The Marriage Ring (3 page)

No one would call him a handsome man. His features were too bold for that word.

Grace wasn’t the only one taken aback by him. Mr. Drayson whimpered as if he was looking into the face of the devil.

“What’s going on here?” the man demanded, giving Mr. Drayson a shake.

“’Twas between myself and her,” Mr. Drayson managed to say. He reached down to button his breeches up.

“She didn’t appear to be a willing participant,” the stranger said.

Grace shook her head, whether out of agreement or fear she didn’t know—and then realized her dirk lay on the floor close at hand. She grabbed it and leaned against the wall, holding the weapon in front of her.

“Who are you to be coming in here anyway?” Mr. Drayson demanded, finding his bluster.

“I am the man who will throw you through the wall if I ever see you treat another woman that way again,” the stranger answered. He dropped Mr. Drayson to the floor.

The stage manager came to his feet. He shrugged his coat back up on his shoulders. “You don’t know what you saw. That lass is a whore. Why do you think she was given the opportunity to sing? She serviced me and she serviced me well. Nor am I the only one.”

Grace was on her feet in a blink and charging toward Mr. Drayson. She would rip the tongue from his head—

The stranger stepped in front of her. He easily caught both her wrists. He looked over his shoulder at Mr. Grayson. “I’d advise you to leave now, sir. I don’t believe I can hold her off much longer.”

“I was leaving anyway,” Mr. Grayson answered. He curled his lip. “
Whore
,” he said as his parting epithet.

Grace shook her fists in fury trying to escape the stranger’s grasp. “I’m going to bury my knife in your heart,” she promised him.

“And I never want to see you in my theater again,” Mr. Drayson answered. He turned and realized the stranger had left the door open and a good number of the theater’s company stood there with raised brows and wide eyes.

“Be gone,” Mr. Drayson ordered. They quickly dispersed and he stomped out.

That there had been witnesses to what was happening to her and no one had offered to protect her infuriated Grace.

She wrested her arms from the stranger and charged into the hall. “You were listening?” she shouted to the ones who still lingered there. “You knew what was going on in here but didn’t offer to help?”

Marching back into the room, she slammed the door. It made such a satisfying sound she was tempted to do it again and again. She was that crazed.

All her life she’d been the one everyone gossiped about—first because of her father’s ruin and then later because of her looks, which had condemned her to too much male attention, especially of the wrong sort.

Her eye caught the tip of the knife she still held. How easy would it be to gouge her own face? To destroy what few blessings God had given her? And how freeing the thought was—

The knife was taken from her hands.

She looked up, startled. She’d been so lost in her anguish, she’d forgotten she wasn’t alone. She now reached for the knife. “That’s
mine
.”

He held it away from her. “I’ll keep it for the moment. I don’t want you to hurt someone with it.”

“You don’t know what I’m thinking.”

A sharpness came to his eyes, a moment of quick understanding, and she realized he had known. She shook her head. Impossible. No one knew the dark thoughts that haunted her.

“You are afraid I’ll hurt you,” she declared, hiding any vulnerability behind bravado. “And I might if you don’t give it back to me.”

He laughed, the sound not particularly nice. “You’re a kitten. I’m not afraid of you with a knife.” He tossed the knife onto her dressing table, almost as if he dared her to go after it.

“Who are you?” Grace demanded. She’d never set eyes on him and yet there was something familiar about his features.

“What? No thank-you for intervening and tossing that scoundrel out of your room?” He had a deep voice, a melodic one. “Or perhaps my interruption was not appreciated? Perhaps that was the sort of play you two enjoyed?”

Grace reached up to slap him, even as she was mortified to her soul that she should appear so ungrateful. She caught herself in time. Lowered her hand. “You are right, I am less than gracious. I do appreciate your coming to my rescue.”

She ran a distracted hand through her hair and realized only then it was falling around her shoulders. In the short span of violence, the pins had come undone in her struggles and Mr. Drayson had ripped her sleeve to expose half her breast.

Embarrassed, she pulled the fabric up to cover herself. Anger gave way to fear. The stage manager had come very close to raping her. She’d been raped once and had promised herself it would not happen again. Mr. Drayson’s attack left her vulnerable and feeling very foolish.

Tears choked her throat. She held them back. She never cried in front of anyone. She had too much pride.

“Thank you,” she managed to say. “I mean that truly. I fear what would have happened.”

“There is always a price to pay for women like you who live on the outside of society.”

Women like her…

Once again branded. Her good will toward him evaporated and she gave him a hard look, truly seeing him for the first time and noting the harsh lines around his mouth. This man didn’t trust anyone.

