The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae (34 page)

Quitting the desk, Devil headed for the door. “I'll send a courier to Richard—he would never forgive us if we left him out of a venture like this so close to his territory. He can join us along the road.”

Pausing at the door, Devil glanced at the determined and eager pack at his back. “We shouldn't be seen riding in a troop out of Mayfair—some will wonder where we're going and why. Let's meet at the top of Barnett Hill at three o'clock, and be prepared for frequent changes of horses along the way.” Facing forward, he led the way out. “We're going to race up to Scotland and
politely
ask Angelica and her earl to explain what this is all about.”

A
longside Dominic, Angelica rode on as the morning waned and the clouds closed in. After passing through Kilmorack, the road followed the Beauly River, passing several tiny hamlets before veering southeast down the length of a long valley she was told was Strath Glass. Visible only occasionally through thick trees, rounded mountains closed in on both sides; those to the north were appreciably higher and their crests more barren, brown even under the summer sun. But the valley of the river Glass was lush and green; she cantered along, noting the diversity of trees that closed around the ever-narrowing road—birch, holly, the occasional beech or oak, and others with which she was less familiar. Highland cattle, with their shaggy coats and long, curving horns, ambled in verdant meadows, their occasional lows echoing almost mournfully between the hills.

“Cannich.” Dominic nodded to where a cluster of cottages stood in a clearing flanking the road. “There's a small inn we can stop at—they have a private room.”

“What time is it?” Angelica looked at the now solidly gray sky.

“Nearly noon.” He consulted his fob watch. “Fifteen minutes before.”

She glanced back. The others had fallen a little way behind, enough for them to speak in private. Meeting his eyes, she said, “We need to tell the others what we're going to do. If we don't, they'll very likely react in some way that will bring us undone.”

His reluctance was palpable. She waited, didn't argue. Eventually he said, “You're right. We'll need to explain what we're trying to portray.”

“And that it's the only way to satisfy your mother's demands and convince her to return the goblet.”

Jaw setting, he nodded.

Minutes later, they drew rein outside the inn. In short order, they were shown into a tiny private room, low-ceilinged and windowless, but with a table large enough for eight with bench seats along both sides. Once they were seated, Dominic to Angelica's right, Jessup beside him, with Thomas, Griswold, Brenda, and Mulley opposite, the old man who'd welcomed them and a woman Angelica took to be his wife brought soup and bread, saw them all served, then withdrew. All talk subsided while they ate. The second course, duly presented, proved to be large slices of an excellent venison pie. She ate her fill, then nudged the sizeable remains Dominic's way; she couldn't eat much, not with her nerves tightening with anticipation.

Accepting the offering, he glanced at her. Catching his gaze, she glanced at the down-bent heads about the table, then arched a brow.

He hesitated, but then nodded, gestured with his fork for her to proceed, and looked back at the pie he was attacking.

She cleared her throat. The others glanced up. “The laird and I”—she liked the sound of that; it had a certain ring—“need to explain the tack we're going to take to convince the countess to hand back the goblet she's hidden.”

Five forks hung suspended, the others' attention all hers; only Dominic kept eating.

Folding her arms on the table, she leaned on them. “As you know, the countess's price for returning the goblet was that the laird kidnap me and bring me to the castle. Apparently she imagines that the abduction and subsequent journey will socially ruin me. Why she wants that isn't important. What is important is that to meet her demands and regain the goblet, we—the laird and I, and all who wish to see Clan Guisachan survive—must work to convince her that I am, indeed, socially ruined.”

She paused, then continued, “The criteria for me being ruined aren't important, because to convince the countess, all I need to do is to make her believe that
I
believe I'm ruined.” She spoke to the five pairs of eyes fixed on her face. “The countess will focus on me and on the laird. My behavior, and his toward me, will be critical, crucial to us getting the goblet back. It will be a pretence, a charade—play-acting to the highest degree—but it has to look real.”

