Chapter 2
Two
Willard Daniels watched his firstborn son and heir put an empty glass back on the tray where the decanter—now considerably less full than it had been an hour ago—sat winking in the early evening sunshine.
The boy had graceful hands, which was no compliment. Soldiering was supposed to knock the fancy out of a man, but five years in the light cavalry hadn’t quite gotten rid of a certain elegance—fussiness, more like—in the next Baron of Altsax… and Gribbony.
Which was why the summer’s real objective was something Willard would keep to himself.
Matthew had an inconveniently generous dollop of scruples rattling around with all the logic and military strategy in his handsome head.
It ruined him, like the red highlights in his blond hair, the slight air of diffidence in his mannerisms, the tendency to silence and distance when a peer of the realm sought and was entitled to hearty assurances from his own son.
Disappointment, Altsax had long ago learned to live with, but failure was out of the question.
Before Genie or Hester married that buffoon of an earl, before they married anybody, the problem of their aging and awkward cousin was going to be resolved—permanently—lest the Daniels’s family finances and social standing continue to be threatened by Augusta Merrick’s very existence.
She’d turned down the only other possible solution—marriage to Matthew, offered half in jest—though seeing how the pair of them had matured, Altsax had to be grateful.
Even his brooding disappointment of a son deserved better than that wretched woman, cousin or not.
Such musings were enough to inspire a man to drain the remaining whisky from the decanter.
To be drunk at dinner would be the height of bad form the first night under the earl’s roof, but then, dinner wasn’t going to be for at least an hour. Willard reached for the decanter and offered a private though quite sincere toast to the success of his own schemes.
· · ·
One of the blessings of entertaining wealthy English aristocracy for weeks on end was that Ian could feed his own household well.
For a few months of summer and early fall, there were frequent servings of good Aberdeen Angus beef, the occasional lamb, roasted cuts of pork, chicken too young to be anything but tender, and—reason enough to thank God—not a hint of mutton.
Though there had been many times in Ian’s life when even a thin mutton stew would have been a fair trade for his soul.
Perhaps it had been a fair trade, which was why he was rubbing elbows in evening finery—the kilted version, and bedamned to English fashion—with the half-drunk baron, his tight-lipped son, and his determinedly cheerful womenfolk.
Save the spinster. She at least had the sense to keep to her rooms, where she no doubt was feeding portions of beef to her cat.
The baron rose to his feet a little unsteadily and directed a questioning glance to Ian. “The ladies having departed for their tea and gossip, shall we to the decanter?”
“Of course.” But Ian saw Connor eyeing the food uneaten on the Baron’s plate. More for the kirk in town, though if they knew it was food served to an Englishman, likely even the wretched poor of Aberdeenshire would turn their noses up at it.
“This is first-rate drink,” Matthew Daniels said when all five men were lounging around the library. “Have you ever considered exporting it?”
“Now that’s an interesting proposition,” Connor replied, sparing Ian the trouble. “There is a market for decent whisky, but there’s also a heavy tax imposed, usually at both ends…”
Daniels the Younger launched into a surprisingly intelligent debate with Con and Gil about the risks and rewards of exporting whisky, while the Baron—drink in hand—sidled over to where Ian stood by the window.
“That boy.” The baron expelled a heavily fumed breath. “Talking trade after dinner with the locals. I wash my hands of him.” He turned a long-suffering gaze on his drink, drained the contents, then set the empty glass on the windowsill with a little bang.
“Shall I refresh your drink, Baron?”
“Yes, b’gad. Traveling leaves a man parched, particularly with all them damned, plaguey females. Speaking of which?”
Ian glanced at his guest while he poured a half tumbler of whisky for the baron.
He’d chosen the decanter kept farther back along the sideboard, the one reserved for sots who would not be offended by a younger brew.
The container itself was fancy and kept just as meticulously dusted as its confreres, but Ian would not have served the contents to Mary Fran’s prize sows.
“This is a special batch,” Ian said, which was true. “Not for everyday consumption. I’d go slowly.”
“Must say”—the baron took a hefty swallow—“for a Scot, you know how to treat your custom.”
“My guests,” Ian corrected gently.
The baron lifted his glass for another sip then turned to face the window. “As I was saying, about the ladies.”
