My Highland Rogue Read online

  He didn’t care. He’d never live there. The memories would be too disturbing. Not of Sean or Betty, but of Jennifer.

  Jennifer, laughing. Jennifer, her face earnest as she confided a secret to him. Jennifer, weeping on those rare occasions when sadness overwhelmed her. Jennifer, angry at Harrison. They were almost always angry at Harrison together.

  No, he couldn’t think of her. It was a habit he was going to have to learn somehow.

  The minute he crossed into Scotland, he felt himself tensing. Perhaps it was a godsend that the journey was so difficult, requiring changing trains, being concerned about his baggage and carriage, and the sheer noise and belching soot he was subjected to, even in a first-class compartment.

  Adaire Hall was far enough away that he didn’t have to worry about encountering anyone, yet he still found himself looking north.

  He’d never been to Edinburgh. Five years ago when he’d left Adaire Hall, he’d headed south immediately, wanting away from everything that had reminded him of his upbringing.

  Now he looked around him, feeling a sense of pride at what he saw. The city was crowded, but not as difficult to navigate as London. No doubt there were parts of Edinburgh that were less acceptable, but what he saw, from the castle on the hill to the prosperous homes and offices, was the equal of London architecture.

  He should have come to the city before now. After all, he was a Scot and Edinburgh held the history of Scotland in her palm. He wondered if he should expand in Edinburgh. If he won his case, he’d be a Scottish peer. It made sense to come and live here.

  He’d be too close to Adaire Hall, however.

  The advocate’s office was in a redbrick building aged by soot. It possessed a minimum of windows and a maximum of pomp and ceremony. A doorman attired in scarlet livery greeted him at the door and bade him remain on the steps until his appointment had been verified.

  A few minutes later, the door opened again, wider than before. Another man, dressed in a severe black suit, bowed slightly to him and invited him inside.

  Gordon was immediately submersed in gloom.

  He followed the man down a long corridor, then to the left. At the end of the hall was a window that barely lit the space.

  The man hesitated midway down the hall and bowed again to Gordon before opening a door. He stepped to the center of the doorway, placed his gloved right hand on his chest, and intoned, “Mr. McDonnell to see you, sir.”

  A moment later, he stepped to the side, motioning Gordon to enter.

  He found himself in a dimly lit office. There was a row of windows behind the massive desk, but they were heavily curtained, and no one had thought to open them and allow a little brightness into the room. The only illumination was two gas sconces on either side of the room that gave off a weak yellow glow.

  The man seated at the desk was probably thirty years older than Gordon. His hairline had receded, and the wispy strands across the top of his head were only a few months away from departing. His severely arched nose stood in relief, almost like a handle for the rest of his long face.

  He stood, stared at Gordon, then abruptly sat once more. As a greeting it was unusual. Gordon didn’t know whether to announce himself again, stand there until the man regained his composure, or return the stare of the advocate, who was sitting there with his hands flat on his desk, wide eyes staring in Gordon’s direction.

  Evidently, the man didn’t have new clients very often.

  He strode forward, extending his hand. “My solicitor gave me your name and said that you might be able to help me, Mr. McNair.”

  The man shook his head a few times, almost as if he were dislodging cobwebs.

  “Of course, of course,” he said, standing again. The two of them shook hands before he gestured to a chair in front of his desk.

  Gordon sat.

  “I know Blackthorne well. A good man. I shall send him a letter thanking him for the referral.”

  Was this Scottish advocate partial to drink? Had he imbibed his breakfast?

  The outcome of this case wouldn’t rest on anything he did. Instead, it would be solely on his solicitor’s expertise as well as the letter of the law. Betty had taken his name and his parents. He was damned if Harrison was going to go the rest of his life wearing Gordon’s title. However, he wasn’t entirely certain that he entrusted his future to this man.

  McNair was still staring at him.

  “You say your name is McDonnell?”

  “That’s part of my problem,” he said.

