Trouble with a Highland Bride (8 page)

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London, England, June 1810

“So we have a deal?” Duncan Maclachlan, Earl of Thornton, handed a quill pen to Lord Langley, trying not to let his enthusiasm show. Being a generally reserved man, it was not a difficult task to accomplish.

“Yes, we do.” Lord Langley dipped his pen in the ink and signed his name to the contract. “I look forward to working with you in the future.”

“As do I.” Thornton breathed deep. This transaction was definitely going to help his situation. The financial crisis was becoming dire. “Have ye plans to leave London for yer country house?”

“Yes, yes, I suppose I should.” The elderly Lord Langley leaned back in his chair, his bulk making the chair squeak in protest. “I do not wish to travel, but staying in London for the summer, that would be even worse. And yourself? Do you have plans for the summer?”

“House party.”

Lord Langley grimaced. “Not for me. Too much bother. All those children running about.”

“Children?”

“Such as yourself. Those young bucks can be irritating beyond words, and the young ladies are far worse.”

Thornton smiled. “Then I fear ye would despise my summer plans. The Duke of Marchford asked me to host a house party at Thornton Hall in Scotland.”

“All the way to Scotland? No, too far, odd notion.”

“He is my friend and I am always pleased to be in his service.”

“Had to, eh? Him being a duke and all. But who will travel all that way?”

“He is a duke…”

“Ah yes, and in want of a wife.” Langley shook his head. “The hills will be crawling with young ladies come to take their shot at the biggest prize in all of Britton. Oh, I don’t envy the young, no I surely do not.”

“Youth is a crime age will correct in time.”

“And what of yourself? You also are of unmarried status and in possession of a title. You best take care of your own neck, lest you find it in the matrimonial noose as well.”

Thornton only smiled. He could not even begin to think of matrimony until he had resolved his financial difficulties.

“You best be double cautious if Marchford’s grandmother will be attending.” Langley got a wistful look in his blue eyes. “The Dowager Duchess of Marchford is a woman you would do best not to cross. I’ve heard she has contacts with a matchmaker.”

“I’ve heard the same.”

“I fear you may be in someone’s sights.”

Thornton merely shook his head. As an impoverished Scottish earl, he was not at liberty to take a wife. Ironic in a way, since he was not opposed to the institution of marriage as his friends proclaimed to be. Yet unlike them, he found conversing with the female of the species challenging, which was just as well, since his restricted pocketbook forbade ladies of any variety.

A banging on the front door could be heard all the way in the library and interrupted the conversation. The butler arrived shortly after to inform his lordship that a Captain Beake and a young lady had arrived to beg an audience with him. No card was presented.

“What? Never heard of him. Send him on his way,” demanded the earl.

“Very good, sir. I only bring it to your attention because the lady claims to be a relation of yours.”

“Got all the relations I need. Don’t need any more poor relations crawling out of the woodwork, trying to get their fingers on my money.”

The butler paused and cleared his throat. “The young lady claims to be the daughter of Lady Beatrice.”

Silence fell heavy on the room. Lady Beatrice was Lord Langley’s only child. At the age of seventeen, in a scandal still discussed with malicious enjoyment, Lady Beatrice had run away with a sea captain—an
American
sea captain—never to be seen again.

Naturally, everyone assumed Lady Beatrice was mad, for what young woman of sane mind would elope with an American sea captain? Poor Lord Langley tried to hush up the scandal by saying he had her confined to an asylum, but everyone knew the truth.

“These imposters.” Lord Langley sat down hard on his chair. “Every once in a while I have someone pretending to be Beatrice come ’round the house trying to steal money from me. Someday they will murder me in my bed.”

“I will send them away, my lord,” said the butler.

“No,” Langley sighed. “Curiosity and hope are the bane of men. Send them in.”

“Shall I stay to ensure yer safety?” asked Thornton, a trifle curious himself.

“Yes, that would be appreciated. Thieves, naught but thieves. Stay and be a witness to my demise.”

