The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae (29 page)

“You'll understand when you see the other so-called towns on the other side of the pass. They're drovers' towns, often with nothing more than a hedge tavern for travelers. Once through the pass, Kingussie's the next decent halt—stopping anywhere else . . . only if we're desperate.”

“Ah. I see.” And she unquestionably agreed. Whatever else their halt for the night provided, she needed it to have a good bed.

T
hey thundered down from the pass at Drumochter with enough daylight in hand to make for Kingussie. Hours later, they entered the small town with the sun dying in a blaze at their backs.

Angelica was still practicing saying the town's name when they drew rein in the forecourt of the one and only inn. “King-eeu-sie. No—King-
ew
-see.” Halting Ebony alongside Hercules, she regarded the sign above the inn door. “The King-
ew
-sie Inn.”

Set in a clearing beside the road, the inn was neither large nor distinguished, but having now seen the alternative accommodations, she was even more grateful Dominic had made them ride the hideous distance to reach there.

“Better.” Having already dismounted, Dominic came to lift her down. “But no one will ever believe you're a native.”

“I'm not concerned with being taken for a native, just in being understood.” Set on her feet, she stroked Ebony's nose, then walked with Dominic to the inn door. “As I can't make out half the place names—can't relate the sounds when Scottish folk speak them to the way the names are spelled—I assume the reverse is true, and they won't understand me if I ask for directions.”

They reached the inn's front stoop; Dominic opened the door and held it for her to precede him. Pausing, she glanced up at his face, expecting some response. When he simply looked back at her, his expression impassive, she narrowed her eyes at him. “Let me guess—the notion that, if I do decide to bolt, I won't be able to get very far meets with your unqualified approval.”

He smiled. With one arm he swept her over the threshold and followed her in.

He spoke with the innkeeper, organizing rooms and meals. Their requirements arranged, Dominic waved her to the stairs; she inclined her head graciously to the bobbing innkeeper, then let Dominic escort her to the best bedchamber the inn possessed.

Jessup was leaving the room as they neared. Entering, she noted Dominic's bags sitting by the tallboy, while her bags and bandbox had been left by the dressing table. Pulling off her gloves on her way to the dressing table, she heard the door shut. “Only one room tonight?” Her tone was purely curious, not in the least disapproving.

Dropping his gloves on the tallboy, Dominic shrugged. “They don't have many rooms, and—” He broke off at a light tap on the door.

Returning to it, he admitted two girls, each carrying an ewer and basin. After depositing their burdens on the washstand, the girls bobbed and hurried out. Dominic shut the door behind them, then, very deliberately, slid the bolt home.

Turning, he strolled—in the manner she always thought of as a predator's stalking prowl—toward her; his lids were low, his lashes screening his eyes. “As I was about to say, now that we're well into the highlands, there's no reason to hide our connection.” Halting before her, he looked into her upturned face. “To bother concealing that we're sharing a bed.” He searched her eyes. “Does not concealing that worry you?”

“No—not in the least.” She studied his face. “Just as long as no hint of our intimacy reaches your mother, and given what you and the others have told me, I can't see how it would.”

His lips slowly curved, but the tension she could sense in him eased not a jot. “Good.” His gaze caressed her face, then fixed on her lips. “In that case . . . do you need help getting out of those clothes?”

T
hey were late down to dinner, not that anyone mentioned it. Indeed, the others seemed to view their tardiness in a manner that suggested they considered the reason for it entirely acceptable, as an understandable outcome of how things should be.

Seated by Dominic in the chair beside his, Angelica strove to ignore the understanding in the others' expressions; highlanders, she was fast learning, were far less reserved over matters of the flesh than peoples further south.

Despite the water in the ewer being cold by the time she got to it—or perhaps because of that—she was feeling refreshed, and also hungry. The innkeeper's wife laid a simple but hearty repast before them. While they ate, they discussed their plans for the following day.

