Mad for the Plaid

by Karen Hawkins

  “Och aye, I know them well. Too well, many might say. When did you tell Lord Hamilton your suspicions aboot Her Grace?”

  “ ‘About,’ not—” Edana caught Ailsa’s expression and hurried to add, “Yesterday after lunch. He said he would speak with her immediately. Poor Natasha must have been devastated: two men in a row rejecting her. I fear she just up and left us, unable to bear the thought of facing such embarrassment.”

  “But none of our coaches are missing.” Ailsa tapped her fingers on the desk. “When you asked MacGill if any of the coaches and carriages were missing, did you inquire after Lord Hamilton’s coach and horses, or just our own?”

  Edana stiffened. “You cannot be suggesting that Daffyd and Natasha have— No. I will not believe it.”

  “We must find oot.” Ailsa turned to the long, fringed bell pull and tugged it firmly.

  “You are wasting your time.” Lady Edana sniffed.

  An awkward silence filled the room until a soft knock heralded the entry of the housekeeper, Mrs. Attnee. A plump, motherly woman, she wore a beaming smile that dimmed on seeing the Dowager Countess. “Guid morning, my lady.” The housekeeper dipped a quick curtsy, her expression softening as she turned to Ailsa. “Lady Ailsa, you rang?”

  “I understand you assisted in the search for Her Grace.”

  Concern creased Mrs. Attnee’s forehead. “Aye. She is nae to be found. We searched the house top to bottom, too.”

  “And Lord Hamilton? Do you perchance know where he is?”

  “Lord Hamilton left verrah early this morning.”

  “What?” Lady Edana blinked. “Are you certain?”

  “I saw him myself, I did. I’d just sent the upstairs maids aboot their dooties when he came sneakin’ doon the stairs.”

  “Sneaking?” Ailsa asked.

  “I would nae call it other, fer he was bent o’er and walkin’ like this—” She hunched her shoulders and mimicked someone tiptoeing.

  “Nonsense,” Edana announced, her neck a mottled red. “Hamilton would never move in such a-a-a subversive fashion!”

  Ailsa ignored her. “Did Lord Hamilton say anything?”

  “Just ‘guid morning.’ He’d just sent one of the footmen to have his coach brought round, though. I dinnae think aught of it as he sometimes leaves early for Caskill Manor if he’s plannin’ on going huntin’ and such. ’Twas obvious he dinnae wish fer company, so I left him in the foyer. When I came back later, he was gone.”

  Ignoring the strange hissing sound now coming from Edana, Ailsa smiled comfortingly at the housekeeper. “So you would nae know if he left with someone.”

  “Nae, I—” The housekeeper gasped. “Lord, do ye think he’s run off with Her Grace?”

  Edana made a strangled noise while Ailsa said, “I think ’tis possible Her Grace decided to visit Caskill Manor at Lord Hamilton’s invitation.”

  “Ah!” The housekeeper pursed her lips. “I thought there might be some courtin’ goin’ on, what with all the whisperin’ and such, although I never imagined they’d elope—”

  “That is quite enough!” Edana snapped, her eyes blazing. “Mrs. Attnee, I will thank you for not spreading vile rumors!”

  “There, there,” Ailsa said soothingly. “The truth does nae always come in a neat box. Sometimes ’tis a messy package, best opened when fortified by drink.”

  Mrs. Attnee nodded wisely. “I’ll pour some sherry.” She made her way to the small stand near the window, poured sherry into a small crystal glass, and brought it to Lady Edana.

  Lady Edana took the glass gratefully. “That harpy! I cannot believe Daffyd would—”

  An abrupt knock on the door heralded the entry of MacGill. Tall and gaunt, the butler looked abnormally pale, his eyes wide. “My lady, a message has come from Caskill Manor.”

  “No!” Edana threw up a hand. “Do not say Lord Hamilton has eloped with Her Grace!”

  Mr. MacGill looked shocked. “Nae, my lady. Nae that. The steward at Caskill sent word. Mr. Grant says Lord Hamilton sent a note last night that he and a guest were to be expected early this mornin’ and his lordship requested a sumptuous breakfast fit fer a queen—”

  Lady Edana choked, and then held out her glass for more sherry, which Mrs. Attnee instantly brought.

