Chapter Six

Steven saw a resemblance to the late duke in Albert, but everything that had been strong in Charles was weak in his son. Charles had sported a receding hairline, as did his son, but the older duke had had a robust mane of white hair to go with his, while Albert’s graying hair straggled in thin wisps. Charles hadn’t been tall, but his back had been straight and strong, while Albert’s shoulders were slumped with too many hours of poring over papers.

“A Scotsman.” Albert repeated. “What is a haggis-eating, sheep-loving bagpiper doing in my house?”

“I don’t eat haggis,” Steven said, letting his accent deepen. “And I never mastered the pipes, much to the despair of my poor brother. As for the sheep . . .” He shrugged. “Could never get very far there. Damp wool makes me sneeze.”

Albert’s scowl deepened. “Get out of my house, sir.”

Steven debated explaining his presence, and Rose’s, but decided to let the man wonder. “Not until I take what I came for.”

“Are you robbing me, then? I’ll have the constables on you.”

Steven folded his arms. “No, you won’t.”

However strong-willed his father had been, Albert had inherited only pigheadedness, Steven decided. He was half Steven’s size, yet he swung away from the table, grabbed a poker from the fireplace, and came at him.

Steven easily caught the man’s upraised arm as it descended, and twisted the poker out of his hand. He propelled Albert back to the table and slammed him face-first onto it. “Only attack if you have the advantage of surprise or superior strength and position.” He pressed Albert’s face harder into the wood. “Or prepare to be trounced. I have a raging headache, and see how easily I’ve bested you?”

“Get off me, you bloody dung-eater.”

Steven’s temper flared through the hangover. “Your own mouth’s plenty full of shit. Thinking about what you’re doing to Rose, I’ve a mind to grind you through this table until you learn some manners.”

“Are you her latest lover, then? What happened to the comte?”

Steven pressed Albert down harder until he cried out. Steven growled, “Keep a civil tongue, man, before I—”

“Steven, what on earth are you doing?” Rose’s exclamation cut into the room, followed by the rustle of her skirts. “Is that Albert? Good heavens, let him up.”

Steven didn’t want to. He’d love to beat son Albert into the table until the man’s face was bloody. That would be satisfying.

But the note in Rose’s voice made Steven release Albert and step away. She was a good woman to feel sorry for Albert in spite of it all, no matter how much Steven didn’t share her sympathy.

“You’re lucky she’s such a sweetheart,” Steven said to Albert. “And that she walked into the room just now.”

“I’ll have the law on you,” Albert snarled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

“No, you will not,” Rose said decidedly. She was an angel in black, her hair and face the only color in the gloom. “Captain McBride is here to help me take the furniture Charles left me, that is all. I’ve rung for John—he and Thomas and James will carry down the chest from the old parlor.”

“What furniture?” Albert snapped. “You can’t take any furniture.”

“It’s in the will,” Steven said, stopping himself from slamming the man into the table again. “Two pieces of furniture, her choice. She’s chosen one; she’ll be back for another.”

“My solicitor—” Albert spluttered.

“May contact Her Grace in London.” Steven went to Rose and took her elbow. “I think we should be off, love,” he said softly to her.

“Don’t call her Her Grace,” Albert snarled behind them. “She’s not a duchess—she’s the bloody whore who killed my father. She deserves nothing.”

Steven let go of Rose and swung back to Albert. Albert, eyes widening, tried to evade him, but Steven caught him by the collar, ignoring Rose’s cry.

Slam! Albert’s face went once more into the table. “She deserves a commendation for not killing you,” Steven said, each word tight. “Don’t speak to her again except through her solicitor. His card.” Steven withdrew a card Collins had given him and slapped it on the table in front of Albert’s head. “Good day to you, sir.”

He gave Albert another shake before he released the man’s collar and left him. Rose was staring, wide-eyed, but Steven turned her away and steered her out of the room.

***

“It’s pretty,” Sinclair McBride, Steven’s brother, said later that evening. “What is it?”

Steven had placed the cabinet in the middle of the parlor of his suite at the Langham. Rain fell outside, droplets lingering on Sinclair’s short hair, which was the same shade of blond as Steven’s.

Albert had in the end not stopped John and two other footmen from lugging the cabinet down the stairs and loading it into the waiting cart. The cabinet had filled the small dogcart, leaving no room for Steven and Rose.

Steven had then bade John to fetch the coachman from his tea and have him hitch up Albert’s carriage to take him and Rose to the train. Though worried about Albert’s reaction, John and the coachman seemed happy to do anything for Rose. Likewise, Miles, the town coachman, had been willing to collect Steven, Rose, and the cabinet from the station in London. Rose had won them over.

