Kathryn Caskie - [Royle Sisters 02] (9 page)

“Yes, she is the woman who left me standing at the altar, alone.” Laird closed the space between them and grasped Anne’s shoulders gently, unintentionally sending the cool blue silk sleeves of her gown sliding down her arms, ever so slightly. He heard her gasp. “I-I didn’t mean to…”

Or did he? He’d done just the same thing to so many women, he honestly did not know just then if it really was an accident, or if the rake inside him wanted it.

Anne reached up with both her hands, removed his palms from her shoulders, and tugged the sleeves back atop them as best she could. “Think nothing of it. The dress has been slipping all eve.” Then, as if to reestablish the distance between them, she turned and started for the door.

“Wait!” He reached a hand out to her, but his fingers closed only on air. “I haven’t told you what I require.”

Anne halted and looked back at him over her pale shoulder. “Yes, you did.” Her body turned until it aligned with the angle of her head. “You
want me to redeem you—to restore your respectability.”

Nerves fired, shaking Laird’s body. “Not quite the words I was expecting to hear.”

“But I speak the truth, do I not?” Anne lifted her golden eyebrows and waited for his response.

Laird sighed. “Yes.”

“And once society deems you are respectable, a man of honor, then I am free to cry off. Do I have the right of it?”

“Society must be convinced that I am a changed gentleman, one worthy of taking my father’s seat in the House of Lords, certainly. But I do not do this to prove worthiness to the
ton
.”

“Then for whom do you wish this? Your mother? I know wiping away the tarnish from your reputation is important to her.” Anne lifted her eyebrows and waited expectantly for his reply.

“I do it for Lady Henceforth, and once she believes I am honorable and good, I will be in need of that ring on your finger.”

“So all I have to do is help you prove to the world that you have changed—that you have become a bona fide gentleman. Then I can claim
that, though you are a good man, a worthy man, I cannot marry you because I do not love you.”

“Or some other way of crying off that does not attribute blame to either one of us, yes.” Laird’s gaze was unyielding as he awaited her agreement with his plan.

Anne folded her arms at her chest and sighed heavily. “You wish me to do this so that Lady Henceforth will see you in a more flattering light and will accept your betrothal ring?”

“Yes.” Laird dropped his gaze momentarily to the floor while he anxiously awaited her reply.

“Well, if that it all there is to it, I’ll ready the boning knife.” Anne smiled mischievously at him, then turned and walked into the passageway.

Cockspur Street

L
aird had inherited a number of valuables from his late father. Among them, his elegant town house on Cockspur Street; two fine portraits by George Romney, both of exceedingly beautiful women (who, not surprisingly, had at one time been mistresses of the Prince of Wales); a clan property in the Highlands of Scotland; a crumbling country estate in St. Albans, and a collection of ancient maps from the Crusades.

But Laird treasured none of these things more than he valued Rupert Festidious, the butler, who, oddly enough, seemed to convey with the town house on Cockspur after the Earl of MacLaren, the elder, passed away.

The residence on Cockspur was ideally suited to a bachelor. It was conveniently located at the end of Pall Mall, only one minute’s walk from the lovely dancers at the Opera House, or four minutes from drink and gaming at White’s.

Given what he had learned the night before, Laird supposed that his father likely appreciated the fact that Prinny’s residence, Carlton House, was located but a breath away as well. At least he might have, before the prince became regent. Sometime after that momentous day, Laird was sure his father rued the now-uncomfortable proximity.

The butler, Festidious, was likely unaware of the benefits of the house’s prime location. He rarely left the premises, due, Laird surmised, to worry that the house staff might run amok and embarrass him by failing to polish the silver properly or leaving wrinkles in the bed linens. But Laird rather liked this about the butler.

In Laird’s opinion, Festidious’s lofty standards of service were unsurpassed, and the smooth running of the Cockspur household seemed a great point of pride for the elderly butler.

The house was always stocked with good brandy, wine, and tea. The meals he planned
with Cook were delicious and unique, without being excessively dear to the pocket. The staff admired the butler and seemed to work hard to earn his nod.

Laird could not surmise how his late father, being such a cold and selfish man, could have earned the butler’s loyalty. It was evident, however, that he had. Laird planned to do the same and to do whatever was required of him to ensure that Festidious remained in his employ.

So, when Festidious informed the new earl that the staff had spent the entire day conducting a thorough search of the house and no letters of any sort were found, hidden or otherwise, Laird believed him implicitly.

However, he also believed Lotharian.

He did not doubt for one instant that his father had, at least at one time, possessed the letters the Old Rakes had described last night. Or that the old earl had possibly tried to leverage whatever information was contained within their text to garner some sort of political gain from the prince.

It would have been a daring game that his father played, to be sure. One that, given the evidence of his reduction in influence in the House
of Lords over his lifetime, had somehow gone awry.

