Buggering bedamned hell. Sir Fletcher had stopped at home after escorting Megan from the musicale, and lo, she’d been telling the truth: Her letters were no longer where they belonged. He’d gone on to his club in search of a quiet place to think, and perhaps relax with a hand of cards.
Or two or three hands. After that, matters had got muddled. Yesterday had been spent mostly recovering from a bit of overindulgence. Today, Geneva’s older sisters were off at the modiste’s, meaning the library was finally—almost—deserted.
“Will you draw pictures with me?” Geneva asked, latching on to Sir Fletcher’s arm. “You draw the best unicorns.”
“Ladies shouldn’t wheedle,” Sir Fletcher said, ruffling her curls. “Pamela is the artistic genius in the family, and you are the budding soprano.”
“I’m the surpassing soprano,” Geneva said, climbing onto Sir Fletcher’s lap. “Don’t breathe on me or I’ll tell Papa you’ve a sore head again. Pammy said your head must be harder than paving stones. I bet Thomas had a sore head too. He fell on the hearthstones and said bad words, because he got an ouchy-poo you-know-where. I couldn’t understand his bad words, because he talked funny, but they sounded splendidly naughty just the same.”
Geneva was opening and slamming the drawers one by one, while Sir Fletcher’s aching brain tried to make sense of her chatter.
“You say this Thomas fellow wore a skirt?”
“Yes, and he talked funny, but he was nice. He didn’t scold me, and he smelled like flowers. You stink like cigars.”
“You came across Thomas here in the library?”
Bang! She’d nearly caught Sir Fletcher’s fingers that time. “Yes. He didn’t light the candles because that saves money. Papa likes to save money, Mama says saving money is tiresome and un … unbedumbing of her station.”
“Unbecoming, which means it doesn’t suit her. Stop prying into grown-up business, poppet.”
Geneva wrapped her arms around Sir Fletcher’s neck and squeezed. “I like you the best because you explain words to me. Being stuck inside is unbecoming of my station. May we go riding now?”
If he took the child riding now, she’d be that much more tenacious about her next request. She was a bright, determined little female who’d make some man miserable when she grew older.
“Tell me more about Thomas. I don’t think I’ve met him.”
Geneva scrambled about in Sir Fletcher’s lap, nearly gelding him with a knee. “Thomas is tall, and he speaks softly. He talks like … not like you. Like Mrs. Belkins if she were a man. He wore a skirt because his livery wasn’t back from the tailor yet, and he didn’t light the candles because that wastes money. He hasn’t tattled on me.”
Sir Fletcher set her on her feet. “When was this?” Ada Belkins had been brought up in Aberdeenshire, an aspect of her history obvious from her accent.
“The night Pammy danced with Mr. Puget. She loves him, Alexa said so, and Pammy hit her with a pillow. Can we go riding now?”
“May we.” In the past few weeks, Sir Fletcher had seen Megan Windham in the company of two tall Scotsmen, one being Murdoch, the other being Murdoch’s younger brother. Murdoch favored the kilt, he spoke with an accent, and his gaze when he studied Megan was watchful.
The younger brother was a flirt, though he might retrieve a lady’s letters on a gallant dare. Sir Fletcher vaguely recalled some pranks among the officers in Spain involving the dashing Captain MacHugh. For much of the campaign boredom had been a more formidable enemy than the French, and the Scottish officers had been so easy to make sport of.
Perhaps the captain was up to some retaliatory pranks of his own.
The situation wanted more thought at some point when seventeen jack-booted devils weren’t dancing a jig in Sir Fletcher’s brainbox.
“Well, may we go riding now?” Geneva asked, turning her question into a musical bellow. “The day is fine, you’re awake, and nobody is home to play with me. May we pleeeeeease?”
“You are persistent,” Sir Fletcher said. “Let me change into my riding breeches, and we’ll tour the alley before your poor governess can sound the alarm. You must promise me one thing, though.”
Geneva pirouetted before the hearth, but spoiled the charming effect by coming to a graceless halt.
“You’ll take me riding right now, truly?”
“You’re my favorite sister, of course I’ll take you riding. About the promise, Geneva.”
