Royal Flush (12 page)

“I’m just tired of never knowing where I stand with you,” I replied. “You disappear for weeks at a time. You flirt with other women. You probably do much more than flirt.”

I saw the smile twitch at his lips. “You have to take me the way I am.”

“I need someone I can rely on,” I said.

Lachan had poured himself a generous Scotch and turned back to me. “What can I get for you, Cousin Georgie?” he asked.

“That’s very kind of you, Lachan,” I said. “A sherry would be nice.”

“Sherry? That’s for old ladies. Come and let me pour you a dram of Binky’s single malt.” He put a big arm around my shoulder. I let myself be led away from Darcy. Luckily an interruption occurred at that moment with the announcement of the Prince of Wales. So that’s why Mrs. Simpson had been so jumpy earlier.

Now she’s in a pickle, I thought. Her husband is here. Fig was moving through the crowd like a sheepdog, trying to line us up to go in to dinner. “We won’t process in until the piper gets here,” she said, “but here’s how the order of procession should go. Since Binky can’t be part of it, His Royal Highness should escort me, Prince George should escort Lady Georgiana, Prince Siegfried with Countess Von Sauer, Herr Von Strohheim with—” She broke off as she looked at my mother, obviously trying to remember what her current name was. It was still Mrs. Clegg, as her Texan millionaire husband did not believe in divorce, but Fig wasn’t to know that. She moved on hastily down the rest of the line. Mrs. Simpson was paired with Darcy and did not look pleased.

“These customs are so quaintly old-fashioned, aren’t they?” she said to her lady friends, loud enough for those around her to hear. “So backward. No wonder Britain is being left behind in terms of world progress.”

“They do rule half the globe, Wallis honey,” Babe pointed out.

“One wonders how, with all these inbred families and their stupid customs. It really irks me to see that woman go ahead of me.” She leaned out of the line to glare at my mother. “I mean, she’s no longer a duchess, is she?”

She had meant my mother to hear. Mummy turned around to her and gave her a sweet smile. “Ah, but I usually try to discard mine before I move on to the next one. You are planning to discard this one, aren’t you? Or are you worried he’ll want too much alimony?”

There was the hint of a twitter from the other women but Mrs. S looked daggers at my mother as she turned back serenely to Max and slipped her dainty hand through his arm. Darcy caught my eye and gave me a wink. I had returned the smile before I remembered that I wasn’t speaking to him.

Chapter 17

Castle Rannoch
August 18
Evening. Blowing a gale outside. Not much warmer in.

Suddenly the most awful wail echoed through the house. The countess grabbed at Siegfried’s arm. “What is it? Is it the ghost? The White Lady of Rannoch?”

“Och, it’s only the piper,” Murdoch said. “Come to pipe us in to dinner.”

And it was. Old Fergus looking very grand in his kilt and bonnet. We lined up behind him and marched down the hall to the banqueting room. The room, with its rough stone walls and high arched windows, can be austere at times but tonight it was ablaze with candles. Their light sparkled from the silverwear and highlighted the starched white tablecloth, stretching down the length of the room. Fig had certainly pulled out all the stops. I sat in the middle of the table, between Lachan and Prince Siegfried. Babe sat opposite and was clearly fascinated by Lachan’s Highland dress.

“So is it true what they are saying, that Scotsmen wear nothing under their kilts?” she asked.

“If you care to reach under the table you can feel for yourself,” Lachan said. Babe shrieked with laughter.

“I was hoping to serve you our traditional haggis tonight,” Fig said. “But unfortunately—”

“Unfortunately we weren’t able to catch any today during our hunting expedition,” Murdoch interrupted.

“Catch them? I thought haggis was a type of sausage thing,” Hugo said.

“Oh aye, it is. That’s how you serve it after you’ve caught it,” Lachan said earnestly. “You mince it up and make a sausage of it, but before that it’s a canny wee beast. Ferocious for its size.”

“Mercy me,” said the countess. “And what does it look like?”

“Verra hairy,” Lachan said. “With pointy little teeth, and it lurks in the heather and goes for the ankles of bigger prey. In fact if I hadn’t seen Binky’s trap with my own eyes, I’d have thought he’d been attacked by a band of haggis.”

Those of us in the know were trying not to laugh, but Babe and the countess were gazing at Lachan, quite fascinated.

“We could take you on a haggis hunt tomorrow if you like,” he suggested. “We saw haggis tracks today when we were out on the moor.”

“That would be just fascinating, wouldn’t it, Earl?” Babe said.

I waited for someone to burst out laughing and tell them the joke, but nobody did.

“So how was the climbing today, young fellows?” the Prince of Wales asked. I noted he had been seated nowhere near Mrs. Simpson and she, as a result, was sulking. “Did you plant the flag on any summits and claim them for England?”

