The Devil Wears Kilts (12 page)

“Oh, good God. It’s the Evanstone to-do, isn’t it? Is Glengask attending?”

“He said he was. Why?”

“Just that Evanstone’s grandfather helped put down the Jacobite uprising at Culloden.”

“Oh. That should go over well. I’ll inform Lord Glengask at the first opportunity not to mention Bonnie Prince Charlie.” She scowled again, only half jesting. “Or perhaps I simply won’t mention it at all.”

“That might be best.”

Chapter Five

The tailor didn’t much like him, Ranulf decided, but then given the way the man kept trying to add padding to his shoulders, the feeling was mutual.

“But it’s the very height of fashion, Lord Glengask,” the thin fellow pleaded, wringing his hands.

“I dunnae care,” Ranulf returned. He already stood a good head above most other men; padding his shoulders would look absurd.

“Yes, clearly, given … that,” Mr. Smythe countered, gesturing at the half-finished coat Ranulf had commissioned.

“Just make it fit, Smythe. Withoot padding. I’ll send my man by at six o’clock.”

“Yes, very well. Just please don’t tell anyone you came to me.”

“Oh, I willnae. You neednae worry over that.”

He and Fergus left the tailor’s shop, and with a swift glance up and down the street, Ranulf swung up on Stirling and headed at a trot for Tall House. Charlotte said he should try to fit in. The lass might have more sense than most, and if she’d taken a moment she would have realized that he would never fit in. Not in Mayfair. And so he might as well be what he was.

Once she’d entered his thoughts again, she refused to leave. It was very like having her there in person, actually, stubborn and lovely and commanding his attention whatever he might prefer. If she’d mentioned at the beginning that she had a fiancé, he would have taken pains never to think of her as … well, as a woman, as a bonny lass to be kissed and stripped naked and bedded well and thoroughly. And often. But he did think of her that way—which was why he’d felt like someone had cut off his balls when suddenly she
did
have a fiancé. And now she didn’t again.

All of which meant he’d likely never have another decent night’s sleep. Because his wee, stubborn brain knew that taken by another man or not, Charlotte Hanover was not for him. He knew that four days of acquaintance shouldn’t have left him feeling this way.

A few Scottish lairds remained scattered across the Highlands, and of those, a number had unmarried daughters. He would wed one of them, because that was what the Marquis of Glengask should do. A Highland lass for a Highland life.

In fact, when he and Rowena returned to Glengask, he would make marriage his next task. Taking a breath, Ranulf climbed the stairs to his rented bedchamber. A single kiss, and his mind turned all to stew. Thank Saint Andrew the younger lasses had interrupted them when they had. Especially now that he’d foolishly agreed to let Rowena extend her stay.

He’d done it for his sister’s sake, of course, because she looked so very happy. But if he’d been thinking of himself, of how he might welcome more time to become acquainted with Charlotte Hanover, for example, well, what a fool that would have made him.

Ranulf shoved open his bedchamber door so hard it rattled the windows. In response a figure by his dressing table squeaked and whipped around like a startled mouse. So now Gerdens was sending vermin after him.

Christ.
It served him right for being distracted. “Who the devil are ye?” Ranulf spat, pulling the knife from his boot and striding forward. With a feral growl Fergus crouched, circling in from the other side.

“Ginger! Ginger, my lord,” the wee man rasped, picking up a hairbrush and holding it before him like a shield as he backed into the corner.

“What damned sort of name is that fer a man?”

“What? Oh! Edward, my lord. Edward Ginger. I’m your valet! Don’t murder me, for God’s sake!”

Someone thundered up the hallway behind him. Moving swiftly, Ranulf put the tall wardrobe between himself and the doorway, while Fergus kept the Ginger fellow at bay. The end of a blunderbuss sped into the room, followed by a winded Peter Gilling. “M’laird, where be ye?”

“Here, Peter. Don’t bloody shoot me.”

The footman immediately lowered the skittish weapon and removed the flint. “God split me in two and throw me into the pit before I’d ever do such a thing, m’laird.”

That was a colorful image. Ranulf flicked the end of his dagger toward the corner. “Ye let him in here?”

“Aye, m’laird. I would’ve told ye, but I were in the privy when ye came in.”

