Too Wicked to Marry (6 page)

"Not just Queen Victoria's signature," the insouciant Beatrice replied. "I've made a study of her handwriting and can duplicate anything she would write."

"But why would you want to?" Her brother Alexander, freshly home from overseas, was holding a fork awkwardly in his left hand, as his right arm was in a sling.

"Perhaps she's planning on committing high treason?" Lucy spoke up.

"Or having Father proclaimed laird of all the MacLeods and lord of Dunvegan Castle," suggested Gabriel, home for his university holiday.

"That might be fun," Beatrice answered. "Would you like to be laird of the clan, Father?"

"I'm laird of quite a clan already," he pointed out, gesturing around the dinner table. Not everyone was home, but the place was packed to the rafters when his roving children and the whole extended family got together. "I prefer staying right here at Skye Court to living in the MacLeods' ancestral seat." He exchanged a glance with his wife. They hadn't considered living anywhere else since they'd brought their growing brood back to his native Isle of Skye off the Scottish coast and moved into the ramshackle old manor house they'd named Skye Court. The place was named after him, in fact, for Ian Courtney MacLeod was known as Court to those closest to him. Those who didn't call him Papa or Uncle, that is. "You know your mother would hate moving," he went on. "Wouldn't you, Hannah?"

"Court, I think the point is—"

"And Lucy would hate to give up her garden after all the work she's put in on it."

"Nightshade and mandrake and hemlock won't grow just anywhere," Alexander put in. "Lucy couldn't possibly leave her poisons behind."

Lucy gave a short, sharp laugh. "Little you know, lad," she told her soldier brother. "As if I'd grow anything so obvious."

Hannah rapped a knife against the rim of a crystal water glass to bring everyone's attention back to the matriarch of the clan. "I think I've had a bit of practice with manipulation—"

"Aye, love, you're a mistress of it."

"Thank you, Court. But if the lot of you think you're going to sidetrack me off the subject of Beatrice having developed yet another skill that could put members of this family in jeopardy, please think again, my darlings."

"Honestly, Mum, what harm could it do?" Gabriel spoke up. "In fact, I was thinking of having Bea ask the queen to write a letter extolling my virtues to my wretched history professor at Muirford."

"After the queen promotes me to regimental commander of the Scots Guards," Alexander spoke up.

"That's just the sort of thing I'm talking about." Hannah turned a stern glance on Gabriel. "And you, heaven help us, are the sober and serious one of the twins. Alec:—"

"We were only joking, Mum," Alexander said.

A grown man and a brave young officer who'd seen action and come home wounded yet victorious, he nevertheless quelled beneath his mother's disapproving look like a lad of ten. Court approved this response, for it showed that his son had fine survival skills.

Alexander looked his father's way for aid, but Court only smiled benignly. "I'll go through fire and flood for you, lad," he told Alexander. "But I learned long ago when to stay out of Hannah Gale MacLeod's way."

"It is a wise man who knows his limitations," Hannah said, giving him a warm smile. "Sara, darling," she called upon the family's youngest. "Please explain why Beatrice's latest talent could prove as dangerous as it might be useful."

Sara was fifteen, shy, and even more bookish than Beatrice, if such a thing were possible. Court had already noted that her gaze was directed to her lap, meaning that she was once again violating the household rule about reading during meals. No doubt Hannah had noticed as well, which was why she called Sara out of her reverie now.

Sara didn't even bother to glance up as she said, "Because, as has already been pointed out, forging the queen's handwriting could indeed be used to commit high treason by those who lack scruples. Or Bea's forgery skill could be used by those who serve foreign countries and political policies that run counter to the welfare of the British Empire, should Bea fall into the hands or under the influence of such persons."

"Very good," Hannah acknowledged. "Now put the book away and eat your peas."

"Yes, Mum."

"None of you is to mention this skill of Bea's again," Hannah addressed the people at the table. "Family secrets—"

"—stay in the family," everyone finished with her.

"As if we didn't already know—" Lucy began, but stopped speaking instantly as the dining room door opened.

Mrs. Swift, the housekeeper, came into the room as everyone turned to look, followed closely by a dark-haired young woman in a travel-stained dress. Court rose joyously to greet the newcomer, his arms held wide. "Harriet!" he called happily. "Harriet, you've come home at last!"

She gave a strangled little laugh that was half a sob, and rushed to his embrace. "Harriet," she said on a sigh. "How lovely not to be called Abigail Perry anymore!"

"Thank you for seeing me, Lady Phoebe. It is most kind—"

"Yes, it is," Lady Phoebe Gale cut off her visitor's polite speech.

"I do apologize for the intrusion."

You are not the least bit sorry
, she thought.
Nor are you a sorry sight on the eyes. Still, I rather wish I didn't have the pleasure of seeing you like this
.

