The MacGregor's Lady Page 19

  “Some women claim the departed Duke of Wellington is appearing to them in their dreams and telling them to run off with their lovers.”

  They fell silent. Hannah picked up her plate and went through the motions of eating, while Asher wished the damned Iron Duke would appear in Hannah’s dreams and command her to accept the title Countess of Balfour.

  She’d probably argue with Wellington himself—and win—so Asher instead turned his thoughts to the additional inquiries that would go to Boston on the very next clipper.

  Thirteen

  “I thought you Scots were big on lightning raids by the full moon, not wooing your ladies in sun-dappled glades.” Tiberius Flynn, Earl of Spathfoy, passed his countess his flask as he spoke. From the next blanket over—an earl in expectation of an English marquessate did not perch on a log like some feckless duck—Connor MacGregor answered.

  “We believe in reconnaissance, your royal prig-ship. Fewer casualties that way. Darlin’ wife, save me some of that cake.”

  Julia passed him a bite of chocolate confection on a fork. Connor trapped her hand in his and took what she offered while Spathfoy studied the passing clouds rather than gratify yon Highland swain by watching his fatuous display.

  “If you could leave off flirting with your wife for a moment, we have a serious situation to discuss.”

  “Tiberius?” Hester, the petite blond Countess of Spathfoy, batted blue eyes at her husband.

  “My love?”

  “Keep your voice down if this serious situation involves Miss Hannah Cooper and my brother-in-law disporting in the bushes like Adam and Eve before the Fall. Our party has expanded to include a number of guests who are not family. Then too, the baby just went down for his nap.”

  Well done of the boy, if Spathfoy said so himself. “Precisely my point. If any one of those guests had—”

  “Asher knows that,” Connor said softly. “And the lass needs a husband, apparently. He knows that too.”

  Spathfoy’s wife began to unlace her boots, a development a prudent husband took note of. “You’re saying Balfour is trying to compromise Miss Cooper?” For appearances lent that theory a deal of credibility.

  “Never that. He’s trying to convince her. There’s a difference between when a man merely desires a woman and when he adores her.” Julia offered Connor more cake while Spathfoy nigh goggled at the smile Connor MacGregor bestowed on his wife in a public location. “Though I’ll tell you something, Spathfoy.”

  The earl had to blink, because his countess’s naked feet were coming into view. He adored those feet. He liked to get one in his hand, the better to guide the accompanying knee an inch wider as he—“If you’re going to offer some auld Scottish profundity, MacGregor, I suggest you be about it before Julia has decimated the cake.”

  “Hannah Cooper is no blushing debutante. She knows full well what the consequences might be of kissing stray earls behind the bushes. She wasn’t exactly fighting him off.”

  No, she hadn’t been. Upon reflection, Spathfoy allowed that the lady had been devouring the stray earl every bit as enthusiastically as Spathfoy himself nibbled on any available part of his countess—usually right before the baby awoke.

  Said countess rose to her bare feet. “I’m going wading, Spathfoy. Will you accompany me?”

  Spathfoy’s countess was not a formal sort of countess unless the situation demanded it. In soft Gaelic, he answered her. “I would follow you anywhere, my dearest love, provided you eventually led me to a secluded part of the nearby woods.”

  Connor laughed around a mouthful of cake while Julia slipped off her boots.

  ***

  “A lovely day for travel,” Draper informed his mount. The beast sported a reset pair of rear shoes, and an improved gait for having enjoyed a day of leisure in a greening pasture courtesy of Theobald MacDuie and his lovely if taciturn helpmeet, Maud. Draper himself was a touch the worse for the delay, owing mostly to MacDuie’s private brew.

  “Has cousins in the distillery business over by Glasgow,” Draper mused. “Never hurts to have cousins in the distillery business.”

  Draper did not take out his flask to emphasize the point. He wouldn’t be taking out his flask until noon at least, when an enormous breakfast of bannocks, eggs, and ham would have settled, and Draper’s thoughts might be settled as well.

  Drink loosened a man’s tongue, even a man like Theobald MacDuie.

