A Borrowed Scot Page 2

  “Sir, can I go now?”

  She turned her attention to the man with the cap.

  “No, Peter. You’re our chaperone.”

  “Chaperone?” she asked. That one word was amazingly difficult to say. Her tongue felt furry and her mouth too dry.

  Her rescuer frowned at her. “If you think I have any intention of being found in a compromising position, you’re mistaken.”

  She licked her lips. “I doubt society would think it proper for two men to keep me company,” she said, sitting upright. “Now, if you had thought to procure a woman as a companion, that would be another story.”

  The man opposite her looked disgruntled.

  “You’re a Scot,” he said.

  “You’re an American although I’ve never heard an American who speaks like you,” she said. She laid her head back against the seat but found it didn’t help the burgeoning headache. “Your words sound stretched out and coated with honey. How very odd.”

  “I’m from Virginia.”

  “Virginia?”

  “You don’t roll your R’s when you say Virginia.”

  He was correcting her pronunciation? She might have had a rejoinder for him if she hadn’t felt so peculiar.

  “Go ahead, Peter,” he said to the man at his side.

  As the coachman left the carriage, the chill of the spring night slapped against her face like a wet cloth. She blinked rapidly, inhaling deeply. The pure cold summoned her back to herself as if, for the last hour or so, she’d been floating somewhere not quite attached to her body.

  She’d never been the type for hysterics. However, as she looked down at herself and plucked the robe with two numb fingers, she was close to panic.

  How on earth was she to get home? Where was her dress? Her shift? The rest of her clothes?

  “I have a robe on,” she said.

  “I put it on you.”

  She didn’t even want to think about that.

  “If you’ll give me your address,” he said, “I’ll see you home.”

  Panic clawed its way up her throat.

  She raised the shade with her fingertip, just enough to see the milky whiteness of fog. Nothing but damp, clinging fog.

  “Where are we?” she asked. “What time is it?”

  Folding her arms over her chest didn’t make her feel more clothed, especially when she suspected that this man, the stranger opposite her, had seen her naked.

  Once she was alone in her bedroom, she’d allow herself to feel the burn of shame. Till then, she simply had to remain as calm as possible. She must extricate herself from this deplorable situation.

  “Past midnight, and in the square outside my house,” he said. “I thought it expeditious to leave the Society as soon as possible.” He hesitated for a moment. “Do you remember any of it?”

  Some, but she wasn’t about to admit it to him. Another thing to contemplate once she was inside her room.

  “I don’t feel well,” she said, a salty taste bathing the back of her throat. She closed her eyes, fighting against becoming sick.

  “Did anyone make you eat or drink anything tonight?”

  She opened her eyes. “I had a cup of something warm when I arrived. It tasted like grapes, but it wasn’t wine.”

  “It was probably drugged.”

  She’d been a fool to take it, but she’d been so grateful to the Mercaii for allowing her to attend that she hadn’t wanted to be rude.

  “How long have we been here?” she asked.

  “A little over an hour.”

  He folded his arms across his chest and stared at her coldly. “I’ve been waiting for you to surface from whatever they gave you.”

  “I shall not trouble you any further,” she said, reaching for the door handle.

  He leaned forward and put his hand over hers.

  “I’m not about to let you leave after I’ve rescued you from harm. Where do you live?”

  “I didn’t ask you to rescue me,” she said, pulling her hand free.

  “No doubt you would have preferred to be raped in front of thirty men,” he said, his voice deceptively mild.

  She glanced at him, horrified by his comment. Was that what they’d planned for her?

  “Thank you,” she said faintly, feeling nauseous. “Thank you for rescuing me, but you needn’t do more.”

  “Where do you live?” he asked, his tone bordering on exasperation.

  “I beg you, please do not escort me home. If you do, I’ll be found out, and the punishment will be severe.”

  “You’re afraid you’ll be dismissed.”

  Thank heavens, he thought she was a servant.

