Читать книгу Man Of The Mist - Elizabeth Mayne - Страница 13

Chapter Four

Sunday was bitterly cold from start to finish. A little weather never kept the duke of Atholl’s hardy ladies housebound on the Sabbath — not when the dowager devoted a Sunday to pursuing the Lord’s work.

They began with services at nearby Saint Mark’s, which were followed by the annual ladies’ guild winter bazaar, a monstrous undertaking that took up the balance of the cold and dreary afternoon. Throughout the whole long, cold afternoon Elizabeth sold rose cuttings to enhance next summer’s gardens. The bazaar made a long day longer.

Elizabeth couldn’t wait to get home and exchange her somber, very damp walking dress and pelisse for a warm gown of velvet and lace. She spent an hour in the nursery telling stories to Robbie in another effort to elicit whole sentences from her monosyllabic son. Since his nanny’s sudden death in October, Robbie had all but quit speaking entirely.

Elizabeth tucked her arm around Robbie’s wee shoulders, drawing him close. “How many beans did Jack get from the peddler, Robbie?”

“Dunno.” Robbie’s shoulders lifted under the light compression of Elizabeth’s loving arm. His thick cap of dark curls brushed against her cheek as he turned his face toward the windows overlooking the park.

“You don’t know?” Elizabeth asked, cognizant of her inner fear that there might be something wrong with her beautiful, perfect son.

It was bad enough that she was not allowed to claim him as her own, to openly act or be his mother. Her father’s acceptance and support of the child came with the stricture that appearances must be kept up.

Elizabeth’s father had guessed her incipient condition before Elizabeth, in her youthful ignorance, discerned it herself. Robbie had been born at Port-a-shee, on the Isle of Man, on March 4, 1803, and legally named an orphan and a ward of her father, under his privilege as Lord Strange, lord of the Isle of Man.

For the past four years, Elizabeth had engaged in an ongoing battle to spend as much time with her son as her father would allow. Considering the circumstances of Robbie’s birth, she was fortunate to have any contact with Robbie at all, and she knew that. Hence, she had always showered the child with loving attention every chance she got. That wasn’t enough for her. She feared her limited concern wasn’t enough for the child, either.

Ever restless, Robbie wiggled off the settee to dart across the room to his low shelf of toys and books. He pulled out book after book, discarding one for the next, until he came to a well-worn favorite, a volume of illustrated fairy tales. His cherubic face was as somber as a choirboy’s as he leafed through the pages, searching for the story of the giant and the beanstalk.

When he found the picture of Jack trading his mother’s cow for three beans, he popped back onto his sturdy feet, ran across the room and laid the open book on Elizabeth’s lap. She rumpled his hair and smiled.

“Ah, I see. You brought me the picture. How many beans is that? Do you know?”

Robbie tilted his face up to hers and sighed, deep and long. He held up four fingers, which was wrong, but he said, “Three,” which was correct.

“That’s right, three beans.” Elizabeth smiled as she tucked his first finger under the tight compression of his thumb, making his gesture match his words. “Three beans and one, two, three, four, five fingers. Very good, Robbie.”

Unconcerned with numbers, he whirled away and sat in the midst of his toy soldiers and castle blocks. In the blink of an eye, the child was engrossed in his toys and oblivious of Elizabeth’s presence.

Fascinated, as always, by everything Robbie did, Elizabeth watched him build a new wall and line a squadron of tin soldiers on its rim, then flop onto his belly to maneuver the pieces.

The door to the nursery opened, and Krissy bustled in, bringing Robbie’s supper on a tray. “Well, and himself does love the wee soldiers Colonel Graham gave him, doesn’t he? Good eve, milady. I’ve brought your supper, Master Robert. Come. Up to the table with you.”

Elizabeth stood. “Robbie, I’m going to go now. I have to speak to His Grace.”

“’Bye,” Robbie grunted, engrossed in the toys, oblivious of both Elizabeth and the servant setting up his supper on the nursery table.

