“I clearly made a potentially costly mistake in remaining away from the countryside.” While he made this pronouncement, Devlin returned his brilliant attention to Ella. “There has been a distinct improvement in the quality of the local flora.”
Struan calculated Devlin's age to be perhaps seven and twenty. The man had deep pockets and a fine estate his shipowner father had willed to him. Nevertheless, Devlin was too old by far to be studying Ella as if she were highly desirable “flora” ready for picking.
“May I come in?”
Struan looked over his shoulder at Justine and smiled. “Of course, my dear. This is to be your home.” He realized how much joy the words brought him. “Meet one of our neighbors. Devlin North. Devlin, this is my fiancée, Lady Justine Girvin.”
Devlin approached Justine with the controlled grace for which he was famous with the ladies. “My lady,” he said, bowing over her hand. “You are even more lovely than Saber led me to believe.”
“Saber?” She inclined her head. “You refer to my cousin?”
Even Straun was forced to acknowledge the charm in Devlin's smile. “Your cousin, indeed. And a friend of mine for many years.”
“And you are the gentleman who reported to Arran that the fame of my relationship with Struan had reached London?”
Devlin bowed his head once more and finally said, “I suppose that must have been me. I am occasionally forgetful of past conversations.”
“You know Saber?” Ella spoke for the first time since Struan had entered the room, and he glanced to her anxiously. She had risen from her perch on the edge of the daybed and taken several steps forward.
“I do indeed.” Beaming, Devlin turned back from Justine. “In fact, it is because of Saber that I am here today. Since Lady Justine is his cousin.”
Ella lowered her great, exotic eyes. “Of course,” she said. “How is he?”
So, Struan thought with a heaviness in his heart, the girl still bore a
tendre
for young Avenall. He'd thought the two well matched in their serious natures and affinity for the land—and in their gentle wit—but Avenall had turned from Ella for no reason that Struan could fathom.
Devlin North's disarming grin had deserted him. He cast Struan a significant stare. “A small mishap befell Saber in India. Have no fear. He is much improved, but in need of time to completely regain his previous vigor.”
All color drained from Ella's face. “He has been wounded?” she whispered.
“A skirmish with some hill tribe,” Devlin said.
“They're everywhere,” Max announced, shaking his head and frowning. “We've the same problem here. Wild men—”
“That'll do,” Struan told him.
“Sit with me,” Justine said to Devlin. She led the way to a couch and he joined her—his gaze repeatedly returning to Ella, Struan noted. Justine continued, “Tell me about Saber. I am most fond of him. Have you spoken with my brother yet?”
“At the castle,” Devlin said. “He and Arran sent me here. Calum thought you'd want to know Saber is at Northcliff Hall.”
“With you?” Struan asked, amazed. “Now?”
Devlin regarded Ella yet again.
Lecherous bounder.
Struan persisted. “You mean Lord Avenall is at Northcliff as we speak?”
Ella came closer. “That is where you live, Mr. North?”
“Devlin, please. Yes, that is my Scottish home.” He laughed. “And, coincidentally, it is to the north.”
“How long has Saber been there?” Justine asked.
Devlin puffed up his cheeks and spread his hands on massive thighs. “Oh, a while now. We were friends at Oxford and we kept up with each other through the years. Coincidence he should turn out to be related to Calum—but those things happen.”
“I cannot imagine why he did not come to us direct,” Justine said. “After all, we are his family.” She sounded distressed.
“He'll come to you in good time.”
There was something in what Devlin said—or perhaps in the way he did
not
say something—that troubled Struan deeply. “I remember Saber well,” he said, all good humor. “Independent, unless I miss my mark. I imagine he wants to be his old self before he puts in an appearance. Am I right, Devlin?”
“Absolutely right.” With hands the size of lions’ paws, Devlin slapped his knees. “Anyway, I promised Saber I should drop in and give you news of him. Let you know he's recovering well.”
“Does he know I'm here?”
All eyes turned to Ella, and she blushed so brilliantly that Struan had to stop himself from going to her.
Devlin's extraordinary eyes narrowed a fraction. “He knows.”
The girl's smile had pathetic hope. “Should he like me to visit him? Did he say he'd like to see me?”
