Читать книгу Highland Heiress - Margaret Moore - Страница 11

Three days later, Moira leaned over the pedestal table in the book-lined library, studying the builder’s drawings of the future school, as well as his notations. She wanted to be sure that she was right before she addressed the prosperous middle-aged man standing before her with his thumbs in his vest pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels.

She was, but having dealt with tradesmen for many years, she didn’t begin with a direct accusation. That would only lead to confrontation, arguments, denials and, eventually, the pronouncement that women couldn’t be expected to understand business or the arithmetic that went with it.

“Mr. Stamford,” she began, “I must confess that I find your estimates rather…excessive.”

The plump man merely smiled with frustrating condescension. “Perhaps, my lady, we should wait for your father’s return from Glasgow. He’d due back today, is he not?”

“Yes, he is,” she replied, hoping with all her heart he would return as promised and hadn’t met any of his friends who had, in the past, led him astray. “However, the school is my responsibility, not his.”

Her statement didn’t appear to make any difference to the builder, for the man continued to regard her as if she were merely an overgrown child, and one incapable of understanding simple addition and multiplication, too. “I’m sure, as a former man of business, your father will be able to comprehend the figures better than a young lady. You mustn’t trouble your pretty head with such things as measurements and structure, square feet and raw materials,” Mr. Stamford continued with that same insufferable patronage. “Perhaps you don’t understand, Mr. Stamford, that as the daughter of a man of business who’s been keeping household accounts for ten years, ever since my mother died, I’m not incapable of calculating totals and expenditures,” she said, determined not to let this man think he could flatter her into believing that his estimates of the costs of materials were reasonable when they were so obviously not. “Nor, having had considerable work done on this house, am I ignorant of the costs involved when refurbishing a building. I find your estimate of the price for the necessary materials for the school and labor excessive. You’re building a school, after all, not a manor house.”

The man’s cheeks puffed out with an annoyed huff. “Far be it from me to contradict a lady. However, if one wishes to use the best materials—and I was under the impression you did—then one has to pay accordingly.”

“I want the best for the purpose,” she clarified. “The prices you’re quoting would seem to indicate you’re using wood and stone more suitable for a cathedral than a village school. We recently had the dining room of this house panelled in mahogany brought especially from Jamaica, Mr. Stamford, and the price of that mahogany was less than this quotation for the oak ceiling beams of the main schoolroom. I fail to see how that is possible, unless the oak is gilded.”

The builder’s face turned as red as lip rouge. He reached for the plans spread on the table and began to roll them up, the pages crackling and crinkling with his swift action. “If you don’t like the plans or the cost, my lady, you can always hire another man!”

“Unless you can provide me with a more reasonable quote, I may have to,” Moira replied, not a whit disturbed or intimidated by his bluster, “although I’d hate to think you’ve done so much work for nothing.”

“Nothing?” the man almost shrieked. “I expect to be paid for the time and effort I’ve already—!”

“Of course,” she smoothly interrupted, “it would be a pity to have this assignment come to a premature end.”

“Like some women’s engagements?” he retorted.

Moira managed to control the rage that spiralled through her. She wanted to dismiss him on the spot, but that would lead to a delay, which would surely upset her father. That was always something to be avoided, lest he be tempted to break his vow.

“It would also be unfortunate that you wouldn’t be able to brag about working for the Earl of Dunbrachie’s daughter anymore, as I believe you already have.”

Or so the butler had informed her, having had it from the footman, who’d been in the village tavern the night before last.

The man’s gaze finally faltered and he put the plans back on the table. “Aye, yes, well, perhaps I was a tad hasty, my lady,” he said in a conciliatory tone, “and I’m a hot-tempered fellow. I suppose we could use less oak and more pine, and maybe I don’t have to buy so much slate for the roof.”

Despite his change of manner and her relief that things could proceed as planned, there was something else she considered important to make clear. “I don’t want any corners cut. The building must be safe and sound.”

“That school will be so well built, it’ll still be standing a hundred years from now,” he assured her.

“Excellent, Mr. Stamford,” she conceded, “and if I see more realistic figures, I see no need to tell my father about our difference of opinion. Now I give you good day, sir. I’ll be by to check the progress of the school later in the week.”

“Yes, my lady. Goodbye, my lady, and I’m sure I’ll be able to find ways to economize, my lady.”

With that, he bustled out of the library as if he couldn’t get away fast enough, which was probably the case. She was just as relieved to see him go. She was well aware that her broken engagement to Sir Robert McStuart was no secret, but it was nevertheless galling to have it flung into her face.

It was even more galling to realize that Gordon McHeath had surely heard about her broken engagement by now, and from Robbie McStuart, too, she thought as she walked around the room, brushing her fingertips over the leather spines of the books that had so delighted her when they’d first arrived. Her former fiancé would undoubtedly paint what had happened between them in the worst possible way, making light of his own transgressions and describing her as some sort of narrow-minded, unsophisticated bumpkin.

