A Scandalous Scot (31 page)

She’d never considered she would fall in love with the very surprising Earl of Denbleigh.

He’d been pleasant and personable to everyone at Ballindair. The maids sighed after him. The footmen, stable lads, and farm boys used him as an example of how to act. He allowed her the freedom to say whatever she wished, witness her comments a few moments ago.

She’d expected him to dismiss her words, to be angry. Instead, he’d looked thoughtful for a moment, then simply nodded and asked for the ledger.

Not an autocrat at all, but a man capable of learning, and being kind, witness the night he’d fed her, warmed her, then loved her, the joy of that coupling still causing her to sigh. And all the nights since, when she’d lost herself to their lovemaking.

She moved until her cheek rested on the back of a cooler hand. Perhaps it would be just as well if she didn’t think of the last fortnight right now.

She was too close to tears, and for once her sorrow had nothing to do with the past.

S
tanding at the doorway of Seath’s sitting room and looking at the man propped up in bed, Morgan felt the bite of shame.

He should have known about Seath’s decline.

He’d never seen anyone’s appearance change so drastically in two weeks. Seath was now cadaverlike, the spark of life within him blazing defiantly through his bright eyes.

Because of his length of service to the MacCraigs, and due to his elevated stature as the steward of Ballindair, Seath’s accommodations were large, the suite equal to one occupied by important guests.

Morgan crossed the room, moving to sit on a straight chair beside Seath’s bed.

Jean had seen, had known, and had cared. How much of the steward’s duties had she taken on while he acted like a self-indulgent ass?

Perhaps she was right, and he was more like Catriona than he was comfortable acknowledging.

Mr. Seath struggled to sit upright, but Morgan placed his hand on the other man’s shoulder, easing him back against the pillow.

Had someone been assigned to care for the man? Why wasn’t anyone at the door? Or in his suite, to fetch what he wanted? He knew he could at least ensure that someone was at Seath’s side at all times.

“Your Lordship,” the steward said, in a voice so frail Morgan had to lean forward to hear it. “Forgive me. I fear you see me at my worst. Could we meet tomorrow, instead?”

Even now Seath’s pride prevented him from acknowledging the truth of his illness. Or perhaps it wasn’t pride, but fear. He might have felt the same if he stared Death in the face.

“No,” Morgan said, placing the ledger on the side of the bed. “I want nothing from you but for you to rest.”

Seath glanced down at the ledger. A faint smile wreathed his grayish lips.

“She told you.”

Morgan nodded.

“She’s an exceedingly stubborn woman, Your Lordship,” Seath said. “She would assist me no matter what I said.”

“I have experienced a little of that obstinacy.” The two men shared a smile. “Have you the strength to teach me what I need to know?” he asked, clasping the man’s trembling hand in his own.

The older man closed his eyes and lay like that for a moment. Death was too close, waiting at the threshold or perched on the windowsill.

“I can think of no one better suited to care for Ballindair,” Seath said, opening his eyes.

The steward smiled again, an expression piercing Morgan with regret.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, feeling inept and powerless. “I’ll summon a physician.”

Seath raised his hand off the bed. For a moment it hovered in the air, trembling, before it fell back to the sheet.

“Her ladyship has already arranged for a physician, sir,” he said in a faltering voice. “There is little he can do, however.”

“You’ll outlive us all,” Morgan said.

Seath’s glance was filled with gentle chiding, enough that Morgan didn’t say another word.

The awkward silence was broken by Mrs. MacDonald’s strident voice.

“Mr. Seath, we have a situation.”

Morgan looked up at the ceiling, a mirror of Jean’s expression, caught himself and sent Seath a rueful smile.

Mrs. MacDonald was upon them before he could stand, hide behind the armoire, or do something equally furtive to escape her.

Chapter 29

RULES FOR STAFF:
Your person and your appearance shall, at all times, mirror the high standards of Ballindair.

H
ow the hell had he been talked into mitigating a dispute between his housekeeper and his best friend?

Morgan stood at the doorway of Andrew’s room, Mrs. MacDonald beside him. Next to her was a sobbing maid and two of her friends.