“Anything,” she said, spinning again. “Anything at all, Fletchie.”
“Thomas got tired of waiting for new livery, and has taken a position elsewhere. It would be best if you didn’t mention him to anybody else.”
She grabbed Sir Fletcher’s hand and began towing him toward the door. “I won’t say a word, as long as you take me riding all the way to the park and back.”
As if he’d be caught dead indulging a child in public. “We’ll have a turn about the alley, and you’d better hope your governess isn’t watching from the windows when you’re supposed to be napping or working at your French.”
“You’re supposed to be amounting to something,” Geneva countered. “Papa says you never will, and Mama agreed with him. Will I ever amount to something?”
The pounding in Sir Fletcher’s head was joined by a seething biliousness in his belly. He shook his hand free of Geneva’s.
“You are already my favorite sister.” Also a very good spy, praise heaven. “Please go to the mews and tell Jacobs to saddle Jupiter. I’ll be along shortly.”
Or perhaps not. The situation with Miss Megan Windham wanted immediate attention, while Geneva could entertain herself for hours chasing barn cats and getting her pinafore dirty. Sir Fletcher, by contrast, had a special license to procure, and an errant fiancée to bring to heel.
“Aren’t you coming with us?” Colin asked.
Hamish rubbed tired eyes. “What time is it?”
Colin consulted a gold watch that went nicely with his evening attire. He wore the kilt well, with just enough dash and just enough decorum.
“It’s late enough that Eddie and Ronnie will be down any minute, ready to terrorize the unsuspecting bachelors of Mayfair once more. They’ve taken to being ladies with a vengeance.”
Hamish set aside the ledger he’d been working on and moved the stack of bills to the edge of the blotter. His library wasn’t the grand public room the Duke of Moreland’s mansion boasted, but the books here were well loved and the chair behind the desk comfortable.
“Our sisters have taken to bankrupting me,” Hamish said.
Colin settled into the chair opposite the desk, one ankle crossed casually over the opposite knee.
“Are you being the tightfisted Scot, bemoaning the loss of every groat while you hoard up twenty in its place, or are you serious?”
“Mostly the Scot,” Hamish said. “I don’t begrudge the ladies their finery, but we’ve weeks of prancing about to endure yet, and I hope to negotiate marriage settlements before we leave here.”
Colin snapped the watch closed. “Would you tell me if you needed help?”
“I’d tell you before I’d tell anybody else.”
The watch was tucked away, the chain hanging just so across Colin’s flat middle. “I’ll take that for a no, even though I’m filthy rich and I love you better than I love my horse.”
“Colin Andrew, you’ll move me to tears.” Or to drink. Hamish tossed a bill across the desk. “Is this your new bootmaker?”
“Puget and Sons? Never heard of them, and I know the bootmakers in London because Eddie and Ronnie have dragged me to most of them. The merchants probably don’t expect you to be here come December, so they’re settling with you as they go.”
Poring over the ledgers had left Hamish’s eyes stinging, which made him think of Meggie, though everything made him think of Meggie.
“I don’t blame the trades for trying to prey on a new title,” Hamish said. “I do expect them to provide goods for the coin they seek.”
Colin studied the invoice. “Let me have a chat with this bootmaker. I don’t recognize the direction, but I’ll stop around at their establishment and see what I can find out. We’ve barely been here long enough to have many boots made.”
Hamish was about to demand return of the invoice, but Colin was watching him, his gaze unreadable. Colin had a temper, though unlike Hamish’s, it was a cold, calculating temper. A man who crossed the wrong line with affable, easygoing Captain Lord Colin MacHugh would never see retribution coming until it put out his lights with the first blow.
“Let’s not be hasty,” Hamish said, holding out his hand for the bill. “I’m convinced London runs as much on gossip as the army ever did. One unhappy cobbler and I’ll find old Moreland doubting my solvency.”
Colin passed over the offending invoice and rose as feminine chatter sounded from the corridor. “Now you’re doing your impersonation of the dour Scotsman. Moreland has five daughters, and he knows what a London season costs. I’ll tell the ladies you have a megrim, because you look as if you do. Courting is taking a toll on you.”
Waiting was taking a toll on Hamish.
