Kathryn Caskie - [Royle Sisters 02] (10 page)

“No, he is not a liar. That much I am sure of,” Lotharian said, “but the letters were in the house—at least until the week before the younger MacLaren opened the house for the season.”

Elizabeth sat upright and accepted a dish of tea from Lady Upperton. “I remember Apsley saying as much…the night you three were discovered dangling by ropes from MacLaren’s rooftop.” She giggled quietly into her tea.

Lilywhite lifted his thick eyebrows. “That doesn’t prove the letters were still there. It only
proves that the men breaking into the house, assuming they were the same crew, either didn’t find the letters the first time or they were never looking for the letters. Every newspaper in Town touted the MacLaren rout marking the family’s return to London. It is a fair assumption that the burglars deduced that since the family was returning to London, they weren’t bloody well there yet, and that the house would be unoccupied and ripe for the plucking.”

Gallantine cleared his throat. “Except, Lilywhite, for the second time, nothing of notice was reported missing.”

“The elder MacLaren surprised them the first time, and Apsley the second.” Lilywhite took a cup of tea from Lady Upperton and sniffed it. “My dear lady, have you a splash of brandy?”

With a sigh of exasperation, Lady Upperton pulled the lever at the side of her seat, and a small tufted footstool shot out from beneath the settee. She settled her tiny feet on it and climbed down, then crossed the library to collect a decanter of brandy.

“Apsley is a long-nosed sort. I do not believe I trust him.” Elizabeth extended a hand and helped Lady Upperton climb back onto the set
tee with the brandy. “Didn’t he say there were papers everywhere when he entered into the town house? If he saw the letters, he might have read them and discovered their value.” Her eyes rounded. “He might have taken them.”

Lilywhite nodded and sighed with pleasure as Lady Upperton topped his cup with a measure of brandy.

“Perhaps, Elizabeth.” Gallantine held his cup out to Lady Upperton for her to add a little spirits to his tea as well. “But more than likely, Anne has the right of it, and will find the letters at MacLaren Hall.”

“Yes, I fear we have no choice but to wait and hope that Anne will be successful in her search.” Lotharian extended his now empty teacup.

Elizabeth expelled the air in her lungs. She had never been much good at waiting, but since she came to London it had been all she seemed to do.

“More tea, Lotharian?” Lady Upperton gestured to the tea server, but the Old Rake waved off the silly notion.

“No, my dear.” Lotharian fashioned a charming smile especially for her. “But my bones are still a bit stiff from dangling from the ropes. Some brandy, however, might be just the thing.”

MacLaren Hall, St. Albans
Midnight

V
iscount Apsley’s carriage was far better fitted than the mail coach Laird had considered taking for the two-hour trip north to St. Albans. There were fewer stops, and it was more supremely equipped for comfort than any carriage he’d ever had the pleasure of riding inside.

And, as the elegant town carriage turned down the center of the poplar tree-lined drive to MacLaren Hall, Laird almost wished the journey was not at its end. He’d been positively pampered from the moment they’d left London. It was like traveling inside a wheeled gentlemen’s club.
They drank choice brandy, supped on delicacies from the wicker food hamper, played cards, and smoked cheroots from the West Indies.

Laird was glad that Apsley had insisted he join him in finding a way to wrench Anne from his mother and whisk her back to London.

He’d had to sit for three hours, as Apsley bathed and conferred with his valet about the appropriate clothing required for a short stay in a country house. It was actually worth the wait—though he’d never admit this aloud; that would please Apsley far too much, and he couldn’t have that.

No, the longer Apsley felt he owed him for this fiasco of a betrothal, the better.

The carriage circled around and drew to a bouncy halt before the huge double doors of MacLaren Hall. Two young footmen, rubbing the sleep from their eyes and shrugging their coats over their shoulders, hurried out to assist the coachman and groom with Laird’s small leather bag and Apsley’s huge portmanteau.

Laird grabbed Apsley’s arm and eased him from the cab. “There you go. We’re here now.”

Apsley, deep in his brandy-induced stupor, groaned in response.

“But you must be quiet. It is late, and Lady MacLaren and Miss Royle will certainly be in their beds.”

Apsley tried to nod his head, but instead his chin just rolled a few inches across his chest.

After depositing his wilted friend into the first vacant bedchamber he came upon, Laird started up the stairway to find his own bed at the far end of the upper hallway.

The passage was dark, but he’d spent most of his young life roaming MacLaren Hall, and did not require a candle to find his way. He knew every inch of the house and grounds as well as his own face.

He slowed his step as he passed Graham’s bedchamber, God rest and keep his soul. He remembered the two of them racing through this door into the hallway, heading for the stairs. They would each mount a side of the grand staircase’s banister, and in a sliding race to the bottom, would whoop and holler the names of their imaginary horses while their governess fretted and screeched…and their mother laughed until her sides ached.

