The Capture of the Earl of Glencrae by Stephanie Laurens
She looked levelly at him; for a long moment, she didn’t react. Then she blinked, and searched his face, as if examining not his words but him. “Was that your considered and previous opinion? Or is this declaration because of what occurred last night?”
He tried to keep his frown from his face, but didn’t entirely succeed. “Last night provided a perfect demonstration of why we should keep a reasonable distance. I—we—cannot afford to be distracted from our currently overriding and critical purpose. Conversely, later, we’ll have plenty of unencumbered time in which to give such matters our full and undivided attention.”
“Hmm.” She arched her brows. “There is that—the prospect of us applying our full and undivided attention to the matter.”
He set his jaw; now was not the time to respond to such taunting. He waited, but, her gaze now distant, she merely crunched her toast, apparently lost in considering . . . he didn’t want to imagine what.
After another full minute of crunching, he gave in and prompted, “So you agree? No more intimacies until later—until after we have the goblet in our keeping.”
She blinked. “What?” She refocused on his face. “Oh. Well, if that’s your declared position”—she shrugged—“far be it from me to argue.”
He looked at her, at her expression, which had remained devoid of any strong emotion. They might have been discussing some minor social issue for all that showed in her face.
And he had absolutely no idea what that meant.
Frustration rose; he couldn’t be sure he’d successfully corralled her sirenlike tendencies, but he had no wish whatever to discuss the matter further, especially not with her. Pushing back his chair, he stood. “I have business in town, close by the castle. I’ll see you at luncheon.”
“Yes, all right.” She peeked under the teapot lid. “Can you send MacIntyre back—I could do with more tea.”
Jaw clenched, he walked out of the room, entirely unsure who had won that round.
He next set eyes on his countess-to-be as he strode back from a discussion with his Edinburgh-based agent. She and Brenda were standing on the pavement of High Street opposite Tron Kirk, apparently examining the construction of its spire.
She spotted him as he crossed the street. Her face lit—and his lingering irritation over their morning’s encounter fled. She had a smile like an angel and eyes to match, and she used both shamelessly, yet as long as it was him she was beaming at he felt it would be churlish to find fault.
On reflection, he’d concluded that their exchange over the breakfast table had been a clash without the clash; she hadn’t specifically agreed with his stance, but at least she’d acknowledged she now knew what it was. What she did next . . . wasn’t in his control. He’d have to wait and see, then counter whatever move she made, which, given he was highly experienced in that particular field and she wasn’t, shouldn’t prove too difficult.
Discussing whisky sales with his agent had had a calming effect.
“Have you completed your business?” Tipping up her red-gold head, now crowned in a fetching bonnet, she studied him as he halted beside her.
“Yes. I’m on my way to see about the horses. The stables I use are near the palace, so I can walk you home.” He glanced at her new finery, which included a finely wrought parasol, presently furled. “If, that is, you’ve finished shopping and are headed that way?” It was only eleven o’clock; if she wanted to shop more, she had time.
“Yes, indeed. I managed to find everything I needed. I sent the parcels to the house with a delivery boy so Brenda and I could stroll.”
“In that case . . .” Taking her hand, he wound her arm in his. She smiled and they set off, strolling through the crowds ebbing and flowing up and down the High Street.
She was wearing a new gown in fresh spring green that showcased her figure exceptionally well and complemented both her complexion and her stunning hair. He was aware that passersby were surreptitiously staring, but she seemed oblivious. While she clearly appreciated what beauty she had, and would, he felt sure, use it as a weapon against him or any other male in her sights, and although she clearly liked fashion and pretty things as much as the next lady, he was starting to suspect she had no truly vain bone in her body.
They’d crossed North Bridge Street and resumed their progress along High Street when she slowed, then glanced at him. “From what Eliza said, the house she was held in was somewhere near here.”
Looking into her eyes, he saw nothing more than her usual curiosity. “It’s in Niddery Street.” He tipped his head across High Street. “Over there.”
Her eyes lit. “Can you show me?”
He didn’t bother asking why; the answer would be that she simply wanted to know. He was starting to understand what drove her—not all that difficult, as it was similar to what, given the same situation, would have driven him.
They parted from Brenda, her presence unnecessary now that he was escorting Angelica. When they started down Niddery Street, Brenda walked on.
Halting opposite Number 23, Dominic tipped his head across the street. “That’s it.”
Angelica studied the façade, remembered what she’d heard of Eliza’s rescue. “Eliza and Jeremy told me about the . . . vaults—is that the term?”
Dominic nodded.
“Do you know where they are—these vaults?”
“Yes. But no, I won’t take you to see them.”
She frowned. “Why not?”
“Because you’re not dressed for it.” When she blinked at him, he continued, “Did your sister and Mr. Carling tell you the story of the vaults?”
She shook her head.
He turned her back up the street. “They were originally the spaces between the foundations of the two bridges—South Bridge and North Bridge.”