“Your watch is missing,” Morgan said.

“Not exactly,” Andrew said. “I believe my watch was stolen.”

Morgan pushed back his irritation. Andrew wouldn’t have offended him so greatly without good measure. Even so, he wished his friend had come to him rather than make a public pronouncement, involve Mrs. MacDonald, and accuse one of the maids.

The staff at Ballindair was known for its honesty. He would tolerate no less. Besides, being a thief guaranteed dismissal, and work was not that plentiful in the Highlands that anyone would willingly turn their back on employment.

“Are you certain it’s been stolen?” Morgan asked. “Could you not have simply misplaced it?”

“We’ve looked everywhere, Your Lordship,” Mrs. MacDonald said. “The watch is not to be found within Mr. Prender’s suite.”

“Then there’s nothing more to be done,” Morgan said. “You’ll need to search the servants’ quarters.”

She nodded once, looking as unhappy as he felt about that pronouncement. If Andrew’s watch hadn’t been stolen, and the search revealed no sign of it, they’d all have to deal with an irritated staff.

A Highland servant and one from London were a great deal alike. They had a sense of their own worth coupled with a certain arrogance. The employer who offended his servants could guarantee himself boiler problems, inedible food, and clothing with too much starch.

Not to mention all the glowering and grumbling could get on one’s nerves.

He’d once attended a country weekend at the Duchess of Marsham’s home. Her majordomo, a man imported from London, had gotten his nose out of joint. Undoubtedly for some imagined infraction, since the duchess was known for her cordial nature. All weekend the man could be heard sniffing and grumbling at the maids, directing the footmen hither and yon, and generally making life miserable for the guests, all with perfect decorum.

Morgan could only imagine what the staff at Ballindair would do.

Mrs. MacDonald turned, and with the three upstairs maids in tow, headed for the servants’ stairs.

“I hope to God there’s no truth to your accusation,” he said, turning to Andrew.

Andrew’s face, normally amused even in repose, reflected a gravity Morgan had rarely seen.

“What will happen to the thief?”

“Shouldn’t you have thought of that before you made your accusations so public?”

“It was my father’s watch, Morgan,” Andrew said.

He nodded, remembering it well.

“Do you have anyone in mind?” he asked, not liking the feeling he was getting.

Andrew merely shrugged. “It was someone,” he said.

“I hope you realize this is no game, Andrew. Nor is it a way to convince a maid to come to your bed. She’ll be fired.”

Andrew only nodded, turned and entered his room, closing the door behind him.

Morgan stared at the closed door for a moment. Should he challenge Andrew? Or call off the search? No, it was too late for that.

Andrew had been his friend for years. But he’d seen him less in the last two weeks than he’d seen Mrs. MacDonald, and he avoided her when he could.

When they did meet, their conversation was stilted. Andrew wasn’t interested in anything regarding Ballindair, Morgan’s heritage, or Scotland.

Instead, he seemed determined to bring up the past on every occasion. Morgan didn’t care to occupy his time with reminiscences of Lillian or London.

The past was the past, his mistakes glaring and immutable. Focusing on those, however, would draw his eyes away from the promise of the future, and the enjoyment of the present.

The boy he’d been was fading like a specter. He was no longer that child. His life had been marked by both successes—such as his work at the distilleries—and failures, such as his marriage.

He could do nothing about disappointing his father. Nor could he re-create those days of innocent joy when the world was at his feet and he believed he could effortlessly achieve his father’s greatness.

The challenge was to make something of his life as it was now, neither based on his father’s expectations nor his own childish ones.

He had the sudden, uncomfortable thought that Andrew belonged in the past, and wouldn’t be a friend to the man he now truly wished to be.

“I
didn’t do it, Mrs. MacDonald. I swear. I’d never take anything belonging to someone else. I swear.”

Donalda’s voice kept rising in tone and strength, accompanied by tears. Not only was she weeping, but so was every other maid at Ballindair. They knew Donalda’s circumstances only too well. Banishment from Ballindair meant certain starvation for her family.

