Amanda Scott (18 page)

She stiffened. “I am not falling for anyone,” she said. “I was wrong about him being arrogant and rude, though, so I mean to ride in the park with him tomorrow, but that’s all. It was a shock, seeing them together, nothing more.”

“Aye, well, I’m glad to hear it. Terry Coombs says Kintyre is all to pieces, which is the reason that silly lass Bridget keeps flirting with me. Terry says she has to marry well, and she thinks that with my fortune I’d make her a good husband. I paid him no mind at first, because he’s besotted with the chit himself, and I vow he’s just trying to dissuade competition. I’ve told him I want none of her, but still he delights in pointing out her faults to me.”

“She seems silly and spoiled, but has she really so many faults?”

“Only one that matters,” Chuff said with a grin. “The foolish lass would rather talk about herself than about me.”

“I don’t think you should marry before you’ve finished at Oxford, Chuff.”

“Faith, have you heard me so much as mention marrying?”

“No, but—”

“Well, you’ll not, either, so dinna fash yourself.”

“I’d better go, so we can both change for dinner,” she said. “Mary and I are going with Maggie to see
Macbeth
afterward. I expect you’ll be going out, too.”

“Aye, if Himself does not forbid it. He was in a rare skin this morning.”

“Did you and Mr. Coombs really attend a cockfight yesterday?”

“Who’s been telling tales out of school?”

“Roddy said you told him and that he begged to go with you.”

“Well, if it is where we went, it’s men’s business and none of yours,” he said severely, “and I shall have a word with Master Roddy.”

“Don’t scold him, Chuff. Mr. Coombs already threatened to thrash him if he ever again speaks out of turn. Indeed, he thinks you already are at outs with him for the same cause. You need say nothing.”

“Terry threatened him? Well, I shall have something to say about that,” Chuff said, frowning. “It’s no business of his to scold our Roddy.”

“He is his tutor,” she reminded him.

Chuff dismissed that detail with a gesture. “He’d best not lay a hand on the lad unless he wants to deal with me.”

Shaking her head at him, Pinkie left the room and went to change for dinner and the play.

It was midnight before the ladies returned. Pinkie had enjoyed
Macbeth
but thought the evening had otherwise fallen flat. The theater had been full, and the gentlemen in the pit exceedingly merry. Even the farce that followed the play had been amusing, but she was tired, she had seen no one she cared to see, and what conversation she had engaged in had proved quite unremarkable.

Waking early the following morning, she dressed with care, making Doreen fetch numerous articles of clothing before she chose exactly which riding habit to wear. The petticoat and jacket were made of stone-gray broadcloth lined with green silk. The jacket’s collar and cuffs matched its lining, and her waistcoat was likewise of matching green silk, embroidered with tiny yellow-centered white daisies.

“It be sharp cold out, miss,” Doreen said as she pinned Pinkie’s cocked hat in place atop her curls. Handing her her gloves and whip, she added, “I’ll carry your cloak downstairs to the hall, so that Dugald will have it at hand for ye.”

“Thank you,” Pinkie said, taking a last look in the glass and automatically pinching more color into her cheeks. As she pinched, she thought of Lady Bridget Mingary’s natural roses. Since Kintyre saw his sister every day, he would scarcely be impressed by cheeks that had an unfortunate tendency to sprout freckles rather than roses or peaches, and required pinching to show color.

She had sent orders to the stable the previous evening before departing for the theater, so all she had to do now was to eat her breakfast and wait for Kintyre.

Chuff and Duncan were alone in the breakfast parlor, and when she entered, the latter was saying grimly, “There have been too many incidents of smuggling this year. The tobacco lords stand to lose a fortune if it continues. It isn’t just smuggling, either, but fraud as—Good morning, lass.”

As she returned the greeting, both men got hastily to their feet.

“Don’t stop talking tobacco on my account,” she said. “I do not understand much about the subject, but perhaps I can learn more by listening.”

In truth, she found the subject boring, but she would infinitely prefer that they talk about tobacco than that Chuff tease her—as she knew he might—about riding with her ghost. She did not think he would betray her outright, since he knew that she had not shared her ghost with anyone else in the family, but she did not trust him to keep silent on the subject, either. Even a subtle dig would catch Duncan’s attention; and after that, inevitably, the cat would be out of the bag.

