Scotsman of My Dreams (12 page)

“I have a brother,” he said. “A younger brother. His name is Lewis.”

“Are you close?”

“I'm not,” he said. “Although it seems to me that Lewis is attempting to emulate certain parts of my life.”

His brother was well on his way to being a hedonist, too. Perhaps a profligate one.

“Are you protective of him?”

“No, I find no reason to be. Lewis is his own man. He'll make his mistakes on his own. He's grown.”

“And you would have me treat Neville the same, wouldn't you?”

“Why not? Neville has reached his majority. He's a grown man to the eyes of the world. He's no longer in nappies.”

“Maybe it's different with sisters and brothers. He was only ten when our parents died.”

“So you raised him, basically. And now you're treating him like an overprotective mother.”

“If I am, I see nothing wrong with that. Especially if Neville is in trouble.”

He allowed himself a smile at that comment.

“I would say that he is in trouble, Miss Todd. Trying to kill someone is trouble enough.”

“I don't believe you. I don't care if you swear on the Bible. I don't believe you. I won't believe you. I'll never believe you. There must be some explanation.”

“And if there isn't?”

She didn't answer.

“What would it take for you to simply retreat to your house, Miss Todd? When I find your brother, I will inform you of that fact.”

“After you've ensured he's in jail,” she said.

He couldn't argue about that. What he didn't tell her was that he wasn't sure he could have Neville arrested. The crime hadn't taken place on English soil. Granted, it would be his word against Neville's, but he had the advantage of being a peer of the realm. He was the Earl of Rathsmere, and coming from a long established and well-­respected family gave him more credence.

“I'm more than willing to give you a certain sum of money,” he said, and named an amount. Her indrawn breath was indication enough that he had been generous.

“I don't have the wealth of the MacIains,” she said. “But I don't need your money.”

That was a surprise. ­People could always do with money. So Minerva Todd was independently wealthy. That explained a great deal. Women who didn't have to depend on others for an income had a certain freedom that the rest of women in society did not.

“What do you want, then? An introduction to someone? What can I do to make your life easier?”

“Cease your search for my brother. I will find Neville on my own.”

“What do you want me to do, Miss Todd? Simply accept that I'm blind without being angry about it? You ascribe to me feelings of a saint, and I'll be the first one to tell you I'm not the forgiving type. Especially about this.”

“Why didn't you look for him before?”

She'd managed to startle him again.

“Why didn't you try to find him before I showed up?”

“How do you know I didn't?”

“You didn't, did you?” she asked.

He should lie to her, but he found himself loath to do so. The truth, however, didn't put him in a good light.

“I was healing.”

“You were feeling sorry for yourself,” she countered.

He resented her ability to see through his defenses and spear him to the wall with her words.

“I regret that I am not able to walk you to your carriage, Miss Todd.”

“Who walks you?” she asked.

“I am not a dog, Miss Todd.”

“Pardon me,” she said. “I should rephrase that better. Who helps you get from place to place? Your driver?”

“Would you like the position?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You've already indicated that you intend to be a burr on my arse, if you'll forgive the plain speaking. Perhaps if you accompany me you can also act as my eyes.”

What the hell was he doing, inviting the woman into his life? Had he lost his reason?

“Are you jesting?”

“I don't joke about my blindness, Miss Todd.”

“I didn't mean that,” she said, her tone acerbic. “I meant, why me and not Mr. Wilson, for example?”

“James has better things to do than to follow me.”

“Why is he following you?”

“Because he has an idea that your brother might try to kill me again.”

She made a sound he interpreted as derision. His imagination furnished her expression: brows drawn together, eyes fiery, mouth pursed.

“I thought the man had some sense,” she said. “We don't even know if Neville is in London, in England, let alone that he would ever do something like you stated.”

“I'm not going to argue about Neville's saintliness at the moment,” he said. “Would you like to accompany me?”

It might be interesting to be around Minerva Todd for a little while. She might cease to be astounding and be boring, instead.

“I am planning a visit with my brother's solicitor,” he told her. “Shall I send a note around to you when the meeting has been arranged?”

“Would you really do that?”

“I would.”

She didn't answer, long enough for him to question his sanity again. But better to keep the woman close than have her follow him all over London.

When she gave him her address, he nodded.

James had a more important job than to keep him company. He had to determine whether Arthur had been murdered.

In the meantime, he'd keep Minerva Todd close. Which of the two of them had the harder task?

 

Chapter 14

D
alton decided, as he made his way to his library the next day, that the walking stick might become a permanent accessory. Using one seemed to help his balance.

He stopped in the middle of the hallway and sniffed. Even here he could smell the cinnamon that seemed to waft around the Todd woman. As if that weren't unusual enough, he could still hear her voice.

How odd that voices had begun to replace faces in his mind. Mrs. Thompson's voice was pleasing and soft, like the woman herself. Howington's voice held an edge and was grating. Again, like the man.

