Читать книгу Tempting The Laird - Julia London - Страница 13

CHAPTER FOUR

STUART, A PRIM and proper butler, as thin as a reed, his neckcloth tied as tightly as a garrote, showed Catriona and her uncle into a small drawing room with brocade drapes, furnishings upholstered in silk and a wall of books. A clock on the mantel ticked away the minutes for them.

“He means to make us wait,” Catriona said as she made her third restless trip around the room.

Uncle Knox had made himself quite comfortable on the settee and was currently examining a porcelain figurine of a small Highland fiddler. “Well, darling, we did make a rather unfortunate mistake in thinking him someone other than the duke.”

“Who could blame us?” Catriona asked. “He looked like a carpenter, he did.” A strong, strapping, handsome carpenter. His eyes were as black as his hair, his lashes as black as his eyes. His shoulders were as broad as a horse and his hips as firm as a—

“We should not judge a man by his appearance,” her uncle absently opined.

It was too late. She’d judged him by his appearance and had found him ruggedly appealing. “No,” she agreed. “But might we judge him a wee bit? He doesna look a murderer, does he?”

“I hardly know, darling. I am not acquainted with any murderers. I’m uncertain what to look for, precisely.”

Well, she’d never known a murderer, either, but she was convinced the duke did not look like a murderer. He looked like someone who ought to be wearing a crown, or leading an army of Highland soldiers, or breaking wild horses. He had a commanding presence—even more so once she’d realized with a wee thrill that he wasn’t a tradesman after all, but a duke and all that entailed—but not for a moment did he look the sort to murder. Catriona would be bitterly disappointed if she discovered he was.

She made her fourth trip around the room. She’d never been very good at waiting. In fact, she had coaxed her uncle into calling at Blackthorn Hall today because she couldn’t bear to wait another moment to discuss the abbey, which Uncle Knox was reluctant to do. He wanted her to put it out of her mind for a time, and enjoy her visit. But Catriona could not put it out of her mind for any length of time, really, and certainly not without something to divert her instead. So she’d cajoled him into calling on the mysterious Duke of Montrose.

She paused at the shelving to examine his books. The duke had a collection of tomes concerning history, astronomy and philosophy. No plays, no sonnets. A serious man, then. Daisy brought Catriona novels from England, tales of chivalry and love and adventure on the seas. Did the duke read nothing for pleasure? Was the man who inhabited that physique opposed to the simplest diversion?

“Sit, Cat, my love. You’re wreaking havoc on my nerves.”

“I canna sit and wait like a parishioner for the end of the sermon,” she complained.

Just then, the door swung partially open. A russet-haired head popped around the edge of the door about knob high. The head slid in just so that two brown eyes were visible. And then the door slowly swung open.

Uncle Knox gained his feet, clasped his hands at his back, then leaned forward, squinting at the creature who peeked around the door. “Good day,” he said.

The child moved, presenting enough of her body to know that it was a lass who eyed them. The other half remained hidden behind the door. “I’m Eula,” she said. “Who are you, then?”

“Good afternoon, Miss Eula,” Uncle Knox said. “Lord Norwood.” He bowed. “And this is my niece Miss Mackenzie.”

Catriona curtsied.

The lass looked at Catriona, her gaze sweeping over her, lingering on the hem of Catriona’s gown, which had been embroidered with vines and bluebirds. “Did you come to call on Montrose?”

Uncle Knox exchanged a look with Catriona.

“That’s the duke,” the lass said. “He lives here, too.”

“Aye, we have,” Catriona confirmed.

“Are you his friends?”

“Not as yet,” said Uncle Knox. “But we do mean to change that.”

The girl slid all the way into the room, her back to the wall. “He doesna have any friends,” she said, staring at them suspiciously.

Uncle Knox covered a laugh behind a cough.

“Aye, we’ve heard it said,” Catriona agreed.

