The Highland Dragon's Lady (9 page)

“Your brother said you’d probably be in here.” Reggie stepped into the blue drawing room and shut the door behind her. Belatedly, she caught Miss Heselton’s startled expression as the other woman looked up from the book she’d been reading and added, “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“No, not at all.”

That was the only polite response that she could have given, sincere or not, but Reggie didn’t feel too guilty. It really wouldn’t have mattered what Miss Heselton had said, even though she wanted to start on something approaching the right foot.

“I’ll send for some tea if you want,” she said to that end as she took a seat in one of the delicate chairs opposite Miss Heselton. “I think there should be a batch of muffins ready soon too. The cooking here always brings me back, you know, no matter how much time I spend in London.”

“Food always tastes better in the fresh air,” said Miss Heselton, with a condescending smile, “and surrounded by wholesome company.”

“Yes, rather,” said Reggie. “So, er, tea?”

“I’m not sure I could eat just now. But you’re welcome to, if you wish.” Miss Heselton closed her book. Glancing at the spine, Reggie saw that it was poetry, the author someone named Patmore. “Will your mother be joining us? Or the other ladies?”

“Browne’s upstairs with Osbourne again,” Reggie said. Unable to see any gradual path to her destination, she thought it was past time to forge ahead. “And I told Mater that one of the gardeners wanted to talk to her.”

Miss Heselton blinked. “Did he?”

“Probably. They always do in the end. It’ll keep her busy for a little while, at any rate. I wanted to have a word with you in private.”

“Oh?” Miss Heselton tilted her head to one side and smiled again, outwardly the picture of welcoming innocence. Reggie didn’t miss the way her eyes narrowed at the corners, though. She’d already been curious; now she was suspicious. Since Reggie had been bracing herself since breakfast for this conversation, that at least put them on more equal ground. “If there’s anything I can help you with, please do let me know.”

Reggie took as deep a breath as her corsets would allow. “Well,” she started, “you were dashed helpful with Mrs. Osbourne. Thank you for that.”

“Oh,” said Miss Heselton again. “Well, it was nothing more than my duty.”

“The rest of us couldn’t have done it. I know that much. You’re a smart girl.” Reggie fought the urge to look away from Miss Heselton’s smiling face. She twisted the cuff of one sleeve, steeled herself, and finally brought out the most awkward sentence she’d ever given thought to beforehand. “So you should know that—well, that you and Edmund won’t suit.”

Silence descended: a horrible hot silence during which both women looked at each other, and Reggie, at least, wished they were anywhere else, ideally a thousand miles or so apart. Then Miss Heselton drew herself up, widened her eyes, and said, “I’m sure I have no idea what you mean.”

“Oh, have done,” Reggie said, as kindly as she could manage. “I’m not saying it’s your fault. I know damned well”—she ignored the little gasp at her profanity—“that Pater’s been encouraging you, and I know Edmund’s twelve different kinds of dunce when it comes to women. Nobody could blame you for getting the wrong idea. I just want to give you the right one.”

“Which is,” said Miss Heselton, “that we ‘won’t suit.’”

“Er. Yes. Nothing to do with you, of course.” When Edmund came back, Reggie vowed, she was going to throw him into the pond. Never mind that he couldn’t have this conversation himself—no gentleman could—but he could have done
something
. “You’re a good sort. Very pretty. I’m sure you could have your pick of men, as a general rule.”

Miss Heselton’s lips pressed together. “I’m not shameless, thank you.”

“I didn’t say you were. I’m sure you’re modest and virtuous, and men chase you. From afar. Politely.” Unable to sit still any longer, Reggie rose from her chair. “It’s just that Edmund isn’t. Even if you think it looks that way.”

“Oh?” The third time, the word had ice in it. “Because I’m a clergyman’s sister? Because my father was a major instead of a lord? Because I don’t have a great house and spend most of my time at London parties?”

“That’s got nothing to do with it,” Reggie snapped back, her face hot. “Our blood isn’t any bluer than yours, and we don’t need to marry for money. Edmund just—well, he isn’t—he doesn’t want to get married. Not to anyone.”

