The Highland Countess (17 page)

“Oh, him,” said Rory with great indifference. “He was always bragging about what a great shot he was and he got angry when I laughed at him and said that one day he would part my curls with a bullet.”

“And what about the kidnapping?” demanded Morag in a low voice. “Tell me the truth, Rory, or I shall… I shall… take that cat away from you.”

Rory turned white. “No! You wouldn’t be so cruel.”

He stared anxiously at Morag’s face. He had never seen her look so stern.

“Very well,” he said sulkily. “I made it up. I’d gone to climb my favorite tree and I got stuck at the top. I knew if I told you, I’d never be able to get out again—don’t look like that, mama! I just wanted to play like the other boys.”

“You could have saved me a great deal of worry by telling the truth.” said Morag, feeling suddenly tired. “Leave us, Rory. I shall speak to you later.”

When the boy had trailed out, she turned to Hamish. “Then it appears as if Miss Simpson’s death was an accident?”

“It certainly seems so, my leddy,” said Hamish. “You should see her room. She had aboot every patent medicine in the land in her closet and some o’ thae concoctions go bad, I’ve heard. Och, the auld girl did it tae herself, mark my words.”

Morag smiled. “It seems I have got myself in a state over nothing.” Then she remembered Cosmo’s threat and her face clouded over. “Sit down, Hamish,” she said. “I have more bad news for you.”

She told him of Cosmo’s threat and Hamish listened intently.

“He’d no do it,” said Hamish when he had heard her out. “He always was a terrible coward was the laird. He was always threatenin’ folks but he’d no do it. I’ll hae a wee word in his ear. He’ll no trouble you again.”

“Oh, Hamish,” sighed Morag, “what would I do without you. There is one last thing. Lord Freemantle was to send a retired pugilist to masquerade as Rory’s tutor and be a sort of watchdog. I shall send you round to Lord Freemantle with a note saying that we do not need this individual, unless,” she laughed, “Rory has been unearthing French spies.”

She told Hamish of the conversation Rory had overheard.

Blast the boy! thought Hamish. He did not want to further upset his mistress by pointing out that what Rory had overheard could be very serious indeed.

Instead he said, “I think you should let this boxer fellow come along just the same. It would do the boy the world o’ good tae have some rough company. He’s been treated a bit too much like a lassie, if ye’ll forgive my speaking so plain, my leddy.”

“Yes, you are right,” sighed Morag. “Let us have him then.” She should put Lord Toby Freemantle firmly out of her mind. His intentions were strictly dishonorable and she should have nothing more to do with him.

But her treacherous emotions at war with her brain cried out for an excuse to see him again.

“Now, my leddy,” said Hamish, making as if to rise, “is there anything else?”

“No, Hamish. Oh, dear
yes.
Lord Rotherwood wishes to marry me and I told him about Cosmo.”

“Lord save us! Ye never told him about Rory?”

“No, I simply said that Cosmo had some hold over me.”

Hamish shook his head. “Whit a day,” he said. “Tak’ my advice and forget about the whole thing. It’ll work itself out, never fear. Leave it to Hamish.”

Morag smiled at him gratefully, reflecting there was a lot to be said for having Scottish servants. The polite world would be shocked to the core had they known she was in the habit of consulting her butler on every affair. The fact that she called him by his first name had raised enough eyebrows.

“You are right, Hamish,” she said wearily. “Goodness knows, nothing else can happen today!”

Cosmo, Laird of Glenaquer, was feeling very pleased with himself. Morag’s fortune added to his own would make him one of the richest men in Scotland. Of course, he would not have dreamed of telling anyone anything about Rory. He had given the earl his word and, for all his weakness, the laird was a man of honor when it came to other men. But women were different. They were soft, useless things who needed a firm hand. He was still a fine figure of a man and Morag would be better off with someone like himself than a callow Englishman.

He stopped in Pall Mall to watch the band of the Coldstream Guards with its giant negroes striking their cymbals with high, rhythmic blows. It was a splendid sound. Those black fellows must be almost seven feet tall! Like a schoolboy, he waited for the next great crash of the cymbals. The negroes raised their massive arms, the great cymbals glittering in a pale watery sunlight. Crash!

