The MacGalloways: Books #1-3

Chapter 20

20

F eeling like the most fiendish lout who ever walked the earth, Harry headed through the Court of Requests toward his usual place in the shadows beneath the mezzanine, for the first time being greeted by a number of Lords. “Allow me to give you my congratulations,” said a viscount, showing him the headlines of the Gazette: “The Butcher is an Earl!”

“There’s something to be said for an earl who grows up thinking he’s a butcher,” mentioned another.

Harry gave the viscount a nod and held out his hand. “Mind if I read that?”

“Be my guest.”

“My thanks,” he replied, taking the paper and scowling. Finally he’d proven himself to these unmitigated fops, but he still wasn’t good enough for Lady Charity. He’d never be good enough for Lady Charity. Yet the woman plagued his every other thought. The memory of her laughter, her thirst for life, her eagerness, and that goddamned womanly body tortured his every waking moment.

Last night after he’d stepped out of the tavern, he’d spotted the two louts riding off with her in the wagon. He’d borrowed Jackson’s pistol and raced after them. Lucky for him they didn’t realize he hadn’t another shot.

But he would have fought the devil himself to pull her into his arms. Dear God, she’d smelled like a field of wildflowers, even with the dirt smeared across her lovely face. What he would have given to steal a kiss, but he didn’t trust himself to do so. If his lips had met hers, he might have fallen into an abyss of no return. But riding away from the woman was the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life.

Harry joined Lord Andrew on the rear bench.

“You’re an overnight sensation, m’lord. You even clean up rather well, even for a man with a blackened eye.”

Harry arched his brow and raised the paper high enough to hide his ugly visage.

Not taking the hint, Andrew leaned in and read alongside him. “It seems you’ve become something of a celebrity.”

“Perhaps, but it hasn’t done me a lick of good.”

“No?”

“I have ordered a new suit of clothes, and the only place I’ll have to wear them is this hall filled with pompous arses.”

“Well, I willna argue the pompous arse part, as long as you’re not referring to me.”

“You?” Harry snorted. “You’re the son of a duke. I’ll wager your mama placed you in a silver cradle.”

Lord Andrew brushed out the sleeves of his immaculately tailored topcoat. “Not at all. The cradle was hewn of hickory and it was tended by my nursemaid.”

“Exactly my point. You’re a pompous arse, too.”

“Would I be if I invited you to a recital?” asked the lordling, ignoring the slight. “It is to be given by three American heiresses. You could come along as my guest.”

For the love of Moses, he was a bloody earl and hadn’t heard a peep about these heiresses. “Why did they invite you and not me?”

“Most likely because my valet ties a more pristine barrel knot than you do.” Lord Andrew flicked Harry’s neckcloth. “Though I daresay you are improving.”

Harry grumbled under his breath. He’d rather be in his shop with his shirtsleeves rolled up, wielding a cleaver. “Are they any good?”

“Who?”

“The American heiresses,” Harry growled, fed up to the teeth that he was even considering this half-baked sham. “Have they a lick of talent?”

“Do you care? Their papas are wealthy, and that’s why we are going.”

He regarded Charity’s brother out of the corner of his eye. Why did the lout have to look so much like her? “I didn’t know you were on the marriage mart.”

“I’m not, but it doesna hurt to do a wee bit of browsing now and again.”

“Very well, if you are willing to give me an introduction, I’ll go.”

“Excellent, but you’d best put some powder on that bruise beneath your eye.”

“When is this recital?”

“Sunday. At five. Shall I have my driver pick you up? I could send along my valet to tend to your neckcloth.”

“Not necessary.” Harry could only imagine Lord Andrew’s valet showing up at the boarding house. He’d most likely break the knocker and the landlady would take one look at the shiny black carriage, and insist he pay for a new door. Sooner or later, the woman would wrangle some sorry sop into giving her a new door, and then there’d be no stopping her.

Lord Andrew flicked the Gazette with his finger. “And if you’re serious about finding an heiress, you’ll stop fighting. This type of news only makes you notorious. Gentlemen merely spar, full stop. Being on the front page of the paper isna good for an earl’s image.”

Harry scowled. “I’ll stop fighting when I find an heiress with a golden reticule.”

The day dragged on and it was well after five o’clock when the House recessed for the day, and before Harry made it out of the hall, a footman carrying a package approached him. “Are you Brixham, my lord?”

He gave a nod. “What is this?”

“I’ve no idea.”

Since the Court of Requests was empty, Harry took the package, slipped back inside to a table, pulled off the twine, and lifted the lid from the wooden box. Inside was a costume of some sort and a letter addressed to The Earl of Brixham:

My Lord,

Please pardon my tardiness, and rest assured that the oversight was purely an error on my part. It would be an honor if you would consider making an appearance at the masquerade ball my husband and I will be hosting on Saturday night at eight o’clock. Given the late notice, I am well aware that the best costumes in London have already been claimed, therefore I have taken the liberty of sending you one from our private collection.

