Scotsman of My Dreams (10 page)

A few minutes later, having taken out his manners, dusted them off, and utilized them in thanking her for the refreshments and apologizing for his arrival without notice, he found himself at the front door again.

He was prepared to call for Daniels, but Sarah startled him by taking his arm and leading him down the steps and across the cobbles to the door of his carriage.

She had to be wrong. It had to have been simple negligence or an idiotic hunter who thought Arthur a grouse. She had to be wrong, because otherwise, there was an implication there he couldn't ignore. Two brothers—­one killed and the other shot in an attempt to kill him?

She surprised him by placing her lips against his cheek.

“I'll have the letters delivered to you,” he said. “Will you let me see your son one day?”

His insistence startled him. He had never been responsible for another soul. Until this moment he had never wanted to be responsible for anyone else. But he felt an obligation to the child he'd never seen. Even if Sarah didn't think him good enough to meet him.

“Perhaps,” she said. “One day. Will you really do something? Will you look into Arthur's death?”

He nodded, surprised when the gesture didn't nauseate him.

“I hope you're wrong,” he said.

“I know I'm right.”

He almost asked her if she knew Minerva Todd. The two women were alike in their stubborn insistence. Sarah, in her insistence that Arthur had been murdered, and the Todd woman, in believing that Neville wasn't a would-­be murderer.

He hoped Sarah wasn't right. As far as Neville, he knew he couldn't be wrong. There, a little stubborn insistence of his own.

O
F COURSE
the Earl of Rathsmere would make a visit to his mistress.

A beautiful woman at that, with blond hair and a face borrowed from the angels. She was petite and delicate, one of those creatures written about in the papers and labeled a London treasure.

Minerva was suddenly more than irritated. Her emotions tumbled into anger. She was trying to find her brother and he had the temerity to think only of his loins.

He had hardly been inside long enough for a tryst, unless, of course, the man had performance issues. Minerva wouldn't put it past him to be an exceedingly selfish lover. As long as he received satisfaction, no doubt that was all that was important to Dalton MacIain.

The woman was very solicitous of him, patting his arm, walking him down the steps. Had she broken off their liaison? Did a blind man disturb her? Were Dalton's scars off-­putting?

If so, the woman was a fool and Dalton was better off without her in his life. Or had he come to terminate the relationship? Was it an impulse born of martyrdom? He didn't want to inflict his horrible self on a beautiful woman, was that it?

What rubbish.

She doubted the Earl of Rathsmere was that generous a soul. Besides, his scars gave him a rakish air; they didn't detract from his overall handsomeness. Any woman could see that.

As Dalton got into his carriage, the woman turned and walked up the steps slowly. Suddenly, a child barreled out of the door, only to be caught up in the woman's arms. She laughed as she grabbed him, turning to watch as the carriage moved away, the child resting on one hip.

As they drew abreast, she wanted to look away, but Minerva glanced at the woman and the child. The little boy had black hair and Dalton's features. The resemblance was unmistakable.

The reason for the visit was suddenly clear. He'd come to see his son.

She grabbed her journal and held it close to her chest.

What did she care that the earl had a child? All that she cared about was Neville's whereabouts. When it was obvious they were returning to Tarkington Square, she bit back her disappointment.

Perhaps nothing would come of today's adventures. There was always tomorrow and every day after that.

She would be the earl's shadow for as long as it took.

 

Chapter 12

D
alton made his way to his library, thinking about what he'd learned. Not only about Sarah's thoughts of Arthur's death but about himself.

Venturing outside of his house had been more upsetting than he'd expected. The world wasn't a playground anymore. It wasn't filled with potential adventures, beautiful women to be loved, places to go, and ­people to meet.

His environment had narrowed to only those things he could feel, hear, smell, or sense in the space around his body.

He was no longer Dalton MacIain, brother of the Earl of Rathsmere and wealthy in his own right. He wasn't shocking, a rake, or up for a good time. He was limited, a disability, and more than a little unsettled by his blindness.

He entered the library, casting the walking stick in the direction of the trunks so he didn't trip. When he was done going through Arthur's papers, he'd have them sent off to Benny Carlton, his solicitor.

