Amanda Scott (15 page)

To her surprise, he stopped and turned to face her. “Tell me this,” he said, looking directly into her eyes in such a way that a warm tingling sensation shot from her midsection to her toes. “Do you prefer the delicate attentions of painted puppies like that pair we just left?”

“Painted? Surely not, sir.” Involuntarily, she looked over her shoulder, trying to see Chuff again. “You must know that one of those men is my brother. He has never worn paint in his life.”

“You cannot have looked at his face,” Kintyre said. “Never have I seen a droller sight than those two, nor smelled such a reek outside a perfumer’s shop. If you do not find rouge and perfumed powder on your brother’s toilet table, I shall own myself astonished, though what possessed him to turn himself into such a popinjay I’m at a loss to know. Now, speak truly, lass. Do you doubt me?”

Much as she would have liked to tell him he was mistaken, she could not. Nor did she have to see Chuff again to know that Kintyre was right. Just the thought of what her brother and Mr. Coombs looked like touched her sense of the ridiculous, and she could not help smiling. “Since I must speak the truth,” she said, “I will own, sir, that I was so amazed at the sight of them both that I was unable to speak a word. Unfortunately, I fear from the way Mr. Coombs smiled and smirked at me that he, at least, mistook my glance for admiration.”

“He preens himself for Bridget, too, but you cannot admire such a coxcomb.”

“No, sir.” She did not add, though she was thinking it, that if Kintyre wished to do so, he could swallow up Mr. Coombs in one gulp—wig, cane, handkerchief, snuffbox, embroidery, diamond-buckled shoes, and all. Instead, she said, “Are we going to dance?”

“Aye, we are.”

The second set of country dances were lively, allowing little chance for conversation, and as he had before, Kintyre no sooner restored her to her family than he disappeared into the crowd, no more to be seen that night.

When Pinkie saw Lady Bridget dancing with Chuff, she knew Kintyre must still be on the premises somewhere, because although Mrs. Thatcher and Lady Bridget’s aunt were also present, she had seen enough of Kintyre to be fairly certain that he would not have left the house without them.

A few minutes later, she saw the man who had been speaking with Lady Bridget the last time Kintyre had abruptly left her. He was a pompous-looking older man in a powdered, full-bottomed wig, wearing a bright blue frock coat over an unfashionably long waistcoat of rose-pink flowered satin, and blue breeches. He squinted beneath his bushy reddish brows, as if he ought to wear spectacles, and his lips were thick and pouty, his nose red and bulbous. Pinkie saw him approach Lady Bridget, but her ladyship gave him short shrift, turning away abruptly and moving to rejoin a group of other young persons, including Chuff and Mr. Coombs.

“Who is that gentleman yonder with the long, curly wig?” she asked Duncan when he joined them, bearing punch for Mary and Lady Agnes.

Following the direction of her gaze, he said, “I believe that’s Sir Renfrew Campbell, one of the Breadalbane lot. If it’s the man I think, he owns a good lot of land on the west coast, near Loch Moidart.”

“Is that near Mingary?”

“Aye, not so far away. North about ten or twelve miles, I’d guess, as an eagle would measure it. Mingary is Kintyre’s estate. I’ve seen you dancing with him, lass. Do you fancy him?”

“Bless me, no, sir,” she said, appalled that he would think such a thing, yet feeling that tingle again at the thought. “He is far too full of himself to suit me. I daresay he’s never thought of anyone’s convenience but his own.”

Duncan’s mobile eyebrows shot upward. “Has he offended you?”

“Oh, no, sir.” She was more appalled to think she had led him to suspect that than she had been to make him suppose that she lusted after the man.

Mary said, “We must leave soon, my lord, if we are all to look our best for Pinkie’s presentation tomorrow. Do you mean to stand about like a pillar until we depart, or will you deign to dance with your excellent wife?”

He grinned at her. “Since you seem to be wilting here for lack of any partners, madam, I suppose I must cater to your needs. Come and dance, then.”

She stuck out her tongue at him but drew it quickly in again at the sound of a nearby matron’s gasp. Blushing as rosily as any maiden, Mary allowed her grinning spouse to lead her onto the floor, where dancers were forming sets for a cotillion.

