Scotsman of My Dreams (7 page)

 

Chapter 8

“D
o you take sugar?” she asked, pouring the tea.

When the earl didn't answer, she dispensed with the sugar and held the cup up in front of him.

“You need to reach up with your right hand,” she said. “I have no intention of feeding you. Quickly now. I'm not your nursemaid.”

His look was no doubt designed to quell her. She had the feeling that he would like to throw the cup at her, but he took it, nonetheless.

“Thank you, Mrs. Thompson,” he said. “That will be all.”

“Would you like me to summon Mr. Howington?” she asked, looking from Minerva to the earl and back again.

“Give us five minutes,” he said. “After that, if you would ask Mr. Howington to attend me.”

She nodded, a gesture that sent her odd poufy cap bouncing on top of her head.

Once the housekeeper left the garden, Minerva turned to the earl. “You can remove me bodily,” she said. “I'll only return.”

He didn't say anything for a moment, only brought the cup to his lips, sipping from it.

“I don't doubt you will. What would it take for you to leave me alone?”

“The truth. It's all I want.”

“I don't know where Neville is. I've told you the truth. Here's more truth for you, Miss Todd. I don't care.”

“That is only too obvious.”

She stared at the tray that she'd placed on the space between them. What a pretty little teapot. Royal Dorchester, she thought. Her mother had a similar pattern in her best china. When was the last time she had used it? She didn't entertain, especially since Neville had been gone. There were no friends of his to arrive at the house unexpectedly. No one to attend a dinner party. She had few friends, and those she might call more than acquaintances were involved in her work and as separated or aloof as she herself was.

He took another sip of his tea, then placed the cup back on the saucer with a delicate chink of sound.

“Did you ever think that your blindness is some kind of divine justice for what you've done?”

“I doubt God gives a flying farthing for me, Miss Todd.”

“Did you lose them all? Don't you care what happened to them? Don't you feel any sort of responsibility?”

“I didn't lose them on purpose, Miss Todd. We were separated because I was in the hospital for a number of weeks.”

“And now? Do you feel nothing now? Or only pity for yourself? I can't be the only relative who wonders, who waits. What do you say to the others?”

“The others haven't bothered me.”

“No, no doubt they're in awe of your consequence. The great Dalton MacIain. The powerful and wealthy Earl of Rathsmere, who can do anything he wishes without having to explain to a soul. Well, I want an explanation. I want to know how you can turn your back on men who looked up to you. You're not only blind with your eyes, but with your soul.”

“Are you finished castigating me now? Who the hell are you, Miss Todd, to come marching into my home and lecture me?”

“Who the hell are you, to lose my brother and not be concerned about it?”

She didn't use profanity often but she found it was called for from time to time. This was one of those occasions.

His brow furled and the corner of his lip twitched. Had she shocked him? Good. The Earl of Rathsmere needed a little shocking.

“Where is my brother?”

“Where are your manners?”

“No doubt in the same place my brother is,” she said. “Where is he?”

When he remained silent, she frowned at him.

“I have every intention of finding my brother,” she said. “If you could just provide the information I need, I shan't bother you again. What ship did you travel on?”

He still didn't speak, and she wondered if he was going to hold back all the details of his trip. How would she be able to find Neville if he did?

“The
Honoria
,” he finally said. “I had a double cabin. Unfortunately, I was alone. I believe a companion of the female sort would have made the voyage more interesting.”

She felt herself warm. Must he be licentious even now?

“Where did you disembark?”

“Maryland. Baltimore, to be exact.”

She took a notebook and pencil from her pocket and made a notation.

“I need the names of MacIain's Marauders,” she said.

“An idiotic name.”

“I agree.”

“So is this meeting, Miss Todd.”

She looked over at him. His face was turned toward his house, presenting his left side.

Her breath caught. How shallow was she to be caught up in a man's appearance? Beauty was revealed in character, not in the symmetry of cheekbones and a chiseled jaw.

How many women had stared at him in the past, more than content to simply look at him as if he were a work of art?

“I've engaged an investigator. If your brother is hiding in London, James Wilson will find him.”

She made a notation of the name, biting back the quick nausea at his announcement.

“What are you going to do once you find him?”

He smiled, and she felt her stomach flutter. Did snakes smile?

“I'm going to attempt to have justice done.”

“What does that mean?”

“Your brother tried to kill me, Miss Todd. He only managed to blind me.” He held up one hand, waving it in front of his face. “Yes, I got this in America, courtesy of your brother.”