Benny Carlton was another of Dalton's old school friends. The runt of the litter, Benny hadn't grown much until later. Added to that unfortunate schoolboy circumstance was his pudgy appearance. Benny was round all over. He had a protuberant nose with a round tip, a round face, and wide, round brown eyes. He looked perpetually startled and had been the target for one bully or another.

Once, giving some thought to having his own children, Dalton decided he would never send them off to school. Instead, he would see to it they were educated at home. His school memories included being cold and hungry much of the time, and like Benny Carlton, terrorized until he started to grow. By the time he was thirteen, he was as tall as an adult. Plus he had filled out—­not due to the school's cooking but to his mother's parcels from home.

Arthur had attended the same school, his father's alma mater, and in some ways Dalton was grateful to his older brother for sparing him from the worst of the torment. But those boys who couldn't join Arthur's wide circle of friends took it out on him. Over the years, he'd gathered up his own contingent. The sad, the lonely, the small, and the defenseless all clustered around him as if he were the only one who could protect them.

Dalton's adult friends were the same, those who came in from the storm, so to speak. Men who were finding their way in a treacherous social environment. As boys, like Neville, they were newly wealthy and didn't know how to handle either their money or life itself.

Recently, Benny Carlton had been badgering him to become more involved in handling the MacIain interests. The ghost of his father was providing an impetus as well.

“It only takes three generations to lose a fortune,” Harland MacIain had often said. “One to make it, the next to invest it, and the third to squander it. I'll be damned if we follow that example. You'll know how to administer and grow what we've given you.”

The words had been directed to Arthur, but Dalton felt as if the shade of his father was turning in his direction and pointing a bony finger at him.

The MacIain wealth was seven generations old. If he were going to step into Arthur's shoes, he'd have to make decisions he had never considered before. He'd have to learn a damn sight more than he knew about all their ventures.

He was blind, damn it. An excuse that didn't seem to have an effect on his father's ghost.

Maybe he should make a visit to Arthur's solicitor and query him on his brother's death. Why hadn't the authorities been involved? If there was any doubt, any suspicion about Arthur's death, shouldn't someone have talked to them?

Or was Sarah just a grief-­stricken woman, trying to find a reason why Arthur had been taken from her?

He heard James in the corridor speaking to Mrs. Thompson. He smelled something chocolate baking and smiled. In several ways, his staff treated him as if he were a child, bringing him treats to ease the day. At the moment he felt as insecure as a child, wanting reassurance that his world hadn't changed.

But it had, hadn't it?

He had to convince Sarah to let him see Arthur's son. Or perhaps she would come here and allow Mrs. Thompson to dote on the child. His house had never known the sounds of childhood, a thought that both amused and disturbed Dalton.

“You were followed,” James said, entering the room and stripping every thought from his mind.

“What?” The idea was so preposterous, he could only stare in the direction of the doorway.

Mrs. Thompson bustled about, putting a tea tray on the table between the two wing chairs. She said something about serving him and he nodded as James sat in the adjoining chair.

“Thank you, Mrs. Thompson,” he said finally, wishing her gone. The minute she was, he put down his cup and saucer and turned to James.

“What do you mean I was followed? By whom?”

His initial thought was that it was Neville, and coldness seeped through to his bones. The man had almost been successful at killing him in America. How did he face an enemy he couldn't see now?

“A woman,” James said.

“It was Miss Todd, Your Lordship,” Howington said.

When the hell was his secretary going to learn to announce himself? Had the man been listening at the door?

“She's outside now, sir.”

Dammit all, would the woman not go away?

“Do you want me to talk to her?” James asked. “If nothing else, I can arrange for her not to trouble you again.”

“How are you going to accomplish that? Break one of her carriage wheels? Assault her driver? Anything short of violence won't convince Minerva Todd to leave me alone. No doubt she's one of those women who marches and shouts and holds up placards.” He'd witnessed demonstrations before he left for America, something to do with women wanting the vote. “She's obnoxious. She goes wherever she wants to go with no thought about anyone. She does what she wants, without a by your leave. She says whatever the hell she wants.”

