Scotsman of My Dreams (24 page)

“Thank you for your concern, Mrs. Beauchamp, but I'll stay with Lady Terry on this trip. That should silence the gossips.”

Mrs. Beauchamp didn't look mollified.

“What am I to do,” she asked, “if no one wishes to accompany me?”

“Don't go, Miss Minerva.”

She stared at her housekeeper, wishing she could make the woman understand. She had to leave, as quickly as possible, before she did something even more foolish.

“
A
ND WHY
on earth do you think I want to employ you?” Lewis asked.

Stanley Howington didn't rise when Lewis MacIain entered the parlor. Or what should have been the parlor had it been cleaned. Newspapers were scattered on several surfaces along with a selection of dirty dishes.

“Don't you employ a maid?” he asked.

“I don't have the funds to employ anyone,” Lewis said. “There's a caretaker of sorts for the house, but he doesn't do anything but mumble when he sees me.”

He didn't enter the room fully, but leaned against the door frame, folding his arms. “If I did have the money, I certainly wouldn't be hiring a secretary. Why ever for?”

“Because I provided you with information,” Howington said. “That deserves some loyalty, does it not? Not to mention the funds I advanced you when Dalton was in America.”

Lewis didn't say anything for a moment, merely regarded him with an impassive expression.

Howington had seen that look many times before from Dalton. The man had no idea of all of the ser­vices he performed since he'd been hired. He was the one who ensured the servants and the tradesmen were paid and looked over Mrs. Thompson's expenditures. He'd kept the man supplied in liquor.

What did he get for his loyalty? To be treated with disdain when Dalton noticed him. More often than not, the man barely knew he was there. Everything had changed after America. The earl's disdain had transformed into ridicule and active dislike.

At first he thought that Dalton must know what he'd done. But there was no way he could have. No, the man's antipathy rose from another reason entirely, one that was a mystery. The new Earl of Rathsmere had developed an intense dislike to him, and Stanley had known his days were numbered.

But to be pushed out because of a woman? Especially a woman like Minerva Todd? No, he wasn't going to accept that insult.

Howington's face felt stiff when he attempted to smile. If he had any other recourse, he would turn his back on the MacIains and have nothing to do with them. But his pride had gotten the better of him. By walking away from the Earl of Rathsmere, he'd effectively damaged his chances of being employed by another peer. Without a letter of introduction, without references, he might as well be one of the walking poor of London.

“Very well,” he said, his voice composed. “Perhaps I should throw myself on your brother's mercy. Tell him what I did and beg his forgiveness.”

“Go ahead,” Lewis said. “It's your word against mine.”

“Not entirely,” Howington said. “I keep very good records, Lewis. I never throw anything away. I have a copy of the letter I sent you. The one recommending William Harris to do your bidding.”

If he hadn't been studying Lewis so carefully, he might not have seen the subtle change of expression. The man was in a bind and knew it.

“You can begin by cleaning up this room,” Lewis said, stepping away from the door. “And your next task will be to figure out how I get some money.”

“Without killing your brother this time?” Stanley asked, smiling.

 

Chapter 28

M
inerva was late. She was late when she'd always been punctual, arriving at nine. Perhaps he needed to finalize their employment agreement. She would always appear when he expected her. In return, he would pay her double what he'd paid Howington.

Would she agree to come to his house on a Saturday or Sunday? The past two days had been miserable without her. Could he convince her?

How on earth was he to work with her all day and not kiss her? Or clasp her hand in his, just to feel her touch?

“I hate like hell to make that smile disappear,” James said.

Dalton turned toward the door, just able to make out the shape standing there. But it was more than he'd been able to see a few weeks ago.

He motioned toward one of the chairs in front of his desk.

“Then don't,” he said to his old friend. “I take it you've interviewed Alice.”

“I have.”

He turned his head, staring at the window, startled at the brightness that greeted him. He blinked and turned away.

“What kind of day is it?”

“It looks to rain,” James said. “But I haven't come here to discuss the weather. We have to talk about Arthur's death.”

He knew that. He'd known from the moment James entered the room. But he was stalling for time, hoping against hope that James had brought him some other news than what he expected. How did he cope with the realization that Lewis was motivated by greed? That he'd allowed it to drive him to murder? How did he accept the fact that Lewis killed Arthur?

“Alice is a lovely woman,” James said.

“I haven't seen her since I returned to London,” Dalton said. “She's made no effort to get in touch with me.”

“You've been such a recluse, do you blame her?”

“Yes,” he said. “She was Arthur's wife, but she married someone only months after his death. I doubt it was my reclusiveness that prevented her from seeing me. No doubt it was embarrassment.”

“If it makes any difference,” James said, “she seems very happy. Her husband was present during our interview. He's very protective of her. They held hands the whole time.”

