Page 9 of The Elusive Earl (The Bad Heir Day Tales #3)

CHAPTER NINE

To St. Didier’s astute eye, the trip to Edinburgh had brought changes in Graham, Earl of Dunhaven. His lordship’s imposing physique had acquired not quite a swagger, but a greater freedom of movement. The earl’s burr had become slightly more pronounced, the r’s more inclined to roll, the vowels to subtle rumbling. He’d climbed out of the traveling coach wearing a cloak of finest black merino wool trimmed in the MacNeil plaid, and on him the garment had appeared dashing.

The smile he’d offered Morna MacKenzie when handing her down had been pure charm with a leavening of awe. And—St. Didier prided himself on his honesty—the lady had beamed right back at him. The primary salubrious influence had not been the smoky air of Edinburgh, apparently, but rather, the affectionate regard of a formidable female.

Peter and Miss Lanie had exhibited a similar state of romantic inebriation, though they were less discreet about it.

“What did Dr. Ramsey have to say?” St. Didier asked, returning The Lay of the Last Minstrel to its place of honor on the study’s top bookshelf.

Dunhaven settled into a wing chair with a sigh. “Help yourself to the decanters. Ramsey apologized for his zeal and explained that he was the sole support of half a dozen siblings, give or take. He also informed us that he had very personal experience with the course of rheumatic illness. His mother was sorely afflicted, as he is now himself. He said nothing to the sheriff’s man about his family’s history with the malady, of course.”

“His first post might have been his last if he’d been blamed for the countess’s death. Very well, he’s convicted of excessive self-interest, but absolved of murder. Are Peter and Lanie engaged?” Why was romance so easy for so many?

“Stop prowling and pour yourself a brandy, St. Didier. Peter and Lanie are not engaged that I know of, and you are not to meddle.”

But meddling is what I do best . “Have you proposed to Miss MacKenzie?”

“No, I haven’t, and you won’t be proposing to her either.”

“She’s not in love with me. What would be the point?” St. Didier made free with an excellent French brandy. “You’re not indulging?”

Dunhaven shook his head. “Sit. Please sit. After I’d served out an interminable penance escorting Morna to the milliner’s, some fool tried to run me down with his coach and pair. The general consensus is, harm was intended.”

St. Didier took a seat, set aside his brandy, and prepared to listen. “Details, Dunhaven. As many as you can recall.”

The earl explained about Miss Lanie’s aural recollections, about Miss MacKenzie having been at his side—fortunately so for his lordship—and about the hasty return to the MacNeil castle.

“I vow, St. Didier, I spent the longest forty-five miles known to the Scottish roads expecting highwaymen, kidnappers, and bandits to stop the coach around every turn, and there are hundreds of turns between here and Auld Reekie.”

“You believe somebody tried to run you down in broad daylight on a busy Old Town street?”

“I must take the possibility seriously.”

St. Didier sipped his brandy and chose his words carefully. “I’m not so sure. The walkways are narrow and often crowded. If the driver had misjudged, he could easily have injured half a dozen passersby, which would have set up a hue and cry. You say this happened at midday, meaning witnesses would have had a clear view of the vehicle, the horses, and the driver.”

“The team was a pair of bays, no white markings. Plain bays, St. Didier, the most ubiquitous equines ever to be put in harness.”

Bays were easily matched for that reason. Dark coat, black mane and tail. Not flashy, but tidy and handsome if well groomed.

Easily matched and easily forgotten. “The driver?”

“Peter says he wasn’t in livery. Top hat, black greatcoat, skinny—that’s about all Peter saw. Could have been some swell driving his own cattle, but in the usual course, a swell rides his fancy horse. He doesn’t drive an empty coach and pair along a busy street and whip up the horses for no reason.”

“I grant you the circumstances are ambiguous, but some of them weigh against intentional mischief—the crowded walkway, the full daylight, the failure of the incident to effect any real harm.”

“Morna hauled me back by my arm, St. Didier. If she hadn’t, I might well be sporting a shroud. It’s a ruddy, rubbishing irony that I felt safer surrounded by felons in Sydney than I did strolling home from the milliner’s in Edinburgh.”

