The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae (5 page)

Angelica's eyes had widened. He paused, but she waved for him to continue.

“You need to comprehend that Mortimer was not a passionate man. I didn't say he loved Celia. His was an avuncular, even patriarchal regard. Consequently, understanding that she loved Martin Cynster, and seeing the couple together on their return to the capital, Mortimer accepted that Celia was truly happy and withdrew—not just from her life, but from the ton, and from London. He closed up his house”—
this house
—“and retired to his castle in Scotland.”

“In the highlands?”

He nodded. “Courtesy of Mortimer's father's long reign, the estate was prosperous, the clan faring well. Mortimer went home and left Celia and Martin to their lives. However, his fixation with Celia didn't wane. He discovered he couldn't live without knowing how she was, what she was doing, and isolated in the Scottish highlands by his own choice, he turned to living vicariously through her. He inveigled old friends to write to him of her exploits, and within a few years he had paid observers among the ton who regularly—at least every week—sent letters north, telling Mortimer of every little detail of Celia's life. Celia's, and eventually her children's, because Mortimer's obsession extended to them.”

This time when he paused, she simply waited, eyes glued to his face, for him to resume the tale. “But Mortimer was head of the clan and needed to marry and get himself an heir. His younger brother had never been groomed to be the laird, the earl, so Mortimer accepted the duty, took himself to Edinburgh one Season, and found a wife. Mirabelle Pevensey was from a lowland family, of excellent birth but limited fortune, spoiled beyond all reason, and widely lauded for her startling beauty. Although much older, Mortimer was yet a handsome man. His obsession with his lost love was common knowledge in Edinburgh at the time, but Mirabelle viewed that as a challenge, one that, once successfully overcome, would gain her a certain social accolade. She determined to conquer Mortimer, to wean him from his fixation with a distant English lady and make him her devoted slave. She set out to secure his love and every last iota of his attention for her own, and with her undeniable beauty, she was confident of success. She married him and happily went with him into the highlands, fully expecting to have him wrapped around her little finger if not within the month, then certainly within the year.

“Instead, she discovered she couldn't compete with Celia, and even less with Celia's children.” He held Angelica's gaze. “Mortimer knew every minute detail of your brothers' lives—he knew their grades at Eton, what sports they favored, what their interests were as they matured. He knew every ailment they ever contracted. He forgot Mirabelle's birthday if she didn't remind him of it, but he never forgot Celia's, or Rupert's, or Alasdair's. Assuming it was the children Mortimer most fixated on—for how could he remain devoted to Celia when she, Mirabelle, was so much more striking and there in the flesh—Mirabelle decided to do her duty, and so she bore Mortimer a son.”

Angelica regarded him steadily. “You.”

He nodded. “Me. But sadly for Mirabelle, although Mortimer was a kind and affectionate father and paid as much attention to me as I wished, my advent did nothing to alter his obsession with Celia and her brood.” He glanced down at one hand, fingers spread on his thigh. “I gather my birth was difficult. Consequently, in producing me Mirabelle felt she'd paid her dues, not just to my father but to the clan, as well. She waited for what she considered her just reward, but it didn't eventuate. I can only guess, but I believe she thought that if she simply waited, then as I grew, Mortimer's affection for me would continue to grow, and ultimately would shift to include her, too.

“So she found patience, and waited. Although Mortimer had no interest in rejoining society—Celia and her family were all the society he needed—he had from the first been happy to allow Mirabelle to use the house in Edinburgh and join society there. She never did, which puzzled everyone, until much later when, as a young man, I moved among Edinburgh society and discovered that she'd been corresponding with her bosom-bows from soon after her marriage, telling them she'd broken Mortimer from his obsession with Celia, and that he now doted on her. Her letters had painted her life as she'd wanted and wished it to be, not as it was. Consequently, even though she was free to visit Edinburgh, she couldn't, not without Mortimer fawning at her feet. So she was stuck in the highlands, waiting, still waiting, and growing increasingly bitter.