  MacGill cast a cautious look at the countess before he continued. “His lordship and his guest never arrived.”

  “What?” Ailsa asked, and for the first time, a true flicker of worry pinched her.

  “Grant sent a footman here to ask after Lord Hamilton. On the way, the lad found his lordship’s carriage left on the road, blocked by a felled tree. The groom, both footmen, and three outriders were wounded, whilst one outrider was naewhere to be seen.”

  Ailsa’s hands trembled, so she gripped them together. How could this be? Our guests, abducted?

  “There’s more,” MacGill said in a grim tone. “The side of the coach was peppered wi’ bullets.”

  Mrs. Attnee gasped while Lady Edana went pale. Ailsa found herself on her feet. “The duchess and Lord Hamilton were nae—” She couldn’t say the words.

  “Nae, my lady. There was blood on the carriage seat; only a few droplets, nae more.” MacGill’s brows lowered. “But Lord Hamilton’s men found a wee rip of tartan pinned under a wheel. The Mackenzie tartan.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Lady Edana exclaimed. “We would never harm Lord Hamilton!”

  “Mr. Grant knows tha’,” MacGill said. “But nae matter wha’ Grant thinks, he has nae choice but to send word of the abduction to Lord Hamilton’s brother.”

  Ailsa had to bite her lip to keep from saying aloud how unjust that was. The Earl of Arran and her father had never gotten along, fighting for decades over various property lines and estate boundaries. If Arran thought them responsible, he would call for retribution. Aware of the servants’ anxious gazes now pinned on her, Ailsa tucked her fears away. “MacGill, was a note left? A ransom request?”

  “Nae, my lady.”

  Lady Edana put down her glass. “Cromartie must come home at once and deal with this.”

  The two servants looked at Ailsa, their gazes questioning. Are they hoping I’ll send for Papa? She dropped her hands back to her sides, fighting a very real desire to do just that.

  It would be easy to send for Papa and let him deal with this crisis, but in doing so she would be admitting she was unable to manage the situation herself. Ailsa wasn’t willing to do that. She had been left in charge of Castle Leod and all that entailed, and that included the well-being of her guests. “This is my mystery to solve,” she said briskly. “And solve it, I will. We must find Lord Hamilton and Her Grace.” Which was a long shot, but her only option. Whomever had organized this little charade would hide their prisoners well.

  Lady Edana frowned. “Are you sure? Your Papa—”

  “—is busy. I can handle this.” Ailsa said the words as confidently as she could, hoping against hope that her grandmother would agree.

  To her surprise, Edana sighed, and then shrugged. “Fine. I just don’t understand one thing. Hamilton’s value is obvious, but why would someone take Her Grace? She’s not particularly wealthy that I know of.”

  “Perhaps she was where she wasn’t expected—in Lord Hamilton’s coach.” Ailsa spread her hands on the desk and leaned forward. “MacGill, have a horse readied; I want to see this carriage and the ‘proof’ left behind. Inform the gamekeeper he will be accompanying me. Mr. Greer is an expert tracker and I will have need of his skill.”

  “Verrah guid, my lady.” Looking much heartened, MacGill bowed and left.

  Lady Edana sank back in her chair. “Lud help us all; the world is upside down!”

  Ailsa managed a firm smile. “All will be well. I promise.”

  Her grandmother seemed comforted by Ailsa’s words, but to herself, Ailsa had to wonder if someone was trying to start a clan war. Was it possible that Arran, tired of being put off from grabbing more of the Mackenzie land by his brother’s frie
ndship with Lady Edana, had orchestrated this little escapade? It seemed the only answer, and yet the maneuver was so blatantly obvious that it made her wonder if something more complex was afoot. But what?

  When she found the prisoners, she would have her answers. Her gaze landed on a small stack of notes resting on the corner of her desk and she grimaced. She supposed she needed to inform the prince of the current situation. Her Grace was his grandmother, after all.

  Ailsa hated to do it—just exchanging a few notes about Her Grace’s missing trunk had been far too much contact with the man as it was, but there was nothing for it. Like him or not, Ailsa had a responsibility to keep him apprised of the situation. Had he been a man of substance, she might have worried he would take it upon himself to arrogantly barge in, interfering with her efforts to contain the situation and find the prisoners. Fortunately, she doubted he’d do more than demand an accounting. And that, she hoped to be able to provide, and soon.

