Authors: Highland Spirits
As they met, a young man approached to ask Penelope to dance. She made her curtsy while Michael exchanged polite remarks with Lady Balcardane, but before she went off with her partner, she smiled at Michael and said firmly, “Do not forget, sir, that you promised to call upon us before noon tomorrow.”
Controlling his surprise required effort, but since he could not contradict her in front of her family and her partner, he bowed with what grace he could muster and said, “It will be a pleasure, Miss MacCrichton.”
Still smiling, she walked away with her partner, and he turned back to find Balcardane speaking to a plump matron and Lady Balcardane ignoring them while she favored him with a discomfiting, quizzical expression.
“Perhaps, ma’am,” he said, searching for the proper words, “you think I should not call at Faircourt House before noon, since I am not a member of your family or a close friend.”
Her eyes twinkled. “On the contrary, my lord. We will be happy to see you whenever you choose to call. You may bring your handsome dog if you like, too. I have scarcely heard Roddy talk of anything else since the day Cailean rescued him.”
“I’ll be happy to bring him, ma’am.”
Recalled to duty, he looked for his sister, his aunt, and Cousin Bella. Seeing the latter two sitting where he had left his aunt earlier, chatting with a third matron, he walked over to them and said, “I am going to return to George Street, but I shall leave the carriage, of course. I know you will both keep an eye on Bridget.”
Ignoring their astonishment, he walked away, noting sardonically as he left the ballroom that his sister was dancing the cotillion with young Mr. Coombs.
Returning to the house, he spent the next two hours in the drawing room, poring over his accounts, searching for some way to meet his obligations. Cailean lay at his feet, stirring only when he got up to put another log on the fire. He had found nothing helpful two hours later when the three ladies returned from Almack’s.
Cousin Bella put her head into the room long enough to bid him good night, but Lady Marsali and Bridget came right in, perhaps intending to chat for a while.
Bridget said enthusiastically, “Was not Almack’s delightful, Michael?”
“You seemed to enjoy yourself,” he said, gathering his papers together into a neat stack. Glancing at his aunt, he received a weary smile, enough to tell him that Bridget had done nothing after he left to upset her. “Would either of you like a glass of wine or a posset before you retire?”
“No,” Bridget said, answering for both of them. “Why did you leave?”
“Too noisy by half,” he said, smiling. “I fear I am not suited to town life.”
“Don’t tell me you want to go home,” she said, appalled at the thought.
“No, no, we’ll stay,” he said. “How else am I going to find someone worthy of you, my lamb?”
“Well, that is a relief,” she said, turning away. “Aunt, you are falling asleep where you stand.”
“I confess, I am a trifle sleepy,” Lady Marsali admitted.
“You must be exhausted, for a trifle sleepy is how you feel when you awaken to a new day,” Bridget said with an impish grin. “Perhaps we’d better go to bed.”
Chuckling, Lady Marsali followed her from the room, pausing in the doorway long enough to say good night to Michael.
He replied politely, but when they had gone, dark thoughts threatened to overwhelm him again. Looking thoughtfully at the decanter of wine on the side table, he considered certain benefits of drunken slumber only to reject them. If he sought comfort in the wine, he knew, he might not be presentable in the morning, and he did not intend to miss his appointment. Penelope’s smile and the friendly look in her eyes had given him hope that she had reconsidered and would help.
The following morning at half past ten he presented himself and Cailean at Faircourt House, and the butler showed him right up to the yellow drawing room. To his astonishment, Miss MacCrichton sat there alone.
Dismayed, he said, “I beg your pardon. Your man did not ask me…That is to say, he simply brought me. I did not inquire about her ladyship, although I should have thought…” While he was trying to collect his wits, the butler gently disengaged Cailean’s leash from his hand, led the dog out, and shut the door.
“Please, sit down, my lord,” Penelope said.
“But I cannot remain here alone with you. Where is your maid, at least?”
“Upstairs, where she belongs.”
“But she should be here. Good God, Lady Balcardane should be here, or Lady Agnes. Where have your wits gone begging? Where is Balcardane?” He had visions of the earl storming the drawing room to pitch him out into South Street.