“Try to keep yerself from murderers, at least until our transactions are completed,” commented Thornton with a touch of humor to lighten the moment.

“All heart you are,” muttered the old man, but the edges of his mouth turned up.

The butler escorted in two persons of dubious quality. The first was a man whose life was etched in the lines on his face. His tanned features revealed him to be a man of action; his eyes squinted, as if still staring into the sun. His blue coat marked him as a sea captain, and he looked every bit of his occupation.

The second person was a lady in a simple muslin dress, wool coat, and pelisse that had seen better days. Under a ragged bonnet, her auburn hair was pulled back in an efficient manner and her most striking feature was her height, about the same as her male companion.

“Captain Beake and Miss Harriet Redgrave,” intoned the butler, as if apologizing for their presence in the room.

“What do you want?” snapped the Lord Langley. “You’ll get no money from me.”

The sea captain appeared slightly taken aback by this pronouncement. “This lady, Miss Redgrave, presented herself to me as your granddaughter, the daughter of Lady Beatrice.”

“I told you, Captain Beake, that I have never met my grandfather. He would not know me,” said the lady with an unruffled calm that was intriguing, considering her situation.

“Ah, but what grandfather would not know his own flesh and blood? Why, you are the smitten image of him.” Captain Beake attempted to make his case.

“I do not believe the correct turn of phrase is ‘smitten’ image, Captain Beake.” Miss Redgrave glanced away with such disdain that Thornton immediately saw the likeness between her and Lord Langley. Could it be true?

Lord Langley’s eyes opened wider and he stared at Miss Redgrave for a long moment. “Where are you from, Miss Redgrave?”

“America. Boston. This gentleman, and I use the word loosely, attacked my ship, pressed innocent Americans into service to the British crown, and abducted me here. My only aim is to return to America on the next ship home. My parents will be frantic with worry.”

“Ah yes, what bonds there are between parent and child, and even greater bonds between a man and his only grandchild.” Captain Beake gave the room an oily smile. “So much so, I’m sure we can negotiate the price of reward for returning the little miss to you unhurt and unmolested.”

Lord Langley’s eyes narrowed. He stepped toward his desk and put his hand on the box of dueling pistols. “You can have no business with me, Captain. I will bid you a good day.”

“Ah, but perhaps I did not make myself clear.” Captain Beake tugged at his blue coat as if he was about to make a speech. “I protected this young maiden on the voyage. On this ship there are many men, no? I made sure to protect her innocence.”

The innocent Miss Redgrave snorted. “Protect me? You kidnapped me!”

“Good day, Captain,” growled Lord Langley, his eyes ablaze, his hand gripping the box. “A good day to both of you.”

“The least you can do is compensate me for the burned timber!” demanded Captain Beake. “This chit almost set the ship ablaze what with her mad experiments. Odd goings on, if you ask me. Had to lock her trunks in the hold to protect us all.”

“The voyage was very long,” defended Miss Redgrave. “You cannot expect me to abandon my experiments just because you got the notion to sink my ship. Besides, the fire was mostly contained by the time you found it.”

Thornton had no idea what to make of this interchange, and for a moment, it appeared neither did Lord Langley, who merely stared at the two persons before him.

Seizing the opportunity, Captain Beake once again pressed his case. “You see, she admits she started the fire. Some compensation must be in order—”

“Out!” thundered Langley. “If you kidnapped this young woman on the high seas, I most certainly hope she caused you as much trouble as possible. A good day to you, sir!”

“Do a good deed, see how you are rewarded,” grumbled Captain Beake as he shuffled out of the room.

His movements were followed by two sets of cold eyes so similar that Thornton glanced back and forth between Miss Redgrave and Lord Langley to confirm what he was witnessing. The appearance of a grandchild to the Earl of Langley.

“You can go too, you imposter.” Lord Langley leveled his disdain at Miss Redgrave. “How dare you play on the sympathies of an old man?”

“Sympathies?” Miss Redgrave countered. “I have not heard my mother ever mention you in the same breath as the word ‘sympathy.’”

