The Scottish Companion (3 page)

Blevins hesitated before a set of double doors, and nodded to a footman who stood beside one. With military precision, the young man turned, opened the door, and then bowed to all four of them before stepping aside.

The Flower Room was a drawing room featuring numerous sketches of flowers mounted in frames along the walls. The walls were adorned in a deep crimson patterned silk. Mahogany cabinets and tables sat next to the pale yellow silk upholstered chairs and sofas. But it was the carpet that no doubt gave the room its name. In the center was the Straithern coat of arms, but the border design was entirely made up of flowers, all so perfectly woven they looked ready to pick.

Gillian stood admiring the carpet for a moment before becoming aware that Dr. Fenton was addressing her. She glanced up to see him gesturing toward the fireplace.

A man stood there, attired in immaculate black, his stiff white collar fastened at the throat with a black onyx pin. The silver buttons on his coat were so polished that they glinted in the sunlight from an adjoining window. His hair was as black as his suit, and she half expected his eyes to be dark as well. But as her glance traveled upward, past a square chin and an aristocratic nose, she was startled to discover that his eyes were gray.

Or silver. Silver like his buttons, and the buckles of his shoes. Silver, like clouds after a storm, like a river in the sunlight.

Grant Roberson, the 10th Earl of Straithern.

He looked like an earl, a man set apart from others. Of course his home was a showplace, a relic of the past. His ancestors had been part of Scotland’s history.

Why on earth would he want to marry Arabella Fenton?

“Miss Cameron.” He glanced at her momentarily, and then at Arabella.

Had they been introduced while her mind was wandering? Evidently so, because he paid her no further attention.

“Your Lordship,” she said, wondering if she should curtsy. Why hadn’t she studied how to greet an earl?

He nodded at Blevins, and the man disappeared. Dr. Fenton led Arabella to a sofa, and Gillian followed, uncertain of the protocol. Did she sit beside her? In another chair? Did she excuse herself from the room entirely?

She chose to sit on an adjoining sofa, and realized that she’d made the wrong decision when the earl sat next to her.

His hands were large and square, the fingers long, his nails cut straight across. She tended to notice hands on a man, as well as the back of his neck. Odd things, really, since physical characteristics gave no indication of a man’s character or temperament.

She smiled at herself, and then realized the earl was looking at her.

“Are you amused, Miss Cameron?”

“In a way, Your Lordship. At my own peccadilloes, perhaps.”

He looked startled by her answer.

“I’m pleased that you find Rosemoor amusing, Miss Cameron. That isn’t the reaction it normally inspires.”

“No doubt people are awestruck, Your Lordship,” she suggested. “Or perhaps simply rendered dumb.”

He looked at her intently, as if to gauge whether she was joking. How odd that she had the strangest desire to laugh. He was not a particularly amusing sight. In
fact, the Earl of Straithern was rather imposing, if not arresting.

“How many gardeners do you employ?” she asked.

Once again, he looked startled.

“Twenty. Why do you ask?”

“I was simply curious. Everything looks very tame, Your Lordship.”

“Is that why you were staring at a tree?”

It was her turn to be surprised. He had been watching her and she’d not known.

There was something decidedly wintry about his gray eyes. Perhaps Arabella might inspire their warmth, but Gillian doubted it. Arabella was as cold in her way.

The two of them would make a pair, wouldn’t they?

She looked away, attempting to free him from any more politeness, real or feigned, on his part.

It was all too clear that he was a match to Arabella in attractiveness. They would have exquisite children—if Arabella allowed him into her bed.

“Was your journey pleasant?” he asked Arabella.

“Very much so, very much so,” Dr. Fenton answered. “Thank you for sending your carriage for us.”

“What do you think of Rosemoor, Miss Fenton?”

There, a more frontal attack. The earl’s quick glance at Dr. Fenton was almost a warning for the man not to answer for his daughter.

Gillian stifled a smile. The doctor had met his match in the earl. Or perhaps been bested.

“Lovely,” Arabella said, the one-word answer faint, as if she breathed more than spoke the word.

