Chapter Fourteen

The next morning, with Mrs. Winslow settled in the town house, Earl Windor and Mr. Masterson gathered in Maxwell’s study. A simple note from the earl had secured them an appointment that morning at ten. Maxwell had personally visited their offices his first day in Edinburgh, only to be turned away with platitudes to return when the gentlemen solicitors weren’t so busy. It was loathsome to have to use the earl’s name to gain entry to the place when Maxwell had the money but not the name to garner true respect.

“It’s frustrating to be shuffled off,” Maxwell said.

“It’s the way of the world, Drake. At least the world we live in.” The earl puffed on a thin cigar and lounged in one of the leather padded chairs. “If you hold such egalitarian beliefs, perhaps you’d feel more at home in the Americas.”

“Have you been, my lord?”

“Briefly after the revolution. Quite an interesting mix of people all thrown together. A hierarchy exists, but money is king, and there’s little differential between old and new. You’d do well.”

“I considered it, but with war broken out there once more, I want no part of it.” Maxwell steepled his hands at his chin. “I spent too many years on the Continent. I hardly want to throw myself back into the fray in a different country. Moreover, I have unfinished business here, and now that I’m back, old roots are growing deeper.”

“Could a pretty red-haired woman have something to do with those deepening roots?”

Maxwell cast an irritated look at the earl and didn’t answer. As if it was any of the old lecher’s business. He’d intercepted the appreciative looks the earl had bestowed on Bryn, and each time, he was nearly overwhelmed with the need to throttle a man twice his age. Jealousy was not an emotion he was familiar with, and now he’d been nearly unmanned by it twice where the chit was concerned. It was damned inconvenient. Not to mention embarrassing.

The earl pulled out his pocket watch, checked the time, and clicked it shut. “While I would love to let the fool stew, wondering what the coming interview is about, I believe we should garner as much good grace as possible. Let’s not be late, gentleman.”

As they arrived, it was clear the staff had been forewarned. Two young clerks offered tea, coffee, and even whisky to the earl, bowing and scraping and turning Maxwell’s stomach. Lionel Masterson witnessed the display with more amusement than resentment.

“Doesn’t it bother you how people kowtow to him because of his title?” Maxwell whispered.

“Not a bit. I would never want to be in his shoes.”

Interest in the man who had stood at the earl’s side for years replaced Maxwell’s annoyance. Lionel was calm and unruffable and took the earl’s diatribes in stride.

“The prestige and money hold no allure?”

“Pah! Those things don’t truly matter, Mr. Drake. I had something that the earl never attained even with all his money and prestige, something much more elusive and precious—love, a happy marriage, a happy home.” Lionel peered closely at Maxwell. “I would never have been free to marry my Betsy were I in the earl’s position. She was from country gentry but not the bloodlines necessary for breeding in the peerage.”

“That sounds cold-blooded.”

“Quite so. Honestly, if my son hadn’t thoroughly compromised Lily Drummond, who knows whether the earl would have approved of the match.”

Maxwell coughed at Lionel’s casual mention of Lily’s premarital antics. “Would she have walked away and married another more suitable man if the earl had disapproved?”

At that, Lionel laughed. “I imagine she would have kidnapped Gray to Scotland had that been the case. I had the distinct pleasure of raising Lily and Rafe alongside Gray, for all practical purposes. The earl was off doing what he does best.” Lionel gestured at the scene unfolding. “I’m afraid my more enlightened viewpoints may have rubbed off on all the children.”

Their conversation was cut short as the earl gestured them forward to follow a young clerk into Mr. Pickett’s office. Introductions were made, and as soon as Maxwell’s name was spoken, Mr. Pickett tensed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. The impeccably dressed Pickett made his way around the desk and perched on the edge of his chair as if ready to take flight.

As there were only two chairs facing a large impressive desk, Maxwell hovered in the background, letting the earl take the lead. Not that he had much choice in the matter.

“It’s quite an honor to have your business at our fine establishment, my lord. What might I help you with today?” Pickett smoothed a hand over his balding pate. Did Maxwell detect a hint of sweat? He propped his shoulder against a large bookcase and crossed his arms. Pickett’s gaze darted in his direction but didn’t stick.

