Bridegroom Wore Plaid (36 page)

So the gloves were to come off? Altsax smiled and touched the back of his host’s hand with one finger, as if they were conspiring together over some shared secret. “Rattle those old claymores all you like, Balfour. I understand tattered Scottish pride and the need to posture, but balk at this engagement now, and I will bring you and what remains of your family to your bony Scottish knees.”

He clinked their glasses, tossed back his whisky, and left the room with the satisfaction of having the last—and only important—words.

Balfour would come to heel, the engagement would be announced at the ball, and the very next day, amid the confusion and camaraderie of an organized hunt, dear Augusta would find her eternal reward.

What a fitting end to a very tedious excuse for a holiday.

Fourteen

“You need to know what’s afoot.” Ian snagged Con by the arm as they ambled down the aisle of the horse barn.

“From your expression, nothing good.”

“I cannot marry Genie Daniels, and there will be damages.”

Con stopped midstride, treating Ian to a close perusal. “What brought on this insight?”

Ian dropped his brother’s arm and paced off a few steps. “Several things. I have to marry for money, but you’re right—marrying Genie Daniels isn’t the answer. I gave Altsax a perfect opening to explain to me that his primary source of income is Trevisham, a property he inherited—or claims he inherited—from his older sister, Augusta Merrick’s mother. He not only failed to mention the property, he also intimated the Scottish barony he holds is of no consequence either.”

“You suspect something underhand?”

“I don’t need to suspect it. Henry Post-Williams had an understanding with Augusta at the time her parents died. Their fathers were at the point of drawing up the agreements, and Mr. Merrick made very clear to Post-Williams that Augusta was an heiress of significant wealth. He was explicit that the entire estate of Trevisham would be hers, consistent with her mother’s wishes and his own. He also suggested Augusta was due other income, but we’ll probably never get to the bottom of that mare’s nest.”

“So the baron got away with stealing from his niece?”

“It would appear so, as the deed has long since been a fait accompli. To his credit, Post-Williams confronted the baron after Augusta had removed to Oxfordshire. He asked Altsax why a wealthy young woman was living in obscurity in the shires, but Altsax assured him it was consistent with Augusta’s dearest wishes.”

Ian watched while Con’s features reflected consternation, then intense concentration.

“A liar and a cheat, then, but how does this get you off the marital hook?” Con stretched out a hand to old Hannibal, who came over to investigate his callers.

“It doesn’t, exactly, but it might give me a great deal of leverage.”

“And leave Genie where? Gil’s about to elope with the girl, will she, nil she.”

“No, he’s not. Not yet.” Ian hoped and prayed he was speaking the truth.

Con scratched the horse under the chin, which had the beast half closing its eyes in bliss. “There’s a shoot coming up, Brother.”

“I am aware of this.”

“You aren’t planning anything foolish are you?” Con’s tone was particularly casual.

“If I were?”

“I’d have to ask you to refrain from foolishness. If you get yourself convicted of a felony—say manslaughter, for example—then we very likely lose the title and the lands.”

“Not necessarily. I’d be tried in the Lords, and they seldom convict their own. And if I met with an untimely accident, then Gil would inherit the title and the bride who goes with it.”

Con’s hand on the horse’s neck stilled. “He would inherit so much guilt he’d choke on it before the first child was conceived.”

“Don’t bet on it.”

***

“He’s not here.” Mary Fran muttered the words to her oldest brother, the one she could trust not to lose his temper under any circumstances, particularly not in the entrance hall when guests were expected momentarily.

“Daniels will be here shortly, Mary Frances. Trust me.” Ian’s expression was genial, but there was a glint in his green eyes Mary Fran knew not to ignore.

“What do you know that you’re not saying, Ian? The guests will be arriving soon, and I haven’t time for intrigues and nonsense. Altsax is preening and smirking like he knows something we don’t.”

“He probably knows many things we don’t. Are the musicians here?”

“A twelve-piece orchestra, for the love of God. A simple quartet wouldn’t do?”

She was arranging the folds of his small kilt, repinning the clan brooch, fussing with the Scotch pine in his bonnet until Ian closed his fingers around her hand. “Settle, woman. A twelve-piece orchestra of our cousins is twelve more stout fellows to keep the peace if matters grow unruly. All will be well, despite how bleak things might seem now.”

“You should be marrying Augusta.” She’d surprised him, that was some satisfaction, though his expression quickly shuttered.

“You’d best be keeping such sentiments to yourself, Mary Frances MacGregor.”

“Flynn.” She spoke softly. “I married a Flynn. My daughter is a Flynn.”

“And as far as I know, I’m not marrying anybody, not in the immediate future. It might cost us greatly, but there’s no amount of coin that would justify taking our chances with Altsax on his terms.”

He meant it, which was a wonderful relief. “Do Con and Gil know?”

“They applaud my decision, though I’m not sure they’ll sing the same tune when Altsax starts in with his ranting and lawyering.”

“You’re not going to publicly humiliate the man, are you? He’s worse than the average Englishman, Ian. Matthew doesn’t trust him in the least.”

Ian flashed a smile at her, a false, friendly smile that alerted her to the front doors opening.

Not Matthew, but rather, the first of their guests. Mary Fran took her place beside her brother and tried not to let her anxiety show.

***

The ball gown was borrowed, but nonetheless magnificent.

“You must wear it.” Hester stroked a hand over the midnight-blue velvet. The trim was a bright red-and-blue four-square tartan plaid, crossed at the bodice and flowing up over the shoulders of a gracefully scooped neckline. The same plaid detail plunged in a dramatic inverted vee to the hem, accentuating the hourglass turn of a lady’s figure.

“I haven’t anything of my own grand enough for a ball,” Augusta said. “And I haven’t danced for years.” And she should not let herself be tempted by Mary Fran’s generosity.