The lass pushed away from the door and came closer to Catriona, peering at her curiously, her gaze taking in every bit of Catriona’s gown, her face, her hair. “You’re verra bonny.”

“Thank you kindly,” Catriona said. “So are you, Miss Eula. Do you live here, then, with his grace?”

She nodded. “I’ve my own suite of rooms.”

“How wonderful. I should imagine them quite grand, aye?”

“They are,” the lass agreed matter-of-factly, and traced her finger over the figurine that Uncle Knox had been examining. “I have two rooms, I do, but one is for sitting, and one for sleeping. That’s the way of proper ladies.”

“I see,” Catriona said.

“Eula.”

The deeply masculine voice was quiet but firm, and Eula was so startled that she knocked the figurine to the carpeted floor. Catriona bent down and picked it up. She smiled and winked at Eula before she rose, and returned the figurine to the table. She looked over the lass’s head at the duke. He’d donned a proper coat, but he was still lacking a collar or neckcloth. And he had not, she noted, combed his thick, black hair.

“You’re to be at your studies,” he said coolly.

“But we have callers,” Eula said.

“Rather, I have callers. You have studies. Go on, then.”

“Aye, all right,” Eula said with dejection, and began to slink to the door, but at the pace of a slug, pausing to examine the tassel on a pillow, an unlit candle. When she at last reached the door, she glanced back.

“Feasgar math,” Catriona said with a smile.

The lass’s pretty brown eyes widened with surprise.

“Good afternoon,” Catriona translated.

Eula smiled with delight. She waved her fingers and sort of slid around the duke. As she went out, the duke ran his hand affectionately down her arm. So he cared for the wee minx. Which meant he wasn’t entirely reprehensible.

The duke closed the door behind Eula and looked at Catriona and Knox expectantly.

“Very kind of you to receive us, your grace,” Uncle Knox said. “I should have sent a messenger—”

“Aye,” he said curtly.

Catriona arched a brow. Was he miffed with them still, or merely unpleasant?

“Well, then, we are agreed. In our considerable defense, we’ve only just arrived at Dungotty.”

The duke said nothing.

“It’s ours now, you see,” Uncle Knox said.

Still nothing.

“It was an exceptionally good investment,” Uncle Knox added quite unnecessarily. Catriona politely cleared her throat, which caught her uncle’s attention.

“Yes, well, I have come for the summer, which is what brings us here today, your grace. I should like to extend an invitation to you to dine at Dungotty. I have invited my neighbors to the north, the MacLarens. Are you acquainted?”

The duke regarded Uncle Knox a long moment before responding. “I am.”

“Splendid! We will have a fine evening of it. I’ve brought a cook from France, and I do not overstate his culinary skill, I assure you. You will not be disappointed, your grace.”

The duke folded his arms across his chest as if he anticipated Uncle Knox would say more. His eyes, black as coal, moved to Catriona and flicked over her.

“You need not answer straightaway, of course,” Uncle Knox continued. “You will need time to consult your diary, quite obviously, busy man that you must be. We should like to dine on Thursday evening if it pleases you, so if you would be so kind to grant us the favor of your reply by Wednesday, it would be most appreciated.”

The duke stared at Uncle Knox with a clenched jaw. It was curious that he should be so tense in the face of an invitation to dine. Curious and rude. Uncle Knox, quite unaccustomed to taciturnity in anyone, looked helplessly at Catriona.

She stepped forward and took her uncle’s arm. “At any other time we would be delighted to stay for tea, your grace, but as it happens, we’ve many calls to make today.”

His gaze narrowed. “I didna invite you to tea.”

“No?” she said cheerfully. “Then I do beg your pardon. I must have assumed you would as it would be the courteous thing to do, aye?”

“Oh,” Uncle Knox muttered, and squeezed her hand. “Oh, no. No, Cat,” he muttered.

But the duke was not bothered by her pointed remark because he said, “I donna disagree,” and moved to one side and opened the door, thereby giving them a clear path to an exit.

