The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae (33 page)

Clara handed over her lorgnettes and pointed to the bottom of the paragraph beneath the title. “There. I
thought
I remembered something about the specific line dying out and the title reverting back . . .”

Therese read the relevant lines. “Good God!” She scanned them again, then raised her head and looked at Celia and Martin, for the first time in her long life struck speechless.

“What is it?” Devil demanded.

Therese drew in a huge breath, glanced down at the book, then started rapidly flicking over pages as she said, “The title of Viscount Debenham was created and conferred on a secondary branch of a noble family in Elizabeth's day. During the last century”—she paused to consult another entry, then resumed—“the secondary branch died out, and the title passed to the nearest male, and that happened to be up the tree and across, to the principal line.”

Martin was frowning. “What's the family name?”

Therese looked him in the eye. “Guisachan.”

Martin was no wiser, but Celia gasped, then paled.

Therese nodded at her. “Yes, my dear, I fear this is a case of your past returning to haunt you. You know the head of the House of Guisachan as the Earl of Glencrae.”

That
name Martin most definitely knew; he shot upright. “
He's
behind this?” He ran a hand through his thick hair. “After all this time?”

“No,” Therese returned with asperity. “Not him, not least because he's dead. Five years ago, as it happens.” Lorgnettes to her eyes, she read further. “The present Earl of Glencrae, also Viscount Debenham—the man everyone in the ton remembers as Viscount Debenham—is Mortimer Guisachan's son, Dominic Lachlan Guisachan, now the eighth Earl of Glencrae.”

While that information was clearly a cataclysmic revelation to most of the older generation—Clara, Therese, Helena, Horatia, Martin, and Celia—all the others, including Louise, remained unenlightened. They glanced at one another, wordlessly asking for clarification, but none had any to offer. Meanwhile, those who understood looked stunned, disbelieving, but with concern rising behind their eyes.

Horatia leaned across to lay her hand on Celia's. “Glencrae—he was the one . . .”

Celia swallowed, nodded. “All those years ago . . .”

The entire room waited, but nothing more came.

Devil finally gave in. “What,” he demanded, in a voice that warned against any dallying, “happened ‘all those years ago'? What the devil is all this about? And how in all that's holy does Dominic Lachlan Guisachan, eighth Earl of Glencrae, come into it?”

It took a while to extract the story in anything resembling a coherent whole, but eventually, the others grasped the gist of it. Before any of them except Devil and Vane had been born, Celia, then Celia Hammond, a beautiful young lady, had fallen in love with Martin Cynster, the fourth son of a duke, but Celia's parents had preferred the suit of a wealthy Scottish nobleman, one Mortimer Guisachan, seventh Earl of Glencrae. The earl had been considerably older than Celia and she hadn't been in love with him, but her parents had stood firm and had insisted she marry him, so Celia and Martin had eloped and married over the anvil at Gretna Green.

“Good Lord.” Breckenridge, held as captive as any by the tale, glanced down at Heather, his soon-to-be wife. “Is that why he had Heather taken to Gretna Green? To marry her there in some sort of parody?”

Reaching up, Heather closed her hand over his. “Let me state it again—I'm so very glad you rescued me.”

For long moments, silence reigned. That Celia and Martin had eloped and married over the anvil had never been a secret, and, indeed, had always been deemed highly romantic, but not even Gabriel and Lucifer had known the background to the elopement; it had never seemed relevant before.

Then Martin, tight-lipped and pale, shook his head. “No, it still doesn't make the slightest sense. Why would anyone be kidnapping our daughters? Mortimer himself didn't kick up a fuss, not at all. He behaved in a perfectly gentlemanly fashion, gracefully bowed out, and went home to the highlands. And as he obviously subsequently married and had a son, at least—”

“Only child,” Therese put in.

Martin inclined his head. “But he married and had an heir . . . why would his son be kidnapping our daughters now?”

“Daughter, one at a time.” Breckenridge glanced at Jeremy.

