The Devil of Clan Sinclair (3 page)

Chapter 3

London

July, 1869

T
he eastern sky was growing pink. A day would pass, then another, and finally Poor Lawrence would be laid to rest.

“Can you think of some other answer?” Enid asked.

Virginia turned to face her mother-in-law.

“The law does not see women as people, Virginia, but only as a man’s limb. His leg, his foot, or whichever appendage you want.”

For a moment, a ghost of a smile appeared on Enid’s lips, then vanished.

“Your entire inheritance is gone, Virginia. Everything your father left you.”

“Did Lawrence do it on purpose?” she asked. “Did he want us desperate?”

Enid tapped her fingers against her lips as if holding back improvident words. Finally, she sighed deeply. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I would hope he hadn’t.”

They regarded each other somberly.

“Search your memory, Virginia. Is there no friend of Lawrence’s? Or a person who might have come calling on my girls?”

Macrath. In this room, he seemed even more substantial than Lawrence in his casket.

Had Lawrence any friends? She’d never seen any visitors to the house. The closest to a friend was his attendant, but Paul was paid to be devoted.

As far as her sisters-in-law, Ellice was only sixteen and Eudora didn’t seem interested in attracting a suitor.

“You do agree, don’t you, Virginia?” her mother-in-law asked now.

“I’m not sure I can do such a thing,” she said.

But, oh, to see him again. To smile at him once more.

“May I speak frankly, my dear?”

When had she not?

“Sexual congress needn’t last long,” Enid said.

Poor Lawrence hadn’t been interested in sexual congress. Or perhaps he simply resented being a pawn in his mother’s schemes. She had evidently been included in that resentment. Poor Lawrence had retreated to his suite of rooms early on in their marriage, rarely emerging.

“Seduction isn’t all that difficult, Virginia. All you need do is suggest your willingness and the male will do the rest.”

She had the most absurd wish to giggle. Her mother-in-law was giving her lessons on debauchery.

“However, you need to copulate regularly. You’re young and healthy. Nothing should prevent your getting with child.”

She felt like a chicken, scolded because it hadn’t recently laid an egg.

“Is there no one to whom you could appeal?” Enid asked. “No one at all? Wasn’t there someone before you married Lawrence?”

Macrath. Dear God, was she a terrible person for having kept him in her heart all this time?

She turned and faced the window again. Streaks of yellowish light bathed the street in front of the town house, stretching to illuminate the park in the middle of the square. She wanted to throw open the sash and breathe in the cool dawn air. She wanted to be gone from this place, from Poor Lawrence.

“Yes,” she said, speaking to the window. “I know of someone.”

Macrath.

Was he married? Nearly a year had passed since she’d seen him, and yet she could conjure him up so well he could be standing there, his dark blue eyes intently fixed on her.

What would have happened if her father had allowed her to marry Macrath Sinclair? Would her life be filled with joy, or the insane excitement she always felt when he was near?

Her heart stuttered around Macrath. Her palms became moist. Her emotions were too close to the surface, almost as if she were preparing to shout in joy or weep in despair.

A magnificent man, Macrath Sinclair, one who’d commanded her thoughts even during her marriage.

She’d almost been brave once, because of Macrath.

“He lives in Scotland,” she said, feeling her heartbeat escalate as she spoke.

“All the better, then,” Enid said. “Far enough away no hint of scandal will touch you.”

“No hint of scandal?” she asked, turning. “What kind of a widow would travel in such conditions?”

“One who does so in secrecy,” Enid said. “In the dead of night, if need be.”

“Could we not appeal to Jeremy’s generosity?” she asked.

The Dowager Countess of Barrett sighed audibly. “I have already done so. He is sensitive to our plight, he says, but will not attempt to break the entail. Don’t expect any help from that quarter.”

Now was the time for her to protest, to say Enid’s suggestion was foolish. Try as she might, she couldn’t see a brighter future for them, not with Poor Lawrence spending her fortune in such a profligate way.

“Do you have the courage, Virginia?”

No, she didn’t. But what other option was there in the face of such unfair laws? A woman had no rights to anything, least of all her own money.

The door suddenly opened and her two sisters-in-law entered. Virginia was engulfed in a flurry of weeping, black silk and arms enfolding her in a comforting embrace.

“Dearest Virginia,” Eudora said. “How are you faring?”

Enid’s oldest daughter was tall, gliding when she walked. Her demeanor and poise was of a woman twice her age. Every once in a while, however, Eudora smiled, and the expression hinted at a younger and more carefree girl, one capable of mischief.