“Thank you,” Catriona said, and curtsied deeply. “We do look forward to your favorable reply, despite your obvious displeasure with the invitation.”

“Oh, dear me,” Uncle Knox said. “Your grace,” he said with a nod of his head, and with his hand firmly on her elbow, he escorted Catriona past the duke. She wouldn’t know if the duke watched them go or not, for she refused to look at him.

In the hallway, Stuart appeared seemingly from nowhere, and with a sweep of his hand, he indicated the path to the main doors, then walked briskly ahead of them. When they reached the foyer, a footman was on hand to open that door so they would not be hindered for even a moment in their departure with a bothersome wait for someone to turn a knob. And no sooner had they stepped onto the landing than the door closed behind them so suddenly that Catriona turned her head to assure herself that her gown had not been caught.

“Well,” Uncle Knox said, yanking on his sleeves, “I’ve scarcely met a ruder man.”

“He’s absolutely diabolical, is he no’?” Catriona asked with gleeful terror as the two of them began their walk down the steps. “I’m more determined than ever to know if he is a murderer, that I am.”

“I would caution you in pressing your cause, darling, for if he is indeed a murderer, he may very well determine you ought to be murdered.”

“True,” she said thoughtfully. “Then again, he might no’, aye?” She winked at her uncle.

“I’ve indulged you in this chase, but I’ve done all that I can for you, darling. You should have heard the hue and cry Mrs. Templeton unleashed when I said we meant to invite him to dine. One would think she was being murdered that very moment. If you want my opinion, you should not concern yourself with him at all. He has a black reputation. They say he is a candidate for the House of Lords, but I can’t see how that could possibly be, given his sour demeanor and penchant for disposing of unruly wives.” He paused. “Or perhaps that is the very thing that recommends him.”

“You believe it!” Catriona said triumphantly. “You believe he’s done something awful to his wife. You do, Uncle Knox!”

He patted her hand. “I’ve not yet made up my mind, but after today’s interview, I am leaning toward the affirmative. Hopefully, he will agree to dine with us so that we might glean something.”

Catriona laughed.

They climbed into the cabriolet. She took the reins from a groomsman and guided the team around. She had the strongest desire to look back at the massive ducal seat as they rode away, but she wouldn’t allow herself to do it. Still, she had the strangest feeling they were being watched. Perhaps he was studying her back, determining where, precisely, to insert the dagger. Perhaps the ghost of the duchess was watching her.

* * *

THEIR NEXT ORDER of business was to call on the MacLarens. Uncle Knox had only recently met the influential laird MacLaren, and he was rather taken with him. Catriona could instantly see why when she was introduced—MacLaren had the same build as her uncle, was roughly the same age and possessed a booming laugh that he employed frequently. “You will be amazed at my collection of American tobacco products,” he crowed as he and his wife led Catriona and her uncle into a receiving salon.

“Ah, American tobacco. A finer cheroot I’ve not enjoyed,” Uncle Knox said as he took up a position at the hearth.

Catriona looked at him curiously. “How have you come upon American cheroots?”

“My dear, my acquaintances stretch round the globe,” he said, and drew a large circle in the air.

Mr. MacLaren burst into loud laughter. “Then you must have a look at my American tobacco, sir, aye? You’ve no’ had as fine as this, on that you may depend.” And with that, he whisked Uncle Knox away to some lair to admire tobacco.

Mrs. MacLaren summoned tea for the two of them. Like her husband, she was jovial, and the small salon felt as gay as its mistress.

“How long will you grace us at Dungotty, then?” she asked Catriona as she poured tea.

“No’ long at all,” Catriona said. “Perhaps a fortnight, but no more. I’ve pressing business at home.”

Mrs. MacLaren did not inquire as to the pressing business as Catriona had hoped—she welcomed any chance to talk about Kishorn. “No’ for the summer? Dungotty is so lovely this time of year, what with all the peonies. The Hays, the former occupants, took great pride in their gardens.”

