The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae (12 page)

In the rear of the mansion, far away . . .

With a tilt of her head, and a lingering—measuring and just a touch wary—look, she started to turn. “I'll go and find him.”

Never turn your back on a predator . . .

Teeth gritted, he managed to keep himself seated behind the desk. She opened the door, cast him a last, assessing glance, then slipped out and closed the door.

He tried to exhale in relief, and couldn't.

“Damn woman!” He looked down—at the letter he'd been writing. At the pen in his hand, at the nib with the ink dried on it. Stabbing the pen back into the ink pot, he reread the sentence he'd been inscribing. It took a full minute before his mind obeyed enough to supply the next words.

Settling to complete the missive, he told himself he was glad she'd had the sense to leave—and in terms of managing the relationship that would, eventually, develop between them, he was. No point jumping the gun and potentially scaring her. Regardless of when she consented to their union, that aspect—that subject—could wait until later, until after he'd got the goblet back, and they'd discussed how she wanted their married life to be.

Later.

Of course the wanton chit had come to the library expressly to provoke him, but at least she'd had sufficient wit to withdraw . . .

For now, for the moment. But he'd still be sitting next to her, with her in her damned disguise, all the way to Edinburgh.

Pen pausing, he realized that even though she'd come no closer than the other side of the desk . . .

He wondered if Griswold knew of a cologne that smelled like male.

A
ngelica found Thomas helping Brenda clean the laundry by using a long-handled broom to sweep down the cobwebs festooning the ceiling. She watched the lanky youth walk about the room, then, realizing the poor boy would feel dreadfully embarrassed if he caught her staring, she picked up a feather duster and did what she could about the cobwebs within her reach while watching Thomas from the corner of her eye; she tried to mimic the way he moved . . . she wasn't at all sure she was getting it right. She needed to practice in front of a mirror.

Then Brenda sent Thomas to clean the ironing room; Angelica debated, but remained and asked Brenda, “His lordship, the laird, mentioned the housekeeper at the castle—a Mrs. Mack. What's she like?”

Brenda replied readily, “Nice old duck. Mind you, she comes off all stern and rigid, but she has a heart o'gold and there's no one better in a crisis. She keeps us all in line, but she stands up for us, too.” Brenda rubbed at the window she was wiping. “Dotes on the laird, she does—something fierce.”

Angelica made a mental note to court Mrs. Mack's good graces once she reached the castle. Before she could ask who else among the staff there was of special note, Griswold appeared to beg for her opinion on a canteen of silverware he and Mulley had unearthed in the housekeeper's room—the third set of cutlery they'd thus far discovered.

Following Griswold to the butler's pantry, and identifying the latest set of forty-eight as the one most likely reserved for major dinner parties, she concluded, “The set of twenty-four will be for normal use in the dining room, and the set of sixteen we're currently using must be the breakfast parlor set.”

“Should we leave both dining room sets here, miss?” Griswold asked.

“For the moment—no need to start polishing them. We'll bring down maids, and hire others, when we return later in the month.” She looked up at the shelves above the butler's bench, at the array of silver dishes, urns, bowls, and vases. All were tarnished, but . . . “They've been as they are for decades—they can wait another month.”

“I might just polish another tray or two, miss—we're rather low, and Mulley's nearly finished in the housekeeper's room . . . unless there's something you'd rather I do?”

“No, no. By all means.” Angelica hesitated, then said, “In fact, if you have another cloth, I'll help.”

“Oh, no, miss—you don't need to do that.”

“I know, but I'm not used to being idle, and as Glencrae is busy with his correspondence, I might as well help here.” Spying the stack of polishing cloths, she picked one up. “Give me that platter.”

They settled on chairs to rub industriously. While buffing the plate Griswold had consented to let her attack, she learned how he'd come to work for a Scottish laird who passed for an Englishman, except . . .

She looked up. “Except when . . . ?”

