“Don’t speak!” ordered Lady Tatton, holding up one dainty hand. The lace which cascaded from her wrist trembled with indignation. “This is an outrage. An insult. Do not even
think
of defending him! I always said Wynwood was a rogue and a scoundrel, did I not?”
“You did, Aunt,” said Esmée in spurious deference. “I cannot say I was not warned. I’ve cried off the engagement, and I’m sure ’tis just as well.”
“Good girl!” said her aunt. “Oh, the gossip we shall endure! Oh, Lud, I feel one of my headaches coming on. Pickens, my vinaigrette! And we return to London this afternoon. Get everything packed up. I shall speak with Gwendolyn as soon as I can collect myself.”
Esmée went to her aunt’s bed and settled herself on the edge of it. “Pray do not quarrel with Lady Wynwood over this,” she begged. “She can no more control her son’s behavior than…than you could my mother’s.”
Lady Tatton sniffed, but her indignation faded. “True, very true!” she agreed. “Still, it is a terrible insult he’s done you. And with an opera singer! A foreigner! The rumors are running wild already.”
Esmée covered her aunt’s hand on the counterpane and gave it a light squeeze. “I was going to cry off anyway,” she insisted. “I really was. I had decided I could not go through with it and was working up the courage to tell you.”
“The courage?” Lady Tatton echoed incredulously. “Oh, my dear child! I would never press you to marry a scoundrel.”
Esmée managed a weak smile. “I know,” she answered. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have some packing to do as well. And I must say, Aunt Rowena, that I will be very glad indeed to see London again.”
“Hmm,”
said her aunt with a suspicious, sidelong glance. “I did not realize you had developed such a fondness for town life, my dear.”
Esmée awoke in Grosvenor Square the following morning with a strange mix of both dread and expectation hanging over her. Something was about to happen. She could feel it in her Scottish bones. Unable to settle her nerves, she dressed and went downstairs to pace the floor in the family parlor until Grimond came in with a large silver tray.
“Would you care for some coffee and the morning’s paper, miss?” he asked politely. “Her ladyship is still indisposed with her headache and means to stay abed awhile.”
“That would be lovely,” said Esmée. At least it would occupy her mind.
Esmée settled down on the settee, spread out the paper, and began to read another day’s worth of speculation over Wellington’s resignation. Then it occurred to her with a strange, sinking sensation that the word of her broken betrothal might possibly have made it into the papers. Lord Wynwood had been very insistent about sending it straightaway. It had felt as if he wished the awful episode over and done with almost as much as Esmée did.
The scent of fresh ink assailed her nostrils as she flipped through the pages, searching. It did not take her long to find what she sought. Wynwood must have sent a fast horse to London. The announcement was succinct, and printed near the top of the page. And that, Esmée concluded, was the end of what had probably been the shortest engagement in the history of the
ton.
Lord, the gossip it would spawn! No wonder her aunt had a headache. For that, at least, she was sorry. Esmée picked up her cup, eyes still on the page, and sipped tentatively at the hot coffee. It was a bit of misjudgment, however, for in the next breath, she choked it back up again.
With a precarious clatter, she set her cup down, shoved it away, and spread the newspaper fully open. What the devil was that printed just below Wynwood’s announcement? A familiar name.
Edward Wheeler.
But the article could not be right. It made no sense. She read it again, every word. This time, sudden knowledge slammed into her. Alasdair’s warning that awful day they had quarreled came back to haunt her.
“Julia Crosby’s child is none of your business—nor any of mine, either, come to that.”
Oh, God. What an idiot she was!
Quickly, she refolded the paper and went out into the passageway, where the butler was arranging a vase of flowers. “Grimond, I am going out for a long walk,” she muttered, hastening toward the stairs.
It took Esmée but a moment to gather her cloak and reticule, but she was well beyond Mayfair before her left hand stopped shaking. In her right fist, she still carried the newspaper. Mr. Wheeler was a successful playwright; that much she had known. Now the rest of it was falling into place.
Henrietta was Wheeler’s sister.
Not his wife.
Mrs.
Wheeler was Miss Wheeler. How had she concluded otherwise? Oh, she had been such a fool, and in more ways than one.
It was time she and Alasdair had a long talk. She intended to give him no choice in the matter. She would lay siege at his doorstep if she had to. And in the end she would have her way, or die trying. This was her life. It was time she took charge. Just as her aunt had said, she could not keep living it for the benefit of others.
It was a little appalling to consider, but even if Julia Crosby had been carrying Alasdair’s child, Esmée had just about decided that all was fair in love and war. But even that impediment no longer existed. She was glad. She was relieved. No, she was
ecstatic.
Sir Alasdair MacLachlan might be a rake and a rogue and a charming scoundrel, but by God,
he was her scoundrel
—and she meant to have him.
The wind whipped at her face and tore at her cloak as she took the shortcut across the park, which was almost empty. The streets, too, were quiet. In Great Queen Street, nothing stirred, save for the skirling dead leaves, and a short, thickset man who was alighting from an elegant traveling coach at the foot of the street. Ignoring him, Esmée hastened up Alasdair’s steps and dropped the knocker determinedly.