  “Farmers are all talkers at heart,” Draper observed as his mount shuffled along. “Some are the coy variety. They take a little coaxing first, but then the floodgates part, and gracious, they can hold forth.”

  The bedamned Sassenach, the barmy, perpetually breeding Queen and her infernal mein Herr of a consort, the sneaking Russians, the bastard thieving Americans, the perennially revolutionary French, who were lousy farmers in a good year… the Venerable MacDuie was poet laureate of the international insult.

  He’d liked Hannah Cooper though, the pretty little red-haired lass who’d come through with her great strappin’ laddie of a fellow weeks earlier. MacDuie had approved of the way the lady had looked at her man with such besottedness and had given him no trouble—even though Miss Cooper had been an American.

  This observation, made through teeth clenched around mine host’s pipe, was followed by a pointed look at Mrs. MacDuie at her station by the sink. She had banged a few pots and plates in answer, the Scottish wife’s version of a minor scold.

  Another pass of the jug, and more of the story had come out, about how a crappin’ miserable excuse for an English travelin’ coach had gone ass over teakettle in the snowy ditch, and the strappin’ laddie and his little American princess—he’d called her that once, “Princess”—had had to cast themselves on guid Scottish hospitality lest they fall further victim to the elements.

  The recitation had trailed off into another volley of banging pots and marital glowers. Farmers were talkers at heart, but more often than not, farmers’ wives dealt in home truths and plain speaking—even when banging their pots.

  “Fenimore will be pleased, you know,” Draper reflected. “Proud of the boy’s resourcefulness. A Scottish winter night in the countryside isn’t to be trifled with.” The horse did not seem impressed, but the laird would be, both with Balfour’s skills and with what a little gratitude and sympathy directed toward an overworked farmwife had yielded.

  “MacDuie did not exactly break any confidences, but he should have spent a bit of the earl’s coin on his missus.” The selfsame missus who had refilled Draper’s flask as the old man had taken himself out to the jakes. In MacDuie’s absence, she’d indulged in a bit of righteous Christian muttering.

  About American girls being no better than they should be, and leading fine Scotsmen astray at the first opportunity.

  About what it took to remain alive through a night on the Scottish moors in winter.

  About how the wee “princess” had sported no ring, though she’d surely had every opportunity to enjoy the privileges of holy matrimony with her Scottish escort.

  As Draper cast back over MacDuie’s recounting, he realized MacDuie had avoided even implying that the couple had sheltered at the croft through the night, while the wife had flatly, albeit quietly and with every concern for the American girl’s soul, contradicted her husband’s chronology.

  And neither husband nor wife had mentioned the delicate auntie tasked with chaperoning the host and his guest.

  How… interesting.

  As noon approached, Draper took stock of the stretch of road before him. Green rolling hills fell away to the south, the tang of the sea came on a breeze from the east, and the sun shone benevolently from above. Spring was making a good show—at the moment.

  Perhaps, just this once, a devoted retainer might be persuaded to board a locomotive in Newcastle for part of a journey that had become a trifling bit urgent. Perhaps.

  Draper took a nip of his flask and kicked his mount up to the canter.

  ***

 
The day was bright, an occasion Enid would have taken umbrage at only weeks before.

  “Perhaps we should go for a turn in the park,” Enid observed between sips of delicate Darjeeling.

  Across the table, Hannah pushed eggs and toast around on a blue porcelain plate. “We went for a turn in the park yesterday, Aunt.”

  A few seats down from Hannah, Gilgallon MacGregor hid behind his newspaper, his hand occasionally emerging from the financial pages to lift a teacup or bite of scone. Enid was convinced the real reason newspapers existed was so men could ignore their families at breakfast and eavesdrop while about it.

  “It’s a lovely day, and the park is where one sees and is seen,” Enid said. “Why did we have such fetching dresses made for you, Hannah, if you never show them off?”

  “You and Balfour had such fetching dresses made for me in order that Polite Society might know I have coin to spend and lots of it, the better to foist me off on some impoverished knight.”