At that moment, Gillian decided to set aside a few examples of her embroidery in the next week or so, and arrange travel to Inverness. Surely there she might obtain an offer of employment.

Anything but watch this disaster of a marriage transpire.

As if he’d heard her thoughts, the earl turned to her. “And you, Miss Cameron, was the journey acceptable for you as well?”

She glanced at him, surprised. What did he care for her comfort? Perhaps he was more egalitarian than the doctor, to whom she was nothing more than a paid servant.

“It was acceptable, Your Lordship,” she said.

Gillian stood, moved to the window, wishing she could transport herself magically anywhere but here. The silence in the room was awkward, embarrassing, almost a personage in its own right.

Blevins appeared with a maid in tow, carrying a silver tray heaped with refreshments. While the others were being served, Gillian remained where she was at the window, her back to all of them, deliberately isolating herself. Was she being rude? She didn’t know, and at the moment, truly didn’t care.

She was the companion: the extra woman, the chaperone, the one who made arrangements, offered excuses, and protected, but was otherwise useless. She was as valuable as a fireplace andiron on a summer day.

How very strange to be feeling out of sorts right now.

She was wearing her darkest, most serviceable dress, a dark blue with a white detachable collar and lace
cuffs. A perfect choice in which to travel. When she’d dressed this morning, she’d given no thought whatsoever about appearing at her best. She’d simply wanted to get Arabella to Rosemoor before she’d rebelled.

Gillian glanced in the earl’s direction to find him studying her. His face was stern and unsmiling, his gray eyes intent.

Why on earth was he looking at her? Had she done something unpardonable? What was the required etiquette when dealing with an earl? He couldn’t be all that different from other men. Look at his reaction to Arabella. Surely she wasn’t jealous. She was as far from an earl’s eye as a ladybug was from an eagle.

They exchanged a long look before she finally turned away. She clasped her hands together, staring out the window, wondering why she was trembling.

Fatigue, of course. That’s all it could be. Even though the journey here had been a scant hour’s duration, she hadn’t slept well the night before.

She could still feel him staring. Surreptitiously she glanced down at herself. Was a button unbuttoned? Her fingers brushed against one cheek and then the other. Had she some dirt on her face? Was there something wrong with her?

What did she say to an earl to get him to stop staring?

Your Lordship, if you would, please, look at Arabella. Study her with the intensity you are now studying me. Or look at this magnificent table beside the window. Mosaic, is it not? From where did you acquire it? Was it another gift from a king? If nothing else, perhaps you might investigate the view outside your own window. It’s indeed worthy of awe, Your
Lordship. Anything would be preferable, Your Lordship, than to stare at me.

“Blevins?”

Blevins halted in the act of serving Dr. Fenton, and glanced at his employer. “Your Lordship?”

“See that Miss Cameron is served as well.”

The earl’s voice sounded like chocolate, rich and dark and warm.

Blevins bowed. “Assuredly, Your Lordship.”

“I’m not hungry, Your Lordship,” Gillian said, wondering if her face was as flushed as it felt. “But thank you.”

Dr. Fenton frowned at her. Evidently she’d irritated him somehow. Would this entire visit be as wearying as the last five minutes? Would she have to be concerned about pleasing everyone?

The Earl of Straithern loaded two biscuits and a small piece of cake on a plate and stood, delivering it to her himself.

“Are you very certain?” he asked. “Our cook is renowned for her pastries.”

His gray eyes were alight with an emotion she couldn’t decipher. Humor? Did she amuse him? Or was he daring her to be rude in the face of Dr. Fenton’s obvious displeasure?

She took the plate from him, their fingers brushing. She glanced up to find him looking at her again.

“Please do not,” she said in a low enough tone that Dr. Fenton would not hear.

“Do not what?”

“Stare at me so.” She looked away, still holding the plate in front of her.

“I wasn’t aware that I was staring,” he said.

“What rubbish, Your Lordship. You know perfectly well you were staring.”

He looked startled again, but he didn’t counter her observation. Instead, he smiled.

