The Highland Countess (11 page)

“Dyed, of course,” commented the calm voice of his fiancée at his elbow.

Lord Toby glanced down at Miss Sampson in some surprise. His Henrietta was not being spiteful, of course, merely making one of her practical observations.

“Do you refer to the Countess of Murr?” he asked.

“If that is she,” said Henrietta, “the female with the impossible colored hair.”

“I assure you it is not dyed,” said Lord Toby. “I met the lady and her husband some seven years ago when I was touring Scotland. It is a dramatic color, I admit, but quite usual in the Highlands of Scotland.”

“Poor girl! How unfortunate!” said Henrietta, with a complacent pat at her brown curls. “But then she is newly come to town and will learn that
dark
beauties are the fashion. She is quite mature of course and perhaps I should advise her to wear caps.”

“As I remember, she is some two years older than you, Miss Sampson,” said Lord Toby with some asperity.

“Really!” Henrietta fanned herself languidly. “It must be the rigors of the climate.”

Lord Toby looked back at Morag. Her figure was now full-breasted and mature. She moved with an ethereal grace, and more than one man stared at her hungrily.

He was suddenly angry that she could laugh and dance with such seeming unconcern. She had seen him, after all. Surely she remembered him. Well, he was not likely to find out. He knew she was probably already bespoke for every dance. An elderly gentleman came to claim Henrietta’s hand for the cotillion and left him free to go in search of his friends.

He found the Honorable Alistair in a secluded corner clutching one puffy ankle, his chubby face rather white.

“Wrenched it,” said Alistair gloomily. “And I am supposed to dance the waltz with the beautiful countess. Could you find Harvey for me? I would ask you to take my place but you’ve got that cursed prejudice against the Scottish race.”

“I shall take your place,” said Lord Toby and turned away abruptly, leaving Alistair with his mouth open.

Morag was promenading round the ballroom with Lord Freddie in an interval between dances. Neil Gow and his fiddlers struck the opening bars of the waltz and Morag curtsied to Lord Freddie and turned to look for the Honorable Alistair. She gave a little gasp as she found the green eyes of Lord Toby Freemantle glinting down at her.

“Mr. Tillary…?” she said in an almost pleading voice.

“He has twisted his ankle,” replied Lord Toby, “and has begged me to replace him.”

Morag moved wordlessly into his arms. Lord Toby looked bitterly down at the top of her glowing curls as he whirled her round in the steps of the waltz. She had no right to look so enchanting. He wanted to shake her. To shout at her. To demand an explanation.

“Why?” came a soft whisper from his partner.

He stumbled slightly with surprise and looked coldly down into her blue eyes. “Why, what?” he demanded rudely.

“Why did you leave without saying good-bye?”

Toby stared at her. He was tempted to snap that he hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about. Instead he said, “Do not remind me of the follies of my youth, madam. I have since learned that to attempt to seduce another man’s wife—however willing she may be—is pretty bad sport.”

Morag stopped abruptly, face aflame. “There are more ways of abusing hospitality than you think, my lord,” she said in a low voice. “Breaking hearts is one of them.” She turned on her heel and left him standing in the middle of the floor. He was unaware for a few moments of the staring, curious faces. “Breaking hearts.” What had she meant? She could not possibly mean…

His heart beat hard and fast and he felt a suffocating lump in his throat. He must follow her and ask her. He started across the ballroom in her direction, unaware that he had just received one of the biggest set-downs that Almack’s had ever seen.

But before he could reach Morag’s side, his fiancée was at his elbow, her eyes snapping with curiosity.

“What a monstrous thing to do!” she exclaimed. “What
mauvais ton.
And to cut you in Almack’s of all places. How dare she!”

For the first time, Lord Toby became aware of a circle of staring curious eyes. “I said something unforgivable to Lady Murr,” he said in a clear, carrying voice. “I shall call on her tomorrow to apologize.”

There was a little sigh of disappointment from his listeners. It was a storm in a teacup, that was all.

“How noble of you! How brave!” cried Henrietta. “To take the blame when all the world and his wife knows my lady is a trifle
farouche
.”

Lord Toby pulled her angrily away from their audience and did not open his mouth until he had found a quiet corner.