“Eventually, she realized her strategy was never going to bear fruit. Your sisters, and you, had been born by then, and Mortimer was in alt. He constantly prattled about your exploits—if he'd doted on Celia, he was positively besotted with her daughters.”

Glancing at Angelica's face, he found her frowning at him.

“You must have hated us—all of us.”

“No. Not at all.” He paused, then, accepting he had to make a clean breast of even that, went on, “The truth was I was perfectly happy to have my father distracted by Cynsters. That left me free to range as I would, and with the clan all around me I never lacked for either companionship or mentoring. I had cousins and uncles to teach me riding, hunting, fishing, shooting—every activity a boy could wish for. I had aunts and pseudo-aunts to feed me soup and tend my scrapes. Because of Celia and her offspring, I had a much more . . . colorful and satisfying childhood than I otherwise would have had, and for that”—he inclined his head—“I thank you and yours.”

“But your mother . . .” Angelica was sincerely shocked. “That must have been painful.”

He held her gaze, after a moment said, “Mirabelle wasn't exactly maternal—she never saw me as anything other than a pawn in her game, and children notice things like that. Even as a young boy I didn't trust her, but you don't need to pity me for that—I had clan all around me, and no one could have had better care.” He paused, then added, “The right sort of care—I wasn't spoiled. I was just one of a dozen of us who ran wild through the summers and always had dozens of adults watching out for us. That's what clan is, what it's for. We're all family.” He exhaled. “Which brings me to the next development in Mirabelle's tale.

“When she gave up all hope of claiming my father's regard, she tried to reclaim me—more or less from the clan. I was twelve at the time. She hoped to make me her puppet so that when Mortimer died—he being so much older than she—she would be able to control the clan, and the clan's purse-strings. So she tried to draw me back under her wing, and discovered she couldn't. Mirabelle was from the lowlands and didn't understand—had never tried to understand—how the highland clans work. When she suddenly tried to own me again, the clan closed around me and wouldn't give me up. No one openly opposed her, but whenever I was home from school, she could never find me—I was always out, about, never where she could catch me, drag me into her sitting room, sit me down, and try to control me.

“After a while, she stopped trying. I—we all—assumed she'd finally accepted her lot. She'd never made the slightest effort to be a part of the clan—to be the laird's lady in any real sense. She looked down on the clan and had no one as a friend to help pass the years. She grew even more bitter, more resentful and withdrawn.” He paused to draw breath. “Then, when I was twenty and home from university, I fell and badly hurt my knee. I was laid up for weeks, a captive, and Mirabelle tried once again—this time to turn me directly against my father.”

He paused. Angelica wondered if he knew his eyes had turned not just cold but to a shade that fully justified the description “
eyes like ice
.”

“I don't know how far she would have taken things, because I cut her off—corrected her mistaken impression that I harbored any ambition to accede to the title before my father died an entirely natural death—as soon as I understood her direction. She was at first utterly disbelieving, then furious, but there was little she could do. I warned my father and those around him, and that was largely that. Once I recovered, as soon as I could I left for London and for the next five years spent much of my time down here. When I went home, I spent my time with my father, with clan, and out and about the estate. I already knew much of what I would need to when the earldom passed to me, so there was little reason to stay in the highlands for any length of time.”

He paused, then leaned forward; resting his forearms on his thighs, he refixed his gaze on her face. “That's all necessary background, but the events that led to my present predicament—and the reason I need your help—start here. During the period I spent largely in London, the seasons turned bad, the crops failed, and times grew hard for the clan. In '23, my father came to London for the first time in over thirty years to ask for my blessing for a deal he'd worked out to save the clan. I listened, and I agreed with his scheme.”

His gaze fell to his hands, hanging between his knees. “The scheme hinged on a goblet my family has had in our keeping for centuries. The tale of that goblet is unconnected to the present situation, and other than satisfying your undoubted curiosity, will explain nothing more than why the goblet holds great value for a coterie of London bankers.” Linking his fingers, he glanced at the mantelpiece clock, then met her eyes. “If you will accept that the goblet is fabulously valuable, we can avoid the distraction.”

