The MacGregor's Lady (29 page)

Sixteen

“He tries so not to glower, but His Grace is the type to fret over his womenfolk.” Her Grace, Anna, Duchess of Moreland, did not sound concerned that every half minute or so the Duke of Moreland took note of his duchess’s progress around the garden with Hannah.

His Grace was similarly vigilant regarding his various sisters as they minced about with Con, Gil, Ian, and Malcolm, while the smaller of the two marchionesses, the youngest of the lot, sat among the roses with the MacGregor wives and His Grace.

“He seems a very hale gentleman,” Hannah said, hoping it wasn’t too plebeian to describe a duke as hale.

The duchess approved, if her smile was any indication. “The Windhams are a hardy lot. The former duke and duchess lived well into their eighties and were seldom under the weather. Moreland shows every sign of taking after his father in this regard.”

Her Grace blew her husband a kiss. He bowed slightly in her direction, and Hannah wanted to blush for them both.

“We’re quite shameless. The younger generation mutters about former times being more permissive and the elderly needing humoring. We despair of them, of course, being so strict and proper all the time.” Her Grace paused and bent to sniff at a white rose. “Did you enjoy the bouquet?”

This, Hannah suspected, was how a duchess got down to business. “I haven’t seen it yet. I was still above stairs when the flowers arrived.”

With gloved fingers, the duchess snapped off the rose and passed it to Hannah. “Were you still recovering from last night? We’re unfashionable, to be calling at such an hour, but I saw you, you know.”

“Saw me?”

“Last night.” Her Grace was a tall woman. When she slipped her arm through Hannah’s, Hannah had no choice but to wander down the white gravel walkway with her guest. “At the ball. Your swain was so concerned for you he did not notice one little old lady on her way to the retiring room. He was carrying you down the corridor, your skirts billowing, and you were so pale…”

Her Grace’s gaze strayed to the flower in Hannah’s hand.
Little
old
lady, indeed
. Hannah found the duchess neither little nor old, though she was, unquestionably, a lady.

“I fainted, Your Grace. I don’t know what gossip you’ve heard, but Lord Balfour was concerned for me, nothing more.”

“He was beside himself. I wasn’t at all sure we should call so soon, but Moreland was of the opinion that it couldn’t hurt.”

A duke and a duchess had discussed Hannah’s swoon. The notion was unfathomable, and not in a comforting sense. “We’re very pleased to have your company, Your Grace. Were Ash—his lordship here, I’m sure he’d agree.”

Except Asher hadn’t come back from his ride in the park with his brothers. He’d said something to them about business in the City, and now all and sundry were milling about the garden among near royalty without benefit of Lord Balfour’s charming presence.

“I have nine children, Miss Cooper, and an embarrassment of grandchildren. Do you know your eyes change when you think of him?”

Hannah did not dare slip her arm free, but she wanted to. She wanted to tear off directly for the docks. It was one thing to be interrogated by a duchess, quite another to be interrogated by a mother of nine, and something else yet again to answer questions put by a seasoned grandmother.

“Lord Balfour is an estimable man and an exemplary host.”

“Moreland says the fellow is besotted with you. His Grace has an instinct for these things—much as his father did—though you’d never think it to watch him duking about.”

Her Grace gave her husband a little wave.

“I’m sure His Grace is a very good judge of character.” Hannah was wearing gloves too, of course, excellent gloves of pale kidskin. As she twirled the rose between her fingers, a thorn managed to prick her even through the leather.

“He is an excellent judge of character, among many other things—he married me, didn’t he?” She beamed at her husband like a girl of eighteen. “His reasoning, to which it is my ceaseless privilege to be privy, went thus: if you and your swain needed a little persuading toward the altar, then this minor tempest would see you wed. That’s fine, assuming you are equally besotted.” The duchess paused and regarded Hannah levelly. “Are you besotted?”

Of course she was. Besotted wasn’t merely in love. Besotted was somewhere between passionately fond and enamored nigh to illness. Hannah considered dissembling, considered mentioning the increasingly cloudy sky. Considered tossing the rose at the duchess’s dainty feet and bolting for the house.

“I esteem Lord Balfour above all others, Your Grace, but my responsibilities lie in Boston, and his are in Scotland.”