She allowed him to lecture her about the vaults and their occupants, and why as a lady she couldn’t visit, and pretended not to notice that he was leading her back into High Street and on toward his house; she hadn’t expected him to take her into the vaults, but she’d wanted him to deny her something before she asked for what she really wanted.
When they reached the top of Vallen’s Close, she halted and looked up at him. “Where are these stables you use, and is the massive chestnut you often ride there?”
He hesitated, then said, “The stables are on Watergate, and, yes, Hercules is there.”
She beamed. “In that case, I’ll come with you—I’ve heard rather a lot about your very large horse.”
His eyes on hers, he hesitated some more, clearly uncertain over what she might be up to. Confident that nothing of her machinations, much less her intentions, showed in her face, she waited for him to probe. Instead, his lips firmed and, with a barely detectable air of resignation, he nodded. “Very well.”
Resettling her hand in the crook of his elbow, he turned and they continued along Cannongate to Watergate and the stables.
Dominic’s suspicion that his not-so-innocent intended had some ulterior motive in wanting to accompany him to the stables proved well founded. After duly admiring Hercules, her interest clearly genuine, and simultaneously charming old Griggs, the stable master, she demanded that she choose her own horse.
Well, not demanded, precisely, but she insisted on both having her say and sticking to it in the teeth of his opposition, implied as well as stated, and with Griggs on her side, and Dominic not having any grounds on which to deny her horsemanship other than his own prejudices, he was driven back, step by dainty step, until he discovered himself with his back against the wall and not a leg to stand on.
Hands on his hips, he looked into her face, at her expression—one of unflinching and unwavering determination. Stubborn didn’t come close to describing the resolution burning in her eyes.
He saw it all now, saw their excursion down Niddery Street for what it had truly been, but she
Triumph flashed through her eyes, but she was wise enough not to crow.
Keeping his voice low so Griggs, waiting further down the aisle in the expectation of making an unexpected sale, wouldn’t hear, he said, “You can have the damned filly, but you will leave the negotiations to me.”
She beamed. “Thank you.” Stepping back, she left him with a clear path down the aisle.
He considered Griggs, then, without looking at Angelica, said, “Come with me, but don’t say a word. However, make sure Griggs knows how much you’ve set your heart on that horse.”
She brightened even more and did as he asked, allowing him to use Griggs’s dual wishes—to sell a horse that few riders could handle, and to ingratiate himself with the future Countess of Glencrae—to drive down the asking price on the spirited black filly his devilish angel wanted for her own.
After more than an hour of manipulation—hers, his, and Griggs’s—as well as the inevitable bargaining, Dominic quit the stables with the horses for the following morning organized, a brilliantly beaming Angelica on his arm, and an unsettling suspicion that in warning him to be wary of her, his instincts had been nothing but right.
They reached Cannongate. He glanced down at her.
She looked up, studied his face, his eyes, then smiled—a much more unnerving, understanding smile. Then she patted his arm, looked ahead, and murmured, “Don’t worry—you’ll get used to it.”
He nearly snorted. He would have loved to deny the assertion categorically . . . except he had a sinking feeling she was right.
“The long and the short of it,” Devil said, “is that although we’ve located all the Scottish peers known to have been in London on and around the night of the Cavendish soiree, not one of them looks anything like the laird, nor is there any reason to suppose that kidnapping Angelica, let alone the other two, ever entered any of their heads. More, I had a chance to speak with Cavendish and managed to introduce the subject of Scottish peers—he assured me no such gentleman attended his wife’s soiree.”
Vane grimaced. “That is indeed the sum of it.”
A brooding silence fell over the library where Devil, Vane, Demon, Gabriel, Breckenridge, Jeremy, and Martin had gathered to pool all they’d learned.
Alasdair, better known as Lucifer, Angelica’s other brother, had only just returned to London after fetching his wife, Phyllida, and their tiny baby daughter, Amarantha, from Devon. Phyllida had not approved of not being in London to support Celia, and she had the added advantage of being able to distract her mother-in-law with her new grandchild. Lucifer now sat in a chair before the desk, fingers steepled before his face. “Perhaps we’re approaching this from the wrong angle.”
“There’s another?” Martin asked.
“Yes.” Lucifer spread his hands. “Who was it who inveigled Angelica out of Lady Cavendish’s salon?” He looked around, but no one answered. “She wouldn’t have gone off on her own. Even if we credit the substance of her notes, that she’s gone to help a friend desperately in need, someone must have contacted her at the soiree—given her an urgent message, at least. Something of the sort, otherwise she wouldn’t have left. And that someone doesn’t have to be the laird—he might still be behind it, but as with Heather and Eliza, he might have used some pawn, in this case someone who had the entrée to Cavendish House.”
“You’re right,” Gabriel said. “Whoever contacted Angelica and got her out of the house is the key. We leapt to conclusions about the laird and Scotland—which may yet be true—but we overlooked that.”