Why was he so irritated on Arthur's behalf? Had he forgotten about Sarah? The very woman who had led him to question Arthur's death?

“What did Alice say?”

“Lewis and Arthur had a fight the night before. About money, she said. To quote her, ‘It was always about money with Lewis.' ”

He nodded, unsurprised.

“She saw him coming into the house about two o'clock. She got word of the accident a few minutes later.”

The feeling in his stomach was reminiscent of those months in America, when he'd been so hungry that he'd eaten something suspicious, only for it to make him ill.

“Even suspecting what we do,” James was saying, “there isn't enough proof to go to the authorities. No one actually saw Lewis shoot Arthur.”

“Then what the hell do we do? Forget it? Pretend it didn't happen? Let him get away with it?”

“There's one way,” James said, “but it means making you a target.”

“How?”

“We flush him out,” James said. “We give him news that inspires him to act quickly, hopefully carelessly.”

“I have no objection to being a target, James, but what news are you considering?”

“What's the one thing Lewis wouldn't want to happen, the one thing he wouldn't want you to do?”

“I'm not sure I understand.”

“If Lewis was behind Arthur's death, and also at the root of what happened to you in America, then he wants the earldom.”

“And the fortune that goes along with it,” Dalton said. “He's already gone through his inheritance.” Before James could say anything further, he understood. “My marriage. He wouldn't want me to marry and father children.”

“Exactly.”

“I doubt he would believe I'm getting married, James. I've been a recluse.”

“Not with Miss Todd.”

His ears felt hot.

Had Hinnity reported Minerva's arrival the other night? James probably knew the exact moment Minerva entered his home and how long she remained.

“I don't mind being a target, James,” he said. “But not Minerva.”

“I can assure you, Dalton, that she won't be in any danger. I'll put my best operative on guarding her.”

His mind didn't shy away from marrying Minerva. The bell that would've otherwise clanged at the idea was somehow silent.

“Would Miss Todd agree to the deception?”

“Is there any reason she should know?” Dalton asked. “I could communicate the news to Lewis in a note.”

“It would be better if he read the announcement in the newspaper.”

“Then I'd better inform Minerva we're engaged.”

If the engagement were publicized, he would have to make sure that the world knew she broke it off, so she wasn't affected by the ruse. If anything, society would understand. Poor girl, trapped in marriage to the monster.

Damn it, he wasn't an ogre. At least she'd never considered him one.

Ten minutes after James left, their plan agreed upon, Mrs. Thompson appeared at the door.

“Sir, the post has come,” she said.

Normally, the mail was Howington's duty. At least he was spared the man's slinking into the room.

“The letter from your cousin is here.”

“So soon?” Glynis must have mailed it before telegraphing him.

“Would you like me to read it?”

No.
The answer was instantaneous. He didn't want to hear another bit of bad news, this about Minerva's brother.

“Yes, if you don't mind, Mrs. Thompson.”

She settled into the chair in front of him, opened the letter and began to read.

The news was as bad as he feared.

Minerva needed to know, but he dreaded telling her. How could he bring her pain?

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Daniels said.

Every single member of his household knew to announce himself except for that fool, Howington. Once again he was grateful he wouldn't have to deal with the man again.

If Daniels was here, then where was Minerva?

“I've a note, sir,” his driver said.

“A note?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Miss Todd isn't with you?”

“No sir. She just sent a note.”

“Shall I read it, sir?” Mrs. Thompson asked.

When she finished reading the one-­sentence note, he said, “That's all? ‘I will be unable to assist you in your endeavors'?”

“Yes, Your Lordship.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Thompson.”

“Is there anything I can get you, Your Lordship?”

“No, Mrs. Thompson. Thank you.”

He was extraordinarily calm at the moment, a fact he noted even as he turned to Daniels.

She'd sent him a note. She was not going to get away with sending him a note. Bloody hell.

“I need you to take me to Miss Todd's house.”

He'd taken extra care with his appearance this morning, in preparation for seeing the annoying woman. His shoes had been shined by one of the maids, his shirt ironed by another. He'd managed not to cut himself too much while shaving. If he had any mishaps, it was because his mind hadn't been on his task.

Instead, he'd been thinking about Minerva, the most irritating woman in the world.

“Do I look presentable, Mrs. Thompson?”

“You look perfect, sir.”

He smiled his thanks for her loyalty.

A few moments later he and Daniels were in the lane behind his house and his driver was opening the carriage door.

“It looks to rain, sir, and the air feels funny the way it does just before a storm.”

At least he wasn't out in a field somewhere, waiting for the Confederate army to come over the hill, a comment he didn't make to his driver.

“A little spot of rain won't hurt us, will it, Daniels?”

“Not at all, Your Lordship.”

At Minerva's house, Daniels acted as his guide.

“There are two steps now, then a walk a little farther to the main steps. There are five of those.”