Was business to be broached this soon? A part of Ian was relieved to think the Misses Daniels’s father was so determined to see them settled; another part of him was appalled at the man’s lack of couth.
Not under Ian’s roof twelve hours, and already, before it was even apparent Ian would suit his daughter, Altsax was opening negotiations.
“About the ladies?” Ian drawled, joining the baron at the window. Behind them, the younger men had escalated the discussion of whisky exportation into a round of “You damned English/You bloody Scots,” which was great good fun, provided nobody started pounding on anybody indoors.
Mary Fran frowned mightily on broken furniture.
Ian watched as, out on the terrace, Mary Fran started laughing at something Mrs. Redmond had said.
The baron leaned closer, his breath enough to knock a grown man on his arse.
“Just how widowed is your sister, Balfour? She’s a toothsome wench, if a man isn’t put off by all that red hair. And widows tend to be grateful and enthusiastic, y’know what I mean?”
And by greatest bad luck, the baron had spoken in the overloud confidences of a drunk, his comment falling into one of those peculiar lulls in the other conversation that ensured even the footman at the library door had heard him.
Ian glanced over at his brothers, seeing Con’s lips thinning and Gil’s hand already on Con’s arm.
The insult to Mary Fran had been plain enough that Matthew Daniels’s expression had gone from almost genial to the blank, offended mask at which the English excelled, and everybody in the room was looking at Ian.
The baron wiggled his eyebrows and elbowed Ian in the ribs. “Well?”
· · ·
Morning came blessedly, beautifully early during a Scottish summer, just as sunset came only gradually and late.
This allowed a man playing host to a group of silly English to get in a few hours of meaningful work before appearing in his finery at breakfast. It also allowed him to stay up late tending to correspondence, and to grab what sleep he needed during the brief darkness.
And it permitted him a solitary ride just as the sun was cresting the horizon, a little time to enjoy the natural beauty of dawn in one of the prettiest places on earth, when he’d otherwise brood about the need to ignore slights to his sister from half-inebriated guests.
Ian had scrabbled for some patience and signaled Daniels to get his dear papa up to bed, though the thought of the Baron as a father-in-law was nauseating.
Each year it felt a little more like this was what Ian’s life would be: scrabbling for patience, scrabbling to keep up appearances, scrabbling to make ends meet, scrabbling to keep what was left of his branch of the clan together, scrabbling to come up with yet another scheme to wrest coin from some new source for the upkeep of the hall and its inhabitants, scrabbling to hold onto hope that Asher would come home.
He should be introduced as the Earl of Scrabbling.
Soon, in support of these burdens, he’d acquire a countess.
Even as the Balfour spare, Ian had accepted he’d eventually marry, and marriage to a practical Scotswoman willing to shoulder some of Ian’s burden would have been lovely.
Women like Mary Fran understood hard work, sacrifice, and by God, they understood loyalty.
Even that comfort was to be denied him. Eugenia Daniels was pretty enough, but only in a pale, blond, English way. A night in Ian’s bed would likely break her in two and leave her crying for her mother—assuming he could muster any enthusiasm for her intimate company.
Ian’s morose thoughts were interrupted by a lone figure emerging from the shadows at the back of the house. A woman…
He watched the figure striding confidently along the path into the gardens. She was tall, with a long, glossy black braid hanging down the middle of her back. The end of the plait danced in counterpoint to her walk, swinging up rhythmically with each footfall.
Bloody damn. He recognized the beige shawl with the black fringe and nudged Hannibal into a trot.
“Good morning, Miss Merrick.”
She stopped abruptly, her back to him, while Ian dismounted and stuffed his riding gloves into his pockets. He tied up his reins and gave Hannibal a gentle slap on the quarters.
“He won’t wander off?” She’d turned, the shawl clutched around her shoulders.
“He’s Scottish bred. He’ll wander directly to the nearest ration of oats.” Ian offered a smile because the lady looked flustered. “Come, Miss Merrick, and we’ll walk. The gardens show to advantage in morning light.”
Her eyes flicked to the back of the house, and Ian felt a sinking sensation in his chest, which by now he should be adept at ignoring. It was one thing to stumble across him in a back corridor, but she didn’t want to be seen walking with him so early in the day, perhaps not at any point in the day.
He took pity on her—she was a lady and not responsible for the prejudices of her sheltered upbringing. “If we take this path to the left, we will not be seen.”