Miss Heselton blinked again. Then she laughed, light and airy, and almost all of the tension seemed to leave her body. “Is that what’s been worrying you? Oh, dear. It’s very loyal of you, I’m sure,” she said, as if Reggie were a child and not five years her senior, “but you know, gentlemen never do want to get married. And then, when they meet the right woman, they
do
—if they’re truly gentlemen, that is, and that’s certainly true of your brother.”

“Yes,” said Reggie, “Edmund’s a gentleman.”

She walked a few paces and studied the mantel, wishing that she could rest her head on it or kick it, or perhaps throw one of the china shepherdesses on top of it against the wall.

In all justice, she couldn’t fault Miss Heselton for not understanding. A vicar’s sister, gently reared and clearly innocent, despite both medical knowledge and a certain amount of cattiness,
wouldn’t
understand. Most people wouldn’t—certainly Reggie’s parents didn’t, and had never guessed where their son’s reluctance to marry came from.

Neither could Reggie explain in any great detail. Her own knowledge of Edmund’s nature had come through her gift—by the grace of God, without any more explicit longing or experience than the desire to kiss one of the footmen. She had accepted it, after a few months of wrestling, as a fifteen-year-old who’d adored her younger brother and who’d known herself, by that time, to be something of an aberration. It had helped, too, that Edmund had been the only one who knew and accepted her power.

These days, she read the papers as they covered Oscar Wilde’s trial, and she thought of the crowds Edmund moved in, and she worried. The two of them had only mentioned the subject in the vaguest of terms. If she told the unvarnished truth to Miss Heselton—

God, no. The
best
result for Edmund there would be revulsion, scandal, and disinheritance and pain. The worst didn’t bear thinking about.

“I don’t think he’s going to meet the right woman,” Reggie tried, feeling her way along. “And if he ever does, she’ll be the sort who—who doesn’t want her husband to pay very much attention to her. Edmund’s very fond of his clubs and his friends, I mean to say, and of riding and shooting and sport, and he doesn’t want to spend his time at home with a wife. Or out at parties. And he’s not at all romantic.”

She turned and looked once again at Miss Heselton, on whose clear white brow a few lines of worry had appeared. As Reggie watched, though, they vanished, and Miss Heselton shook her head. “But he’d change,” she said. “Of course he would, if he truly loved a girl. That’s what love is
for
.”

For the most part, Reggie had stayed out of any real gambling. Such games as she’d played in or witnessed had largely been between friends. Even there she’d seen men—often drunk or drugged and just as often riding high on pride—who realized that they held a bad hand through luck or their own bad gamesmanship, but stiffened their backs and doubled their bets.

She saw the same impulse in Miss Heselton now.

Reggie tried once more. “Maybe,” she said, “but if I were you, I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting. You’re young. Go and find another nice young man. Your brother’s probably got loads of friends who’d do—or you could go to London for a season or two. They’re thick enough on the ground there.”

“Thank you,” said Miss Heselton, “but I don’t think I need advice from you on matrimony.” Then she stood and put a hand on Reggie’s arm. She smiled sweetly, and when she spoke, the edge was gone from her voice once more. Every word left a sticky trail in the air. “After all, he is a grown man—you can’t keep him at home forever. And you couldn’t
really
want to prevent your brother’s happiness, could you?”

Reggie could have been outside at that moment. She could have been walking around the churchyard with Edmund and Pater and Colin. The summer day was beautiful, and even the most macabre of outings had to be a dashed sight better than this. “Of course not,” Reggie said and even managed not to grit her teeth.

“I didn’t think so.” Miss Heselton stroked Reggie’s arm as if she were a restless cat. “I know it must be
very
hard for you, Regina. But we mustn’t let our regrets make us bitter or spiteful, must we? The past is over and done, and we must all move forward.”

“Exactly what,” Regina Elizabeth Talbot-Jones, Louisa’s daughter, asked, “do you mean by that?” Taking a step back, she threw off the intrusive hand.

“Why, nothing, dear, I’m sure.” Miss Heselton looked down at her hands, then back up, all earnestness and sympathy. “And I’m certain that you haven’t spoiled your own chances quite as much as you must suppose. After all, forgiveness is so important. I’m sure that if you came back home and lived quietly and modestly, you’d do quite well. Plenty of young—well,
relatively
young men—”

Absurdly, Reggie’s first thought was to wonder if “a hundred and thirtysomething” counted as
relatively
young
. When her self-control finally snapped, she knew that was at least one of the straws.