“That would hardly be wise, seeing that we’re in Scotland,” Prince George replied. “But alas we reached no summit. We stupidly left the ropes and climbing paraphernalia behind. Didn’t think we’d need it, you see, until we came to this great overhang. Well, we weren’t prepared to tackle that with no ropes and pitons so we had to retreat.”

“You should take Georgiana with you,” Binky said. “She knows these munros better than anyone.”

“Munros?” Gussie asked. “What the deuce is a munro?”

“Local name for a peak over three thousand feet,” Binky said. “Georgie used to be up and down these munros like a bally mountain goat, didn’t you, old bean?”

I felt all those eyes on me, staring at me as an object of curiosity.

“You make me sound like the wild woman of the glen,” I said.

I noticed Mrs. Simpson give Earl a dig in the side and mutter something.

“We would be honored if you would accompany us tomorrow, Lady Georgiana,” Siegfried said. “Your expertise would be most welcome. And we shall bring ropes this time and by the grace of God we shall conquer the summit.”

He made it sound as if he was talking about Mont Blanc and not a Scottish hill only three thousand feet high, most of which involved simple scrambling.

Dinner passed pleasantly enough. The soup was delicious, there was enough beef to go around and even the neeps and tatties were commented upon as tasty. Talk turned to the speedboat and the monster. Binky’s opinion was that someone had resurrected the old legend to drive tourist trade up here.

“I’ve lived here all my life and never heard it mentioned until recently,” he said, “and I’ve certainly never seen it.”

“But you have to agree that the way the water in that lake moved suddenly, looked awfully like a big creature swimming,” the countess exclaimed. “What about that wake? Something had to have made those ripples.”

“A plane had just landed,” I pointed out, “and the loch goes from shallow to very deep just about there, so the waves do behave strangely with the right wind conditions.”

“I’m sure I saw a head,” the countess said. “A very large head.”

“Maybe it’s a submarine, spying on your speedboat,” the Prince of Wales said, turning to Digby and Paolo. “A rival for the world speed record, maybe.”

Dinner concluded with berry crumble and fresh cream followed by Welsh rarebit. We women followed Fig dutifully from the room to the drawing room, where coffee was waiting. Conchita came over to join me.

“We have not yet been introduced,” she said, those dark eyes flashing. “You are the daughter of this house?”

“I’m the sister of the current duke,” I said. “I’m Georgiana Rannoch.”

“And I am Conchita da Gama. From Brazil.”

“What are you doing in Scotland?”

“I make friends with Paolo in Italy. He needs money to pay for racing boat. I have much money,” she said. “My father, he own rubber plantations in Brazil and now he find oil on his land. Very lucky, no?”

No wonder Darcy was interested, I thought. He was penniless like me. She’d be a very desirable catch.

It was as if she was reading my thoughts. “This Mr. Darcy O’Mara,” she said, her eyes straying to the door, “he is handsome, do you not think? And the son of a lord, and Catholic.”

I could see where this line of thought was going. “And penniless, I’m afraid,” I said.

“No problem.” She waved her hand. “I have enough money to do what I want. But I do not understand. He tells me there is already a lady he admire.”

Irrationally a great surge of hope rose in my heart. Then, of course, I wondered if I was the lady to whom he was referring. Obviously not, judging by the way he had treated me in London. The men soon joined us, or at least some of them did. Mr. Simpson was nowhere in evidence. The Prince of Wales headed straight for the arm of Wallis Simpson’s chair when she patted it as if summoning a dog. Dancing was suggested. The rugs were rolled back in the great hall, someone set up the gramophone and we started, as always, with the Gay Gordons. I don’t suppose the person who suggested the dancing had realized what she was in for. Lachan came to claim me and I was delighted to be able to shine for once. Scottish dances are one thing I do know how to do well.

After that Lachan grabbed Ronny to join us for the Dashing White Sergeant, which requires one man and two women. Murdoch attempted to drag Belinda and Fig onto the floor but most of the others looked on this time, Highland dances being unfamiliar to them. I was conscious of Darcy watching me from the shadows. Was I the lady he was talking about, I wondered, or had he just said that to dissuade the affectionate Señorita Conchita? From what I had seen, he hadn’t been pushing her away too hard. Did I want him to like me? I wondered. He was in every way unsuitable husband material. I’d probably not even be allowed to marry him, since he was Catholic—forbidden to those in line to the throne of England.

The dance ended. A Paul Jones was suggested and everyone was urged onto the floor. We ladies moved in a clockwise direction while the men circled around us counterclockwise. The music stopped and I found myself with Lachan again. This time it was a waltz. He held me tightly. Darcy passed us, dancing with Conchita who was flirting shamelessly. I looked up at Lachan and gave him an encouraging smile. His grip on me tightened, almost crushing me.

