The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae (18 page)

She gave a little hum in her throat, patted his chest lightly. He heard the sultry, well-pleased smile in her voice as she confessed, “So am I.”

It took a full minute for the connection between her question, his answer, and her response to register. Abruptly awake again, opening his eyes, he glanced down at her, but all he could see was her hat . . . had she really said what he thought she had?

Tipping his head back, he wrestled with that question—whether she'd meant
her
bed in
his
Edinburgh house, as distinct from
her
in
his
bed under the same roof . . . with her weight a soothing warmth against his side, he fell asleep.

L
ondon's bells were pealing the midnight hour when, having been summoned posthaste from a ball, Celia and Martin Cynster arrived on the doorstep of St. Ives House. Sligo, Devil's majordomo, opened the door before they reached it.

Ushering Celia inside, Martin fixed Sligo with a commanding glare. “What's happened?”

Sligo's lips twisted in sympathy. “News, but not of Miss Angelica—not as such.” He waved them down a corridor leading from the front hall. “His Grace and the others are waiting in the library.”

When Martin and Celia entered the long room, it was to discover that Sligo's “others” meant most of the family presently in London, barring only those of their grandchildren's generation. Even Aunt Clara and Therese, Lady Osbaldestone, were there.

“What is it?” Celia asked, unable to bear the suspense an instant longer. Sinking onto the chaise in the space Horatia and Helena made for her between them, she clutched their hands, one on either side, and fixed Devil, as usual seated behind his desk, with a determined look. “Just tell us, please, without any roundaboutation.”

Holding her gaze, clearly choosing his words, Devil said, “It's not necessarily bad news, but it is disturbing. I've waited for you to arrive so I can explain to everyone at the same time.” He picked up a letter. “I received this from Royce earlier this evening—he sent it by courier. He and Hamish finally located the band of reivers who had collected the body from the base of the cliff.” Devil raised his gaze from the letter. “Body. Singular. According to the reivers, there was only one body, no sign at all of a second, and by all accounts the body they found and conveyed to a magistrate for notification and burial was that of Scrope. From the descriptions we have of the laird, it definitely wasn't him.”

Silence reigned for a full minute, then—

“How the devil did he survive that fall, let alone walk away?” Jeremy Carling was dumbfounded. He glanced at Eliza, seated beside him. “We saw the cliff. We saw the laird disappear over the edge.” Looking back at Devil, he shook his head. “I can't see how he could have survived.”

Devil looked grim. “Royce went to the spot and found a narrow ledge, barely wide enough for a man to stand on, about twenty feet down. Royce thinks it's possible a man of immense strength, with significant experience of climbing sheer cliff faces, and absolute cold-blooded courage, could have managed it—and by the signs at the site, Royce is now convinced that the laird did, indeed, climb up and walk away.”

Tossing the letter on his desk, Devil glanced at the other men standing behind the chairs and propped against the bookcases.

It was Gabriel who ground out, “So the laird is still alive—still at large. Is it he who has kidnapped Angelica?”

No one answered, but then Helena, head tilted as she considered, said, “I am wondering if this piece of news has, perhaps, a golden lining.”

Devil looked at her. “It's usually silver, but I'll settle for gold. In what way?”

“Why”—hands rising expressively, Helena appealed to the ladies around her—“is it not true that whenever this laird has taken one of our girls, he has always given the so-strict orders that she is not to be harmed? Not in any way? So is it not reasonable to suppose that if it is indeed he who Angelica is with, that he will take excellent care of her?”

“Yes—you're right.” Celia seized on the point. “We don't know his motives, of course, but at least we know that much—she will be safe.”

The males of the family said not a word.

They did exchange glances.

“Dear Angelica's a survivor.” Aunt Clara reached across to pat Celia's hand. “She'll do.”

“Indeed, when has she not?” Lady Osbaldestone observed.

The ladies gathered around Celia, exchanging positive opinions on the likelihood of Angelica's being hale and unharmed.