“I’ll make my own excuses to the ladies,” Hamish said, pushing to his feet. “If they don’t scold me for something twice a day, they mope.”
Too late, Hamish realized he’d blundered. Again. Colin wanted to be useful, but Colin’s version of useful too often ended up in wagers, fisticuffs, or awkward apologies.
The door opened and Edana and Rhona stormed into the room.
“Hamish, you will please make yourself presentable in the next twelve minutes, or you’ll cause us to be late,” Rhona said.
“Not fashionably late either,” Edana echoed. “Rudely late. We’ll miss the opening sets, and I’ve promised the promenade to”—she peered at a slip of paper—“Mr. Cam Dorning.”
“He’s too young for you,” Rhona said. “But I do fancy his eyes. Hamish, what are you waiting for? You can’t go out dressed like that.”
“I’m not—” Hamish began as Colin opened the door and swept a hand toward the corridor.
“The ledgers have given Hamish a megrim,” Colin said. “A predictable result of trying to keep up with all the bills you two generate. While you have a lie-in until noon, he’s out and about, wooing the fair young maid. I hear the coach, so let’s be on our way.”
“But Ham is the duke,” Rhona said, tossing her curls over her shoulder.
“How will it look,” Edana chimed in, “if the head of the family can’t be bothered to escort his own sisters, ladies in their first season, despite the fact that we’re nearly old enough to describe Noah’s ark? When a man acquires a title—”
“Speak for yourself, Eddie MacHugh,” Rhona shot back. “I’m not that old. Many women don’t make their come outs until—”
“That’s Lady Edana, if you please.”
“Enough!” Hamish snapped. “You comport yourselves like children rather than daughters of Clan MacHugh. Colin, I’ll thank you to see the ladies around tonight.”
An uneasy glance passed between the women. Hamish hated that glance, for he hadn’t even raised his voice.
Rhona stuck her nose in the air and flounced out. Edana cast Hamish a fretful sniff, then did likewise. Colin remained in the doorway, an odd smile lurking in his eyes.
“The world doesn’t come to an end because you occasionally have an evening at home,” he said. “I’ll keep them out of trouble.”
“Keep yourself out of trouble,” Hamish replied. “Lady Rothergild apparently enjoys making her husband jealous, and he’s accounted a good shot.”
Colin’s smile died. “I’ll take care of our sisters, Hamish, and I’m an excellent shot. Get some rest. You need it.” He marched off, not bothering to close the door.
“I’ll go straight up to bed when I’ve finished here,” Hamish promised his brother’s retreating back.
Colin waved a dismissive hand and continued on his way to the front door.
“That went well,” Hamish muttered as he capped the ink bottle and stood the quill in the standish. He’d managed to offend three siblings in the space of five minutes, and also to tell a lie—two lies, actually.
For he’d not be finishing with the ledgers, nor would he be going straight up to bed.
Chapter Sixteen
You’re sure you’d rather stay home?” Aunt Esther asked, her gaze appraising. “You’ll be missed, Megs dear.”
Uncle Percy held up Aunt Esther’s cloak. “My love, every young lady is entitled to the occasional evening at home. Let the dashing swains pine for a change. Serves them right for all the times they dodge off to their clubs—or worse.”
Aunt and Uncle exchanged a look that included humor, a short contest of wills, and possibly a bit of flirtation—and at their ages.
“I’ll be fine,” Megan said. “I’ll read some poetry and go to bed early.”
Charlotte and Beth came down the stairs, resplendent in aubergine and raspberry.
“Megan has decided to sit out the evening,” Aunt said, raising her chin as Uncle Percy fastened the frogs of her cloak. “She needs to rest her feet, should anybody ask.”
Charlotte accepted the next cloak from Uncle Percy. “Megs is avoiding the watch. Those three leave a lady cousin no peace. My feet could certainly use a rest. Perhaps I’ll stay home.”
Damn Charlotte for her loyalty.
“And leave me to contend with our cousins and the bachelors?” Beth retorted. “I think not. At least our cousins dance wonderfully.” She peered into the mirror over the sideboard and touched the tips of her fourth and fifth fingers to a coiffure that blended demure elegance with russet tumbling curls. Charlotte, by contrast, was sporting a chignon worthy of a dowager Methodist.