Krissy cast an indulgent smile at Elizabeth that, in effect, excused the child’s bad manners. Elizabeth made her own allowances for Robbie’s not standing when she did. He was so young, a baby still in the nursery. Manners would come in time.

She could no longer put off the necessity of speaking privately with her father, and the sooner the better.

Elizabeth slipped through the door joining her and Robbie’s rooms and closed it quietly, but as she checked her appearance, she kept one ear cocked to the activity in the other room. Krissy could talk the ear off a marble statue. Robbie’s infrequent mumbled grunts made no difference to her.

Elizabeth ran a brush through her hair and vainly tried to loosen the tightness out of her chestnut curls, tugging on the cluster that draped across her shoulder to stretch it. The moment she let the end of the curl go, it corkscrewed back where it had been.

“Drat!” Elizabeth said. It did no good to brush the wayward curls, or tie them, or do anything but let those curls do what they might. Hence, she rather liked her newly cropped head of hair, adorned in the latest classical style, which was both short around her head like a cap and long and feathery from the curls left dangling at her nape and her ears. She tied a green velvet ribbon that matched her dress around her head and touched a curl here and there, satisfied with her appearance.

Elizabeth lingered at her vanity a moment longer, studying the bluish shadows under her eyes, which hadn’t faded, even though she’d spent most of the day outdoors. The intensity of her worries showed. She pinched both cheeks to heighten their color, concluding that that would have to do.

Finished, Elizabeth tiptoed down to the second-floor landing, deliberately pausing to use sound to locate each member of the crowded household.

Keyes exited from the salon, bearing the used tea service on a silver tray. The butler let in and out the happy noise of the aunts, the dowager and Amalia over their rounds of piquet.

Across the foyer, the click of ivory balls accompanied a scolding from Elizabeth’s brother James, Lord Glenlyon, to their uncle, Thomas Graham. Tullie was spending the evening in bed, still recovering from the effects of his impromptu surgery the night before. God willing, every soul in the house would remain exactly where they were for the next hour, Elizabeth prayed.

She circled the newel post at the foot of the staircase and crept down the long, carpeted hall dotted with statuary and hothouse greenery until she came to the closed door of her father’s study.

Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth dashed the perspiration from her upper lip. There was nothing to be gained from putting off what she had to do. Her soft tap on the closed door just barely qualified as a knock.

Elizabeth had the door open and her head and shoulders well inside the inner sanctum before her knock penetrated as far as the duke of Atholl’s desk. “Are you free, Papa? Could I have a word with you?”

John Murray took the time to remove a pince-nez from his nose before lifting his baleful gaze to his daughter. “Ah, Elizabeth, I’ve been expecting you. Come in, my dear. Do shut that door. Those drafts up that hall are a misery.”

Elizabeth stepped across the threshold, grateful that the first and worst hurdle was over — finding her father alone and with time to spare was nearly impossible. She closed the door and took a moment to quell the fluttering of her heart by looking around the study with feigned interest.

Elizabeth was not particularly fond of this study. Though it was her father’s room, she had always associated it with her mother. It was to this room that she and Amaha had trustingly come, hand in hand, to be told the sad news of their mother’s death sixteen years before. So she had a natural repugnance for this room — though never for the man who occupied it.

Which might have seemed exceedingly odd, because where the rest of the town house might be chilly, the study somehow retained a cozy warmth. Likewise, where the aunts, the dowager and the eight-years-older Amalia might find fault with Elizabeth, her father rarely did.

She wound her way through the maze of sturdy, well-used furniture, chairs and tables that made no pretense to art or style. A cheery fire crackled in the hearth and cast eerie light up to the trophy heads and antler racks. It was a man’s room in all ways, tainted by uisge beatha, port wine, and tobacco smoke, dark and somber in color, with heavy furnishings that befitted large-boned, heavyset men like her father.

Elizabeth settled in the corner of the wide couch before the fire. “Why is it always warmest in here, Papa?”

