The Highland Countess (16 page)

He pulled on his breeches and cambric shirt, his morocco slippers and a chintz dressing gown and pushed open the door of his private sitting room which adjoined his bedroom.

It was indeed Morag, looking very white and shaken. “I did not know what else to do,” she said and he walked forward and took her hands in his. “Oh, Toby, I am so frightened.”

He thought his name on her lips sounded like music. He drew her to a small sofa and still holding her hands said quietly, “Tell me. I will do all I can to help.”

“It’s Miss Simpson,” she gasped. “She’s dead. Poisoned! And the poison was in the milk meant for Rory. He would not drink it and she drank it herself. And now she’s dead! And I only came to London to take Rory out of danger!” Her eyes were wide with apprehension as her tale tumbled forth.

“Has there been a previous attempt!”

Morag nodded weakly. She told him of the shot and then of the attempted kidnapping.

“So I began to wonder whether Lord Arthur had any designs on Rory’s life because he is always short of money and would inherit if anything happened to Rory. And then there’s Cosmo. He dislikes Rory because Rory is not the earl’s natural son…”

She stopped and put a shaking hand to her lips, her face pale. “Oh, I should not have told you.”

“Who is Rory’s mother?” he demanded, his eyes fixed intently on her face.

“Fionna, a kitchenmaid,” she whispered. “My—my husband asked me to take the child as my own.”

“What of this Fionna?”

“Dead—died in childbirth.” And Morag told him of the day when Rory had been born in a field under the hawthorn tree.

“And where are this girl’s parents?”

“They died of typhoid several years before her own death.”

“But my dear girl,” expostulated Toby. “Your husband asked a great deal of you. I wonder you agreed.”

“It was after you left,” said Morag dully. “He knew about you and I—what little there was to know. I felt I ought to try to make amends—for sinning in desire, if not in action.”

“And did you?”

“What?”

“Desire it?”

“I suppose so,” whispered Morag.

He fought down a rising feeling of elation and said quietly, “Tell me about Miss Simpson. Did you call the authorities?”

“Oh, yes,” said Morag. “As soon as I found out. I have not even been to bed. An officer from the Bow Street Horse Patrol was sent for. He said Miss Simpson had probably committed suicide because he said, ‘These old maids do get twitty.’” Her lower lip trembled slightly.

“The Robin Redbreasts are not usually so dense.”

“And he didn’t know what the poison was. He said maybe the milk was bad but, oh, her face, all purple and contorted!”

Morag buried her face in her hands.

“Don’t cry. Please don’t cry,” he said, pulling her into his arms. “I will take care of you. Listen to me! There is a retired boxer I know of. A very reliable and honest man. You will employ him as the boy’s tutor. He may not be able to do much for Rory in the way of book-learning but he will protect him and stay with him night and day.” He looked down at her. “Why did you come to me?” he could not help asking. “Did you not think of Lord Rotherwood?”

Morag’s voice was muffled against his chest. “I-I felt that you cared for Rory. Oh, who can be trying to kill him?”

Any one of the top ten thousand, thought Lord Toby, thinking of Rory’s talents for blackmail and mischief. But he did not say so aloud.

She was wearing a ridiculous, frivolous bonnet with an enormous poke brim. He gently untied the ribbons and took it off. Then he pulled out a pocket handkerchief and, raising her chin, gently dried her tears.

Morag became aware for the first time of the intimacy of their situation. He look heartbreakingly handsome, with his hair disheveled and his chin unshaven.

“And what of your desires?” he asked.

Her eyes flew up to meet his and then dropped.

“You have no right to ask me such a thing,” she said. She put her hands against his chest to push him away.

“Damn Henrietta!” he said thickly and jerked her into his arms.

But Toby, for all his sophistication and address, could still make the callowest of errors. He should have said he loved her.

For although Morag returned his kisses with passion, she knew that Lord Toby considered her only good enough for idle dalliance—certainly not respectable enough to marry.

But the second mistake Lord Toby made was a forgivable one—for how on earth was he to know that the widow he held in his arms was a virgin? And so when he bent his head and began to cover her neck and breast with impassioned kisses, she let out a cry of outrage and boxed his ears.

“I must go,” panted Morag, seizing her bonnet and tying it at an awkward angle over her red curls.

He stood looking at her strangely. “I do not understand you,” he said.

