Scotsman of My Dreams Read online

  She was in no mood to endure their endless prying.

  Stopping on the path, she folded her arms and frowned up at the window on the second floor. A moment later the curtain twitched closed.

  Nodding, she made her way to the house.

  Somehow, she would have to prove the Earl of Rathsmere wrong. The idea of Neville trying to kill anyone was ridiculous. Secondly, she was going to find her brother, even if she had to stay glued to Rathsmere’s side.

  Chapter 9

  “What are you doing?” Dalton asked. He sat at the desk in his library with a tumbler of whiskey at his right hand.

  He heard something heavy slide along the floor. He guessed it was Howington, since the man hadn’t announced himself, only entered the room as he had for months, silently and with little regard for the fact that Dalton had to guess who the hell it was.

  “Your brother’s solicitor has sent over the last of his papers, sir. “

  He’d already informed Arthur’s firm that he was making other arrangements and using his own solicitor. Evidently, the decision hadn’t inspired them to haste, since it had taken them nearly three months to provide all of his brother’s documents.

  “There’s also a pouch, sir, containing letters. Would you like me to go through them?”

  “Leave it on the desk for now.”

  He felt something land near his right hand. Had the man thrown the pouch at him?

  The easiest solution was to allow Howington to go through the letters. Then why was he balking? Because they were Arthur’s personal papers and he disliked the idea of anyone prying through his brother’s private life, especially Howington.

  Perhaps he should have his solicitor send over a dozen applicants for the position, someone he could trust more than Howington.

  The thought startled him.

  He’d trusted the man well enough before America, enough to leave him in charge of his household while he played soldier. When had that changed? Was it because of Howington’s refusal to announce himself? Or the fact that he felt his secretary was standing there watching—­and judging—­him?

  He wasn’t certain. The only thing he did know was that his antipathy to the man had begun on his return and was growing each day.

  “Go away, Howington. Go find some other chore to do.”

  “If you’re certain, sir.” A vague snideness licked Howington’s words. “There are two trunks beside the door, sir. Set side by side.”

  “I will endeavor not to trip over them, then.”

  He could feel the man standing at the door watching him. He’d hated being stared at even during his sighted days.

  “Go away, Howington.”

  “Sir.”

  With that, he was gone.

  At least the man didn’t live here. Most of his servants had quarters on the third floor, except for the stablemaster and the lads who slept in the stable. Mrs. Thompson had the most luxurious quarters, having taken the majordomo’s rooms when he sent Samuels to Gledfield. Samuels was ecstatic to reign over Gledfield’s servants rather than a small London staff.

  Dalton stared at the doorway, wondering what he should do about the trunks. Did he really want to go through Arthur’s papers?

  Ever since his meeting with James a few days ago, he’d been in a reflective mood, one that didn’t suit him at all. He didn’t like measuring himself against a more perfect person, the one his mother always considered him to be.

  Arthur had been nearly perfect. He wasn’t anything like Arthur, and from what he’d heard, Lewis wasn’t emulating Arthur, either.

  He abruptly missed his older brother’s counsel. Arthur was down to earth, a pragmatist, stolid and stable. What would Arthur have said about his current dilemma?

  You’re still thinking too much about yourself.

  The words were so strong in his mind that he could have sworn Arthur spoke them.

  So what would he be in the future? There wasn’t a role model in his mind, someone to fashion himself after unless it was an ancient uncle relegated to an attic somewhere. Or a raving lunatic kept in chains. Surely the MacIain family boasted one or two of those.

  Standing, he made his way to the fireplace and rang the bellpull. When it was answered in only minutes by a young-­voiced thing, he asked her to summon Mrs. Thompson.

  Returning to his desk, he waited for the arrival of his housekeeper.

  “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  Her voice was tremulous with enough hesitancy that he wondered if she’d grown afraid of him. If so, he needed to change her opinion.

  “Mrs. Thompson, I have a favor to ask of you.”

  “Of course, sir. Anything.”

  He wondered if she was wringing her hands. She’d had a habit of doing that, he remembered, especially when she was awaiting his judgment on a dish, the arrangements for a party, or the accommodations for one of his frequent guests.

  “I haven’t told you, have I, Mrs. Thompson, how much I appreciate your efforts?”

  “My efforts, sir?”

  He was botching this, wasn’t he?

  “I would be miserable without you,” he said, determined in this comment, at least. “I appreciate all your efforts on my behalf.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Her surprise irritated him. Why should she be surprised at his thanks? Hadn’t he thanked her enough in the past? To his discredit, he couldn’t recall one instance.

  Shame slithered up his body, hissing at him before heating the back of his neck.

  “What favor is that, sir?” she asked, returning to his initial remark.

  He gestured in the direction of the trunks with one hand. “I’ve received my brother’s things. I need someone to help me go through them.”

  “Of course, sir,” she said, but she didn’t move.

  Had he somehow offended her with the request?

  “Sir.” That one word was laden with hesitation.

  “What is it, Mrs. Thompson?”

