Susan Johnson (7 page)

“Yes, my lord,” Queensberry murmured, masking his fury. Was Argyll deliberately thwarting him, or simply disinclined to offend the lovely Countess of Kilmarnock? “Under the circumstances though, my lord, considering Carre might return to—er—visit the countess, I thought it expedient to put her under house detention.” Queensberry needed to make sure the duke was aware of his rival’s flourishing relationship with Roxane.

“You did what?” Argyll’s voice snapped with authority. He allowed no abridgement to his prerogatives as commissioner—a nonnegotiable point in his bargain with the queen.

“I considered it prudent, my lord.” It grated on Queensberry to have to acquiesce to a man without political experience, a man decades younger than himself. But he concealed his anger behind a sycophantic smile. “At least until you could make your own determination, my lord.” He dipped his head with deferential grace.

“I have no intention of turning this country into a patrolled camp, Queensberry. The queen’s wishes and my mission will be accomplished with a degree more subtlety. And if you have a personal vendetta against the Carres, kindly fulfill it without the use of the queen’s resources. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, my lord.” While his words were moderate, Queensberry’s jaw was set hard against the duke’s insult.

“I’ll call on the countess and apologize for your actions,” Argyll said, sensible of Queensberry’s wrath, but unmoved by the scheming machinations of an artful politician. “In the future, see that you confer with me before ordering any … attacks. Good day.” Motioning for a footman to refill his coffee cup, he turned to the papers on his desk.

He’d been dismissed like a nonentity, Queensberry fumed, rising from his chair. Already planning his revenge as he descended the stairway of the duke’s quarters in Holyrood Palace, he determined to track down Robbie Carre with or without Argyll’s sanction or aid. The commissioner would do well to pick his enemies with more caution, he reflected. Damn his haughty insolence.

Standing outside on the porch for a moment, he surveyed the bustling Royal Mile with an unseeing gaze, contemplating how best to outmaneuver the queen’s commissioner. Despite Argyll’s stellar reputation as a victorious soldier, once the union between England and Scotland was sealed, the young generalissimo would no longer be needed by the queen or her ministers.

And after Argyll was returned to some remote battlefield, he, Queensberry, would be the one left to rule Scotland.

In the meantime, he must tread softly.

R
OXANE WAS UPSTAIRS IN THE NURSERY WITH HER
children when she received word of the Duke of Argyll’s visit. He’d arrived much too early for a social call—a fact noted by Agnes, peering through her bedroom window, and by Roxane, who wondered at his motive.

“Have him shown into the nursery,” she directed the servant who delivered the news of his presence. She preferred receiving him in the midst of her children; whatever his intent, the nursery would curtail all but impersonal conversation.

But her heart was beating wildly by the time he entered the large sunny room at the top of the house, because there was the possibility he might be bringing news of Robbie’s capture. If he were malicious like Queensberry and had hied himself over at this early hour to torture her, please, she prayed, at least let Robbie be alive. There was hope if he was alive.

When the duke arrived on the fourth floor, he stood in the doorway for a brief moment, his gaze sweeping the room, searching for his hostess. Fearful she might embarrass herself by trembling in anxiety, she’d not risen to greet him.

Spying her surrounded by her children, he courteously bowed. “I’ve come to apologize for Queensberry’s discourtesies,” he politely said. “And to offer amends for his unmitigated offense to your privacy.”

Her smile instantly rivaled the most glorious sunrise. A profound joy infused her spirits. There was reason to hope; he’d not said Robbie was dead.

“How kind of you, John,” she graciously replied, rising from her chair, more than willing to be courteous now. If Argyll were intent on defending her from Queensberry, that additional advantage couldn’t be overlooked. But, careful to maintain a level of reserve, she deliberately included her children in his visit. “Do come and meet my children.”

From thirteen-year-old Jeanne to five-year-old Angus, each of her five children made their bow to the queen’s commissioner. The duke was charming, asking each a personal question, listening with interest to their answers. Neither at a loss for conversation nor uncomfortable in the nursery, he maintained small talk about the amusements he’d enjoyed as a child until her young brood warmed to him and began to chatter. When, after a time, it seemed as though he intended to stay, Roxane invited him to join them in their breakfast.

“I’d like that,” he said without hesitation. “Porridge and bannock cakes are my favorites.”

Cynical enough to question such simple tastes in a man of his wealth, nevertheless she offered him a chair at the table with the required politesse. Balancing himself on the small nursery chairs with unexpected ease, he listened to the children’s conversation without noticeable boredom, ate with apparent relish, and didn’t seem alarmed when Roxane’s rambunctious brood took to throwing bannock cakes once their appetites were satisfied.

Taking pity on him when his splendid uniform received
two direct hits, she moved with him to a grouping of adult chairs by the windows overlooking the gardens.

“You manage men very well,” he said, sitting down.

She smiled faintly as she dropped into the chair with a rustle of petticoats. “It’s a matter of practice, my lord. Or survival. So forgive me if I question whether you came here only to apologize for Queensberry.”

“Brown serge is remarkably provocative on you,” he said with a faint smile. “Does that answer your question? Although, to be blunt, Queensberry has been given his conge in no uncertain terms. I don’t expect he’ll bother you again.”

“And if he does?”

“I’ll see that he’s punished.”

Her brows rose the merest fraction. “Such assurance, my lord.”

“The queen is intent on pleasing me.”

“And you her.”