Jeremy nodded. “And as soon as he saw that the girl he'd kidnapped preferred some other man, he drew back, and at least with Eliza and me, did his best to save us and, at great risk to his own life, succeeded.” He looked around the room. “Whatever else Dominic Lachlan Guisachan might be, he most definitely isn't a madman, nor is he without honor.”

Devil studied Breckenridge and Jeremy, and Heather and Eliza, too, then nodded. “I can't disagree. Which means there's something critical to all this that we don't yet know.”

“True,” Gabriel said. “But there is one, or by now most likely two, people who know the whole story.” He glanced at the faces that turned his way. “The earl and Angelica.” He looked at Lady Osbaldestone. “Where's Glencrae's principal seat?”

Therese located the relevant part of the entry. “Castle Mheadhoin, Glen Affric.”

“In the highlands.” Lucifer nodded. “That's where he'll have taken her—that's where she'll be.”

“Let's go.” Demon headed for the door. Most of the men went to follow.

“Wait.” Devil's order halted them. For several silent seconds, he stared at the book on Lady Osbaldestone's lap. When he spoke, his words were measured and sure. “We need to start giving the earl his due. He risked returning to London, risked appearing in the ton. He couldn't have known Angelica would all but arrange her own kidnapping—he couldn't have been prepared. Yet he improvised, whisked her out with no one the wiser—and we all know she wouldn't have simply let herself be taken. One wrong move and she would have screamed the place down. But he didn't make a wrong move. Instead, he returned to the soiree and stayed for an hour or more—which bought him time. We've been stumbling over that piece of icy daring all along. Then he walked out with a friend and went to a club . . . but he didn't stay there that night.” Devil lifted his gaze to Therese Osbaldestone's face. “Does he have a London residence?”

She consulted the fine print, then snorted. “Glencrae House—in Bury Street.”

“So close . . .” Devil smiled intently. “He took her there, and I'd wager they stayed there, a block or so from Dover Street, and waited while we searched every carriage bound for Scotland and virtually sealed off the roads to the north for five days. They waited us out.” He realized he'd used “
they,
” and not “
he,
” but on reflection suspected that no correction was needed. He looked at the others. “Before we hie ourselves to Scotland, let's have a look in Bury Street and see what we can learn.”

B
ury Street was so close that they walked, splitting up into twos and threes the better to avoid attention.

Glencrae House wasn't hard to find; in iron scrollwork, the name graced the twin carriage gates, shut and locked with a massive chain and padlock.

“I could probably get it undone,” Gabriel said, squinting down at the padlock, “but the gates look like they haven't been opened for decades. There's inches of dead leaves behind them.”

“Leave the gates.” Devil ambled on down the street. “That's not how they came and went—let's try the back.”

They found the mews. Found the garden gate. Demon checked the adjacent stables. “Empty, but in good shape—recently used and left tidy and clean.”

The lock on the garden gate took Gabriel less than a minute to open; in a long single file they walked up the path to the house. Devil knocked on the kitchen door. When no one arrived to let them in, he stepped aside and waved Gabriel on. Two minutes later, they walked into the servants' hall.

Vane went into the kitchens beyond, and returned, saying, “All neat and clean, no dust anywhere. They've been here.”

They followed the corridor to the front hall.

Halting, Lucifer looked up and around. “Lovely old place.”

Devil grunted. “We'll split up—two or three to each level.” He glanced at the holland covers visible through the open doorway to the drawing room. “Let's see if we can determine how many were here.”

They spread out through the house. Devil, Vane, and Lucifer remained on the ground floor, checking through the reception rooms.

In the drawing room, Lucifer crouched before a sideboard he'd opened. Reaching in, he drew out a candelabra, studied it, then sighed and put it back. “I have a strong feeling this house was decorated for my mother—it's her taste.” Rising, he glanced at the walls, at the deteriorating silk, then headed for the door. “It appears Mortimer did just give up, close this place up, and go home. He let her go.”

“No—she was never his. She was always Martin's.” Devil followed Lucifer out.