She had no doubt they did before they were summarily ousted. “They are indeed bonny,” she said. She picked up her teacup. “By the bye, we invited the Duke of Montrose to dine with us Thursday evening.”

Mrs. MacLaren’s surprise was evident in the manner her dark brows rose almost to her powdered hair. “Really,” she said, and put down her teacup, as if she couldn’t hold the delicate china and absorb the news at the same time. “That’s...surprising. He so rarely leaves Blackthorn.”

“Oh?” Catriona asked innocently. “Perhaps, but he’s our neighbor all the same. It would be rude not to have extended the invitation, aye?” She sipped her tea, then said coyly, “I’ve heard what is said of him.”

Mrs. MacLaren looked a wee bit nonplussed. “Aye, he’s been the subject of wretched gossip.” She stirred sugar into her cup and added, “I canna imagine there’s a soul in these hills who’s no’ heard what is said of him.”

“Do you believe it?” Catriona asked.

Mrs. MacLaren frowned. “I donna know what I believe, in truth. Lady Montrose was much beloved in and around Blackthorn.”

“It seems impossible that anyone can simply vanish, much less a duchess, aye?”

Mrs. MacLaren nodded. “Particularly such a bonny young woman. A true beauty, that she was. Och, but she was full of light and love, and younger than the duke. Quite young, really. And him so brooding,” she said with a shiver.

“Is he?” Catriona asked. She had thought him rude. But brooding?

“Rather distant, he is. But I suppose that’s to be expected from a duke.”

Catriona didn’t suppose any such thing, but she kept that opinion to herself. “What did the duchess look like?” Catriona asked.

“Oh, she had beautiful ginger hair and piercing green eyes,” Mrs. MacLaren said, happier to speak of the duchess. “A true beauty, that she was. He must have believed so, too, for he had her portrait made and hung it in the main salon at Blackthorn.”

“Why would anyone assume he’d murdered her, do you suppose?” Catriona asked. It seemed so curious to her that murder should be everyone’s assumption, rather than believing the duke had cast his wife out. A woman who’d been cast out by her husband had turned up at Kishorn Abbey a year or so ago. Did someone somewhere believe that woman had been murdered?

“I can hardly guess the workings of a deviant mind,” Mrs. MacLaren said with a slight sniff. “What I do know is that passion can often be a dangerous thing between two people. But I shall no’ speak ill of the duke,” she said, in spite of having just spoken ill of the duke. “He’s no’ been charged with a crime, has he? To speculate would be to malign his reputation, and no matter what else, he’s done a lot of good for his tenants. But he’s made no friends for himself, that is true. And besides...” Mrs. MacLaren’s voice trailed away.

“And besides?” Catriona gently prodded.

“Well...it was no secret that there was great unhappiness at Blackthorn.”

That was a foregone conclusion. Happy homes did not lose a member here and there. “What sort of unhappiness?”

“I know only it’s been said,” Mrs. MacLaren demurred, and sipped her tea. “Ah, but she was a bonny woman, indeed she was. Devoted to the staff and their families. And he, well...he was rarely seen about. Quite cold, that one. It will be a curious thing to see him in society.”

“I saw him in the common room at the Red Sword and Shield on the day I arrived,” Catriona said.

“Did you? Perhaps he’s changed his ways. God knows he needed to. All right,” Mrs. MacLaren said, putting her teacup down again. “Enough of the duke. Is it true that your uncle has brought Russians to Dungotty?” she asked.

Catriona said it was true, and as Mrs. MacLaren began to speak of a chance meeting with a Russian count several years ago, Catriona thought of the dark-eyed man with the stern countenance and the portrait of his wife—Dead wife? Missing wife?—hanging in his salon.

Catriona hoped he would come to dine. She hadn’t been as diverted by a terrifyingly slanderous tale in ages.

Fortunately for her, they received the duke’s favorable reply on Wednesday.