She wore her hair parted in the middle and swept into rosettes on either side of her head. A matronly style but one suiting her, as did the black she now wore. Even dressed in mourning, one noticed her dark eyes and long lashes, a creamy complexion, and full pink lips.

“Is she Mediterranean?” someone had once asked about Eudora, and the question had reminded Virginia of lithographs she’d seen of Roman women, even to the prominent nose and regal looking brow.

If Eudora had any flaws at all, it was that she loved to shop. A few times each week Virginia accompanied her, walking through the Pantheon, the Burlington Arcade, Davie’s warehouse on St. Martin’s Lane, or the Soho Bazaar.

They invariably returned empty-handed from each one of their outings, simply because Lawrence refused to give them any pocket money and Virginia’s quarterly allowance wasn’t that large.

“Oh, sister, was it awful?” Ellice asked.

Ellice was the opposite of her taller older sister. She fidgeted. She squirmed. She could not sit still for more than a few minutes at a time. Her brown eyes were always sparkling with curiosity. “Why do you suppose” was the phrase starting most of her conversations. Her brown hair was always coming loose, and she was forever being lectured by her mother on comportment, manners, what to say and when. Unfortunately, she had, on more than one occasion, offended people by speaking what was on her mind.

If Eudora was Enid’s joy, Ellice was her trial.

Virginia had never considered they might be the saving grace of her marriage. Eudora and Ellice had become her sisters in truth.

“I’m fine,” she said, answering both of them.

Stepping back, she met Enid’s gaze. The three of them and all the servants in the house were dependent on her decision. She honestly didn’t know what would happen to them once Jeremy ascended to the title.

“I’ll consider it,” she said to Enid.

“Consider it quickly, Virginia.”

With a few parting words, she left the three of them to sit with Lawrence’s coffin. Eudora wept with quiet dignity. Ellice was noisier and more effusive. Enid, like her, was concerned more with survival than grief at the moment.

Slowly, she closed the sliding doors behind her.

“I would be happy to assist you in any way, Countess.”

Startled, she turned to find Paul Henderson standing there, watching her.

Paul was an extraordinarily handsome man. With his dark brown eyes and thick brown hair, he garnered a woman’s attention. His features were perfect as well, even if his mouth might be considered a bit too large. Of average height, he was more muscular than most men of her acquaintance.

He would need to be, having been Lawrence’s attendant. Paul had bathed him, cared for him, acted as valet and secretary. In the latter role, he’d summoned the solicitor whenever Lawrence wanted to spend more money. Paul had gone to Enid and told her what Lawrence was doing. Because of his warning, they had some inkling of their dismal future. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have known until after Lawrence’s death.

Paul had been in Lawrence’s employ for five years and was considered almost a member of the family. Or as much as the Earl of Barrett would consider anyone beneath him to be part of his inner circle. Poor Lawrence was, regrettably, a snob, which was probably why he’d looked down his patrician nose at her. Her only pedigree had been a fortune, and she didn’t even have that now.

Paul’s eyes sparkled at her, and held what she perceived as a glint of humor, hardly proper for this moment. She moved aside so he could enter the parlor. Instead, he stood there studying her.

He made her uncomfortable and always had, as if he saw through the pretense of her marriage. But, then, he would know better than most, wouldn’t he, caring for Lawrence as he had?

He knew how many times she’d visited her husband, how many occasions Lawrence agreed to see her, and how long each of those visits lasted.

Did Lawrence complain about her after she left? She wouldn’t have been surprised. Paul was a confidant, and since she’d never seen anyone visit Lawrence, probably his only friend.

She took a step back.

Something about Paul bothered her. She didn’t like the look in his eyes when he studied her, or the small smile playing around his mouth.

With Lawrence dead, was there any reason he should still be employed? All their expenses must be examined closely from this moment forward.

“I would do anything to assist you. Anything at all,” he said. His smile vanished, but he didn’t look away. “Please consider my offer.”

Dear God, how much had he heard? She wouldn’t put it past Paul to listen at doors. Yet how could she blame him for doing so, since it was how he’d gathered the information about what Lawrence had done?

She’d kept her concerns to herself. If she’d confessed to Enid that Paul made her uncomfortable, her mother-in-law would have simply looked at her with her nostrils flaring and a pinched mouth—an expression stating, without words, that she was being American and foolish.

“Thank you,” she said, moving away from Paul.

He followed her, coming entirely too close. She stepped back but he only smiled, tracking her until her back hit the wall.

Leaning close, he spoke softly. “Are you afraid of me, Virginia?”

“Of course not,” she said, pushing her fear down. She wouldn’t let him see how panicked she was.

