First, she removed her jaunty hat and tossed it into the bag, swiftly followed by her wig of long, silver-blonde hair. Shaking out her own much shorter, honey-colored hair felt marvelous after hours of having the shoulder-length curls pinned tightly against her scalp, and as she brushed it out, she decided to leave it loose.
The risqué purple gown followed the other accessories into the bag, and she wriggled into the far more demure muslin gown before she set the bonnet over her head and tied it beneath her chin. There. Prim and proper once again. Of course, it was just another costume, but this one allowed her to live peacefully in St. John’s Wood without gaggles of men disrupting her and her neighbors’ lives.
Once she’d settled herself, she opened the curtains again and leaned back in the ill-sprung coach to look out the window toward the grand manor sitting alone in the darkness. Even at this hour, the windows of the Holme blazed, a sight even more striking after its owner, James Burton, had purchased all the bordering dairy farms and demolished the houses and barns, leaving a ruined pastoral mess just north and east of where most of the aristocracy laid their heads. If the rumors were true and he meant to build a park there to honor Prince George, that was all well and good, but in the meantime, half the grounds looked like a war had been fought there.
Chapter Three
“Your brother is aware of the consequences of his actions, is he not?” Francesca snapped, shedding her gloves as Smythe the butler pulled open the front door of Oswell House.
“Aye, he’s aware.” Niall had nothing to remove for the butler, but he paused in the grand foyer anyway. As much as he wanted to confront Coll, reasoning with his brother would have to wait until the woman who funded their livelihood stopped raging. Damn his brother anyway. The man had never wielded more than an ounce of patience.
“Then just what does he expect I will—”
“I said he’s aware,” Niall interrupted. “I’m here. Dunnae bellow at me. When I find him, then ye can yell at him.”
“I…” Francesca took in a deep breath through her nose. “Yes. Do that. And inform your brother that he is taking Amelia-Rose to breakfast in the morning. That is decided. If he doesn’t, I will have to—”
“He will,” Niall broke in again. “We didnae come all this way to lose Aldriss.”
She looked at him for a moment, her green eyes assessing. Lasses. Just when he thought he had them all figured out, one of them stood up to Coll in admirable fashion.
“Yes, you came to save Aldriss from my unforgiving claws, didn’t you?” Francesca said, handing her shawl to the butler, as well. “Then you’d best keep that in mind. Smythe, please have peppermint tea sent up to my bedchamber. Is Eloise home yet?”
“Yes, my lady. She returned an hour ago.”
“Send her up to my room also, if you please.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Niall watched the countess up the stairs until she vanished down the western-facing hallway. “Has my brother returned?” he asked, facing the butler.
“Neither of your brothers is presently here, Master Niall,” Smythe informed him.
Of course they weren’t. The devil knew where Aden had gone, and while Coll would generally be found either at the Bonny Lass or in the bed of any one of half a dozen actual bonny lasses, down here in London, Niall had no idea where to even begin looking. Somewhere with food, he hoped; one of them might not starve, that way.
Sidestepping into the morning room, he picked up the whisky decanter and headed for the stairs. “Good night, Smythe.”
“Shall I send Oscar up to tend you?”
“What for? I reckon I can put myself to bed. Havenae had a mama to kiss me good night since I was a wee bairn.”
“Good night, then, Master Niall.”
Pausing on the stairs, Niall looked down at the butler. “Just Niall, for Saint Michael’s sake. Ye’ll give me a swelled head.”
Between “Master” this and “have a cup of tea” that, he’d be wearing a crown by the end of the week. The English seemed to think very highly of themselves and their so-called civilized ways. Or most of them did, anyway. Amelia-Rose’s conversation hadn’t been remotely what he’d expected. She’d handily sent Coll fleeing, and even after that hadn’t been able to rein in her tongue. Not entirely. Not even the Scottish lasses spoke that way to him or his brothers, because however friendly they might be in bed, the MacTaggerts were, after all, their lairds, and Laird Aldriss, their chieftain.
No wonder Coll had fled—his oldest brother had pushed her, expecting compliance and submission, and she’d snapped back at him like a fox in a trap. Unless he was greatly mistaken, Amelia-Rose wasn’t any happier at any of this arranged marriage shite than Coll was. His brother should have noticed that, and taken it into account.
Niall had noticed, but then she was striking. Despite the tongue-twisting name the lass was pretty, fresh-faced, and blond. No MacTaggert male had ever complained about that combination. With a night to consider, Coll might well come around. Keeping Aldriss funded was important to all of them, but especially to its heir. He could still leave the lass behind in London, regardless of whether she meekly agreed to it or not. Though firstly Amelia-Rose seemed a lass who just might put up a fight about being abandoned, and secondly, leaving her all alone in a grand marriage bed would very likely be a sin.
On the main landing, Niall patted Rory the deer on the head, noted that someone, likely Aden, had given the buck a cravat around his neck and a blue beaver hat over one nine-pronged antler, and continued up the stairs. He pushed open the door of his borrowed bedchamber and immediately scented, then spied, the thick ham sandwich on the dressing table. Thank God. Shrugging out of his proper black jacket, he made for the food and the small note propped beside it. He unfolded the missive. Idiot. Eloise, was all it said, and he grinned as he took a huge bite. Evidently having a sister about could be more useful than he’d realized.
His evenings generally didn’t end until much closer to dawn, so as he ate, washing down the meal with a generous portion of the whisky he’d liberated, he wandered over to the bookshelf located perpendicular to the trio of windows. A compilation of Byron poems, some Shelley and Wordsworth, three Shakespeare folios, and a history of Hereford cattle. All very English, and very unappealing tonight.
Laid flat on a lower shelf and topped by a black-and-white porcelain cow, though, he found an unexpected treasure—The Lord of the Isles by Sir Walter Scott. So Francesca did have Scottish things other than her three sons in the house; she merely preferred to keep them hidden. Pulling off his boots and tossing them over by the door, he took the book, the sandwich, and the whisky decanter, and hopped onto the over-pillowed, too-soft bed to read. And drink.
He woke confused, half inside a dream where Amelia-Rose Baxter kept asking him to dance and then twirling away before he could answer, and half aware of Oscar flinging open the bloody curtains—until he become fully aware of the sunlight stabbing him in the eyes.
“What the devil do ye think ye’re doing?” he growled, putting a pillow over his head.
“I’m waking ye up. It’s near eight o’clock,” the valet answered.
Eight o’clock? “Fetch me a damned pistol.”