“Well,” Demon said, “it’s harder to get at that point without talking to other guests who attended the soiree, which we didn’t want to do because we don’t want Angelica’s disappearance made public.” He studied the others’ faces, his gaze coming to rest on Martin’s. “Are we going to risk it getting about that she’s vanished, or . . . what?”
Martin considered, then grimly shook his head. “That’s the one thing she asked in her note—that we conceal her absence from the ton. And our ladies have done a magnificent job doing just that. If we act to overturn their good work—”
“We’ll never hear the end of it.” Devil grimaced.
“Wait a minute.” Vane sat forward. “There’s one source of information that might prove sufficient for our needs.” He looked around the circle. “The ladies themselves. The grandes dames, too. Whoever was there that we can safely interrogate.”
Gabriel snorted. “Safely interrogate? With grandes dames, there’s no such thing. However, I take your meaning—they might have seen something without realizing its significance, and it’s perfectly possible that between them they might well know who Angelica spoke with just before she disappeared. So . . . Helena was there, Celia of course, and Louise must have been because Henrietta was there, too.”
“Who else?” Devil picked up a pen and started making a list.
In the end, the list numbered six. Devil agreed to speak with his mother, Helena, and his duchess, Honoria, both of whom had attended. Demon volunteered to pin down his mother, Horatia, and Gabriel similarly agreed to approach Celia. Lucifer was deputed to ask Louise and, if he could manage it, talk to Henrietta, too.
“Which,” Vane said, casting the others a jaundiced look, “leaves me with Lady Osbaldestone.”
“It could have been worse,” Martin told him. “But luckily for me, Aunt Clara didn’t attend.”
Vane humphed, but couldn’t argue. Unraveling his great-aunt Clara’s peripatetic discourse would give anyone a headache.
“Right.” Devil set down his pen. “We’ll all go and request audience and enlightenment, and if whoever we speak with can suggest any others who we might in safety approach, do that, too. It’s only the middle of the afternoon, but finding our targets at home, in a state to speak with us privately, may mean waiting until tomorrow . . . let’s reconvene here on the morning of the day after tomorrow.”
The others nodded or grunted in agreement. Rising, they left the library, still unwaveringly determined on their hunt.
Angelica swept into the drawing room that evening in an extremely mellow mood, further gilded by anticipation.
She was wearing one of her new evening gowns in a delicate shade of violet; she’d convinced the modiste to dispense with all ruffles, ribbons, and bows, and felt justifiably pleased with the result.
Dominic had been standing before the hearth, staring at the blaze; hearing her, he turned. If the arrested look on his face was any guide, her sartorial arrow had found its mark.
His gaze raced over her, then returned to linger on her breasts, the upper swells enticingly revealed by the sweetheart neckline. As she halted before him, he blinked, then raised his gaze to her face, to her eyes. “I thought . . .” He blinked again, then frowned. “Isn’t that rather . . . unfussy?”
She smiled. “You mean plain—and yes, deliberately so. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, I’m neither tall, nor overendowed, so frills and furbelows make me feel—and look—weighed down. Simple and elegant, however”—she waved a hand down her figure—“is more flattering, and serves to display but not disguise, thus shifting the focus from the gown itself to what’s in it.”
Looking into his eyes, she let her smile deepen. “And as you see, it works.”
His eyes narrowed; she could see him toying with some response, but in the end, he only grunted.
“My lord, miss, dinner is served.”
They both looked across to see MacIntyre standing just inside the door.
Dominic glanced at her, then offered his arm. “Dinner, my lady.”
She smiled, serenely confident, and set her hand on his sleeve.
As he led her into the dining room, Dominic inwardly shook his h
Why, he didn’t know; just seeing her left him half aroused—he didn’t need further stimulation.
He sat her in her chair, then walked up the table to his. MacIntyre and the footmen brought in the platters and the meal began.
Contrary to his expectations—he was starting to suspect that she delighted in confounding them—her conversation held no hidden agenda but was wholly focused on their upcoming journey.
“Brenda’s packing everything she can this evening so we won’t keep you waiting in the morning.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “Are you truly set on leaving at dawn?”
He nodded. “First light—as soon as there’s light enough to ride safely.” After a moment of debating whether he really wanted to know, he asked, “How many bags do you have?”
“Only three—and one bandbox, of course.”
“Of course.”
She registered his dry tone, but only smiled. “I know you ordered sumpter horses, so there won’t be any bother with only that much luggage.”
He grunted—a non-reply—but he knew that, for a lady of her station, three bags and a bandbox was traveling very light.
They talked of this and that, touching on and reassessing all the preparations for the trip, but neither he nor she uncovered any lack or oversight. The interaction, however, necessarily drew his gaze again and again to her face—to her lips, to her eyes, to the shadows her lashes cast on her cheeks.
At one point, wine sleeked her lower lip; he watched, unwillingly fascinated, as her tongue came out and swept over the full curve. He thought of his own tongue doing the same, then . . .