“Yes, sir. I’ll send up a message when we have ’im.”
The earl softly sighed. “We’re going to have to increase surveillance on my wife. I thought we had enough men in the city. Apparently not.”
“Yes, sir.”
“She has to be followed wherever she goes. See that we have paid agents in every house of consequence in the city. I want to know where she goes, who she talks to, what she says. Bring in men from Warwickshire if you have to.” Another of Dalgliesh’s hunting estates.
“Any men from Crosstrees?”
Alec smiled. “Is Gordon itching for a fight?”
“He always is, sir.”
“Do as you like. I suppose he wants his cousins with him.”
“I expect so, sir.”
“Have Fulton arrange for supplies, weapons, billeting.”
“He already has, begging your pardon, sir.”
Dalgliesh laughed. “I should have known. But no more mistakes, hear? That was too bloody close for comfort. The lady is going to be my wife.” He scanned the men seated around the table. “She’s to be protected from Violetta’s malice. I’ll need a full complement of men to escort her to the Highlands tomorrow. Everyone well armed.”
“Consider it done, sir.”
Alec grimaced. “I haven’t told her yet that I’m sending her back.” He softly sighed. “A word of warning. You may have a sulky lady on your hands on the trip north. Treat her delicately. Do anything she wants”—his brows rose—“within reason.”
CHAPTER 25
THAT NIGHT, ALEC took special care to indulge Zelda’s desires with a professional artistry and an obsessive regard for sensation, and she responded to him as she always did, with unprofessional passion and generosity. And much later as she lay in his arms, sated and blissfully content as intended, he gently broached the subject of her departure.
An unexpected business emergency in London had come up, he said. Another crisis—a minor one, but he had to attend to it. Some politicians needed added inducements to support his cause, some required an additional dose of courage to resist Rhodes, both of which he was to personally dispense. He didn’t know how many days the meetings would last, he explained. He knew she didn’t care to be seen with him in London, although she was certainly welcome. Unfortunately, he didn’t know whether he’d have time to entertain her. Perhaps she might like to go home for a short while. He’d come for her just as soon as he could. A week—two at the most.
Lies, lies, and more lies.
She, in turn, pretended to believe him. He was gracious, at least, in sending her away. So she smiled and nodded and agreed and said all that was required of a well-behaved lover about to be discarded.
She wondered afterward how she’d managed when his first words had struck her like a punch in the gut. Perhaps facing down bandits in Mongolia or headmen in the jungle had schooled her not to blink or move a muscle or show emotion. Perhaps it was sheer obstinacy that carried her through. She refused to dissolve into tears—not with a man who viewed women as disposable. In any case, she doubted he’d be moved by female tears.
Their good-byes in the morning were exquisitely polite.
His smile perhaps was more practiced than hers, but then he’d had more opportunity to use it in situations like this, she decided. He, on the other hand, didn’t know what to think; he’d never felt such a wrenching sense of loss.
The dowager was gracious as ever. As though her son had women in residence at Munro Park on a regular basis.
Chris was consoled by his father’s explanation that Miss MacKenzie would return soon. A fiction, Zelda observed, but Dalgliesh knew best how to deal with his son. As for Creiggy, her civility couldn’t be faulted; small wonder from the woman who’d taught Alec his manners.
Everyone’s conduct was proper enough for a levee at court.
By the time they reached the private rail station at Munro Park, however, Zelda’s smile was stiff and brittle, her nerves on edge, her heart near to breaking—only poetically, of course. In reality, it kept obstinately thudding along without regard for her anguish. She fought to keep her tears at bay, her breathing quickening under the strain, only sheer will stemming the tide.
What saved her—quite by chance—was the size of her escort lined up on the platform. She was first shocked, then astonished. “So many men,” she said on a small caught breath, her maudlin concerns eclipsed by the staggering number of men-at-arms loosely deployed in rows under the bright morning sun.
“Most of the men are on their way to Crosstrees for the holidays.” Only a partial lie. “The others will see you safely home.” Dalgliesh smiled. “And tell me where to find you again. The tracks through the Highlands can be obscure.”