“Don’t be so vulgarly jealous,” he said icily.

Henrietta stared at him in amazement. Never had he used such a tone of voice to
her.
Others, yes, for he was famous for his set-downs. She opened her mouth to say something cutting but decided at the last moment to change her tactics and burst into tears instead.

Lord Toby stifled a feeling of impatience. Where had his serenity of the morning gone? Only that morning the idea of making this girl his wife had seemed such a desirable—an eminently sensible—thing to do.

“Don’t cry,” he said wearily. “I cannot abide watering pots. I like you for your calm good sense, Miss Sampson… Henrietta. Come, my love. Dry your tears and I tell you what I will do for you. You know you are desirous of going to the Montclairs’ breakfast tomorrow. Then I shall escort you.”

Morag glanced over her partner’s shoulder and saw the girl with the brown ringlets turn a glowing face up to Lord Toby. Her heart felt like a lump of ice in her bosom.

“Who is that girl with Lord Freemantle?” she asked Harvey Wrexford who was partnering her. Harvey twisted his long neck around. “Oh, that’s Toby’s fiancée,” he said carelessly. “Announcement’s in the newspapers in the morning. Managing sort of female, but Toby’s a cold fish where women are concerned… more of a man’s man, don’t you see.”

Morag nodded dumbly. She wanted to go home and hug Rory and then go to bed and lay her aching head on a cool pillow.

What a truly terrible evening!

What a truly terrible evening
, thought Miss Simpson. Rory had had the time of his life at her expense. He had greedily ordered all sorts of goodies from the kitchen and had rounded off the evening by demanding wine. Grimly Miss Simpson had given it to him and had awaited the expected result. Rory had blinked several times like an owl and then had fallen fast asleep.

After she had put him to bed, she returned to the drawing room and sat deep in thought. She had never told Morag the full extent of Rory’s villainy. Miss Simpson was terrified at having to return to her brother’s farm and she was sure that Morag would send her away were she to complain of Rory. She was too old to find another position. But she ached to see Rory punished as he deserved, and the only person who could hurt him was his mother.

All children in Miss Simpson’s care—including Morag—during her long years governessing had been in her complete charge and, sad to say, she had bullied them mercilessly.

Morag had not forgotten that bullying—of that Miss Simpson was sure. For although Morag was softhearted enough to supply her with the post of companion, she had made it quite clear that Miss Simpson was to have no authority over Rory.

Miss Simpson cracked her bony knuckles and came to a decision. She would
write
to Morag, a clear and lucid letter. She could put it better that way since she hardly ever managed to see Morag without Rory being somewhere about.

Then that hell’s spawn would receive the whipping he deserved!

Lord Toby Freemantle walked slowly in the direction of Albemarle Street to pay his respects and offer his apologies to the Countess of Murr. He began to wonder if she would even see him.

Forget about the rights and wrongs of the matter, it was old history and he had had no right to insult her. And if he did not find what she had meant by “breaking hearts” he would be unable to rest. Once he had received her explanation, he convinced himself, the ghost would be laid and he would be free to resume his placid if somewhat boring existence.

Although it was early afternoon, the day held a harsh bright glitter and a rising wind whipped pieces of paper round in miniature whirlwinds in the cobbled streets.

He paused for a moment to watch the splendid sight of the Sun Insurance Fire Brigade tearing into action, brass bells clanging, great horses straining, and the firemen in their leather helmets, striped stockings and blue coats clinging to the engine’s side. The freshening wind whipped this way and that, tugging at his hat and playing in the snowy folds of his cravat.

A huge butler with the pale gray narrow eyes of the Highlander answered the door to him and accepted his card with a clumsy bow. He was shown into a small saloon on the ground floor which was tastefully decorated in shades of green and gold.

After some minutes, he became aware that he was not alone. A beautiful child was lolling in a chair in the corner of the room. Rory and Lord Toby surveyed each other in silence. Rory was feeling queasy after his debauch of the night before.

“Are you come to see mama?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Toby, feeling a strange pang and wondering what on earth was the matter with him. Morag had been married after all. It was only natural she would have a child. He now realized that despite all the old earl’s winks and hints, he had in his heart of hearts believed Morag to be virginal. He must have been mad.

