Chapter 18
18
A fter delivering the shipment of cotton to the MacGalloway mill, Gibb was summoned to London by his mother. Actually, all eight of her children were summoned. Their presence was requested not only for the commencement of the Season but to celebrate Mama’s forty-fifth birthday. Of course, his mother was English, and, with eight children, Her Grace was one of the ton ’s most esteemed patronesses.
Gibb sat across from his elder brother, Martin, in the ducal library of the family’s Mayfair town house.
“There you are.” The duke beckoned a housemaid inside. “Place the tea service on the low table, if you please.”
“Aye, Your Grace.”
Gibb cringed. “Tea?”
To the question, Martin’s resultant expression was one of elitist incredulity—tight lips, slightly upturned nose, wide blue eyes. It was a reflection of their father, affecting a practiced air that implied, I do believe the drivel that just came out of your mouth is nonsense and I’ll not stand for another word.
However, the duke replied, “It is rather early yet. Dunna tell me your years asea have turned you into a drunkard.”
Regardless of if he was a duke, Martin was first and foremost Gibb’s brother, and Gibb wasn’t about to take the rebuke—he never had done so and never would. “Has marriage turned ye soft, ye bletherin’ numpty?”
The maid’s face turned scarlet, her lips disappearing into a thin line. She was obviously trying not to burst out with laughter while she poured and charged both cups of tea with dollops of milk.
Martin, however, didn’t flinch. “If anything, marriage has made me smarter, ye sheep-shaggin’ eejit.” Regardless of his rank, Gibb’s elder brother never failed when it came to returning insults.
Still not breaking into a smile, the duke reached for his cup and saucer. He raised his little finger as he drank, receiving a snort from his younger brother. “Tell me, did everything go as planned with Miss Harcourt?”
Gibb’s gut twisted. This must be twist number five hundred and forty-three, because his gut had not stopped punishing him since the day the Prosperity left Savannah. Over and over he had chastised himself for letting her go—but he’d had no choice, had he? His orders were to ferry the woman to Savannah, not to fall in love with her. Besides, he absolutely was not in bloody love. That fact he’d repeated to himself every hour for the past two months. “Aye, I sent word from Norfolk, and Mr. Schuyler was there to meet us at the wharf. He seemed to be an affable chap.”
Martin blew out a sigh through pursed lips. “I’m glad to hear it. During the lassie’s brief visit to Newhailes, the lass endeared herself to the family. We’ve all been hoping she was marrying a decent fellow.”
By the size of the hole in his chest, Gibb felt no relief. “Why did Sir Kingston sell her hand to a complete stranger?”
“He dinna say much about it, other than his daughter was getting on in years and needed to make a match whilst there was still time.”
“Good God, she’s only five and twenty.”
“Old enough, I’d reckon.” Martin pushed the cup and saucer toward Gibb. “Go on, have a wee sip. I’ve never seen you turn your nose up to one of Cook’s shortbread biscuits, either.”
Gibb glanced down to the tray, noticing the biscuits for the first time. Indeed, he’d never been able to resist them. He took one and shoved the whole thing into his mouth, just to watch Martin’s expression. When he was rewarded with another air of elitist incredulity, he picked up his tea and drained the contents of the cup in one gulp, careful to keep his little finger curled into his fist.
He returned the cup to the saucer with a clank and belched for added emphasis. “Why has our mother decided to make her forty-fifth birthday a momentous occasion?”
With a grunt, the duke shifted his gaze away from Gibb. “She wants a bit of fun. Especially after Papa succumbed to dropsy, she feels she doesna have a great deal of time left.”
“Our mother?” Gibb snatched another biscuit. “She’ll live forever.”
“I thought the same, but why not let her plan a grand affair? After all, the woman mourned for two bloody years. It is time she set her sights on…other things.”
Gibb wasn’t sure he liked the sound of his mother doing anything aside from mothering and duchessing—definitely not flirting. No, absolutely not flirting. “Do you reckon she’ll remarry?”
“With Grace and Modesty yet to come out? I doubt she’ll have the time to entertain a courtship.” Martin picked up a biscuit and took a bite. Damnation, not but three years past, he would have shoved the whole thing into his gob. “And her age is to remain a mystery. We’re not to mention it to a soul.”
“Truly?” Gibb asked. “She’s a duchess. Half the members of the ton already ken her age.”
“Not a word.” At least Martin popped the remaining half of the shortbread into his mouth. “And she expects you to stay away from the card tables and dance. All night, mind you.”
“Bloody hell, just me, or does the dancing edict apply to Philip, Andrew, and Frederick as well?”
“All of us.”
“What of Grace and Modesty? Are they not too young to attend a ball?”