Mary MacDonald nodded, sadness filling her heart. Of all the girls on staff, Donalda was the easiest to manage. She’d always taken direction well, had endeavored to please, and was a hard worker.

Mary hated this part of her position.

She looked down at Mr. Prender’s watch in her hand. They’d found it below Donalda’s pillow, as if the girl had kept it close to marvel at the intricacy of the gold case and the diamonds sprinkled over the face.

If the girl had truly stolen the watch, she’d have hidden it in a better place, planned to take it to Inverness to sell. The proceeds would’ve kept her family in food for a year. Instead, the watch had been too easily found and now she must be dismissed from Ballindair.

There was no other choice.

Mary looked up to find her niece standing at the end of the hall. Catriona smiled, nodded at her, then disappeared down the main staircase, giving Mary the impression she was utterly pleased with what had just transpired.

The housekeeper wanted to cry.

“I didn’t do it, Mrs. MacDonald,”

Mary had her doubts as well, but the rules were there for a reason. If she kept Donalda on, her own credibility would be weakened. Nor did she think it would do any good to appeal to the earl for clemency, not when the theft involved his friend.

She was, however, going to remember Catriona’s pleased and self-satisfied expression.

How foolish did Catriona think everyone was? Did she think brownies washed the linens in Mr. Prender’s room? All of them, with the exception of Jean, and perhaps the earl, knew she was spending all her free time with Andrew Prender. They were not discussing literature or the goings-on in London in his room.

Regrettably, she’d have to dismiss Donalda. But there must be something she could do for the family. Because of Mr. Seath’s worsening condition, she didn’t feel right going to him for assistance.

There was only one person who could help: the new Countess of Denbleigh.

W
hen she was a maid, Jean had been given a task and expected to perform it to the best of her ability. Her work, as she’d been lectured, was a demonstration of both her diligence and her attitude.

Every morning, she’d begun her day with a challenge to herself. How could she be better at her tasks than the day before? How could she learn more, do more, and be more valuable in her position? Even the laundry had been a learning experience.

The life of a maid was less complex and, strangely, more rewarding than the life of a countess. The seamstress was in the process of making more clothes for her than she’d ever owned. She had jewelry—Morgan had insisted she keep the MacCraig clan brooch, and several pairs of earrings belonging to his mother. To her great dismay, he had settled an amount of money on her, money that was even now sitting in the drawer of the bureau. What did she need to buy? All she had to do was look around her and her every wish was fulfilled.

Yet the art and the treasures of Ballindair meant nothing to her. Perhaps she would have felt more of an acquisitive glee if she hadn’t cleaned those statues, dusted those gilt frames, and polished that silver.

The only thing she prized about being a countess was sharing Morgan’s bed. But for the ability to touch him, love him, and share her thoughts with him, she would happily go back to being a maid.

The man she was on her way to see would have been pleased if she did. Or if she’d never married Morgan.

Andrew had set up his chair and easel on the west lawn, having evidently tired of Catriona as a subject. Perhaps the mountains in the distance lured him more than her sister, or, like the rest of them, he was simply tired of Catriona’s machinations.

The day was bright and sunny with not a cloud in sight, which might explain why he was taking advantage of the respite from rain and painting here.

She studied him for a few moments, then resolutely made her way in his direction. She didn’t like Andrew Prender, a confession she’d not made to another soul. There was something grating about the man. Every time he addressed her, she had the impression he was laughing at the fact Morgan had married a maid.

Or perhaps he simply thought her beneath him.

Jean wished the seamstress had finished with another one of her new dresses. As it was, she was wearing the same thing she’d worn the day before. Soon, it would become like a uniform. If not similar in style to her maid’s attire, then worn as often.

At least the dress wasn’t a solid color, but an emerald stripe with a small contrasting ribbon of brown. The bodice buttoned up the front, and the buttons were rosettes carved from bone.

Andrew looked up as she approached, put his brush down in the tray of the easel and smiled a welcoming smile.

She wished she could accept the sincerity of it, but she didn’t trust the man.