Wellings threw open the door, and his face broke into a smile. “Why, good morning, Miss Hamilton. Here to see the young miss, are you?” His smile faltered a bit. “Oughtn’t you have sent for Lydia?”
“Aye, but I don’t want Lydia or Sorcha.” Esmée was already sliding out of her cloak. “I want Sir Alasdair. Wake him up at once, Wellings. And tell him I shan’t leave until he comes down and speaks with me.”
Wellings hesitated. “I’m afraid he is not in, miss,” he replied. “Sir Alasdair went out in his curricle not ten minutes past.”
Esmée brandished her newspaper, but just then, there was another abrupt knock at the door. Wellings frowned. “Excuse me, miss.”
He opened the door to reveal the thickset gentleman who had been alighting from his carriage farther down the street. The stranger held a bicorn in his hands, and his barrel-shaped chest filled the door.
“I beg your pardon,” he said in a thick Scots burr. “Is this MacLachlan’s residence? I seem tae have blown off course by a hoose or two.”
“A
hoose?”
said Wellings.
“A
house,”
whispered Esmée.
“Ah.” Wellings cast a quick look down the man’s attire. “I’m afraid Sir Alasdair is out.”
The man put down his hat and began unbuttoning his sweeping greatcoat. “Och, a pity!” he said, then he turned to call through the door. “Carry in my chest and portmanteau, Winters,” he ordered one of the footmen. “Seems we’ve found the laddie.”
Wellings looked affronted. “Does Sir Alasdair expect you, sir?”
“Oh, I doot it!” he said, slipping out of his coat to reveal the smart blue naval uniform underneath. “But he’ll have me nonetheless, and no choice in it, for I’m his own blood kin. Captain Angus MacGregor at your service. Now, which way lies the Admiralty from here?”
Wellings pointed in the general direction of Whitehall. “Er, it’s that way, sir,” he said. “Just round the corner, really.”
“Excellent! Excellent!” said MacGregor. “I’ll stop by there tomorrow.”
The captain’s servants were carrying in his baggage now, and having heard the magic words—
blood kin
—Wellings was giving orders about what was to go where. Esmée was simply taking it all in, her eyes wide.
Regrettably, Alasdair’s uncle was one of the most unattractive men she’d ever laid eyes on. The captain was not as short as he’d first appeared, but he was built like a bull. His hair was a wiry tangle of bright red and gray, which sprouted in all directions, whilst his skin was dark and deeply etched, like shoe leather left too long in the weather.
He was short a few front teeth, and his nose had obviously been broken—twice, if Esmée was any judge. It was also mottled and peeling, as if he’d suffered a recent sunburn, and one of his eyes had a terrible squint, putting Esmée in mind of a pirate without his eye patch. Suddenly, Captain MacGregor turned them both on her.
“And who would you be, miss?” he asked, narrowing the squint. “And are ye goin’ out, or comin’ in?”
“Coming in,” she said a little archly. “I’m waiting for Sir Alasdair.”
The captain eyed her up and down. “Aye, aren’t we all?” he said in his deep, rolling burr. “Now, you’ve a familiar look about you, lass. Wha’ was the name again?”
“Hamilton,” she said, sketching a stiff curtsey. “Miss Esmée Hamilton.”
“Oh, aye! The Hamilton lass!” he said, scrubbing at his stubbled chin with one hand. “The laddie told me you were here.”
“I’m not
here,”
said Esmée irritably. “I mean—I am here. But only to pay a call.”
“Are you indeed?” said the captain. He turned to Wellings, who had dispatched the other servants. “Fetch us a pot of strong coffee and a wee nip o’ whisky, will ye? Miss Hamilton and I will entertain one another ’til my nephew sees fit tae return.”
“But it’s half past nine, sir.”
“Aye?” The captain squinted at him. “What’s your point?”
Wellings blanched, and looked at Esmée. Esmée shrugged. She wasn’t sure about Alasdair’s uncle’s plans, but whisky or no, she wasn’t stepping a foot out of Alasdair’s house until she had spoken with him. “We’ll be in the parlor, Wellings,” she said. “Coffee would be lovely.”
The captain’s heavy tread followed her into the parlor. She was surprised to learn that Alasdair had mentioned her name to his uncle. Why on earth would he have done so? A little desperately, she searched her memory for any reference to an Angus MacGregor and came up with nothing.
She laid down her newspaper, motioned him toward a seat, and took the chair opposite. The captain sat down and slapped his knees heartily. “So you’d be Rosamund’s eldest, eh?” he began. “You’ve the look of her, too, and no mistake.”
Startled, Esmée blinked. “You knew my mother?”
“Oh, aye!” he said. “Scotland’s a small place, society-wise. And a rare beauty she was, too. Never met a woman who could hold a candle to her—though I tried hard enough, by God!” The captain laughed and shook his head, as if caught in some remembrance.
Esmée lifted one brow. “How did you know her?”