“I have not lost my wits, sir. Peasley will take Cailean to visit Roddy. Mary is in her sitting room, and Lady Agnes has gone out to visit a friend. I told them that I wanted to speak to you alone, and they know that I am quite safe with you.”
“I doubt that Balcardane or your brother would agree with them.”
“Perhaps they would not, but they need not concern us, for neither of them is presently in the house. Duncan is attending a meeting of the tobacco lords at Rothwell House, and Chuff has gone riding with friends.”
He made an impatient gesture, saying, “Miss MacCrichton, perhaps you still do not understand London ways. Your reputation could suffer untold harm if it became known that you had received me in this manner.”
“Do you intend to tell anyone?”
“No, of course I do not, but the servants—”
“You may trust the servants, sir. They are too afraid of their master’s temper to risk speaking of things they should not mention. Moreover, they like me and would not willingly do me harm.”
“Even so…” He fell silent when she gestured again to a nearby chair.
“Do sit down,” she said quietly. “You have helped us. At all events, Cailean has, and therefore I feel an obligation to you. I could not help observing your profound distress last evening when I refused to help you arrange a marriage between your sister and my brother.”
“Then you
will
help!” Continuing in a rush while he drew up the chair she had indicated and sat down, he said, “You can have no notion how much that means to me, Miss MacCrichton.”
“I can see that it would mean a great deal,” she said gently, “but I do not want to mislead you. My sentiments regarding such a marriage have not altered.”
“Then, what can you do?” he asked blankly.
“First, please explain to me why your failure to enlist my help has plunged you into bleak despair. Why is Lady Bridget’s marriage of such moment to you? She is quite amazingly beautiful, but she is only sixteen. She can risk three more Seasons before anyone will consider her to be on the shelf, you know.”
“I shall be ruined long before then,” he said.
“Ruined!”
“Aye, ruined.” He left it at that, glaring at his shoes, but when she did not encourage him to speak, as most women would have, he looked up again.
She still said nothing, but her expression remained sympathetic, and somehow the silence accomplished what no amount of urging would have. Words began to spill from his tongue.
“It’s Cailean, you see, or rather a letter I received from his new owner that fell like the last feather on the horse’s back. The man means to sue me. He had not yet received my letter to him, but he believes I trained Cailean to run away. He suggests that he ran home so that I could keep both the money and the dog. Learning that Cailean followed me to London will only make the matter worse.”
“How offensive of him,” she said. “You would never do such a thing.”
“Well, I don’t know how you can know that about me, but I would not.”
“Can you not set things right with him?”
He sighed. “Doubtless, given time and a chance to speak with him, I could, but that is not all. I sold Cailean to Glenmore to secure money to bring Bridget to London. I had hoped that her marriage to your brother would save my groats, you see. It shames me to admit that now, but you deserve to hear the truth.”
“How would Bridget’s marrying Chuff save your groats?”
“I owe a debt to Sir Renfrew Campbell that I cannot otherwise pay.”
“That horrid man? I have danced with him, and I cannot think you chose your lender well, sir. The way he ogled me made me want to scratch his eyes out.”
“I did not choose him,” Michael said, his sudden urge to murder Sir Renfrew at odds with an equal urge to smile at the thought of Penelope with feline claws. Maintaining his even tone, he said, “My father, finding himself in urgent need, mortgaged our estates to borrow the money. He expected to repay it long before it came due. Instead, he died, and the only way I can imagine to repay the debt in time is with an advantageous marriage for my sister. Now you know the worst.”
“When must you pay him?”
“Before the first of June.”
“So soon!”
“Aye.” He looked down at his hands, wondering what had possessed him to tell her so much.
She remained silent for a moment before she said, “You know, sir, your sister is not the only member of your family who could marry to advantage.”
He looked up again, frowning. “I can think of no one else.”
Color tinged her cheeks as she said quietly, “There is yourself.”
“Don’t be absurd. Who would accept such an offer from a penniless man?”