John Murray buffed the lenses of his glasses, then tucked them into a coat pocket. “Oh, I would account that to sharing the same chimney stack with the kitchens, I suppose. Didn’t plan it that way. But I daresay my father quite enjoyed the added warmth in his later days. So shall I.”

“Are you tottering into your dotage?” Elizabeth asked, with a dimpling smile.

“Are you being cheeky, puss?” the duke asked. He poured them both a glass of sherry and handed one to Elizabeth. “What shall we toast?”

Elizabeth took the flute in hand. The corners of her mouth twitched. Her higher principles advised her to hand the glass back and firmly refuse. But to do so would insult her father. Elizabeth could not make such a display. “Well...” she murmured, thinking of her own purposes. “We could ask for a quick and decisive Parliament. All the business of making Britain run smoothly, done in three weeks at the most. Do you think that would be appropriate?”

“Indubitably,” the Duke agreed. “Here’s to good business, wise leadership and common sense!” He touched the rim of his crystal to Elizabeth’s, and tasted the fine wine. The formalities done, he settled on the other end of the couch and gave the flickering flames in the hearth his attention. “You’ve something on your mind, Elizabeth.”

“Yes, Papa, I do.” Elizabeth set the full glass on the table at her side. She dropped her hands into her lap and entwined her fingers together to keep them still. “Let’s jump straight to the point, shall we? There’s no point in my being here in London for the little season. I want to go home, tomorrow at the very latest.”

She waited until all the words were out before turning her head to gauge her father’s expression. His large head nodded, dipping as he brought his glass to his lips and sipped the sherry. The lamps behind them on his desk made a wealth of white hair glimmer all around his head. The starched points of his collar crackled where they flared up against his smoothly shaved cheeks.

“What? You just arrived here a few days ago, and already you are bored with your friends?”

“My friends, no, Papa. You know very well what I find singularly unappealing. We’ve discussed this several times, and I can’t make my wishes any plainer. I am not in the market for a husband. I don’t need one. I won’t have one, and I certainly won’t look for one, nor display myself on the marriage market here in this filthy city.”

“Oh? Can’t say I’m surprised to hear that speech again. Elizabeth, you ought to think of something more original.”

“Papa!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “It isn’t fair to bait me. You know perfectly well what I mean. London is disgusting and dirty. I hate it here. I always have hated coming to London. You should allow me my independence. I do reach my majority in April.”

“Hmmm...I’m well aware of your age, Elizabeth,” Lord Atholl mused, concerned over his youngest daughter’s stated intention of avoiding marriage — no matter the cost. “Amalia hinted this afternoon that you’d have all your reasons to return to Dunkeld in place before you sought an audience with me. Planned a little fait accompli, have you? What you’ve offered doesn’t sound either urgent or convincing, though.”

“Amalia spoke to you?” Elizabeth asked, rattled by that admission. She waited with bated breath for her father’s answer. What had Amalia said? Had she mentioned Evan?

“Yes. Amalia and I had a very long and thorough conference earlier this afternoon.” The duke sipped his sherry, then put his glass aside and turned to study Elizabeth as he continued. “She tells me that Evan MacGregor put in an appearance last night. What do you make of that?”

“What should I make of it?” Elizabeth ignored the quickening tempo of her pulse. She kept her face impassive, her hands still and her eyes firmly on her father. “He has nothing to do with me, Papa. Why, I haven’t seen or heard one word from him since his sister married, five years ago!”

“Is that so?” John Murray inclined his head a bit, to better study his daughter’s flawless face. He failed to see a single sign of the heightened interest that he was seeking. Surely his gut feelings weren’t wrong?

Of his three daughters, Elizabeth, who had never really known her mother, most favored his late wife. Elizabeth had inherited the wide, intelligent eyes and brows and flawless skin of the Cathcarts.

Unfortunately, her chin and her very full lips proclaimed her a Murray to the core. She had a way of sliding her eyes to the side to study one that reminded him very much of his long-lost Jane Cathcart. She was giving him that look now, just as her mother had been wont to do. Elizabeth was keeping secrets again. There was nothing new about that.

