Heartbreak and Honor (6 page)

Renishaw would, the blasted cull.

“Why is Jeremy bent on venturing to Aldecot?” Not like his brother at all. He feared new places.

She shut her eyes for a second. “According to Johnstone, Jeremy’s meandered over there several times of late. Hound puppies were born a month ago, and he desperately wants one. With Renishaw’s return, I fear for our brother.”

Lucan didn’t underestimate the threat for an instant. He had half a mind to storm over to Aldecot and give Renishaw an earful. Or punch him to a pulp, except Mother would ring him a peal if he did.

Sucking in a calming breath, Lucan unclenched his hands. In his rage, he hadn’t realized he’d fisted them. He’d have time enough to confront the cur later—either here or in London.

Yes, wiser to attend the task in Town.

Mother wouldn’t know and become agitated or have one of her spasm spells, and he would have time to temper his anger and construct a plan.

“I shall see to engaging an additional companion for Jeremy.” Would two more guardians be a better idea? Perhaps a couple of local fellows would be interested in the positions. Best see to hiring a few when he spoke with Yeager tomorrow. Jeremy wouldn’t survive a day in prison.

Maybe Lucan ought to put a word in the local magistrate’s ear about the odd goings-on and have the stable hands patrol the estate’s borders too.

“Come along, I shall take you to Mama.” Genny’s voice hurtled Lucan back to the present.

“I hoped to bathe and rid myself of travel grime before seeing her. You know she’s a stickler for appearances.”

“But, Lucan—”

He patted Genny’s hand. “Twenty minutes at most, and I shall meet you in the drawing room for a glass of wine before we eat. Then you can tell me why you’re here and not at home recovering from Sarah’s birth.” He touched her cheek. “You look tired, Gen.”

A pinched expression settled upon her features, and she drew her reddish-blonde brows into a tense line. “No, Mama knows you’ve arrived and insists upon seeing you at once. She sent me to fetch you. You know how stubborn she can be when she’s set her mind to something.”

“Where are your husband and the girls?” He searched the corridor again. “And Jeremy?”

“Veronica and Sarah are in the nursery, and Langley, bless my husband’s kind heart, took Jeremy for a walk to the stables.”

The Earl of Montgomery likely wanted to take a gander at Lucan’s newest stallion too.

“There’s a litter of kittens there.” She crossed her arms as if chilled. “We thought the cats might distract Jeremy. You know how dependent he is on Mama, and he’s been most upset that he’s not allowed in her chambers at present.”

Lucan frowned and rubbed his nape, gone stiff from the awkward angle he’d slept in the carriage. Or maybe poking his head out the window, rather like a hound enjoying a cart ride, had caused the crick.

“Why isn’t he allowed? Mama always permits Jeremy to visit her sitting room.” This didn’t make sense. “Why the sudden change?”

“I don’t want her agitated.” Genny urged Lucan along the passageway. “Doctor Philpott says her heart is quite fragile and advised against upset until she is stronger.”

“Her heart?” Lucan immediately advanced toward the winding marble staircase. His bath would have to wait. “Has she been ill?”

Genny hesitated and glanced at Tibbs hovering nearby, wringing his gnarled hands. “Tibbs, you may have your tea now. Take your time. No need to rush. We have things well in hand.”

“Thank you, Miss Genevieve.” He wobbled the passage’s expanse, his gait as unstable as a week-old puppy.

“My God, why does Mama permit him to act as the majordomo?” Lucan suppressed a yawn. He needed his coffee.

She waited until Tibbs left their sight to answer. “The poor dear has nowhere to go. Last month when Mama suggested he might stay here without duties, he cried, arguing he wasn’t a charity case.”

“Well, I’m hiring another butler to make sure Tibbs doesn’t hurt himself doddering about the place.” Lucan winked at his sister. “Now, what’s this about Mama?”

Apprehension clouded Genny’s eyes. “Lucan, she suffered a serious seizure. Something about her heart. I think the doctor called it angina, whatever that may be.”

“Has to do with chest pain, I believe.” He waited for her to ascend the stairs before him.

