My Highland Rogue Page 4

  The desire to take her into his arms and greet her properly had been so strong that he’d found it easier to avoid looking at her.

  He’d wanted to touch her, to feel the shape of her back again as well as the slender beauty of her arms. Most of all he’d wanted to kiss her, even if everyone stared. Let them stare. After an hour or so he’d have enough of kissing Jennifer, but only for a while.

  He’d thought she would greet him, but she hadn’t. After saying his name, she’d not addressed him at all. He’d never thought Jennifer cold, but she hadn’t said a word to him. Nothing to indicate that he was welcome.

  Evidently, McBain had been right all this time.

  He followed the path around the east wing, his gaze on the panorama of branches overhead. Autumn had already come to this part of the Highlands and stripped the trees of their leaves. It was a sign of Sean’s illness that they hadn’t been gathered up lest they mar the perfection of the grounds of Adaire Hall.

  To his left was a large bed of Whin, or Conasg, in Gaelic. He’d learned all the Gaelic names of Sean’s plants for the countess, a bit of bragging he was pleased to do for her sake. The Whin had been one of the flowers he’d given her that first day. It wasn’t a particularly attractive plant, but when all its flowers bloomed, sometimes even in winter, they produced a golden-yellow, almond-scented array.

  The land dropped down, undulating toward the river. Most of the outbuildings were located behind one of the rolling hills in a spot where they weren’t easily seen from the Hall. The gardener’s cottage, along with the ghillie’s residence, was situated at the end of the path he took.

  He was nearly at the home of his childhood, the place he despised above all others.

  He’d learned a great deal at Adaire Hall, but even more once he was away from it.

  He discovered that the wealthier a man was, the less he tipped. The best tippers were those who’d escaped complete poverty and were on their way to some measure of success. Men who had the most to lose were often the least guarded about their actions. Having a title wasn’t a predictor of a man’s character. How a man treated a woman had nothing to do with his rank or status in life. Sometimes, the most vicious man was also the most exalted. Women could be as brave as any man, and just as resourceful.

  In the past five years he’d also learned a great deal about himself. For long swaths of time he could forget about his past, but it still came back to haunt him at odd times. He was prosperous, whispered about, and the object of speculation. He enjoyed cultivating an aura of mystery. The more people wondered about him, the more apt they were to come to one of his music halls or club. Yet there was something lacking in his life, something that had to do with this place.

  In the time it took to walk the graveled path, time reversed itself. He felt like he was eight years old again, forming his knowledge of the world and of himself one bit of truth at a time.

  His relationship with his father had always been tenuous at best. He and Sean had always clashed. Nor had his father ever expressed anything other than disappointment in him. Never once had he said, “Good job, Gordon.” Or, “I’m proud of you, boy.” He’d never heard Sean say anything affectionate to Betty, either.

  Sean was only happy when he was working in the earth, when he’d coaxed a bloom in the spring or a line of hedge he recently planted flourished. His happiness was measured by the order he created in the Celtic Knot garden or any number of places at Adaire Hall. The great house was his life. The gardens were the source of all his love.

  The moment he’d read Jennifer’s letter, Gordon knew he’d have to return. His reluctance had been instant, borne of a memory of a scrawny child hoping for any crumbs of kindness from the two people in the world who should have cared for him but hadn’t.

  The cottage huddled like a mushroom on the landscape. The new thatching made it appear even more top-heavy. Two front windows let in the light on either side of the rounded wooden door and appeared like eyes gleaming in the fading sunlight.

  Jennifer had told him once that she thought the cottage looked as if it were enchanted. Like special brownies lived inside. She was only nine at the time, and he ten, but even then he hadn’t wanted to tell her the truth. The cottage had never been a happy place.

  Sean hadn’t approved of his friendship with Jennifer. His father always went on and on about how the guardian wouldn’t like it, how the earl would disapprove, never mind that the earl was ten-year-old Harrison, already well on his way to being a prig.

  However dislikable Harrison was, Gordon was told to treat him—and any of the members of the Adaire family—with the respect due their rank, understanding that he was the gardener’s boy, nothing more.

  He tried to obey, but he never could when it came to Jennifer. Whenever he could escape Sean, he would steal away and Jennifer would meet him, either on the shores of Loch Adaire or one of the paths through the hills. She’d been his partner in adventure, his friend, and then so much more.

  Now he knocked softly, but when he didn’t hear anything, he grabbed the latch and pushed open the door.

  The cottage was surprisingly spacious, having a main room, a small kitchen, and two rooms in the back. One of those had been his, and the larger one had belonged to his parents.

  After closing the door behind him, he stood in the main room looking around. He had the curious sensation of having stepped back in time. Nothing had changed in five years.

  No, there was one change. Betty was no longer here.

  He walked to the fireplace and picked up a framed charcoal drawing on the mantel. Years ago, an itinerant Irish worker had come to Adaire Hall. He’d worked for Sean, who had labeled the man a drifter. He hadn’t spent his time playing cards or drinking. Instead, the man was given to scribbling in a book of blank pages.

