Scotsman of My Dreams (14 page)

“Unlike you, Miss Todd, I don't hear amazing things.”

“Was your hearing damaged? Or are you simply not trying?”

He turned his head and stared at the carriage window as if he could see through it.

“I can see light with my left eye. A few shapes. For example, in the garden, I could see your shape but nothing else.”

“Will your vision ever improve?”

“I don't know. I have a physician who is entirely too optimistic. I suspect it won't.”

“You must be more positive, Your Lordship.”

“Why must I be?”

“Because you simply must believe that tomorrow will be better. If it's raining today, it will be sunny tomorrow. If your mood is foul today, you will be happy tomorrow. You must always have hope. I think living without hope would be the most terrible thing in the world.”

He didn't answer her. But at least, she reflected, he hadn't disparaged her beliefs like Neville had. Her brother made fun of her sometimes, saying nobody could be as innocent or naive as she. She wasn't, either, but did believe it was important to look forward to things.

When their parents died, it had been the most terrible time in the world for her. Neville was the one who made it possible to wake every morning, to go about the business of living. She never knew what he was going to say or do. His laughter charmed her down to her toes. His smile banished her despair. How very strange that he should later ridicule what he himself had taught her.

The carriage slowed, and she thought it best that they didn't continue this conversation. She always said too much around him.

“Where are we going after your brother's solicitor?”

“Why should we be going anywhere else?”

“Aren't you going to look for Neville? Or have you set Mr. Wilson on that task?”

“Perhaps we could visit a few places,” he said. “What would the Covington sisters say?”

She was surprised he remembered what she'd told him. “No doubt they saw me leave the house today, so I'm already being discussed in horrified tones.”

“Saw you in your trousers.”

“In my trousers. You could take me home and I'll change. I would be more respectable.”

“I'm the Rake of London, Miss Todd. In my company you'll never be respectable.”

There was that, of course. She really shouldn't be so excited.

 

Chapter 16

T
o Dalton's surprise, the carriage slowed. Were they at their destination so quickly? The time had passed faster than he'd expected. Perhaps it was talking to Miss Todd that made the time fly by.

She reached over, unlatched the door and pushed it open.

“I'm going to be very impolite right now,” she said in a businesslike manner. “I'm going to exit the carriage first. Then, if you don't mind, I will take your hand once you've disembarked. We will stroll like lovers up to your solicitor's office.”

He didn't know whether she had planned it or not, but her comment took away any of the awkwardness of the moment.

“I think you try to be shocking, don't you, Miss Todd?”

“If I do, Your Lordship, you are the only person who thinks so. No doubt it is due to your own nature.”

He heard her leave the carriage, then felt the slight rocking as she placed her feet on the step before descending to the cobblestones.

Just as she promised, once he was in the doorway, she reached up and grabbed his hand. To his surprise, her fingers were callused.

“You aren't wearing gloves.”

“I forgot them in the carriage. Would you like me to retrieve them now?”

“No,” he said.

He wouldn't tell her how long it'd been since he touched a woman's hand. However, he'd never felt a woman grip him with such strength.

Why did she have calluses on her fingers?

“I'm going to put my other hand on your arm,” she said. “If I direct you to the left, you must walk to the left. If I direct you to the right, you must walk to the right. The thoroughfare is slightly crowded, and I don't want you to crash into another person.”

“I have a feeling I'm a dog being walked.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “You're a fine thoroughbred. Very well trained.”

He couldn't help but laugh.

Dalton knew he was probably going to have trouble with Arthur's solicitor. It would all be very pleasant, aboveboard, and professional, but he'd withdrawn the MacIain account from Paul Doherty's law firm and it had to have been a very big part of the firm's business.

Therefore, he was unprepared for Paul's garrulous greeting.

“Come in, come in,” he said. Evidently, the solicitor had been waiting for him at the door, and now escorted him down the hall and into his office.

Where had Minerva gone? She'd dropped his arm, extricated her hand from his and suddenly disappeared.

He couldn't smell cinnamon anymore.

“How have you been?” Paul asked, gripping his arm with both hands.

He recognized that he needed help moving from one place to another, but it didn't require someone acting as if they were saving him from drowning.

Once he was seated in Paul's office, the man released him. From the sound of his voice, he must have circled a desk to sit on the other side.

