Almost Heaven (21 page)

Gambling everything on a series of investments had paid off for Ian again and again. Once society had called him a gambler; now he was regarded as some sort of mythical king with a golden touch. Rumors flew and prices soared on the change every time he bought a stock. He could not set foot into a ball without the butler bellowing out his name. Where once he had been a social pariah, those same people who had shunned him now courted his favor – or, more precisely, his financial advice, or his money for their daughters. His wealth had brought Ian many luxuries, but no extraordinary joy. It was the gamble he loved best – the challenge of selecting exactly the right venture and the thrill of wagering a fortune on it. Moreover, success had come with a price it had cost him his right to privacy, and he resented that.

Now his grandfather’s actions were adding to his unwanted notoriety. The death of Ian’s father had evidently caused the old duke to feel some belated regret for the estrangement, and for the last twelve years he’d been writing to Ian periodically. At first he had pleaded with Ian to come and visit him at Stanhope. When Ian ignored his letters, he’d tried bribing him with promises to name Ian his legitimate heir. Those letters had gone unanswered, and for the last two years the old man’s silence had misled Ian into thinking he’d given up. Four months ago, however, another letter bearing Stanhope’s ducal crest had been delivered to Ian, and this one infuriated him.

The old man had imperiously given Ian four months in which to appear at Stanhope and meet with him to discuss arrangements for the transfer of six estates – estates that would have been Ian’s father’s inheritance had the duke not disowned him. According to the letter, if Ian did not appear, the duke planned to proceed without him, publicly naming him his heir, Ian had written to his grandfather for the first time in his life; the note had been short and final. It was also eloquent proof that Ian Thornton was as unforgiving as his grandfather, who’d rejected his own son for two decades:

“Try it and you’ll look a fool. I’ll disclaim all knowledge of any relationship with you, and if you still persist, I’ll let your title and your estates rot.”

The four months had elapsed now, and there had been no more communications from the duke, but in London gossip was still rampant that Stanhope was about to name an heir. And that the heir would be his natural grandson, Ian Thornton. Now invitations to balls and soirees arrived in tidal waves from the same people who had long ago shunned him as an undesirable, and their hypocrisy alternately amused and disgusted him.

“That black horse we used for packin’ up here is the most cantankerous beast alive,” Jake grumbled, rubbing his arm.

Ian lifted his gaze from the initials on the tabletop and turned to Jake, making no attempt to hide his amusement. “Bit you, did he?”

“Damn right he bit me!” the older man said bitterly. “He’s been after a chunk of me since we left the coach at Hayborn and loaded those sacks on his back to bring up here.”

“I warned you he bites anything he can reach. Keep your arm out of his way when you’re saddling him.”

“If it weren’t my arm he was after, it was my arse! Opened his mouth and went for it, only I saw him out ‘ter the corner of my eye and swung around, so he missed.” Jake’s frown darkened when he saw the amusement in Ian’s expression. “Can’t see why you’ve bothered to feed him all these years. He doesn’t deserve to share a stable with your other horses – beauties they are, every one but him.”

“Try slinging packs over the backs of one of those and you’ll
see
why I took him. He was suitable for using as a pack mule; none of my other cattle would have been,” Ian said, frowning as he lifted his head and looked about at the months of accumulated dirt covering everything.

“He’s
slower’n
a pack mule,” Jake replied. “Mean and stubborn and slow,” he concluded, but he, too, was frowning a little as he looked around at the thick layers of dust coating every surface. “Thought you said you’d arranged for some village wenches to come up here and clean and cook ‘fer us. This place is a mess.”

“I did, I dictated a message to Peters for the caretaker, asking him to stock the place with food and to have two women come up here to clean and cook. The food is here, and there are chickens out in the barn. He must be having difficulty finding two women to stay up here.”

“Comely women, I hope,” Jake said. “Did you tell him to make the wenches comely?”

Ian paused in his study of the spiderwebs strewn across the ceiling and cast him an amused look. “You wanted me to tell a seventy-year-old caretaker who’s half-blind to make certain the wenches were comely?”