“She’s been asking for you.” Genny touched his forearm. “Lucan, we came very close to losing her.”

Chapter 7

“What do you think they’re discussing?” Tasara, her arm looped through Seonaid Ferguson’s, halted in the kitchen courtyard to nip a few sprigs of mint. “Laird McTavish said he would summon me when he and
Dat
finished.”

Try as she might, she couldn’t quell the anxiety ebbing and flowing through her, hence the mint. She thought to brew some tea to calm her stomach, though sipping lavender tea might prove more beneficial for her fraught nerves.

For more than a week now, she’d been a guest at Craiglocky Keep. If that’s what her position here could be called. The day she left the gypsy encampment, Father had given her a scant moment to kiss and hug Lala and György before he insisted they leave for Craiglocky Keep. Jamie and several other band members stood by as she and
Dat
rode away.

Tasara had assumed they would call on the laird, tell him her tale, and then she would return to the traveller’s camp until matters were settled. But, after a brief, private word with his lairdship, Father had pecked her cheek and hurried on his way, leaving her with strangers and no explanation why she wasn’t returning to the tinkers.

Her belongings, other than her knife always sheathed in her boot, and the moldy bag containing the items she had when Forba found her, remained with the travellers. She hadn’t even been permitted to take her violin, her most cherished possession except for the locket she now wore about her neck. The instrument had belonged to Forba, but after she died,
Dat
gave it to Tasara.

So much for Edeena’s claim Tasara wouldn’t be cast from the tribe. What else would one call it? The injustice pinched severely. Left alone, abandoned without a word of explanation from the man she’d called father most of her life, Tasara didn’t have an inkling what to expect . . . or what her future held.

Maybe she ought to ask Seonaid if she had a premonition in that regard.

When Tasara had asked her about the unusual gift, Seonaid had lifted a slim shoulder. “I’ve always had the second sight, but I have no control of my visions. Sometimes I know things in advance, and other times, I am as surprised as everyone else. Don’t fret. All will be well.” Seonaid gave her a reassuring smile. “Ah, Fairchild comes to get you even now.”

She regularly did that, knew things before they happened. A trifle disconcerting, but never frightening.

Tasara twisted round to comb the kitchen entrance.

“Miss Faas.” The butler stood framed within the door’s opening. “His lordship requests your presence.”

Seonaid gave Tasara a brief hug. “I shall wait outside the study, and when you are done, we shall enjoy mint tea and shortbread.”

A few minutes later, Tasara sank into a well-used leather wingback chair facing Laird McTavish’s desk. She pulled her fringed shawl tighter around her shoulders, then fingered the fine cream muslin of her borrowed gown to calm her jitters.

This gloomy room, with its dreary stone walls and ancient weaponry, made her uneasy. The urge to peek inside the suits of armor to assure herself no ghosts or skeletons of long-dead McTavish ancestors hid within, overwhelmed her.

Folding her hands upon her lap, she slid
Dat
a sidelong look. She’d never seen her father this anxious or unsure.

Jaw taut, he sat rigid and tense, his attention directed straight ahead. He seemed to avoid her gaze.

Silly. Of course he’s not doing any such thing.

Laird McTavish relaxed against his chair, drumming the fingertips of one hand on his bent knee. His expression solemn, his gaze wavered between Tasara and her father.

If she knew what had transpired before her summons, she might put aside her disquiet. Thank goodness for Seonaid. Slightly younger than Tasara, the sweet girl took an instant liking to her, and became her almost constant companion, easing Tasara’s loneliness and confusion.

Not that she spoke of her feelings. Baring her emotions or burdening strangers with her troubles served no purpose. Neither did complaining, but Seonaid seemed to know what bothered Tasara without being told.

The epitome of kindness and hospitality, everyone at Craiglocky tried to put her at ease. Seonaid had gone so far as to lend Tasara clothing and even now, waited outside the study as promised.

Tasara looked directly at
Dat
, but his focus remained on Laird McTavish. She didn’t know if she’d be permitted to go home today. His lairdship had sent for her father, and once he’d arrived, straightaway sequestered them in the study for an hour before inviting her to join them.