“She sounds a great deal like you, Dalton.”

Even a blind man could detect amusement in James's voice.

“I was never that arrogant.” The minute the words left his mouth he knew they were wrong. He waved his hand in the air. “But she's a woman, for the love of all that's sacred, James.”

“And women are not supposed to be anything like men, is that it?”

“No, they're not. They're supposed to be better.” His own comment startled him. “There's a certain class of women who are supposed to be better,” he said slowly, reasoning it out as he continued. “Women like my mother, for example.” He would've added Alice to that list but wasn't sure she fit the label. “Women you marry, who are supposed to keep men honest and decent.”

“Is that why you never married, because you didn't want to be kept honest and decent?”

He would've said something scalding to James, but he had a feeling his friend was right.

“What about the other kind of woman? The kind you've associated with all these years?”

“They weren't innocents, that's for sure.”

Most of his bed partners had been bored wives or lonely widows. He'd never once seduced a chit right out of the schoolroom.

“So which class is Miss Todd in?”

Damned if he wasn't stymied again.

“I don't have a clue,” he said. “Maybe she's in her own class, with a total of one. The class of Minerva Todd.”

He had a feeling he was close to the truth.

“You've let her get under your skin,” James said, his words coated with humor.

“No,” he said. “She's burrowed there all on her own.”

James laughed.

“What does she look like?” he asked.

“She's an arresting woman,” James said. “She isn't beautiful in the traditional sense, but she does have a fascinating face. Her eyes are very expressive. So, too, her mouth.”

He heard the clink of the cup and wanted to offer James something stronger than tea, but he wasn't about to become a drunken sot simply because he couldn't see a damn thing.

Before he solved the problem of Minerva Todd, there was another matter he needed to present to James.

“Thank you, Howington,” he said. “That will be all.”

Would the man leave? Or did he have to be rude?

“Is he gone?” he asked James a moment later.

“He is.”

“I think Arthur was murdered.”

He told James about Sarah and what she'd said.

“Why does she have any credence with you, Dalton? You didn't meet the woman until today.”

He didn't know if he could explain it. He'd never known Arthur to be sentimental sort. His brother was rooted in practicality and pragmatism.

Once, when one of their horses needed to be put down, Arthur had done the deed without emotion. Afterward, he'd accused Arthur of having no feelings.

“It's not that I don't care,” his brother had said. “But I can't see making an animal suffer because I'm selfish. I didn't want Monty to die, either, Dalton, but he was in pain and he wasn't going to get better.”

The discovery of the letters, however, had startled Dalton because his brother had kept them, a sentimental gesture unlike Arthur.

Arthur cared for Sarah. Whoever Arthur cared for, he was going to extend the benefit of the doubt.

“I trust her,” he said. “You're just going to have to accept that.”

“Then I shall as well. I'll go to Gledfield,” James said. “But I'm still going to leave one of my operatives here.”

“A waste of resources, James.”

“Let me be the judge of that, Dalton.”

When had James become so damn stubborn?

“In the meantime, what are you going to do with Miss Todd?”

“Will you go ask her to come inside? I'd like to speak with her.”

“Are you certain, Dalton?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Then I'll go, but I'm not sure this is the wisest course.”

He only smiled and settled back against the chair, thinking about the upcoming battle with the woman.

Minerva Todd was annoying to the extreme. Words meant nothing to her. Circumstances meant little as well. She didn't care that he'd seen her brother firing at him. She simply refused to believe it. And if Minerva Todd refused to believe something, ergo, it couldn't possibly be true.

How did he deal with obstinacy of that magnitude?

How did he deal with a woman like Minerva Todd?

For the first time in his life he was without any charm whatsoever. He couldn't flirt. He couldn't flatter. He couldn't seduce.

His reasoned approach had made absolutely no difference to her. She hadn't wanted to hear what he had to say. She had labeled him by his behavior, putting him into a box he resented.

The very same box Sarah Westchester had put him in.

He wasn't a satyr. He might have done some things that embarrassed him to this day, but he wasn't the youth he had been. Granted, perhaps some of his maturity had been foisted upon him by his blindness, but that was no reason to negate it completely.