The Highland Countess (10 page)

“The club would vastly benefit from your portrait, Alistair,” teased Lord Toby. “Mayhap there was not a canvas of large enough proportions.”

“Shouldn’t mock,” grunted Alistair, eyeing his girth sadly. “Been on a diet, don’t you see. Potatoes and vinegar. Nothing else. But the more I eat the cursed things, the thinner
Harvey
gets. Ain’t no justice.”

“Did she accept you?” asked Harvey Wrexford, lounging on the sofa. It was a great year for lounging and arranging one’s limbs to their best advantage. One lounged on the carpet at the feet of the ladies, one lounged on sofas at one’s club or one seated oneself at ease in a chair, placing the ankle of one leg over the knee of the other. This did not apply to the ladies, who were never supposed to touch the back of any chair, and the tyranny of that infernal machine, the backboard, still went on.

Lord Toby took off his curly brimmed beaver, having worn his hat for the regulation ten minutes. “Yes,” he said, and then as if compelled, “It will be in the
Gazette
tomorrow.”

“That’s quick!” said Harvey, sitting up. “You must have been very sure of her reply.”

“She was—rightly—sure of my proposal since I spoke to her father yesterday. Miss Sampson inserted the notice herself.”

Both friends looked startled but good breeding forbade them from commenting on Miss Sampson’s forward behavior.

Nonetheless Toby sensed their disapproval. “Miss Sampson is a very practical girl.”

Alistair gave a noncommittal grunt. “I might try my luck with the new heiress,” he said gloomily. “She’s a widow so maybe she’s not too fussy in men’s looks.” He tugged at his waistcoat which was riding uncomfortably up round the rolls of fat at his middle.

“Which new heiress?” demanded Toby. He was beginning to feel at ease with the world again. After what he had gone through at Murr Castle, it was natural that the sight of a beautiful redhead should upset him. It had not been she, of course. His imagination had played a trick.

“The Countess of Murr,” said Alistair. “Didn’t you know that family? As I ’member you went off to visit them that terrible winter and nearly killed yourself. You never did say what made you leave in such weather.”

“I had outstayed my welcome.” said Toby coldly, despite the racing of his pulses.

“Like that, was it?” said Harvey, writhing his long limbs in their skin tight pantaloons into more comfortable position. “Not hospitable, eh.”

“I do not like the Scotch,” said Lord Toby repressively.

“Come, now,” pursued Harvey. “The Old Prejudice is pretty much gone. But if that’s the way you feel, you’ll be the only man in London in no danger of losing your heart.”

“This countess will be at Almack’s this evening for the opening ball, no doubt?” said Lord Toby, studying the polish on the toe caps of his boots with great interest.

“Not she,” said Harvey. “She don’t go out in society. All she cares about is that son of hers. Her courtiers are busy chasing her to Westminster Abbey and the Tower and Exeter ’Change. Young Lord Rotherwood stole a march on the rest of us by arranging a private tour of Madame Tussaud’s.”

“Us?” queried Toby, raising thin black brows. “Us, Harvey? Never say you have joined the pursuit of the Scottish widow.”

Harvey looked so embarrassed and wiggled his limbs so frantically it seemed as if he were in danger of tying himself into a knot. “Can’t remain a bachelor all m’days,” he mumbled.

“How did her husband die?” asked Lord Toby.

“Great scandal evidently. He was much older than she… oh, forgot—you know the family. Well, he was making merry with a village maiden in the freezing rain and in an open field. Too much for him. Hadn’t been a well man and it finished him.”

“Would finish
me
,” said Toby, affecting a boredom he did not feel. “Let us change the subject. Since my taste in amusements has long left the nursery, I am not likely to meet the countess.”

“I really do not feel I am right in going,” said Morag to her lady’s maid, Scott, who was fastening the cross-tapes of Morag’s chemise.

“It’s an honor to receive vouchers for Almack’s,” said the maid in her prim, cultivated English accent in which slight traces of Scotch still peeped through like sprigs of heather on a rocky Highland escarpment. “Rory will do very well with Miss Simpson.”

Morag sighed. She longed to go to Almack’s Assembly Rooms. What female did not? In 1765 a Scotsman called William Macall reversed the syllables of his name to provide a more interesting title for his new assembly rooms, which became the most fashionable in London.