She could respect that. She felt the same way.

“Again, I thank you,” she said stiffly. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to pack.”

“I have a note for you,” he replied, pulling a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of his black greatcoat. “It is from the Duchess of Holburn.”

Grace grabbed the note and opened it, turning so he could watch her reading it. She immediately recognized Fiona’s handwriting. Her friend apologized because she could not stay. A situation had arisen with a friend and she had to accompany her husband, but wanted Grace to know just how uniquely talented and gifted she was.

Dear Fiona. Grace folded the note and pressed it between her palms. She faced the gentleman. “Thank you for delivering this. The duchess is very close to my heart. I shall value her friendship always.”

“You sound as if you will not be able to convey that message to her yourself?” he observed.

Grace frowned. This man paid close attention to her, but it wasn’t the sort she usually earned from his sex. She sensed he didn’t like her.

“For all of your great height and breadth, you are not a dullard, are you?” she said. “You pick up on every nuance…or is that something you are doing only for me?”

He smiled, his eyes going hard. She knew then her instincts were right—this man was not to be trusted.

“You’re not a dullard either, Miss MacEachin,” he said. “Let me introduce myself. That might explain a great deal. My name is Lynsted. I’m the Honorable Richard Lynsted, Lord Brandt’s son and heir. You and I have a few matters to discuss. Especially about your attempt to blackmail my father.”

Now Grace understood why he had appeared familiar to her.

So,
this
was the son.

She smiled, certain of herself now. “I beg to differ with you, Mr. Lynsted. Is it blackmail to speak the truth?”

Chapter Three

R
ichard’s guard went up. Before his eyes Miss MacEachin transformed from a distraught, shaken creature who had struggled to fend off an attack to a calculating Scot.

His father and uncle had always warned him about the Scots. They were ruthless and manipulative—two apt descriptions of the infamous Grace MacEachin.

Well, she’d just met her match.

“There is no truth in your charges,” he replied briskly. “And if you continue your threats, we shall be forced to take you before the magistrate.”

“By all means,
please
take this before a magistrate,” she urged him. “In fact, that is what I’ve told your father and uncle I would do. I will be more than happy to have my day in court and speak my piece to the public and the papers. Although I’m surprised Lord Maven and Lord Brandt are so anxious to have me do so. What I have to say would tarnish their sterling reputations—”

She broke off as if struck by a new thought. “They don’t know you are here, do they?” she said slowly, reasoning aloud. “You’ve come on your own…because, believe me, your father and uncle do not want what I have to say anywhere near the papers and gossip mongers.”

She was right.

Miss MacEachin had seen through his threat.

This afternoon Richard had found his father uncharacteristically deep into his cups. He rarely drank and to see him in a drunken state in the middle of the day had been alarming.

When he’d asked what was wrong, his father had confessed how Miss MacEachin was blackmailing him by accusing them of a crime they hadn’t committed. He and his brother had never embezzled money from anyone. Ever.

Richard believed him. His father never lied to him. Besides, both he and uncle were the most morally righteous men Richard knew.

He was also flattered that his father had, for once, confided in him. The twins were very close. Richard was the outsider. They rarely requested his advice or sought his counsel. He wanted very much to resolve this matter for his father. He longed to prove his loyalty.

“Have they told you exactly what charges I make against them?” she wondered. “Did they tell you they ruined my father when they stole money from an elderly woman’s estate and then pinned the blame on him?”

“My father and uncle would never do such a thing. Anyone knowing them would find it impossible to imagine.”

“Truly?” She crossed to her dressing table and picked up a leather sheath. She slid her knife into it. “Her name was Dame Mary Ewing. She was very ill and her only son was serving our country far away. She trusted my father to handle her accounts. He had the bad wisdom to place them in the hands of your father and uncle. They stole it and accused him of the theft. He was sentenced on their testimony.”

“Ah, sentenced in a court of law,” Richard agreed. “And by jury of his peers, I presume. I can sympathize with your desire to prove your father innocent, Miss MacEachin but falsely accusing other men is not the way to go, especially after he was
convicted
of the crime.”

She didn’t like his rational logic. Her chin came up. “I know about you. I’ve done my best to learn everything about your family.”

“And what do you know about me?” he challenged, intrigued in spite of himself by every facet of this woman.

The truth was, Miss MacEachin was even more lovely up close—but what caught him by surprise was her sense of purpose, her intelligence. Her obvious education. She spoke well and moved with a natural grace one wouldn’t expect of the lower classes.

