by Fiona Monroe
"Well, well. That is a more fitting demeanour, Spink. Apologise to Lord John, and if you behave yourself from now on, then we will say no more—"
He stopped speaking abruptly, his step halted.
John lifted his head from his hand, and after a moment's confusion, followed his brother's gaze.
Arabella was standing in the open doorway. She was still wearing the nightgown and dressing robe of that morning, with the addition of a fine Paisley wool shawl draped around her shoulders. Her head was bare, and her hair was undressed, tumbling around her shoulders as if she were an actress on stage, in a mad scene. She was as lovely as any actress, John thought, but it was a beauty he had always found curiously unappealing.
The men near the door stood back respectfully to let her enter and bowed as she passed them.
Groggily, belatedly, John rose to his feet. He started his own, more formal bow of greeting, but he was arrested by the look on her face.
She did not look like his composed, sweet, always smiling sister-in-law. Her face was white, her eyes were blazing, and her mouth was drawn into a thin line of fury. Before John could complete his bow, she raised her hand and struck him full across the mouth.
Her open palm landed with force across the spot made already tender by Spink's punch. John could not help but let out a yelp, as much in surprise as in pain.
"Get out." Arabella's voice was quiet, calm and steady.
"I'm sorry?" John mumbled.
"Out. Leave this house. Never return."
Gordon stepped forward to put his hands on her arms.
She warded him off with a sharp gesture, and Gordon retreated respectfully.
"You killed James," she stated, still in the same intense, icy tone. "You killed my husband, your brother, and then—while he was lying dead in his bed—you defiled this good man's daughter. Go! This night! Now!"
"Arabella, now, my dear Lady Crieff—" Gordon began.
Her composure broke. "Go!" she shrieked. "Get out of my house! Murderer! Filthy, wicked murderer! Get out!"
She fell to her knees, cradling the still-living remnant of the Marquess within her, wailing.
John looked around, assessed his options, and got out.
Chapter 6
"What you need, Dunwoodie, is some distraction, some feminine company. I can't have you moping about in here like a whipped dog for the next six months."
Sir Duncan Buccleuch handed Lord John a glass of port.
"Hell. I'll take myself off to where I'm welcome, then."
John was seated by the tall windows overlooking the street, and the work going on at the other side of the street, where armies of workmen were digging up perfectly good farmers' fields and turning them into pleasure gardens. It was the perpetual nuisance of town and had been ever since he could remember. Builders' carts filled with excavated rubble, men digging great holes in the ground, raw, hollow shells of houses inching up stone by stone, scaffolding and dust and the coarse shouts of navvies everywhere you turned. Every year, more of the fields surrounding the new development on the southern shores of the Nor' Loch disappeared under streets and terraces, all curiously alike. He wondered if they ever planned to finish it, or if the New Town would just go on replicating and multiplying forever, until all the land between here and the Firth of Forth lay under neat stone paving and desirable gentlemen's residences at five guineas a quarter.
He was aware of Lady Buccleuch, who was also seated near the window, giving her husband a significant glance. She said, with soft reproach in her tone, "You are very welcome here, Lord John. I hope you know that. As long as we are in town, then our home is your home."
John shook himself, stood up, and bowed to her. "I'm sorry, Lady Buccleuch. Forgive me. I'm very grateful for your hospitality."
It really wouldn't do to queer the pitch with this woman, an unwelcome complication in the hitherto reliable bachelor life of his old friend. She was a tall, slender, serious-looking young lady of no more than one and twenty, who looked as if she meant business. She arched her eyebrows at his declaration and remained unsmiling, and John was left with the impression that she saw through him.
He drank the port for something to do then said, "But I'm sure you can understand, your ladyship, that to have no home of one's own—it is distressing, however kind friends are."
"Well…" Her expression softened, and she put her work into her lap. She was the kind of woman who always had some complicated piece of embroidery to hand, when she was not poring over a dull book. "You do have a home of your own, nonetheless, Lord John. I am sure your sister will repent of her harsh words, when she has had time to reflect. You should write to her."
