The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae (10 page)

Jessup tipped his head toward her, then looked at Dominic and grimaced. “Everywhere, they are. They've got men watching every posting inn, literally hanging about in the yard with nothing to do but watch every single carriage and check every single passenger. We chatted with the ostlers at a few places—seems other men, some nobs, came around before dawn asking questions about anyone spotting a young lady with red-gold hair.”

Dominic glanced at Angelica, saw her grimace. “What was the outcome?”

“Well, o'course, they've had no sightings, so they've left men watching, but one of the ostlers told me he'd heard from one of the guards coming down on the mail that there were men checking as far out as Buntingford. That's three stages. No carriage could do that distance, not without stopping to change horses.”

“What about the roads west and east?” Dominic asked.

“Same story. They've got men watching up to three stages out.” Jessup glanced at Angelica. “Your family seems determined not to lose you.”

She lifted both hands, palms out. “If you knew them, you wouldn't be surprised.” She looked at Dominic. “Is there any chance of going south and around?”

Dominic glanced at Jessup.

Who shook his head. “We checked that, too, but they've got even that covered. I did wonder if, on horseback and at night, it'd be possible to slip through and head cross-country for a-ways, but even to do that, you'd have to pass several posting inns before you reach open fields, and they've got watchers in those yards, and at night, most like, they'd hear the hoofbeats on the cobbles and come out to check. Too risky all around.” Jessup grimaced again. “Long and the short of it, they've got all of London locked down tight, and no way to get out.”

Angelica blinked. “No way to get out—not if you're a young lady with red-gold hair.”

Jessup frowned, nodded. “Aye—that's it.”

Slowly, she smiled, then looked at Dominic. “I believe I know how we can slip out of London.”

“I
don't like it.” An hour later, having dismissed Jessup and Thomas, both of whom had demonstrated an unhelpful susceptibility to a pair of green-gold eyes fired with enthusiasm, Dominic was fighting a rearguard action. And losing. “Even with the disguise, it's too dangerous. We can't risk them spotting you.”

He
couldn't risk her family sighting her and hauling her out of his hold.

He was pacing behind his desk; he rarely paced, but she'd driven him to it. He'd even resorted to a scowl, much good had that done him. Others quaked; she seemed utterly immune.

She was pacing, too, sweeping back and forth on the other side of the desk, her vibrant female energy causing him even more problems. Fully half of him wanted to forget the argument, round the desk, and embark on an entirely different sort of exchange.

In reply to his assertion, she waved dismissively. “You can't simply say you don't like it—not unless you come up with a better plan.”

And that was the rub; he couldn't. Her plan—the one he'd at one stage found himself drawn into helping her embellish—was so damned unlikely it just might work.

“I concede that we'll have to wait until they pull back the family's own men from watching at the inns—that would be too dangerous. As I ride all the time, whether in the country or here, I doubt there's a groom or stable lad, or even a gardener from any of the households, who wouldn't know me by sight.”

That was a concession; she'd started out wanting to leave tomorrow.

He halted. If he didn't get her to sit down, this wasn't going to end the way she thought it would. In fact, it was going to have to end the way she hoped so that it wouldn't end any other way. Swinging to face her, he waited until she glanced up, saw him looking at her, took in his expression, and came to an abrupt halt herself.

“What?”

He pointed to the armchair, reached for his desk chair. “Sit. And let's see if we can hammer out the details.”

Her smile of triumph was a wonder to behold. She dragged the armchair closer to the desk, then, with a swish of her skirts, sat on its edge, spine poker-straight, enthusiasm and more lighting her eyes, her whole countenance. “I was just thinking that, given we need to return with the goblet by the first of next month, perhaps we should work out how long we can afford to wait in town before making our move.”

Telling himself that her use of
“we”
and
“our”
was worth the cost, he sat in his chair and, across the desk, met her gaze. “Even if we take the mail, it'll still be a minimum of seven days traveling to the castle.”

“And, therefore, back.”

He nodded. “We have a bare four weeks in hand, so that's two of those weeks fully accounted for. In addition . . .” He glanced at the papers piled on his desk, thought, then shook his head. “I can't pass through Edinburgh without dealing with some of these—they won't wait. That will take . . . at least another day, possibly two.”

“We'll have to stop in Edinburgh, anyway.” When he looked at her, she waved at herself. “Gowns. I'll need gowns for traveling on from there, and for later. I can't arrive at the castle with no appropriate changes of attire.”