“I don't believe you. You're wrong.” She held both hands tightly together to keep them from shaking.

“Hardly something I would lie about, Miss Todd.”

“However you arrived at that conclusion, it's an incorrect one.”

“Your brother leveled a pistol at me. He fired that pistol.”

“You must be mistaken.”

“Your inability to accept the truth doesn't negate it. Are you one of those women given to hysteria and emotionality to the exclusion of all reason?”

“You're autocratic,” she said, knowing that as insults go, hers weren't nearly as damaging as his. She would have to try harder. “You're a self-­pitying twit.”

He didn't say anything for a moment, which made her wonder if she'd scored a direct hit.

“You smell of whiskey,” she added. “It's barely noon. Are you a drunkard, too?”

“You've allowed your loyalty to blind you, Miss Todd.”

His words were sharp, his voice soft. She had the sudden feeling that Dalton MacIain was at his most dangerous in moments like this. Another man might raise his voice or posture. The earl would be quiet, deadly, and determined.

“He's my brother,” she said.

“Does that mean he's incapable of wrongdoing? That he couldn't possibly be homicidal?”

“I'm his only relative,” she said.

“So, in your eyes, he's perfect, even when it's obvious he's not?”

“You would have him hang, before giving him an opportunity to explain himself.”

His laughter startled her.

“There is no explanation that would induce me to forgive him.”

“
Y
OU'VE
BROKEN
into my house. And now my garden. Where can I expect you next, Miss Todd? If I swear on something holy that I don't know where your brother is, will you be satisfied?”

“No.”

The stark answer didn't surprise him. He had the feeling that she was abrupt at times but almost always direct.

He could be as direct.

“I think it's time you left, don't you? You've come to see the beast in his den. Now it's time to go.”

He tried to bank down his rage, but it was building. She wanted to know where Neville Todd was? With any luck, at the bottom of some deep ocean. Or buried in the fertile Virginia earth. Or in hell.

She stood and walked away. A moment later the garden gate opened and she was gone. Either that or she was still there and being silent like Howington.

Neville had a strong advocate, someone who evidently loved him enough to make a complete ass of herself.

Now that his mother was dead, was there anyone else on the face of the earth who felt that way about him? An uncomfortable question and one he didn't want to examine too much at the moment.

He didn't want to think about America. It had been a suicidal venture, one filled with hubris and arrogance. He'd been an idiot, an opinion Miss Todd shared.

Why did he care what the woman thought? He'd lived his life remarkably free of caring about the opinions of others.

The sun warmed his shoulders and back. The interlude in the garden had been a pleasant one before Miss Todd arrived.

He wished he knew what the woman looked like. He could always ask Mrs. Thompson or Howington.

How many years would it take before he accepted what had happened? He would never see again, no matter how much he wished and bargained and railed against his fate. He would never look at his own reflection, gauge the weather by scanning the clouds in the sky. He'd never ride again, never see a smile on his lover's face.

For that matter, what woman would want a blind man?

A greedy one, who chose a fortune over affection.

On that depressing thought he stood and slowly made his way into the house, both hands outstretched a little for balance. He'd never considered that blindness would make him feel wobbly. Perhaps he should acquire a walking stick or a paid companion whose only task would be to lead him from one place to another like a child in short pants.

That image was enough for him to wish that Neville had been a better marksman.

M
INERVA STOMPED
to her carriage, nodded at Hugh and said, “Let's go home.”

“Did you see him?”

She nodded.

Hugh didn't approve of her actions. He hadn't approved of Neville, either, taking issue with her brother's demeanor and speech. She had listened to his comments because she had no other choice. Hugh was loquacious when he was annoyed.

“After this, I hope we won't come back here,” Hugh said now as he stood in the open door of the carriage.

She didn't answer.

When one does something out of the norm, one must be prepared for all the ramifications. That was not a lesson she had learned at her mother's knee, but from her own experience.

She was paying for her mistake with Hugh now. He evidently felt he had the right to make comments about her behavior when she neither solicited nor appreciated his opinion.

She must solve that situation somehow, as soon as she found Neville.

Sitting back against the seat, she closed her eyes. She would not cry. Tears didn't bring about any resolution of the problem and only made her eyes swell. She looked then like a rabbit with her pink nose and pink eyes.

Perhaps if she'd been more understanding, Neville would never have left for America. If she had been gentle and sweet like their mother, he might have listened to her counsel once or twice.