"No. Excuse me for speaking bluntly, but I will never return to Dunwoodie House. Not while Lady Crieff presides there."
"She's likely to preside a good while," said Buccleuch dryly. "Doesn't she have to play lady regent to the infant Marquess? Your noble nephew won't be of age for these seventeen years. I'd find another place to call home, at any rate."
"I have no income," said Lord John baldly. He was past hanging onto his pride. "Various accidents robbed me of what little my mother bequeathed me. I have no profession, because when I was of an age to choose a profession, I thought instead that I was going to be a great poet. Living in Venice for nine years allowed me to ignore the fact that one cannot live the life of a gentleman in Great Britain on the royalties of a single volume of poetry, published at one's own expense. It is too late for me. I have nothing, and I have—"
He was about to say that he had reason to fear for his life, but in the cool calm of Buccleuch's townhouse, in broad daylight, overlooking a gang of straw-hatted workers labouring to dig up a field, he had difficulty in believing in Italian assassins.
"I have no means of earning my own living," he concluded, twirling the glass.
Buccleuch clapped him on the shoulder. "Nonsense. You are a fine, tall, handsome man—is he not, my dear—and that is a means in itself."
Lady Buccleuch let out a sigh, with a frown, and Lord John caught his meaning from the reflected disapproval in her expression.
"No, indeed," he said. "If you mean marriage, then absolutely not. I have some pride left, by God."
"Ah, it's not so bad. Is it, my dear? Find a young lady with a modest fortune, make love to her, and doubtless, she'll be glad to trade her thousands for your fine mien and your title. If you're not particular about the origin of those thousands, all the easier. And if you're not too scrupulous as to age or beauty on the lady's part, easier still."
"So. Buccleuch. You suggest that I should sell myself to an ugly butcher's daughter of advanced years."
"An ugly butcher's widow, better yet! As long as she has at least twenty thousand in the bank. Come, Dunwoodie, beggars and all that."
"I am not so much a beggar yet, that I have lost all self-respect."
Buccleuch clasped him on the shoulder and left him to his thoughts with a grin. Lady Buccleuch shook her head over her embroidery.
"Come to Mrs. Hamilton's party this evening," Sir Duncan called from the door. "You'll fit in admirably, with your predilection for versifying. And I'm sure there will be some literary-minded young lady there, just waiting to be swept off her feet."
"Mrs. Douglas and Miss Bell."
Margaret and Emmeline were announced by a very young, but very tall footman, who looked rather like a potted plant left too much in the light and grown spindly and thin. Mrs. Douglas handed this bean plant her fur-trimmed cape and giggled as they were shown up the central marble staircase and into Mrs. Hamilton's drawing room.
The houses of the New Town did not vary greatly within. They had all been built in the finest modern style over the previous few years, great linked terraces of four or five story townhouses fronted in the neo-classical style. Charlotte Square was just a little grander than George Street, but as in her uncle's house, Mrs. Hamilton's drawing room was on the first floor and faced outward to the street.
Unlike her un
cle's house, where this grand chamber was permanently chilly, dusty, and empty, Mrs. Hamilton's drawing room was so crowded that it was impossible to see clearly from the door to the walls. There was a great roar of voices, a smell of pastries and wine, and an oppressive wave of heat. Nobody, as far as Margaret could tell, had heard the overgrown footman's announcement or noticed their entrance.
Emmeline drew in a great breath and smiled rapturously. "Ah! Margaret, have you not missed this?"
Margaret was not very sure that she had. She felt a headache begin almost immediately. She had envisaged a far more sedate party, with lively yet intelligent conversation, rationally conducted. In particular, her imagination had presented her with the picture of Mr. Keats seated on Mrs. Hamilton's sofa surrounded by a circle of admiring ladies, with herself, Margaret, chief amongst them.
Just for a moment, she yearned for the peace and solitude of the bedroom where she was supposed to be.
"Do you think he is here?" she shouted to Mrs. Douglas. It was necessary to shout, to be heard above the hullabaloo.
