“Eventually, she realized her strategy was never going to bear fruit. Your sisters, and you, had been born by then, and Mortimer was in alt. He constantly prattled about your exploits—if he’d doted on Celia, he was positively besotted with her daughters.”
Glancing at Angelica’s face, he found her frowning at him.
“You must have hated us—all of us.”
“No. Not at all.” He paused, then, accepting he had to make a clean breast of even that, went on, “The truth was I was perfectly happy to have my father distracted by Cynsters. That left me free to range as I would, and with the clan all around me I never lacked for either companionship or mentoring. I had cousins and uncles to teach me riding, hunting, fishing, shooting—every activity a boy could wish for. I had aunts and pseudo-aunts to feed me soup and tend my scrapes. Because of Celia and her offspring, I had a much more . . . colorful and satisfying childhood than I otherwise would have had, and for that”—he inclined his head—“I thank you and yours.”
“But your mother . . .” Angelica was sincerely shocked. “That must have been painful.”
He held her gaze, after a moment said, “Mirabelle wasn’t exactly maternal—she never saw me as anything other than a pawn in her game, and children notice things like that. Even as a young boy I didn’t trust her, but you don’t need to pity me for that—I had clan all around me, and no one could have had better care.” He paused, then added, “The right sort of care—I wasn’t spoiled. I was just one of a dozen of us who ran wild through the summers and always had dozens of adults watching out for us. That’s what clan is, what it’s for. We’re all family.” He exhaled. “Which brings me to the next development in Mirabelle’s tale.
“When she gave up all hope of claiming my father’s regard, she tried to reclaim me—more or less from the clan. I was twelve at the time. She hoped to make me her puppet so that when Mortimer died—he being so much older than she—she would be able to control the clan, and the clan’s purse-strings. So she tried to draw me back under her wing, and discovered she couldn’t. Mirabelle was from the lowlands and didn’t understand—had never tried to understand—how the highland clans work. When she suddenly tried to own me again, the clan closed around me and wouldn’t give me up. No one openly opposed her, but whenever I was home from school, she could never find me—I was always out, about, never where she could catch me, drag me into her sitting room, sit me down, and try to control me.
“After a while, she stopped trying. I—we all—assumed she’d finally accepted her lot. She’d never made the slightest effort to be a part of the clan—to be the laird’s lady in any real sense. She looked down on the clan and had no one as a friend to help pass the years. She grew even more bitter, more resentful and withdrawn.” He paused to draw breath. “Then, when I was twenty and home from university, I fell and badly hurt my knee. I was laid up for weeks, a captive, and Mirabelle tried once again—this time to turn me directly against my father.”
He paused. Angelica wondered if he knew his eyes had turned not just cold but to a shade that fully justified the description “eyes like ice.”
“I don’t know how far she would have taken things, because I cut her off—corrected her mistaken impression that I harbored any ambition to accede to the title before my father died an entirely natural death—as soon as I understood her direction. She was at first utterly disbelieving, then furious, but there was little she could do. I warned my father and those around him, and that was largely that. Once I recovered, as soon as I could I left for London and for the next five years spent much of my time down here. When I went home, I spent my time with my father, with clan, and out and about the estate. I already knew much of what I would need to when the earldom passed to me, so there was little reason to stay in the highlands for any length of time.”
He paused, then leaned forward; resting his forearms on his thighs, he refixed his gaze on her face. “That’s all necessary background, but the events that led to my present predicament—and the reason I need your help—start here. During the period I spent largely in London, the seasons turned bad, the crops failed, and times grew hard for the clan. In ’23, my father came to London for the first time in over thirty years to ask for my blessing for a deal he’d worked out to save the clan. I listened, and I agreed with his scheme.”
His gaze fell to his hands, hanging between his knees. “The scheme hinged on a goblet my family has had in our keeping for centuries. The tale of that goblet is unconnected to the present situation, and other than satisfying your undoubted curiosity, will explain nothing more than why the goblet holds great value for a coterie of London bankers.” Linking his fingers, he glanced at the mantelpiece clock, then met her eyes. “If you will accept that the goblet is fabulously valuable, we can avoid the distraction.”
She searched his eyes, then nodded. “You can tell me the tale of the goblet later.”
He straightened, then leaned back in the chair. His gaze returned to her face. “Very well—so we’re in late ’23, with the goblet in hand and my father desperate to keep the clan’s businesses afloat. Although the earl, the head of the clan, owns and manages the lands and businesses, by custom all clan members draw income from said businesses, so if the businesses fail, the entire clan fails. It wasn’t only his family’s future at stake.” He paused, then went on, “The deal he’d devised and sought my approval for was with a group of London bankers. In return for the goblet, they’d agreed to hand over a significant sum, more than enough to reestablish the clan’s finances. However, as I mentioned, my father was a deeply conventional man. Because of our family’s history with the goblet, he couldn’t bring himself to hand it over—I, however, had no such qualms. So the deal was set, signed, and the money handed over, and my part in it is to hand over the goblet to the bankers on the fifth anniversary of my father’s death.”
