Betrayed (5 page)

Surprise lent a wholesomeness to her elegant features. “Ask them. The tale is better told from their part. I doubt you would see my view of it.”

She had a lot of pride, this Highland lass. Michael was inspired to learn all of her secrets and listen to all of her opinions.

He moved his feet closer to the fire. “My poor brother languishes in debtor's prison, and my mother has sunk to ranting and raving.” Securing the string, he tossed her the bag of sweets. “Not the most pleasant of homecomings for me.” Just as she caught it, he lowered his voice. “I've been away a very long time. I'm a stranger here.”

Much like a general eyeing a green recruit, she
studied him, probably looking for dishonesty. Michael relaxed under her scrutiny; he'd faced inspection for most of his life.

“Do you think to bribe me with sweets?”

When she hefted the bag, as if to throw it at him, he rushed to say, “No. I thought to share the candy with you and seek your advice on several matters.” What advice, he didn't know.

She sat in the chair facing him, but ignored the bag in her hand. “What is it you wish to know? The location of a decent cobbler? Whom to choose for a tailor?”

Michael had no intention of alienating her. He'd come here not because his mother had asked him to, because she had not asked—the Lady Emily had commanded. Her audacity had startled him. Prior to the recent order to ship out of Calcutta for Edinburgh, the last direct command he'd received had been from the king, and that was five years ago. In his stunned hesitation, the countess of Glenforth had wrongly judged her younger son malleable.

The fresh scent of Sarah's perfume drifted to his nose and obliterated thoughts of his mother. Sarah smelled of summer rain and spring flowers. He harkened to both the woman and the subject at hand. “Why did you sign the betrothal?”

“I foolishly thought your brother had the makings of a good husband and father. He foolishly coveted my dowry.”

A visit to London loomed on Michael's horizon. He would speak with Henry and straighten out this coil, then embark on his new life. In the meantime, he'd enjoy getting to know Sarah MacKenzie.

“If you truly want to offend my mother's sensibilities,
you should consider joining me for dinner at the Dragoon Inn. I'm told all of the best gossips and successful politicians dine there.”

Would she take the dare? He hoped so; he didn't relish sharing another meal in the sole company of men. He'd had weeks of that aboard ship. “I promise to behave as an officer and a gentleman.”

“I will not change my mind about your family, so why should you wish to take a meal with me?”

Because he intended to change her mind about one Elliot. He'd stake his considerable fortune on it. But now he had to call on his mother again and learn the particulars of his brother's fall from grace. Then he would return to his peaceful and quiet rented rooms.

“I asked you to dine with me because I believe you are an infinitely more pleasant companion than either a troop of horsemen too long at sea or the mother I hardly know.”

He surprised her, for she opened her mouth, closed it, then stared at the fire. “Very well, but there's a condition.”

Addressing stipulations was a way of life in the foreign service. Michael knew he would prevail.

She rose and handed him the sack of candy. The pouch was warm from her touch and damp from her palm. So, he thought, she wasn't as composed as she'd have him believe.

Hoping to leave on a cheerful note, he rose. “I promise to use knife and fork, chew with my mouth closed, and leave my hat and gloves with the doorman.”

“What of your good intentions? Where will you leave them?”

“They are a veritable constant in my character.” He
took her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it. “Ask the king. He will vouch for me.”

The banter pleased her, for she struggled against a smile and pulled her hand away slowly. She glanced from the ceiling to her upturned palm. “No gemstones fell from the sky.”

She referred to the old tale, one of hundreds about the Complement. “You must declare yourself my sweetheart to receive the prized jewels.” An outstanding but impossible idea, he had to admit.

Obviously having second thoughts about her boldness, she waved him off. “You're an Elliot. Charm flourishes in the men of your clan.”

Yes, and she'd been his brother's choice for a wife.

Stowing his disappointment, Michael bowed from the waist. “Shall I come for you at nine o'clock tomorrow night?”

Serenity fell like a cloak over her features. “Only if I may invite a guest.”

Michael didn't question her desire for a chaperon; he'd drag the bishop of Saint Andrews to the table if Sarah MacKenzie shared the meal.

3

L
ater that day, over a meal of rizzared haddock and hashes, Michael sipped claret and waited for his mother to ask about his meeting with Sarah MacKenzie. Mother's delay in broaching the subject puzzled him, for she'd been insistent earlier. He would tell her as much as his good conscience allowed. Then he intended to find out the details of his brother's incarceration. But for now he was simply interested in watching the woman who had given birth to him; it inspired introspection.

Had she been pleased at her first sight of him? Had she thought him a comely babe and worth the travail? Silliness, he knew, and entirely unmanly, but he was certain he would treasure looking upon his own newly birthed child. If it were proper and his wife consented, he'd even enjoy watching the birthing itself. Welcoming a new life must truly be a miracle. After spending so many years in a country where women were sequestered and excluded even from meals, Michael found himself interested in the general aspects of a Christian female.

Mother's white satin gown and heavily dusted wig contrasted sharply with the Elliot rubies at her throat, her wrists, and her fingers. Lines of age blemished her mouth, pulling her lips into a perpetual frown. Considerably shorter than Sarah MacKenzie, his mother was still a slender woman with pretty hands and well-tended skin.

