Highland Heiress (5 page)

“There's the law,” Gordon suggested, glad he had broached the subject. “You could be a barrister.”

“Are you forgetting I was never much for study? Besides, that would take more time than I have. I need
money now, not years from now, or I'll have already lost the estate and town houses and what would be the point?”

Gordon surveyed the walls of the drawing room. “You could sell some of the art.”

“I've borrowed against most of the good pieces,” Robbie replied, “and if I were to try to sell all the rest, I might as well advertise in the
Times
that I'm bankrupt. I can just imagine what my creditors will do then.”

“Perhaps I could contact your creditors on your behalf—discreetly, of course—and try to negotiate different terms for repayment or an extension. In my experience, lenders are often willing to receive something rather than nothing.”

Robbie's face brightened, and he looked better than he had since Gordon had arrived. “Do you really think they'd do that?”

“It's certainly worth pursuing,” Gordon assured him.

“That would be a damn sight better than asking Horse-face to marry me,” Robbie said as he grinned and walked toward Gordon to shake his hand. “I swear, Gordo, inviting you here is one of the best ideas I've ever had in my life!”

Perhaps it was, but Gordon wished he'd never had it.

 

“Ouch!”

Sticking her index finger in her mouth before she bled on her embroidery, Moira pushed the frame away with
her other hand. This was the third time she'd jabbed herself with the needle since she'd started.

She glanced at the gilded clock on the mantelpiece of the upstairs sitting room. The late-afternoon light was brighter in this part of the house if the day was sunny, so she kept all her needlework here. Today, however, had not been sunny, so there was another reason she'd chosen this relatively isolated room to spend her time.

She could see the whole long driveway from her vantage point by the window.

It was nearly time for tea, and her father still hadn't returned from Glasgow, although he should have been back by noon.

Frowning, she wrapped her handkerchief around her finger and put the small scissors, pincushion and yarns in their box, then closed the lid. This delay could mean nothing; he might have had more business to do than she suspected.

Besides, she would have to tell him about Robbie's lawsuit when he got home, and that was not something she was looking forward to. Still, the dread of telling him about that was less distressing than the dread of learning that her father had broken his vow not to imbibe to excess.

She hoped she wasn't disappointed. Again.

Sighing, she looked out the window once more, to see her father's carriage turn onto the long sweeping drive.

M
oira left the room at once and hurried to the top of the stairs, where she could see the foyer and watch her father enter the house.

His clothes were neat and tidy, and his gait straight and firm as he came into view.

With a relieved sigh, she rushed down the stairs and into her father's open arms.

“Moira, my girl! How I missed you!” he cried as he hugged her.

“I missed you, too, Papa,” she said, holding him close, happy and relieved that he didn't smell of wine, and his eyes were clear and shining. “Your journey was a success?”

“Aye, better than I expected,” he replied as he moved away to hand his coat and hat to Walters, who was waiting expectantly nearby. “I took some time to visit some
of our friends, too. The Misses Jenkins all send their best, and Mrs. McGovern, and the Bruces.”

“I miss them all,” she said with heartfelt sincerity, taking his arm and leading him to the drawing room, where they would have their tea.

Despite her cares and duties as mistress of her father's house in Glasgow, those days often seemed like a happy, carefree dream, until his drinking had become a worry. “Perhaps we could invite Sally and her sister for a visit soon.”

“Excellent idea,” her father replied as he sat down before the tea table.

In addition to the tea, milk and sugar, there were scones—her father's favorite—and fresh butter and strawberry jam.

As they sat side by side on the damask-covered sofa and her father regaled her with tales of his dealings, it was almost like having tea back in their much-smaller home in Glasgow.

Almost.

“So I told the old skinflint that he should be delighted I was making such an offer,” her father said with a laugh. “Just because I've got a title, I haven't lost my wits, I said. You should have seen his face, Moira!”

“Then everything went just as you'd hoped?”

“Better! That's why I was a little late returning. But I had another reason. I stand to make such a tidy profit, I stopped to get a present for a certain young lady of my acquaintance.” He reached into his jacket and produced a small blue velvet box tied with a scarlet satin
ribbon that he held out to her. “A trifle for my darling daughter.”

Even the wrapping looked expensive. “Oh, Papa, you shouldn't have!”

“If I can't spoil my daughter, who can I spoil, at least until I have grandchildren?” he replied. “Besides, I thought you deserved something after…well, after your recent troubles.”

More grateful for his sympathy, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

“Enough of that! Just put it on.”

She undid the ribbon and opened the box. “Oh, Papa!” she gasped at the sight of a lovely cameo of a woman's profile, the background a beautiful periwinkle blue. She lifted it out and held it up to admire against her cream-colored day gown. “It's lovely!”

