The Lass Wore Black (7 page)

“I’m waiting,” the boor said.

“You can wait until there are icicles in August,” she said, as pleasantly as possible. “Or until you can milk a bull. Or until St. Agnes returns. Choose one. Choose them all.”

“Here, people were telling me you were unreasonable.”

“Who said that?”

He shrugged. “I’m not at liberty to say. I will, however, trade the information for one bite of salmon, I think.”

Was she supposed to play some game with him? Who did he think he was?

“I have no intention of eating on command,” she said. Her throat tightened. Her voice would not tremble. She wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction of knowing how upset she was.

“Pity,” he said. “I’m not leaving until you eat something.”

“Leave the food here. I’ll eat when I’m hungry.”

His chuckle startled her.

“I’m sure that your manner has been off-putting to some people, but I’m not impressed. I’m not leaving until you’ve eaten something. If we must spend the night together, we must. Do you snore?”

She walked to the table. Could he see that she limped? Did he watch her with contempt?

“I’m certain you weren’t hired to be insulting.”

He didn’t respond to that, and his lack of comment bothered her more than anything he might have said. He sat back, arms folded, seemingly at home in the shadows.

Odious man, to have invaded her sitting room. Even after he left, the room would smell like him. Something pleasant, which was just as irritating as if he had a sour odor. Was he smiling at her?

“All you have to do to rid yourself of me is eat something,” he said, his voice even, his tone moderate.

“I don’t like being commanded.”

“Pity. Each of us has someone we must report to.”

“I’ll have you dismissed,” she said, grateful to realize that her voice had lost its quaver.

“You would have to leave the room to do that,” he said. “I’m the only one allowed to serve you, Princess.”

“Princess?”

“What would you prefer I call you? Empress? That might work as well.”

She couldn’t believe his effrontery. No one had ever treated her with such disdain.

“If you must address me at all, you should call me Miss Cameron.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” she asked, unwillingly curious.

“Because that would be respectful,” he said. “You haven’t earned my respect.”

She moved toward the bellpull.

“Everyone has orders to ignore your summons, Princess. As I said, I’m the only one allowed to serve you.”

She hated him in that moment. She hated Aunt Dina as well. Add to that the coachman, the horses, the accident, and every physician who had so ineffectually treated her. What good was saving her life when she must live the rest of it in Hell?

She was so filled with hatred it sickened her.

Turning, she reached the table, grabbed the tray, and threw it at him. He’d lifted one hand, as if he knew what she was about to do, easily batting the silver tray away. It fell with a solid thunk to the carpeted floor.

“How mature you are. You’re three, are you not? Is it not having a nap that’s made you querulous?”

“Get out. Get out now.”

“No,” he said calmly. “Eat something.”

She went to the door and held it open, only too conscious of the bright afternoon light streaming into the corridor.

“Will you leave, please,” she said, gripping the frame of the door tightly with one hand.

“No,” he said, still with the same annoying calm. “I’ll leave after you’ve had five bites.”

“I thought it was one,” she said.

“That was for information. I’ve decided not to share anything with you. But the price for my departure will be five bites.”

She slammed the door and marched back to the table.

“I haven’t been trying to deliberately starve myself, you idiot,” she said. “I haven’t been hungry.”

“Is that what you told everyone else?” he asked. “I’m not as gullible.”

He surprised her into silence.

“Of course you’re sad about your changed circumstances,” he said.

“What do you know about me, to be able to judge my circumstances one way or another?”

She pulled out the chair, only too conscious that he didn’t stand and offer to do it for her. He was a rude and annoying boor. She sat and glared at him.

“From what I hear,” he said, “you were a beautiful woman. One who led your suitors on a merry chase. Now, all of a sudden, you’ve retreated to your suite of rooms. One can only surmise that you’re no longer beautiful. Either that, or you’ve found God, but since you’re a mean and surly hermit, I doubt that’s the answer. “

She didn’t know what she wanted to do first, call for Aunt Dina or hit him over the head with the teapot.

“I’ve heard about the carriage accident. Would you like to tell me about it?”

“Five bites, you said?”

If that was the only way to get rid of him, she’d do it. She would pretend some interest in the salmon before her and eat.

Didn’t he realize how difficult eating was with her veil? If he expected her to remove it, he was doomed to disappointment.

“You are appallingly bad at dealing with people,” she said. “I can’t imagine how you ever got hired.”

“I’m rather good with people, actually. Women, especially.”

In the half-light coming in from around the curtain, she could see him well enough. He was handsome. No doubt a woman only saw his appearance and not his abysmal character.

“Very foolish women, I daresay.”

He propped one elbow on the table, and studied her. “I find myself partial to younger women,” he said.

She raised her veil enough to slip the fork beneath it. The salmon was good, and the sauce tasted like Hollandaise, but without a light, she couldn’t be sure.

“Why? The better to mold them to your liking?”

“No, because they haven’t been molded by others. They’re fresh and innocent, and have an eagerness for the world.”

She took another bite, wishing she could block the sound of his words. She didn’t want to think of her own life, a scant three years earlier, when she might have been considered as fresh and innocent as he’d described.

“What you’re speaking of is naiveté,” she said. “We’re all naive at one time or another. I daresay even you.”

His chuckle was warm, but he made no further comment.

She concentrated on the second bite, then the third. She was more than halfway through. In a moment she could banish him from the room and wouldn’t have to see him until the next meal.

