The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae by Stephanie Laurens
He shifted his gaze to her gold-and-green eyes. “Isn’t that a tad terse?”
She made a scoffing sound and plucked the sheet from his fingers. “You don’t know my brothers and cousins—and even that won’t work.”
He frowned. “Then why are you sending it?”
“So later they can’t say I didn’t warn them. Obviously.”
He could see nothing obvious about it; her view was clearly a female-only perspective.
“Also, getting a second letter from me at this point should make them realize that I’m still in London and that nothing I’ve said suggests I’m expecting to leave.” Having neatly folded the sheet, she picked up the pen and dipped the nib in the ink pot. “In addition, I’m sending this communication direct to the seat of power. To Devil. That way Honoria will read it, too, and might be able to exercise some duchessly measure of control.” Nib poised, she paused. “Possibly.”
Looking down, she inscribed her cousin’s title and direction on the missive, then blotted the sheet, leaned back, and held out the letter. “If Thomas goes around to Grosvenor Square now, there’ll be plenty of urchins about waiting to earn a penny holding the carriage horses—easy enough to get one to deliver this to the front door.”
Dominic took the letter, considered it for an instant, then tugged the bellpull.
While he waited for Mulley to appear, Angelica pushed back from the desk, rose, and went to the armchair beside which she’d left Robertson’s History. Picking up the tome, she sank into the chair, adjusted the footstool, then opened the book and settled to read.
To continue to read about the history of Scotland.
He’d wondered, at first, if she’d chosen the book merely to appear interested, but she truly was reading it, and he knew the contents were neither riveting nor entertaining.
He glanced at the note he held. Its contents shrieked of blatant manipulation. Her wording made it plain that her family, at least, knew her forcefulness, her forthrightness, well.
Like her, he couldn’t imagine St. Ives and her brothers and other cousins paying any attention to her directive, but their wives? Angelica’s expectation that the Duchess of St. Ives might exert influence over her powerful husband in such a matter was . . . eye-opening didn’t begin to cover the effect that revelation had on him. Yet Angelica’s expectation of a noble lady’s power with respect to her husband explained many things.
Such as her transparent assumption that he, Dominic, would consult her in all matters affecting them both, and, more, listen to any suggestions she might make.
Hearing footsteps approaching, facing setting, he walked to the door. Truth be told, if her suggestions were sensible and advanced his—their—cause, then he wasn’t such a nincompoop that he would stand on his dignity and refuse to accept her advice. He’d already done so several times . . . which, he now realized, might make him more like the Cynsters, more like her cousin Devil, than he’d supposed. That he might well be fated to have more in common with the males of her family than he’d expected.
Mulley tapped and entered.
Meeting him, Dominic handed over the letter. “Grosvenor Square. Thomas might be best, this time, but tell him to make sure he’s not spotted and followed.” He glanced at Angelica; she hadn’t looked up from the book. “Apparently there will be plenty of urchins in the square at this hour.”
“Indeed, my lord. I’ll see Thomas off with this immediately.” Mulley departed, closing the door behind him.
Dominic turned. His gaze on Angelica, he hesitated, then walked slowly back to the desk.
He was accustomed to wielding power—in his case more or less absolute power. He’d been head of the clan for the past five years, and none had either challenged that or sought to introduce their will alongside his. Not even his mother had bothered attempting that, not over the last five years. Angelica, however . . .
Sinking back into his chair, he re-sorted the papers she’d pushed aside to make space to write her note.
She didn’t make demands. She expected him to see the sense in what she said, and be intelligent enough, wise enough, to modify his plans.
To modify his role to accommodate what she saw as hers.
He considered how he felt about that. It wasn’t so much that the reins of his life were slipping from his grasp as that there was another—much lighter, less powerful—hand settling on the ribbons. One that only occasionally tweaked them.
The clock ticked on while he pretended to read a letter. Overall, he decided, he couldn’t complain. She was clever, observant, refreshingly quick-witted, and she had strengths he lacked. Most importantly, she’d thrown herself into helping him save his clan. Even though her exercising her feminine wiles made him uneasy, she was exercising them on his and his people’s behalf. And if he were truthful, he would have to admit that together he and she were a more powerful team—a more effective entity—than he alone had been.
That was a difficult truth to swallow—and his more resistant self still wasn’t inclined to give it credence—yet on a deeper level, he knew. And accepted.
Accepted that he was better off with her than without her. That now she’d joined her abilities with his, they stood a much better chance of succeeding.
And for that, he had to be not just grateful but thankful.
With that much resolved, he reapplied himself to the task of vetting the contracts for the upcoming year for the output of the clan’s distillery. Yet even as he switched from document to document, comparing clauses, inserting notes, he was intensely aware, at some level that ran just beneath his skin, of her sitting in the armchair, immersed in the history of his people, slowly but steadily turning pages.
He glanced at her more than once. And wondered if, between him and her, this was the calm before the storm.
