Scandal in Scotland (3 page)

A letter from Michael Hurst to his brother William, describing his first sight of Athens
.

Upon arriving in this ancient metropolis, I felt as if I were perched upon the precipice of potential. This feeling was so powerful, I thought I had a fever. It is surprising how many times a good feeling can be confused with a bad one. Often one is unsure which feeling it really is until much later.

         
C
HAPTER 2

W
illiam saw Marcail step forward, her slight body breaking his fall just before he landed on the floor.

Why has she drugged me?
He was too numb to feel anything, his emotions as muted as his body. He watched with unemotional interest as she eased him to the floor and then made a pillow of his cloak and placed it under his head, her hands careful and sure.

Then, ever so gently, she slipped the chain from around his neck and went to his desk. The lowering sunlight cast her in a golden glow that made her seem ethereal, an angel of such purity, beauty, and exquisite grace that it pained him to watch her.

It was that grace that had won him in the first place. Not her face nor her figure nor her rich voice, all of which had helped catapult her to fame. When she walked, she drew a man’s attention and held it, almost as if she were dancing to music that only she could hear.

Her dark hair gleamed in the lingering light as she unlocked his desk and reached in.

How much gold was in the cubbyhole? Two hundred guineas? Three? I’ll have to check the records once she leaves, the little thief. But why does she need it? Does she have debts she can’t tell her protector about?

She straightened, and in her hand was the velvet bag holding the ancient artifact William needed to ransom his brother.

Even in his drugged state, fury trickled through.
I must have that artifact. I cannot free Michael without it!

She tugged open the bag and glanced inside, her brows lowering as she slid the slender onyx box free. She traced the tip of a finger over the edge of the box, her expression perplexed. Uncertain, she glanced his way and met his gaze.

Her cheeks darkened as if she blushed, and she hurriedly tucked the artifact away.

William wanted to revile her, to cut her to shreds, but all he could do was glare at her with all of the force of his anger, which was burning through the drug’s haze.

He tried with all of his strength to move and his toes curled, which had been impossible just two moments ago.
The drug is already wearing off! Woe betide the wench soon
.

Even if he had to crawl on his hands and knees, he’d teach her a lesson she wouldn’t forget.

She tied her cloak about her neck, then slid the box into a deep pocket. “I hate to leave you upon the floor, but I must.”

He ground his teeth and glared.

She paused at his side and, with an almost regretful look, she stooped and placed a hand upon his cheek. Her gaze was bright, as if with unshed tears. “Don’t try to follow me, William. You won’t be able to reach me.”

But he
would
reach her. Even if it took him the rest of his life, he’d exact a vengeance so harsh, so cold—

She bent over him, her long, silky hair sweeping over his cheek in a gossamer caress, the faint scent of her exotic perfume making his heart pound faster.

“I am sorry to do this,
mon cher
, but I have no choice.” She brushed her soft lips over his, the kiss as gentle as sea mist. Then, in a voice tinged with remorse, she said, “To you, this is a trinket. To me, it is freedom.”

With that cryptic statement, she rose and pulled her hood over her head, tucking her hair out of sight. “I knew you wouldn’t help, so this was my only recourse. I did give you a chance beforehand.”

She stepped toward the door, but William’s fingers had closed about her hem. He held tightly to the skirt, his gaze blazing. Once he was free of this drug, he’d teach her the danger of crossing him.

“Good-bye, William.” She yanked her skirt from his grasp and crossed to the doorway. There, she looked back. “I know you won’t believe me, but I wish you well. I always have.”

She left the cabin, quietly closing the door behind her, leaving William in the growing darkness.

A letter from Mary Hurst to her brother Michael as he prepared for his first expedition
.

I hesitate to mention this, as I know you’re quite busy with your preparations, but I am worried about William. Since he came back from sea he’s so quiet, solemn, and—I think—sad. I asked him what was wrong, and he laughed bitterly and said he’d learned an important lesson.

I wonder if perhaps he fell in love and it didn’t prosper?

