Adventures of a Scottish Heiress (2 page)

He covered her hand with his. “I’ll be back shortly. Hand me my knapsack.” Reaching for his hat, he turned to Liam. “Watch the family—and that means you don’t go out.”

The lad nodded solemnly.

Satisfied, Ian said, “I’ll fix the door when I return.”

Downstairs, a handsome, black-enameled carriage took up the width of the street, its bright brass fittings and driver dressed in gold-trimmed livery commanding everyone’s attention. Liam had been right. The grays were prime bloodstock. Horses were in the Campions’ blood and they knew fine cattle when they saw them.

Parker waved a perfumed kerchief in front of his nose. “The streets stink. Climb in.”

Conscious that everyone gaped at him, including the whore in the window, Ian did as ordered. He had never been inside such a large coach or one as luxuriously decked out as this, with its velvet cushions and burled wood paneling. The fop jumped in behind him, a footman closed the door, and in moments they were on their way, the footman shouting at people, “Make way for the horses.”

“What is this about?” Ian asked Parker.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” was the cryptic answer.

Ian grunted his response. He hated surprises.

They drove fifteen minutes to a new, fashionable section of the city. Here the roads were less crowded and far wider. Harrell’s man set aside his perfumed cloth and drummed his fingers on the door.

The coach turned into the paved drive of an opulent
mansion. The driver reined the horses to a stop. A butler in stark black, a marked contrast to the gold trimmings of the other servants and to Parker’s flamboyant jacket and vest, came down the front steps to open the coach door himself. “Mr. Parker, you are to go to the master immediately. He is most impatient.”

Parker didn’t respond but jumped down, signaling Ian to follow. As Ian stepped out of the coach and walked up the front steps, he was all too conscious of the shabbiness of his appearance. His tanned leather breeches and cobalt coat with its frayed edges were definitely out of place. Ill at ease, he touched his neck cloth, which he wore wrapped around his neck once and loose. The devil-may-care style suited him but it was far too casual for these surroundings.

The main hall was as big and open as a banker’s lobby. The black onyx and white marble squares on the floor were polished to such a degree they reflected the worn heels of Ian’s boots, and a statue of some ancient Greek with a missing arm and leg stared down at him with unseeing disapproval. Two maids had lowered a chandelier that held at least a hundred candles. They were too busy cleaning off the wax to notice the likes of him.

“Your hat, sir?” the butler asked.

Ian handed it to the man, who passed it to another footman. Harrell apparently had servants for his servants.

Parker walked down a long, thickly carpeted hallway. The air smelled of beeswax and lemon oil. Ian followed, noticing the lavish wealth—the paintings by old masters, the carved scroll work in the wainscoting, the shining brass wall sconces—surrounding him. At the end of the hall, Parker opened a set of double doors without knocking.

“Mr. Campion,” he announced and stepped back. Ian had no choice but to walk forward and found himself in a walnut-paneled study. The walls were lined with books and statuary. The carpet was an Indian rug woven of reds and blues. Leather upholstered chairs created seating areas in front of the windows and the huge, ornate desk that dominated the center of the room.

Dunmore Harrell, the richest man in London, rose from a chair behind the desk. Ledger books were stacked in multiple, neat piles in front of him. He took off the glasses perched on the end of his nose and came around to greet Ian.

He was of medium height and whipcord thin with hair that had once been as red as a brick but had faded to a graying muddy brown. Like his butler, he wore austere black, but there was the twinkle of diamonds in the studs he wore in his neckcloth and on the buttons adorning his coat.

If Ian had been sizing Harrell up for a bout in the ring, he’d have considered the man a threat. Harrell obviously knew his strengths and his weaknesses and would use both to his advantage.
He scrutinized Ian with a stare that was discomfiting. Ian challenged him by staring back, opening and closing one fist, a sign to the older man that he was no green lad either.

Harrell’s astute green gaze darted to Ian’s clenched hand. His lips curved into a half smile, an acknowledgement. “You’ll do.” He motioned to a chair in front of the desk. “Please sit.” Ian noted a small hint of a Scottish burr in his speech, but it was so carefully hidden, however, Harrell could have passed for one of the king’s courtiers.