“You would not remain penniless if you married well,” she pointed out. “Moreover, you hold an ancient and honorable title.”
“Are you suggesting that I sell myself and my title to the highest bidder?”
“It sounds rather horrid when you put it that way, I suppose, but are you not willing to sell your sister? In any event,” she added hastily, “I am sure you need not put it quite that way when you make your offer.”
“And do you think the young woman I select will not have men in authority over her who will demand to know what fortune I possess?”
“I expect they will want to know that, but your estates would be clear then, and you
are
an earl, my lord. That must count for a great deal.”
“Any sensible guardian would reject such a suit out of hand.”
“Not necessarily.”
“You don’t know what you are talking about,” he retorted harshly. “No competent guardian would allow me instantly to plunder his ward’s dowry to pay off my debt Nor can I imagine any female who would agree to marry me in such circumstances, let alone one with sufficient fortune to be of any use to me.”
“I can.”
“Can you, indeed? And just who would it be?”
“Any number of females would agree to marry you, I think. I would, myself.”
Abruptly he stood and glared down at her. “You are mad, Miss MacCrichton. I have no intention of embarrassing myself by offering for anyone, but if I did, I would certainly not offer for you.” Striving to collect what remained of his dignity, he added stiffly, “I thank you for your concern, for I believe it was well meant, and I bid you good day.”
He was shaking with anger, but by the time he had stormed out of the house and walked halfway to George Street, he was beginning to wonder if it was she who was mad or he. He did not know the extent of her fortune, or even if she had one.
Realizing the route his thoughts were taking, and feeling utter disgust with himself, he managed to regain sufficient wit to realize something else.
Ruefully, he turned back to collect his chaise and his dog.
A
S SOON AS KINTYRE
had gone, Pinkie went up to her bedchamber, grateful to meet no one else on the way. She was also thankful that Kintyre had not looked at her while he vented his anger, had not seemed to notice how his fury had dismayed her. He had not seen how her hands shook or known how weak her knees felt.
She had not intended to make such a declaration to him. The words had just tumbled from her lips without thought for consequence. Indeed, she realized, she had not thought at all before speaking.
Her intention had been merely to learn, if she could, why her refusal to persuade Chuff to offer for Bridget had cast Kintyre into black despair. The answer to that question was none of her business, of course, and in retrospect, she knew it had been improper to pursue it. At the time, however, she had only wanted to help.
Several hours later, when Doreen came to her room, expecting to set out what she would wear for dinner and the evening ahead, Pinkie sent her away, saying that her head ached and she did not want any dinner.
Mary came up next. “Doreen said she fears you are ill, love.”
“My head just aches,” Pinkie said, avoiding her anxious gaze and hoping Mary would not see that she had been crying. “If you do not mind, I think I would like to stay at home tonight.”
“I do not mind in the least,” Mary said. “We have all been going at such a pace that an early night will do us good. I do not think Mama Agnes will mind either. She has invited Sir Horace Walpole to dine tomorrow, which I know we shall all enjoy, but if you like, we can stay home afterward, rather than going out. I do hope you are not coming down with anything serious though, my love.”
“I am just tired, ma’am. A couple of early nights and I will be my old self again, I’m sure.”
Pinkie kept to her room the next day, resting and finishing Sir Horace’s novel. By the time she read the last page, she had had a surfeit of supernatural occurrences, none of which seemed at all like one of Mary’s episodes of second sight or her own experience with ghosts. Nonetheless, she was able to tell Sir Horace that she enjoyed his story very much.
Their little dinner was a success, and her spirits began to recover, but she was glad that Mary had decided they would not go out afterward. Saturday afternoon, however, when she said that she still did not feel well enough to go out, Mary said, “We can miss Lady Pembroke’s musical soiree if you do not feel up to it, but unless you truly feel unable to do so, my love, I believe we must attend Elizabeth Campbell’s drum. She has been kind to us, and I think Duncan will expect you to go, for you look quite healthy again. Moreover, I have promised the children we can all drive to Richmond Park tomorrow after kirk, and I am counting on you to go with us. Is there aught amiss that perhaps we should talk about?”