I do hope to see you there.

Yours sincerely,

Sophia, Marchioness of Northampton

Harry grinned, dropping the letter into the box. Perhaps a boxing earl wasn’t as damning for his reputation as Lord Andrew had let on.

Charity studied her image in the mirror. She hadn’t been able to sit for the past hour, and wouldn’t be able to do so for the entirety of the evening. But that was not what weighed heavily on her mind. This afternoon she’d received yet another letter from Mrs. Fletcher, this one advising that the housekeeper disagreed with Charity’s directives, and had taken it upon herself to give Martha Hatch one week to find alternative living arrangements. Furthermore, the woman had insisted that she’d had no alternative but to put Miss Jacoby on notice, because she suspected the lass of inappropriate conduct, since she was attending church three times per week. Mrs. Fletcher had heedlessly gone against Charity’s instructions to allow Miss Hatch to remain at Huntly, and she’d not mentioned a word about summoning the doctor as she had been asked. Even more egregious, Mrs. Fletcher had put demure, polite, shy Sara Jacoby on notice, of all things. The poor lass must be fretting something terribly.

“Why the glum face, Sister?” asked Modesty, skipping around the ottoman in front of the hearth, her ankle no longer causing any pain in the slightest. “If you ask me, there canna be another costume in the entire hall bonnier than yours.”

“I daresay, I agree,” said Georgette, stepping away from the plumes springing from Charity’s backside. “It is stunning.”

“And ostentatious.” Charity stood sideways and regarded her profile—her headdress consisted of a mazarine blue turban with the body of the peacock towering atop. Her gown was of the same brilliant blue, it’s neckline surrounded by gravity-defying, bejeweled silk peacock feathers, supported by innumerable wires that were all hidden beneath the plumage. On her back was a complete open tail of real peacock feathers, held in place by the same wire, and the reason she would not be able to sit. The gown beneath all the feathers was rather plain, though it may as well have been a flour sack because there was very little of it to be seen for all the feathers. “It didna appear to be so voluminous in the costume shop.”

Georgette tapped the headdress, making a miniscule adjustment. “Peacocks are voluminous, though, m’lady.”

Modesty sashayed in front of Charity and flicked the feathers encircling her skirt. “I dunna understand why you’re a peacock anyway. Shouldna ye be a pea hen ? They’re nowhere near as voluminous.”

“Nor are they as bonny,” Georgette added.

Charity tested the security of her headdress by looking from one wall to the other. “Well, ’tis too late to don something else, I suppose.”

“Something else? You’re attending a masquerade,” said Modesty, as the lady’s maid tied Charity’s blue mask in place, complete with a splay of its own feathers. “Besides, no one will recognize you.”

“Och, by the end of the evening, all the busybodies will have figured out who’s who. Mark me. Last year, Mama introduced everyone by their proper names as if the Marchioness of Northampton had given her a list.”

“She most likely did,” said Modesty. “Ye ken how persuasive Mama can be.”

Charity smiled to herself. She’d done a little maneuvering of her own. To her good fortune, the Marchioness of Northampton was a friend, and Sophia had been so kind as to accept Charity’s invitation to tea a few days past, which gave her the perfect opportunity to mention that she hadn’t seen the new Earl of Brixham at a single affair this Season. Without another word, Her Ladyship acted swiftly to rectify the situation.

Georgette pointed to the mantel clock. “’Tis time you ventured downstairs, m’lady—but how are you planning to fit all that plumage inside the carriage?”

“Northampton’s town house is only a few streets away. Andrew will accompany us on the short walk.”

Modesty dashed across the floor and opened the door. “Can I come along?”

Charity loved her youngest sister’s vigor, but she could be awfully impractical at times. “I believe Miss Hay has something planned for you in the nursery.”

The lass stomped her foot. “Ballocks!”

Stopping in her tracks, Charity affected her most aghast expression. “Modesty, watch your vulgar tongue.”

“Well, I’m tired of always being sequestered to the nursery. I’m twelve years of age and the last of eight children, biding my time in the nursery alone as if I didn’t matter in the slightest. As a matter of fact, I’m going to write to Marty this very night and tell him I am ready to dine in the hall with everyone else.”

Charity grasped her sister’s shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Not when you’re swearing like one of Gibb’s sailors.”

“Verra well, then, bosh .” Modesty coyly twisted a red curl around her finger. “Is that better?”

“Bosh?” asked Georgette. “Whatever does it mean?”