Surveying their faces, she went on, “So once we reach the castle, the laird and I are going to behave oddly toward each other, and in my case, toward you and everyone else, too. For our charade to work, I won't be me—not the me you've come to know—and the laird won't be the man you know, either.”

Mulley set down his fork. “So you need us and the others to play along and help you pretend to be ruined?”

“I hope there won't be much for you to do, but if the countess is watching, you mustn't show any respect or liking for me. The major thing we need from you five in particular is for you not to be surprised by anything the laird and I do. You need to react as if any odd behavior is merely more of what you've seen since I joined you in London.”

Dominic pushed away his empty plate. “It may be necessary for me to pretend to be . . . harsh with Miss Cynster. How harsh”—he glanced at Angelica—“we don't yet know.” He met the eyes of his closest staff. “I've explained to Miss Cynster that you and all at the castle will know I would never treat any woman as I might be forced to
appear
to treat her, but Miss Cynster has agreed, and I have agreed, to do whatever we must to regain the goblet. To go as far as we must, to continue our act as far as is necessary for my mother to be satisfied and hand over the goblet.”

He saw the glances of approval, respect, admiration, and gratitude the others directed Angelica's way and felt marginally better. “We believe our charade is the only way forward, especially as we're running out of time. What Miss Cynster and I need from you, and all at the castle, is for you to behave as if whatever you see is regrettable, but expected. You cannot show surprise, much less shock. Whatever you see, whatever you hear, you must act as if it's real, the truth and not pretence, and also that you accept what you see as the way things must be. You cannot rush to Miss Cynster's defense, nor can you be seen by my mother to actively aid her.”

Angelica took over. “For instance, for my arrival at the castle, I have to appear bedraggled, weary, and with my spirit crushed. I can't wear this habit. Brenda and I will crease and dirty my old ballgown, the one I was wearing when I joined you. I'll disarrange my hair. We want it to look like you've held me in harsh confinement all the way here. I can't ride Ebony—we'll switch her with one of the sumpter horses.” She glanced at Jessup. “As the countess doesn't go into the stables, if Thomas holds Ebony at the rear until you can take the horses to the stables, that should be safe enough, but we'll need to make the switch as close to the castle as possible, because Ebony won't like being kept from Hercules.”

Jessup and Thomas nodded.

“And you'll need to tie me to my saddle on the sumpter horse.”

Dominic frowned. “We don't need to go to that extent.”

“Yes, we do.” She met his eyes. “If the countess sees you lifting me off the horse, trussed like some bedraggled prisoner of war with my hands tied before me, she'll assume you've been treating me like that all along—which will imply that I've tried to escape at some point. She needs to believe that I tried but failed.”

Dominic's frown grew black, but Mulley volunteered, “There's some hemp in the bags, but I'm afraid it will redden your wrists, miss.”

“Perfect! My wrists will heal, and it'll only be for a few miles.” Before Dominic could object, she rattled on, “We'll need to hide my bags and the bandbox. The countess will be better pleased if I appear with nothing more than what I stand up in.”

Brenda readily said, “The bags will be easy enough, and we can wrap a horse blanket around the bandbox, make it look like a parcel.”

“Excellent.” Angelica looked at Griswold and Mulley. “There are two other things we should decide now. First, who at the castle should we take into our full confidence?”

On that point, the others had a tangential view, one with which Dominic agreed. “You can't tell when you might find yourself in a situation where some clan member knowing what's going on will prove vital. Clan works best when we're working together.” It was decided that all those at the castle should be made aware of the charade; Dominic deputed the others to quietly spread the tale.

“Then the last thing we need to decide,” Angelica said, “is where in the castle I should be held. It must be a believable prison, but preferably not where the countess can gain ready access.”

“Not the dungeons,” Dominic growled.

“What about the room at the base of the east tower?” Mulley met Dominic's eyes. “The one the secret stair from your chamber runs down to. There's nothing in it but old furniture and boxes.”

“And a rickety bed.” Dominic straightened. “Yes, that will do nicely.”

