Forgetting the Scot Read online

  “The club is often crowded on a Sunday night, but they should have two rooms available for us,” Bull said in his bored aristocratic drone.

  “Thanks, but I’ll stay at an inn.”

  “I won’t hear of it.”

  “I have the blunt.”

  “It’s not a question of money,” he said dismissively. “It’s a question of influence. More than a dozen members of Parliament belong to this club, men that will vote on Langley’s suit for divorce. It’s our chance to push them in the right direction, if you catch my meaning.”

  “Aye. I do.” Magnus thought for a moment as the coach jounced and veered around a sharp curve. “But what do you need me for?”

  “Testimony. You tell the tale of how the Sinclairs rescued the women. I guarantee they will be a rapt audience. I’ll be on hand to verify her identity. Make no mention of blame, no accusations. Oh, and leave out the part about killing Langley’s men. In fact, it’s in Lady Langley’s interest that we appear to be sympathetic with her husband. You know, poor, poor Langley buried his beloved wife only to have her return sullied by pirates.”

  Blood shot to his head and he surged forward, ready to break Bulford’s neck. “I’ll not have Virginia’s name dragged through the—”

  “Listen to me!” The command and fury of the man’s voice froze Magnus in place. “Stop thinking with what’s between your legs and use your thick Scottish head.” Magnus dropped back into his seat. “If you want this to work, if you want to free the lady from that monster, then you need these men prepared to vote in Langley’s favor when he sues for divorce based on infidelity. Infidelity is the strongest case.” Bulford took a deep breath. “You and I know she is a virtuous lady who has been much abused by Langley, and though she endured a harrowing experience, she is that much stronger for it.” When Magnus nodded his agreement, Bulford gentled his tone. “But you have to be a realist, Sinclair. People are going to believe the worst. We might as well use it to our advantage. The only chance she has of weathering this scandal is if she can get free of Langley.”

  Bloody frigging hell. It rankled him, but he had to admit Bull had his head on straight. He just hoped the man’s plan worked and that he wasn’t about to spend an evening slinging mud at a perfectly innocent woman for no good reason.

  “Where is this club?”

  “We meet at The Star and Garter in Pall Mall.”

  “A bawdy house?”

  “Don’t be stupid. It’s a tavern.” He’d insulted Bull, something he didn’t think was possible given how self-absorbed the fellow was. Bull went on, “The club rents a private hall in the back as well as a few rooms upstairs.”

  “And what do ye do at this gentlemen’s club?” he asked.

  “Drink gin and talk about horses, mostly.”

  Magnus’s interest pricked up. “Horses, ye say?”

  Bull gave an exasperated sigh. “Of course, horses. It’s the bloody Jockey Club, for Godsake. What the hell else would we talk about?”

  “Jockey Club. Why did ye no’ say so?”

  “I thought I had.”

  “Nae.”

  “I didn’t? Oh…well then, I apologize.”

  They sat silently, listening to the clop and rumble of the coach. Magnus supposed a club dedicated to a collective interest in horses wasn’t as wrong-headed as one dedicated to beaver hats and walking sticks or some such nonsense. This evening might not be as excruciating as he had originally imagined. In addition, he might make further inquiries into local breeders. Perhaps Bull or one of his gentlemen friends could recommend one who dealt in Percherons.

  Bulford reached up and banged on the roof of the coach. “We’re here.”

  A half hour later, he had settled into a tidy and well-appointed guest room. He’d washed and just finished changing into a clean shirt—or rather the cleanest shirt he had—when there was a rap on his door.

  “Ready to go down?”

  “Aye,” he called in answer. He had a good deal of blunt on him. Should he keep it with him and risk one of Bulford’s club members lifting it? Or should he hide it in the room and risk a maid finding it? He removed the purse from his traveling bag. It held paper bank notes, lightweight and soundless. He tied the purse to his belt, stuffed it down the front of his trousers, adjusted for comfort, and slipped on his coat.

  They took the stairs, their boots making a thundering racket on the way down to the club room. Magnus asked, “Do you favor a particular breed?”

