Chapter Three
Good heavens, had a bird crawled onto her head to die? Evelyn gaped at the monstrosity of a hat Sally believed to be absolute perfection. Azure, turquoise, and magenta feathers, anchored by a very large, very gaudy faux jewel, spilled over her forehead. The cascade of plumes reminded her of a peacock—sadly, one that had gotten into a tussle with a fox and lost the battle. She blew a breath upward. A pink feather fluttered away. The confection, as Sally had dubbed it, might’ve been precisely the thing to brighten her octogenarian grandmother’s wardrobe.
Tearing her attention from the absurd image in the mirror, she spotted MacMasters. He leaned against a lamppost nearly within arm’s reach of the shop, waiting for the ladies to depart. A smile tugged at the Scot’s full mouth. Had he been watching her through the window? Evidently so. Meeting her gaze, his smile broadened, betraying the amusement he found in her struggles to balance the top-heavy creation on her head.
Truth be told, she could not begrudge him the humor in his eyes. How ridiculous she must appear, toying with this ludicrous combination of felt and feathers. Why, she wouldn’t blame Mr. MacMasters if he laughed aloud.
Of course, the opportunity to have a chuckle at her expense did not explain why the man had agreed to serve as an unpaid bodyguard to the party. Surely, the Highlander had some other means to occupy himself—anything, actually—that would prove more diverting than this genteel torture. What had Sally been thinking when she sought his assistance? Did she fear danger might well lurk on the otherwise placid street? Or had she figured to quell Evelyn’s fears with the Scot’s commanding presence?
Somehow, his presence did nothing to soothe her uneasiness. If anything, his watchful interest triggered an awareness that pulled her nerves even tauter.
Tracing a fingertip over a turquoise plume, Evelyn slanted him a leisurely look. How ironic that the object of her earlier, lust-tinged perusal had now turned the tables. MacMasters had taken in his fair share of her face and figure, and then some. Rather surprising, really, given she’d selected an ensemble for their shopping expedition that might suit a parson’s wife. Her sensible skirt and prim blouse were certainly not designed to entice a man, let alone one who’d likely enjoyed his fair share of wicked indulgences.
The Scotsman had escorted the women into the shop, but he’d made a hasty exit after Madame Fiona fawned over him. She’d paid the strapping Highlander far more attention than was proper, but he’d offered only low, terse responses. From their dialogue, it was obvious the two were acquainted. At the mention of the bookseller’s name, Madame Fiona’s expression had shifted. Her vaguely flirtatious banter had quieted as her mouth sagged into a no-nonsense slash. He’d leaned in closer, his words for the milliner’s ears only.
With a crisp mention of her assistant’s name, she dispatched the scrawny man on an errand, a task seemingly prompted by her conversation with MacMasters. What had he said to the hatmaker that had paled her complexion and spurred her to tap her trimmed nails against the side table?
Against the sturdy gas lamp, MacMasters’ stance was deliberately casual, but something in his manner betrayed him. Was it the chiseled set of his jaw? The alertness in his gaze? He appeared neither bored nor relaxed. His amber-brown eyes took in every passerby. Silently assessing. Calculating the probability of a threat.
Madame Fiona strolled toward Evelyn. A frown etched a line between her brows. “The proportion is all wrong here. But this…this will bring out your eyes.” The hatmaker extended a sapphire blue headpiece, tastefully adorned with velvet and lace. Evelyn removed the mass of feathers from her head and replaced it with the indigo creation.
With a smooth flick of her wrists, Madame Fiona adjusted its placement. “Beautiful! Even better than I’d imagined. The hue is perfection.”
Evelyn peered into a large, gilded mirror. Canted just so, the frilly headpiece took on an unexpected appeal. “It’s lovely.”
Madame Fiona planted her hands on her hips. A smile softened her tightly drawn features. “Lovely…the word does not do justice to this work of art.”
Lady Houghton looked up from inspecting potential acquisitions that might further demonstrate her husband’s generosity. “I quite agree.”
Evelyn eased the hat from its perch atop her curls. “I do rather like it, Lady Houghton.”
“Lady Houghton? There’s no need to stand on formality—I expect we will be the dearest of friends.” She flashed a hint of a smile. “It’s Catriona to ye.”
