Scandal In Scotland Part 3

With a wave to Briggs, Marcail settled back against the worn squabs and planned her coming journey. The coach rattled down the street, then rounded a corner and headed toward Hyde Park.

Not far away, a man dressed in the drab browns and grays of the working cla.s.s watched, the thronging mill of people and carts swirling past him and his horse as if they were a rock in the middle of a swift stream.

Expressionless, he watched the hackney rumble past. Just before it turned at the end of the street, he murmured a word to his horse, jumped into the saddle and followed the hackney as it disappeared around the corner.

A letter from Michael Hurst to his brother William, from a s.h.i.+p rounding Gibraltar.

It pains me to admit it, but I'm a wretched sea traveler. I haven't left my bunk since we left port in Old Alexandria. If it weren't for Miss Smythe-Haughton and her infernal draughts, I would now be asleep.

But since I am able to sit up and write, I find myself wondering why you are able to go to sea for such lengths of time while my stomach protests if I merely set foot upon a s.h.i.+p. It makes me wonder which tendencies are decided by birth, and which by desire.

CHAPTER 4.

Rain pelted the cobblestones, pooled in the dips, and soaked every stocking and skirt hem it could reach. Through the downpour, a coach pulled up to a large cla.s.sical building on St. James Street that let out quality bachelor apartments. The door of the coach opened and a man emerged waving the coach on as he dashed through sheets of rain. Wet in an instant, he paused under the portico to dump the collected rain from the stiff curled brim of his hat, then knocked it against his palm to dislodge more water. He removed his greatcoat and shook it vigorously before entering his apartment.

"Sir!" The butler was just reaching for the sitting room door when William appeared. Lippton set down a tray containing a decanter of whiskey, a smaller one of sherry, and five gla.s.ses to hurry forward and take William's coat.

Lippton grimaced at the weight of the wet wool. "It must be pouring."

"I practically had to swim here." The sky suited his mood, black and furious. He still had the bitter taste of defeat from Marcail's visit, even though it had been more than a week ago.

When he'd finally been able to drag himself to the door, he'd interrogated his men to no avail. She had blithely walked off his s.h.i.+p, waving good-bye to the unsuspecting crew. He'd sent crew members to search the inns near the dock, but she was nowhere to be found.

It was infuriating to be taken for a fool on his own s.h.i.+p, and even more galling that it had been she who'd done it.

As soon as day broke, he'd set sail for London. They'd run into a storm which had delayed their return and dissipated whatever good temper he'd had left.

When they'd finally docked two days behind schedule, he'd sent for his coach and gone directly to Marcail's residence in the heart of Mayfair. Four stories tall, the magnificent house possessed a portico flanked by twin lions set upon decorative pedestals. It was an ostentatious house, especially when one considered it had been purchased for the sole purpose of keeping a mistress.

The thought stirred William's anger with bitterness. He'd considered forcing his way in to demand the artifact, but the house was swarming with large, able-bodied footmen-and William was not prepared to fail again.

No, he had to find another way to deal with Marcail Beauchamp. One that involved him and her and no one else.

That decision made, he'd returned to his coach and had a few words with one of the footmen, whom he'd left standing watch under a sheltered area beside the street, a greatcoat now covering his livery. William then left for his own apartments on St. James Street.

Lippton shook out William's coat, water dripping on the marble floor and seeping toward the edge of the Persian rug. The white-haired servant tsked, hung the coat on a bra.s.s rack in the foyer, and then slid the umbrella stand beneath the dripping mess.

"I shall not be here long," William said. "I just need to clean up and pack some clothes."

Lippton lifted his brows. "You are leaving so soon?"

"Yes. I came to town to fetch something, and then I'm off to rescue Michael. Please send John Poston to watch number twelve Grosvenor Square. I left a footman there temporarily. Tell him that the home belongs to the Earl of Colchester."

Lippton blinked. "We're watching an earl, sir?"

"No. I have no desire to know Colchester's comings and goings, but I do want to know the comings and goings of his mistress, Miss Marcail Beauchamp."

"The actress?" Lippton positively glowed with admiration. "I saw her perform a magnificent Lady MacBeth on Drury Lane. It was-" He placed a hand over his heart and closed his eyes in apparent ecstasy.