  “Thoroughbred racehorses. I’ve three champions. I’ll be retiring one this season, my favorite. His name is Ruffian. He’ll still make me money in stud fees, but I’ll miss seeing him on the track. He was magnificent.”

  By the way Bull was talking about the animal, one would have thought he was in love. Magnus supposed he understood. It was easy to love a beautiful horse.

  Bull snapped out of his trance and asked, “Are you a horse enthusiast?”

  “Aye. I’m here to buy.”

  “A thoroughbred? Because I can recommend several breeders with excellent bloodlines.”

  “I aim to purchase a particular breed of warhorse—Percheron. I’ll bring it back to Scotland and breed it with native garron ponies. I believe a mix of their qualities will make for the ideal draft horse.”

  “Draft horses?” Bull uttered the words as if they were something found in chamber pots. “I can think of breeds far more diverting than draft horses.”

  “It’s no’ a hobby. I’m going to breed them, train them, and sell them.”

  “I dare say breeding racehorses is a more lucrative endeavor.”

  “Who has need of a dainty racehorse in the Highlands? Everyone needs a hardy draft horse.”

  Magnus opened the club room door on a scene reminiscent of his schoolboy days when the professor left the class unattended. Instead of a room full of starched shirts and shiny boots, they were greeted to a cacophony of shouts and curses, cheers and laughter.

  “Two bob says he’ll make it!” one man shouted.

  “I have three says he doesn’t!”

  “I neglected to tell you,” Bull said. “This late in the evening, there’s usually some wager afoot.” He gave Magnus’s shoulder an encouraging shove, and they stepped into the fracas.

  Two chairs had been placed approximately three feet apart atop a table. A walking stick laid across the chair arms spanned the distance between. On the seat of one chair, a man in shirtsleeves stood with one foot poised on its arm, an ale in one hand, and a cheroot in the other.

  “That’s Howard Goodbody,” Bulford whispered. “Every week, he comes up with a new trick. He’s got an amazing sense of balance.”

  Others shouted more bets. Some even bet on who would win his bet. The Englishmen’s willingness to wager on the absurd reinforced Magnus’s belief that men with too much money were always in a hurry to lose it.

  Someone banged on the table and called the betting closed. The racket lowered to a din.

  Goodbody placed one buckled shoe on the stick as if testing its stability, then hopped up on both feet. He teetered slightly and righted himself, calling forth a cheer of encouragement. He balanced the tankard of ale on the top of his head and, with both arms out to the side, he inched toward the center of the stick. Once there, he put the cheroot in his mouth and puffed. Whoops of laughter and cries of victory reverberated around the room until Goodbody’s arms started churning. A collective, ever-growing whoa rose from the room’s occupants as they stepped back from the table out of the way of tumbling ale, cheroot, walking stick, chairs, arms, and legs.

  “Unfortunately, Goodbody rarely succeeds.” Bull ushered Magnus toward the center of the room. His club members noticed Bull then, and made coarse but fond greetings. Goodbody picked himself up off the table and rubbed at his elbow. Bull asked, “Anything broken?” In answer, Goodbody held up his mangled cheroot.

  The exchange struck Magnus as hilarious. His deep rumbling laughter drew the attention of everyone in the smoke-filled room.
Did Scots laugh differently than English?

  Bull put an arm around him. Magnus’s first instinct was to free himself from the chummy embrace, but Bull held fast. “Everyone, I’d like you to meet my guest, Mr. Sinclair, from the untamed northern reaches of our fair isle. He has an interesting story to tell, which I’m certain you will all want to hear.”

  Chapter Ten

  Virginia woke to the scrape of draperies opening. She turned to her left expecting to find the window in her room at Balforss. Instead, she saw a tall cherry wardrobe, and rather than the much-loved Balforss maid, Haddie, Iris bustled toward the bed.

  “Morning, m’lady. Your gowns are in the cupboard right where you left ’em. We didn’t change a thing.” She dropped to a whisper. “Miss Mina wanted to clear everything out, but then, when we read about you in the paper, we knew you was coming back to us. So, Garfield kept stallin’ and we never got ’round to it.”