“Couldn’ta hurt t’ mention it,” Jake grumbled, but he looked chastened.

“The village is only twelve miles away. You can always stroll down there if you’ve urgent need of a woman while we’re here. Of course, the trip back up here may kill you,” he joked referring to the winding path up the cliff that seemed to be almost vertical.

“Never mind women,” Jake said in an abrupt change of heart, his tanned, weathered face breaking into a broad grin. “I’m here for a fortnight of fishin’ and relaxin’, and that’s enough for any man. It’ll be like the old days, Ian – peace and quiet and naught else. No hoity-toity servants hearin’ every word what’s spoke, no carriages and barouches and matchmaking mamas arrivin’ at your house. I tell you, my boy, though I’ve not wanted to complain about the way you’ve been livin’ this past year, I don’t like these servants o’ yours above half. That’s why I didn’t come t’visit you very often. Yer butler at Montmayne holds his nose so far in t’air, it’s amazin’ he gets any oxhegen, and that French chef o’ yers practically threw me out of his kitchens. That what he called
‘em
–
his
kitchens, and –” The old seaman abruptly broke off, his expression going from irate to crestfallen, “Ian,” he said anxiously, “did you ever learn t’ cook while we was apart?”

“No, did you?”

“Hell and damnation, no!” Jake said, appalled at the prospect of having to eat anything he fixed himself.

“Lucinda,” Elizabeth said for the third time in an hour, “I cannot tell you how sorry I am about this.” Five days ago, Lucinda had arrived at the inn at the Scottish border where she joined Elizabeth for the journey to Ian Thornton’s house. This morning, their hired coach broke an axle, and they were now ignominiously ensconced on the back of a hay wagon belonging to a farmer, their trunks and valises tipping precariously to and fro along the rutted path that evidently passed for a road in Scotland. The prospect of arriving in a hay wagon on Ian Thornton’s doorstep was so horrible that Elizabeth
preferred
to concentrate on her guilt, rather than her forthcoming meeting with the monster who had ruined her life.

“As I said the last time you apologized. Elizabeth,” Lucinda replied. “it is not your fault, and therefore not your responsibility to apologize, for the deplorable lack of roads and conveyances in this heathen country.”

“Yes, but if it weren’t for me you wouldn’t be here.” Lucinda sighed impatiently, clutched the side of the hay wagon as it made a particularly sharp lurch, and righted herself. “And as I have already admitted, if
I
hadn’t been deceived into mentioning Mr. Thornton’s name to your uncle,
neither
of us would be here. You are merely experiencing some nervousness at the disagreeable prospect of confronting the man, and there is no reason in the world –” The wagon tipped horribly and they both clutched at the sides of it for leverage. “– no reason in the world to continue apologizing. Your time would be better spent preparing yourself for the unhappy occasion.”

“You’re right, of course.” “Of course,” Lucinda agreed unhesitatingly. “I am always right, as you know.
Nearly
always,” she amended, obviously thinking of how she had been misled by Julius Cameron into revealing the name of Ian Thornton as one of Elizabeth’s former suitors. As she’d explained to Elizabeth as soon as she arrived at the inn, she’d only given his name as a suitor because Julius had begun asking questions about Elizabeth’s reputation during her debut, and about whether she’d been popular or not. Thinking he’d heard some of the malicious gossip about Elizabeth’s involvement with Ian Thornton, Lucinda had tried to put a better face on things by including his name among Elizabeth’s many suitors.

“I would rather face the devil himself than that man,” Elizabeth said with a repressed shudder.

“I daresay,” Lucinda agreed, clutching her umbrella with one hand and the side of the cart with her other.

The nearer the time came, the more angry and confused Elizabeth became about this meeting. For the first four days of their journey, her tension had been greatly allayed by the scenic grandeur of Scotland with its rolling hills and deep valleys carpeted in bluebells and hawthorne. Now, however, as the hour of confronting him drew near, not even the sight of the mountains decked out in spring flowers or the bright blue lakes below could calm her mounting tension. “Furthermore, I cannot believe he has the slightest desire to see me.”