“Do not talk about the Lady Beatrice as if you were worthy to lick her boots. You are naught but a scheming female, trying to weasel away my money. I have met some conniving females trying to walk away with a portion of my blunt, but you want to be recognized as my heir and steal it all!”

Miss Redgrave’s green eyes flashed. “I have no interest in your wealth. I have no need for your precious money. I know you have had no contact with our family for many years, but I thought you might at least have some consideration for your own flesh and blood.”

Langley stood with his hand still on the box of pistols, so Thornton did not quit the room, though now he was not sure whom he was there to protect.

“You’ll never get ahold of my money! You have no proof you are my granddaughter!” charged Langley.

Miss Redgrave’s mouth formed a thin line. “Could you ask the butler to bring in my trunks and ask my maid to step in?”

Thornton wondered what Langley would do, but the request was granted. “Curiosity,” muttered Langley under his breath.

Silence fell while they waited for whatever floorshow Miss Redgrave might be able to produce, giving Thornton an opportunity to study her. At first he assessed whether he thought her capable of posing any threat, but he rejected the notion. She stood with her back to the door, not in a defensible position, which would have been instinctive for a would-be marauder.

Miss Redgrave was certainly tall, and with her serviceable wool coat and tanned face, her appearance gave the impression she was more interested in practicality than beauty. Yet he had to admire her pluck. Despite her position, she stood up to both a captain in the Royal Navy and a peer of the realm without flinching, a feat most men could not boast. She radiated an outward calm, yet he could see her white knuckles where she clenched her hands, betraying her nerves.

Despite his role as protector to Lord Langley, Thornton felt a sudden urge to reassure her. If she had truly been abducted all the way from America, she must have had a most difficult voyage.

Two trunks were brought into the study, one so heavy it required two footmen to carry it. Lord Langley allowed this, most likely out of curiosity about what she could produce. Thornton also suspected the man feared he was in the presence of his errant daughter’s child.

“I do not know who you are, sir,” Miss Redgrave addressed Thornton in a brisk businesslike manner, “but I have something of a sensitive manner to show his lordship.”

“Of course,” said Thornton, as disappointed as the ejected staff to not see what she had in her trunks. “I shall bid ye farewell.”

“Stay,” commanded Lord Langley. “What if there is something in the trunk to hurt me?”

Thornton felt it time to introduce himself. “I am the Earl of Thornton, at yer service, Miss Redgrave.”

“A Scotsman, are you?” Her tone was approving, not like most who could barely hide their disappointment once they discovered Thornton’s earldom was located in Scotland.

“Aye.”

“You are a friend to my grandfather?” Her tone indicated a clear disapproval.

“Business partner,” he explained, surprising himself how quickly he abandoned Lord Langley to his fate in order to win her approval.

She smiled at him and her face came alive. Without warning, his solid, methodical heart skipped a beat.

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James Lockton, the Duke of Marchford, was a marked man. He heard voices coming and pressed himself against the wall, edging slowly away, careful not to make a sound. One wrong move would seal his fate.

He had tried to escape his doom, hiding at his country estate like a craven coward. It was only the pressing needs of king and country, and the early opening of Parliament to deal with a severe crisis of governance, that drew him back to London. He had hoped December would find Town desolate of company, but with the return of the members of Parliament came their families, and with their families came…

“The Duke of Marchford is sooooo handsome,” cooed one of the baroness’s daughters.

“Better yet, he’s dreadfully rich,” said the other daughter. “What I wouldn’t give to be duchess of this hall.”

“Do you think we should be wandering about, Mama?”

“No, of course not, but do you think we should come all this way without an introduction to the duke? Do you really think I care a whit about that spiteful old dowager? No!” exclaimed the baroness. They were growing nearer.

Marchford darted up a servants’ stairwell and into a long hallway of bedrooms. He walked quickly toward the main stairs but stopped short at the sound of their whining voices. The woman had the audacity to come up to the private rooms! If they cornered him in the hallway, there would be no way to politely avoid introductions, and then he would be forced to dance with one or both of the sour-faced girls. He could think of no worse fate.