  Sighing, Ailsa sat back down, pulled a piece of foolscap her way, and began writing the necessary note.

  Chapter 2

  Holyroodhouse

  Edinburgh

  November 22, 1824

  Count Fyodor Apraksin handed the letter to the master of the honor guards, Vasily Rurik, a large bearded man who had the look and fearless courage of a grizzly. “You take it to him.”

  Rurik promptly handed the letter back. “Nyet. I’d rather face a thousand Cossacks than deliver that damned missive to His Highness.”

  “Someone must deliver it.” Unlike the rest of His Highness’s entourage, Apraksin was not a soldier, but a courtier. And under normal circumstances, delivering a letter would indeed be his responsibility. But not this one.

  He held it at arm’s length, as though it were a snake about to strike. “What can that Scottish harpy want now? We sent Her Grace that blasted trunk.”

  “Every time the prince gets a letter from Lady Ailsa, he snarls for hours. Sometimes days.”

  “He has been in an especially surly mood of late.”

  “So I’ve noticed,” Rurik said in a dry tone. “Something is on his mind.”

  Apraksin sent the head guard a curious look. “I forget you know him better than any of us.” The royal family’s honor guards were made up almost completely of the younger sons of the nobility, and Rurik’s family was especially close to the prince’s.

  “I used to be,” Rurik said shortly. “But now, like you, I don’t even know why we’re here. Has His Highness told you anything?”

  “Nyet.” Apraksin glanced at the half-open door and, determining no one was listening outside, said in a low voice, “It’s a mission of some sort, but that’s all I know.”

  Rurik shrugged. “I suppose he’ll tell us soon enough. The only reason he would stay here at this time of the year is for a mission, not when we could be in Italy, where it is warm and the women . . .” He kissed his fingers to the air.

  “Don’t remind me,” Apraksin said sourly. There was a widow in Milan for whom he’d have given his right leg to spend just two hours in her company. “He won’t admit anything’s afoot.”

  “He is not a talker, this prince of ours. Not to us.”

  This was true. When it came to developing what seemed like close friendships with various foreign dignitaries and powerful nobles, or seducing information from the wives of those same men, there was no more affable, personable, talkative man than their prince. But when he was no longer onstage, he became himself—direct, no-nonsense, and sometimes chillingly civil, especially if a particular situation did not please him.

  Apraksin looked at the letter in his hand and grimaced. “Perhaps we can get Menshivkov to deliver this. That braggart is always saying he is the prince’s chief aide-de-camp, a title he made up in his own mind.”

  Rurik, who’d been looking rather dour, brightened. “Da! If Menshivkov wishes to be a true aide, then he can give His Highness the letter after di—”

  “What letter?”

  The deep voice sent both Apraksin and Rurik spinning on their booted heels to face the door that was now standing wide open, a tall, uniformed figure framed within it.

  “Your Highness.” Apraksin clicked his heels and bowed sharply, Rurik following suit.

  “We did not hear you,” Rurik added unnecessarily.

  A single black brow rose at this. It was a simple movement, the raising of that black eyebrow, and yet that, combined with the icy stare of its owner, made Rurik and Apraksin gulp silently.

  Without sparing them another glance, Prince Nikolai Romanovin closed the study door behind him. At six foot four, he was taller than most men. An imposing figure with broad shoulders, thick black hair, and green eyes so dark they appeared almost black, he was not a man easily overlooked. In front of society, he took the character of a man of town, charming and easily amused, flirting with women one after the other, and never speaking of anything political or of consequence. Indeed, most of Europe believed him a wastrel of a sort, a reputation he had carefully cultivated.

  In public, he’d been called “a womanizer,” “frivolous,” and “an utter rakehell.” In private, he was well educated, knowledgeable, forceful, unyielding, a brilliant tactician, and a tenacious negotiator. This dichotomy had stood him in good stead during negotiations of all kinds. Only Oxenburg possessed a prince such as Nikolai Romanovin.

  Apraksin inclined his head. “Your Highness, a letter arrived from Castle Leod.”

