Amanda Scott (10 page)

“No, you don’t,” James said, grasping her arm in what appeared from her grimace to be a very firm grip. “I know I keep telling you he is only my half-brother, but even so, you’ve no business to be talking to him in such a rude way, particularly when you were so quick to claim his guardianship earlier today.”

“I did not!” Once again Rothwell thought he detected that unusual lilt in her voice, but the rebuke undoubtedly surprised her. Clearly she had not expected James to side with him on any point. He found himself studying her more carefully. Her face, animated by anger now, was an exceedingly pretty one, and though she was small of stature, her figure—which he could surmise easily enough despite her deplorable clothing—was slender and delicately curved. The greenish hazel eyes sparkled, her cheeks were bright with color, her chin tilted up defiantly, and her full lips parted, revealing even white teeth.

“What’s this about guardianship, James?” he said, adding when she moved to speak, “No, madam, you will keep silent. I cannot deal with you properly until I know who and what you are.”

James said, “Her name is—”

“My name is of no concern,” she said quickly, “and you need not deal with me at all, Rothwell, for I’ve friends aplenty in London, and though I was wrong to speak out your name as I did—”

“Upon my soul,” James exclaimed, “you know perfectly well you had no business to do so. Look here, Ned, I brought her to you because I promised the beak I would do so, but if you don’t want her here, I’ll take her away again now that I’ve kept my word. I knew you would be vexed, but there was no getting around it if I was to get her out of that awful place, which it was plain I had to do once I saw that she had no business there.”

“What place?” Rothwell demanded, still looking at her and noting that though her face was bare of cosmetics, her complexion suggested strawberries floating in the richest cream. Her lips were not only full but well defined. When she opened her mouth to reply to his question, he said hastily, “James, tell me in plain words, where did you find her?”

“In the magistrate’s court at Bridewell.”

“Good God.” He saw her flush deeply and bite her lower lip, and found himself imagining what it must taste like. Her lips fascinated him. The lower one was redder now than the upper, but both were dark enough without rouge to make a man think of kissing them. Struggling to recover his equilibrium, he could not even imagine what it was about the wench that stirred his fantasies so. There was something about her though, even standing there in ragged clothing, that intrigued him more than any woman of his vast prior acquaintance had ever done with fashionable clothes or elegant speech. He wondered how her tawny hair would look, falling free around her shoulders. She had not shifted her gaze, and the mossy green shawl she wore made her eyes look like enormous green jewels. Mentally chastising himself for a fool, he reined his errant thoughts in abruptly and said, “Tell me the whole, James,
without interruption
.”

Maggie knew from the look Rothwell gave her as he snapped out the last two words that they were intended not for James but for her, and the command stirred an impulse to defy him that was perfectly familiar to her, since it was her normal reaction to being given a direct order. But the hint of steel in Rothwell’s voice had surprised her, for it was not at all in keeping with her first impression of the man, or even with her second; so, in order that she might study him more carefully, she held her tongue while James Carsley described the courtroom scene and listed the charges that had been laid against her.

Rothwell listened well, she saw, and without rapping out more questions or making unnecessary comments. He was a handsome man, though his eyes lacked a certain warmth and his lips seemed better acquainted with mockery than good humor. She detected a shrewd intelligence behind his generally lazy manner, and decided he was not the fool she had first thought him. The notion was not a reassuring one. When his gaze came to rest upon her at the point where James described her claim to be related to him, she found herself wishing he would smile. He did not.

When James finished, Rothwell was silent for a long moment. Maggie was still standing, and she shifted her feet impatiently, fearing to hear what he would say but wanting whatever was going to happen to be over and done. She was strangely hesitant for once to speak her mind, and although she met his gaze directly when it shifted again to her, the effort required to do so was far greater than she had expected. His expression was no longer the least like that of an amiable fop. His eyes were as gray as flint and looked nearly as hard. She braced herself.

