The Highland Countess (15 page)

“How came these scratches on the sofa?” asked Morag.

The boy hesitated. Then he put his hands behind his back, a gesture preliminary to lying which Hamish would have instantly recognized. “I do not know, mama,” he said, turning a limpid gaze on her.

“Are you quite sure?” asked Morag, for the first time not immediately accepting his word.

“You doubt my word?” said Rory, widening his eyes.

“Do not answer one question with another,” said Morag severely. “I want you to give me your solemn word of honor that you have no idea how these scratches came about.”

“I give you my solemn word of honor,” said Rory, putting his hand over his heart.

“Very well then,” sighed Morag. “I must question the maid in the morning. You may stay with me, Rory. Our guests are due to arrive.”

Rory experienced a slight qualm of unease. He had left The Beastie asleep on his bed but he had also left the door to his bedroom open. He could only hope that The Beastie remained asleep until he had a chance to escape upstairs.

Lady Phyllis and Lord Arthur were the first to arrive. Phyllis’s eyes flicked round the room and fastened enviously on Morag’s gown and jewels. A great deal of money and an instinctive flair for dress had put Morag well beyond Phyllis’s barbs. The Charrington sisters arrived next, giggling and chattering, followed by Alistair and Harvey. Then came Lady Cynthia Wells, resplendent in black bombazine and Whitby jet, looking, with her pale-yellow leathery skin, for all the world like some kind of exotic lizard. Cosmo arrived and addressed his courtesies to Morag while his eyes fastened on the emeralds. “I would ha’ expected tae see ye wearin’ caps,” he began. “Aye, Morag, we’re all gettin’ on in years and we should dress as befits oor station.”

“That is precisely what I have done,” said Morag sweetly.

Cosmo opened his mouth to reply but Morag had moved away to greet Lord Toby and Henrietta.

Morag was glad to escape. In appearance, Cosmo looked like a sort of blurred version of her former husband.

Her heart hammering against her ribs, Morag addressed various innocuous pleasantries to Henrietta, while all the time she was painfully aware of every inch of Toby Freemantle.

He was wearing a dark blue evening coat which seemed moulded to his figure. His handsome, rather austere face rose above the snowy folds of an impeccable cravat. His knee breeches and clocked stockings showed his muscular legs to perfection.

Lord Freddie Rotherwood breezed in and Morag went forward and greeted him very warmly indeed, her blue eyes glinting sideways to see how Lord Toby was taking it.

He was looking down fondly at his fiancée. He laughed, said something and patted her hand. Morag blushed from sheer excess of emotion and Lord Freddie’s hopes of marrying this Scottish heiress rose by leaps and bounds.

Toby has really no interest in me—no respectable interest that is, thought Morag. He only wants to have an affair with me. But he is in love with Henrietta. And I hate her with all my heart.

“How terribly funny, Lord Freddie,” she said out loud, giving a trill of laughter although she had not heard a word he had said. But Freddie usually told jokes and so she assumed it safe to laugh. And Freddie, who had been telling her that his favorite aunt had died only the day before, stared at her with some surprise.

Rory began to edge from the room. Miss Simpson had joined the party, making it complete. He wanted to talk to Lord Toby, but he simply had to see that The Beastie had stayed in his room.

“Well, young man. What have you to say for yourself?” It was Cosmo, Laird of Glenaquer, and he had caught Rory by the lapel of his jacket. Rory wondered why Cosmo bothered to single him out since the laird’s eyes always held that strange contempt that he saw mirrored in the eyes of Mrs. Tallant and Hamish.

“I’m very well,” began Rory. Then he heard loud feminine screams and he knew the game was up.

The screams stopped and there was silence. The crowd parted, the ladies holding back their skirts as a huge, mangy tabby with a lopsided grin strolled insolently through the room, went straight to the sofa and proceeded to sharpen its claws.

Unfortunately for Rory, Hamish had left the room to supervise another tray of refreshments and the new footman, Gerald, was handing round the glasses.

“Take that thing out of here,” cried Morag, “and put it in the gutter where it belongs.”

Rory stayed quiet. He would simply creep out into the street and fetch the cat back.

But Gerald said cheerfully, “That’s my lord’s cat, my lady.”

