Scotsman of My Dreams (9 page)

 

Chapter 11

“Y
es?”

The woman who answered the door smelled of yeast, flour, and strawberry jam. He was suddenly eight years old and scrambling to sit on a stool in the kitchen and savor cook's newest batch of scones.

“Is this Miss Sarah Westchester's home?”

“It is.”

Dalton pulled out one of his calling cards, trusting that Howington hadn't lied. His new title was inscribed on it as well as his given name. For all he knew, Howington could have made them read Dalton MacIain, King of All the Fools.

“I'm Arthur MacIain's brother,” he said.

He held the card out, relieved when she took it. He had no idea if she was the housekeeper, the cook, or one of the maids.

“I will tell her you're here, Your Lordship,” she said, answering one question. Howington had gotten his calling cards right. “If you'll wait in the parlor, it won't be a moment.”

Since he didn't have the slightest idea in hell where the parlor was, let alone how to get there, he simply stood where he was.

Very well, if he must be blunt about it, he would be.

“I'm afraid I'm blind,” he said.

Her indrawn breath was enough of a comment. He wanted to ensure her that in all other ways he was in perfect health. But all he did was smile or at least attempt to do so. He was afraid the expression was perfunctory, the same wisp of a smile that indicated to a society hostess that he was utterly bored or completely annoyed. Fortunately, the woman at the door didn't seem to take it as such.

She grabbed his left hand and pulled him with her. He had no choice but to go along, a dinghy in the wake of a steamship.

The room they entered was hideously cluttered and his guide wasn't the least helpful. He ran into at least two tables by the time he nearly toppled into an overstuffed chair.

Once the woman at the door had deposited him in the parlor, she left without another word, leaving him adrift in an ocean of smells.

The most overpowering scent was oranges, followed by something heavy like French perfume made of old roses. The odor of tobacco was layered over that, one lingering like a memory. He had never considered it, but was Sarah married? Had she married soon after Arthur's death just like Alice? Or was there a male relative in the household, someone who might take umbrage to his suddenly showing up today?

He really should have written the woman a note.

What would he have said?

Dear Sarah,

You seem to have loved my brother, enough to bear him a child. May I call on you one day to discuss the relationship, you, and the child's future?

No, he doubted the woman would've answered that letter.

Nor had he wanted to go through Howington to write it, either. There was his pride again.

As he sat waiting, he had no idea how much time had passed. Another thing about blindness. Time could pass with alarming speed or tick along with arthritic slowness.

He heard a clock whirr then strike the hour. He hadn't made note of the time when he left his house, so it didn't matter what the time was now. Besides, he had nowhere else to be.

Due to the silence in the room and the lack of traffic outside, he heard her footsteps. First, she came down the stairs. Then, she hesitated and walked down the carpeted hall. He sensed that she stood at the open door of the parlor. Did she take a deep breath? Or say a prayer before she entered?

Why had he come?

For Arthur. He mustn't forget that. He was here for Arthur.

“Dalton?”

His smile was more natural now. He placed his hands on the arms of the chair and stood.

“Miss Westchester.”

“Sarah,” she said softly. “I feel as if I know you. Arthur spoke of you often.”

He spoke of you not at all.
Words he wouldn't say.

“You look so much like him.”

“Do I? Arthur was always so much more dignified,” he said, for lack of anything else to say.

She came and sat not far away. Was there a settee opposite him? He sat again as well.

“My housekeeper said the most distressing thing. Pardon me, but I must ask. What do you mean, you're blind?”

He'd already endured Minerva Todd's bluntness. Answering Sarah seemed so much easier.

“I was wounded in America,” he said.

“How utterly terrible for you.”

Her voice held a note of sadness he suspected was not just for him.

“Thank you,” he said, and because he wanted to ease her in some way, he added, “it could have been worse, I suppose.”

Could it have been?

You could have died, you bloody fool.

Suddenly, Arthur seemed to be in the room with them.

“I'm so sorry that happened to you, Dalton. You do not mind if I call you Dalton, do you?”

“No,” he said, and it was the truth.

He had the impression she was delicate, fragile in her beauty, a sylph of a woman with grace in each of her movements. He pictured her with blond hair, soft blue eyes, and perfect features. She would be of average height, slender with a willowy way of moving that managed to be both serene and seductive at the same time.

“What color are your eyes?”

She hesitated for just a second, but answered him. “Brown,” she said.

He mentally replaced her soft blue eyes with brown, nodding when the portrait of her was complete.

“I didn't know about you,” he said, deciding to be honest with her. A curious sentiment and one he'd rarely had in the past. But he'd found that the truth was easier than a succession of lies. “Arthur's solicitor sent me the rest of his documents and your letters were there.”

When she didn't respond, he cursed himself for saying something that obviously embarrassed her.

“He saved them?” she asked, her voice holding tears.

“Yes,” he said. “Would you like them back?”

“Would that be possible?”

“Of course,” he said. “They're not mine to read. I apologize for intruding on your privacy.”

“Oh, but if you hadn't, you wouldn't be here now, would you?”

He suddenly wished Arthur had told him about her. Or that he'd seen the two of them together. He knew, even without her telling him, that his brother had been happy. Perhaps with Sarah, Arthur had allowed himself to relax a little, to laugh, and to not take the responsibilities of being the Earl of Rathsmere so seriously.

“You have a son,” he said.

Her answer was interrupted by the housekeeper who bustled into the room. The aroma of something delicious wafted over to him, and like a little boy who had been deprived, he wanted some.

“We've toffee biscuits,” she said. “Chocolate cake and toffee biscuits, which Arthur loved, and tea, of course. Can I serve you?”

“Please,” he said. “I'd like one of the toffee biscuits.”

