“Perhaps I should enlist the help of a matchmaker.” Marchford spoke in jest, but then his eyes turned serious. “Why not? You are right: I will get no rest until I am engaged.”
“Engaged, wed, with an heir bouncing on one knee,” said Penelope lightly.
“True. I cannot be bothered with trying to find a bride. I am currently occupied with important matters of state. What I need is someone to analyze the candidates and find a likely few. I will make the final choice, and the engagement will be announced. Yes, this will be perfect. I would like you to arrange a meeting for me with Madame X.”
Penelope coughed compulsively. He could not possibly have asked for that. “I cannot.”
“Why not? You are helping Lord Langley.”
“Madame X is very exclusive.”
“She would take the case of an American but not me? Odd sort of exclusivity.”
“I meant to say she is reclusive. She will not meet with anyone.”
“But she meets with you and my grandmother. Tell me the truth, have you met the woman?”
“Yes,” squeaked Penelope, for it was the truth.
“Then she will arrange things through you?”
“Yes, but—”
“Good, you will tell her what I am interested in and you will arrange it with her.”
“Her services are quite dear.” Penelope was desperate to evade him.
“She may send me the bill and it will be paid.” Marchford waved a hand as if he could not be bothered with trivial details. “Now then, take some notes on what I would like in a bride.” He pointed to a writing desk.
Unable to think of a plausible reason to recuse herself, Penelope moved to the desk and took a piece of paper. Marchford waited for her to dip the quill in the inkwell before he began. “First, she needs to be sensible and not too young. I cannot have some giggling miss twenty years my junior.”
“Then she would only be eight years old.”
“Quite so. Unseemly.”
“And illegal.”
“She needs to be well-read and accomplished. She needs to be able to run my household with efficiency. And most important, she needs to be able to hold her own against my grandmother. Someone who can treat Grandmother with respect, but also be her own person.”
“And what of appearance?” Penelope’s voice was raw. This is where she was passed over every time. Men might say they wanted a sensible wife but would then make an offer to the prettiest face in the room.
The duke looked up to the ceiling as if picturing his perfect bride. “I am not in need of anyone with striking looks, for I have found the women with the most beauty are often the least confident and most needing of reassurance. Also, I would dislike having to constantly defend my territory. No, give me a woman of quiet beauty and inner confidence.”
Penelope could not think of what to say. Could he really mean this?
“Did you get all that?” asked Marchford after a long pause.
“Oh! Yes, quite. And what of fortune? Family connections?”
Marchford shrugged. “I have no need for an heiress. Give me someone from a respectable family. I do not wish for in-laws who will cause problems or be looking to be bailed out of a fix.” Marchford frowned. “I have enough interference from my grandmother as it is; perhaps it would be best if my future wife is an orphan.”
“Anything else of importance?”
“Let me think. She must be sensible, intelligent, self-confident, and able to work with my grandmother. I am not sure where you can find such a saint, so wish Madame X good luck.”
Penelope reviewed the list. It could not be. Had he truly just described her? “I shall do my best.”
“Good! I look forward to reviewing a list of candidates.”
Marry me.
“Yes, of course.” Penelope banished traitorous thoughts. A peer of the realm, particularly a duke, did not marry a little nobody companion. She was a sensible girl and it was time to get her errant imagination under better regulation.
“I will see you at dinner,” Marchford turned back to his newspaper as if nothing unusual had occurred.
She was dismissed.
As Penelope was walking out, Mr. Neville walked past and spied Marchford.
“Your Grace!” Mr. Neville called and entered the room uninvited, closing the door behind him.
Marchford regarded him with annoyance. One of the reasons he had called these meetings to take place in the Highlands was to avoid such persons as Mr. Neville. He had thought Scotland too far for Neville to travel. He had underestimated the man’s resolve.
“I understand you had meetings today. Meetings to which I was not invited,” accused Neville.
“Yes, you are correct,” said Marchford mildly.
“But… but… I have come all this way to participate in these meetings,” sputtered Neville. “I must know that things are being conducted in a secure manner. I need the names of the attendees, careful notes must be taken and kept secure. I must review any documents or plans that may be developed as a result of said meetings.”
“I understand your concern.” Marchford turned back to his newspaper. Maybe if he ignored the man Neville would disappear.
“Marchford!” demanded Neville.
Marchford looked over his paper at him. “I did not realize we were on such familiar terms.”
“Your Grace,” Neville ground out. “I demand you include me tomorrow!”
“I fear that is not possible.” Marchford held up his hand to quiet any rebuke. “You must understand the level of distrust between the generals and the Foreign Office is deep. If you were to come, others would leave. Let me work with them first, then we can discuss any plans that evolve.”
“Well, I suppose that will have to do.” Neville appeared slightly mollified. “I only want what is best for England.”
“God save the King.”
“Crazy man that he is,” muttered Neville as he left.
***
“Are you feeling better?” Harriet asked her grandfather. She was followed into the room by Penelope and the dowager duchess, who surprised her by expressing an interest in visiting Lord Langley.
“All this fresh country air. Bad for the lungs,” complained Langley from his sickbed. He was marginally improved, but the process was slow.