“My lord? Which lord?” demanded Morag.

“Master Rory,” said Gerald.

“Rory!” cried Morag. “Is this true?”

Rory held his arms wide in a gesture that was meant to be appealing, and to his horror, The Beastie jumped right into his open arms, affectionately lolled its great misshapen head over his shoulder and went to sleep.

“Come with me, Rory,” said Morag quietly and led the way from the room.

Henrietta gleefully watched them go. Lord Toby watched also, but he was not sharing his fiancée’s enjoyment.

Morag led the way into a small study at the back of the house.

“Now, Rory,” she said. “You lied to me. What I would like to know is—how many times have you lied in the past?”

“Many times,” drawled a familiar voice from the doorway. Lord Toby Freemantle stood, leaning against the door jamb, his green eyes, so like the cat’s, fastened on Rory.

“This is not your affair, my lord,” began Morag hotly. But Lord Toby paid her no heed, and strolled into the room.

“I do not know why I champion this brat,” he said, flicking Rory’s chin with a careless finger and smiling down at the boy, who still clutched the large and heavy cat to his bosom. “Perhaps because I recognize an intelligent mind going to waste. Don’t be too hard on the boy, Morag. He needs occupation. He should be allowed to run and play and hunt and shoot like other boys of his age. You protect him too much and that is why he lies to you—apart from the fact he is a naturally horrible brat,” he said turning and smiling at her in such a way that she felt breathless.

“First things first,” said Morag, trying to regain control of the situation. “That cat goes!”

“No!” cried Rory. “He—he’s mine. I saved his life. I won him in a fight. I lied, I didn’t fall down the stairs that day. But if I had told you then, you would have worried and you wouldn’t have let me keep The Beastie.”

“More lies!” said Morag bitterly.

“Are you so shocked because your child is normal?” said Lord Toby, looking at her coolly. He turned back to Rory. “Tell me about the fight.”

And Rory, eyes shining, began to tell of the saving of The Beastie. At first, he cast little nervous glances at Morag’s tight face but the flattering attention of Lord Toby made him warm to his story.

“Bravely done,” said Lord Toby, after he had heard him out. “I would not have thought you capable of caring for anything other than yourself or your mother. Let him have this cat, Morag. The dreadful animal might be the making of him.” He scratched The Beastie’s heavy head and the cat stretched lazily.

“But all those lies!” cried Morag.

“I think if you let him keep the cat and find him a tutor, he will not lie to you again. Will you?”

Rory hesitated. “Would a tutor teach me all those things you said… st-steamships and insects and… how the stars move and oh… everything?” he asked, stammering in his excitement.

“If your mother will let me find you a tutor, he shall teach you all these things. He will even teach you to box.”

Rory turned his eyes on Morag. She had never seen him look so intense. “I swear, mother,” said Rory. “I’ll never tell another lie. I really promise.”

“Let me think about it,” said Morag faintly. “Go to your room and take that… animal with you.”

Rory walked out, cradling the cat.

There was a heavy silence.

Then Lord Toby shut the study door and turned to face Morag. Her head was whirling with a mixture of emotions. It seemed unfair that, considering the child was not her own, she should suffer all the pangs of maternal guilt and this fit of the oh-where-did-I-go-wrongs. Also, no man should be endowed with such a heavy air of sensuality as Lord Toby Freemantle. The room felt hot and suffocating. She rose to her feet and went across and jerked open the windows which led from the study onto the terrace at the back of the house.

A cold, white fog rolled in, but, oblivious to the weather, Morag walked out onto the terrace and clutched the stone balustrade.

“You will let me choose a tutor for the boy?” came Toby’s voice from behind her.

She nodded her head dumbly.

He hesitated. Henrietta would be wondering where he was. But her shoulders were very white and little beads of mist gleamed like diamonds in the tendrils of her hair.

“I have done the very best I could,” Morag was saying in a low voice. “If Rory had been…” She fell silent and he wondered what it was she had been going to say. The logical end to the sentence was “had been my own,” but that was ridiculous.

“He needs a father,” he said, coming to stand close behind her.

“Is he so very bad?” she asked, looking out to the mist-enshrouded garden.