She didn’t dissemble as well or perhaps found suave urbanity more difficult with the huge lump in her throat. “Thank you”—her voice broke—“for all your kindness.”
“The pleasure was mine.” Ignoring her stricken look, he held out his hand, his demeanor relaxed. “Come, I’ll help you inside.”
After entering the parlor of his private car, he introduced her to the waiting staff. He spoke to each retainer with a casual familiarity, made them laugh, dismissed them after a few moments with polished grace. “If you wish for anything,” he said, turning to Zelda, “you need but ask. Soames is in charge inside, Jed outside. They have instructions to indulge your every whim,” he added with a faint smile.
She had to bite back the comment on the tip of her tongue; she didn’t think he was included in her whims. “I can be quite selfish, then,” she lightly said in lieu of breaking into a torrent of tears.
“Feel free, darling, to be anything you wish.”
“Thank you again, for everything. I had a very nice time.” There. She could be dégagé, too, if she put her mind to it.
“I don’t suppose there’s a telegraph office near your home.” He was perhaps not completely dégagé.
She shook her head.
“Or a telephone.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Then I’ll send a messenger to warn you when I’m coming.”
She almost believed him; she very much wanted to believe him. “I’d like that,” she said, unable to keep her voice steady at the last.
The helpless pain in her eyes almost made him change his mind and carry her off the train. He could lock her away at Munro Park, strengthen his patrols, keep her safe. He could assemble an army to guard her. But his mother had almost become a casualty within the confines of her own home. He dare not take the risk, no more than he dared kiss Zelda good-bye. If he touched her, he was lost. “You’ll see me soon.” He found it difficult to keep his breathing even. By conscious will, he summoned a smile, then turned and quickly left.
He stood on the platform as the train pulled away, not noticing the cold wind or how tired he was, touched by a sadness he’d not felt before. Wishing he hadn’t had to send her home. Wishing Violetta hadn’t forced his hand. Wishing there wasn’t always a price to be paid for every joy.
Her face pressed against the window, her eyes brimming with tears, Zelda watched him until his figure diminished to nothingness. Then he was gone. Perhaps forever.
She had no way of knowing.
She also didn’t know if she even dared hope for a future with a man like Alec, who was much sought after by women and unrestrained in his amusements. She knew men often said what they didn’t mean, that honesty was particularly elusive at the conclusion of an affaire.
Still, hope springs eternal, someone of roseate disposition once said. She sighed. With a profligate like Dalgliesh? Perhaps not. Although, if nothing else, the bonny earl had become the yardstick by which every future lover would be measured. She smiled. Damn though, he was going to be difficult to replace. On the other hand, he’d given her an abundant supply of glorious memories—a veritable encyclopedia of sybaritic delight. Partial recompense at least for her loss.
On the journey north, as promised, everyone was the soul
of courtesy. Zelda had but to incidentally mention something she liked and it appeared as if by magic or someone saw to it that the train was stopped and the item fetched for her. Two lady’s maids were aboard to serve her, as well as a chef, three footmen, and the redoubtable Soames. Jed Green, who was in charge of the troop, checked in from time to time to see that she lacked nothing. She could have been traveling royalty with the size and charitable intent of her retinue.
But what she liked best during her journey were the times when Jed would talk about Alec. He’d take the whiskey she offered, sit for the time it took to drink it, and answer her questions. He wasn’t averse to recounting incidents from Alec’s youth. The men had grown up together at Crosstrees and were friends. But when it came to answering questions about Alec’s adulthood, Jed was more circumspect. There were always women in Alec’s life. He was a man who attracted female attention.
When they disembarked at Inverness, a smaller troop accompanied Zelda on the last leg of her journey, the danger having diminished with the increasing distance from London. Although, aware of what the lady meant to Alec, Jed took no risks. His twenty men were well armed and vigilant.