Evident discomfort powered Devlin's abrupt rise from the couch. “I'm sure he would have if he'd thought of it. He mentioned what an agreeable child he found you to be in Cornwall. I'll mention your kind offer to him.”
Ella's heavy lashes lowered, but not before tears shone in her eyes.
“Duty dispensed, then,” Devlin said heartily. “Shall I give Saber your good wishes?”
“That and more,” Justine said, but she sounded strained and she did not take her gaze from Ella's face. “And tell him we are anxious to see him.”
“I shall do that.” Bowing deep, Devlin swung away and, with a last long stare in Ella's direction, left the room.
No one spoke until the ring of his boots receded.
“Well,” Struan said, too loudly. “We must be grateful that Saber is on the mend.”
“On the mend from what?” Justine said softly. “I do not like it. He is trying to ensure we do not go near him.”
Struan shared her suspicion, but he said, “Nonsense. He had no way of knowing you and Calum would be in these parts now. I'm certain news of your presence surprised him and he is simply being polite. A man has a right to deal with ills as he chooses.” A principle to which he subscribed but was having increasing difficulty clinging to.
“An agreeable child,” Ella murmured. Her voice shook. “Once I thought he was my friend, the mirror of my own heart, but he calls me an
agreeable
child now.”
“Hush,” Struan said, going to her.
Ella would not allow him to hold her hands. “It is all for nothing. I am what I am and—”
“Please don't,” he implored.
She looked directly at Justine. “No. No, Papa, do not concern yourself. I shall be very well as always. Best that I give up this coming-out nonsense. After all, we both know no man will want me. And I want only one man, so what point can there possibly be?”
Struan was helpless to do other than watch her sweep from the room, a truly beautiful creature wounded by early circumstances over which she'd had no power. “Go to her, Max,” he murmured, but the boy was already hurrying after his sister.
“I feared it might be so,” Struan said. “She did think she loved young Avenall.”
“Men,” Justine said, very low. “How do you avoid the truth of things. She
did
love him. And she
still
does.”
Female wiles had their place in certain situations.
Justine watched from behind a drape in her sitting room as Struan rode away in the direction of the castle.
She was “resting”!
Her morning had been taxing, so Struan had informed her. She must take care of herself for his sake. Pretty words to guarantee he got what he wanted.
He had yet to take full measure of her determination.
“I'll have the cloak now, Mairi,” she said. “And perhaps you'd tell Potts I'm ready for the cart.”
“Och, m'lady,” Mairi said. “Ye'll be the death o’ me yet. The master'll have me liver and lights fer lettin’ ye go when he's said ye're t'rest.”
Justine decided not to explore the nature of Mairi's “liver and lights.” “You are hardly able to stop a grown woman from deciding to take a ride if she chooses to do so. Please hurry, there's a good girl.”
The black velvet cloak was the one she'd worn to travel from Cornwall and very heavy. Justine shrugged it more comfortably around her shoulders and shooed Mairi in front of her and out of the apartments.
“That was a bonnie gentleman who came t'visit this mornin’,” the maid said over her shoulder. “He certainly sent Miss Ella into a swoon. Buttercup, too. She's still makin’ moon eyes an’ blatherin’ on about him.”
“I'm sure I can't speak for Buttercup's reactions to Mr. North, but I don't believe it was Devlin who sent Ella into a swoon, as you put it,” Justine said. She liked Mairi. The girl was open and kind and to be trusted. “Ella is not happy. If you can find ways to cheer her, I should very much appreciate it. Without letting her know we have spoken, of course.”
“Och, o'course!” Mairi glanced back frequently as they descended the stairs. “Ye leave it t'me, m'lady. Where does the green-eyed gentleman come from, then? I dinna remember seein’ him before.”
“He's a neighbor,” Justine said. She recognized a case of infatuation-at-first-sight when she saw it. Mairi was as smitten with Devlin North as she reported Buttercup to be. “Apparently he does not spend much time in these parts. Too dull for him. He has quite the reputation. A man to be avoided at all costs, I should say.”
“Dearie me,” Mairi said, not with the horror Justine would have hoped for. “Is that a fact?”
Finally seated in the old cart with Potts driving, Justine swiveled on the makeshift seat to watch the fantastic shapes and colors of the lodge pass from sight behind trees. The place already felt like home.