Neville had been going through some difficult times, learning who he was, how he fit into the world. He would have been better served by going into the family business, but he'd been led to believe that only the lower classes worked for a living—­another fault she lay at Dalton MacIain's feet.

But he wasn't a murderer.

How dare that irritating man say such a thing.

She was not going to feel anything for him, and certainly not pity. The war had damaged him, but wars killed ­people. What had he expected, that he could blithely sail into battle without it affecting him in any way? Or did he think he would return to England with a rakish scar that would make women swoon at his feet?

He was blind. That must ruin his plans for a hedonistic life. Yet his scars hadn't altered his appearance all that much. The man was still a handsome devil, no doubt still capable of charm if he chose to exert it. Evidently, he hadn't around her. Of course, she had trespassed in his garden. Nor was she his type. She possessed too much intelligence to be charmed by Rathsmere.

She deliberately blocked out the memory of him sitting alone on the bench. She would feel nothing but irritation and annoyance for the man, which was all he deserved.

How dare he imply that Neville tried to kill him?

Once home, she dismounted from the carriage, escaping before Hugh could question her further.

The fact that she felt so weepy was disturbing. So, too, that she recalled Dalton MacIain's words too well. He'd as much as called her ugly.

Who was the Rake of London to criticize her?

As she walked from the stables to the back of her house, she saw a glint in one of the upper windows of the Covington house.

For the last few years, armed with their nephew's spyglass, the Covington sisters kept a lookout on all her activities, just like she was a ship at sea. She wouldn't have been surprised if they knew when she left the house and when she returned, down to the exact minute.

She was in no mood to endure their endless prying.

Stopping on the path, she folded her arms and frowned up at the window on the second floor. A moment later the curtain twitched closed.

Nodding, she made her way to the house.

Somehow, she would have to prove the Earl of Rathsmere wrong. The idea of Neville trying to kill anyone was ridiculous. Secondly, she was going to find her brother, even if she had to stay glued to Rathsmere's side.

 

Chapter 9

“W
hat are you doing?” Dalton asked. He sat at the desk in his library with a tumbler of whiskey at his right hand.

He heard something heavy slide along the floor. He guessed it was Howington, since the man hadn't announced himself, only entered the room as he had for months, silently and with little regard for the fact that Dalton had to guess who the hell it was.

“Your brother's solicitor has sent over the last of his papers, sir. “

He'd already informed Arthur's firm that he was making other arrangements and using his own solicitor. Evidently, the decision hadn't inspired them to haste, since it had taken them nearly three months to provide all of his brother's documents.

“There's also a pouch, sir, containing letters. Would you like me to go through them?”

“Leave it on the desk for now.”

He felt something land near his right hand. Had the man thrown the pouch at him?

The easiest solution was to allow Howington to go through the letters. Then why was he balking? Because they were Arthur's personal papers and he disliked the idea of anyone prying through his brother's private life, especially Howington.

Perhaps he should have his solicitor send over a dozen applicants for the position, someone he could trust more than Howington.

The thought startled him.

He'd trusted the man well enough before America, enough to leave him in charge of his household while he played soldier. When had that changed? Was it because of Howington's refusal to announce himself? Or the fact that he felt his secretary was standing there watching—­and judging—­him?

He wasn't certain. The only thing he did know was that his antipathy to the man had begun on his return and was growing each day.

“Go away, Howington. Go find some other chore to do.”

“If you're certain, sir.” A vague snideness licked Howington's words. “There are two trunks beside the door, sir. Set side by side.”

“I will endeavor not to trip over them, then.”

He could feel the man standing at the door watching him. He'd hated being stared at even during his sighted days.

“Go away, Howington.”

“Sir.”

With that, he was gone.

At least the man didn't live here. Most of his servants had quarters on the third floor, except for the stablemaster and the lads who slept in the stable. Mrs. Thompson had the most luxurious quarters, having taken the majordomo's rooms when he sent Samuels to Gledfield. Samuels was ecstatic to reign over Gledfield's servants rather than a small London staff.

Dalton stared at the doorway, wondering what he should do about the trunks. Did he really want to go through Arthur's papers?

Ever since his meeting with James a few days ago, he'd been in a reflective mood, one that didn't suit him at all. He didn't like measuring himself against a more perfect person, the one his mother always considered him to be.

Arthur had been nearly perfect. He wasn't anything like Arthur, and from what he'd heard, Lewis wasn't emulating Arthur, either.