  When he left the Hall, he’d given Gordon one of those scribbles, a portrait of Betty. He’d been eleven years old at the time and amazed at the man’s talent. Now, looking at the lifelike portrait, he could almost hear his mother’s voice.

  Betty had never been maternal. Everything she’d done for him, from sewing a rip in his shirt to feeding him, had been accompanied by grumbling, condemning looks, and a switch more than once. He’d wanted to ask why she disliked him so much, but the question would have been answered with another beating.

  The portrait was uncannily accurate and not the least complimentary, a fact that Betty evidently hadn’t seen. Her cheeks were full, her face round. Her mouth was small, pursed in this portrait just as it had often been in life. Her eyes were brown and narrowed, an expression that was commonplace. As if Betty didn’t see anything pleasing about the world around her.

  Her voice was raspy, the tone always this side of exasperated.

  He remembered one incident when he was eight years old and had broken a bowl. He hadn’t meant to do it; it had been an accident, but Betty didn’t see it that way.

  “You clumsy, worthless, disgusting piece of trash! See what you’ve done now?”

  She reached for the strap by the door and proceeded to beat him until his legs bled. When she was done, or her arm tired, she’d thrown the shards of the bowl at him, one of them cutting his cheek. He still had the scar to remind him of his mother.

  Yet she was as given to worshipping the Adaire family as Sean. No one was as handsome as Harrison or as talented. No one’s future looked brighter than the boy made earl.

  When Gordon had gone to study with Harrison and Jennifer, she hadn’t been impressed at the countess’s generosity.

  “You’ll get ideas above your station, boy. You just remember he’s the earl.”

  Although he doubted that he’d ever need Latin or debate Pythagorean theory, he was determined to be educated, to learn as much as Harrison knew or even more.

  Yet he’d never appreciated, until he’d been nearly grown, Betty’s influence. She’d given him something he’d not expected: independence. He’d been forced to depend on himself, to grow a skin thick enough to endu
re his own mother’s antipathy.

  For that he would have thanked Betty, had she still been alive.

  “If you’re not a ghost, then you must be himself.”

  He turned to see his father leaning against the doorframe of his bedroom, one hand clutching it to hold himself up.

  Sean was the one who looked like a ghost. Clad in his nightshirt, he was rail thin, his pallor so great that Gordon put the frame back on the mantel and walked quickly toward him.

  “You shouldn’t be out of bed, I’m thinking,” he said, reaching his father.

  He put his arm around Sean’s waist and walked with him back to the bed.

  “I’ll not have you playing nursemaid.”

  “Someone obviously has to,” Gordon said.

  “I’ve got a nurse, thanks to Lady Jennifer. She insists on sending me a girl around the clock. I think she’s afraid I might die without someone notifying her.”

  He should have known that Jennifer would ensure that his father was cared for.

  “Where is this nursemaid of yours?”

  Sean took a moment to answer, the effort evidently tiring him. “She went to fetch something from the Hall.”

  Gordon helped him into bed, covered him, then reached over to arrange his pillow.

  “What does the physician say?” he asked, realizing he should have asked Jennifer that question.

  “Damn fool. Same thing they always say. They don’t know, but I should take this tonic or that medicine. Just in case, you understand.”

  Sean looked as if he’d lost nearly half his body weight. He was so frail a stiff wind might blow him away. His hair, once the color of straw, had thinned until there were only strands covering the bald patches.

  “He had to have said something.”

  “My insides aren’t working like they’re supposed to,” Sean said, scowling at him. “I’ll not tell you more than that. I’ll keep my own counsel, thanks.”

  Gordon pulled the chair close and sat.

  Sean looked over at him. “So, you’ve been living in London all this time, boy? What makes you think you need to come home now?”

  His father hadn’t changed. Nor had Gordon expected that illness would soften Sean in any way.

  “I take it Jennifer told you where I lived.”

  “It’s Lady Jennifer to you.”

  Gordon didn’t correct himself.

  Sean turned his head away.

  For a moment Gordon was tempted to recite a litany of his accomplishments to his father, but he realized it wouldn’t make any difference. Sean would never acknowledge that he’d done anything right or worthy of praise.

  “So, you’ve come back to see me die, is that it?”

  Gordon sat back in the chair, knowing that Sean would probably not be surprised by the truth. His father’s illness had been just an excuse. In his heart he knew that he’d come back for one reason. To see if he’d been wrong all this time and McBain had been right.

  Had Jennifer loved him as he’d loved her?

  Chapter Five

  The interior of the Mayfair Club was impressive with its soaring columns and three-story foyer. It reminded Ellen of a Roman bath she’d once seen. Although there wasn’t a pool of water at the base of the columns, all the other details were intact.

  She couldn’t hear anything. No indication that this was a place for men to come to ogle women and lose a fortune at gambling. No doubt they were also fed well, and she’d come to understand that there were even living quarters on the upper floors for those who could afford them.

  Thanks to Colin’s indefatigable secretary, who had remained in her employ, she’d gotten some advance information about the Mayfair Club. Unfortunately, however, there was little she could discover about its owner. The man, who was rumored—according to her sources—to own various entertainment establishments throughout the city, was cloaked in secrecy.

