The Regency Season

by Ann Lethbridge

  Misplaced pity filled his gaze. ‘There is no doubt in my mind the man was your husband, Mrs MacDonald. We talked. Of you. Of other things. How else would I know about the lawyer?’ He frowned and looked grim. ‘But you are right. Someone should identify his remains. To make things legal. I didna’ think you...’

  Her stomach lurched. She pushed her plate away, stood and moved from the table to the hearth. ‘No. You are right. This Mr Jones should do it.’

  ‘If he knew him personally.’

  She whirled around. ‘You think he did not?’

  ‘Your husband was not always lucid, Mrs MacDonald. He suffered greatly. But he was most insistent on my contacting those in charge of Mere’s estate.’

  The Duke of Mere. Why did that name sound so familiar? She had heard it spoken of recently, surely? She didn’t care for gossip, but now she remembered her employer’s remark. She turned to face him. ‘The Duke of Mere is dead.’

  His jaw dropped. ‘But...’ He shook his head, got up and took a step towards her. ‘One duke dies. Another follows right behind. Like the king.’

  He was right. She swallowed. ‘Of course.’

  He drew closer. Very close, until she could feel the warmth from his body, the sense of male strength held in check, though why that should be she could not imagine. ‘Mrs MacDonald,’ he said softly, ‘dinna fash yourself. Jones will come tomorrow and your husband’s family will do their duty by you.’

  What family? According to Samuel he was as alone in the world as she was. It was one of the things that had drawn her to him. His need for family. Not that he had needed her, once he had her money. It would be nice to be needed. To be able to lean on a man and have him take care of her in return. She felt herself leaning towards Mr Gilvry, as if his strength could sustain her.

  Shocked, she straightened. She moved away, turning to face him with a hard-won smile against the melting sensation in her limbs. ‘You are right. It seems that Mr Jones holds the key to everything.’ She put a hand to her temple. It was throbbing again. Too much thinking. Too much worrying. Too much hope that she had not been entirely abandoned after all.

  ‘Mr Gilvry, my husband asked much of you.’ She looked at his poor ruined face and saw nothing but sympathy in his gaze. She hesitated, her mouth dry, the words stuck fast in her throat. She took a breath. ‘Could I trouble you some more? May I request your presence at the interview with Mr Jones?’

  If he was surprised, he hid it well. ‘If that is your wish,’ he said, his voice a little gruff.

  Instinctively, she swayed towards all that beautiful male strength, her eyes closing in relief. ‘Thank you.’

  She felt his hand on her arm, warm and strong and infinitely gentle. Once more, strange tingles ran up her arm at the strength of his touch. Did he feel them, too? Was that why he released her so quickly?

  ‘Sit down, Mrs MacDonald,’ he said in a rasping voice. ‘By the hearth. I’ll ask our hostess to send up tea. And the maid. It is a good night’s sleep you need. Things will be clearer in the morning.’

  When she looked up, he was gone. So silently for such a tall man. A man whose absence left a very empty hole in the room. But he had said he would stand by her on the morrow. She clung to that thought as if her life depended on it and wondered at her sudden sensation of weakness.

  Chapter Two

  Drew paced up and down between the stalls, cursing under his breath. Frustration scoured through his blood. Desire. He struck out at a post and accepted the pain in his knuckles as his just reward.

  What the hell did he think he was doing? The woman had just learned of her husband’s death and instead of offering platitudes and help, he’d almost pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

  He wasn’t drawn to respectable women. Ever. He was depraved. And he knew where to find what he wanted. What the hell had he been thinking up there?

  How could he possibly consider wanting her, let alone begin envisaging her naked and open and...? He hit the post again, then sucked the copper-tasting blood from his knuckles and remembered her soft, wide mouth.

  Damn him. Hadn’t his experience with Alice Fulton been lesson enough? If his family hadn’t been desperate, he would never have taken her in order to force a wedding. The moment he did it, he’d known it would never work. Not for him. He’d have spent his life in purgatory.

  He’d never been so relieved as when she had backed out of their engagement. So why had he almost kissed Rowena MacDonald?