“I wasn’t entirely forthcoming with my needs earlier, Mr. Pickett.” A lazy insouciance overlay steel in the earl’s voice. “We have two pieces of business today, both are delicate and involve information. Firstly, I would like to know if you handled the marriage settlement of Dugan Armstrong and Brynmore McCann.”

Pickett sniffed, his expression souring. “No. I handled all of Baron McCann’s business, God rest his soul, and Craddock’s as well, but he brought a solicitor from Glasgow down to negotiate the settlement.”

“Do you remember the man’s name?”

“Aye. Buscomb. Sad business that. He was robbed and killed by highwaymen on the way back to Glasgow. Notorious, dangerous road from here to there.”

The earl straightened like a hunting dog catching a scent. “Quite sad. Convenient too, wouldn’t you say?”

“Convenient?” Pickett’s surprise didn’t appear feigned. “You mean to say he was killed with intent?”

“Was the business done here or in Dumfries?”

“Here. It was Mr. Sutherland who hosted Buscomb, Craddock, and Armstrong.”

“Interesting indeed.”

The name Sutherland meant nothing to Maxwell, but the earl’s knowing tone had him taking mental notes.

Pickett half rose, gesturing toward the door. “Well, if that’s all—”

“No.” The single cutting word had Pickett plopping down hard in his seat. “My second piece of business has to do with my good friend, Mr. Drake. I’ve taken a keen interest in his situation, you understand.”

“And what business would that be? Our firm has never dealt with Mr. Drake.” Another glace ricocheted off Maxwell.

“Mr. Pickett. I find such pretenses tiresome.” The earl readjusted the hint of white peeking out from the sleeve of his Weston jacket and picked a piece of lint from the lapel. “You handled the last will and testament of one Ian MacShane of Dumfries. Is that correct, sir?”

“Y-yes. I did witness and file his will. But I’m still not sure how this concerns… Mr. Drake, was it?”

The earl’s casual manner flipped on its head, and he rose, placing fisted hands on the desk. “I’m a busy man. You wouldn’t be roiling in nervous sweat casting alarmed looks Drake’s way if you weren’t entirely aware of the reason for our visit.”

Pickett pressed back against the chair, garbled out a noise, and pulled out his handkerchief to pat his forehead.

Lionel didn’t stand but sat forward. “Mr. Pickett, you know as well as I that if Mr. Drake is mentioned in the will, it is your responsibility to read him the pertinent parts and make the proper bequeaths. The question is simple. Is Maxwell Drake mentioned in Lord MacShane’s will?”

“P-perhaps?”

Maxwell pushed off the bookcase, but instead of trying to intimidate the man, he spoke as if soothing a horse. “Mr. Pickett, has someone threatened you in order to keep the will a secret?”

Pickett nodded, staring at Drake, lips compressed into a thin, quivering line. Holy hell, was the man going to start crying?

“Did you know the man who threatened you?”

“N-no. A letter.” His voice gained strength and rose an octave. “I have a family, good sirs, a wife and three children whom I dearly love. The letter was quite clear and detailed terrible things that would befall them if I were to disclose the information you seek.”

In the ensuing silence, the earl and Drake exchanged a loaded look. Here was a man who most likely wanted to do the right thing but was being strong-armed.

“I understand your position now, Mr. Pickett.” The earl relaxed into his chair and stroked his jaw. “Let’s speculate a moment. What if you leave the document in question on your desk this evening? And what if the document is exactly where you left it tomorrow morning when you arrive for work?”

“We lock our offices, my lord.”

“Very good practice, Mr. Pickett. You never know what kind of miscreants might be lurking in the dark of night. You… just… never… know.”

Everything stilled. Then the earl stood and rubbed his hands together. “I believe our business is satisfactorily concluded, gentlemen. We’ve taken up enough of Mr. Pickett’s time. Good day, sir.”

