The Wicked Viscount (The Campbells)

by Heather McCollum

  “Life is different at court,” he said, warning evident in his tone. “There are smiles everywhere, but they are false, almost all of them. People lie to advance themselves at the expense of others. Integrity is rewarded with betrayal and sometimes imprisonment and execution.” He glanced out the window, his fingers curving into a tight hold on the frame. “You are not in Killin anymore, so you must play your role of refined lady.”

  She didn’t like this side of Nathaniel. Cold, stern, and very English. She frowned, her thoughts tumbling even though her lips remained still. He looked to her, and she wet her lips. “And will there be a refined lady at Whitehall waiting for Lord Worthington?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer, and her stomach tightened. “Ye should tell me as she will likely plan my annihilation since we…traveled together.”

  He released a tired exhale. “My father plotted, with Lord Stanton, that I should offer for his daughter, Lady Esther. Though there is no understanding between us, it was told to me that Lord Stanton informed his daughter of the plan.”

  “Esther Stanton,” Cat murmured and wondered if she was beautiful and refined. Hopefully she’d inherited her father’s bulbous, red nose. She recalled the woman’s name from the list of people Nathaniel had given her. “Friends with Lucy Kellington and Francis Wickley, ladies of the new queen’s bedchamber.”

  “Yes.”

  The passing call of a green grocer, selling turnips and gourds, pulled her gaze outside. The carriage had slowed due to the press of people along the streets. Some held steaming bags of roasted nuts for sale. Others just huddled close to fires burning in raised iron pits at intervals. Apart from a tree here or there, the entire world of London seemed made up of tall daub and timber houses sitting on cobblestone and filled with harried people. Hawkers yelled to passersby, their English accents drawn out long, to the point Cat couldn’t catch their meaning. Dogs barked, and the occasional sound of a chicken or goat broke through the rabble. She spotted a large boar, like the one she’d shot, hanging outside a butcher’s house.

  Beside her, Jane shifted, raising her head. She rubbed a balled-up handkerchief to her lips. “I see we have reached the city.” She sniffed, straightening and tugging on her sleeves and skirts, as if they could have been mussed while she lay still in the seat.

  Nathaniel kept his face turned to the window, his profile looking more and more noble and cold, like a marble bust which she’d viewed in one of Evelyn’s art books. Cat couldn’t shake the feel that he was pulling away from her as they neared the court. She slid her foot down to the floor where her slipper waited. The brush against his leg could have caught his attention, but he didn’t change his stare, so she set her foot down quickly. With the tea that Dr. Witherspoon had left for her and the forced rest in the carriage, the ankle was much improved. She barely needed the cane.

  I am refined and courtly. I say you and pshaw. I know only a little about healing and that is all. She kept the words playing through her head as if somehow, they would take root, and she would remember to make them true while here in London. This was a mission, one of delicacy and diplomacy. She could not threaten or dispatch someone to Hell unless it was to defend a monarch. Words, not daggers.

  They rolled and stopped and rolled and jiggled for long minutes as the driver maneuvered the horses and carriage through the crowd. “What do you think of London, Lady Campbell?” Jane asked.

  “Too many people,” she answered. “And it smells like piss.”

  Jane choked slightly, but Cat saw the edge of Nathaniel’s mouth twitch upward even though he continued to watch out the window.

  “The gardens of Whitehall are much improved over the streets,” Jane said.

  Nathaniel turned to look at Cat, a sardonic grin on his mouth. “The air is even…pissier in the heat of the summer,” he said.

  Cat smiled and looked down at her hands to tug on her gloves as if righting them. She’d seen Scarlet Worthington do this with her sleeves when she was anxious. “I will endeavor to remain in the country then after the spring months,” she said, using her most aristocratic voice.

  Nathaniel gave a small snort. “I would have us away from London within a fortnight. I wish for us to return to Finlarig before my first niece or nephew is born.”

  “That is the most pleasant idea I have heard in days,” she said.

  “Gripping your hands together gives away that you are anxious,” Jane said, looking pointedly down where Cat had stopped plucking her sleeves and was clenching her hands. “Although, I suppose it is better than swooning.”