A secret stair? How convenient.
The words burned Angelica's tongue, but she swallowed them. “Right, then.” She looked at the empty plates. “It's time to get our charade underway.” She gathered her skirts to rise.

“No—wait!” Brenda waved her back and looked at Dominic. “There's one thing we haven't settled—well . . . two. The boys.”

Dominic didn't swear, but from the way his jaw clenched it was a near-run thing. “I don't want them witnessing even a minute of Miss Cynster's and my pretence.” His tone was chilly, his gaze cold. “I won't have them seeing me behave like that.” He looked at Angelica. “And I won't have them seeing you behave like that, either.”

She laid her hand over his. “Of course not.” She sent a
help me
glance across the table.

Brenda grimaced. “You've been gone for weeks, so as soon as the gatehouse guards spot us and call down, the scamps will be up there, watching us ride in—”

“No, they won't.” Jessup met Dominic's gaze. “Day like today, those two will be out with Scanlon. I'll go and meet them before they reach the castle. What should I say?”

“Mumps,” Angelica said. When the others all looked at her, nonplussed, she went on, “Mumps, measles, some contagious childhood ailment. Tell them the laird has brought a friend to stay, but said friend has developed some pox or other, and to make sure the boys don't catch it, the laird wants them to stay in their rooms for the next few days, until the danger is past. They can go outside as they usually do, but they mustn't go wandering inside the keep.” She looked at Dominic. “Will that do?”

He raised his brows. “It should.” He looked at Jessup. “Tell them I'll come up and see them tonight, and explain.”

Jessup nodded.

Dominic looked at the others. “Anything more?”

Everyone paused, everyone thought, then they all shook their heads.

“In that case”—Dominic rose and held out his hand to Angelica—“let's get on to the castle.”

Letting her confidence show, she smiled, placed her fingers in his, let him help her to her feet and over the bench, then, settling her hand in his, she walked out beside him.

T
hey halted just beyond a hamlet called Tomich.

Dominic dismounted and came to lift Angelica down. “A hundred yards further and the gatehouse guards will see us.”

She leaned into his hands. “I won't take long to change.”

Setting her down, he nodded south. “Go that way. Less chance anyone will see you.”

She handed him her crop and gloves, unpinned her jaunty cap and set that in his hands, too, then glanced to where Brenda was rummaging among the bags, searching for the pale teal ballgown and fichu. “I'll start getting out of my habit.”

Turning, she picked her way into the trees bordering the lane; they grew so thickly that within a few yards she was effectively screened from the lane or anywhere else. Getting lost would be embarrassing; reaching a small clearing, she stopped and started unbuttoning her jacket.

She'd stepped out of her skirt and was hanging it over a branch when she heard a
crack
behind her. “Thank you.” She turned.

It wasn't Brenda who'd brought her gown.

Dominic, his face rigid, halted a yard away. He held out his clenched fist, then opened his fingers. Her crinkled gown slithered down to hang from his thumb, the fichu crumpled with it. When she blinked, he said, “Brenda said you wanted it crushed.”

She nodded. “I did.” Reaching out, she rescued her poor gown, held it up. “That's . . . very nicely crushed.” Rather than hand it back, she hooked it on a nearby branch.

Returning her attention to unbuttoning her blouse, she pretended not to notice that his gaze had lowered to her legs, presently clad in sheer stockings and her boots; with her chemise's hem riding a few inches above her garters, there was a strip of naked skin on display . . . she wondered if it would distract him from his transparently less than happy mood.

He didn't say anything. When she shrugged out of the blouse and glanced his way, he was watching her, but she couldn't read anything from his face. “Here.” She held out the blouse. When he took it, she pointed to her jacket and skirt. “You can carry those, too, but they don't require crushing.”

His lips thinned, but he gathered her clothes, draping them over one arm.

She wriggled into her gown, settled the bodice, reached for her fichu, then walked to him and presented him with her back. “Can you do up the laces?”