The earl led the way out, Mr. Masterson on his heels. Maxwell lingered a moment, but Pickett was staring down at his splayed hands on the desk. Pity rose for the man. He was but a pawn in the game afoot.

When they were safely ensconced in the carriage, the earl asked, “How are you at picking locks, Drake?”

“Rubbish, I’m afraid. I was an exploring officer during the war, not a thief.”

“Send Penny along with him,” Lionel said.

“No. I will accompany him.” The earl’s chin jutted, and his tone veered autocratic.

“That would be unwise, David.”

“But blast it, I want to go.” The earl’s voice took on an unattractive petulance.

“You haven’t fully recovered from your ordeal last year. The nights are too cold, and if you’re caught, you couldn’t run to safety. It’s a game for younger men now.” Mr. Masterson raised his eyebrows as if daring the earl to argue. He didn’t. Only rapped his cane once in obvious frustration and looked out the window.

“Who’s Penny?” Maxwell couldn’t imagine a woman taking part in their clandestine activities. A picture of Bryn in breeches escaping out her window or sneaking through the woods came to mind. Perhaps he knew one woman up to the task.

“Pendleton is ostensibly our coachman, but he’s a man of many talents,” Mr. Masterson said.

Back at the town house, Maxwell directed Seamus out to watch the horses so the coachman with many talents could join them. Maxwell stopped in the study doorway. Bryn paced in front of the grate.

Another dress had been delivered, this one a cornflower blue. It was high-necked and long-sleeved but molded the supple curves of her body. Mrs. Wilson was as talented as any London modiste.

It appeared as if Mrs. Winslow’s lady’s maid had taken hold of Bryn, because instead of swinging around her shoulders, the silken mass of her hair was pulled back into a loose chignon, highlighting her delicate bone structure. In the sophisticated gown and with her hair back, she appeared polished and more mature, ripe and womanly.

If the chit began circulating socially in Edinburgh, a multitude of men would soon be panting after her. Better men than Armstrong certainly. Better than Maxwell as well—titled, landed men. Only if she wasn’t carrying his child though. If that were the case, he wouldn’t delay to make her his, whether she wanted him or not.

Suddenly grim, he imagined Bryn laughing at some other man with her big, chocolaty eyes. The urge to rip at something nearly overwhelmed him. No one noticed his inner anguish. He’d become adept over the years at hiding all emotions.

“Well, what news?” Bryn touched his arm. The light brush seemed to burn through the layers of wool and cotton to his bare skin, branding him.

Words deserted him.

The earl swept to a chair and pulled off his gloves, taking command of the room. “We have much to discuss, gentlemen.”

Bryn lowered herself onto the edge of an ornate chair Maxwell had been afraid to test with his weight. “I’m not leaving.”

The earl cocked his eyebrows, a half smile quirking his lips. Mr. Masterson settled into an adjunct armchair. Penny the coachman sidled inside, still cloaked and holding his hat. Dark hair hung to broad shoulders that gave the impression of a hulking frame under the greatcoat. His face was pockmarked and bland, but his eyes were bright and darted around the room. A twinkling stud in one ear reminded Maxwell of the adventure stories he’d discovered one afternoon in the vicar’s room when he was ten.

“What do you know of this Mr. Sutherland?” Maxwell asked the earl in a gruff voice.

“Having circulated in Edinburgh for the past few weeks, Lionel and I have crossed paths with Sutherland several times now. He has money and respect, but something about the fellow strikes me as disingenuous. Lionel?”

“Agreed. I disliked him on sight. Are you acquainted with him, Miss McCann? For your brother-in-law and your intended seem to know him quite well.”

Bryn shook her head. “Mary and Craddock never brought me with them to Edinburgh. What’s his involvement?”

Mr. Masterson sketched out what they’d learned before adding, “After drawing up and witnessing your marriage contract, Mr. Buscomb of Glasgow was tragically and conveniently murdered by highwaymen.”

“He died because of me, didn’t he?” Bryn took a shuddery breath, her eyes on Maxwell.

“If he did die because of this business, the blame is not yours,” Maxwell said.