He abruptly missed his older brother's counsel. Arthur was down to earth, a pragmatist, stolid and stable. What would Arthur have said about his current dilemma?

You're still thinking too much about yourself.

The words were so strong in his mind that he could have sworn Arthur spoke them.

So what would he be in the future? There wasn't a role model in his mind, someone to fashion himself after unless it was an ancient uncle relegated to an attic somewhere. Or a raving lunatic kept in chains. Surely the MacIain family boasted one or two of those.

Standing, he made his way to the fireplace and rang the bellpull. When it was answered in only minutes by a young-­voiced thing, he asked her to summon Mrs. Thompson.

Returning to his desk, he waited for the arrival of his housekeeper.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

Her voice was tremulous with enough hesitancy that he wondered if she'd grown afraid of him. If so, he needed to change her opinion.

“Mrs. Thompson, I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Of course, sir. Anything.”

He wondered if she was wringing her hands. She'd had a habit of doing that, he remembered, especially when she was awaiting his judgment on a dish, the arrangements for a party, or the accommodations for one of his frequent guests.

“I haven't told you, have I, Mrs. Thompson, how much I appreciate your efforts?”

“My efforts, sir?”

He was botching this, wasn't he?

“I would be miserable without you,” he said, determined in this comment, at least. “I appreciate all your efforts on my behalf.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Her surprise irritated him. Why should she be surprised at his thanks? Hadn't he thanked her enough in the past? To his discredit, he couldn't recall one instance.

Shame slithered up his body, hissing at him before heating the back of his neck.

“What favor is that, sir?” she asked, returning to his initial remark.

He gestured in the direction of the trunks with one hand. “I've received my brother's things. I need someone to help me go through them.”

“Of course, sir,” she said, but she didn't move.

Had he somehow offended her with the request?

“Sir.” That one word was laden with hesitation.

“What is it, Mrs. Thompson?”

Was she going to tell him she couldn't read? Surely not. How could she perform her job? Should he excuse her now rather than cause her further embarrassment?

“I've made something for you, sir. I thought it was a good idea at the time, but I don't know if you'll be offended or if I've overstepped. You're such a handsome man, Your Lordship, even with the scars. But I thought you might feel a little more comfortable with it, rather than not.”

He hadn't the slightest idea what she was talking about.

“What is it, Mrs. Thompson?”

He heard her skirts brush against the desk. She leaned forward and gave him something that he felt with both hands. He was able to discern that it was a disk of fabric stitched so it had a certain dimension with a length of string attached on either side.

“It's an eye patch, sir. It will hide the worst of your scars. And your eye, of course.”

He didn't know what to say.

“Forgive me, sir. I shouldn't have.”

“No,” he said. He cleared his throat. “No, Mrs. Thompson. Thank you. I appreciate the gesture.”

“If you don't mind, sir, I'll help you.”

In the next moment, she'd taken the eye patch from him and fixed it over his right eye.

“Hold it here, sir,” she said.

He found himself obeying her instructions.

“If you tie it like this, it will stay on.” She moved his other hand to the back of his head where he felt her tie the string into a bow.

“Well, Mrs. Thompson?” he asked when she was done and had stepped back. “What do I look like?”

“Oh, sir, you are even more handsome now.”

He didn't know what to say. With her gift, he could shield the worst of his scars from ­people. Perhaps he could even pretend a rakish air, a don't-­give-­a-­damn attitude toward anyone who might happen to see him.

She'd thought about him, considered how to help him, and in a gesture filled with generosity, had reduced him to silence.

“Well, sir, would you like me to begin with the parcel?”

He nodded, grateful for her tact and her kindness.

“The first seems to be a letter from the solicitor.”

She began to read.

Forgive my delay in sending these to you, Your Lordship. On being notified that you've selected your own firm to handle matters, we have gathered all remaining correspondence to forward to you.

Some of these documents are of a personal nature, as you will note. However, I did not feel it within my province to destroy them without being instructed to do so. Your brother left no provisions for them.

The housekeeper suddenly made a quashed sound of distress.

“What is it, Mrs. Thompson?”

“Well, sir . . .” she began, only to stumble to a halt.

He waited, but when she didn't say anything further, he spoke. “You are my eyes, Mrs. Thompson. I don't know what disturbs you until you tell me.”

“It seems to be letters, sir. Love letters.”