“Then you have more hair than wit,” snapped Morag, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling. “You are not going to philander with me while your heart and your hand belong elsewhere!”

“Morag!” he cried.

But she ran swiftly from the room, anger lending her feet wings. He hesitated a moment and then pursued her. But by the time he reached the hall, the street door had slammed in his face and he could hardly run after her carriage in his slippers.

For Morag it was the beginning of a nightmarish day. She hurtled into the hallway of her town house in Albemarle Street, to receive the unwelcome news that Cosmo, Laird of Glenaquer, was waiting for her in the drawing room.

“Hamish, is Rory well?”

“Very well, my leddy,” said Hamish. “I have kept Rory and that cat of his with me in the kitchens. He likes playing there and I thought it safer. My leddy, I have received a most unusual message frae Mrs. Tallant…”

“Not now, Hamish,” said Morag, opening the door of the drawing room.

Cosmo rose to his feet and made her a creaky bow. He was a heavyset man attired in frock coat and knee breeches. It was perhaps his nut-brown wig and slightly protruding eyes which reminded Morag so much of her late husband.

“This is a sad business,” said the laird. “It is too much for a young lass like yersel tae handle alone. I would hae spoken sooner but I held back in memory of old Roderick. What I am aboot tae say will gratify ye and maybe lift a bit o’ the gloom frae this house o’ mourning.”

As Morag stared at him wonderingly, he fell clumsily to one knee. “My darlin,’” he said in a sonorous voice, “you have the great honor to receive my proposal of marriage.”

“No!” cried Morag, putting her hands to her hot cheeks. “I mean, I am very flattered. But—but I cannot marry anyone.”

Cosmo rose slowly and clumsily to his feet, his face becoming quite red with anger. “Oho! So that’s the way of it. Ye’ve got Roderick’s money by a trick, and that’s made ye too high and mighty for auld Cosmo. Well, let me tell ye this. What think you an I told the world that the young Earl o’ Murr is a bastard got by a kitchen maid?”

“You could not be so cruel!” said Morag.

“Think aboot it,” said Cosmo, brushing down his coat. “I’ll be back tomorrow for yer answer. Either ye wed me, lass, or the fashionable world will hear an odd tale of that lad’s ancestry.”

He marched from the room and Morag sat down on a chair and buried her face in her hands.

“Lord Frederick Rotherwood,” intoned Hamish gloomily from the door.

“Oh, no! I cannot see him. I am quite overset,” began Morag but Freddie had already bounced into the room.

“What on earth is the matter?” he questioned, his boyish face looking concerned. “I did not think you would be so upset over Miss Simpson,” he said, remembering her mirth at the news of his aunt’s demise. “Although the circumstances of her death…”

“It’s not that,” wailed Morag, too upset to guard her tongue. “It’s Cosmo!”

“You mean that old Scot I met at dinner. What’s he to do with it?”

“He is trying to make me marry him.”

“What! He cannot do that. This isn’t the Middle Ages.”

“It may as well be,” said Morag bitterly. Realizing she should be silent, but won over by Freddie’s open and sympathetic look. “He—he knows something about… about me and if I do not marry him, he will tell all of London and I will be ruined!” Morag burst out crying.

He knelt down in front of her and took her hands in his own. “Look,” he said awkwardly. “Was going to ask you to marry me but it’s not the right time. Will you leave things to me? I’ll fix Cosmo. Whatever your dark secret is, it won’t trouble me in the slightest. Come now! Dry your eyes and let old Freddie look after you.”

Morag give him a weak smile and he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.

And that interesting tableau was viewed in silence by Lord Toby Freemantle, Miss Henrietta Sampson, and Lord and Lady Fleming who had all arrived on Morag’s doorstep at the one time and had been ushered into the drawing room by the second footman, Hamish having been called to the kitchens.

Lord and Lady Fleming looked sour, Henrietta looked delighted and Lord Toby Freemantle felt as if the bottom had dropped out of his world.

“May we wish you happy?” said Henrietta coyly.

“Not yet,” said Freddie cheerfully. “But any day now.”

Morag made a feeble little motion with her hand. She wanted to protest. She wanted them all to go away. But the second footman was already bringing in a tray of refreshments and everyone sat around, prepared to wait the others out. Freddie, because he felt Morag had not quite taken in that he had asked her, in a way, to marry him; Henrietta to make quite sure that Morag had no further interest in Toby; Lord and Lady Fleming, to borrow money; and Lord Toby to tell her he loved her, which was something he realized he had forgotten to do.