"You and every other man in London," William snapped. d.a.m.n it, did every man in England fawn over Marcail? No wonder the woman was impossible. "Tell Poston at once."

Lippton bowed. "Yes, sir."

William had turned to go up the stairs to his bedchamber when Lippton called after him, "Oh, sir! You have visitors; they are waiting for you in the sitting room."

Lippton's voice was one of doom. Which meant ...

"Which of my family is here?"

"Five of them, sir. And we've little food in the cupboard as you did not inform us you would be returning to London so soon."

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l."

"Yes, sir. Two of your sisters arrived an hour ago, along with the Earl of Erroll and your brother-inlaw, Lord MacLean."

"That's four. Who's the fifth? Or need I ask?"

"It is Mr. Robert. He has been here since-" Lippton glanced at the tall clock that graced the entry "-a little over two hours. He's come every day for the last three days, sir, and he always stays at least an hour, sometimes more."

"And no doubt he's been drinking my whiskey every time he comes, d.a.m.n him."

"Yes, sir." Lippton nodded toward the tray he'd set down when William had arrived. "That is the last decanter."

William sent a hard glance at the sitting room door. "While I send my family on their way, please pack my portmanteau. I shall need clothes for at least two weeks."

"Yes, sir. Oh, and yesterday an older person of rather low breeding called." Lippton couldn't have looked more put upon. "I wouldn't allow him beyond the vestibule, so he left you this." Lippton crossed to a small table beside the umbrella stand and picked up a dirty and crumpled envelope.

William ripped it open and scanned the missive, a grim smile appearing as the words sped by. "Excellent." It was the first good news he'd received in the last week. "This gentleman will return. When he does, tell me immediately. I must speak with him."

"Yes, sir." Lippton didn't look happy with those orders.

"Meanwhile, I shall face my family and explain how I managed to wreck our rescue plans for our brother, Michael."

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir. I'm quite fond of Mr. Michael. I shall miss his serial in The Morning Post."

"My sister Mary writes that, not Michael."

For the second time that afternoon, Lippton looked bitterly disappointed. Then he straightened his shoulders. "Shall I fetch refreshments for the ladies, sir? I can purchase some scones and-"

"Lord, no. That will just encourage them to stay. The fact that Robert has consumed all of my good Scottish whiskey is bad enough. Please have their carriages readied for their departure."

"Yes, sir."

William crossed to the sitting room door. He could hear the low murmur of voices inside, but they stopped the second he turned the k.n.o.b and walked in. "Good afternoon." He closed the door and made his way toward the crackling fireplace, pausing to kiss his sisters' cheeks. "Caitlyn. Mary. Good to see you."

William had three sisters; the two older ones were twins, Triona and Caitlyn. He also had one younger sister, Mary. Caitlyn was the most beautiful; with golden hair and dark brown eyes, she drew the eye and held it. Mary was rounder but had a better sense of humor; her easy laugh encouraged one to join in and made her more approachable.

William glanced at Mary's hand. "Not yet married?"

She looked pleased as she slanted a glance at Lord Erroll. "Not yet. We've posted the banns, but Father won't arrive for another two weeks. We shall have to wait until then."

"Which will give us time to shop for a proper gown," Caitlyn added.

Robert, elegantly sprawled in a low chair, groaned. "William, please do not get them started. They've done nothing but chatter about flowers and rings and lace since they arrived."

Caitlyn's gaze narrowed. "You were the one who suggested lilies."

"An excellent suggestion that you both ignored," he said in a sharp tone. "Lilies would be perfect for-"

"I hate to interrupt," William said, "but I must leave very soon. Did you wish to speak to me, or did you just come to use my sitting room for your arguments?"

"We came to hear how you lost the artifact." Robert smoothed his lace cuff as if bored. "And to find out how you could be such a lumphead."

William shot his younger brother a hard look. "In a mood, are you?"

Noted for the quickness of his mind, Robert read social nuances and the emotions of those around him effortlessly. His skills had made him rise quickly at the Home Office where he worked for the home secretary.

William wasn't sure exactly what Robert's position was, but it seemed to afford him the right introductions since he moved in the highest circles of the ton with the ease of one born to it.