“You are both of a proper age, now,” the duke said blandly, probing the still waters skillfully. “You liked each other well enough when you were children. Many a successful marriage has been built on less.”

“Marriage!” Elizabeth choked. “All that nonsense about Evan and I was over and done with when he went to Eton. You know that as well as I do, Papa.”

“Is that right, puss?” he asked absently, knowing better. They’d corresponded for years, three and four letters a week to one another, right up to the very day Evan’s sister married — May 28, 1802. He remembered the date precisely.

“Yes, it most assuredly is. I had every right to admire him years ago. Evan protected me. Mrs. Grasso was a right witch, you know, Papa.”

“She was a very good teacher,” John Murray said, nonplussed. His daughter flashed an insincere smile. The duke wasn’t the least bit fooled. She was throwing smoke and covering her tracks. A bloody ferret couldn’t dig the truth out of Elizabeth Murray.

God Almighty knew he’d done everything in his powder — everything short of beating a pregnant woman — to get her to tell him the truth at Port-a-shee, when it became glaringly evident that she’d bedded someone.

“And the other thing I’ve considered thoroughly is Robbie.” Elizabeth pounced on another quasi-valid reason. “This doctor you insisted on having examine him will be of no consequence. The only thing troubling Robbie is that he has no one to bond with now that Nanny Drummond has passed. He adored her. He’s grieving, that’s all. What is best for Robbie is to go back to Port-a-shee, and all that is familiar to him.”

“I don’t see the significance there. I’ve fostered the boy no differently than I’ve fostered any of a dozen other lads over my years.”

“Really, Papa? Is that the same thing as having a recognized parent?”

“Don’t throw words like those in my face, young lady. You made your choice years ago, and you will live with the consequences of that decision. Count yourself blessed to have the opportunity to know the lad under my patronage.”

“I’m not complaining. I am content with things the way they are.”

“You are? Then what’s your point?”

Exasperated, Elizabeth exclaimed, “My point is, I want to go back to Dunkeld. What’s so unreasonable about that? Will you grant me that boon?”

Murray patted his pockets till he found his pipe. He pulled it out and laid the bowl in his palm to scrape out the insides with a flattened pocket nail. It was a handy bit of business to fill the time with, while Elizabeth sat on tenterhooks, waiting. She wasn’t going to appreciate his answer. Elizabeth didn’t like being told no.

“Amalia thinks this season will be different.”

“Ha!” Elizabeth choked back a bitter laugh. “Papa, let’s not deceive ourselves, shall we? Not when we both know the truth.”

“Oh? Right, then.” John tamped two pinches of tobacco into the bowl from his pouch, put the stern of the pipe firmly between his teeth and sat back.

At issue between them was the home truth that mere mortal bairns were not conceived by immaculate conception. Had he even a clue who Robbie’s father was, Elizabeth would not be a spinster, she’d be a widow.

The duke had used his powers to make certain no one alive knew what circumstances his youngest child had gotten herself into at a young and tender age. Abigail Drummond had delivered Elizabeth of her infant and raised the child. She’d taken to her grave the identity of Robbie’s mother. And no one but Elizabeth knew the identity of the boy’s father. And she wasn’t talking.

“All right.” He gave in, handing her the lead she wanted. “Tell me your version of the latest, up-to-the-very-moment truth.”

“War,” Elizabeth said succinctly, and stared at him with eyes so pale a blue, they could be valerian plucked off a deserted Greek isle.

Atholl frowned as he put a taper to the candle nearest him and brought that to the bowl of his pipe, puffing and sucking to ignite the tightly packed tobacco.

“War, you say? What’s war got to do with you going to Dunkeld? Did I miss the passing of the Cross Truach?”

