The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae by Stephanie Laurens
Chapter Nine
Angelica woke as dawn was painting the sky in washes of rose and gold. The others in the coach lay silent, still asleep. For long moments she listened to Dominic’s heart thud softly beneath her ear, then she slowly eased his heavy arm from around her and sat up.
She straightened, stretched, settled her hat, then looked out of the window. Ahead to the right, the rock on which Edinburgh stood rose above the plain, its outline softened by wisps of mist wafting off the nearby firth. As she studied, assessed, expectation and enthusiasm, curiosity and interest stirred, then slowly welled.
Dominic shifted, then leaned nearer and looked past her shoulder. “Almost there.”
He drew back and she glanced at him. “You must be happy to see it again.”
“Truth to tell, I’m still struggling to accept that we’ve got this far without tripping over your family, either in person or via an agent or hireling.”
“I told you they’d never think of the mail.” For good reason; she felt literally rattled to her bones.
Turning back to the window, she watched the town draw nearer.
They swung under the arch of one of the main coaching inns a few minutes before seven o’clock. After tipping the coachman and guard, Dominic hefted his bag and joined an eager Angelica, waiting with the others in the street. In a group, they set off, walking up the rising street into Auld Town.
“This is South Bridge Street, isn’t it?” Angelica asked.
He nodded. “You said you’d been here before.”
“With Mama and Papa for some social event—some old friends of theirs.” She looked around. “We weren’t here long, but I remember this street, and the church with the big spire.” She pointed ahead. “What’s it called?”
“Tron Kirk. It’s on High Street. East to west, Cannongate, High Street, and Lawnmarket make up the main street, running from Holyrood Palace to the castle.”
She peppered him with questions as they strode up South Bridge Street, then turned right along High Street and continued on into Cannongate. She slowed to peer through shop windows; eventually waving the others on, he waited until, her curiosity appeased, she rejoined him. With more questions.
That he’d expected. What he hadn’t anticipated was her energy, her enthusiasm, the unbridledness of her curiosity. Her interest radiated from her, lit her eyes and face . . . made him wonder if, now she’d decided to step past her nervous filly stage, if—
He cut off that line of thought. Later. He’d decided it would be later. Through the journey his libido had stepped back, giving way to the greater need to protect her; he didn’t need it reemerging and slipping its leash now.
They reached the corner of Vallen’s Close. He tipped his head down the street. “This way.”
Angelica followed him down the cobbled street. Eyes wide, she looked back, to the side, then forward again, taking in everything she could. No youth was likely to evince such open interest, but she no longer considered her disguise important. Not as important as learning and absorbing everything she could about Dominic’s life.
The life that henceforth she would share.
The houses in Vallen’s Close were the largest she’d thus far seen. She assumed they belonged to the aristocracy; the palace was not far away.
Halting before a grand old house, Dominic opened the gate set in the wrought-iron railings. He caught her eye, then walked up the short path and climbed the five steps to the raised stone porch. He waited until, eager to see what lay behind the dark oak front door, she joined him; he studied her for an instant, then reached for the latch—just as the door swung open.
A benevolently benign white-haired butler looked at Dominic and beamed. “Good morning, my lord. Welcome back.”
The simple joy in the words declared beyond question how Dominic’s staff saw him.
“Thank you, MacIntyre.” Dominic glanced at Angelica. “And this is Miss Angelica Cynster.”
MacIntyre transferred his blue gaze to Angelica. Wishing she hadn’t been dressed as a youth, she smiled and inclined her head. “MacIntyre.”
The butler’s gaze remained on her face for an instant longer than it should have, but then a smile creased his cheeks and he bowed. “Welcome, Miss Cynster. We’re delighted to welcome you to Glencrae House.”
Dominic waved her in. She crossed the threshold half expecting cobwebs and dust over everything. Instead the place was not just clean but polished; she smelled the lemony scent of good beeswax.