“I can think of one encouraging aspect to the situation: Peter was with you, as was Miss Lanie.”

“Standing right behind us. Not two feet back. Believe me, I’ve lost sleep over that. Bad enough Morna was at my side, but Peter and Lanie… Lanie heard the coach coming, heard the crack of the whip. But she would not have let go of Peter’s arm. She’d have fallen with him, just as Morna could have been knocked top over tail with me.”

The earl had tormented himself with conjectures, and from what St. Didier had observed, they were accurate conjectures. Miss Lanie would have Peter by the figurative arm for all the rest of his days.

“Peter might well wish you to perdition,” St. Didier said, “but he would not have put Miss Lanie within thirty miles of harm’s way. I admit this with some reluctance, having a fondness for simple explanations over more arcane theories.”

“Peter does not wish me harm,” Dunhaven said tiredly. “He yearns to build steamships. I never want to set foot on another ship for as long as I live.”

Which might not be very long. The words hung in the air like the stink of Brodie’s cigars.

“Then, by all means, stay on land,” St. Didier said. “I am a firm believer that beyond the dictates of honor, one should live as one pleases. Fate throws us into enough unpleasant situations without our adding to the total out of some misplaced sense of martyrdom.”

A ghost of a smile touched Dunhaven’s eyes. “You sound like Morna. Stubbornness parading around as common sense. Did Brodie behave in our absence?”

The topic of the runaway carriage was tabled, though St. Didier would consider particulars at length when he had the privacy to do so.

“Brodie was a gracious host, acquainting me with more MacNeil history, and more of Brodie’s dashing exploits as a younger man, than Sir Walter could convey in a dozen stirring poems. I gather Brodie fancies himself something of a raconteur.”

“Perhaps that’s the fate of the failed fortune hunter. Brodie never made a Grand Tour—the Continent was already a dicey proposition thirty years ago—but he was allowed to sport about London for a few Seasons. He was too fond of the outlandish wager and too obviously in need of coin. Got his face slapped more than once and still has a few acquaintances from those halcyon days of stupidity, sex, and song.”

“You don’t like your uncle very much, do you?”

Dunhaven’s brows rose. “I do like him, in small doses. Brodie has been a fixture at the castle for my entire life.”

“He would have been the logical guardian for Peter and the estate following your grandfather’s death, if John wasn’t to be relied upon.”

The earl yawned behind his hand and took the plaid blanket from the back of his chair. “John would have resented that. I always found it odd that both John and Brodie were overly fond of their wee drams, but they were not drinking companions.”

“Perhaps the difference in age accounts for that, or a competing need for best-storyteller honors. What will you do now?”

“About runaway carriages and London footpads?” Dunhaven wrapped the blanket about his shoulders.

“One does wonder. Third time’s the charm and all that.”

“Then you have abandoned the unfortunate-accident theory of my anticipated demise?”

The earl looked to be settling in for a nap. Time for plain speaking. “Unfortunate accidents have brought this family to grief on at least one previous occasion, so no, I cannot entirely abandon that theory. I add to it the possibility that somebody is trying to frighten you off, Dunhaven, to send you back to parts distant rather than hasten you to your eternal reward.”

“I cannot go anywhere just yet. I might want to speak with Ramsey again.” He closed his eyes and moved about on the cushions. “Ramsey’s mother suffered years of agonies due to her afflictions. Ramsey knew what lay in store for Grandmama and assured us that her death was at least in part a mercy.”

“A mercy… provided by her loving husband? A devoted grandson? Her own physician ?” The situation was taking on the complexities of a Shakespeare tragedy.

“Ramsey didn’t want the sheriff’s man speculating in that direction. More pertinent to present troubles, Ramsey did not appear surprised to learn that I was in Edinburgh. Morna noted that Ramsey still occasionally corresponds with Brodie—perhaps they share a fondness for ornate snuffboxes. On the other hand, my arrival on Albion’s shores was remarked by the penny press, which is read by half the realm. ‘Poisoning Peer Returns’—that sort of thing. Perhaps Ramsey has the same penchant for reading London gossip that Uncle has.”

