The Highland Countess (14 page)

Rory had never said “please” to Hamish before, let alone called him “Mr.” The butler poured hot water from the kettle on the fire into a metal bowl and added cold until it was right. Then he handed the boy the bowl and a pad of gauze.

“I suppose ye want a bit o’ caviar for the beast?” said Hamish, watching as Rory cleaned the cat’s fur with gentle hands.

“No,” replied Rory, deaf to the sarcasm. “A little milk and some of that cold roast beef chopped up small will do. I shall arrange it.”

“Ye certainly will.” grumbled Hamish. “I’m no’ acting butler tae a cat.”

“See! He’s smiling. He likes being clean,” cried Rory.

Hamish looked cynically at the cat’s evil, lopsided smile. “That’s no a smile. That’s whaur the beastie’s tore his mouth.”

“He smiled at me,” insisted Rory. He moved to the table and hacked off a piece of roast beef and cut it into small cubes. Then he poured milk into a saucer and put it down on the floor beside the cat.

As the cat began to feebly lick the milk, Rory continued to clean him.

“When it has eaten something, I’ll take it up to my room,” said Rory dreamily.

The door opened before Hamish could answer and Scott, Morag’s lady’s maid, bustled in. She threw up her hands in horror when she saw Rory’s face.

“I fell downstairs,” said Rory quickly. “It is a nosebleed. Nothing more. Mr. Hamish is attending to me.”

“Very well,” said Scott. “I have a message for you from your mother. She has to make an urgent call to Miss Sampson and I am to go with her. She’s in a fair taking. My lady says you are to wait until she returns. We will not be long.”

Rory nodded, and when she had gone, he turned his attention back to the cat. He had forgotten all about the letter.

Morag could not remember being so angry in all her life. The day had started badly enough. Not only had Lord Arthur and his wife Phyllis come to town but old Cosmo, Laird of Glenaquer, had arrived as well, and both parties had sent messages to say they would be calling on her.

And then she had read that bombshell signed H. Sampson. Morag was unaware that she was jealous of Lord Toby’s fiancée and therefore did not pause to wonder why a comparative stranger should write to her about Rory. She wanted to scratch Henrietta Sampson’s eyes out. And now she had an excuse.

Miss Sampson was at home and pleased to receive Lady Murr. Or rather, she was socially pleased until Morag, hair and face flaming, thrust the letter under Henrietta’s long nose and demanded an explanation.

“Someone obviously knows your son very well,” said Henrietta coldly. “But I certainly did not write that letter. I do not concern myself with the family problems of every eccentric who graces the London Season. What on earth made you think I would do such a thing?”

“Jealousy,” raged Morag, thereby proving that not even the kindest of heroines is immune from that very human failing of blaming someone else for her own faults.

“Jealous. Of you?” said Henrietta with an infuriating titter. “You know what I think, Lady Murr?
I
think you wrote that letter yourself so that you should have an excuse to call in this hurly-burly fashion and pick a quarrel.”

Morag’s back was to the door so she did not see Lord Toby quietly entering the room. But Henrietta did and so went on, “I am distressed that you should think such awful things of me, Lady Murr. But I forgive you.” She clasped her hands and rolled her eyes up to heaven.

“I have come at an inopportune moment,” began Lord Toby. Morag swung around. “Read this!” she cried, thrusting the letter at him. “And judge for yourself the depths of Miss Sampson’s spite.”

Lord Toby carefully scanned the letter. “Yes, I know Rory embellished the portrait,” he said.

“What!” Morag felt as if the wind had indeed been taken out of her sails. “Rory would never… wouldn’t dream…”

“Rory does quite a lot of things of which you are obviously unaware,” said Lord Toby, hoping nastily that he was making Morag feel as guilty as she had made him feel the day before. “You are the only person he hides it from. It is not my place to tell tales on the boy except to point out to you that the sooner you send him to school and find an outlet for that terrifying intelligence of his, the better.”

“This letter…” pursued Morag faintly.

Lord Toby raised his quizzing glass and studied the signature. “I think you had better ask
Miss Simpson
about it. It seems to me as if this signature has been cleverly altered.”

Morag stared at him in bewilderment. He thought she looked more adorable than ever. Henrietta, who felt that Lord Toby had not paid enough heed to the great insult offered to
her
, proceeded to stir up the troubled waters as hard as she could.