There was another man in the room, but Ian had been so intent on Harrell, he’d not registered the other’s presence until he took his seat. Now he looked to the gentleman who had remained sitting in the high-backed winged chair opposite the one Ian was to take. The man was built like a small bull, with a receding hairline and a pompous attitude. Ian decided that here was a man who was more bluster than bite, one who lacked Parker’s flamboyant presence.

“This is my daughter’s betrothed,” Harrell said offhandedly, “
Viscount
Grossett.” By the emphasis he placed on “Viscount,” Ian knew Harrell was well pleased with his daughter’s choice. “My lord, Ian Campion, soldier, mercenary, devil’s own henchman when he has the mind to be.”

Ian didn’t know how to react to such an introduction, and was embarrassed to realize all the titles were accurate.

The viscount leaned back in his chair as if not
wanting to be any closer to Ian than he had to, and he certainly didn’t offer his hand. Parker, pulling up a leather-backed chair for himself, stifled a smile—whether over his employer’s wit or the viscount’s fastidiousness, Ian didn’t know, but he didn’t like it. And so, he paid extra attention to the viscount.

“Congratulations on your betrothal, my lord,” Ian said smoothly, his King’s English as good as anyone’s in the room…and his nails were clean, which the viscount’s were not. “When is the happy occasion?” he asked as if the two of them were members of the same club.

A dull red stole up the viscount’s neck. Apparently, Ian had touched upon a sensitive subject.

However, it was Harrell who answered. “We hope you can help us with that, Campion.” He handed a miniature to Ian. “I have a job for you. I want you to find the young woman in the picture.”

Ian took a moment to study the portrait, taking in the pouty lower lip and the long, dark lashes the artist had given her. There was no mistaking her green eyes. This was Harrell’s daughter, the much-touted heiress. The viscount’s intended. It was a pity to waste beauty and money on a bore. “A redhead,” he murmured.

“Very much so,” Harrell agreed proudly. “Her hair is the color of the finest garnets and she has a passion for life to match. There is no in between with my daughter, and I want her back.”

“Who has her?” Ian asked.

“I don’t know,” came the curt reply. “There has been no ransom note, no letter, nothing.” Harrell leaned across his desk. “But when you find them,
whomever they are
, I want you to make them pay. No one crosses me without receiving like for like.
No one
.”

His words echoed in the stillness of the room and Ian felt his guard go up. Something was not right. “Why ask me? Why not go to Bow Street?”

“I have been to them. They have been incompetent. They want me to tell them where she is—if I knew, I’d go fetch her myself. I am a man who expects results…and am willing to pay for them.”

Outwardly, Ian was calm, but inside he recognized opportunity. “Do you have any suspicions concerning who might have her?”

“None. There’s been no clue.” Harrell was not a man who liked to admit defeat. He sank into his chair, aging suddenly. “She’s my only link with my late wife. I—” He looked away as if needing to compose himself a moment. “Do you have children, Campion?”

“He’s Irish,” the viscount said under his breath. “Of course he has children.”

“No,” Ian said, ignoring the nobleman. “But I do have a niece and nephews.”

“Then you can understand my fears,” Harrell said. “The thought that Lyssa has been gone this week and more, without a trace…” He looked at Ian. “I want her home.”

“When did you last see her?”

“A week ago Thursday. She left with her maid and a footman to visit the lending library. Lyssa bid them sit in a chair in the front of the store to wait while she browsed the book aisles, and she never returned. She disappeared, vanished, with nothing but the clothes on her back.”

Ian frowned. “Did the Runners find any information?”

“Nothing, not a trace. I put Parker on it and even he, the most resourceful of men, has come up empty-handed.”

Ian hesitated in asking this next question because the idea had obviously not struck her father yet. “Could she have deliberately run away?”

Harrell raised his eyebrows as if shocked by the idea. “Why? Lyssa has always been the most obedient of children. She’d have no reason to run away.”

Ian could not resist sliding a glance at the viscount. If he was a young woman, he wouldn’t want to marry the man, and the woman in the miniature he still held appeared to be anything but docile. Especially if she had even one of her infamous father’s traits.

The Viscount Grossett did not mistake his meaning. “What are you implying, Irishman?” he demanded.

“I imply nothing, my lord,” Ian countered calmly.