She faced forward and felt proud of her lack of nervousness over what lay ahead. What could they say when she refused to leave their precious discussion about her future?
Bumping along the worn old track, Justine considered the odd visit from Mr. Devlin North and Ella's distress at learning Saber was so close yet had shown no interest in seeing her. And what could she have meant when she said, “I am what I am”?
Then there was Devlin's open admiration of the girl. Justine glowered at the hedgerows they passed. In the hands of such a man, her dear little Ella would be like a baby fed to a tiger. No such thing should happen if Justine had her way— and Justine
would
have her way.
But what of Saber? What could cause him to hide from his own family? He should be given time to come to them, but not too much time.
March had given way to early April and big, starlike white stichwort flowers showed off among the spring-fresh hedgerows. Wood anemones demurely drooped their pale-pink heads, awaiting warmer sunshine to raise their petals to the sky. A chaffinch with some morsel in its beak soared in for a landing. The jangling song of the bird's mate greeted the arrival of food.
Justine breathed deeply of Scotland's sharp moorland scents. A wild and beautiful land. Struan's land. Her land, now, and she was glad of it.
Potts urged his nag onward until the castle came into view. Atop a flat mound surrounded at the bottom by a formidable wall, Kirkcaldy's massive bulk was not at odds with the craggy beauty of its setting. Dramatic, fronted by twin drum towers and with a many-turreted angle tower at each corner, the building flaunted an insolent grandeur.
At last the cart ground to a halt in a courtyard tucked into the lee of the L-shaped castle. A clock tower topped the castellated balcony over the double doors to the vestibule. On the previous day, as on the night of Justine's arrival here, she had been too preoccupied to take much note of her surroundings. She was preoccupied again now. She was also determined to be calm.
Shanks, his bald head glimmering in the pale sunlight, opened the doors to admit her. “Are you expected, my lady?” he asked, his manner hostile.
“No,” Justine said, feeling contrary and more than a little tired of the Kirkcaldy servants. “And I require no assistance from you.”
Unfortunately she was forced to ask for assistance anyway. “Where is the dowager, please?”
Shanks elevated his beaked nose. “In her boudoir.”
Justine sensed more than saw a slight movement and swung about in time to see Mrs. Moggach's bulk creeping into the corridor leading to the main staircase. “Ah, Mrs. Moggach,” she said to the housekeeper. “How nice to see you. I'd wanted to thank you for all your efforts at the lodge. On the way to the dowager's rooms, are you?”
The housekeeper stopped. “No one said ye were comin’,” she said. “There's an important meetin’. They'd not want t'be disturbed.”
“I'll be the judge of that,” Justine informed the woman. “Is that where you're going now? To see if the dowager and her guests are ready for tea?”
“I am indeed.” Moggach's florid face folded into a secretive and lumpy study in discontent. “I'll let Her Grace know ye're in the green salon. Mr. Shanks'll show ye there.”
Moggach continued on and Shanks hovered.
With a withering glance of dismissal in Shanks's direction, Justine followed the housekeeper. Moggach clumped and puffed so with her own importance that she failed to check behind her until she'd ascended the stairs and arrived at a door. She knocked and awaited a faint “Come” from within.
Then Moggach saw Justine and scowled.
Justine favored the woman with blank serenity and let herself into the room. “Good afternoon, Grandmama,” she said to her sartorially spectacular grandparent. “My, is that a new black silk? The jet looks quite splendid on the lace fichu—and in the cap. In fact, you look quite splendid altogether.”
“She followed me,” Moggach said. “I dinna know she was—”
“Out,” Grandmama ordered, one rheumatic finger aimed at the door.
Moggach didn't argue. Moggach didn't say a word or make any sound at all. She scurried—if scurrying were possible in one so portly—she scurried from the lovely little boudoir and shut the door with a blurred thud.
“And out with you, too, missy,” Grandmama ordered Justine. “This is no place for you, and I'm certain the viscount conveyed that fact to you with suitable force.”
The old lady sat upon a gold-upholstered gilt chaise, her back so starched and her toes so firmly placed upon red and gold carpet that the considerable mound of tapestry cushions behind her were mere decoration.
Arran lounged with an elbow propped upon the ledge of a niche that held a white marble bust—probably of some former Stonehaven by the set of the nose. Calum stood behind Grandmama with his arms crossed.