When a Scot Loves a Lady (24 page)

“He looks like a fish. And his voice is horrid, squeaky and far too certain of his welcome here.” Emily plopped onto her stomach on Kitty's bed, a high four-poster in the style of feminine froth Lady Vale seemed to favor in clothing and everything else. “I cannot understand what my father likes about him. His conversation at dinner proves he is not a clever man. Papa usually likes clever men, as long as they are rich.”

Her fingers moved deftly about a tangled mass of ribbons, picking here and unthreading there. It was the most domestic activity Kitty had ever seen her young friend perform, and yet seemed so natural. Beneath the veneer of studious plain speaker, Emily Vale was just a girl. As Kitty had once been. As she had felt for a few precious moments in a Shropshire inn, until the man she was infatuated with told her he would marry her if it became necessary.

In fact she was no longer a girl. Far from it, indeed.

“I was not speaking of Mr. Worthmore. I meant your other suitor's face.”

Emily's emerald eyes rolled. “He was odious.”

“He was charming. And very kind to do what he did.”

“He made a cake of himself, and of me.” She sat up, dropping the ribbons into her lap. “I have no doubt, Kitty, that he wishes me to squirm with discomfort through it all.”

“It is possible. But he didn't look very happy about any of it either.”

“Hm.” Emily seemed to seriously consider. “At least Lord Blackwood has more sense than to be that silly.”

Kitty could not respond. At the inn, he had not assented to or declined his part in Madame Roche's plan. But Kitty assumed he would agree. Yet tonight he had shown no indication of intending to play along.

A golden-red head peeked through the door. “Lady Katherine, may I enter?”

“Of course.”

“Amarantha, you should be in bed by now. Is Nurse not looking for you?”

“I am no longer under Nurse's governance.” She jumped up on the bed and curled an arm about her sister's waist. “Mama says I am old enough to have my own room. Yours!”

Emily petted her sister's shining hair. “I rather like town, with all its museums and such, and hope to remain there. You are welcome to my bedchamber here.”

“Only to share with you, Emmie.” Amarantha popped up on her elbows. “You simply mustn't like Mr. Worthmore. He is nasty.” A shy smile crept across her lips. “And Mr. Yale is so agreeable.”

Kitty watched a war of thoughts pass behind her friend's spectacles.

“I am glad you admire him,” Emily finally said.

“He is very handsome.”

“One might think so.”

“How old is he?”

“It has not occurred to me to ask.”

“Emmie! A lady must always discover her suitor's age and birth date.”

Emily's eyes widened. “Whatever for?”

“So that she may send him a note wishing him happy upon the day each year.”

“Who told you that?”

“Mama. She does so with Papa. Every year.”

Emily seemed to digest that information with some degree of discomfort. Kitty's chest felt warm. To see her friend lying to her family now did not sit well with her, and she knew perfectly well why.

She could not run away forever. That night after Lambert told her he would never marry her, her mother held her while she cried for hours. Kitty had not told her everything that happened, but from the dowager's comforting words it seemed she had understood. Why else would she have allowed her daughter to remain unwed, unless she knew she was in fact unweddable?

But now, for the first time in years, she could no longer bear the silent understanding her mother had given her for so long. She wished she had told her the truth immediately, before she had plunged into revenge and discovered her inability to conceive. Perhaps nothing could have been done then, anyway. Kitty was ruined. What man would have her? But at least she would not have been alone in her grief and anger. Perhaps her mother might have helped her free herself of it, and she would not have had to wait for the glance of a Scottish lord to do it herself.

“Mr. Yale might send you a posy, Emmie, so you must inform him of your birth date as well, but not your age,” Amarantha cautioned her sister. “You will not want him to think you are too old to marry.”

Too old and misguided and barren. But maudlin musings would not aid her now, and she had Emily's situation to see to.

“Your sister needn't have a care about that, Amarantha.” Kitty rose from the table and drew on her dressing gown over shift and stays, a sleeveless covering of sheerest silk. It was the greatest luxury to have all her clothing, save one gown she would never again wear. “Mr. Yale is quite as devoted to her as your parents are to one another.”

“And he is
so
handsome.”

“You said that already, Amy,” Emily muttered.

“And tall. Not as tall as Lord Blackwood, but the earl is an old man, nearly as old as Mama, I daresay! He cannot help that streak of white in his hair, although it is dashing for an elderly gentleman, and I suppose he
is
handsome nevertheless. But Mr. Yale's hair is entirely black, isn't it?”

“I haven't the foggiest.”

The fifteen-year-old peered queerly at her sister.

Emily blinked. “Yes. All black. Very nice hair.”

Kitty stifled a laugh. Emily slid off the bed and went to the door, casting her a narrow look.

“I am going to sleep. Amy, are you coming?”

Amarantha jumped to the floor. Emily opened the door. Gentlemen's voices sounded in the corridor and then the gentlemen themselves walked past. They paused. Mr. Yale seemed weary; nothing in his erect carriage gave a sign to it, but his silvery eyes looked somewhat sunken.

Lord Blackwood bowed. “Leddies.”

Amarantha giggled. Emily pursed her lips. Kitty pulled the wrapper over her breasts and endeavored not to notice his gaze dipping there.

“My lord, Mr. Yale,” she said as smoothly as her voice would allow, “thank you for your fine company tonight. Lady Marie Antoine and I are so grateful.”

Mr. Yale bowed rather stiffly, then continued along the corridor. The earl met Kitty's gaze and there was nothing of hooded indolence there, only pleasure. She stood in the middle of her bedchamber and wished Emily and her sister away and the earl on her side of the door, with it closed and bolted.

Misguided wishes. She did not need more deception in her life, from herself or anybody else.