  “Shouldn’t you have thought of that before you went to the Society?”

  She pulled the robe even closer, gathering the folds in front of her, as if doubling the robe would offer further protection for her nakedness.

  “Do you think they’ll say anything?” she asked faintly.

  “I’ve no doubt your tale will be bandied about in certain quarters. Whether it comes to the attention of your employers, I can’t say.” He hesitated for a moment. “What would make you go to such a place?”

  That was a question she wasn’t going to answer.

  “Why were you there?” she asked.

  “A bit of stupidity on my part,” he said, glancing toward the bag at his side. “I’d thought to learn about the origins of an object.”

  Curious, she leaned forward, her fingers brushing against the cloth. A tingling began in her fingertips, traveling up her arm. She jerked back her hand, looking up at him.

  “What is it?”

  “A mirror,” he said.

  She leaned forward again, daring herself to touch the bag. When she did, and the vibration didn’t recur, she wondered if she’d imagined it.

  He didn’t say anything when she picked up the bag. Surprised at the heaviness of it, she sat back and balanced it on her knees. Slowly, she loosened the string at the neck of the bag, then removed the mirror.

  Three indentations on the handle were a perfect resting place for her curved fingers. How many hands had held the mirror over the years? Age had mellowed the gold and softened the trailing roses pattern incised on the handle as well as the writing on the back. The most surprising thing about the mirror was the row of diamonds around its circular face.

  Still, for all its adornment, it couldn’t be called pretty. She turned it over to see that the glass had turned brown with age.

  “Why would you take this to the Society?” she asked.

  “Damned if I know,” he said, glancing at her. “Someone I know thinks it’s magic, that it shows the future.” His look revealed what he thought of that.

  “I’ve heard of people seeing the future by staring at a bowl of water,” she said. “Never a mirror.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen anything,” he said.

  She glanced down at the glass again. As she stared, the brown color faded. In its place was her face, smiling. She was surrounded by people, and although she couldn’t see their faces clearly, she knew they were smiling, too. The mirror, held in both her hands, trembled as if was alive. In the reflection, her eyes were soft with love, her smile curving and tender. The feeling of happiness was so deep and pervasive, she felt her heart swell with joy.

  She was herself, yet she was not. The woman who faced her in the mirror was different. Was it age, experience? In that moment, she wanted to be the woman she saw more than the person she was.

  Abruptly, he held out his hand, and she had no choice but to surrender the mirror to him reluctantly. Once he’d replaced the mirror in the bag, he glanced at her again. A look of speculation lingered there. Or was it compassion?

  Dear God, and she didn’t think it untoward to petition the Almighty for assistance in this regard, please don’t let anyone who knew Uncle Bertrand and Aunt Lilly discover anything about this night.

  Uncle Bertrand was set upon advantageous marriages for his daughters, and a f
uture for his sons, none of which would be accomplished if a relative was known to be scandalous. And what could be more scandalous than what had happened tonight?

  Surely, the members of the Society would not comment on tonight’s actions. To do so would be to admit they were present. Would it matter to any of them? A man was judged by a different set of criteria from a woman, and often exempt from censure.

  She, on the other hand, would be seen as shocking.

  Attending a meeting of the Society of the Mercaii had seemed worth the risk. They might have been able to answer her questions. But they weren’t the learned scholars she’d heard but simply a gathering of men interested in other pursuits entirely.

  Either her thoughts were making her sick, or whatever they’d given her to drink was affecting her stomach. Her headache was getting worse as well.

  She glanced at the opposite seat, wishing she could look into her reflection again. Had she really been happy? Had she been surrounded by people who loved her? Was that a vision of her true future, then, and not the abysmal one she imagined?

  Or had the drug made her delirious, too?

  “Give me your address,” the stranger said.

  “You mustn’t take me home. If you do, someone will see.”