“Does Sutherland have a copy of the marriage contract? Can we obtain it?” She scooted forward on her chair, her foot tapping.

“He’s our most likely lead at the moment.” The earl crossed his legs and shifted. “Lionel, didn’t we receive an invitation to a dinner party at his house?”

“Indeed we did. I intended to send our regrets, but it seems we’ll need to attend after all. I’ll make our acceptance dependent on invitations issued to Drake and Miss McCann, as they’re old family friends.”

“Thank you so much for your help,” she whispered.

The earl waved off her gratitude. “Really, m’dear, as I said earlier, you’re doing us a favor. I haven’t been so content in ages. I do love a good mystery.”

“Speak for yourself,” Mr. Masterson said dryly. “I enjoy touring crumbling old churches and castles myself.”

“Bah. You always were a stuffed shirt, Lionel, moldering away at Wintermarsh.”

“I love Wintermarsh, and more importantly, I loved helping Gray, Lily, and Rafe grow into admirable adults.” Lionel Masterson’s voice was edged with heat.

“You’re entirely correct. I do apologize.” The earl inclined his head, his voice strained.

Mr. Masterson rapped his hands on the arms of the chair. The tension dissipated. “Onto Drake’s little problem. Penny, we have arranged for Mr. Pickett to leave a file on his desk containing Lord Ian MacShane’s will.”

“Should be easy enough to slip in, grab the papers, and get out, none the wiser.” Penny’s voice sounded as if it had been battered over rocks. “I was making notes of the windows and entrances while you gents were inside doing your business.”

The earl tapped steepled hands on his chin. “Here’s the rub: the file must be returned on the desk before morning. Mr. Pickett’s family is in danger if certain parties are aware he handed the file over.”

“That makes it twice as dangerous.” Penny turned slightly to examine Maxwell. “You should come with me then and read it there. I don’t fancy two rooftop scalings. Haven’t had as much practice lately as I used to get. How’re you in a tight spot, Mr. Drake? Will your leg hold up?”

“I’ll pay dearly for the abuse tomorrow, but it’ll hold up. I’ve been in more than my fair share of tight spots. I won’t panic.”

The discussion continued. Routes, times, meeting places. As an exploring officer, he’d learned to manage the long periods of boredom shot through with intense danger. The feeling of setting off on a mission wasn’t foreign. Nevertheless, it had been years, and nerves had him bouncing his good leg. He hoped the instincts he’d relied upon to keep him alive hadn’t been lost.

* * * * *

No one paid any attention whatsoever to Bryn, which wasn’t, in fact, an unusual state of affairs. She welcomed her invisibility, staying as motionless as possible in her little chair. She’d been ready to put up a fuss if they’d attempted to banish her, but Maxwell had only stared at her with his mysterious eyes.

The need to find out what was in her betrothal papers was superseded by worry over the plan that emerged. Scaling rooftops, climbing walls, picking locks—Maxwell would get himself killed or hanged. What if his leg gave out at the wrong moment and he plummeted to his death? Her stomach crawled up her throat.

The men departed, and she laid in wait for him to return from seeing them off. The moment he stepped into the study, she pounced. “What the devil are you thinking, Drake? You can’t climb a brick wall. Your leg will give out and you’ll fall.”

“Then I fall.” His tone dispassionate, he moved to the desk to sort through a stack of papers.

“And leave me—” Alone. She didn’t say it. Neither could she articulate why the thought was unbearable. “What if there’s a babe?”

His head whipped up. The smoldering fire in his hazel eyes banished the cold dispassion. “I’ll be as careful as possible, but I have to bury this part of my past.”

“What does it matter what he bequeathed to you? You don’t need the money. Let it be.” A begging note crept into her voice, and she laid a hand on his arm, needing to feel the warm life in his body.

“Do you have any idea what it was like growing up and seeing MacShane driving through Cragian in his fancy carriage doing nothing but splashing more muck onto me. Onto Mother. He never acknowledged me, never offered a ha’penny to help feed or clothe me. It got so bad after Mother got sick we nearly starved to death. I could have rotted in that hovel for all he cared.”