“I don’t know the full extent of Rory’s iniquities,” he teased, then added in a more serious tone, “I will do what I can to help, Morag.”

She turned then and looked up at him. He looked down at the love and bewilderment in her eyes.

He was being offered the world but he could not stretch out his arms and take it. Obedience to the social conventions was built into every fiber of his body. He made a half move to take her in his arms and then said stiffly, “We must join the guests.”

The light went out of Morag’s eyes. He held out his arm. She put her arm in his and then, just for a moment, rested her head against his shoulder. Then she said lightly, “You have given me a new purpose in life—finding a father for Rory. Perhaps I should marry Freddie. That might answer.”

“You are joking,” he said flatly as they walked from the room.

“No,” she replied, stopping before the doors of the drawing room and looking up at him. “It might answer all my problems.”

She left him to join Lord Freddie and he found himself claimed by Henrietta.

Hamish announced dinner and Morag and Lord Freddie led the way into the dining room. Beth Charrington saw a glass of milk standing on the side table in the hall and giggled, “You should have that glass of milk
chained
to the table, dear Lady Murr. So hard to get now what with the celebrations and bands and fireworks in Green Park frightening the cows so much that they will not give any more milk!”

Morag turned in the doorway of the dining room. “Oh, that is Rory’s milk,” she said. “Hamish, see that it is taken up to him.”

“I will take it,” said Miss Simpson. She felt obliged to thank Rory for covering up for her over the matter of the letter and she had been unable to see him alone. Perhaps if she did not, he would change his mind and tell Morag the truth.

“There is really no need…” began Morag, but Miss Simpson was already on her way upstairs.

Rory was sitting up in his bed reading. The Beastie was lying at his feet. He looked up as Miss Simpson came in, bearing the glass of milk.

“I don’t want it,” he said crossly. “Give it to The Beastie.”

“If you mean that creature of yours, no, I will not,” said Miss Simpson. “Milk is too scarce these days to waste on a cat.”

“Nothing is too good for my cat,” said Rory in a pompous little voice.

Miss Simpson forgot that she owed her existence in the household to the cat. She forgot her gratitude to Rory.

“He is a horrible, disgusting cat—only fit for back alleys and
NOT
for a gentleman’s house. I shall tell your mama you did not drink your milk.”

“You want it!
You
have it,” said Rory crossly, “and shut the door and take a good look at it from the other side.”

Lord Toby Freemantle lay in bed on the morning after Morag’s dinner party and tried to think the very worst of his hostess.

She was extremely silly when it came to that son of hers. Her treatment of him went against everything he knew of her. Had it not been for Rory, he would have judged her an eminently sensible woman. She had lost that shy, bewildered look of the Scottish days. Perhaps it had all been an act. She had had the managing of a vast fortune for the past seven years and it showed in her poise and slightly autocratic manner. And it was not just her wealth that gave Morag her sophistication of dress, for he had known many heiresses who dressed very badly indeed. Where had Morag come by it?

He would not allow the truth—that Morag had taken to the fripperies and vagaries of fashionable London like a duck to water and was blessed with natural good taste.

He brooded instead on the possible existence of some dashing Scottish lover. She was hot-blooded and passionate. He could not believe in his darker moments that she had remained faithful to the earl’s memory.

Could he rid himself of Henrietta? Did he really dislike her as much as he thought he did, or was his aversion caused by this impossible yearning for Morag?

He was aroused from his uneasy meditations by a soft scratching at the door. In answer to his abrupt “Enter!” his footman sidled in, looking coy.

“There is a lady below to see my lord. She would not give her name.”

Lord Toby stared at the man coldly. “I do not receive women who arrive unannounced. Does she have a maid with her?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then send her packing.”

The footman hesitated. “She is very grandly dressed, my lord. And ever so high in her manner.”

Lord Toby looked at him thoughtfully. “Does she have red hair?”

“Very red, my lord.”

“Show her up to my sitting room. And take that smirk from your face. No news of the visit is to reach the kitchens or the street. Understand!”

“Yes, my lord.”

Lord Toby sprang from his bed and ran his hand anxiously over the stubble on his chin. He would not have time to be barbered. He could ask Morag to wait—if it were she—but she might take fright and leave.