Now in this year of 1814, the rooms were ruled over by despotic patronesses whose word was law. To be seen at Almack’s was to be an “Exclusive.” To be refused vouchers labeled you a “Nobody.”… and no Brahmin can shrink with more horror from all contact with a Pariah than an “Exclusive” from intercourse with a “Nobody.” But there was Rory and there was Miss Simpson.

Miss Simpson had primly said she would, of course, be delighted to take care of Rory, and Rory had urged Morag to attend the ball. But Rory had been trying to hide a sort of wild glee and Miss Simpson seemed consumed by a slow-burning anger. Miss Simpson was too old to care for a clever high-spirited child like Rory, thought Morag unfairly.

Now that Morag was actually in London, her old dreams of Lord Toby had faded to the back of her mind. There were so many attractive young men to help her into her carriage and to send her flowers. She had been so young and inexperienced all those years ago.

He might be at the ball tonight
, nagged a voice in her brain, but she shrugged it away. There could be no comparison between that trembling green girl of the days of Edinburgh and the present dashing and sophisticated Countess of Murr.

Lord Freddie Rotherwood was the lucky gallant chosen to escort Morag to Almack’s. He was sitting nervously in the drawing room of Morag’s London home accompanied by Rory and Miss Simpson. The town house was of handsome proportions and had been decorated by the countess in the first stare. Various wild and kilted ancestors of the Murrs stared down at the elegant backless sofas, spindly chairs, and oriental rugs. A whole herd of stuffed trophies of the chase had been banished to the cellars where they loomed among the wine racks, their glass eyes never failing to give Hamish a shiver when he went down to choose the wine for dinner.

Lord Freddie sipped his claret appreciatively. He could not remember having tasted such a good wine. It is probable he had not. Many English aristocrats were unaware that their wine merchants fortified French wines with a great deal of brandy and some even slapped French labels on their own concoctions, one wine merchant having been found making and bottling Chateau Lafitte, vintage yesterday, on his own premises.

The late earl’s wines had been imported directly from France and laid down long before the start of the wars.

Rory sat primly in the glory of dark blue velvet trousers buttoning onto a frilly blouse and eyed Miss Simpson from under his long lashes. He wanted her out of the room.

“Miss Simpson,” he said finally. “I am desirous of a glass of water.”

“Then ring the bell,” snapped Miss Simpson.

“I want
you
to get it,” said Rory mulishly. “You
are
supposed to be looking after me.”

Miss Simpson rose wearily to her feet. She knew from experience that if she did not get it, Rory would retaliate by insulting her with cruel and personal remarks—if, as in the present case, his mother were absent.

Rory waited until she had closed the door behind her and turned his beautiful eyes on Lord Freddie. Lord Freddie was an engaging-looking young man, younger than Morag by two years. He had rosy cheeks and merry gray eyes and a good figure, although it was too sturdy to be fashionable.

“What have you brought me, my lord?” demanded Rory.

“Eh! What have I brought you?” repeated Freddie with an indulgent laugh. “Why, nothing, my little man.”

“Then,” said Rory icily, “it is high time you did.”

Freddie stared at the boy in amazement. Only a bare minute ago, an angelic child had been facing him. Now he was confronted by a cunning dwarf with hard, calculating eyes. “Why should I bring you anything?” he demanded. “It ain’t Christmas. It ain’t your birthday.”

“You are stupid,” said Rory flatly. “My mother will not go with you if I take you in dislike.”

“Why… why…” spluttered Freddie, “I have a good mind to put you over my knee.”

Rory opened his cherubic mouth and then closed it quickly. Morag came into the room, and for the moment Freddie forgot everything else. She was wearing a tunic dress of white muslin edged with a gold border of Greek key design over a heavy white silk slip. Her red curls were dressed
à la victime
, and, as she moved toward him, he caught a breath of faint yet elusive perfume. She was a goddess, she was magnificent, she…

He was brought back from the groves of Arcadia with a bang.

“Mama,” said Rory. “My head feels so hot and heavy.”

Morag, who had stretched out her hand in greeting to the enraptured Lord Freddie, dropped it and rushed to Rory’s side. “But you were very well not so long ago, my darling,” she cried, kneeling down beside him and wrapping her arms around him. Rory stared steadily over her shoulder at Lord Freddie. “I don’t know,” he whined. “I suddenly feel so ill and weak. You must not leave me, mama.”

