The Untamed Mackenzie (2 page)

Chapter Two

April, 1885

“Louisa, dear, just see that the bishop isn’t left alone, will you?”

Louisa looked down the sloping meadow from Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ Richmond house to watch the Hon. Frederick Lane, Bishop of Hargate, enter one of the tea tents. Hargate was in his forties, young for a bishop, marginally handsome, and lately had made no secret he was hanging out for a wife.

Lady Louisa Scranton, unmarried, her father dying in scandalous circumstances which had left the family nearly penniless, must be, in Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ eyes, in want of a husband.

Hargate fit the criteria for an aristocrat’s daughter—wealthy, second son of an earl, successful in his own right. Hargate had reached his status young, but he had connections, many of whom were here at this garden party, attended by Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ handpicked guests.

A bishop’s wife would have money, respect, and standing. Louisa was highly aware she needed to marry well—in fact, she’d entered the Season this year with every intention of doing so. So why, when it came to the sticking point, did she feel a great reluctance to be alone with Hargate?

“Of course, Mrs. Leigh-Waters,” Louisa made herself say. “I’ll look after him.”

“Thank you, my dear.” Mrs. Leigh-Waters beamed at her.
I’ll have Louisa married off in no time,
the lady was no doubt thinking.
Quite a feather in my cap when I do.

Louisa gave her a kind smile and hurried after the bishop.

Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ house commanded a view down a hill to the river. The April day was a fine one, the weather not too hot, clouds in the sky but not threatening rain. The land stretched away on the other side of the river to be swallowed in haze.

The expanse of lawn had been commandeered for the garden party, with seats and little tables scattered about, pathways lined with ribbon, a croquet set being brought out by the footmen. Ladies in blues, greens, yellows, golds, lavenders, and russets moved about, the spring breeze stirring feathers, ribbons, braid, and false fruits stuck into the ladies’ hats. Gentlemen in casual suits of monochrome gray or tweed filtered through the ladies. Tea had been served in the tea tents at the bottom of the hill, and many guests still carried cups and little plates of treats. An idyllic English afternoon.

The guests chatted to each other as they waited to begin the croquet match, which would be cutthroat and rather expensive. Members of high society gambled fiercely at everything.

Louisa ducked away from them into the white canvas tea tent, which was empty except for the Bishop of Hargate and white-draped tables holding tea things. The elegant china cups and saucers were patterned with sprays of roses, as were the three-tiered trays with the remains of petit fours and profiteroles. As most of the party had already refreshed themselves, only a few clean plates and cups remained.

“Ah, Lady Louisa,” Hargate said, sounding pleased. “Have you come to join me?”

“Mrs. Leigh-Waters did not want you left on your own.”

“She’s a kind lady, is our hostess.” Hargate looked at Louisa with every eagerness, which Louisa found odd in a man her father had done his best to ruin.

Louisa’s father, Earl Scranton, had convinced other men to give him money for investments, which were either never made or failed utterly. Earl Scranton had been paying the first investors with what the others had given him, pretending the money came from his cleverness at buying the right stocks. Finally when his true investments failed, he had to confess he could pay none of the money back. In the space of a day, Earl Scranton had moved from respectable and wealthy to complete ruin. A good many other gentlemen’s fortunes had gone with his. Hargate hadn’t lost everything, but he’d lost much, though he’d managed to build it back in a relatively short time.

Louisa moved calmly to a table, trying to behave as though none of it had happened. A lady wasn’t supposed to know about or understand such things, in any case. “Tea, Your Grace?”

“Of course. Thank you.”

Louisa had been taught to be an expert at pouring tea. She trickled the soothing liquid into two china cups, dropped a lump of sugar and dollop of cream into the bishop’s tea, and handed him the cup.

She left her own cup sitting on the table and lifted two dainty, cream-filled profiteroles, which hadn’t wilted too much in the April warmth, onto one of the petite china plates. Louisa had a weakness for French pastries, even those that looked a bit limp.

“I’ve been meaning to speak to you, Lady Louisa,” Hargate said, an odd note in his voice. “What a fine chance that we are here alone.”

Chance, my foot.
Hargate and Mrs. Leigh-Waters had contrived this meeting between them, they must have.