He studied her eyes, then abruptly stood. He walked to the tantalus and poured himself a drink. Angelica used the moment to take a sip of her water. His story had held her mesmerized; if she was parched, he had to be, too.
“My father was neither a good laird, nor a bad one.” He spoke without turning around. “He was a relatively gentle man, no saint, but he always did the best he could for the clan. Over his time as laird, he did little anyone might complain of, but conversely he did nothing to actively further the clan’s holdings, to grow the businesses. If he hadn’t made that deal, the clan would have been destitute. It shouldn’t ever become that vulnerable again—I’ve spent the last five years ensuring that—but it’s primarily my grandfather’s legacy I’ve built on.”
He drained the glass he’d filled, then refilled it, turned, and walked back.
She raised her gaze to his face. “When are you due to hand over the goblet?”
He let himself down into the chair. “On the fifth anniversary of my father’s death—the first of July this year.”
“And . . . ?”
His gaze locked on hers; there was a chilling coldness behind his eyes. “In January this year, the goblet went missing. It was kept in the estate safe, and I checked it every month. Only I and my steward had the combination, and neither of us had told anyone, let alone moved the cup.” He paused, sipped, then, his gaze shifting to rest, unseeing, on a point beyond her chair, he went on, “The next day my mother informed me that she had taken the cup and had hidden it. I have no idea how she’d opened the safe, but the family jewels are also kept there. Presumably at some point my father had opened the safe for her and she’d noted the combination.”
Angelica did not envy his mother; his tone had changed to one of icy control, reined menace lending every word a cutting edge.
“Mirabelle has her own agenda—she informed me that she’ll return the goblet, allowing me to complete the deal and save the clan, provided I give her what she wants.”
When he rested his head back against the chair but didn’t go on, Ange
lica prompted, “So what does she want?”
He lowered his gaze to her face. “She wants revenge on your mother.”
“My mother?” Angelica frowned. “Why? And how?”
“Why? Because she holds Celia responsible for all that’s gone wrong in her miserable life. And because Celia won—despite everything Mirabelle did, your mother retained her hold over my father until the day he died, even though she’d never known anything about his obsession.” He paused. “As for the how . . .” Raising his glass, he sipped, then locked his gaze with hers. “All I have to do is seize one of Celia’s daughters, and ruin her.”
Angelica stared into eyes that showed no hint whatever of any mental disturbance. He was utterly serious. “Ruin how, exactly?”
He nodded. “I asked her that. Apparently I was to kidnap one of you—she didn’t care which one—and take you north to the castle, and by that act you would be socially ruined, and Mirabelle would have her revenge through knowing she’d caused Celia untold pain by wrecking the life of one of Celia’s daughters, in return for Celia wrecking hers.”
Angelica studied him, his eyes, his expression, then asked, “Is your mother insane?”
“On this subject, so I would suppose. However, she’s otherwise perfectly lucid, and more than clever enough. Wherever she’s hidden the goblet, no one has been able to find it. We’ve searched high and low, multiple times. But the castle is huge, and old, and . . . we’re running out of time.”
“If she doesn’t give you the goblet, and you can’t give it to the bankers on the first of July, what will happen?”
He hesitated, then, voice lower, replied, “The way the deal was done, the account, as it were, can only be settled with the goblet—no amount of money can stand in its place. If I don’t hand over the goblet on the first of July, I, and the clan, lose the castle and all clan lands—glen, loch, and forests—and all the clan businesses, too. The clan will be dispossessed and destitute. The collateral on which the deal was based was all clan assets.”
“Good Lord—all?”
“All.” His expression grew harsh. “It didn’t seem any great risk at the time—I had the goblet to complete the deal.” He refocused on her. “Now I don’t—which is why I need your help.”
Her head was spinning; there was so much to take in. “Assuming I believe all this”—which she did; it was too fantastical a tale to concoct, and the man before her was anything but fancifully inclined—“how, exactly, do you see me helping you?”
“I never intended, and still do not intend, to bow to my mother’s dictate. I initially searched for every possible alternative other than acceding to her demand. However, there is no way to save the clan other than by handing over the goblet . . . so I looked for a way to make it appear that she was getting what she wanted, without that actually being the case.”
“You set out to trick her. Good. How?”
He searched her eyes. His lips fleetingly eased, but then his expression closed again. “The only way I could think of was to capture one of Celia’s daughters and make a deal with her—essentially throwing myself and the clan on her mercy.” He held her gaze. “I was prepared to argue with whatever weapons I had, and in order to set the stage to make such a bargain with one of you, to tip the scales my way as much as possible, I arranged to have one of you kidnapped and brought to me in Scotland—and it had to be a real kidnapping because how else was I to get one of you appropriately alone, away from your family and in my keeping long enough to persuade you to my cause? I could hardly present myself in Dover Street, beg an audience, and make my case. Your family would never have allowed any of you to come north with me alone. And it had to be alone. While Mirabelle might be unhinged over Celia, she is otherwise sane. If she sees any Cynsters or even a maid from your parents’ household around, she’ll know there’s no real ‘ruination,’ so the kidnapping itself had to be real.” He paused, studied her eyes. “I first hired Fletcher and Cobbins—you know about them?”
