Page 3 of The Elusive Earl (The Bad Heir Day Tales #3)

CHAPTER THREE

“Sebastian doesn’t speak of the war,” Morna said, taking up Tempi’s reins. “I gather he distinguished himself in various capacities, despite having bought his commission against his uncle’s wishes. Thank you, Tavish.” The groom touched a finger to his cap and stepped back from the ladies’ mounting block.

Graham hadn’t offered a leg up, which Morna would have found awkward in many regards.

“You call the marquess Sebastian?” Graham asked, swinging onto a sturdy bay gelding.

“I do. He blames the title for his banishment, and in that he’s correct. Sebastian’s uncle wanted him raised among the English, lest he be at a disadvantage should the title ever befall him. I’ve always called him Sebastian, and he saw no need for more formal address between old friends.” Friends was stretching it a bit. More than a bit.

Graham nudged his horse forward. “We shouldn’t be gone long, Tav. Two cups of tea, a bit of a chinwag, nothing more.”

If Graham was worried that Sebastian would snub him, he gave no sign of it. If he thought calling a marquess by his first name too presuming, that wasn’t obvious either.

I’m as blind as Lanie when it comes to the man who used to be my only real friend. That was a blessing, of course. “Tell me about Australia.”

“Australia is beautiful, wilder than you can imagine, and not for the faint of heart.”

The horses toddled down the path that led to the carriageway while Morna rummaged around for safe topics.

“Pretty day for a hack.”

“Aye.”

Hopeless. “The earl’s suite was to your liking?”

“Aye.”

Why had he asked her to accompany him on a call that amounted to a mere formality? “That’s a handsome horse you’re riding.”

“True, short for Trueno. Means thunder in Spanish. Your mare has the look of some Clydesdale stock about her.”

“On the dam side. Her name is Tempi.” Short for Tempête , which in French could also mean… thunder. A lifetime ago, Morna had delighted in such coincidences with Graham. They were twinkling confirmation that two hearts had been meant to beat in happy synchrony forevermore.

Young people were so gullible.

The horses passed through the gates, and the situation struck Morna as both silly and sad. Once upon a summer, she and Graham had talked for hours. They’d argued, sung duets, gossiped, made up stupid limericks, and conversed on any topic they pleased. Nothing out of bounds, nothing too scandalous, though Graham’s sense of privacy was as formidable as Morna’s, or had been.

He was responsible for Grandmama’s death, but made no apology for it. What friendship could bridge such a chasm?

“Will you be leaving?” Graham asked. “Now that I’ve come home?”

“Do you want me to leave?”

He turned his horse in the uphill direction. The ground was dry, the countryside washed in pale sunshine, and the air deceptively chilly. A Scottish spring day that would leave the teeth of any Englishman chattering. The road was also pocked with the usual crop of post-winter potholes and erosions and would make for hard going by coach.

“I want you to do as you please, Morna. The MacNeils will always look after Lanie, and the castle is your home, but I appreciate that my return might make life awkward for you.”

“Your departure made life more than awkward, Graham.”

“For me as well.” Said with sadness and a bit of humor, but still no apology.

“You served out your sentence,” Morna said slowly. “I thought the sight of you would inspire me to castigations and cursing, but much to my surprise, I can’t seem to muster public displays of ire toward you.”

“Private ire tends to be the more serious variety. You are entitled to be angry with me.”

He sounded resigned. Weary almost, though a more vital specimen had never sat upon a horse. Graham had gone away a young man somewhat given to superficial pastimes and come back a mature fellow in his prime. No impulse would overcome his self-discipline, no foolishness escape his notice.

We all grow up. Grandmama had said that, then usually added, Except for dear Brodie .

“I am disappointed in you, Graham.” Also angry, but the disappointment had been the most devastating.

“I am frequently disappointed in myself, but rather than expound on that gloomy topic, you never did answer my question. Will you still bide with us now that I’m home, or take your rightful place in proper society?”

What was he going on about? “I am on my way to call on a marquess of such longstanding acquaintance that he insists I use informal address with him. Exactly what proper society do you have in mind for me?”

