Highland Rogue

This book is lovingly dedicated to old friends and new.

To Diane Beaumont,
the person who taught me more about writing
than anyone … and more about generosity, too.

And to the Ladies of the Library:
Shannon, Kari, Laura Lee, Michelle, Anna, Alli,
Doreen, Biddy, Christi, Marcy, Kate, Karen, Susan,
Linda, Tina, Angela and all the gang. Thanks for
giving me a special spot to hang my bonnet in the
eHarlequin community. I can’t wait to see Irving’s
Bookcase overflowing with all your titles!

London, 1875

“My stepmother? Oh, bother!” Claire Brancaster Talbot glanced up from her desk, where she sat reviewing some correspondence from the Admiralty.

To the best of her recollection, Lady Lydiard had never before set foot over the threshold of Brancasters’ business office on the Strand. “Did she say what she wants to see me about, Catchpole?”

The sudden advent of Lady Lydiard appeared to have flustered the hitherto imperturbable Mr. Catchpole. Claire had long suspected her fussy, middle-aged secretary of entertaining a secret reverence for persons of title.

“Her ladyship did not vouch that information, miss.” Catchpole removed his pince-nez, then immediately replaced it. “Should I have made so bold as to inquire?”

“I would scarcely call it
bold
to ask a caller’s business.” Claire stifled a sigh as she laid aside her paperwork. “However, I doubt her ladyship will keep me in suspense about what she wants. Show her in.”

Rising from her seat, Claire smoothed down the skirt of her checked silk frock, hoping her stepmother would not fuss about the paucity of her crinolines or the complete absence of a corset. Not that Claire’s angular figure truly required the latter to achieve a slender waist. Corsets did help create the illusion of bosoms, but she could happily do without those in the business world.

The door to her office opened and Lady Lydiard cruised in under full sail, her middle-aged waist cinched so tightly Claire marveled the woman could breathe, let alone sit or eat.

Mr. Catchpole trailed behind her ladyship with an unctuous smirk on his face that made Claire want to shake some sense into him. “Lady Lydiard to see you, Miss Brancaster Talbot. Shall I bring tea for you ladies?”

“One name will do, thank you, Catchpole,” said Claire.

Adopting the name of her mother’s family when she’d taken over Brancasters had been an edict of her grandfather’s will. Though she signed both names on business correspondence, she found the pair too cumbersome for social use.

“And don’t bother about tea,” she added, without consulting her stepmother. “I doubt this is a social call.”

Whatever the purpose of Lady Lydiard’s visit, Claire had no wish to prolong it.

“Very good, miss.” Catchpole made a deep bow and backed out of the office.

His obsequious withdrawal was lost on Lady Lydiard, who swept a glance around Claire’s spartan but spacious office, her nose wrinkled slightly as though she could detect the unpleasant odor of
trade.
“So this is where you spend all your time?”

“Not all of it.” Claire turned to look out her office window, onto the bustle of London’s commercial district. “Just enough to keep your shares from losing their value, and to grow the fortune your grandchildren will inherit one day.”

Lady Lydiard gave a choked little gasp that made Claire repent her veiled threat. For the sake of her dear half sister, she had resolved to improve the cool relations with her stepmother, at least until after Tessa’s wedding.

When she turned back to offer some sort of apology, she found Lady Lydiard with a handkerchief pressed to her quivering lower lip. Claire’s heart sank even as her exasperation rose. It was not fair that a woman she’d never cared pins about could provoke her emotions to such an unpleasant degree.

“Th-that’s what I came to see you about!” Her ladyship promptly burst into tears, much to Claire’s chagrin and impatience.

She had a wholesome horror of the tearful outbursts to which Lady Lydiard was prone.

“Why don’t you … have a seat?” Claire struggled to think what she’d said that could be the reason for her stepmother’s call … or her sudden fit of weeping.

Money trouble? It couldn’t be. Whatever her differences with the woman, Claire had to admit Lady Lydiard lived comfortably within her generous allowance.

“Shall I summon Mr. Catchpole back and tell him we’ll take tea, after all?” she asked, with a hint of desperation in her voice.

She found the ritual of tea drinking often provided a distraction in awkward social situations. This one certainly qualified.