“You’ll offend our hostess if you don’t wear it,” Hester said. “I think the trim is one of the MacGregor tartans, maybe the one for dancing.”

“Not the dancing plaid—that’s green and white. This is the one for the local branch of the family.” Augusta’s fingers trailed along the hem. “I suppose I could watch from the minstrel’s gallery.”

“Nonsense. You will sit with me as a chaperone would. Julia has eyes only for Connor of late, and I’m sure she’ll be dancing with him every chance she gets.”

“She might save him one waltz, Hester. She’s not going to flaunt propriety while Altsax is at hand.”

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.” Hester stepped away from where the dress hung on the wardrobe door and sat herself on Augusta’s bed. “I miss your cat.”

“I miss him too, but that wasn’t what you intended to say.”

“Do you recall getting letters from me when you moved to Oxford?”

“Yes, I do. They were a particular comfort, as I received almost no other mail.”

Augusta crossed the room to sit next to her cousin. Somewhere along the way, Hester had grown into a young lady of both sense and beauty. If Hester had something to say, Augusta intended to listen.

“Well, you got letters from Mr. Post-Williams, after you went up to Oxford.”

“I did?”

Hester nodded, her gaze on the pretty ball gown hanging a few feet away. “Papa is not a gentleman.”

“You needn’t point out the obvious, Hester, though if I were any kind of influence on you, I’d tell you not to disrespect your elders.”

“He reads other people’s mail. The letters from Post-Williams? I saw three when I wasn’t off at school, and I don’t think any of them were forwarded to you. When we’d visit at Trevisham when I was a little girl, I’d catch Papa going through the mail before Uncle came down to breakfast. I think he’s still doing it.”

“Going through the mail?”

Hester nodded, her expression disgruntled. “I saw another letter from Post-Williams, this one addressed to his lordship. I kept it back then passed it along to Lord Balfour. I hope that was the right thing to do.”

“If you saw it into Ian’s hands, then that wasn’t wrong.” But what could the letter have said, and what had the three letters Altsax had pilfered said?

“He’s a widower, you know.”

Augusta peered over at her cousin. “Who is?”

“Mr. Post-Williams. He’s widowed. He was making the rounds earlier this year, supposedly looking for a mother to his children. I think he’s lonely.”

“He’s… widowed?” Augusta waited for this information to register, waited for some elemental shift in her heart, to know the man who’d offered for her, the man to whom she’d given her virginity, was again available and seeking a wife.

But she felt… nothing, except a vague wish he’d find eventual happiness, or at least a decent mother for his children.

“Augusta, Mr. Post-Williams doesn’t need to marry for money this time. He’s quite well set up now. Genie’s friends were very explicit in that regard.”

“Then I wish Genie’s friends the joy of him. When it came down to it, he was set to spend his life with me one day and willing to accept his congé from Uncle and Aunt the next.”

Hester’s gaze was troubled. “Is that how it was?”

“More or less.” But what had his letters said? And had the baron forged replies supposedly from Augusta in response?

“You should renew your acquaintance with him, Gus. He might be a prospect, and you can’t tell me you’d rather raise chickens in the shires than be a mother to a decent man’s children.”

Augusta opened her mouth to reply then shut it as a truth settled around her heart.

“Yes, Hester, I can so tell you that very thing. Being a glorified governess to another woman’s children is not preferable to raising my chickens, not when I’m expected to be grateful for the attentions of a man who deserted me years ago.”

And this insight was squarely, purely, and utterly Ian MacGregor’s fault. Augusta smiled at the realization.

There was no longer any need to defend her bucolic little life from criticisms and pity. It was a life that had allowed her to love and love fiercely when she’d been given the chance, to experience the soul-nourishing joy of mutual desire and respect, however briefly.

Augusta rose from the bed and took the ball gown down from its hanger. “You’ll help me figure out what to do with my hair?”

Hester hopped off the bed and made straight for Augusta’s vanity. “Of course, I’ll help—and you won’t be hiding in the minstrel’s gallery.”

“I won’t.”

But Augusta would steal another half hour for herself in the library, where she would read those benighted damned contracts just one more time.

***

The reception line had disbanded, the guests were swilling spirits at a great rate, and the musicians were tuning up. The ballroom was a lovely sight, decorated with both the finest flowers from Ian’s gardens, and the finest flowers of the local gentry as well as the English community that formed each summer around the sovereign’s retreat to Balmoral.

Altsax appeared at Ian’s elbow, looking choleric in his evening attire. “I think an announcement just before the supper waltz makes the most sense.”

The man had an eye for the dramatic, since Ian stood at the top of the grand staircase, every eye upon him. He’d open the dancing, of course, usually by dancing with the highest-ranking lady in the assemblage—which was sometimes his own sister and once had been the Queen herself.

“It’s risky to count your chickens before they hatch, Baron. If we should for some reason be unable to come to terms, there are plenty of representatives of London society here who will recall your announcement, and it will not devolve to your daughter’s credit.”

“We’ve come to the only terms I’m willing to offer, Balfour. Genie has signed the documents, and it would be a nice touch if you’d do likewise this very evening.”

A nice touch, and the death of Ian’s hopes, dreams, and honor. “Except you’ve shown the next thing to bad faith, Baron, by withholding financial information critical to my decision.”

Altsax visibly expanded, like a cat puffing out its fur to appear larger and more menacing. “You dare to accuse me of bad faith? You, who charge your in-laws for the very bread you put before them?”

He was keeping his voice down, as Ian had known he would. The baron was acutely aware of appearances, one of few advantages Ian could count on.

“I have no in-laws as we speak, Baron, though I think Connor’s getting ideas about Mrs. Redmond.”