“Please let any of my staff know if Miss Fenton requires anything.”

“Of course, Your Lordship.”

“Her well-being is of great importance to me.”

“Of course, Your Lordship.” Since Arabella had avoided looking in his direction, she evidently didn’t feel the same degree of caring for the earl as he did for her. But Gillian carefully restrained herself from saying anything of the sort. She was, after all, only the companion, and a reluctant one at that.

“You look as if you’d like to escape to the veranda, Miss Cameron.”

Was he
daring
her?

“Not at all, Your Lordship,” she said calmly.

“You may, of course, if you wish.” With a gesture, he indicated the door that led to the outside.

Dr. Fenton would not understand. Arabella might, if she ventured an opinion as to her companion’s actions, which she rarely did. Arabella was so completely within herself that it was difficult to tell if she even noticed anyone else.

“Thank you, no,” Gillian said.

“A very proper response.”

She glanced at him. “Have I given you any reason to think I’m not entirely proper, Your Lordship?” She pushed down the fear that seemed to clench her throat like an unseen hand.

“Not at all, Miss Cameron.”

“Then please do not say such—”

“Have I offended you?” He looked amused, which irritated her.

“You have,” she said, loud enough that Dr. Fenton turned and looked at her, the expression on his face one of concern.

“Then I apologize for that as well, Miss Cameron.”

“As well as what, Your Lordship?” Would he just simply go away?

“For implying you were not proper. Propriety is very important to me.”

“Is it, Your Lordship?” She turned and faced him directly, annoyed that she had to look up at him. “Then I would think you’d be careful to direct your attentions to Arabella and not to me.”

He smiled slightly, almost a self-deprecating expression, before leaving her without a word.

After he left her side, Gillian took a deep breath, wishing that he wasn’t quite so handsome. Or so very much a presence. He filled the air around him, and made people notice him. Or perhaps she was the only one to feel this way.

The sooner Arabella was married and settled, the better for everyone.

D
inner that night was a tray in Arabella’s sitting room, a concession to Arabella’s stated exhaustion. Gillian wasn’t tired from the journey but she was exceedingly tired of being in Arabella’s presence. An Arabella who was pointedly ignoring her.

“You should not hold your cup in such a manner,” Gillian said gently. “Hold it by the handle, like this.” She demonstrated, hoping that Arabella would cease planting both elbows on the table and glaring at her.

Had the girl always been so sullen? Or was her attitude somehow emphasized by the strangeness of their surroundings? Either way, Gillian was growing increasingly impatient with Arabella.

“Do not lecture me, Gillian. I do not care one whit about the manners of the gentry at the moment.”

“They are not simply the manners of the gentry, Arabella,” Gillian said. “Holding your cup with both hands is not polite. Which you would know if you ever bothered to look around you.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should,” Gillian said, annoyance slipping into her voice. Let Dr. Fenton lecture her on patience
if he must. “You’re to be the Countess of Straithern in less than a month.”

“Not because I wish it.” Arabella stood and walked to the window.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Gillian said. “You wish to save yourself for your studies. Medicine calls to you. Life beckons to you as a healer. You are meant for better things. God save us if you have to be a wife or mother when there’s a boil to be lanced or a bedsore to be treated.”

She stood and circled the table, intent for her own room.

For a moment, Arabella didn’t speak. Finally, she said, “Why are you so irritated, Gillian?”

“Because you are irritating,” Gillian answered. “You may not wish to be married, but such is the way of the world. You should thank God you’re to be married to an earl, a man who can give you anything you desire.”

“Money does not influence me.”

“Because you’ve never been without it. Or protection,” Gillian said bitingly. “You’ve never known what it was to have to choose between dignity and survival, Arabella.”

Arabella turned and stared out at the night. “Dignity and survival. You’re talking about what happened to you in Edinburgh, aren’t you?”

“I don’t discuss my past with anyone, Arabella, even you.”

