Scotsman of My Dreams Page 10

  “Of course,” he said. “They’re not mine to read. I apologize for intruding on your privacy.”

  “Oh, but if you hadn’t, you wouldn’t be here now, would you?”

  He suddenly wished Arthur had told him about her. Or that he’d seen the two of them together. He knew, even without her telling him, that his brother had been happy. Perhaps with Sarah, Arthur had allowed himself to relax a little, to laugh, and to not take the responsibilities of being the Earl of Rathsmere so seriously.

  “You have a son,” he said.

  Her answer was interrupted by the housekeeper who bustled into the room. The aroma of something delicious wafted over to him, and like a little boy who had been deprived, he wanted some.

  “We’ve toffee biscuits,” she said. “Chocolate cake and toffee biscuits, which Arthur loved, and tea, of course. Can I serve you?”

  “Please,” he said. “I’d like one of the toffee biscuits.”

  To his surprise, she came and sat on the ottoman in front of him.

  “Stretch out your left hand,” she said, “and I’ll hand you the tea.”

  He did and she did, their movements so perfectly orchestrated it was as if they had practiced them before now. He heard her set down a plate on the table to his right.

  “The biscuits are there.”

  “You’re very adept at dealing with a blind man,” he said. “Have you had much practice in it?”

  “None,” she said. The hint of tears had disappeared in her voice, replaced by gentle amusement. “But I have a little boy, and I suspect it’s much the same.”

  He didn’t know whether to be amused or insulted. A moment later he chose amusement.

  “Can I meet him?”

  She stood, returning to her place on the settee. Had he disturbed her with his request?

  “Why?”

  “He’s my nephew,” he said. “Arthur’s son.”

  “And mine,” she said.

  He inclined his head in agreement of her comment.

  “I’m very careful about the ­people who come in contact with my son. It’s bad enough he lost his father before he got to know him. I don’t want him to meet an uncle who would never again reappear in his life.”

  He replaced the tea with a biscuit. Normally, he didn’t eat in front of other ­people. He didn’t like the idea of them watching him drop his food or having to guide a fork to his mouth with studied precision.

  The toffee biscuit was an explosion of taste and flavor. He wasn’t certain what all the spices were called, but one thing he knew was that he’d never tasted them all in one confection.

  “May I have the recipe for my cook?”

  “I’ll ask again, but every time I have, my cook hasn’t divulged it. It’s a family thing, I believe. Her great-­grandmother’s recipe, and one she refuses to part with, I’m afraid.”

  “Pity,” he said, finishing up the biscuit. “It’s wonderful.”

  “I’ll tell her what you said.”

  “What makes you think I would never reappear in little Arthur’s life again?”

  “Your brother spoke about you often.”

  “Am I to infer that Arthur was not, shall we say, complimentary?”

  “On the contrary,” she said. “I thought he was very fair. He merely related your adventures. He didn’t comment on them.”

  “So if anyone is to be blamed for my reputation of inconstancy, it’s me, is that it?”

  She didn’t answer him, which was a response.

  What could he say to her? That he no longer discarded ­people with the alacrity he once did? That wasn’t altogether the truth, was it? Just ask Minerva Todd. She would have a mouthful to say about his attitude toward the men he’d taken to America.

  He sat with both hands gripping the saucer, wishing he knew if there was space on the table. Wishing he could put the damn thing down somewhere.

  “Fair enough,” he said.

  He had discovered the child’s existence only a day ago. Learning that he was too flawed to see Arthur’s son was something he’d just have to accept.

  “I came, mostly, to make sure that he was taken care of,” he said, feeling his way through the words. “I don’t know if Arthur made allowances for him.”

  Her voice, when it came, was low and soft, but instead of tears it held a steely resolve. He had the impression that Sarah Westchester had her own share of pride and it was being trotted out right now for him to experience.

  “No,” she said. “Arthur didn’t make provisions, but then he didn’t expect to be murdered.”

  The cup in his hand jumped against the saucer, the clinking noise startling him almost as much as her words.

  “What are you talking about? It was a hunting accident.”

  That’s what Arthur’s solicitor had said on meeting him at the ship. He hadn’t even gotten off the vessel before he’d been informed that his brother was dead and he was now the Earl of Rathsmere.

  Welcome home.

  “How many hunting accidents do you know of that take place in full view of a house? And when the victim isn’t even carrying a gun?”

  Stunned, he could only stare in her direction.

  “Arthur wasn’t hunting the day he was killed, Dalton.”

  The cup shook again. This time she reached out and took it from him.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I asked questions, which is something you evidently didn’t do,” she said.

  She was right. He hadn’t. He’d merely assumed that the information he’d been given was correct. His brother had been an avid hunter and the grounds of Gledfield were rife with partridge and pheasant.

  “Who told you he was murdered?” he asked, wishing his voice didn’t sound so thin. He cleared his throat, asked again. “Who told you that?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Yes, damn it, it does.

  “Who told you that?” he asked for the third time.

  “Edmonson.”

  “Edmonson’s dead.”

  The poor man had been ancient when he’d expired a few months ago. He’d sent Samuels to Gledfield to replace him.

