To Scotland, With Love

  “Oh! That is not true! Give one example.”

  “The time you assisted that French émigré with his search for his supposed family,” he said promptly.

  Her face fell. “I was afraid you’d remember that one.”

  “If I remember correctly, you later discovered that ‘Pierre’ was an art thief; not even French but Corsican; and he thanked you for your hospitality by stealing two of your father’s favorite paintings.”

  Venetia pursed her lips, then shrugged. “That was just one. Name another.”

  “There was the woman from the lending library who told you she was a relative of the duke of Devonshire, and you believed her—”

  “She had the look of the Devonshires,” Venetia said hastily. “Even you admitted that!”

  “Yes, but I did not hire her to serve in my house as a maid, where she caused a ruckus at one of your father’s dinner parties by throwing herself at the duke’s feet and declaring herself his love child from a washwoman at his estate!”

  Venetia bit her lip, a gleam of humor in her eyes. “That was a bit embarrassing, wasn’t it? Not for me, of course, but for the duke. It’s a wonder he still speaks to me.”

  “It’s a wonder anyone still speaks to you,” Gregor said, fighting the inane urge to grin. It had been rather humorous, especially when it was later proven that the woman in question had mistaken her “dooks” and meant to accost the Duke of Claridge.

  The entire room had been in chaos, people shouting and calling for a footman to eject the woman, when Venetia had calmly assisted the poor woman to her feet, suggested perhaps she would like to speak to the duke in private, and escorted her away. As Venetia had passed Gregor, she’d tossed him an irrepressible grin and a wink, which had made him laugh all the more.

  He twinkled at her a bit now. “There are other instances of your madness, you know. There was the time you brought some homeless urchin into your father’s house—”

  “That was not my fault. He was supposedly a chimney sweep. He had burn scars on his legs, so I believed him.”

  “But he wasn’t a chimney sweep, was he?”

  “He might have been at one time,” she said loftily.

  “He was a bona fide pickpocket. I know, because I lost not one but two watches to that scoundrel before you found out what he was doing.”

  “At least you didn’t lose your mother’s locket. We never recovered that, either.”

  “You see where I am getting with this, don’t you?”

  She sighed. “Yes, yes. You think I am too trusting and that I ought not get involved in other people’s lives. We’ve had this discussion repeatedly, and I thought we’d agreed to disagree.”

  “So we did. Until now.”

  Venetia’s silver eyes met his. “What is so different about now?”

  “You tell me.”

  Their gazes locked. Color rose on her cheeks. “I am sure I don’t know,” she said in a breathless voice, turning away. “I am not doing anything that could cause any problems; I merely wish to assist Miss Platt. Even you must concede that she is not an evil woman or a pickpocket or else. She hasn’t asked me to do a single thing for her. If anything, she’s indicated that she wishes the opposite.”

  “She sounds like a woman of good sense. I hope you are listening to her.”

  Venetia wrinkled her nose at him. “When did you become so stuffy?”

  He stiffened. “I am not stuffy.”

  She shrugged, looking past him as if she’d lost interest. “You seem so, but perhaps it’s just me.”

  Gregor scowled. For years, he’d watched as Venetia had smoothed the path of life for her chaotic parents, taken up with unsuitable acquaintances with the intention of “assisting” them, and generally put herself to a great deal of trouble attempting to right all of the wrongs of the world. But the world didn’t appreciate such efforts; no one ever really said thank you. Yet for some reason, she seemed to thrive on it.

  Though this tendency of hers had always bothered him, he’d been able to accept it because it hadn’t affected him. That had all changed once they’d become trapped here together. Now everything seemed different, and everything she did affected him in the most direct way.

  Gregor did not like that at all.

  He glanced at the window, noting with relief that the ice was melting faster in the warmth of the sun. Perhaps they would be able to leave soon, and things would once again grow comfortable. Venetia could accomplish her charity works without it interfering with the time she spent with Gregor. That was the way things were supposed to be.

  He looked down and found her regarding him with a critical air. Her eyes were a smoky gray this morning, a question lurking in their depths.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She tilted her head to one side. “Does it ever bother you?”

  “Does what bother me?”