“He is suggesting that perhaps our Lyssa has
reservations about the marriage and has taken matters in her own hand by running away,” a feminine, musical voice said from the doorway. The men turned to find a blonde, beautiful woman standing there, one hand still on the door she’d quietly opened.

She blushed, the color becoming to her face. “Please pardon my interruption, gentlemen, but sometimes a woman must eavesdrop if she is ever to know what is going on.” She had the most charming lisp. This was the former duchess of Lackland, who upon the ancient duke’s death had married Harrell and provided him an entrée into Society.

She walked into the room, jewels sparkling in her hair and on her fingers, her movements smooth in spite of her advanced stage of pregnancy. Obviously, money was a significant inducement for a duchess to choose a commoner’s life.

The men all rose to their feet, Harrell coming around the desk to meet her. “My dear, you should be in bed.”

“You worry too much, Dunmore, and I wanted to meet the gentleman who is to find our Lyssa.” She looked to Ian and offered her hand. “You will find her, won’t you?”

Ian took her hand, flattered that she treated him with a modicum of respect. “I will endeavor to try—” He hesitated, uncertain of how to address her. Even though she was married to a commoner,
he thought she still retained her title. He’d heard her referred to only as “Duchess,” whether because of fact, or the speculation surrounding her marriage, he didn’t know. It was apparent Harrell took pride in his wife’s station, yet Ian decided to err on the side of caution. “—Mrs. Harrell,” he finished, and she nodded, letting him know he was correct.

“Especially if I pay him well enough,” Harrell answered, and Ian wondered if matters always came down to money with him.

Mrs. Harrell smiled. She was half her husband’s age and a true catch. “You are not quite what we expected, Mr. Campion. Is he, Dunmore?” She did not wait for her husband’s response but provided her own, “Find Lyssa, sir, find her so she can discover happiness, as I have, with a husband and a child.” She removed her hand from Ian’s and proudly rested it on her stomach, and he found himself wondering if it was money or love that had persuaded her to marry the “Pirate.”

“He will, he will,” Harrell said, clearly worried. “Now please, go lie down. I don’t want anything to happen to my son.”

Mrs. Harrell laughed, enjoying his concern. She slid her violet-blue gaze toward Ian. “My husband longs for a son, but he also loves his daughter. And Viscount Grossett—he, too, is most anxious. Are you not, sir?”

“Absolutely,” the viscount echoed although Ian was certain his concern stemmed from the fear of losing Miss Harrell’s fortune more than true worry for her well-being. The man lacked the anxiety of a lover. He met Ian’s gaze with defiance. “My family is pleased with this match.”

“Even your mother, my lord?” Mrs. Harrell asked archly.

“
Especially
my mother,” Grossett returned evenly.

“Well…then it is settled.” Mrs. Harrell walked to the door. She paused. “I believe, Mr. Campion, you will have your work cut out for you. Lyssa is as headstrong as her father.”

“Do you believe her kidnapped?” he dared to ask.

A secret smile lingered on her lips. She shook her head and then shrugged. “I’m not certain, but knowing Lyssa, no one could take her by force without a fight on their hands. She is much like her father. And I do not feel here”—she pressed the tips of her fingers to her breastbone above her heart—“that she is in danger. After all, her books were missing.”

“Books?” Ian looked to Harrell.

“My daughter is a bit of a bluestocking, except, of course, she prefers novels with, well, you know, with romance. She’s also fond of poetry.” He said the last word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. “But to think she ran away just because
some books are missing…?” He shook his head. “She could have given them to the library or to friends.”

“Not Lyssa. Her books were her companions,” his wife answered. She looked to Ian. “My stepdaughter packed her favorite books with her every time she traveled. She’d also much rather have a book in her hand than a possible husband by her side.” And Ian knew by her answer that his suspicions were correct—the viscount was Harrell’s choice for a husband, not his daughter’s. And would a spoiled, petted young woman fond of romantic novels and poetry run away rather than face a betrothal distasteful to her?

Ian almost snorted his answer aloud.

He could feel Mrs. Harrell studying him and knew she shared his suspicions. “Good luck, Mr. Campion,” she said and floated out of the room, Harrell watching her leave with the longing of the truly lovestruck.