Mother is certain he will overcome whatever is bothering him, though she has been taking special pains to tempt his appetite. I think that it will take much more than rabbit stew to heal a truly broken heart.

         
C
HAPTER 3

T
ea, my lady?”

Lady MacToth closed her book and placed it on the overstuffed arm of her chair, the delicate wrinkles about her green eyes crinkling with her smile. “Briggs, you read my mind.”

“As I do every day at four.” Smiling gently, he held the silver tray a bit lower, noting how my lady’s delicate, blue-veined hands shook slightly when she took her cup.

Her hands seemed to shake more each day, a fact that weighed upon his heart, though he was careful not to acknowledge it by so much as a blink. He had been with Lady MacToth since he was a lad of sixteen and she a newly married woman of twenty. She was quite different then, a blazing actress feted by the world until she’d stunned society by marrying wealthy Lord MacToth, a man several decades older and far above her in social class. To the bride and groom it was the happiest day of their lives, but to some members of the ton, the marriage was a social disaster. Lord MacToth had married beneath his station and they would not soon forget it.

“More sugar, my lady?”

“Please!” Lady MacToth smiled like a child as he dropped two lumps of sugar into the steaming tea. His mistress took such joy in the simple things in life. It was unfortunate Lord MacToth hadn’t been able to do the same.

He had been determined to prove to the world that his choice of a wife was no mistake, and he did so in grand fashion. He bought her the largest town house in Mayfair and filled it with enough fine furnishings and priceless art to earn it the nickname the Castle; dressed her as finely as any princess and draped her in enough jewels to win over a sultana. But try as he might, he could not buy society’s cold approval.

Society did not forget, and it
never
forgave.

Briggs sighed to think of those early days. Lady MacToth had blithely ignored the slights and cuts, for her life had been filled with so many already that a few more were nothing to her. But Lord MacToth had been horribly hurt when people he’d considered his friends had turned their backs on his bride.

Briggs could have told them how Lord and Lady MacToth had fallen wildly, deeply, and passionately in love at very first sight, and it was that love that reconciled Lord MacToth to his new life. He avoided the society that had rejected his beloved and traveled to the Continent, where they were able to enjoy each other almost exclusively. Three years after the wedding came the birth of a daughter, who joined the couple in their solitary life of travel and luxurious pleasures.

Those were the Idyllic Years. Unfortunately, Lord MacToth’s absence from English soil, where most of his investments were held, combined with a significant increase in spending as he attempted to shut out the ugliness of the world by dazzling his lovely young wife and new child with the finest of everything, caused a steady and unfortunate reversal in his fortune.

Worse, Lord MacToth turned a blind eye to every warning sign of his fortune’s impending doom, including increasingly strident letters from his solicitors to return home to repair the situation.

Years passed, his fortune dwindled, and Lord MacToth found it harder and harder to shield his wife and daughter from the truth.

Briggs believed it was that strain which ultimately led to my lord’s blindingly sudden death. One day, his lordship complained of being tired and went to lie down for a nap. He never rose again.

Lady MacToth had been devastated, but she was made of sterner material than her husband. Upon being informed by his late lordship’s solicitor of the estate’s distressed situation, Lady MacToth faced reality without a flinch. She took her daughter out of the expensive boarding school in France and brought her home to England, placed the four largest of their five houses up for sale, dismissed unnecessary staff, and ruthlessly sold almost all of the famed MacToth treasures.

Lady MacToth oversaw each sale herself, and through her wily negotiations received top prices, too.

But when all was said and done and the mound of bills paid, Lady MacToth had only enough to continue to live very quietly and modestly in the remaining house on the edge of Mayfair.

Surrounded on all sides by up-and-coming tradesmen and their families, its location would not be satisfactory to a high stickler. But Lady MacToth had never wished to join society and she thought the small house lovely. She with her daughter, Lucinda lived there very simply until the child grew up, married, and moved into her own house.

As he lifted a small plate, Briggs repressed a sigh at the thought of Miss Lucinda. “A tea cake, my lady?”