  Because he felt sorry for her? Or because he was grateful that, after her first horrified look at his face, she’d acted as if he was normal. As if his appearance didn’t make her stomach turn.

  Jones had better turn up tomorrow and take charge of this woman, because if he didn’t, Drew was just going to walk away. He squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t. He’d sworn to himself that he would see her safe and secure. He didn’t have a choice, not when it was his fault her husband was dead.

  A man staggered down the steps from the loft. The old groom in charge of the stables. He glared at Drew, then recoiled as he saw his face in the light from the lantern hanging from a beam.

  ‘Isn’t it bad enough that your pounding and cursing knocked me out of my bed,’ the old man railed, shaking his fist. ‘Do you have to ruin my dreams with that devil’s face?’

  Drew laughed. He couldn’t help it. The old man’s reaction was exactly the same as everyone else’s, but at least he had the courage to say it.

  He bowed. ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘Aye, well ye might. If ye’re wanting to bed down, you best get up that ladder now, because when I’m back from tending to nature I’m bolting the trapdoor from the inside. To keep out Old Nick, you understand.’ He staggered to the door at the far end, still muttering under his breath.

  Drew wished he had something to keep out the devil he carried around inside him. But he didn’t. And while the devil wanted a woman, Drew wanted his revenge on Ian more. And so he would keep the devil caged. He’d done it for the past few years; he would continue.

  He had to get Mrs MacDonald off his hands and his conscience. Then he would send Ian to hell, where he belonged.

  * * *

  ‘A gentleman to see you, Mrs Macdonald,’ the maid announced from the doorway to her private parlour the next morning.

  She looked up from her struggle to compose a suitable letter to Mrs Preston, her employer, asking for a few more days’ absence. For a moment she thought it might be Mr Gilvry and her heart lifted a fraction. But at the same moment she knew it was not. He would not have asked the maid to announce him. ‘Did the gentleman give his name?’

  Emmie held out a square of white paper. ‘His card, ma’am.’

  Mr Brian Jones, solicitor, the card stated in bold black letters. On the reverse, a rather crabbed script added cryptically, man of business to the Duke of Mere.

  ‘Show him in, please. And ask Mr Gilvry to come up, if you will.’ The girl raised questioning brows, but hurried off without a word.

  Rowena moved from the writing desk to the sofa and sat facing the door.

  The man who stepped across the threshold a few moments later was surprisingly young for such a responsible position. In his mid-thirties, she thought, and reasonably fair of face, if one ignored the tendency of his long nose to sharpness and the slight weakness of his chin. But his pale blue eyes were sharp and his smile positively charming. He was dressed quite as soberly as one would expect for a lawyer, though his cravat was perhaps a shade flamboyant in its intricacy.

  ‘Mrs MacDonald,’ he said with a deeper bow than someone of her station warranted. An odd little slip for such a man.

  ‘Mr Jones. Please, be seated.’

  He settled himself into the armchair opposite without a sign of any nervousness. Indeed, if anything, he looked confidently in control. A small smile hovered on his lips as he waited for her to speak. She could wait him out. Her father had taught her the game of negotiation almost before she had learned how to sew a fin
e seam. But with her future in the balance, she wasn’t in the mood.

  ‘You received the message about my husband’s death from Mr Gilvry, I assume?’

  He arranged his face into an expression of sympathy. ‘I did. May I offer you my condolences on your loss,’ he said, inclining his head. ‘Indians, I understand.’

  She nodded. ‘So I gather.’

  ‘Most unfortunate.’ A touch of colour tinged his cheeks. ‘Did you—’ He coughed delicately. ‘Are you certain he did not survive the attack?’

  His eyes were fixed intently on her face. A strange feeling rippled across her shoulders. Her scalp tightened at the shock of it. It was something like the sensation described as a ghost walking over one’s grave, only more unpleasant. A premonition of danger. Clearly, she wasn’t the only one who had wondered about the truth of Samuel’s death. ‘If you require confirmation, Mr Jones, you must inspect his remains. They have been returned to Scotland at his wish.’

  Distaste twisted his mouth. ‘Not me. I never met Mr MacDonald in person.’ He coughed behind his hand. ‘I have arranged for someone in the duke’s household to confirm his identity.’