His father’s ill-conceived scheme mattered not a bit to Laird, however. The fact that the letters were no longer in the house, however,
did
matter.

This fact propelled Laird into his study.

He would send a message to Anne at once to let her know. Maybe a missive to the Old Rakes might be in order as well to put an end to any more nocturnal invasions by elderly men garbed in black.

Sliding open the desk drawer, Laird withdrew a sheet of foolscap, a quill pen, and a pot of ink, and sat down to write.

Anne wouldn’t be pleased with the news. She truly wished to find evidence to support or disprove the claim that she and her sisters were born blue-blooded. But at the moment, Laird was just feeling incredibly fortunate that the letters containing proof were not to be found at Cockspur. Oh, he was not so cocksure to presume that this small blessing vindicated his father from the crime of which the Old Rakes had accused him. It only meant that there was no evidence at Cockspur to directly prove his complicity.

Laird closed his fingertips tightly around the nib end of the quill pen, unconsciously staining them with ink, as he pondered the wording of his note.

Anne was a shrewd woman, and she would immediately detect any hint of subterfuge in his inked words.

He had to be careful. Very careful.

She needed to believe that he had ordered the town house searched from kitchen to attic, and that every crack and nook, every mouse hole and chimney flue, had been thoroughly probed—
for her
.

Not to conceal evidence of his father’s possible act of treason. Not to protect his mother or the family name from scandal.

For her.

Laird glanced through the study window at the fading evening light. It was not so late. And the more he considered the importance of his phrasing, the more convinced he became that putting the outcome of the search in writing was not a wise idea.

He could wheel over to Berkeley Square and tell Anne himself. As the idea swelled, he absently nodded his head. Yes, telling her in per
son was the more gentlemanly route anyway.

He strode across the drawing room and was just leaning his head into the passage to call for his carriage when Festidious appeared as if from nowhere.

“Damn me, man. You startled at least a year off my life!”

“I beg your pardon, my lord.” The balding butler did not meet Laird’s startled gaze, but stared straight ahead.

“Will you call for my carriage, please? I should like to go to Berkeley Square.”

“I do apologize, my lord, but your mother has taken the carriage. I shall send a footman to hail a hackney for you at once.”

Laird peered down at the rigid butler. Gorblimey, did the man ever blink? “Lady MacLaren has taken the carriage without a word to me? Where has she gone?”

“Begging your forgiveness, my lord, I had no knowledge that you would wish to go to Berkeley Square as well. I should have confirmed your schedule with you. Again, I do apologize.”

Laird squinted down at the butler. “Are you telling me my mother is in Berkeley Square?”

“Yes, my lord. She left shortly after Sir Lumley Lilywhite visited earlier today.”

“Lilywhite?”
Anne’s guardian?
This did not bode well.

“Yes, my lord. Berkeley Square was Lady MacLaren’s destination. That is what…what she
said
.”

“What do you mean by that, Festidious? Is there any reason you would doubt her?”

“No, my lord, certainly not. ’Tis just I found it rather curious that she had a portmanteau packed atop the cab, and that she brought her lady’s maid with her…to Berkeley Square.”

Damn it all
. Laird had no idea what to make of this. It was odd enough by half, even for his mother. “B-by any chance, Festidious, do you know if it was her intention to call on Miss Anne Royle?”

“I believe she mentioned Miss Royle, yes, my lord.” The butler stared blankly past Laird’s head as though he were a blind man or addressing the regent himself. “Shall I call for a hackney then, my lord?”

“Devil’s balls!” Laird shoved his hands through his hair. “No time. Have my horse brought ’round. Hurry now!”

There was no way he could allow his mother to be alone with Anne.

Too many damning secrets could slip. Secrets he had not even had just one day before.

Berkeley Square

When the butler MacTavish announced Laird and led him into the parlor, it was as he feared; neither Anne nor his mother was present.

Miss Elizabeth and Mrs. Winks, the Royle sisters’ ever-sleeping aunt, were surrounded by Lady Upperton and the three Old Rakes.

“They’ve already gone, dear boy,” Lotharian droned, though a slight hint of a smile was tugging at his mouth. “Left an hour ago. The weather is fair; the roads dry. Surely they are halfway to St. Albans. You won’t catch them up now.”

“I don’t understand.” Laird turned the rim of his glossy beaver hat around in his hands. “You know our betrothal is naught but a sham. If she spends any time alone with my prying mother, Anne’s true reason for slipping into my bedchamber will eventually be revealed—to the detriment of us all. It might already be too late.”
Laird began to pace before the parlor door. “Why was Anne permitted to leave with her?”

“No one
permitted
her, my lord. She went because she knew she must—because the letters were not at Cockspur,” Lilywhite informed him. “The next logical location to search would be your family estate, MacLaren Hall. Surely you realize that, MacLaren.”