  “That you never get involved in life, but stand by and watch it pass by.” She shook her head as if she pitied him. “One day you’ll wake up and it will all be gone, and all you’ll have done is watched.”

  He frowned, but the entrance of Mrs. Treadwell and Elsie with platters of food forestalled his answer.

  “Come,” she said, “we had best join the others.”

  Gregor had no choice but to follow. He almost choked when he overheard Ravenscroft solicit Miss Platt’s opinion about the proper cultivation of azaleas.

  It was too odd, as was the way Miss Platt was behaving—giggling like a ninny and turning every shade of pink whenever Ravenscroft managed to spurt out some compliment in an oddly arch manner, as if he were playacting on the stage. Through it all, Venetia watched with a pleased air.

  It was enough to spoil Gregor’s appetite. Did the pup think to make Venetia jealous?

  The door from the hallway opened, and Gregor’s groom, Chambers, stood in the opening. “I beg yer pardon, my lord, but there’s another carriage two miles up the road as fell into a drift and overturned.”

  “Heavens!” Venetia said, standing. “Was anyone injured?”

  “No, though ’tis feared one of the horses has a broken leg. Mr. Treadwell has gone to fetch the passengers, a gentleman and his daughter.”

  Mrs. Bloom’s lips folded in disapproval. “They cannot come here. We’ve barely enough room, as it is.”

  Venetia’s brows lifted delicately, telling Gregor that the battle flags were rising.

  She said in a cool voice, “Mrs. Bloom, I am certain none of us will shrink from performing our duty as hosts, since none of us is ill mannered or unfeeling.”

  Mrs. Bloom’s heavy cheeks stained an unbecoming red. “I wasn’t suggesting we be uncharitable, but we must be realistic. There is only so much food and no more beds. Where would this man and his daughter sleep?”

  “I shall share my bed with the young lady,” Venetia said. “I’m not certain where we’ll put the gentleman.” She looked meaningfully at Gregor.

  Gregor wisely kept silent, turning his attention back to his plate. He knew that Venetia believed he was proving her earlier point about his ungenerous nature, but it didn’t matter: he’d be damned if he’d give up his bed for a man he’d never met. Hell, he wasn’t certain he’d give up his bed for someone he did know. Had it been one of his brothers, he might have tossed the ass a blanket, but no more. Such was the way of men.

  Besides, what benefit would there be to make himself uncomfortable in this case? The other person might be more at ease, but wouldn’t Gregor’s discomfort count, too, and demand a remedy itself?

  He suddenly became aware of Venetia’s and Mrs. Bloom‘s stern gazes upon him. He merely raised his brows and stared back. He was already sharing his room with Ravenscroft, who snored. Surely that was enough sacrifice to expect of one human being.

  Venetia’s brows rose a bit more, her eyes flashing. “Well?”

  Gregor put down his fork and knife. “You are right.”

  Her smile was blinding, and he almost, but not quite, regretted what h
e said next. “Something must be done, and right away.” He flicked a glance at Ravenscroft. “Well?”

  The younger man blinked. “Well what?”

  “Are you willing to share your accommodations, as Miss West suggests?”

  Ravenscroft caught Venetia’s glance and colored.

  “Yes, yes! Of course I am!”

  “There you have it,” Gregor said smoothly. “Ravenscroft will give up his trundle bed for the worthy gentleman. I only hope he doesn’t snore.”

  “But,” Ravenscroft said, “where will—what will I—”

  Gregor reached over to clap the young man on the shoulder. “We will throw a pallet on the floor for you. Don’t give it another thought.”

  Ravenscroft sighed. “I suppose so.”

  “Good man!” Gregor said bracingly. He drew in a deep breath. “Ah, there is nothing as invigorating as doing a good turn for one’s fellow man!”

  Venetia regarded him with a flat look. “That was a dirty trick, MacLean.”

  “All’s fair in love and charity, my dear.” Gregor reached for the platter of eggs and added some to his plate.

  “Gregor, what are you doing?”

  “I think it’s rather obvious. I’m eating.”

