Chapter Twelve
“Is the haggis to yer liking, Mr. MacMasters?”
What was it about Lady Houghton’s voice that set Gerard’s teeth on edge? He answered in the affirmative and took a bite for good measure. Truth be told, the Houghtons’ cook had done a fine job on the dish, and hungry as he was after a long day in which stopping to take a meal had not been an option, it was all he could do not to shovel the food into his mouth like a starving man.
Seated across from him, Evelyn stared down at her plate. She had not pretended a ladylike lack of desire for food as long as parsnips and bannock remained on her plate. But now, she toyed with the haggis, pushing it about with her fork, as if that would fool anyone into believing the savory dish made up of minced sheep’s innards and oats tempted her taste buds.
“Are ye enjoying the meal, Lady Evelyn?”
Lady Houghton’s question grated against his nerves. Any fool could see that Evelyn was not enticed by the fare. The inquiry was pointless.
To her credit, Evelyn met the other woman’s question with a false little smile. “The cook has done an outstanding job with tonight’s meal. But I must admit, I’ve never had a taste for this dish. Truth be told, I do not care much for sheep’s pluck.”
Lady Houghton’s eyes narrowed as if Evelyn had confessed to some dire crime. Her attention dropped to Evelyn’s slender wrists and hands. “That must limit yer fare, dear. It’s no wonder ye could use a little meat on yer bones. Whatever do ye eat?”
“I’ve only recently sampled haggis myself,” Sally spoke up. “After all, if I’m to be a Scotsman’s wife, I feel it my duty to cultivate a taste for his favorite meal. But I much prefer fish. And chips, of course.”
Good for her. He’d begun to wonder if the petite brunette would show as much spirit toward their host as she had upon first encountering him.
An uncomfortable silence fell over the table. Clearing his throat, Harrison charged to the rescue with an improbably witty comment about chips, of all things. Leave it to his brother to relay an anecdote about bluidy potatoes. Was there any subject on the planet about which Harrison did not possess some trivial fact or other? One tankard of stout ale, and his brother thought he was Oscar Wilde.
Harrison’s words echoed through the stone-walled chamber. The dining room might once have been the setting for a medieval monarch’s feast. The laird of Houghton Manor had invested in the most modern conveniences within the castle, but this massive chamber looked as if the original lord of the manor would still feel at home within its four walls.
Seated directly across from him, Houghton had downed a tankard of ale and looked ready to start on another. Gerard waved away an offer to refill his stein. He’d keep his head about him tonight. He couldn’t afford to let down his guard.
Now that night had fallen, an intruder could more readily lurk about, awaiting an opportunity to breach the grounds. He’d mapped out a strategy with Harrison and McLeod to provide security throughout the night, a plan that ensured at least one of them would be awake and aware at any hour. Whoever was on duty would position himself at a designated location in the house, near enough to the women’s chambers to detect any sign of disturbance or distress and alert the others.
Gerard’s attention flickered to the woman seated at Evelyn’s left. The fresh-faced American whose silky reddish-blonde locks tumbled over her slender shoulders hung on Harrison’s every word. With her expressive brown eyes and plump mouth, Grace Winterborne was a beautiful woman. His brother had obviously taken note of that fact. His gaze seemed drawn to her. Why, at this rate, he’d be spouting Shakespeare to impress her by the time the cranachan was served.
“How very interesting, Dr. MacMasters,” Miss Winterborne said, her voice marked with a distinct accent he couldn’t place. “I share your appreciation of Dickens’ work. He has certainly created vivid characters. I must confess, I generally prefer a touch of humor in my reading selections. I’ve recently developed an interest in the works of Mark Twain.”
Harrison’s eyes brightened. “Indeed. Reading his memoir of life on the Mississippi, I felt as if I’d been transported to the river’s edge.”
Miss Winterborne beamed. “My favorite of Twain’s stories is A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. I so enjoy a good satire.”
“I can well imagine your grandfather must’ve gnashed his teeth at the very mention of the title,” Evelyn said, humor lighting her eyes.
