Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
I’VE PACKED A WEE LUNCH FOR YE.” EUNICE handed Haydon a colossal bundle wrapped in a blazing red cloth. “I know ye canna go for long without a wee bite.”
Haydon stared in disbelief at the bulky package, which looked as if it could have fed the entire household for a week. “Thank you, Eunice.” He had no idea how he was going to pack it.
“Surely ye’re nae thinkin’ of leavin’ behind this fine evening coat and trousers,” objected Oliver, running his gnarled hand over the woolen fabric of the garments still hanging in the wardrobe. “They’re scarcely worn.”
“You may have them, Oliver.” Haydon pulled a shirt and waistcoat out of his bag in a vain attempt to make room for Eunice’s food. “I doubt I shall be attending any evening affairs for a while.”
Oliver chuckled. “An’ just where would I be wearin’ such a fancy set?”
“Wear it around the house,” Haydon suggested. “You’ll be the best-dressed butler in Inveraray.”
“It’s a wee bit big,” Oliver observed doubtfully.
“I can fix that, Ollie,” Doreen assured him. “A nip here and a tuck there, and ye’ll be as bonnie as a prince.”
“Ye think so?” The idea intrigued him. He slipped the jacket off its wooden hanger and pulled it over his wizened frame, then looked in amazement at how far the sleeves flapped below his fingers. “I’m thinkin’ it’ll have to be more than a wee nip and tuck.”
“Are ye sure ye have to go now, laddie?” fretted Eunice. “I dinna think Miss Genevieve understood that ye intended to take yer leave while she was out. She’s certain to be upset that she missed saying good-bye to ye.”
Haydon kept his expression neutral. “It’s better this way.”
He and Genevieve had returned from Glasgow late the previous evening and had spent the night passionately entwined in her bed.
Haydon had risen well before dawn and retired to his own chamber.
That morning they had greeted the children and elders in the dining room and regaled them over breakfast with tales of Glasgow and the dazzling success of Genevieve’s premier exhibition.
It had been a moment filled with happiness and warmth, tempered only by the knowledge that Haydon would soon leave.
After breakfast Genevieve had gone to meet with Mr. Humphries at the bank, to work out the details of the first payment she was going to make from the sale of her paintings.
She had asked Haydon to accompany her but he had declined, explaining vaguely that he had some other matters to attend to.
She had regarded him uncertainly, no doubt fearing that he was going to depart in her absence.
He had smiled and told her not to be gone too long, as if he meant to see her upon her return.
It had pained him to mislead her like that.
But he had already watched her suffer deeply over the past three nights, and he had no desire to put her through any more torment than what she had already endured.
It was better this way, he told himself.
It would be hard enough to say good-bye to the children and Oliver, Eunice and Doreen, without having Genevieve there as well.
Once he had bid them farewell, he would go down and board the coach for Edinburgh.
He had instructed Genevieve to tell people that her husband was on his way to France by way of Edinburgh and London.
He would book his fare and travel to Edinburgh first, so that there would be evidence that Maxwell Blake had indeed gone there.
Once in Edinburgh he would shed the identity that had become so comfortable for him and head back north to Inverness.
His only hope of reclaiming his previous life and not spending the rest of his days as a fugitive was to find out who had hired those men to kill him on that fateful night.
Once he had done so, he would have to prove to the authorities that he had been the victim of a failed murder plot.
He had already been working out a list of who might have reason to want him dead.
The possibilities were frustratingly numerous.
He had bedded scores of women during his life, many of whom were married at the time, so there was a bevy of disgruntled husbands out there who might well prefer to see him nailed into a coffin.
Victor, of course, was one of them, but he had already had his revenge on Haydon by destroying Emmaline, so Haydon did not consider him a likely candidate.
Add to the husbands the ladies themselves, some of whom had been less than pleased when their affair with Haydon came to an end, and the possibilities became overwhelming.