And seeing him was a pleasure. He was a tall, handsome fellow of the intense-dispositioned, stormy-eyed, raven-haired sort, and she had quite an appreciation of handsome fellows of all kinds. Good looks, of course, were not why she'd allowed this stranger to be showed into her parlor. He looked most out of place in the feminine room, full as it was of delicate furniture, china figurines and many vases of fresh-cut flowers.

At least, Lord Martin Kestrel thought they were strangers. While they had never met, she knew quite a bit about him. In fact, she knew everything about him, except how he had found her and why he was there. So she set aside her irritation at his sudden appearance. She also put aside her concern about another unexpected situation.
Let's see if the two are linked
, she thought, and produced the curious demeanor of a lonely and harmless old lady out of her extensive bag of tricks.

"Excuse my abruptness, my lord. I'm afraid I have very little company these days. Please be seated," She directed him across the feminine room with a flutter of her hand.

Once he'd settled his long frame in one of the tapestry-upholstered chairs tucked into a deep bay window, she rang for tea and took the other seat. He probably did not notice that their positions put the sun to her back on this bright summer day, or perhaps he'd taken the less comfortable seat out of consideration for a fragile old woman. Whatever the cause, she had a better view of him than he did of her, and
Phoebe Gale had spent her life taking even the smallest advantage of her opponents. And there was not a person in the world who could not be judged an enemy, depending on the situation.

She certainly had nothing against the man at the moment, other than the fact that
he
was not the person she'd sent for from the Kestrel household. She studied him under the cover of picking up an embroidery hoop and selecting a skein of green thread from the basket next to her chair.

He was a dark-browed man with a firm, indented chin and eyes like steel. Quite a grand-looking fellow, but tired now and trying to hide it beneath a calm veneer. Not only tired, but worried—she saw that in the lines around his eyes and the tight press of his lips. Lovely lips, they were. Were he to smile, she was certain a pair of dimples would add charm to punctuate the devastating effect. Lucky the woman who got the chance to appreciate the sweet taste of that man's mouth. He was passionate by nature, she could tell simply by the way he held himself under such tightly wound control.
A tiger of a man
, she thought.
A veritable tiger
. She'd had a few tigers in her time, and liked taming them very well, for they could never be completely turned into domesticated tomcats.

"So few ladies do fancywork these days," was her opening gambit as she began to work on the intricate flower design. "And those who practice any sort of domestic art think it rude to work in company. Modern women of the upper classes are no longer supposed to be anything but decorative ornaments in their husbands' homes. I find that a pity, don't you, my lord?"

He was clearly there on business he considered quite urgent, but being a diplomat as well as a gentleman, he held his impatience in check to give a semblance of civility. "Most ladies I know seem content with their lot, Lady Phoebe."

"I think you mistake boredom for contentment. It is an easy error for men to make. Easier than looking beneath the surface, I suppose."

A housemaid brought in the tea. Once the maid was out the door, Phoebe put down her embroidery, passed the man a cup of tea, and said, "Forgive my manners, my lord. Lonely old women do rattle on, given the chance. What can I do to help you?"

Martin Kestrel instantly put down his tea and leaned forward eagerly. "To be blunt, Lady Phoebe, I'm looking for Abigail Perry."

"Abigail Perry." She gave him a bland smile that covered both annoyance and confusion. She'd sent for the girl, but this man had arrived instead.

"You wrote to her. This is how I found you."

Kestrel took an envelope from his coat pocket and handed it to her. The envelope had been opened.

Phoebe unfolded the piece of paper inside the envelope and glanced at the words she'd written in dark purple ink. "You've read Miss Perry's personal correspondence."

"I'm sorry, Lady Phoebe. I had no choice."

The color of the ink was significant; the words themselves appeared to be merely a friendly note inviting Abigail to meet for an afternoon at a botanical garden, with mentions of favorite flowers and a type of tea Phoebe hoped to find at a specific shop. The code was a simple one; it was the first one Phoebe had taught all her great-nieces and -nephews.

What concerned Phoebe was how her note had ended up in the hands of the man Harriet was assigned to watch and guard.

"Had no choice? How is it that you had no choice but to read Miss Perry's correspondence?"

"It was necessary."

"So you have implied. Where is Miss Perry?"

"I have no idea."

"Really?" she asked quite calmly, while her heart began to race. Surely Rostovich did not have her.

Don't jump to conclusions without proof, you old fool. Stay sharp and deal with facts, not fancy
, she chastised herself.
Rostovich is an old enemy, but it is not wise to see him under every rock and in every odd occurrence
.

She was getting old, and the older she got, the more sentimental she became about the members of her own family who were in the game.

"You look uncomfortable, young man," she noted. "Miss Perry must be more than an employee to you." His discomfort seemed to deepen under her sharp gaze. This was an affair of the heart, she decided, but did not show her relief.

"How long have you known Miss Perry?" he asked. "What is your relationship with her? Would she come to you for help if she were in trouble? If not to you, do you know to whom she would turn?"