  “But this man and his daughter—”

  “Are being taken care of by Mr. Treadwell. If he needs more assistance, he will inform us. Am I correct, Chambers?” He flicked a glance at his groom.

  “Yes, my lord. Mr. Treadwell told me to notify the women so they might be ready to assist the young lady, should she be upset at the event.”

  “I shall order some hot tea immediately,” Venetia said. She sniffed in Gregor’s direction. “I do not mind assisting my fellow man.” With that, she swept from the room.

  “Oh, my,” Miss Platt said. “I shall, um, perhaps I should—” She cast a wild glance at her employer.

  Mrs. Bloom didn’t hesitate. “Go to my room, and fetch my hartshorn. It is in the small vial by the bed.”

  Miss Platt rushed off to do as she was bid.

  Gregor managed to finish his breakfast at his leisure.

  Sometime later Venetia returned to the common room just as their new companions entered. The man was older, with a round face that matched his girth. Dressed in quality clothing that lacked fashion, as typified a landed country squire, he introduced himself. “Good day. I am Squire Higganbotham.”

  Entering the room behind him was a lady wrapped in a wet cloak, the hood over her head. Behind her stood what was plainly a maid, her broad face agleam from the cold, dressed in a serviceable cloak and thick, country boots.

  The squire gestured to the hooded lady. “This is m’daughter, Miss Elizabeth Higganbotham.”

  All present introduced themselves as well.

  The squire beamed at them. “Nice to meet you! I must say that it’s good to be out of the cold. We were beginning to believe we’d be stuck in that demmed drift forever, weren’t we, Elizabeth?”

  His daughter nodded and reached up to push the hood from her head.

  Ravenscroft gasped, catching the attention of everyone in the room. Amused, Gregor followed Ravenscroft’s wide gaze to the squire’s daughter.

  Mussed golden curls framed a heart-shaped face that was bright pink with cold. Large china blue eyes surrounded by a thick smudge of dark lashes gazed fiercely at them all over a perfectly tiny nose and rose-bud lips. Not more than seventeen, she was pretty enough to take London by storm.

  She favored them all with a quick, almost desperate glance, then lifted her chin proudly and turned away as if refuting her father’s claim. The whole effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that her teeth were chattering uncontrollably.

  Venetia noted that everyone was admiring Miss Higganbotham except Gregor. He was looking at the squire, his brows drawn as if puzzling something.

  Venetia swept forward to grasp Miss Higganbotham’s trembling hands. Even through the fine kid gloves, they were freezing cold. “You poor dear, look how you are shivering!” She drew the girl toward the fire. “Ravenscroft, let the poor child have your seat.”

  “Ravenscroft?” Miss Platt asked, blinking. “Why do you call Mr. West that?”

  “Oh. Well. It’s—it’s a nickname. When we were children, he, ah, enjoyed making raven noises, so we called him Ravenscroft.”

  Miss Platt nodded, looking vastly interested.

  Ravenscroft seemed frozen by besotted shock, staring at Miss Higganbotham as if entranced.

  Smiling to himself, Gregor supposed he could see where Ravenscroft might be captivated. Personally, Gregor liked a woman with a bit more curve to her, not to mention some maturity and intelligence. None of that was evident in Miss Higganbotham’s wide-eyed gaze or in her immature and slightly hostile expression.

  A young woman like Miss Higganbotham bored Gregor senseless. But for a man like Ravenscroft…Gregor’s brows went up. Perhaps this would open Venetia’s eyes to the sort of man Ravenscroft really was.

  The thought held possibilities. His gaze flickered back to the squire, and an odd feeling sifted through him yet again. There was something familiar about the man. Almost as if—

  “Lord MacLean!” the squire said, stepping forward eagerly. “I didn’t expect to see you here!”

  Gregor bowed politely, though inwardly he grimaced. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t quite place you.”

  “No, no! We’ve never met. Saw you in White’s, and someone mentioned your name. Don’t think we’ve ever spoken, but I know one of your brothers. The one who wears the French clothes.”

  “Ah, Dougal. He’s become quite the dandy. My other brothers and I can barely countenance him.”