  Cat frowned at the woman. “I do not swoon. I hold my hands to stop myself from sliding out a dagger and hurling it at someone.” She looked out the window, catching sight of a girl her sister’s age who coughed into her bare hand, her clothes unsuitable for the frigid winter weather. “For that is what I do when I am anxious,” she murmured.

  “We will be sent to the Tower for certain,” Jane said, and Cat turned her gaze back inside the carriage. “It is best to sit straight and quiet with a pleasant smile on your lips without moving,” Jane continued. “Do not meet anyone’s gaze for more than three seconds.” She nodded as if agreeing with herself. “And bow your head after a quick glance when meeting the king and queen.” The woman had been schooling her on glances, touches, curtsies and small sips of wine or tea for days.

  “So, I will keep my conversations with the king and queen under three seconds,” Cat said in a dramatically pinched aristocratic English accent. “I will hop away or laugh like a twittering sparrow if they chance to keep me longer.”

  Jane frowned fiercely at her and looked to Nathaniel. “I think I will need to employ some of the teaching methods I devised when working with Lady Scarlet when she was learning etiquette.” Her threat fell without elaboration or care as Cat turned to watch out the carriage window.

  Long minutes later, the coach swayed forward to a stop, and Cat listened to the driver announce them as Viscount Worthington of Hollings Estate and Lady Campbell of the Highland Roses School of Finlarig Castle, a requested visitor to the Duchess of Braganza. A pudgy-faced man with a wig on his head stuck his face into the carriage window, his gaze sliding over them.

  “All is well,” Nathaniel said and placed a coin in the man’s hand.

  “Aye, milord. Her Grace is expecting Lady Campbell. Welcome to Whitehall.” The guard nodded and ducked back out.

  Jane sniffed. “For example, Lady Campbell, if you had been holding a dagger, we would not have been allowed to enter.”

  Cat looked across. “Nathaniel, has your sister told ye the tale of the wise woman of Breadalbane?” she asked, seemingly ignoring Jane. She didn’t wait for him to answer but turned her gaze on the older woman. “Everyone thinks her wise as she is such a good listener. She never says a word…because someone cut out her tongue from giving too much advice.”

  Jane sniffed, raising her nose to stare straight across from her.

  The carriage came to a halt, making them all sway in unison, and the door was plucked open by another wigged footman. Nathaniel disembarked first, his hand reaching in to help Cat down. “Do you need to be carried?” he asked softly.

  “Tsk. That would cause quite a stir with Lady Stanton,” she said. “And one thing I have learned from all of Jane’s constant advice is that I am not to cause a stir at Whitehall. I will do fine on my own.” He still held her hand as she stepped gingerly down the provided step to the ground.

  Her gaze tipped upward at the huge edifice before her. Looking left to right, her breath caught at the enormity of the sprawling palace. White stone made up the facade of the grand hall, and similar buildings ran out from it on both sides with gardens tucked away to surround the palace on one side. It was a huge expanse.

  “Normally we would enter from the Thames River on the other side,” Nathaniel said. “But hiring a boat to make a grand entrance seemed tactless considering the reason for our arrival. And there was bound to be ice blocking our way.”
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br />   She nodded numbly. “Good God. How many rooms are there?”

  “Nearly two thousand,” he said, taking her arm. “Try not to get lost.” There was a whisper of teasing in his voice, but his face looked cut of the granite boulders that sprang from the frosty Highland landscape. A sudden pang of yearning for home twisted under her breastbone.

  They walked between huge pillars under arched ceilings until they entered a massive receiving room. Jane spoke with a maid, directing her to find staff to unload their trunks from the second carriage, which had followed them. One of the Worthington drivers would see to Stella and the other horses. Despite enormous tapestries and various paintings, the large room echoed with every click of Nathaniel’s boots. Chairs sat against the walls at intervals in case someone needed to rest or sit to stare at the designs sculpted into the tall, curved ceiling. A massive chandelier hung in the middle of the hall with lesser ones hanging in a symmetrical pattern throughout the room. Hundreds of candles sat in them, ready to be lit. The candles to light the hall for one night would keep Cat’s small cottage glowing for an entire year.