The warm memory set a smile upon Laird’s mouth, until he noticed a low flicker of firelight
coming from beneath the door. His head was clouded with the dulling effects of the brandy, and without thinking, he opened the door. “Graham?” he whispered.

Someone stirred in the bed, drawing Laird closer. “Graham?” He stopped when he reached the tester and briskly rubbed his hands over his face.

What was he doing? What was he thinking?

Graham is dead. Dead.

Still, someone was sleeping in his brother’s bed.

Without taking another step, he reached for the curtain covering the window and drew it back just enough to break the darkness. A finger of cool moonlight cut through the window and fell upon the sleeping figure in the bed.

Laird inhaled a deep breath.

Anne.

“Moonlight becomes you, my dear,” he whispered so softly that had she awakened right then, she might have heard only a sigh. If it were possible, he found her even more beautiful, more ethereal in her sleep.

In the pale blue light, her skin was like porcelain; her pale hair flowed over her smooth, bared
shoulder like liquid silver. He wanted nothing so much at that moment than to kiss her.

He could not help himself. Laird reached out his free hand and lightly trailed his fingertips through her hair, then across her cheek before finally sliding a single finger across her full lower lip.

She stirred then, and he snatched back his finger from her mouth. He released the pinch of curtain he held and silently backed away from the tester bed, before turning and darting through the open door and into the passage.

The first rays of daylight at last breached the wall of trees bordering the east lawn and streamed into the library, assisting Anne with her search.

Lady MacLaren had mentioned that her dear departed husband had spent much of his time in this very room when he was in residence—which was not nearly as frequently as she would have liked. So the library, Anne had decided as she shoved the pins into her hair early that morning, was the first place she ought to search for the hidden letters.

Before the sun reached the room, she’d paced
the floor, taking care to peel back the gold and crimson carpet and push down with her toes on any piece of parquet that might seem loose or damaged in any way.

She’d dropped to her knees and had pressed on the skirting-board to check for any hidden compartment, and ran her fingertips along the breaks between the lower portions of the bookcases looking for hidden doors à la Lady Upperton’s secret library passage.

But now the light in the ornate room was sufficient to deepen her search, though she was all too aware that her time was growing dear.

She had taken the precaution of closing the library door against nosy maids and footmen, but soon enough Lady MacLaren’s belly would rumble and nudge her down the stairs to break her fast.

Anne focused her attention on the grand mahogany desk before the huge French windows. She tugged on the brass pulls, but every drawer was locked.

Turning around, she dropped onto her bottom and lay down in the cavernous knee hole. If there was key hidden about, she reasoned, it would need to be close for convenience’s sake—but hidden from view.

Her fingers probed the underside of the center desk drawer, feeling the splintery gaps beneath the braces, and between the dovetails that had loosened over the years.

Unexpectedly, a shadow passed between her and the window. She bent her neck and raised her head to peer up at the window, hoping that a cloud had only blocked the sun. But inside, she knew better.

Her stomach tensed as she squinted at the figure blocking her light.

Oh, perdition.

She’d been discovered.

Suddenly, large hands firmly gripped her ankles and yanked her out from beneath the desk. She lurched upright, hitting her forehead on the edge of the drawer molding.

“Blast!” she snapped, before looking up. She blinked at the hulking silhouette before the window.

“Watch out for the drawer,” came Laird’s amused voice. “Oh dear. Too late.”

Anne ducked her head until she was past the drawer and sat up. She rubbed her smarting forehead, then cupped her hand to her brow, cutting the glare. “Wh-what are you doing here?”

“I was about to ask you the very same question.” He was grinning at her instead of frightening her with his visual grimace. That was a good sign.

She flung a flailing hand in the air, which Laird grasped and used to haul her to her feet.

“Wh-why I was looking…for something to read,” she replied with all the confidence she could muster.

“Under the desk?”

“I-I dropped your grandmother’s ring.” She quickly clapped her right hand over her left and began twisting. “Found it though. See?” She held up her left hand proudly.

“Hmm. Excuse me a moment, will you?” Laird leaned around her and took something from beneath the burl wood pen rest. He straightened. There was that grin again. “I thought you might be looking for
this
.”

He opened his hand before her nose and showed her a shiny brass key.

Anne scowled. “If you knew what I was doing all along, why did you not just say so?”

“Now that wouldn’t be half as amusing, would it?”

She folded her arms at her chest and gave her
head a haughty flick. “So you know why I have come.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You searched your town house in London for the letters, which I must say was very gracious of you.” La, he was still grinning at her. “Perhaps you would condescend to assist me searching for them in here.”

“No, I do not see the need.” He shrugged his shoulders, almost mockingly to Anne’s way of thinking, then strode across the room and leaned against the back of a large leather wingback chair.

“Do not see the need?” Anne flung her arms outward, but took care to keep her voice to a whisper. “How can you not? It makes perfect sense to me. If your father did indeed possess the letters, and they were not at Cockspur Street, then it is logical that he might have hidden them here.”

