Page 11 of Roseanna (The Shackleford Legacies #3)

Eleven

‘May I present Dougal Galbraith. Dougal, this is my granddaughter, Roseanna.’

Roseanna looked at the scrawny man in front of her in slight alarm. Truly, he looked as though a puff of wind would blow him over. ‘Good evening, Mr Galbraith. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Please, call me Rosie.’ She dipped into a brief curtsy and smiled politely.

He looked her up and down for a second before turning to her grandfather. ‘Has this lass been gaen the job o’ keepin’ me oot o’ mischief, along wi’ ye, then Augustus?’

The Reverend gave a light laugh which ended in a cough. ‘Come now, Dougal. It’s not like that at all. The Duke simply thought you would enjoy seeing a little of Devonshire rather than merely standing around making polite conversation with strangers.’

‘Aye, well, he has the right o’ it. Boring bloody sassenachs the lot o’ ‘em.’

‘Why did you come, Sir?’ Roseanna asked curiously.

Leaning forward, the Scot gave her a toothless grin. ‘Look o’er there at ma boy. He be the one who looks like he be suckin’ on a lemon.’ Rosie looked over at Jennifer’s husband, Brendon. He was staring over at them anxiously. She turned back to Dougal as the old man added, ‘The boy thinks ah’m awa in the heid.’ He tapped his forehead for emphasis and gave a wink. ‘Ah wouldnae hae missed this fer the world.’

‘I think he could well be right,’ Reverend Shackleford retorted with a sigh, abandoning all attempts to reassure Dougal that they had his best interests at heart. ‘You and I both know you’d relish the opportunity to cause an international incident.’

The old Scot laughed delightedly and slapped his thigh. ‘Aye, ye be a sight fer sore eyes, Augustus,’ he declared. ‘Ah’ve truly missed yer wit.’ He looked back to Rosie. ‘An it’s nae often ah’m gaen the opportunity tae hae a bonny lass on ma arm. Where ye be takin’ me the morra, then?’

Rosie looked uncertainly at her grandfather. ‘We thought we’d show you the village of Blackmore,’ she smiled. ‘Then I will leave you in my grandfather’s hands while he takes you for lunch in the Red Lion.’ She gave a small cough before adding, ‘And in the afternoon, we thought you might like to see a little of the Devonshire countryside. The Duke has been kind enough to allow us the use of his carriage.’

‘Will yer wife, Agnes, be comin’ along wi’ us, Augustus? Ah’ve nae haed a chance tae meet wi’ her yet.’

Roseanna looked around, suddenly realising that her step grandmother wasn’t present. Even she knew it was very unlike Agnes to miss a free meal. ‘I thought grandmama would be here this evening,’ she stated. ‘Is she unwell perchance?’

‘One of her megrims,’ the Reverend answered, ‘though I suspect this month’s periodical might have arrived a day early. Mrs Higgins sent her a full dinner.’ Rosie fought the urge to grin. Her grandmother never went anywhere without her salts, regularly swooning at even the slightest upset. Indeed, every house with a Shackleford residing in it was furnished with at least one chaise longue. The histrionics never seemed to affect Agnes’s appetite though.

‘Well, please give her my love and tell her if she is well enough, I would welcome her company in the carriage tomorrow.’

Her grandfather gave a snort. ‘I’ll ask her, but If it’s between the hours of two and four, you’d have more chance of becoming leg shackled to the King of England than getting her off that deuced chaise.’ He turned to Dougal, who was listening to their discussion, his eyes bright with interest. ‘I’m certain Agnes…’ but what he was certain of was interrupted as Mrs Tenner stepped into the room and banged a small gong.

‘Your graces, dinner is served,’ she intoned with an imperious bend of her head.

Unfortunately, the stampede of youngsters that followed her announcement was anything but well-mannered.

Predictably, Dougal was seated between Roseanna and the Reverend at dinner and despite her anxiety at the thought of spending the next few days in the company of the irascible old Scot, Rosie found herself actually enjoying his company. Surprisingly, her grandfather too was in fine form, and the time passed more quickly than she’d expected.

As the dinner was drawing to a close and the younger family members taken off to bed, she suddenly wondered how on earth the Duke was going to get his brothers-in-law alone. If Dougal got wind of what was happening behind the scenes, everything would go to hell in a handcart. Despite having known him for only a few hours, Rosie fully accepted that the universally expressed concerns had definitely not been overstated.

But she needn’t have worried. The Duke’s manner indicated that any private conversation would undoubtedly take place after the rest of the family was abed. A few minutes later, the ladies rose to leave the gentlemen to their port. As she got to her feet, Rosie gave her grandfather a questioning look, unfortunately intercepted by Dougal, who gave a dark chuckle.

‘Dinnae fash yersel, lass,’ he grinned. ‘Ah’ll nae be giein yer grandda any flumgummery this night. A wee whisky an’ ah’ll be ready fer ma bed.’

Indeed, Dougal was as good as his word, and after bidding everyone goodnight along with a bow that would have impressed Brummel himself, he disappeared up the stairs. The Reverend too didn’t linger, and Rosie was reminded that despite his larger-than-life character, her grandfather was no spring chicken. As she watched the Duchess order a carriage to be brought round, Rosie couldn’t help but notice the slight concern in her aunt’s eyes as she kissed her father goodnight.

