In Your Wildest Scottish Dreams (22 page)

Lucy stared dry-eyed at Eleanor, then at Lennox, her mouth pinched, her eyes narrowed, and twin spots of color on her cheeks.

“We want the best for you, my dear,” she said.

“If you care so much about reputation, Mrs. MacIain, what do you think people would say about your daughter kissing Lennox passionately in the garden? She didn’t seem to care about her reputation.”

For a space of seconds, perhaps minutes, Eleanor couldn’t think of a response. Warmth traveled from her heels to her nose.

“I beg your pardon?”

There, at least she’d said something.

“Your daughter was in the garden with Lennox. I wouldn’t be surprised if they copulated behind the hedges, Mrs. MacIain. What do you think the whole of Glasgow will say to that?”

The inference being she would share every bit of information she had with anyone who cared to listen.

Eleanor rarely found herself cowed, although Lucy managed to cause her heart to beat fiercely. In the most ghastly situations she maintained a determined cheerfulness. Now she forced a smile to her face and prayed for the right words to answer the woman.

Lennox stood still at her side, but she didn’t look at him. The last time she’d done so, he’d been staring at Lucy as if he’d like to immolate her with his gaze.

Lucy stared straight at her, a self-professed paragon of all the virtues, a virago with a vicious tongue.

How could she invite this woman to stay with
them? She could just imagine the first encounter between her and Glynis. Her daughter did not deserve to be assaulted in her own home.

“Under the circumstances,” she said, standing, “perhaps it would be better if we took you to a hotel. I hear the Lafayette Hotel is a lovely place.”

She glanced at Lennox, who nodded.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Lucy said.

Lennox smiled, such a strange expression she felt her skin chill.

“Yes, you are,” he said. “If I have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you there.”

Lucy, who had been dry-eyed until now, chose that moment to begin to weep.

B
efore her mother left with Lennox, she sent Lily to draw her a bath and Mabel to make a dinner tray. The bath sounded wonderful; Glynis hadn’t stopped shivering since leaving the yard. But she didn’t know if she would be able to eat.

She made it upstairs to her bedroom, walking carefully and with deliberation. If she paid attention to her steps, she wouldn’t be thinking of anything else. Not Lennox’s errand to tell Lucy Whitaker her husband was dead. Not the sight of Gavin stretched out on the deck of the
Raven.
Certainly not the memory of all that blood.

She removed her dress, sure the fabric was ruined from the rain. Lily worked miracles, however, so perhaps she could coax it back to life and keep it from acquiring the rusty looking stain of some black fabrics.

At the knock, she grabbed her wrapper, donned it, and opened the door.

“Your bath is ready, Miss Glynis.”

Before she could thank her, Mabel appeared at the top of the steps, breathing heavily as she carried the tray into the room and placed it on the bench at the end of the bed.

Had she emptied the larder? The tray boasted a teapot with cup and saucer, along with a bowl of stew, four slices of buttered bread, some greens, and enough desserts to feed everyone in the house.

“I always thought a little bit of sweetness helps on a sour day,” the cook said.

Today most definitely qualified as sour.

“You ring now if there’s anything you want. Either me or Lily will fetch it for you straight away.”

Glynis blinked away her tears. “Thank you, both of you.”

The older woman nodded and whispered something to Lily. The two servants left her, and she closed the door, leaning against it.

She pressed her fingers over her eyes, trying to ease the burning from unshed tears.

Gavin Whittaker was dead and his death reminded her of all the other men on her conscience.

In the beginning she’d been like everyone else in Washington, caught up in the excitement of words and emotion. She’d known some handsome men in uniform, wished them well, and kissed one on the cheek for good luck as he marched off to battle.

None of the five men she knew returned.

Over the months, she’d begun to think of the war as a gaping maw, trapping young and not so young men. The gaiety, the frenetic energy, the excitement gripping Washington in the beginning had changed to a dread beginning at dawn and lasting until the end of daylight.

What other battles would be published in the papers? How many more men would die for a cause each side felt right and just?

The British Legation had been required, officially, to be neutral, but their neutrality had made them the repository of secrets. Or as Baumann once said, the legation was a treasure trove of intelligence. They learned of conditions in the Confederacy through English subjects living in the southern states. They received dispatches from attachés throughout the South, each
one of them revealing something that could be used in the war.

Baumann had announced, on more than one occasion, that she was his most valuable operative.

She might give a good dinner party and hold occasional teas filled with interesting conversation, but to members of the legation she was deemed insignificant and invisible. People didn’t modulate their conversations around her. Richard’s reputation as a sycophant helped, too. Surely the wife of the toadying British attaché wouldn’t carry tales.

Even careless remarks were valuable. Such as the time she’d overheard news about another attaché living in Georgia. His comments about his lifestyle proved the Confederacy was receiving help from Europe. When the blockade tightened, Baumann told her she’d been instrumental in the decision.

He didn’t know she held most of what she learned back. She’d been forced to give him dribs and drabs to keep him satisfied and silent, but she withheld the information she thought would be most damaging.

After Richard’s death she refused to help Baumann, and he couldn’t do a thing to her. She wasn’t part of the inner circle at the legation. She didn’t meet with influential women. Nor did she care if she was sent home in disgrace. Let him reveal the whole horrid story to anyone he wished.

Now he had come to Glasgow and threatened her again. The man was a canker, refusing to disappear. This time, however, she refused to be blackmailed.

Yet when she’d been ready to tell the truth, murder stopped her.

