Chapter 13 #2
“Stubborn, MacGregor, but what about Genie? Doesn’t she deserve some chance at happiness? She’ll be miserable married to you.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face, looking haunted in the bedroom’s shadows. “I know this. I’ve tried to reason with her, but I get the sense she wants to marry me to protect me from Altsax’s vituperation, and I’m to marry her to protect her from his violence.”
“Matthew can take measures to protect his sister.”
“You’re the second person to make this pronouncement, but I’ve yet to hear it from Daniels himself. Daniels, who had damned well better get back from his infernal business before Mary Fran’s heart breaks, or I’ll hunt the man down myself.”
“He’ll come back.” Augusta stroked her hand over Ian’s disheveled hair. “He promised Fee he’d be back.”
“That’s something. We none of us would disappoint Fee apurpose, but about this other, Augusta, you must desist. The baron is not to be trusted. Genie says he’ll announce a betrothal at the ball just to force my hand, and I have to agree with her.”
“Announcements do not vows make. If I have this week, then give me this week to see what might be done.”
He peered at her for a long moment, looking as if some further admonishment hovered on the tip of his tongue, and then his lips quirked up. “I can’t stop you, can I?”
She smiled at him, a radiant, joyous benediction because he understood he could not stop her, and because he would not try. “Of course, you can’t stop me.”
“Then promise me you’ll be careful, my heart. I do not trust Altsax one bit. Do not trust that even the most clever scheme will be enough to see that man put in his place. Promise me you’ll take no risks while you’re seeing what might be done, and be damned careful.”
· · ·
The Scottish peerage could put on all the airs and graces it pleased, but from what Altsax had seen in the Balfour household, there was little of true aristocracy about it. The servants, for example, were friendly and eager to please.
In the Altsax household, they knew better than to be eager, for God’s sake.
The child—Fiona, little more than a bastard—was indulged by the household at large, supervised by the household at large, and had the run of the household at large.
Altsax almost pitied Balfour, having to find a spouse for such a hoyden.
She already had her mother’s wicked red hair, as if that weren’t burden enough.
And the younger sons… They trailed after the earl like loyal hounds, guarding his flank, taking his orders.
In a proper household, one would be consigned to the church and the other would be off in the hinterlands serving Queen and Country.
They’d each make an effort to produce a few sons as duty required, but here among the Scots? Not a legitimate male child among them.
They simply had no idea how to go on.
Which was part of their backward, titled charm.
A footman knocked on the library door, paused inside the room to bow to the baron, then deposited a salver of mail on the estate desk dominating one end of the room. The baron kept his eyes trained on the book in his lap until the man took a silent leave.
The amount of mail Balfour had to read each day was appalling, and most of it appeared to be personal correspondence. Smudged, faded, and travel worn, a prodigious number of missives bore the simple return address: MacGregor, Boston. Or more common yet, MacGregor, N.S. Canada.
They apparently propagated like fleas when there wasn’t a title involved. Altsax shuffled through the stack of letters, seeing two from his own solicitors, which was all well and good.
They would pass along to Balfour exactly what Altsax wanted them to and nothing more. He sorted through more mail until he came to a cream envelope bearing…
The Seal of the House of Gotha and Saxe-Coburg?
From His Highness, Albert…
Altsax had to sit, never before having had the privilege of seeing, much less holding, a piece of truly royal correspondence. Royal mail to a bumpkin of an earl. It symbolized every injustice ever done a lowly baron.
He set the missive down. It was likely a regret for the weekend’s ball. Royalty could hardly be bothered to watch the locals every time one of them took a notion to sport about in his plaid—though it would be the occasion of Genie’s engagement.
Altsax picked up the envelope then set it down again.
This ball would see all his plans and hard work brought to fruition, while Balfour stood helpless to do anything but smile and accept congratulations.
Altsax stole a glance at the door then rummaged in the desk for a penknife. Sealing wax was sealing wax, and Altsax had been slitting seals and reclosing them since he’d been a boy. How else would he have learned the terms of Merrick’s will and where it had been stored for safekeeping?
He scanned the contents of the Prince Consort’s epistle, then got up to pace.
It wasn’t simply a rejection of the weekend’s invitation.
It was a regret for the ball but an acceptance for the next day’s hunt—along with a tidily noted addendum to the body of the letter.