“War doesn’t have anything to do with the passing of a fiery cross, Papa,” Elizabeth said exasperated. “It has to do with the fact that there aren’t any worthwhile men left in England to court a duke’s daughter! They’ve all gone off to battle here, there and everywhere. Those that haven’t enlisted have quit the country seeking fortunes in tea from Ceylon, mahogany in India, cocoa in South America. Have I made my point clear?”

“Oh, aye. England’s come a cropper. Can’t deny that—what with rising after rising during the last century. But there’s plenty of good men in Scotland worth your while, Elizabeth.”

“Really?” she said challengingly. “Are you saying my being a duke’s daughter there doesn’t matter one iota? That one clansman’s as good as any other?”

“No,” he answered deliberately. “Is there one in particular who’s caught your eye then, puss?”

“Papa, you’re being deliberately obtuse. You know what I mean. May I go home tomorrow?”

“No, you canna go home tomorrow, or the day thereafter, either. Wouldn’t think of sending you back this soon and giving anyone the notion we have something to hide. You’ll just have to make do, Elizabeth. And that means you will see to your normal duties during the little season.

“Besides, Amalia vows she’ll strangle me if I allow you to waste this season in London, puss. Don’t think you should, since MacGregor’s come to town.”

“Amalia!” Elizabeth cried, her voice choked. “What’s she got to do with this? She hates Evan!”

“Hmmm...good point. She definitely dislikes the rogue. I’ve always wanted to know why. Do you know the answer to that, puss?”

“I believe she’s always thought he’d turn out a rakehell, too handsome by half. Most likely she had a tendre for him, like every other soul in the whole wide world, and could never get him to bat an eye her way.”

“Hmmm... Well, can’t say I’m surprised by that. She’s five years older than the scamp.” Murray laughed and rocked the stern of his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other. As was his custom, he left it clenched between his teeth, dragging down the right corner of his mouth while he proceeded to talk around it. “My point is, Amalia would like to see you settled and married, Elizabeth. Frankly speaking, so would I. You’re not getting any younger, you know.”

Smoke wreathed his head while he sat thinking and gazing at the haze.

“You can’t ask me to put up with another batty old maid in my house, can you, puss? Nicky and Charlotte are enough for one poor old Scot to manage, aren’t they? No, you would be best-off married, Elizabeth. You’re not the kind of woman who is cut out to be a spinster. You feel things too deeply, and react to sensations born spinsters are perfectly blind to. No, no. You need a strong, demanding husband, you do. You’ll have to trust my judgment on that.”

“Oh, no, I won’t,” Elizabeth declared, with a firmness he found alarming. “Father, I intend to follow in Aunt Nicky’s footsteps and take her place as the patroness of Bell’s Wynd,” Elizabeth argued heatedly. “I can’t do that if I’m married.”

By the way she switched from endearments to formal address, Lord John knew Elizabeth was beginning to clutch at straws. If their conversation dwindled to the point where she called him sir, it would mean Elizabeth’s tender feelings were hurt. In that, she had always been easy to read. His older girls had called him Father for so many years he rarely thought of them as anything but adults now. But to Elizabeth he had been Papa a very, very long and dear time.

“Now, there you’re wrong. You are not at all like Aunt Nicky, puss.” He took his pipe from his mouth and leveled her a rock-steady gaze. “You need a man.”

Bordering on genuine panic, Elizabeth argued. “Surely you’re not serious, my lord!”

“You’ve completely misread the situation between us, Elizabeth. Just because I haven’t pushed any of the men forward who have asked for your hand, that doesn’t mean that I haven’t entertained and declined offers from some of these young pups. There hasn’t been a rogue whose character or means I fully approve of yet. I have high standards, you know. Not just any Sassenach will do.”

“Sassenach!” Elizabeth gasped, shocked. That would never do at all. “What are you really saying? Any old Scot’s as good as the next, is he?” Elizabeth was needling him deliberately now. “Papa, you said it was my choice and you would not force me.”

“Ah, so I did, in principle. But that was then and this is now.” John Murray sighed. “That’s why I haven’t made any mention of offers before. However, in light of today’s reflections, I believe it would do you good to remain in town for the little season. It’s only a few weeks—as long as Parliament is in session. Young Robbie will keep safe and sound in the nursery until then...and...we’ll see, hmm?”