  “It’s good to see you again, Iris.”

  The young rosy-cheeked woman made a hasty dip. “Thank you, m’lady.”

  Iris assisted with dressing and pinning up her hair. The routine had ended in an unintended tangle of limbs. So used to doing for herself, she kept reaching when she should have held still. She placed her spectacles on and inspected the mirror. Virginia was all trussed up in a well-boned corset and buttoned into a sedate gray muslin. Iris had done a beautiful job with her hair, but she didn’t look like herself—the Balforss Virginia—Magnus’s Virginia. Instead, the old, mousy Virginia stared back at her. She would do her own hair in the future and hope that Iris wouldn’t be offended. For now, though, she went down to the solar where she knew she would find Aunt Mina. Hopefully, someone had prepared the woman. She wouldn’t want her sudden appearance at the door to shock her aunt’s heart. Or did she?

  “Good morning, Aunt Mina.”

  Mina glared at her from the other end of the breakfast table. “They told me, but I wouldn’t believe it until I saw it with my own eyes.”

  So. Not even a chilly welcome from the spinster.

  “Didn’t you receive my letter?”

  “I threw it in the fire the instant I read it.” Mina rose from the table like a Titan, her face a mask of outrage. “How dare you come back. How dare you show yourself on my doorstep—”

  “On my doorstep,” Virginia corrected.

  “After spending three months under those filthy criminals. If one of them has got you with child, I’ll not have it in this house.”

  Virginia sighed. Without even a pause to let her tell her story, Mina had jumped directly to the worst possible scenario.

  “That isn’t your decision to make.”

  “Thank God your father is dead or it would surely kill him to see his daughter returned a whore.”

  “You had best watch what you say to me, Aunt. This is my home and you are here at my pleasure.”

  Mina set her teeth on edge. “This is your husband’s house, and I am here at his pleasure!”

  Virginia said nothing. Faint whispering came from the hallway just outside the door. The servants had heard the entire exchange. She didn’t care, and she didn’t bother to correct Aunt Mina’s assumption about her captors having had their way with her. She didn’t care what Mina thought. She didn’t care about a blasted thing at this moment beyond getting free of Langley. That was her only avenue to a future—a future for her and for building the home for foundlings with Mrs. Pennyweather.

  “Just what do you expect to accomplish by coming back here?” Mina asked.

  “Sit down, and I will tell you.” Virginia went to the sideboard, poured herself some tea, heaped a plate with eggs, sausages, and toast and returned to the breakfast table. She marveled at how calm she was, both in her movements and her speech. Where did it all come from? Perhaps Magnus had planted it inside her, as if his seed could transfer his strength and courage. She smiled at the fanciful thought.

  “What is so funny?”

  “Nothing at all, Aunt. I’m just happy to be home.” She slipped a forkful of egg in her mouth and took a deep breath through her nose while she chewed. My goodness, this morning tasted good.

  “Well?” Mina asked. “Are you going to tell me why you’ve returned or not?”

  “As we speak, my solicitor is drafting a letter to Langley.” She slathered butter on her toast and reached for the jam pot. “In it is my demand that he will obtain an annulment from Parliament with these conditions: One, that he pay all fees associated with the suit for both parties.” She dolloped a glob of marmalade on her toast. “Two, that he will return my trust money. And three, that he will sign the deed to this house to me.” She took a big, sweet bite.

  “He’ll never agree to any of that.”

  Virginia wiped a drop of marmalade from the corner of her mouth and licked her finger. “Well, he’ll have to agree to some of it. He’s married a second wife. He is now a bigamist.” For the first time, Virginia’s curiosity was piqued. “By the way, who is the unfortunate woman who was fool enough to marry Langley?”

  “Lady Ellington.”

  “What?” She set her toast down.

  “Sir Henry’s daughter, Miss Huntington.”

  “Jemima Huntington?”