“I promise I’ll eat from now on,” she said, hoping to forestall that moment. “You don’t need to watch me.”

He shrugged, a gesture she was beginning to suspect meant nothing.

“You’re going to be here anyway, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said in that same annoying manner. “I’ve been hired to ensure that you eat. That means three meals a day, and perhaps a dessert from time to time.”

“Are you so desperate for a position that you would hire yourself out to be a nanny to me?”

“Let’s just say you pose an interesting challenge.”

“You don’t speak like a footman.”

“I was well educated for a footman,” he said. “It’s an interesting story. Would you care to hear it?”

“No,” she said.

“For some reason, I knew that would be your answer. If you ever do want to hear it, let me know. I’d be more than happy to regale you with my personal history.”

“Go away,” she said, putting the fork down on the edge of the plate.

“Two more bites and I shall.”

He had been counting.

She took one more bite of the potatoes. There, four bites. One more and he could leave.

A moment later she was done.

“Six bites. I congratulate you, Princess. You did well. Five plus one.”

“I know how to count,” she said.

“Do you?”

Abruptly, the footman stood, retrieved the tray from the carpet and placed the dishes on it. Before he left, however, he poured her a cup of tea.

“Sugar?”

She shook her head. “What is your name?”

“Do servants even have names? Why are you suddenly curious, Princess?”

“If you won’t tell me, I shall call you Footman,” she said.

“It doesn’t matter, does it? I might call you Princess, for example. Although it’s not your name, I’ll wager it’s close to your temperament.”

“Then I shall call you Mr. Boor, or Mr. Irritating, or something equally rude.”

“Whatever you wish, Princess.”

She didn’t like him.

“How long must you monitor my meals?”

“Until your aunt is no longer concerned about your health. How long is up to you, I think, Princess.”

“Are you going to call me that forever?”

“Yes,” he said, picking up the tray. “I think I am.”

With nothing more than that, he walked out of the room and closed the door.

A
ndrew Prender looked over the documents his solicitor proffered for him to sign. He didn’t give a flying farthing about the property in Charlotte Square or how much it cost. His fortune was such that he was normally spared the knowledge of those details or any concern about them.

“You have kept this confidential, I hope,” he said, signing all the necessary pages with a flourish.

“Of course, Mr. Prender. As per your instructions.”

If his solicitor was curious about why he’d bought a property in Edinburgh, especially one in such an expensive neighborhood, he didn’t ask. The man’s tact was one of the reasons why he’d employed him for years. Another was that the man had the ability to deal with his wife, thereby sparing him the necessity of doing so too often.

He watched as the solicitor took himself off, closing the library door behind him.

This London house belonged to his father. A series of mistresses had been housed here, each one lovelier—and younger—than the one before. By the time the old man died, tucked away in his bed, he’d had a dozen or so illegitimate children, none of whom, thankfully, were mentioned in the will.

The library in which he sat was for show, books purchased by the meter, their spines all shiny and barely creased. It was a gentleman’s library, and that’s all his father had cared about. The elder Prender believed that the conventions should be observed.

They were only one generation removed from tradesmen, after all. If he bothered to do anything in regard to the family soap factories, he would be engaging in trade as well. They didn’t, blessedly, require his assistance, and so he did what his father would have been pleased for him to do—spend his money and consort with the titled and the rich.

Everything about his life had been nearly bloody enchanted. Granted, he wanted to be taller than he was, but nothing could cure that. He enjoyed his life. He’d lived a hedonistic lifestyle, and it pleased him, for the most part. He devoted himself to those pursuits that interested him for the moment. Each year, he chose one separate task or trait to learn.

He’d taken up painting just before meeting Catriona Cameron.

He’d loved the bitch.

For the first time in his life he’d fallen in love, enough to put his world at her feet. He might have even gone so far as his friend and divorced his wife. He would have abandoned his children for her. He would have given her his money. He would have gladly begun another family as long as she was at his side. He would have lived with her day in and day out, hours upon hours, and found himself complete.

Instead, she’d smiled prettily at him and walked away. She’d tossed her radiant hair and without a backward glance left him on a road in Scotland.

Tomorrow, he would travel to Edinburgh and temporarily take up residence in Charlotte Square. Once there, he would accomplish what he hadn’t been able to finish in London.

He would kill the woman he loved, the only woman who’d ever walked away from him.

Chapter 7

“I
’ve received a letter,” the Countess of Denbleigh said when her husband joined her in the library.

Jean had appropriated his desk in the last few weeks, since it was one of the few places where she was comfortable. He’d arranged a footstool for her use and she could sit at the massive desk and pen her book, the story of William Seath, Steward of Ballindair, and his contributions to the castle. When that was finished, she’d vowed to write a definitive work about the myriad ghosts of Ballindair.

Morgan MacCraig, the Earl of Denbleigh, only smiled when she said such things, kissed her, and thereby changed the subject for a long time.

Today, however, he was carrying a cup, which he placed in front of her. “A restorative,” he said. “Your aunt swears by it.”

“Speaking of aunts,” she said, waving the letter in front of him, “I’ve received a letter from yours.”

He sat beside the desk and pointed to the cup. She looked at the ceiling, then drank half of the bouillon, only making a face once.

“I haven’t the slightest idea why I have to drink beef broth every day.”

“Our son will thank you,” he said, staring fixedly at her stomach.

She was round. Rotund would perhaps be a better word. She could no longer see her feet when she stood.