No matter how nicely he coated the bitter pill, Elizabeth had difficulty swallowing it. “Papa, I want to go home.”

“And so you shall, dear. All in good time.”

“No, now.”

“No, Elizabeth. Don’t be tiresome. You’re much too old to stage tantrums or resort to hysterical sulks.”

“I can’t believe you’re siding with Amalia.”

“I’m on the side of common sense, always, puss.”

“Fine!”

Elizabeth stood. She looked down at her father, her mouth compressed, the stubbornness of her chin very telling of her Murray roots.

“Don’t expect me to confide in you in the future. I may just go to Scotland without your permission, sir.”

“Humph!” The duke grunted.

Elizabeth met his piercing gaze without wavering. He put his smoldering pipe on a porcelain dish on the table and laced his fingers together across his stomach. He was a fit man, in his early fifties. Only a rash fool would have misjudged his vitality and strength by the premature whiteness of his hair. Elizabeth was not often a fool.

“May I remind you of the last time you decided you’d rather be in Scotland than in London with me for a session of Parliament? How far did you get on your little journey home alone during that rising, Elizabeth?”

“That’s hardly relevant today. I was an eight-year-old-child then. I wouldn’t make the same mistakes.”

“Except in your willful thinking, eh?”

John Murray refrained from standing while his youngest faced him with rebellion in her eyes. Long experience had taught him to avoid direct confrontations with Elizabeth. Once she got her blood up, she was the very devil to get to back down.

Should she warrant suppression, Atholl could certainly rise to the occasion and dominate her. But, of his three daughters, he preferred that this one remain on course with her basically easy-to-read and predictable come-ahead stance and attack.

Elizabeth could be very devious if provoked. God knew that was the most strikingly formidable Murray trait that could be inherited. That she had mastered it made Atholl wish his sons were more like their baby sister.

“Well, yes. I suppose I am being willful, sir.” She had the grace to blush with that admission.

“Good.” He gave her a look whose purpose should have quelled any further rebellious acts. “I want it understood, Elizabeth, that if you do such a foolish thing as to run off without permission anywhere, I can and will exert the full power of my authority over you...whether that is to your liking or not. And if you’ve come to an age when you think to doubt my will, I suggest you think back to Port-a-shee, and then think again.”

That reminder had the effect he sought.

“Papa,” she pleaded, “I don’t want to defy you, I want to go home. I’m not asking for a trip to Cairo. I see no valid reason why you shouldn’t accommodate me. For once in my life, Amalia could make excuses about my absence from town. London won’t die without me here to amuse it.”

The duke sighed. He propped his elbow on the armrest of the sofa and splayed his fingers across the side of his face. He stared hard at Elizabeth, willing her to accept the decision she’d been given.

She remained as she was, her back to the fire, her hands pressed together in supplication, her face an angelic mixture of entreaty and sweetness. He felt like a cad.

Their discussion would only disintegrate from here. The duke stood, walked around the sofa to his desk and sat in his creaky old leather chair.

Where his youngest daughter was concerned, saying no was easy compared to the monumental effort it took to stand on that decision. It was fair knowledge to one and all that he favored and indulged his youngest more than he had any of his other children.

He silently willed her to leave his study as he returned his attention to the briefs on his desk. She didn’t. She stood there by his fire, a living, breathing Christmas angel, praying. Whether her supplications were for him or for herself, he didn’t care to ask.

It was some minutes before he spoke, and when he did it was without looking up from the papers he was reading. “Elizabeth, Reverend Baird is kept on retainer for the specific purpose of being available day or night to hear whatever confession you have to offer. Leave my study. Go find someone else to torment. I must read all of these dispatches and proposals before I retire.”

“What about Tullie? You haven’t said one word about John. He’s not going to be available to escort me to all these routs and balls that Amalia says we must attend. I mean, it’s a pointless exercise, Papa.”