  “I didn’t want to rescue you,” he said. “Since I did, I’ll see it to its conclusion. You won’t walk home alone.”

  Something sounded in his voice, some emotion that summoned her curiosity. For a moment, she pushed it away. Curiosity had been at the root of this disaster. Despite herself, she glanced at him. His returning gaze was shuttered, flat, as if he felt nothing.

  People were never without emotions.

  She closed her eyes, sent her Gift reaching toward the man opposite her. She stilled, clearing her mind, and immediately felt something. He was impatient and irritated; but beneath both emotions, surging like the tide, she felt his anguish, so sharp it felt like a knife slicing through her.

  In that moment, she almost asked why he was so troubled, halted only by the memory of Uncle Bertrand’s words. How many times had he lectured her?

  “Veronica, you must not tell people everything you feel. They’ll label you a candidate for Bedlam. I have my position to maintain, and it will do me no good to have my niece rumored to be daft.”

  “I’m not daft, Uncle Bertrand,” she’d said. “I cannot help what I feel about people.”

  “Your mother encouraged you too much, girl. There is no such thing as your Gift.”

  What had she said in response? Something about not wishing to hear anything bad about her parents. Or had she simply remained silent, knowing any rebellion, however small, was simply not worth the effort?

  No doubt she was fortunate not to be locked up in a third-floor attic somewhere, or relegated to an out-of-the-way place, labeled the slightly odd woman who felt the emotions of others.

  “Well? What’s your address?”

  She opened her eyes, slowing turning her head to face the man who, inwardly, was so troubled. Outwardly, however, he was taciturn, impatient, and supremely annoyed at her.

  “If I give you my address,” she asked, “have I your word you’ll simply let me leave the carriage? That you won’t feel it necessary to escort me to the door and let my employers know what’s transpired?”

  He was looking at her that way again, as if he skewered her to the seat with his disapproval.

  “When I’ve determined you’re safe, yes.”

  Resigned, she gave him Uncle Bertrand’s address, praying her uncle and the entire family would be asleep.

  He transmitted the address to the driver, then settled back against the seat.

  In a matter of minutes, they were approaching her uncle’s house. She’d had a story prepared before she left this evening should anyone see her returning to the house. She’d simply gone for a bit of air. She missed the solitude of Scotland. Oh, but that was the truth, wasn’t it?

  One good thing about being a poor relation was that she hadn’t had a season, wasn’t going to have a season, and didn’t venture out often. The only time she did leave the house was to perform an errand for Aunt Lilly or Uncle Bertrand. None of the shop owners lived in the neighborhood. Therefore, the chances of her being seen and recognized were almost nil.

  When the carriage slowed, then stopped, she reached for the door. Before she could leave the carriage, her rescuer leaned forward.

  “Promise me you’ll use a little more sense in the future than you demonstrated tonight. I don’t know what they paid you, but no amount of money is worth such degradation.”

  “No one paid me,” she said.

  “Then why were you there?”

  “I was curious,” she said. That was all the explanation she was going to divulge.

  “A damn dangerous place to be curious.”

  She nodded and opened the carriage door. Gripping the too-long robe with both hands, she stepped to the pavement, feeling the cold seep through the bottoms of her feet. What had happened to her shoes?

  The loss of her dress would be difficult to explain since she only had three, each of them in the same blue fabric her aunt said wore well. All the female servants were attired in the same serviceable blue serge, a fact that hadn’t escaped her. She could always say she’d ruined the dress with a stain. Her aunt would fuss about the expense, as well as question why she hadn’t at least torn the dress into rags.

  How did she explain losing her only pair of shoes?

  “Are you hesitating because you’re afraid you’ll be discovered?” he asked.

  She turned, startled to see that he’d left the carriage behind her.

  He was an arresting figure, a tall man with a subtle elegance, almost a predatory intensity. Caution made her take a step back.

  “Did you kill him?”

  His smile was razor thin.

  “So, you do remember.”