They walked on in silence while Hannah tried to swallow past a tightness in her throat.

“It’s as well we came to call then. Were you to marry his lordship, we’d be offering felicitations. Since you are not to marry, our call will ensure a peer of the realm and a blameless young lady preserve their spotless reputations. A word of advice, though, before my husband attaches himself to your other arm and begins to dispense same.”

“I am much in need of wise counsel, Your Grace.”

“Methinks you are in need of a handkerchief more, or perhaps a stout blow to your common sense.”

Grandmothers saw too much, regardless of rank, station, or society of origin. The duke was on his feet, bowing over each lady’s hand a dozen yards away.

“Do not hare off to the Colonies posthaste, Miss Cooper. Gad about at the seashore, go walking in the Lakes, enjoy the rest of the Season, flirt with the young men, make the young ladies jealous. If you make a hasty departure for America now, my efforts will mean nothing. There will be speculation, and that can be as damaging as outright accusations. And, Miss Cooper?”

Would this walk about the garden never end? “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Rare blooms are sometimes surprisingly hardy. They don’t merely survive transplanting. Sometimes they thrive all the better for new conditions.”

Her Grace patted Hannah’s cheek with the exact same blend of affection and warning Hannah’s own grandmother would have applied, then turned and called out to the duke. Five minutes later, amid much fluttering and smiling, the ducal conveyance rumbled off, though somehow, despite all the kind wishes and good cheer, the bloom in Hannah’s grasp had been torn to shreds.

***

“Letter for you.” Malcolm bounced into the parlor and handed the little epistle to Hannah. “It’s from Boston. I peeked. Shameless of me, but there you have it.”

“My thanks. If it’s for me, then it’s likely from Boston, isn’t it?”

Malcolm seated himself to Hannah’s left, studying his American soon-to-be-cousin. “Earlier today you were officially blessed by more venerable titles than London is likely to see outside of a royal christening, and yet, you look downcast. The Marchioness of Deene herself
winked
at me, Hannah, and I’m thinking of posting a notice in
The
Times
to this effect. What can possibly be amiss?”

He did not add that Hannah was soon to be laughing in the faces of all who’d smirked behind their fans the previous evening. One ducal bouquet would quiet the tabbies utterly, and a visit all but assured Hannah the wedding of the Season. He’d felt bad about the smirking, of course, but inspiration had struck when he’d seen Hannah and Asher skulking out of the ballroom hand in hand.

A man with creditors and mouths to feed did not argue with inspiration, and it had all turned out for the best anyway.

Hannah studied her unopened letter, a single folded page, the handwriting blocky, like a child’s. And then, as Malcolm considered Hannah, the bluebirds of much deserved triumph fluttering around in his chest plummeted to his vitals.

“The duchess’s visit has not set you to rights, Hannah Cooper. What’s amiss?”

She blinked at the letter, a sign of impending disaster if Malcolm had ever seen one. “The duchess’s visit has unruined me, and that puts certain other matters in a different, more complicated light.”

“Are those other matters related to last night’s indiscretion?”

The question was exceedingly uncomfortable. Malcolm had consoled himself that Asher and Hannah belonged together, and his efforts were in the way of nudging two stubborn, independent people in the direction of their best interests. Doubt assailed him, aiming a loaded blunderbuss at the few bluebirds still on the wing.

“Not the indiscretion you’re accusing me of. I honestly did faint, you know. Have you any idea where Asher has gone off to?”

He knew exactly where Asher had gone off to, because he’d bribed a street Arab to follow the man. Given how crowded Fleet Street and The Strand were, the job had been easy. “Asher had some business in the City.”

“That’s the financial district?”

“The business district. The courts, lawyers, and bankers tend to be over that way.” Doctor’s Commons was in the same direction, of course.

“He’s transacting business today?”

Americans had the most persistent sense of curiosity. “Nothing that will take long. Aren’t you pleased to have the blessing of the Duchess of Moreland, Hannah?”

For the first time, Hannah shifted her gaze to regard him. “Was there something you wanted, Malcolm?”

He wanted her to be happy. He wanted Asher to be happy. He wanted
himself
to be happy, though he was willing to settle for being solvent and in good health.