“I know you are a snob.” She smiled at him as if she’d known what he was thinking.

“I am not,” Richard said, not liking the word.

“It’s your reputation.” She shrugged as if helpless to change her opinion. “You are also known as a fine legal mind, although to the dismay of your mentors, you don’t practice law. The Honorable Richard Lynsted,” she said as if reading his name in the air. “Graduated with high honors from Christ Church College and then took your training and study of the law at Lincoln’s Inn. But you turned your back on it. Instead, you manage your father and uncle’s business and to great advantage. You’ve made them very rich and although you keep to yourself, there are those who have noticed your financial acumen. Do you like that word, Mr. Lynsted? Acumen? It means you have a natural gift, an understanding, a perception for something.” She paused and then said softly, “
I
have an acumen.”

She moved toward him. Her bodice barely clung to her left breast. Moments before she’d been modest and tried to keep it up. Now, she didn’t care, and he had a damned time keeping his eyes off that curve of flesh.

Miss MacEachin stopped in front of him, standing so close their toes touched…and her impudent, immodest, alluring breast was less than an inch from his chest.

She smiled up at him. “My acumen is that I know men. I’ve always known them from the moment I first started to bud.” She drew a deep breath, the movement lifting her breast and looking down from this angle he could see the edge of her nipple. The scent of roses filled the air.

“Do you know they say you never laugh?” she asked him, her voice husky. She knew what she was doing. She ridiculed him, but not with words.

Richard prided himself on his control, but God had also made him a man. The sight brought the blood rushing to his groin—and she knew it.

With a dismissive laugh, she backed away from him, raising her bodice. Teasing him with not only her body but with her confidence.

In that moment, Richard could have hated her. He chose not to. Here was his enemy and it would behoove him to look deeper.

Her manner sobered. “Your father and uncle are guilty. They are too moral, too upright, too unforgiving. That’s the way men are when they are guilty. I also know that they left London decades ago disinherited by their father. The twins had a violent streak that their father would not condone.”

“You are speaking nonsense,” Richard said.

Her gaze studied him a moment. “You really don’t know, do you? You should. It would explain society’s attitude towards them.”

“My father and uncle are very well respected—”

“What
nonsense
,” she declared.

“There is jealousy because they are so successful—”

“There is suspicion because of the murder.”

Richard shook his head, his anger like bile in his throat. “The stable lad’s death was an accident. For decades they’ve lived with those rumors. That’s why they are concerned about your insinuations.”

“Yes, because they are
true
,” she flashed back.

“You have
no
proof.”

“I do!”

“Then what is it?” he demanded.

Once again they stood almost toe-to-toe but this time there was no attraction. Only animosity. She could have been stark naked and he wouldn’t have cared.

“Where did they earn the start of their fortune?” she wondered.

“They invested.”

“In what? Ships, funds, businesses?”

Richard almost laughed. “They invested in the
Wind’s Mistress
. She was the beginning of our shipping company.”

“And where, after they’d been cut off from the old duke, did they find money for such an investment? They purchased that ship outright.”

She had been doing her investigating. But Richard knew the answer. “They started with several small investments until they accrued the funds for the ship.”

“Is that what they told you?” she asked, her tone insinuating she thought him a fool.

“Yes.”

“And I suppose they’ve also told you they’ve never been to Scotland?”

He really didn’t like her. “They have.” His father had reiterated as much only that afternoon.

“They are lying.”

“If you were a man, I’d call you out for saying that.”

“Why don’t you do something better?” she challenged. “Why don’t you come to Scotland with me and hear my father’s story? If you don’t believe him, you can walk away. But you won’t. You’ll hear the truth if you are the man they say you are.”

“You don’t know me,” Richard shot back. “Nor do I answer to you.”

“Poor Richard Lynsted,” she mocked, “always behind his ledgers and locked up with his accounts.”

Her mark hit home. He did spend hours each day poring over the accounts he managed. The businesses had taken on a life of their own. He’d been very successful and made lots of money, but was increasingly finding himself imprisoned by that success.

“Who told you that?” he said, annoyed that she knew so much about him.

She smiled, an expression much like that of a cat who’d found the cream. “Whispers. Rumors.”

“Lies,” he added.

“Truly?” she wondered, daring him to answer.

“
Yes
.”

Miss MacEachin laughed. “Then what difference would it make for you to come to Scotland and hear my father’s story? Or are you afraid of the truth?”

“What do you gain from my doing so?”

