Julia London 4 Book Bundle (130 page)

“Mrs. McKinnon enjoys cooking as a hobby,” Claudia quickly interjected.

“Aye, that I do.” At least she had the presence of mind to agree with Claudia, in spite of it being an enormous lie. She detested cooking.

Lady Phillipot wiggled her enormous body forward and eagerly thrust her hands onto her knees to steady herself. “This is
quite fascinating
, Mrs. McKinnon! What other hobbies do you enjoy?”

“Milking cows?” asked someone, and all the women tittered.

Kerry felt her blood begin to race through her, heating her skin, uncertain if she was mortified or angry. Did these women think milk magically appeared on their table? “Actually, I have milked a cow,” she said softly.

“
Ooooh
, how wonderful!” Lady Phillipot crowed. “Do tell us more, Mrs. McKinnon!”

She was about to tell Lady Phillipot that they did not have an army of splendidly attired footmen to feed them, but Claudia said sharply, “Honestly, Olympia, one would think you had never seen a cow milked before! Come then, would you be so kind as to share your lovely voice with us in song? I am sure Lady Boxworth can be persuaded to accompany you on the pianoforte.”

“I should be delighted,” Lady Boxworth said and was at once on her feet.

“Very well, if you insist,” Lady Phillipot said, and somehow managed to hoist herself from her seat. As the two women made their way to the far end of the room, Kerry smiled thinly at Claudia. “I should like a wee bit of air,” she said, and stood, walking away from the group before anyone could call her back and expose her further.

She slipped out one door at the opposite end of the room and found herself in yet another, darkened room.
Using her fingers to feel along the wall, she slowly moved along the perimeter of the large room until she found another door, and opened it, thankful to see a thin ray of light at the end of what looked like a corridor. God in heaven, would she now be
lost
? It was rather fitting, she supposed, as she made her way toward the light. She had been wandering around without direction or purpose since the morning Charles Moncrieffe had laid his dirty hands on her.

As her sight adjusted to the darkness, she realized that the light was coming from a door ajar at the end of the corridor. When she reached the door, she pushed it open wider, and walked inside.

She heard the click of boots on the plain wood floor before she saw anyone and whirled about, her palm pressed to her thundering heart. It was the Scottish footman; he stood before her holding two bottles of wine. They stared at one another for a long moment before he finally spoke. “Are ye lost, then, lassie?”

She heard Thomas McKinnon’s voice in that burr and closed her eyes. The tears stung the back of her throat, and for a moment, a brief fleeting moment, she was transported home.

“Mrs. McKinnon.”

Her eyes fluttered open; she looked at the young footman. “I, ah, seem to have lost my way to the salon.”

He did not move at first, just kept looking at her as if he wanted to speak. Kerry lifted a hand to her flushed neck; the movement seemed to spur him; he suddenly moved past her. “Follow me.”

She followed him into the darkened corridor and immediately through a door that led into the main corridor awash with light. When they reached the main door of the salon, he reached for it, but his hand paused on the brass handle. With a furtive glance about, he whispered quickly, “If yer in need of help, lass, ye ask for Brian. Do ye understand me now? Brian.”

He did not wait for her answer. He swung the door
open, bowed lightly as he stepped aside so that she might pass. The men had rejoined the ladies; the din from the room was high and voices and music seemed to rush at her. Grasping her skirt tightly in her hand, Kerry lifted her chin. “Aye, I do,” she said, and walked into the room, looking for Arthur.

It was the early hours of the morning when Arthur finally arrived at his empty house on Mount Street. He climbed the stairs slowly, unraveling his black neckcloth as he went, a smile playing on the corners of his lips as he recalled the evening. Claudia had been right, of course. A supper party had been just the thing to introduce Kerry to influential members of their circle. And oh Lord, she had been magnificent this evening. An ethereal vision in that violet gown, the soft lilt in her voice intoxicating every male in the room. Granted, she had been rather subdued this evening—he had felt her nerves. But her mien had seemed one of quiet sophistication, of observation and polite refrain. She had easily been the most alluring, the most intriguing woman present.