He really didn't need Minerva to escort him through London, did he? If he hadn't asked for her help, though, he wouldn't have employed her to be his secretary. Things wouldn't have progressed as far as they had and he wouldn't be on her doorstep, annoyed and irritated that she was playing coy.

He'd never chased a woman in his life, didn't she know that? But he was evidently chasing Minerva Todd, because here he was. No, that wasn't right. He had a damn good reason for being here: Glynis's letter about Neville.

He knew, from Daniels's description the last time he was here, that the house was dark red brick with white framed windows. The front door, like his own, was black. The steps were framed by a black wrought-­iron railing on either side, and a gas lamp with the same wrought-­iron pattern sat at the curb before each house.

“The house next door, sir. There are two ladies in the parlor windows downstairs, and one standing in an upstairs window.”

“The Covington sisters,” he said, smiling.

“Do you know them, sir?”

“I know of them. A pity we didn't bring Arthur's carriage, the fancy one. I might have given them a thrill. Where are they, Daniels?”

“Slightly to the right, sir, in the town house next door.”

He raised his hand and waved.

A moment later he was at the door and Daniels was trotting back down the steps to stand at the carriage and be stared at by the Covington sisters.

Only a plain knocker adorned the door, something that felt shiny like polished brass.

The door opened and the smell of cinnamon washed over him.

“Yes? May I help you?”

Was she the cook of the house, the woman responsible for cinnamon scones each morning?

He introduced himself. “May I speak with Miss Todd?”

“Oh, Your Lordship, I'm sorry. She's not at home.”

Where the blazes was she? That question was answered before he could ask it.

“She's gone to Scotland, sir.”

“Scotland?”

“Yes, sir.”

He tried to command his features to remain expressionless. The less he revealed, the less vulnerable he felt.

“Thank you.”

He stepped back and turned, wishing he knew where the hell the railing was. He didn't trust his balance enough to sail down the steps without holding onto something. He heard the door close softly behind him and released the breath he hadn't known he was holding.

He waved at Daniels, hoped the man knew it was a cry for help, and stood there feeling exposed and foolish.

She'd gone to Scotland, damn it. She'd traipsed off to Scotland in her trousers skirt and her full lips.

Why?

Why had she left him so precipitously?

No doubt she was tired of being a nursemaid to a blind man. Had she felt the same when she'd come to his house, to his bedroom, to his bed?

He was damned if he was going to be an object of pity.

“Are you the earl?”

The female voice was directly below him.

He jerked, startled, not expecting to be confronted by a stranger. He grabbed the gold top of his walking stick tighter.

“You have me at a disadvantage, madam.”

The odor of mothballs and soap came closer.

“I'm Amelia Covington.”

One of the Covington sisters. Did they interview all of Minerva's guests or had he somehow incited their curiosity by waving at them?

“Are you the earl?” she asked again.

He bowed slightly. “Dalton MacIain, the Earl of Rathsmere,” he said, thinking of Arthur when he did so. Would he ever grow comfortable with the title? Or would he continually remember Arthur, who was, he suspected, a much better earl than he'd ever be?

If Miss Amelia Covington expected more courtliness from him, she wasn't going to get it. He'd done all he could do.

“Are your sisters here?” he asked again.

“No, they're at home. They chose me to come and speak with you.”

“May I ask why?”

“Minerva's gone off to Scotland, Your Lordship.”

“So I've been told.”

“Can you not go and fetch her?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“She's the sweetest girl, but sometimes we think she needs someone looking after her. Just imagine, going off to Scotland on her own, with no maid and only that driver of hers.”

“Hugh,” he said.

She came to his side and grabbed his arm, startling him again. “Come to tea, please, and we'll tell you why we think she's in danger.”

“Danger, Miss Covington?”

“Danger, Your Lordship.”

A
T THE
bottom of the steps Daniels greeted him, grabbing his right arm as if to pull him away from Miss Covington.

The woman, however, was relentless.

A moment later he was going up an identical set of steps, Daniels on his right side and Miss Abigail Covington clinging to his left arm.

At the top of the steps, Daniels whispered, “Sir, do you want that I should go inside?”

“There's no need,” Miss Covington said brightly.

She grabbed Dalton's hand as if he were a child, holding onto it with the grip of a paranoid mother.

“His Lordship will be fine with us.”

Heaven help him.

“If you'll remain here, Daniels, I'd appreciate it. I won't be long.”

That last sentence was both for his driver and Miss Covington. This wasn't going to be an extended visit. He would remain long enough to understand what she was saying about danger and then leave.

The minute the door was open he smelled more mothballs and something thick and rich like marmalade.

“There's a table here, Your Lordship,” she said, but not quickly enough for him to avoid it.

He stumbled, righted himself, and pasted an appropriate social smile on his face. They walked down a long hall and then into another room, one almost uncomfortably warm.