“You clearly have the regrettable habit of speaking before you think,” he said, more calmly than she had thought he would. “Before we go on, I shall take the liberty to suggest that you learn to curb that habit before you are much older lest it land you in much worse difficulty than it has today. Who are you?”

“May I sit down?” she said, determined to prove to herself that he did not daunt her. “We set out very early this morning, and my day has been overfull. Moreover, I dinna care to be kept standing aboot like an errant school child.” To her annoyance, she heard yet again that slight hint of Highland accent in her voice. Her tendency to speak so when she was distressed was one that her father frequently deplored, although he was more often guilty of the lapse than she was.

“Answer my question first, if you please.”

Stiffly, taking care to enunciate clearly, she said, “I am Margaret MacDrumin.”

“A pleasant name.” His demeanor was still calm, and she could not tell if he recognized her surname. “And your friends,” he added just as casually, “where are they to be found?”

“In Essex Street,” she answered quickly, believing that information at least to be perfectly harmless, “and since I now know that the street is not far from here, I should prefer to seek their help at once and not discommode you further.”

“You do not discommode me at all, and since you saw fit—however impulsively—to claim my protection, I must assume at least enough responsibility for your safety as to insist that you remain at Rothwell House until your friends can come for you—if indeed they prove willing to do so.”

Dismayed, Maggie stared at him for one speechless moment before she exclaimed, “You willna dare to keep me here!”

“Oh, but I will, Miss MacDrumin, and do not think you have fooled me for a moment as to your true purpose in coming to London. Though you are the second of your sort to astonish me with your education, you have not entirely managed to overcome your barbarian antecedents, for they color your voice enough to be recognized. And if that were not enough, the mere mention of Essex Street would be, for I know as well as you do whose house is to be found there, and although the viscountess and her friends have thus far managed to keep out of prison, they have not managed entirely to conceal their loyalty to a lost cause.”

“It is not lost yet,” Maggie snapped without thinking.

James looked from one to the other and said, “Ned, what the devil are you saying?”

“Only that your friend is a damned little Jacobite. I would not be at all surprised to learn that she comes to London bearing messages from the Highland leaders to their supporters here, for it would be just like them to send a female to do such work.”

Uncomfortably aware of the papers in her corset, Maggie hardly dared to breathe, lest one of the two men hear them crackle. Then Rothwell got to his feet, and she received another shock, for he proved to be well over six feet tall and even broader across the shoulders than Kate’s cousin Dugald.

“Ned,” James said quickly, “I didn’t know, but perhaps it would be better to send her to her friends. I did not realize—”

“No, James.” Rothwell flicked an imagined bit of lint from his cuff. “Miss MacDrumin has claimed my protection, and while it would be remiss of me not to point out to her the error of her ways, or the errors of her so-called friends, she shall have my protection. You may sit down now, Miss MacDrumin, and we shall discuss what is best to be done with you.”

“How dare you!” Maggie said furiously. “I’ve no doubt you recognized my name at once. You might as well admit it.”

“Of course I recognized it,” he said. “It is a most uncommon name, after all, and I see it quarterly. Moreover, even my worst enemy has never accused me of being a simpleton.”

Maggie saw that James looked confused again, and said with a grimace, “I did not lie altogether, Mr. Carsley, as you see—only about being kin to you—for I am the daughter of the man whose estate your brother—forgive me, your
half-brother
—stole.”

“You must be demented,” James said, “Ned is no thief!”

Rothwell took a gilded white enamel snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket, flicked it open, and helped himself to a delicate pinch.

She sneered at him. “You do not deny the charge, I see.”

He replaced the snuffbox. “On the contrary, Miss MacDrumin. The estate had become no more than spoils of war, rewarded to me for services rendered to the victors of that war.”

Maggie gave an unladylike snort. “The uprising was no war, Rothwell, and well you must know it, but you English are every dreadful thing I have heard you named and arrogant, selfish, and stupid besides. You know nothing whatsoever of the world outside your precious England. And you, sir, must be amongst the worst. What sort of man takes over a vast estate and years later still has not so much as set foot on the place? What gentleman allows others to run his estates for him without so much as occasionally looking into things to see if they are being run properly? And what sort of scoundrel allows minions to run roughshod over the very people who must trust him to see to their protection?”