“’Tis a birthday party. Mama wants us all to celebrate with her, and so we shall. And she expects to have a full dance card.” Martin finished his tea. “But enough of that. Tell me, how is the Prosperity faring?”
“Quite well.” Gibb sat back, relieved to have the discussion moved away from family matters. “I’ve scheduled some needed repair work whilst I’m in London.”
“Good, I was hoping you’d stay for a time.” Martin gripped the velvet armrests of his chair. “Any thoughts about settling down?”
An image of Isabella on deck with her hair blowing like a sail in the wind came to mind. “None.”
“I dunna see why you’re so averse to the idea. I ken of many sea captains who marry and have families. They all seem to manage.”
Lips curled into a flat line, chin down, eyes homing like an eagle’s, Gibb made certain his expression was one his brother would not trifle with. “Not interested in marriage.”
“Well then, what are you interested in? Philip tells me you willna need to sail for America again until spring.”
Gibb sat back a tad. “Last we spoke, we discussed adding to the fleet—shipping MacGalloway cloth to every port in Europe.”
“Right you are. Do you have a ship in mind? A crew?”
“It is a concept more than specifics. The journey to America is a long one and best sailed by a ship with a substantial hull.”
“I thought the Prosperity was the largest of her class.”
“She is. I’d be happy to keep her for the transatlantic voyages.” Gibb picked at a bit of loose stitching on his chair’s blue damask upholstery. “Though I’m thinking of cutters for the European shipments, as well as acquiring one like the HMS Temeraire that can sail anywhere she so desires—that ship is a colossal beasty.”
“Och, I like the way you think, brother.” Grinning, Martin drummed his fingertips together. “Whilst you’re here, I reckon ye ought to look for a place to call home.”
In truth, the idea of buying a house had crossed Gibb’s mind—for about a quarter of an hour, and then he’d come to his senses. “A wee cottage does sound tempting, but nay. I’m content to let rooms whenever necessary.”
“Oh, aye? Now who’s the bloody numpty? Sooner or later you’ll need a permanent domicile—a place to put all the treasure you’re collecting in foreign ports. I ken ye think your heart is locked away in some sea chest at the bottom of the Atlantic, but mark me, one day a fair maid will capture your heart.”
Gibb shifted in his seat. There was no chance he’d mention all the hours he spent beside Miss Harcourt piecing together her tablets. Or the kisses— never would he admit to the kisses. “Och, I’d rather take my crew on a voyage into the Caribbean and search for Spanish silver.”
“Now you’re sounding like a pirate.”
“And you’re sounding like Da.” Gibb checked his pocket watch, noting the time was now three in the afternoon. “Do ye reckon it is late enough in the day for a wee dram?”
Martin pushed to his feet and started for the sideboard. “Ye twisted my arm. Mayhap we ought to raise a toast to your next adventure.”
The ballroom at the family’s London town house was nowhere near as magnificent as the ancient great hall they used when hosting an affair at Stack Castle on the northeastern tip of Scotland’s mainland, but it was close. Gibb’s mother had outdone herself, from the dozen brand-new brilliant chandeliers overhead to the hardwood floor polished to a sheen as glassy as a Highland loch on a windless day.
Everywhere Gibb turned, he was met with an exquisite arrangement of exotic flowers, each more magnificent than the next. The one beside him was full of blooms in every shade of pink imaginable. Who knew pink flora could be represented in so many hues?
“Mama must have emptied all the hothouses in the South of England,” said Philip, sidling beside Gibb and handing him a glass of something that was as pink as the brightest yellow-centered cosmos flowers in the arrangement he’d just been admiring.
Gibb took the drink. “Have ye tried this?” he asked, his gaze shifting to the crown of his brother’s head to ensure he hadn’t mistaken Philip for his twin, Andrew. Though Philip’s identifying cowlick was tamed by a practiced application of hair oil, it still popped up a bit right at the point where his crown started to arc downward.
Philip raised his glass and frowned. “Aye, ’tis a bit too sour, though it hasna gone without sugar. I reckon this syrupy brew is as sweet as the icing on a cake.”
“Blech,” Gibb said under his breath. “And I’ll wager there’s nary a drop of spirit in it.”
“With Grace and Modesty present, I reckon you’re right.”
Gibb took a more robust drink and nearly gagged. The sweetness was almost overwhelming, followed by a biting tang that darted beneath either side of his jaw. “Bloody hell, this is enough to make a warrior’s eyes cross.”
“Aye, or send his ballocks into his throat.”
Both attempted to suppress chuckles, which made them snort. As Gibb was growing up, he always strove to best Martin, and he was oft joined in camaraderie by Philip and Andrew. Philip was the more dogged of the twins, similar to Gibb. Often, Gibb and Philip saw eye to eye on things upon which everyone else disagreed.