Michael left the ballroom immediately after returning Miss MacCrichton to her family, pausing only long enough to be certain that Bridget was dancing and that Cousin Bella and his aunt were keeping a close eye on her. It never took him long at such large social gatherings to find an unoccupied terrace or garden where he could stroll when he grew tired of the noise and confusion. Lady Sefton’s ball merited the highest commendation the beau monde bestowed upon its festivities, that of being called a “perishing crush.” Nevertheless, a quick turn through the state apartments soon led him to a pair of French doors leading out to the garden.

On the terrace, beneath a bright full moon, he could breathe again. It was far too chilly to draw many others outside, so he knew he would enjoy some measure of peace. He would have liked to ask Miss MacCrichton to dance again, but he dared not. In truth, what he really wanted was to have her outside on the terrace with him, alone. Just the thought of her creamy skin, her beautiful eyes, the pleasant perfume she wore—Groaning, he forced the enticing thoughts from his mind. The last thing he needed was to be putting ideas into a young girl’s head that he had no intention of fulfilling. Marriage for him was presently out of the question.

Not only would a wife—any wife—add to his burdens, but he would have little to offer her until he got his affairs in better order. Indeed, he told himself harshly, he was a fool even to think of marriage in the same breath as he thought of Miss MacCrichton. Balcardane had been singularly understanding about his hope for a match between Bridget and MacCrichton. The earl would never understand an approach to Penelope, nor stand for it, for Michael knew he could suggest no good reason for such a match. Moreover, the lady herself had given him no cause to think she would welcome advances from him. Nor should she, under the circumstances.

A few minutes with such thoughts as these for company were sufficient to send him back indoors. With annoyance, he noted that Sir Renfrew had arrived during his absence, but since, for once, the man showed no particular interest in Bridget, he was able to tolerate his presence with near equanimity.

He asked no one else to dance, and was making his way through the crush to his aunt and Mrs. Thatcher when words of a nearby conversation wafted to his ears.

The man said, “They say it was the biggest dog they had ever seen—just leapt out of the crowd to rescue Balcardane’s little boy! A miracle, they say it was.”

Michael paused, blatantly eavesdropping.

A woman said, “Do they know whose dog it was?”

“No one has the least idea,” replied the man. “They say it looked like a giant greyhound, only black instead of gray. If it’s really as big as they say, though, you’d think all London would know its master.”

Frowning, Michael looked around for Balcardane, but he saw neither the earl nor any member of his party. Even young MacCrichton and his foppish friend Coombs seemed to have taken their leave. Rejoining Lady Marsali and her cousin, he drew up a chair and said, “Have you heard talk of a miracle rescue today?”

“You mean Balcardane’s wee son, I expect,” Lady Marsali said. “Of course, we have heard all about it, my dear. Was that not the most wondrous thing?”

“I do not know, ma’am. I’ve overheard just enough to whet my curiosity.”

“Oh, but it was quite amazing,” Mrs. Thatcher said. “Apparently, Miss MacCrichton and her maid had gone out in search of the little boy, who had wandered away from home, and they saw him just as some ruffian on horseback tried to make off with him. Miss MacCrichton set up a screech, but it would have availed her nothing had this great dog not leapt from the crowd to save the boy.”

“Just how big was this marvelous creature?”

“Goodness, we don’t know,” his aunt said. “I daresay his size has been exaggerated by now, for they say he stands nearly as high as a man. At all events, it is quite dreadful that someone tried to steal the child, don’t you agree?”

“I do, ma’am,” he said thoughtfully, “but I want to have a look at that dog.”

She smiled fondly. “Well, you did warn us, my dear, that you have some business regarding dogs to attend to here in London, did you not?”

“Aye, ma’am, but not oddly behaved ones. Rather, I have arranged a number of meetings with men who might help me alter the law of exclusive possession, so that our Scottish deerhounds do not become extinct. The reason I am curious about this dog is that it sounds like it might be a deerhound.”

“I thought you said there were none in London,” she said, surprised. “Indeed, you said there are practically none in all of England.”

“That is true,” he said with a grimace. “It is also why I believe I must pay a call at Faircourt House first thing tomorrow morning.”

“But you cannot,” Mrs. Thatcher exclaimed. “Only recall, sir, that tomorrow is Tuesday, the day of your dear sister’s presentation. You cannot abandon her, you know, not when your aunt and I have gone to such trouble to arrange it for her.”

