Hurst 02 - Scandal in Scotland

  Had she placed Colchester on some sort of pedestal, even as she’d denied William a fair place in her life? Had she allowed her judgment to get so bent?

  She didn’t know. She only knew that after talking to William, she was beginning to question many aspects of the decisions upon which she’d based her life. She wished with all of her heart that she could talk to Grandmamma about these revelations. In fact, Marcail needed to send a post to Grandmamma from the Pelican or she might worry.

  The rain finally eased to a steady drizzle, the gray sky darkening further as evening arrived. They turned onto the great North Road just as it grew almost too dark to travel and reached the Pelican after a harrowingly slow ride through a very slick section of road. A number of other coaches were pulling into the Pelican as they did; the place bustled, a very different sight from their previous stops.

  Robbins waited in line to pull the coach to a halt at the walkway that led into the inn. Soon he opened her door and set down the steps.

  Marcail tugged her cloak hood over her bonnet and took his hand, stepping onto the flagstone walk that was raised above the mud. “Robbins, have you seen Poston or the captain?”

  “Nay, miss. If they’re not inside, then perhaps they’ve taken refuge from the weather.”

  She nodded and allowed him to hand her off to a footman. “If you hear of anything, please let me know.”

  The groom nodded. “Aye, miss. As soon as we know something.”

  “Thank you.” She shouldn’t be worried, she knew. William and Poston were a force to be reckoned with.

  She reached the portico in front of the inn and released her footman’s arm. “Pray have my portmanteau and trunk delivered to my room. I shall bespeak one immediately.”

  “Yes, miss. I’ll fetch yer luggage now.” He bowed and left.

  Marcail pushed back her hood and looked about her with approval. The Pelican was a large, rambling, two-story structure, the windows filled with warm lamplight and cheery red curtains. The sound of voices laughing and talking was welcome after two days of very little company.

  Better yet, the scent of savory bakery goods and roasting meat made Marcail almost weak-kneed with longing for a hot meal.

  Inside, she found the innkeeper and his plump wife scurrying to and fro from the common room to the back hallway, ordering a handful of servants to fetch this and that. From the laughter bursting from the common room, it was obvious that the Pelican was enjoying a bountiful night.

  Marcail went to the wide doorway that led to the common room and looked inside, her gaze scanning the sea of masculine faces, but William was not among the crowd.

  Disappointment flashed through her. Where was he?

  The innkeeper noticed her standing inside the doorway and hurried to meet her, introducing himself and his wife. He’d no sooner done so than a call from the common room sent him hurrying off, and Marcail was left in the capable-appearing hands of Mrs. MacClannahan.

  The woman looked Marcail up and down and sent an evaluating glance at her Bond Street bonnet.

  Marcail inclined her head. “Mrs. MacClannahan, I would like a room and a hot bath.”

  “Ye’re fortunate, fer we’ve only one room left. I’ll have it readied and a tub sent up.” She took Marcail’s cloak and whisked a gaze over the pelisse and gown now revealed.

  Marcail had the instant feeling that if anyone were to ask, Mrs. MacClannahan could correctly tell them the exact value of her gown, pelisse, and bonnet. It was most disconcerting.

  “Here, now, miss. Don’t ye be goin’ into the common room. There’s an untoward amount o’ men who apparently cannot handle a little weather, so we’re nigh full up fer the night.”

  “Ah. I see.” Poor William would have to bed down in the stables. “Mrs. MacClannahan, in the last hour, you haven’t perchance seen a tall redhaired woman, have you?”

  “Nay, just a few farmers, a squire and his son, a Frenchman who reeks of cologne but can tell a whopping good tale, two gentlemen on their way to London to see a boxing match, and two ladies who are sitting in the small parlor.”

  Marcail hid her disappointment. “If you see such a woman—very tall, very pretty, with red hair—please let me know. She’s my cousin. We were traveling together, but we’ve gotten separated.”

  “Very good, miss. I’ll keep me eyes peeled fer yer cousin.”

  “Thank you. Is there a place I could sit while my room is being readied?”

  “Aye, we have a parlor, we do. Fer proper ’uns like yerself. Ye can join the other ladies there.”

  “That sounds lovely.”