  Gilgallon coughed from behind his newsprint shrubbery, while Enid considered her niece.

  Hannah had weathered a winter crossing of the North Atlantic without so much as a queasy moment, but the longer she enjoyed the London social Season, the more peaked and wan the girl looked. The overtures and interest other girls would have basked in left Hannah brittle and nervous.

  The situation was quite vexing. Perhaps Hannah needed a nerve tonic.

  “I’m finding much to enjoy about our outings,” Enid observed, “and you are well received socially. A number of young men have approached me to ask about your situation, you know.”

  The comment was a test, which Hannah failed spectacularly. Rather than dimple with false modesty—the appropriate reaction—Hannah winced and gulped down half her tea. “What do you tell them?”

  “I refer them to the earl, of course. He’s in correspondence with your father and the best resource for such discussions.”

  Hannah set her teacup down with a definite plink.

  “Stepfather, though what you ought to tell them, Aunt, is that I am in no wise looking for a spouse, much less one who would anchor me to Albion’s reeking shores for the rest of my days.”

  “The city itself…” Enid let it go. Twenty-eight days out of thirty, London was a wretchedly odoriferous place. “All the more reason to seek the healthier air of the park.”

  “Where the Honorable Thaddeus Trundle might be out taking the air as well?”

  Well, drat the girl. Enid studied her tea rather than meet the teasing in Hannah’s gaze.

  “Thad—Mr. Trundle is an old friend, nothing more.”

  “I don’t think he’s a day over fifty, myself,” Hannah said, all innocence.

  “If you ladies will excuse me.” Gilgallon rose and bowed to each of them. “I will see how my wife fares. If you need an escort this afternoon, you have only to ask.”

  He left them to the company of their breakfast fare, and Enid noticed Hannah spared the man no more than a passing glance. Gilgallon was the best-looking of the brothers, being fair complected and graced with a sunny smile to go with his green eyes and dashing height.

  “Now that we’ve lost our referee, Aunt, I have to ask if Mr. Trundle’s intentions are honorable. You danced with him twice, both times the waltz.”

  Hannah’s concern would be dear if it weren’t so irritating. “I am of sufficient age to assess the gentleman’s intentions, Hannah Cooper. Look to your own interests before you start meddling in mine.”

  Rather than put the girl off, this lit a battle light in Hannah’s eyes. “You can still marry, Enid Strathorn. You’re pretty, and older gentlemen need not be concerned with settlements and heirs and all that whatnot. You don’t have to return to Boston, don’t have to live the rest of your life pretending your brother treats you decently.”

  She hadn’t said you’re still pretty, and for that Enid had to love the girl just a bit. “Hannah, this is not a fit topic.”

  A younger aunt, an aunt who wasn’t staring hard at fifty herself, might have been able to carry off that rebuke in convincing tones.

  “Mr. Trundle isn’t the only man to leave flowers for you, Aunt, nor the only man to stand up with you more than once. You broke hearts here thirty years ago, and it’s your own heart you ought to look after now.”

  From the doorway, the sound of two hands applauding Hannah’s sermon announced Balfour’s arrival.

  “And there you see, Hannah?” Enid said, setting her cup down with as much ladylike punctilio as she could muster. “Intemperate speech always serves the speaker ill. What is his lordship to think of your lack of manners so early in the day?”

  Balfour took his place at the head of the table and picked up the discarded newspaper. “Honesty is refreshing at any hour, Miss Cooper. Trundle is a good sort, and comfortably well off if my inquiries are to be trusted. His taste in dancing partners recommends him as well. Tea, anyone?”

  Predictably, Hannah got to her feet. “If you’ll both excuse me, I have correspondence to attend to.” The earl rose to bow her from the room, then resumed his seat.

  Enid eyed the unfinished eggs on Hannah’s plate. “I blame that grandmother of hers, you know. My brother has provided Hannah every advantage—tutors, governesses, lessons of every kind—and one can’t really blame Hannah’s mother. The woman grieved her first spouse terribly.”