Hargate reached out his free hand and seized Louisa’s. He closed his fingers so tightly she’d never be able to release herself from him without jerking away. Hargate looked into her eyes, his full of something like glee. “You will do me much honor to let me speak to you, Louisa.”

Oh dear, he was about to propose.

Louisa could refuse him, of course, but she knew she risked great disapproval if she did—
Haughty creature, turning down such a fine match; did she truly think she’d have the opportunity at another? A girl from a scandalous family cannot afford to be so high and mighty.

On the other hand, if Louisa accepted Hargate, she’d have to marry the man. He was everything a young lady should want in a husband, as Mrs. Leigh-Waters no doubt thought, but Louisa had never much liked him. Hargate was pompous, talked at length—usually about himself—and was quite hopelessly, well . . .
dull.

“Your father and I had business dealings,” Hargate was saying. “And you of course know what happened with those.”

Yes, Louisa was reminded of it every day. When everything had fallen apart, Lord Scranton had died of the shame. Louisa and her mother, on the other hand, had to continue to live with the shame.

“Water under the bridge,” Hargate said. “I assure you. I’d never hold it against you, Louisa. That is, I won’t, if you consent to be my wife.”

And if Louisa refused him, he
would
hold it against her? Louisa stared at him, not certain she comprehended. Was he trying to
blackmail
her into marriage? From Hargate’s smile and expression, Louisa thought he might be.

I can’t marry him.

As Louisa gazed at Hargate, trying desperately to think of a way out of this troubling conversation, another face swam into her mind. This one was hard rather than handsome, a man with unruly dark hair and hazel eyes that held a glint of gold.

A working-class man, an illegitimate son, his mother a tavern maid, everything an earl’s daughter was supposed to shun. And yet, Louisa remembered the power of his kiss, the strength of his hands. His rough whiskers had burned her lips, and she’d tasted his mouth.

That kiss had occurred at Christmas, and it had been Louisa’s idea, her impulse. Likewise had been the kiss at the wedding before that at Castle Kilmorgan. Louisa’s impulse had turned into a sort of madness, and now she could not forget Lloyd Fellows, no matter how hard she tried.

But she’d felt more alive pressed against the hard doorframe while he’d kissed her, the sounds of the Christmas party in the distance, than Louisa had any other day of her life, especially this one, in this tea tent at a perfect English garden party.

She wet her lips. “Your Grace, I—”

“You know it is for the best,” Hargate said. “No one else will marry the daughter of the gentleman who ruined him. Save your respect and accept my offer.”

Hargate’s eyes took on a hard light, giving Louisa a glimpse of a meanness she’d not seen in him before. “Your Grace, you are kind, but—”

“You have no dowry; your cousin, the new earl, is a frugal man who keeps you and your mother on a small allowance—all this is common knowledge. Your Mackenzie in-laws have sordid reputations few decent families wish to be connected with. Your name has been discussed at my club, and only my admonition has stopped gentlemen saying disparaging things about you. You have few champions, Louisa, and I am one of them. When you are my wife, I will stop all gossip about you.”

Gossip? Louisa blinked in shock. About what? A little panic fluttered in her heart—the kisses with Mr. Fellows rose in her memory again, not that they were ever far away. Had someone seen?

No, she’d been careful about that. Louisa had approached him only when she was certain they’d be alone, although once the kisses began, she couldn’t swear to anything else happening around them, not even an earthquake. Someone might have seen her, and in Louisa’s circle, with its rigid rules for unmarried misses, those kisses would ruin her.

Or perhaps Hargate simply meant the speculations about Louisa in light of her older sister’s scandalous elopement. Not only had Lady Isabella run off with a
Mackenzie
, she’d then left him, walking out of his house and obtaining a legal separation. But instead of retreating to quiet solitude, Isabella had gone on hostessing soirees and balls as though she saw nothing amiss. Most of society expected Louisa to follow in Isabella’s footsteps. Never mind that Isabella and Mac had been reconciled and now were blissfully happy—their outrageous behavior was what everyone remembered.

The bishop was offering to save Louisa from any sort of shame. All she had to do was marry him.

“And I will drop any pursuit of the money your father owed me,” Hargate said. “You can tell your cousin the estate would be released from that debt.”

“Your Grace . . .”