The dowager duchess danced past, her hand atop that of the Earl of Sussex. Gibb raised his glass to both. “’Tis good to see Mama is enjoying herself.”
“And not a one of her sons was wrangled into signing her dance card.” Philip winked. “I have it on good authority we’re to thank Julia for her intervention.”
“I kent I liked Martin’s wife,” Gibb agreed, spotting the duchess herself dancing with the Marquess of Northampton.
Philip regarded him with a pinch between his auburn eyebrows. “I thought you dinna approve of the match.”
“Mayhap not at first—after all, I was initially introduced when she was parading about as Jules Smallwood, steward to our esteemed brother. I was a bit flabbergasted when I discovered he was actually a female. Nonetheless, now that I’ve come to know her, I have realized that aside from being a perfect match for Martin, she truly is quite enterprising.”
Philip nodded to the duchess as she passed. “I’d have to agree. After all, there’s most likely not another woman in all of Great Britain able to position herself as a steward to a duke without her ruse being exposed on the first day of her tenure.”
Next, a stunning beauty danced by, greeting them with a brilliant smile. “Good God, is that Grace?” Gibb asked, staring after his sister, his chin nearly dropping to his chest.
“Heaven help us all,” Philip mumbled under his breath. “She’s too bloody young.”
“She’s too bloody bonny, if ye ask me.”
“Aye, that as well. Martin will have to keep his dueling pistols primed when the lass comes of age.”
Gibb tipped up his glass and realized that during this discourse he’d managed to empty its contents regardless of the cloying confection.
Philip beckoned a footman toting a silver tray filled with too much sloshing pink and replaced their glasses with a new pair. “Are ye man enough to tolerate a second?”
Without even taking a sip, Gibb winced at the anticipation of the sour aftertaste. “How about we slip into the library and add a dram of whisky to these?”
His brother waggled his auburn eyebrows. “Now why dinna I think of that?”
“Och, I have no idea. Has Marty been inviting you for tea of late, or are ye just plain addled?”
“The only thing addling my mind is this punch.”
Gibb inclined his head toward the doorway behind them. “We ought not to be missed.”
“Are you jesting? We have strict orders from Martin to be present at all times—I reckon he has spies posted at every refuge in the house.”
Gibb tugged the sleeve of his brother’s coat. “Then it is up to us to mutiny.”
“Allow me to lead the way.”
The two partners in crime had taken no more than two steps into the corridor when Modesty, the youngest MacGalloway sibling, blocked their path. “Phiiiiilip!” she cried, throwing her arms around the eldest twin. “I’m having a calamity, and I need your help immensely!”
With a groan, Gibb rolled his eyes to the ceiling while his younger brother planted a hand upon the lassie’s shoulder. “Och, ye look so bonny, how could anything worry ye this eve, lass?”
Modesty scrunched her face, making her spotty freckles stand out more, if that was possible. The lass looked nothing like Grace. Modesty was cursed with flaming red hair and more freckles than Philip and Andrew combined. “Miss Annabel untied my ribbons. She’s a shrew, I say.”
Philip tapped the gel’s nose. “I’ll agree with ye there, but have you no lady’s maid to set ye to rights?”
“Nay.” Modesty swung her shoulders to and fro, making those bright red curls bounce. “My governess helped me dress, but she’s all the way up in the nursery.”
“And your sisters?” Philip asked.
“They’re both dancing.”
Gibb took the glass of punch from Philip’s grasp. “I’ll take care of these whilst you retie our wee sister’s ribbons.”
He didn’t wait for a reply before he quickly slipped up the stairs and into the library. Except the crystal decanter had been removed from the sideboard. Blast Martin and blast Mama or Julia. One of the two women had put Martin up to hiding the liquor for certain.
After setting the glasses on the empty silver tray, Gibb strode to the writing table and opened the bottom drawer. Blast, blast, and double blast, it was empty as well.
Good God, Marty, next they’ll be sainting you, ye blathering numpty.
He tapped his lip, a leather-bound book catching his eye while a memory sparked—one from his boyhood. He strode directly to the book and removed it from the shelf. Years ago, when he was a wee laddie, he’d been playing a game of hide-and-seek and hidden behind the library curtains. While he was concealed, his father came in, removed that very book, opened it, and pulled out a key. With it, Da pushed one of the far curtains aside and, after a few clicks and clunks, returned into view carrying a box of snuff.
“There you are,” Gibb said, finding the key hidden in an envelope adhered to the back cover of the volume. “Let us see if Da’s booty includes more than tobacco.”
Gibb pulled aside the curtain and located a tiny keyhole about waist-high, so concealed that it could easily be mistaken as a flaw. He smoothed his hand over the wood paneling, his fingertips sensing only a hint of a gap. Whoever installed this hidey-hole had done so with superb craftmanship. “What did you stow in here, dear father?”
