The Devil Wears Kilts (4 page)

“I give ye my word. Two weeks.”

Charlotte bit the inside of her cheek. He’d just given far more ground than she expected, and she’d likely pushed him far past where she should have, already. In addition, her parents wouldn’t thank her for what she meant to say next—but Rowena likely would. And this was for her new friend’s sake rather than for her own. “If you truly mean for your sister to have a proper Season—or a fortnight’s worth of one—then she should remain here. You’d be a bachelor household with no one to sponsor Lady Rowena or provide her with introductions. Unless you have a female relation here who’s acquainted with London Society, that is.”

“I have no female relations,” Winnie said, her fingers tightening around Charlotte’s hand again. “And everything you do will be to show me how it’s no good here. I only want to see it with my own eyes, Ran. Please.”

He blew out his breath. “By all rights I should take ye over my knee and have ye back on the road north within the hour.”

“But ye won’t.”

“But I won’t,” he repeated after a moment, his glance finding Charlotte again. “Stay here, then, if they’ll have ye. But ye’ll inform me where ye mean t’be at all times, and I’ll go about with ye when I choose.”

With a squeak Rowena released Charlotte’s hand and flung herself at her brother. He enveloped her in his muscular arms. “I agree, Ran,” she said fiercely. “Thank ye. Thank you.”

For a moment he closed his eyes, something close to relief—or sadness—briefly crossing his expression. “I’ll call on ye here in the morning. At eleven.” Setting her down, he bent to kiss her on one cheek. “Ye had me worried,
piuthar,
” he murmured, then straightened again. “Is there some nonsense ceremony aboot exiting, or may I take my leave?” he asked, pinning Charlotte again with his gaze.

She stepped aside. “Good evening, Lord Glengask.”

“Lady Charlotte.”

Only when Longfellow had shut the front door rather firmly behind him did Charlotte let out the breath she’d been holding. From the way her family swept up to her and the fast beating of her own heart, anyone would think she had just faced down the devil himself. But then she just had, really.

And he would be back in the morning.

*   *   *

“I do hope this is acceptable, Lord Glengask.”

Ignoring the thin man dogging his heels, Ranulf continued his tour of the hallways and rooms of the small house on Adams Row. The building was old, but well made, with twelve rooms and half a dozen windows looking out over the quiet avenue. It stood three stories tall, which he imagined was the origin of its name—Tall House. “It’ll do,” he finally said, realizing that the bony fellow wouldn’t stop nagging at him until he gave an answer. “Though I’d like it better if it had more than two doors to the outside.”

“I’m glad you approve, my lord. You gave me such little notice—only an hour, if you’ll recall—but I believe Tall House is the finest establishment currently available to let. With the Season beginning in earnest, you know, simply everyone flocks to London.”

Everyone plus one damned stubborn younger sister. “You’ll have yer fee by the end of the day,” Ranulf returned, wondering if it was permissible to call Tall House by a different name while he stayed there. Frivolous House with Nae Enough Escape Routes, perhaps.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to press—of course you’re not well known here, but your uncle is, and I’ve no worry that you would keep me waiting.”

Ranulf angled his chin toward the front door. Immediately Owen, who’d spent the previous twenty minutes shadowing the solicitor, stepped forward. “Let’s get ye on yer way, Mr. Black,” he said, blocking the fellow when he would have followed Ranulf into yet another room.

“Certainly, certainly. With you being new to London, Lord Glengask, if you require the services of a solicitor I would be honored to—”

“The laird has yer wee card, Mr. Black, as ye nearly shoved it into ’is pocket. The door is this way.”

Mr. Black blinked. “I say, that’s quite forward of you. Lord Glengask, your servants need more schooling in proper behavior.”

Drawing in a breath, Ranulf faced the red-cheeked solicitor. “I think it’s ye who needs schooling, if it takes a man three tries to get ye to leave when ye’re no longer needed. Good mornin’, and if that’s not clear enough fer ye, good-bye.”

The solicitor opened his mouth. Ranulf continued to gaze at him levelly, and then Una began a low, rumbling growl from where she stood at the window. A heartbeat later, still wordlessly, Mr. Black turned around and left the hallway, Owen grinning behind him.

“Amadan,”
Ranulf muttered, though Mr. Black seemed more a bootlicker than a fool. Or, more likely,
he
was the fool in all this.