“No matter how it appears, I—we—think she's definitely pursuing a goal of her own.” Eliza, chin firm, swept the faces of the older ladies, many of them among the most powerful in the ton. “When she disappeared, she was wearing the necklace from Catriona—the one supposed to assist us in finding our husbands, our heroes.” Eliza glanced at Henrietta, standing behind her mother, Louise. “Henrietta saw it.”

All gazes swung to Henrietta.

Louise reached back and caught one of Henrietta's hands. “How did she seem when you saw her?”

“She was in good spirits . . .” Henrietta frowned, glanced down, then touched the bridge of her nose, a habit when thinking. She looked at her mother, then at the others. “Actually, now I think of it, she was . . . well, hunting, for want of a better word. I don't know whom, but I got the distinct impression she had someone in her sights.”

The ladies exchanged glances, then Helena stated their collective thought. “That puts quite a different complexion on this episode, no?”

Horatia nodded. Celia did, too, even more definitely.

Heather and Eliza exchanged a vindicated glance.

Lady Osbaldestone thumped her cane. “If you want my opinion, I would have to say that if this laird has inveigled Angelica away, then it's
he
who should have a care for his future. She's neither a child, nor weak. Naturally one cannot approve of such a situation, but until we know her role in this drama—and I'm sure none of us will make the mistake of imagining her a passive pawn—then there's no reason I can see to panic, much less to lose hope.”

“Indeed.” Honoria nodded decisively. “We should wait on more certain news—preferably from her—before leaping to any conclusions.”

That decided, the ladies looked across the room at their menfolk, all gathered around Devil's desk, arguing the merits of this or that action.

Patience shook her head. “There's no point trying to make them see sense.”

“Sadly, no.” Alathea sighed. “We'll just have to leave them to run as they will. On a brighter note, out of all this, we'll get to see Phyllida and Alasdair's latest addition. Alasdair went home to fetch them both, and they're on their way up from Devon.”

While the ladies turned their minds to family matters, the gathering about the desk focused on the one new aspect that offered some hope after a week of totally futile searching. None of the men present were accustomed to failure, especially not when it came to protecting one of their own, and the laird had transgressed and successfully invaded their territory not just once but three times.

Feelings were running high.

“I accept that just because he's still alive, it doesn't necessarily follow that it was the laird who seized Angelica,” Vane said, “but for my money, it's him behind this.”

Devil nodded. “The coincidences are too many and too great to swallow. I believe we should assume that it is indeed he behind Angelica's kidnapping.”

“But
who
is he?” Gabriel growled. “And how could he have got his hands on Angelica?”

“Let's list what we know,” Vane suggested. “His description alone should make him stand out.”

“That and being a Scottish peer.” Devil glanced at the other men. “I suggest our first step in catching up with this gentleman is learning exactly who he is, and there aren't that many Scottish peers in town, or who might have been here recently, and every single one of them will be known to someone we know.”

Gabriel nodded. “I'll check my sources in the City.”

“I'll ask at the House of Lords,” Devil said.

“Meanwhile”—Demon exchanged a glance with Vane—“we'll check at the clubs.”

“Arthur, George, and I can help with that,” Martin said. “The older men might know of a younger nobleman not so well known in town.”

“And we”—Breckenridge looked at Jeremy and received a nod in reply—“will search everywhere else we can think of.”

Devil nodded. “If any of us discover a Scotsman fitting our man's description, don't engage. Send word here and we'll call a meeting to decide what our best—and most satisfying—course of action will be.”

The others all agreed.

Seeing their ladies preparing to depart, the men went to assist, all feeling rather better now that they had something to do that held real hope of catching up with their elusive enemy.

Chapter Nine

A
ngelica woke as dawn was painting the sky in washes of rose and gold. The others in the coach lay silent, still asleep. For long moments she listened to Dominic's heart thud softly beneath her ear, then she slowly eased his heavy arm from around her and sat up.