“We’ll flush out the duke,” crooned the baroness, her voice growing louder, “say we got turned around in the house and secure an introduction. I swear I’ll not set foot from this place until you both have been asked to dance at tonight’s ball.”

Nothing to do but run.

He spun and dashed down the hall on light feet. Taking a risk, he opened one of the doors and slipped inside, closing the door carefully to avoid the conspicuous click of the latch. Now if only the bedroom were empty, he could possibly survive the night.

A small, feminine shriek behind him laid waste to that grand hope.

“Your Grace!” demanded Penelope Rose. “What on earth are you doing in my bedroom?”

“Shhhh, I beg you, Miss Rose,” whispered Marchford, relieved it was only his grandmother’s companion and not one of those marriage minded females. “I am glad it is only you. You gave me a fright.”

“I gave
you
a fright!” Penelope wrapped a serviceable robe around an already modest dressing gown.

Penelope Rose was the companion to his grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Marchford, and was the only one in a series of companions who had lasted more than a week. She stood with her hands on her slender hips, and her long brown hair, which was usually pulled back in something of a severe knot, tumbled down around her.

Marchford gave Penelope a cursory glance, then looked back once more. He had never seen her with her hair undone, and the transformation was remarkable. Her hair was a lovely shade of chestnut brown and fell in loose waves all the way to her waist. It was luscious and thick and he had the sudden impulse to touch it. She had worked as his grandmother’s companion for almost a year, but he doubted he had ever truly seen her before this moment.

“I am dressing for dinner. You must leave at once!” Penelope glared at him. He may have been experiencing an epiphany regarding her true form, but the only thing he saw in her large brown eyes was irritation.

“Forgive me, Miss Rose. I would not intrude on your privacy if it were not a matter of desperate urgency.”

“What is it?” Pen’s tone changed instantly. “Is it the spymaster?”

Penelope was one of the very few people he trusted to assist him with his work for the Foreign Office. He was slow to trust, but she had proved her worth, helping him flush out French spies who had infiltrated English society. It was one of the many things he valued about her. Yet in this case, his distress was of a more personal nature. “Worse. The baroness and her daughters.”

Pen raised an eyebrow. “You are intruding on my privacy to avoid forming a new acquaintance?” Ironically, her attempt to chastise only enhanced her growing appeal.

“Have you met her daughters?” he defended, all thoughts of any other lady, save the one before him, banished from his mind.

“I have.”

“Would you like to spend an hour dancing with either of them?”

Penelope’s lively face struggled to maintain her general reserve until she gave up and rolled her eyes at him. “I suppose I must concede the point.”

“Besides, should you not be with my grandmother during their visit?” He stepped toward her, sensing he was gaining the advantage.

“Sudden headache,” she said quickly, on the defense. She sat on the trunk by the foot of her bed.

“Couldn’t stand them either, eh? And now because you failed to keep them entertained they are running amok in my house.” Marchford claimed a chair by her dressing table and stretched out his long legs; he was sitting in her private boudoir and enjoying every minute of it.

“Do not make yourself comfortable. You cannot stay here. It is highly improper!” She put her hands on her hips.

She was right, of course, he had no business being in her room, but he was finally seeing Miss Penelope Rose in a more natural state, and he had no interest in making a hasty departure. “I certainly can’t leave, not with them about.”

“You best get accustomed to female attention. After all, you are unmarried, young, and a duke.” Penelope listed his attributes as though they were an indictment against him.

“If I cannot even be safe in my own home and must enter the London season a targeted bachelor…” He made a strangled sound. “Why, my life will not be worth living. I must find a wife. And soon,” he added gloomily.

“Ah, the horror of it all.” Pen clasped her hands to her breast in mock sympathy. She was teasing him, but he enjoyed it. How many others would dare to mock the Duke of Marchford? Only the adorably frumpy woman before him.

