Taming the Heiress (30 page)

"Who is Iain?" Guy asked. Angela waved her hand to hush him.

The coach slowed to a stop. "Calton Hill," the driver called. "Number Thirty-nine Calton Hill."

Meg felt the lurch as the driver climbed down. She looked at Angela and Guy. "Wait here. I will not be long. Once I tell Mr. Stewart the truth, he will not wish me to linger."

Angela reached out to squeeze Meg's gloved hand. "Courage," she whispered.

Glancing at her friend, Meg drew up the hood of her cloak and shifted to stand as the driver opened the door. Guy stepped out first, offering his hand in assistance to her.

"Tell me what is going on," he murmured.

"Angela will tell you. Go back and stay with her. Tell her that I want her to explain it all to you."

He nodded and walked her toward a stately stone house surrounded by an iron fence. Light warmed the wide bay windows of the first and second levels of the house. "Let me go in with you," Guy said. "Let me help you in this."

"I must do this myself. Go back to Angela. Do not leave her alone in the coach. Stay with her. Stay with her always, Guy," she added fervently.

"I intend to, if she will have me," he murmured.

"She will," she said. "Love finds a way. Even when hearts have been bitterly broken, they can heal."

He gazed down at her, then tipped his hat. "Sound advice, my lady," he said. He opened the gate for her and turned, leaving her standing in the darkness and mist.

She walked through the gate, her heart slamming, hands clenching inside her gloves. This was the house where Dougal was staying with family while he was in Edinburgh. She glanced at the brass address plaque and saw the name beneath the engraved number:
Doctor Connor MacBain.

A doctor's household would be accustomed to unexpected visitors, and it was not yet late, although the rain made the darkness deeper. She would have to endure the awkwardness of asking to see a gentleman alone, but she would do whatever she must in order to see Dougal. She could not let him learn about her identity in public at her soiree. She owed it to him, out of respect and love, to explain it herself in private.

Drawing a deep breath, she strode up the walk and climbed the steps. Wide flower beds edged the foundation of the spacious stone house. Bay windows on the first and second levels were hung with golden drapes, warm with light.

Reaching up to the small black bonnet she wore under her cloak's hood, Meg drew a swath of black netting over her face. Then she drew a deep breath and picked up the door knocker.

Moments later, a woman in a dark dress and white apron appeared, then stepped back immediately to bring Meg into the foyer. "Are you here for the doctor, miss? He has guests and is not seeing patients at this hour, but if 'tis an emergency, Dr. MacBain is always available."

The house was cozily warm and smelled fragrant with cleanliness and baking spice. Toward one side of the house, she heard the rattle of dishes, and elsewhere, the harmony of male and female voices mingled in conversation and laughter.

Clutching the hasp of her cloak with a gloved hand, Meg felt a keen yearning to be part of the warmth and comfort that was so redolent in this place. But she was an outsider. She was suddenly very glad for the protection of her veil.

"I have not come to see Dr. MacBain. I was told that Mr. Dougal Stewart is staying here. I... I have an urgent message for him, if he is here."

"Mr. Stewart, aye. Who is calling?" The housekeeper produced a silver salver to accept Meg's card.

Reaching into her glove where she always slid a calling card or two out of habit, Meg paused, reluctant to produce one. The name Lady Strathlin would cause a stir. "Please tell Mr. Stewart that Miss MacNeill is here to see him."

To the left of the hallway, panel doors slid open and a lovely dark-haired young woman in a brown silk dress glided toward her. "Hello, miss. May the doctor be of assistance?" She smiled and held out her hand. "I am Mary Faire MacBain. My husband is here—Oh, there you are, sir." She smiled.

A blond man, wide shouldered and dressed in shirtsleeves and a gray vest, appeared through the same doorway. "Who is it, my dear?" he asked, and then he saw Meg. He smiled and stood back to welcome her into the room.

"Miss, hello. I am Dr. MacBain. Please come in and tell us what we can do for you."

Everyone assumed that she was a patient in need. No one questioned her right to be here or acted as if proprieties were compromised. Meg felt grateful to them for their friendly acceptance, but she hesitated, feeling awkward and foolish.

"The young lady is here to see Mr. Stewart, sir," the housekeeper explained. "This is Miss MacNeill."

"Pleased to meet you, Miss MacNeill. But I'm afraid Mr. Stewart is not here. He has stepped out for a little while and did not say when he would be back. He has had a busy schedule of business appointments. Might I give him a message?"

Meg stared at them. "He is—not here?"

"Would you like to wait?" Mrs. MacBain asked. "We are about to have coffee. You are more than welcome to join us."

Through another set of half-open pocket doors, Meg saw a few others milling about engaged in conversation. If she waited here for Dougal, someone in the house might recognize Lady Strathlin.

"I—" Meg paused, looking back at the doctor and his wife. They regarded her kindly, with evident concern. The radiance of happiness and compassion shone in their handsome faces.

She would never have that, she thought, never. Not now.

"Miss," Mrs. MacBain said, "is there something we can do?"

Suddenly she felt lost, alone, and very unsure of herself. Wealth and social status meant nothing to her now. Dougal was not here, and she needed him very badly, needed his arms around her, needed the comfort of his voice, his calm wisdom and gentle humor, and the strength of his passion. She needed him to tell her that he understood. That he forgave her.

Not so long ago, he had asked for her forgiveness, had told her that he loved her and wanted to marry her—and she had not taken the chance then to tell him how much she loved him, had not taken the risk of explaining herself to him.