He frowned. “As we need to spend days here waiting for your family to ease back enough to allow us through, you could get gowns here.”

“I can't. Anything decent will need to be fitted, and there's not a single London modiste worth her salt who won't recognize me and promptly send the bill to my father. Besides, when I consent to become your countess, I'll need a modiste in Edinburgh—I can use the opportunity to try some out, and there's no reason I can't wait until then to get more gowns . . . in fact, it would be preferable. We won't want the extra luggage while traveling on the mail.” She widened her eyes at him. “I'm perfectly certain you know the directions of any number of modistes in Edinburgh.”

His face utterly impassive, in a bland, emotionless voice, he said, “There are several in Edinburgh whom I've heard described as exceptional.”

“Indeed?”

He could hear the impertinence hovering on her tongue: How did he come to know which modistes in Edinburgh were exceptional?

But she thought better of it and simply smiled. “So, how many days does that leave us?”

“Allowing a day leeway for each of the journeys, plus two days in Edinburgh . . . that leaves us ten days in all.”

“Ten days we can divide between here, waiting for the men in my family to call off their high alert, and the castle, convincing your mother that I'm ruined and getting back the goblet.” Propping her elbow on the desk, setting her chin in that hand, she tapped one slender finger across her lips . . . drawing his gaze to the full, ripe curves. “How long do you think we should allow for the latter?”

He blinked, had to think to remember what her “latter” was. “I haven't the faintest notion. Mirabelle might take one look at you, be utterly satisfied, and race off to fetch the goblet. More likely she'll want at least a few days to absorb and reassure herself that you're real, that I've actually brought her what she demanded.” After a moment, he said, “We might have more luck defining how long your family can keep their men at the inns. You know their households. How long can they operate stripped of most men? How long before they're forced to cease and desist?”

“That's not going to depend on the lack of male staff so much as on how long the ladies in the family take to persuade the men to listen to reason and accept that I am, as I've told them, safe, but . . .” Her eyes on his, she considered, weighed. “I should send another letter at some point—not tomorrow, that would be too soon, but perhaps the day after—to help things along, but . . . three or four days?”

“As you mentioned, even once they do pull back, we should assume that they'll enlist the posting-house owners and staff to keep their eyes peeled for you by offering a sizeable reward.”

“Indeed, but that's where my disguise will come in. But timing-wise, if we wait for four days, then depart on the mail, that will still leave us six days in which to convince your mother that I'm ruined.”

He stared at her, at her eager eyes. “No. I don't want to risk being premature and learning too late that your family's still watching. We'll wait here for five days. Today's the second of the month. We'll leave on the night mail to Edinburgh on the evening of the sixth.” If he didn't get her safely out of London, nothing else would matter. “That will leave us five days to convince my mother and reclaim the goblet.”

She studied his face, then nodded. “Five days should be enough.”

He got the distinct impression that she was thinking, making plans about something, but before he could probe, her expression brightened.

“Now—for my disguise.” She waved beckoning fingers. “Two sheets of paper, if you please—I need to make two lists.”

Bemused, he complied, then watched her busily write Youth's Clothes at the top of one sheet.

“All right. If I'm supposed to be a respectable youth traveling north with my tutor, I'll need a shirt, breeches, jacket, and neck cloth. And perhaps a greatcoat, given we're going all the way to Edinburgh.” She neatly wrote the requirements on the sheet. “Now . . .” Studying the list, she tapped the end of the pen against her lower lip, distracting him again, then she glanced down at her feet. “My feet are so small, getting boots might be difficult. Perhaps I should wear hose and shoes?”

He blinked. “Boots. No hose.” Deciding he wasn't up to explaining the significant visual difference between her exposed calves and ankles and those of any youth, he added, “I'll go with Griswold. We'll find boots for you somewhere.”

She nodded and bent to make another note on the list, leaving him staring at her shining hair, at her bright, so highly identifiable, crowning glory. As if sensing his regard, she said, “And a hat, of course. I'm sure Griswold will know what sort, but it must be sufficient to cover my hair completely.”

And shade as much of her face as possible, including those far too feminine lips. No youth ever born had lips like hers, another point he wasn't about to mention.

“Right.” She blotted the list, then presented it to him. “See if there's anything I've missed.” Dipping the pen in the ink again, she wrote on the second sheet Things I Need Now. Catching him looking, she said, “These are personal items I'll need in addition to my disguise. If Brenda could go out this afternoon and fetch these, I'll be able to manage well enough for the moment.”