  “He came to see me,” she said.

  The man had been ninety if he was a day, and kept in his position by Dalton’s mother, who prized loyalty. Besides, as she often said, pensioning Edmondson off would have been destructive to the man’s pride, not to mention hurting his feelings.

  They’d grown used to Edmondson tottering around Gledfield in his black suit, but he’d never known the man to leave the house.

  “Mrs. MacNeal accompanied him,” she said, heaping another surprise on top of the first two.

  The housekeeper at Gledfield was an exceedingly proper woman. His mother had often said that Mrs. MacNeal was the conscience of the house. If Mrs. MacNeal had shown up on Sarah’s doorstep, what exactly did that mean?

  “Why didn’t she go to the authorities?”

  “Perhaps she did. Perhaps they both did. Perhaps nothing was ever made of it.”

  “But you think they were right.”

  He wished he could see her. Did she shrug? Did she look away? Did she blot at her eyes with a handkerchief? He didn’t know, dammit, and the silence didn’t give him any clues.

  “I think they were right,” she finally said.

  “You think Arthur was murdered.”

  “Yes,” she said softly.

  “I’ll make investigations,” he said.

  He’d give James another job, that of determining if Arthur was murdered or not. He’d be better served in that task than guarding him.

  “In the meantime, I’ve settled an amount on little Arthur.” He withdrew the draft from his inner jacket pocket. Howington had made a sound of alarm at the amount, but his secretary had filled in the draft nonetheless
and he had signed it.

  “I’d like to come and see him, if you would allow it. But in the meantime, take this, please.”

  She didn’t, as he half expected, argue with him or demur. A sign, then, that Sarah was imminently practical. Or that she would do anything for her child, even bury her pride.

  His mother would’ve liked her.

  A few minutes later, having taken out his manners, dusted them off, and utilized them in thanking her for the refreshments and apologizing for his arrival without notice, he found himself at the front door again.

  He was prepared to call for Daniels, but Sarah startled him by taking his arm and leading him down the steps and across the cobbles to the door of his carriage.

  She had to be wrong. It had to have been simple negligence or an idiotic hunter who thought Arthur a grouse. She had to be wrong, because otherwise, there was an implication there he couldn’t ignore. Two brothers—­one killed and the other shot in an attempt to kill him?

  She surprised him by placing her lips against his cheek.

  “I’ll have the letters delivered to you,” he said. “Will you let me see your son one day?”

  His insistence startled him. He had never been responsible for another soul. Until this moment he had never wanted to be responsible for anyone else. But he felt an obligation to the child he’d never seen. Even if Sarah didn’t think him good enough to meet him.

  “Perhaps,” she said. “One day. Will you really do something? Will you look into Arthur’s death?”

  He nodded, surprised when the gesture didn’t nauseate him.

  “I hope you’re wrong,” he said.

  “I know I’m right.”

  He almost asked her if she knew Minerva Todd. The two women were alike in their stubborn insistence. Sarah, in her insistence that Arthur had been murdered, and the Todd woman, in believing that Neville wasn’t a would-­be murderer.

  He hoped Sarah wasn’t right. As far as Neville, he knew he couldn’t be wrong. There, a little stubborn insistence of his own.

  OF COURSE the Earl of Rathsmere would make a visit to his mistress.

  A beautiful woman at that, with blond hair and a face borrowed from the angels. She was petite and delicate, one of those creatures written about in the papers and labeled a London treasure.

  Minerva was suddenly more than irritated. Her emotions tumbled into anger. She was trying to find her brother and he had the temerity to think only of his loins.

  He had hardly been inside long enough for a tryst, unless, of course, the man had performance issues. Minerva wouldn’t put it past him to be an exceedingly selfish lover. As long as he received satisfaction, no doubt that was all that was important to Dalton MacIain.

  The woman was very solicitous of him, patting his arm, walking him down the steps. Had she broken off their liaison? Did a blind man disturb her? Were Dalton’s scars off-­putting?

  If so, the woman was a fool and Dalton was better off without her in his life. Or had he come to terminate the relationship? Was it an impulse born of martyrdom? He didn’t want to inflict his horrible self on a beautiful woman, was that it?

  What rubbish.

  She doubted the Earl of Rathsmere was that generous a soul. Besides, his scars gave him a rakish air; they didn’t detract from his overall handsomeness. Any woman could see that.

  As Dalton got into his carriage, the woman turned and walked up the steps slowly. Suddenly, a child barreled out of the door, only to be caught up in the woman’s arms. She laughed as she grabbed him, turning to watch as the carriage moved away, the child resting on one hip.

  As they drew abreast, she wanted to look away, but Minerva glanced at the woman and the child. The little boy had black hair and Dalton’s features. The resemblance was unmistakable.

  The reason for the visit was suddenly clear. He’d come to see his son.

  She grabbed her journal and held it close to her chest.

  What did she care that the earl had a child? All that she cared about was Neville’s whereabouts. When it was obvious they were returning to Tarkington Square, she bit back her disappointment.

  Perhaps nothing would come of today’s adventures. There was always tomorrow and every day after that.

