Chapter Thirty
Alec looked at the records in frustration.
Glenlorne hadn’t had a good harvest in twenty years.
The books showed the people who’d died and been born, and the expenditures during his father’s time as earl.
Dougal had sold nearly a third of the land the MacNabbs had once owned, using the funds to benefit the folk in the castle.
Devorguilla’s expenditures on clothes were astronomical.
There were notices and letters from his father’s man of affairs in Inverness, years old, warning his father of mounting debts.
There were also petitions from the clan chiefs to their laird, and from ordinary clansmen, asking for an extension on their rents, or a bit of food to help them through a harsh winter.
Conditions had grown steadily worse after his grandfather’s death, nearly twenty years ago.
And still Devorguilla’s spending had gone on.
Six casks of wine, smuggled from France at exorbitant cost, a piano, a down mattress made in England, four dozen yards of costly silk.
How could she, with so many mouths to feed, so much to take care of?
He had a lot to put right. He ran his hand through his hair and wondered where to begin.
His father’s gambling debts alone ran to thousands of pounds.
It wouldn’t be long until creditors began beating a path to his door, demanding payment that was long overdue.
Sophie’s dowry would be sucked up in no time, he realized.
Even that astronomical amount would not be enough.
Muira rushed in. “There’s an army of coaches comin’ up the glen. Are we being invaded again? Surely they’re English. Local folk come on foot, or by pony or cart. Should we bar the doors?”
Alec crossed to the window, and looked at the dark stream of vehicles pouring over the lip of the valley, parting the heavy veil of rain, heading for the castle, and felt a moment’s surprise. “What now?” he muttered, and turned back to Muira.
“Best prepare tea for now, I think, boiling oil later. It’s probably nothing more sinister than a parade of English modistes and mantua makers summoned by Lady Sophie to outfit her for the wedding.” The word “wedding” stuck in his throat.
Muira sniffed. “Wedding! Did ye know she wants to plaster the walls in the great hall, paint it yellow, put up Chinese curtains? There’s to be no more swords or shields on the walls, and positively no tartan, especially at the wedding.”
Alec winced inside, but he forced himself to smile. “It will be her home, Muira. She’ll want to put her stamp on it, like any bride. A lick of paint won’t be so terrible, will it? Go on now and boil the kettle for tea.”
Muira tossed her head. “It’s my home too, and yours, and every MacNabb’s.”
Alec watched her go and wondered how much refurbishing Glenlorne to Sophie’s tastes was going to cost.
He hurried upstairs and put on English clothes, since Sophie had let him know she didn’t like kilts. He’d not dared to tell Muira that. He straightened his cravat, checked his watch, and pulled on a dark blue coat, resisting the urge to add a sword and pistol under his coat just in case.
He heard them coming before he’d even reached the castle steps. Someone was yelling, a high-pitched female outpouring of rage.
“This weather will not do! We shall end our days in this dreadful place with lung fever and the pox from all this rain! Gout too—mark my words. What the devil was she thinking, coming here, of all places? Could she not have fled to Brighton or Bath? My only comfort is that she is probably as bruised as I am by the dreadful rough roads. And the mud—I shall need new gowns, I say, and new shoes, and I am not happy at the necessity of waiting until I return to London to get them! Every single garment I own is ruined! Even so, I shall not stoop to wearing anything plaid!”
Not a flock of modistes then. Alec pursed his lips and waited for the footman to descend from his perch and open the door. His livery was indeed muddy, and the rain poured over him.
“There had better be something decent to eat, or I shall order this coach back to civilization at once. At once, d’you hear? They probably don’t even drink tea, and if they do, it’s likely made of boiled nettles!”
The door of the coach opened, and a gentleman got out with a frown. He looked at the facade of the castle for a moment, then stalked up the steps. He did nothing to assist the virago inside the coach, who continued unabated with her litany of complaints and threats.
“Good afternoon,” Alec said, stepping forward.
“Somerson,” the man introduced himself gruffly, not bothering to extend his hand. “You have my half sister here I believe?”