Looking around, eyes widening, she drew in a long breath, then slowly exhaled. Oh, yes! She could definitely see herself as mistress of this.
Walking forward several paces, then halting, she slowly pirouetted, taking in all aspects of the wide hall. MacIntyre quietly closed the door, then both he and Dominic stood watching her. She let her delight color her expression, let her pleasure light her eyes. “This is just lovely.”
The room was an exhibition of linen-fold paneling, and more generally of the woodcarver’s art. A strip of plastered wall a yard wide ran between the upper edge of the paneling and the cornice, and that was filled with paintings and portraits in ornately carved gilded frames. Other than that, the walls were paneled or encased in wood in one way or another, and all the furniture—the central round table, the two high-backed chairs flanking the fireplace, and various side tables and wall tables—was of the same rich, glowing oak. The carving decorating the balustrade and newel posts of the wide stairs that led upward from the hall echoed the frieze decorating the mantelpiece.
Despite having so much wood of a single hue, the room was vibrant with color. A fire leapt in the grate, throwing golden light over jewel-toned tapestries and crimson velvet curtains and cushions, the ruby hue echoed in the Oriental rugs spread over the flagged floor. The result was warm and welcoming.
A door at the rear of the hall swung noiselessly open. Dominic glanced that way and smiled. “And this is Mrs. McCutcheon, who with MacIntyre keeps this place in order.”
A tall, thin, pleasant-faced woman, Mrs. McCutcheon swiftly scanned Dominic, then bobbed. “Welcome back, my lord.”
Turning to Angelica, Mrs. McCutcheon curtsied. “And a welcome to you, miss. We hope your stay here will be comfortable.”
Angelica smiled. “I’m sure it will be.” She watched a small procession line up behind Mrs. McCutcheon.
MacIntyre stepped forward. “This is Cora, miss, she’s our first parlor maid. And this is Janet . . .”
Dominic might not have informed his staff of her pending status, but presumably the others had passed on their assumptions. Regardless, her strategy of not yet agreeing was a matter between her and him alone. With appropriate grace and sincere interest, Angelica allowed herself to be conducted along the short line—three maids, two footmen, a cook, a scullery maid, and an errand boy. When she reached the end, Dominic stepped to her side and together they faced the assembled staff.
“Mrs. McCutcheon, if you could show Miss Cynster to her room, and then”—glancing at Angelica, Dominic caught her eye—“perhaps breakfast in an hour?”
“Of course, my lord.” Mrs. McCutcheon came forward. “The rooms are prepared and we’ve everything ready.” She turned to Janet. “I’m sure Miss Cynster would like more hot water to top up the bath.”
A bath? Angelica beamed. “That would be lovely.” She would kill for a bath.
Mrs. McCutcheon nodded approvingly and waved to the stairs.
Starting up them, Angelica saw Dominic with MacIntyre in attendance walk across the hall and into a corridor leading deeper into the house. Curiosity tugged, but for once she held it back. She would explore later. First . . .
She slowed so Mrs. McCutcheon came alongside. “I can’t thank you enough for thinking of a bath, let alone having it ready and waiting.”
“Och, weel, I couldn’t imagine you wouldn’t be wanting to sluice th
“I do so agree.” Looking toward the top of the stairs, Angelica asked, “Which rooms have you prepared for me?”
“Why, the countess’s suite, of course. His lordship told us on his way down to London to have all ready for his bride-to-be.”
So that’s how they’d known. The man did like to plan.
He also tended to assume that all would go exactly as he planned.
Reaching the head of the stairs, Mrs. McCutcheon led the way to a pair of doors at one end of the gallery. There, she halted and faced Angelica.
Halting too, Angelica met the older woman’s eyes; still lightly smiling, she arched a brow.
Mrs. McCutcheon studied her, shrewdly and frankly evaluating her.
Not entirely surprised, Angelica waited patiently under the scrutiny.