Leaving her to compose that list unassisted, he gave his attention to the other. Noted that she'd included an extra linen band, possibly a cravat; he was about to ask what she wanted that for when he realized. He looked at her breasts, tried to imagine . . . shook his head and refocused on the list. One pair of silk drawers was also, sensibly in his view, listed.

He closed his eyes, tried to imagine how a woman dressed as a man might look, ended up thinking of the necessary steps to undress said woman . . . he opened his eyes as she sat back, apparently satisfied with her list of personal items.

He tossed the Youth's Clothes list toward her. “Belt, and gloves. You'll need to cover your hands.”

“Ah! Thank you.” She pounced on the list and made the additions.

When she finished, he reached out and took it from her. “Griswold and I will see what we can find for you tomorrow. The boots will be the most difficult, but we'll manage something.” He already knew that her feet, like her hands, were small and delicate; he'd been able to circle her ankle with the fingers of one hand.

“Excellent.” Eyes shining, she propped both elbows on the desk, laced her fingers, and rested her chin on them. “Now, how do we go about procuring passage on the night mail to Edinburgh?”

He thought of resisting and sending her off, but he wasn't quite sure how. Telling himself it was so close to luncheon that there was no point trying to return to his papers when he'd be interrupted again so soon, he surrendered and let her quiz him. As he was learning to expect, once she grasped the basic approach, she made several sensible suggestions as to how to best avoid her family's notice should they think to check the mail's passenger lists, suggestions he accepted without argument.

“Well,” she said, apparently finally satisfied. Smiling, she met his gaze. “Now all we have to decide is how to fill in our time from now until the evening of the sixth.”

He looked into her eyes, and couldn't tell whether she was teasing or not.

Chapter Five

I
t was, Dominic thought, like learning to hunt a new type of game. One had to learn the quarry's habits, all the nuances of their behavior; one had to learn to read the signs.

All of which was even more critical if the hunter suspected he might, at some point, discover himself the hunted.

That evening, as he held the chair at the foot of the table in the breakfast room for Angelica—he'd seen no point in opening up the huge dining room—he looked down at the glossy curls tumbling from a knot on the top of her head, at the expanse of creamy skin exposed by the continued absence of her fichu, and suspected that his hunter's instincts weren't wrong in their unabated insistence that he should be wary of her and her motives.

Once she sat, he walked down the table and took his own seat as Mulley, assisted by Brenda, brought in the soup course. They came to serve him first, but he waved them to Angelica.

And watched as she, with bright eyes and smiles, charmed them. Neither Mulley nor Brenda was an easy mark, yet both had appreciably thawed toward . . . the lady who, regardless of her present intransigence, would shortly be their mistress. He didn't know why she'd put off accepting that part of his bargain, but he entertained no doubt that she eventually would. He didn't know what game she was playing, but equally didn't doubt that at some point she would tell him.

As for his staff, regardless of her timetable, it was shrewd of her to make them hers. After Mulley and Brenda had served him, Dominic dismissed them and lifted his spoon.

For a minute, he and Angelica supped in silence, then she glanced up the table. “You said the castle was huge—do you have a large staff?”

He took another spoonful of the creamy soup, then said, “Your cousin, St. Ives—think of his country house, of the number of staff required to run it, then double that number.”

“That many?”

“Not, of course, because we actually need that many, but it's a case of more hands make lighter work, and it's a way to . . .” He couldn't immediately think of the right words.

“Keep people busy in a way that makes them feel they contribute to the clan?”

“Yes.” After a moment, he went on, “Brenda, for instance. She lost her husband in an accident five or so years ago. The castle's housekeeper, Mrs. Mack, decided she could do with another upstairs maid, so Brenda came to live and work in the castle.”

“So she's not just a pensioner thinking herself a drain on the clan.”

He nodded; soup finished, he sat back and studied her. They'd lunched in this room, then he'd stated he'd had business to attend to in the library . . . he'd been a little surprised that she'd allowed him to escape. But she had, and, he now suspected, had spent the afternoon with his people instead.

She finished her soup just as Brenda returned to whisk the soup plates away, while Mulley brought in the first course.

As if to confirm where she'd been that afternoon, Angelica exclaimed over the fish, complimenting Brenda, who was doubling as cook. Preening, Brenda withdrew. Mulley was smiling as he served the dish.

Dominic considered Mulley's smile, saw the pleasure and pride his majordomo took in performing the minor duty. He, himself, knew how to gain respect and inspire loyalty, but he was a man; he didn't have the appreciative knack Angelica clearly had.