  The duke’s household? ‘My husband never mentioned the Duke of Mere once to me during our marriage.’

  ‘Ah, dear lady, it is a distant connection. Your husband’s branch of the family has long been estranged from its senior branch. He visited Mere shortly before his departure for America. It was Mere’s wish that relationships that were broken be mended. The identification is mere formality, you understand, but a necessary one.’

  His smile felt just a little too forced. But then it was likely difficult to know what to do with one’s face in the presence of a supposedly grieving widow. He drew a notebook from his pocket and a small silver pen. He turned the pages as if looking for something. ‘It was a Mr Gilvry who discovered his body. It was his letter we received.’

  ‘Yes. He accompanied my husband’s remains from America.’ His voice made her wonder if he harboured doubts about Mr Gilvry. She pursed her lips. Where was he? He had promised to attend this meeting. ‘He will join us shortly.’

  He looked around somewhat disapprovingly as if he expected Mr Gilvry to pop out of her bedroom.

  ‘Nothing can move forward until the circumstances of your husband’s death are fully documented and sworn to,’ he continued. ‘It is this—’ he glanced down at his notebook ‘—Gilvry I need to speak to. As well as verifying the death of your husband and...’ He frowned. ‘And the validity of your marriage.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘None of the MacDonalds were aware that Mr Samuel MacDonald had taken a wife.’

  ‘You will find it in the records of my parish church.’

  Again that delicate cough. ‘Or if there are offspring? Our contact with Mr MacDonald was most perfunctory.’

  ‘No.’ She raised her chin. ‘No offspring.’ And she’d been glad of it, too, given how he’d left her in the lurch.

  ‘And Mr Gilvry?’

  She glanced towards the door. Where on earth was he?

  * * *

  The call to attend Rowena and Mr Jones came at eleven. Damn it, not Rowena. Mrs MacDonald. All night he’d been thinking about the lovely pale skin glowing in candlelight over dinner, his memories of the challenge her slender curves and hollows presented to his own desires and cursing himself.

  He’d made very sure the servants had seen him leave her room. He’d sent the maid up to help her ready for bed, too, so she would know nothing untoward had occurred. He’d done all he could to protect her from gossip. He would have to make sure this lawyer saw only mistress and servant.

  Once more he was dressed in her husband’s second-best coat, pretending to be what he was not.

  The atmosphere when he stepped into the room was tense. Mrs MacDonald sagged at the sight of him. He frowned. What had this lawyer being saying to her that would upset her usual calm?

  He bowed. ‘You sent for me, Mrs MacDonald.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Gilvry. Mr Jones has some questions for you.’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ the dapper young man said. ‘On what date did Mr MacDonald meet his end? The day and the month.’

  Drew had expected questions about the circumstances of MacDonald’s death. Dreaded them. But the date?

  He hadn’t known at the time. He’d spent too long living by the seasons and the rise and set of the sun to be aware of dates. But he knew it now. The date was carved in his mind by words that chilled him to the bone. Unbelievable that any man would allow... ‘September fifteenth.’ He forced the words out.

  The lawyer’s eyes flickered with some sort of emotion. Disappointment? He gathered himself so quickly it was hard to be sure. He smiled a prissy smile. ‘Are you positive?’

  ‘I am.’

  The lawyer looked at him expectantly. When he said nothing, the man shook his head. ‘You have proof?’

  A deep dark cold entered his gut. ‘My word should be enough.’

  ‘Any statement made is subject to being contested without proof.’

  The cold expended to fill his chest. He had the proof. But to make his shame public, a byword.... There had to be another way. ‘If you dinna have the date, is it a problem?’

  The lawyer tapped his chin with a well-manicured nail, making Drew aware of his rough weather-beaten hands. No longer the hands of a gentleman. Jones frowned down at paper before him. ‘It is true the date is not so important, once his identity is established. Without proof it is best if we couch it in the most general of terms.’ He looked up with a lawyerly smile. ‘And remain within the bounds of the law, you understand. Yes. Yes. It will serve very well.’

