She continued in a whisper. The two friends who were actually her friends had wide eyes by the time she finished the tale. Mavis, knowing Ophelia as she did, didn’t know whether to believe her. But then she knew that Ophelia felt no qualms at all about lying, if she thought it might get her what she wanted. And apparently what she wanted at the moment was to completely ruin Sabrina Lambert’s chance of finding a husband in London.
Two reputations blackened this evening, and both by the same woman. Mavis felt truly sorry for both people, their only fault that Ophelia didn’t like them. The Birmingdale heir would undoubtedly weather the storm. He was merely being made a laughingstock by Ophelia’s ridicule of him, so that her parents would be mortified enough to break off the engagement they had arranged. But with a title like his and the huge estate that came with it, he’d still easily find another bride.
Not so the Lambert girl. Bad blood was bad blood that might be passed along to heirs, and what gentleman would want to take that chance by marrying her? Which was really too bad.
Mavis had genuinely liked the girl. She was nice, a simple, innocent quality hard to encounter in London, and amusing besides, once she’d opened up. And Mavis felt partly responsible for turning Ophelia against her, by mentioning her remarkably pretty eyes.
Mavis shook her head mentally in disgust. She really was going to have to find a new group of companions. Being friends with Ophelia Reid was simply too detrimental to one’s well-being. Spiteful, vain bitch. Mavis hoped, she really did, that Ophelia would have to marry the Birmingdale heir after all. Serve her right to have a husband whom she’d managed to get all of London to scorn.
Chapter Four
It was not a night to be traveling abroad, was possibly the worst night of the year, with snow swirling in ever-thickening gusts, preventing visibility even with a lantern held aloft. And cold. Sir Henry Myron had never in his life experienced such bone-chilling cold.
The weather wouldn’t have been so extreme in England. He would probably have thought nothing of a little snow. But so far north in the Scottish Highlands, he would have been hard-pressed not to freeze even without the snow trying to help him toward that end. How anyone could live in such a harsh climate and like it was a wonder to Sir Henry, who had been tasked with coming here.
The worst part of the trail had been passed, a narrow path across a low mountain. Henry wouldn’t have called it a mountain. It seemed more like a gigantic rock jutting out of the ground, bare of trees, grass, even dirt, just a big granite thing blocking the way that needed to be passed, and the only way to do so was to climb over it by foot or on horse.
He’d had to leave his carriage behind at a nearby kirk. But then he’d been warned by his guide that he would have to, and so had rented a mount for the last leg of the journey along its narrow trails.
They should have stayed the night at that kirk. The churchman there had offered them beds for the night. But they were so close to the end of the journey, just an hour away, that Henry had insisted on going on. Of course, it hadn’t been snowing then. The snow had come from the other side of that huge rock, or rather, low mountain, blasting them with stinging flakes as soon as they topped the rise.
Henry was beginning to worry that they would both be lost and freeze to death, their bodies not found until the spring thaw. It was impossible to see even two feet in front of them, yet the guide continued on, as if he could still see the path, now covered in snow, as if he knew exactly where he was going. And so he did ...
The large stone manor house loomed out of the white-speckled darkness so suddenly, they were at the door before Sir Henry had even noticed they had reached their destination. The guide was pounding on that door. Henry barely heard it, the wind was shrieking so loudly. But the door opened and warmth gushed out, and they were both ushered straightaway to a large crackling fire.
Henry was numbed. After a short while, though, he began to thaw, and the shivering began just after that. A woman was fussing over them and tsking about the foolishness of being out in such a storm—at least he thought that was what she was saying. He wasn’t quite sure, though, her Scots brogue was so thick. But she piled heavy woolen blankets over his shoulders, and wrapped his stiff fingers around a cup of hot whisky, staying to make sure he drank every drop of it, which he was glad to do.
A short while later, he began to think that he and his frozen toes might survive after all, a painful discovery as feeling began to return to those extremities, but welcome nonetheless. And he finally began to take closer note of his surroundings.
