How could he have known? He had as little contact as possible with his family. They believed he had left England some years ago, and was in Ceylon. The bitter tang of shock filled Alec’s mouth. So his father had died young, just as Alec had feared, after a useless life of drink. He had not left Scotland on good terms with his father—or his stepmother, which had more to do with why he left. Alec had objected when his father began to sell off land, to make changes to old ways that had existed for centuries, and had written letters and decrees while he was in his cups that had destroyed old alliances. Alec suspected it hadn’t all been the MacNabb’s own doing. He could not prove it, of course. It had been better to leave than to watch the clan destroyed further. He tightened his hands on the arms of the chair. It galled him that Westlake should somehow know before he did.
Of course it hardly mattered. No doubt there was nothing to inherit except a worthless title, a crumbling castle, and a mountain of debt. With each generation there was a little less worth inheriting. It was as if the clan was cursed with ill luck. His great-grandfather, knowing war was coming, had hedged his bets on the outcome of the Jacobite rebellion by dividing his eight sons, placing half on the royalist side, and half in Bonnie Prince Charlie’s camp. The battle and the terrible aftermath had taken the flower of the clan, along with the laird and seven of his fine sons—all save the youngest. The lad had been away from home, took no side at all, and the English had let him keep what little was left of Glenlorne. Throughout Alec’s grandfather’s lifetime, and his father’s lifetime, things had only gotten worse for the once proud and prosperous clan. Soon, Glenlorne would be gone altogether, and all that would remain would be tired legends of MacNabb glory, told around smoky fires in tumble-down huts by men in rags—the kind of stories his grandfather used to tell Alec when he was a boy. He couldn’t help. He was no leader. He’d left home eight years ago, full of bright plans, and failed. He was Earl of Glenlorne? Yes, the clan was cursed indeed.
“Yes,” he said in answer to the earl’s pronouncement of his new circumstance, as if they were discussing the weather, as if he’d known but simply didn’t care. He had no intention of returning to Scotland for the burial, or of acknowledging the title. He wondered how his half sisters were faring, and the folk of the clan, and felt a prickle of guilt. He pushed it away. What could he have done if he’d stayed? He’d only cause more pain. He met the question in Westlake’s sharp gaze with disdain, telling the earl silently to mind his own business. Westlake smiled.
Alec supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that Westlake knew before he did. There was damned little Westlake didn’t know.
“Actually, it isn’t all that recent. It was almost a year ago,” the spymaster said.
A year? How had his stepmother and his sisters managed since? Alec gritted his teeth and remained stubbornly silent, ignoring the prompting of the earl’s raised eyebrows to explain himself.
“Is that all you wished to see me about? There’s nothing you need purloined, no one you want followed?” he growled.
Westlake smiled coolly. “I have a letter here from Countess Devina—”
“Who?” Alec asked.
Westlake’s articulate eyebrows twitched in surprise and annoyance. “Your stepmother, I believe?”
“Devorguilla?” Alec blurted.
“It appears she’s styling herself as Countess Devina now.”
Warning bells sounded in Alec’s head over more than the alteration of her name. Devorguilla had always had a penchant for things English. She would never have dared to change her name while his father was alive. It meant she was up to something.
“Now why on earth would she write to you?” Alec asked. Surely Devorguilla—Devina—had no idea Alec was in London. His family believed he was in Ceylon, didn’t they? He shifted in his seat, a familiar froth of guilt and failure stirring in the pit of his stomach.
“She didn’t,” Westlake said. “She wrote to your man of affairs here in Town, Richard Waters. I have someone in his employ who keeps me informed of interesting developments.”
Alec frowned. She wanted money—probably needed it desperately. Not that he had any to spare. He thought again of Countess Bray’s necklace, and wondered how much—
“She wants you dead,” Westlake said without emotion, as if Devorguilla had written to ask Waters for the funds to buy a bolt of cambric, or a length of ribbon.
Alec felt his jaw drop. “Dead?”
“Since you’ve been missing for quite nearly the requisite seven years, and haven’t acknowledged your inheritance of the title, she’s wondering if Waters can advise her of the rules of law that will allow her to have you declared legally dead, so she may claim your estate.”