  He had told the tale twice. Once to Jennifer and once to his English solicitor. Circumstances dictated that he tell it again, but it didn’t become easier with repetition.

  “Until a few weeks ago, I thought my name was Gordon McDonnell. I believed that I had been born to the head gardener at the estate owned by the Earl and Countess of Burfield.”

  McNair tilted his head slightly, his pen hovering over the page. “Are you referring to Adaire Hall?”

  Gordon nodded. “I was raised at Adaire Hall. Because of the generosity of the Countess of Burfield, I was educated with her children.” He was not going to go into his relationship with Jennifer. It didn’t have any bearing on his claim. Nor was it anyone’s business.

  “I left the estate five years ago and returned only recently when my father was dying.”

  McNair still hadn’t written anything.

  Gordon stared at the edge of McNair’s desk. It was as old-fashioned as the building and the office in which he found himself. He wondered if it was something deliberate, an aura achieved to give the client the impression that they were reserved, traditional, and dedicated not so much to change as to maintaining the status quo. No doubt that reassured a great many people.

  That same attitude might prove to be deleterious to his claim. Or it might even prejudice McNair against taking his case.

  “The night before he died, Sean confessed.” He corrected himself. “No, it wasn’t so much a confession as it was a revelation. Betty, his wife, was the one who confessed to him on her deathbed. However, I have my suspicions that Sean knew what she’d done all along.”

  “And what was that, Mr. McDonnell?”

  “There were two babies born that year, both within days of each other. One was the heir to the earldom. The other was born to the gardener and his wife.”

  “That would be you.”

  “So I thought,” Gordon said.

  He told the solicitor about the fire, the countess’s heroic actions to save her child, and what it had cost her.

  “The wet nurse died in the fire. Betty was asked to care for the countess’s child while she was so ill. The infants were both only days old. Betty decided to switch the babies. Her son’s future would probably be limited to following in his father’s footsteps, but she wanted more for her child.”

  McNair put the pen down on his desk.

  “No one was the wiser. No one would’ve known what she’d done had her conscience not bothered her shortly before she died.”

  McNair sat back in his chair, his note-taking evidently forgotten.

  “You’re telling me that you believe yourself to be the rightful heir to the earldom? That you’re the son of the Earl of Burfield?”

  Gordon nodded again. “I am. I find it a fantastical story myself, Mr. McNair. I wouldn’t blame you if you doubted every word of it.”

  “Do you have any proof?”

  “No. There’s a woman who was there that night. She was a nursery maid, but she won’t talk.”

  McNair adjusted his suit jacket, then his cuffs, before straightening his pen and the stack of papers in front of him. He reached for a blank sheet of paper, put it on his blotter, then folded his hands before looking at Gordon.

  “I believe you, Mr. McDonnell.”

  Gordon looked at him, surprised. “Why?”

  “Because when you walked into my office it was like seeing a ghost. Alexander Adaire was one of my closest friends. At school he and I were inseparable. I’
ve been to Adaire Hall many times. When he died, he was still a young man, and there are many people who mourn him to this day. I’m one of them. You’re the image of your father, McDonnell.”

  He hadn’t expected that. He didn’t remember the earl since he’d only been five when the man died. Nor were there any portraits of him anywhere.

  “I am very sorry, however, but I can’t take your case.”

  Gordon wasn’t unduly surprised. However, he had two more names on his list.

  “Thank you for your time,” he said, standing.

  “Please sit down,” McNair said. “Aren’t you curious as to why I’m not going to take your case?”

  “It’s not hard to understand. All I have is a story. I can’t prove any of it.”

  “That’s not why, Mr. McDonnell. I cannot represent you if I’m also going to appear as a witness.”

  Gordon sat, looking at the advocate. “A witness?”

  “You’re the mirror image of your father. I have a number of friends, men who knew Alex who would say the same. I don’t doubt that they’ll stand as witnesses as well.”