She searched his eyes, then nodded. “You can tell me the tale of the goblet later.”

He straightened, then leaned back in the chair. His gaze returned to her face. “Very well—so we're in late '23, with the goblet in hand and my father desperate to keep the clan's businesses afloat. Although the earl, the head of the clan, owns and manages the lands and businesses, by custom all clan members draw income from said businesses, so if the businesses fail, the entire clan fails. It wasn't only his family's future at stake.” He paused, then went on, “The deal he'd devised and sought my approval for was with a group of London bankers. In return for the goblet, they'd agreed to hand over a significant sum, more than enough to reestablish the clan's finances. However, as I mentioned, my father was a deeply conventional man. Because of our family's history with the goblet, he couldn't bring himself to hand it over—I, however, had no such qualms. So the deal was set, signed, and the money handed over, and my part in it is to hand over the goblet to the bankers on the fifth anniversary of my father's death.”

He studied her eyes, then abruptly stood. He walked to the tantalus and poured himself a drink. Angelica used the moment to take a sip of her water. His story had held her mesmerized; if she was parched, he had to be, too.

“My father was neither a good laird, nor a bad one.” He spoke without turning around. “He was a relatively gentle man, no saint, but he always did the best he could for the clan. Over his time as laird, he did little anyone might complain of, but conversely he did nothing to actively further the clan's holdings, to grow the businesses. If he hadn't made that deal, the clan would have been destitute. It shouldn't ever become that vulnerable again—I've spent the last five years ensuring that—but it's primarily my grandfather's legacy I've built on.”

He drained the glass he'd filled, then refilled it, turned, and walked back.

She raised her gaze to his face. “When are you due to hand over the goblet?”

He let himself down into the chair. “On the fifth anniversary of my father's death—the first of July this year.”

“And . . . ?”

His gaze locked on hers; there was a chilling coldness behind his eyes. “In January this year, the goblet went missing. It was kept in the estate safe, and I checked it every month. Only I and my steward had the combination, and neither of us had told anyone, let alone moved the cup.” He paused, sipped, then, his gaze shifting to rest, unseeing, on a point beyond her chair, he went on, “The next day my mother informed me that she had taken the cup and had hidden it. I have no idea how she'd opened the safe, but the family jewels are also kept there. Presumably at some point my father had opened the safe for her and she'd noted the combination.”

Angelica did not envy his mother; his tone had changed to one of icy control, reined menace lending every word a cutting edge.

“Mirabelle has her own agenda—she informed me that she'll return the goblet, allowing me to complete the deal and save the clan, provided I give her what she wants.”

When he rested his head back against the chair but didn't go on, Angelica prompted, “So what does she want?”

He lowered his gaze to her face. “She wants revenge on your mother.”

“My mother?” Angelica frowned. “Why? And how?”

“Why? Because she holds Celia responsible for all that's gone wrong in her miserable life. And because Celia won—despite everything Mirabelle did, your mother retained her hold over my father until the day he died, even though she'd never known anything about his obsession.” He paused. “As for the how . . .” Raising his glass, he sipped, then locked his gaze with hers. “All I have to do is seize one of Celia's daughters, and ruin her.”

Angelica stared into eyes that showed no hint whatever of any mental disturbance. He was utterly serious. “Ruin how, exactly?”

He nodded. “I asked her that. Apparently I was to kidnap one of you—she didn't care which one—and take you north to the castle, and by that act you would be socially ruined, and Mirabelle would have her revenge through knowing she'd caused Celia untold pain by wrecking the life of one of Celia's daughters, in return for Celia wrecking hers.”

Angelica studied him, his eyes, his expression, then asked, “Is your mother insane?”

“On this subject, so I would suppose. However, she's otherwise perfectly lucid, and more than clever enough. Wherever she's hidden the goblet, no one has been able to find it. We've searched high and low, multiple times. But the castle is huge, and old, and . . . we're running out of time.”