The road wound upward, the gelding managing the incline as easily as Tempi did, despite carrying the heavier rider.

“Edinburgh boasts excellent entertainments come spring,” Graham observed while appearing to take in the view of the greening countryside below. “For the truly dedicated, there’s always a Mayfair Season.”

This short hack to visit a neighbor was becoming daunting. “I spoke of a Mayfair Season when I was little more than a schoolgirl, Graham. The older version of wishing to be a fairy princess. You wanted to defeat the Corsican monster with your claymore in single combat, though nobody fights with a claymore these days.”

He drew his horse to a halt. “Morna, will you be staying or going?”

She could read nothing, not one thing, from his countenance. He gave away neither impatience, nor dread, nor exasperation, and certainly not any hope. His eyes, the blue of the Scottish saltire, were merely steady and direct. His dark hair riffled in a frigid breeze.

Tempi plodded onward. “I have no plans to leave at present.” Not for lack of speculating about same, a pointless pursuit when one had nowhere to go and nobody to go with.

“Good to know.” His gelding caught up with Tempi in two strides. “You have my thanks for not haring off and for coming along on this call. MacHeath was always fair-minded to a fault, but even he might look askance at the neighborhood felon dropping by for tea.”

“Sebastian killed people on purpose. Grandmama’s death was the next thing to an accident. I have wondered if the Almighty so conveniently forgives the soldiers while condemning the accidental felon.”

Eight years was a long time to ponder any subject. John had counseled Morna to summon patience and tolerance. Grandpapa had said little, but his actions—seeing Graham safely provisioned, seeing him personally on board the transport ship, organizing the earldom’s affairs such that solicitors would oversee the lot…

Grandpapa, who’d grieved the loss of his wife sorely, had forgiven Graham from the outset. He hadn’t even believed in Graham’s guilt, despite the evidence and a signed confession.

But then, Grandpapa had been old and bereaved.

“What else have you wondered, Morna MacKenzie? You look at me with the particular considering scowl that says you are engaged in deep cogitation.”

“None of your business.”

He emitted a short, rusty guffaw, and Morna urged her mare into a canter. Tempi obliged, and Graham was canny enough to allow several lengths’ distance before he kept pace. The rest of the journey up to the MacHeath monstrosity—a true castle, complete with crenellations, walks, and dungeons—passed in silence, while Morna did indeed indulge in some cogitation.

She had loved Graham with the girlish devotion of the untried and hated him with the fervor of a woman betrayed. She faulted him for being careless with Grandmama’s remedies, but that flaw, as serious as it was, could be considered an example of human imperfection in a tragic setting. Graham was subject to fatigue, preoccupation, lapses of concentration, the same as any other mortal being.

Or he had been as a younger man. He looked as if a Highland winter would barely cause him a chill now.

What had hurt Morna beyond bearing was his complete rejection of her from the moment the physician had demanded an official inquiry. That inexplicable breach of trust had fueled a bitter, flaming rage and a determination to verbally thrash the man responsible should the occasion ever arise.

The occasion had arisen, and all Morna felt was bewilderment.

Well, no. Beneath the bewilderment was also relief—she’d never wished Graham dead—and beneath even that, in the mental equivalent of her personal oubliette, she was glad to see him.

Damned glad.

“He saw us coming,” Graham muttered. “That wretched tower of his. He could signal to Norway from that thing.”

Sebastian MacHeath, looking serious, substantial, and undeniably Scottish in kilted attire, stood in the chilly air on the front steps of his castle. The edifice suited the man. Imposing dimensions cast in granite, no brick facing to soften the appearance or yield an inch to modern aesthetics. The present marquess was tall and broad-shouldered and eschewed the short hair fashionable in the south. Morna esteemed him, but was well aware that, like his castle, the interesting bits were kept behind curtain walls, drawbridge, and portcullis.

Safer that way.

“Dunkeld.” Graham nodded from atop his horse. “Are you receiving?”