Vane, who'd been surveying the dining rooms, joined them in the hall. “Only the breakfast parlor's been cleaned. Two settings of cutlery and crockery recently used, and whoever ate there sat at either end of the table.”

Devil nodded. “Angelica and the earl.” He pointed down a corridor leading off the hall. “That way.”

They found the library. Found the paper Angelica had used to blot the letters she'd sent them.

Lucifer prowled the room, checking the window locks, looking at the square of garden outside, gauging the wall.

The door swung open and the others trooped in.

“Two rooms—two suites—used on the first floor,” Gabriel reported. “And it looks like a maid slept on a truckle bed in what appears to be the countess's dressing room. The rooms in that suite are the only ones that have been recently decorated.”

“Four bedrooms in the attic look used,” Breckenridge reported. “All on what I imagine is the male side of the divide.”

Devil stood behind the desk. There were no papers left lying on the top, or in the drawers. He would own himself surprised if there wasn't a large safe concealed somewhere in the room, but even from the remnants on the desk—the ink still in the ink pot, the sharpened nibs, the sealing wax still waxy—he could tell that the earl had been using the desk for business while he'd been there with Angelica.

“There's a book missing.” Bent over, Jeremy was studying a gap on one shelf. Straightening, he looked at Devil. “Recently removed—I can tell by the dust. And if I had to guess which book it was, I'd say it should be Robertson's
History of Scotland
.”

Devil raised his brows. “I can't see Glencrae consulting that at this point in his life.”

“No,” Jeremy agreed. “I'd say Angelica took it, and as it wasn't upstairs, that she's taken it with her.”

Gabriel frowned. “She's studying Scotland?”

“So it appears,” Michael said. “Which raises the question of whether she went north willingly, or under duress.”

Lucifer sighed and leaned against a bookshelf. “She went willingly.”

Devil looked at him. “I don't disagree, but how can you be so sure?”

Lucifer waved at the windows. “This place is old. Old locks, no bars. None of the windows upstairs have bars either. Most of the interior doors have no locks.” He glanced at Gabriel. “Upstairs?”

“The same. And the window in the countess's bedroom has recently been opened. For a tomboy like Angelica, getting out and down the thick creeper, across to the wall and the ivy growing over it, climbing over the wall, dropping into the street, then walking home, would have been ridiculously easy.” Gabriel stood stiffly for an instant more, then the tension in his shoulders eased. He met Devil's eyes. “Lucifer's right—we're all right in what we're thinking. For whatever reason, Angelica became a party to her own abduction, which makes it no longer an abduction, I suppose. There is no way she could have been held captive here—we've found no evidence that she was restrained, she dined freely, and she's never been slow to use her wiles. And her wits, as we all know, are razor-sharp.”

He glanced around the room. “If they were here for several days, she had ample time to escape, and she had to have known she was still in Mayfair. If she'd been held against her will, she wouldn't have hesitated to clout whoever was guarding her over the head—she could have been down in the garden and over that wall in under ten minutes, and home five minutes after that. But I can't see any sign that she tried.”

Bringing his gaze back to Devil, Gabriel concluded, “You were right—there's something going on, something major, that we know nothing about.”

Devil drummed his fingers on the desktop. “We could—as I'm sure our better halves will argue—sit on our hands, possess our souls in patience, and wait until Angelica or the earl sends us word.” He paused, then went on, “On the other hand, we could hie ourselves to Scotland and see what all the fuss is about. Who knows? They might need our help.”

Lucifer straightened from the bookcase. “I vote for option two.”

“As do I,” Vane said.

“And me,” Demon added.

Gabriel, Jeremy, and Breckenridge nodded. Martin had remained with Celia at St. Ives House; no one imagined he would ride north at his age.

Michael Anstruther-Wetherby pulled a face. “Much as I would love to join you, I'm too caught up in matters of state to leave.”

Devil nodded. “You can be our contact here. If anything unexpected occurs, send word.”

Michael arched a brow. “To where?”

Devil grinned. “To Castle Mheadhoin. As it appears the earl has joined the family, he can start dealing with the inevitable outcome.”

Michael grinned, nodded.