Those few words contained information that could bring everything the baron held dear—his wealth, his rank, his influence, his title—crashing down around him in disgrace if he were not exceedingly careful.
He pocketed the letter and headed for his room.
· · ·
Mary Fran’s full lips were compressed, and her expression suggested to Augusta that she hated the summer ball. Not the planning and organizing of it, not seeing her brothers in all their Highland finery, not seeing how excited Fee got as the day drew closer.
She hated the ball itself.
“You are glowering, my lady. Have I done something to offend?” Augusta posed the question gently, lest Mary Fran direct that glower at her.
“All this nonsense offends,” Mary Fran said, glancing around the ballroom. “There won’t be a flower left in the garden, and the ice alone will beggar us.”
“He’ll come back, Mary Fran.” Augusta couldn’t keep the words behind her teeth, given the memories Mary Fran had of balls and swains and the consequences those associations had to bear for her. “Matthew is honorable. If he told you and Fee he’d be back, he will be.”
“I’m that obvious?”
“You’re that in love.”
Rather than meet Mary Fran’s gaze, Augusta busied herself arranging flowers for a small centerpiece.
To her pleasure and surprise, Mary Fran had been willing to follow Augusta’s suggestion to keep the centerpieces low and therefore simple, and to use mostly heather to keep the air fresh and the tenor of the gathering Scottish.
“You wouldn’t begrudge me your cousin’s affections?” Mary Fran put her question quite casually and nudged at the flowers on the next table over.
“Let’s take a break,” Augusta said. “And no, we will not ring for tea.”
She linked her arm through Mary Fran’s and led the way out to the terraces, where footmen were setting up torches and tables, and maids scurried in all directions. Mary Fran drew out her pocket flask when she and Augusta got to the first bench behind the privet hedge.
“A medicinal nip is in order.” Mary Fran passed over the little leather-covered flask, and Augusta opened the thing without even glancing around to see which of the maids and footmen were remarking this departure from strict decorum.
“Powerful medicine.” And there was a kind of nourishment in its heat that had nothing to do with keeping the belly quiet.
“Each time we put on one of these fancy-dress affairs, I hate it a little more.” Mary Fran had never sounded so weary of spirit, so disenchanted.
After a few more desultory exchanges, Mary Fran closed her eyes and tipped her head back to rest it against the sturdy gray stones of Balfour House.
“Matthew will lead you out, and then you won’t hate it so much ever again,” Augusta said.
Mary Fran was quiet for a moment before replying. “What gave us away?”
The whisky was making them brave, or foolish. In either case, Augusta wasn’t going to dissemble. “You look at Matthew the way I look at Ian.”
· · ·
“You don’t wait up for me.” Ian’s first boot hit the floor with a thump. “Is that because you know I’ll spend every minute I can with you—despite all sense and intentions to the contrary—or because you believe each visit is the last?”
His second boot came off, and then he was removing his clothing in an order Augusta had come to know as his routine: waistcoat, shirt, stockings, breeches. He was completely at home in his skin, which only made what she had to tell him all the more difficult.
“You might have reason not to stay with me tonight.”
He looked up from where he was using the wash water across the room, his expression wary. “And why is that?”
She searched for words while he frowned at her. “I am indisposed.”
“Indis—oh.” His expression shifted from guarded to sympathetic in a blink. “I can fetch you a wee dram. Mary Fran swears by it when she’s crampy.”
“No, thank you. I’m not uncomfortable, just untidy.”
“Augusta Merrick, if you think I’m going to let that stop me from joining you in that bed… The ball is in a few days, the shoot the following morning. Our time is running out.”
“I read over the contracts again today.” Twice, and she couldn’t escape the nagging feeling there were loopholes in them somewhere. Loopholes large enough that she could sight some happiness through them—for Ian, for Genie, and maybe even a little bit for herself.
“You should have the documents damned well memorized by now. Scoot over.” He took over the bed like an incoming tide.
She could scoot or not; it made no difference, because he’d put her exactly where he wanted her.
With equal parts strength and care, he’d shift her around on the bed, move pillows, and rearrange covers until things were to his liking.
“What do you know of the Gribbony barony, my heart?” He enveloped her from behind, his arm coming around her waist.