Zelda’s father came hurrying out to greet them as the cavalcade rode into the yard, his eyebrows flying up at the size of her escort. Sir Gavin offered Dalgliesh’s men the hospitality of his house, but Jed graciously refused, explaining that the train was waiting for them at Inverness.
“It takes a wee bit o’ cash to hold up a train that long,” Sir Gavin noted a short time later as he and Zelda entered the baronial manor with its imaginative Renaissance architectural details overlaying the original fifteenth-century castle.
Zelda smiled. “Dalgliesh has more than a wee bit, Da. Are the boys home?”
“Aye. I saw them riding into the stable yard just as you arrived. Come, take your ease and tell us of the doings in the south.”
As Sir Gavin ushered Zelda into the large sitting room, with its fine painted ceiling where the family gathered in their leisure, her three brothers turned from the hearth. They were ranged before the huge fireplace that was large enough to roast an ox, their faces ruddy from the outdoors, their hunting plaids damp on their shoulders, their boots muddy from tramping the hills. They each had a horn cup of whiskey in hand.
“You needn’t stare,” Zelda said, walking into the room decorated with four and a half centuries of weapons. “I had a fine, couthie (agreeable) holiday. I even had a proposal of marriage that Dalgliesh might actually mean. But if he doesn’t, I still had a very nice time.”
Her oldest brother, Hugh, broke into a smile first. “Don’t say ye might a’ caught the elusive earl.”
“Maybe.”
John and Robbie said in unison, grinning, “Dinna his wife mind?”
“You’ll have to ask the wee bitch yourself,” Zelda silkily replied. “He’s getting a divorce. He might actually mean that as well.”
The brothers exchanged skeptical glances. Well-favored men, they knew their way around a boudoir. Promises made were part of the game; promises kept were rare.
She smiled. “How polite you are, my darlings, but by the bye, we’ll find out whether Dalgliesh means it or not. So, tell me, how’s the shooting?”
“Damned fine,” her father quickly interposed, putting little stock in proposals of marriage from a faithless married man, preferring the subject be dropped. “And we’re right pleased to see ye home, lass, and that’s God’s truth. Come, take a seat by the fire and I’ll call up something from the kitchen. Hugh, pour your sister a grace cup to welcome her home.”
MEANWHILE, DALGLIESH WAS cooling his heels in a drawing room at Munro House, his London residence he’d not entered in four years. No matter Munro House was a block long and large enough to accommodate both he and his wife, he preferred his apartment in St. James Place.
Arriving in town shortly after Zelda left, he’d discovered that Violetta was at Lady Mull’s country house and wouldn’t return until the following afternoon. He’d briefly debated accosting her at Charlotte’s but decided against making a public scene.
There’d be publicity enough soon.
He’d left Violetta a message, however, informing her that he wished to speak with her the next day at three. Nevertheless, he’d been kept waiting for—he scowled at the clock on the mantel—twenty-five bloody minutes. He was badly out of humor, insulted, not in the habit of being ignored in his own house. He couldn’t even get a servant to reply to the bellpull. Violetta had her own staff. But he paid for them all, damn the bitch. He wondered what they’d do if he fired the lot.
Since he was sober, it was only a passing thought—his sobriety a thankless state for a much aggrieved husband who preferred a drink or two or several when dealing with his wife. But this business demanded a clear head and perhaps a degree of diplomacy, so he paced instead of raising holy hell, silently fumed, and contemplated various forms of future revenge.
After another irritating and lengthy interval, which further fueled Dalgliesh’s resentment and eroded any prospect of diplomacy, a footman came to fetch him. Following the man up the main staircase and down familiar corridors, Alec was ushered into Violetta’s little bijoux of a sitting room off her boudoir by the young flunkey who, he suspected, was also warming his wife’s bed.
Although perhaps the fellow would have to get in line today, Alec noted, his expression deliberately vacant. He recognized the man seated beside Violetta on her blue damask settee.
“You know each other, I presume,” Violetta said with a flick of her fingers in Fitzwilliam’s direction. “You’re usual whiskey, darling?”