“Claim my estate?” Alec blurted. “There’s nothing to bloody claim!”
“Still, she wishes to use any available funds to provide suitable dowries for her three daughters, Megan, Alanna, and Sorcha.”
Dowries. Of course the girls would need dowries to marry well. He hadn’t considered that it was now his responsibility.
“Can she do this?” Alec asked.
The earl’s brows twitched again, indicating amusement, if Westlake was capable of such an emotion. “You appear very much alive to me, Glenlorne,” he replied, using Alec’s new title. “I expect you’ll want to go north and deal with this yourself, in person.”
Alec stared at him. “No.”
Westlake’s brows took wing for his hairline. “No?”
Alec got up and paced the length of the carpet. “I shall direct Waters to send her a letter.” Was that the correct thing to do? He might be an earl by inheritance, but he had no idea how to be an earl. What should he say to Devorguilla, what commands should he give, beyond confirming the fact that he was indeed still alive?
Westlake didn’t speak for a long moment. He seemed to be considering something. “In truth, Glenlorne—”
“MacNabb will do just fine, thank you,” Alec growled.
“I need you in Scotland—or at least out of London. The missing letter has turned up. Lord Bray has it, and I’ve been assured he knows the whole truth. He packed Countess Bray off to the country yesterday afternoon, and he refused an invitation to dine with the Prince Regent.”
“What does that mean?” Alec asked. He had no idea what the letters contained.
“It means that I can no longer use your services.”
Alec gripped the back of the chair until the leather squeaked. “Because of one mistake in seven years?”
Westlake remained calm—he was never anything but calm. “No, not entirely, though I do recall I warned you that mistakes could not be allowed to happen. No, you’ve got a title now. You’ve become visible, a gentleman. Someone might recognize you if you began to frequent the kind of society functions your new status allows.”
“Now why would I do that?” Alec demanded.
Westlake opened a drawer, took out a book, and held it up.
Alec read the title. “Waverley? Walter Scott’s novel?”
Westlake riffled the pages. “Yes. The whole ton is reading it, my wife included, and mainly because the Prince Regent is fascinated by it. He invited Scott to London, and his interest is now making all things Scottish quite fashionable. He has Scottish ancestry, of course, and he’ll be the King of Scotland eventually.”
Alec chuckled. “I doubt he’ll be inviting me to tea to chat about my homeland, my lord.”
“No, but as a Scottish earl, you’ll be in much demand by the rest of the ton, the fashionable folk who wish to emulate His Highness’s interest. Why, my own wife has suggested we summer in Scotland, give a ball with a Scottish theme. I have put her off, of course, but you can see why you must go.”
Alec folded his arms over his chest. “And if I refuse?”
“I trust you remember an English earl still has precedence over a Scottish one?” Westlake asked calmly. “Did you know that Bray has offered a reward regarding the robbery of his home the other night? It seems a valuab
le necklace was stolen, his wife terrorized so badly she had to retire to the country. His footman saw a tall man with dark hair,” he mused.
“I didn’t take the necklace,” Alec said.
“Of course not, but it would be most inconvenient if you were identified—perhaps even hanged—for a crime you did not commit. You did terrorize Her Ladyship, if nothing else. She might be able to identify you.”
Alec’s lips twisted bitterly, and he cast a glance around the luxurious room. There was nothing at Glenlorne to compare with this. Not even the coffee that Northcott had silently delivered at some point during the conversation. Westlake crossed to the tray, and poured out. The rich fragrance reminded Alec that he wasn’t in Ceylon, living the life of a rich planter. He was a penniless thief, and his life, his secrets—they all belonged to Westlake. He left his coffee untouched and gave Westlake an exaggerated bow.
He grabbed Devorguilla’s letter off Westlake’s desk and shoved it into his coat for good measure. “If you don’t mind my lord earl, I’ll handle my own affairs from now on,” he said, and strode toward the door.
CHAPTER SIX
The heavy coach jolted and flew like a child’s toy over yet another deep rut in the road. Caroline winced and clutched the window ledge until the vehicle righted itself.