“Shall I prepare your purchase, Lady Evelyn?” The milliner seized the moment. “Or will you be selecting another?”
“Yes, please wrap this one.” Evelyn placed the delicate hat in Madame Fiona’s outstretched hands. “I don’t wish to delay our departure.”
“Don’t be silly,” Catriona said. “Take all the time—”
The chimes Madame Fiona hung from the shop door jangled. The door pushed open, and a man stepped inside.
Perhaps man was not the correct word. A skeleton in trousers might be a more fitting description. Tall and craggy-faced, he tipped his flat-brimmed cap and offered a gap-toothed smile. His bold gaze roamed over Catriona before settling on Madame Fiona’s ample cleavage.
The milliner shot him a glare. “What brings you to my shop today, Fergus Royce? A new hat for your better half, perhaps?”
“Do I ever need a reason to pay ye a visit, Annie?” He winked.
“Annie?” The hatmaker looked as if she wished to swat him away. “My name is Madame Fiona, as you’re well aware.”
His bushy gray brows hiked, further crinkling his rough-hewn face. “Ye can call yerself the bluidy Queen, but ye’ll always be little Annie Duncan to me.”
“Ye’re impossible.” Her careful diction faltered, allowing the merest trace of her natural pronunciation to slip through. “I didnae anticipate—”
“I dinnae expect ye did.” The man grinned, showing off the spot where one of his front teeth had gone missing. “My business is not with ye, Annie dear. I’m here fer the lasses.”
“For the…lasses?” Catriona repeated, sounding as if she nearly choked on the words.
“Aye. Yer carriage is awaitin’. I’ll be drivin’ ye to wherever it is ye need to be.”
Catriona’s ginger-hued locks shimmied as she shook her head. “I’m sorry, but ye must be mistaken. My driver should be arriving any moment.”
“He willnae be walking in here anytime soon. The bloke’s become…indisposed.”
Pressing her palms to her cheeks, Catriona gaped at him. “Edson…has been injured? Where is he?”
“Yer driver is in the coach,” MacMasters announced. Standing in the entry, his broad shoulders nearly touched the doorway. “Looks to me like the unlucky bloke…took in some bad fish. He’s not fit to be standing on his own two feet, let alone controlling a team of fine horses.”
“Bad fish?” Catriona cocked her head, seeming to doubt her own ears. Craning her neck, she peered past the Scot’s broad shoulder. “Ye’re telling me Edson has taken ill…and he’s in the coach…on that fine leather upholstery?”
MacMasters hiked a brow. “Yer concern for your driver is understandable, but I suspect he’ll recover soon enough from what ails him.”
The Scot’s tone dripped with wry derision. Evelyn bit back a grin.
Mustering what she must have believed to be a small, brave smile, Catriona wrung her hands. “That is of some comfort. Edson has been on our staff for some time. He’s…he’s always been…upstanding.”
“After I observed the fellow’s condition as he stumbled out of the pub, I took the liberty of soliciting Mr. Royce’s services. Ye willnae find a more skilled driver.” MacMasters strode toward Catriona, his tone smooth yet quietly commanding. “I can vouch for his abilities and his character.”
“Yer driver can ride on the bench with me, lass.” Fergus spoke up. “Ye’ll have no worries with me at his side.”
Lady Houghton’s eyes raked over the old man’s lanky, unrefined presence. His attire was ordinary enough—a charcoal gray jacket and trousers, black boots, and a flat-brimmed cap on his head. But his pants were in dire need of a good pressing, the toes of his shoes were badly scuffed, and a dingy white cravat dangled from his throat at a haphazard angle. Quite a contrast to the crisp uniform and manner of the youthful driver who’d met their train and transported them here.
Again, she twisted her hands. “Perhaps with some strong tea in his system, Edson will rally to his duties.”
MacMasters slowly shook his head. “Trust me. Ye willnae go wrong with Fergus.”
Madame Fiona placed a hand over Catriona’s. “I must agree with Mr. MacMasters. Mr. Royce is most trustworthy. He is entirely competent with the reins in his hands.” Warmth filled her eyes. “I cannot say the same of his abilities with a cravat.”