Buttering a piece of muffin, she complained of everything from the slowness of the post to the small print in the doited
Scots Magazine
. “And those deplorable slums,” she cursed. “They've spoiled the lanes for any outings to view the boats in the harbor.”

Pinched-mouth,
Sarah's epithet, perfectly suited his mother's disdainful manner. Yet she was an attractive woman, or at least elegant and fashionable. She was also woefully rude, for she wasn't in the least interested in her younger son or the events of his life during the last 15 years.

Michael hadn't expected to be bothered by that. He hadn't anticipated being hurt by her indifference. Grown men shouldn't opine for a mother's attention. Or should they? If not, then why did he feel hollow inside when he expected to feel fulfilled?

“I had hoped to add a portrait gallery,” she went on, “but with that window tax, none of the brilliant architects will take a commission in Edinburgh. They cannot build a decent mansion here. The Exchequer would have us go back to hill forts with smoke holes and arrow slits for light. Not in London, of course. Can you imagine Chatham taking kindly to being told how many windows he can afford?”

Michael couldn't resist saying, “I do not think Pitt lacks a window allowance.”

“Neither would the Elliots if our coal concerns still prospered.”

The family estate in Fife, where Michael had been raised, provided the Elliots their wealth. Having only his boyhood knowledge of the business, he chose a cordial reply. “I'm certain Henry does his best, Mama.”

“Of course he does.” She picked up her wineglass and put it to her lips. The glass was empty, but she pretended to swallow rather than bring attention to the fact that she'd already drunk all of the claret. She'd done that twice since the hashes had been served.

She rang the servant bell. When the butler appeared and refilled her glass, she ignored it. “The export tax robs us of our profits. Shipping coal to the Baltic has become a charitable enterprise.”

Watching her, Michael realized he didn't know or couldn't remember the color of her hair. A son should know that, among other generalities about his mother, such as the name of her closest acquaintance or her choice of books—additional information for his list of important family matters. When he married and had children, he would conduct his family in a more friendly fashion. They would know each other, travel together, share thoughts and opinions. Most of all, they would be loyal to each other.

She sighed and drank from the goblet. “Poor Henry. When I think of him languishing in that cell—” She squeezed her lips tighter and clutched a perfectly manicured hand to her throat. The Elliot rubies twinkled in the candlelight. Were there other jewels? A chest of family gems? Sadly, he recognized how little he knew of the Elliots' legacy.

Searching his memory, he found a vague recollection of this room, with its wainscot walls, crystal chandelier, and carpeted floors, but he could not recall the occasion of his last visit here. Hadn't the ceiling been much higher and the table a vast expanse of lace-covered oak? How old had he been? Probably six or seven; when he'd sat in one of the high-back chairs, his feet had dangled above the floor.

He had felt clumsy then. He felt confused now.

“Are you listening, Michael?”

At his arrival at Glenstone Manor earlier in the day, she had excused herself, but only briefly, from a visit with the vicar. Standing in the unlighted hall, Michael had glimpsed his mother for the first time in fifteen years. The urgency of her tone during their conversation had brought out his heroic intentions and sent him hurrying to Lawnmarket to slay the dragon, Sarah MacKenzie.

On reflection, his eagerness galled him.

He put down his fork. “What precisely was the misfortune that befell dear Henry? You didn't say.”

Turning her head away, she breathed through her nose. “ 'Twas that scoundrel, the duke of Richmond. He preyed upon your brother's decent nature and lured him into a gaming den.”

The condemnation was at odds with what Michael knew about Richmond, and he regretted not having questioned his mother at length before dashing off to confront Sarah MacKenzie. “His grace is reputed to frequent the better gaming clubs, but his honor has never been questioned.”

She grew very quiet, then asked, “How would you know? You've been in service in India.”

She made his chosen career sound vile. As a second
son he'd had few options beyond the family crumbs. What would she say if she knew of the fortune he'd amassed? He'd reserve that information. “Tell me what occurred.”

“Richmond cheated at some game—dice most likely—and when Henry refused to pay him fifteen thousand pounds, the wretched duke had dear Henry clamped in irons and carted away. 'Tis appalling.”

“Fifteen thousand pounds is an appalling amount to wager at dice.”

The butler served the brandied pears, then dusted debris from the table.

When he had exited, she said, “Yes, Michael, I'm certain you would see it as a fortune.”

He wanted to laugh. Instead he thought of Sarah. She'd been fierce in her conviction that she would not squander her dowry on a gaming debt. He shared her dislike of wasteful practices and had the feeling they would agree on more than issues of moral principle.

She could even pick apart a law and derive its maxim.
Maxim
. How many women—or men for that matter—even knew the meaning of the word? Not many, he was forced to admit.

Taking his silence for confirmation of her opinion, his mother continued. “I've received a letter from Henry's solicitor. The duke has threatened to take the matter before the House of Lords. He advises that we send Richmond a token payment.” Lifting her eyes, she settled a pleasant gaze on Michael. “You must cashier yourself out of the career we bought for you.”