  He pulled a sheet of paper to him and began to write.

  “In the meantime, I’m recommending another advocate. Let me write a quick note to him, and you can take it now. He’s just across the street. Tell him what I said. I don’t think he’ll have any reluctance to take your case.”

  McNair folded the note and gave it to him. True to his word, the advocate he recommended was anxious to represent him.

  “If you have Robert McNair as a witness in your defense, your claim is as good as granted.”

  Gordon began walking back to the Waverly Hotel, feeling better about one part of his life. He’d never considered that he might resemble his father. If it was true that he was so like the fifth earl, enough that McNair was willing to be his witness, then perhaps it would make it easier to prove that the earldom had been stolen from him.

  He’d never actively hated anyone. It seemed to him that hatred was a wasted emotion, requiring too much energy and reaping few rewards. In this instance, however, he allowed himself the luxury of hating Betty McDonnell and wishing her to eternal perdition.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “The Campbells’ retiring room is always cold,” Abigail said. “And their tea is never hot. No one who works there ever has any time for me, so I’m put in a corner to wait.”

  Abigail’s complaints had begun the minute they entered the carriage. Ellen didn’t respond, but then she normally remained silent. If you got into a discussion about anything Abigail said, the maid grew even more voluble.

  “It’s a dreich day, which means it’ll be even colder. I don’t think their housekeeper likes me, which is why I’m not given acceptable refreshments.”

  Jennifer looked up to find that Ellen was studying her.

  “I think it would be best if you saw my physician, Jennifer. I’ve sent word to him and he can come tomorrow. I absolutely insist.”

  She knew why her godmother thought she was ill. She would admit that she was acting oddly, but how else was she supposed to behave? She couldn’t cry. The pain was too deep for tears. It was easier to sleep or simply stare at the wall. She didn’t want to feel anything, because it was easier that way.

  “Very well.”

  She didn’t care. Let a physician examine her. Let him ask her all sorts of intrusive questions. He would never ask the right one. He would never say to her, “Lady Jennifer, have you lost your will to live? Has everything in your life suddenly lost meaning?” No, he wouldn’t ask those questions, would he?

  Ellen didn’t look away. “Do you know how worried I am about you?”

  “You shouldn’t worry,” Jennifer said. The effort to speak was almost beyond her. “There’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing anyone can do.”

  Even Abigail turned to look at her. Jennifer closed her eyes, unwilling to see Ellen’s expression or Abigail’s curiosity. They felt as far away from her as the stars. How could she possibly explain the situation to them?

  Although she didn’t feel like going anywhere or seeing anyone, she also knew her godmother. When Ellen was determined on a point, nothing and no one could stop her. It was simply easier to give in immediately, which was why she was in a carriage going to Hamish Campbell’s house. It was either this visit or spend the rest of the day arguing. She had neither the inclination nor the energy for that. Therefore, she’d go and see Lauren and Mr. Campbell and be as polite as possible. She would smile when she was supposed to and contribute to the conversation if she absolutely must, and when it was over, she would go back to her room and sleep.

  Traffic in Edinburgh was not as bad as that in London, but it wasn’t easily navigated, either. Today it was taking longer than it should have, according to Ellen, to reach Mr. Campbell’s home.

  She’d only been there once, for a dinner prior to Harrison’s wedding. It was a lovely and impressive home, whose history paralleled that of Edinburgh itself. At another time, she and Ellen would have discussed the house or Mr. Campbell’s penchant for displaying all sorts of weapons used in clan wars on every available wall.

  Now she wasn’t interested.

  She stared out at the streets of Edinburgh. It truly was a lovely city. In the past, she’d always found something new to interest her. Now she simply didn’t care about the scenery.

  Their driver was evidently becoming impatient with the traffic because he asked permission from Ellen to take another route. She concurred, and they turned left at the next corner.

  She wished Ellen hadn’t insisted on going to the Campbells’. She didn’t feel strong enough to feign politeness. All she really wanted to do was go to sleep.

