Scotsman of My Dreams (8 page)

“I think it would be best if you remain inside your house. It would be easier to watch you here.”

“And I've decided I need to go somewhere.”

“Surely your errand can be delegated to someone.”

“No, it can't,” he said.

Besides, he hadn't been out of his house for three months. Didn't he deserve an outing?

That thought startled him to a stop.

Had he really been a recluse that long?

That couldn't be right, but it was. He'd been blinded in November of last year, spent months healing in Washington before beginning the voyage home. He'd arrived in London in May and had been a hermit ever since.

He'd never needed to leave his house. All his creature comforts were provided. His home was large enough that it hadn't seemed confining. No more than blindness was. A good thing he'd never been bothered by tight spaces. Being surrounded by blackness meant that he was forever in a dark closet.

“I need you to expend your efforts on finding Neville Todd,” he said to his old friend.

“I need to ensure you're protected,” James repeated. “Besides, I have some of my operatives working on Neville's location.”

“And William Harris?”

“Him, too.”

“I can fire you,” Dalton said.

“Then I would consider it an act of charity to follow you anyway and ensure you're protected. Let's just say a pro bono exercise.”

“I don't remember you being so intransigent.”

James laughed. “That's amusing, coming from you, Dalton.”

At least James had stopped calling him
Your Lordship
.

“Very well. If I can't stop you, at least keep some distance between your carriage and mine.”

He gave the address to James, not explaining who Sarah Westchester was or her relationship to Arthur. Some things were better confined to the family, a thought that drew him up short. He had no intention of telling Lewis, either. He felt like he owed Arthur some privacy.

His brother had been an icon of respectability. The fact that Arthur had a mistress shocked him. Strangely enough, it also made his brother more approachable, essentially more human. His older brother hadn't been perfect after all.

He wished he'd understood Arthur better, and regretted that they had grown apart. He also wanted to be certain that Arthur's son—­his nephew—­was being cared for.

He owed it to Arthur and to the child.

Once James left the room, Dalton walked to the bellpull and jerked it once. When Mrs. Thompson answered his summons, he forced himself to face her.

“Have I dressed myself correctly, Mrs. Thompson?”

All of his shirts were white, while his suits were black. The chances of him mixing colors was nil, but there was always the possibility that he'd stained himself. He might've gotten ink on his silk cravat. His shoes hadn't felt dusty, but he was unused to leaving the house without performing a final inspection.

He wore his eye patch in the hopes of not scaring Sarah of the letters with his appearance. He'd taken his time shaving, too. A few mornings, he hadn't known he'd cut himself until Mrs. Thompson said something to him in her usual cheerful air.

Now, sir, let me get some sticking plaster for you. Sit right there and we'll get you set to rights.

He'd always been an independent sort, wanting to do for himself rather than rely on others. Yet here he was, waiting on Mrs. Thompson to be his mirror.

“Oh, Your Lordship, it's a sight you are,” she said now. “If you don't mind my saying so, sir, you're still as handsome as ever.”

He wanted to grab the older woman, hug her, and give her a kiss on the cheek in thanks for her kindness. She might be lying to him, but at least she'd done it well.

“No spots? No stains?”

“You're quite the sartorial gentlemen, Your Lordship.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Thompson.”

To his surprise, she reached out and grabbed his arm. “Would you allow me to accompany you to the stable, Your Lordship?”

Damned if she hadn't done it again. If he were the weeping kind, she might've brought a tear to his eye. Still, he felt his chest expand a little at her kindness. He had worried about navigating the path from the kitchen to the stable. With one simple gesture, she'd taken that fear from him.

“I would be honored, Mrs. Thompson.”

Before he left the house, he grabbed one of the walking sticks in the umbrella stand. He'd never used one before and he didn't know who they belonged to, but over the years he'd accumulated at least a dozen of them. He thought they might aid his balance.

The journey across the garden and the alley was done without incident. Mrs. Thompson alerted him to a step down or up by simply saying so, without drama or exhortation.

“You'll need to turn left here, sir,” she said.