Not much wonder. One smile from her red lips, one twinkle of her eyes, and men fell over themselves to do her bidding. Journalists with too much time on their hands had assumed she’d used that natural charm to make men do her favors, including in her bed.

Rose was in her bed right now—alone—napping after their trip. She’d told Steven upon their arrival that, thinking it over, she was resigned to selling the cabinet.

She’d looked sad, but resolved, and Steven had sent for his brother to talk to him about the matter. Sinclair had arrived through the now-falling rain to study the cabinet in curiosity.

“It’s a collection cabinet,” Steven said in answer to Sinclair’s question. “By George Bullock, circa 1815. I’m trying to find out what it’s worth.”

Sinclair pinned his younger brother with a hard stare. That stare, along with Sinclair’s ability to obtain any verdict he wanted in court, had earned him the moniker of the Scots Machine. His colleagues called him that—the unlucky villains in the dock had named him Basher McBride.

The Scots Machine now assessed Steven. “I’m a barrister, not an antiques dealer. Why did you send for me?”

Steven shrugged. “I thought maybe you’d know someone who could sell it for Rose. Someone who can be discreet.”

“I know many people who can be discreet, but they’re not all on the side of angels.”

Steven joined Sinclair in frowning contemplation of the cabinet. “I hoped it contained some sort of clue or message for Rose, or had been crammed full of gold coins for her. I’ve looked at it every which way, but . . . nothing.”

“I met the Duke of Southdown once—the former one,” Sinclair said. “Maybe he simply knew the cabinet would fetch a good price, and give his widow a bit of cash. He died, suddenly, didn’t he? He didn’t know he would go so quickly. How would he have had time to prepare for her?”

“Well, he didn’t do bloody enough while he was alive, that’s certain. Collins is browbeating the duke’s solicitors—Rose will have to put her faith in that.” Steven let out his breath. “She doesn’t want to let the cabinet go, but she might have no choice. Her pig of a stepson wants to see her destitute.”

“So you said. He’s trying to prove her a bigamist, is he?”

“He won’t,” Steven said in a hard voice. “She isn’t.”

His brother’s stare became sharper, but finally Sinclair gave him a nod. “If a bigamy case goes to court, I’ll advocate for her—I agree with you about her innocence. I warn you, though, juries of middle-aged, middle-class, holier-than-thou men don’t like pretty women who marry older men. They know they’d succumb to that temptation too readily themselves, and so they blame the temptress.”

Steven balled one hand. His headache was coming back. “Thank you for the optimism.”

“This is what happens. Be prepared for it.” Sinclair relaxed his stance. “I’ll help as much as I can. I’ll ram her innocence down the jurors’ throats.” He studied the cabinet again. “It’s an interesting piece. Ask one of the Mackenzie brothers or their wives. They’ll either buy it to lose in those huge houses of theirs or know someone interested.”

“Yes.” Steven had thought of the Mackenzies, especially Eleanor, wife of Hart Mackenzie, who was Duke of Kilmorgan. Eleanor knew everyone in London and everyone in Scotland, plus she had connections via her husband to people throughout the Empire who might like a nice cabinet for displaying their medals.

But he’d hesitated. Rose had asked him, sorrow in her voice, to please help her find a buyer, then had retired to her room. Steven hadn’t wanted her to wake to find he’d already sold the bloody thing and had it carted away while she’d slept.

Steven had sent for his brother not only for his opinion, but to help keep himself from picturing Rose, stripped down to her smalls, snuggling in her cozy bed. A single wall stood between her and Steven, a piece of wood, brick, and plaster keeping him from watching her sleep, drinking in the beauty of her.

He needed a cold bath, or maybe a walk in the freezing rain. But Steven couldn’t make himself leave the suite.

“Never mind about the cabinet for now,” Steven said. “I’ll wait until Rose wins back her settlements. She might have a place for it after all.” He thought of the warm glow on Rose’s face whenever she talked about her husband, and something stabbed at him. He needed to wrap up this business, take himself to Scotland for Christmas, and forget Rose. Hart always invited scores of people to his Christmas parties—maybe Steven could meet a lonely widow there and forget this one.

And perhaps the rain outside would change to showers of gold, and champagne would flow in the streets.

Sinclair was watching him again. “If you change your mind, Eleanor and Hart are in Town for now.” He shot a look at the closed door, then one at Steven. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I don’t,” Steven said, shaking his head. “I don’t at all. Wish me luck.”

“Mmph.” Sinclair’s expression changed. “I need luck. Tomorrow, I look for a new governess. Andrew put beetles into the current one’s bed.”

Steven grinned, his thoughts moving with relief to his energetic eight-year-old nephew. “And the governess fled?”