  Was she going to tell him she couldn’t read? Surely not. How could she perform her job? Should he excuse her now rather than cause her further embarrassment?

  “I’ve made something for you, sir. I thought it was a good idea at the time, but I don’t know if you’ll be offended or if I’ve overstepped. You’re such a handsome man, Your Lordship, even with the scars. But I thought you might feel a little more comfortable with it, rather than not.”

  He hadn’t the slightest idea what she was talking about.

  “What is it, Mrs. Thompson?”

  He heard her skirts brush against the desk. She leaned forward and gave him something that he felt with both hands. He was able to discern that it was a disk of fabric stitched so it had a certain dimension with a length of string attached on either side.

  “It’s an eye patch, sir. It will hide the worst of your scars. And your eye, of course.”

  He didn’t know what to say.

  “Forgive me, sir. I shouldn’t have.”

  “No,” he said. He cleared his throat. “No, Mrs. Thompson. Thank you. I appreciate the gesture.”

  “If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll help you.”

  In the next moment, she’d taken the eye patch from him and fixed it over his right eye.

  “Hold it here, sir,” she said.

  He found himself obeying her instructions.

  “If you tie it like this, it will stay on.” She moved his other hand to the back of his head where he felt her tie the string into a bow.

  “Well, Mrs. Thompson?” he asked when she was done and had stepped back. “What do I look like?”

  “Oh, sir, you are even more handsome now.”

  He didn’t know what to say. With her gift, he could shield the worst of his scars from ­people. Perhaps he could even pretend a rakish air, a don’t-­give-­a-­d
amn attitude toward anyone who might happen to see him.

  She’d thought about him, considered how to help him, and in a gesture filled with generosity, had reduced him to silence.

  “Well, sir, would you like me to begin with the parcel?”

  He nodded, grateful for her tact and her kindness.

  “The first seems to be a letter from the solicitor.”

  She began to read.

  Forgive my delay in sending these to you, Your Lordship. On being notified that you’ve selected your own firm to handle matters, we have gathered all remaining correspondence to forward to you.

  Some of these documents are of a personal nature, as you will note. However, I did not feel it within my province to destroy them without being instructed to do so. Your brother left no provisions for them.

  The housekeeper suddenly made a quashed sound of distress.

  “What is it, Mrs. Thompson?”

  “Well, sir . . .” she began, only to stumble to a halt.

  He waited, but when she didn’t say anything further, he spoke. “You are my eyes, Mrs. Thompson. I don’t know what disturbs you until you tell me.”

  “It seems to be letters, sir. Love letters.”

  He hadn’t known much about Arthur’s marriage. He’d only his suspicions that it hadn’t been a happy one. He wasn’t around Arthur and Alice often enough in the last few years to know. Arthur made his home at Gledfield while he remained mostly in London. When his brother did come to London to sit at Parliament, he stayed in the family home.

  They hadn’t socialized together; they didn’t have friends in common. As close as they had been as boys were as distant as they were as adults. How had that happened?

  Arthur hadn’t approved of him, he knew that well enough. Still, they were only a year apart and had grown up together. You would think all those years of childhood would mean something more than they had.

  What had happened with Arthur’s marriage?

  He held out his hand and a moment later Mrs. Thompson handed him the letters. The stack was thick, tied with a leather string. Up until this moment, he hadn’t realized that Arthur had a strong core of sentimentality. He pulled a letter free from the middle of the stack, handing it to Mrs. Thompson.

  “Would you read it?” he asked.

  He couldn’t explain his curiosity. Maybe it had something to do with suddenly missing Arthur, more than he had before. Or regretting that they had each allowed their relationship to disintegrate into nothing more than acquaintances, strangers who had once known each other.

  “Are you certain, sir?”

  “Please.”

  “ ‘My dearest Arthur,’ ” she began, her voice taking on a soft tone. “ ‘Our child brings me so much joy I feel I must be smiling all day. He looks so much like you, even down to the little dimple on the right side.’ ”

  For a moment Mrs. Thompson didn’t speak. Nor did one word find its way to his lips.

  Alice had never borne a child.

  “Is the letter signed, Mrs. Thompson?”

  She cleared her throat. “Yes, Your Lordship. Sarah.”

  Who the hell was Sarah?

  He was more than a little shocked. Evidently, his stuffy, pedantic, authoritarian brother was more like him than appearance would dictate. Arthur had an illegitimate child.

  He sat there, growing more conscious of Mrs. Thompson’s silence. Was his housekeeper embarrassed?

  “There’s a last name, sir,” Mrs. Thompson finally said, her voice reedy. “Westchester. And an address on the envelope.”

  He handed her the pack of letters, curious. “Where did she send them?”

  The address she repeated was that of Arthur’s solicitor. How convenient—­and tactful—­of them, Dalton reflected. And ironic: if he hadn’t decided to change solicitors, instead of using the same firm his brother had employed for years, he would never have known about Arthur’s child.

  Had Alice known? He suspected she had.