“You are exactly right.
If
he ever possessed the letters, and we are not completely certain of that, then searching this library might be the thing to do right now—unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless
I
have already searched it.”

“Searched it?” What was Laird on about? He was being nonsensical. “Impossible.” She eyed him with suspicion. “Wh-when?”

“Last night,” he replied smugly, “whilst you slept.”

The library door flew open. Anne looked up to see Lady MacLaren standing in the doorway.

“Why, good morning, Lady MacLaren,” Anne rushed to her and led her by the hand to Laird. “Look who has arrived. Is this not a wonderful surprise?”

Laird came around from the back of the chair and kissed the countess’s cheek. “Oh, not such a surprise, was it, Mother?”

Lady MacLaren giggled like a girl. “No, I suppose not. I had a notion you might come once you learned I had taken Anne to MacLaren Hall.”

“In
my
carriage,” Laird added.

“Oh yes.” Lady MacLaren’s gaze plummeted to her feet. “How did you travel, dear? Your gelding?”

“Certainly not,” came a chipper voice from the doorway. “He arrived in
my
carriage.” Lord Apsley bowed in a most gentlemanly manner, and then in three long strides was standing among
them. “Can’t let our lad be all dust-packed when he is about to greet his mother and bride, now can we?”

Anne looked across at Laird. His left eyebrow was arched angrily and his vibrant blue eyes had narrowed at Apsley.

“Well then, we have the makings of a house party. Let us all take our morning tea together, shall we?” Lady MacLaren waved her arms as if to shoo them all toward the door.

“Yes, shall we, Anne?” Laird offered her his arm, which she grudgingly took.

Lady MacLaren evidently saw the uncomfortable exchange, and she questioned them immediately. “Why were the two of you in the library so early this morn?”

Anne laughed softly. “As it happened, we both awoke shortly before dawn and came upon each other in the library.”

“We were both looking for something interesting to read,” Laird added helpfully.

Lady MacLaren lifted her thin eyebrows. “And did either of you find it?”

“Not yet, Lady MacLaren, but then I do not think either of us is finished searching.” Anne smiled prettily.” Are we, Lord MacLaren?”

“No, Anne.” Laird’s gaze fixed on her eyes. “We haven’t finished…
yet
.”

It seemed to Laird that his mother was in an extraordinarily bright mood this morning. She hummed through smiling lips as she topped a slice of toasted bread with a dollop of marmalade and chattered cheerfully with both Apsley and Anne as they all broke their fasts.

It was the first time he’d seen her this way, her former chipper self, since the report of Graham’s death on the battlefield had arrived. It pleased Laird to see her happy again. Their small family had endured far too much pain over the past year and a half.

“Lady MacLaren, I must thank you for lodging me in such a warm and comfortable bedchamber.” Anne’s gaze flitted to Laird briefly. “But I have come to learn that this particular bedchamber is a family room, and I do not wish to impose.” She glanced at Laird before facing Lady MacLaren for her reply.

“My dear gel, you are not imposing at all. And you are family, or soon will be.” The countess patted Anne’s shoulder. “Besides, I chose Graham’s room for you myself.”

“You did?” Laird stared at his mother in disbelief. For the entire year of mourning for her son, she had had the bedchamber cleaned as though Graham were coming home any day.

Though the countess never admitted it, Laird was of the belief that she never truly believed the report of his demise on the battlefield. Even when Graham’s batman had come to return the signet ring that never left his brother’s finger, Lady MacLaren still had the linens changed and a ewer of hot water set upon his washstand each night.

Until last night, it seemed.

“Yes, I did.” The smile withered from Lady MacLaren’s thin lips. “I could not abide seeing his bedchamber empty any longer.” She turned and gazed at Anne, and her lips curved upward again. “But now Anne has joined us at MacLaren Hall. And soon we will all be a real family again—instead of a fragment of a family that once was happy here.” Tears welled in his mother’s eyes, not of sadness, but of happiness.

He heard a sniffle, and turned to see Anne dabbing her eyes. “Thank you, Lady MacLaren,” she managed to say in a quavering voice through her tears. She leapt up from her chair and bent to hug
Lady MacLaren. “You do not know how much it means to hear you say this to me.”

Laird felt heat at the backs of his eyes. Marrying Anne, in truth, would give her the roots she’d always longed for. And return to his mother the sense of family she’d lost after the deaths of Graham and her husband.

But he sought the affections of another, Lady Henceforth, and, as seemed to be his way, he would disappoint everyone. Once again.

Lady MacLaren suddenly clapped her hands, her eyes still wet with tears. “I have decided to take Anne into St. Albans with me this day. Who else will join us? We shall make a day of it.”

Apsley stifled a yawn and blinked his red-laced, bleary eyes. “I do beg your pardon, Lady MacLaren, but I have yet to recover from our journey and might indulge myself with a few more minutes of rest, if you do not mind.”