31
F
lora had not been able to eat more than a few bites of food at a time in days. When she drank tea, she read her doom in the black leaves tragically arranged across the bottom of the cup. When she settled down to sleep, she saw a man's body floating toward her, his eyes frozen in accusation.
You have killed me, Flora.
She could hear his voice so clearly, it made her skin crawl. She could feel his fingers tangled in her hair and the dead weight of his body on hers, and sometimes she thought it would smother her in her sleep.
The Sutherland butler was setting a trap for her. She had watched him coming and going on the road at all hours. Hadn't she read her downfall in his ungodly blue eyes? Hadn't she seen a fox in her courtyard the same week he arrived, which everyone knew m
eant disaster would follow? Wors
e, she had lost her charmed ring the very day they'd raced on the moor.
She put her head in her hands. Her father was shouting at her again about her dressmaker's bill. He barely heard her whisper of despair.
"Papa, do they hang women for murder nowadays?"
He went absolutely white. "What did you say?"
"The truth is going to come out," she said. "My tears fell on Edgar's dead body, and because of that his spirit can't find rest. You should never cry on the dead."
Sir Wallace put his hands to his chest and felt an invisible fist squeezing his heart. He wasn't a young man anymore, as much as he liked to pretend, and this girl would be the death of him, he'd always known that. Her lusty appetite, of course, she had inherited from him, and he couldn't blame her for finding it difficult to resist sexual temptation. But all her talk of hanging sent a chill straight into his vitals.
"You have chosen a hell of a time to develop a conscience, Flora. Have I not warned you never to speak of what happened to anyone? Including me. Put it from your mind."
"There is a rumor in the village that Black Mag predicted Lord Kingaim's ghost will rise from the grave on the hour of his death and point a finger at his murderer. I won't have to speak a word," she said in anguish.
"Oh, hell," he said, collapsing in his chair with relief. "That old hag's nonsen
se again. I ought to beat you, Fl
ora, for the fright you gave me. I thought you were going to confess."
She hugged herself, a shiver going through her. "Lady Whitehaven is going to have me hanged for it, and her butler is her henchman. That's what she came here for, not to see you. She came for vengeance. That heartless woman is going to have your only child put to death
."
The pain in his chest was a vise now. It made him break out in a sweat; yet despite the agony, he managed to find his voice. "I told you I would take care of everything. You leave Anne to me."
"What are you going to do to her?" she said in fascinated horror.
"That's my concern, and stay away from that butler, do you hear me? We shall behave as if none of this ever happened. We are going to attend the party as we have every year because it will look suspicious if we don't."
There was the briefest hesitation before she spoke again. "Then you don't mind if I order a few gloves and shoes to go with the tea gowns I had made?"
"Dear Jesus," he said, closing his eyes.
P
atrick found his newly made friend at the village tavern with a group of other upper servants who had been given that night off. A few of the men recognized Patrick from the fight at the fair, and after giving him a nod of respect, they drifted away to leave him in privacy; presumably they believed him to be a man one did not cross.
Soon enough only Patrick and his valet friend Iain, superior in their status to the other servants, were left alone at a co
rn
er table with two tankards of ale.
Patrick did not have time to waste in polite conversation. He liked Iain; at least he thought he could trust him enough to keep his mouth shut for another month. He slid a wad of bank notes across the table and got right to the point. "I need a favor. Can you help me?"
The man's eyes widened in astonishment. "Dinna tell me you've robbed Lady Whitehaven, Sutherland. I'll have none of that nonsense—"
"I haven't robbed anyone," Patrick assured him in ironic amusement. "How are your acting skills?"
"I wait on fat old fobs all day long and keep a straight face," Iain said, flashing a grin. "Is that not acting?"
Patrick smiled grimly. "Do you have a friend, a close relative, someone you can trust, to help you with your 'performance'?"
Iain hesitated, looking over his shoulder. "Is this job illegal?"
"Not in the least. But your secrecy is essential."
Iain took a long drink of ale, wiped his mouth, and nodded. "My brother is always good for a favor. What do you want me to do?"
"Take the bag I have deposited under the table for a start. You will find inside it rice powder and rouge, along with a change of clothes. It is to be used in a few days from now, on the evening of the ball."
Iain nearly choked on his ale. "You're asking me to disguise myself as a woman?"
"No." Patrick chuckled and pushed the money into the man's hand before he could change his mind. "As a corpse."