“I should not dream of it, my precious lamb,” cried Morag. “Lord Rotherwood will forgive me. Does your chest hurt?”

Lord Freddie took a shilling from his pocket and tossed it up and down. Rory looked at it with infinite contempt and said on a choked sob, “I-I ache so, mama. All over.”

Lord Freddie sighed and took a guinea from his pocket and held it up. Morag still had her back to him and her arms round Rory. Rory rested his pointed chin on her white shoulder and gave Lord Freddie a brief nod.

“I ache
nowhere
, mama!” he cried with an enchanting, rippling laugh. “I was only funning and you believed me!”

Morag released him and gave him a mock slap on the bottom. “Is he not a scamp?” she cried, turning a glowing face to Lord Freddie. “You must not tease me so, Rory.”

“I am sorry,” said Rory with true contrition, for he hated to upset her in any way and it was all the fault of that fool Rotherwood being so slow on the uptake. Miss Simpson came in bearing the glass of water. “Why are you always bringing me glasses of water, Miss Simpson?” cried Rory merrily. “I declare, mama, she thinks I am a
whale!
”

Miss Simpson put the glass down on a side table and compressed her lips. She had long ago learned it was foolish to point out to Morag that her son was a malicious liar. Rory had all the weapons, all the answers. For a brief moment, the eyes of the old governess and the young lord met in complete understanding.

Then, “Go, mama, or you will be late,” urged Rory. “May I shake your hand, Lord Rotherwood?”

“By all means,” said Lord Freddie gloomily as Rory palmed the guinea from his hand. “By all means.”

Morag sat in the carriage in a fever of anticipation. This was to be the most
elegant
evening of her life. No crudity or vulgarity surely marred the hallowed halls of Almack’s. She saw the whole thing in her mind’s eye as some kind of celestial minuet.

No one had warned her of the circus
outside
Almack’s.

There was an enormous press of carriages, fighting and jostling for space, urged on by their screaming passengers, frantic to a woman in case they did not gain entry to this social heaven.

Foolhardy coachmen would espy a small gap in the press and would drive both carriages and horses full tilt into the gap. The air was loud with the swearing of coachmen and grooms, shrieks from the ladies, and splintering wood. A cabriolet drove its shafts straight through the window of the coach next to Morag’s.

“Is it always like this?” she gasped to her companion.

“Oh, always,” replied Lord Freddie. “I mean, it isn’t a fashionable event if you don’t have to go through this, don’t you see.”

Morag’s coachman, perched on his box, became impatient with the press and frightened for the safety of his horses. He let out a wild Highland battle cry which froze the struggling mass for a minute—long enough for him to see a sizable gap and drive his carriage in.

“Good work, Jimmy,” called Morag and the coachman touched his cocked hat and grinned down at her. “I hope I get us back oot o’ this mess, my leddy,” he called. “Did ye ever see the like? Whitna clamjamfrey. But you go and enjoy yersel, my leddy.”

Morag laughed and waved her hand. Lord Freddie stared at her in surprise. “Are your servants usually so familiar?” he asked.

“They are not familiar in the least,” said Morag in chilly accents. “They merely display a native independence of character combined with genuine concern for my happiness.”

“Sorry,” mumbled Lord Freddie, privately thinking that his Highland rose was indeed set about with thorns in the shape of one impossible brat and an army of cheeky retainers.

Almack’s was not so magnificent as Morag had expected. She had once been to one of the assemblies in Perth which had been held in an inn. It had been an infinitely more elegant setting than the one which now faced her. The ballroom was large and bare with a bad floor. Ropes were hung round it to divide the dancers from the audience of chaperones and wallflowers. Three equally bare rooms led off the ballroom where dry and tasteless refreshments were served.

But the magnificence of the guests more than made up for these defects and the lighting and the music were good.

Morag was quickly surrounded by men, vying to partner her in the dances. As the evening wore on, she began to relax. Lord Toby would not come, of course. Not that she cared, but it would be interesting to see if he looked the same. Nothing more.

She was pirouetting gracefully under Lord Freddie’s arm when she became aware of an old feeling of apprehension and unease.

Despite herself, her eyes were drawn to a corner of the room. Lord Toby stood there, staring straight across at her, those eyes, as green as she remembered, burning in his white face. He has changed, she thought breathlessly, tearing her eyes away. So much more elegant, so much more handsome, so much colder and harder.