She crossed and uncrossed her ankles then huffed an impatient little breath.

Come on. Out with it.

Why didn’t Laird McTavish say something? She cleared her throat.

Neither man spoke.

Oh, for heaven’s sake. What are they waiting for
?

“My laird, do you believe me this person my father thinks I am? This Baroness Alexandra Atterberry?” She twisted her mouth in irony. Was baroness right? Why the Scots insisted on calling a title holder equivalent to an English baron a Laird of Parliament boggled the mind. Who concocted such poppycock? Keeping the title balderdash straight proved nearly impossible.

She crossed her ankles again. She needed to stand and move about. When agitated, sitting never served her well. “Well, do you, Laird McTavish?”

“Quite possibly.” Smiling, he straightened and picked up a letter. He raised it for her inspection. Rows of neat writing covered most of the page. “This came in today’s post. Hugo and Bridget Needham—I suspect she is your maternal aunt—will be arriving any day.”

No longer able to sit for another moment, Tasara stood. “And then what happens?”

“They’ll confirm or disprove your identity.” He leveled her father a telling glance.

She frowned slightly. Something else went on here.

Her whole life had turned topsy-turvy—
so blasted confusing
—which agitated her all the more. She’d never been this lost and unsure, not even when held prisoner those three weeks. Yet, at least at Dounnich House she’d known
who
she was.

Inhaling a soothing breath, she resolutely squelched her dismay. She must put her emotions aside and face this situation with logic and reason. “And if I am this Alexandra Atterberry?”

“Well, I suppose that depends on you.” Laird McTavish tucked the letter into a drawer. “Although, turning your back on a title and fortune seems ill-advised, particularly since your father has given me to understand the Scottish travellers would prefer you resume your prior life.”

If he’d struck her, Tasara wouldn’t have been more wounded or astounded. She whirled to face Father.

Chagrin darkened his swarthy features.

“Is that true? Is that why Jamie and the others made me leave?” Her voice caught, and she spoke past the painful lump in her throat. “Have I somehow brought shame to the travellers? I was an innocent child. How am I to blame?”

Dat
opened his mouth, but before he answered, a series of short, sharp raps sounded upon the stout door. An instant later, it flew open, banging against the armor behind it and sending a jarring clang throughout the chamber.

Seonaid, Lady McTavish, a young woman, and a middling-aged couple surged into the room.

Hugo and Bridget Needham, Tasara would wager.

“Where is she? Where’s my niece?” The woman spun to search the room, her violet pelisse swirling in her haste. Upon spotting Tasara, she froze and blanched, her hand at her throat.

The young woman released a chirrupy shriek and slapped a gloved palm to her mouth. Her eyes wide with excitement, she hopped on her half-boot clad toes and pointed at Tasara, emitting happy little squeaks.

At any other time, the man’s flabbergasted expression, sagging jaw, and bulging eyes would have been comical. However, Tasara couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.

An older version of herself gaped at Tasara from across the stone floor as if glancing into a time-forwarded looking glass.

“Oh, my God.” Bridget Needham sent the austere man an exuberant glance. “Hugo, do you see? It’s her. It’s Alexandra.”

No.

Tightness seized Lucan’s chest, and his heart faltered for a beat. Mother couldn’t die, not so young. He hadn’t married nor fathered children yet. Mother was as much a doting grandmamma to Genny’s daughters as she’d been a loving mother to him, his sister, and their brother. Lucan’s children couldn’t miss knowing their grandmother.

Except—he hadn’t planned to marry in the near future. And had no plans to marry in the intermediate future either. Several years from now—perhaps a decade or more—seemed reasonable. Maybe he’d seek Genny’s and Mother’s counsel on suitable prospective brides when the day finally came.

Certainly, he desired love, but he didn’t require the emotion for a good match. In fact, he might be better off without the encumbrance. Father’s perfidy had left Lucan jaded and pessimistic toward the institution of marriage altogether. Apparently, even the most perfect unions held dark, painful secrets.

So, why hope?