  “Excellent, miss. It’ll only cost ye two pence.”

  Marcail paid the small fee and followed Mrs. MacClannahan to a large door opposite the raucous common room.

  Two elegantly dressed older ladies occupied the chairs placed before a crackling fire. They were sipping tea, their bright blue eyes amazingly similar as they fixed upon Marcail.

  The plumper, shorter of the two put down her cup and stood. She gave a quick curtsy, bobbing her gray head, her blue eyes owlishly framed by a pair of spectacles, her lace mobcap perilously close to falling off her curls. “How do you do? I’m Lady Durham and this”—she indicated her companion, who’d just put down her teacup but had remained in her chair—“is my sister, Lady Loughton.”

  Lady Durham’s sister seemed to be much of the same age, her hair just as white but contained in a neat bun instead of her sister’s wilder curls. Whereas Lady Durham was plump, Lady Loughton was angular and wrenlike.

  Lady Loughton inclined her head. “I hope you’ll forgive me for not standing, but I’ve hurt my knee.”

  “Of course.” Marcail curtsied. “I am Miss Marcail Beauchamp. I hope your knee isn’t too badly injured.”

  “Well, it is. I fell when coming into the front hallway and my knee is very sore. The entryway is quite slick.” She sent a hard glance at Mrs. MacClannahan. “Someone should see to keeping it dry.”

  “Which I’ve done,” Mrs. MacClannahan said in a testy voice. “Ask Miss Beauchamp if ’tis not so. Ye didn’t find it slick, did ye, miss?”

  “Not at all, though my feet weren’t covered in mud.” She nodded toward the two pairs of shoes that were drying by the fire, both crusted heavily.

  Lady Durham blinked at the shoes as if seeing them for the first time. “Oh. Well. We had to exit the coach on the other side, due to our box of tonic. It was blocking the door.”

  “Tonic?”

  “Oh, yes,” Lady Durham said, her expression earnest. “We’re on our way to London to deliver some of our very best shee—”

  Lady Loughton kicked Lady Durham in the shin.

  “Ow!” Lady Durham grabbed her leg through her gown. “Jane! Why did you do that?”

  Jane, apparently made of stern stuff indeed, merely said, “What we’re doing is our own business.”

  Marcail spread her hands before her. “Please, I’ve no wish to intrude but there doesn’t seem to be any other room I could purchase just now and my own bedchamber is being readied.”

  Lady Durham was instantly contrite. “Oh, my dear, no one is suggesting that you must go elsewhere.”

  “Unless you ask too many questions,” Lady Loughton qualified. “I don’t have patience for questions.”

  Mrs. MacClannahan sniffed. “This is me only lady’s parlor and ye’ll all have to share it. The common room is full o’ men.”

  “That’s true,” Lady Durham said, blinking owlishly behind her spectacles. She leaned toward Marcail and said in a low voice, “I know, for I listened in when I went to fetch my dear sister some medicine for her poor knee. But then the French are always so improper.” She turned to her sister. “Jane, isn’t it pleasant to have a visitor?”

  “I suppose,” Lady Loughton grumbled, rubbing her knee and wincing.

  Lady Durham added in a bracing tone. “She’s quite thin and doesn’t look as if she’ll eat many tea cakes.”

  Lady Loughton sniffed. “I suppose
she won’t. But just don’t expect us to entertain you with tales of what’s in our coach.”

  “Of course not,” Marcail said, quelling a smile.

  Lady Loughton pinned the innkeeper’s wife with an intent look. “I hope you’re not charging poor Miss Beauchamp for the use of this parlor when we’ve already paid for it.”

  Mrs. MacClannahan flushed. “I charge by the person, I do.”

  Lady Loughton lifted her brows. “Miss Beauchamp, if I were you, I would demand the return of my money. It was unfairly charged.”

  Mrs. MacClannahan stomped to the door. “I’m leaving. And don’t be askin’ fer more tea, neither, for I won’t bring it to ye!”

  “Good,” said Lady Loughton. “It’s wretched. Pray tell your kitchen maids to leave it on to steep at least five more minutes. This pot of tea is so weak, you could read through it.”

  The door snapped shut behind Mrs. MacClannahan.