“Get off your damned horse, Dunhaven. Spain steals a man’s tolerance for cold, and I’ve never been much of one for freezing my arse off for the sake of appearances.”

Graham dismounted. Morna extricated herself from the saddle before either man could offer assistance.

“If you two intend to brawl,” Morna said, “at least have somebody see to the horses first. My money would be on Graham.”

She swept past them and let herself through the door, another great imposing oaken defense even more impressive than the MacNeils’. She turned around to see two men watching her carefully at the bottom of the terrace steps, though only one of them was also working on the beginnings of a smile.

Sebastian punched Graham on the arm. “Stop grinning. She pronounced you the better brawler, and you an earl. Did Australia cost you every pretension to gentlemanly deportment?”

Graham’s smile muted to mere sweetness as he returned the blow. “No more than Spain cost you, my lord. We mustn’t keep the lady waiting.”

MacHeath let out a shrill whistle, a groom appeared, and Morna, oddly near tears, led the way to the MacHeath family parlor.

MacHeath had said that after the waiting, the first five minutes of any battle had been the worst. Beyond that, fighting instinct, orders, the enemy, and chance took over, and when the shooting stopped, if you were still alive, you considered that victory enough for one day.

Graham had wondered if those recollections had been offered by way of fortification: Get the first few social calls, the first few divine services, the first few company suppers over with, and the rest would sort itself out.

What a hope.

“MacHeath has changed since mustering out,” Morna said from atop her mare. “He can put on manners a duke would envy, but the watchfulness never leaves him.”

“He grew up among the philistines,” Graham said. “The vigilance he developed being a Scottish boy among English heirs likely kept him alive in Spain.” To say nothing of the quick fists that had doubtless been necessary in every schoolyard. MacHeath had the former soldier’s half-hidden fatigue too. He likely slept poorly and kept knives in his boots and beneath his pillows.

Convicts and soldiers had much in common.

“He’s still a sweet boy,” Morna said. “Under the gruff and hearty performance. He welcomed us where any footman or chambermaid could see him being hospitable.”

Riding downhill could be more uncomfortable than riding uphill, particularly when the road was rough and the wind directly in one’s face.

“He was gracious,” Graham said, wondering how many French soldiers that sweet boy had killed. “But then, as you noted, MacHeath knows all about being banished.”

Morna adjusted her reins. “Is that why you started your social calls with him?”

“Partly.” Mostly because Graham would have gone for a dip in the frigid waters of the Tay had Morna suggested it.

Graham wished he’d worn a scarf. Morna was braving the elements with typical Scottish indifference, while Graham was hard put not to shiver. A scarf also hid most of her features.

“You knew Sebastian would be polite when I was on hand,” Morna said. “I was your protection.” She might have been offended to reach that conclusion. Instead, she sounded a bit smug.

“Or you would be the witness if MacHeath had thrown the first punch.” Her word would be believed. Not even the local marquess would dare question her recounting of events. Assaulting a peer was yet another serious felony, even if the assaulting party was also a peer.

“When did you become a proponent of violence, Graham MacNeil?”

“I am not a proponent of violence, having been on the receiving end of a surfeit of same. A transport ship is a strange world, Morna, and for months, it was my world. If I learned to fight, you can thank the justice system for my tutelage.”

“And in Australia?”

“We were mostly too tired to fight, and we’d sorted matters sufficiently on board ship that violence was no longer appealing. Does Lanie ride?”

“Not any longer. She refuses to be led about at the walk like a toddler on her first pony. I know she misses it.”

Thank heavens for an effective change of topic. “Will she see the physicians? Consult them, I mean.”

“No, and I’ve stopped asking. Perhaps you can change her mind. Do you plan to call on the parson next?”

“I’ll wait a day or two for word to get around, then make my bow. I assume our tithes are current?”

“You assume correctly and then some. Why must churches always have new roofs and new organs and new pews?”

“Because we enjoy music, protection from the elements, and sitting down for our weekly scolding. Who is the vicar?” To have to ask that question was tiresome.