A few weeks, months, maybe a year or two of contentment—if God blessed him with exceptional good fortune—before he descended into a hellish state for the remainder of his life.

Besides, any woman he wed must accept Jeremy. Too many denizens of High Society whispered and pointed at his unfortunate brother, one reason Mother stopped venturing from Chattsworth Park.

And, by all that’s holy, Father seized the opportunity like a stag in the rut.

What had Father imagined? Had he thought if Mother didn’t know of his unfaithfulness, that it exonerated him? Or perhaps, his father encouraged Mother’s over-protectiveness and took advantage of her reluctance to expose Jeremy to ridicule by sequestering him at Chattsworth Park House.

Lucan would never know.

Moments later, he stood outside Mother’s chamber. Funny, how he still felt the miniscule rush of anticipation he experienced as a child when summoned to her room.

Forcing a tranquil mien to his appearance, he rapped lightly upon the door. It wouldn’t do for her to detect his concern. She’d fret and work herself into a nervous state. Easily done when in good health and not to be considered with a fragile heart.

The carved panel swung open almost as though someone waited on the other side.

Genny glided to the immense bed straightaway and after kissing their mother’s cheek, straightened the already tidy bedclothes.

Always a fusser, Gen needed something to do with her hands. She’d knitted enough blankets to keep the children of The Foundling Hospital he sponsored in bedding for a good while.

“Welcome home, Your Grace.” Mrs. Wells dipped into an arthritic curtsy, a grimace tightening the abigail’s mouth when she bent.

He’d bet his forgone bath his mother’s lady’s maid had hovered near the door waiting for his knock.

“Thank you, Wells. No need to curtsy as I’ve told you many times before.” Grasping her elbow, he helped her upright. “After all, you used to catch me hiding in the wardrobes and beneath the beds.”

Before I locked myself in that infernal trunk, that is.

“Don’t forget behind the curtains where you snuck bonbons and biscuits.” She chuckled, her cheeks balling like miniature twin plum puddings, and pointed a plump finger at him. “You were quite the little rapscallion.”

Lucan had always possessed a particular fondness for sweets.

He sought his mother and nodded toward the bed. “How is she?”

“Resting comfortably, but she’s excited you’re home.” Mrs. Wells motioned him onward, murmuring out the side of her mouth, “Try to keep her calm.”

“Lucan, darling?” His mother, a pale form in a swath of rose, cream, and lace, attempted to rise.

“No, Mama. You mustn’t exert yourself.” Genny stilled their mother with a hand to her shoulder. “Wells and I shall prop you with pillows if you wish to sit up.”

“Indeed, we shall.” Like a protective mother hen, Wells charged to the bedside, tsking and clucking the whole while. “You let us assist you, Your Grace.” She wedged a pair of pillows behind his mother. “Remember what the doctor said.”

“Pshaw, that old windbag. Doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” Her voice thin and reedy, Mother gave a weak wave of her hand. Only a few strands of silver tinted the lank flaxen hair hanging about her shoulder and splayed across the light pink satin pillow. “With his dire predictions, he’d have me selecting my funeral gown. How’s a patient supposed to recover with such a gloomy bat scowling at them?”

“Nonetheless, you must do as Doctor Philpott says.” Genny offered a tense smile and moved aside when Lucan reached the bed. She fidgeted about the room, straightening this and that while casting them furtive looks. She turned to Wells. “Would you please check on Mama’s dinner? Her tray should have been brought by now. Oh, and send a maid to the nursery to ask Nurse how the girls are. It’s almost Sarah’s feeding time.”

The lady’s maid nodded as she waddled to the door. “Yes, I want to make sure Cook prepared the liver the way I requested.”

“Liver. Phah.” Mother pulled a face and gave a dainty shudder. “Why should an invalid be forced to eat liver?”

Wells paused at the entrance. “Because the doctor advised you to. To strengthen your heart.”

“He also wanted to bleed me, to draw out my ill humors. I cannot think that’s too beneficial to my heart.” Mother closed her eyes, her fair lashes dark against her cheeks’ pallor. “A warm, creamy custard would have me mending much quicker.”