"Who, my dear?" Mrs. Douglas seemed to be searching around with her eyes.
"Mr. Keats!" Margaret was obliged to yell the name louder than she would have liked, and she was mortified to see a couple of ladies nearby glance in her direction.
"Oh! My dear, don't look, no, don't, but over there—by the fireplace—"
"Is it he?"
"That is Sir Duncan Buccleuch."
Margaret tutted. She cared nothing for Sir Duncan Buccleuch or Sir anybody.
"He is quite notorious," Mrs. Douglas continued, oblivious to her indifference. "Although, he was married lately, to a cousin I think, for her inheritance, they said. I wonder if he has given up his wicked ways or if he makes her life a misery. Who is he talking to? Oh, only another gentleman. Oh!"
Her exclamation made Margaret hopeful. "Is that Mr. Keats, do you think?"
"Mr. Keats! Margaret, my dear, that is something better than a penniless poet. That is Lord John Dunwoodie. I did not know that he was back in town."
Margaret sighed impatiently and looked around for Mrs. Hamilton. Her hopes on being introduced to Mr. Keats would have to rest on her hostess.
"He is only a younger son," Emmeline was saying. "But his brother is a Marquess and the family has a very great estate in Aberdeenshire, so he must have fortune enough. As far as I know, he is still unmarried. Who can introduce us?"
"No, Emmeline, I don't want to be introduced—"
"Come on!"
Emmeline took her hand and tugged her with great determination through the throng. "Mrs. Campbell! Miss Campbell, my dear!" she cried at a pair of ladies who were also near the fireplace. "How lovely to see you! Have you met Miss Bell?"
Margaret could not help noticing that while Miss Campbell, who was very young, giggled and curtsied and seemed flustered, her mother did not look entirely to welcome the introduction. Mrs. Campbell looked upon her rather coldly and acknowledged with her the merest inclination of the head before turning her face away. Emmeline drew the young lady's arm into hers and said, in a low confiding voice, "Now, my dearest Miss Campbell, can that really be Lord John Dunwoodie over there with Sir Duncan Buccleuch?"
In frustration, Margaret searched the crowd again with her eyes. If Mr. Keats were really here, how was it that she could not see any particular knot of people surrounding someone? She did not know at all what he looked like, but she knew him to be a young gentleman. There were any number of young gentlemen present. Perhaps he was that rather nice-looking, dark-haired man over by the window, watching the assembly and toying with a glass of sherry. Perhaps he was weary of the meaningless multitude and contemplating his next work.
"Margaret!" Mrs. Douglas pulled her sleeve and whispered, "Miss Campbell is going to introduce us to Sir Duncan, and I have no doubt that he will introduce us to Lord John."
Reluctantly, Margaret allowed herself to be steered to the small group of gentlemen. Miss Campbell, who looked to be about seventeen—barely old enough to be out—performed the introduction with extreme clumsiness.
Sir Duncan Buccleuch was a man of smallish stature, with a sallow complexion, sharp features and very clever eyes. Margaret was sure his expression was faintly scornful as he bowed to the blushing Miss Campbell and then to herself and Mrs. Douglas. There was a distinctly awkward moment, and then Sir Duncan said, in a tone which made it clear to Margaret at least that their intentions had been quite obvious to him, "And let me introduce my good friend, Lord John Dunwoodie. Lord John, these delightful young ladies, so recently of my acquaintance, Mrs. Douglas and Miss Bell, apparently."
Margaret was mortified. She could scarcely look at this scion of the nobility, who—her sidelong embarrassed glance told her—was tall and fair, and she would certainly have thought him handsome if tall and fair and fine-featured had been her personal standard of beauty.
"I am charmed, Miss Bell," Lord John said smoothly, with an easy smile.
She returned a deprecating bob, trying to convey with her whole being that she was not a willing participant in this assault upon his acquaintance, and surveyed the room once more. The solitary young man by the curtain was no longer in sight, but she spotted Mrs. Hamilton at last. She was seated on a sofa near the window, talking in animated fashion with a lady whom Margaret did not know.