Sitting down with them, she helped herself to buttered toast; and when a servant entered, she asked him for a pot of hot chocolate.

Duncan said, “Bring more toast, too. Do you want porridge, lassie?”

“No, thank you,” Pinkie said, spooning a dollop of jam onto her plate and replacing the lid on the jam pot.

Chuff said, “I confess, sir, I do not understand it all myself. One thinks of smuggling as bringing goods into the country without paying duty on them, or of selling goods, like whiskey, without paying the government what it thinks is its fair share. But if I understood you, the tobacco never even enters England.”

“That’s right,” Duncan said, “although there are cases of men landing trusses of tobacco on lonely beaches, like smuggled silks, lace, or wine from the Continent. This is more complicated, though. Tobacco lords in England—and Scotland, too—have bonded warehouses to store tobacco that comes here from the colonies on its way to foreign ports. The law, you see, commands that all exports from America pass through the mother country first so the government can collect its duty. The shipper pays it when the product enters the warehouse. Thank you,” he said to the servant, who entered, bringing Pinkie’s chocolate and another rack of toast.

Chuff, clearly as puzzled as Pinkie was, said, “Do you mean that the colonists have to pay duty even though the tobacco doesn’t stay in Britain?”

“They don’t, really,” Duncan said. “Once the cargo is cleared for the foreign port, the shipper gets his money back. It’s called a drawback.”

“But if the tobacco barely touches the shore, why must they pay duty on it at all?” Pinkie asked, pouring her chocolate. “Why ever take it off the ship?”

“To keep track of it,” Duncan explained. “You see, a shipper can also claim drawback if his ship or just his cargo is lost at sea, so it is important to note the weight of the tobacco at each port of call. The customs collector at Glasgow, for example, passes information about a given cargo on to the collector at Bristol or London, but occasionally a shipper pretends to lose his cargo before it arrives, or else he pays the duty, then falsely clears his cargo for a foreign port and claims his drawback. In both cases, he actually lands cargo in England duty-free.”

“How does all that affect investors?” Pinkie asked.

“It affects the price, lass. The man who can sell his tobacco at the lowest price makes the most money. If he does not have to pay the duty, he can sell it for considerably less than the man who must.”

“Does no one grow tobacco in England?”

“No one,” he said. “James the First disapproved of tobacco, and restricted the landing of all tobacco to the London Custom House, prohibiting altogether the landing of tobacco seed and the planting of tobacco in England and Ireland.”

“Not Scotland, though,” Chuff said.

“No, we can still grow tobacco in Scotland, but when we ship it to England, we must pay the duty; and our tobacco, like that from the colonies, must pass through an English port before going to a foreign destination, although the port can be Bristol now, not just London. Indeed…”He paused, smiling at Pinkie, who had finished her toast and chocolate. “Does all this really interest you, lassie?”

“It does, sir, more than I thought such a subject could. However, I am to ride with Kintyre at nine, so I think I had better ask you to excuse me now. We cannot leave the horses standing too long, because Doreen said that it is cold outside.”

“Aye, cold enough to make one suspect that it’s winter rather than spring,” Duncan said. “You take a good warm cloak.”

“I will,” she said. “We’d better order hot bricks for the coach tonight, too.”

“Certainly, if you like,” Duncan said. “Where are you off to tonight?”

Chuff grinned mischievously. “We’re all off together, sir. It’s Wednesday, after all, and I don’t think you’d be wise to let anyone else know you forgot,”

Duncan grimaced. “Tonight is that damned subscription ball, is it not? The one that my mother and Maggie have made such a stir about?”

“Aye, at the new assembly rooms. They insist that we must support Mr. Almack because he is Scottish, but I think that’s what young Roddy would call a wheen o’ blethers. The rooms have become quite popular, According to Terry Coombs, and they’ve done so entirely without our support before now.”

Rising, Pinkie said, “Still you
are
going, aren’t you, Chuff?”

Chuff grinned. “Oh, aye, we’re all going unless I’m much mistaken.”

“Aye,” Duncan said soberly, “we’re all going, right enough.”