The curl dropped with a springing bounce. “’Tis a section of an iron blast furnace between the hearth and stack. Miss Hay assigned reading about how the Hittites began the smelting of metal during the Bronze Age. I think the word is perfect for times when someone needs an expletive and is expected to have the ability to go deaf when one of her brothers uses a curse word.”

Wondering which sister was the most incorrigible, Charity released her grip and attempted to walk through the doorway, but was stopped by her enormous tail. Turning sideways, she managed to exit without tearing any feathers from her costume. “I believe Miss Hay ought to be giving you more instruction on proper etiquette and word choice than the mechanics of metallurgy.”

“Och, I’ve had enough etiquette lessons to last me a lifetime.”

Charity brushed her sister’s freckled nose. “Then I suggest you apply your lessons fastidiously, especially if you expect to eat in the hall with the adults. Foul language will not be tolerated.”

The lass scrunched her face. “Ye ken I wouldna use ballocks in the dining hall.”

“Or anywhere else, mind you. And if I hear it again, I give you my word you’ll be relegated to the nursery for your meals for the next two years.”

“You used to be more fun,” Modesty whined.

“I used to be a child. But I am no longer. I am out, and…” Charity turned and headed for the stairs. What had her tied in knots was that she was well and truly out, and the only potential suitor who had shown any serious interest was Lord Percival, and he was about as interesting as a mallard. He even walked like a duck, and spoke through his nose, sounding decidedly ducklike. And it would be far more appealing if he were duke like instead of ducklike.

“There she is,” said Andrew, as Charity rounded the last landing. He was dressed as Robert the Bruce, complete with chain mail.

Mama clapped her hands, smiling beneath her red mask. This year she had gone all-out and dressed as Queen Elizabeth, wearing a gold gown with a starched ruff and a very uncomfortable-looking stomacher. “Oh, my. No one in the ballroom will be able to draw their gazes away from you, my dear.”

Charity descended the remaining stairs. “I hope my dance card will be full, because I’ll not be able to sit with the wallflowers this evening. I’ll be standing, and there’s nothing more humiliating than looming over the bluestockings in a brilliant peacock costume.”

“Hush,” Mama chided. “You are not a wallflower, and I refuse to listen to you say so.”

In truth, Charity usually did have more gentlemen sign her dance card than the others, but she much preferred the conversation along the wall than the conversation of the darlings who gossiped ad nauseum and said hurtful things about the poor ladies who were less fortunate than they.

Giles opened the front door and looked to Mama. “Shall I wait up, Your Grace?”

Harry had never been to a spectacle such as this. In fact, he didn’t remember ever attending a masquerade. In Brixham he’d gone to plenty of country dances—public dances where common folk were welcomed. Of course, as a butcher, he’d never been invited to any overt display of wealth, and the Northampton masquerade ball was exactly that.

He’d never even imagined a town house such as this. Sure, he had garnered a glimpse of the entryway and kitchens of Huntly Manor, but what he’d observed there could have used a fresh coat of paint, though the portraiture in the entrance hall was quite impressive. But this home was unbelievable. The chandeliers in the ballroom had little mirrors at each candle, reflecting the light and making the hall appear as if it were a sunlit day. Every surface was filled with flowers, which must have cost a fortune because not a bloom was in season and must have been purchased from a hothouse.

Dozens of footmen, dressed in gold livery and powdered wigs with black masks, carried silver trays filled with nibbles, champagne, and lemon cordials. All the while, they seemed to perform their duties in a semblance of a ballet, being serenaded by the orchestra at the far end of the hall. Though cuts and bruises on Harry’s face usually caused him no embarrassment, he was happy to be wearing a mask that hid his blackened eye. He hadn’t taken part in the grand march, however, because he’d not received a single introduction.

“My Lord Brixham,” said a woman dressed as Eve—her gown colored nude and adorned with fig leaves, her brown hair unbound and flowing far past her waist. “Northampton and I are honored that you deigned to attend our little affair this eve.”

Harry bowed, relieved to know he was being addressed by the hostess. “Not at all. It is I who should thank you for the invitation.”

“A little bird told me she was disappointed that she hadn’t seen you at a single ball so far this Season, what with all the responsibilities of Parliament.”

“Yes, the House has been quite demanding.”

“So agrees Northampton.”

“The bird you spoke of—” Harry panned his gaze across the hall. “Is she here?”

“Indeed, a very brilliant bird. In fact, the most brilliant at the ball.”

“Would it be overreaching of me to request an introduction? I would like to thank her.”

Her Ladyship patted his arm. “My lord, at a masquerade none of us are who we seem. That’s what makes them so fun. Furthermore, some members of the ton try to identify individual guests, but in the true spirit of masquerades, I forbid it. Therefore, no introduction is necessary.” Together they both watched a brilliantly adorned peacock move through the hall with “Queen Elizabeth” on her arm, being followed by a medieval-looking king.