That sort of thing would have destroyed a lesser man. “Do you suspect Ramsey?”

“I suspect him of lying, but not of murder.” Dunhaven toed off his boots and put largish feet clad in thick wool stockings up on the hassock. “He is abidingly loyal to his family and sensible by nature. He wasn’t about to commit murder, however merciful, to end his patient’s suffering. The longer he kept the countess alive and cheerful, the more certain his own successful career became.”

“Which leaves the question previously posed: What will you do now?”

“Send you to Edinburgh to retrieve a package I could not entrust to the mail.”

Now was not the time for the earl’s designated spare eyes and ears to be sent on foolish errands. “You began your day in Edinburgh. Did you forget something?”

“The item will not be ready until the end of the week, and you are to keep the nature of your journey in confidence. I will have more detailed orders for you once I’ve had a chance to recover from my travels.”

Meaning the earl had schemes to refine. “Upon whom am I spying?”

“Nobody. You are retrieving a small package from a jewelry shop in the Old Town. Now please leave me in peace. Morna will want to review the latest developments with you, but we’re not apprising Peter or Lanie of any suppositions or theories at the moment. One doesn’t want young love tainted by old suspicions or new threats.”

The earl crossed his feet in a manner that signaled the commencement of a long overdue forty winks.

“You trust Miss MacKenzie with information you haven’t confided in your own brother.”

“I’m not buying rings for my brother either. I can’t exactly propose to the woman when she was nearly run down standing next to me. If, however, our situation should grow more encouraging—I am counting on you, St. Didier, to support the arrival of that happy day—then one must be ready with the appropriate tokens.”

St. Didier withdrew in silence, though it was clear the Earl of Dunhaven had been utterly flattened by a force greater than the heaviest coach and four in full gallop. Miss Morna MacKenzie’s patience was to be rewarded, as was Graham MacNeil’s.

St. Didier was happy for them both. Beyond happy—also beyond worried.

When Graham had gone periodically missing as a youth, Morna had known exactly where to find him, and that, at least, hadn’t changed.

“What’s his breeding?” Peter asked from within the shadowed depths of the stable.

“Clyde draft on the dam side,” Graham replied. “Supposedly a first-rate steeplechaser for a sire. Pass me the soft brush, will you?”

Morna remained in the shadow of the stable’s overhang, reluctant to interrupt, more reluctant to return to the castle without having confronted Graham.

“Mr. Bell is already running a steamship service on the River Clyde,” Peter said. “ The Comet can travel as fast as a trotting horse on steam power alone and, with a following wind, even faster.”

“Are you wooing Lanie with talk of steamships, then, Peter?”

A slight pause ensued. “We talk about other things.”

“Such as?”

“Wool, sheep, goats, rabbits. Lanie loves animals, and she loves wool too.”

“Seems your interests overlap in the area of steam-powered looms. Design her a loom that will make satin from fancy wool. She might like that.”

She might adore Peter for even thinking of such a creation. Virgin merino might serve. Lanie would know.

“Lanie says satin is pleasant to wear because of the graceful drape, but hard to clean. It’s also beyond dear, when it’s woven from silk.”

Silk and steamships. Was a courtship ever based on such an unlikely foundation?

“Take Lanie up before you in the saddle,” Graham said. “I’ll trade you the brush for the hoof-pick.”

“Up before me?”

“Use my saddle—it’s roomy—and take True, here. He can manage the weight, provided you don’t gallop or have him out too long. Lanie loved to ride before the damned measles befell her. She went everywhere on her pony, tagging after Morna and me.”

“She did?”

The distinctive sound of metal scraping against the hard sole of a horse’s hoof interrupted the conversation.

“Lanie was nine when she fell ill,” Graham said. “Of course she loved her pony. You loved yours too.”

And yet, Morna mused, Lanie never talked about that pony, nor had she gone to visit him as she recovered. He was enjoying a long, lazy retirement for want of other children to ride him.

“You think she’d like to ride double with me?”