Lady MacToth chuckled, her self-conscious gurgle of laughter making her sound like a young girl. “Did you hear my stomach rumble?”

“No, indeed.” Briggs picked up the tongs and placed a small cake upon a delicate Wedgewood plate and set it by her ladyship. “It’s just that I know you so well, my lady.”

“That you do.” Lady MacToth took a nibble of the moist cake. “Briggs, it’s lemon. My favorite! I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Neither did Briggs—for with the exception of one of her granddaughters who visited often, Lady MacToth was quite alone in the world.

A deep gong sounded and my lady looked up. “Are we expecting a visitor?”

“No, my lady.” Briggs stepped to the nearby window, lifted the edge of the curtain, and then smiled. “It’s Miss Marcail.”

“How lovely!” Lady MacToth took a sip of tea and carefully replaced her teacup, the bottom chattering against the saucer. “I wonder why she’s come unannounced? She usually sends a note before—”

The door opened and a footman stood to one side as her ladyship’s granddaughter entered the sitting room. Tall and slender, her delicate hourglass figure encased in a dashing pelisse of sea green set with navy blue ruches of ribbons, Miss Marcail Beauchamp was the picture of fashion. She tossed aside her veil, removed her fetching bonnet, and shook out the black curls that fell artfully about her face.

There was no denying her breathtaking beauty as she breezed across the room, a younger version of her once beautiful grandmother.

Briggs bowed. “Miss Marcail, what a pleasure.”

She flashed a friendly smile. “Good afternoon, Briggs. How is your wife? I hope she’s feeling better than when I was here last time. She had the toothache, I believe.”

The Morning Post
had once reported that a Russian prince had paid ten thousand pounds for the pleasure of having Miss Beauchamp sing a song at his birthday fete. Hearing that voice, Briggs could only imagine that the astronomical sum had been worth every penny. “My wife is feeling much improved, miss. Thank you.”

Lady MacToth held out her hands to her granddaughter. “You are just in time for tea.”

“That sounds lovely.” Marcail gave her grandmother a swift hug. “Good afternoon, Grandmamma. I hope you’re well.”

Lady MacToth patted the space beside her on the settee. “I’m fine. Wondering, perhaps, why you’ve come in such haste that you didn’t send a note as you usually do?”

Marcail cast a glance at Briggs.

The elderly butler immediately bowed and walked toward the door. “I shall bring tea and more cakes.”

As soon as the door closed behind him, Marcail turned to her grandmother. “Yes, I’m fine. Yes, I’m eating well. And no, I’m not in love. Now that that’s out of the way, we can talk.”

Grandmamma’s lips quirked, her eyes twinkling. “Am I so predictable that you can answer all of my questions before I even speak them?”

“Yes, but only in the dearest way possible.”

Marcail was close to her grandmamma, which was a good thing for them both. Except for each other they were quite alone in the world, a state which was bearable when one was twenty-seven, but not as much so—Marcail suspected—at a more advanced age.

That was Mother’s fault, for allowing Father’s silly pretensions to define who she could and could not see. Marcail’s father was Sir Mangus Ferguson, an impoverished Irish peer overly taken with his own lineage, and who did not approve of Grandmamma—though he was more than willing to accept her money until his profligate spending had forced her to cut him off.

Father had never forgiven her and he had forbidden his wife and five daughters to ever speak to Grandmamma again. It was a good thing Marcail never listened to Father. Even at fifteen, she’d already realized he was a braggart and a fool.

A soft knock announced Briggs, who appeared with a tray. Within seconds, she had a cup of hot tea and a plate with a tea cake, as a snowy white linen napkin settled across her lap. “Thank you, Briggs.”

“My pleasure, miss.” He turned to Grandmamma and asked in a gentle tone, “Would you like more tea before I retire, my lady?”

“Oh, no. I’m fine. Thank you, Briggs.”

He bowed and quietly left.

Marcail waited for the door to close. “He is a gem. My butler is not nearly so circumspect.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without him,” Grandmamma said honestly.