“Mr. Weatherby, nephew of old Mr. Weatherby, who now bides in Glasgow with his daughter. Young Mr. Weatherby is nigh on to fifty and not quite the firebrand his uncle was. What has put that scowl on your face, Graham MacNeil?”

“I’m not scowling, I’m thinking.” Wishing he’d worn a scarf, more like. “The whole journey up from London has been an exercise in mental dislocation. The Great North Road follows the same route, but the coaches are lighter, the traffic thicker than ever. The vicar is still Mr. Weatherby, but not the same Mr. Weatherby. The wallpaper in the breakfast parlor has not changed, the sideboard is the same and the view unchanging, but Cook is now Mrs. Anderson. I’m sure the lochan lies at the bottom of the hill, but the last time I saw it, John was yet with us.”

“The same but different,” Morna murmured. “We buried him in the family plot.”

“I know.” Graham had begun the day paying respects to the departed, beginning with John, Grandmama, and Grandpapa, followed by the parents—his and Peter’s, then John’s, then Morna and Lanie’s. The MacKenzies had been step-cousins, close enough to family.

Morna glanced over at him. “It’s the same for us, Graham. You are the same but different. You never thought to be the earl, and we never thought to see you with the title.”

Trust Morna to point out the neglected perspective. “Grandpapa warned me. Said John was too good a soul to bide long upon the earth and not inclined toward matrimony.”

“Too fanciful, with his heraldry and Latin and manuscripts. The man should have been a monk.”

He’d been a dreamer, a drunk, and a scholar of the sort who could stare off into the distance for hours, then come out with some prosaic observation about sheep that had all manner of symbolic depths and was also simply about sheep.

“How did he die, Morna? The solicitors were vague. Drowned in the lochan, presumed to have gone swimming at the end of a summer day. He wasn’t, that I recall, an enthusiastic swimmer.”

“We were spared an official inquiry,” Morna said. “John liked to walk the perimeter of the lochan in the evening, and evenings in summer last forever. He was seen strolling along the banks—the midges weren’t thick yet—and he was found the next morning in the water below the overlook. We presume he slipped and knocked his head, and of course, his flask was nearly empty.”

Ah . Thank heavens for whoever had noted that telling detail. “An accident.” John had been ever so fond of both the grape and the grain. Never notably reeling, but seldom far from libation either.

“John wasn’t a commanding presence,” Morna said, “but he could be sensible when pressed for a decision, and he wasn’t prone to rages or sulks.”

Morna might have been describing a horse for hire at a livery stable.

“We missed him terribly,” she went on. “Much more than we thought we would.”

“Too many losses in succession—Grandmama, Grandpapa, John…”

“You.” Morna urged her mare to a faster walk. “For all we knew, you were gone forever too.” The temper Morna controlled ruthlessly colored her words, and the sound of it was a relief.

“For all I knew, Morna MacKenzie, I was gone forever. I wasn’t exactly on holiday. I had to watch Grandmama’s funeral from the side of the hill. I parted from my grandfather knowing I’d never see him again, and by the time I got word that John was gone, he’d been dead for six rubbishing months.”

She peered over at him. “You’re angry.”

“Ruddy furious, pardon my language. We were told to make a new start, to ignore the homesickness and rage and guilt. To get on with it and let hard work be our tonic of choice. As if the Scots don’t already know how to bury their grief in exhaustion…”

The gateposts loomed, as did the temptation to turn around and gallop all the way to Glasgow. The thought of ever setting foot on another ship, though…

“Give it time,” Morna said. “I wanted to shout at you to go back to your little spice farm on the other side of the world and leave us in peace. I’m not shouting. You want to curse the lochan and turn back time. You aren’t quite cursing. Maybe you should consider that accomplishment enough for the present?”

That olive branch had clearly cost her, and she was right—as usual. “Victory for half the day,” Graham said. “I’m supposed to meet with Abner MacIver this afternoon. Swearing might come into the discussion.”

“He’s a good steward. Well liked, knowledgeable without being overbearing. John trusted him.”