  The earl unfolded his napkin and set the paper aside. “Hannah’s grandmother is a poor influence on her?”

  In morning attire, he was a good-looking fellow, albeit much too dark for fashion, and Enid would never have labeled Balfour an easy man to be around.

  And yet… he was not frivolous, either. His dark eyes had a gravity that promised sensible behavior and even… understanding.

  “Hannah’s grandmother is a law unto herself, the very worst sort of example, for all she is as old as Methuselah and one ought to make allowances.”

  Balfour topped up Enid’s teacup. “For?”

  It all came out, the regular consumption of spirits, the maintenance of business activities no lady ought to concern herself with, the complete lack of deference to the man who provided the roof over their heads, and above all, the refusal to die when the old woman by rights should have shuffled off this mortal coil decades ago. By the time Enid had swilled an entire pot of tea, the earl was looking thoughtful.

  “So you see, even though the lady is no bigger than this”—Enid held her hand out at about rib height—“and can barely see, she has exerted enormous sway over Hannah, and all of it bad. The girl would be safely wed, several times over, were it not for that woman’s pernicious influence.”

  When the earl said nothing but stirred his tea in silence, Enid felt compelled to add, “She does love Hannah, though. She loves all the children, but her devotion to Hannah cannot be questioned.”

  “Nor, apparently, Hannah’s to her.”

  “Lamentably. One can only hope the Lord sees fit to handle the situation in a just, swift, and compassionate manner before Hannah’s last prayer of a decent match is gone. The company of a more frail, wizened, and stubborn woman, I have yet to endure.”

  Perhaps that was a bit too honest. His lordship swiveled his head to gaze out the window of the breakfast parlor, where sunshine came streaming in from the east. When he once again turned his dark eyes on Enid, she had the sense he’d changed his mental horses, put away one topic and started on another.

  “About Trundle, Miss Cooper.”

  Oh, my. Enid reached for the teapot, then recalled it was empty. “My lord?”

  “Shall I make further inquiries on your behalf? He’s persistent and has the look of a seasoned soldier not about to give up the campaign.”

  What a charming—and slightly alarming—image, if it was accurate. “Thaddeus enjoys a full complement of determination.”

  Enid cast around for something to say that would obscure her use of a gentleman’s Christian name over her morning tea. If she’d stayed tucked up in her room, a tot of Dr.
Melvin Giles’s Root Juice and Tincture of Everlasting Health in her tea, then this entire uncomfortable discussion might not be taking place.

  But then, neither would Enid have the image of dear Thaddeus, battling his way across the ballrooms to gain a waltz with her.

  Or two waltzes, in one evening. Twice now.

  Or perhaps it was three times. All that waltzing made a woman so muddled she couldn’t keep her evenings straight.

  “I will have my men of business make the usual discreet inquiries and post a suitable endorsement to your brother.” His lordship patted Enid’s hand, the gesture suggesting a familial interest in her situation.

  The earl went back to his toast, as if family confidences over breakfast were nothing unusual, as if he were indeed the MacGregor patriarch, and Enid his honored guest. Such consideration of a mere, retiring maiden aunt could only bode well for Hannah.

  ***

  “You aren’t eating enough.”

  In response to that observation, Hannah beamed up at her dance partner with what she hoped looked like great good cheer as opposed to an urge to throttle the man.

  “I’m trying to fit into the dresses you had me buy in such quantity.”

  Balfour’s answering smile held a daunting quantity of genuine concern for her. “I didn’t force you to buy dresses that don’t fit, Hannah Cooper. If you think for one moment I endorse the contortion of women’s waists into impossibly small dimensions simply to make their bosoms look larger by comparison, you are much mistaken about this too.”

  About this too?

  They were in the middle of a London ballroom, and there were limits to how much trouble Hannah could get into simply by being honest.

  “Would you care to elaborate? This is the supper waltz, and we’ll have time to go at least another two rounds on the topics of your choice.”

  This was how she managed now, by dodging him at meals or dodging meals altogether, needling him when they had to be together, and dropping into bed each night too exhausted to torment herself with wishes that would never come true.