“Let’s go for an ice.” He made a grab for her hand, but she snatched it away.

“It’s going to rain, Malcolm, and I do not want an ice. Last night, I was a pariah, a fallen woman, a social failure despite my wealth and despite not having done one thing wrong. Today I’m bosom bows with a lot of sweet-smelling, titled beldames. Did you know, when I arrived here I’d made an objective out of being ruined?”

He had not known that, but she was American. He was coming to believe that was synonymous with unhinged. “Why?”

“I wanted the freedom to tend to my responsibilities. I wanted to be with people who loved me even when they didn’t approve of me. I wanted… I wanted to
go
home
.”

Freedom? Why were Americans always prosing on about their bloody
freedom
? “Scotland has freedom and is home to many, even the Queen and her prince consort sometimes. They’re wonderful neighbors. Lots of kiddies underfoot, and Albert is a great sportsman.”

She glared at him as if he’d just farted at high tea. “Yesterday, I was a scandal. Today I am the darling of a duchess and her titled relations. I’m getting floral panegyrics from a rascally old duke, and the invitations, as of an hour ago, have filled three baskets.”

Moreland would like being called rascally. Malcolm tried a smile, though the conversation was leaving him utterly flummoxed. “It’s like that bit with the loaves and fishes, you see. One duchess can work miracles with the calls and invitations.”

“I didn’t want a miracle. I never wanted a miracle.”

She sounded not angry, but bewildered—forlorn. He didn’t dare pat her hand. “I take it you aren’t going to be cheered to learn that Asher has gone to purchase a special license?”

“A license for what?”

“Holy matrimony, presumably to you.”

And then she did cry, not loudly, not untidily, but she broke Malcolm’s heart all the same.

***

“Why is that sitting out here?” Asher asked the question casually, though a sizable trunk in the middle of the barn aisle, where it might get kicked or worse, was not an everyday sight.

The groom who’d taken Asher’s horse paused to regard the trunk, a nondescript sturdy piece of gray-green luggage that would hold a fair amount. “Headed for the docks, guv. Young Miss had it out here before her came downstairs.”

Young Miss, as distinguished from Miss Enid, though the help had all manner of names for the older houseguest, none of them flattering.

Asher’s first reaction was pleasure that Hannah should be so eager to depart for points north. “Don’t you mean it’s headed for the train station?” King’s Cross was the usual point of departure for the northbound express trains—and they would be taking an express to Edinburgh, of course. Likely hiring private cars, making a family party out of the journey.

“Not the train station.” The old groom regarded the trunk again, his expression sad, as if the thing were a casket, not a mere repository for clothes and books.

Asher leaned over to read the address carefully lettered onto the side. “Boston?”

“And she said she’ll have several more down here by the end of the week, though she isn’t sure t’other lady will be joining her for the return journey. I’da rather kept Young Miss and sent t’other ’un back. Come along, horse.”

With a sense of cold foreboding, Asher waited until the clip-clop of the horse’s hoofbeats had faded, then took out a knife and slit the twine fastening the trunk.

Hannah’s clothing, some everyday, some newly purchased, lay carefully wrapped in thin paper and folded around sachets of lavender and sage. A volume of Walter Scott occupied pride of place on the top of the heap, the edition Asher had last seen at the inn in Steeth.

A set of nightclothes was among the garments Hannah was sending back to Boston—a nightgown and peignoir of green silk bordered in satin, the embroidery a blue, green, and purple riot of peacock feathers and flowers. Beaded slippers completed the ensemble, though there was no lift on the right heel.

He refolded her clothes, the silk cool and soft in his hands.

Fiona’s cat came strutting by, standing on its back legs to peer into the trunk. Asher lifted the cat aside, wanting instead to either throw the beast a good distance or pick it up and cuddle it.

“She’s sending part of her trousseau back to Boston.”

He closed the trunk and sat on it for a long time, stroking the purring cat. Hannah had no sisters. Her granny wasn’t going to be wearing such finery, and neither was her uncommunicative mother.

While the black-and-white cat kneaded Asher’s riding breeches with needle-sharp claws, Asher mentally revisited his conversations with Hannah the previous evening.