Hargate let go of Louisa’s hand to touch his fingers to her lips. “Say nothing until your answer is
yes,
dear Louisa. I’ll wait.” He took one step away and raised his teacup to his lips, as though he would stand there and sip tea until she capitulated.

Louisa, anger rising, stared down at her profiterole, looking for inspiration in the rather runny cream. Bloody cheek he had, cornering her and demanding she give in to him.

Why on earth
did
Hargate want to marry her? He could have his pick of unmarried ladies, many of whom were at this very garden party, who would gladly marry him for his standing, wealth, and when a seat came empty, his place in the House of Lords. Plenty of young ladies with respectable families and good dowries would have already started planning the wedding as soon as they walked into the tea tent. What was Hargate up to?

Louisa drew a breath, hardening her resolve. “Your Grace, I . . .”

The bishop looked up at her over his teacup, and as he did, Louisa noted that his face had lost most of its color. His cheeks had taken on a greenish tinge, and Hargate’s breath hitched.

“Are you all right, Your Grace? Perhaps we should adjourn to the open air.”

If Hargate had eaten something that disagreed with him, that would put paid to this awkward proposal. Louisa caught the bishop’s arm, ready to lead him out and give him over to the ministrations of their hostess.

“Loui—” Hargate had to stop to draw a breath. He coughed, staggered, and coughed again.

Louisa began to be truly alarmed. “Come outside with me, Your Grace. We’ll take you to the house, where you can rest out of the heat.”

Hargate tried to take another breath. His eyes widened as air eluded him, and he dropped his teacup, splashing tea across the grass. He sagged against Louisa, his eyes and mouth wide, his chest heaving, but no air moving inside.

“A few more steps is all,” Louisa said, trying to support him. “You’ll be all right once we get outside.”

Hargate took one more step before his legs buckled and he fell heavily against Louisa’s side. Down went Louisa’s plate, which she realized she was still clutching, the plate breaking, creamy profiteroles smearing on the dead grass.

“Your Grace.”

Louisa couldn’t hold him. Hargate landed on his back, Louisa on her knees next to him, her blue and brown striped skirt spreading over the tea-dampened grass. Hargate’s face had gone completely gray, and hoarse little gasps came from his mouth.

A doctor. She needed to fetch a doctor. One was here at Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ garden party, a very famous one called Sir Richard Cavanaugh.

Louisa scrambled to her feet. “I’ll find Sir Richard. Don’t worry. Help is coming.”

As she ran out, the heel of her high-heeled lace-up boot caught the teacup Hargate had dropped, smashing it to bits.

Louisa dashed into the open air, scanning the guests in desperate search of Sir Richard. There he was, speaking with Louisa’s sister, Isabella, and another old friend of Louisa’s, Gilbert Franklin. Both Isabella and Gil turned with welcoming smiles as Louisa panted up, but Isabella’s smile faded in concern.

“Darling, what is it?”

“Hargate . . . in the tea tent. Taken ill. He’s collapsed. Please, Sir Richard. He needs you.”

Sir Richard, a short and lean man with dark hair going to gray and an arrogant manner, seemed uneager to set aside his tea and rush across the lawn at Louisa’s request. “What seems to be the matter with him?” he asked.

Louisa resisted the urge to grab the man and shove him down the hill. “Please, you must hurry. I think he is having a fit. He can’t breathe.”

“Good Lord,” Gil said, managing to sound pleasant even with his worry. “We’d better see to him, Cavanaugh.”

Sir Richard frowned, then finally he sighed, passed his teacup to a footman, and gestured for Louisa to lead him to the tent.

He walked too slowly. Louisa had to wait for Sir Richard, she holding the tent flap open impatiently while he sauntered in. Isabella, Gil, and Mrs. Leigh-Waters followed, along with a smattering of curious guests.

Sir Richard at last showed concern when he saw Hargate, who hadn’t moved. Sir Richard went down on one knee next to the bishop and looked him over, felt his pulse points and his heart, then leaned down and sniffed at Hargate’s mouth.

The doctor gently closed the bishop’s wide, staring eyes before he got to his feet. His arrogant look had grown more arrogant, but it was more focused now, more professional.

“He is dead,” Sir Richard announced. “Nothing I can do for him. Send for the police, Mrs. Leigh-Waters. The bishop appears to have been poisoned.” He looked at Louisa when he said it, his accusing gaze like a stab to the heart.