Lord Martin Cynster ushered his wife into the library of St. Ives House. Across the crowded room, he met the eyes of his nephew Devil. “What have you heard?”
Over the hubbub and bodies filling the room, Devil waved them nearer. When they reached the desk, he handed Celia a note. “She’s written again, but damned if I know what to make of it.”
Celia unfolded the single sheet and read the note aloud.
The others in the room—all those who had been at the meeting the previous day, as well as Demon Cynster and his wife, Felicity, who had traveled down from Newmarket as soon as they’d heard the news—quieted as she did.
Reaching the end of the note, Celia frowned. “She’s up to something.”
“Exactly!” Seated on the chaise, Helena thumped her cane for emphasis. “It is perfectly obvious that she is pursuing . . . how does one say it? Ah—I have it—an agenda of her own.”
All the ladies nodded in agreement.
“But this time, there’s more,” Devil said. “Sligo answered the door and was quick enough to collar the urchin who’d brought the note. The boy swore a man—a young man, a groom, perhaps—had given him the note, but when he and Sligo searched, the man had disappeared. However, one thing the boy had noticed—the groom, or whoever he was, spoke with a Scottish accent. Of that, the boy was quite sure.”
“Scots,” Vane said. “So it is this business with the laird, but clearly it can’t be him, since he’s dead.”
“Hasn’t Royce learned anything yet?” Demon asked.
Grimly, Devil shook his head. “He and Hamish are still chasing the drovers who removed the bodies. However, in light of this latest kidnapping, we have to give credence to some ongoing threat.”
“Perhaps it’s some family vendetta,” Gabriel said. “And with the death of the laird, the sword, as it were, has passed to his heir.”
“Who can tell?” Lucifer ran a hand through his hair. “Hell’s bells—this is so frustrating. What can we do—what should we do?”
“For my money,” Honoria said, her voice cutting cleanly thr
Devil met his duchess’s eyes. “We can’t do that.”
Patience, Vane’s wife, shifted to stand beside Honoria. “The tone of that note makes it abundantly clear that Angelica considers herself in control, at least as far as she herself is concerned. It’s entirely possible that the last thing she needs is for us—meaning all of you—to raise a dust over this. She’s already asked us to cover up her absence, and that we will do, but you running rampant, searching all over and causing a ruckus, might harm her more than help her.”
“Much as I’d like to shake her,” Alathea, Gabriel’s wife, said, “simply because it’s so hard not knowing, she would never intentionally cause a problem like this—and I can’t see her having done so now, not without having a very good reason.”
“Which is to say,” Felicity—better known as Flick—concluded, “that much as it pains you, you will just have to accept that there’s nothing you can immediately do.”
A long pause ensued, then the men gathered around Devil’s desk once more, intent and urgent, and the ladies shifted to form a circle around Celia, now sitting on the chaise beside Helena, with her daughters, Heather and Eliza, beside her.
The ladies were all agreed, and therefore calm; even Celia saw the latest note as reassuring.
Their men, however, were, as the ladies also agreed, beyond reasoning with, and would simply have to be left to grump and growl and rattle their sabers until more was known.
“For if there’s one thing we can be certain about,” Heather said, “it’s that there’s no point searching for Angelica if she doesn’t wish to be found.”
Chapter Six
“I suggest we start in the front hall.” Once more in her borrowed clothes, Angelica led Mulley and Brenda through the green baize door. Griswold was busy doing laundry, and Jessup and Thomas were putting the stables to right in anticipation of their return later in the month.
Halting before the stairs, tipping her head back, she surveyed the cobwebs festooning the ceiling. She would have preferred to be with Dominic, but circumstances—specifically the papers on his desk—had forced her to find something else to do.
Withholding her consent to their marriage had only one purpose—to give fate and The Lady time to work their magic and induce him to fall in love with her. Her refusal to agree would also, she hoped, focus him on what was required to gain her consent, namely irrefutable proof that he loved her; if he dwelled on the point for long enough, she was sure he would work that out.
He wasn’t, however, likely to fall in love with her if they didn’t spend much time together. She needed to get him to herself, without a dining table or a desk piled with papers between them, and without his staff hovering.
But the previous evening, when she’d shifted his papers to make space to write her note, she’d seen that said papers were legal documents—contracts and agreements of various sorts. Although she’d never dealt with such things herself, her brothers and cousins did; she’d recognized the style of document well enough. Enough to realize that Dominic’s “clan business” was substantial.
If, despite his focus on reclaiming the goblet, he’d brought such affairs with him, then he truly needed to deal with them. Noting the rate at which the piles were reducing, she’d calculated that if she left him alone for the whole day, she would have a much better chance of claiming him tomorrow.
Needing to occupy her mind and energies, she’d elected to lead the assault on the front hall. “For a house that’s been shut up for more than forty years, it seems remarkably sound.”
Mulley leaned the ladder he’d carried in against one wall. “Was a caretaker couple lived here until earlier this year. They’d grown old and wanted to retire, so the laird pensioned them off. He hasna had the time since to find any replacement.”