“That was a bad one!” The gentleman in the green hat, a certain Mr. Brill from Hampshire, chuckled. Caroline refrained from rolling her eyes. He’d made that same pronouncement about every single pothole between London and—well, wherever they were now.
“Yes indeed, Mr. Brill,” the woman in blue said, fanning her flushed face with her glove. “All this rain has made the roads a dreadful mess. I have no hope at all of reaching my destination with my bones intact!”
“And where is it you’re bound, Mrs. Hindon?” asked the second gentleman, a clergyman named Scroop. He had stuck his long nose into a book of Latin history as the coach set out from London, and left it there for most of the trip. After hours with nothing to do, Caroline envied him the prize of something, anything—even Latin history—to read. Mrs. Hindon preened under his attention.
“I’m going to Berwick, sir. My sister lives there, and she’s been poorly. Her husband died not a month past, and she’s in the family way. I hope to be a comfort to her however I can.”
“I daresay a nice stipend would ease her grief, what with another mouth to feed coming along! These are trying times.” Mr. Brill put in.
“Poor lass,” murmured the young woman beside Caroline, who had shyly introduced herself as Miss Louisa Best. Caroline had yet to see Miss Best’s face around the broad brim of her plain straw bonnet, since she kept her eyes downcast. Her brief comment marked the first time she’d spoken since she’d murmured her name to her fellow passengers by way of introduction.
“I myself am bound for York,” Brill declared, offering no further details. He fixed Miss Best with a curious stare, like a magpie sighting something shiny. “And where are you traveling to, Miss Best?”
“Scotland,” she replied. “I’m going to be governess to three young ladies of quality, to teach them English manners.”
Mrs. Hindon gasped, and Mr. Scroop coughed. Brill chuckled. “Manners, eh? You’ll be hard-pressed to do that, I daresay.”
“Barbarians!” Mrs. Hindon said, pressing a hand to her vast blue bosom in horror. Caroline swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. Hadn’t the gentleman who’d assisted her been a Scot?
“Scotland is no place for a decent Englishwoman,” Scroop pronounced, like God giving a commandment.
“Why? What have you heard?” Miss Best squeaked out the question that hovered on Caroline’s own lips.
Mrs. Hindon made a frightened mewl and widened her eyes as she looked to the men to explain.
Mr. Brill leaned forward. “They don’t wear clothes, for a start. Well, not clothes as you and I know them.” He held up a hand as Mrs. Hindon gasped. “I know ’tis an indelicate topic, but it’s the truth. They dress in rags, and eat their meat raw, or they eat oats, like horses.”
Caroline frowned. Her grandmother had told her stories of Scotland. Though she’d died when Caroline was very young, Caroline didn’t remember any mention of raw meat or naked savages. Her grandmother had spoken of meadows blooming with heather, fast-flowing rivers filled with salmon, and—
“If we English had not put down Bonnie Prince Charlie’s rebellion all those years ago, and forced a modicum of civilization on the Scots, I daresay they’d be completely wild by now,” Mr. Scroop said, shutting his book, and concentrating on giving Miss Best the benefit of his opinion.
“But I have a letter from a countess, a real countess, who lives in the Highlands. She writes well enough.” Miss Best opened her reticule and fumbled for a folded letter, which she held out like a talisman.
Scroop sniffed, declining to touch it. “She likely had a proper English cleric write it for her. The Scots can’t read and write like we do. They don’t even speak English outside of Edinburgh, and even there, they maul and molest our language until it’s nearly gibberish!”
Caroline recalled her rescuer’s soft Scottish burr. He’d been perfectly understandable, and he was certainly kinder than either of these men. She noted the hard light of malice in Scroop’s eyes, the dull ignorance in Mr. Brill’s. Indignation heated her skin. They were frightening Miss Best. She watched the young woman put the letter away with shaking fingers.
In fact, they were frightening her. Caroline bit her lip. Had she made a terrible mistake? She should have stayed in London. Perhaps she could have talked Somerson out of making her choose a husband yet, pleaded for time. Her Scottish rescuer hadn’t said anything about the terrors of Scotland. Of course, he was expecting her to have an escort, a bridegroom, who would marry her quickly over the anvil, then bring her straight home again to England.