T
HE CARRIAGE
ride to the hotel was memorable for its lack of conversation. Lennox couldn’t remember being
in a more uncomfortable position than sitting opposite two women who didn’t deign to look at him.

Eleanor’s smile had turned brittle and she studiously avoided glancing in his direction.

Lucy’s bout of tears had ended once she realized he was serious about evicting her from Hillshead. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth pursed until her blotchy cheeks were as plump as a squirrel’s. Whenever she did glance in his direction, he half expected to be singed by her look.

The Lafayette Hotel was located in the center of Glasgow. The building was a showplace with a lobby filled with soaring arches and a wide set of pink marbled stairs leading to the rooms on the second and third floors.

Lennox arranged for a suite for Lucy, uncaring about its cost. He spoke to the manager, requesting extra deference for Mrs. Whittaker in view of her recent tragedy. The man was accommodating, promising to send a tray from the tea room and reserving the bathing chamber for her use. He also agreed that a porter would go to her suite twice daily to ask if she needed anything.

If the man wondered why Lennox was willing to pay so much for Lucy Whittaker’s comfort, he didn’t mention it.

Ten minutes later he followed Lucy and Mrs. MacIain up the marble stairs. Behind him, Lucy’s bags were being carried by two porters obviously straining with the effort.

Perhaps he should have checked to ensure she hadn’t nicked any of his belongings. But if she had, it would have been a small price to pay to rid himself of her.

Once inside the room, Eleanor made a point of pointing out all the amenities.

“Look, there’s a wash basin right in your bedroom. And a window with a lovely view of Glasgow.” She pressed both hands against the mattress. “The bed seems wonderful.”

She straightened. “Not that you’ll be sleeping much tonight. The first few weeks after a loss such as you’ve sustained is the worst.”

“I won’t be here long,” Lucy said. “I’m going home.”

He truly wanted to feel a measure of compassion for her. After all, her husband had just died. If she hadn’t reacted with grief immediately, perhaps it was due to shock. Who was he to judge how a woman mourned?

“I can understand why you would want to,” he said. “But until the inquest is over, you can’t leave.”

Her cheeks grew florid. She clenched her hands into fists and looked as though she wanted to hit him.

“I hate Scotland,” she said. “I hate everything about it. You people don’t speak correctly. Nor do you eat anything decent.”

He made a mental note to tell the hotel staff to provide her an English breakfast.

“How much longer do I have to stay in this horrible place?”

Did she know he most earnestly desired her absence as much as she wished herself gone?

“Less than a month, I would think.”

“A month? I have to stay in this hellish place a month?”

Her voice rose an octave. He anticipated the onslaught of tears at any moment.

“Shall I send one of my staff to keep you company?” Eleanor asked, stepping in front of Lucy. “You’ll need someone to run errands for you.”

“I need a maid,” Lucy said, her voice returning to its normal timbre.

“I have a sweet girl named Lily working for me. I’ll
send her by first thing in the morning, shall I?” When Lucy didn’t answer, she continued. “You’ll need stationery, of course. And you’ll want to dispatch a telegram informing your family of the tragedy.”

Eleanor turned to him, the first time since leaving Hillshead. “Will you handle notifying Mr. Whittaker’s employer, Lennox?”

He nodded.

“I want a new wardrobe,” Lucy said. “I have to wear mourning and I won’t dye my dresses.”

When Eleanor glanced at him, he nodded again.

Why did he feel like he was paying for Lucy’s silence? What guarantee did he have she wouldn’t tell tales about him and Glynis?

“Go away,” Lucy said, not making an effort to mitigate her rudeness. “I’ve had all I can take of you Scots.”

She turned and without another word entered the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her.

“
T
HERE
’
S AN
explanation for what Lucy saw,” Lennox said once they were alone in the carriage.

Eleanor smiled. “I’m very certain there is. Just as I’m certain Mrs. Whittaker will do anything in her power to make it sound worse than it is.”

“I agree. What do I do?”

She looked away, staring through the window at the rainy night. “A few prayers might not be amiss. Otherwise, there’s every possibility she will do her best to ruin your reputation.”

He nodded. “I’m not worried about me,” he said.

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and said her own prayer, for patience this time. What was she going to do with the two of them?

She turned back. To his credit, he didn’t look away, but met her eyes. Lennox had always been direct, even as a boy, taking responsibility when he was wrong.
He’d grown up to be a devastating man, one who no doubt fascinated all manner of women.

Glynis had adored him. Eleanor thought it a youthful obsession, one that would pass in time. She’d paid for the mistake by losing her daughter for seven years.

She wouldn’t be so foolish again.

She suspected her daughter’s fascination with Lennox had begun at the very start of Glynis’s life. Lennox was seven years old to her two when she began holding out her arms for him, screaming his name in an unintelligible utterance of infant language.

He’d been kind to the little girl, scooping her up and returning her to Eleanor countless times.

Glynis said too much had happened for her to feel the same way about Lennox now. Eleanor didn’t believe such nonsense. First of all, Glynis acted differently whenever Lennox’s name was mentioned. Her cheeks turned pink; she rarely looked at the speaker but concentrated on the ground or the distance, as if wishing to hide her emotions. Secondly, she’d seen her daughter’s expression when asking about Lennox’s engagement.

Seven years might have passed, true. Circumstances might have altered, again true. But she knew love when she saw it.

She wasn’t that old.

She could also recognize misery, and Glynis was miserable. Even worse, she suspected Glynis had been miserable for seven years.