The duke said, “There’s nothing wrong with James. He’s a good man.”

“Papa, he’s worse than Tullie!” Elizabeth cried out, from sheer frustration. “James can’t be relied upon to get me as far as the door of whatever house I’m going to before he dumps me for the Cyprians across town.”

“Now, that’s enough slander, Elizabeth! Glenlyon wouldn’t dare be so careless with your reputation!”

Last, in final desperation, she threw out her lone remaining trump. “Father, Robbie’s not going to get any better just because you’ve heard of a specialist in London. He’s lost the only person that was ever important to him. No Sassenach doctor can change that.”

John Murray picked up his pen and dipped it in the inkwell, affixing his signature to a document his secretary had marked as urgent. He dismissed Elizabeth with a stern warning. “Don’t start a rising in that direction, miss. Wee Robbie is my ward. I will do what’s best for him, as I will do what is best for you. Now, good night, Elizabeth. Let the door hit you where the good Lord split you.”

Elizabeth couldn’t find words enough to express her disappointment to her father. She stood for quite some time without moving, hating this room, but unable to hate the man who dominated it so thoroughly. She prayed fervently that he would soften and change his mind, because he didn’t know what he was doing in forcing her to remain here in London while Evan MacGregor was in town.

It filled her with terrible dread to consider her alternatives. She couldn’t imagine what fury her father might give vent to if the worst should happen, and Evan MacGregor came forward and told the duke that he and Elizabeth had run away to Gretna Green and got married when they were fifteen and seventeen years old.

But she knew her father would surely kill Evan.

Elizabeth swallowed what felt like her own heart lodged in her throat. She took a deep breath and tasted defeat. Abruptly she quit the study.

Upstairs, she collapsed on a stool before the fire in her room, watching red-and-blue flames lick their way out from underneath several wedges of split oak. The sight consumed her. She felt like the wood, smoking and burning, aching, ready to burst into flames.

“I’m a coward,” she said out loud. “The first and only Murray ever born who was an outright coward, down to the bone. Grandfather George must be spinning in his grave. I’ve shamed every Murray that fought at Culloden.”

It wouldn’t do any good to argue with herself that it wasn’t true. Elizabeth Murray was a coward. All she wanted to do was run away...just as she had from the beginning.

The slightest thought of pain and suffering made her tremble and quake. Thinking back to Tullie’s bravado of the night before only made her stomach turn vilely. How had he done it? But that was a man for you!

Woman weren’t of that ilk, and little girls were even more vulnerable. Why, her father had only to remind her of one telling incident from her childhood—the one time she’d struck out on her own — and she knuckled under, even today.

She was nearly twenty-one, would be in April—a woman grown, by all rights. But she had no backbone. She didn’t have what it took to stand up to anyone. Oh, she could act as if she did. Like that time her father had referred to. But how far had she actually got? Charing Cross, that was how far.

She wasn’t a child now. More importantly, she had a child of her own, whose best interests were not being served by her father’s insistence that everyone in his household keep up appearances.

Elizabeth had to do something.

She couldn’t go to any member of her family for aid in any plan that went against her father’s will. Elizabeth had enough common sense to know which of her friends would help her with no questions asked. Only one had the means to go against a duke, Elizabeth’s long-standing friend, the writer Monk Lewis. Her only other friend with the gumption to assist her was George, Lord Byron.

Both Monk and Byron adhered to styles that played fast and loose with society’s rigid expectations of correct behavior, though neither had gone beyond the unredeemable pale. And of the two, Elizabeth was more inclined to put her faith in Monk Lewis. Monk was twenty years her senior, a confirmed bachelor, and a true gentleman where ladies were concerned. He’d never failed to give her good advice in the past.

However, she was closest to Byron. They were of the same age, and had practically grown up together, so to speak, being thrown into one another’s company at the same social functions since they’d turned sixteen.

Elizabeth made up her mind to write to Monk. She saw no good coming of putting off the inevitable.