“No tea.” Lady Lydiard made a visible effort to collect herself as she settled onto the chair in front of Claire’s desk. “I don’t wish to keep you long from … whatever it is you do.”

Claire bit back a sharp retort. The work she did for Brancasters Marine Works was at least as important as whatever most women of her class undertook to occupy their time.

“I need your help!” The words burst out of Lady Lydiard like a guilty confession. “It’s Tessa. She’s having second thoughts about marrying Spencer!”

Was
that
all? Claire gave a chuckle of relief as she resumed her seat behind the desk.

“Tessa is having
twenty-second
thoughts about marrying poor Spencer. It’s apt to get worse as their wedding day approaches, I warn you. But she will go through with it, all the same. He’s just the steady sort of fellow she needs, bless him. Beneath all her qualms, Tessa knows it, too, I suspect.”

It didn’t hurt matters a whit, in Claire’s opinion, that the match made marvelous business sense, as well. Spencer Stanton’s family owned a large shipping company that was one of Brancasters’ best customers. Besides, Tessa had long passed her debutante days. Her “free-spirited” ways had frightened off less steadfast suitors years ago.

“This is different!” Lady Lydiard insisted. “There’s another man she’s taken a violent fancy to. From …
America.”
She spoke the word as if it were some sort of profanity. “Gillis is his name … or is it Getty? No matter. I feel certain he’s a fortune hunter of some kind.”

The tension that had begun to ease out of Claire’s body now made her muscles clench tighter than ever.

She would never forget her father’s words to her one painful night, ten years ago.
My dear, you are too wealthy, too clever and too plain for any man to wed, except for your fortune.

She hadn’t wanted to believe him. What girl her age would? The suitors who’d pursued her over the years had convinced her that her father’s harsh assessment was correct.

So she’d packed away her few, modest romantic illusions, along with the wistful yearning for a family. Over the years, she had given Brancasters all the time and devoted attention she might have lavished on a husband and children. In turn, the company had rewarded her dedication with growth and prosperity.

Damned if she would let it fall prey to that most loathsome of creatures—a fortune hunter! Especially one trying to sneak in the back door using her half sister.

“I’ll talk to Tessa.” Claire spoke in a tone of grave finality, as if her intervention was bound to settle everything.

This would not be the first time she’d provided the voice of calm reason to counter her sister’s capricious impulses; Tessa was always grateful afterward. Sometimes she seemed strangely anxious for Claire to bring her back to earth, even while she was in the grip of some dizzying new enthusiasm.

“I
have
talked to her.” Lady Lydiard wrung her handkerchief. “It’s no use. She won’t listen. She’s smitten with this creature, I tell you. Thank heaven Spencer is out of town on business. He’s been terribly patient with her all these years, but I fear this might be the last straw.”

Claire wasn’t so sure. Tessa’s fancies never lasted long. The hotter the flame, the more quickly it tended to burn itself out. Still, with so much at stake for Brancasters, she could not afford to take any chances.

Resting her forefinger against her lower lip for a moment, Claire pondered the most effective course of action.

“I should like to meet this man for myself,” she said at last. “In the meantime I’ll make some inquiries about him, and we can proceed from there.”

Lady Lydiard gave a final sniff, but otherwise seemed to brighten considerably. “Thank you, Claire. You’ve always been such a sensible, detached sort of person. Almost as good as talking to a man, really.”

“Thank you …” murmured Claire. “… I suppose.”

“Lord and Lady Fortescue are hosting a ball this evening,” Lady Lydiard said. “I feel certain
he
will be there. The scoundrel’s gotten himself invited to every social event Tessa has attended for the past fortnight. And what with Sylvia Fortescue being an American …”

Claire nodded. Marriages of indebted British noblemen to American heiresses had become something of an epidemic of late.

She thought for a moment. “I do believe I received an invitation from Lady Fortescue. Since I didn’t send my regrets, I suppose I am at liberty to attend if I wish, with a suitable escort.”

“You
never
bother to send your regrets.” Lady Lydiard clucked her tongue over such social negligence. “Then you fail to arrive, putting out the table of any hostess foolish enough to expect you. And what manner of
suitable escort
are you planning to bring?”

“A private agent, if you must know. I’ve used him before, to procure information. He’s proven himself extremely discreet and reliable. I’d like him to get a close look at this new admirer of Tessa’s.”