“I don’t think you need to worry. Not only is he very fond of you, but you are a generous mistress.”

“It pays to take care of the ones who take care of you.”

“That’s a good standard to live by.” Marcail tried to hold on to her belief in the inherent kindness of mankind, which she’d learned from Grandmamma long ago, but the events of the last few weeks had stretched that belief to breaking. Her heart sank as she thought of the note in her reticule. She wasn’t certain how, but she had to—

“Marcail, dear, you’re staring at the teapot as if you think it might explode.”

She looked up and forced a smile. “I’m sorry. I’m just a bit distracted.”

With a soft, “Oh no!” Grandmamma set down her tea. “You’ve heard from that horrible blackmailer again.”

Marcail grimaced. “I am quite the actress; I can’t even fool my own grandmother.”

“How did the note arrive this time?”

“I found it under my plate at breakfast this morning.” Which had been a chilling discovery. It was one thing to find the notes inside her coach or tucked into some flowers in her dressing room, and quite another to find one placed in her own home. Marcail had never felt so unsafe before.

“I dislike that,” Grandmamma said in her direct manner. “Did the servants see anything?”

“No, but they aren’t really my servants, they’re Colchester’s.”

Grandmamma shook her head. “I’ve been telling you these past two years that you should get your own house. It’s the least that a—”

“Grandmamma!”

Grandmamma’s parchment skin flushed, but she said in a stubborn tone, “The earl is using you to cover his own proclivities.”

“And I’m using him to keep away the unwanted attentions that were making my life unbearable. We both benefit, and he has been most kind. I owe him more than I can ever repay.”

“I know, I know. He saved you from the regent when that arse was attempting to force himself upon you, hoping to press you into becoming his mistress. I’ll forever be grateful to Colchester for his deft handling of that situation, but that doesn’t mean you are indebted to him forever. You’ve served a purpose in his life, as well.” Grandmamma raised an eyebrow. “I assume Colchester’s tastes are the same as ever?”

“If you are asking if he’s still wildly in love with George Aniston, then the answer is yes. They have been together for almost a year now.”

“That’s a long time for him.”

“Yes, it is. While Colchester’s ‘tastes’ are his own business, I don’t care for Aniston. He is forever asking for funds and throwing tantrums over trivial things. I wish Colchester would be rid of him.”

“He doesn’t sound like a pleasant man.”

“He’s not when he’s in a bad mood. However, when he’s in a good mood he is very charming, and Colchester is mad about him. I don’t think the relationship is good for Colchester with so many dramatic scenes—” Marcail shrugged helplessly. “I’ve told him what I think; that’s all I can do. He just shrugs and says that sometimes life doesn’t allow you to pick who you fall in love with, that it just happens.”

“He’s right about that; sometimes fate shoves you down a path you wouldn’t normally take.”

Marcail silently agreed. She loved Colchester dearly as the brother she’d never had. To the ton, he was a sought-after bachelor, eluding matchmaking mamas and their daughters with a skill that had won him the admiration of his peers. No one had ever guessed his secret, and he’d lived a shadow life for so long that he wore the second skin as comfortably as the first.

She would be forever grateful for his assistance during those early difficult days. The near situation with the prince had terrified her, a brutal reminder of her vulnerability. She was an actress with no social standing to protect her, no family to ward off those with impure intentions.

Worse, at that time, she’d recently met—and straightaway fallen deeply in love with—William Hurst. After six months of a passionate whirlwind courtship, he’d been called back to sea for a three-week run to Dover. Even now, years later, her heart stuttered to a stop when she imagined how things might have turned out if hot, fiery William had heard about the prince’s attentions. He lacked Colchester’s understanding of the nuances of society. William’s reaction would doubtless have resulted in a physical confrontation that would have left the prince bloodied and furious, which would have ended both William’s career and her own. Thus her plan to save her sisters would have been ruined, and that fact had forced her to face the ugly hard cold truth. As an actress she was a target for such improprieties, and that left no possibility of a relationship with William. She had to give him up, or risk causing both their ruins.