* *
* * *
T
he Highland doctor pulled the bedsheet over his patient's lower body. The entire house was in chaos with the guests due to start arriving shortly. "You have housemaid's knee," Dr. MacDonald said matter-of-factly. "It is unlikely you will die of it."
"I have what?" Patrick said in shock.
"I believe you heard me correctly," Dr. MacDonald said crossly. "You are suffering from an inflammation of the patella, which is a common affliction in your profession."
"Housemaid's knee?" Patrick peered incredulously at his swollen leg under the covers.
"It's a hazard of our occupation, mister," Gracie said in sympathy. "Comes from all those years of kneeling at the hearth keeping your employer warm. It's a tribute to your dedicated service."
Patrick frowned, thinking it was more a tribute to the years spent dropping on his knees in the infantry. He had once received accolades for his speed and accuracy in marksmanship. Now he was lucky to get a pat on the head for checking the grate. Bloody hell. He did feel like Cinderella.
The doctor waited until Gracie had left the room to speak again. "Bad luck with the party beginning today."
Patrick grunted. "Isn't it, though?"
"Will it interfere with your little charade?" the physician asked.
Patrick looked up slowly. "My charade?"
"I know who you are, my lord. We attended Lord Gow's funeral in Edinburgh two years ago, and although we've never formally met, I recall my
daughter telling me you were related to Lord Whitehaven. I perceived at the loch you were not being entirely truthful, but now, for Anne's sake, I demand to know why."
"You are mistaken," Patrick said.
"I am not. Lord Tynan mentioned last night that he thought he had seen you before the day of the fair. He did not recall your name, but his comment provoked my memory."
There was a pause. Patrick said, "Can I trust you to keep a secret?"
"Only if there is no mischief involved in this masquerade, and I am satisfied neither Anne nor Nellwyn will come to any harm."
"Sit down," Patrick said in resignation. "But do not interrupt me for details, and mind my knee. Anne's guests will be arriving in two hours, and she'll have my head if I don't answer the damned door."
32
P
haetons drawn by prancing ponies pulled up into the drive that a
fternoon. A duchess in a berib
boned bonnet arrived with her own bedstead and a pack of personal attendants. Lavender water and scented washballs had been laid out for the ladies, cigars and smoking-jackets for the gentlemen. Even the billiard balls had been polished.
The five-day party began officially that night with a dinner, and for the next few days guests in tweed jackets trooped off into the black hills to stalk deer. Creeping through brown peat pools and climbing crags, they believed themselves great hunters with their rifles and wicker panniers packed with sandwiches and lemonade.
The fourth day of the affair dawned cool and misty. On that morning, Anne awakened with a knot of foreboding in her throat. She had to admit she'd forgotten how much fun a party could be— the gossip, cards, charades, the bluster of people
around the house. Still, she did not look forward to what the night would bring, especially the late-night fishing on the loch. It was during that same event last year that Lord Kingaim had been found dead in his boat. But no one talked of such things in the open. The most pressing issue of the day was the constant wardrobe changes between meals,
Anne was a bundle of nerves, and Patrick, preoccupied with his covert activities, did not allay her fears.
"You do not need to announce dinner like a war shout," she said, catching him alone in the hall. "The next thing I know you'll be throwing raw steaks on the table
as if we were a pack of hounds.
"
"Your guests ha
ve not complained about my serv
ice.
"
"Not the women."
"Is this madam's way of asking for more personal attention?"
"No, it is not," she snapped.
Her edginess seemed to echo throughout the house. Mrs. Forbes forgot to make mint sa
uce for the roast lamb, and Graci
e overslept, flying into Patrick on her way upstairs.
"Look at you just standing there with all this work to do," she exclaimed. "Aren't you even a little nervous, mister?"
"Graci
e, I am as atwitter as a young debutante coming out for the Season."
"A young debutante." She gave him a grin. "Go
on.
"
Dinner was a festive affa
ir. Anne gathered compli
ments in a gray taffeta gown with a plaid sash. The servants paraded about in their dress tartans, and even Patrick wore a kilt and black doublet with a dirk in his stockings.
The entire female elite of the parish feasted its eyes upon the sight of Anne's handsome butler. His kilt gave the ladies a fine display of his long muscular legs, and since a manly constitution was a component of a desirable manservant, they indulged their prurient interests with clear conscience.
One or two of the more daring ladies even took a page from Lady Murray's book, falling into swoons for the sheer pleasure of being carried to the sofa in his powerful arms.