“You can marry them, then,” she said, feeling red heat rush to her face, “or you and they can all go to the devil together. I’ve tried being civil, and I’ve tried warning you, but if your heart’s desire is to make a damned fool of yourself over a man who hasn’t given you a second thought except as a sentimental young nuisance, then I promise I won’t stand in your way any longer.”

“Oh!” Miss Heselton sprang to her feet. “I shouldn’t imagine you
could
stand in my way, Miss Talbot-Jones. You’re wrong about Edmund—you simply imagine everyone to be as heartless and rootless as you are. And your parents would love to have me as a daughter-in-law. After all, I’d imagine they want at least
one
young woman in their family who can move in polite circles.”

Being back home clearly took a dozen years from Reggie’s mind. The only thing that kept her from boxing Miss Heselton’s ears was the conflicting impulse to take hold of those golden curls and start pulling. With her baser instincts warring, she was able to remind herself that she was twenty-seven and that Miss Heselton was a guest.

“I don’t think we have anything else to say to each other,” she said, conscious that her voice was lower than normal, and that she was baring more of her teeth than each word really required. “Good afternoon, Miss Heselton.”

Reggie did slam the door behind her. She was only human.

After striding halfway down the hall, face flaming and hands clenched at her sides, she grew calm enough to chide herself. Losing her temper hadn’t done any good. Maybe even having the conversation had been a poor idea. She couldn’t tell Edmund or her parents, of course—nor any of the other guests. It would only make dinners awkward, and eventually they’d all have to be on hand for an exorcism.

Colin was very good at not being awkward, and he already knew that she disliked Miss Heselton.

Reggie stopped short in the middle of the hallway. Where had
that
idea come from? It was ridiculous. She barely knew the man, carnal impulses aside. He couldn’t mend the situation; she would have to explain the events of ten years before in order for him to understand properly; and she didn’t want his pity anyhow.

Of course she wouldn’t tell him.

All the same, she wondered when he’d get back.

Having come to Whitehill for novelty, Colin couldn’t have said he was disappointed. The house and the company had provided any number of fascinating new experiences within the last few days. The latest was trying to figure out how to open a conversation with the sexton. “Excuse me, do you know anything about a vengeful ghost?” perhaps, or “Good day, sir. Did a woman named Janet by any chance commit particularly foul acts here a century and a half ago?”

Neither of those seemed likely to do the job.

Colin agreed with Edmund that they needed to investigate further and concurred with Mr. Talbot-Jones that he, Colin, was the best choice to go around asking the villagers questions. Since he was clearly an outsider, nobody would expect him to know old stories or wonder why he was suddenly asking about the former owners of a house that had been in his family’s possession for years.

He was just having a bit of difficulty starting out.

He began by walking away from the graveyard and around toward the front of the church. Hands behind his back, he whistled a few bars of “The Sidewalks of New York,” trying to clear his mind. It was a merry little song and very modern, yet whistling made him think of far older verses that he’d heard in his youth.

Oft in the lone churchyard at night I’ve seen,

By glimpse of moonshine chequering thro’ the trees,

The schoolboy, with his satchel in his hand,

Whistling aloud to bear his courage up.

Centuries had passed since anyone could have called Colin a schoolboy, and he wouldn’t have said his courage needed bearing up, but when he rounded the corner and a dog flew barking to the church fence, he welcomed the sign that he wasn’t alone. It helped that the dog was no great black beast or thin white hound with red ears, but rather a young, golden-brown spaniel with flopping ears and boundless energy.

The pup’s owner wasn’t nearly so reassuring in appearance: tall and gaunt, with a jutting nose and a fringe of gray hair. When he turned from cutting the hedges, shears in hand, his eyes fixed immediately and sharply on Colin, and he bobbed his head with curt politeness.

“Friendly little creature,” Colin said, by way of breaking the ice. He knelt and extended a hand through the bars of the fence, allowing some enthusiastic sniffing. “Hello there.”

“Granddaughter gave ’im to me,” said the sexton. “For Christmas, it was. He’s a spry fellow, though giddy. But he’s young yet.”