“What you need is company,” advised the dowager. “Miss Redgrave, perhaps you should stay with your grandfather tonight. I shall arrange for your meals to be brought here.”
“No,” croaked Langley on a hoarse throat. “I want her downstairs, meeting gentlemen.”
“She has introduced herself to enough gentlemen today,” retorted the duchess.
At Langley’s confused face Penelope said, “Today Miss Redgrave presented herself at Marchford’s meeting with the military leaders and informed them of the injustice of capturing American vessels to press men into service.”
Langley was quiet a moment. “Bet Marchford was riled up. Well, can’t say I approve, but that’s the Langley spirit in you!”
“Incorrigible, the both of you,” declared the dowager. “The point is Miss Redgrave has made a serious social error. She may be ostracized from society no matter how great her dowry. Fortunately for you, I have circulated a rumor that she has contracted the same illness as you and her actions today were the result of delirium and high fever.”
“So I must stay here with my grandfather?” asked Harriet.
“Yes, until this crisis is averted.”
Harriet smiled. It was the best news she had heard all day.
“I’m sorry, dear,” said Langley. “Perhaps we should do as they suggest.”
“I do not mind a bit,” said Harriet. “I would quite enjoy staying here. Let us bring over a table, Grandfather. Do you play cards?” A happy vision of domestic tranquility danced before her eyes.
“Too bad we don’t have four people for a set,” said Langley, giving the dowager a hopeful look.
“Oh, fine then,” the dowager
snapped. “Penelope bring over two more chairs, Lord Langley wants to play whist.”
Lord Langley graced his former fiancée with a wide smile. And a sneeze.
Sixteen
Thornton stepped lightly up the crumbled stairs to the ruined castle above Thornton Hall. A light shone from the windows of one of the outbuildings. It was five in the morning. No staff was supposed to be there. No houseguest would be awake for another four hours. Miss Redgrave had unfortunately taken ill. Whoever was there could only mean trouble.
Thornton was a peace-loving man by nature but a Highlander by blood, a fact made plain by the claymore sword he swung over his shoulder. Marchford may have preferred a brace of pistols—he was English like that—but nothing beat the sheer intimidation factor of a sword almost as long as he was tall.
He slowed a bit as he approached the castle. The sky had shed the inky blackness of a cloudy night to the cool gray of predawn. Morning came early to the Highlands in the summer. The fog settled itself comfortably around the castle and the candle through the window shone in an orange halo through the mist. Silently, Thornton approached the outbuilding, the old kitchen of the ruined castle. Straining against the muffling effect of fog, he froze, trying to place the faint sound emanating from the building. It was… humming.
Edging up to the building, he peeked inside and, through the illumination of several candles, saw the odd laboratory of Miss Redgrave. The room was even more filled than when he had seen it last. Bottles, boxes, books, and papers lay about in a haphazard manner. Small piles of rocks and metals and heaps of powders were lined up on an old table on one side of the room. Many tiny, oddly shaped bottles with cork stoppers were scattered across another table on the opposite side. A small fire was burning in a metal dish, with a bottle propped over it, held up by a strange metal contraption. What kind of lass was Harriet to have such an unusual interest?
Suddenly, Harriet’s face appeared in the open window, inches away from his own. He pulled back instinctively and lost his balance, setting him down hard.
“Hello! Oh, I say, I am sorry. Did I startle you?” Harriet added further insult to his humiliation by hopping through the open window like a gazelle and offering a hand to help him up.
“I am fine, thank ye. Nay, I dinna need help to stand.”
“Are you hurt?” she asked.
“I am fine!” he answered more harshly than he intended. “What are ye doing here? I thought ye were ill.”
She smiled at him, and he suddenly realized she was in a rather natural state. Her auburn hair was down and framed her face with gentle curves. Her hair was surprisingly thick and long, much different than the sensible knot she typically wore. She wore a long wool coat, but peeking from underneath he could swear she wore nothing but her chemise. Unlike her sensible dress during the day, this Harriet Redgrave was a wild thing, at home with the fey creatures of the Scottish Highlands.
“The duchess started a rumor I was febrile to explain my behavior yesterday. I feel fine but I could not sleep. I am doing some testing and I could not wait any longer to find the results.” She clapped her hands together and her green eyes shone with an ethereal glow in the mist. “Besides, it is almost dawn. I am shocked at how society feels the need to sleep away half the morning.”
He had felt the same way many times, having an innate affinity for the morning his friends did not share. “I am glad to hear ye are well, but it is still dark and ye shoud’na be here alone.” The thought of any harm coming to his Harriet made his stomach roll—though when she had become “his” Harriet, he could not say.
Harriet shrugged. “You are right, I suppose. But have you ever had something you were so passionate about you could not wait to get back to it? Like an excellent book or Christmas morning or returning home after a long absence?”
Thornton hesitated, considering the question. He liked books, but not to the point where passion came into play, Christmas had been largely banned by his grandmother, who feared it would spoil him to be given any presents, and the only thing he felt in returning home was dread. “What has captured your passions, Miss Redgrave?”