She straightened, stretched, settled her hat, then looked out of the window. Ahead to the right, the rock on which Edinburgh stood rose above the plain, its outline softened by wisps of mist wafting off the nearby firth. As she studied, assessed, expectation and enthusiasm, curiosity and interest stirred, then slowly welled.

Dominic shifted, then leaned nearer and looked past her shoulder. “Almost there.”

He drew back and she glanced at him. “You must be happy to see it again.”

“Truth to tell, I'm still struggling to accept that we've got this far without tripping over your family, either in person or via an agent or hireling.”

“I told you they'd never think of the mail.” For good reason; she felt literally rattled to her bones.

Turning back to the window, she watched the town draw nearer.

They swung under the arch of one of the main coaching inns a few minutes before seven o'clock. After tipping the coachman and guard, Dominic hefted his bag and joined an eager Angelica, waiting with the others in the street. In a group, they set off, walking up the rising street into Auld Town.

“This is South Bridge Street, isn't it?” Angelica asked.

He nodded. “You said you'd been here before.”

“With Mama and Papa for some social event—some old friends of theirs.” She looked around. “We weren't here long, but I remember this street, and the church with the big spire.” She pointed ahead. “What's it called?”

“Tron Kirk. It's on High Street. East to west, Cannongate, High Street, and Lawnmarket make up the main street, running from Holyrood Palace to the castle.”

She peppered him with questions as they strode up South Bridge Street, then turned right along High Street and continued on into Cannongate. She slowed to peer through shop windows; eventually waving the others on, he waited until, her curiosity appeased, she rejoined him. With more questions.

That he'd expected. What he hadn't anticipated was her energy, her enthusiasm, the unbridledness of her curiosity. Her interest radiated from her, lit her eyes and face . . . made him wonder if, now she'd decided to step past her nervous filly stage, if—

He cut off that line of thought. Later. He'd decided it would be later. Through the journey his libido had stepped back, giving way to the greater need to protect her; he didn't need it reemerging and slipping its leash now.

They reached the corner of Vallen's Close. He tipped his head down the street. “This way.”

Angelica followed him down the cobbled street. Eyes wide, she looked back, to the side, then forward again, taking in everything she could. No youth was likely to evince such open interest, but she no longer considered her disguise important. Not as important as learning and absorbing everything she could about Dominic's life.

The life that henceforth she would share.

The houses in Vallen's Close were the largest she'd thus far seen. She assumed they belonged to the aristocracy; the palace was not far away.

Halting before a grand old house, Dominic opened the gate set in the wrought-iron railings. He caught her eye, then walked up the short path and climbed the five steps to the raised stone porch. He waited until, eager to see what lay behind the dark oak front door, she joined him; he studied her for an instant, then reached for the latch—just as the door swung open.

A benevolently benign white-haired butler looked at Dominic and beamed. “Good morning, my lord. Welcome back.”

The simple joy in the words declared beyond question how Dominic's staff saw him.

“Thank you, MacIntyre.” Dominic glanced at Angelica. “And this is Miss Angelica Cynster.”

MacIntyre transferred his blue gaze to Angelica. Wishing she hadn't been dressed as a youth, she smiled and inclined her head. “MacIntyre.”

The butler's gaze remained on her face for an instant longer than it should have, but then a smile creased his cheeks and he bowed. “Welcome, Miss Cynster. We're delighted to welcome you to Glencrae House.”

Dominic waved her in. She crossed the threshold half expecting cobwebs and dust over everything. Instead the place was not just clean but polished; she smelled the lemony scent of good beeswax.

Looking around, eyes widening, she drew in a long breath, then slowly exhaled.
Oh, yes
! She could definitely see herself as mistress of this.

Walking forward several paces, then halting, she slowly pirouetted, taking in all aspects of the wide hall. MacIntyre quietly closed the door, then both he and Dominic stood watching her. She let her delight color her expression, let her pleasure light her eyes. “This is just
lovely
.”