After all, he’d agreed to allow Rowena to remain in London, in an English household, of all damned things, for a fortnight. Where he couldn’t hear what nonsense she was being told. And worse, where he couldn’t be assured of her safety.

“M’laird, the Sasannach has departed,” Owen said, returning to the doorway. “I doubt he’ll darken these halls again, at least while we’re in residence.”

“Good. Thank ye, Owen.”

The footman nodded. Shifting, he scowled. “I need t’say someaught to ye, Laird Glengask.”

“Then do so.”

“Peter and I are pleased and proud to be here with ye. Very proud. And so is Debny. But … we are nae enough. With ye staying on in London, ye’ll have need of a cook and a valet, and more eyes ye can trust t’keep ye and Lady Winnie safe.”

Ranulf nodded. He’d intended to retrieve Rowena, spend the night at an inn, and be on the way north by sunrise. Nothing his sister said would have changed his mind or his plans. No, for that he could thank
that woman
. Lady Charlotte Hanover. She hadn’t so much as raised her voice, and yet now he’d rented a house in Mayfair and given his sister over to an English aristocrat’s family.

“My uncle’s in Town,” he said slowly, wondering what Myles Wilkie would have to say about all this—and not liking the answer he came up with. “I’ll send Peter over with a note, asking if he knows of any likely lads we can trust.”

“But Lord Swansley’s English,” Owen said, making the word a curse.

“Aye, but he’s also family. And he spent ten years at Glengask, raising the likes of my brothers and sister. He’ll know what we require, whatever he is.”

“As ye say, m’laird.”

After he scrawled out the note and sent Peter off to deliver it, Ranulf made his way back to the bedchamber he’d chosen for himself. It looked over the street on the north, and the stable yard on the east, and gave him a good view over a fair part of the lane. He’d left for London with almost no luggage and no wardrobe at all fit for so-called proper Society. At least the bed looked more comfortable than the one at the inn where he and the lads and the hounds had spent the night.

He’d worn buckskin trousers, riding boots, and an old coat to call on Hanover House. He supposed he could do the same today, and then find a tailor’s shop to see him in something better suited to Mayfair. While he didn’t give a damn about what the English thought of him or his attire, Rowena would. Embarrassing her would not be the way to convince her that Scotland and Glengask held more promise for her than did London. A damp nose pushed at his hand, and he absently scratched Fergus behind his rough gray ears. “What in God’s name are we doing here, boy?” he murmured, answered only by a tail wag.

Owen rapped at his door and leaned in. “Shall I valet ye then, m’laird?”

“I can put on my own boots, but thank ye, Owen. And valet isnae someaught ye do; it’s what ye are. See that Debny saddles Stirling, will ye?”

“A ’course.”

When he arrived back downstairs ten minutes later, the dogs on his heels, the silence of the place finally struck him. Back home the grand house was occupied not only by his siblings and himself, but by myriad servants, friends, and on numerous occasions, various clan subchiefs and their families, in addition to the pair of pipers who sounded off every morning and evening from the rooftop. If it was anything, it wasn’t quiet or solitary. This was, and while at the moment it felt peaceful, he was fairly certain that wouldn’t last. Trouble had a way of finding the MacLawrys.

Touching a hand to the pistol in his left coat pocket, he opened the front door himself, stepping to one side of the wide entry as he did so. No sense in making himself an easy target. Three horses waited in the drive, with Debny and Owen already mounted. “Are ye ready for this?” he asked, taking Stirling’s reins from the head groom and swinging up into the bay’s saddle.

“I’d rather face all of Bonaparte’s army in naught but a kilt,” the footman answered, “but ye cannae go aboot London alone.”

“One day in London and ’e’s already uppity,” Debny drawled. “Don’t ye worry, m’laird. We’ll see ye and Lady Rowena safe, or die in the tryin’.”

Ranulf nodded, appreciating the sentiment. “Let’s be off, then. And keep that blunderbuss ’neath yer coat, Owen, or ye’ll panic the Sasannach.”

The dogs padding behind them, they clattered down the street toward Hanover House. His rented home might be quiet, but compared to the Highlands, London seemed far too close and too crowded, and amazingly, chaotically loud. Practically elbow to elbow, the residents were, all of them talking at the top of their lungs to be heard over their fellows. He hadn’t noticed it so much last evening, but then he’d had only one concern—finding Rowena. Today the cacophony didn’t so much rattle his nerves as it ground his short patience into gravel.