Glancing over at the large grandfather clock, Rosie allowed herself to think about her upcoming assignation with Tristan Bernart for the first time that evening. The butler had not been waiting on the table during dinner, so for the most part, she’d been able to push it out of her mind. She’d told no one of her intention - not even Francesca. In truth, she’d felt particularly uncomfortable keeping such a secret from her sister - usually, she and Frankie told each other absolutely everything. Picking anxiously at her skirt, Roseanna told herself that this was different. She was not meeting the butler for a romantic tryst, and her uncle had made it clear earlier that the discussion in the study was not to go beyond those four walls. But it still felt to Rosie like a betrayal. And not only that, she was entirely certain that her uncle’s edict most definitely precluded any clandestine meetings in the dark.

Watching her cousins play charades, Roseanna wondered if she should simply decide not to go. Certainly, it would be the sensible option, but in her heart of hearts, she knew that wild horses wouldn’t keep her away. And that was the most troubling thing of all.

By the time Tristan had finished his chores, it was nearly time for his meeting with Lady Roseanna. In truth, he couldn’t imagine what had come over him to arrange such an encounter – and with a young woman of noble birth with whom he’d conversed on only three occasions. What was even more surprising was her acceptance. He told himself he was merely looking out for her welfare and simply wished to warn her against anything foolish. But what could be more foolish than meeting a strange man in the garden at night? Truly, he was bloody addled.

He didn’t know what it was about her that drew him. While he was no stranger to women, he’d certainly never felt this unaccountable urge to protect one before. While he was incarcerated in Mont St. Michel, Tristan had spent months without uttering a word and since then, conversation had never come easy to him. Indeed, most of the time, the whole idea of talking for talking’s sake was completely foreign to him – even after he’d become fluent in English.

While he was at school, he’d spent most of his time alone. Friendships were something to be wary of, and he was most comfortable in his own company. It wasn’t that he was considered rude – though the Duke’s niece might well disagree – and he was mostly liked well enough by his peers. They just considered him odd – but then, odd was to be expected from a frog . The term was mostly used in jest, and in truth, Tristan felt no loyalty to his former countrymen. They’d nearly killed him after all.

The only loyalty he had was to Roan Carew. Without his mentor, Tristan had no doubt he would not have survived into adulthood. Likely he would have starved to death in that hellhole, but even after escaping – it was Roan who gave him a reason to keep living.

Inevitably, his thoughts drifted back to the mystery of Etienne Babin and the Comte d’Ansouis. He did not think the bogus Count would recognise him. The scrawny lad he’d been while he was at Babin’s mercy had long since gone. As had his French accent – though he could still speak his birth country’s language well enough.

He didn’t dare examine his feelings about the brute who’d abused him so much – those emotions had been firmly locked away in a remote corner of his mind. Nevertheless, he didn’t doubt that Babin had killed his saviour. Their subsequent discovery about the Revisionists could well provide the key as to why.

Taking off his apron, he glanced over at old Mrs Higgins, asleep in her customary chair next to the range, before speaking in a low voice to the other two servants still finishing off the dishes. Unusually, the rest of the kitchen staff were already abed. They’d been given leave to retire early in preparation for the long gruelling hours they’d be working once the guests began arriving for the annual party.

Bidding the kitchen boy and maid a good night, he picked up a candleholder. The candle in its cradle was already burned halfway down, but with luck, it would last another hour or so. Holding it high, he made his way towards the door leading out into the kitchen garden, but before opening it, he placed the small light on a shelf set high in the wall. He guessed that Roseanna would likely come this way, and he would not have her stumble in the dark. Lifting the latch, he gave a dark, twisted smile. What a considerate man he was… The irony of it had him gritting his teeth.

Unfortunately, the feeling that he was behaving like a craven rogue didn’t leave him as he stepped out into the night and he held the door open, fighting the sense of shame that swamped him. It didn’t matter that he had no intention of taking advantage of a young, innocent woman. The meeting alone was enough to ruin her. He hesitated in the doorway. The whole thing was pure madness. But there was still time to cry off.

Suddenly certain, he turned to go back inside, only to see the shadowed shape of a lady walking towards him, a little dog at her heels.

Trembling, Roseanna clipped on Trixie’s lead and picked up her shawl. She’d retired early as usual and could only hope that no one came to check on her before they retired. Just in case, she placed one of the pillows vertically under the bedclothes. Without a light, anybody looking would think her asleep. Then, picking the little dog up, she moved towards the door. Her heart was thudding hard against her ribs as the sheer folly of what she was doing consumed her mind. Gnawing anxiously at her bottom lip, she pushed the door open a little way and peeked out onto the landing. It was empty. Breathing a sigh of relief, she stepped out and put Trixie down onto the floor. If anyone should stop her, she was simply taking the dog out to do her business. It was certainly not an untruth, though her inability to lie would undoubtedly see her in the suds.

To her relief, she met no one, and within five minutes of leaving her bedchamber, she entered the seldom used corridor leading to the kitchen garden. Fortunately, a lone candle had been left on a shelf, so she was able to see her way. Seconds later, she slowed, almost to a halt as she realised there was a figure standing in the doorway at the end of the corridor. Despite the shadows, she knew instantly that the person holding the door open was the man she was coming to meet.