Griswold primed his lips, then admitted, “When he loses his temper, miss—which doesn't happen often, but when it does, well, you're left in no doubt as to his homeland then.”

She grinned. “He swears in Scots?”

Griswold bent over the platter he was polishing. “I've always understood people revert to their mother tongues in extremis, miss.”

“Indeed.” Letting that subject drop, she continued her questioning; eventually she said, “He told me his leg was badly injured some months before he came to town that first time.”

“Oh, dear me, yes. At first I thought him permanently lame, yet over the years his knee slowly improved. But it was only when we returned to the highlands for good, and he spent more time walking the hills, that it healed well enough for him to do away with the cane.” Griswold sighed. “But he jarred it recently, so now he needs the cane again.”

She recalled that Dominic had been carrying the cane when he'd walked into the servants' hall, but had left it leaning against the wall there. “He doesn't use it indoors.”

“He says it helps strengthen the joint if he doesn't, and if he falls here, there's no one to see.”

And no one to help—stupid man
. She bit back the words; men would be men, and in matters that touched their dignity, they were invariably stupid.

By dint of a few more questions, she learned something of how Dominic spent his time in the highlands. She was careful not to ask about anything Griswold might deem encroaching on his master's privacy, but, naturally enough, his staff considered her interest in their master entirely appropriate.

She'd debated holding herself aloof from the household, underscoring her refusal to allow him to consider her his countess-to-be, not yet, but as she fully intended to eventually claim the title, along with him, she'd decided that as far as his staff and this house were concerned, and even the castle and his people there, there was simply no benefit in behaving toward them other than as she intended to be. In other words, as his countess-to-be. Not picking up the reins of his household, not learning how to deal with his staff, not taking the lead in getting this neglected house into some sort of livable order would have been, in multiple ways, far harder on her than on him.

More, his people and staff were important, both to him and to her as his future wife. That was something she innately understood. Learning about his people, and then shouldering the part of their care and guidance that should fall to his countess—something her character inclined her to do regardless—would, she felt certain, be a predisposing factor in inducing him to fall in love with her, and that, after all, was her aim.

And if along the way her tack added to his confusion, as she rather thought it would, well and good.

Eventually leaving Griswold polishing another plate, she trailed into the kitchen to discover Brenda wiping down the table there.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” She felt compelled to make the offer, although her kitchen skills were sadly lacking.

Brenda smiled. “Not really. I'll manage, and Mulley'll be out in a moment to help. Besides”—Brenda nodded at Angelica's hands—“I suspect the laird would rather those stayed just the way they are.”

Spreading her fingers, Angelica studied her palms. “I have to say I share the sentiment.” Glancing at Brenda, she asked, “If I go out of the garden gate and across to the stables, will all hell break loose?”

“I don't see why.” Brenda looked at her. “You're not planning to slip away and run off home, are you?”

Angelica smiled. “No—that I can promise. Word of a Cynster.”

“Well, can't argue with that, can I?” Brenda said. “But what do you want in the stables?”

Angelica was already heading for the servants' hall. “I want to talk to Jessup. About horses.”

She reached the stables without any drama and found Jessup brushing down one of the pair that presumably had drawn the carriage in which she'd been brought to the house.

Jessup glanced up at her, then turned back to the horse. “Just getting these nags ready to take back to the jobbers. No sense having them eating their heads off here.”

Angelica leaned on the stall door. “I've heard that the laird rides a massive chestnut. I wondered if he'd brought the horse to town, but I see he didn't.” Beyond the second carriage horse, the stalls stood empty.

“Aye. You'd not miss Hercules if he was here—he's quite a sight.”

“Hercules?” She grinned. “Ah—I can imagine how he came by his name.”

Jessup humphed. “The laird is no lightweight—ever since he turned fifteen it's been difficult finding a mount that can carry him for any length of time.”

“Where did he find Hercules?”