“Are you Lord Toby Freemantle?” queried Rory, swinging his feet listlessly over the edge of the chair.

Lord Toby stared at the child in surprise. “Yes, I am. How did you guess?”

“Green-eyed sneering dandy,” said Rory vaguely. “You’ve got such green eyes I thought she must have meant you.”

“Has anyone ever told you you are an insolent young pup?”

“Frequently,” replied Rory with great indifference. Lord Toby studied the child narrowly. Rory felt too ill to put on his usual angelic expression. He was too tired to think of any blackmailing tricks and so Toby was one of the few people to see Rory for what he was—his better side anyway—a frighteningly high intelligence starved for an outlet.

“I supposed you are cramming for Eton,” said Lord Toby.

“No,” sighed Rory. “I am too young and charming to be sent away among a lot of rough boys.”

“You should not mock your mother.”

“I! Never!” cried Rory hotly. “But I would like to learn, oh, so many things. Mother teaches me, you know. But it’s mostly romantic stories which were all very well when I was a boy, but now I am a young man,” added eight-year-old Rory loftily, “such things bore me.”

“You do not need to fret over your lack of education,” said Toby gently. “There are plenty of books, you know. You can educate yourself.”

“Really!” said Rory with a languid, affected drawl which grated on Lord Toby’s nerves. “Pray tell me, if you were my tutor what books would you have me read?”

“Books on steam engines, sailing ships, and horses. Books of travel describing far countries. Books of shells and birds and insects.”

Rory’s eyes gleamed and he sat up. He was as starved for fact as his “mother” had been for fiction.

The door opened and Hamish entered. “I am afraid her ladyship is not available,” he said.

Lord Toby bowed his head. “I see. Present my compliments to her ladyship and my apologies. Lady Murr will understand.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Hamish moved to show Lord Toby out but Rory sprang to his feet. “Lord Freemantle is
my
guest,” he cried. “Pray leave us!”

Hamish ignored Rory and moved to the double doors which led from the saloon into the main hall.

Rory stared at Lord Toby with pleading eyes.

Lord Toby did not find Rory charming but he found the child’s intelligence fascinating. He made up his mind.

“Leave us, please, a few minutes,” he said, turning on Hamish a singularly sweet smile.

“Very well,” grunted Hamish. “But I hope your lordship knows what he is about.”

He went out and closed the doors behind him.

“Now,” said Rory, all his languor gone, “if you will buy me these books you describe, I will arrange a meeting with my mother.”

Lord Toby’s face hardened. “No, my little blackmailer. You may ask your mother to take you to a bookseller.”

“I can make things very difficult for you,” pointed out Rory.

“No, you can’t,” said Lord Toby. “There is nothing you can do except slop around feeling vastly sorry for yourself and cramming your mouth with sweetmeats and getting spots on your face.”

“My skin is beautiful,” cried Rory, dancing up and down on a chair in front of the looking glass over the fireplace in an effort to see his face. There was one spot, he eventually noticed, right on his forehead.

Tears of anger filled his eyes. But no one else had ever understood him as well as this tall, handsome lord who stood watching him indifferently.

He suppressed his anger and climbed down from his chair. “We could deal extremely well together, my lord,” he said, turning the full blast of his charm on Lord Toby.

“There is no reason why we should,” rejoined Lord Toby, picking up his hat and cane. “Now I must be off. I am to attend the Montclairs’ breakfast and my fiancée will never forgive me if I am late.”

Rory, in a last effort to please, rushed and held the doors open for him. But Lord Toby did not even notice. He did not, after all, know that Rory normally never held doors open for anyone other than his mother.

After Lord Toby had left, Rory sat down and stared moodily into space. A glimmer of an idea formed in his brain. For the first time in his life, he wanted someone to like him. And that someone was Lord Toby. He stood on tiptoe and ran his fingers through the cards on the card rack on the mantelshelf. Ah, here it was! An invitation to the Montclairs’ breakfast. Why did things called “breakfast” always begin at three o’clock in the afternoon? He extracted the invitation and went in search of his mother.

Morag was feeling tense and nervous. She wished now she had seen Lord Toby. But he was engaged and she didn’t like him anyway and he was rude and unkind and why did she care so desperately?