If only she could stay as angry and indignant as she’d been when she found out the man who had come to her rescue was Robbie McStuart’s friend. Unfortunately, as time had passed, she found herself thinking less of his friendship with Robbie and more of the passion she’d felt in his arms. The excitement. The wish that his embrace would never end. She remembered Gordon McHeath’s smile, his gentlemanly demeanor and the sight of him charging down the hill like a knight errant. Even more vividly, she recalled the urge to kiss him that she hadn’t been able to fight, his passionate response, the sensation of his arms around her and his lips covering hers, seeking, demanding, wanting….

“I beg your pardon, my lady,” the butler intoned from the door. “A gentleman wishes to see you.” He held out a silver salver with a card upon it. “He says it’s a legal matter, my lady.”

Legal matter? “Did you tell him the earl isn’t at home?”

“I did, and he said it doesn’t involve the earl, my lady. His business is with you.”

Perhaps it had something to do with the school, although she couldn’t imagine what. She went to the door and took the card. She glanced at it, then stared.

Gordon McHeath, Solicitor, Edinburgh.

Robbie McStuart’s friend was a solicitor? Even so, what could he possibly want with her? It couldn’t be because of that kiss…could it? That hadn’t violated any law that she was aware of.

Perhaps it had something to do with the dog that had chased her. “Show him in, please.”

Smoothing down her skirt and tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, determined to keep the conversation coolly business-like, she perched primly on an armchair covered in emerald-green damask near the hearth.

Mr. McHeath appeared on the threshold. He wasn’t dressed in his caped greatcoat and hat; otherwise, his clothing was similar, down to his riding boots. Without his hat, his tawny hair waved like ripples on a lake, and he was definitely as handsome and well built as she remembered.

He hesitated, and a look passed over his face that made her think he was about to leave just as abruptly.

He didn’t. His visage slightly flushed, as she suspected hers must be, he came farther into the room, his expression solemn to the point of grimness.

Commanding herself to be calm and detached, and above all to forget she had ever kissed him, she said, “So, Mr. McHeath, what is this legal matter that has brought you here today?”

His gaze swept over the room and furnishings, lingering for a moment at the pedestal table with the drawings still on top before he came to a halt and pulled a folded document from the pocket of his navy blue jacket.

“I’ve come on behalf of Sir Robert McStuart regarding the matter of your broken engagement,” he said, his voice just as coldly formal as hers had been. “He’s bringing an action against you for breach of promise.”

Moira stared at him in stunned disbelief. “Breach of…? He’s suing me?”

“Yes.” McHeath took a deep breath, like a man about to dive into frigid water. “He’s seeking damages in the amount of five thousand pounds.”

With a gasp as if she’d landed in that frigid water, Moira jumped to her feet. “I don’t believe it! Five thousand pounds? Five thousand pounds?”

“I agree it’s a considerable sum, but you must be aware of the damage your change of mind has done to his reputation. He feels he should be duly compensated.”

“His reputation?” she repeated, her hands balling into fists, her whole body shaking with righteous indignation. “What was his reputation, that he should set such store on it? And what about mine? Don’t you think mine has suffered just as much, if not more?”

The solicitor didn’t seem the least nonplussed. “Then perhaps, my lady, you should offer a sum to settle before the matter goes before a judge.”

“You want me to pay him off? Are you mad?” she demanded, appalled as well as angry. “I’m not going to give that libertine a ha’penny. If there’s anyone at fault for what happened, it’s him. Didn’t he tell you why I broke the engagement?”

“He told me that you informed him that you no longer loved him,” the solicitor replied, still standing as stiff and straight as a soldier on a parade square. “He said that you were angry about his dalliance with a maid, and because he refused to assure you he would be faithful in the future.”

All that was true and yet…” A dalliance? Only one?”

Finally, something seemed to bring a spark of passionate life back to Gordon McHeath’s eyes. Unfortunately, the change lasted only an instant before he resumed that statuelike demeanor. “Yes, only one.”

“In addition to the chambermaid at McStuart House, there were three girls at his family’s weaving mill and the scullery maid in his town house in Edinburgh that I know about,” she informed him. “There may very well be more. He also drinks, Mr. McHeath, far too much. He managed to keep that hidden from me for quite some time, but fortunately not long enough for me to go through with the marriage. I have long vowed that I would never marry a sot.”

McHeath glanced down at the toes of his boots, so she couldn’t see his face. When he raised his eyes to her, his expression was again that blank mask, as if they’d never even met, let alone kissed. Indeed, she could hardly believe this was the same man who’d come rushing so gallantly to her rescue and who’d kissed her with such fervent passion.

“It was your duty to find out about the man proposing marriage before you accepted him, my lady,” he said. “Apparently you did not. You could have asked for more time to consider. You did not. You also said that you no longer loved him. This suggests you not only felt a moral indignation when you learned of his liaisons, you experienced an inner revelation concerning the depth of your own feelings. That is something over which my friend had absolutely no control. You alone are responsible for that and as such, Sir Robert has some justification for his claim.