The other woman smiled, an oddly sad expression. “Nor I. But sometimes it intrudes, even so.” She placed both hands flat on the window, and leaned closer until her nose almost touched the pane. “You do not know
how much I hate this place, Gillian. I hate Rosemoor with a deep and abiding loathing. I never wished to live here.”

Startled, Gillian watched her. “How do you know you hate it? You’ve been here a matter of hours only.”

Arabella turned and looked at her. “Do you realize, Gillian, that I’m only here to act as a broodmare for the Earl of Straithern?”

A broodmare? She could look at the man and think that?

“Would you be alone all of your life, Arabella?”

“I would be the arbiter of my own fate.”

Gillian sighed, pity winning out over annoyance. Arabella had not yet been tested by life. She wanted something that could never happen, even in a perfect world.

“No one is the arbiter of his own fate. You are subject to the dictates of society just as we all are. You must do what is expected of you, Arabella. But you can find pleasure in that, if you will. The earl seems like a good man, an interesting man.” A fascinating man, but that comment she didn’t make.

“You are determined that I should marry and be happy, aren’t you? Even though I am certain that I will be miserable?” Arabella turned to look at her.

“You will be what you wish, Arabella. If you are set on being miserable, you will be miserable.”

Arabella turned away from her, staring out at the night.

Gillian bit back any further comments at the entrance of a maid who began unpacking Arabella’s trunks. She filled the armoire and the dresser with the
trousseau Dr. Fenton had ordered from three overworked seamstresses.

“Do not unpack that one,” Arabella ordered, gesturing to the trunk nearest the door. The maid stepped back, curtsied, and left the room, making Gillian grateful that she didn’t have to explain about Arabella’s prized skeleton. She could just imagine the talk below stairs about that.

When Arabella retreated into a book, Gillian left for her own room, an adjoining chamber easily as beautiful as Arabella’s.

A beige flower-patterned wallpaper softened the room, and seemed to add warmth to the chill. Spring might have come to the Highlands, but winter had not yet vanished completely. A taste of it was there in the wind, and the clear, crisp night.

Her room held an armoire as large as the one in Arabella’s chamber, along with a bureau, and a curtained bed on a raised dais. The biggest surprise, however, was a door leading to a private washing area.

Rosemoor was a startling combination of history and new advances.

Gillian finished unpacking her trunk in only minutes.

She glanced at the clock on the mantel. Beyond time to retire, considering that she’d begun her day at dawn. But she was in a very strange, almost demented, mood. What she wanted to do was wander through this magnificent place, study the portraits in the hall and the landscapes in the stairwell. There was a bronze urn in an alcove in the hallway that she’d wanted to examine, but Arabella had been too impatient to reach her room for her to do so.

However, she was not exactly a guest here. She
was only at Rosemoor because of Arabella, her only duty to ensure Arabella’s…Her thoughts ground to a halt. She was not here to make certain Arabella was happy. She doubted if Arabella could really
be
happy. Instead, she was here to guarantee that Arabella fit into the new world that circumstance and tragedy had acquired for her.

Envy was a foolish emotion.

“Your Lordship,” Dr. Fenton said. “Ever since the time of the Medicis, and possibly even before, man has created poison to kill his enemies. However, a man with murder on his mind can dispose of a rival quick enough. He needn’t have poison to do it.”

“Are you being deliberately obtuse, Dr. Fenton?” Grant asked. “Or is it simply because you don’t know the answer to my question? Is it possible to give a man poison and have him evince the same symptoms as either James or Andrew? A simple answer will suffice. Yes or no?”

Dr. Fenton took too long to answer for Grant’s peace of mind. Just as he was on the brink of ordering the older man from his study, the doctor finally spoke again.

“I suppose it is. But I am not versed in poisons, Your Lordship. Although I have a few books on the subject, I have not taken the time to study them.”

“Do you know of anyone with such an expertise?”

“I suppose it would be possible to inquire among my former students. Perhaps someone has a keen interest in poisons. Although I do not see merit in such studies. We are trained, as physicians, to heal, Your Lordship, not kill.”

“Pursue your inquiries, Doctor, but only on the condition that you do not mention Rosemoor. I want no hint of rumor or innuendo.”