“I saw it and immediately thought of you, my dear.”

She pinned it to her bodice and went to look at her reflection in the mirror. It was the perfect size, and pretty and delicate.

“So, my dear, you know how my trip to Glasgow was. What have you been doing in my absence? Not spending all your time on that school, I hope.”

No, she most definitely had not.

But she certainly didn't want to ruin this moment by telling him about meeting Mr. McHeath in the wood, and especially about that kiss, and surely Robbie's legal challenge could wait a little while. Too many times in recent months her time with her father had been colored
by dread and dismay. “I did have a meeting with Mr. Stamford about the school.”

Her father tilted his head and paused with another scone halfway to his mouth. “And?”

“And he seemed to think he could charge whatever he liked because I wouldn't be aware of the cost of building materials.”

Her father chuckled before he took a bite of the scone. “More fool him. Speaking of fools, have those three idiot women done anything more to upset you?”

Moira wished her father hadn't been with her the last time she'd gone into Dunbrachie. He'd been much more disturbed by the way the three young women had given her the cut direct than she had been, in part because she didn't particularly care for the leader of the cabal, Sarah Taggart. “No, Papa, I haven't seen them lately.”

He eased himself back on the sofa. “So, you've had a peaceful time in Dunbrachie, then.”

Moira laced her fingers in her lap and took a deep breath. Although she would rather wait, he was going to have to hear about Robbie's lawsuit eventually, so she might as well tell him now, while he was in a good mood. And it would be better here, where all the wine and spirits were under her control. “I'm afraid there's been some difficulty with Sir Robert.”

When he was sober, her father's gaze could cut like a knife. “What do you mean, difficulty?”

She swallowed hard before answering, and tried to keep her voice level and calm. “It seems, Papa, that Sir Robert has decided to sue me for breach of promise.”

Her father bolted up from the sofa as if she'd stuck
him with a pin, and his face bore the same incredulous expression that had probably been on her face when McHeath had made the same announcement.
“What?”

“Because I broke our engagement, he's suing me for breach of promise.”

“That's ridiculous!” her father exclaimed, his face turning as red as ripe cherries, a stark contrast to his white hair.

“I quite agree, but ridiculous or not, that's what he's doing,” she replied, her hands clasped in her lap, hoping that if she was calm, he would be, too, although it might take a while. “Apparently his attorney thinks he has a case because our engagement was public knowledge, so what can be considered a verbal contract was also public knowledge.”

“Public knowledge?” her father angrily repeated. “Aye, your engagement was public knowledge and so were his liaisons with all those young women—to everybody in Dunbrachie but us!”

“Nevertheless, his solicitor said—”

“Has Gallagher lost his mind?” her father demanded, naming Sir Robert's usual solicitor, the man who'd been involved in the drafting of her marriage settlement.

“It wasn't Mr. Gallagher. The solicitor is a friend of Sir Robert's from Edinburgh, Mr. Gordon McHeath.”

“I don't give a damn who he is or where he's from. They'll never win.”

It was probably better to tell her father everything here and now. “Mr. McHeath said he can argue that it was my duty to find out more about Sir Robert before I
accepted his proposal. Since I didn't, the fault lies with me for breaking the engagement.”

Unfortunately, she had to admit, if only to herself, that Mr. McHeath was right about that one thing, at least. She should have tried to find out more about the handsome, flirtatious Sir Robert before accepting his proposal. If she hadn't been so flattered by his attention, she might have realized that he didn't stir her passion, certainly not the way Mr. McHeath did from the moment she met him.

But then, nobody had stirred her passion the way Mr. McHeath did.

Her father strode to the windows, turned and marched back again. “That man has the morals and backbone of a worm!” he declared, shaking his fist. “To sue a woman for jilting him! The man is even more of an idiot that those silly women.”

“I don't think he's stupid, Papa, or that idea would never have occurred to him. He's certainly vain, though, and I've wounded his pride, enough that he's seeking five thousand pounds in compensation.”

“Five thousand…?” her father gasped. “The man
is
mad if he thinks we'll pay him even a quarter of that.”

“That's exactly what I told Mr. McHeath, or as good as. Perhaps once Sir Robert realizes we're not going to surrender easily, he'll drop the suit,” she said as, relieved the worst of her revelations were over, she poured her father another cup of tea. “Please sit down, Papa, and have some tea.”

“Tea? I can't think of tea at a time like this!” the earl cried as he stalked to the window again. He faced her
once more, glowering. “You should have set the dogs on that lawyer!”

Moira didn't want to think about Mr. McHeath and dogs, and her father mustn't get so agitated. She had to find a way to calm him and deal with this problem as quickly and easily as possible, even if it was a way she didn't like.