  Her mind turned back to the young, cold girl on the streets of London, and her hand curled into a fist against Nathaniel’s arm. The division between the pampered aristocracy and the everyday people, struggling to survive, was as enormous as the two-thousand-room palace that echoed under Cat’s steps. With the realization, she felt a certain pride for her tiny, solid cottage in the woods.

  A burst of feminine laughter spilled out from the next room, and three ladies, dressed in courtly dresses, walked out. “Oh my,” one lady in rose-colored silk said, a hand to her open neckline. “Nathaniel?” Her lips spread in a confident smile, her gaze traveling along him as if she owned his form. “Lord Worthington, what a pleasant surprise.”

  Cat’s fingers opened, twitching as she instinctually marked the woman as an enemy. Or was it just that this woman knew Nathaniel and was absolutely beautiful with wide eyes, smooth pale skin, and golden hair piled high around a jutting headpiece stuck into her curls? Either way, Cat despised her on sight.

  The other two ladies also had blonde hair, fashioned high over their heads with lace pieces woven into their curls. Their faces were smooth and colorless. One had long eyelashes and very arched eyebrows, which made her look surprised. The other had a tiny mouth, puckered and rouged to look like a bright cherry in a face of pure cream. All three ladies held their rich skirts in their hands and gave a small nod, in unison, as if they’d rehearsed it.

  “Lady Stanton, Lady Wickley, Lady Kellington,” Nathaniel said. “May I present Lady Campbell from the town of Killin in Scotland.”

  With her hand still resting on Nathaniel’s arm, Cat nodded in greeting. “Lovely to meet you,” she said, controlling her words to reflect Jane’s constant tutoring on her accent.

  “How barbaric,” Lady Wickley said, her arched brows pinching together. “Naming their town after killing.”

  “’Tis Kill-in,” Cat said. “Although, we do have an army of warriors prepared to dispatch our enemy to Hell.” She attempted to soften the description by smiling.

  All three ladies looked at her with blank stares, and she heard Jane murmur a prayer behind her.

  Lady Stanton was the first to look away, her gaze returning to Nathaniel. She smiled, her eyes narrowed to look alluring or devious, depending on who she had targeted. Since it was Nathaniel, she obviously meant the look to be alluring. “Lord Worthington, my father has spoken quite highly of you. That your business venture in that rough land is successful, and your sisters are happily teaching the ignorant locals.” A swift glance toward Cat let her know that Esther Stanton included her as one of the ignorant locals. “The Duchess of Braganza says that even the ladies in that savage place wield weapons.”

  “’Tis fortunate for her,” Cat said. “Since we saved the Duchess from assassins.”

  Lady Wickley gasped, a hand flattening to her chest. “Were you one of the females who battled to save her?”

  “Aye.” She cleared her throat. “Yes.” Even though she was quite proud of the feat, the three ladies looked aghast.

  “You must tell the tale,” Lady Kellington said, her small mouth curving at the corners into an excited smile.

  “Lady Campbell must be tired from her journey,” Esther said with a frown toward Lady Kellington. She held a gloved hand in the air, and a maid hurried over. “Show Lady Campbell and her maid to rooms. I am sure Lady Campbell will want to…freshen herself,” she said. Her perusal found Cat’s traveling costume obviously lacking. “Before she can be presented to the Duchess.”

  “This way, milady,” the maid said with a bobbed curtsey, and Nathaniel let her arm drop.

  “Your cane,” he said, and Jane handed it to Cat.

  “You are lame?” Lady Wickley said, her brows reaching even higher on her broad forehead.

  “From saving the duchess?” Lady Kellington said, jumping excitedly onto the story.

  “I twisted my ankle on the journey to Hollings while fighting off bandits,” Cat said and felt a pinch at her elbow. She cut a glare toward Jane.

  Lady Wickley and Lady Stanton both looked horrified. Only Lady Kellington looked like she wanted to ask for details, although dare not in the presence of the other ladies.