Dr. Fenton bowed slightly. “Of course, Your Lordship. I shall send letters to only those who can hold their tongue. But I had thought you resigned yourself to the illness of your brothers. Has something changed in that regard?”

“Are you speaking of your daughter, Dr. Fenton?”

The older man nodded.

“I didn’t choose to wed because of a blood disease. I decided to marry because I was concerned someone might achieve their aim to kill me. Hopefully, before they do so, I’ve created an heir for Rosemoor.”

Dr. Fenton looked shocked. “If such a person should succeed in killing you, Your Lordship, what would stop them from killing your heir as well?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Grant said. “Which is why I need to discover the identity of the person doing this.”

Dr. Fenton nodded. “Then I shall correspond with some of my colleagues in Edinburgh, Your Lordship. I will ask them, as well, if they have any knowledge of any new treatments of blood diseases.”

“New treatments?”

“Purges, Your Lordship. Perhaps you should drink more wine.”

“By all means, seek out any new treatments. In the meantime,” Grant said, “I’ve taken a few precautions of my own.” He only smiled, having absolutely no intention of telling the physician what he’d done.

He didn’t care if Fenton was a healer or not. Grant couldn’t trust anyone.

After the doctor’s departure, Grant stared at the list of relatives he’d made a month ago. His solicitor had recently sent word of another death in the family, this one from old age and not a blood disease. He scratched off Derrick Roberson’s name, and made a notation of the man’s age of eighty-four. Of the remaining names, three lived in Scotland, one in England, and two had immigrated either to Australia or to America.

His father’s will had been surprisingly generous. Ranald Roberson had awarded a distant cousin a stipend for his lifetime. In addition, there were various other bequests, each one of which Grant had his solicitor investigate. He wanted to know the whereabouts of every relative. Common sense, however, told him to look elsewhere. He couldn’t see how the males remaining on the list could be perceived as a threat. One was an octogenarian; a third cousin was seven, and the remaining relative had been stricken by apoplexy. Nevertheless, he wanted to know their current circumstances. Had penury made them desperate?

“You’ve made a mistake, Grant.”

He glanced up to find his mother standing in the doorway to his study.

“In what regard?”

“You should have chosen the plainer one. If you must marry so far beneath you, choose the companion.”

“You used the peephole, didn’t you?” he asked. Should he be amused, or irritated? It was often difficult to decide with his mother. “You should have joined us, Mother.”

“Tomorrow is soon enough, Grant.”

She turned to leave the room.

“Why do you think I should have chosen Miss Cameron?” he asked.

“Because she would have run you a pretty race, and that’s exactly what you need. A little passion is what makes life worth living.” She hesitated. “The right kind of passion, Grant. The kind between a man and woman. You need that, and I think Miss Cameron would have given it to you.”

Since this comment was so unexpected, he could only stare at her.

“I do not like Miss Fenton,” she said, further surprising him. “I cannot rid myself of the notion that I should know her.”

“Is that entirely fair?”

“Perhaps not,” she answered, and shrugged. She didn’t say another word as she left him, leaving him staring after her and wondering if she was right.

Had he made a mistake? The worst kind of mistake?

Miss Cameron’s smile had captured his attention, it was true, and he’d been fascinated by the way she had of looking at him as if she were mocking him.

She’d studied his hands.

She wasn’t as beautiful as Miss Fenton. Her eyes were a soft blue, commonplace certainly. She had brown hair, not blond. Simply brown. An unremarkable shade, really. She had a peculiar smile, one that did not quite meet her eyes.

She’d deliberately separated herself from the rest of the group, almost as if she were physically acknowledging the gap between them. But Miss Cameron’s apartness had an aura of sadness to it. Or mystery.
Perhaps that’s why he had gravitated toward her—she’d simply sparked his curiosity.

No, his mother was wrong. His own instincts were momentarily skewed. He was going to marry Miss Fenton. But it wouldn’t hurt if he avoided the temptation of Gillian Cameron in the meantime.