Given the footman’s flapping breeches and untucked shirt he was telling the truth—or he was already at one of the new maids Ranulf had also approved for hiring. “All right, then. Fergus, off. Go put that thing away, Peter. Both things. And take Ginger with ye. He looks like he could use a whisky.”

“My lord,” the valet put in, his voice still quavering, “I do prefer to be called…”

Ranulf looked at him. The servant’s lifted forefinger curled slowly back into his palm again. “What’s that, Ginger?”

“Nothing, my lord.”

“Good. And next time ye surprise a body in this house, don’t move except t’show yer empty hands or ye might get skewered on principle.”

“Yes, my lord. I shall remember that, I’m certain.”

“See that ye do.”

Once Ranulf changed out of his riding coat and boots, he returned downstairs to his office. Now he had English servants running through Tall House, but there was little he could do about that. Myles’s assessment of his situation was correct, and hiring people who knew nothing at all about Highland troubles made sense.

He sank into the flimsy chair behind the too ornate mahogany desk and pulled out pen and paper to write a letter to Arran. His brothers needed to know that the fortnight had now become an open-ended excursion, and he needed a few more of his things sent down to London.

For a moment he considered asking for one or both of them to join him here, but with Donald Gerdens making his presence known, they were likely safer where they were. Especially Bear; if he and any Gerdens ever ended up in the same room, only one of them would leave it on his own two feet. And he didn’t want Munro put into an English prison. Not for anything.

Yes, he was accustomed to a loud, full house of family and friends, but that was at home. This, whatever else it was, was not home. It never would be. He sat back for a moment. What he could most use here was someone who knew the lay of the land, someone who knew which other “reformed” Scots were in London and in what numbers.

That made his thoughts turn to his uncle. Yes, Myles Wilkie would have been perfect, except Ranulf remained unsure whether he could trust the viscount’s judgment. The fact that Myles had been trying to help and caused such a near disaster almost made it worse.

On the other hand, when a man had limited resources, there were no perfect options. He could always ask Charlotte, he supposed, except for the fact that firstly, she wanted him to be less Scottish; secondly, he wasn’t certain they were speaking; and thirdly, that would mean a quiet, protracted conversation where he could very likely do something idiotic like kiss her again.

Perhaps Myles was the wiser choice, after all.

“M’laird?”

He looked up from the half-finished letter to see Owen standing in the doorway. “Everyone is safe back at Hanover House?”

“Aye. And I think Lady Winnie’s pleased to have Una there with her. A touch of home, I ken.”

Ranulf nodded. “I feel a mite better with Una there, as well. Anything else?”

“Well, I’m nae entirely certain. Peter says footmen and such’ve been coming by all morning, saying ‘by yer leave’ or ‘with respect,’ and handing over these.” The former soldier held up a tray piled high with cards and notes, and one ribbon-wrapped box.

Hm. “Let’s see ’em.”

He’d attended Oxford, because it was the law that the firstborn son of every Scottish laird receive an English education. He’d then insisted that his brothers go as well, because he’d wanted them to know who and what they were all up against. And so he knew what sat on his salver: the most dangerous and insidious of all things English. The calling card.

Dismissing Owen, he went through all of them. A few were from men and women to whom he’d been introduced at Almack’s by Charlotte. Most were from people he’d never heard of, inviting him to breakfast, luncheon, and soirees. Evidently the Sasannach were excited to have a devil in their midst. Perhaps they thought he’d dance a jig and play the pipes for them.

It was tempting to toss all of them into the wastebasket, but he resisted the impulse. The Hanovers, and thereby his sister, might well be attending some of these events, so an invitation for him would come in handy—like the one he’d received yesterday for the Evanstone soiree. Still, though, it felt like looking at pieces of some silver-embossed puzzle when he didn’t know what picture they all formed.

He saved the box for last. No note or card accompanied it, and he shook it a little before he untied the ribbon. It felt heavy for such a small thing, and caution made him set it flat and push back in his chair before he flipped off the lid with one finger. Nothing moved inside, no scent emerged, and he slowly stood to look down into it. A small ball of wool had been stuffed inside, leaving no open space at all. Wool to him meant Cheviot sheep, which meant some sort of message from another laird with a seat in the Highlands who didn’t like his so-called anarchic plans to keep his people close and see that they were educated and fed and employed.