She nodded. “They kidnapped Heather.”
“And took her to Gretna Green. And yes, I chose that location because it fitted with your parents’ story, and also because it might have been useful in inducing whichever Cynster sister was brought there to . . . accept the deal I intended offering her. But Heather escaped, so I sent Scrope after Eliza, but she escaped, too.” Their gazes locked, he hesitated, then said, “I had thought that if I, personally, wasn’t involved in the actual kidnapping, then whichever of you was snared, you’d be more inclined to at least hear me out, and perhaps be more amenable to accepting my offer.”
Given her reaction to him treating her as he had, even for so short a time, she had to agree with his reasoning. “One question. Why did you pull back when Breckenridge rescued Heather? Why did you do even more, and risk your life to help Eliza and Jeremy get away from Scrope?”
He hesitated. When she faintly arched her brows and simply waited, he exhaled, then said, “At the time each of your sisters was kidnapped, she was known not to have developed a partiality for any gentleman. I have my sources, and that was confirmed. My plan couldn’t have proceeded if that hadn’t been the case, if she’d already been attached to another. Once an attachment formed . . . my only concern was to see the pair safely away.” He met her gaze. “Given you pursued me tonight, I assume that, in your case, you haven’t fixed your interest on any gentleman as yet.”
She had, but he didn’t need to know that.
He was studying her face closely. “From what I’ve gathered about your sisters’ recent betrothals, betrothals consequent on being drawn into my plans, they haven’t been harmed by my actions—by being kidnapped by my hirelings.”
She stopped herself from nodding. Considered, then allowed, “I don’t believe they would hold their adventures and subsequent betrothals against you, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Relief was a fleeting shadow in his eyes, then those changeable eyes refocused on her face. “Which brings us to the here and now.”
“Indeed.” She held his gaze. “So what was the offer you intended to lay before the Cynster sister you snared?”
Her, as matters had fallen out.
His eyes locked with hers. She returned his gaze steadily and waited.
“Clan means everything to me—it’s my life, and I would give my life for it, and every one of my people would do the same. There is, however, one thing that stands above clan, a line I will not cross even in this instance. The family motto encapsulates it: ‘Honor above all.’ ” He paused for a heartbeat, then said, “I planned to ask for your help, to ask you to travel to the highlands, to my castle, with me, and once there to play out a charade to convince my mother that you’re ruined, a charade sufficiently convincing for her to be satisfied and hand over the goblet. I can’t tell what such a charade might entail, but as I mentioned, she apparently believes that you simply being kidnapped and taken north will be sufficient to do the deed.”
“For most young ladies, that would be enough. However, in my case, my family will conceal my disappearance until they discover what’s happened to me . . . and then they’ll devise some other tale so that I won’t be ruined and socially ostracized regardless.”
“You and I know that, but thankfully, my mother doesn’t. She has little real notion of English society, and no concept of the ways in which a family such as yours operates.”
She studied his face. “So what’s your part of this bargain? What do I get in return for such assistance?”
He met her gaze. “To balance the scales, and to ensure that you aren’t, in fact, ruined in even the slightest degree, should you agree to help me in this, I will make you my countess, give you the protection of my name in marriage, and agree to abide by whatever—any and all—arrangements you wish to stipulate as to our future lives.”
He’d spoken slowly, clearly, his tone measured and even; Angelica knew she’d hear
d every word correctly.
He’d offered her himself.
His eyes searched hers, then his jaw firmed. “I tried for your older sisters first because I know you’re only twenty-one and presumably still have starry-eyed notions of love and a white knight who’ll sweep you off your feet. Against that, as you haven’t yet formed any attachment to another, I’m hoping that, coming from a family such as yours, you’ll recognize the advantages of what I can, and will, offer you as my wife.”
His gaze locked on her face, he shut his lips and waited.
She sat and stared back at him, reacting not at all, held back by unprecedented inner chaos. Her dominant bold and confident self wanted to beam with delight and seize his offer with both hands, but a less familiar, cautious self had reared her head, screaming at her to wait, to think.
For once, she listened to that rarely heard voice of reason.
She searched his eyes; she could only hope her own expression gave away as little as his did. He held her gaze levelly, steadily, fearlessly, even though she knew he was fully aware that his entire life hung on this moment, on how she elected to respond. She was the last Cynster sister available for his plan.
That plan . . . was outrageous, but could—and if it was in her hands, would—work. It didn’t take much thought to confirm that.
He was a wealthy earl and had already told her enough to answer all the usual pertinent questions. In ton terms, he was a highly eligible suitor for her; she didn’t need to know more on that score.