She went to him and took his hands in hers, looking up at the man who had always striven to provide for her and make her happy despite his disturbing predilection for strong spirits in the past several months. “I've been thinking that perhaps it would be best to rid ourselves of this nuisance as swiftly as possible. It could be that if we offer Sir Robert a lesser sum, he'll leave us alone.”

“Why on earth should you pay him because we found out the truth?” her father demanded, his hands gripping hers tightly. “If we hadn't and you'd married that disgraceful, dishonest rogue, he would have broken your heart and ruined your happiness.”

Moira reached for the arrows in her quiver that her father would most appreciate. “Regardless of Sir Robert's behavior, my reputation is already suffering. How much more will my name be tarnished if we let this matter go to court? How much more money might we have to pay our solicitor to defend my decision?”

The earl pulled away, but not before his expression softened. “Aye, daughter, I have to admit you've got a point. If we're stubborn, it could cost us even more and not just in pounds—not that I want to pay him a cent.”

“Neither do I, Papa. But it may be more prudent this
way. I'll arrange a meeting with his solicitor to test the waters.”

“No, daughter. Let me deal with the rascal who's representing that blackguard.”

It was on the tip of Moira's tongue to protest, until her rational mind reminded her that she was apparently unable to act in a dispassionate manner around—and with—Mr. Gordon McHeath. “Yes, Papa. More tea?”

 

“Checkmate,” Gordon said as he moved his piece into position.

He'd suggested chess as a way to keep Robbie occupied and away from the whiskey.

He'd been partly successful, for Robbie had only had one drink during the game, leaving his empty glass sitting on the table in the library.

“Good God,” Robbie muttered as he studied the chessboard. “You've obviously been playing more than I have since we last saw each other.”

Given how poorly Robbie had played, Gordon could believe Robbie hadn't played at all since their last game, nearly six years ago.

Robbie slouched lower in his chair and reached for the cheroot that he'd lit a few moments ago. “I didn't realize you had such an easy life that you could play chess frequently.”

“My practice consumes most of my time, but I do go out to my club a night or two a week.”

“I trust you also get invited to dinner parties and such.”

“Occasionally,” Gordon replied, not anxious to talk
about the last dinner party he'd attended, because Catriona McNare had been in attendance, as well. Instead, he busied himself returning the chess pieces to their starting places on the board.

“Still, I envy you,” Robbie said, leaning his head back and blowing out a puff of smoke. Gordon wasn't partial to the odor, so he rose and opened the nearest window.

Robbie didn't seem to notice, or else he didn't care that his smoke was bothering his friend. “Yes, I do envy you,” he mused aloud. “Your quiet life. Your clear conscience.”

Since meeting Moira and deciding not to tell Robbie about it, his conscience hadn't exactly been clear.

“Next time I'm thinking of getting married, Gordo, old sod, I'm going to have you to meet the gel first. A judicious, serious fellow like you will make sure I don't get jilted again.”

Even if he hadn't had troubles of his own, the last thing Gordon wanted was to become Robbie's romantic consultant or vet his potential wives. “I'm no fit judge of women.”

Robbie's brows rose as he sat up straighter and his eyes gleamed with interest. “If a solicitor isn't a good judge of people, who is?” He tilted his head and regarded Gordon with a studious expression, which was rare for Robert McStuart. “There's something you're not telling me, isn't there, Gordo? I can see it in the set of your jaw.”

He should have been more careful. He wondered what he'd say, until Robbie solved his dilemma by speaking
first. “You know all my romantic woes. It's only fair you tell me yours.”

Gordon didn't want to tell Robbie about Catriona; on the other hand, it might do Robbie good to hear he wasn't the only man with romantic troubles. “There was a young lady who I thought cared for me, but I discovered I was wrong.”

“Good God, Gordo!” Robbie cried, swiftly stubbing out his cheroot in his empty whiskey glass. “A woman rejected you, too? Who was she?”

“It doesn't matter. It's all over and done with, Robbie. She was already in love with another man. I wish her every happiness with her husband.”

“How long has it been since she married somebody else? A month? A year?”

“A few months.”

Months that had seemed like years, until he'd met Moira MacMurdaugh up in a tree.

Ever since then, he'd been realizing just how different his feelings for Catriona had been, even from the start. She had been more like a pretty doll he wanted to have in the drawing room to admire than a woman with whom he could build a life.

Moira MacMurdaugh was very much a woman, and he could easily imagine tackling life's woes as well as its joys with her by his side.

“You'll have to tell me the cure, because by God, Gordo, I've never been more wretched in my life!”

Robbie actually sounded serious.

How could he explain that the cure for a broken heart was the realization that you were never truly in
love before? “Getting on with your life,” he offered instead.