She had fit so perfectly in that all-important setting that Arthur had finally found the answer for which he had been searching since they had arrived in London.

He would marry her.

It was the answer that had been playing on the fringes of his mind for days now, the only course of action.

That, and the only answer his heart would accept.

Why, then, had he not come to the conclusion sooner?

Because, he told himself as he entered his suite of rooms, of who Kerry was. Having seen her tonight, he was now loath to admit to himself that his reluctance had stemmed from the simple fact that she was a poor Scot’s widow. It was unthinkable for a man of his stature to marry a woman like her. But it was also unthinkable—at least to him—to allow something like the circumstance
of her birth guide what could very well be the most important decision of his life.

Tonight, however, he had seen their situation through a different lens. He had seen that she
could
fit into a world to which she had not been born, could move among those who
had
been born to it. He had seen that she not only fit, but that she could, with some training, become one of the most sought-after women among the
ton.

Still smiling, Arthur sent his sleepy valet away and stripped down to nothing. He sprawled nude onto the massive four-poster bed and slung an arm over his eyes. His last conscious thought was of Kerry, gliding toward him in that lovely violet gown, smiling at him as if he was the only man in the world.

He dreamed of a ball that night; dazzling women dressed in shimmering golds and greens twirled in the arms of men dressed in formal black tails. In the center of the crowded ballroom stood Kerry, dressed in a white velvet gown, her hair curled and piled atop her head with slim gold chains. A Greek goddess. As he walked toward her, the dancers parted, and she held out her hands to him. He took her in his arms, swept her into a waltz beneath a thousand candles, and asked her, “Are you happy, my love?”

Kerry laughed, her dark red lips sliding over perfect white teeth.

“Are you happy?” he asked her again, but Kerry did not answer, was distracted by something to her left. Arthur’s gaze followed hers, and the dancers seemed to melt away as an impeccably dressed Phillip, save the hole in his chest, strolled onto the dance floor.

“Are you happy?” he asked again, but when he turned to look at Kerry, she was gone.

And Phillip was laughing.

K
ERRY DREAMED THAT
night, too—unpleasant dreams of a supper where she was the object of ridicule. She awoke before dawn and lay on her back, staring up at the embroidered canopy above her as she silently begged God for help.

After luncheon, she left Claudia with some excuse of napping, pulled on a new pair of gloves—delivered just that morning along with a half-dozen pairs of slippers—and walked into the foyer. She asked the footman there for a carriage, fully expecting to be denied on the grounds of improper protocol or something equally obscure. But he merely nodded and went off to fetch her a carriage.

In the drive, a coachman helped her into the carriage, then stuck his head in and inquired as to her direction.

“To the Christian House on Mount Street,” she said, and again waited to be told no. But once again, the coachman merely nodded, and the next thing she knew, the carriage was rocking forward.

Kerry leaned back against the plush velvet squabs and smiled to herself as the carriage rolled onto St. James Square. Perhaps God had heard her pleas after all.

At Mount Street, Barnaby greeted her at the door. He
did not seem surprised to see her, nor did he so much as flinch when she asked if she might speak with Arthur. He gave a quick glance over her head to the street, then stepped aside, bowing low and sweeping his hand to indicate she should enter. Kerry stepped into the two-story foyer, let a footman divest her of her wrap, and then followed Barnaby to the study.

“My lord is with his solicitor at present, madam. If you would be so kind as to wait here, I shall inform him you have called.” He bowed again and pulled the door shut, leaving her alone.

Kerry instantly removed her gloves and nervously flexed her fingers. Her mind raced with what exactly she would say to Arthur. She absently wandered about the study as she tried to settle on a proper speech—how did she tell the man she loved with all her heart that she could not exist in his world? How did she tell him that she could not wear so many pairs of slippers, or that the number of gowns now hanging in a wardrobe at Kettering House was enough to clothe the entire population of Glenbaden several times over? How exactly did she express to him how much she loved him, but that she had to return to Scotland?