Anne was appalled at their behavior. Patrick, she suspected, was encouraging them with his outrageously unconventional conduct. Her lips thinned as she watched him.
Lady Grierson complained that the raspberry sauce on the roast duckling was a wee bit sour. Then Patrick knelt down beside her. All the women at the table stopped talking. Of course the men didn't notice a thing. Being men, they missed Lady Grierson's gasp of delight when she looked up into the bluest eyes she had ever seen.
"Lady Grierson," he said solemnly, "the sauce only tastes sour because it has just passed a pair of the sweetest lips in creation. Yours."
"Oh
.
Oh, my." She blushed becomingly. She couldn't remember when anyone had paid her such a compliment.
Glancing up, Lord Grierson made a mental note
to attend Anne's parties more often; it was the first meal his wife had allowed him to eat in peace.
Patrick even managed to provoke a favorable reaction from the elderly duchess. "Do you require pepper for that steak, your grace, or are you well-seasoned enough as it is?"
There was silence at the table as the guests awaited her response. "I like your butler's style, Anne," she said at last. "Your parties are usually such dull affairs. It's good to see a breath of life in them."
Anne set her teeth, not returning Patrick's smile when he looked her way. She knew he was up to something; all this banter and playfulness was meant to distract from whatever "plan" he had devised. And she knew that when they parted again, she would miss the scoundrel, for all the trouble he had caused her. He brought so much silly wickedness into her life, and she could be herself with him. He had known her at her worst.
Sighing inwardly, she returned her attention to the conversation. "And I met Lord Elderberry during the war," Sir Wallace was telling everyone.
"That would be the War of the Roses, you ancient relic?" Patrick murmured as he bent to remove Anne's plate.
"I should like to borrow your butler for the weekend, Anne," Lady Tarbet whispered over her wineglass.
Miss Cameron giggled. "Wouldn't we all?"
"Wouldn't we all what, miss?" Patrick asked politely, returning to his place behind Anne's chair.
She forced a smile. "Lady Tarbet wishes to engage your services next week, Sutherland."
He pulled a black leather book from his doublet. "Let me see. Saturday? Ah, I'm afraid not. I have a previous engagement. Lady Glendenning's charity tea."
Anne's mouth tightened. "But
I
have need of you next Saturday, Sutherland. We will be closing the house to return to Hampshire. Remember?"
He snapped the book shut. "Saturday is my day off, madam. However, I shall be here bright and early Sunday morning to lend a helping hand."
She glowered at him over her shoulder. "The salmon trifle is starting to melt. Have it taken away."
He made a formal bow, his lips brushing her neck. "I live only to please you, my lady."
"The hell you do," she whispered.
"Butler," Lord Delaney said, snapping his fingers. "Fetch another bottle of burgundy, would you? The footman seems to be deaf to my requests."
"Fetch it yourself," Patrick said. "My hands are full of salmon trifle."
Lord Delaney turned to his wife, his mouth hanging open. "Did you hear what he said?"
"Yes." She smiled dreamily. "Isn't he a scamp?"
He stared at Patrick as he placed the trifle on the sideboard. "If you say so, dear."
"I dare not eat another bite of lamb," Lady Murray exclaimed. "My husband complains that I crowd him in the carriage as it is."
Patrick brought her a fresh plate. "In ancient Greece, you would have been considered a goddess, madam. Men would have placed offerings at your temple. Cities would have been laid to waste in your name."
Every pair of female eyes was trained on his face. Every woman's heart gave a little flutter at his words, except for Anne's. She was ready to grab him by the scruff and shake the wits out of him. And he claimed he wasn't clever with words?
The men started to drift away from the table for brandy and billiards before the women forced them to dance. Lady Delaney instigated a devilish game of dropping her spoon and asking Patrick to find it. Several women followed suit by letting their napkins flutter to the floor.
Patrick crawled under the table, muttering to himself. "This is degrading. I feel like a sheepdog chasing a stick."
"What is degrading, dear?" Nellwyn ducked her head under the tablecloth to speak to him
"Do you know what those women are talking about?" he demanded.
"I have no idea," she said innocently. "What are they talking about?"
"What I'm wearing under my kilt."
He crept out from under the table, resurfacing to catch the look of disdain on Anne's face. "I suppose you want me to fetch something for you too?"
She threw her serviette on the table. "I most certainly do not. I do think it's time to light the torches in the ballroom though."
"As madam wishes."