  Marcail sighed. She would have loved a cup of hot tea.

  Lady Durham clapped her hands. “Miss Beauchamp, come and sit by me.” She indicated the chair to the side of her own. “I shall pour you some tea. There are two extra cups and it is really not as bad as Jane says.”

  Marcail removed her bonnet, unbuttoned her pelisse, and hung them on a hook near the fireplace. A hot bath and hot tea? Her lips almost quivered from the excitement. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

  Within moments she was ensconced in a chair, a lap blanket spread over her, a cup of delicious warm tea in her hands. She breathed in the scent of bergamot and orange pekoe.

  “Excellent tea, isn’t it?” Lady Durham said, nodding so hard her cap flopped on her head. “It’s a bit weak, as Jane pointed out, so I added a little something to mine.” She glanced at the closed door and then slipped a hand into her pocket and withdrew a small brown bottle. “Just a bit of this and the tea tastes—here, would you like some?” She uncorked the bottle and the distinctive scent of cognac wafted through the air.

  “Emma!” Lady Loughton snapped, looking thoroughly put out. “You can’t go around giving people your medicine.”

  “I was only going to give her a small bit, just to liven up her tea.”

  “I’m sure it’s lively enough for Miss—” Lady Loughton’s bright blue gaze narrowed. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Miss Beauchamp, but you may call me Marcail.”

  “Marcail, what an unusual name!” Lady Durham said brightly, sipping her tea, which was now half cognac. She scanned Marcail with interest. “I think I might have heard that name somewhere.”

  “As have I,” Lady Loughton said, tilting her head to one side. “You look familiar, too … Hmmmmmm.”

  Marcail took a sip of tea, hoping that neither of them knew who she was.

  Lady Durham held up her brown bottle. “Are you certain you don’t want—”

  “Emma, leave the child be.”

  Lady Durham’s smile faded. “Very well. I was just trying to be polite.” She slurped her drink and then replaced it on the table. “So, Miss Beauchamp, what brings you to the Pelican? Oh, and do call me Emma. We’re all cozy here in the parlor. No need to stand on formality.”

  Lady Loughton dipped her head. “You may call me Jane, if you wish. I’m not one for formalities, either.”

  Marcail had to smile. “Emma and Jane, then. I’m waiting for someone.”

  Jane’s bird-bright gaze fastened on Marcail. “Oh, is it a romantic meeting? Those are the best.”

  “I’m looking for my cousin. If you happen to see a very tall, red-haired lady, would you let me know? We were separated.”

  “Oh dear, how dreadful for you.” Emma tsked. “We haven’t seen many women travelers today, have we, Jane?”

  “Not today, though that Frenchman in the common room could be female. He’s covered with lace and minces when he walks.”

  “I think he’s rather handsome,” Emma said. “He’s certainly tall. Of course he wears far too much cologne. I had to put some of my medicine under my nose so I could breathe after he passed us in the hallway.”

  “He must have bathed with the stuff, acting as if—” Jane set down her cup with a click. “That’s it! I knew I’d seen you before. Your eyes and coloring are so unusual that I couldn’t forget them. You’re that actress!”

  Marcails throat tightened painfully. Here it comes.

  Emma gaped through her glasses. “Why, Jane, I do believe you’re right! This is the woman whose Lady MacBeth brought even Wexford to tears!”

  “And Wexford is a hard nut to crack,” Lady Jane said with satisfaction. “He’s our nephew-in-law, and a stubborn rakehell to boot. Or he was until he married our niece, Arabella. She’s softened him a bit.”

  “You’re a famous actress, too.” Emma patted Marcail’s knee. “I’m glad to meet a woman so capable in her art.”

  Marcail smiled. “Why, thank you.”

  Jane sipped her tea. “You’re much better than that fat woman—Emma, what’s her name?”

  “Mrs. Delbert or Mrs. Dantry or Mrs.—”

  “Mrs. Dalton?” Marcail ventured, naming one of the grand dames of the theater.

  “Yes, that’s her! It’s such an embarrassment when one is forced to watch someone of one’s own sex make a fool of herself.”

  “And it happens far too often,” Emma added, swishing some of her “tea” in her mouth before swallowing it.