Laird stilled his step and whipped his head around to face Sir Lumley. “But I hadn’t yet mentioned—”

“The letters?” Elizabeth broke in. “Yes, we already know about the unsuccessful search. I suspect we did before you yourself were told.” Miss Elizabeth crossed the parlor and led Laird by his elbow to her own seat on the settee next to Lady Upperton.

“But how?” Laird asked the young woman.

Though he expected that Elizabeth would take her ease in another chair, she remained standing before him. “It was Mrs. Polkshank, our cook. At our urging, she forged…a new friendship at Cockspur.”

“Oh, go ahead and say it, Elizabeth,” Lotharian complained. “I paid Mrs. Polkshank to ensure that word would be sent to the Old Rakes
of Marylebone if a search for the letters was conducted, or if they were found by you or a member of your staff.”

“But the letters were not found.”

“No, the search you organized was fruitless. But very helpful to us indeed.” Lotharian tipped his head at Laird. “And for that, we thank you, my lord.”

Lady Upperton patted Laird’s forearm in that placating manner older women have. “Since the letters were not at your residence in Cockspur, we concluded that your father likely would have hidden them somewhere at MacLaren Hall.”

Lilywhite tugged at his lapel, and his mouth angled proudly. “I vow, I must be more charming than I know. It took nothing to convince your mother to take Anne to MacLaren Hall with her immediately.”

“So urging my mother to take Anne to St. Albans was your reason for calling at Cockspur?” Laird shook his head. He didn’t need to hear Lilywhite’s reply. Of course it was.

“Well, during our most delightful conversation about the upcoming nuptials, I might have let it slip that Anne is somewhat unschooled in the ways of polite society. And that I would be
eternally grateful for any guidance Lady MacLaren could lend our gel. In the end, I think she fancied it her own idea.”

“Sir Lumley, while I do not doubt your
charm
with the ladies, I am quite sure that my mother invited Anne to MacLaren Hall because it was her plan all along. She admitted she was horrified by the harum-scarum way our betrothal was announced. She will not abide another social embarrassment.” Laird sighed and closed his eyes. It was all too clear now. “What better way to ensure that than to whisk Anne to the country to instruct her in what will be expected from her as my intended.”

“It doesn’t really matter. Anne is a very clever woman. She will do whatever your mother wishes. But make no mistake, Lord MacLaren, she is there for one reason only—to search for the letters. And that, young man, is exactly what she will do.”

Laird shot to his feet. “I can’t believe Anne agreed to do this. She claimed posing as my betrothed was beyond her abilities.”

Elizabeth was shaking her head. “My lord, until a year ago, my sisters and I believed we were left on a country doctor’s doorstep by some poor
unfortunate soul. Anne has never known her family, her history,” Elizabeth said.

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“As a child, being so shy and awkward, she was teased and ridiculed by the other children from the village. To avoid this, she learned to remain on the fringes and to avoid doing anything that would bring her notice.”

“And yet she left with my mother.”

“Only because her desire to know, at last, who she is exceeds her fear of attention.” Elizabeth reached out and squeezed his hand in hers. “Unless you know what it is like to be raised without roots, without respectability, Lord MacLaren, please, do not judge her for what you can never understand.”

Laird stood there silently for several moments before quitting the room to make his way to St. Albans.

Elizabeth had been right on one point—Laird had never known what it was to live without roots. He had only to look up at the gallery walls at MacLaren Hall to see the Allan bloodline.

But if there was one thing he did know something about, it was living without respectability.
And, sadly, he knew the aching desperation of it as well.

Laird mounted his horse and set his heels to its haunches. He had to reach Anne before she did something she’d later come to regret.

Cavendish Square
Later that night

“I tell you both, the letters we seek
were
in the house, probably still are.” Lotharian paced the library, pausing before a shelf of books. Absently he ran his fingers across the polished leather spines, as if browsing, with no particular title in mind.

“What makes you so sure, my lord?” Elizabeth toyed with the workings of Lady Upperton’s mechanical tea server, while the older woman positioned the cups to receive the steaming brew.

Before Lotharian could answer, the cool air in the room rushed across the library, as the seal of the secret door in the bookcases was broken and the door pivoted open.

Lotharian withdrew a handkerchief from his coat and wiped the thin coating of oil from his fingertip. He turned, and along with Lady Up
perton and Elizabeth, waited as Lilywhite and Gallantine shuffled across the library and took their chairs. “I was just telling Elizabeth that the letters were in MacLaren’s Cockspur Street town house, and recently, too. The search of the house had to have produced something.”

“How are you so sure, Lotharian?” Lady Upperton flipped the lever, and the tea server began to click and roll toward the cups.

Elizabeth’s eyes widened, and she bent until her nose was even with the edge of the tea table to watch as the server tilted and began to pour the first dish of tea. “MacLaren had the house searched, and rake or not, he does not seem to be the sort who would lie about such a thing.”