It was a mighty sound. So mighty that no one in the crowd heard the report of the bullet which took Cosmo between the shoulders and passed him on to the other world.

“Oh, these drunks!” cried a lady in a high-waisted muslin dress as Cosmo fell at her feet. “They shouldn’t ought to be allowed, now should they?”

Cosmo lay there until the band marched away. He lay while an urchin picked his pockets. He lay there until the new gas lamps flared bravely above him and the watch, turning him over with a heavy foot, saw the bullet hole in his back.

The only bright spot in the following weeks in Morag’s gloomy life was the presence of Joseph Service, Rory’s watchdog.

Although she felt Rory no longer needed to be guarded, nonetheless she felt relieved to know what Rory was doing every minute of the night and day. Mr. Service and Rory had become firm friends and they made an odd couple, the rough, lumbering boxer with his bald head and bandy legs and the beautiful fair-haired child.

He may not have been much of a tutor when it came to book-learning, but Mr. Service was a fund of information of the kind to delight a small boy—prize fights, poaching, hunting, fishing and the army.

Lord Toby had only called once and had seemed cold and distant. His sole interest appeared to be in finding out the name of the man that Rory had overheard talking at Lady Montclair’s party. In fact, Lord Toby was having difficulty with the idea of telling Henrietta he had made a mistake. He was still very much bound by the conventions and Henrietta had more than once let fall laughing little remarks about breach of promise.

Miss Simpson had been duly buried and Cosmo’s body had been packed in ice and sent north to rest in the churchyard on his estate. Morag was torn between relief that Cosmo was no longer around to plague her and a lurking feeling of danger. It had all been so opportune! The thick-headed officer from the Horse Patrol had pointed out that Cosmo had been killed and robbed, an everyday happening. Usually gentlemen of Cosmo’s rank did not parade the streets without some sort of protection. He implied that Lady Murr had an overworked imagination.

Lord Freddie could not have done such a thing. But Hamish! Hamish was fanatically loyal. And underneath all her worries lay the perpetual nagging ache of longing for Lord Toby.

Freddie was assiduous in his attentions. He had not repeated his offer of marriage but seemed to take it for granted that they had an understanding. Morag wondered wearily whether to accept him or not. He was friendly and cheerful and undemanding company.
He
would not become engaged to one lady and philander with another. Only look how Toby had tried to seduce her when she was a married woman! He had no morals. Henrietta was welcome to him. On and on ran her troubled thoughts.

Because of the deaths of Miss Simpson and Cosmo, she had refused all social invitations. But she soon began to feel lonely. Rory preferred the company of Mr. Service to her own and she could not help feeling slightly jealous.

Freddie called as usual to try to persuade her to go for a drive with him and this time she found herself accepting.

Morag had to admit she felt much better as Lord Freddie tooled his smart curricle through the gates of Hyde Park. All the fashionables had turned out in the bright sunshine, dresses fluttering, carriages glistening in the hot, breezy, sunny day.

She was wearing a blue muslin gown the color of her eyes and gold Roman sandals on her feet. She unfurled her parasol since the sun was hot and her pretty hat was merely a puff of blond straw and ribbons.

Lord Freddie was pointing out all the Notables. He chattered at a great rate, never seeming to expect a reply other than “yes,” “no” or “really” and Morag was content to listen to him. Then she became aware that he was saying, “Hey, there’s Freemantle and Miss Sampson!” Lord Toby neatly edged his carriage next to Lord Freddie’s and raised his hat. Henrietta gave a stiff little bow.

“Has Rory discovered the identity of the Bonapartiste?” asked Lord Toby, his hard eyes fixed on Morag’s pale face.

“No,” said Morag. “He probably made it up. I am afraid Rory invents things.”

“Yes,” tittered Henrietta. “He
does
tell lies, doesn’t he? But I gather he will soon have a new papa.” She smiled coyly at Lord Freddie who grinned back.

“Right you are,” said Freddie cheerfully. “Don’t worry. I’ll send the little blighter to school.” Morag stared at him in amazement and opened her mouth to say something, but Freddie had already touched his hat and flicked the reins and was moving rapidly away. “Cattle are fresh,” he said by way of explanation. “Can’t keep ’em standing.”