What the devil had he been thinking, to let Rowena have her way and remain here? She’d fled from home without even leaving a note, damn it all, and deserved nothing so much as a switch across her backside and a long ride home. In fact, this was ridiculous. He would see to it that she returned with him to the house he’d rented so he could keep an eye on her, and then they would head north on the morrow. She could hate him for a year if she chose, but at least she would be safe and where she belonged. And that did
not
make him a bully. It made him a responsible brother and head of his family.

At Hanover House he tossed his reins to Debny before one of the earl’s grooms could appear, told the dogs to stay, and then strode for the front door. It opened before he reached it, depriving him of the satisfaction of pounding on the solid oak again.

“Good morning, Lord Glengask,” the fat butler intoned, bowing. “You’re expected. I’ll show you to the morning room.”

As the morning room turned out to be four feet from the foyer, the taking of him there seemed ridiculous, but he would tolerate the nonsense until he had Rowena back in hand.

“Lady Charlotte, Lady Jane, Lady Rowena, Lord Glengask,” the butler announced, bowing as though he’d just met the king.

As if they weren’t all acquainted since last evening. The three women rose, curtsying. Since Rowena had never curtsied to him—or to anyone—in her life, she’d clearly already taken to modeling herself after the other two. That did not bode well.

That woman
stood there, as well, gazing at him as if she hadn’t a fear or worry in the world, which annoyed him further. She was everything he disliked in a female, tall and skinny and blond, like some delicate porcelain doll likely to shatter if anyone attempted so much as an embrace. Even worse, she interfered in matters that had nothing to do with her, and spoke when he would have much preferred a moment or two to think.

“I’m so glad you’ve permitted Winnie to remain in London,” she was saying now, her mouth curved in a rather attractive smile that didn’t touch her eyes. “And we could certainly use your escort today.”

“And where am I to escort ye to, lasses?” he asked warily, watching for another trick or trap like the one that now had him residing in London for a fortnight.

“Mama wishes to present Winnie at Almack’s on Wednesday. She’ll be presenting Janie as well, and—”

“Nae.”

Lady Charlotte blinked her pretty hazel eyes, as if no one had ever naysayed her before. Likely no one had, considering the weak-headed, weakhearted Englishmen that surrounded her and that sharp tongue between her teeth. “Beg pardon?” she said faintly.

“Nae. No,” he repeated, exaggerating the sound to make certain she understood.

“If she doesn’t come out at Almack’s and receive her voucher to the Assembly, traditionally she won’t be able to waltz anywhere else. She won’t even be considered as ‘out,’ by more traditional households.”

“I’ll nae have my sister paraded before a herd of spoiled, fatheaded Sasannach lordlings like a prize cow.”

Rowena stepped forward and took hold of his sleeve, as she’d done when she wanted his attention since she was two years old. “It won’t be just me there, Ran,” she said softly. “Jane will be there, too. Every young lady who wants to have her Season goes to Almack’s first. And I do so want to dance.”

Damnation.
He’d never been able to refuse her a thing she truly wished for. Except for London, but then she’d managed that on her own. “Ye’ll be there as well,” he asked, turning to eye Jane, smaller and lighter haired than her mouthy sister. “Right there, beside her?” he asked, hating both that he didn’t know how the damned process went and that he had to ask an English chit for confirmation.

“Yes. And a dozen or so other young ladies, too,” the younger Hanover sister said, her voice unsteady. In fact she looked at him as if she expected him to leap on her, claws and teeth bared.

Beside her, the older sister looked much more composed as she nodded her agreement. The golden curls hanging from the knot at the back of her head swayed silkily from side to side. “This is the first Assembly of the Season. She won’t be standing there alone.”

“And who is it gives them permission to waltz? Who are these patronesses the bloody Society page is always wagging on about?”

“Well, it’s a group of very influential, aristocratic women. Lady Jersey, for one, and Lady Cowper, and Lady Est—”

“Jersey. She’s Prince George’s old mistress.”

Lady Charlotte’s fair cheeks darkened. “No, that was her mother-in-law,” she said crisply. “But proper young ladies do not discuss such things, regardless.”