Betrayed (18 page)

“Better that, Mother, than having a reputation for poor judgment and poorer manners at a gaming table.”

Her neck flushed bright red, but it was the only outward sign of her displeasure. As quickly as it had come, her irritation fled. “I have an idea, and I cannot imagine why I did not think of it before.”

Foreboding settled over Michael. “What idea would that be, Mother?”

“You must find out who owns that townhouse she occupies. Have him cancel her lease. When she learns of the eviction, you can set her up in a residence in Henry's name. Nothing extravagant, though. She
is
a by-blow.”

Bewildered, Michael could think of nothing to say.

“If word gets out that you were involved, just deny it. The stain on your reputation will be nothing more than a smudge.”

For years Michael had led an honorable life. By example, he'd taught the young recruits under his command to do the same. “Stain or smudge, the answer is no.”

“I know it's a sacrifice, but this family would do no less for you.”

Michael's head began to pound. “Refresh my memory, Mother. What has this family done for me?”

As innocent as a spring lamb, she blinked. “We bought you that career, and as soon as this wretched business is behind us, I intend to find you an acceptable wife with a decent dowry.”

That prospect filled him with dread. “Yes,
well . . .” He searched for a way to change the subject, but how could he when he truly wanted to rail at his mother for her selfishness? Worse, how could he form the words to protest when he wanted Sarah for his own?

Lamely, he said, “If you will excuse me, I'll speak with Turnbull. When would you like to go to London?”

Flapping her silk handkerchief at any sign of dust, she flitted about the sitting room. “Tomorrow, if there's a ship with proper accommodations. I cannot abide a long coach ride or one of those leaky packets with rooms the size of wardrobes and no decent quarters for servants.”

“How many servants will you be taking?”

“Just Betsy and a footman, since we are near destitute. We'll need lodgings and money for bribes while we are there. Are you certain you can afford it?”

Accounting for himself was as awkward to Michael as taking orders from her, but if he did not offer an explanation, she might grow suspicious about his finances. Most of his wealth was always invested in cargoes, but if he needed money he could acquire it. He did not live extravagantly. He did not gamble, and he again grew bitter thinking about Henry wagering fifteen thousand pounds of Sarah's dowry. Most assuredly, Michael Elliot did not take money from women. If a man could not meet his obligations, he had no business acquiring them.

“You're not having second thoughts about my journey to London, are you, Michael?”

He considered going with her and confronting Henry in her presence. But he'd given his word to
Sarah, and he must look into the coal concern in Fife. “No, Mother. I'll send Turnbull around with the details and the money.” He headed for the door.

“I thought you were taking lunch with me?”

Michael had lost his appetite for more than food. “Have the cook pack up my share, and you can take it with you on the trip.”

“What a remarkable idea. The food on even the best of those ships is ghastly. Do find out about the owner of that townhouse of hers.”

Hurt and disheartened, Michael cursed himself for a silly, sentimental fool. With effort, he shelved his bruised feelings, bid his mother goodbye, and made his way to the Dragoon Inn. He considered going to church, but in his heart he knew even a blessing from the pope couldn't ease the grief that tainted his soul. He'd been born into a den of vipers who could not find their own way out. Duty demanded that he make an effort to redeem the Elliots. He owed it to Hamish Elliot and the grandmother who had tatted lace in a country house in Fife.

His brief experience with his mother and Henry told Michael the practice was futile, but he had to try. One day he'd bring children into the family, and he couldn't bear to think of them paying the price for sins committed by their selfish grandmother and weak uncle.

Relief came with the knowledge that Sarah had agreed to fetch Michael today and a good deed awaited. After his mother's vile company, he planned to sit back in Sarah's carriage and bask in her goodness.

At the corner of Pearson's Close and High Street he
spied a familiar figure. Over the swishing of the broom, the streetsweeper said, “The Highland lassie fair scorched you with her hot temper.”

Michael ignored the man. The last time he'd seen him, the laborer had been leaning on the lamppost near Sarah's and witnessing her angry tirade. That Michael had deserved her wrath only added to his discomfort. Recalling the moment, he knew he'd been wrong to accuse her, but Henry had sworn that Sarah had approached him with a proposal of marriage.

Unfortunately, Michael had believed him. Or had he merely been seeking a confirmation of his fondest wish—that she hadn't been in love with Henry?

No answer came, and he supposed it was guilt over his own growing affection for Sarah. Whatever the reason, Michael should not have voiced the accusation. He should have known better than to give her an excuse to drive him from her life.

Get out, you bletherin' Elliot!

“Even if you shoe every orphan in Christendom, she's too good for the likes o' the Elliots.”

To a man accustomed to commanding others, the insult felt like salt on an open wound. Michael whirled and faced the interfering Cholly. Again, he was struck by the strength and bearing of the man. Gazing into sharp blue eyes that did not fit the soot-stained face, Michael said, “Listen well, you ragged gossipmonger. Slander my name again—or Lady Sarah's—and I'll sweep up the streets with you.”

“Then you should call back the Complement. You'll need their help.”

A distance of 10 feet separated them, but Michael could feel the man's force of will. “You'd best guard your loose tongue, you doddering old fool.”