“We shall soon find out.”

In the hills above the high, winding track that passed for a road, a shepherd paused to gape at an old wooden wagon making its laborious way along the road below. “Lookee there, Will,” he told his brother. “Do you see what I see?” The brother looked down and gaped, his lips parting in a toothless grin of glee at the comical sight of two ladies bonnets, gloves, and all – who were perched primly and precariously on the back of Sean MacLaesh’s haywagon, their backs ramrod-stiff, their feet sticking straight out beyond the wagon.

“Don’t that beat all,” Will laughed, and high above the haywagon he swept off his cap in a mocking salute to the ladies. “I heerd in the village Ian Thornton was a comin’ home. I’ll wager ‘e’s arrived, and them two are his fancy pieces, come to warmt ‘is bed an’ see to ‘is needs.”

Blessedly unaware of the conjecture taking place between the two spectators up in the hills, Miss Throckmorton-Jones brushed angrily and ineffectually at the coating of dust clinging to her black skirts. “I have
never
in all my life been
subjected
to such treatment!” she hissed furiously as the wagon they were riding in gave another violent, creaking lurch and her shoulder banged into Elizabeth’s. “You may depend on this – I shall give Mr. Ian Thornton a piece of my mind for inviting two gentlewomen to this godforsaken wilderness, and never even
mentioning
that a traveling barouche is too wide for the roads!”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to say something soothing. but just then the wagon gave another teeth-jarring lurch, and she clutched at the wooden side. “From what little I know of him, Lucy,” she managed finally when the wagon righted, “he wouldn’t care in the least what we’ve been through. He’s rude and inconsiderate – and
those
are his
good
points –”

“Whoa
there,
whoa.”
the farmer called out. sawing back on the swayback nag’s reins and bringing the wagon to a groaning stop. “That’s the Thornton place up there atop yon hill,” the farmer said. pointing.

Lucinda gazed in mounting anger at the large, but unimpressive cottage that was barely visible through the thick trees then she turned the full force of her authority on the hapless farmer. “You’re mistaken, my good man,” she said stoutly. “No gentleman of consequence or sense would live in such a godforsaken place as this. Kindly turn this decrepit vehicle around and return us to the village whence we came so that we can ask directions again. There was obviously a misunderstanding.”

At that, both the horse and the farmer swung their heads around and looked at her with identical expressions of weary resentment.

The horse remained silent, but the farmer had heard Lucinda’s irate complaints for the last twelve miles, and be was heartily sick of them. “See here, my lady,” he began, but Lucinda cut him off.

“Do not address me as ‘my lady’, ‘Miss Throckmorton-Jones’ will do very well.”

“Aye. Well, whoever ye be, this is as far as I’m takin’ ye, and that thar is the Thornton cottage.”

“You can’t mean to abandon us here!” she said as the tired old man exhibited a surge of renewed energy obviously brought on by the prospect of ridding himself of his unwanted guests – and leapt off the wagon, whereupon he began to drag their trunks and bandboxes off the wagon and onto the side of the narrow ledge that passed for a road.

“What if they aren’t home,” she gasped as Elizabeth took ,pity on the elderly farmer and began helping him drag one of the trunks down.

“Then we’ll simply come down here and wait for another farmer to be kind enough to give us a ride,” Elizabeth said with a courage she didn’t quite feel.

“I wouldna plan on’t,” said the farmer as Elizabeth withdrew a coin and placed it in his hand. “Thankee, milady, thankee kindly,” he said, touching his cap and smiling a little at the younger lady, with the breathtaking face and shimmering blond hair.

“Why shouldn’t we count on it?” Lucinda demanded.

“Because,” said the farmer as he climbed back onto his wagon, “there ain’t likely to be nobody comin’ along for a week or two, mebbe more. There’s rain comin’ on tomorrow, I’d guess, or the day after. Can’t get a wagon through here when it rains hard. Besides,” he said, taking pity on the young miss, who’d gone a little pale, “see smoke comin’ out o’ yon chimney, so there’s someone up there.”