Morag pulled herself together and dispensed tea to Henrietta and Lady Phyllis while the gentlemen fortified themselves from the decanters.

All murmured suitable things about the late Miss Simpson. Poor Miss Simpson! Not one person in the room really missed her at all.

Rory bounced in, his blond curls flying, and The Beastie lurching after him like a dog at his heels.

“Mama!” he cried. “There is some old wood in the garden and you know we never use the garden and Hamish says if I am good he will give me a hammer and nails to build a house for The Beastie. May I? Please say ‘yes.’”

“Now Rory,” said Morag severely, “You know I don’t want you to play with nasty things like nails. You could do yourself an injury.” But something drew Morag’s eyes away from Rory and she met the green enigmatic stare of Lord Toby.

“On second thought,” she said rapidly, “I suppose it could do no harm. You will be careful, darling, won’t you?”

“Oh,
yes
,” said Rory. He made an excellent bow to the company, seeming to be aware of them for the first time.

Freddie gave him a smile. He had better learn to like this horrible child. He was to be Rory’s stepfather, after all.

“Are you looking forward to the Peace Celebrations?” he asked in what he hoped was a paternal manner.

“Yes, very much,” said Rory, now fretting to get away. “I suppose we are quite friends with France now. I even heard some man at Lady Montclair’s party say he was a loyal subject of Napoleon Bonaparte, but I can’t remember who.”

The visitors all stared at Rory with expressions that varied from surprise to concern.

“Probably one of those Frog actors Lady Montclair had to entertain her guests,” drawled Lord Arthur.

“Oh, no, he wasn’t French,” said Rory blithely. “There was a French fellow with him. Please can I go now, mama?”

Morag nodded and Rory scooped his cat up into his arms and scampered out. There was a little silence.

“He must have imagined the whole thing,” said Henrietta. “Children are so imaginative.”

“Of course,” said Lord Freddie, his face clearing.

They all began to talk about the Peace Celebrations and then to turn over the black subject of Miss Simpson’s death. Lord and Lady Fleming and Henrietta were convinced the milk had been bad. Lord Freddie was sure Miss Simpson had added too much sleeping draught to it. Only Lord Toby remained silent, his green eyes fastened on Morag’s face.

If only Henrietta would go away, he thought. He had not meant to upset Morag so much. She looked so pale and shaken that he began to feel worried. Let Henrietta sue him for breach of promise! He realized he could never look at another woman again. But perhaps he was too late—had she already accepted Freddie?

It was useless to wait here. He would be better employed in finding that tutor for Rory. He could return and question the boy about that conversation be had overheard at Lady Montclair’s later.

Henrietta insisted on leaving with him. Then Freddie left, after pressing Morag’s hand warmly.

The Flemings remained. From long experience, Morag knew exactly what they wanted and silently wrote Lord Arthur a note to take to her bank before he could begin his usual convolvulated dunning.

Now at last she was alone. Just a few minutes alone to try to sort out her burning thoughts.

“My leddy.”

“What is it, Hamish? I am in no mood to cope with household problems.”

“This concerns Rory,” said Hamish grimly.

Morag poured herself a stiff measure of brandy from the decanter. “Go on, Hamish.”

“I’ve had a letter from Mrs. Tallant. She says that the man who fired the bullet at Rory has been caught.”

“Who was it?” cried Morag, draining her brandy in one gulp and choking slightly as the fiery liquid caught at the back of her throat.

“It was a poacher, Jamie Sutherland, a wild lad from the village. He was bragging about it when he was in his cups doon at the local ale house. Mr. Baillie, the steward, had him arrested. Sutherland said he didnae mean any harm. He only meant to give Rory a fright.”

Hamish hesitated. “It seems that Rory was in the habit o’ sneakin’ oot o’ the castle when we was all abed. Mr. Baillie charged him wi’ trying to kidnap the boy as well but Sutherland says it sounded like one o’ Rory’s tales.”

“Get Rory here immediately.”

Rory came scampering in and then stopped at the sight of the set look on Morag’s face.

“Rory,” she said. “Mr. Baillie has found the boy who shot at you. It was Jamie Sutherland.”