“You have been guilty of a great injustice,” she said severely to Morag. “I am quite prepared, however, to accept your
humble
apology.” Henrietta, having said that, primly folded her hands in her lap and cast down her eyes. A small saintly smile curved her lips.

Lord Toby suddenly felt overcome by a desire to shake his fiancée until her teeth rattled.

“No, I shall not apologize,” snapped Morag. “I concede that you probably did not write the letter. But you are just the sort of nasty person who might have done.”

And with this crashing piece of illogic, Morag stormed from Henrietta’s drawing room and house.

Morag was very silent on the short journey home.

Rory was the one sweet and pure thing in her life. She would not believe ill of him; she could not. And if Miss Simpson had indeed written the letter then Miss Simpson would be dismissed.

After Morag had exclaimed over Rory’s battered appearance and accepted his tale of falling downstairs, she sent for Miss Simpson.

Rory sat quietly in a corner of the room and watched Miss Simpson. His cat, whom he had christened “The Beastie,” was lying upstairs on his bed. He stared reflectively at Miss Simpson and wondered if there were any way in which he could enlist her help. He felt sure his mother would not allow him to keep the cat. Morag did not approve of household pets. Cats were to be kept in the barn and dogs in the kennels.

“Miss Simpson,” began Morag severely. “Did you send this letter? For if you did I shall have no other alternative but to dismiss you!”

Miss Simpson let out a little sigh. She might have known this would be the result. Morag was both kind and sensible—except when it came to Rory. He was her blind spot. In her mind’s eye, Miss Simpson saw her shrewish sister-in-law and sighed again.

“Come, Miss Simpson,” said Morag. “I am waiting!”

Still Miss Simpson remained curiously silent. The governess was looking at her mistress and thinking of how Morag had changed from the dreamy, immature girl she had tutored and had indeed become the Countess of Murr. Morag had had seven years of overseeing her estates and tenants, had become used to issuing commands, and expecting those commands to be obeyed. She was a mixture of a hot-headed beauty and an autocratic dowager. And at that moment, the autocratic dowager was uppermost.

Miss Simpson looked across at Rory, at the cause of all her ills. She took a deep breath and opened her mouth to speak.

“I wrote the letter, mama,” said Rory.

“Rory!” Morag stared at him as if she could not believe her ears. Miss Simpson collapsed onto the nearest chair.

“I only did it because I wanted to get that terrible lady into trouble,” said Rory bravely, feeling an almost heady sensation of excitement. Miss Simpson was staring at him in bewildered gratitude. This was almost as good as protecting the cat.

“I’m sorry, mama,” said Rory brokenly, although he felt not in the least sad. “But she’s such a nasty woman and she hates you. That made me mad.”

“But I made such a fool of myself!” wailed Morag. “I accused her of all sorts of things.” Another awful thought struck her. “Rory! Did you write that dreadful word on Lady Montclair’s portrait? Lord Freemantle says you did!”

But Rory felt he had been truthful enough for one day. “No, mama,” he cried. “I only put it in the letter. I don’t even know what the word means! I don’t know why Lord Freemantle should accuse me of such a thing. Oh, mama. I am truly sorry.” Rory was indeed sorry. He hated to see his mother distressed. He hoped the championship of Miss Simpson was worth it.

“I’m afraid I must punish you,” said Morag sadly, “so that you will never do such a thing again. I was to take you to Lady Jersey’s children’s ball. Now you will have to stay in your room for the rest of the day.”

“Very good, mama,” said Rory, hoping she would not change her mind. A whole day to play with his cat instead of going to some awful ball!

After he had left, Morag turned to Miss Simpson. “Pray forgive me,” she said. “I am too hot-headed. I do not think I understand Rory at all! I would not have believed him capable of such a thing!”

Now was Miss Simpson’s chance to enlighten her mistress but she remained carefully silent. The awful image of her sister-in-law began to fade.

“And now the very thought of entertaining the Laird of Glenaquer and Phyllis and Arthur is threatening to give me a nervous seizure. Cosmo will preach and my in-laws will sneer,” sighed Morag.

“Perhaps,” suggested Miss Simpson, inspired by relief, “you might arrange a dinner party and invite them as well. Much better to entertain them in a crowd.”