He was surprised. Henry wasn’t sure what he had expected to find at the home of a rich Highland lord, and one so isolated as this one was— well, to be truthful, he had expected something medieval, an old, crumbling fortress perhaps, or merely a big farm. The MacTavishes were sheep farmers, after all, or so he’d been told.
But what he was seeing was something altogether different, not quite a manor house that he might have passed in the shires of England, yet surely in that design. Built all of stone—Scotland wasn’t known for its abundance of lumber—it could have been furnished in the style and comfort of a manor house, yet what should have been a large drawing room looked like an old medieval hall instead.
The house was modern in design. The occupants weren’t, apparently. It was as if whoever had built it had done so in protest, that he had been raised in one of the older-style castles and that was the feel he was most comfortable with and was going to adhere to.
Trestle tables, of all things, and wooden benches lined the floral-papered walls. He didn’t doubt that they were pulled out for dinner to accommodate the household all sitting down at once to eat, just as in days of old. The windows weren’t covered with drapery, but with sheepskins still thick with fleece. He might allow the skins would keep out the cold better than any drapery could, but sheepskins? There wasn’t a sofa or comfortable chair to be seen, just a few more unpadded benches near the fire. And hay on the floor.
When he noticed it he simply stared, then finally shook his head. He’d been right, after all. The MacTavish Highlanders did live medievally.
But there were no MacTavishes about, nor anyone else for that matter, though the hour was still early in the evening. The large Great Hall was empty, except for the woman who was returning now with two more cups of hot whisky But she wasn’t alone, not this time. On her heels came a tall young man who stopped in the doorway to give Henry’s guide a nod—they were apparently acquainted, but then the guide had said he’d been here before. The man then stared at Henry.
After having a good look at what should have been a modern drawing room but wasn’t, Henry might have expected at that point to see people wearing bearskins, or rather, sheepskins, but no, the Scotsman was dressed in trousers and frock coat. He could have walked down a fashionable London street without gaining undue notice—except for his height perhaps, and the large body that went with a six-foot frame.
He said nothing, though, and he didn’t look too pleased that an unknown guest had arrived. Or perhaps the unfriendly look he wore was normal for him.
It was quite disconcerting for Henry, though. Nearly twice the boy’s age, yet he was briefly intimidated . . . Well, no wonder. Highland Scots were nothing like the agreeable Lowlanders in the South who had been dealing with the English for centuries. Social progress was stagnant in these far reaches of the realm, so isolated due to the rugged land itself, and the weather besides. Many of the northern clans lived just as they had in days of old, in hardship but in strict obedience to their clan chief.
Lord Archibald MacTavish wasn’t a clan chief, but he was head of his small branch of the clan, and certainly head of his family, which was extensive in distant cousins, but unfortunately, very lacking in an immediate heir, since he had outlived all four of his sons. And this was the reason Henry’s visit was not going to be received very well. He would be lucky if he wasn’t kicked back out into the storm, once he made it clear why he was there.
&nbs
p; But the young man in the doorway couldn’t know why he was there, thus his unwelcoming demeanor was unrelated, was perhaps natural, or perhaps only reserved for Englishmen. And he’d know Henry was English, since he had spoken to the woman who had aided him, and she’d obviously gone to fetch the boy.
And then he came forward, abruptly. And as he neared the light from the fire and the two torches burning on either side of the mantel—the only light in the entire room—Henry was able to see that he wasn’t as young as he’d first thought. In his mid-twenties was more likely. At least there was a maturity in his look that spoke of an older age, even if from a distance he looked much younger.
“If the laddie here wasna wi‘ you, mon”—the young man nodded toward Henry’s guide—“I’d be thinking you’re lost. So what’s a Sassenach wanting wi’ Archie MacTavish?”