  The man talked in such flowing periods, Drew wanted to hit him.

  He picked up his pen and filled in some blank spaces on the document. ‘Hmm. Date of death, sometime in late September.’

  Drew looked at Rowena. She was pale, worrying at her bottom lip and looking tense. She clearly sensed something was wrong and, damn it, so did he.

  The lawyer pushed the paper across the desk. ‘Make your mark there,’ he said, pointing. ‘I’ll witness it.’

  His younger brother Niall had always wanted to study the law. One of the things he had said when they talked around the dinner table was that it was a foolish man who signed anything he did not understand. And it was clear the lawyer thought he couldn’t read. He picked up the pen. ‘Why not write the fifteenth as I told you?’

  ‘You cannot put a date if you cannot prove it,’ the lawyer said. ‘It would not be right.’ He moved the paper out of Drew’s reach with a frown. ‘And as I said, it is not all that important. As long as we have the proof of his death.’ He gave a sly little smile. ‘As we will do, once the remains are carried to Mere.’

  ‘Then let us omit any mention of the date at all.’ Drew replied.

  ‘Will that be sufficient?’ Rowena asked, her posture stiff, her expression remote, yet stern. Drew sensed her anxiety.

  The lawyer pulled his legal superiority around him like a shield. ‘If more is required, we can return to the matter at a later time.’

  It seemed reasonable to Drew. Then why did he have this odd sense of worry? He glanced at Rowena. She also looked troubled, but she met his gaze and nodded.

  He pulled the paper back across the table, scratched out the line and signed the document.

  ‘Mr Jones,’ Mrs MacDonald said sharply, ‘there are other matters pressing upon me at the moment with which I require your assistance.’

  His gaze sharpened with wariness. ‘Matters, madam?’

  ‘Matters such as my husband’s will. His estate.’

  ‘My dear Mrs MacDonald,’ the man said with a condescension that again made Drew want to hit him, ‘probate of a will takes time. There are many formalities to be undertaken, as I have already explained.’

  She gazed at him coolly. ‘I understand. But you must know something of his affairs. I am a governess. I must return to my position at once.’


  His eyes widened. ‘Oh, most certainly not. You and Mr Gilvry must travel to Mere.’

  Drew stared at him. ‘I have no intention of going to Mere. My own affairs take me in quite another direction.’

  The lawyer shifted in his seat. ‘It was my understanding that you were to accompany Mr MacDonald’s remains to his final resting place. That is Mere.’

  ‘I prefer to leave that to you.’

  The lawyer shook his head. ‘Until a third party has confirmed that the deceased is truly Samuel MacDonald, at which time the court will no doubt accept your information, Mr Gilvry, I cannot release you from your obligations.’

  He turned to Rowena and, if anything, his smile became more oily. ‘I should not be saying this, but before he left, Mr MacDonald changed his will. Everything is left to Mere’s estate. Any settlements will be at the discretion of the new duke. You will not find him ungenerous, I assure you, once your claim is established.’

  Drew’s hackles rose. The longer he spent in this man’s company, the less he trusted him. While at first glance he seemed charming, with that ready smile, his eyes drifted away when met head-on, even taking into account that no one liked to look Drew full in the face.

  Rowena visibly wilted as if the stuffing had been knocked out of her. ‘He left everything to Mere? He indicated to Mr Gilvry that he made a settlement—’

  Jones shook his head. ‘It is in Mere’s hands now. I am merely his representative. You will have to take your case directly to him.’

  Drew glared and the man shifted his gaze to the documents on the table. ‘MacDonald told me his wife would be cared for.’ The dying man had said it with such bitterness, Drew had been shocked, but he had not doubted his words.

  Jones frowned. ‘The duke takes his responsibilities seriously, I can assure you.’ Again that tight little smile at Rowena. ‘As you will discover, Mrs MacDonald, if you will allow yourself to be guided by me.’

  Rowena took an unsteady breath. ‘It would be enough if I am relieved of his debt.’

  The defeat on her face made Drew’s chest feel as if it was weighed down with a rock.

  ‘If there are assets, they should be passed on to MacDonald’s widow,’ he said firmly.