  The squire chuckled. “I am certain it’s just a phase. I spoke to your brother about investing in a property with me.” The squire puffed up his chest, sticking his thumbs through the buttonholes of his fine woolen coat. “I’m a bit of a hand at turning a profit. It’s a cold day indeed when Ned Higganbotham don’t come out on top! I shouldn’t mention this, but I turned well more than twenty thousand pounds last year, and that was only on two ventures!”

  “Ah,” Gregor said smoothly. “That explains why you were speaking with Dougal. He can smell a good investment a hundred miles away.”

  “He’s right sharp, I’ll grant you that. My godfather, the Duke of Richmond, says he knows his funds are in a good place when he releases some to me. I’ve made him a tidy profit in the last decade, I can tell you that.”

  Mrs. Bloom came forward, her eyes agleam at the mention of a real live duke. “How do you do? I am Mrs. Bloom. I’m on my way to visit my friend, the Countess of Cumberland. Did I hear you say you are a member of White’s?”

  “Aye. I’ve been a member since I was seventeen, as was m’father and m’father’s father.”

  Venetia, who was rubbing Miss Higganbotham’s icy cold hands between her own, caught sight of Gregor’s expression. A frown rested between his eyes, the tight lines down each side of his mouth indicating displeasure about something. Venetia frowned. The squire had said nothing untoward; why would Gregor look so stern? It was almost as if he disapproved of their new company.

  She glanced at the squire. He was rather rotund, with a protuberant nose and reddish skin. His features were broad and common, but his eyes shone with good humor, and though he was a bit coarse in his speech and dress, he seemed nice enough. It was a pity Gregor was holding the squire in dislike for nothing more than a rough manner.

  Mrs. Treadwell brought in a tray holding a steaming pot of tea and an assortment of cups and saucers. She set it down beside Miss Higganbotham and poured a cup. “Here ye are, miss! This’ll warm ye up!”

  She placed the cup and saucer in Miss Higganbotham’s hands, but the girl was shaking so much that half the tea sloshed into the saucer before her maid leapt forward and rescued it. The girl set the brew back on the table. “She’s done frozed through ’n’ through. The carriage fell into a drift, and we was tossed into a puddle, the both o’ us!”
The maid turned to show the back of her cloak completely wet. “Miss Higganbotham’s is the same, ’tis just that I’m more used to the cold than she is.”

  “La!” Mrs. Treadwell took Miss Higganbotham’s hands between her own and rubbed them briskly. “We’d best get ye out of those wet clothes before ye take ill!”

  Venetia turned to the squire. “Miss Higganbotham may stay with me in my room and—”

  Gregor interrupted. “No.”

  Silence met this.

  Venetia’s cheeks heated. “Gregor, what do you mean?”

  “I’m certain the squire would rather not stay.”

  Venetia’s brows rose, while the squire flushed a deep red. “Now, see here,” he began, but Gregor cut him short.

  “It will be grossly inconvenient for all involved; there’s hardly space for the five of us as it is. I’m certain that Miss Higganbotham merely needs a few moments to compose herself, and you’ll be able to leave. I will even see to it that your injured horse is replaced.” He met the squire’s gaze evenly. “Besides, I daresay you were in a hurry to reach London, or you wouldn’t have been traveling in such weather to begin with.”

  The squire sent his daughter a hard look before saying in an abrupt tone, “That’s true; we were in a hurry. I had thought to reach my brother’s house before nightfall, but the roads are far worse than I’d imagined.”

  “It’s daylight still. You should be able to reach Eddington in less than an hour. There is a lovely inn there.” Gregor turned to Mr. Treadwell. “Isn’t there?”

  Mr. Treadwell blinked. “Aye, but ’tis four miles, and the roads—”

  “I am certain they’re passable,” Gregor said curtly.

  “With the snow melting—”

  Miss Higganbotham sneezed.

  The squire’s expression darkened.

  Venetia took the poor young lady’s hand and pulled her to her feet. “Enough of this. I won’t hear another word about anyone going back out in that weather. The snow may be melting, but it’s still piled high, and travel would be dangerous.”

  “Aye, and making a muck where it has already melted,” the squire said briskly. “There’s drifts as high as my head and muddy spots as could swallow a carriage.”