“And now he won’t need to.” Scanning the hall, she said, “Everything here looks cleanable. Even those tapestries look sturdy enough. But before we start, let’s take a look at the reception rooms—I want to get a more complete idea of the scope of work needed to bring this place up to scratch.”
Walking to the pair of massive double doors to the left of the front door, she turned the ornate knob and pushed the doors wide. “The drawing room, I assume.”
Beyond the threshold, all lay in dimness, the furniture swathed in holland covers.
Brenda stepped past and headed to the windows. “Best let in some light if we truly want to see.” Grasping the heavy canvas curtains put up in place of any velvets or silks, she drew them apart.
Early summer sunshine streamed into the room through diamond-shaped panes. The windows were wider than they were tall, their sills at waist height; there were two sets spaced down the room, and at the far end, Brenda dragged long curtains aside to reveal an alcove containing a deep bow window offering a view over the side garden.
Surveying the room, Angelica was reminded of Elveden Grange, the Duke and Duchess of Wolverstone’s manor in Suffolk; that, too, was Jacobean. But this . . . this was much grander, a proper London mansion rather than a country manor.
Mulley had gone to examine the fireplace. Angelica joined him. While he checked the flue, grate, and hearth, she examined the heavy, ornately carved—fantastically carved—mantelpiece. She wouldn’t have chosen it, but it suited the room to a tee.
“All seems in order.” Mulley straightened. “Once we have the sweeps in, we shouldna have a problem.”
“Sadly the same can’t be said for these chairs.” Brenda had lifted one of the covers and was looking beneath. “Such a pity, too—they must have been so pretty.”
Angelica went to look. The chair beneath the cover looked solid and nicely carved, but the upholstery had all but disintegrated, the silks faded and halfway to dust.
“See here.” Brenda pointed to where the bottom of the cushioned back met the seat. “You can see what the original color must have been. Such a beautiful shade.”
“Turquoise.” Angelica knew it well. A sensation like cool fingertips ran up her nape. She glanced around, then walked to the wall and peered at the silk hanging, also much damaged by the passage of time. From what she could make out, it had been ivory embossed with small turquoise fleur-de-lis.
An elusive memory tickled, floated forward . . . when she’d been a toddler, barely able to walk, Celia’s sitting room in Dover Street had had the same wall hanging.
Turning away, she joined Brenda and Mulley in a more detailed inspection of the furniture—each chair and chaise, every side table, sideboard, occasional table, and footstool—noting what needed to be done to restore the room to its necessary glory.
Then Mulley retrieved two elegant candelabra from a sideboard and set them on top, and again she felt that odd sensation.
She stared at the candelabra—gilt with solid turquoise stems. Her father had given her mother a pair exactly the same for a wedding gift; they were still one of Celia’s most treasured possessions. Her brother Lucifer had told her the pair was rare and valuable. Turquoise of that quality wasn’t, apparently, easy to come by.
She glanced again at the chairs. The damage to the upholstery hadn’t been from wear but from the passage of time. She turned to Mulley. “Do you know who decorated this room?” He was in his late fifties; he might know.
“I heard tell it was the old master had it done—couldna really have been anyone else. Heard he had all the main rooms done up for some lady he was expecting to marry, but something happened and instead he closed up the house and never came here again.”
With a brief nod, she turned and walked to the bow window so they wouldn’t see the emotions chasing over her face.
This room had been decorated as a temple for her mother, one Celia had never entered. But now, years lat
Almost as if, a generation later, she was stepping into her mother’s shoes . . . except for one very pertinent difference. Mortimer had never been Celia’s hero. Dominic, however, was hers.
Refocusing on the scene beyond the window, she went closer and peered through one pane. “We’ll have to get a team of gardeners in as soon as we come back to London. Taming the wilderness out there will take months.”
Turning back into the room, she waved at Mulley to replace the candelabra in the cupboard. “They might as well stay hidden for the nonce.”
She helped Brenda resettle the holland covers, then followed Mulley through a connecting door into a gallery running down the side of the house.
Whatever Dominic had told his staff of the reasons he’d had to kidnap her, he hadn’t given them the entire story. In light of the lingering peculiarity she felt over effectively stepping into her mother’s shoes, she decided she was glad he hadn’t.
She waited until after dinner that evening, when they retired to the library, to beard her husband-to-be. But by the time she’d settled in her chair and mentally ordered her questions, he’d settled behind his desk and become immersed in his papers. Although the piles had shrunk significantly, she decided to bide her time; picking up Robertson’s History, she opened the tome to the page she’d last read and settled to continue.
In between paragraphs, she glanced at Dominic, watching the way the lamplight gilded his black hair, waiting for her moment.
He could feel her eyes on him, sense her wanting his attention; lips tightening, Dominic signed the last of the most urgent agreements, blotted it, set it aside, then, replacing the pen in the inkstand, raised his gaze to her eyes. “What is it?”
She paused, then asked, “Did you know that your father decorated this house for my mother, to her specific taste?”