He could tell by the smells that they'd entered one of the bays. The odor of horses, manure, and the pungent chemicals used to polish the carriage assaulted him all at once.

“And here is Daniels, your driver,” she said. “All ready for you.”

For the life of him, he hadn't remembered his driver's name, but she eased him past that barrier as well. Still, it bothered him that he couldn't recall the man's face. For that matter, none of the rest of the servants were memorable to him.

“Mrs. Thompson,” he said, prompted by a sudden impulse, “would you provide me with a list of everyone employed here?”

“A list, sir?”

“Yes, and their occupations as well.” He'd get Howington to repeat it to him often enough that he could memorize it. “How many ­people work here?”

“Twelve, sir. It really should be thirteen what with needing another upper maid, but I've always thought thirteen an unlucky number, don't you?”

“I never would have considered you superstitious, Mrs. Thompson.”

“Well, there's no sense in taking chances, is there, sir?”

He didn't have an answer for that remark. He'd taken chances all his life and look where it had gotten him.

 

Chapter 10

“L
et me follow the earl on my own,” Hugh said. “I'll make note of where he goes and let you know.”

Minerva shook her head, unwilling to continue arguing with him.

“Isn't it time for you to go on an expedition?” he asked her. “Don't they have ruins in Scotland anymore?”

Hugh didn't understand her work even though he assisted her. He called it digging for a bunch of bones, but he didn't know how much it meant to her.

She'd never found anyone who truly understood. Sir Francis's widow, Lady Terry, bless her, was the only person who did.

She had grown accustomed to being considered slightly odd, even by ­people who were close to her. Neville called it her hobby. It wasn't a hobby but a genuine desire to learn, to know, to take what she suspected was true and have it proven.

Besides, what would she do with herself all day if she didn't pursue her interests? She had absolutely no talent in needlework. She found those women who involved themselves in good works for the poor annoying in the extreme. Affluence didn't give you the right to tell anyone else how to live or raise their children.

If Neville hadn't been missing, she would have been in Scotland by now. In her last letter, Lady Terry had written asking when she was going to return. She hadn't known how to answer.

After climbing into the carriage, Minerva settled her skirt. She couldn't abide some of the new styles that made skirts so wide it was difficult to go through a doorway. Consequently, she rarely wore as many petticoats as was proper, which made her hem drag a little. She would much rather have worn her trousers skirt, but it was daylight and ­people would notice.

She turned and looked through the carriage window at the Covington house. She didn't see the glint of the spyglass but knew better than to assume she was free of curious eyes. One or more of the sisters was bound to be standing at a window, just out of sight.

Would she be the same as she aged? Would she find delight in the happenings of her neighbors? Would she live vicariously through other ­people? Good heavens, she hoped not. At least let her get a cat or dog or some kind of companion, four-­legged or two, to keep her company.

When the carriage began to move, she reached for her journal. She had notes to make of new equipment to purchase before she traveled to Scotland again. In addition, she had several lists she needed to compile to give to Mrs. Beauchamp. Though not exceptionally frugal by nature, she was very conscious of the fact that the money she'd been left by her parents had to last her lifetime. Therefore, she practiced economies where she could, surveying the household accounts every month.

Hugh parked not far from MacIain's home, close enough to see if the man left the house but far enough away not to be obvious. They might be sitting here for the entire day. She didn't care. Tomorrow she would do the very same thing. She was not going to allow the Earl of Rathsmere to find Neville without her knowledge.

Her brother wouldn't stand a chance against a peer of the realm. Nobody would want to know Neville's side of the story. That could be the very reason Neville hadn't come home. He didn't want to involve her in his troubles with the earl.

Something had happened in America. She just didn't know what. It certainly wasn't Neville trying to kill the earl.

T
HIS NEW
world terrified Dalton, alone as he was. He dared himself, therefore, in the same spirit he had challenged himself on countless occasions in the past.

He knew that James was somewhere in a carriage behind him. If he had invited James to share the carriage, he wouldn't be as lonely. Nor would he be beset by introspection. Instead, they could've talked about their school days, the weather, a dozen different topics to get his mind off his fear.