“My boys get their nimbleness on the dance floor from my duchess,” Uncle said. “Ladies, I hear the coach. Shall we be on our way?”
Yes, please. “Have a wonderful time,” Megan said, holding the door for them. “Bring me back all the gossip.”
The ladies filed out, while Uncle Percy remained behind, tugging on his gloves. “You’ve never been interested in gossip, Megs.”
Well, no. She hadn’t, and she still wasn’t. “Perhaps I’m growing more social.”
Uncle kissed her forehead. “Perhaps you’re falling in love. Enjoy your evening at home.” He winked and set off down the steps at a brisk pace.
Megan remained in the doorway, waving her sisters off. Charlotte blew her a kiss and climbed into the coach. Beth twiddled her fingers in Megan’s direction.
“One has no privacy in this household,” Megan muttered.
The butler, a stalwart old fixture named Hodges, cleared his throat. “Miss Anwen has often remarked similarly, ma’am. Shall I have the kitchen send up a tea tray?”
“No, thank you, Hodges. I truly am quite fatigued. An early night will be the salvation of my week.” Or her sanity.
“I’ll bid you good evening, miss.”
Megan made her escape up the stairs at a dignified pace, when she would rather have taken the steps two at a time. Her bedroom beckoned, though in truth all this subterfuge was likely pointless. Hamish was not the type to climb to a lady’s balcony or indulge in clandestine trysts.
Megan loved that about him, loved how honorable he was—truly she did.
“Are they gone?” Anwen had opened her bedroom door a mere crack and spoken just above a whisper.
“They’re gone,” Megan said. “My feet ache. I hadn’t realized you were also remaining at home this evening.” Though Anwen was so naturally retiring, she’d probably keep to her rooms for the duration. “What excuse did you use?”
“My monthly,” Anwen said. “The merest allusion and Uncle Percy is striding from the room, and Aunt is serving the cordial. Then too, we had buckets of rain this afternoon, and I’m prone to colds.”
Which cousin had said the quiet ones bore constant watching? “This is your second monthly in recent weeks, Wenny.”
“The upheaval of changing households, the social whirl, the excitement of seeing our cousins,” Anwen said, opening the door enough to lean on the jamb. “It’s all quite daunting.”
Megan was desperate to return to her room, and yet, a revelation ought not to go unremarked. “You’re better at dissembling than I am. How could I not have realized this?”
Anwen twirled the end of her braid, a nervous habit she’d had since her hair had been cut short during a childhood fever.
“That’s not a compliment, Megs. I’m more desperate to protect my privacy is all. Were we playing piquet?”
Playing …? Oh.
“Yes, I think we were, until about half eleven in the library. You won, though not by much, then I took Lord Byron up to bed with me—so to speak.”
Anwen did not often smile, except at babies, puppies, kittens, and the boys at her favorite orphanage.
She smiled now. “Megs, the servants are in and out of the library all evening—tending the hearth, lighting lamps or dousing them. We were not in the library, and you never read in the evening because it makes your eyes hurt.”
Gracious days, lying was a complicated undertaking. “Piquet in your room, then,” Megan said. “And you did beat me.”
“Right. Until half eleven,” Anwen said, drawing back. “And Megs?”
“Yes?”
“I like your Scot. I like how he watches you. I like that his brother loves him fiercely. Murdoch is protective and respectful toward you, and he watches you the way Papa watches Mama.”
“I hadn’t noticed.” Hadn’t been able to see, in other words. “Thank you.”
Anwen closed the door without another word, though as Megan crossed the corridor to her own room, she wondered what else Anwen had noticed, and what else about her own sister Megan had missed.
She opened her sitting room door and tarried to bank the fire in the hearth. The servants would not intrude unless Megan rang the bell pull, though for all the urgency she’d felt to return to her room, she’d probably spend her evening alone.
Hamish’s sisters expected him to escort them to every function, and he was nothing if not dutiful. Then too, no engagement had been announced. An engaged couple was permitted a significant amount of latitude, but a couple merely courting …
The Trouble With Dukes Page 21