Alec let his glance flick over the powerful English earl. He was red-faced and sweating, with the stance of a bully. He stood before Alec with his chin high, his fists clenched, his stance challenging. Alec couldn’t detect the slightest family resemblance between the earl and Caroline.
The footman assisted the lady out of the coach.
She slipped on the slick step down, and whooped as she fell on the footman.
He valiantly struggled to hold up her great weight.
Another footman rushed to assist as the lady bellowed at them.
They finally succeeded at setting the lady safely on her feet with her bonnet askew.
She pinned Alec with one sharp eye, like a bird of prey spotting a hare, and marched up the steps toward him. “Where is she? I swear she’ll be horsewhipped for this foolishness!”
“My wife, the Countess of Somerson,” the earl said, without a hint of apology, and without even glancing at her.
The lady weighed at least twenty-five stone, and was clad in a vivid pink velvet traveling gown, trimmed with frills, with a matching bonnet.
Alec bowed, resisting the urge to blink.
She reminded him of a prize sow at a country fair, he thought unkindly, and forced himself to smile at her as he bowed over her hand.
Another gentleman got out of the coach, looking pale. He straightened his cravat, and blinked like a sheep lost in the woods. “My future son-in-law, Viscount Mears,” Somerson said.
The last one to alight was a young woman who was pretty, despite her family resemblance to Somerson.
Her nose and eyes were swollen from crying, and began streaming anew as she set her red-rimmed eyes on Alec.
“Please, where is my aunt, sir? Do not say she isn’t here, or I shall faint here on the very steps! ”
“My daughter, Lady Charlotte,” Somerson said.
“Don’t be so dramatic, Lottie!” the countess commanded. “We’ll tear this place apart stone by stone if we have to find her, and then—” She raised thick talons, as if she already had Caroline’s delicate neck in her claws.
“Lottie!” Alec stepped aside just in time as Sophie barreled past him and hurled herself into Lottie’s arms.
“Have you heard the news? Is that why you’re here?” Sophie babbled. She reminded Alec of an overenthusiastic puppy. “I’m to be married! Oh, how pleasant to see you, and what a lovely bonnet!”
“Lady Sophie?” the Countess of Somerson cried, her eyes bulging in alarm.
“Whatever are you here for?” She glared at Alec.
“I’m beginning to suspect foul play, when two—now three—of England’s premier heiresses have ended up all together in one damnably remote castle.
Where is this Glenlorne fellow? I shall give him a piece of my mind! ”
“I believe this is he, standing before you, Charlotte,” Somerson said dryly. “Have I the right of that, sir?”
Alec bowed. “Indeed you do. Welcome to Glenlorne Castle. Please come inside before the rain starts in earnest.”
“In earnest? It began raining the moment we crossed the border, and it hasn’t ceased for a minute since,” the countess grumbled.
Alec offered her his arm, since Sophie was linked with Lottie, patting her back, offering her a fresh handkerchief to stem the deluge of tears.
Somerson strode up the steps on his own, his expression suggesting he held no real hope of comfort within.
“Have your grooms see to the horses. Our servants and luggage should be arriving within the hour. These three coaches contain just the essentials, my valet, the countess’s chef, Lottie’s maids.”
Three coaches, and still more to follow? Alec clenched his teeth and nodded. Where the devil would they put everyone? And just how long were his unexpected guests intending to stay?
“We shall trouble you only long enough to collect Caroline,” Viscount Mears said as he climbed the steps. “The ladies are eager to return to London.”
“Good afternoon, Glenlorne. There’s quite a crush here.” He turned to find Lords Speed and Mandeville picking their way through the mud. “Is there a party?” Speed asked, eyeing the army of servants bearing boxes and bags and trunks up the steps.
“We’ve come to invite you to go hunting,” Mandeville said with a broad grin.
The rain began again, a sudden downpour that threatened to drench everything within seconds, and Alec stepped aside.
“I think we’d best discuss it inside, my lords.
I assume you know the Earl and Countess of Somerson?
” But the keen hunters had already scampered up the steps, whimpering about cold water falling down their backs, leaving Alec talking to the rain.
“ ’Tis an invasion after all,” Muira said, watching the mayhem.
Alec gritted his teeth. “Get Lady Caroline at once.”