But that would hardly be courageous, would it? At least this way he faced down the terror himself.

He knew what the inside of his carriage looked like. Yet he had never felt the space before as he did now. He could recollect some of the scenery outside the window. London truly didn't change. Yet he wasn't knowledgeable about the way to their destination. Nor did he know what Sarah looked like or where she lived.

Almost everything outside him was amorphous, unformed and only speculation. That's what terrified him. He couldn't see a smile or danger, a pretty girl's face or figure, or something amusing. The world was black, as if it had ceased to be, and yet he heard it, smelled it, and sensed it.

Traffic was as it had always been in London—­congested. The stops and starts of the carriage made him uncomfortable at first. Gradually he became used to the rhythm, leaning forward when he anticipated a sudden stop, allowing himself to rest against the squabs when the carriage took off again. He smelled the horses, the odor of manure that always accompanied his memories of London streets. The occasional scent of straw laid down on an adjoining street indicated a quiet zone. The stench of the Thames meant they were close to the river.

The sounds were the same, recollections assembled from years of living in London. The jangle of harness, the rumble of wheels on cobblestones, hawkers and tradesmen either shouting their wares or arguing with each other. He could almost pinpoint where they were now, near the center of the city.

At least if someone recognized his carriage or noticed him, he wouldn't know. He'd be unable to see pointing fingers or incredulous glances.

No doubt there were a goodly number of ­people in London who wouldn't be displeased should they hear of his condition. All the straying wives and widows of England were safe.

He would become known as the Celibate Earl, an appellation that would've made him laugh in the past. Or perhaps he would just become an object of horror for the neighborhood children.
Eat your porridge, little Jimmy, or I'll tell Rathsmere.
Would his name become a verb? To
Rathsmere
someone would be to render them sightless and scarred.

The carriage slowed to a stop, but this time it wasn't traffic. He felt Daniels dismount from the driver's seat. A few moments later the door opened.

“We're here, sir.”

“Would you mind walking me to the door?” he asked after he left the carriage.

“Right you are, sir.” Daniels grabbed his arm and directed him over the cobbles to a set of steps. “It's eight steps up to the door.”

Whatever he paid the man wasn't enough. He made a mental note to tell Howington to raise Daniels's salary plus an extra stipend for tact.

He held onto the rail, trying to assume a nonchalance he didn't feel.

Perhaps he should have sent Sarah a note to warn her he was coming. Or even asked her to come to his home? No, that wouldn't have been right. But what if she didn't want to see him? What if anything that reminded her of Arthur was disturbing and disconcerting?

Yes, he most definitely should have sent her a note to prepare her for this moment.

Why had he overlooked such a simple polite gesture? Because simple and polite gestures were beyond him of late? Or perhaps they'd been beyond him for a great many years. A hellish thing to realize as he climbed the final step and stood before her door.

What if she were greedy and grasping and he'd made a huge error in judgment by appearing on her doorstep?

“Would you like me to knock, sir?”

“I presume the door is right in front of me,” he said.

“Right you are.”

He placed his hands flat on the door, fingers splayed. Reaching up a little, he found the knocker and let it fall twice.

“It's all right, Daniels, you can wait for me at the carriage.”

He didn't want an audience if Sarah refused to see him. Some of his pride was still intact.

“Right you are, sir.”

The door opened and he was suddenly wishing he had forgotten all about Sarah.

T
HEY FOLLOWED
the earl for ten minutes, their destination unknown. Fascinated by the journey, Minerva didn't bother opening her journal again. Just when she thought they were going into the city proper, they turned and entered another square. Not as prosperous as Tarkington Square or her own home, but a pleasant place with older town homes and a park protected by a tall wrought-­iron gate topped with spikes.

The trees there were full grown and lush, home to a bevy of squirrels running from the upper branches to the ground and back.

Once Hugh parked at the curb, she opened the door, making no secret of the fact she was watching the other carriage. The earl's driver dismounted, opened the door, and the Earl of Rathsmere emerged.

Dalton stood, his shoulders straightening, his head lifting as if to scent the air. He kept his head level as if he could see in front of him.

Who lived here? she wondered.