But when he reached out and trailed a finger down her cheek, she shivered. His eyes narrowed but he didn’t move away.

“I wouldn’t hurt you, Virginia. You’d enjoy it.”

Grabbing a tendril of her hair, he wound it around his finger, pulling her closer.

She froze, keeping as still as she could even when he breathed against her temple. Closing her eyes, she prayed he’d move away.

Instead, he pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“I would promise you would feel nothing but pleasure in my arms, Virginia. You might come to yearn for it.”

She slid to the left, ducking below his arm, scurrying down the hall. Turning, she looked back to find him studying her intently, almost like she was a mouse in truth and he a hungry cat.

In that instant, she made up her mind to travel to Scotland. Macrath would be at the end of the journey, and she’d somehow find the courage to seduce him.

Chapter 4

F
our days later Virginia settled into the coach trying to prepare mentally for her journey. Dawn crept on the horizon, bathing the rooftops pink. A faint honeysuckle-tinged breeze cooled her cheeks. Birds nesting in the nearby trees called out a morning song, bidding her be about her task.

Lawrence’s funeral had been the day before, and Enid lost no time making arrangements. They were to travel only by carriage. Even the stops at the inns were to be done surreptitiously. Her maid, Hannah, and the coachman would arrange for rooms, and she would use the back entrances. No one was to know the newly widowed Countess of Barrett was on her way to Scotland.

Her father had insisted she be given a diverse education. Therefore, she was prepared, if she must, to be a governess. Perhaps a man of wealth would want a slightly used countess to instruct his daughters. She could easily see an American hiring her, bragging about her title. “She’s an American, you know. Became a countess. My gals deserve the best.”

Getting a position wouldn’t help the rest of them, however. Someone might employ Eudora, but where would Ellice go? What would happen to their mother? She could not, however much she tried, imagine Enid trimming hats.

How would they earn their living?

They had no time left, not enough for Eudora to finally be serious about finding a husband. Ellice was too young, and she doubted Enid had given any thought to remarriage.

She, herself, would not countenance marrying again. Her union to Lawrence had been distasteful enough. The only saving grace was he seemed to dislike her presence as much as she’d grown to dislike his. But what if she married a man who insisted on bedding her every night? That would be a worse situation.

Enid reached into the carriage, pressing a cup of warm chocolate into her hands.

“A fortifying beverage,” her mother-in-law said.

She finished the chocolate and returned the cup. Sitting back against the cushions, she adjusted the leather gloves over her hands. She didn’t see the back of the town house, Hannah arranging the baskets of food in the storage area below the carriage seat, or Hosking, the coachman, standing by the open door.

Ceana Sinclair told her in the beginning that Macrath was a brilliant inventor.

“He makes ice, Virginia,” she had said. “Just imagine, his machine can generate ice for you any time of year.”

He made ice, of all things, and in that small way Macrath Sinclair was playing God. Yet, in this journey she was about to make to Scotland, so was she.

London

A year earlier

“W
hy are you looking so distressed?”

Virginia turned at his voice. Her mood abruptly became better as she smiled at Macrath.

“I’m to be personable this evening,” she said, tugging on her gloves.

A bad habit of hers, according to Mrs. Haverstock. A lady never draws the eye to aspects of her appearance.
Tranquility is as vital to a lady as beauty,
the woman often said.
An aura of peace is a quality you must cultivate
.

“I’ve never known you to be anything but personable,” Macrath said, moving to stand beside her. They looked out over the dancers from their place on the terrace.

She sighed. “That’s because you’re too much like me. We’d much rather talk about scientific experiments than people or politics.”

“But your dancing partners don’t?”

She glanced over at him.

Tonight he was dressed in formal black, his gold and black vest a brilliant example of embroidery. His black hair was brushed back, the perfect frame for his unforgettable face.

When she looked at Macrath, she remembered those museum visits with Mrs. Haverstock, and all the statues unearthed from various places and brought to England. A Greek god, a Roman citizen, men with faces that lived on through millennia because of the placement of strong bones and features. Macrath’s face was similar, but brought to life because of his intense blue eyes and a mouth that fascinated her. She liked to watch as he talked, the way he formed the letters. How he smiled when she didn’t expect it.

“I’ve noticed how popular you’ve been tonight.”

“It’s father’s money,” she said. “It makes people very polite.”

“On the contrary, I think it’s you.”

She glanced back at the dancers, feeling a surge of warmth at his words. Macrath could change her mood from dreary to delighted just with a smile. Conversely, when he wasn’t at an event, it seemed to drag, each hour tied to a tortoise.