The room was an exhibition of linen-fold paneling, and more generally of the woodcarver's art. A strip of plastered wall a yard wide ran between the upper edge of the paneling and the cornice, and that was filled with paintings and portraits in ornately carved gilded frames. Other than that, the walls were paneled or encased in wood in one way or another, and all the furniture—the central round table, the two high-backed chairs flanking the fireplace, and various side tables and wall tables—was of the same rich, glowing oak. The carving decorating the balustrade and newel posts of the wide stairs that led upward from the hall echoed the frieze decorating the mantelpiece.

Despite having so much wood of a single hue, the room was vibrant with color. A fire leapt in the grate, throwing golden light over jewel-toned tapestries and crimson velvet curtains and cushions, the ruby hue echoed in the Oriental rugs spread over the flagged floor. The result was warm and welcoming.

A door at the rear of the hall swung noiselessly open. Dominic glanced that way and smiled. “And this is Mrs. McCutcheon, who with MacIntyre keeps this place in order.”

A tall, thin, pleasant-faced woman, Mrs. McCutcheon swiftly scanned Dominic, then bobbed. “Welcome back, my lord.”

Turning to Angelica, Mrs. McCutcheon curtsied. “And a welcome to you, miss. We hope your stay here will be comfortable.”

Angelica smiled. “I'm sure it will be.” She watched a small procession line up behind Mrs. McCutcheon.

MacIntyre stepped forward. “This is Cora, miss, she's our first parlor maid. And this is Janet . . .”

Dominic might not have informed his staff of her pending status, but presumably the others had passed on their assumptions. Regardless, her strategy of not yet agreeing was a matter between her and him alone. With appropriate grace and sincere interest, Angelica allowed herself to be conducted along the short line—three maids, two footmen, a cook, a scullery maid, and an errand boy. When she reached the end, Dominic stepped to her side and together they faced the assembled staff.

“Mrs. McCutcheon, if you could show Miss Cynster to her room, and then”—glancing at Angelica, Dominic caught her eye—“perhaps breakfast in an hour?”

“Of course, my lord.” Mrs. McCutcheon came forward. “The rooms are prepared and we've everything ready.” She turned to Janet. “I'm sure Miss Cynster would like more hot water to top up the bath.”

A bath?
Angelica beamed. “That would be lovely.” She would kill for a bath.

Mrs. McCutcheon nodded approvingly and waved to the stairs.

Starting up them, Angelica saw Dominic with MacIntyre in attendance walk across the hall and into a corridor leading deeper into the house. Curiosity tugged, but for once she held it back. She would explore later. First . . .

She slowed so Mrs. McCutcheon came alongside. “I can't thank you enough for thinking of a bath, let alone having it ready and waiting.”

“Och, weel, I couldn't imagine you wouldn't be wanting to sluice the dirt of travel away, and nothing does that better than a bath.”

“I do so agree.” Looking toward the top of the stairs, Angelica asked, “Which rooms have you prepared for me?”

“Why, the countess's suite, of course. His lordship told us on his way down to London to have all ready for his bride-to-be.”

So that's how they'd known. The man did like to plan.

He also tended to assume that all would go exactly as he planned.

Reaching the head of the stairs, Mrs. McCutcheon led the way to a pair of doors at one end of the gallery. There, she halted and faced Angelica.

Halting too, Angelica met the older woman's eyes; still lightly smiling, she arched a brow.

Mrs. McCutcheon studied her, shrewdly and frankly evaluating her.

Not entirely surprised, Angelica waited patiently under the scrutiny.

Then Mrs. McCutcheon's lips eased. “I do believe you'll do. He needs a wife with fire and a will to match his.” She lifted her gaze to Angelica's hair. “Reckon he's found one.”

Angelica laughed. “Oh, yes, indeed. Rest assured, Mrs. McCutcheon, that much is true.”

“Aye, weel, in that case, you'll do nicely.” Struggling to look severe and failing, Mrs. McCutcheon threw open the doors and waved Angelica in. “So let's see what we can do about that bath you're wanting.”