“Good night, my lord.”

He nodded, gave Emily's sister a lovely smile, and went along. Kitty ushered the girls out, shut the door, and sank against it, praying that Emily and Mr. Yale's courtship would go very swiftly.

“H
as it only been one night?” The Welshman tilted his head onto the chair back and tossed down the remainder of his brandy. “Tell me it will end tomorrow.”

“You are doing this by choice.”

“Hardly.”

Leam withheld his thoughts. The Welshman's insouciant manner with females masked a chivalrous nature even stronger than his love of the bottle. Why the mask, Leam had never inquired.

“I believe this is the first time in our acquaintance that I have heard you complain.”

“I am not complaining.” The lad straightened in his chair. “Merely lamenting lost time.” He held out his glass.

Leam tipped the brandy decanter against it and poured, topping off his own as well. After glimpsing Kitty in her gossamer night rail, her rich hair lying in a plait against her perfect breast, he needed the extra dram or two.

“When shall we head off for Liverpool?”

“Presumably when you have convinced our hosts that you cannot live without their daughter.”

Yale set down his glass, stood, and strode toward the door.

“Turning in so early?” Leam murmured.

“Merely leaving you to the company of one much prettier than I. You'd better hurry. She might not wait up for you.” He departed.

Leam went to the fire, lit a taper, and moved around the parlor setting candles to blaze. He disliked darkly lit chambers in winter. They reminded him too much of that autumn five years earlier, Alvamoor sunk in darkness and cold, his heart turning to stone within the frozen stone of his house. Before he'd gone down to London again and met up accidentally with Colin Gray.

He could not sleep yet, in any case. He was here for one reason only: to make certain Kitty and Lady Emily were no longer in danger, and that Cox was not hiding somewhere with a pistol waiting for them to emerge. Once all were abed tonight, he would do some prowling about, studying and surveying. His Falcon Club experience would again come in handy.

He settled into a chair, glancing at the journal on the table beside him without interest. He didn't care about the news from London. Or Paris, or Edinburgh, or Calcutta. It was almost a relief to harbor that feeling again—the cool, hard relief of not having a care for anything at all.

Almost
.

“Monseigneur, how glad I am to find you!” Madame Roche entered in a swirl of skirts and veils, like a nun crossed with an opera singer.

He stood.

“Oh,
non, non
, sir. You must not! You must treat me as the servant, for that I am in this house.”

“Whin a leddy enters a room, ma'am, a gentleman that no stands shoud be nag-whipped.”

“And you are the fine gentleman,
n'est-ce pas
, Lord Blackwood?” She tapped him upon the shoulder with her fan and sat in the chair across, fabric flowing over armrests and floor.

He allowed himself a smile. “Woud ye be caring for a bit o spirits, ma'am?” He gestured with his glass.

“No, no. Sit! We must talk.”

He obliged. She leaned forward, pursing lips defined by ample rouge.

“You do not still mourn the death of the young wife,
non
?” She peered at him with dark eyes enhanced with kohl. Well accustomed to such prying, Leam did not reply.

“
Bon
.” She patted her palms together. “I thought this. But why will you not play the courtship game?”

He studied her for a moment. Her intent seemed direct, and she clearly doted upon her charge. But women were complicated creatures.

“The lad's taking guid care o it, ma'am.”

“
Oui, oui
. Monsieur Yale, he is
extraordinaire
. But I think that is not your reason. Emilie, she is a good girl. And the Lady Katrine, she does not allow
ma petite
to be harmed,
non
? She is like—how do you say?—bloodhound.”

He lifted a brow.

“
Non!
” The feathers in her hair jiggled as she shook her head. “
Peut-etre
not the bloodhound. They hunt with the nose on the ground,
n'est-ce pas
?” She pressed a fingertip to her red lips. “The shepherd dog.
Oui
. Have you any?”

Collies and their flocks covered the slopes of Alvamoor.

“Aye.”

“Then she is
comme ça
!” She gestured with a nod.

“Ma'am, A wadna be making a leddy evin wi' a wirkin dug.”

“Ah,
non
!
Bien sur
. But she is very loyal. She does not wish to see
ma petite
unhappy.” Her voice dipped. “For she has suffered so much unhappiness herself,
non
?”

He had no reply. In truth, he knew nothing of the heart of any woman. Nothing he could trust.

“Begging yer pardon, ma'am, but A'm nae a man for blethering.” Lies and more lies. He would never be free of them. For over five years he'd made it his particular business to do nothing
but
encourage gossip from women such as this. Now he would be free of it. But the desire to hear about Kitty Savege was too strong, and he remained seated.

Madame Roche leaned in and spoke confidentially as though she had not heard him or understood.

“I do not think she cared for that man.” She shook her head. “I do not believe she did. The gossips—the silly friends of my mistress—who tell the Lady Vale that my Emilie must not be in
la belle
Katrine's company, that she is the poor example for a young girl.” She waved her hand broadly. “But I say these biddies, they are wrong.
C'est la jalousie!
I tell my mistress. Wicked
jalousie
that drives the heart insane.” She peered sharply at him. “Do you know it, the jealousy?”

Leam's palms were cold. “Aye.”

“She is very beautiful, the Lady Katrine,
non
?”

More beautiful than he could bear.

“
Oui!
Any gentleman would admire such beauty, as did that
canard
Poole.” She made a spitting noise. “Phtt! He is better far and away from
la belle
Katrine, so she must no longer always be running away from him at
les
parties and balls.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “So sad always,
la belle
, so beautiful dancing with all the handsome gentlemen. But,
hélas
, they cannot stir her wounded heart.” She sighed, her eyelids drifting shut and fingertips moving from side to side.