“You should not have said that,” said Morag. “I-I did not say I would marry you, Freddie.”

“Oh, you will,” he said in his usual cheery way. “Not hankering after anyone else, are you?”

Morag did not reply and he took her silence for assent. “Well, there you are. Faint heart never won fair lady, and I’ll get you to the altar yet. Don’t worry. I ain’t asking you to make up your mind yet.”

“But you should not have taken it upon yourself to speak so freely in front of… in front of Miss Sampson,” protested Morag.

“I did, didn’t I?” said Freddie, unabashed. “I’ll put things right next time I see her.”

But the sunshine had gone out of Morag’s day. If Lord Toby had really been interested in her, he would not have reacted to the idea of her marrying Freddie the way he did. His green eyes had been hard, reflecting no emotion whatsoever. Until that moment, Morag had not realized she had clung on to a dream that Toby would disengage himself from Henrietta and marry her. She had been living in a fantasy world. Her head ached and all she wanted to do was lie down in a cool room.

“… and Freemantle pays too much attention to what Rory says,” she became aware Freddie was saying. “Bonapartiste spies, indeed.”

“Take me home, Freddie,” said Morag quietly. “I have the headache.

“Oh, very well,” said Freddie, looking disappointed. He delivered her reluctantly into the hands of her butler, noting to himself that the fellow was overfamiliar for a servant and would have to go—as soon as they were married, of course.

Morag trailed up the stairs, nearly colliding with Rory, who was staggering down under the weight of his cat.

“Cannot that animal
walk?
” she demanded with some asperity.

“He
likes
being carried,” said Rory hotly, springing to the defense of his beloved cat. “He killed three rats in the kitchen last night and cook and Hamish are extremely pleased with him. He is a resting warrior.”

“Then I hope the resting warrior has not got fleas. Let me past, Rory. I must lie down.”

“Are you going to marry Lord Freddie?” asked Rory, still blocking her path.

“No. I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

“We don’t need anyone else,” said Rory earnestly. “We get on splendidly, just you and me and Mr. Service and The Beastie, of course.” The cat screwed its large head round to stare at Morag and gave her its sinister smile.

“Take that thing away. It gives me gooseflesh,” said Morag. “Now, let me past, Rory. I do not want to marry
anyone.
Now what is it?” For Rory still barred her way.

“Astley’s, mama,” breathed Rory. “Mr. Service says, with your permission, he will take me to Astley’s this evening.”

Morag hesitated. She would, not so long ago, have refused point-blank. But look what had come of all her mollycoddling. “Very well,” she said wearily. “Come to my room before you go. I wish to speak to Mr. Service so bring him with you.”

What, after all, could be the harm in a visit to Astley’s Amphitheatre? The shows were vulgar and spectacular, of that she had heard, but there was nothing dangerous about the place.

Rory danced off to tell Mr. Service the good news, the cat’s heavy head jogging on his shoulder.

Hamish, however, was the first to hear the good news. The butler smiled tolerantly. He was still cautiously not overfond of Rory but a certain truce had been struck up between the two and the boy was a hundred times better since he had found that dreadful animal.

“I’ll tell Mr. Service ye’re going,” smiled Hamish. “Go and wash your face and hands and change your clothes.”

“Isn’t it marvelous!” cried Rory. “I’m going to the Surrey side.” The Surrey side of London was famous for its theatres, which catered to the more unsophisticated tastes. Of these, Astley’s was the most famous, combining all the joys of the theatre with that of the circus.

“I heard a poem once about the Surrey side,” said Hamish. “Gie me a bit time and I’ll remember it. Ah, I have it now.”

The butler began to recite carefully in precise English:

Rory laughed. This sort of poetry was more to his taste than any of his “mother’s” volumes.

He spent the next hour getting ready. Then he tucked The Beastie up in his bed and kissed the top of its large head.

He ran to find Mr. Service and fairly pulled that large gentleman along to Morag’s private sitting room.

There was no sign of her and Rory quietly pushed open the bedroom door. Morag was asleep. He hesitated. If he awoke her, she might regret her earlier decision. She might not let him go!

He decided to leave her a note instead.