Scotsman of My Dreams (4 page)

Although she and Hugh had left her home after midnight, it was entirely possible that one of the three Covington sisters had been awake and peering intently from a window for just such an occasion as this.

“Please,” Hugh said, adding a comment in Italian.

Hugh came from Cornwall, but he had an uncanny ability to sound Italian or French or the inhabitant of any country whose males were great lovers. He'd often teased her with romantic phrases. At one time, she'd been delighted. Now it was only annoying.

She turned and frowned at him in the darkness.

“You know I've asked you to stop saying such things,” she said.

“It's the only way you listen to me.”

There was a kernel of truth in that comment, enough that she didn't offer a rebuttal.

“Do you think we can gain access through this window?” she asked, making her way to two very tall windows spaced six feet apart.

Because of the bushes, she didn't think they could be seen. The streetlamps were dim, indicating their globes needed to be cleaned. In her own square, the Covington sisters ensured the watchman cleaned the lamps once a month.

“I don't think we should gain access at all,” Hugh said. “Send him another letter.”

“I've wasted months sending him letters. I doubt he's even opened them, let alone read them.”

“There has to be a better way than waking the man, Minerva.”

Was Hugh now the voice of her conscience? She truly didn't need him to be. Gaining admittance to the Earl of Rathsmere's home was a small act in light of his greater sin.

The man had lost her brother.

All she was going to do was find his bedchamber and talk to him. In the middle of the night, surprised out of slumber, he would certainly tell her the truth.

Whether he wished to do so or not.

 

Chapter 5

S
tanding, Dalton made his way to the door of his sitting room. He'd had time, since returning home in May, to reacquaint himself with the furniture in the room. The maids were under strict orders not to rearrange anything. If an ottoman was moved to brush the carpet beneath, it must be returned to its exact position. Otherwise he would go flying over it as he walked from one side of the room to the other.

He opened the door, stood listening as he tightened the belt of his robe. He had no idea the color of the garment, so he imagined it burgundy with black lapels and a black belt. It could be pink or chartreuse for all he knew.

Perhaps he should hire a valet, but the idea of having to be dressed or even asking advice was so repugnant that he hadn't yet.

He could just imagine their conversation every morning.

Are you certain this is brown? Or is it blue?

Brown as a horse's droppings, sir.

That's why he'd ordered only white shirts and black suits. Otherwise he would probably wander through his home dressed in a mishmash of colors and patterns. None of his very kind servants would ever indicate that he clashed, however. But he paid them very well, enough to be loyally silent before he'd left for America, and they were doing the same now.

Life, in those days, had been one enjoyable interlude after another. Was he desirous of bed sport? There was the Countess of this or the Duchess of that or the daughter of a merchant who'd made her way in society by dint of her talented tongue. There was Amanda and Jane and Mary, and not to forget Diane or Alice, all girls in the marriage mart who were willing to do almost anything to snare a husband, even a rich rake.

His father had once been a younger son and was determined to treat his three boys more equitably. Although Arthur had always been reared to understand that he would be earl, responsible for all the duties inheriting the title required, both Dalton and Lewis were gifted with an enormous sum when each turned twenty-­one.

Dalton had taken his father's advice and employed a banker with extensive financial acumen to manage his money. Therefore, his individual wealth was increasing each year. He would never need to go to Arthur for additional funds. He'd even been incredibly lucky in his wagers. His horses had won most of their races. He found cards boring and rarely played, but when he did he was fortunate there, too.

His luck had run out in America.

He stepped out into the hallway, a small smile pasted on his face in case he encountered a servant.

Thankfully, no one was there.

He counted the steps from his door to the end of the hall. Fear surrounded him like a cloud as he approached the head of the stairs. He felt the hollow space around him, stretched out his hand and gripped the banister. He slid his right foot forward, grateful that he hadn't put on slippers. His toes felt the edge of the step and he took the first one, then the second. The painful tightening around his chest eased, the more steps he took. Descending was much harder than climbing up the steps.

He hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, then pushed off, crossing the foyer. At the end of seventeen steps he came to a wall. If he turned right and went ten more steps, he would hit the front door. If he turned slightly left, he would enter the hall that led to his library.