Now she was ready to do that, and he was not here. After the soiree, he might never be available to her again.

But she could not stay and wait for him, and she might have no chance to return.

"I—should not have come," she blurted. "Please accept my apology. I am sorry for disturbing your evening." Turning toward the door, she pulled it open and ran down the steps.

She picked up her skirts and fled down the path, her shoes tapping on stone. Passing through the gate, she ran toward the waiting coach. The driver seemed to understand. Without hesitation, he opened the door and swept her inside, then leaped onto the cab. The two horses launched forward.

"Did you speak to Mr. Stewart so quickly?" Angela asked.

Meg settled her skirts and collected herself, breathless for a moment, and looked at her friends. Angela and Guy sat close together on the opposite bench seat, both watching her.

She pulled off her gloves anxiously. "He was not there," she said. "He is out, and they do not know when he will be back—oh!"

Looking down at her gloves, she realized that the little cream card that identified her as Lady Strathlin was gone.

She glanced around, over her wide black crinolined skirt and down at the coach floor. Gone.

Peering out the coach window back toward the MacBain house, she saw Connor MacBain step outside the house, watching her coach disappear. He bent to pick up something from the ground and stood looking at it, then tucked it into his vest pocket.

Meg sat back with a soft groan and leaned her head against squabbed leather. "I did not say who I was, but I suspect the entire household will know soon. I dropped my calling card as I left."

"Oh dear!" Angela said. "Well, they will tell Mr. Stewart when he returns, and no doubt he will seek you out at the soiree for an explanation."

"If he comes at all," Meg said.
If I ever see him again.

She looked at Guy and Angela, and saw by their somber gazes and the close way that they sat together that they had been deep in conversation while she was gone. And she could tell, simply by the way that Guy regarded her, that now he knew the secret of her son, the thing she had fought so long to protect.

She trusted Guy implicitly, but she realized that little by little her secrets would unravel and be told. The feeling was one of extreme vulnerability.

"So you know," she said quietly.

He nodded silently, then leaned forward and took her hand. "My dear baroness," he murmured. "You could have told me long ago. I might have been a help to you in this."

"A help," she said.

"You have taken a great deal onto your shoulders," he said. "But there are others around you, friends willing to share the burden. Willing to love the child, and you, without judgment."

Tears pricked her eyes. Meg nodded silently, gratefully, and leaned back, gazing out the window as the coach conveyed them back to Charlotte Square.

If Dougal knew, she wondered, would he feel the same way? He would be angry with her for keeping the secret, but she knew unequivocally that he was capable of real love and compassion. And he had a right to know his son, to love his son.

But she could not tell him. If she did, Matheson would find out somehow. The man had a way of ferreting out, and learning what was hidden. Some deep instinct told her that Matheson would become a dangerous threat to Dougal if he ever knew the true identity of Iain's father.

Although she had to tell Dougal that she was the baroness, she must continue to protect the secret of their child. In that way, she could keep both Iain and Dougal from imminent danger. Her continued silence, over the years, would ensure their safety.

She watched as the rain began a steady, pelting downpour.

Chapter 18

"Now this," the seamstress said, as she knelt on the floor, arranging the overskirt of Meg's gown, "is why Monsieur Worth is so pleased with this gown—the tulle overskirt." She inserted another silver straight pin and fluffed out the silken netting until its soft veiling formed transparent clouds around the skirt of the gown.

"Oh! It's magical," Angela said as she walked around Meg in a wide circle. "Truly a masterpiece."

"I quite agree," Lenore Worth said. She was more than a mere seamstress, Meg had realized upon her arrival. Miss Worth was the couturier's niece, a capable young Englishwoman who worked with her uncle in his Paris shop. Arriving with the gown packed in a trunk amid layers of silk netting and lavender sachets, Miss Worth had a perceptive eye and a precise hand for sewing. Mere days after her arrival, the adjusted gown now fit like a glove and looked like a vision. The night of the soiree had finally arrived, and she would wear the gown at last.

Meg looked into the long, tilted mirror, which reflected back the shimmering gown. Of Lyons silk in a pale aqua, the low-cut bodice left her shoulders and upper breasts bared in a graceful sweeping line. A snug waist nipped her to an illusion of impossible slimness, and the wide skirt and graceful train poured fluidly over a lightweight crinoline that swayed in an airy, flexible bell. Over the simple but elegant gown, transparent silken netting in creamy white was caught with silver straight pins. The tulle fell in soft layers to give the impression of floating clouds. Sprinkled over the netting, snug bodice, and puffed elbow sleeves, tiny silver stars were embroidered in metallic thread.

Her hair, dressed by a maid following Miss Worth's suggestion, was pulled back gently to spill down her back in rippling golden waves, pinned with a few small pearls and a snood so delicate it was nearly invisible. Around her neck she wore only the gold and aquamarine pendant that Dougal had given her, threaded on a black silk cord, its extra length draped in sensuous loops beneath the mass of her hair and down her back. On her left wrist, over her white glove, she wore her golden locket as a bracelet, threaded on a black silk ribbon.

"Exquisite," Miss Worth said. "A perfect picture of grace and simplicity. The gown is divine, the jewelry is not overdone, and your hair is simply and beautifully arranged. Truly perfect."

Meg crossed the room to pick up her fan of carved ivory and cream silk, slipping its cord over her wrist, and came back.