  “Yes. Lord Ellington died, leaving Lady Ellington a very wealthy woman.”

  Jemima was Lucy’s dearest friend. She’d even named her daughter after her. Although Virginia knew the young woman only peripherally, she had been aware that, at age eighteen, Jemima had married a seventy-two-year-old man, most likely a desperate measure arranged by her parents to save them from bankruptcy. With her second marriage to Langley, she’d gone from a bleak situation to a potentially lethal one. Like so many women, including herself, she’d been used by her father like currency. How long would Jemima be able to tolerate Langley’s abuse? Even more disturbing, how long before Langley grew bored with Jemima and repeated his treachery?

  “I should warn her,” she said to the eggs on her plate.

  “What are you talking about?” Mina barked.

  Jemima was Lucy’s friend. She’d never be able to face Lucy if she knowingly left the woman in danger. “I need to warn her.” She shot up from the table and hurried into the hall. “Garfield. Garfield!”

  He appeared from the kitchen. “Yes, my lady?”

  “Have Sam bring the barouche around. I’m going to Bromley Hall.”

  “I beg your pardon, my lady, but you can’t. It’s too dangerous.”

  “It’s important, Garfield. Please. Another innocent woman may be on the receiving end of Langley’s temper. I have to get her out of that house before Mr. Sinclair delivers my list of demands.”

  “Your Ladyship, I have never ignored a request from you before, but I cannot do as you ask this time. I have vowed to keep you safe, and I intend to follow Mr. Sinclair’s orders.”

  Virginia put her hand over the pewter button Garfield wore on his lapel. “You know very well, neither you nor Mr. Sinclair could allow another woman to be harmed by Langley. You must help me.”

  Garfield took in a deep breath. “Very well, my lady, but we shall go to Bromley Hall prepared.”

  …

  The pounding on his door matched the throbbing in his head. He couldn’t recall the last time drink had laid him so low.

  “Sinclair. Time to wake. We need to get to Richards, Eggbasket, and Something-or-other by nine. We’ve a scant ten minutes for breakfast.”

  “Be there in a trice.” He groaned and tested the floor with one foot. The English had tried to poison him with gin last night. The colorless stuff had looked harmless enough. It had tasted like pine needles and juniper and probably should have spent three more years in the barrel before it was fit for human consumption. Christ, and the English called Highlanders savages.

  Magnus pulled on the clothes he hadn’t remembered removing last night. A panicked thought had him scrabbling through his belongings. He found his purse and breathed again. Nothing was missing. Bloody hell. No more gin for him. Ev
er.

  As he washed, he pieced together the bits of the evening he did recall. Bulford’s friends had been less detestable than he had expected. Like children, they’d listened to him tell about the battle aboard the Tigress. They had especially enjoyed the most gruesome parts. Was it possible that none of these men had ever seen a battle? They’d taken in every word and never questioned the veracity of his statements. They had even laughed at his jokes. He hadn’t thought of the English as a people with a sense of humor.

  The aroma of fresh coffee, sausage, and burnt toast filled his nose before he reached the bottom of the stairs. At least his appetite hadn’t abandoned him. Bull waved from across a sparsely peopled breakfast room. Bloody hell. Another frilly tablecloth and rickety chair.

  “I’ve ordered you the full kit.” Bull used the pinky on the hand holding his fork to point at the plate. “It’s the best breakfast in London, in my opinion. Sit. Eat,” he commanded in-between swallows and vigorous chewing. “We may not have time for luncheon today.”

  Magnus liked coffee no better than tea, but it smelled good and would probably cure his headache. He added a good amount of cream and wrapped a hand around the fragile china cup, the handle being too small for his fingers. He downed the contents in several gulps, exhaled, and wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. It was then he noticed the unusually perturbed look on Bull’s face.

  Magnus ventured a safe question. “How did your audience receive my performance last night?”

  Bull shoved a jam-laden triangle of toast in his mouth and talked around the wad of bread. “Aside from the fact that all my friends are calling me Bull, now, thank you very much, we did rather well.”