“I spoke with the stableman,” Jessup said. “No one passing through has mentioned any difficulty along the Inverness road.”

“Regardless, we'll have to stop there for the night.” Dominic glanced at Angelica. “No matter how quickly we make Inverness, the castle is at least five hours further on, and I'd rather not arrive in darkness.”

She nodded. “Indeed.” Quite aside from wanting to get a clear first look at her new home . . . “I'd prefer to see the place in daylight and get my bearings from the first.”

The others talked of the route, about which inn they could stop at for luncheon. After due consideration—and a glance at her—Dominic declared that they could take the time for a decent breakfast before departing at nine o'clock. “We should still make Slochd not long after midday.”

Mulley asked Jessup about their sumpter horses; Dominic joined the resulting discussion. Angelica listened with half an ear, absorbed with the topic the others hadn't, and wouldn't, broach: exactly how they were to convince the sometimes-rational, sometimes-less-so countess that she, Angelica, was ruined.

The others didn't know what Dominic's mother had demanded beyond having a Cynster sister brought to the castle and paraded before her, but they would follow Dominic's lead without question; that, however, presupposed that he and she had come up with a workable plan.

From beneath her lashes, she studied his face. They had only two more days, two more nights, before they reached the castle; they needed to work out their strategy, define the details, and agree on them before they arrived at the gates.

They needed to make a start on their plan tonight, but they needed privacy for that.

She bided her time until, all decisions for the morrow made, the group rose and headed up the stairs. Dominic turned her to their door, opened it, and ushered her inside. She walked to the armchairs flanking the fireplace, heard him lock the door as she sat and settled her skirts.

Looking up, she discovered him standing by the door regarding her.

She waved to the chair opposite. “We need to discuss how we're going to pull the wool over your mother's eyes.”

Dominic hesitated. He'd been putting off the moment, more or less since the night she'd agreed to help him. Despite his desire to regain the goblet, he'd wanted to keep his mother's madness from in any way touching Angelica . . . irrational, given the situation, but when it came to her, his protectiveness was difficult to deny.

But she was right—they needed to face the approaching challenge and decide how to meet it. Walking to the other armchair, he sat. “What did you have in mind?” Evidently, she'd been thinking of it, even if he hadn't.

“Me, ruined—that's what your mother wants. The most straightforward approach is to determine what she will accept as proof of my ruination, and then deliver that to her in as convincing a manner as we can, so that she accepts it, believes it, and hands over the goblet.” She met his eyes. “Has she ever
specifically
told you what she means by ‘ruined'?”

“No. I was to bring you to the castle, thus effectively ruining you—that was how she and I both phrased it.” After a moment, he added, “As I told you in London, she appears to believe that the mere fact of you being kidnapped and brought to the castle will be sufficient to ruin you.”

“Which it would if I wasn't me, a Cynster.”

“Indeed.” When she compressed her lips, her gaze growing distant, he said, “I would suggest that our most straightforward plan will be to do exactly as she's asked—for me to turn up at the castle with you in tow, parade you before her—and see what happens.”

“Yes, but how likely is she to clap eyes on me and . . . wait,
wait
.” She looked at him. “How will she know I'm me?” She blinked. “For that matter, given her seclusion, why didn't you just hire an actress to impersonate one of us rather than go to all this trouble?”

Abandoning impassivity, he grimaced. “My apologies. With all the rest I had to tell you that night, I forgot that point.” He met her eyes. “When my father lay dying, while I was sitting by his bed, Mirabelle ransacked his private papers—he kept them in his study. By the time I realized all his journals on your family were missing, more than a month later, there seemed little point in retrieving them. I assumed she would eventually destroy them, but according to Elspeth, Mirabelle still had them when she stole the goblet.” He paused, then went on, “I could have taken them back then, but as she'd apparently been studying them preparatory to making her demand, I decided it would be wiser to let her keep them. The collection contains artists' drawings—in the case of you and your sisters, my father had commissioned sketches of each of you on or around your fifteenth birthdays. I've seen them, years ago, and although I can't recall enough to be certain, I think we can assume that Mirabelle will be able to recognize you by sight.”