He had never been here before, so he had no range of reference, no memory of rooms or locations. Paul, who met his ship when he arrived, had been one of Arthur's classmates in addition to his solicitor. He now had the same difficulty as earlier, trying to place the boyish face on a grown man.

“Of course, I understand completely why you moved your business from our firm,” Paul said. “We're very conservative, but it's your account, after all.”

Before he had a chance to speak, the solicitor continued. “I am willing to keep a portion of the business, if you will. Anything that would make you comfortable, of course. If you would like to transfer the majority of your account back to us, we would be overjoyed.”

He opened his mouth, but Paul wasn't finished. “I hope that everything has been smooth for you. I trust the transition has been easy?”

“Exceedingly.” There, he got one word out.

“I'm pleased. Truly pleased. If your solicitor or his firm have any questions, I hope that you convey to them that we stand ready to assist.”

“I'll tell them,” he said.

Finally, it seemed Paul ran out of words.

“I didn't come here to discuss the MacIain account, Paul. I came here to ask what you know of Arthur's death.”

“A tragedy. A true tragedy. A loss of a great man. A great friend. A great, great friend. Life will not be the same without Arthur.”

“How did my brother die?”

“But I told you myself, Dalton. I know I did.”

How had Arthur tolerated the man?

“Who told you how Arthur had died?”

“Why the countess, of course. By way of a messenger. No one would have expected her to call on me in person.”

“And you just accepted her word?”

This question was met by silence, an indication of Paul's shock.

“I don't understand what you're saying, Dalton.”

“Did you believe her?”

He heard the creak of the chair. Had Doherty stood? Or had he simply leaned back in his chair, regarding him with disbelief? His imagination conjured up a dozen expressions Arthur's solicitor might be wearing.

Perhaps he should have brought Miss Todd along, if only to tell him what he couldn't see. Being blind was grating on him.

“Why would I not? Perhaps it's best if you plainly state what you think, Dalton.”

“I have recently received information that Arthur wasn't hunting the day he was killed. Also, that the accident took place within view of Gledfield. Is that correct?”

He heard the chair creak again. Was Doherty squirming?

“When I reached Gledfield,” Doherty said, “Arthur was laid out in the grand parlor. Alice was barely able to converse, she was so distraught.”

So upset that she married another man in a matter of months.

He remained silent, using it as a weapon. He had never realized, until he was blinded, how much ­people say when they were nervous. Or how uncomfortable ­people were with silence.

It seemed a minute passed before Doherty spoke again.

“I didn't learn until after the funeral that the accident had taken place within sight of the house. But until you came today, your Lordship, I didn't know that Arthur hadn't been hunting. How certain are you of your information?”

He believed Sarah, perhaps more than he should. The woman had no reason to lie.

“Very certain.”

Had Alice had a hand in Arthur's death? Or someone else in the family? He pushed that suspicion to the back of his mind.

“What do you want me to do, Your Lordship?”

“Nothing, for the moment. No, that's not true. Tell me why Arthur didn't make any provisions for his mistress or his child.”

He half expected the other man to claim ignorance about the situation, but the letters had been addressed to Paul's office. To Doherty's credit, he didn't try to lie.

“He had mentioned it on two previous occasions and I believe that he intended to do so in a matter of weeks. He didn't expect to die, of course. None of us do.”

Instantly, the picture of Neville Todd raising a pistol in his direction penetrated his blindness.

“No, we don't. Did you not suggest anything to Alice?”

“Of course not,” Paul said, sounding horrified. “I would never have mentioned the existence of Miss Westchester to Her Ladyship under any circumstances, let alone at such a mournful time.”

He didn't like the idea of Sarah being left to fend for herself. Arthur, his well-­organized, well-­planned, exceedingly dutiful brother, had left a woman who loved him without a cent. If a man was going to engage in a relationship, especially one that resulted in a child, he should go out of his way to ensure that the woman was protected.

Evidently there was one thing he had learned before his brother: the meaning of mortality. He'd had that thrust upon him by the sight of thousands of men dead in a single day.

After the Battle of Manassas, he discovered the bodies of several men he knew strewn along the ground like fallen leaves. He sat in the middle of them, his hands clenched on the rifle across his lap, and stared at a lone tree not too far away, the only tall object on the horizon. The tree became a lodestone, a beacon for his eyes as he sat there quietly among the dead. He, who had prided himself on never revealing a soft emotion, who considered a man who disclosed too much of himself to be an idiot, found himself sitting cross-­legged on the earth, tears falling soundlessly down his face.