“I have heard excessively about horse racing tonight. Or gossip. People are very interested in other people.”

“Politics is about people,” he said, “and you’re interested in politics.”

She considered the matter, then nodded. “You’re right. I have no place being judgmental, do I?”

“As long as we’re listing your faults, I suspect you aren’t to be on the terrace, either.”

She smiled. “Yet you’re standing right beside me.”

“Perhaps I’ve been sent to teach you how to be more personable,” he said.

“I’m not to be seen with you as much,” she said. “People will get the impression that you’ve singled me out, which would be off-putting to other potential suitors.”

“I hear Mrs. Haverstock in there somewhere.”

She nodded. “Mrs. Haverstock possesses many opinions about a great many things.”

“Mostly foolish ones, I think. The woman’s daft if she thinks you’re not personable. You’re more intelligent than any woman here, and more beautiful.” He glanced at her. “What would you rather be, intelligent or beautiful?”

She thought about the question for a moment. “I should say intelligent, shouldn’t I? Intelligence would last you your whole life, while beauty fades. But what woman doesn’t want to be considered beautiful?”

“You needn’t worry. You have both.”

She turned to him, placing one of her gloved hands on his arm. “The opinion of a friend,” she said.

“Not just a friend,” he said. “She’s right in one regard. I have singled you out.”

She dropped her hand, even though she liked touching him. Eyes were everywhere, and someone was sure to tell either her chaperone or her father that she’d been standing too close, and was too intent in conversation with Macrath Sinclair.

“Have you?”

“Not just a friend,” he said again. Turning, he drew her back into the ballroom.

As they started to dance, she looked up into his eyes. If she were a more courageous woman, she’d tell him the truth.

She’d singled him out, too.

London

July, 1869

O
ne of Paul Henderson’s first memories was of his father telling him he needed to learn his place in life. Even as a child, he ascribed to a higher role, a better spot in the hierarchy that was English society.

As the son of a chimney sweep, he’d started working with his father at the age of five, sent up into narrow, airless chimneys with a brush and a rag with orders to do good or he’d have his ears boxed.

On Sundays the old man gustily sang in church, striking him on the shoulder if he didn’t participate as well. He’d grown to loathe “All Things Bright and Beautiful,” his father’s favorite:

The rich man in his castle,

The poor man at his gate,

God made them, high and lowly,

And order’d their estate.

Upward migration rarely happened in the United Kingdom. From the time he was twelve, escaping the life of a flue faker by running away, he’d been determined to be more than what God had made him. He wanted to go to America, one of the few places where a man was allowed to climb the rungs on a societal ladder.

Until then he’d become a stable boy, working harder than the others, watching and learning from the men who rented the carriages. At seventeen he’d applied as a footman at one of the great houses, again learning from those who weren’t aware they were being studied. He spoke with precision, always watching that hints of his childhood accent never appeared.

For ten years he kept his own counsel, woke an hour earlier than the rest of the staff, and learned to read thanks to a maid who’d been willing to teach him as a labor of love. He never stole, always performed each duty flawlessly, and on those odd occasions when he failed in some measure, promptly acknowledged his error.

By the time he was thirty, he’d saved some money for the trip to America. After hearing of a position open to care for an invalid earl, he’d once again applied, this time with glowing letters of recommendation, and a confidence about his appearance gained through years of sidelong looks and coy female smiles.

He hadn’t planned to fall in love with the Countess of Barrett. He hadn’t wanted to feel an odd possessiveness about her. Why he did was understandable, given the circumstances in this strange household.

She didn’t feel the same for him. Like most servants, he was invisible. He went out of his way, however, to ensure she was aware of him. He conversed with her. He brought her tea. He complimented her.

Four days ago he’d offered to take her to his bed and get her with child.

She’d rebuffed him. She didn’t realize he was the best solution to the dilemma the Earl of Barrett had created.

If it hadn’t been for him, they’d never have known until too late.

They owed him something for his loyalty.

Lawrence had thought it a wicked jest to give him money. He’d taken it, and tucked it away in his savings even as he hated the man. Lawrence hadn’t been generous; he’d given away the money solely to wound his wife.

The woman who was, even now, entering a carriage with her maid, intent on Scotland.

What was in Scotland that she couldn’t find here? No one could love her as much as he did. No one could comfort her like he could. Not one person could protect her as well as he did.

He forced a smile to his face as she turned to stare right through him. She glanced away, not seeing the love he freely offered.

From this moment on he would have to change things. He wasn’t going to be invisible to her anymore. No, he was going to ensure she knew exactly how he felt.