Henry was quick to introduce himself, but his answer was suitably grave. “I’m here on a matter of urgency and no small importance. I am employed by Lord Neville Thackeray as his solicitor, who is the—”
“I ken who Thackeray is,” the young man cut in impatiently. “He’s still living then?”
“Well, yes, at least he was when I left England, but it’s uncertain how much longer that will be true. He hasn’t been well, you see, and at his advanced age, there is no telling when he will take a turn for the worst.”
The young Scot nodded curtly, then said in his light brogue, “Come tae my office where ‘tis warmer. Damned drafty in here.”
“Your office?”
Henry sounded so surprised that it was no wonder the man raised a questioning brow at him, but then unexpectedly, he burst out laughing. “Dinna tell me you’ve been caught by auld Archie’s prank.”
Stiffly, because he wasn’t used to being the butt of any jokes, Henry replied, “And what prank would that be?”
“This room, o‘ course,” the man replied, still grinning. “He insists that any strangers be shown here, rather than tae the normal part o’ the house. Thinks it’s funny, he does, what they end up thinking aboot him.”
Henry blushed profusely, having apparently been caught by the prank. “I take it this room isn’t used much then—except for visitors?”
“Och, nay, it gets its use, when the sheep o’er-breed and there’s no‘ enough room for them all in the barns when the snows come. And o’ course, during shearing season, when MacTavishes come from afar, we’re needing a big room tae feed them all in, and this one does well enough.”
Henry couldn’t tell if what had just been said was part of the prank or not. Frankly, he’d rather not find out, and the mention of that warm office did sound inviting, so he readily followed the young man, who led the way to it.
The rest of the house was indeed comfortably furnished and what one would expect of its grand style. If Henry hadn’t been in such a hurry to get to a fire, and the entryway not so dark that time of night, he might have noticed that before he’d been whisked into that strange drawing room-turned-stable. But it was easy to see, now that a lamp had been left on a table in the hall, the other rooms leading off of it and glimpses of the fine furnishings within.
The office he was directed to was small but neat—and warmed by a large brazier in the corner, indicating it had been in use by the young man when he had arrived. Henry was beginning to think it was Archibald’s factor or estate manager who had come to meet him, but he’d made enough assumptions, wrong ones at that, so he asked pointedly who the man was just as soon as he settled into the thickly stuffed leather chair across from his desk.
The answer, “I’m a MacTavish, o‘ course,” wasn’t all that enlightening, particularly when everyone on the property likely bore that name, but Henry was too tired by then from the journey and the battering the weather had added to it to press for further explanation.
“Has Lord Archibald been informed of my arrival?” he asked instead.
“The auld mon is abed by now, early riser that he is,” was the reply. “But you can be telling me what it is you’re wanting wi‘ him.”
Whether factor or secretary, the man did indeed appear to handle Archibald’s affairs for him, even had an office in his house, so Henry could find no reason not to answer him. “I’m here to collect Lord Neville’s grandson.”
Oddly, that seemed to amuse this MacTavish. There was a slight curling of the lips, barely noticeable, but there nonetheless. His tone, however, was more obvious. Definite humor there.
“Are you indeed?” he replied slowly. “And what if his grandson doesna want tae be collected?”
Henry sighed mentally. He should have known better than to try to deal with employees.
“I really should be discussing this with Lord Archibald,” he said.
“D’you think so? When the grandson is of an age tae be deciding things for hisself?”
Henry was just tired enough to get annoyed. “There is nothing to decide here, young man,” he said crisply. “A promise was made and Lord Neville demands it be fulfilled.”
At that, the young man sat forward. And the frown he wore now was quite disconcerting. “What promise?”
“Lord Archibald is aware of it, and aware that the time has come—”
“What. . . blasted .. . promise? I’m the grandson o‘ them both, and I’ll be deciding if there was a promise that needs fulfilling if it concerns me.”
“You’re Duncan MacTavish?”
“Aye, and you’ll be telling me what the hell this is all aboot.”