He'd assumed that a spoiled, pampered, ton beauty wouldn't so easily bridge the social divide . . . but then Cynster young ladies were doubtless reared to manage ducal mansions and the like.

When they were once more alone, she glanced up the table. “Mulley told me he's your majordomo. Do you have a separate butler at the castle?”

“No, Mulley performs those duties when necessary.”

Angelica gave her attention to the fish and to considering what next to ask him. She'd spent the afternoon in the kitchen, helping Griswold, Dominic's valet, polish the silver cutlery they were using; rather than immediately push the master further, she'd elected to get a better idea of his staff. Wisely, as it had transpired.

Thinking of what she'd learned, she looked at Dominic. “Clan staff aren't the same as . . . well, staff normally found in English households, are they?”

He arched a brow. “I wouldn't know. Tell me.”

She frowned. “The interaction between master and staff is different. Your clan folk don't behave as if they're your equal, yet neither are they as . . . I suppose the word is subservient, as English staff.” She paused, then offered, “The hierarchy is much less marked.”

He nodded. “The word
master
to us is more equivalent to ‘leader,' not ‘owner.' ”

“Yes. That's it in a nutshell.” Returning her attention to her plate, she applied herself to consuming the delicious sole, pleased to have had her observations and deductions confirmed. While she might not yet have agreed to be his countess, she wasn't foolish enough to pass up the chance to learn from the small staff he'd brought to London before finding herself swamped by the clearly much larger castle staff.

With luck, the less rigid separation between master and staff would allow her to achieve more than she otherwise might have during the days of their enforced sojourn in the capital.

Brenda arrived to remove the plates. As soon as Mulley carved the roast beef, served them, then withdrew, Angelica caught Dominic's eye. “I outlined our plan for getting to Edinburgh to your people—they all thought it inspired. Griswold is putting his mind to what style of clothes will best disguise me as a youth. Meanwhile, have you thought of any reason to change our minds about leaving on the sixth?”

He stilled. “No. Have you?”

“No—I just wanted to confirm the date.” She waved at the platters before them. “Brenda needs to know to get in the right amount of food.”

That she was thinking of household logistics and had talked of their plan to his staff slew the last lingering uncertainty lurking at the back of Dominic's mind; she wasn't going to suddenly realize just what she was doing, balk, and demand to go home.

She knew
precisely
what she was doing, what she'd agreed to, and was marching ahead with what he was starting to suspect was her typical confidence.

He chewed, swallowed, then volunteered, “The Edinburgh mail leaves from the Bull and Mouth, near Aldersgate, at eight in the evening. We can dine at the inn so Brenda and the others won't have to feed us here, then rush to get packed and across London.”

“That would definitely be best.”

“I'll send Jessup and Thomas to Aldersgate tomorrow morning to secure our seats. Thomas can buy the papers for us—you and me—as if he's a footman in some lord's household, then Jessup can secure the other five seats, the two left inside and the three up top. Other than the coachman and guard, we'll have the coach to ourselves.” Thinking further, he added, “We should arrive at the Bull and Mouth separately, too.” He met her gaze. “I'm in favor of doing anything and everything we can to throw your family off the scent.”

She smiled in agreement. “It's like a real-life game of hide-and-seek.”

“I'm hoping that by then they'll be seeking elsewhere.”

“Griswold said he'll hold himself ready to accompany you tomorrow morning.” As if unaware of any temerity in thus organizing his day for him, she went on, “If you manage to gather all that's required for my disguise, and Jessup and Thomas are successful in their quest, then by lunchtime tomorrow we'll have everything we need to slip past my brothers and cousins and successfully reach Edinburgh.”

Her confidence—shining in her eyes, in her expression—was contagious. He felt his lips ease. “With luck, we will.”

While Mulley cleared the table, and Brenda carried in a flummery and served them, Angelica blithely informed him of her preference in colors, the quality of fabrics, and sundry other details he was, apparently, required to bear in mind when shopping for her disguise. He contemplated telling her he would remember none of it and recommending she tell Griswold instead, but didn't. By and large he had a better memory than his valet, and . . . he was unabashedly intrigued by how she—and apparently Griswold, too—imagined they were going to effectively disguise such a vibrantly, elementally feminine person as a youth. He had to believe they knew what they were doing, that they would pull it off, at least well enough for their purposes, but as she talked and waved her hands, with eyes, expression, and gestures all so innately female, he suddenly realized that no matter how brilliantly effective her disguise, he, and his libido, wouldn't be fooled. Not in the least.