“Why, I met Rosamund at her come-out,” he said. “Did she never mention me?”
Esmée shook her head. The captain’s face fell. “Oh, I was smitten!” he went on. “As was every red-blooded man who clapped eyes on the lass. I’d been made lieutenant by then, and was very cocksure of myself, as only a young officer can be.”
The remark made Esmée smile. “Yes, I think I know.”
The captain’s gaze turned inward. “Of course, by the time I arrived, Rosamund’s card was full. That took the wind out of my sails. Then a pair of drunken lordlings commenced squabbling over who was to have the next dance, and I saw my opportunity.” He looked up at Esmée and winked with his good eye. “Rose slipped out to the garden with me, and let the lordlings feud on.”
Esmée’s smile faltered. “That sounds almost romantic,” she remarked. “Did you eventually sail away and never see her again?”
“Oh, Lord no!” said the captain. “Courted her desperately for a month or more, I did. Even proposed marriage, imprudent as it now seems. Now, don’t laugh, miss! I cut a dash in my salad days. Had all my teeth and a head full of fine red hair.”
Esmée studied him, trying to imagine the young man he’d once been, but it was a struggle. “And what happened?”
“Oh, Rose was too wise tae have me,” he answered ruefully. “Said she wouldna’ wed a sailor, and I was too stubborn to give it up. Can’t say as I blame her, looking back. Many a fine laddie went off to sea and never came home again.”
Suddenly, Esmée remembered something.
Could this be the man Aunt Rowena had spoken of?
Her mother’s first love? It seemed impossible. And yet…not. For all his ill looks, the captain was clearly a charmer. Esmée clasped her hands in her lap and drew a deep breath. “If it makes you feel any better, Captain MacGregor, I think my mother remembered you with great fondness.”
The captain grinned widely. “Oh, aye, she did that!” he said with another saucy wink. “Forever tormenting me o’er it, she was, and scolding me for my choice. O’course, I’d scold her back and tell her the choice had been all hers, and none o’ mine. And so it went, lassie. But we remained good friends after a fashion.”
“Oh.” Esmée sat up a little straighter. “You—you kept in touch, then?”
The captain shrugged. “Aye, as well as a seafaring man can do,” he said. “A letter now and again, and we’d run up on one another every two or three years—Scotland’s a small place, as I said—but I could ne’r catch her between husbands. ’Twas a sad irony, I once told her, that all her fine, land-bound dandies died on her, whilst I kept hale and hearty and got uglier by the day.”
“Did you—did you still wish to marry her?”
Again, the shrug—but just one shoulder this time. “Oh, aye, in my fancies,” he said. “But ’tis probably just as well. Rosamund was a rare handful. We’d likely have killed one another if ever we’d made a proper match instead of just the occasional…well, never mind that.”
Just then, there was a noise from the corridor, and Alasdair strode in, stripping off his gloves as he came, his face a little windburned. “Esmée!” he choked, throwing his arms wide.
On instinct, Esmée leapt up and rushed into them.
“Oh, my dear girl,” he said into her hair. “They said you’d gone out for a walk. You oughtn’t have come here, you know. Why didn’t you wait for me?”
Esmée set him a little away. “I am tired of waiting for you, Alasdair,” she said. “You are very slow.”
Suddenly, the captain cleared his throat. “What does a hearty old tar have to do, laddie, to get a mug o’ coffee in this hoose?”
Alasdair turned, his expression incredulous. “Angus!” he cried, crossing the room in two strides. “What the—?”
His uncle stood, and they clasped hands warmly. “I came, laddie, soon as I got your letter,” he said, his face suddenly somber. “Aboot the bairn, I mean. Sorry tae be so long a’ coming.”
Alasdair set a hand on his uncle’s shoulder. “Ah, it little matters now,” he said. “We’ve got it all settled.”
Angus flicked a glanced at Esmée. “Aye, that much I can see,” he remarked.
Alasdair actually blushed. “Besides, Angus, you did not need to come all the way to London,” he added. “A letter would have sufficed.”
Angus looked back and forth between Esmée and Alasdair. “Aye, well, I’m no’ sae sure aboot that,” he said. “It might require a wee bit more finagling.”
Suddenly, Esmée was struck with an awful sense of foreboding. She edged closer to Alasdair, who was staring at his uncle a little oddly. Just then, Hawes came in with the coffee and whisky, but no one paid it any heed.
“Well, I’m listening, Angus,” said Alasdair, when the footman had gone out again.
Angus gestured at Esmée. “Aye, and so is she,” he said. “But ’tis no talk for a lady’s ears.”
“Say away, Uncle,” Alasdair commanded. “If it’s important enough to bring you all this distance, then Esmée needs to hear it.”
His uncle lifted his shoulders, and spread his hands wide. “Well, the truth is—” he began, then he halted, and heaved a weary sigh. “Aye, the truth is, laddie, aboot the wee bairn—well, she’s no’ yours. I canna’ think how this mixed-up sosserie came to be, and I’m sorry you’ve had the de’il scared out o’ you on my sairie account.”