A
little more than an hour later, Angelica descended the stairs, once again in her turquoise silk ball gown, fichu in place. Brenda had washed and ironed both gown and fichu, but while Angelica now felt blissfully clean and presentably neat, she wasn't at ease over wearing such a gown during the day. If anyone called—unlikely, but still—she would feel dreadfully silly.

“Gowns,” she declared as, having followed Janet-the-very-helpful-maid's directions, she walked into the breakfast parlor; Dominic was sitting at the head of the table, a news sheet in one hand. “I need more gowns. We agreed I would get them here.”

MacIntyre held the smaller carver at the foot of the table for her; with a smile, she allowed him to seat her. Then she looked up the table and caught Dominic's gaze. “I believe you can direct me to some suitable modistes?”

Dominic looked into her greeny-gold eyes. “I'll make a list.”

“Excellent.” She reached for the toast rack. “So, what now?”

Laying aside the news sheet, he picked up his coffee cup, sipped as he ordered his thoughts. “Our stay here needs to be as short as we can make it while getting all we need in place for the journey to the castle and our stay there, and arranging anything else that might make convincing Mirabelle to return the goblet easier.” He focused on her. “So you need to get your gowns and anything else you might require. Meanwhile, I'll organize a horse for you and attend to those business matters I can't avoid. I'm hoping to clear my slate so I can devote the coming weeks to reclaiming the goblet.”

She crunched her usual slice of jam-laden toast, swallowed, then asked, “From here, how long will it take us to reach the castle? Incidentally, what's it called? I don't think you've ever said.”

“Mheadhoin Castle. It stands on an island in Loch Beinn a'Mheadhoin, in the eastern part of Glen Affric. How long it will take us to reach there . . .” He looked down the table at her. “That will depend on how well you ride.”

“Assume well. In fact, assume I won't be the laggard of the group.” Angelica fixed him with a level gaze. “So how long will it take if you and the others go as fast as you can?”

From the way he hesitated, his gaze on her, she felt certain he hadn't accepted her assessment of her equestrian abilities, but she could educate him along the way.

“If we leave first thing one morning, while alone I can make the distance inside three days, as a group we'll reach there on the afternoon of the fourth day.”

“That long?” She hadn't realized it would be that far.

“It's mostly reasonable road, but we won't be able to get remounts, so it's not simply a matter of speed but also of spelling the horses, and that means we ride from dawn to as long as the light permits. Every day.”

The prospect didn't bother her. “Hmm. All right. As we need to leave as soon as possible and getting new gowns is going to take time, I should start on that immediately. However”—she waved at her ballgown—“I can't be seen in public like this, not during the day, and I can't borrow a gown from anyone in the house, not to visit modistes.” After a moment's reflection, she said, “Janet, the maid, is close to my size. I could send her to buy a ready-made walking gown, and once I have that, I'll be able to visit the modistes and arrange what I need.”

“If you can instruct Janet well enough to be happy with her purchase.”

“I'm sure she and I will manage.” She caught his eye. “So . . . what's my dress allowance?”

He held her gaze. Eventually said, “If I give you carte blanche, will you buy something outrageous just because you can?”

“Of course not. I'll bear your dignity in mind, I promise.”

He softly snorted and looked down. “Just tell the modistes to send the bills to me here, at Glencrae House.”

“I take it they'll know the direction?”

He looked up and met her eyes, and didn't say anything more.

“All right.” Sobering, she calculated. “How long do you think we'll be here?”

“I assume that will depend on how long you take to assemble your wardrobe.”

“A challenge?” She widened her eyes at him. “Have I told you how much I enjoy challenges?”

“No. But I feel sure I'm going to find out.”

“S
o! One more day—that's all we'll need.” Allowing Dominic to seat her at the foot of the dining table in the smaller of the two dining rooms—the principal dining room could seat thirty comfortably—Angelica felt absurdly triumphant. “This afternoon I visited all three modistes on your list, and each swore they'd have the gowns I commissioned from them ready by tomorrow evening at the latest.”