“Indeed.” Grace laughed softly. “Why, he still hasn’t entirely forgiven Mother for marrying, as he put it—please forgive the profanity—that damned Yankee. At least, he and Papa have called a truce, and Grandfather refrains from calling him that to his face.”
“One can only imagine the holiday dinners,” Evelyn said.
“At times, I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry. My mother and father must’ve been so very much in love to endure the family conflict. Thank heavens my grandmother did everything she could to keep the family together.” Grace took a sip of water from a crystal goblet. “You see, Mother was born in Virginia—from what I’ve heard over the years, she was the epitome of a cultured belle. Beautiful. Well-mannered. Why, she’d turned down at least a half dozen suitors who’d met Grandfather’s approval before she ran off to Boston six weeks after the war ended and spoke her vows with my father.”
“How very romantic,” Sally said, slanting her intended a glance. For his part, Dougal McLeod appeared unmoved, reaching for his ale and downing a hearty drink of the stuff.
“I take it your father and mother became acquainted during the war,” Harrison said, as authoritative in his deduction as a detective piecing together the clues to a mystery.
“You could say that,” Grace said, a smile playing on her lips. “My brother was born seven months after they eloped—he was quite a large baby, if you take my meaning.”
Another one of the quartet who’d been at the milliner’s shop, a fresh-faced lass with a mass of dark curls, had suffered the misfortune of taking a drink at the precise moment Grace concluded her tale. Bonnie sputtered and coughed.
“Oh, good heavens, Grace. Please warn me before you say something scandalous,” she said with a soft giggle.
For his part, Harrison looked to be biting back a laugh. With what appeared to be an effort, he kept his face straight. “The story of your parents’ marriage has all the makings of a fascinating tale.”
“Quite so,” Evelyn agreed.
“Perhaps I’ll share more of it at another time. I did not intend to drown out everyone else with a tale few outside my family could possibly care about.” Grace shot Harrison a speaking glance.
Harrison tugged at his necktie, as if it had suddenly grown too snug. A small muscle tensed at the corner of his mouth. “I look forward to hearing the details.”
With what appeared a deliberate effort, he shifted his attention from the lass to the others at the table. Gerard smiled to himself. After all these years, his theory that Harrison had ice in his veins instead of blood had been disproven. He hadn’t believed it possible, but a woman had finally broken Harrison’s impeccable focus.
Gerard had always viewed regulations as suggestions, rather than hard and fast rules, but Harrison took great pride in his strict adherence to protocol. No doubt his brother would do whatever it took to maintain his unwavering focus on their mission. Gerard’s smile broadened. He’d tried to escape this assignment, but damned if it wasn’t proving interesting. At the very least, he enjoyed watching his staid, dedicated brother face the challenge of keeping his attention on their task rather than succumbing to the charms of a fetching young woman. It was about time that Harrison was the one doing battle with his own needs.
“Well, I, for one, look forward to hearing the rest of the tale. If I were not so weary, I’d ask you to continue the story right now.” Evelyn blew a wayward curl away from her cheek. “I do enjoy a real-life happily-ever-after.”
Lady Houghton’s eyes narrowed, contradicting her thin smile. “Happily-ever-after? How very surprising. I wouldn’t have thought that to be your taste at all.”
Grace paled, as if sensing she’d given the other woman an excuse to sharpen her tongue. At her side, Evelyn slanted her an assuring glance. Her chin edged slightly higher as she addressed the redhead’s comments.
“Who doesn’t appreciate a story with a happy ending? As a girl, I adored fairy tales. Of course, a witch or two always stood in the heroine’s path.” Pinning Lady Houghton with her azure eyes, Evelyn infused the word witch with barbed emphasis. “It goes without saying I greatly enjoyed the part of the story where the crone gets her much-deserved comeuppance.”