  A man on the sidewalk looked like Gordon, but it wasn’t the first time she’d been reminded of him. Would she always think she saw him, as if her mind wanted to ease her heart with the pretense? This man had the same purpose in his stride. She sat up and looked harder. She only caught a glimpse of his face before the carriage turned, but he even looked like Gordon. She sat back. It couldn’t have been him. Gordon was in London. The momentary glimpse of someone who resembled him made her feel even worse than before.

  Ellen thanked the maid for bringing her cloak and then smiled at Hamish, who helped her don it. He’d invited her to see the addition to his garden, and she would do almost anything to escape the atmosphere in the drawing room.

  To her great surprise, Lauren was barely talking to Jennifer. Nor did Jennifer do anything to fill the silence. You would think that the two women had never met, hadn’t been friends for the past year or, even worse, were archenemies.

  “That was exceedingly uncomfortable,” Ellen said as she took Hamish’s arm.

  She would never have made that remark to anyone other than Hamish, but he had been a friend for years. He’d known Colin well, and after her husband’s death, he’d been exceedingly kind in helping her navigate financial waters. Plus, he had been kind in other ways, demonstrating that he, too, knew the power of grief.

  “Indeed, it was,” he said. “I think perhaps my daughter is more disturbed than she has let on about her marriage. I, myself, am bothered by the attitude Harrison has taken.”

  Ellen sighed. “I wish I could give you some advice in that quarter, Hamish, but I’m afraid I can’t. He has proven to be a thorn in a great many people’s sides. Yet he was raised by a wonderful woman.”

  “You can’t always blame the parents, Ellen. Sometimes, a child will go astray for no reason.”

  “Jennifer has done her part to make the visit uncomfortable,” she said, determined to be fair. Lauren shouldn’t be blamed for the entirety of the strain in the drawing room. Jennifer sat on the end of the sofa and stared at the carpet, rarely speaking. When she did, it was like someone had just awakened her. “She’s been different ever since she came to visit. I haven’t the slightest idea why, and I’m at my wit’s end about it.”

  Hamish didn’t say anything. His attention was
suddenly on his footing, as if he was afraid he would trip in his own garden. His arm beneath her hand tensed.

  “Do you know something?” She stopped and faced him. “Hamish?”

  “Nothing that makes any sense, Ellen.”

  “Nothing has made sense since Jennifer arrived in Edinburgh. If you could tell me anything, I would appreciate it.”

  “I found her one day on the lawn. She’d evidently just been given some terrible news.” Hamish didn’t look at her but continued to stare at his shoes. “I’ve never seen anyone cry like that, Ellen. It was like her soul was wounded.” He finally glanced at her. “She wouldn’t tell me what was wrong, but I knew that something had happened. I never did learn what it was, but I’m not surprised that she hasn’t acted herself.”

  “Are you certain you don’t know what happened?” Ellen asked, more confused than before. “What about Mr. McDonnell?”

  “Who?”

  “Gordon McDonnell.”

  “I don’t know who that is. I was never introduced to anyone by that name.”

  That was very strange, but everything about this visit was odd.

  When Hamish showed her the new greenhouse, she made admiring noises, all the while wondering exactly how to broach the subject of Gordon with her goddaughter. She was determined not to endure this state of affairs for much longer. Jennifer was simply going to have to tell her what was wrong.

  Mr. Campbell certainly appreciated Scottish history, to the point that there were various framed documents scattered through the hallway and the parlor attesting to his family’s participation in several battles. The Campbells also seemed to have been active in political movements through the years.

  The Campbell tartan was everywhere in this parlor, from the sofa and chairs to the ottomans. Even the curtains were tartan. When Jennifer first walked into the room, it was like visiting a Scottish nightmare.

  Lunch had consisted of a choice of clear or cream soup, salmon with dill sauce, venison with roasted vegetables, and a pudding topped with curls of chocolate.