“Yet again, I fear you let your tongue run away with your brain, Miss MacDrumin. Just precisely what people do you mean?” His words were unemotional, his voice apparently calm, but Maggie saw a muscle jump near one corner of his mouth and felt extreme satisfaction to think she had touched a nerve.

“Your tenants, Rothwell, and the very fact that I must describe to you things your factors and our horrid bailie do in your name is evidence enough of your deplorable neglect.”

James said angrily, “Now see here, just who do you think—”

“Enough, James.” Rothwell spoke quietly, but James obeyed without question. A silence fell, and Maggie watched the earl warily, knowing full well that she had overstepped the bounds of what any gentleman would accept, even from a guest in his house, and she was by no means certain she counted as such.

He looked as if he were about to speak again when the door behind her opened and the expression on his face changed to one of controlled annoyance. He said, “What is it, Lydia?”

Glancing over her shoulder, Maggie saw a beautiful girl with shining raven hair, wearing what she was certain must be a gown in the very latest fashion, with wide rustling skirts that were flatter and less bell-like than her own. The deep neckline of the gown showed off the girl’s plump breasts and swanlike neck to perfection. Her dark eyes twinkled merrily, and she did not look the least bit abashed by her half-brother’s tone.

“I beg your pardon, Ned,” she said with a casual air that underscored her lack of contrition, “but Frederick told me that James was here, and I did so want to beg him to stay to dine with us. Mama is in one of her pets, you see, and he is the best one to smooth her over. It is about the painting, I’m afraid.”

James looked startled and turned in protest to his sister. “Surely you did not show her—”

“Don’t be absurd,” Lydia said, grinning at him, “and you need not look so wildly at Ned either. He saw both portraits the day you put them in the gallery and laughed till I thought his sides would split, so he will not scold you for painting them. I refer to Mama’s own portrait. You were very cruel, you know, to refuse to paint her yourself when she pleaded with you to do so.”

“Lydia,” Rothwell said in a long-suffering tone, “this is neither the time nor the place to discuss that. May I make known to you Miss MacDrumin, who will be our guest here for a time.”

Maggie said instantly, “But I do not want to stay! You must know you have no right to keep me here against my will.”

He looked directly at her. “But I do have that right. According to what James has told me, you can remain here either as my guest or in my custody. If you require to have the matter made clearer, I believe we can find at least one magistrate quite willing to explain it to you. Do you care to put it to a test?”

She swallowed her fury. “No, sir. I believe you would get your own way anywhere in London.”

“I am glad you understand that. Now, as to the next point, you are to have nothing to do with anyone living in Essex Street, particularly the dowager Viscountess Primrose. You see,” he added gently when she grimaced, “I name names.” He paused as if he meant her to digest this information, but when he spoke again his tone was more cordial. “While you are here, you will find a companion in my sister, and I suppose, since all your belongings were stolen, I will be obliged, to provide you with some proper clothing. Lydia, have you a gown you can lend Miss MacDrumin so that she can join us for dinner this evening?”

Lydia looked Maggie over from tip to toe, her eyes bright with curiosity. “I think so. Will James stay to dine, too?”

“He will. No, no,” he added when James sputtered a protest. “You got us into this, and you will do your best to divert your mother this evening so that Miss MacDrumin is not required to spend the whole of it explaining her antecedents. I think, Miss MacDrumin, that it would be as well if you were to neglect to provide my mother with your entire history. We will simply tell her that you found yourself stranded in London after your baggage and coach were stolen, and requested our assistance.”

“As you please,” Maggie said, wishing he were not still standing and looking right at her. There was something about the man that made it difficult to fling hard words at him—except when one was in an utter passion—even when one desired nothing so much as to do so.

“Much better,” he said approvingly. “You run along with Lydia for the present and make yourself tidy. I will order dinner put back an hour for your convenience.”