Evelyn edged around Catriona, coming toe-to-toe with the imposing Scot. There were times when the fact that she could not be considered petite was a thorn in her side. This was not one of them. Without so much as an I-beg-your-pardon, she rose on her toes and peered past him.
The Houghton crest blazed gold and red against the side of the sleek brougham. She saw no sign of Edson, though he might well be out of sight behind the closed curtains. The man had appeared well enough when they’d arrived at the shop. The onset of his illness was indeed sudden.
And rather convenient. If someone wished to divert their coach from its destination, how better to do so than to replace their driver?
She gave her head a little shake, as if that would banish the suspicion from her mind. Good heavens, she was allowing her imagination to run wild. These people were not participants in some nefarious scheme. The driver’s illness was an unfortunate coincidence, nothing more. The simplest explanation was indeed the most logical.
“Is something wrong?” MacMasters’ breath brushed her ear, his voice scarcely more than a whisper.
“No.”
Could he hear the false note in her reply? Was it her imagination, or was he assessing every detail of this scene? Every word she spoke. Every expression on her face. Beneath her blouse, gooseflesh peppered her skin.
“You’re distressed.” Again, his words were for her alone. He looked as if he wanted to touch her, but he folded his arms with deliberate restraint.
“I’d say I have good reason,” she whispered. “The events of this day have been peculiar, to say the least.”
“And now ye suspect some harm has come to the bloke in the carriage?”
His bluntness left her without words. She pulled in a breath. “Are you always so direct?”
“When it suits me.” MacMasters offered a faint hint of a smile. “Fergus knows what he’s doing. I’d trust the man with my own life.”
Evelyn glanced at the old gent. He seemed a genial sort, if more than a bit long in the tooth. Madame Fiona regarded him with the affection of an old friend, while Catriona studied him beneath hooded lids. Her mouth turned down at the edges, and again, she clasped her hands as if wringing out a wet towel. Evelyn bit back a grin at the thought of the gnarled, rough-clad gent in command of the elegant coach.
“Lady Houghton is far from pleased,” she said.
The Scot shrugged. “Her concerns are unfounded.” Despite his bland statement, a glimmer of amusement lit his eyes. He caught Evelyn’s hand, grazing his thumb over her skin with the lightest of touches. Improper, perhaps. But as his heat flowed through her, she could not bring herself to pull away.
This close, brisk notes of bergamot drifted to her nose. Despite her better judgment, she drank in the scent, the faint traces of his natural essence. A muscle ticked in his jaw, just below the tiny bristles of new beard erupting along the strong lines of his chin. A decidedly impulsive urge to skim her fingertips over that delicious roughness rippled through her. She curled her fingers into a loose fist, as if doing so would smother the elemental craving.
“She is kin to ye?” he asked.
“Oh, heavens no.” Her reply popped out too fast, too emphatic. The glimmer in his eyes intensified. “She’s family to Sally’s fiancé. They will speak their vows at Houghton Manor.”
“I know the place.” His thumb made tiny circles over the back of her hand. “Ye’d rather be home, walking along the Thames, wouldn’t ye?”
She blinked. “How did you know I live in London?”
“Lady Houghton made mention of the fact.”
A weight plummeted into Evelyn’s stomach. Of course. He’d taken note of Catriona’s thinly veiled cut. Did he know of her fall from grace?
He lifted his gaze. She saw no trace of mischief now, but rather a keen perception that pierced her shield of cool indifference. If only he hadn’t looked at her just so, as if she intrigued him, she could walk away from this man without wondering what he knew of her. She could turn away without caring if he’d been privy to the scandal that had branded her as indelibly as a hot iron against her skin.
But looking into his eyes, she did wonder. She did care. Had scurrilous gossip tainted her in the eyes of this man she didn’t even know?
“Ye’ll be gone from this place soon enough.” He released her hand, a gentle movement which left her wanting more of his touch. More of him. “Ye’ve no cause for apprehension.”
She could not deny that truth, but the observation was nonetheless disconcerting. It was her turn to fold her arms and regard him with a casualness she did not feel. “I do not agree. I don’t understand how I’m supposed to simply put the events of this day behind me.”
“I meant what I said, lass. Ye’ve no cause for fear.” His husky rasp washed over her. “No harm will come to you. I’ve given ye my word.”