  The prince’s mouth thinned. “Bloody hell, I thought that damned trunk would be there by now.”

  Rurik offered, “We sent it in our own coach, escorted by the head groom.”

  Apraksin added, “Perhaps Her Grace has discovered another missing case?”

  The prince held out his hand.

  Biting back a sigh, Apraksin handed him the letter.

  Nik opened it. Composed in now-familiar neat handwriting, this note had been written in far more haste than the previous ones.

  To: HRH Nikolai Romanovin

  Your Highness,

  I am writing to you so that you may learn of this news from me, and not from the idle gossip of strangers. Your grandmother has gone missing. She left yesterday with Lord Hamilton to visit his seat at Caskill Manor, but neither arrived. We are currently searching for Her Grace, but I believe she may have been (and I dread using this word, for I know it will cause you distress) abducted.

  I will explain more when I have news. In the meantime, my men and I are actively searching for her. I promise that if Her Grace and Lord Hamilton are not found soon, I will call in the local constabulary. Rest assured no stone will be left unturned in our search. We will find your grandmother and she will be returned to you hale and hearty.

  Yours sincerely,

  Lady Ailsa Mackenzie

  November 17, 1824

  P.S. The trunk arrived this morning.

  Nik crumpled the letter in his hand. “Ehta prost nivazmosha!”

  Apraksin and Rurik stiffened to attention.

  Nik ignored them, the paper crinkling noisily in his tight fist. Though his grandmother gave him grief whenever she could with her ceaseless demands and often ribald comments—truly the woman’s sense of humor was as unchecked as a youth’s—he loved her dearly. More, perhaps, than anyone else.

  He rarely admitted that to anyone, for he’d witnessed others being exploited for their familial and romantic ties by unscrupulous foes trying to change the tide of various negotiations. He himself had once almost fallen victim to that ruse.

  Once.

  So the question was this: had someone abducted his grandmother in order to change his position on the current negotiations? Or was she a victim of another plot, one unassociated with him and his efforts here?

  He uncrumpled the letter and read it again. It was obvious Lady Ailsa had already decided that Tata Natasha’s disappearance—and that of this Lord Hamilton—was an abduction. If someone were trying to reach me, why would they take this Hamilton? That makes no sense.r />
  A small flare of hope warmed Nik. He re-crumpled the letter, aware of the gazes resting on him. It was a relief to be with his men and not have to pretend to be an empty-headed, idle fool. It was taxing, keeping up such a façade, though the benefits were beyond counting. It was amazing how many times men of great importance revealed pertinent information in front of someone they thought a lackadaisical, inattentive creature.

  And in Nik’s life, nothing was as valuable as information.

  “My grandmother has gone missing,” he announced shortly. “Lady Ailsa believes Her Grace to have been abducted.”

  Apraksin’s mouth dropped open.

  “Someone took Her Grace? On purpose?” Rurik said in obvious disbelief.

  “I daresay they regret it now, but da.” Nik’s jaw ached from where he ground his teeth. Tata Natasha will not accept such an ignominious fate as being abducted, which could leave her open to abuse. She had better be well or I will— His hand tightened over the paper. “She must be rescued. But at the same time, I cannot leave or those here will realize something has happened. I cannot have a scandal. Oxenburg cannot have a scandal. Not now.”

  Apraksin’s dark eyes gleamed. The slender courtier was at his best when a scheme was at hand. “You are on a mission, then.”

  “Da, and it is tenuous at best, but bloody important. A disruption could ruin everything.” He tapped the letter. “Lady Ailsa has said she will call in the constabulary if my grandmother is not found soon. We cannot allow her to do so.”

  “Of course,” Apraksin said. “I will go to Castle Leod and—”

  “Nyet. Tata Natasha is my responsibility. I will go.”

  Rurik nodded. “It is honorable you feel so. Whoever goes to Castle Leod must find her and bring her home quickly and quietly.”

  “But . . . the mission?” Apraksin said. “Can you leave?”

  “I must,” Nik said grimly. “But I don’t know how to arrange it. If it’s revealed my grandmother’s been abducted, those involved in the current negotiations might fear our secrecy has been compromised and refuse to continue. We must keep this incident quiet.”