Then there was a parade of his cousins, aunts, uncles, and other vaguely attached relatives, all of whom had shuddered with fear when he had inherited the title of marquess of Redmond.
They had quite rightly worried that he would quickly lose the Redmond holdings to drink, gambling, and his complete lack of interest in business matters.
In fact, he had spent much of the last two years after Emmaline’s death in a drunken haze, burning his way through as much of his fortune as possible.
Surely that had to infuriate his cousin Godfrey, a pompous little arse who was all polished and ready to inherit the title should anything happen to Haydon.
He doubted Godfrey was capable of murder himself, but buying the services of someone else to carry out the task seemed eminently plausible.
When he returned to Inverness, he would begin by focusing his investigation on him.
“Here now, ye’re squashin’ my buns,” complained Eunice, watching as Haydon tried without success to cram the victuals into his bag. “Why don’t ye just put yer food in another case?”
“I may have to move quickly, and I can’t be burdened with two pieces of luggage.” Haydon withdrew yet another shirt and a pair of trousers from his valise, then squeezed Eunice’s precious lunch in and buckled the straining case closed. “There.”
Doreen regarded him glumly. “All set, then?”
He nodded.
“Come on, then, laddie.” Oliver shrugged out of Haydon’s evening coat and carefully hung it back inside the wardrobe.
“I’ll leave this coat here for ye, in case ye ever find yerself back this way an’ needin’ it again.
Can’t say I fancy black much anyway—makes me look like a corpse.
” He closed the wardrobe door and leaned against it a moment, as if he were trying to coax the errant door to stay shut.
“Ye will try to come back to her, won’t ye, lad? ” he demanded quietly.
“Once I succeed in clearing my name, Oliver, nothing will keep me away,” Haydon vowed.
Oliver absorbed this a moment, then nodded. “I’ll try to fix this door for ye while yer gone.” He gave the door a final push, then turned away as it stubbornly crept back open. “Now, let’s go down and have ye say yer good-byes to the children afore I drive ye to yer coach.”
THE CHILDREN WERE SEATED ROUND A LITTLE FIRE IN the drawing room, watching in fascination as Jack showed them pictures of ships from the book that Genevieve had given him.
“…and this one is a Spanish galleon,” he said, pointing to a painting of a splendid ship with its sun-bleached sails puffed and taut as they harnessed a powerful wind.
“They were used by the Spanish for war and exploring. They needed lots of room in the belly of the ship, so they could cram it with gold and silver and jewels to take back to Spain.”
Jamie frowned. “Wouldn’t all that gold and silver make the ship sink?”
“Not a ship like this,” Jack assured him. “The only thing that could sink her would be if she ran aground during a storm, or if pirates blasted a hole in her hull while trying to rob her of her riches.”
“How could they steal her riches if they sank her to the bottom of the ocean?” wondered Grace.
Jack shrugged. “I guess they would try to move them onto their own ship before she sank.”
“That doesn’t seem like a very sound plan,” objected Simon. “It would take a long time to move chests of gold from one ship to another. They might find themselves sinking into the ocean with her.”
Jack furrowed his brow in frustration. Why were they all so obsessed with the cargo? Weren’t they impressed by how beautiful the ship itself was? “I suppose most of the time the pirates got the riches off before they sank the ship,” he theorized, trying to be patient. “Now, if you look over here—”
“And then they would bury it on some remote, deserted island where no one could ever find it,” Annabelle exclaimed.
“Then the evil pirate captain would take his sword and skewer everyone who knew where it was buried, so that the secret would die with him.” She grabbed the poker from the hearth and lunged at Simon, pretending to run him through. “Die, you black-hearted knave!”
“That’s completely daft,” objected Grace. “What good were all those riches if they were stuck in the ground?”
“They could always go back for it later, if they really needed it,” Jamie decided. “You know, if they were having trouble with the bank.”
“But suppose the pirate captain forgot where he had put it?” wondered Charlotte. “Or what if he died before he could go back and dig it up?”