Miss Todd's didn't sound like it should. Instead of being caustic and thin, her voice was low and throaty, as if the words were rounded as they left her lips. He might even call it a seductive voice if it belonged to another woman.

Using the walking stick, he swept the doorway of his library in case that fool Howington was standing there.

“I'm here, Your Lordship,” Mrs. Thompson said when he entered the room.

Was that so hard? Why couldn't Howington accommodate him to that degree? He banished thoughts of his secretary in favor of the task he'd set himself today: going through Arthur's papers.

“What would you like me to do first, sir?”

Dalton bent slightly, put his hand out and found the arched top of one of the trunks.

“If you'll help me,” he said, “we'll move this over to the chairs in front of the fireplace. To create a base of operations, so to speak.”

“If you push, sir, I'll pull.”

They managed admirably, if he did say so. Well enough that they went back and got the second trunk and moved it beside the first.

He sat in one chair and Mrs. Thompson in another.

His hands fumbled with the lock. He hadn't thought to ask if they needed a key. A moment later he found the hasp, lifted it, and was able to push the top open.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Thompson said. “It's filled with papers, sir.”

“My brother liked to keep records,” he said. “And journals.”

She didn't say anything for a moment. Was she inspecting the trunks' contents?

“Everything is in stacks, sir. It all seems to be well marked.”

She handed him a large envelope. “Those are marked Mill and Mine Revenue.”

He nodded and put the envelope on the floor.

“I see the journals,” she said, and began to hand them to him one by one. By the time they were finished, he counted twenty. He knew Arthur liked to record things; he just hadn't known to what extent his brother had done so.

Once the journals were unearthed from the trunk, it was empty, so they began on the second trunk. This one seemed to be filled with envelopes, all having to do with annual receipts from the various MacIain enterprises. He had no idea they owned property in India and Ireland. He had always known about the coal mines, but not about the silver mines.

For the next hour they burrowed down to the bottom of the trunk. Nothing more was forthcoming about Arthur's personal life, but he was driven to respect his brother's organizational ability.

Arthur documented everything about Gledfield, from the dry rot at one end of the stable to the mold that showed up ten years ago in the upper gallery. With his records, he ensured that future generations knew what care had been taken and what repairs were made.

Arthur had left a legacy a damn sight better than the one he himself had left. In his case, tales of debauchery and daring.

A hell of a thing, to be outclassed by a dead man.

L
EWIS
M
AC
I
AIN
rolled over, stared up at the ceiling, and wished his mistress wasn't a chatterbox first thing in the morning.

He had a blazing headache, which he always got when he smoked too many cheroots. Of course, the cognac didn't help. It tasted so damn good going down and he liked the feeling he got after a few snifters. But there was always hell to pay the next morning.

They'd had a wonderful time in bed together, a fact Susan had to mention more than once. In fact, she liked going over all the details, as if doing so would incite him to grab her for another round.

He might have, if the headache hadn't nearly incapacitated him.

Now he closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, and tried to ignore her.

“I don't know what got into you last night, Lewis, my love. You were a beast.”

“Was I?”

“I was very impressed.”

He opened one eye, turned his head slightly and stared at the screen behind which she was dressing. Since he couldn't remember most of last night, he was going to have to take her word for it.

Had he vowed his undying love? He wasn't going to ask. Doing so would only bring up the subject again and he had already tired of it.

“You were quite vigorous.”

He closed his eyes and relaxed a little.

“I'm so glad you're pleased,” he said.

All he had to do was wait until she was dressed. She would soon go home, give some excuse to her housekeeper, and return to her outwardly proper life as a widow of three years. The fact that her husband had been a wealthy merchant meant that she didn't need to marry, which was a relief to him.

What a pity he didn't feel comfortable asking her for money. He'd not yet descended into being supported by a woman. Perhaps he needed to readjust his thinking, however. It would be a damn sight easier asking her for money than to ask his brother.

“What have you got planned for today?” she asked.

He opened his eyes to find her coming out from behind the screen. She still wore mourning, although the proscribed time for proper mourning had passed. She was simply one of those women who looked exceedingly beautiful in black.

“I'm off to see my brother,” he said.

A planned visit, given the state of his finances. He'd waited long enough. Following Arthur's death, the stodgy solicitor refused to give him any more money, pending Dalton's ascendance to the title.

So he'd done the only practical thing: he moved into the family's London home. It was bigger than his lodgings, and free. The only problem was money. He didn't have any. There were no servants to speak of, but the tradesmen would no longer take credit, and he couldn't make the solicitor budge when it came to paying for his food, drink, or clothing.

“I'm no longer just the third son,” he said to Susan. “I'm the spare to the heir. From what I hear, my brother isn't doing well. Poor boy might just end his suffering one day.”

“Haven't you seen him since he's come home?”

“Only once,” he said. Long enough to be horrified at the ruin of Dalton's face and grateful he hadn't been foolish enough to accompany his brother to America.

“Not a loss to you, then.”

He shrugged.