“Honestly, I have little use for fairy tales,” Lady Houghton replied, without so much as a blink. “But I suppose it doesn’t hurt to dream, does it, dear?” She turned her attention to Laird Houghton, who at that moment had curled his stubby fingers around the handle of his tankard. “I’ve found my happiness right here, with my husband. There’s nothing like the love of a good man to make a woman’s life complete.”
As her gaze fell upon him in adoration so calculated, a blind man could spot the falseness of it, the man of Lady Houghton’s dreams displayed a perfectly timed response. Lifting his stein, Houghton took another drink, gulped it down, and released a soft belch. At least the blighter had the good sense to muffle the bellow with the square of plaid cloth that served as a serviette.
The round-cheeked lass named Bonnie glanced down at her plate. Her face had gone pink, reddening more by the moment. She reached for her glass, as if a sip of water would help her.
And then, it erupted. A full-throated laugh, hearty and genuine. Bonnie covered her face with her hands as the sound burst past her lips.
“Aye, Cathy,” Bonnie managed between giggles. “Ye always did think ye deserved a prince. It looks as if ye’ve found him.”
“I am indeed thankful, dear cousin,” Lady Houghton said, each word seemingly forced between her teeth. “Perhaps, someday, ye’ll understand.”
Houghton turned to his wife. “Aye, that the lass will, in due time. For now, she’s avoiding that truth, and I cannae say I blame her. Are ye trying to give me a case of dyspepsia?”
“Very well,” she said in a voice that would chill the heartiest of souls. “Never let it be said I am not an accommodating wife.”
“At least we have a physician in residence at the moment.” Bonnie laughed again, subdued now to a mere chuckle. “I would not be averse to testing out Dr. MacMasters’ bedside manner.”
As Lady Houghton gasped and the other women went wide-eyed at the remark, Gerard let out a hearty laugh. Harrison followed suit, his restrained chuckle sounding as if he’d forced it from his lungs.
Lifting his stein, Gerard proposed a toast to the laird of Houghton Manor. Cultivating the man’s good will would be prudent, especially given the daggers in his wife’s eyes every time she glanced his way. Gerard needed to surveil the estate and the areas surrounding it. Who better to ensure the needed access than Houghton, a man whose ties to the area went back generations? If the assassin had pursued Evelyn to this sprawling estate, God only knew where the killer would hide and wait to strike. The wedding festivities offered an intruder a prime opportunity to blend in among friends and extended family. He’d assess the dangers and determine which areas posed the greatest challenge to secure.
Could Houghton be trusted? He knew their purpose in joining the guests of the wedding party and had offered his assistance. In his communiqué, Simon had not glossed over the dangers inherent in their mission. Upon Gerard’s arrival, Houghton had expressed his unreserved support of their efforts. But in truth, what did they know about the man? Simon had expressed his confidence in his old acquaintance, but that assessment meant little to Gerard. The bloke talked a good fight, but in a crisis, would he protect the women? Or would he cut and run to save his own hide? And what of his mouth—could they count on Houghton’s continuing discretion after he’d imbibed a few stout glasses of ale?
For the time being, there was no choice but to trust him. With any luck, there’d be no test of the man’s mettle.
With only days until the wedding, he and Harrison would keep alert for any sign of impending danger. They could count on Dougal McLeod. He would prove a valuable asset if a threat arose. Despite his easygoing manner, McLeod had shown what he was made of when they’d been confronted with an enemy of the Crown all those years ago. An inner toughness lay beneath the man’s affable demeanor. If trouble arose, Dougal would be up to the challenge. He’d protect his intended and her friends. Of that, Gerard had no doubt.
He’d see to Evelyn’s security himself. Whatever it took to ensure the lass was safe. If the assassin dared to come after her, Gerard would see to it that the murderer would not live to use the weapons she wielded with cunning skill. The elusive Mrs. Smythe did not know the meaning of mercy. She relished the kill above all else. God knew she’d stained her hands with the blood of many good men, agents who’d suffered the misfortune of letting down their guard around the human viper.
He would not make that mistake. He’d protect Evelyn.
And he’d see Mrs. Smythe brought to justice.
Or to her grave.