The scraping sound came again. “I think if you offer, and she realizes that she will be all but sitting in your lap, your arms nearly around her, she will develop an impossible longing to return to the saddle—provided you’re doing the steering.”

“We’d have to walk everywhere.”

“At first. True has a lovely canter, and his trot floats. Steam and speed are not the solution to every challenge, laddie. Give Lanie the chance to feel the wind in her hair and the power of the horse beneath her. Save the steamships for later.”

“I’ve ridden on The Comet ,” Peter said. “All that power and not a horse in sight.”

“All the noise, the dirt, the thought of the men, women, and children toiling away for a pittance in the mines so the steam engine can befoul the air for miles around with its coal smoke. Very romantic.”

Graham leavened the observation with humor, but to Morna’s mind, he’d made a telling point.

“Lanie doesn’t like the noise or stink either.” A reluctant admission on Peter’s part. “Are you taking True out now?”

“I am not. I needed to do some thinking, and his company calms the mind.”

“Might I try a hack on him?”

“Please do. He’s had more than a week to laze about while we were doing the pretty in Edinburgh. When you’ve tried his paces, invite Lanie to climb aboard.”

“She doesn’t have a riding habit.”

How had Peter come across that fact?

“Then tell her to wear breeches. Many ladies do, under their habits, but challenge her to get back on the horse, Peter. Life can’t be an endless knitting project, no matter how luxurious the wool.”

“I’ve told her that. I’ve said almost those exact words, and she gets very persnickety, and what-would-you-have-me-do, and then I feel like an idiot. She is so capable that I don’t realize how little vision she has left.”

“In the dark, vision doesn’t count for much, does it? I’ll gather up True’s saddle and bridle. You find Lanie some breeches and make sure they’re freshly laundered. She’ll smell the dirt a mile off.”

“Right. I might have an old pair. Morna never throws anything away. Drives Brodie daft to have his socks darned when he’d rather have new.”

“Brodie would grumble about his morning porridge being served with too much butter and honey. Away with you.”

“I might tell Lanie that other part, about vision not counting for much in the dark.”

Naughty, naughty, naughty, but Peter was no longer a schoolboy, and Lanie wasn’t a schoolgirl. How had that happened?

“Tell her anything you like,” Graham said, “but you won’t be showing her until she’s wearing your ring, or you will have any number of reasons for wishing me and my fists back to the Antipodes.”

“You’re old and slow,” Peter said, his bootheels rapping on the cobbles. “You’ll never—blast!”

“If you treat Lanie with anything less than utmost honor, I will do much more than trip you as you strut along. Do I make myself clear, Peter MacNeil?”

“Are you showing Morna utmost honor?”

Morna was touched that Peter would ask and that his tone had been serious rather than teasing.

“Of course, and if my judgment should lapse in that regard, St. Didier—emphasis on the Saint—will sort me out before you can lay a hand on me, and that’s assuming Morna herself won’t mercilessly explain to me the error of my ways, which she is perfectly capable of doing.”

Oh, Graham .

“They’re formidable, aren’t they, the MacKenzie sisters?”

“Veritable steamships in skirts. Silk-furred bunnies in bonnets. Be off with you.”

Peter marched forth from the barn without looking back and without noticing Morna lurking beneath the overhang. His goal was clearly to entice Lanie into an outing on horseback, and Peter was a fellow with a prodigious ability to pursue a goal.

“Morna MacKenzie,” Graham called, “you’d best show yourself. True and I both know you’re out there.”

She stepped into the barn aisle. “How did you know?”

“True probably heard you breathing—his ears flicked back in your direction—but in the middle of a stable, the scent of attar of roses does stand out. In a good way, of course. How much did you hear?”

Graham stood beside his great dark horse, stroking the beast’s neck and looking delectable in worn riding attire and scuffed boots.

“You meant to go for a hack, didn’t you?” A youthful Graham had claimed to do his best thinking in the saddle.

“True has other business on his agenda for the morning. Are you preparing to scold me, Morna? Peter’s intentions are honorable. I simply meant to remind him that his behavior must measure up to the same standard.”