He hadn't known much about Arthur's marriage. He'd only his suspicions that it hadn't been a happy one. He wasn't around Arthur and Alice often enough in the last few years to know. Arthur made his home at Gledfield while he remained mostly in London. When his brother did come to London to sit at Parliament, he stayed in the family home.

They hadn't socialized together; they didn't have friends in common. As close as they had been as boys were as distant as they were as adults. How had that happened?

Arthur hadn't approved of him, he knew that well enough. Still, they were only a year apart and had grown up together. You would think all those years of childhood would mean something more than they had.

What had happened with Arthur's marriage?

He held out his hand and a moment later Mrs. Thompson handed him the letters. The stack was thick, tied with a leather string. Up until this moment, he hadn't realized that Arthur had a strong core of sentimentality. He pulled a letter free from the middle of the stack, handing it to Mrs. Thompson.

“Would you read it?” he asked.

He couldn't explain his curiosity. Maybe it had something to do with suddenly missing Arthur, more than he had before. Or regretting that they had each allowed their relationship to disintegrate into nothing more than acquaintances, strangers who had once known each other.

“Are you certain, sir?”

“Please.”

“ ‘My dearest Arthur,' ” she began, her voice taking on a soft tone. “ ‘Our child brings me so much joy I feel I must be smiling all day. He looks so much like you, even down to the little dimple on the right side.' ”

For a moment Mrs. Thompson didn't speak. Nor did one word find its way to his lips.

Alice had never borne a child.

“Is the letter signed, Mrs. Thompson?”

She cleared her throat. “Yes, Your Lordship. Sarah.”

Who the hell was Sarah?

He was more than a little shocked. Evidently, his stuffy, pedantic, authoritarian brother was more like him than appearance would dictate. Arthur had an illegitimate child.

He sat there, growing more conscious of Mrs. Thompson's silence. Was his housekeeper embarrassed?

“There's a last name, sir,” Mrs. Thompson finally said, her voice reedy. “Westchester. And an address on the envelope.”

He handed her the pack of letters, curious. “Where did she send them?”

The address she repeated was that of Arthur's solicitor. How convenient—­and tactful—­of them, Dalton reflected. And ironic: if he hadn't decided to change solicitors, instead of using the same firm his brother had employed for years, he would never have known about Arthur's child.

Had Alice known? He suspected she had.

“What's the date of the last one?”

He heard her fumble through the letters, then open an envelope.

“March fifth.”

Two days after Arthur had been killed.

“Will you read it, Mrs. Thompson?”

She drew a quivering breath, sighed, and began to read.

My dearest darling,

I can't wait to see you again. The weeks have not passed gently since I saw you last. I want to show you how much little Arthur has grown, but most of all, I want your arms to enfold me, and make me feel that there is no other place on earth I would rather be.

My dearest, the days cannot pass quickly enough until I see you again. Until then, know that you have my love.

For the first time since he'd been blinded, he was grateful for it. He needn't see Mrs. Thompson wipe away her tears, tears that were audible as she closed up the letter and put it back in the stack. He needn't witness her sorrow, slathered as it was on top of her embarrassment.

“I can count on your discretion, Mrs. Thompson.” It wasn't a question.

“Of course, Your Lordship.”

He sat there silently for a moment, trapped in his blindness, and Mrs. Thompson no doubt ensconced in propriety. Had he shocked her with all the goings-­on in this house years earlier? He'd had his share of women coming in and out. More than once, the maid had served him and a woman breakfast in bed. If he was forced to do so, he didn't think he could list the names of all the women he'd brought here.

Had she been scandalized? It was suddenly important to know. An odd impulse and one on which he didn't act.

“Shall we go through the rest, sir?”

“I find I don't have the heart to do so, Mrs. Thompson.”

How much more about Arthur did he need to know? How strange to miss him now, to wish he'd taken the time to visit with his brother before time was gone.

What would Arthur have said to his adventures in America? He suspected that his brother wouldn't have castigated him for his foolishness, reasoning that being blind was punishment enough. He also suspected that Arthur would have been his greatest champion.

He put the letters in his desk drawer. He would either destroy them or put them in a safe place so they wouldn't be read by anyone else. He could at least do that for Arthur.

One other thing he could do—­visit with Sarah and see if there was anything she needed.

But his visiting anyone was not a sentiment shared by James when he met with him the next day.

“I must insist, Your Lordship.”

When the hell had James started calling him
Your Lordship
? What was there about a title that rendered everyone a little foolish? He was the same man he had always been, replete with faults and flaws. Inheriting a title hadn't made him better.