The bitter vehemence in his voice made her tighten her hold on him.

“I want to know he had regrets. I want to know if he had to do it over, he would have—not acknowledged me perhaps—but showed a human level of decency and kept us from suffering. I was his son. The only thing that kept us alive were the baskets.”

Bryn’s hand drew into a fist around the wool of his jacket. He knew. He knew she was the one. His penetrating gaze laid her heart bare.

“Maxwell, I—”

“Wait. Have I been blind? Did MacShane send the baskets?”

Bryn choked out something between a sob and laugh. She shook his arm. “Please don’t get yourself killed for a man who’s already dead.”

Agitation drained from his body, and he half sat on the edge of the desk, covering her hand with his. “Is it only for the babe that you care what happens to me, lass?” His voice had taken on the velvety texture he used when talking to his stock.

She was no better than a horse, because she swayed toward him and clutched at his lapel. “Of course not, you stubborn, demented man.”

“Then why? What have I done except ruin you and nearly get you killed?”

“I bear the responsibility for my decisions.” But she would also claim the pleasure. Too much wanted to pour out of her. The past. The present. And even though the future was obscured by a dark curtain of uncertainty, she held hope close. Instead of revealing the maelstrom, she popped to her toes and kissed him.

He stilled, his lips soft against hers but unmoving. What had she done? Mortification stripped away the pent-up need and worry that had prompted the impetuous action.

She pulled away, but with his breath still warm on her cheek, he sprang to life, banding his arms around her and holding her close. Yet he didn’t kiss her. Instead, he nuzzled her neck.

Unable to examine the affection in his actions while she was in his arms, she loosened her clutch on his jacket and skimmed her hands up his chest to wrap tightly around his neck. He trailed his lips across her cheek.

The wait for his lips to touch hers was excruciating, and her breathing shallowed. After an eternity, he kissed her. Not with the rough carnality of their one night together but with a gentleness even more devastating.

Her body awakened, memories of their joining searing away her questions and doubts until all that was left was the moment. Her knees wobbled, but the solid strength of his arms anchored her to his body.

He was her sun, keeping her in orbit and restoring gravity. And her sun was scorching, burning her fears to embers until all that was left was need and desire. Wrong or right, she wanted more.

He rotated them, scooped his hands under her buttocks, and lifted to sit her on the edge of the desk. Their tongues sparred. Papers fluttered to the floor around his feet. She parted her legs and cradled his hips. The pleasure he wreaked on her body was profound, but ecstasy lay further down the path they tread together. She was no longer an innocent.

He didn’t rip her clothes off this time. His kiss calmed, and their stormy passion ebbed until she was left trembling on the shore. Yet he didn’t release her or push her away. He ran his hands up and down her back and tangled his fingers in tendrils of hair that had escaped, the tug sending prickles of sensation through her body.

“I like your new dress and your hair.” His rumbling, velvety brogue was like a physical touch as pleasurable as the kisses he trailed over her jaw.

“Do you? Better than my breeches?”

“While your arse is undeniably tempting in breeches, I don’t like to think about other men appreciating you as I do.”

“Do you appreciate me as much in a dress up to my neck?”

“It’s a different sort of appreciation, imagining what’s hidden under this lovely gown.”

“You don’t have to imagine.” The inviting, pleading tone of her voice should have summoned embarrassment, but it didn’t. All she could focus on was her desperation.

“I’m the only man who knows that what’s underneath is more beautiful than the fine new trappings.” He slid a hand from her ribcage to her breast. His thumb glanced over her nipple, and he captured her lips once more.

She ignited into a mass of nerve endings.

“Gracious me!” Edith Winslow stood framed in the study door.

As if a bucket of icy water had been poured over her head, she weakly pushed at his chest. Maxwell took a stuttering step backward and left her to lean against the edge of the desk and shake her skirts. Mary would have taken great pleasure in humiliating her and locking her away. What would Mrs. Winslow’s punishment be for acting a wanton?

Bryn didn’t wait to find out. She bolted past the woman and up the stairs to her room to hide.