To his surprise, she came and sat on the ottoman in front of him.

“Stretch out your left hand,” she said, “and I'll hand you the tea.”

He did and she did, their movements so perfectly orchestrated it was as if they had practiced them before now. He heard her set down a plate on the table to his right.

“The biscuits are there.”

“You're very adept at dealing with a blind man,” he said. “Have you had much practice in it?”

“None,” she said. The hint of tears had disappeared in her voice, replaced by gentle amusement. “But I have a little boy, and I suspect it's much the same.”

He didn't know whether to be amused or insulted. A moment later he chose amusement.

“Can I meet him?”

She stood, returning to her place on the settee. Had he disturbed her with his request?

“Why?”

“He's my nephew,” he said. “Arthur's son.”

“And mine,” she said.

He inclined his head in agreement of her comment.

“I'm very careful about the ­people who come in contact with my son. It's bad enough he lost his father before he got to know him. I don't want him to meet an uncle who would never again reappear in his life.”

He replaced the tea with a biscuit. Normally, he didn't eat in front of other ­people. He didn't like the idea of them watching him drop his food or having to guide a fork to his mouth with studied precision.

The toffee biscuit was an explosion of taste and flavor. He wasn't certain what all the spices were called, but one thing he knew was that he'd never tasted them all in one confection.

“May I have the recipe for my cook?”

“I'll ask again, but every time I have, my cook hasn't divulged it. It's a family thing, I believe. Her great-­grandmother's recipe, and one she refuses to part with, I'm afraid.”

“Pity,” he said, finishing up the biscuit. “It's wonderful.”

“I'll tell her what you said.”

“What makes you think I would never reappear in little Arthur's life again?”

“Your brother spoke about you often.”

“Am I to infer that Arthur was not, shall we say, complimentary?”

“On the contrary,” she said. “I thought he was very fair. He merely related your adventures. He didn't comment on them.”

“So if anyone is to be blamed for my reputation of inconstancy, it's me, is that it?”

She didn't answer him, which was a response.

What could he say to her? That he no longer discarded ­people with the alacrity he once did? That wasn't altogether the truth, was it? Just ask Minerva Todd. She would have a mouthful to say about his attitude toward the men he'd taken to America.

He sat with both hands gripping the saucer, wishing he knew if there was space on the table. Wishing he could put the damn thing down somewhere.

“Fair enough,” he said.

He had discovered the child's existence only a day ago. Learning that he was too flawed to see Arthur's son was something he'd just have to accept.

“I came, mostly, to make sure that he was taken care of,” he said, feeling his way through the words. “I don't know if Arthur made allowances for him.”

Her voice, when it came, was low and soft, but instead of tears it held a steely resolve. He had the impression that Sarah Westchester had her own share of pride and it was being trotted out right now for him to experience.

“No,” she said. “Arthur didn't make provisions, but then he didn't expect to be murdered.”

The cup in his hand jumped against the saucer, the clinking noise startling him almost as much as her words.

“What are you talking about? It was a hunting accident.”

That's what Arthur's solicitor had said on meeting him at the ship. He hadn't even gotten off the vessel before he'd been informed that his brother was dead and he was now the Earl of Rathsmere.

Welcome home.

“How many hunting accidents do you know of that take place in full view of a house? And when the victim isn't even carrying a gun?”

Stunned, he could only stare in her direction.

“Arthur wasn't hunting the day he was killed, Dalton.”

The cup shook again. This time she reached out and took it from him.

“How do you know that?”

“I asked questions, which is something you evidently didn't do,” she said.

She was right. He hadn't. He'd merely assumed that the information he'd been given was correct. His brother had been an avid hunter and the grounds of Gledfield were rife with partridge and pheasant.

“Who told you he was murdered?” he asked, wishing his voice didn't sound so thin. He cleared his throat, asked again. “Who told you that?”

“Does it matter?”

Yes, damn it, it does.

“Who told you that?” he asked for the third time.

“Edmonson.”

“Edmonson's dead.”

The poor man had been ancient when he'd expired a few months ago. He'd sent Samuels to Gledfield to replace him.

“He came to see me,” she said.

The man had been ninety if he was a day, and kept in his position by Dalton's mother, who prized loyalty. Besides, as she often said, pensioning Edmondson off would have been destructive to the man's pride, not to mention hurting his feelings.

They'd grown used to Edmondson tottering around Gledfield in his black suit, but he'd never known the man to leave the house.

“Mrs. MacNeal accompanied him,” she said, heaping another surprise on top of the first two.

The housekeeper at Gledfield was an exceedingly proper woman. His mother had often said that Mrs. MacNeal was the conscience of the house. If Mrs. MacNeal had shown up on Sarah's doorstep, what exactly did that mean?

“Why didn't she go to the authorities?”

“Perhaps she did. Perhaps they both did. Perhaps nothing was ever made of it.”

“But you think they were right.”

He wished he could see her. Did she shrug? Did she look away? Did she blot at her eyes with a handkerchief? He didn't know, dammit, and the silence didn't give him any clues.

“I think they were right,” she finally said.

“You think Arthur was murdered.”

“Yes,” she said softly.

“I'll make investigations,” he said.

He'd give James another job, that of determining if Arthur was murdered or not. He'd be better served in that task than guarding him.

“In the meantime, I've settled an amount on little Arthur.” He withdrew the draft from his inner jacket pocket. Howington had made a sound of alarm at the amount, but his secretary had filled in the draft nonetheless and he had signed it.

“I'd like to come and see him, if you would allow it. But in the meantime, take this, please.”

She didn't, as he half expected, argue with him or demur. A sign, then, that Sarah was imminently practical. Or that she would do anything for her child, even bury her pride.

His mother would've liked her.