She bit her lip and stared out the window at the passing scenery. She’d made an impulsive decision that could affect the rest of her life, something that could result in a far more tragic future than she’d face as wife to Speed or Mandeville. She’d trusted a stranger on the street and rejected the counsel of her own half brother, an earl and a gentleman. She held her breath. She should turn back, go home, apologize, and marry as she was expected to. She considered her choice again, and shuddered.
She shut her eyes, wondering what her Scot truly looked like, trying to conjure a kind face out of a shadowed cheek, a fragment of dark brow, and a single gleaming eye. He had been kind, and she was determined that he should look so, and be exceedingly handsome as well. She imagined a smiling countenance with blue eyes and auburn hair—or perhaps brown eyes and dark hair?
Beside her, Miss Best swallowed audibly, holding back tears. Caroline laid a hand on her arm. “Surely it isn’t as bad as they say. The Rebellion of ’45 was long ago, and Bonnie Prince Charlie is gone,” she soothed. “My grandmother used to tell me stories about Scotland, and there wasn’t a single mention of—”
Another gasp of horror filled the coach. “You’re a Scot?” Mrs. Hindon warbled, as if she feared Caroline was about to produce a claymore from under her cloak and murder everyone present, starting with her.
“No, I’m English!” Caroline said quickly.
“And where are you traveling to?” Mr. Brill asked.
Caroline swallowed. “To Sc-Scotland.” This time the word rolled awkwardly off her tongue, and a tidal wave of doubt swept through her belly.
Mr. Scroop’s brows lowered suspiciously. Mrs. Hindon gasped. Mr. Brill laughed coldly.
Miss Best turned to stare past her bonnet at Caroline. “Have you been there before?”
Caroline swallowed. “No.”
“Then why go now?” Mrs. Hindon demanded. Everyone looked at Caroline, fixed their eyes on her like hungry vultures eyeing prey, someone weak, vulnerable, and far from home, where she should have had the good sense to stay.
But her future, whatever it might be, lay ahead. Of that she was certain. The tidal wave re
ceded. She could hardly admit that to her fellow travelers, or tell them the truth.
“I’m going . . .” Caroline racked her brain for a story they’d believe. “I’m on my way to—” Another hard jolt cut off her words.
“That was a bad one!” Brill said, but the passengers were watching Caroline, waiting for her to answer. She felt a bead of sweat slip between her shoulders. “I’m going to a wedding!” she managed. Hadn’t her rescuer assumed she was eloping?
“A wedding!” Curiosity replaced the suspicion in Mrs. Hindon’s pale eyes. “Bride or groom’s side?”
“Um, bride,” Caroline managed. “In Edinburgh. My sister is marrying an English soldier stationed there, you see—a captain.” The romantic story sprang fully formed to her mind. “He’s very handsome, and my sister is so very happy.” Everyone was staring at her with rapt fascination. She took a breath, ready to add the next chapter, but the coach hit another bump.
“That was a bad one!” Brill and Scroop said together, and Mrs. Hindon giggled.
“You’d best pick flowers for the wedding on this side of the border. Nothing grows in Scotland. Scots eat mutton, and the mutton eats everything else. It’s a barren place where the sun never shines,” Brill said.
“God’s blight upon a heathen land,” intoned the clergyman.
Miss Best whimpered again and clasped her gloved hands together tightly, as if she were praying.
The coach pitched like a ship on stormy seas as the horses turned into a muddy inn yard. Mrs. Hindon whooped as she was thrown against Miss Best. Scroop grunted as Mr. Brill’s elbow knocked his Latin history to the floor. Caroline clung to the seat.
The passengers sighed as the coach came to a halt, righting bonnets and hats as they descended from the vehicle, blinking at the late afternoon sun and stretching cramped muscles.
Miss Best picked up her skirts and hurried into the inn, and Caroline followed, with Mrs. Hindon coming behind, picking her way through the mud like a fussy hen, complaining loudly about the ruination of her half boots.
Once Upon a Highland Summer Page 4