“No, I suppose not,” Michael said with a sigh. “Will the proceeding take long, do you think, Cousin?”

Complacently, Mrs. Thatcher said, “It may well occupy most of the day, but you will meet any number of influential men, you know—men who doubtless can help you in your quest for information about that very peculiar law. Moreover, I believe Maggie Rothwell means to present Miss MacCrichton at that drawing room, so perhaps you can ask her about the miracle dog.”

“An excellent idea,” Michael said, his spirits rising considerably.

The rest of the evening passed without incident, since even Bridget agreed that an early night would make the following day’s activities more enjoyable. As Michael put out his candle and settled down to sleep, he realized he was actually looking forward to a day at St. James’s Palace.

The dream visited him again, long enough to wake him, but since it consisted for once of little more than wandering in a misty wood, searching for the right path, he soon went back to sleep and slept soundly for the rest of the night.

“
CARROTS AND TURNIPS, HO!
”

Awakening to the unnerving female screech from the street directly below his open window just as he had every morning since arriving in London, Michael donned a dressing gown, descended to the breakfast parlor and swallowed a hasty meal. Then he spent the next two hours with Chalmers in the tiny dressing room adjoining his bedchamber, to prepare for the drawing room at St. James’s Palace.

He nearly balked at the outset. One look at the tray of implements, tools, potions, lotions, and jewels that Chalmers had set out in preparation for the ordeal made him exclaim, “Is all this really necessary?”

“Aye, sure, it is, laird,” Chalmers said, secure for once in his element. “I ha’ made a great study of how noblemen must dress for so grand an occasion, so ye should allow yerself to be guided by me if ye dinna wish to offend her majesty. I am told Queen Charlotte be a great stickler for the proprieties, and it will be test enough of her tolerance, I’m thinkin’, that ye refuse to wear a proper wig.”

“I have seen what you call proper wigs,” Michael said disdainfully. “I saw two of them last night that must have stood a foot high.”

“I’ve heard of higher ones, sir, which doubtless ye will see today for yerself. Now, let me just pluck a wee few of yer eyebrows to create a more elegant line.”

“Nay, then, you scoundrel,” Michael said. “My lines are elegant enough.”

“One hesitates to contradict ye, sir, but they are unbecomingly shaggy.”

“Have done, Chalmers. Shave me, pare my nails, and do what you will with the powder, but I’ll not wear paint for anyone, or perfume my body with roses.”

“Sit here, laird,” Chalmers said with a sigh, indicating the shaving chair.

At last, shaven and pared, his front hair curled, twisted, and pouffed to a fare-thee-well, Michael was ready to don the voluminous powdering smock so that Chalmers could sift fine white powder over his hair.

When Michael sneezed and protested the clouds of powder, his mentor informed him impatiently that he would not want any black hair showing through the white powder, that he, Chalmers, had his own reputation to consider, and to hold his whisst the noo. With a sigh of ill grace that blew powder all over the dressing table, Michael submitted, and Chalmers bound the long, powdery tresses with a narrow ribbon bow and a black silk bag at the nape of his neck.

In due time, the valet pronounced him ready to put on his court suit. This stunning creation consisted of light brown cut-velvet breeches and coat, and a silk waistcoat bearing an elaborate design of foliage worked in gold to match the coat’s embroidered front edges and cuffs. Michael’s long white stockings and neckcloth were fine white silk, and his black shoes boasted golden buckles with tiny diamonds set in them, gifts from Lady Marsali that he had been loath to accept.

The tiny diamond stickpin in his neckcloth had belonged to his father, as had the gold Kintyre signet ring he always wore on his right hand.

“A snuffbox, laird?”

“I do not take snuff,” Michael said, picking up his dress sword from the table where it lay.

“Nay, then, am I not perfectly aware o’ that?” Chalmers said, helping him adjust the sword belt so the weapon hung properly. “’Tis hardly necessary for ye to take snuff, sir, only to look as if ye might. ’Tis quite the fashion, ye ken.”

“Aye, and why it is I do not know, for with all the hair powder floating in the air, one can sneeze all one wants to without paying out good silver for snuff and snuffboxes. I shall carry that damned cane, because I just might want to clout someone with it, but I’ll be damned if I’ll wear any of that lot of jewelry you’ve got lined up on your tray, and you can leave the perfume where it sits, as well.”