Marchford ignored her sarcasm. “I need at least a fiancée, someone who will not plague me. Someone who does not whine or cry or do other feminishy things.”

“Feminishy?” Penelope raised an eyebrow.

“Someone sensible. Someone who can stand up to my grandmother without causing a scene. Someone like…” Marchford met Pen’s eyes. Her ancient dressing gown looked every bit the wardrobe of an old maid, but her hair…that beautiful hair. Why did she tie it up in a lump on the back of her head? What other charms might her old clothes be hiding? Marchford guessed her ill-fitting clothes hid a shapely body and those expressive brown eyes revealed intelligence and humor.

“Someone like you,” said Marchford. It was meant only as a joke, and yet as the idea turned around in his mind, it became more desirable. Becoming engaged to Penelope would solve his problem of being hunted as a bachelor, and they could continue working together to catch spies, and…and he suddenly had a great desire to unwrap the rest of the questionable package before him to see what delights lay underneath the hideous dressing gown. “What do you think? It would get me out of a jam.”

Penelope’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. He had surprised her if nothing else. In a blink, her reserve had returned to her face. “I beg you would not speak such nonsense.”

“I am in earnest. You are a sensible girl. You get along with my grandmother. You can hold intelligent conversation. You are…sensible.” He leaned forward, toward her.

“You said sensible.”

“It is one of your better features.”

Penelope’s eyebrows lowered. “I thank you for that unmitigated praise.”

“Miss Rose, will you or will you not consent to be my wife?” Suddenly the question that had begun as an impulse became gravely serious. Penelope was the perfect wife for him.

Penelope flushed and sputtered, “The difference in our stations…”

“If it means nothing to me, it can be nothing to you.” He met her brown eyes, which widened, only enhancing her appearance.

“I—I beg you would not tease me! I know you are just funning with me. Besides, if I were ever to marry, it would be for love, not to save a man from the marriage mart.”

“That is grievously unkind of you,” said Marchford lightly, careful not to let her see any true disappointment. He leaned back in his chair. It was unfortunate about her attachment to love, for love was the one thing he could never offer.

Though he had spoken the words admittedly in jest, he was surprised how much her rejection stung. He had never proposed before and had always expected that when he did, even if it was admittedly backhanded, the girl—any girl—would fall over herself to say yes.

But Penelope was not just any girl. She was apparently the only girl in society who did not wish to marry him. And now, thanks to her dratted voluminous hair, she was the only girl he could imagine sharing his bed.

“Well, must dash,” said Marchford, leaping from the chair. The voices of the baroness and her daughters had long since died down. It was past time to make his exit. To let her see the sudden turn of his mind from playful banter into serious attraction would be fatal.

“I am sure you will find a suitable bride soon,” said Penelope with an apologetic tone. “You have much to offer.”

Was she trying to let him down softly? Did she feel sorry for him? His pride howled in pain. “Thank you,” he said stiffly, listening at the door to ensure the hallway was empty.

“Any girl would be pleased to accept your offer.”

“Not any girl apparently,” muttered the duke.

“I do apologize, but I refuse to marry any man just so he can avoid awkward conversation.”

Marchford turned on her with a desperate need to change the direction of the unfortunate conversation. “If you will not oblige me, then it is your responsibility to find me someone who will, someone who meets the criteria I outlined.”

Penelope flushed again and avoided his eye. “I can contact Madame X, the matchmaker, if you would like to engage her services to help find a bride.” She was a dreadful liar.

“Hang it, Miss Rose, I know Madame X is nothing more than a fictional character you and Grandmother created. Now I want you, not Grandmother, but you alone to find me a bride. What is your going rate?”

“Exorbitant!”

“A little vague, but I am certain my solicitor can draw up the papers to your liking. Good day,
Madame
X
!”

He stomped down the hall, taking a deep breath of cool air. She would get dressed, tie up her hair, and everything would go back to normal. Yes, normal was good. Miss Rose was his grandmother’s companion, nothing more.

But it was too late. He would never be able to see Penelope Rose the same way again.