  She would be the earl’s shadow for as long as it took.

  Chapter 12

  Dalton made his way to his library, thinking about what he’d learned. Not only about Sarah’s thoughts of Arthur’s death but about himself.

  Venturing outside of his house had been more upsetting than he’d expected. The world wasn’t a playground anymore. It wasn’t filled with potential adventures, beautiful women to be loved, places to go, and ­people to meet.

  His environment had narrowed to only those things he could feel, hear, smell, or sense in the space around his body.

  He was no longer Dalton MacIain, brother of the Earl of Rathsmere and wealthy in his own right. He wasn’t shocking, a rake, or up for a good time. He was limited, a disability, and more than a little unsettled by his blindness.

  He entered the library, casting the walking stick in the direction of the trunks so he didn’t trip. When he was done going through Arthur’s papers, he’d have them sent off to Benny Carlton, his solicitor.

  Benny Carlton was another of Dalton’s old school friends. The runt of the litter, Benny hadn’t grown much until later. Added to that unfortunate schoolboy circumstance was his pudgy appearance. Benny was round all over. He had a protuberant nose with a round tip, a round face, and wide, round brown eyes. He looked perpetually startled and had been the target for one bully or another.

  Once, giving some thought to having his own children, Dalton decided he would never send them off to school. Instead, he would see to it they were educated at home. His school memories included being cold and hungry much of the time, and like Benny Carlton, terrorized until he started to grow. By the time he was thirteen, he was as tall as an adult. Plus he had filled out—­not due to the school’s cooking but to his mother’s parcels from home.

  Arthur had attended the same school, his father’s alma mater, and in some ways Dalton was grateful to his older brother for sparing him from the worst of the torment. But those boys who couldn’t join Arthur’s wide circle of friends took it out on him. Over the years, he’d gathered up his own contingent. The sad, the lonely, the small, and the defenseless all clustered around him as if he were the only one who could protect them.

  Dalton’s adult friends were the same, those who came in from the storm, so to speak. Men who were finding their way in a treacherous social environment. As boys, like Neville, they were newly wealthy and didn’t know how to handle either their money or life itself.

  Recently, Benny Carlton had been badgering him to become more involved in handling the MacIain interests. The ghost of his father was providing an impetus as well.

  “It only takes three generations to lose a fortune,” Harland MacIain had often said. “One to make it, the next to invest it, and the third to squander it. I’ll be damned if we follow that example. You’ll know how to administer and grow what we’ve given you.”

  The words had been directed to Arthur, but Dalton felt as if the shade of his father was turning in his direction and pointing a bony finger at him.

  The MacIain wealth was seven generations old. If he were going to step into Arthur’s shoes, he’d have to make decisions he had never considered before. He’d have to learn a damn sight more than he knew about all their ventures.

  He was blind, damn it. An excuse that didn’t seem to have an effect on his father’s ghost.

  Maybe he should make a visit to Arthur’s solicitor and query him on his brother’s death. Why hadn’t the authorities been involved? If there was any doubt, any suspicion about Arthur’s death, shouldn’t someone have talked to them?

  Or was Sarah just a grief-­stricken woman, trying to find
a reason why Arthur had been taken from her?

  He heard James in the corridor speaking to Mrs. Thompson. He smelled something chocolate baking and smiled. In several ways, his staff treated him as if he were a child, bringing him treats to ease the day. At the moment he felt as insecure as a child, wanting reassurance that his world hadn’t changed.

  But it had, hadn’t it?

  He had to convince Sarah to let him see Arthur’s son. Or perhaps she would come here and allow Mrs. Thompson to dote on the child. His house had never known the sounds of childhood, a thought that both amused and disturbed Dalton.

  “You were followed,” James said, entering the room and stripping every thought from his mind.

  “What?” The idea was so preposterous, he could only stare in the direction of the doorway.

  Mrs. Thompson bustled about, putting a tea tray on the table between the two wing chairs. She said something about serving him and he nodded as James sat in the adjoining chair.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Thompson,” he said finally, wishing her gone. The minute she was, he put down his cup and saucer and turned to James.

  “What do you mean I was followed? By whom?”

  His initial thought was that it was Neville, and coldness seeped through to his bones. The man had almost been successful at killing him in America. How did he face an enemy he couldn’t see now?

  “A woman,” James said.

  “It was Miss Todd, Your Lordship,” Howington said.

  When the hell was his secretary going to learn to announce himself? Had the man been listening at the door?

  “She’s outside now, sir.”

  Dammit all, would the woman not go away?

  “Do you want me to talk to her?” James asked. “If nothing else, I can arrange for her not to trouble you again.”

  “How are you going to accomplish that? Break one of her carriage wheels? Assault her driver? Anything short of violence won’t convince Minerva Todd to leave me alone. No doubt she’s one of those women who marches and shouts and holds up placards.” He’d witnessed demonstrations before he left for America, something to do with women wanting the vote. “She’s obnoxious. She goes wherever she wants to go with no thought about anyone. She does what she wants, without a by your leave. She says whatever the hell she wants.”