Once past the cold marble flooring, he turned left and pressed his fingers against the wall, feeling the rail and below to the wainscoting. Above it was a very pleasant blue-­and-­white-­pattern wallpaper. His mother had chosen it. In addition to supervising his garden, she'd overseen the redecoration of the house when he first purchased it.

Alexandra MacIain had been a generous and loving soul. He could still hear her laughter echoing throughout the house.

“Dalton, my love, you simply must choose the fixtures you prefer. If I chose them, the house would reflect my taste, but it's your home, not mine.”

He remembered her comment whenever he went to Gledfield. The great house was hundreds of years old, but his mother had managed to put her stamp on it.

He'd only been there twice since her death, finding it difficult to believe that she wouldn't suddenly appear, grab his shoulders, and pull him down for a kiss.

“You can't be growing more, surely, my darling child. I must be shrinking.”

To his eyes she was eternally beautiful, her blond hair always kept in an upswing style. She liked long dangling earrings and she never left her bedroom unless fully dressed, down to her ear bobs.

He knew she was dying the day he was summoned to Gledfield and entered his mother's bedroom to find her in bed, no jewelry in sight. Her hair had been brushed until it shone, spread on the pillow in a cloud of pale yellow. Curiously, her face was not as lined as other women of her age. Only her eyes betrayed her wisdom and the sure and certain awareness of that moment.

Words had stuck in his throat. Grief had been given talons and was clawing at his flesh. He found it impossible to swallow. Slowly, he walked to her bedside, sank down to his knees on the floor like he was eight years old, frightened of a storm or nightmare and seeking her out.

He held her frail hand between both his hands and forced himself to look into her eyes. With all his soul he'd repudiated what he saw there.

Her time was done. She wanted to leave him, and he didn't want her to go.

He had lowered his head, his forehead touching the mattress. He supposed he prayed, but it wasn't a normal prayer. Not a solicitation to the Almighty, but an oath, a curse, an imprecation to spare her despite her wishes.

With the hindsight of several years, he wished he hadn't been so selfish that day. He should have sat at her side, holding her hand and telling her he understood. In some way, he should have eased her passing. Instead, it was up to Arthur to be the man of the family, despite the fact they were only a year apart.

They'd all congregated outside her bedroom door, and in the morning their vigil was over. She'd smiled at them the night before, patted his cheek, and then never woke up.

She, more than his father, had been his lodestone. When he was a boy, he wanted to please her the most, knowing that his father's praise was always egalitarian. Arthur might have been the heir but wasn't singled out above Lewis or himself. But his mother's approbation was always accompanied by a smile, a soft laugh, and a gleam in her eyes that made him certain she truly thought he was special.

What would she have said to his adventure in America? Would she have castigated him for even wishing to go? It had been a fool's journey, hadn't it? He had been repaid a dozen times over for his stupidity.

He heard another noise. Had he summoned up ghosts? Here, Arthur had only been a visitor. Here, his mother had flitted it in and out, rarely remaining more than a few hours. He purchased the house after his father's death, so it came with no taint or tinge of Harland MacIain.

Perhaps it should have. God knows, his father's shade would have acted as a calming influence. Perhaps the ghost of the fifth Earl of Rathsmere could have curbed some of his more licentious impulses.

He could just imagine some of his conquests encountering his father in the hall.

Until he returned from America, he'd thought that society held no surprises for him. He'd been startled to discover that wasn't entirely true. Instead of being besieged by visitors who'd learned of his return to London, not one person had come to his home.

He opened the door to his library, entered the room, and shut the door softly behind him. He would probably never become accustomed to the thought that he should light a lamp, before remembering it wasn't necessary.

Stepping a few feet away from the door, he folded his arms, staring into the darkness as if to will it to part, revealing a room shrouded in shadows and only faintly illuminated by the moon.

He didn't even know if the moon was full. Nor did he know if it was truly night. His only clue was the absence of sound and activity. The world was hunkered down to sleep, and he felt like the only solitary soul awake.

Stretching out one hand, he walked toward where he thought the sideboard was located. He hated the feeling of disorientation, but he would probably have to get used to it, just like all the other things accompanying blindness. Being unable to tell how large a room was, if he was alone or not. Being unable to gauge the distance to his mouth with a soup spoon or fork. He was not only annoyed at being a blind toddler, he was enraged.