The inhabitants of the little house in George Street were also to attend the first subscription ball at Almack’s. Having learned from his sister that MacCrichton intended to grace the assembly with his presence, Michael might have greeted the day more happily had it not been for the arrival of the early morning post with two unwelcome letters just as he sat down to break his fast.

The first came from Scotland, and he had a notion of its contents before he broke the seal. He had expected Glenmore’s displeasure. He did not expect a threat of legal action. Expressing his suspicion that Michael had purposefully trained the dog to run away, the earl wrote that if he did not instantly make restitution or return the dog, Glenmore would seek action against him in the House of Lords.

The second missive was even less welcome, although it contained only a reminder from Sir Renfrew Campbell that the first of June was little more than a fortnight away. Had Michael, he inquired, considered how he intended to transfer the required sum to Sir Renfrew’s account with the Bank of Scotland, in Edinburgh?

Michael had not thought about that, nor could he think of any reason at present that he should tax his brain for the answer to a question that had no answer.

At that moment, he and the subject of Glenmore’s letter were alone in the breakfast parlor, for none of his female relatives had yet come downstairs. Cailean lay curled on the floor beneath the table, his head resting on one of Michael’s booted feet. The familiarity of the dog’s presence stirred an ache in his heart. He did not know what he was going to do, but the thought of parting again with his faithful companion was too much to bear easily.

Despite his depression, Michael arrived at Faircourt House five minutes before the time he had designated. The air was crisp and the breeze wafting up from the Thames icy enough to make his cheeks tingle. Thus, when Miss MacCrichton descended to the hall moments after his arrival, clad in a becoming gray-and-green riding habit that turned her lovely eyes from pale blue to emerald green, instead of paying her a pretty compliment, he said bluntly, “You’ll freeze to death.”

“I am not as fragile as that, sir,” she said, raising her chin. “I grew up in the Highlands, after all. A chilly day stirs no terrors in me.”

She looked even smaller than usual, her waist tiny enough to span with his two hands. However, the thought of doing that sent heat coursing through his whole body. Reluctantly pushing the thought away, he said, “There is a very cold wind.”

“A breeze,” she said. “I put my head out of the window upstairs, and it scarcely mussed my hair.”

A gray cocked hat with a small green feather perched atop the tumble of honey-gold curls that spilled over her forehead and around her small, well-shaped ears—ears that clearly would remain exposed to the elements.

“It is quite a sharp wind,” he insisted. “Do you not at least possess a warmer hat and a pair of good warm gloves?”

She held out a pair of small cream-colored kid gloves. “I did not stay to put them on, because I knew that you would not want to leave the horses standing, but my gloves are warm, sir, and I have a hooded cloak, as well. Dugald?”

The footman came forward, carrying the cloak, but Michael took it from him. It had green silk lining to match her habit, and he knew the silk would protect her from the wind. He draped it over her shoulders, waited until she had fastened the clasp and pulled on her gloves, then escorted her out to the waiting horses.

Lifting her to her saddle, he watched for a moment to be sure she had a steady seat, then mounted his horse. Turning into Tyburn Lane, they entered the park through the Grosvenor Gate and walked their horses toward the reservoir and the tan and gravel roadway known as Rotten Row.

Morning rides in Hyde Park had become popular with the residents of Mayfair, but the temperature had apparently kept many riders indoors, for the company was small. A single chaise rattled along Rotten Row, and they saw only a few riders near the Serpentine, and a few more in the rugged countryside beyond.

“You did not bring your dog,” Miss MacCrichton said quietly.

“Nor did you bring Master Roderick.”

She chuckled. “I do not think he even asked for his papa’s permission. He knew it was no use, not when his tutor arrives each morning at ten.”

“Where was this tutor when Cailean rescued the boy?”

“Off somewhere with my brother, I fear,” she said. “You have met him, for he was with Chuff at Lady Sefton’s ball.”

“That painted puppy! Aye, I know him too well, then. He’s been making sheep’s eyes at my sister and, if I’m not mistaken, has even sent her posies without identifying himself as the sender.”

“It is hard to imagine Mr. Coombs playing secret admirer,” she said.

“Aye, perhaps. At all events, Balcardane ought to have dismissed him for his irresponsibility. I certainly would have done so.”