  “Usually because some fool of a man has talked her into a position for which she’s not prepared,” Jane added acerbicly. “Based not upon her abilities, but upon how large her breasts may be.”

  “Oh dear, yes,” Emma agreed, taking a swig of her tea and pouring more. “As if having large breasts would make a woman good at acting, or being a governess, or any number of professions.”

  Marcail choked on her tea.

  Emma absently patted Marcail on the back and then added a huge swig of “medicine” to the newly poured tea. “The only profession where large breasts would be an asset would be if one were forced to carry something of weight upon one’s back. Then one’s breasts might act as counterweights.”

  “Very good, Emma,” Jane agreed, taking a sip of her tea as if discussing breasts was a normal, everyday affair. “I’ve often thought it was a pity there were not more purpose for breasts other than feeding children, and you just came up with a delightful one. I’m sure we can think of more if we put our minds to it.”

  “I don’t think there are any other useful applications for breasts.” Emma took another very long drink of her “tea.” “For a woman to be truly liberated, she has to be free of her breasts.”

  Marcail blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  Jane sighed. “Don’t let Emma’s wild talking disturb you. She’s become a suffragette ever since we went to that speaker at the Ladies’ Guild Hall.”

  “Miss Colton,” Emma said, her voice almost reverent. “Have you heard of her?”

  “I’ve read about her in the papers. She’s a bit of a radical.”

  “So she is,” Emma said, beaming woozily. “She’s a suffera-sulfera-suphragr—That thing that Jane said. That sounds so exciting, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  Jane snorted. “Well, I don’t think it sounds exciting at all. Women shouldn’t be allowed to vote. We’re too excitable.”

  “I’m not too excitable,” Emma said, blinking owlishly through her glasses.

  “Well, I am,” Jane stated.

  “No, you’re not. You’re calmer than me. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you anything but calm. Well, except for when you fell in love with Sir Loughton.” Emma leaned toward Marcail. “That was a nerve-wracking time, because Jane wagered her innocence on a game of cards and lost. Fortunately he wished to marry her, even though he’d already won the right to—”

  “Emma!” Jane’s face was red. “That is quite enough. I’m sure Miss Beauchamp has no desire to learn such intimate details of our lives.”

  Usually Marcail
would have agreed, but she’d spent most of the day alone in a coach. At least Jane and Emma were distracting. “I promise that anything you say in this room will never be repeated. I am most discreet.”

  “She’s an actress, too,” Emma added unnecessarily. “They are always discreet. They have to be, for they have so many affairs.”

  Marcail gasped. “I don’t.”

  Jane said, “Perhaps I should have gone onstage. I thought about it when I was younger.”

  “I don’t think Sir Loughton would like it if you did it now,” Emma said thoughtfully.

  “I think you’re right, which is why I should do it. It’s good to surprise your man now and then. Keeps him on his toes.”

  Marcail didn’t think she’d ever met two stranger or more delightful women.

  “We now know why Miss Marcail is here,” Emma said. “But she doesn’t know why we’re here. Jane, may I tell her? She’s been most discreet and hasn’t mentioned any of her affairs. Not a one!”

  Jane waved a hand. “You may tell her.”

  Emma leaned forward, the smell of cognac wafting with her. “You wouldn’t know it to look at us, but we’re on a secret mission.”

  Jane glanced at the closed door, then added, “We’re making a delivery.”

  Emma fished a heavy silver chain from her neck, tugging it over her head. Her mobcap fluttered to her knees and she slapped it back on before handing the chain to Marcail.

  At the end was a long vial. “That is what we’re delivering. It’s sheep tonic.”

  “I beg your pardon—sheep tonic?”

  Emma nodded vigorously, making her lace cap tilt at a rakish angle. “Jane and I make the best sheep tonic in all of Yorkshire.”

  Jane looked pleased. “We do. Our sheep have more lambs than anyone else’s. Lots more lambs.”

  “Of course, our nephew-in-law, the Duke of Wexford, didn’t like it when we dosed him up with it and—”

  Marcail held up a hand. “Wait. You dosed a duke with sheep tonic?”

  “Do you know him?” Emma looked delighted at the possibility.

  “He has a box at the theater and frequently attends with his wife.”