Angelica stared at him. “You're telling me she knows chapter and verse about my family?”

“Up to five years ago. She knows more than enough to ensure that I couldn't use an actress, that the lady I bring her has to be one of Celia's daughters. I reasoned that whichever of you I persuaded to help me, you would be able to correctly answer any question she chose to ask.”

“In other words, you left her with the means to assure herself that I am, in fact, Celia's daughter.” She nodded. “Yes, that was sensible.”

“So I thought.” After a moment, he went on, “But as to your interrupted question, How likely is Mirabelle to clap eyes on you and instantly hand back the goblet?—” He paused, then admitted, “I can't tell. It's possible. However, I suspect we should assume you'll have to weather a catechism at least, and perhaps a day or two of supposed ruination while she convinces herself that she's truly got what she wanted.”

“That she's truly gained her revenge. Yes, I agree. So!” She rose as if compelled to do so. Brow furrowing, she paced before the fire, back and forth between their chairs. “Let's say I have to remain ruined for three days. The most critical point is that if Mirabelle ever guesses the truth—that what we present to her is a charade and I'm not ruined in the least—then, if I understood you correctly as to her character, she's malicious enough, vindictive enough, to withhold the goblet beyond the first of the month purely out of spite.” Pausing, she glanced at him. “Is that a reasonable assessment?”

“Yes.”

She studied his face, then, still frowning, resumed her pacing. “So we have to convince her that I'm ruined, and until you have the goblet literally in your hands we can't afford any mistakes. We'll have to have an agreed fiction and be consistent in ensuring she sees only that.” She glanced at him. “Does she have any correspondents in London?”

“No.”

“You're sure?”

“I would have to frank any letters she sent, and if she received any, I would be told, so yes, I'm certain. Why?”

“I'm trying to define what sort of young lady she'll imagine I am. If the last information she has about me is from five years ago, when I was sixteen and not yet out, then she can't have any idea what I'm really like.” Swinging around, she met his eyes. “Answer me this—how will she make up her mind that I'm ruined? On what will she base her conclusion?” When he didn't immediately reply, she spread her hands. “All she'll know, all she'll see, is my behavior, and yours.” Halting before him, she locked her eyes on his. “How I behave, and how you behave toward me while we're in her sight, is going to be the key.”

He fought to keep his expression impassive even though his instincts were already bristling. “What sort of behavior are you envisaging?”

She heard the warning in his voice, but chose to pretend she hadn't. “
I
have to play the part of a gently reared, well-bred, delicate and sensitive English young lady kidnapped from her home, cruelly and frighteningly wrenched from the bosom of her family, and hauled unceremoniously to Scotland. She knows I'm twenty-one. She'll expect me to be near-terrified, overcome and overwhelmed, timid and fearfully cringing and shrinking from all risk of exposure, wanting to flee but without a clue what to do or where to go.” She paused, frown deepening. “Not a ninnyhammer—I couldn't manage that—but in terms of getting out of the situation, I'll have to be in a panic, but at a total loss, and positively
devastated
over being ruined.”

Warming to her theme, she went on, “I should be constantly bemoaning my lost prospects, indeed, be almost prostrate with grief over the life I've lost.” She glanced at him. “I need to construct a character who can believably wail”—flinging out one arm, she touched the back of her other wrist to her forehead—“I'm ruined
. . . ruined
!”

Dropping the pose, she looked at him. “If I can't do that convincingly, if I can't make Mirabelle believe beyond all doubt that
I
believe I'm ruined, then she'll never believe it, either.”

He held her gaze for a long moment, then asked, “Do you think you can pull that off? The persona you've described is nothing like you.”

“My part in this will undoubtedly qualify as a stellar performance, but if we want that goblet back, we have to pull off the necessary charade.”