Then Mrs. McCutcheon’s lips eased. “I do believe you’ll do. He needs a wife with fire and a will to match his.” She lifted her gaze to Angelica’s hair. “Reckon he’s found one.”
Angelica laughed. “Oh, yes, indeed. Rest assured, Mrs. McCutcheon, that much is true.”
“Aye, weel, in that case, you’ll do nicely.” Struggling to look severe and failing, Mrs. McCutcheon threw open the doors and waved Angelica in. “So let’s see what we can do about that bath you’re wanting.”
A little more than an hour later, Angelica descended the stairs, once again in her turquoise silk ballgown, fichu in place. Brenda had washed and ironed both gown and fichu, but while Angelica now felt blissfully clean and presentably neat, she wasn’t at ease over wearing such a gown during the day. If anyone called—unlikely, but still—she would feel dreadfully silly.
“Gowns,” she declared as, having followed Janet-the-very-helpful-maid’s directions, she walked into the breakfast parlor; Dominic was sitting at the head of the table, a news sheet in one hand. “I need more gowns. We agreed I would get them here.”
MacIntyre held the smaller carver at the foot of the table for her; with a smile, she allowed him to seat her. Then she looked up the table and caught Dominic’s gaze. “I believe you can direct me to some suitable modistes?”
Dominic looked into her greeny-gold eyes. “I’ll make a list.”
“Excellent.” She reached for the toast rack. “So, what now?”
Laying aside the news sheet, he picked up his coffee cup, sipped as he ordered his thoughts. “Our stay here needs to be as short as we can make it while getting all we need in place for the journey to the castle and our stay there, and arranging anything else that might make convincing Mirabelle to return the goblet easier.” He focused on her. “So you need to get your gowns and anything else you might require. Meanwhile, I’ll organize a horse for you and attend to those business matters I can’t avoid. I’m hoping to clear my slate so I can devote the coming weeks to reclaiming the goblet.”
She crunched her usual slice of jam-laden toast, swallowed, then asked, “From here, how long will it take us to reach the castle? Incidentally, what’s it called? I don’t think you’ve ever said.”
“Mheadhoin Castle. It stands on an island in Loch Beinn a’Mheadhoin, in the eastern part of Glen Affric. How long it will take us to reach there . . .” He looked down the table at her. “That will depend on how well you ride.”
“Assume well. In fact, assume I won’t be the laggard of the group.” Angelica fixed him with a level gaze. “So how long will it take if you and the others go as fast as you can?”
From the way he hesitated, his gaze on her, she felt certain he hadn’t accepted her assessment of her equestrian abilities, but she could educate him along the way.
“If we leave first thing one morning, while alone I can make the distance inside three days, as a group we’ll reach there on the afternoon of the fourth day.”
“That long?” She hadn’t realized it would be that far.
“It’s mostly reasonable road, but we won’t be able to get remounts, so it’s not simply a matter of speed but also of spelling the horses, and that means we ride from dawn to as long as the light permits. Every day.”
The prospect didn’t bother her. “Hmm. All right. As we need to leave as soon as possible and getting new gowns is going to take time, I should start on that immediately. However”—she waved at her ballgown—“I can’t be seen in public like this, not during the day, and I can’t borrow a gown from anyone in the house, not to visit modistes.” After a moment’s reflection, she said, “Janet, the maid, is close to my size. I could send her to buy a ready-made walking gown, and once I have that, I’ll be able to visit the modistes and arrange what I need.”
“If you can instruct Janet well enough to be happy with her purchase.”
“I’m sure she and I will manage.” She caught his eye. “So . . . what’s my dress allowance?”
He held her gaze. Eventually said, “If I give you carte blanche, will you buy something outrageous just because you can?”
“Of course not. I’ll bear your dignity in mind, I promise.”
He softly snorted and looked down. “Just tell the modistes to send the bills to me here, at Glencrae House.”
“I take it they’ll know the direction?”
He looked up and met her eyes, and didn’t say anything more.