She gave him another smile. “Come and see.”
He followed her into the old kitchen, thankful she chose the door this time instead of the window. She described her experiments with a rousing passion. She picked up odd-shaped bottles and pointed to powders. She explained her equipment with odd names like alembics, curcubite, and pelican. He had difficulty following her narrative, but he had no trouble appreciating the fire in her eyes when she spoke.
“Interesting,” he said, knowing it was insufficient for the excitement with which she described her work.
Harriet sighed. “I think ‘interesting’ must mean something different than I thought, because every time I hear it, I know the person does not wish to talk any more about my experiments.” She turned back to stirring something in a metal tin.
“It must be lonely to have a passion for something so few people share.” He loved his horses, but it was a passion shared by many. He was not alone in it as she was.
She stopped what she was doing and looked up at him, her eyes searching his. “It can be lonely. There are not many who share a fascination with chemistry, and fewer still with whom I can discuss it.”
“And here, ye have no one at all.”
Harriet returned her focus to the fire in the tin plate. “Yes, you are right.” Her voice was soft.
He cursed himself for making her sad and attempted to remedy the situation. “Chemistry is an unusual hobby. How did ye start?”
The change of subjects earned him a smile. “My father’s brother was fascinated by it. He refused to go into the navy as expected and instead charted his own course. Most of the family tried to pretend he no longer existed, but he was always welcome at our house. He had a way of making children laugh, and he showed me all his chemistry experiments. My father kept the boys away from the potential evil influence of science. I suppose he thought it could do me no harm. He was wrong, as you see. Of course, when my uncle invented a new form of gunpowder that made firing a cannon easier and safer on ship, he was hailed as a hero of the family.”
“It is certainly not a hobby for the weak-minded person. I am impressed by yer dedication to the science, though I hope ye are not currently looking for a new recipe for gunpowder.”
“Not yet,” she said absently, her focus on the contents of the bottle over her makeshift fire. It was hardly the rousing reassurance he had wished to hear. “I am doing experiments in luminescence. In this regard, it is helpful to work in the dark to see if I can find something that glows.”
He watched her for a moment, impressed by whatever she was doing, measuring this, adding that, until a whoosh of blue flame blasted from the plate, sparking the thatched roof and popping into a cloud of black smoke.
“Oh dear,” said Harriet, and dissolved into a fit of coughing.
Thornton pulled Harriet out of the way then grabbed a stick and batted at the burning embers on the thatch roof until they were all out.
“I’m so sorry. It hardly ever does that,” said Harriet weakly.
Hardly ever? Thornton gathered together his raw nerves. Everything he worked for was in this compound; a fire would be devastating for him. Even worse was the thought of Harriet being hurt. “Miss Redgrave,” he turned to her. “About these experiments—”
“You want me not to set your property on fire.”
“Aye, I would appreciate it.” He walked toward her and held her hands the way she had done to him. He liked holding her hands. “And more than that, I wish for ye to stay safe.”
Harriet’s cheeks turned pink. “I appreciate your concern.” She softly squeezed his hands.
He stepped closer, his eyes focused on her rose-colored lips. She was just the right height. She was a kissable height. He leaned closer then caught himself and stepped back, dropping her hands. What could he be thinking?
“Oh look, the sun is rising!” Harri
et sprang out of the building and bounded up the stairs to the walkway on the castle wall. The sun was emerging in the east, the orange rays warming the tops of the hills above them.
He followed her, moth to a flame. It was a crisp, fair morning and the sunrise painted the sky pink and orange. It was beautiful. Was it always so? He was often too busy to notice. He walked up the stone steps and watched the sunrise and Harriet in even measure. He was not sure which sight drew him more, the glory of the sun washing the world in color or the look of wonder on her face.
She leaned against the battlements, a slight smile on her face, her eyes wide. “I love this time of day. Everything is new and fresh.” She turned to him. “And I haven’t messed it up yet.”
Her slow smile haunted him. “I also enjoy a sunrise,” he said. And I enjoy ye more.
“We are alone in this joy, I think.”
He nodded. “Aye.”
They stood witness as the orange glow crept closer until it suddenly burst over the castle wall and illuminated the grounds. And them.
She glowed in the sunlight. There was no other word for it. Her auburn hair turned to bright red under the sun’s rays. She lifted her head and closed her eyes to embrace the warmth of the sun. He had a sudden urge to embrace her too.
“Beautiful,” he said, looking only at her.
“But you are not even looking at the sunrise.”
“Beautiful just the same.”
She leaned forward and crinkled her brow at him. “Are you still drunk? Maybe left over from last night? You English drink quite a bit.”
“I am a Highlander,” he reminded.
“Is that better or worse?”
“Worse. Far worse.”
“That explains it.”
“Despite my birth, I shall claim sobriety at this moment and say with certainty that ye are a bonnie lass in the morn.”
She blinked at him. For once it appeared she had nothing to say. She closed her eyes tight and opened them again with a wide smile. “I am going to remember this moment for the rest of my life. The moment a real Highlander called me a ‘bonnie lass.’”
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