“Splendid!” said Morag, her mind busy with the guest list. “I shall invite Miss Sampson by way of making amends—and Lord Freemantle of course.” And I shall invite Lord Freddie, her treacherous mind plotted, and flirt with him the entire time and see how Lord Toby likes that!

Miss Simpson was kept busy the rest of the day with lists and errands. In the evening she was to accompany Morag to the Italian opera.

She did not have an opportunity to go to Rory’s room until very late. She gently pushed open his bedroom door. He was fast asleep, his arm flung over a dark shape on the bed. Miss Simpson crept closer. An evil-looking cat with a lopsided smile looked lazily up at her. She stood contemplating the cat for some time. So that was the reason Rory had taken the blame. He had found something other than his mother to love. She knew that Morag could not know of the existence of the cat.

Miss Simpson went out and closed the door. Though Rory obviously had had an ulterior motive in taking the blame for the letter, she was, nonetheless, still very grateful to him. Which was just as well.

Since she wasn’t going to enjoy this novel feeling for long.

The day of Morag’s dinner party finally arrived—although at times she thought it never would. She determinedly put down her feelings of anticipation to all the natural apprehension of a hostess giving her first London party. And anytime her treacherous thoughts flew to Lord Toby she crushed them down. She had made a most awful fool of herself over that letter. He must have taken her in dislike. He would not come. It did not matter whether he did.

But Lord Toby and Miss Henrietta Sampson were both delighted to attend. Lord Toby because he wanted to show Morag how little he really cared for her, and Henrietta, to crow over her rival.

Cosmo, the laird, and Lord Arthur and Lady Phyllis were also to be there. Lord Freddie Rotherwood had gleefully accepted.

Alistair Tillary and Harvey Wrexford had both been honored with invitations and, because she felt she must have some more female company, Morag had invited an elderly dowager, Lady Cynthia Wells, famous for her acid tongue and quite capable of keeping Cosmo in order, and the pretty Charrington sisters, Alice and Beth.

Alice and Beth Charrington were lively young ladies of boundless frivolity and good nature and could be depended on to talk through any awkward social silence. Alice was nineteen and Beth, twenty. They had pretty, rosy faces and masses of brown ringlets which they tossed up and down like nervous ponies.

Morag had vowed to treat Henrietta with extra-special courtesy and Lord Toby with the barest of civility. Before the guests were due to arrive, she studied her reflection anxiously in the long looking glass. She was wearing one of her favorite tunic dresses, of light green silk worn over a flimsy lingerie dress of finest muslin with no less than three deep flounces at the hem.

A heavy necklace of emeralds was clasped round her neck. A small emerald and gold tiara blazed on her fiery curls. She hoped Cosmo would not recognize the Murr emeralds in their new setting. The laird did not appear to like change, and Morag sometimes thought he seemed to consider the Murr estates his own. She had lately learned that the earl’s first wife had been a distant relation of Cosmo’s and perhaps the laird felt that that gave him some right to poke his nose into her affairs. However, Morag reflected, the late Lady Murr had died years and years before her own marriage to the earl, the earl had never mentioned her and there was no portrait of her in the castle so she could not be considered a strong influence. She had evidently been as young as Morag when she had married the earl and had survived only a year of marriage.

Morag picked up an ivory and silk fan and walked downstairs to inspect the drawing room and dining room.

At first everything appeared to be perfect. The dining table was all set with crystal, silver, china and two tablecloths, the top one to be removed before the pudding. The drawing room was fragrant with fresh flowers and a small fire crackled on the hearth, for the evening was unseasonably cold.

Then she stared at the elegant backless sofa with its green and striped gold bolsters, and frowned. Long scratches were scored into the gilt-painted wood.

She rang the bell and, when Hamish appeared, silently pointed to the scratches. Hamish hesitated. He was oddly reluctant to explain the cat. “I would ask Master Rory,” he said at last.

“Rory?” Morag flushed. For some reason she remembered Lord Toby saying that Rory had embellished Lady Montclair’s picture. But he had been innocent of that. Hadn’t he? “Send Rory to me,” she said quietly.

She paced up and down until the door of the drawing room opened and Rory sidled in, a picture in his party dress of blue velvet knee breeches, matching waistcoat, square-cut jacket and buckled shoes.