Chapter Five
“Good God, you were never told?” Duncan MacTavish was standing behind his desk now, leaning partially across it, and nearly shouting, “Does it sound like I ken what you’re talking aboot?”
Henry was incredulous. Duncan was twenty-one years of age. He knew that for a fact. And in all his years no one had told him, not even his parents? Nor had Lord Neville warned him that his grandson didn’t know. He had to wonder now if Neville was even aware of that himself.
Henry also admonished himself for not realizing sooner who Duncan was. His eyes, after all, were exact copies of Neville’s, a dark midnight blue. The nose, also, had that patrician slant that the Thackerays were known for; at least, each ancestor portrayed in the gallery at Summers Glade sported that exact same nose. Nothing else about the young Duncan, though, resembled the marquis. Although Henry hadn’t known Neville when he was a young man, he’d seen the portrait of him done when he was this same age.
There was nothing remarkable about Neville Thackeray, fourth Marquis of Birmingdale, to stand out and draw particular notice to him. He’d been a plain-looking aristocrat in his youth, and had not improved much with age, now that he was in his late seventies. His young grandson, however, was quite the opposite.
Duncan’s brawny size and height must come from the MacTavishes. His dark red hair certainly did. And he was handsome, very much so, in a rugged sort of way. It was that very ruggedness, a harsh masculinity, coupled with his size, that belied his youthful age.
Henry knew how old the lad was, yet if he didn’t, he’d swear he was much older. Perhaps the Highlands aged one prematurely, the harsh clime, the hardships entailed with living in such an isolated place.
As for the question that had been directed at him, Henry really wished that Archibald MacTavish were present at the moment. He knew of the promise, and the others added to it, that the two old men had finally, after many heated letters sent between them, agreed upon. He should have explained the situation to young Duncan before now.
“It was a promise made by your mother before you were born,” Henry said at last. “Without making it, she wouldn’t have been allowed to marry your father. She made it gladly, though. She loved your father. And no one objected at the time, not your father, who wanted her any way he could have her—he loved her too—nor his father, Archibald.”
“Sir Henry, if you dinna spit it oout, what that promise was, I’m liable tae toss you back intae that storm this verra second.”
It was said calm
ly. Even Duncan’s expression had turned inscrutable. Yet Henry didn’t doubt that the lad meant every word. And he could hardly blame him for his upset. Why hadn’t anyone told him before now?
“You, or rather, your mother’s firstborn son, which turned out to be you, were promised to Lord Neville for his heir, if he sired no other heirs, which he never did.”
Duncan sat back down. “Is that all?”
Henry wasn’t sure now how to proceed with the lad. Any other young man would undoubtedly feel that this was the luckiest day of his life, to be a great lord’s heir when he hadn’t known he would be. But he also knew how Highlanders felt about the English, and Duncan MacTavish had been raised a Highlander. He had also never met his English grandfather, nor ever stepped foot in England.
“Do you realize what a great honor this is, Lord Duncan?” Henry tried to point out.
“I’m no‘ a laird, so dinna be calling me—”
“Actually, you are,” Henry was quick to interrupt. “One of Lord Neville’s lesser titles has already been bestowed on you, as well as the estate—”
“Be damned if it has!” Duncan was on his feet again. “You willna be turning me into an Englishmon just because that auld mon wants it so.”
“You are half English.”
That gained Henry a seriously disgusted look that had him flinching, but Duncan’s reply was again a quiet one. It was amazing how easily he could switch from fury to calm and back again.
“You ken that I dinna have tae accept that English title?” Duncan said.
“Do you understand that you will become the Marquis of Birmingdale whether you want to be or not?”
There was a long, uncomfortable—at least for Henry—moment of silence, which included a bit of teeth grinding on Duncan’s part before he said, “So why are you here tae tell o‘ this now, when, as you said, the marquis isna dead yet?”
The Heir Page 2