And he, and his increasingly overactive libido, would be sitting next to her all the way to Edinburgh.

His inner frown must have shown in his eyes. She stopped talking and looked questioningly at him.

He shifted, pushed back his chair. They'd both finished their dessert. “I . . .” Rising, he looked down the table at her. “There are documents I need to deal with in the library.”

Laying aside her napkin, she smiled and rose, too. “Yes, of course.”

He'd assumed that, as she had after luncheon, she would part from him in the corridor and go off somewhere, perhaps to the sitting room upstairs, but no. Blithely talking about Scotland in general, informing him she'd never been further north than Edinburgh, she led the way to the library, opened the door, and swept in ahead of him.

He halted on the threshold, then, lips firming, stepped inside and shut the door.

She'd paused to glance around the room. Now she picked up the candelabra left on the table by the door and started strolling down the shelves, deeper into the room, scanning the books' spines.

He inwardly sighed. “What are you looking for?” He would help her find it; the sooner she did, the sooner she would leave.

“I'm just looking.” Without glancing back, she waved him away. “Don't mind me. I won't disturb you.”

The look he cast her held equal parts disbelief and resignation. He hesitated, then walked to the desk. The contracts and orders he'd been working on through the afternoon lay waiting. He adjusted the flames of the desk lamps Mulley had lit earlier but had left turned low, then he sat and attempted to focus his mind on the intricacies of running the Guisachan estate and the numerous businesses associated with it.

Somewhat to his surprise, he succeeded. At first.

When the clocks chimed, and he realized half an hour had passed, he glanced up—and discovered Angelica curled sideways in one of the armchairs across from the desk, a footstool she must have unearthed from under one of the holland covers propping up her small feet. Her gaze was fixed on the pages of a massive red leather-bound tome she was holding balanced on her lap.

Her absorption was complete; she didn't notice or react to his gaze.

Which left him free to indulge in a perusal he'd been reluctant to attempt before. Slowly, he let his gaze travel from the crowning glory of her hair, noting the coppery-red glints gleaming amid the gold, over her face, features relaxed and . . . angelically perfect. Visually, she was well named. Her finely arched brown brows elegantly framed her eyes, large and well set, presently downcast as she read, the fringe of her long, lightly curling lashes casting lacy shadows across her delicately molded cheekbones.

Her nose was small but uncompromisingly straight, her lips the very opposite; lush, the upper well-bowed, the lower distractingly full, those lips were temptation incarnate, promising all manner of sensual delights.

Overall, her face was an oval, her chin, presently in repose, a sculpted curve, but he'd seen that chin firm, knew it could.

His gaze drifted lower, down the long sweep of her throat, over the links of her curious necklace to the ripe swell of her breasts . . .

He told himself he should view her dispassionately, that he could be excused for being curious enough to gauge her attractions against those of the highland, lowland, and society beauties he'd bedded . . . but all those others had faded from his memory; he couldn't dredge up any visions to compare to the angel curled in the armchair.

And
dis
passion wasn't a state to which he could lay claim, not while viewing her.

Resisting the urge to shift in his chair, to ease the discomfort that only increased as his gaze, beyond his control, skimmed further down, over the indentation of her waist, largely hidden by the drape of her gown, past the evocative swell of her hip and down the sleek length of her thigh, both outlined beneath the fine silk pulled taut by her position, he reminded himself that she'd committed herself to his plan, to their now shared enterprise . . . which meant that, ultimately, regardless of any quibble over timing, she would be his.

For the first time, he allowed that realization to fully form, to rise in his consciousness, then sink to his bones.

His instincts, still wary but now watchful, too, calmed.

Mentally shaking free of the spell, the entrancement she'd unwittingly cast, it occurred to him that perhaps he was more like his father than he'd thought.

Celia's daughter fascinated him in a way no other woman ever had. She was in truth like a bright and sparkling angel; she swooped and glided, and amused, entertained, and intrigued him. He couldn't recall ever before feeling a need to divine how a particular woman thought.

That left him wondering if the old saw “Like father, like son, like mother, like daughter” actually held true. He couldn't deny that the attraction he felt toward Celia's daughter held elements of enthrallment; he had no intention of falling victim to it, yet he knew the propensity was there.

A wise man acknowledged his weaknesses, at least to himself.

He was about to drag his gaze from his most recent weakness when the question of what subject had held her attention so thoroughly that she hadn't sensed his prolonged appraisal made him angle his head and focus on the gold lettering on the book's spine.