  Straightening, Cat followed the maid with Jane, ignoring the twinges of pain in her ankle. She would rather suffer the slice of a blade than limp before the judging eyes of the golden-haired, English noblewomen. As she was about to step into the next huge room, Cat glanced over her shoulder toward Nathaniel. He stood surrounded by rich females, all three having turned away from her as if she didn’t worry them in the least. A smile touched his lips as he spoke with them, their light laughter making her middle tighten. They weren’t laughing at her, were they? A quick look from Esther Stanton, made Cat’s breath catch as the woman set her palm across Nathaniel’s chest in an intimate gesture.

  “Come along,” Jane whispered. Forgotten and on edge, Cat followed her into another vast, empty hall, full of riches that neither fed nor warmed anyone.

  Next came a long hall, the walls covered with portraits of pompous-looking aristocrats. Several of them looked familiar. She’d seen their likenesses in one of Evelyn’s books back at the Highland Roses School library. The paintings were in greater detail and richer color than the pictures in the book, and she studied them as they walked past.

  “Milady should come with me,” a man said, stepping from the drapery flanking one large window. His sudden appearance made Cat slide her gloved hand into her pocket to grasp the dagger there. He was thin and straight like a spindly tree, his wig short and made of tight curls. “The duchess knows you have arrived and has sent me to find you.” She slowly released the weapon.

  “We are still in our traveling costumes,” Jane said.

  The man turned his dark eyes toward her. “The duchess requires the Highland Rose as soon as she arrives, in whatever she is wearing.”

  No one said anything. Even the maid paused, and Cat realized that they were all waiting on her to decide. She straightened, lifting her chin slightly. “If the duchess wants to see me immediately, lead on.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Catherine de Braganza sat in a padded armchair before a fire. Dressed all in black, the color made her face looked paler than Cat remembered.

  The poor woman had been through much, and from what Scarlet had told Cat, the court had never truly accepted her with her foreign accent and Catholic ways. Even if they adopted her love for tea, they spoke in harsh whispers about her, especially now that she was no longer their queen.

  “Your Grace,” the man said, bowing low. “I have brought your Highland Rose.” He straightened and indicated the chair opposite Catherine for Cat to sit. Jane remained near the door where the man retreated, the two of them perching on small benches, pretending not to listen.

  A movement in the corner drew Cat’s attention to another woman, sitting swathed in light blue silk, a swir
l of rich fabric tied about her hair and head. Her skin was smooth, the rich color of cinnamon. Cat nodded to her as the woman stood to walk toward the door where she found her own bench. The heaviness of sorrow and silence penetrating the room pressed in on Cat, reminding her of the weeks after her father’s death.

  Catherine smiled softly. “Lady Campbell, welcome. I hoped that you would be the Rose to come. You are quite capable of keeping yourself safe, and you know the ways of medicine and disease.”

  Her compliment warmed Cat where the disdain of the ladies upon entering had left her cold. “Thank ye, your Grace. Lady Scarlet and Lady Evelyn send their best wishes. Although they did not know it at the time, I am sure they would offer their sympathies with me for your loss.” She reached forward to squeeze the woman’s cold hand, meeting her gaze with sincerity. “I am so sorry. I could not get here any sooner. We left Finlarig within an hour of receiving your request.”

  Catherine offered her a tired smile. “It could not be helped. He died so quickly despite the ministrations of his physicians. His poor body was bruised, bled, and blistered from them trying to save him.” She shook her head. “Nothing worked.”

  Holy God. What had they done to him? Cat lowered her voice to a whisper. “And ye believe he may have suffered poison?”

  Catherine gave a rapid bob of her head. “It was so sudden, without warning. Vomiting and weakness at first.”

  “Did he smell sweet, of almonds?”

  “I…I do not know. I was not with him. When the illness hit him…” A tear rolled from one of her dark eyes. “He asked for me to come to him, but I did not want to interfere, asking instead for his pardon for offending him with my presence through his life.” She sniffed. “My husband sent word back to me, asking my pardon for his offending me all of his life.”

  Catherine took a moment to regain her composure. Charles had numerous mistresses and hadn’t asked the Campbells to save his queen when she was abducted in Scotland, which was why the Roses had gone to retrieve her. She had been queen, though she’d suffered in an unloving marriage, devoid of even a surviving child into which to pour her love. Their marriage had been a mere show. At least she’d heard the king’s sorrow for it at the end.