A lady was no good. The conviction began to steal over Margaret that Mr. Keats was not, in fact, present in the room. Perhaps he had not yet arrived, although she and Emmeline were at least an hour past the time stated on the invitation.
Mrs. Campbell had caught up with her daughter, and after a deep curtsy toward Sir Duncan and Lord John, pulled Miss Campbell away from the company.
As she left Mrs. Douglas to charm their new acquaintance, not much caring what they thought of her, Margaret made her way toward where Mrs. Hamilton was sitting. She had decided simply to ask her hostess if Mr. Keats was at the party or expected there.
Before she could reach Mrs. Hamilton or engage her notice, however, she was stopped short by the sight of someone else.
He was standing by the wall, where she could not easily have seen him from the entranceway, and seemed to be alone. As she remembered him, he appeared uneasy in the company, out of place, as if his very clothes were alien to his body. Though she had not set eyes on him since she had refused his offer of marriage three years before, she immediately recognised the massive form of Angus McAllister.
Their eyes met, and Margaret realised that she must have been staring at him. She saw startled consternation come over his expression, but he immediately took a step toward her.
"Miss Bell," he said in that deeply lilting accent she remembered so well.
She curtsied, feeling her face flush hot. "Mr. McAllister. How surprised I am, sir, to meet you here. I did not know you were in town."
"I have been in town this twelvemonth. I'm working at the university."
"Indeed. I have not been much in company this season."
In fact, this was the first real party she had attended since losing Mrs. Douglas' companionship. Her new aunt's idea of going into society was to have dinner at the homes of a succession of church elders. Since she almost never crossed the North Bridge into the Old Town, where the university was, she had never happened to see Mr. McAllister on the street, either.
"Are you well?" he asked in that same gruff, abrupt tone.
"Yes, very well—that is—are you acquainted with Mrs. Hamilton?"
"Not before this evening. I came in Sir Duncan Buccleuch's party. How is your uncle?"
"My uncle is well, very well. He married."
"Please pass on my congratulations." Mr. McAllister's expression softened into half a smile, for the first time since their eyes had met, and he looked away.
All of a sudden, with the blinding force of a divine revelation, a glorious conviction swept over Margaret. The excitement of it knocked the breath from her. It was as if she had never fully realised, until this very moment,
that marriage was something she could actually enter into. Two proposals, she had turned down, one from this very man, and she had done so on the principal that she wanted to maintain her independence. To marry meant to surrender her mind, her body, and her modest fortune, and she had never understood why any woman, not utterly destitute, would give herself up to a man.
Now she saw it all quite differently. Mrs. Cochrane had gained power, not relinquished it, by marrying her uncle. She had secured a home for herself and her daughter, and she had attained authority over Margaret, her step-niece. Marriage might mean independence. Marriage to an adoring and grateful man would make her truly mistress of a house once more.
She smiled upon Mr. McAllister, as winningly as she knew how. She had once mocked his size and his awkwardness and his rough Highland origins with Emmeline, but for all that, he was still a well-enough looking man.
"I shall," she said. "But you must call on us, sir, as you used to do. We still live in my uncle's house in Charlotte Square, and my uncle would be very pleased to see you again."
It amused her also to think that her aunt would not be pleased at all.
Mr. McAllister gave her a steady look from the bright blue eyes she remembered so well. They were his best feature. "Aye," he said. "I will do that, when my wife is back in town."
Margaret was not sure she managed to keep her reaction from showing on her face. A glittering edifice of excitement and hope, erected in seconds, collapsed just as suddenly. No sooner had she understood that marriage would give her the freedom she yearned for, she had decided that this man—who had professed his ardent devotion to her and gone so far as to apply to her uncle—would be the husband she needed. And no sooner had she made that decision, then he had been snatched away from her.
"Your wife," she said flatly. "Then you, too, sir, are married?"
"Aye. Close on a year, now."
"I wish you joy… belated joy." She heard herself laugh. "Although I expect you have had such joy as there is to be had, by now."
"Marriage has been very good to me," he said.