St. Didier’s warning came to mind, about Morna not being an ally. St. Didier was wrong, a rare occurrence, but it did happen. Morna might be carrying grudges—she was entitled to, after all—but she was still reliably honest and cared about the fate of the estate and the people on it.

The driveway curved gently, and Castle MacNeil, a tidy little edifice compared to its grand neighbor, came into view.

“Thank you, Morna.”

“For?”

“For being honest with me. For being my protection, for warning me about the vicar.” Graham studied the staid facade of his home, which looked like home but did not feel like home. No salvia where salvia should be.

She kept her mare moving forward. “You used to say I was honest to a fault.”

“I said a lot of things.” Blethered away like only a young fool in love could. “I missed you.” Graham tacked that admission on as an exercise in futility, or self-flagellation, perhaps. A tremendous understatement it was too.

“You missed me.” Morna patted her mare. “Good.” She gave the horse some invisible cue, and the beast lifted into a flowing canter, making short work of the last half mile of the drive.

“They are a beautiful picture,” Graham said, which caused True to flick an ear. “She’s proper angry with me.” As True toddled along, Graham considered the nature of that anger. Morna wasn’t angry at him for coming home . He was nearly certain of that much.

She’d called Grandmama’s death the nearest thing to an accident, so perhaps the great crime of involuntary manslaughter wasn’t the sole cause of her ire either.

But she was beyond peevish, for all she was playing fair regarding the neighbors and staff.

“‘Give it time,’ she says.” Graham had had eight years apart from the lady, away from the life and family he loved. “Heard the same sermon often enough on the banks of Sydney Harbour. Wasn’t much comfort there either.”

True picked up his pace as a breeze brought the scent of the stable across the park.

MacHeath’s words had been steadying: Survive the day, call it a victory. Survive another day, call that a victory. A recipe for enduring banishment, war, and maybe even a broken heart.

“She addressed me as Graham. I’ll call that a victory too.” On that marginally fortifying note, Graham rode into the stable yard and handed his horse off to Tavish.

St. Didier chose then to emerge from the gloom of the stable and fall in step beside Graham. “Your nose isn’t bloody.”

“Yours might soon be. The marquess was gracious. He’s preparing to ride into the great battle for a bride and willing to charge all the way to Mayfair to do it. A reputation for brawling on the castle steps did not suit his purposes today.”

“He would not offend Miss MacKenzie with such ill-bred behavior. Have you considered matrimony yourself?”

Why did St. Didier always bring such a sense of purpose to his toing and froing? “Are ye daft? I’m a convicted felon, and for reasons which you well understand, any cash associated with this estate has been kept well out of sight. My criminal history might be forgiven in light of the title—paid my debt and all that—but what Scottish papa will overlook a bachelor’s poverty?”

Trust St. Didier to dispel any nascent sense of lightness the day might have acquired, or sense of not-as-grimness.

“You’re an earl,” St. Didier said, his pace increasing. “You could be a member of the Scottish parliamentary delegation. You’ve property in Glasgow, Edinburgh, London, and Paris. Any Scottish papa worth his porridge will know the difference between exercising discretion with your funds and lacking means altogether. You should consider marriage.”

Marriage. At one time, Graham had assumed the institution was available to him for the asking. He’d had comfortable means thanks to Grandpapa and his own dear departed parents. He’d been healthy and claimed a good education. Charming Morna around to the notion had been the sole challenge remaining between dreams of bliss, passion, and laughter and the reality.

Graham stopped at the foot of the steps to the back terrace. “You’re better off harassing Peter to propose to Lanie. The lad is sorely smitten, and I’ve no doubt the pair of them would do justice to the succession, if that’s your concern.”

“Noticed that, did you?”

“She can’t see him. He doesn’t guard his expression as carefully as he ought.”

“No man in love does, MacNeil. Not even you.” St. Didier stalked off, as if he’d say more, but the better part of prudence was to save the rest of the lecture for another time.

Smart choice. St. Didier had a fine nose. Be a shame to break it over the most foolish words an otherwise intelligent man had likely ever uttered.