  “A shot,” she said. “Did you shoot him?”

  “No, even though he deserved shooting. The ceiling was the only casualty.”

  The night was utterly still and softly beautiful. The only sounds were the horses restlessly stamping their feet. The fog was thick, changing the street lamps to small moons. The slightly sulfurous odor stung her nose and caught at the back of her throat, reminding her that her stomach was still in rebellion.

  The robe was thin and the spring air damp and cold. She needed to be on her way, but she clutched her hands together, took a deep breath, and turned to face him.

  “It is enchanted, you know,” she said.

  “What is? The mirror?” Impatiently, he glanced over his shoulder at the carriage.

  “Would you give it to me?” she asked. “It’s all too clear you don’t want it.”

  “It’s not mine,” he said. “It was delivered to my doorstep in a trunk containing women’s clothing. Evidently, it belongs to the previous owner of the house I purchased.”

  “Will you return it?”

  “If I knew her whereabouts, I would.” He folded his arms and studied her. “Why?”

  “If you gave it to me,” she said, “I’d attempt to find the rightful owner.”

  “Would you?”

  She nodded.

  “Your sudden interest in the mirror has nothing to do with its being gold or the diamonds around it, would it?”

  “No,” she said, surprised and a little insulted.

  “Then why do you want it?”

  She could tell him. If she did, he would label her even more strange than he already thought her. Who truly cared if she was eccentric or slightly dotty? As a poor relation, she’d have no substance. She’d be a shadow in the corner, an afterthought. “Oh yes, that’s Veronica, she’s lived with us for ages. Has no money of her own, poor thing. A charity case, you know.”

  The mirror had given her the first taste of hope she’d felt in a very long time.

  “I would attempt to find the rightful owner. Truly.”

  “No.”

  She consider
ed arguing with him but suspected that this man, once he’d made a decision, could not be moved.

  “Thank you,” she said again, turning to leave him. “For rescuing me.”

  He didn’t respond, but his look said it all. If she hadn’t been so foolish, he wouldn’t have had to rescue her.

  The townhouse seemed far away, set back from the street to allow a small fenced lawn in the front. Soon, Aunt Lilly would be ordering the planting of flowers. Nothing too garish to attract too much attention but enough to give the white façade a little color.

  Her uncle’s townhouse was on the corner; it would be a simple thing to slip around to the kitchen entrance. Uncle Bertrand was notoriously parsimonious. None of the servants was permitted up after ten or before six in the morning. In that way, he saved money on lighting and coal. No one would be awake for hours yet.

  She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder at her rescuer.

  “Are you very certain you won’t give me the mirror?”

  “Very certain,” he said.

  At her silence, he smiled thinly. “It’s a mirror,” he said. “Nothing more.”

  It was more than just a mirror. It showed the future, or at least she hoped it did. Before she could explain, a voice rang through the night.

  “Oh, Father, it’s worse than I thought. Veronica’s undressed.”

  She turned to find Amanda standing there, her cousin’s golden hair illuminated by the white light of the fog-shrouded lamps.

  Amanda’s look was one of studied horror. The key to understanding Amanda, however, was never in her expression, but in her eyes. At that moment, they glittered like those of a cat, catching the faintest light and gleaming brightly.

  Amanda was amused.

  Anything that amused Amanda usually proved to be detrimental to Veronica, a lesson she’d learned well over the past two years.

  Beside her stood Aunt Lilly, her hands flailing in the air as if to contain the situation. Aunt Lilly did not like circumstances to overpower her. Behind her stood the other four cousins. Neither Aunt Lilly nor Uncle Bertrand would tolerate their brood being out of doors improperly attired. However, it was obvious that they’d already retired for the night.

  Alice’s hair was braided, and Anne had already slathered Mrs. Cuthbertson’s Cream for Young Ladies on her face. Algernon’s jacket was askew, and Adam, for once, did not have his nose in a book.