He politely said, “No,” to her grating familiarity and wondered whether his new counsel could be trusted. Fitzwilliam hadn’t wasted any time making himself at home in Violetta’s boudoir. The two were very cozily situated side by side, Fitzwilliam lounging at his ease, one arm resting intimately on the settee back inches from Violetta’s blond curls.
“The countess and I were discussing the merits of the case,” the barrister said as if reading Dalgliesh’s mind.
“Do sit, darling,” Violetta said, oversweet and smiling. “Join the discussion. I’m sure it’s of material interest to you.”
Pausing in the doorway, Alec said mildly, “I prefer standing, thank you. I’ve only come to apprise you of the full extent of my enmity and resolve. Since you’ve become an unreasonable danger to everyone I love, you no doubt know I’ve reached—”
“My goodness. Love? You mean your new Miss MacKenzie?” Violetta’s brows arched upward in scoffing derision. “How charming, darling. I thought you were only amusing yourself—again . . . as always.”
“A decision,” he finished as though she hadn’t spoken. His voice softened, as if he were saying something unimportant. “I intend to have this divorce. Over your dead body, if necessary. I trust I’ve made myself clear.”
“May I caution you, my lord,” Fitzwilliam interposed, his gaze heavy lidded, his lounging pose unaltered. “The lady has certain protections under the law.”
“Very limited protections, as I understand, and wholly at the discretion of the judge. Furthermore, those protections, limited or not, won’t do her much good if she’s dead.”
“Come, come, my lord. There’s no need for threats. The courts will deal with this matter in a competent manner, I’m sure.”
There was a short silence. Then in an unemotional, perhaps cynical voice, Alec said, “You must decide to whom you’re committed, Fitzwilliam.”
The barrister’s expression was equally unexcited. “Please, sir, don’t say anything you’ll regret.”
“My only regret is wasting four years of my life. It’s over, Violetta. Do what you will, say what you will, I don’t care anymore,” he said, his voice dying away at the last. Then he seemed to collect himself and his voice took on a crispness. “Just stay away from me and mine. As for you, Fitzwilliam, you’d better decide whom you’re representing.” He turned, grasped the door handle, hesit
ated, then turned back. “Don’t be too greedy, Violetta. I’m not in the mood. Perhaps you can help her in that regard, Fitzwilliam. I’m sure you know the usual settlement sums.”
After the door slammed on Alec, Violetta feigned a little shiver of alarm. “You see what I’ve had to deal with all these years. I’ve often lived in fear of my life. He just threatened me again. You witnessed it.”
“How terrible for you,” Fitzwilliam commiserated. “A small, fragile woman against such a monster. I’m not sure I can represent a man like that.”
“How sweet you are.” Leaning in close, Violetta ran her finger down the fine silk of the barrister’s waistcoat. “I’m sure we could come to some agreement over a retainer if you’d be willing to represent me. Alec has more money than he needs in ten lifetimes. And he’s always been generous. Together we could reach a comfortable settlement, I’m sure. Do you have time?”
The look she gave him was familiar and wanton and left him in no doubt what she meant by time. “I’m at your disposal, my lady.”
She smiled. “No scheduling conflicts?”
“None I can’t ignore.”
“How amenable you are.”
“With good reason, my lady. You’re a beautiful, fascinating woman, and I confess, you’ve always interested me.”
Her brows rose in faint query. “Have we met before?”
“I don’t believe so. But you’re the most dashing female in the beau monde. I’ve worshiped you from afar.”
She slowly smiled. “Come, darling, you’re not the type to worship anyone.”
He softly laughed. “Then may I more bluntly say, I’ve wanted to fuck you for a very long time.”
Her silvery trill matched the pleasure in her eyes. “Why wait any longer, my dear Fitzwilliam. You look like the kind of man who knows how to please a lady.”
He was. His talents weren’t exclusively devoted to the courtroom. Nor were his pleasures, although he loved to win in court, he lived to win in court. But he was also handsome, lithe, athletic, well-endowed, and when he rose from Violetta’s bed several hours later, he left behind a satisfied woman. And took away with him all the information he’d come for.