But for an accident of birth, he might have been the Earl of Rathsmere. If so, he wouldn't have had to beg anyone for the funds necessary to live.

His father had been hopelessly old-­fashioned, unaware of the money necessary for a man to make a life in London nowadays. He could always live at Gledfield, if he wanted to be buried out in the country. With Arthur gone and his widow already remarried, there was no one to refuse him. He doubted Dalton would give up London for their country house. The stipend he'd been given on his majority would have lasted his lifetime if he'd rented a cottage on the moors, refused to see anyone, and eschewed any of the creature comforts.

But he wasn't about to withdraw from society.

This last year, however, had been difficult. He had a dislike of gambling, of tossing away his money on the off chance that he might win against luck. His experience had been that luck—­or the gambling establishment—­won most of the time. The problem was, unless he occupied himself with Friday to Monday house parties, he was doomed to be bored to death. No, he had to find a way to stay in London and be able to afford it. Ergo, a visit to dear Dalton.

With any luck, his brother wouldn't be as tight-­fisted as Arthur.

A
FTER
M
RS.
Thompson left, with his thanks, Dalton sat in the wing chair staring in the direction of the fireplace. He had often sat there in the past, listening to conversations swirling around him. The topics were never serious: the size of a mistress's breasts, boasting of a man's stamina, tales of horse races, outlandish bets. He couldn't recall one time when he was impressed by a man's intellect or spurred to thought by a comment someone had made.

Arthur's life, in contrast, had been filled with meaning. He'd been a fine steward for Gledfield, for the MacIain fortune. Their father was proud of him; their mother never once glanced at Arthur and shook her head in mute fondness.

Arthur mattered; his life counted for something.

Dalton knew that in ten, fifteen years, he'd recall his brother to someone and the comments would be laudatory. “Oh, yes, the sixth earl. A fine man, yes, a fine man.”

What about him? Would anyone be able to say the same about the seventh earl?

A recluse, I've heard. Damn fellow went off to play soldier and managed to lose his sight.

He was suddenly blazingly angry. Not at his blindness this time, but Death itself.

Arthur shouldn't have died, and he shouldn't have ascended to the title. What the hell did he know about being the Earl of Rathsmere? Who in blazes thought he could replace Arthur? Or even wanted to try?

Standing, he made his way to the sideboard and the whiskey decanter. His left hand reached for the tumbler; his right was on the stopper of the decanter when Minerva Todd spoke in his mind.

Are you a drunkard, too?

Damn the woman.

He made his way to his desk, leaving the whiskey untouched.

In his charmed life before America, in his days of hedonism, he'd never considered Death an enemy. It was just there, like a shadow before dusk. An event that would one day happen to him, that had already visited his family, but had crawled back into the beyond, patiently waiting.

After America, he knew Death was more cunning and greedy. Not content with waiting, it often reached out a bony hand and plucked the unwary from life.

He couldn't forget the sight of men strewn over a battlefield, most of them dead, some of them dying. Those who were unlucky enough to come down with disease barely stood a chance, spending their last minutes adrift in hallucinations in a hot, foul-­smelling tent adorned by barrels of legs and arms at the entrance.

Yet through it all, he'd survived. Not because of any skill on his part, although he'd been taught to shoot at a young age by his father. Not because of any cowardice on his part, either.

He'd just been damn lucky.

As a British citizen, he was initially viewed with suspicion by the men in his regiment. He couldn't blame them. When he was done playing at war, he could go home, sail away from the sound of incessant gunfire, scavenging for food, and the paralyzing fear of standing there watching as waves of men kept coming and coming despite volleys of gunfire.

The fields on which they marched belonged to someone. The crops they trampled had been grown to be food, not mattresses for thousands of men.

Death had won in most instances.

Nor was Death content with simple victory. Instead, it seemed to chortle with delight, rubbing bony hands together with glee until Dalton could swear he heard the clicking sound.

In those months in America, life had seemed something special, to be cherished and noted each passing minute. When he woke at dawn, he appreciated the air, heavy with dew. On some mornings there was fog, the low lying cloud of it obscuring his feet. Hunger was something he'd rarely experienced before leaving London. In America he grew to appreciate any food he received, no longer the epicure who demanded perfection from his cook.

He found himself interested in the stories of the men with whom he fought. Some of them had surprising ties to England: a niece here, a second cousin there. They all seemed intertwined somehow, members of long lost families.

There was nothing like knowing he might die tomorrow to make him appreciate every day. He should have taken up Arthur's habit of writing in a journal. Sometimes he wanted to share ideas, but the men around him were a laconic sort, exchanging tales of battles with more ease than they discussed their own lives or philosophies.

The euphoria abruptly left him the day he was shot. Several times since, he'd considered doing himself in. His anger had stopped him. He was damn well going to win this undeclared war: Death vs. Dalton.

Now he had another battle to join: Dalton vs. Todd. Minerva Todd, to be exact. Strange, that this one filled him with anticipation.