That she had to return to Scotland had settled on her just this morning. It had been weeks since she shot Charles Moncrieffe dead and had entered her own private hell, alternating between guilt and remorse at having taken a human life, and anger for having the situation forced upon her. Weeks in which she had jumped at every shadow, her nerves frayed to the very ends, convinced that Baron Moncrieffe had finally found her. Certainly it had occurred to her that the one thing that might end her nightmarish existence was to return and face the consequences of what she had done. Just as certainly she had rejected that idea, more interested in living than swinging at the end of a rope.

Aye, that she should return and face the consequences of her actions had come to her in vivid clarity
this morning as she was brushing her hair. Come what may, she owed it to herself and to Charles Moncrieffe to return to Glenbaden and explain what had happened. And she was not entirely without hope. Cameron Moncrieffe surely knew his son—he could not help but understand what had transpired that awful morning. Perhaps he would show her mercy …

Perhaps he would not. But she would never rest again as long as she ran from what she had done. It would eat at her soul like a disease, slowly killing her.

Kerry moved from the vase to the desk where she had often seen Arthur working. An old quill pen was perched on one corner of the desk; an ink blotter and small porcelain bowl of sand rested near a stack of papers, opened to be read. Kerry paused and looked down, not really seeing the words on the page as her fingers traced the fine grain of the wood, her mind on Moncrieffe and what he might do.

With a quick draw of breath, she closed her eyes. She couldn’t think of such things now or she would lose her fragile resolve to do what was right. Slowly, she opened her eyes, concentrated on the paper in front of her to banish the brutal images of her fate from her mind’s eye … and saw the name Thomas McKinnon.

The name jolted her; she gasped, recoiling slightly before immediately leaning forward again to look at the paper. It was his name, all right, but why would Arthur have a paper with Thomas’s name on it? Confusion and curiosity overwhelmed her, with only a twinge of conscience, she snatched up the paper and read it.

The letter was addressed to Lord Arthur Christian. Kerry glanced at the bottom of the page and instantly recognized the neat little signature before she actually read Mr. Jamie Regis, Esquire.
Why should Mr. Regis be writing Arthur?
She lifted her gaze and began to read, slowly sinking into the tall leather chair at the desk as she read, finally covering the silent scream in her throat with a hand over her mouth.

Jamie Regis very perfunctorily reported that the eviction of the tenants Lord Arthur Christian had ordered from Lord Rothembow’s land had been completed, and that a written offer of settlement of the land and assets had been made to the Bank of Scotland.

It was inconceivable.
Impossible!
This could not be, it simply could not be, that Arthur was the one who had ordered her eviction! Or that he was the one who had deigned to settle her property! But he had, apparently, done it in the name of Lord Rothembow … Phillip.
Fraser’s English investor.

Oh God.

The realization that it was no accident Arthur had come to be on that rural road a lifetime ago made her nauseous. He had come looking for
her
, looking for her land, looking to throw her off like so much rubbish so that he might sell all that she had in the world to a bank and then replace her life with
sheep.

Kerry dropped the paper, covered her face with her hands as she tried to absorb it. He had lived with her, eaten from the dwindling bounty of Glenbaden, accepted the kindness and hospitality of her family and kin. He had worked alongside them, knowing that he would cast them all to the wind when it was said and done.

Thomas. Kerry looked up.
What of Thomas?
She grabbed the letter again, searching frantically for the name she had seen only moments ago, finding it in a last thought from Regis.

Kerry cried out and sprang to her feet. She had to get out of there, arrange to be taken back to Scotland at once.
Thomas!
What if she was too late? What if they hanged him before she could reach Glenbaden? Her heart cried out to God, and a sudden, blinding pain behind her eyes very nearly brought her to her knees.
God, no. No, no, no.