With a Scottish curse, the streetsweeper tossed off his blanket cape, drew himself up, and brandished the broom as if it were a staff. “Let's make a brawl of it.”

Michael reassessed the man. Oh, he could take the older fellow down, but it wouldn't be the one-sided fight he'd assumed. They stood before the tobacconist shop, where a crowd had begun to gather.

“Watch him, lads,” the streetsweeper addressed the onlookers. “If this Elliot ponders too long, the poltroon in him will prevail. Cowardice is the way of his clan.”

That did it. The anger that had been building in Michael since yesterday burst into full fury. By God, he wanted a fight. Yanking off his hat and cloak and tossing them to a man nearby, he began rolling up his sleeves, all the while glaring into the face of a man who glared back.

A voice in the crowd yelled, “Two o' my quid says Elliot'll be the last one standin'.”

“If you
had
two quid, I'd be takin' it,” came another voice. “Cholly knows what he's about.”

“Take the bugger, my lord.”

When they were within arm's length, Cholly swung the broom. Michael caught it in midair. Wrenching it from Cholly's hands proved no easy feat, but Michael's anger raged out of control. He twisted, seeking the better leverage point. Grunting, the streetsweeper did the same. Only the clash of power kept them upright. Quickness had always given Michael the advantage, and he used it to catch his heel in the bend of his opponent's knee. One kick and he'd have the man on his back.

“Here comes Lady Sarah!”

Both men froze. Cholly's fierce gaze flitted to the
sound of an approaching horse. Equally apprehensive, Michael looked there, too.

The pause aided the streetsweeper. He pushed Michael back and sneered. “What'll she think about catching you in a common street brawl, Elliot?”

She'd condemn him for a bully, an assessment he could not fault, Michael admitted. But the disastrous events of late had obliterated his good intentions. He looked back just as Cholly disappeared into an alleyway, his broom forgotten in the lane.

“Here's your hat and cloak, my lord,” said the man beside him, “although I cannot say you was the victor.”

Michael began righting his clothing, but his mind bounced between what Sarah would say and why he'd underestimated a simple streetsweeper.

9

S
arah led her horse into the parting crowd that filled Pearson's Close. In her left hand she clutched the leading reins to another mount. Michael stood head and shoulders above the onlookers. Behind him, the streetsweeper hurried away through the throng, his blanket cape flapping as he left the scene. She had heard the shouts of encouragement from the spectators but no explanation as to what had brought two such different men to blows.

Michael looked up, and his expression was reminiscent of a boy caught raiding the biscuit box.

Inordinately pleased, Sarah said, “I hope I haven't interrupted an important fight?”

“No.” He took great care adjusting his cockaded hat. “Only a minor disagreement.”

Guffaws sounded from the now-thinning crowd.

She took in his stiff countenance and tightly clenched jaw. “Then I hope I never see you truly angry.”

“An excellent way of thinking.” He glanced at the old mare. “What have you there?”

At his cockiness, she moved closer and tossed him the reins. “I promised to collect you today for our visit to the cobbler. Since I haven't a carriage, I acquired a fitting mount for you.”

The startled expression on his face was worth the trouble she'd encountered in finding the plodding draft horse.

Without the prospect of a brawl to occupy them, the spectators shared unkind remarks about the big brown horse.

“That will be all, gentlemen,” Michael announced. “You may take your leave.”

They grumbled good-naturedly, but obeyed him all the same. He did not dwell on the accomplishment; Michael Elliot appeared at ease ordering others about.

Walking around the hired mount, he shook his head and laughed without humor. “Your judgment in horses is exceeded only by your taste in prospective husbands.”

Except for the keepers of nearby shops, the lane was now empty of onlookers. “If you don't like the mare, you may ride my gelding.”

His gaze slid to her knee, which was hooked across the sidesaddle and draped with the folds of her riding skirt. His mood turned stormy.

Sarah waited, silently urging him to rail at her. He'd meddled in her life and toyed with her affections. She wanted a confrontation with him. Relieving him of his pride in Pearson's Close seemed a good place to start.

A moment later, he began to laugh in earnest. His shoulders heaved with the effort, and the exotic feather in his hat danced on air.

She bristled. “What's so funny?”

He dabbed tears from his eyes. “My life of late.”

Seeing that her carefully planned scheme was falling short of the mark, that Michael Elliot wasn't at all humiliated, Sarah took a different tack. “Do not expect me to feel sorry for you. You brought it on yourself.”

He laughed harder.

“I demand that you stop that this instant!”

Sniffling, his eyes squeezed shut, he continued to chuckle.

Her mount sidestepped. She drew rein and stroked the animal's neck to steady him. “What is wrong with you? Have you gone daft?”

“Quite possibly.” He looked skyward, but pointed to the mare. “Where did you find that tragic beast?”

Somewhat mollified, Sarah strove to appear innocent. “You are unhappy with the mount?”

A baleful stare lent elegance to his powerful frame. He drew on his gloves and scratched the horse's ears. “This beast was ancient in George the Second's time.”

Satisfaction poured over her until he said, “I'll walk this poor creature to the stables at the Inn and fetch my horse. You go along to the cobbler.”