Lady Northampton flicked open her fig-leaf fan and held it to her lips as if her next words were for his ears only. “Oh dear, of course an introduction might be in order if said bird is being escorted about the ballroom by a queen. Such queens are set in their ways and difficult to change.”

From beneath all that plumage, Harry recognized Lady Charity. He’d know the woman anywhere. She carried herself not like a peacock, but like a swan gliding on a glassy lake. And her costume was stunning, hugging her in all the right places—proud breasts, a slender waist, and hips that could stretch a pair of trousers with such wanton femininity, they’d never be acceptable for the public’s eye. And all of Her Ladyship’s glorious curvaceousness was complemented by an extraordinary tail and headdress. Even her mask was exquisite, just like the woman.

“Follow me,” said Lady Northampton, wending her way through the crowd until they arrived face-to-face (or mask-to-mask) with Lady Charity, the Dowager Duchess of Dunscaby, and Lord Andrew.

Of course, Lady Northampton greeted Charity’s family graciously, as she had done with Harry, careful to refer to everyone by their costumed character. Once the niceties had been issued, she gestured to him. “Might I introduce Captain William Kidd.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. The marchioness was surely quick to the take. As far as he knew, prior to this announcement, he was just a run-of-the-mill pirate. Being Captain Kidd made him all the more interesting, if not notorious. He bowed deeply. “It is my honor, Lady Peacock, Queen Elizabeth, and King Robert the Bruce.”

Lady Peacock beamed with her familiar smile, though the Bruce had a decided pinch between his eyebrows, partly hidden by his mask.

Harry opted to assume no one in their party knew his identity. “Might I have the honor of signing your dance card, Lady Peacock, and yours, Your Majesty?”

The queen rapidly fanned her face. “My dear Captain, you flatter me, but I am content to watch this evening, thank you.”

At least Charity’s mother didn’t know he was the same penniless butcher her eldest son had warned away, or the penniless earl one of her twins had advised to marry an heiress to solve all his woes.

The problem was, the peacock standing across from him was the only woman he’d thought of since the day she’d walked into the butcher’s shop and scheduled deliveries for Huntly Manor…and hired him to fix her roof…and told him he needed a name more fitting for a boxer.

Harry the Hedgehog.

He held in his urge to laugh as he signed Captain Kidd on her dance card—he opted for the last dance and the most salacious. When he handed it back, the light caught those beautiful blues, making them sparkle like sapphires and rendering Harry’s knees a tad unsteady…until Robert the Bruce grasped his elbow. “Might I have a word, Captain?”

Harry bowed to the ladies. “Please excuse me,” he said before following Lord Andrew and his medieval costume out to the chilly portico.

“What the blazes are you doing here?” demanded Robert the Bruce, who didn’t look like the Scottish king at all.

Harry threw his hands out to his sides. “I received an invitation.”

“But you just told me a few days ago that you had not received any invitations at all. And now you’ve just signed my sister’s dance card—and dunna tell me you didna ken it was her.”

“Well, I didn’t at first.” No use admitting he’d recognized Charity as soon as he laid eyes on her. “But as soon as I saw you and your mother strutting along behind her, I had a sneaking suspicion.”

Andrew knocked Harry’s pirate hat askew. “So, you asked Lady Northumberland to give you an introduction. You are a cad.”

“No, I am rather enterprising.” Harry straightened his hat and stood a bit taller. “Did you not tell me that being enterprising is a virtue?”

“It is a virtue in business matters, which anything concerning my sister most definitely is not. You are a butcher.”

“And an earl.”

“Aye, a butchering earl who boxes, no less. Absolutely no candidate to court the sister of a duke.”

Harry gave a shrug, feeling as if he might be chipping away at the slab of granite which was not only Lord Andrew, but the entire MacGalloway family. “At least I have a title.”

“You’re not marrying my sister.”

Perhaps “chipping” was too strong a word. “No,” Harry conceded. “But I do aim to dance with her.”

Andrew swiped a hand across his mouth and looked to the French doors, from which a muffled minuet escaped. “One dance, and that is all I will allow.”

“Fine,” Harry said, making sure he sounded irritated. “Damnation, she doesn’t even realize it is me.”

“If you think not, then you don’t know Charity.”

Harry rocked back on his heels. She had known he would be attending as Captain Kidd before he did. “I take it the enterprising spirit is a strong MacGalloway family trait?”

Andrew clapped him on the shoulder. “Wheesht.”

Heading back toward the hall, Harry chuckled under his breath. “By the way you’re talking, it sounds as if your sister might hold me in higher esteem than you do, my friend.”