“I know you.” She marched up to him, took the horse’s lead rope from him, and returned True to his loose box.

“To my eternal delight, you do know me,” Graham said, watching her remove the horse’s halter and lead rope. “I count our association among my dearest blessings.”

“You are pondering that business in Edinburgh, with the coach. You’ve discussed it with St. Didier. He’s wishing it was just an accident, but wishful thinking is not his forte.”

“He should spend some years in a penal colony. His wishful-thinking skills will blossom like heather in high summer.”

“You are concerned,” Morna said, leaving the stall and securely latching the half door, “that somebody wishes you dead and doesn’t much care if I’m hurt in the process. You are telling yourself that you should keep your distance from me.”

Graham took the halter from her and hung it on the hook by the stall door. “Am I, now?”

“Working up to it. You were nearly silent at supper last night, and you missed breakfast this morning. I know the look you get when you’re worrying a problem. I don’t want to wake up on Monday to learn that you’ve left for London, Graham.”

Had she not been glowering at him, Morna might have missed the flash of guilt that passed through his eyes.

“Not London,” he said, “but I did think to look in on the properties in Glasgow, Peebles, and Inverness. I can wait until summer to visit Mull, and we’ve just made the rounds in Edinburgh.”

“Keep moving, and the enemy can’t track you so easily?” Morna wanted to smack him, and hug him, and decimate his foes. She instead opened the door to the saddle room, a tidy, oak-paneled space that held saddles, bridles, brushes, blankets, and all manner of horse gear.

The scent was mostly leather and horse, with an undertone of the lanolin used to keep the leather supple. No grooms were lounging about on a midmorning break, which was fortunate.

Graham joined her in the saddle room while she located the bridle designated for his horse.

“Morna, I honestly don’t know what to make of that mishap in Edinburgh. If somebody hadn’t feebly attempted to waylay me on the London docks, I might be able to ignore the carriage incident. Had not somebody given Grandmama an excessive dose of the poppy and let me take the blame, I might be able to ignore both the London and Edinburgh episodes, but I cannot. St. Didier was beside me in London, and you were at my side in Edinburgh.”

Morna dodged around him, closed the saddle room door, and wheeled to face him. “Precisely. I was beside you . I spotted the danger and pulled you from harm’s way. You are safer with me on hand, so we’ll not be having any more talk of you making a target of yourself by parading around half of Scotland on your own . Do you hear me, Graham MacNeil?”

“Your logic wants work, but I’m sure they can hear you in Glasgow.”

“Good, and my logic is sound. You ran off to Australia, taking the blame for what you still hope is an accident, trying to protect me, or Peter, or Grandpapa, or John. Very noble of you, but have you ever stopped to think that had you allowed us to fight for you, you might not have needed to go away?”

“I was transported.” Said very softly, about three inches from Morna’s nose. “I did not run off , and yes, Morna, I had years to consider every possibility, including the possibility that I’d left a cold-blooded killer behind, not some innocent family member, and me half a world away when my kith and kin needed me most.”

He’d not merely considered that possibility, he’d clearly been tormented by it. Morna poked him in the chest, which was like poking the castle walls.

“Then don’t”—poke—“hare off”—poke—“alone.” She smoothed her palm over the spot she’d poked. “Safety in numbers, Graham. We don’t even know for a fact that you’re in danger.”

He drew a forefinger down her nose. “I am well aware of the uncertainties, and that alone has kept me from parading around, as you put it, on my own. I seized upon the notion of pleading guilty to Grandmama’s death, and it seemed like a solution to several problems. I could not be talked out of it. Grandpapa tried. I wanted desperately for the family to put the whole sorry tragedy behind us. I want these incidents and episodes to stop too. I am lecturing myself about not leaping to conclusions, but the conclusions leap at me, Morna.”

“No mishaps have befallen you here at the castle. Stay here, watch and wait. I’ll watch and wait with you.”

The blasted, wretched, blighted man apparently intended to think about Morna’s offer, which would not do at all.

She sank her fingers into his hair, looked him straight in his blue, blue eyes—fair warning—then kissed him like the long-lost lover he very nearly was.