging, I’ll comfort you.”
Josette seized her wine glass and dashed its contents into Bhreac’s face. Bhreac skidded back in his chair in astonishment, coming to his feet and wiping his eyes. Then he burst out laughing.
“You chose yourself a vixen, Willie. Wise man. If you’ll excuse me, your lordship, I’ll go dry meself.”
Without waiting for Wilfort’s acknowledgment, he strolled from the room, mopping his face with a snowy linen napkin.
Wilfort studied Will with a hard expression. “You are now the heir, not the spare. Your father has been declared dead, and so has your oldest brother. Duncan had no issue. That makes you Duke of Kilmorgan, as next brother in line.”
Will turned a slight shade of green. “I’ll stay deceased, thank you very much. Malcolm loves Kilmorgan, and he has a wife and son. Give it to the Runt to pass on to his descendants.”
“Yes, indeed,” Josette said tartly. “Shove the responsibility onto Malcolm. Heaven forbid you take up any mantle of care. You might have to stay in one place more than a week, and acknowledge that your friends don’t want you to leave.”
Will’s befuddlement changed to anger in the space of a breath. “Love, if I come back to life and claim the dukedom for myself, I’ll be killed, and so will those who harbored me. No quarter given. That means you.” He pointed a broad finger at her. “Malcolm is good at turning people up sweet. He’ll have his house, his lands, his future. I couldn’t stick bowing and scraping to the English bastards who gutted my brothers, and I’d be dead in a trice. Is that what y
ou want?”
“And you turn an argument around to suit yourself,” Josette snapped. “Your brave idea is to have Malcolm give you over to those same English bastards so he’ll be left in peace. While you do what? Dive from a dock and swim back to the Continent?”
“If I have to.” He tried a smile, the devilish smile that said he’d walk through hell and be fine. But he’d leave Josette behind to do it.
Josette slammed down her empty glass. “You go ahead. Bring Malcolm to Scotland. Have him give you over to the British army. But you’ll get no good-bye from me, and no welcome if you manage to escape either. I am finished waiting and fearing for you, Will Mackenzie. If you go, you go alone.”
She’d said more than she meant, but the words rang with conviction. Josette gathered her skirts and marched for the door without looking at Will or the other two gentlemen.
She heard heavy silence behind her, felt eyes on her back, but she opened the door and swept into the empty hall, the chill of it embracing her as tears flooded her eyes.
* * *
“Mrs. Oswald is right,” Captain Ellis said with a scowl once they heard Josette’s rapid footsteps on the stairs. “It is a foolish plan. Do you care so little for her that you’d risk your life?”
Lord Wilfort said nothing, but his firm mouth told Will he agreed with Ellis.
“Excuse me, gentlemen.” Will turned from their disapproving stares and went out the door Josette had left open.
The hall and staircase were empty. Will heard the click of Josette’s heels above him then the slam of a door.
He took the stairs two at a time and managed to dive into Josette’s bedchamber before she could lock the door. Not that she’d bothered. She was already gathering her few belongings into a bundle and didn’t turn around when Will charged in.
“Josette, love, don’t go.”
Josette gazed at him through the mirror on her dressing table. “Why not? I’ve finished my mission. I have enough for the ladies to bribe their husbands’ way to freedom and for me to take Glenna far away, out of Chadwick’s reach.” She patted the casket on her dressing table. “Or do you want me to stay because you know I’m taking the gold?”
The Devilish Lord Will: Mackenzies, Book 10 Page 19