“All right.” Sobering, she calculated. “How long do you think we’ll be here?”
“I assume that will depend on how long you take to assemble your wardrobe.”
“A challenge?” She widened her eyes at him. “Have I told you how much I enjoy challenges?”
“No. But I feel sure I’m going to find out.”
“So! One more day—that’s all we’ll need.” Allowing Dominic to seat her at the foot of the dining table in the smaller of the two dining rooms—the principal dining room could seat thirty comfortably—Angelica felt absurdly triumphant. “This afternoon I visited all three modistes on your list, and each swore they’d have the gowns I commissioned from them ready by tomorrow evening at the latest.”
She flicked out her napkin. “The first gown from each should be delivered tomorrow morning, so I’ll be able to go out and purchase the other things I need.” As he settled in his carver, she looked up the table at him. “Tell me—is there any reason that, dressed as a young lady, I need to avoid notice here, or can I walk and shop freely?”
He considered the question while the soup was served. “Your family will have accounted for your absence—they won’t have allowed your disappearance to become public knowledge.”
“Definitely not. I did ask them to concoct a suitable tale, and we’ve grown rather experienced in that skill of late.”
He inclined his head. “Precisely my point. So there’s no reason to assume that if anyone not in the know sees you here, they’ll think it odd. They’ll assume you’re here with family or visiting friends. The only reason to hide and race back here is if you spot anyone from your family, or anyone who might be close enough to know of your disappearance and raise an alarm.”
“All right—so I can roam freely, but I should keep my eyes peeled.”
That decided, they gave their attention to the meal.
Angelica was particularly pleased with the standard of the dishes. She’d already won over Mrs. McCutcheon, and Janet, and was working on MacIntyre, but overall the staff had proved very ready to embrace her as their soon-to-be mistress and accord her the control due to Dominic’s countess.
In some respects, the household reins were already in her hands, but she was being judicious in how she managed them. She’d always viewed controlling any reasonable-sized staff as similar to managing a team of horses; one needed them all running in stride and in the same direction, but the best results were invariably gained through having a light hand on the reins.
As the meal progressed, her satisfaction mounted. She wondered if
Eventually, with the end of the main course in sight, he leaned back in his chair and regarded the remains of the guinea fowl on his plate. “That was excellent. I can’t recall ever having better. I must remember to compliment Cook.”
She smiled delightedly. “Please do. Then Cook can pass your compliments on to your new undercook, who will then decide that this is an excellent household in which to work, meaning one where her skills are appreciated.”
Dominic paused, then asked, “I have an undercook—a new one?”
The angel at the end of the table nodded, transparently pleased with herself. “While I was waiting for Janet to return with the walking dress, I met with Mrs. McCutcheon and MacIntyre. We agreed that in order to cope adequately with all future requirements, the household needed an undercook, and Cook knew of an excellent candidate who was trying to make up her mind which of several offers to accept.” She grinned, her green-gold eyes alight. “So you’ve stolen the French-trained undercook the Earl and Countess of Angus thought they’d successfully wooed.”
There was competition for undercooks? “I didn’t realize . . .” He waved a hand. “No, forget I said that. You may rule the household as you deem fit as long as I have no mutinies in the ranks.”
“Of course there’ll be no mutinies.” She humphed, but her dimples assured him she wasn’t offended.
He’d never shared such exchanges with any other female. Back-and-forth comments about ordinary day-to-day things, quick verbal jousts spiced with challenge, laughter, and the camaraderie of shared goals.
Mitchell had been gone for nearly four years; no one could ever take his cousin’s place, but Dominic’s unexpected countess-to-be seemed to be carving out her own niche in his otherwise closed and very private world.
That she had so eagerly, efficiently, and effectively stepped into the shoes of his countess-to-be here, too, was reassuring.
He studied her while dessert was being served; when all but MacIntyre had withdrawn, he asked, “Do you enjoy organizing staff, and so on?”