The funds for such high living didn't come from the Home Office, but from Michael's endeavors. Whenever Michael wished to sell something he sent it to Robert, who was adept at marketing precious items to the members of the ton, who were always looking for conversation pieces for their drawing rooms. Robert kept a portion of the funds from each sale and sent the bulk to Michael, who used the money to fund his explorations. It was a lucrative relations.h.i.+p for both.

But that was Robert; he'd always had a talent for making a silk purse out of a sow's ear and a desire to be something bigger and better.

Robert raised one eyebrow. "I'm in a mood? I'm not the one snapping at people."

"I'm wet, tired, and hungry. What do you want?"

"You're definitely wet; you're soaked through and through."

"It's raining, you fool," William retorted, going to the fireplace to warm himself.

"I didn't get wet," Robert returned smugly.

Mary pulled her skirts back so William's wet boots wouldn't brush her hem. "Robert, you arrived hours before the rain began and you know it. Stop being ugly to William."

Robert frowned at his practical-minded sister. "Our brother has lost the object we need to rescue Michael, and you say there's no need to be ugly?"

"No," she replied stoutly, "for I'm sure it was an accident, wasn't it, William?"

"It was more in the line of a theft."

Robert shrugged. "Whatever you wish to call it, it's a blasted shame that your carelessness will cause us more effort now. Mary had a h.e.l.l of a time wresting the box from Erroll."

The Earl of Erroll, dressed as ever in head-to-toe black, slanted a cold gaze Robert's way. With his black hair and scarred jaw, he was a menacing sight. "Mary didn't work hard to regain the onyx box," he said with his soft Scottish burr. "She worked hard to prove her ident.i.ty, for I'd no proof of who she was."

Mary nodded. "And any of us would have done the same after Michael wrote that letter saying he expected someone to steal the-"

"Michael was right," William interrupted. "Someone was out to steal that d.a.m.ned box and they succeeded." It galled him to say the words aloud.

"Exactly how did the artifact get stolen?" Caitlyn demanded.

Caitlyn's husband, Alexander MacLean, the laird of his clan, placed a hand upon her shoulder. "Patience, my love. I'm sure William will tell us everything."

"Indeed I will." William had always liked MacLean. The man had a dry wit and was able to curb Caitlyn's high spirits. Though perhaps her newfound temperance lay more in the fact that she was now a mother to her own set of twins, a boy and a girl who were as high spirited and impulsive as their mother.

William raked a hand through his hair, grimacing as water dripped down his neck. "I'm more than happy to explain what happened. After I got the artifact from Mary and Erroll, I took it straight to my s.h.i.+p. Someone was waiting for me in my cabin and they stole the blasted box."

Mary and Caitlyn exchanged worried glances.

"They knew you were coming," Mary said.

William nodded.

From where he lounged in the corner of the room, Robert pulled a monocle from his pocket, a thick black ribbon attaching it to his coat. He held it before one eye and examined William from head to toe. "You must not have put up much of a fight, for I don't see a bruise upon you."

"They drugged me." William had to almost spit the words, they tasted so ill upon his tongue.

Robert dropped the monocle, which swung from the ribbon and flashed in the firelight. "And how did they manage that?"

"My decanter of port was laced with it."

Mary looked shocked. "And they forced you to drink it?"

d.a.m.n it, must they know everything? "I didn't know the port was drugged, so I didn't hesitate when offered a gla.s.s." Besides, Marcail had poured herself a gla.s.s as well. It wasn't until later that he realized she'd never taken a sip.

"Then you must have known the person who drugged you fairly well," Robert said silkily.

William scowled at the five curious gazes locked upon him. "Yes, I knew her," he ground out.

Robert's gaze narrowed. "Her?"

"Yes, her."

"Ah!" Robert said softly, leaning back in his chair. "I should have known."

Caitlyn blinked. "Who is this her?"

Robert tucked his monocle back into his pocket. "Sadly, there is only one 'her' for William: Marcail Beauchamp."

Caitlyn's eyes widened. "The Marcail Beauchamp, the Darling of Drury Lane?"

"None other." Robert looked so satisfied that William yearned to box his brother's ears.