Wool, though, wasn’t that heavy. Frowning, he picked up the box and tipped it over. The wool fell with a dull thud. Taking a breath, he pulled the thing apart with his fingers. A moment later a solid lead musket ball dropped onto the polished surface of the desk. Now that was a better threat than a handful of dirty wool.

“Well, now,” he murmured, not surprised to see that someone had scratched the word “MacLawry” onto the surface of the ball. He picked it up, letting it roll about in his palm. After Almack’s, everyone would know he was in London. But not everyone would wish him to know that he was in danger. “Peter!” he called, seating himself again.

The footman reappeared in the doorway. “Aye, m’laird?” His gaze dropped to the desktop, and he stepped forward. “That was in that wee box?”

“Aye. A ball with my name on it. Poetical, don’t ye think?”

Peter picked it up, clenching it in one fist as though he wanted to grind it into dust. “The man who brought the box wasnae in livery,” he said after a moment, his lined face grim. “Tall lad, light hair, but I doubt I’d recognize him again. Damnation.”

Shaking his head, Ranulf held out his hand for the ball. “Dunnae worry yerself. We knew trouble waited here. Kind of it to make itself known, really.” He pushed to his feet. “Have someone go by Mr. Smythe’s tailor shop in the next hour or so, will ye? He’s prettying up a coat fer me.”

“Aye. And where’re ye off to, then?”

“A stroll. I ken we’d be better off if I knew the streets around here better.”

The footman scowled. “Ye can’t think to go out now, m’laird!”

“Why not, because someone wants me dead? Since when has someone not wanted me put under the ground? I find it more helpful at the moment to know who might be in London fer the Season and living on my doorstep.”

“Well, Owen and I are goin’ with ye.”

“No, ye aren’t. Fergus is. Ye’re going to watch the door. Owen!”

The second footman arrived quickly enough that he must have been listening by the door. “M’laird?”

“Owen, ye are going to show Ginger how to dress a man in a kilt.”

“Ginger? Who’s Ginger?”

*   *   *

Charlotte picked up the hand mirror and twisted around to view the back of her ornately piled hair in the large dressing mirror. “It’s lovely, Simms. I would never have thought of weaving a pearl necklace through my hair.”

The maid dimpled. “Lady Newsome’s maid showed me the trick of it. But I thought of using the matching earbobs.”

Shining pearls peeking through her blond curls and then matching ones dangling from her ears—added to the dark green silk and lace of her gown and the pearl buttons on the dark green elbow-length gloves, the effect really was quite dramatic. More so than she generally cared for, but tonight was special. The first grand ball for both Jane and Rowena.

It was fortunate that she felt put together on the outside, because her insides were something else entirely. And she knew precisely who to blame for that. Glengask had stomped off quite regally this afternoon, but it still left the question of how he meant to behave tonight. Would he dance? Would he ask her to dance? If he did, what would she say? After all, she was angry with him. More than likely, he was just as angry with her, too.

Oh, he was like a great bear growling his way through London and upsetting people’s equilibrium. Everyone knew everyone in Mayfair. That was simply a given. Having Lord Glengask stride onto the stage with his unruly black hair and fierce blue eyes therefore turned everything on its head. Every other man who went riding with her in the park, for instance, knew that she’d lost James three years ago. They knew that she danced and chatted, but that she didn’t flirt, that she wasn’t looking to make another match in the foreseeable future, and that she didn’t kiss. Ranulf MacLawry clearly knew none of these things—and she wasn’t certain it would make a difference if he
did
know.

Her bedchamber door opened, and Jane waltzed into the room with Winnie, the waist-tall deerhound padding behind them. “Oh, Char, you look stunning!” her sister exclaimed, parting from her friend with a flourish. “Has a gentleman finally caught your eye again?”

Charlotte felt her cheeks warm. “Why in the world would you say that? Do I generally look so shabby?”

“No! Of course not. It’s just … Well, you look exceptionally nice.”

“That, I will accept. And thank you.” With a grin, Charlotte took in the two excited young ladies. “Blue is definitely your color, Winnie,” she said after a moment. “It lights up your eyes. And I’m jealous of all that hair you have.”