  “What’s the date of the last one?”

  He heard her fumble through the letters, then open an envelope.

  “March fifth.”

  Two days after Arthur had been killed.

  “Will you read it, Mrs. Thompson?”

  She drew a quivering breath, sighed, and began to read.

  My dearest darling,

  I can’t wait to see you again. The weeks have not passed gently since I saw you last. I want to show you how much little Arthur has grown, but most of all, I want your arms to enfold me, and make me feel that there is no other place on earth I would rather be.

  My dearest, the days cannot pass quickly enough until I see you again. Until then, know that you have my love.

  For the first time since he’d been blinded, he was grateful for it. He needn’t see Mrs. Thompson wipe away her tears, tears that were audible as she closed up the letter and put it back in the stack. He needn’t witness her sorrow, slathered as it was on top of her embarrassment.

  “I can count on your discretion, Mrs. Thompson.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Of course, Your Lordship.”

  He sat there silently for a moment, trapped in his blindness, and Mrs. Thompson no doubt ensconced in propriety. Had he shocked her with all the goings-­on in this house years earlier? He’d had his share of women coming in and out. More than once, the maid had served him and a woman breakfast in bed. If he was forced to do so, he didn’t think he could list the names of all the women he’d brought here.

  Had she been scandalized? It was suddenly important to know. An odd impulse and one on which he didn’t act.

  “Shall we go through the rest, sir?”

  “I find I don’t have the heart to do so, Mrs. Thompson.”

  How much more about Arthur did he need to know? How strange to miss him now, to wish he’d taken the time to visit with his brother before time was gone.

  What would Arthur have said to his adventures in America? He suspected that his brother wouldn’t have castigated him for his foolishness, reasoning that being blind was punishment enough. He also suspected that Arthur would have been his greatest champion.

  He put the letters in his desk drawer. He would either destroy them or put them in a safe place so they wouldn’t be read by anyone else. He could at least do that for Arthur.

  One other thing he could do—­visit with Sarah and see if there was anything she needed.

  But his visiting anyone was not a sentiment shared by James when he met with him the next day.

  “I must insist, Your Lordship.”

  When the hell had James started calling him Your Lordship? What was there about a title that rendered everyone a little foolish? He was the same man he had always been, replete with faults and flaws. Inheriting a title hadn’t made him better.

  “I think it would be best if you remain inside your house. It would be easier to watch you here.”

  “And I’ve decided I need to go somewhere.”

  “Surely your errand can be delegated to someone.”

  “No, it can’t,” he said.

  Besides, he hadn’t been out of his house for three months. Didn’t he deserve an outing?

  That thought startled him to a stop.

  Had he really been a recluse that long?

  That couldn’t be right, but it was. He’d been blinded in November of last year, spent months healing in Washington before beginning the voyage home. He’d arrived in London in May and had been a hermit ever since.

  He’d never needed to leave his house. All his creature comforts were provided. His home was large enough that it hadn’t seemed confining. No more than blindness was. A good thing he’d never been bothered by tight spaces. Being surrounded by blackness meant that he was forever in a dark closet.

  “I need you to expend your efforts on finding Nevi
lle Todd,” he said to his old friend.

  “I need to ensure you’re protected,” James repeated. “Besides, I have some of my operatives working on Neville’s location.”

  “And William Harris?”

  “Him, too.”

  “I can fire you,” Dalton said.

  “Then I would consider it an act of charity to follow you anyway and ensure you’re protected. Let’s just say a pro bono exercise.”

  “I don’t remember you being so intransigent.”

  James laughed. “That’s amusing, coming from you, Dalton.”

  At least James had stopped calling him Your Lordship.

  “Very well. If I can’t stop you, at least keep some distance between your carriage and mine.”

  He gave the address to James, not explaining who Sarah Westchester was or her relationship to Arthur. Some things were better confined to the family, a thought that drew him up short. He had no intention of telling Lewis, either. He felt like he owed Arthur some privacy.

  His brother had been an icon of respectability. The fact that Arthur had a mistress shocked him. Strangely enough, it also made his brother more approachable, essentially more human. His older brother hadn’t been perfect after all.

  He wished he’d understood Arthur better, and regretted that they had grown apart. He also wanted to be certain that Arthur’s son—­his nephew—­was being cared for.

  He owed it to Arthur and to the child.

  Once James left the room, Dalton walked to the bellpull and jerked it once. When Mrs. Thompson answered his summons, he forced himself to face her.

  “Have I dressed myself correctly, Mrs. Thompson?”

  All of his shirts were white, while his suits were black. The chances of him mixing colors was nil, but there was always the possibility that he’d stained himself. He might’ve gotten ink on his silk cravat. His shoes hadn’t felt dusty, but he was unused to leaving the house without performing a final inspection.

  He wore his eye patch in the hopes of not scaring Sarah of the letters with his appearance. He’d taken his time shaving, too. A few mornings, he hadn’t known he’d cut himself until Mrs. Thompson said something to him in her usual cheerful air.