He glanced over his shoulder as a shiver coursed across his skin. Was Martin aware of Da’s hiding place? Gibb highly doubted Mama would be. After sliding in the key and opening the hidden door, he indeed found a wooden box of Imperial Snuff. Farther back, however, he caught a glint from a glass bottle.
“What have we here?” he asked, pulling it out and examining the label—MacGalloway Whisky, bottled 1745. “My thanks, Da. I kent ye’d stash away only the very best.”
Gibb made quick work of charging the glasses with two drams each, then replaced everything exactly as he’d found it. One day, he might inform Martin about the hidey-hole, but not today.
It was only after he exited the library that he heard the shriek of a hysterical voice—a mature female voice that was decidedly not Modesty’s, nor that of any woman Gibb knew.
“This is a scandal of magnanimous proportions!” the voice squawked.
What the devil?
With haste, Gibb dashed down the corridor to the stairs, sloshing his punch concoction over his fingers. When he reached the landing, he could not believe what he was seeing.
“It is my fault,” said a young woman as she pushed away from Philip’s arms. Good God, from his bloody arms! “I tripped on my hem,” she said, appearing horror-struck. “I’m ever so clumsy.”
“You tripped?” The older woman scoffed, flipping open her fan and vigorously cooling her face. “I do not believe it for an instant. You were out of the ballroom for ages. When I set out in search of your whereabouts, I discovered you in the arms of this man. Do not try to tell me Lord Philip MacGalloway has not compromised you. This is scandalous , I say, and by morning on the morrow, all of polite society will know you have been ruined.”
“I beg your pardon?” Gibb descended the remaining stairs and stepped between the woman and his brother. “Why does anyone need to ken what happened here?” He looked from one end of the corridor to the other, thankful not to see any bystanders, aside from Philip’s twin Andrew, who stood blocking the doorway to the ballroom, most likely having overheard the exchange.
“ I know,” the woman insisted. “And everyone present who has a pair of ears knows. I demand you make an offer of marriage to my daughter at once, or I’ll have no recourse but to inform her father of this impropriety!”
The lass grasped her mother’s arm. “Please, Mama, it was not His Lordship’s fault.”
The woman’s eely-eyed stare did not shift from Philip’s face. “Balderdash!”
Gibb had heard enough. Holding both glasses perfectly level, he considered dumping the contents of both on the woman, except it was a damned waste of vintage 1745. “Excuse me, m’lady, but I reckon you’re?—”
Philip firmly grasped Gibb’s shoulder, ushered him aside, and cleared his throat. “Miss Radcliffe, it would be my esteemed honor if you would take into consideration my heartfelt offer of marriage.”
“What?” Gibb boomed, earning an elbow in the ribs from the eldest twin, making the punch again slosh over his fingers and unfortunately not on Mrs. Radcliffe.
The woman smiled with a haughty air of triumph. “Respond to him at once, Eugenia.”
The lass’s gaze slowly meandered upward and met Philip’s stony stare. In truth, she was quite a comely gel, with blonde hair and azure eyes—a face of an angel, accompanied by a woman how could only be described as the spawn of Bloody Mary. “If it is truly what you want, my lord, then I accept.”
Philip took her hand and applied a kiss that imparted no more emotion than a carp gasping for air on the shore. “Thank you, miss. I shall call upon you in the morning.”
Witnessing the farce play out before him, Gibb stood dumbstruck. It wasn’t until the woman and her daughter took their leave and returned to the ballroom that he handed Philip the glass of punch. “What the devil happened? I left you to tie Modesty’s ribbons, and when I returned, you were in the midst of being tricked into making an offer of marriage.”
Philip drank the entire contents of the glass, belched, and shoved the empty into Gibb’s belly. “I need a wife, and Lord kens I’m too busy to search for one. Besides, Miss Radcliffe is bonny. I reckon she’ll do.”
“She might be Aphrodite incarnate, but her mother’s a dragon-hearted shrew. I’d rather take my chances with a duel than marry into that family.”
“Mayhap, but my future mother-in-law will have to come to Scotland when she wants to see her daughter. If she’s overbearing when she visits, then the pair of them will never be able to find me.”
“Good God, man. Marriage is nay that simple. You are not thinking this through.”
Philip gave the captain’s shoulder a shove. “What do you ken about it? You’re asea more than you’re ashore. Give it a rest. I’ve made up my mind.”
Gibb moved the glass toward his lips. “At least I hope you’re planning for a long engagement.”
Philip took Gibb’s concoction and drained it as well. “Believe me, it might be the longest engagement in Scotland’s history.”