“Brought him up from London. Apparently he had him off some other gentleman who couldn't handle the brute. Mind you, in those days Hercules was quite a handful, but he's steadied with the years.” Jessup—the most taciturn and, Angelica judged, least charmable of Dominic's staff—shot her an appraising look. “So, do you ride, then—or is it just an amble in the park, and nothing more than a canter?”

“Oh, no—I ride. A lot. I love to gallop and race—you could say it's in the blood.”

“Oh? How's that?”

“My cousin, Demon Cynster, is one of the foremost trainers of racing Thoroughbreds. He has a stud and stables at Newmarket.”

Straightening, Jessup blinked.

And Angelica knew she had him.

Slowly, Jessup nodded. “Now I think on it, I've heard the name.” He looked at Angelica with latent respect. “So you know something about horses?”

“Not so much the theory as the practice. Demon supplies all the family's horses—given our family, that's the equivalent of saying he supplies all the clan's horses. Carriage horses, riding horses, hunters—he sees the best in all fields and can take his pick. Everyone connected with the family calls on him for horses—well, why wouldn't we, when we know he can get the best?”

Jessup nodded, calculation in his eyes, but as he returned to currying the horse, he studied her, more measuringly this time. “You're a little thing, not much weight to you, but if you say you can handle a mount with spirit—”

“I can.”

“—then we'll have to see what we can find for you. The terrain is testing—lots of climbing as well as long runs. Strong legs and stamina are a must. I was thinking you might have one of the ponies, but if you're likely to ride with himself—”

“I am.”

“—then the pony won't do.” Jessup smiled crookedly. “Which will suit the scamps well enough—they've been eyeing off the beast for months. I should probably start them off once we get back to the castle.”

“Scamps?”

“Gavin and Bryce—the laird's wards.”

He has wards?
Angelica swallowed the words, then forced her parted lips into an O, denoting recollection, and nodded as if she understood, as if she'd known all along that Dominic had wards. Little boy wards. Whom Jessup labeled scamps.

Said scamps hadn't featured in Dominic's bargain, not that, on reflection, that truly surprised her; men were wont to forget such inconveniences. Brenda, no doubt, could fill her in.

Still leaning on the stall door, she quizzed Jessup about the rides around the castle, and the size of the castle stables and what carriages were kept there.

By the time she crossed the mews and returned to the house, she had another at least partial conquest in Jessup, and all in all counted her afternoon well spent.

Entering the house, she headed for the countess's suite. It was nearly time to dress for dinner. Not that she had any decision to make regarding which gown to don.

She debated wearing her youth's costume to the table, but revisiting those moments in the library—recalling
exactly
how Dominic had looked at her—she decided against it. Thought better of it.

He made her breath hitch and seized her senses without even trying. It might, she decided, be better to grow accustomed to the effect before she tempted him further. She had weeks to tame him; she didn't need to rush.

That she'd dreamt of him last night was neither here nor there.

All in all, she thought, as she stripped off her boy's clothes, fate's challenge lay before her—and she was looking forward with considerable relish to every coming minute.

D
ominic had steeled himself to withstand, at least to remain outwardly unaffected by, whatever games Angelica thought to play on him—on his senses, on his increasingly unruly interest in her—that evening.

Instead, he found himself looking down the dining table at a pensive face.

During the meal, they'd chatted about the theater. Entirely innocuously. She'd inquired as to the frequency of productions in Edinburgh. He'd told her what he knew, and also of the traveling companies that visited Perth, and Inverness, too.

But over dessert she'd grown . . . inward looking.

And he, entirely irrationally, found himself resenting whatever topic it was that had drawn her attention and her awareness so completely from him.

Irrational, yes. Deniable, no.

Lips firming, he asked, “What is it?”

When she met his eyes, he wondered if he'd just fallen for another of her ploys, but then she raised her head and, a frown forming both in her eyes and on her brow, said, “I should send that second letter to my family.”