He leaned back in his chair. “In time, yes.”

“When all the bribes are well spent.”

He shrugged away her sarcasm. “Scotland will gain as well. But I prefer not talking politics when so many more pleasant topics are available. For instance, do you have need of anything?” His voice went very soft. “Anything at all…”

“Am I in detention?” If he wished to be useful, let him be useful.

“Of course not. Queensberry’s action was completely unwarranted.”

“I thank you, then.” Each move in this dance of seduction required finesse.

“Why not thank me by being my guest at Catherine Haddock’s dinner party tonight?”

She gazed at him from under half-lowered lashes. “If I were to refuse your offer, would I be detained once again?”

“Certainly not. But your company tonight would be greatly appreciated.” His voice was gentle.

She exhaled in the faintest of sighs. “I find it too early in the morning for this amorous sparring.” Her violet eyes showed the smallest touch of weariness. “I have no intention of sleeping with you. Do you still wish me to come to Catherine’s?”

“Yes, very much,” he answered without taking offense. “Any number of women in Edinburgh are willing to sleep with me, if that’s all I want.”

Her gaze narrowed minutely.

“So cynical, my lady,” he said, amusement in his tone.

“The smell of Queensberry puts one’s cynical senses on full alert, my lord, and you weren’t made commissioner because the queen liked the cut of your coat.”

“True. But at least for tonight I promise not to importune you. Fair enough?”

“Your word as a Campbell?” A queen’s commissioner was by definition duplicitous.

“My word as a Campbell.”

“I’ll be ready by nine.”

She didn’t offer a flirtatious response, nor give him any indication his invitation was pleasing to her. But her frankness, perhaps more than all the deceitful flattery addressed to him now that he was commissioner, intrigued him most.

What would it be like to bed her, he wondered, this woman who spoke and acted with such candor? Would she be equally audacious in her lovemaking? he wondered.

A pleasant thought.

T
HE DOCTOR HAD COME AND GONE AND ROBBIE’S
housekeeper was bustling around him, offering him hot broth and tea, a pillow, a book to read while he rested in his chair.

“Thank you, no,” he graciously replied to each of her offers. “But I’ll have a hot toddy and a steak, and send Holmes to me, if you would.”

“I’m not so sertain ye should be havin’ a dram in yer condition, sair. The doctor dinna’ say naught about a dram.”

“My condition is fine, Mrs. Beattie. The bleeding has stopped, I’m bandaged within an inch of my life”—he lifted his injured arm slightly to display his sizeable dressing—“and if I could have some food and drink, I’d heal that much faster.” His mouth quirked in a boyish smile. “Now be a dear, bring me food and Holmes.”

“If ye promise to sleep a wee bit, at least.” Having helped the doctor remove the musket ball from his arm, she’d seen the ravaged flesh; he needed rest if he hoped to heal.

“I promise.
After
I’ve talked to Holmes.”

She nodded, satisfied.

Holmes was sent out on an errand shortly after, and
before Robbie had completely finished his meal, his man had returned.

“Tell me.” Robbie motioned him into a chair opposite him at the table.

“Lady Carberry is currently in residence at her town house, although Lord Carberry hasn’t come into town yet for the meeting of Parliament.”

“David prefers his hunting.”

“So it seems. The caddy at Carberry House says he’s not apt to appear until the last minute, nor will he stay long.”

“I’d like to talk to Amelia myself.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it, sir. Queensberry’s troops are everywhere like muck in the streets. Graham will take your message and cause no comment.”

“You spoke to him?”

“He should be here soon.”

“Thank you, Holmes, for your efficiency.” Robbie’s voice held a touch of fatigue. He hadn’t slept for several days; his surreptitious arrival on the coast and his subsequent journey to Edinburgh had been accomplished without rest.

Holmes was a family retainer who had inherited his position of steward from his father and grandfather before him, generations of Holmeses having served the Carres. So he was comfortable saying, “You need to sleep, sir. If not for your wound, consider you haven’t slept for days.”

“As soon as Graham is briefed.” A weariness had begun seeping into his bones; even he was forced to recognize it. “I want him to speak to Amelia today.”

And when Georgie Graham, a distant relation of
Coutts, arrived, Robbie quickly explained the message he was to carry.

“I want Lady Carberry to take Lady Kilmarnock’s children to the country—out of danger. Lady Kilmarnock agrees. I hope Amelia will, too. Don’t mention my name. Make it clear to her that the children have been threatened by Agnes Erskine, and ask her to call on Roxane immediately. Time’s critical. Queensberry will be both tireless and ruthless in his search, now that he knows I’m back in Scotland.”

“Done, sir.”

“No questions?”

The young lawyer shook his head and rose. “One, perhaps,” he said, picking up his gloves.

Robbie quirked his brows.

“When do you expect to have the library at Goldie-house back?”

Robbie smiled. “You liked the maps particularly, didn’t you?”

“Everything, sir, but the map room was superb.”

Robbie shifted slightly in his chair, the throbbing in his arm having reached discomfort level. “Douglas probably knows better than anyone, but certainly by fall.” He smiled faintly. “If all goes well, we’ll have my wedding at Goldiehouse.”

“Congratulations, sir.”

“A bit premature, perhaps. I’m not sure the countess has gotten used to the idea yet,” Robbie said, grinning.

“I’m sure you can persuade her.”

Robbie’s grin broadened. “I’m working on it.”