“It’s one of our faults,” Colin agreed and scratched the spaniel absently behind the ears. “Some of us settle down more rapidly than others.”

The sexton chuckled, cut a few more branches, and then asked, “You’re up at th’ manor, then?”

“For a few days. I’m one of their son’s friends.”

“Ah.” A particularly stubborn branch finally cracked with a sharp sound that sent the puppy bouncing back to investigate. “Good rider,” said the sexton. “Good hunter too. He taken you out on the grounds yet?”

“A little,” said Colin. “I get the impression they’re rather extensive…” He let himself trail off, dangling that sentence like a baited hook.

“Oh, they are that. More than most people know—there’s a river somewhere back there, and some caves, though I’d think the paths are all overgrown by now. Old Morgan wasn’t much for riding himself. A man could break his neck out there these days, I’d imagine.”

“I’ll try and avoid it,” said Colin.

“You young men never truly do.” The sexton closed up his shears, bent down, and tossed one of the smaller sticks for the spaniel to chase. As the dog bounded away across the church lawn, the man came up to the gate. “But you’re not from London, at least. Or you don’t sound it.”

“Not originally. Scotland.”

“Well, that’s something.”

“Thank you,” said Colin, allowing himself a smile. He cleared his throat. “I’ve mostly seen the house so far. It seems like a place with a long history.”

“It is that,” said the sexton. “And showed every year of it before the current lot bought it. I’d a niece in service under Old Morgan toward his end, and—well, if they’ve made it a place fit to live in again, they’ve done small miracles, and no mistaking it.”

“Was he that bad?”

The sexton shook his head. “Not a bad man. An odd one. Didn’t entertain, closed up most of the rooms, did Lord-knows-what with himself all day. Mary Ann was just in to work in the kitchens. She said you couldn’t have caught her near the rest of the place. And—but she was a young thing then and got carried away with fancies.”

Colin tried not to look too interested. “Fancies?”

“Oh, shapes in the window and sounds in the night. Nothing to it, of course, but girls are what they are. Unsteady creatures.”

“Ah,” said Colin, and he chuckled. “Very dramatic, I’m sure.”

“Oh, aye. And I’ll say this for her: the house was a gloomy place back then. Made it easy to imagine things, I don’t doubt.”

The spaniel came back, having thoroughly subdued the stick, and dropped it at its master’s feet. The sexton patted the beast a few times with an offhand sort of gentleness.

“I was wondering, actually,” Colin said, “if you’d heard any stories about one of the family—the Morgans, I mean. Janet?”

Lightning did not flash, nor did the sexton fork the evil eye and turn away. His face grew still for a moment, but it was a face that would show soul-deep trouble when its owner was trying to calculate train fare or considering dinner, so Colin tried not to take any omen from it.

“Might have heard a few things,” the old man said at last. “Why do you want to know?”

“I think there might have been some connection between our families,” said Colin. “I saw her portrait and—well, she looks a bit like one of my cousins.”

“Could be,” said the sexton, shrugging one shoulder, “but I’d not look too deeply into it if I was you. There’s not many families would want to be connected with the Morgans, not now.”

“Family curse?” Colin asked lightly. “Or just a scandal?”

“Neither. But—” The sexton looked uneasily to either side. “Well, take Old Morgan. Never married. Died alone and half-mad. ’Is father got himself shot in London before the son could walk—cards or a woman, I’ve heard both—and before that… You hear rumors.”

“So you’ve said. What sort of stories?”

“They say the grandmother was a witch,” the sexton said flatly. “Your Janet.”

“And do you believe them?”

“Don’t know what I believe. It was a long time ago. There’s her stone outside the family plot, right enough, so she can’t have been a good woman.”

Colin nodded. No objection he could make would alter the man’s mind; no story he could tell would disprove his convictions. Mortals were often like that. “What do they mean, a witch?”

“In league with Old Nick. When I was a boy, we used to dare each other to pick a flower from her grave after dark.”

“Did you?”

A brief smile, full of dry and withered humor, crossed the sexton’s face. “A time or two. Joe Wilson sat all night on the grave once, when we were a bit older. I suspect he took a bit of his old dad’s liquor to help him along. He’s in London now,” he added, by way of implying the grave fate that came to all such incautious men.