“More importantly from a legal point of view, you entered into a verbal contract that was publicly announced, and you broke that contract.”

“Good God,” she gasped, aghast at his cool and condemning response and backing away from him as if he held a loaded pistol. “You’re absolutely serious about this!”

“I assure you, my lady, I would never jest about a lawsuit.”

That she could well believe. Indeed, at this moment, she could well believe he never made a jest or joke about anything. But he was the man who had saved her from that dog, so surely he could have some sympathy for her feelings, and her decision. “Whatever I thought I felt, I realized I was wrong and acted accordingly. Would you really have me marry a man I no longer cared for and could no longer even respect? Would you really want me—or any woman—to tie herself to such a man under those conditions?”

The attorney had the grace to blush as he steadily met her gaze. “No, I wouldn’t, but again I remind you, my lady, that whatever Sir Robert’s faults, it was your responsibility to discover them before you accepted his proposal.”

Was the man made of marble? Had he no heart? “Surely a judge will side with me and agree that I was right to end the engagement.”

“Judges are men, my lady. He may well agree that Sir Robert deserves to be compensated.”

Unfortunately, he had a point. Men made the laws, and men upheld them.

And what about Gordon McHeath, who had seemed so kind and chivalrous? “Do you condone his behavior, Mr. McHeath?”

He didn’t look away. “Condone? No, I do not. But I was not raised as he was, by parents who believed their birth and station meant certain social mores didn’t apply to them.”

“So even if you don’t agree with what he’s doing, you would defend him?”

“I represent him.”

With a horrible sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, she thought of another reason he might believe a judge would side with Robbie. “Did you tell him that we kissed?”

Although Mr. McHeath continued to regard her dispassionately, his cheeks reddened a little more. “I saw no need to mention that particular act to Sir Robert, or anyone else. I hope you have been similarly reticent. It does neither of us credit.”

Her heart began to beat again, albeit erratically, for despite his explanation for his reticence, she sensed he wasn’t as sorry or ashamed as he claimed to be.

Neither, she realized, was she—even now. Wanting to see if she was right, she pressed him for more of an explanation. “It would help your case, would it not?”

“I saw no need to provide more evidence when I had hoped you would be reasonable and offer a sum in settlement so that the case need not proceed.”

In spite of his evenly spoken reply, she sidled a little closer, so that she could see into his eyes, the better to gauge his true response. “Given that Sir Robert seems to be selective with the facts, are you aware that five thousand pounds was to be the amount of my dowry?”

No, he hadn’t known that. She could see the surprise he tried to hide. “Obviously he wants the dowry he didn’t get,” she observed.

Mr. McHeath swiftly recovered from his surprise. “Whatever his reasons, that is the sum he feels is appropriate compensation.”

“I feel he’s not entitled to anything, and nothing you say will ever make me change my mind.”

Mr. McHeath inclined his head. “Very well, my lady, and since we seem to be unable to come to any agreement, I shall bid you good day.”

She shouldn’t feel any regret when he said those words. She shouldn’t be sorry he was leaving. After all, she barely knew him, and he was working for Robbie.

“You may also tell Sir Robert that I do not and never will regret breaking our engagement. If anything, his petty, vindictive action further convinces me that I was right to do so,” she said as she went to the hearth and tugged the bellpull beside it. “Good day, Mr. McHeath. Walters will show you out.”

When Gordon returned to McStuart House, he immediately went in search of his host, although every step seemed an effort. He wasn’t looking forward to having to relay Lady Moira’s response any more than he’d been to confront her. Indeed, he’d been seriously tempted to leave without revealing the purpose of his visit when he saw that Lady Moira was the woman he’d helped and kissed, but gratitude and duty demanded that he do what he’d been asked to do. Now Robbie would want to know what had happened.

It would be far better for all concerned if they each simply went their own way, and let the past stay in the past. Unfortunately, despite his best efforts, Robbie was determined to have his day in court, and be compensated for the blow to his pride.

Even more unfortunately, Lady Moira wasn’t the only person in Dunbrachie who could be faulted for not knowing more about a man before entering into an agreement with him. He should have been much more wary of agreeing to represent Robbie in a legal matter, especially after he’d noticed how much Robbie drank that first afternoon.

He finally found Robbie in the last room he thought to look—the library. Unlike the earl’s library, this one had an air of musty neglect, and many of the volumes weren’t even real books. In fact, Gordon was rather sure neither Robbie nor his father had read a book in its entirety after they left school.

The dark draperies added to a sense of genteel decay, and the portraits in this room all seemed to be of people in a state of chronic indigestion.

Its only saving grace—and perhaps its appeal for Robbie—was the large windows opening to the terrace. Or maybe its isolation from the other rooms, and thus its silence, explained why he had gone there.

Naturally Robbie wasn’t reading a book. He wasn’t even awake. He lay sprawled on his back on one of the worn, silk-covered sofas, his right arm thrown over his face, his left crossed over his chest and an empty bottle of port on the floor beside him.