He was, though, becoming adept at pouring whiskey into a glass without spilling it all over the surface of the sideboard. That little trick was accomplished by sticking his finger in the tumbler. When his second knuckle was wet, he had poured enough.

A sound made him hesitate.

With his damnable luck, he had probably roused one of the servants.

No, that wasn't one of the servants.

The noise was so peculiar that he left his glass beside the decanter and made his way back to the library door. He opened it slowly, then stood in the doorway for a moment, trying to trace the origin of the sound, a grating noise, like something rubbing against wood.

He left the library, trailing his hand over the wainscoting as he walked through the hall toward the parlor. This room was not often used and had been designed by his mother for formal occasions. His own life had not been marked by formal occasions, only revelries, jaunts, and carousing. Consequently, he'd rarely been in the parlor.

The pocket doors were halfway closed. Placing two fingers in the recessed handle, he slowly opened one side.

A man with less pride would have summoned someone else. He knew that even as he stood there without raising an alarm. He might be wrong and he didn't want to appear the fool.

Did you hear? The earl was screaming for help in the middle of the night because of a mouse.

No, that wasn't an image he wanted other ­people to have of him.

He had almost convinced himself that he'd been mistaken when he heard the noise again. This time it was accompanied by whispers.

The thieves weren't accomplished at their task, evidently.

He had not been in this room for months, and hoped the furniture hadn't been moved. He slid around the edge of the door, his back to the wall. To his right was a secretary, and perched on the top a globe lamp with a glass shade. Slowly, his right hand reached out and found the edge of the desk, his fingers sliding over the wood until he located the lamp.

His heart was pounding so hard he was almost breathless with it. The least he could have done was taken a sip of the whiskey for a little Dutch courage.

Ahead of him was a fireplace with windows on either side. The thieves were trying to enter through the window to his right.

Common sense said that all he really had to do was announce his presence for them to scatter. A thief didn't want to be revealed; otherwise, why come to his home after midnight?

It was a thought he had just as he heard the sound of the window being raised.

Dalton grabbed the lamp with his right hand and moved sideways in front of the secretary.

His mother had installed ferns by the window in copper pots set into iron stands. He transferred the lamp into his left hand, reaching out with his right. When he felt the delicate touch of fronds on his fingertips, he smiled. Thank God his staff hadn't changed anything in his absence.

He was trying to remember what kind of window was installed in the parlor. He'd never been interested in such things before, so he didn't have an answer. Whatever the thieves were doing was probably designed to jimmy the lock.

He heard the sash raised slowly and stepped behind a chair. To his right was the potted fern. He held the lamp in his left hand.

Timing would be everything.

He heard whispers and swore mentally. Two against one didn't seem fair. His only advantage was the darkness.

“Minerva, truly, will you not reconsider?”

What the hell?

“Yes, Minerva, won't you reconsider?” he said as he pushed on the brass pot, sending the fern toppling.

A woman cried out.

“You almost coshed me over the head with that thing,” she said a moment later, her voice surprisingly educated.

“That's what happens when you rob a house, madam.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” she said. Her voice changed, as if she had picked herself up and was now standing. “I'm not a thief.”

“Then why are you gaining entrance through a window, madam?”

“Miss,” she said. “Miss Minerva Todd. I need to speak with the earl.”

That was a strange request, one that had him lowering the lamp in his hand. It was easier to place it on the floor than to find the secretary again.

“Why?”

“I'd prefer to speak to the earl. If you're another one of the earl's overbearing servants, I warn you, I shan't take no for an answer. If I can't see him tonight, I'll just come back tomorrow.”

She was the most outlandish female. She offered no apologies for breaking into his home, but was announcing that she would continue to be obnoxious.

I
T WAS
so dark that she could barely see him, only a darker shadow in the absence of light. He moved toward her as if he had cat's eyes. She would've backed away but was already standing with her back against the window.

“Who are you?” she asked.

It wasn't Howington. She remembered his voice. It hadn't been as low or as intriguing as this man's. Was he the Earl of Rathsmere's bodyguard? Did the man require one? His valet? Certainly not a majordomo, or he would have sounded more officious.

She felt him come closer. She stretched out her hand, startled when she encountered a soft, almost filmy garment. Silk, if she wasn't mistaken. She jerked back her hand just as quickly.

He took another step. This man was taller than most men she knew. She had never been so conscious of a man's size before or of his potential strength.