“Justice.” The lines of her mouth flattened. “This isn’t about money, although I believe my father deserves something for the suffering the twins have caused him. They destroyed his reputation, his marriage…” She paused as if catching herself from revealing more.

Richard filled in the space. “Are you and your father close?”

“No.” She crossed her arms as if suddenly cold and then reached for a shawl draped over a packed valise on a chair. Tossing it around her shoulders, she covered herself. “We haven’t been.” She raised her gaze to his. “We could be.” She paused and then added, “I owe him this.”

So, it really wasn’t about money.

The understanding shifted the situation for Richard. He ran a hand through his hair, realized that when he’d entered the room and grabbed the scoundrel attacking her, he’d lost his hat in the fray. He spied it on the floor by the door and reached down to pick it up. As he did so, he came to a decision. “I’ll go with you to Scotland. Of course, I have work here—”

“Work that is more important than the truth, Mr. Lynsted?”

God, she was like a conscience.

“We can travel fast,” she assured him as if realizing she should have held her tongue. “With good weather, the post can make the trip to Inverness in four to five days. You listen to my father’s story and leave. To hear the truth will take a little more than a week of your life.”

“I could ride alone faster.”

“But my father won’t trust you. He won’t tell you all.”

Richard frowned. “You just said you were estranged. Does that mean he’ll speak the truth in front of you? Perhaps you are the one who has been lied to.”

Her shoulders tightened. She hugged the shawl closer. “Perhaps,” she conceded. She stood for a moment in indecision and then confessed, “I want to go home.”

“So, I take you home, listen to your father, and whether I believe his story or not, you cease making these unfounded accusations.”

“They aren’t unfounded, but yes, I will agree to those terms.”

“And money?” he asked pointedly. “Did you not want a healthy sum from my father and uncle?”

Her brow knit together as she considered the matter. “If my story is true, then yes, I believe my father is owed something, do you not?”

“If it is true, there should be recompense.”

“Just so,” she agreed, smiling. “I am not lying, Mr. Lynsted. And I know it appears I am attempting to blackmail your father, but I truly want what is just and rightly my father’s. He lost everything he had in paying back Dame Ewing’s estate and still owes more. Time has passed but my father has a heavy conscience.”

She held out her hand for him as if wanting to shake. “So, it is agreed?”

Richard eyed her hand suspiciously. He’d shaken many a man’s hand during a business transaction but never a woman’s. “That’s not necessary.”

“Yes, it is,” she insisted. “We have an agreement. A handshake will bind us, or at least that’s the way we Scots look at it. You can’t trust a man who won’t shake your hand.”

“Some would say you can’t trust a Scot,” Richard murmured.

She laughed, the sound as musical as her singing. “Don’t believe everything they say about the Scots,” she advised him. “So, do you take my hand?”

“Very well.” Richard took her hand in his own gloved one. Hers felt small next to his but there was strength there, too…and something else. It was almost as if sparks shot from the tips of her bare fingers and up through his arm, even in spite of his gloves. He could feel her warmth, her spirit.

His initial reaction was to release her fingers immediately and yet he had to hold on. He
wanted
to hold on.

And he wanted to kiss her, too. The desire primitive and demanding.

This was not like him.

He released her hand, his action abrupt.

Miss MacEachin noticed. She was too clever not to. Her smile grew tight.

“When shall we leave?” he asked to cover the sudden silence.

“Tomorrow?” She shrugged. “The man you threw out of my dressing room was the stage manager. I’d already quit, but I’m certain after you showing him the door, I am definitely not welcome back now.”

“Tomorrow?” Richard tested the idea, and discovered the first stirring of excitement over the idea of adventure.

She was right. He did spend too much time with his ledgers and accounts. His initial enthusiasm for making money and brokering new deals had lost its appeal years ago. Now, his work had become a chore, a daily drudge to be endured. He’d recently taken up the sport of boxing and had found the physical exertion the only way he could cope with a growing restlessness.

“Tomorrow would be good,” he heard himself say.

She rewarded him with another one of her smiles. “Excellent. What time should we leave?”

“Early morning. Say around eight?”

“I’ll be ready. Will we go by coach? I can pay my own way—”

“My family has a coach. We might as well be comfortable.”

She appeared ready to argue, and then thought better of it. “I’ll see you on the morrow at eight then.” She began gathering her things. The shawl fell open and she remembered her torn bodice. She heaved a heavy sigh. “Please, I have another favor to ask. Would you wait for me to change and then escort me to the stage door? Mr. Drayson has a nasty temper and I have no desire to run into him again.”