Sinclair lost his amused look. “No, I sacked her. She decided to lock Andrew into the cellar from whence the beetles came. Because it scared him into silence, she suggested I do this every day. Hence, the sack.” The anger fled Sinclair’s eyes. “Caitriona managed to get the governess’s hair switch off her while the fuss was being made about Andrew. Cat tossed it into the fire. Poor woman was bald as an egg on the back of her head.”

“She can wear a bonnet.” Steven’s sympathy for the governess had died as soon as Sinclair said she’d locked Andrew in the cellar.

“Take care, Steven,” Sinclair said, taking up his hat. He looked as though he wanted to say more, settled for his stern barrister glare, and walked out.

***

Rose couldn’t sleep. She had undressed for her rest, but only twenty minutes later she rang for the maid to help her into her clothes again.

She needed to speak to Steven. Well, to see him actually. To be in the same room with him. His presence comforted her more than anything else had in a long time, had somehow even when she’d thought him a downtrodden vagrant on the streets.

She stepped out of her parlor and made her way down the hall, then stopped short as a tall man came abruptly out of Steven’s rooms.

Rose halted, ready to ask in surprise where Steven was going, when she realized it wasn’t Steven. Same light blond hair, same tall physique, same way of piercing her with his gray stare, but a different man.

Steven’s intelligence lurked in the man’s eyes, but while Steven was restless and moody, even in his hungover state, this man had a quiet intensity about him.

“I beg your pardon,” Rose said, though he had been about to step into her. “I need to see . . . my cabinet.”

His gaze flickered with amusement. “Yes, your cabinet is doing very well. It will be pleased for your visit.”

“Damn it all,” Steven said, coming up behind the other man. “Leave her be. Rose, this is my brother Sinclair, known on the backstreets as Basher McBride. Don’t let him intimidate you. Sinclair, allow me to introduce Rose, Dowager Duchess of Southdown.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Sinclair was immediately polite, holding out a hand and bowing as Rose shook it. He didn’t release her hand, but remained holding it in his strong grip. “If my reprobate brother becomes too unruly for you, do not hesitate to send for me. I have a house on Upper Brook Street and chambers in Essex Court.”

“That is kind of you,” Rose began.

“Don’t you have a governess to employ?” Steven said, a scowl creasing his face.

“He wishes me to leave.” Sinclair squeezed Rose’s hand again, this time in genuine cordiality. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Grace.”

His politeness warmed Rose’s heart. So few bothered to be polite to her these days.

Sinclair made a final bow, shot a look at his brother, and departed.

Steven ushered Rose into the parlor. Rose held her breath as she brushed by him in the doorway, his warmth unnerving her. She hadn’t been able to sleep this afternoon partly because she craved to be in his presence. She’d had to give in and rush to see him.

Rose made herself walk to the cabinet, which waited for her in the middle of the rug. “Was Mr. McBride interested in buying it?”

Steven closed the door. Rose was very aware she was alone with him, even more so than she had been at Sittford House, when any of the dozen servants could have walked into any room they’d happened to be in. Here, the door was closed, Steven had no regular valet, and any other staff would knock and wait to be admitted.

Rose couldn’t look at anything but Steven. The cabinet, a masterwork of craftsmanship, faded to nothing. He still wore his Scottish clothes, his blue and green kilt falling in neat pleats to just below his knees.

“He suggested we ask Eleanor,” Steven said without looking at her. “Hart Mackenzie’s wife. They have plenty of room and more money than God.”

“Really? I wasn’t aware God had any money. A stash of gold bars in one of His back rooms, do you think?” Rose tried to smile, tried to joke, but she found it difficult even to breathe. “Probably comes in handy when He needs to repave His streets.”

Steven flashed a grin over his shoulder. “I promise you, if God has a stash of gold bars, Hart lent them to Him.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

Steven held out his hand to her. Why did Rose not hesitate to walk to him and take it?

“Keep the cabinet,” he said. Rose couldn’t hear much over the pounding of her heart, but that’s what she thought he said. “You love it, and if Collins is as good as he claims, you won’t need to sell it.”

“I have to ask you again why you’re helping me, Steven.” The words were not the ones Rose wanted to come out of her mouth, but they did anyway.

Steven switched his gaze to her, losing his smile. He stood too close to her—she could see the dark ring around his pale gray irises.

“Did you want me to leave you hanging with the pesky newspapermen waiting to pounce?” he asked. “Journalists can shred a person, break them, ruin their lives, and then go home and pour tea. Congratulating themselves on a job well done. Rumor, gossip, scandal—they dish it out and don’t care who they leave in the gutter. I’m not letting that happen to you.”

Steven’s brows were drawn, his anger raw. Rose watched him in surprise. She drew a breath to ask him if he spoke of an experience in particular, when Steven wrapped his arm around Rose and dragged her to him for a savage kiss.