The memory startled him, coming as it did without being summoned.

“Thank you,” he said, standing.

“Are you certain there is nothing you want me to do?”

There was nothing to do, was there? He had no information to take to the authorities, other than his suspicion that Arthur hadn't died because of an accident. He had no proof, only his thoughts.

To his surprise, Minerva stood outside the office, announcing her presence in a way that made him wonder if she'd had experience dealing with ­people who'd lost their sight.

“I'm here, Your Lordship,” she said, placing her hand on his sleeve and winding it around his arm.

“Where did you go?” he asked.

“You told me the meeting was private.”

“I would never have guessed you to be tactful.”

She didn't respond, only sighed.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm in a foul mood and I'm taking it out on you.”

His memories grated on him, as well as the fact that the meeting had been damned annoying.

“I would ask,” she said, “but I expect your mood has something to do with your private meeting. You were very companionable earlier.”

“Was I?” He hadn't been companionable for a very long time.

“There are five steps down and a bit of a bump on the first step. At least it isn't raining, although the sky is an odd gray color.”

They might have been walking to the dance floor or out to the terrace.

“What are the flowers I smell?” he asked.

“Oh, I see a stall across the street. Do you have a yen for blossoms?”

He smiled. “Not today, I think.”

“But we should mark where they are, just in case you wake up one night craving nasturtiums.”

“Do you do that often? Wake up craving nasturtiums?”

“Ices,” she said. “If I wake at midnight it's craving ices. Or chocolate in any form. Isn't it hideous that something should have a hold on your mind like that?”

Did she expect him to confess that whiskey had once held that power over him?

Before he could formulate an answer, she said, “We're at the carriage now. The door is open. I'll go first, shall I? Of course, the horses are to your right, so you'll turn right when you get inside.”

“Thank you, nurse.”

She stopped and turned to him. “Have I been too abrasive? I do apologize if I have.”

“I haven't forgotten all my manners,” he said.

“Did you have good manners before? I can't remember hearing any tales of it.”

He was startled into laughter once again.

“Why do you always smell of cinnamon?” he asked as he entered the carriage after her.

“Do I?”

She sounded surprised. Good. He had a feeling that the best way to deal with Minerva Todd was to keep her slightly off center.

“I noticed it that first night in the parlor. And every occasion since then.”

“My housekeeper has a penchant for potpourri,” she said. “She's forever putting spicy potpourri in my dresser drawers and it contains cinnamon. Plus I eat a cinnamon scone every morning. It's my favorite.”

“Then between the scone and the potpourri, I believe we have the answer to a mystery. How many of them do you eat?”

“Only one,” she said. “Or perhaps two if I'm feeling gluttonous.”

“No more than that? Are you given to being plump, Miss Todd?”

He could hear her sit back against the squabs and hid his smile.

“Let me smell your hair.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He half raised himself, and before she could mount an objection, placed his hand on her shoulder, then on top of her head. He bent over her and sniffed.

In the next moment he sat again, smiling slightly.

“Your hair smells of lemon.”

“It's in the rinse I use,” she said.

She had such an expressive voice. He wondered if she knew it.

“Do you try to be rude?” she asked.

“Occasionally I do,” he said.

“Like now?”

“I find it enjoyable to tease you, Miss Todd. Do you not have a sense of humor?”

“I have a wonderful sense of humor,” she said. “If I didn't, I wouldn't be riding in a carriage with a man who wants to put my brother in jail.”

“That denotes a certain flexibility, Miss Todd, but nothing of humor.”

“Must I tell you some jests in order to prove that I do find amusement in certain things? What would be a good test?”

“Do you know any jests? Unfortunately, the only ones I know are ribald in nature.”

“That does not surprise me in the least,” she said.

“Very well, I will concede that you have a sense of humor.”

She didn't respond, which disappointed him.

She'd already charmed him out of his bad mood, a fact that both surprised and worried him.

He hadn't expected to
like
Minerva Todd. Nor had he planned on taking her around London, but the idea had merit.

A warning bell sounded in the back of his mind and he recognized the peal of it. But the caution belonged to a different time and perhaps to a different man.