“You’ve turned out quite nicely, Cousin Georgie. A nice trim wee waist, good sturdy limbs and not a bad figure. And you’re not my first cousin, are you?”

“No, our grandfathers were brothers, I believe, which would make me a second cousin.”

“Well, that’s good to know.” He spun me around dizzily.

“I believe you judge women like heifers,” I said, and he laughed loudly.

The music summoned us back to the Paul Jones. The men and women circled each other again until I found myself opposite Earl. He was about to put his arm around my waist when Darcy stepped in rapidly. “My dance, I think,” he said, and snatched me from under Earl’s astonished nose.

“That’s not quite cricket,” I said. His tight hold on me was quite unnerving.

“Cricket is a very boring game, don’t you think?” he whispered, his lips inches away from mine. “I much prefer other, more energetic sports.” He swept me across the floor in a slow fox trot. “So you’re talking to me again now, are you?”

“I forgot.” I turned my head away.

He was holding me very close. I could feel the beat of his heart against mine and the warmth of him against my cheek.

“Are you going to stay angry at me forever?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Did you tell Conchita that I was your girlfriend?”

“Well, I had to say something. She was all over me.”

“So I was just an excuse again. I seem to be part of your life when it’s convenient.” I tried to lean away from him but his hand on the middle of my back was unrelenting. And he was laughing. “So you’ve decided that your hairy cousin is a better catch?”

“He may be.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re too damned sensitive, you know.”

“Sensitive? I like that. You come and go as you please. You tell me—” I broke off. Had he ever actually told me he loved me? I wasn’t sure.

“I can’t be around all the time, Georgie. You should realize that,” he said softly into my ear. His lips were brushing my cheek as he spoke and all the time he was steering me toward the edge of the dance floor. Then he fox-trotted me down the nearest hallway, in which, due to Fig’s economy measures, no lamp was burning.

“There, that’s more like it, isn’t it?” he said. He pulled me to him and his lips searched for mine. I wanted to kiss him but I kept reminding myself why I was angry with him in the first place.

“First I want you to admit that it was you who telephoned that frightful priggish man at Scotland Yard about my embarrassing evening,” I managed to say, turning my face to avoid his lips.

“Oh, God, not now, Georgie. Don’t you want to kiss me?”

“Not until . . .” I said, weakening as his lips were now nuzzling at my ear and continuing down my throat.

“Not now?” he whispered as his lips moved across my chin and brushed my own lips with a feather-light kiss.

“This isn’t fair,” I said.

“Don’t you know that all’s fair in love and war?” he said, whispering the words one at a time, in between imprisoning my lips between his own. I felt the warmth of his body, pressing hard against me. Oh, God, I wanted him.

“Now, do you want me to kiss you or not?”

“All right, just shut up and kiss me,” I said and turned my face to him.

I was no longer conscious of time or space. When we broke apart we were both breathing very hard.

“Georgie,” he whispered, “is there somewhere we could go that’s a little more comfortable than a cold and drafty hallway?”

“There’s nowhere exactly comfortable in Castle Rannoch,” I said, “and the only place that could be described as warm is the linen cupboard. I used to curl up there with a book and a torch when I was a child.”

“The linen cupboard. Now that sounds intriguing.” He gave me what could be described as a challenging grin. “Do you think it’s large enough for two people?”

“Darcy!” I was half shocked, half excited.

“You could show me,” he whispered, pulling me close to him and nuzzling at my neck again. “Or surely Castle Rannoch must possess a famous bedroom in which Mary, Queen of Scots, was born or Saint Margaret died.”

I laughed uneasily, my sense of propriety fighting with my rising passion. “Neither. If you want to know, Castle Rannoch possesses the most uncomfortable beds in Scotland—probably in the civilized world.”

“It’s amazing that any Rannoch offspring were ever conceived then.”

“I was conceived in Monte Carlo,” I said. “I don’t know about Binky. I think Rannochs always go away to get that sort of thing done.”

“Then you’ll just have to show me the linen cupboard.” He slipped an arm around my waist, holding me very close to him as he steered me to the back stairs. We went up one flight, pausing for a couple of kisses along the way. My heart was really racing now. Darcy and I, alone together just as I had pictured it. I was not going to get cold feet this time!

We were just starting on the second flight of stairs when a piercing scream echoed through the castle. Then another. The screams were coming from the floor above us. We broke apart and rushed up the next flight of stairs, Darcy leading the way and taking the steps two at a time. Feet echoed below us as people came up the main staircase.

We were halfway up the second flight when we met the countess, staggering toward us, her face a mask of pure terror. “I saw her,” she gulped. “The White Lady of Rannoch! She came wafting down that hallway.”