  She was therefore surprised when he agreed to meet with her so readily. Of course, she had mentioned Harrison’s name, title, and the fact that she was a dear friend of the family. She didn’t think it necessary to mention that she was Jennifer’s godmother. Nor that Mary had been her one close friend, someone she mourned every day.

  Some things about her life were too important to be used, even as a negotiating point.

  She had every intention, however, of putting pressure to bear against the ownership of the Mayfair Club if they refused to cooperate with her. She had no doubt that Harrison had proved to be an exemplary member. Not only had he taken up residence in one of the apartments on the upper floors, but she suspected that he’d lost a great deal of money gambling. Ascending to his father’s title had not granted Harrison any sense.

  Before her death, Mary was at her wit’s end about her son. Ellen felt that this errand was more for both her friend and her goddaughter than it was for Harrison’s benefit.

  The porter escorted her to a parlor looking out over the street. The walls were thankfully not covered in that dreadful red flocking that was all the rage. Nor was there any indication that the owner of this establishment had an affection for gilt. Instead, this room was tastefully decorated in shades of beige and brown, giving her an indication that it was a masculine retreat.

  A maid entered the room, bobbed a curtsy before stepping aside for another maid to enter, laden with a tea tray. Both girls were extraordinarily pretty and although they were dressed as modestly as they might have been in a London household, Ellen couldn’t help but wonder if they had additional attire for the evening hours. As the sun set was their modesty also put to rest?

  She smiled her thanks and watched as they turned and left the room, still speechless. What a very strange encounter. Had they been taught that women were better seen than heard? If so, that was a mark against the owner of the Mayfair Club.

  Rather than wait for her host, she served herself some tea as well as two biscuits. Age had something to recommend for it. She truly didn’t care if her waistline expanded a bit. Not too much, of course, but she wasn’t about to turn down a biscuit with currants along with her tea.

  She was on her third biscuit when the door slid open again. She brushed off her fingers, blotted at her mouth with the embroidered napkin, and prepared to do battle.

  The woman who entered the room was dressed as richly as anyone in the upper echelons of London society. In fact, Ellen was quite sure that she had seen a similar pattern from her own dressmaker. The woman’s gown was perhaps a little much for afternoon wear, but since it was only an hour or two before dinner, she could be excused.

  Her hair was blond, perfectly coiffed, in an ornate style that would have required a talented lady’s maid to arrange.

  Abigail was not quite as skilled, but Ellen made do with her inadequacies. After all, she herself wasn’t perfect. Why should she require her staff to be without flaws?

  Given that this woman’s dress was immaculate and her hair was without criticism, it didn’t seem quite fair that her figure was shapely, and her face . . . Well, the woman was of a certain age, that was without doubt. Yet she was still strikingly beautiful.

  Ellen immediately fell victim to a surge of jealousy, supplanted by the wish that she had tried more with her own toilette before arriving here.

  Who knew that she would be meeting Helen of Troy?

  “I do apologize for keeping you waiting. We had a situation that required my presence, otherwise I would not have been so rude. Please, forgive me.”

  The woman floated across the room and sat at the end of the settee opposite Ellen. Each gesture was made with grace and delicacy. No doubt everything the woman did was performed in exactly the same way.

  Ellen was without words. She wanted to tell the woman that she was expecting the owner of the Mayfair Club, someone hopefully ugly. She would very much like to see a normal human being in the next few minutes.

  However, before she could form a word, the goddess spoke again.

  “Oh, I’m so glad that you served yourself some
tea. Should I call for some more hot water?”

  Ellen shook her head dumbly, since the power of speech had not yet returned to her.

  “The currant biscuits are my favorite, too.”

  “Who are you?” Ellen asked.

  Speech had returned to her, yet it was shrouded in rudeness. She wanted to call back the words the minute they were uttered, but the woman opposite her only smiled.

  “We have started wrong, haven’t we? I’m Maggie Boyland. I know you were expecting the owner, but unfortunately he’s been called out of town. I manage the Mayfair Club, and I thought that I might be able to assist you in some way.”

  Ellen reached for another biscuit, not because she wanted one, but she needed to do something other than stare at the woman. She had never heard of such a thing. A woman, managing the Mayfair Club. She didn’t quite know what to think. Of course, to manage such a successful establishment would require brains, charm, and a great many other attributes, some of which Ellen was certain she didn’t know or understand.

  Would you have to be good at gambling yourself? Certainly you would need to know something about cards and card players, for that matter.

  Ellen was subjected to a sweeping inspection.

  What did Miss Boyland see when she looked at her? A woman past her prime, no doubt. Fashionably dressed, with enough jewels on her rings to give the impression of wealth, certainly. Someone who did not get out often, because she had been tongue-tied ever since the woman entered the room.

  Of the two of them, Maggie was the more polite, not to mention eloquent.

  Ellen had never felt as out of her element as she did now.

  She finished the biscuit, placed the plate back on the tray, then used the napkin to blot her mouth once more.

  “I have been exceedingly coarse,” she said. “Please let me convey my apologies. Perhaps we can attribute my boorishness to the errand itself. I am at a loss and I need your help, Miss Boyland.”

  “How can I help you?”