“A rite of passage, I suppose. But you never saw her.”

“Not a trace. And I can’t remember much of the stories now, save that she was bad.”

“Is there anyone in the village who might?”

“Gammy Jones, maybe. She’s old enough. Not to have met the woman, of course—” he said, just as Colin was beginning to wonder if Whitehill was even more than it had seemed, “but to have heard from people who did. Can’t promise anything,” he added, picking up another stick. He turned this one over, but didn’t throw it. “Not sure why you want to know. It’s a nasty business, whatever’s at its root.”

“Oh,” said Colin, “I just think perhaps I should find out before anyone else does. The best response to scandal is to be forearmed, after all.”

* * *

He’d just stepped back out onto the main street of the village when he saw a familiar figure approaching: Reggie, her head up, striding along as quickly as tweed skirts and women’s boots would permit. She saw Colin at the same moment, visibly hesitated, but then slowed down enough to let him reach her side.

“Have you found a country in need of conquering?” he asked. “Or simply remembered a letter you’d meant to post yesterday?”

“No,” she said. Her eyes were glittering, hard and fierce, her face tight even when she smiled. But she did smile, and a trace sheepishly at that. “The sweetshop. I want to eat something that never dreamed of being wholesome.”

“A noble ambition.”

“I’d buy a bottle of gin if I thought they’d sell it to me.”

“Probably not in a sweetshop. People talk. They’d get letters.” Colin studied her flushed cheeks, charming but as much a warning sign as the proverbial red sky at dawn. “I’d buy one for you, if I knew where one managed that sort of thing in a village like this. And if the ground’s done anything to offend you, do say the word and I’ll call it out like a gentleman. It’s a rather vast foe to take on alone, though you seem to be making a good start,” he added, waving his hand toward where her boots were clicking on the cobblestones.

Reggie opened her mouth, stopped, and then surrendered to a laugh. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m in a wretched mood. Been trying to talk sense into people who won’t hear it.”

“Doing three impossible things before breakfast, aye?” He considered telling Reggie that there were more enjoyable things to do with her mouth, but he didn’t think she was in the right mood. “I wouldn’t have recommended that one.”

“You don’t have to try much, do you? Just wait a few decades and the problem takes care of itself.”

“Mostly,” said Colin, though he had the momentary and foreign urge to deny the accusation. “Though we’re not the only long-lived creatures in the world. And we’ve been known to be fond of human beings from time to time—
very
fond, in some cases, or I’d not be here now.”

“Seems odd to me,” said Reggie, looking off past a town square full of marigolds and a statue of a squat man in a feathered hat. “You’d think you—or they—would find us all small and pink and squishy and hairy. Like me suddenly having a mad passion for a lapdog.”

“Some people do that too.”

“Ugh,” said Reggie, wrinkling her nose.

Colin shrugged. “If you spent a few years as a lapdog yourself, perhaps you’d feel differently. The shape has a mind of its own. And the Old Ones were gods, and—well, ’tis always different for them. Zeus, for instance.”

Anger forgotten, she stared at him. “Your ancestors were
gods
?”

Colin laughed. “And so were yours, somewhere along the line, or you’d not have the talents you do. Gods or fairies or fallen angels. Things from outside the world.”

“Don’t tell Pater that,” said Reggie, and she grinned more happily this time. “I don’t know whether he’d be too ashamed to show his face again or too proud to live with.” She looked up at Colin. “
You’re
not a god, though.”

“You probably wouldn’t let me claim as much,” he said. At first perplexed, he quickly realized what she was hinting at and drew closer to her, almost by magnetic force. “But even if we don’t have the Old Ones’ way of looking at things, we do spend most of our early lives as squishy, pink, hairy things. We’ve…human attractions, generally speaking.”

Reggie stopped walking. Looking up at Colin, she took a breath, which expanded her bosom nicely even beneath a layer of tweed. “Then—” she began.

“Bloody hell,” said Edmund, coming up behind her, “has Mater turned everyone out of the house today? I always suspected she might.”

“You’re certainly enough to drive anyone to it,” said Reggie.

Under the sisterly mockery, Colin was sure he caught a strain of real frustration. Good: he wasn’t alone.